2
North Africa
"Hey, Bill, land!" shouted Jim Hurley.
"God, at last," I said.
"Let's go up."
It was the thirteenth day, and the morning was bright with sunshine.
The heavy pounding of the engines slacked off, and our
speed was cut to a few knots. Word passed quickly through the
ship, and men swarmed all over the decks. Land was visible on the
port side. Danny Moore, who worked in Supply, ran for his field
glasses. Hurley and I climbed upon a hatch, watching other men
work their way up higher and higher on anything available and
unguarded. No one knew where we were, but all could see what it
was like.
What we saw was a long yellow streak of sandy shore with
mountains rising behind it. Through Danny's binoculars we picked
out white houses with roofs of red, orange, blue, yellow, and cream.
Jim Hurley and I jumped down and found a place at the starboard
rail from which we could see a French word on a half-sunken
cruiser.
I said to Jim, "I guess that's what the French lessons were for.
What's the name?"
"I can't read it," he said, "but look." He was pointing to three or
four U.s. and foreign battleships that lay in our path. We steered
around them, steamed into the harbor, and touched land, the
engines stopped, and we dropped anchor. It was May 10, three days
before the war in North Africa ended a thousand miles east in
Tunisia. Our port was Casablanca.
There was no mistaking the excitement on board. The sight of
land was infectious; it sprung us out of lethargy and boredom; it
released a flood of conversation. It stirred rumors; it quickened
land was infectious; it sprung us out of lethargy and boredom; it
released a flood of conversation. It stirred rumors; it quickened
9
