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service. We jumped in the cabs and headed back to camp. I saw King behind the wheel of one and got the cabs to stop. I threw open the door to King’s cab.
    â€œGet your big ass out of there. What the hell do you think you are doing?” I asked.
    â€œShit, Rich, I’m only having a little fun,” he said.
    â€œYour fun is going to get us all in trouble. Get out now!” I barked.
    â€œOkay, I’m sorry Rich, you don’t have to get mad,” he said as he fell out of the cab.
    We arrived outside the camp and slipped through the fence and across the field. It was our last night of fun. A final taste of America.
    The next day we boarded a ferry that took us over to where the U.S. troop transport Pope was docked. The Pope had just been taken out of mothballs, and the ventilation system on board was not working. It was a miserably hot day. Everybody was wringing wet with sweat, which got worse the deeper we climbed into the ship.
    The troop compartment space was a cavernous room with bunks four high, accommodating forty to eighty men. We stowed our gear and had started to go up to the deck, when the sailors chased us back down. We had to stay belowdecks until everyone was aboard. I began to worry about the men dehydrating and possible heatstroke. This was my third voyage on a troop ship, and I figured we would start getting some air when we got under way.
    No such luck.
    That night we tried to sleep up on deck. My section carved out a space near the stern. The wind whipped around the deck and felt good after being in the bowels of the ship for so long. When the captain saw all of us on deck, he ordered the crew to chase us back down to our troop compartment. Sleeping on the deck was too dangerous, the captain said. A rogue wave could sweep us overboard or we could get fouled up on the equipment on the deck.
    The trip was hot and boring. We got two meals a day, which was normal for a troop ship. Because the ship was so crowded, by the time everybody got breakfast it was almost noontime, so the galley immediately started to work on dinner. The old joke was to hurry up and eat so you could get back in line for the next meal.
    Standing on deck one night after chow, I stared out into the dark Pacific. I was leaning on the rail, drifting into my own little world. The girl from Vallejo’s questions had me thinking. Since I’d become section leader, my goal was to make sure my men were ready. But was I? It wouldn’t be long and I would be facing the test of my life. I was staring down at the water thinking about fear. Yes, I was scared, I was really scared that I might not be able to provide my men the leadership they deserved once we got into combat.
    My thoughts wandered to my first voyage.
    I’d left New Jersey in 1946 heading for Italy. Sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Sea, I could see the Rock of Gibraltar in the distance. It was exciting; however, I was apprehensive not knowing what I had to face. I’d never been this far from home.
    We docked in Naples and drove cross-country in a truck. Seeing the devastation of Cassino shocked me. The entire town was nothing but rubble. This was my first real look at war. It’s one thing to see it in photos but shocking to see it in person.
    Late in the afternoon we arrived in Foggia on the Adriatic side of Italy. We drove up to a bombed out factory where three hundred German prisoners were being held in winterized tents. Most of them had been captured in North Africa and belonged to one company. We joined an Italian Army company just outside of the factory area. The Italians and the Americans combined to provide security for the area.
    That first night I was taken out to one of the warehouses and put on a guard post. Supposedly, there was an Italian guard on the post with me, but I didn’t see him anywhere. I was in the dark, didn’t know where I was, and didn’t know where the Italian was. I began to