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by Helen Herz Cohen
Running a camp during World War II took creativity, ingenuity, and some
sacrifice. While friends and family were being asked to give their lives
for our country, those of us at camp wanted to do our share. We wanted
to provide our campers — eighty girls who were twelve to sixteen
years old — with good memories of their time at camp, but at the
same time, we knew it wouldn’t always be easy.
Food Rations at Camp
As Americans, we were accustomed to an abundance of food and other goods
as a part of our lives, and I think the most obvious adjustment to the
war took place in our kitchen and dining room. When restrictions were
imposed, we were willing to cooperate and anxious to sacrifice. Early
in the war, the Federal War Board placed restrictions on all residents
for amounts of sugar, coffee, meat, and gasoline. Every person in the
United States was issued an allotment of these commodities in the form
of stamps. Before the camp season started, we required each camper and
staff member to send us the allotted stamps for the eight weeks of camp
— in those days we had one session that lasted eight weeks —
not numerous shorter sessions. We turned these stamps into the federal
agency in charge and were given checkbooks with a total number of credits
for all the stamps we had submitted. When we purchased any of these items,
we wrote a check for the amount to be delivered.
Obviously, we were restricted in what we served at meals. We understood
the limits imposed, and we used our ingenuity to make life at camp as
normal as possible. We knew our kitchen staff was honest, but they were
often cheated or had their orders changed by the salesmen or the delivery
persons. At the end of every week, we would review our remaining stamps
and change trips or meals accordingly. And often, we were pressured to
break the rules. Among those who pressured us were men involved in organized
crime. They tried to bully us into buying meat “under the counter”
or gasoline and to have us give them some of our allowance. These were
difficult times, and it was truly scary to turn them down.
Campers ate what they were served, and there were no “special”
meals for those who had allergies or needed different diets. All the food
was made from scratch, and in hindsight I think our girls were lucky that
there were no frozen foods available. The counselor at the head of the
table served the food, and if you did not like something, you could ask
for a “thank you” portion.
The War Effort Meant Beans
As a camp, we were involved in many projects to help the war effort.
Every camper and counselor had some relative or good friend who was overseas,
and we wanted to feel that we were making a contribution. The first year
I tried growing beans in an open field. When I arrived in Maine, the weeds
were far healthier than the beans. We gave that up and volunteered our
time and efforts by picking beans for local farmers. It was a hot and
dusty job. In order to keep the campers working instead of talking, we
placed best friends at the ends of the lines — so that they would
want to pick faster and meet up with their friends. The money that we
collected from the farmers was sent to refugee camps in Europe.
Sewing Through the War
We had an excellent arts and crafts counselor who knew a great deal
about pattern making and sewing. We turned our recreation porch into a
sewing room, rented ten sewing machines, and taught the campers how to
use them. With our patterns for children’s clothes, we made cute
dresses and overalls to send abroad. Each garment had two pockets, one
was filled with a bar of soap and one with a toothbrush. The machines
were busy all day long. Every camper gave up at least one period every
day to work in the sewing room, and we would regularly ship off six or
more cartons with these well-made, wearable garments.
Spotting for Enemy Planes
The four camps in our area cooperated on another war project. We all
took part in spotting for enemy planes over Portland Harbor. Early in
the season, an officer from the Air Force came to camp for an assembly.
He had silhouettes of our aircraft and of the enemy aircraft. Each camp
was to take a week on top of Mt. Pleasant watching for enemy planes. This
mountain stands alone with a glorious view of the nearby White Mountains
on one side and Portland Harbor on the other side. Beneath are the beautiful
lakes and streams of the Southern Lake district of Maine. We had teams
of six girls each. They climbed Mt. Pleasant with their packs and the
food and water that they would need for twenty-four hours. At the end
of that time, another group would climb up to relieve them. It was not
an easy job.
The job wasn’t easy, and neither were the packs to carry. The
packs were really bedrolls — three blankets were stretched on a
poncho and folded into an envelope that was held together by large pins,
called “blanket pins.” Then the bundle was rolled as tightly
as possible by a team of two or three girls, and poncho straps were clasped
around it. The packs were heavy and clumsy. The thermos jugs we now have
were not yet in existence, and most of the water was carried in individual
canteens. Although the task was somewhat arduous, everyone pitched in
with good humor.
We took our assignment for two weeks during the summer. We never saw
any enemy planes, but we felt good about helping. As I look back at this
chore from a peaceful distance, I wonder what the campers would have done
if they had seen a plane. They had no means of communication except on
the top of the fire tower. The forester who usually sat there was not
on duty during the war, and the room was locked up. Thinking back, I realize
that one person sitting in the fire tower could have done a better job
then we could have done on Mt. Pleasant. But in those days, we did what
we were asked to do and were glad to help.
The Journey to Camp
The railroad played an important role in camp life during those years.
During the war, we traveled to Maine on sleeping cars from Grand Central
Station to Portland on the New York Central Railroad — we didn’t
have busses and parents didn’t bring the girls by cars. We met in
New York City and escorted the girls to camp. In the early morning after
a sleepless night, we would arrive in Portland, change trains, and lug
our belongings to cars run by the Boston and Maine Railroad. The long
journey ended at Brownfield station about fifteen miles from camp. The
empty unused station is still there.
The first part of our journey was in sleeper cars that had upper and
lower berths. The trips were fun, and lots of popcorn and cookies were
passed around. We worried about transportation during the war as the railroad
cars were used to transport troops. Luckily, we were allotted a triple-decker
sleeping car. It had two upper berths instead of one. There were no curtains
to block off the berths. But, we were young, and the campers enjoyed swinging
from one upper berth to another as they had in earlier trips.
The railroad and station were even a big part of our camping trips.
All the camps had only one truck and maybe a car or station wagon for
transportation. When a camp needed extra transportation, we pooled our
vehicles and helped each other. We all used the railroad for trips to
the White Mountains. The counselor would buy tickets to the nearest station
and make arrangements to have the train stop at the beginning of the trail
we were to take up the mountain. We would climb for a day or two and then
go back to the railroad tracks to flag the train and return to Brownfield
station. We were tired and dirty but ready to return to camp with songs
and stories about our trip.
On one occasion, in order to save our gasoline stamps, I had the brilliant
idea of obtaining a cart to transport the gear for a riding trip. We packed
the cart with food for the campers and for the horses and all the equipment
the campers would need to stay out overnight. We selected one of the riding
counselors to drive the wagon and harnessed two of the riding horses.
The journey started out smoothly. However, when the horses got to the
camp gate, they took off. They galloped down the road with the cart swinging
from side to side. The counselor jumped off safely, and the horses ran
on with all the gear tumbling out of the cart along the roadside. Luckily,
a nearby farmer heard the clatter and the shrieking of the counselor and
ran out on the road. He grabbed the reins and was strong enough to stop
the horses. The counselor limped back to camp with the sad story. The
farmer walked behind her leading the horses.
Good Help Was Hard to Come By
Finding adequate maintenance help during these difficult times was nearly
impossible. Our regular caretaker was working on ships in the New York
Navy Yards. We finally hired Joe, a middle-aged man who had all the mechanical
skills necessary, and who was also an alcoholic. We were desperate and
thought we could control this habit by refusing to give him any means
of transportation. But Joe was smarter than we were. He decided that he
was a Catholic and that it was necessary for him to go to church each
Sunday. We assigned a counselor to drive Joe to Bridgton and to stay with
him during the services. We were sure our plan had worked, but we were
wrong.
On the following visitor’s weekend, Joe helped us prepare the
benches and other chores to have everything ready for the visitors. Once
again, we had a counselor drive Joe and stay with him during the services.
It was a glorious Maine day, and all the visitors were seated on the beach
watching water sports as the campers sang and cheered for their teams.
Suddenly Joe pulled up at the beach in a rowboat. He had slyly arranged
to have a six-pack left under where he sat at church, and he somehow hid
it from the counselor on the trip back to camp. Then he took out one of
the rowboats and consumed all the hot beer as he sat in the middle of
the lake. As Joe stepped from the boat on to the sand, he collapsed. Luckily
for me, two of the fathers picked Joe up and carried him off the beach.
The water sports continued as if nothing had happened. I lead the two
rescuers to Joe’s cabin. We threw his clothes into a bag, and the
two wonderful fathers drove Joe to the bus station and left him there
with enough cash to buy a bus ticket back to New York.
And then what did we do for help? I think we hired two high school boys
in the village, and the staff pitched in to get the daily work completed.
Whatever the solution, the campers had a good summer, and the parents
never referred to the incident. They understood that in those times there
were challenges to finding good help.
Walking to the Peace Circle
We were always anxious to hear the news on the radio and were all affected
by every battle. On Sunday evenings we sang around a campfire sitting
on a piece of cleared ground near the bottom of a steep hill. I never
liked the spot and hired a local forester to peel some pine logs and lay
them in a semi-circle around a secluded spot by the lake. On V-J evening,
the news came over the radio that the war was over. I announced it to
the camp in the dining room. There was a stunned silence. We were overcome
with relief. I suggested that we walk quietly to the new campfire circle
and sing together. We all walked silently down the path, sat down, and
started to sing with our arms around each other — many of us sobbing.
Most of us sang all night and watched the sun rise. A quiet feeling of
joy permeated the camp. The next day, we all had our own special way of
expressing our happiness. Some ran and yelled, some went to church and
prayed, and some just went about their daily routine. This was the first
time we had been together at the new campfire. We called this beautiful
spot The Peace Circle, and it’s still at camp today.
Originally published in the 2003 July/August
issue of Camping Magazine. |
