Argentia, Newfoundland

The United States Navy, in January of 1958, decided I should go to a most wonderful place (not) named Argentia, Newfoundland, Canada.  I understood them to say the weather would be tropical, but I guess what they really said was topical.

I found there is a world (or at least a major part of it) of difference in these two terms.  With tropical weather you sometimes get terrible winds with massive amounts of moisture called hurricanes.  With topical weather, especially so in January, you sometimes get terrible winds with massive amounts of moisture also, but they call them blizzards.  The moisture is in a different form known as snow.

So it was that three P2V5F aircraft from Patrol Squadron Eight (Patron 8 or VP 8) revved up their engines in Quonset Point, Rhode Island and ultimately landed in Argentia.  As part of a ground maintenance crew I climbed aboard a troop transport which had a fuel stop in Halifax, Nova Scotia, but it also safely arrived in Argentia the same day.  What a rude awakening.  My first impression of this place was desolation, utter and complete.  After taking a second, and then a third observation, I yet came to the same conclusion.  There was nothing here, but wind, cold, snow, and bleakness, and this from a farm boy raised in the very north of New York State that knew what winter was all about, or at least thought he did.

After settling into our barracks, such as the drafty clapboard covered buildings were, we—did nothing.  There was nothing to do.  Our three aircraft were all serviced and ready to go with no need for maintenance of any kind.  We were told to stay in the barracks, and we would be called upon when our individual specialties were required.  Like where were we going to go anyway?

Although it is now 56 years later, I don’t recall there being any television to watch to pass the time.  A poker game was started that hardly ever let up for the 6 months I ultimately spent in this wonderful utopia.  Once in a while a crap game might get started just to break the monotony.

There was practically nothing on earth any more boring than standing a watch in the duty office from 0200-0600 in an empty hangar.  The only two items to watch were the teletype machine and the telephone.  Neither was likely to activate during those hours unless someone as bored as yourself from Gander or Thule or some other place no one ever heard of rattled up the teletype asking for the latest ballgame scores or some other dire needed statistic.

I recall a few isolated events that can better be handled as individual entries on this medium.  Watch for stories about “Liberty in St Johns,” and another about “The Crap Game.”