Richard Martin Allen

He started the story here, in the middle, because this was the town his grandson had written from.

As I recall, we arrived in Green River about 11:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning and had a 10 hour wait for our train to Seattle. In those days I don't think there was much activity in the town even on week days, let alone on Sunday. But we did find a drug store open, bought a camera and some film, scouted around town, and took some pictures. Even more important, we struck up a rather pleasant acquaintance with one of the girls working in the drug store. (Keep in mind, this was before the days of McDonalds). When she got off work in the afternoon, she and a friend drove a couple of us to Rock Springs to the movie and had us back in Green River in time to catch our train at 9 o'clock that evening.

He was, in his words, "a 20 year old sailor being transferred, by troop train." He told the beginning last, five months later. Here it is put back in order.

About the date. He never gives one. A snapshot he enclosed is marked "Chicago, Feb. 28, 1943," he says the train took three days and two nights, and he was in Seattle about six weeks before orders came in late April. That puts the layover on a Sunday in March 1943.

I was working as a billing clerk for The Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. in Youngstown in November, 1942, and the Army draft was breathing down my neck. I decided that I didn't want to be in the army, so on November 19th, 1942, I joined the navy. After preliminary examinations in Youngstown, a group of us (none of whom I had known before) was put on the train for Cleveland for further examinations and processing.

We had to stay over night in Cleveland, and the navy put us up in a really bad hotel. (It was called Lincoln Hotel and was torn down many, many years ago) A couple of us decided to go to a movie that night and it was late when we got to the hotel. We were directed to the second floor where we found a large dormitory type room. It had about 12 to 15 double beds in the room. Each bed was occupied by at least one person. I picked out a bed where someone was asleep, and when I sat down on the bed to take my shoes off, the mattress and springs collapsed to the floor. I don't remember what happened next, but that was my first exposure to the navy!

From the record. His Notice of Separation agrees: enlisted 19 Nov 1942, entered active service at Cleveland, last employer Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co., April to November 1942, "Clerical Work."

After checking in at the Receiving Station there, we were directed to a large room where we were told to line up in rows and take all our clothes off; everything, shoes, socks, underwear, everything. There were about 50 of us in the room. Next we were given a cardboard box and told to pack our clothes in the box and put our home address on the label. The boxes were then removed from the room, our clothes gone, and there we stood naked with no clothes in sight! A weird feeling! But not to worry! We then formed a line and went into an adjacent room where we were issued our navy uniforms. No more civilian clothes!

Eventually we were assigned to our "boot camp" for 5 weeks of training and indoctrination. I was assigned to camp Green Bay which was a new facility and had been built as a part of the expansion of the Training Center because of the war. Our company number was 1760 (I don't know why I remember that!) and we were the first or second company in our barracks; it was that new. As a matter of fact, we had no hot water for about a week for showers etc. And this was in December with temperatures around zero and below! There were about 60 men in our company, and I remember that most of them were from southern states, Georgia, South Carolina, Kentucky, Virginia, etc. I had never been with southern people before.

After we completed boot camp, we were assigned to either a ship for sea duty or to a service school for specialized training. A lot of us, especially those who had no special skills, were assigned to the Hospital Corps School because there was a shortage of Corpsmen and they were needed in the South Pacific because of the actions of the U.S. Marines. Hospital Corps School lasted, I think, six weeks and then we were assigned to a naval hospital for further training.

From the record. "HC Sch., USNH, Great Lakes, Ill." Weeks: 6. His memory of the length is exact.

By the time we got to Green River, we had been on the train for three days and two nights. So a 10 hour layover in Green River was not all that bad as it gave us a chance for a little exercise after being confined on the train all that time.

The train was going on to California. Those bound for Seattle changed at Green River, "which at that time was a busy railway center for that area." Dick Baretto, the Corps School friend who had taken him to the Palmer House, stayed aboard, bound for the naval hospital in Oakland.

As I recall, the train station was a fairly large brick building; I think it was at the foot of the street in the picture. It's probably not there anymore. Anyway, that's my recollection of Green River, Wyoming.

Also, I've enclosed a post card I sent to my Mother, which she saved. You can read my reaction to the country; probably about the same as yours, it is so much different from what we are used to! You can tell by the pictures that I was impressed by the surrounding mountains (especially Castle Rock); I had never seen anything like them before. Also, as a matter of fact, I don't remember seeing any river, but I'm sure there must be one there somewhere.

The snapshots he took that Sunday and the post card to his mother survive only as photocopies and are not shown here.

We were at the Naval Hospital in Seattle (not as a patient, but for further training) for about six weeks and then I was transferred to San Francisco for further assignment overseas.

Maybe next time I can recall some of the emotions I experienced as I stood on deck at the railing and watched the ship slowly slip from the pier, not knowing where we were going or when, if ever, we would be coming back. All we knew was that this was war time, there was a lot of fighting going on out in the huge Pacific Ocean, and a lot of ships were being sunk by the Japanese. This was May 24, 1943 at 10:30 a.m.

He knew the minute because, he says in the next letter, "I wrote it down on a piece of paper and I still have the paper."

We sailed out SanFrancisco Bay, past Alcatraz island, under the Golden Gate bridge out into the mysterious Pacific Ocean. I remember standing at the rail on deck and watching the land slowly disappear behind us, getting smaller and smaller, and pretty soon there was nothing but water in sight (we didn't see land again for 14 days).

Late May 1943 · At sea, Latitude 0000

The name of the ship was the "Matsonia" and it belonged to the Matson Line, which has long been out of business. It was a large ship, a four stacker (four smoke stacks). It had been a luxury cruise liner before the war, sailing from SanFrancisco to Hawaii and the South Pacific.It had been converted to an army troop ship and fitted to carry, I would guess, about 12,000 troops compared to its normal capacity of maybe 2,000 pre-war. Bunk hammocks were strung through out the ship; in the library, former swimming pool, lounges, etc. I was assigned to a stateroom, on the promenade deck, originally meant for two people which had been equipped with hammocks for, I think 20 people. It had one porthole to the outside (no air conditioning of course) and the porthole had to be closed for blackout at night for safety reasons. (submarines). It was a fast ship, so it traveled without benefit of a protective convoy, but to avoid a submarine getting a straight line on it we zig-zagged every mile or so.

The ship. The figures are his guesses, and he says so. The record adds that Matsonia was a Matson passenger liner, run by the company as a troopship for the War Shipping Administration from early 1942 to April 1946. Source

We soon learned that at the supper meal, to take along a blanket and something to read because right after you finished eating you had to rush up on deck to stake out a space if you wanted to sleep in fresh air for the night (it was unbearably hot, and smelly in the cabin). You didn't dare move from the spot because if you did it would be gone. And all night long people would be stumbling over you, looking for a space. Remember I said we had to maintain complete blackout, no lights at all, not even cigarettes, as a precaution against Japanese submarines. This was fine unless it started to rain and then it was a scramble to get back inside.

I think I mentioned there were about 120 of us navy hospital corpsmen being transferred on this Army troopship (in addition to the 10,000 or so army soldiers). One day the navy men were ordered to report on deck for a special ceremony. It involved being initiated for crossing the equator (Latitude 0000). Before you cross the equator you are a polywog and after being properly initiated you become a Shellback. A copy of the official certificate is at the end of this letter. The ceremony consisted of the usual initiation pranks, too gruesome to mention! But it was a diversion to our routine. By the way, I remember that the water around the equator was smooth as glass, no air stirring at all, and hot as blazes.

On the morning of our fourteenth day at sea, we were delighted to find that the storm had abated during the night and the sea was once again rather calm. But, more importantly, off in the distance, on the horizon, we could spot a dark spot which had to be land, a welcome sight. It appeared larger and larger during the morning as we approached closer and closer. By noon we were quite close and we were sailing along the coast. We could see little towns as we passed along and little white houses with red roofs. But even more interesting were the schools of dolphins which welcomed our ship, one school on each side of the ship. They would leap out of the water and dive back in and seemed genuinely glad to see us! They stayed with the ship most of the day, and I think they thought they were guiding our ship to the harbor.

A little further into the harbor we sailed around a small bend, and there we saw a large (relatively) European type city. Needless to say, this was not what we had expected. We docked at the wharves, located at the foot of Queen Street, the main street.

After learning that we were going to New Zealand, we had expected we were going to some primitive, jungle covered island, with maybe a few half-naked natives! This was more than we had hoped for.

It was about 5:30 pm and beginning to get dark, and I think rain was falling. We disembarked and loaded our gear into the back of their trucks, climbed in and rode through the city out to the suburb of Avondale, about a 45 minute ride. [...] In Avondale we found U.S.N.Mobile Hospital #6, or rather what was eventually to be Mobile Hospital #6. Actually it was in the early stages of construction and I think the only completed buildings were our barracks. There was mud everywhere! We stowed our gear in our barracks and then went over to the mess tent (it really was a tent) where the cooks had prepared ham sandwiches, coffee, milk, and probably a piece of cake or something. Since we had no meal since breakfast and I had not eaten much the previous three days because of seasickness, the sandwiches were great!

It had been pitch black when we arrived at camp, so the next morning I looked out the back door of our barracks to see where we were and saw we were on the edge of a large field, perhaps 10 acres, of cabbages. Out the front door we saw a sea of mud and several buildings in various stages of construction, plus the large mess tent and a couple of other tents used as temporary facilities.

Mark, I have no heroic stories to tell; we were far behind the lines of battle. This was June, 1943 and the battles were on islands further north. We spent the first 3 or 4 months at Mob 6 helping to complete construction of the hospital, standing guard duty, and doing any other jobs that needed to be done to get into operation. Then we were ready to begin receiving casualties from battles at Tarawa, Bougainville, and other island invasions the names of which I don't remember, in addition to casualties from battles at sea.

Mob 6 was primarily a psycopathic hospital, and in addition to a few casualties who had been wounded by gun fire and shrapnel or other physical problems during battle, we mainly treated men who, because of severe pressure under combat, broke down mentally and had to be hospitalized. We worked with a staff of doctors who were also psychiatrists, and we worked with these men (the patients) to get them well enough to return to the front or be sent back to the States for further treatment.

A patient named Baker

One of the cases I remember was a sailor, from one of the New England states, whose name was Baker. He was an engineer on a destroyer and his duty station was in the engine room which is, of course, down below decks on the ship, down below the water line. During a battle with a Japanese warship, a torpedo struck his ship, right in the area of his engine room. Water began rushing in and the men all scrambled for the ladder to get topside. That is , all except Baker who was somehow trapped in the debris. He saw all his buddies deserting him, he was trapped, water was rushing in, and his mind snapped. Someone later realized that Baker was still down there, went back down and rescued him. When he got to our hospital, his mind was in bad shape, and he was sure he was going crazy. Sometimes his mind would be O.K., but at other times he was mentally back in the engine room, trapped, with water rushing in. He would try to jump out the window of his hospital room, and several times punched holes in the wall, fighting to "escape the engine room". He had to be under special watch at all times.

He seemed to be making progress, but one day I noticed he seemed rather depressed. When I asked him what was bothering him, he told me he had received a letter from his Mother who told him that his girl friend had been running around with a soldier at home and was pregnant. Later I learned that it wasn't his girl friend who was pregnant, but his wife. We eventually sent him back to the States for further treatment or discharge. But, some months later I received a letter from him and he told me that he had been offered a discharge from the Navy but he had decided to stay in, had requested sea duty on a ship, just to prove to himself that he wasn't crazy and that he could go back down in the engine room. I never heard whether he made it or not!

On 19 July, 1944 a group of us boarded the USS Pinkney at Auckland, N.Z. and sailed for Noumea, New Caledonia. [...] In Noumea, was U.S. Fleet Hospital #107 to which we were assigned. (picture enclosed). The "light" buildings in the foreground are the hospital buildings and the darker buildings behind, up on the hillside, are our barracks. You can't tell from the picture but, our barracks building had walls only half way up to the roof, the rest was all screen. The roof overhang was big enough so that when it rained, it didn't rain in. It was always hot! and we slept under mosquito nets hung over our beds and tucked in around the matress.

As in Fleet Hospital 106, we received casualties from the fighting in the islands up north .We either got them well enough to return to their outfits ( which was our primary objective because experienced fighters were needed on the front lines) or sent them back to the States for further treatment. My duties here were mostly in Orthopedics which meant I helped in setting broken bones, applying casts, removing casts, giving shots of penicillin to fight infections, etc.

A slip. "Fleet Hospital 106" is Mob 6, the Auckland hospital. From the record: his Notice of Separation lists Fleet Hospital #107 and then Fleet Hospital #105. The letters mention only 107. The Pinkney was a Navy evacuation transport, hull number APH-2. Source

Around the first of April, 1945, an Army transport ship appeared in the harbor at Noumea and we knew it was our ship home. It turned out to be the USS General Taylor AP-145 . The ship was loaded with casualties which it had picked up at other hospitals in the islands, especially the New Hebrides, on its way to New Caledonia. they were our responsibility until we got them to San Francisco. On the whole, it was an uneventful trip, and in spite of the vow I had made on The Matsonia (when going overseas) about never getting on a ship again to go home, I was more than glad to be on the ship going home!

The ship. AP-145 was the U.S.S. General Harry Taylor. Navy records show her as a Navy transport, commissioned in May 1944. He remembered her as an Army ship. Source

It was quite a large air base and our dispensary was actually a small hospital on the base. But instead of receiving battle casualties as we had before, now we treated men who had been hurt working on the planes, became ill with the ordinary ailments, or been involved in plane crashes. My duties were primarily in the M.A. Shack (Master at Arms office) which was manned by three corpsmen at all times, 24 hours a day, in 3 eight hour shifts (called "watches" in navy lingo).

During the daytime we always had a medical doctor on duty (called the Officer of the Day or OD for short) that we could call if needed; but at night the "OD" would have gone to bed and we had to decide (1) whether we could treat the complaint ourselves, (2) whether it could wait till morning, or (3) we needed to get the doctor out of bed for a real emergency. We tried to avoid no.(3) as some of the doctors tended to be a little grumpy when we woke them, especially if they thought the emergency was something we should have handled ourselves.

When the alarm went off indicating that there had been a crash or accident on the field or in one of the repair shops, it was our duty to grab the bag, the 'OD' would come running, and he and the corpsman would jump into an ambulance, which would be waiting at the door, and rush to the scene of the accident or crash for appropriate action. Sometimes the emergency would be serious, sometimes not. Fortunately, these situations didn't happen too often.

There were lighter moments too. One day a marine sergeant appeared at the office and he looked familiar to me. He said I looked familiar to him too. I then recognized him as one of the marines who, two years before, had tried to show us how to use a weapon back in New Zealand in the cow pasture "firing range"! We both got a laugh out of that.

On 23 Jan.1946 I was discharged from the navy after a period of 3 years, 2 months, and 4 days. During that time I spent a total of 2 days on a navy ship! (On the U.S.S.Pinckney going from New Zealand to New Caledonia) and a total of 30 days on U.S.army troop transports, 15 days going over and 15 days coming back. How's that for an outstanding and brilliant naval career?

See the original form

Small differences. The form counts 3 years, 2 months, 5 days of service where he counts 4. An earlier letter puts the discharge in February 1946; the form and his last word on it both say 23 January. The Toledo separation center comes from the form, not the letters. On his count of ships, see the note on the General Harry Taylor above.

Thus ends the exciting (?) saga of one farm boy's experience in the U.S..Navy during WW11.

Richard Allen married Mae Louise Stinchcomb in Lakewood, Ohio, on 20 May 1950. By his son's account he rarely spoke of the war. Around 1993 he found a shipmate again.

A few days ago Grandma and I returned from a trip to Uniontown, Pa. where we visited a former "shipmate", Harry Johnston. We went overseas together on the Matsonia and were together most of the two years overseas. I hadn't seen him or heard from him for over fifty years until about four years ago when we got together for a "reunion". We have gotten together several times since then and we enjoy talking about those experiences.

He wrote the ten letters between 26 February and 25 July 1997 from his home in Bay Village, Ohio, on what he called "my new word processor." The last one ends back where the first began:

I knew there was a reason I would always remember that place.

He died in Westlake, Ohio, on 3 February 2000, at 77. In 2010 his son David bound the letters together and wrote at the front: "My dad passed away less than three years after writing these letters. We are most grateful to have them."