It was now the middle of November. We were somewhere in the cold North Atlantic. We heard the high-pitched, pulsating honk of seagulls. They swooped above us crying with delight as they dived into the garbage-filled wake of our ship. Experienced seamen, as we now were, we smelled land. Rumors and guesses got all mixed up with wishes and hopes. The choices were as extravagant as the longings. Scotland, Norway, Ireland, Greenland, Iceland, England, of course, and wistfully, the States. I do not recall the moment of docking on the east coast of North Ireland. But I vividly remember the first images. They persisted and are with me stilI. One visual: the lumbering, ponderous Cydesdale horses pulling small solid wagons loaded with whiskey barrels over the cobbled streets of modern Belfast. One auditory: the joyous and friendly sound of Irish voices speaking the cadences of my native tongue.
The horses astonished me, as did many other things in North Ireland. The voices comforted me, as did many other things in North Ireland. I came to this sweet and soft green land weary from dirt and rubble, frustrated from long confinement in the hold. Depression quite literally hung about me. For seven months I had lived exclusively with American men. Since mid-April I had spoken only to soldiers, lived only with soldiers, even in the center of Naples. I came to North Ireland having almost forgotten about ordinary society.
Whoever chose Ireland chose well. In my veins is a dribble of Irish blood; it was not indifferent to the sights and sounds of North Ireland. If man is distinguished from his fellow animals by his peerless power of speech, he ought to exercise this power. The need to reach out beyond the limits of my associates was great but unfulfilled.
My heart and tongue were starved for fresh communication.
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