Summer Camp 1945

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I was 9 years old in the summer of 1945. A generous relative had arranged for me to spend my second summer at Camp Kingsley on Crescent Lake, Maine.

Camp Kingsley was located on a peninsula where breezes protected us from the ubiquitous mosquitoes that plagued southern Maine. Crescent Lake was a few miles long, as I recall. It seemed huge to me. Across the lake from the camp was Rattlesnake Mountain, said to be a dangerous place for boys to visit.

It was an eight week camp, July and August, and campers were divided into three campuses; Juniors, Intermediates and Seniors. There were probably about 50 boys and 25-30 staff and counselors. The boys were mainly from New York families of the Broadway stage and related fields. I was in the Intermediate Campus.

We lived in small cabins... several boys and a counselor to a cabin. The cabins were unheated with screens instead of windows. We used a kerosene lantern for light. Each campus had a dock, but all of the boats stayed in a marina. We had rowboats, canoes, a couple of sailboats and the camp's one powerboat, a spectacular mahogany Gar Wood dual cockpit runabout.

My favorite organized activities were boating and sailing classes, the rifle range and the shop. By summers end I was an NRA Expert Rifleman.

My favorite times, though, were the "free" time, when we could do as we wished, alone or in groups. That meant fishing and boating. To take a canoe or rowboat out, you had to qualify by swimming a quarter mile, passing the life saving test and the boating test. You also had to wear a life jacket.

We often fished at our dock with droplines for the jewel-like sunnies that lurked under them. There were jumbo yellow perch off the point and smallmouth bass back in the coves. The main event of Crescent Lake, though, was Landlocked Salmon.

One of my cabin mates had brought a fly rod and salmon tackle. I spent many evenings rowing about the lake while he trolled a large streamer fly. He did get one strike that summer but the fish leapt and spit out the fly. It was the highlight of his summer.

Then there was the Grampus. Many of the campfire tales were of this huge beast that lurked in the depths of Crescent Lake, waiting quietly to gobble up any misbehaving campers. Some of the boys, I think, actually believed that the Grampus was there. I thought it more likely that a Japanese submarine, disguised as a Grampus, waited to torpedo our canoes.

In early August the Intermediates were to go on a canoeing/camping trip. The outflow from Crescent Lake flowed into Lake Sebago after about 20 miles. Our destination was an island in Lake Sebago.

We left the camp in the early morning and paddled all day to reach the island. Paddling in the river was mostly keeping the bearing, as the current moved us gently along, but when we reached the big lake all of our training in canoe handling was called upon to control the loaded canoes in the brisk breeze and chop. Arriving in late afternoon we found our camp already set up by staff who had preceded us.

After a meal of hot dogs and beans cooked over the campfire we gathered around the ring for the traditional scary stories and songfest. We began with an earnest prayer for the welfare of our friends and relatives fighting a desperate and deadly enemy in the Pacific. We didn't know yet that our forces had dropped two atomic bombs on Japan.

As twilight descended and our weary eyelids began to droop we heard the roar of the camp powerboat coming across the lake. Shortly thereafter our camp owner, Bob Streeter, and his wife came into the circle with broad smiles and an air of jubilation.

"The Japanese have surrendered!! The war is over!!" shouted Mr. Streeter. Then he burst into tears. I can't tell you if they were tears of joy or tears of grief. The Streeter's son had died just a few weeks earlier off Okinawa when a Japanese suicide pilot crashed into his ship.

I immediately thought of my Uncles, Tom and Jack (JB) Braine, who were serving in that theater. Tom was on the carrier Ticonderoga off the Japanese coast and Jack was somewhere in the Philippines on an OSS mission. There were also many family friends in the 3rd and 7th Fleets and with the Army and Marines on Okinawa. The destroyer Braine, DD630, named for my great grandfather and christened by my mom, was in the Philippines getting repairs of two direct hits by suicide planes that had slain 60 of her crew. Those details we didn't know at the time, but we did know that they were all in harm's way in an increasingly fierce fight and we prayed daily for their survival. The peaceful and tranquil setting in which we learned the news seemed to amplify its impact.

All that was pretty overwhelming for a 9 year old and for my companions. We leapt about, hugged everyone in sight and waved our arms in glee and relief.

As the celebration waned Mrs. Streeter organized us to sing our National Anthem and to offer a prayer of thanks. I don't think any of us slept that night.

My mind often revisits that warm August evening when a frightening war that had lasted almost half of my life, and dominated my world view, came to an abrupt and surprise end. I had to completely revise my thoughts of life and the future.