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.
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