# My 1102 Days of W.W. II/Chapter 1

I. TRAINING
On 11-1-42, I enlisted in the Navy Seabees as a Machinist Mate First Class Petty Officer, and was called to report for Active Duty at Jacksonville, Florida, 1-11-43, for induction into the service. From there I was taken to Camp Bradford near Norfolk, Virginia, where I went through six weeks of basic training in the 85th Construction Battalion. I was pulled out of this battalion on 2-24-43, along with a number of other experienced men of different trades and sent to Camp Peary near Williamsburg, Virginia, and placed in a replacement center. In a few days we were placed in the 6th Special Battalion which was to serve as a stevadore outfit. The word "Special" meant that we had been selected for our task.
In a very short time we were required to learn cargo handling plus all types of Marine Combat Training. The Marine training us - an N.C.O. - had seen service overseas and was just as tough and mean as they get to be. If there was a mud-hole around, he would see that we got in it before the day was over; we obeyed him as we didn't dare open our mouth. Luckily there were not many mud-holes because the ground was frozen solid most of the time. In addition I had my share of other duties, such as KP, guard duty and policing the grounds, which consisted mostly of picking up cigarette butts. But we had one thing in our favor, no one went hungry as they fed us very well.
One night when the temperature was at zero, Brill - another mate - and I had guard duty from 0200 to 0600 on connecting posts. Brill said he was freezing. I said, "Why don't you put on more clothes?" He replied that he had on all the clothes he owned.
​While in replacement we were sleeping in tents and before going to bed I removed only my shoes and put on my coveralls over the clothes I had on, for we were provided with one blanket only. We had a coal stove, but being in a tent it didn't do much good. The cold weather was hard to take after spending the five previous winters in Florida.
The following poem tells what one mate (F. W. Tagtmeier) thought of Camp Peary:
   Three months in Camp Peary,
   Three months of nerve wracking hell.
   I can't say I'm sorry I'm leaving,
   I'm ready to travel a spell.
   So I'm packing my sea bag to travel,
   I'm washing the mud from my face.
   And I don't give a damn where they send me,
   As long as it's some other place.   We live like a hog in a mud hole,
   In a 2x4 hut made of tin.
   They say it's the rain that makes it muddy,
   But it's only the tide coming in.
   They can send me out front in the morning,
   And the Axis can turn on the heat.
   If the only way back is through Peary,
   Don't worry, I'll never retreat.
Here's another poem along the same line, author unknown:
   You can have our Army khaki, but I'll take my Navy Blue.
   There is still another fighter that I'll introduce to you.
   His uniform is sure well known, to which you will agree.
   The Huns call him a seadog - but he's really a Seabee.   He came to sea with one idea - to work at a trade he knew.
   A rating he got to fit the trade, but the training was something new.
   He trained down at Camp Peary, the land that God forgot,
   Where the mud is 14 inches deep, and the rain just doesn't stop.   Where it's cold as ice one day and mighty warm the next
   Where he hears about the Civil War and learns the fight was fixed.
   Where he stands in line most everyday from early morn 'til night
   Where he learns to march - throw hand grenades and ends full of fight.
   He's put on K.P. detail and many dish he's dried
   He's also learned to make beds - a broom he sure can guide.
   He's peeled a million onions and twice as many spuds.
   He also spends his leisure time in washing out his duds.
   Now, honey, take this tip from me - I hand it on to you
   Just grab yourself a Seabee, for there's nothing he can't do And when he gets to Heaven - to Saint Peter he will tell
   A Seabee, Sir, reporting - I've served my time in Hell.
As a native born Virginian, I didn't agree with everything said in these two poems, but they still tell a pretty good story of Camp Peary.