The following commentary appeared in the 6th annual Armenian American Veterans Reunion 
program booklet.   Many have since advised me that it would be a good public interest 
commentary for TAR Int'l.   

    COMMENTARY   11/11/03
    This being Veterans Day, I decided to give my readers a summary of my return home after 
World War II.  I suppose what prompted me into writing this summary was because on Sunday, 
November 9, 2003, I had the privilege of attending the 5th Annual Veterans Reunion given by 
our Philadelphia Armenian American Veterans Association at Holy Trinity Armenian Apostolic 
Church in Cheltenham, PA.

    This organization is the brainchild of Mrs. Sandra Selverian and her devoted husband, 
Steve, along with seventeen or more equally devoted committee members and spouses who 
loyally assist in making these reunions a success.

    Our guest speaker on this historic occasion was Colonel George Juskalian, a retired, 
highly decorated career officer.  His military biography is prominently listed in Richard N. 
Demirjian's 1996 book entitled, "Triumph and Glory," (Armenian World War II heroes).   

For those who haven't done so, it's well worth reading.  I should also note, at this point, 
that Colonel George Juskalian is not a young ‘buck' and even though time has been doing a 
number on all of us, his oratory more than confirmed that he was still a very young buck 
at heart.   So much so, that it inspired me to write this summary.

    Looking back on my return home from World War II, I would say that at times it was just 
as harrowing as the war I experienced.   When the war ended, I was in Austria as Occupation.  
I was part of a tank battalion and was transferred to this outfit because I didn't have the 
necessary 85 points or more to return home with the first batch.   And since the war had 
ended, they had also instituted a monetary control system which restricted us from sending 
home more money than we had been receiving each month.   

    Being near the Russians, whom we had hooked up with in May of that same year, we soon 
found out that they were being paid with the same invasion money that we were.  It isn't 
hard to figure out, therefore, that after a few months our G.I.'s were sending home more 
than twice the money they had been receiving each month.   Reason?  The surviving Russians 
weren't allowed to take their U.S. printed invasion money home with them so they were paying 
extraordinary sums for anything that our G.I.'s were selling.  For example, a G.I. pair of 
pants was selling for $200.00 a pair, American cigarettes were going for $10.00 a pack or 
$200.00 a carton, etc., etc.   

    Finally in late December 1945 when my 72 points finally became of age, I was put on a 
forty and eight box car and transported like livestock to Camp Phillip Morris near Le Havre, 
France.  

    Meanwhile, while we were waiting impatiently for our turn to sail, those who had more 
cash than they could claim on their currency control, were going around trying to find those 
who were short.  They would willingly make up the difference and split it 50-50 with the 
receiver when they got legitimate currency to replace the invasion money.   Fortunately, 
I didn't have the stomach for such games so I came home just as broke as when I left.

    On January 8, 1946, we were given passage on the USAT Borinquen.   This was a coastal 
ship that had been outfitted to carry troops.   God only knows how happy we were to finally 
be homeward bound.   But with all that, we were totally unaware of how treacherous the 
Atlantic was going to be during this time of year and how ill-equipped we were to face the 
dangers.   But the real terror in the mix was the fact that this outdated coastal ship we 
were on wasn't really built for the amount of passengers it was carrying.

    To make a long story short, it took us fourteen days to cross the Atlantic and during 
half of that time, on a stormy windswept ocean with waves forty to fifty feet high sweeping 
across the deck.   If the time ever came to abandon ship, forget it.  There was no way we 
could lower lifeboats and no way of getting in them if we could.  We were in the middle of 
the "mother of all storms."

    On one morning, the ship's wall indicator had an arrow marking that the ship had listed 
45 degrees during the night.   As for the restroom, we couldn't use it because of the number 
of G.I.'s on board, and if you could get inside, there was nothing but excrement and puke 
slurping one way and another against the door barrier which prevented it from flowing out 
into the passageway.

    The ship's galley was so small, we had to eat in shifts.  This required waiting in line 
in a narrow passageway full of overpowering hot food aromas coming from the small galley.  
And with the constant rocking and rolling of the storm-buffeted ship, many of those standing 
in line were throwing up before they got their chow.  I got a face-full of it when I finally 
lost my patience and I went out on deck to get away from the sickening atmosphere.   A G.I. 
who had followed me out went directly to the rail to throw up.  When it all came back with 
the wind, -- you guessed it -- I got a face-full.     
 
    When the storms first came, all of our unfastened belongings went rolling across the 
floor.    It took the better part of a complete day to figure out what belonged to whom.   
But the biggest tragedy of all was when we found one of our fellows dead in his hammock.  
Sad to say, we had to put him in cold storage to keep him from spoiling.  What a tragedy 
that must have been for his waiting family.  

    When we finally made it to port, it was next to a huge, enclosed  wharf in New Jersey.  
As I came down the gangplank, I felt that I should thank God and kiss the ground like 
Christopher Columbus did when he discovered America but upon smelling the stale urine that 
permeated the entire wharf complex, I decided against it. 

    From the New Jersey wharf, they took us to Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, where they had a 
dream meal waiting for us.  We ate steak, French fries, fresh milk, fresh bread, fresh fruit, 
and last but not least, ice cream.  For a little while, at least, I almost forgot the horrible 
crossing we had on the USAT Borinquen.   From Camp Kilmer, they put us on a train and 
transported us to Indian Town Gap, By this time, it was about 1:00 A.M. and they lined us 
up next to a huge, warehouse building and placed identity cards in our caps.  Then they 
directed us through the large doors of the building.  They told us to enter one at a time.  
As we entered, we realized that we were going through a gauntlet of medics, each checking a 
specified part of our anatomy and filing his findings on the card in our caps.  And each 
time we moved, we were told to shed another piece of clothing until we finally found ourselves 
outside in the freezing cold hanging onto our clothes and completely naked.  I finally 
found out what a pig, cow, or lamb must have felt like while going to slaughter. 
    After dressing in the great outdoors, we were led to a barrack and told to bed down.  
It was about 4:30 A.M. then, and reveille, as usual, was at 6 A.M..   They got us up at 
6 A.M., we went to breakfast, and they gave us a schedule to follow.   This entailed tying 
up all the loose ends of our discharge with a few lectures thrown in-between telling us of 
the many advantages in re-upping or joining the Reserves.   I wasn't having any of it so I 
collected my belongings and got on the bus that took me to the Reading Railroad Terminal.
    At this point, let me state that I had found time to contact my parents and, sure enough, 
on arriving at the Philadelphia Reading Terminal, I found my mother, brother Sam, and my 
wife, Vicki, waiting there for me.   As I stepped off the train, the platform started 
rocking like the ship I was on, and my brother, Sam, sensing my dilemma, rushed over and 
steadied me, saying, "What's the matter, bro', you drunk?"  This straightened me out and 
after hugging my mom, Vicki, and my brother, Sam, we all jumped in the car and headed to 
the plant to see Pop, Grandpop, Uncle Tom, Uncle Jim, and sister Lil, along with all the 
rest of the gang.   I felt so overwhelmed that it was all I could do from breaking down 
and showing what a big baby this dogface was.   After that, we piled into two cars, along 
with Pop, Grandpop, Uncle Tom, Uncle Jim, Mom, Vicki, and myself, with Sam driving one 
car and sister Lil, the other, and we were off to #3 Sharpless Road, Melrose Park, PA.
    This was the big, old house that pop had bought while I was overseas.   From how 
mom explained it, pop had wanted his entire family, including his married sons, 
aughters, and grandchildren, living under one roof.  But time and his energetic 
children were against him because by the time he passed away on February 8, 1971, on top 
of seven sons and daughters-in-law, he had more than thirty grand and great-grandchildren.  
    Well, to make a long story short, I finally met the entire family at Sharpless 
Road and, most especially, my oldest sister, Sarah, youngest sister, Virginia, and 
five-year-old brother, Peter.   And the first thing I did after that was to get out of 
uniform and put on civilian clothes.  Fortunately, they fit and from here on in, it was 
getting reacquainted with the entire family, and most especially, with my loving wife 
whom I had been dreaming about for eighteen months including those perilous 200 plus 
days when I was surviving on the edge of eternity.  But as providence would have it, 
this was not to be because before the moon had risen in the sky, No. 3 Sharpless 
Road was full of revelers welcoming me home.  As a result, I got plastered and woke up 
the next day with the mother of all hangovers.

                        Joseph Vosbikian