It was Thursday, May 1st, 1919, and the large troop carrier ship, the navy’s U.S.S. Finland, had been at sea for the past twelve days. Since early this morning in the foggy mist the boys had been cramming up on deck, and now that it was late afternoon and the horizon was crystal clear, they stood several men deep along the railing areas of the passenger liner. For the past several hours the ship had been abuzz with anxious anticipation, but now a revered silence had overcome these war weary soldiers. The mighty passenger transport – re-commissioned in 1917 as an army troop carrier, a role she would continue until returning to civilian transportation the following fall – turned on its final leg toward the northwest. It lapped its way through the gentle waves on the final slow turn toward New York harbor…
The ship was carrying one of the last major contingents of the occupation army left behind in France since the cessation of hostilities last November eleventh – Armistice Day, 1918. These tired soldiers had been among a specially chosen group of military men, the finest the U.S. Army had to offer in Europe. They had stayed behind after the war for many reasons that history would record, but as for now, these brave boys who had sojourned the by-ways of hell and had survived horrors beyond any human’s comprehension, were returning home shepherded by a silent and invisible Winged Victory…
The ship had slowed considerably, and over the next hour or so lumbered its way majestically toward the skyline that was now becoming more and more familiar by the minute. The sun by this time was setting, and now a panorama of many colored lights painted a most welcomed panorama against a crystal clear evening sky. George’s emotions had been held in check up until this moment.
The young man, now twenty-five years old and far, far more mature than his years, reached into his breast pocket. He took out a tattered paper notebook that had been his personal journal along the way. He pondered for a very brief instant why this pointless paper notebook had survived, then sloughed off such a juvenile thought. This tattered pad had somehow survived for more than a year having been exposed to unbelievable conditions in the trenches of France. The rain, the mud, rats and vermin, the most inhuman devastation imaginable… the frayed paper notebook had somehow been spared destruction, no doubt with the helping hands of God. As had the young man.
He took a pencil in his hand and turned to what was ironically one of the few remaining blank areas on the pages of the notebook. He backed away from the crowd at the railing. On Thursday, May 1st, 1919, Sergeant First Class George William Schreader made what would be one of the final entries in his personal journal:
Journal Entry: … Arrive New York Harbor this evening. Very beautiful sunset. One of the happiest days of my life. New York most welcome sight…
