War Stories from My Father
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Some of my earliest memories of my Father are when I used to run into the garage at our old house, where he had carved himself a little crowded room normally used for storage. It was his half-radio-room-and-half-hangout place. My Father would spend hours during his days off from work in this wonderful "cave." Here he would put on two, sometimes three, old Marconi Short-Wave Radios tuned to different Commercial Maritime Stations, as well as his Radio/Morse Transreceiver Station, all of them transmitting hundreds of messages using Radio and Morse code, Dits and Dots from all of dozens of Maritim...
Some of my earliest memories of my Father are when I used to run into the garage at our old house, where he had carved himself a little crowded room normally used for storage. It was his half-radio-room-and-half-hangout place. My Father would spend hours during his days off from work in this wonderful "cave." Here he would put on two, sometimes three, old Marconi Short-Wave Radios tuned to different Commercial Maritime Stations, as well as his Radio/Morse Transreceiver Station, all of them transmitting hundreds of messages using Radio and Morse code, Dits and Dots from all of dozens of Maritime Land Stations that monitor the traffic of Merchant Ships crossing the Strait of Gibraltar. My Father was a consummate Radio and Telegraph Operator who worked with the Moroccan Government, specifically the Ministry of Post, Telegraph, and Telephone. His job was to make contact with Ships crisscrossing the Straits of Gibraltar to help direct their traffic through Moroccan Territorial Waters, and Ports, thousands of ships using mainly Morse code.
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