I realize many of you who read this were not even born yet 59 years ago, but the story of Camp Morris may be of some interest to you anyway. This all began in 1952 when the U.S. Air Force at Harmon Field needed some help in getting a year’s supply of everything they needed put on shore because they didn’t have a port facility. The world’s largest floating dredge was engaged in making them a channel clear into shore, but it was a long way from being finished, so they called on the U.S. Army Transportation Corps out of Fort Eustis, Virginia, to give them a hand. We loaded up about a battalion of men and equipment and headed for the Rock. In the process of loading all that, a young private named Morris was killed in an accident, so the camp was named after him. We had a huge array of equipment, trucks, cranes, bulldozers, landing craft and anything else we might need to take the various cargos out of the ships holds and onto the beach. We worked 12-hour shifts, seven days a week. I was a crane operator on the beach from 8:00 p.m. till 8:00 a.m. We put ashore an amazing array of stuff; perhaps the most unusual was a ship full of liquor. The M.P.s watched that closely. Regarding the camp, it was a tent city about a half-mile square with ten-man tents lined up on dirt and rock roads. We had rough board floors, a single light in the middle and a tiny oil stove that didn’t do much to ward off the cold. I went ashore on Mother’s Day, 1952, and it was quite cold. We got one blanket only, and it didn’t start to keep you warm, so we went to bed with all our clothes on, even shoes. By the time the weather got hot, we each got five blankets. Our laundry was the creek at the end of the camp - and then we got modern; we had two oil drums full of water with a gas burner under them. Wow! It would be hard to describe the chow at the mess tent; scorched eggs and milk with big lumps in it. Got the idea? When I finally got some time off, I went into Stephenville, and I met a very sweet young girl and we started dating. While visiting at her home in Kippens, I became very impressed by the kindness of her mother; she reminded me so much of my grandma back in Oregon. We formed a bond that was to last forever. When she heard about the lousy food back at camp, she decided I was to be a guest at her house for any Sunday that I wasn’t working. That dear sweet lady, a true Newfoundlander, was Lucy Hodder. Incidentally, on the first day that I met her daughter Verna, that charming little lady went and told her mom, “That’s the man I am going to marry,” and you know what, after I finished my hitch in the army, I went back to Oregon and then in October of 1953, I returned to Newfoundland and claimed my bride. Nan Hodder said I couldn’t marry her daughter 'til she was 18, so three days after her birthday, we were wed, and we are still hitched. There is no trace of Camp Morris left, so far as I know, but I have managed to locate my old spot on the beach where my crane sat; it’s across the road from the golf course. Due to poor health I won’t be able to return to the Rock anymore, but I have a lifetime full of wonderful memories of its people and places. BY: Richard L. Gallagher   Submitted By: NULL