Mother, Dad, my brother and I lived on a thirty-acre farm. We had a cow, a jenny, some chickens and hogs. Dad worked for the N&W Railroad in Portsmouth, making $5.00 a day. We maintained a large garden and raised food for the animals. Dad had a Model A Ford. The farthest I ever got from home was to visit my grandparents in south-eastern Kentucky.
About the time I finished high school, Dad traded for a 480-acre farm near Stockdale, Ohio. No work was available and I wanted to join the Navy. My folks didn’t like that idea. Dad put the farm in my name, hoping to change my mind, but I joined anyway. I had to eat a bunch of bananas to meet the 120-pound requirement.
In November, 1940, I was sent for boot training to Great Lakes, Illinois. Kilty, the fellow in charge of the barracks, was a real nut. He ordered me to do his laundry. I refused. We had at it for a while, but I still didn’t do his skivies. At Parade the next morning, Chief Chapman saw Kilty’s face, then looked at the rest of the company. He didn’t say a word.
I was sent to the hospital with cat fever. While I was there another boot commited suicide by jumping off a tower near the parade ground.
They told me that, if my grades were high enough, I would get my choice of service schools. I wanted to fly, but I didn’t have enough education. I chose carpenter school at Ford’s Rouge Plant near Dearborn, Michigan. From there I was sent to New York to board an old Munson liner that was being converted to APA 17 (American Legion.)
Not liking the repair gang, I transferred to the deck where I was trained to handle landing craft and became a coxswain.
We traveled around the East Coast. On a trip to Bermuda, we hit a hurricane off Cape Hatteras. I was in the mess hall, overseeing a group of soldiers, when I noticed one of them manning the coffee tureen. A guy would put his cup under the faucet and the fellow handling the faucet was getting seasick. He would turn it on and off, with nothing coming out. The guy who was supposed to get coffee peeked into the large urn and puked in it. That is when I got sick. I never got sick again while I was in the Navy.
On April 9, 1942, we left Brooklyn for Panama and went through the Canal. The first stop was Tonga; the next was Wellington. While training Marines at Piakakarica, which was about forty miles from Wellington, my boat was beached by that humongous tide going out before the boat could be unloaded. While I was around the point signaling for help, a Marine with a bulldozer tried to push the boat stern-first and broke the rudder.
That night, a fifty-footer arrived to tow us back to the ship. It was winter-time and very stormy. Everyone was wearing foulweather gear. A howser was hooked to the stern to clear us off the beach, but didn’t stop to let us change to the bow. About a mile out, my boat swamped and sank. Two officers and six enlisted men were lost. Fox, my bowhook, and I caught the engine hatch cover and were carried to the beach by wind and waves.
The Marines who pulled us from the water told us they nearly broke our fingers, trying to pry them from the plywood. They stripped us and wrapped us in blankets. When we got to the ship the next morning, there was a wild welcoming party from the crew. They thought everyone had been lost.
We landed Marines at Guadalcanal on August 7, 1942. I was aboard ship when the high-altitude bombers came over. A hot shellman threw a 3” fifty case over the gun tub, hitting me on the calf with the flange. I thought I had been hit with shrapnel.
While we were at Red Beach, the enemy headed down the Slot. The transports took off, leaving lots of boats on the beach. That night, the Marines were fighting just inland from us and the Battle of Savo was going on. A pretty hectic night was had by all.
On one landing my boat officer, a new ninety-day wonder, tried to tell me the wrong way to keep my boat from broaching. I finally told him to leave me alone and get back to the rear of the boat. He said he would put me on report. Back at the ship, he reported to the First Lieutenant. When I was called up, both sides were heard. The officer said we both were wrong. "Amburgey, you were wrong for disobeying and Mr. Saur, you were wrong for telling Amburgey the wrong way to do it. I think the whole thing should drop." Needless to say, we were not very friendly after that. A few years later, I met Mr. Saur and we became friends.
The Legion traveled around to New Zealand, Australia, Pago Pago and other islands. In Noumea we loaded a thousand cases of beer and a thousand cases of Coke. Hardly any of the beer was left by the time we reached Guadalcanal. We carried troops and cargo until July, 1943.
I went aboard the Talbot (APD7) to try for quartermaster and made it. On the rest of the landings I was still a cox’n. We landed at Rendove, Enogai, Onavisa, Vella Lavella, Rice Anchorage, Munda, another near Vella Lavella, Treasury and Bougainville, where we lost the McKean to a torpedo bomber. While picking up survivors and bodies, I was ordered to the downed plane, which was floating. Two bodies were dragged into the boat. While searching them, the officer was cutting the flesh. He acted as though he were going mad. A while later, that same officer was wounded and not much sorrow was shown.
We had two commando runs on Green Island. I don’t have it written down, but on one of them twelve landing craft with Australian commandos were dropped off at midnight to be picked up the next night. The next morning, my boat was sent across the lagoon to beach under a large palm tree. As the ramp was being lowered, a machine gun was firing straight down at us. I put the boat in reverse and looked around at the boat officer. “My god! I could get my head in his mouth.” I later learned that he had taken a 25-caliber bullet through the cheek of his ass. We had killed and wounded, but I don’t remember how many. One of the spokes to my steering wheel was shot off.
We hit Emirau, Aitape, Saipan and Guam. On the way to the Marianas we rammed the BB Pensy. I was sleeping on the starboard side, on a cot, just aft of the galley deck house. The noise awakened me and I started to the fantail, figuring that a torpedo had hit forward and had not exploded. I suddenly realized that $600.00 I had won at poker was still in my pants. I charged back to get it and saw the float plane on the port stern of the Pensy. I figured that was the plane which d ropped the torpedo. It had darn near knocked our bow off. We had to return to a repair base to get patched up--with no sonar. We caught up with the main fleet just before the landing. While there, we witnessed the “Turkey Shoot.”
Next was Leyte at Tacloban. While looking through the long glasss, I saw a horse which had evidently been near an explosion. He was going so fast that he would have won any race ever held. An SBD from one of the carriers was observing ground action and was crippled. He was coming right out of the sun, toward us. Our gunners started shooting and he crashed in the water. We were sent out to pick up survivors and all three aboard that plane were rescued. The enlisted man had a gash on his head. The Army officer, the observer, was raising so much hell about being shot down that the Skipper threatened to throw him in the brig.
We had a kamikaze fall close enough to splash water on the ship. At Manus Island, Seadker Harbor, the Mount Hood blew up about 450 yards from us. The clinometer showed 67 degrees of roll. No one was seriously injured. A high-pressure steam valve came so close to Chubby Badon that it tore his shirt. It went through the deck and knocked out our condenser. When things settled down, Chubby was about a hundred yards off the port side, yelling that he couldn’t swim. My boat was lowered to pick him up. When our reunions started, I got his address and wrote, asking if he remembered who picked him up--he never answered.
Next we hit Lingayen, Nasugbu Bay, Mariveles and Corregidor. On the way in, a gun was firing from the Rock. We were fishtailing, so they would have a hard time ranging on us. Each order I got, I would carry out, then dart to the starboard wing to get as much metal between me and the gun as possible. Afterward, no one had noticed my actions. They were as scared as I was.
When we hit the beach I (running the boat) was a quartermaster and Eddie Garcia (my bowhook) was a signalman. The ramp was lowered when a machine gun was firing from a cave into the sand just ahead of us. No one was getting out, so Eddie grabbed a gun off the mount and led the troops ashore. He was put on report for leaving his station. Nothing ever came of it. When we started getting together a few years ago, we found out Eddie got a medal for his actions. He lives in Avile, California.
We escorted an LST to Parcee Vella reef and knocked out a radio station. One for our side was then built. One day at low tide I was in a big pothole looking for cat-eyes. Suddenly I saw a large red fish with huge eyes and nearly splashed the pothole dry while retreating.
We hit Okinawa. A note in my book reads “Smoky Oky, the worst.” We were assigned radar picket patrol. Something new was added--”Flash Cream.” It was supposed to protect us from flash burns. The expression you had when applying was the expression you kept. It hardened very fast. Another kamikaze took some of our signal lines.
I thought I had signed up for a minority cruise, and didn’t find out that I was in for six years for quite a while later. The Talbot was decommissioned and I was shipped to Pearl Harbor for further duty. I went to Aiea receiving station. I was sitting in a bar in Honolulu one day when a warrent officer walked in. We talked for a while and he said he had a good job for me. He told me to go to the Aiea train station. Just across the tracks were two boat houses. Chief Wadsworth needed a quartermaster to operate a 45-foot picket boat. The only duty was taking officers and friends out on weekend fishing trips. That is when I met Hank--he lives about 60 miles from me.
A few months later, I was hijacked aboard the Sumner (AGS5) to survey Bikini for the bomb test. We built triangulation towers, surveyed and operated 40-foot drag boats to locate coral heads and blow them up so the ships that would be towed in would float free.
Near the end of the job, the skipper rang GQ about 11:30 p.m. He got on the PA system, raving and ranting that someone stole some beer out of his room. Dungarees was the uniform of the day. In my rush to the bridge, I tied my shirt tail and was put on report. Three of us got into the flag locker and made three copies, word for word, of his ranting. Uniform of the day was then changed to whites and field day was held until breakfast. At Pearl, I was kicked off.
I went to Makalapa, Headquarters, and showed the copies to a chief. A day or so later I was called up to be interviewed by an Admiral. A few days later, I was called up again. This time The Mad Skipper was there. He never said a word while I was there. He was gripping the chair arms so hard that his hands were white. I always wondered whether he left fingerprints embedded there.
For the last few months of my enlistment, I was transferred to ATF104. We had a warrant officer skipper. He was another weirdo. It was rumored that he was having wife-problems and had ulcers. Hagman, the Chief QM, retired. We were supposed to wait for a replacement. Treadwell wanted to leave early for the Panama Canal, so we could stop off at Accupulco. I was the only one aboard who knew celestial navigation. It got to the point that he had to get someone other than me to take time for him. My shots and his had to be figured out by me. If they didn’t jive, I woulld be ordered off the bridge. He never put me on report.
We had a monster German hammerhead crane to take up the West Coast which was one of three German made units. It was one of three German made units. In November of 1946, while we were at Long Beach, and my Navy time was over, I headed home. Growing up when I did made me very frugal so I decided I would save some money and hitch-hike home. After WWII, a fellow could beat the trains and buses by thumbing rides. In one of the western states I was dropped off on a side road which reduced my chances considerably. It was also getting dark and damp outside. After walking for quite a distance I noticed a light in a small farm house so I walked up and knocked on the door. A man opened the door and invited me to come in. I quickly noted that it was a one room house with a fireplace, a bed and a table and kitchen area in one end. Since they were ready to eat their evening meal, they invited me to join in. There was corn, beans, potatoes and cornbread. That was the food I ate growing up so I joined in. I liked it then and I still like lit today.
After the good meal, the lady put the leftovers in an ice-box and we sat down and chatted for a while.
When I arrived home in Hazel Park, MI, I noticed a very striking girl warming herself by the big stove in the living room. I think I made up my mind right there that she was going to become my wife. Today we are still happily married
In 1987 I let go off my shares and retired to the apple hill country, near Camino, CA. Asbout 10 years before I retired, our son started working for me and today still has the same type shop and lives 9 miles from us. He has a wonderful wife land we have three beautiful grandchildren. Our daughter liven in Redding California but is without children. She is a realtor and loan officer.
After moving to California I did get a chance to do some charter flying and partake of my favorite sport, fishing, which I still enjoy today. I sold my 24 foot Sting Ray just after moving to the mountains but I still get out on the water when I can. We have fished all over the west, in the Sea of Cortez, streams in South Island, NZ, a few times around Maui and quite a few in Alaska. I also did two days on The Great Barrier Reef. Today I use a 12 footer with a 9 horsepower outboard.
I, Roy Amburgey, was born November 22, 1922, in Kentucky, just across the Ohio River from Portsmouth, Ohio. The first three years of high school were at Glenwood in New Boston, Ohio. A new school was built nearer my home, close to Rubyville, Ohio. Eight girls and four boys elected to do our senior year at Clay High School on Long Run, near Rubyville.
The farmer said he would drop me off at the highway the next morning, if I cared to spend the night. I wondered aloud where I would sleep since there was only one bed in the house. “right here with us”, he said. It was too strange sleeping in this situation, even with the husband in the middle and I couldn’t get to sleep.
After a while we heard a lot of noise coming from the barn and the wife told the man to go check it out. Soon the back door closed and the little wife rolled over to me and whispered that I could take anything I wanted. With that I jumped out of bed, went over to the icebox and ate the left over beans.
Just a block or so from our home a new business was starting up and I was the second person hired by the Jentsen-Miller Manufacturing Company. I never did draw any of the 52-20 money. After the war, returning veterans could draw $20.00 per week for 52 weeks or until they found work.
Instead of going to college, I took flying lessons on the GI Bill and earned my commercial ticket. Although qualified, I never flew for any of the big companies but did charter work when I had time.
I had an uncle living in San Jose CA so in 1952, Dorine and I moved to California. In school I had been good in shop and had attended carpenter school at Fords, then worked about five years building store fixtures where I started working with Formica and Corian. In 1953, I went into business with one of the nicest men I ever met, OttoHalverson. (He passed away a few years ago)We later took on a third partner and started installing appliances and cabinets along with Formica and Corian.
Since getting out of the service one of my main interests has been old cars and we have had many. About 14 years ago I had 6 Nash Metropolitins , two 56 Continental MK11s, a 41 Chevy Special Delux Coupe, a 47 Mercury and a 1955 Packard. Today I have only the 1955 MKII show car. My final restoration job was on a 1952 8N Ford Tractor which I brought up to show condition.
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