As I sit here on the deck of the transport USS Barnstable, I can see around me a few of the 120 survivors that are on here with me. Some are reading, some writing, some talking, all very peaceful. Let some noise suddenly burst forth upon them, and you would see them dashing wild-eyed hither and yon, grabbing life belts and jackets. It is an awful feeling, one that you civilians could never quite imagine. Around the ship are 14 other transports, on 3 or 4 others of which are the other survivors. Beyond them 5 or 6 destroyers acting as escort. The sea is fairly calm; as a quartermaster, I’d call it a “2” sea, no whitecaps, small ripples. The swell is long and moderate, a 4 swell, I guess, one that keeps the ships rising and falling easily, the most restful (to me) type of swell there is. The sky is half clouded, cumulus masses rising white + billowy, the thin whitish film of a alto-stratus + a touch of cirrus and cirrostratus. Altogether a very peaceful quiet Sunday afternoon, except when I occasionally see a plane on the horizon, although I know it is one of