I was happy about a week. The kids in camp were a jolly lot and
they tagged me around like a bunch of dogs. Then they left and a larger crowd came. Too large for me. Besides, I was out of a job. Then, too, there is a sign in the roomy mess hall at Parsons which states: Something lost behind the ranges.
That declaration puzzled me once more. It had in the days gone by but now I was determined to find “it.”
I set out at noon, hiking a swift pace under a heavy pack through the lofty, virgin Olympics. At nine o’clock that night I made camp about two miles down trail from “Shelter Rock.” Twelve hours later, I was limp on top of a boulder pile, saved from a broken spine by my pack. I gazed at the blood jumping from my wrist and decided it was high time I went to visit Herr Docteur.
While I was in Bremerton, seeing a Navy Doctor about my wrist, I learned that the Henderson was leaving for Guam on the first of July. It was then the twenty–fourth.
At eleven that night I was speeding southward on the Shasta Limited California bound.
From all reports, the Henderson was supposed to be in San Francisco on the twenty–sixth. But when I arrived and went to the Transport Dock, she was gone, I had a bare twenty dollars in my pocket.
With a precious nickel, I purchased a newspaper and upon turning to the Shipping Section, was informed that the President Pierce was tied to Dock 28. At two o’clock I was standing in line at Dock 28 waiting to sign on the ships papers as an ordinary seaman. China or bust now had a very sinister aspect.
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