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Greek / American Operational Group Office of Strategic Services (OSS)
Memoirs of World War 2

Office of Strategic Services (OSS)

Charleston, South Carolina

We received our orders to go overseas. Our port of embarkation (POE) was Charleston, South Carolina. We left Washington DC by train on November 17, 1943 and arrived in Charleston on the 18th. We had heard of Charleston's famous King Street that had great Black jazz and we looked forward to visiting the city. Traveling south and looking out from the train we witnessed the poverty and terrible conditions in which poor whites and Blacks lived, the shantytowns and tar paper cabins and scantily dressed children. The experience brought to mind the Black soldier I met on the troop train who was going to Mississippi. Now I understood when he said he was going behind the sun. When we trained in Colorado and Maryland we had seen very little of these deplorable conditions, except for the log cabin incident in Area "H".

When we arrived at the Charleston POE (I do not recall the camp's name) we were not allowed to leave camp for security reasons. When GIs would question us about our unit, we were ordered to tell them that we were truck drivers. Hell, it was impossible to hide that we were a special unit; our uniforms were high tech and our morale was superb. We oozed confidence. A couple of days after arriving in Charleston rumor had it that we would not leave for overseas from the Charleston POE. (Enlisted men were never privy to any orders.) Captain Houlihan, promoted from lieutenant, decided we should stay in shape until we received further orders. He contacted a navy amphibious group and they took us through the submarine nets of the Port of Charleston to an uninhabited island a few miles off the South Carolina coast in the Atlantic Ocean. We were outfitted with the new army black rubber boots that some dumb ass shoe specialist had designed and the Pentagon had validated. These boots were to replace the WW1 boots and leggings. As soon as we hit the island, we realized that the boots would be cumbersome. After completion of our maneuvers on the island, we never wore the black boots again. The island was sandy, and the trees were indigenous to that area. We walked and maneuvered under difficult conditions during the day; in the evening we practiced amphibious landings. We were told that the island had snakes, scorpions, and other poisonous reptiles. At night we would stand guard: two hours on and four hours off. The first night most of us would not lie down after guard duty; we would try to get a little shuteye while leaning against a tree.

The second day we continued the training and that night after my first stint of guard duty, I decided that I was too damn tired and the hell with the snakes, etc., I passed out on the ground. Until I was discharged from the OSS, never again was I concerned with the elements, animals, or the environment of the respective countries where I was assigned. The island off the Carolina coast was an unforgettable experience. I realized the enemy I would confront would be much more formidable than any animal or reptile. This was another phase of our training to which many units of the army were not exposed.

When we returned to our base, the rumor that we would not leave for overseas from Charleston was correct. A few of us decided to sneak out of camp and see the sights of Charleston. We did not have a class "A" uniform, so we wore our new outfits including the fur-lined jacket. We decided that the worst that could happen if we were caught was to return us to our unit. We had nothing to lose. We were going overseas and we couldn't care less about a court-martial.

We put our commando training to good use. We sneaked past the guards and found ourselves on the famous King Street. What a disappointment! Most of the men in our unit were from the large cities of America, like the Oakland/San Francisco area, New York, Boston, Detroit, Chicago, Pittsburgh. King Street was as narrow as the back alleys of these big cities, lined with small jazz joints, whorehouses, pool halls, and bars. We spent most of the evening at a dance hall. We sneaked back into camp without a problem.

Camp Patrick Henry, Virginia

We boarded a troop train heading north, this time to Camp Patrick Henry, Virginia, near Newport News. Enroute we stopped at Charlotte, North Carolina, for breakfast. Military police (MPs) entered our train and they ordered us to follow them to a restaurant and not stray. We were told that a paratroop unit had been stationed near Charlotte before leaving for overseas and they had raised havoc with the civilian population in Charlotte. The natives had no use for paratroopers and the MPs did not want a confrontation with our unit. We were disturbed that the troopers had left a bad reputation. The Greek/USOGs would not give any quarter to any unit in the service, but we never intimidated civilians or destroyed their property.

We had breakfast at a Charlotte diner and I ordered eggs with hominy grits. I had heard of this popular southern delicacy. It was the first and last time I ordered grits.


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We arrived at Camp Patrick Henry on the evening of December 15, 1943. We camped there for nine days, but our group left its mark. Our morale was superb (see the quotation from Russell about the esprit de corps). Perry Phillips and fellow OGs Bill George, Lowell Massachusetts, and Alex Vellis, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania produced and directed a USO show attended by 5,000 GIs. This was the show when Alex Psomas and Gus Mukanos jumped on stage and danced with the two USO girls. Perry in civilian life produced and directed many Greek musicals including a show at the Sahara Lake Tahoe Resort in Nevada.

At Camp Patrick Henry I had another interesting experience . One of the Camp officers asked for a volunteer to drive a 2½ ton truck into Newport News. Most of the Greek nationals did not know how to drive and just a few Greek Americans had much experience with automobiles so I volunteered. This was right after the great depression and automobiles were at a premium, especially in the big cities of the East. I chauffeured an asshole of a sergeant, who was cadre at the camp. There was a little snow and ice on the ground and although I had never driven in that type of weather, the snow did not faze this cocky Californian. I drove into Newport News where the sergeant picked up his order; including a bag of liquor he wanted to sneak into camp. What the hell, I couldn't care less, so I went along with his ploy. He evidently had done this before, because he placed the liquor under the passenger's floorboard. By the time we got back to camp it was snowing harder and the roads were slippery. On the camp roads adjacent to the streets were large tank traps. This California boy made a turn not unlike the way he drove at home and slid into one of the tank traps. Neither one of us was hurt; the MPs hauled the sergeant and me in to the provost marshal. The sergeant was excused, not mentioning the liquor. As the driver I was reprimanded for reckless driving and destroying government property. Then the provost got real serious and demanded to know who brought the liquor into camp. I told him that I had no idea and that I was surprised that there was liquor in the truck. The provost questioned me further, giving me the song and dance that I could go to the brig. Of course I was leaving for overseas in a couple of days and I knew they would not give me the alternative. I never saw the sergeant again. He left me to hang; he was fortunate that I did not report him. I realized there is no loyalty among thieves. Years later this small lesson saved me a lot of grief in civilian life.

Once again I was proud I was a member of the Greek/USOG.



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