The 238

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Close to 900 British, Canadian, and American men lost their lives in and around Iceland during WWII. This number represents those whose bodies were retrieved for burial and those who lost their lives in aircrafts that went missing. It does not include the hundreds more who were lost on sinking ships in the North Atlantic near Iceland. It also excludes the 150 Icelandic citizens, mostly fishermen and merchant seamen, who were victims of that war.

Of that number, 238 Americans were laid to rest in Iceland's Fossvogur cemetery, overlooking Camp Kwitcherbelliakin. After the war, their bodies were exhumed and brought home. 


If you go down to the shore in Reykjavik where Camp Kwitcherbelliakin once stood, you can still see ruts in the dirt marking the placement of the Quonset huts. Occasionally, a spent shell will work its way up through the mud and rock. Little else remains of America's time in Iceland. 


But the collective sacrifice of the Allies is still visible in the cemetery above the camp. When I was there I saw the graves of some of the boys who never made it home after the war. British boys, mostly, clumped together under the low branches of tall evergreen trees. 


In a separate part of the cemetery there also lie 17 German boys. 


In terms of numbers, the loss of American life in and around Iceland during the war pales to the number lost in the Pacific and Europe. Yet their sacrifice was just as great. 


On October 8, 2004, the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts chose to return to Iceland to honor the Americans who fought and died there. In a ceremony attended by the President of Iceland, Olafur Ragnar Grimsson, and ambassadors from several nations, the Ancients, as they are called,  placed a monument to the fallen Americans in the cemetery overlooking the abandoned camp. 


The words on the monument read, "To all Americans who served in Iceland during World War Two. They gave their today for our tomorrow." 

The Whales of Valley Forge

Hvalfjordur 

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In late 1942, my father's convoy arrived in Iceland and headed for the safety of Hvalfjordur (Whale Bay), a long, deep fjord surrounded by 1,000 foot cliffs. The inlet provided visual cover for the convoy's ships and some protection from the driving Icelandic wind and North Atlantic storms. By laying submarine nets in the bay, the Navy was able to keep U-boats from entering. Sadly, the nets and ships also effectively 
evicted the bay's resident namesakes, the whales. 

Sailors stationed onboard ships anchored in the fjord took liberty ferries to Reykjavik when granted leave. Navy men like my father, who would be based in Iceland, eventually moved from the ships to a Quonset hut community situated near the base air strip. The men dubbed their new home, Camp Kwitcherbelliakin. 

In 2005, I took my first trip to Iceland. While there, I met with an Icelandic historian, Ragnar, who drove me from Reykjavik to Whale Bay. Walking to the shore, Ragnar guided me past hidden pots of bubbling earth that smelled of sulfur. Along the way, he pointed out turquoise green thermal swimming holes where locals went skinny dipping year round. Atop a mound of earth, covered in long grass, we found the remains of an Allied munitions bunker. Steps away, tart wild berries and deep blue Icelandic wild flowers grew in the rocky soil.

In silence, we stood there for several minutes, looking out into the windswept bay. I tried to imagine the tranquil fjord full of steel ships and war-weary young men. 

"They called it Valley Forge when your father was here,” said Ragnar. "They could not pronounce the Icelandic name."

I smiled, thinking it a fitting name for the place that once harbored so many Americans. 

“Over there," he continued, pointing to a small cove, "that is where your father's ship was moored while it was here." 

A lump rose in my throat as I brushed away an unexpected tear. Thanked Ragnar for bringing me there. 
                                                                                                                
Politely, he nodded. "You know, they say the whales have started to return." 

Eyes of the Fleet

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When my father died, in 1999, I was left with a cardboard box 
of old photographs and a mound of unanswered questions. Both 
soon became the impetus for my novel.


In an attempt to better understand the contents of that box and 
the man who held on to it for over 50 years, I applied for my 
father's military records. Over the course of six years, I spoke 
with a number of government archivists, veterans, and military 
historians. I also spent indeterminable hours in libraries, 
bookstores, and on the internet.


I loved every minute of it.


My journey has taken me to Iceland twice and many places in 
between. I have made dear friends in the process. Lost several. 
Their stories have moved me to tears. Made me laugh. Filled me 
with admiration. I will never forget any of them.


The emotional and material fallout from all that research is 
considerable. Like my father with his box of photos,  I can't 
bring myself to part with any of it. 


So, Dad, this blog is for you. 


Fred Melull, my father, was born in 1914 to Prussian and 
Hungarian immigrants. An only child, he grew up in Rye and 
Port Chester, New York. Spent his summers sailing on Long 
Island Sound.


When WWII broke out, Dad got an automatic draft deferral 
because the kind of work he was doing was important to the 
war effort. I never got all the details. All I know is that he 
eventually quit his job, despite the deferral, and enlisted in 
the Navy. His civilian work experience allowed him to enter 
the Navy as a photographer, or Photomate. At the time, he 
was 27. Scrappy, not scrawny. That's him in the above 
photo, third from the left. Along with thousands like him, he 
helped form what the Navy called, "The Eyes of the Fleet."


In the fall of 1942, Dad shipped out of Boston onboard an 
AR5 repair ship called Vulcan, bound for Iceland. In convoy, 
the ship sailed across the North Atlantic for several weeks, 
dodging Nazi U-boats along the way. Once he was stationed in 
Iceland, Dad logged long flight hours over land and sea, mostly 
in Navy seaplanes called PBYs. 


From that vantage point, he photographed events that haunted 
him the rest of his life.