by Dorien Grey
As I said, at times you aren’t even aware he is around, until suddenly it dawns on you that he is conspicuous in his absence. It came to me in a drugstore, when two well-dressed women came to the fountain. Though there were plenty of empty seats, they stood at the end of the counter and asked for two milkshakes, which the counterman made and gave to them in covered paper cartons. They disappeared then—I don’t know where they went, but they were gone.
It was then I began noticing—the bus, trains, and plane depots with their “Colored Waiting Room,” the restaurants, the theaters (“Colored Entrance” via an outside fire escape to the balcony), the “For Colored Only” taverns (in the slum parts of town, of course). It is most apparent, however, on the transportation systems. Coming back to downtown New Orleans from the amusement park, Pontchatrain Beach, I was almost the only person on the bus as it started back from the end of its run. I sat, as I usually do, about even with the back door. The silver hand-rails along the back of each seat, I noticed, had two holes drilled in the top. I gave it no notice until six Negro teen-aged boys got on the bus. They came to the rear and picked up a wooden sign from the back seat and placed it on the hand rail of the seat across from me. It said “For Colored Only.”
On the bus from Mobile to Pensacola, I sat alone in a seat for two while five Negroes stood in the aisles. A mother and three small children got on the bus; the kids were cute as only colored children can be. One was a little girl about three, in bare feet, carrying a huge handbag. She came grinning down the aisle with her two brothers, who were carrying large bags of groceries. After a few minutes, the little girl, who hadn’t yet learned that Negroes must stand if whites sit, started to crawl up onto the seat next to me. The mother scolded her and started to pull her off the seat, but I said if she wanted to sit there, she was perfectly welcome to. The mother was evidently surprised, and said “thank you,” and the little girl sat clutching the handbag and grinned at me as the bus roared on….
Back in Pensacola, a Negro Marine was the only colored person on the bus back to the base. He sat in one of the side seats like we have at home. Five or six white kids, about ten to fifteen, got on and stood clustered up around the back door. There were a lot of empty seats—the side seat opposite the Marine, and the entire back seat. The bus driver stopped the bus and said “Would you colored folks mind sitting in the back so these people can sit down.”
I pity the Negro sailors, marines and Navcads stationed here. They can live with use, eat with us, and sleep with us, but they cannot ride a public bus with us.
Your Loving Boy-Child
Roge
September 19, 1955 Started at 6.35 p.m.
Dear Folks
I have a very few minutes before I must begin “hitting the books” again, so I’ll take this time to write you. I didn’t get a chance to write Friday night and here it is Sunday already. The week goes too slowly, and the weekends go too fast.
Before I forget, there is one thing I neglected to mention about New Orleans that I thought was odd—almost every single-unit house is narrow, one-storied, and has three floor-length windows and a door, which is usually on the left side. Most of these also all have shutters which are generally closed. And they invariably all have pillared porches.
This week in P.T. we’ve been having swimming, as I may have mentioned. Friday we all jumped off a twelve-foot platform into twenty feet of water. It was so much fun I sneaked back in line and jumped again. We also got a chance to see the “Dilbert Dunker” in action. At the far end of the pool there is a steep ramp made of what appear to be two railroad ties or I beams. About twelve or fifteen feet up is the “Dunker.” It is an actual airplane cockpit, cut off just in back of the engine. It sits atop the ramp, with pulleys keeping it up. I’ll bet you can’t guess what it’s for, so I’ll tell you. A few weeks before graduating, you get all dressed up in flight gear, which includes parachute and all accessories; you climb up and get in the cockpit. They strap you in, as in a real flight. Then when you’re all nice and cozy, they pull a lever which releases the dunker and you go roaring down the ramp to smash into twenty feet of water. To make things interesting, when it hits the water, it overturns. Now all you have to do is get out of there. They give you one minute and then they come under and get you. Doesn’t it sound like jolly-good, all-around, rip-snorting fun? I can hardly wait (but I’ll try).
Today I wandered over to the Survival Training Building, which is just ahead of the swimming pool. In front of the building is a crashed Corsair. Inside are all sorts of Survival exhibits, from one-man life rafts to an entire PBY (large water-plane). The building is literally built around this plane; one half is inside and the other is out (it is the oddest effect from the outside—the building runs right down the middle of the airplane). The plane is cut away so that you can see its entire interior—they have dummies at the controls and at the various stations throughout the plane. There are exhibits for survival in the sea, in the arctic, and in the jungle. Attached to the building is a greenhouse, wherein grow as many jungle plants and trees as they can fit in, including two banana trees. And out in back, in a large cage, is a six-foot alligator named Herman.
I really wish you could come down and see this place. Which reminds me—I’m going to have a devil of a time getting home Xmas—for one thing, I don’t know when I’ll be getting off, and for another, I don’t know where I’ll be. By December, I should be through with pre-flight (I hope, I hope, I hope) and when pre-flight is completed, they send you to any one of five bases located between here and Mobile, Ala. And I’ll have to have reservations ahead of time, because around Xmas everything that moves, crawls, or flies will be jammed with servicemen.
Well, it seems as how this is my week to be room captain, a nasty job with entails cleaning up everyone else’s mess. If anything is wrong in the room, no matter who did it, the room captain is put on report.
So, with your kind permission, I shall answer the call of the doorknobs. Until next time I am
As Always
Roge
P.S. Enclosed is a hymn the NavCad choir sings in church every Sunday. It is much prettier with the music, but I thought you might like it, so I tore it out of the hymnal and am sending it home.
Undated and unknown: part of a letter? Just notes to me?
One instance I always remember about this time—it was a favorite pastime of the kids in my neighborhood to lay in the back yard and look up at the clouds. There is nothing so wonderful as a child’s imagination—it is relatively “untouched by human hands,” and possesses a true magic; nothing is impossible. The clouds are elephants and ships and trees and dogs—anything. One afternoon, all the other kids were called in to lunch—I stayed in the yard, watching the clouds. To the Northeast was a large, billowy cloud. Suddenly, the cloud split down the middle and parted. There in the center of the rift, surrounded by blue sky and the broken cloud, was a face. I can still see it—I am positive I did not imagine it, and it could not possibly have been part of the cloud. He, whoever it was, had a black curly beard, and very rosy cheeks—his eyes, I think, were blue—he was smiling. He wasn’t looking in my direction; his gaze was to the Southwest—slowly his eyes moved, and at last he looked directly down on me. I can never forget—he stopped smiling; the cloud came together, and he was gone.
September 28, 1954
Dear Folks
Today I got the opportunity to play the role of a daring adventurer one always reads and hears about, when I went clamoring about the ruins of Fort Barrancas, one of the three Spanish forts in existence in America. It was first built in the early 1700s by the Spaniards to guard the entrance to Pensacola Bay. Subsequently, it has been held and/or razed at various times by various foreign powers and, most recently, by the Confederate States of America. It is a real “movie-type” fort, complete with a moat and rusty cannon all over the place. It stands atop and in a hill which I’m sure must have been man-made, as Florida is very hard put for hills. The elevation of the station
here is approximately eight or nine feet above sea level (Rockford is 834 or somewhere along in there); the first breastwork of the fort, or rather the moat, is at an elevation of seventeen feet. Even on top of the fort there is a large mound of earth, which if located elsewhere than in Florida would appear that the fort had been carved out of the hill—here, however, it looks like the hill was built around the fort. How the cannon ever fired anything for a distance of more than three feet is a mystery to me; and how they could possibly hit anything with those iron bowling balls completely escapes me. There are two major types of cannon, one of which intrigued me; the majority were the regulation 18th-century type, but the other looks more like a witches’ brewing kettle tipped slightly to one side. One of these monstrosities must have weighed two tons and seemed practically immobile. No wonder it was captured so often
I’m going to take some pictures of it, if the sun ever comes out long enough. I don’t know why, but it blazes like mad during the week and hides behind the clouds on weekends.
On my wanderings along the beach before I stumbled on the fort (which is about a half-mile to a mile from the barracks and set back about two blocks from the water) I had a nodding acquaintance with two crabs and a jellyfish (approximate diameter—l ½ inches). One of the crabs was a plain old brown one which some sailors had managed to chase on shore. The other was white, almost the color of the sand, and practically scared the wits out of me when it went scurrying for the water a few feet ahead of me. It went charging along sideways on its rear claws and at the same time was reared up with its two front snappers up, ready to snap off a toe if I got in its way.
Yesterday was my last day of swimming for a while, and they celebrated the event by making us swim for forty minutes. About ten minutes before we stopped, I got terrific cramps in my calves and couldn’t move my legs on the last laps—I just floated on my back and went about with my arms. They still hurt me today.
This morning, I went to a “sub-swimming” class to try to pass on underwater swimming test I hadn’t passed before. I didn’t pass it today, either. I can’t hold my breath under water.
Well, tempus fudget as it always does, and two days—one really—have gone by. It is now Sunday night—I have just put down a fascinating little text entitled “Aerology for Naval Aviators.” Then, between sentences, I toddled out to my “cleaning detail.”
Unfortunately, the weekends just aren’t long enough. Today turned out pretty well after all, and I got to take all the movies. I sure hope they turn out good—I got a bunch of shots of Florida flora (no fauna this time), took you on a guided tour of Fort Barrancas, showed you where I live (Bat. II), where I used to live (Indoctrination). Then, as a crowning glory, I take you to the waterfront, where we see a destroyer (the first one I’ve ever seen); and then “TA-DA!!” we go on board an aircraft carrier!! I got the biggest charge out of that—I guess I’m still just the same little boy who used to love to go and watch the trains come in—only this time it’s ships.
Well, I’ve got so very much to do and so very little time to do it, I must close now. Until later, I am
As Always,
Roge
P.S. A couple of the guys’ parents have come down to see them—I keep hoping for a grey and white Oldsmobile. Ah, well….
October 2, 1954
Dear Folks
This letter was begun on Thursday, and much of the “news” in it will probably be long-past history by the time it is completed. I just went down (this is four hours later) and signed another demerit slip and noticed my handwriting was shaky. That’s what P.T. and military drill will do for you.
People have a habit of looking forward to their tomorrows with mixed and varying emotions. My particular tomorrow is viewed with a vague dread and a too-conspicuous nothingness. The reason is fairly obvious—at least to me. All week in P.T. we have been having boxing. As you probably know by this time, I have a natural, deep-seated aversion to anything that might cause the slightest physical discomfort (which includes most sports—a trait for which dad has never completely forgiven me—and especially fighting). I suppose it all goes back to my broken leg and appendicitis bouts and my various trips to the hospital; from which I’ve developed an intense desire to keep from being hurt. Well, anyhow, tomorrow we’ve got to box competitively, and I’m not wild about the idea.
Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not discouraged or anything like that—and I’ll box (one does a lot of things in the service that wouldn’t be dreamed of in civilian life), but I won’t like it.
However, tomorrows have a habit of becoming today with exacting regularity; my “tomorrow” has come and is now almost gone. I had my boxing class, and I didn’t like it, but I did it. Happily, I did not come out the bloody and battered mess I had envisioned myself—many of my classmates weren’t as lucky. We marched to P.T. with twenty-eight men, and returned with twenty-three.
You know (if you will permit me to get philosophical for a moment) I have always been irritated by the relativity of time. Take this letter, for an example; 36 hours have passed since I started it—yet to you reading it, only five (or less) minutes have gone by. Between two paragraphs are twenty-four hours of worry, and yet they are only two seconds apart on paper. Oh, well.
Monday is moving day for the battalion—I’ve told you before that everyone has been placing odds on whether a hurricane (or any strong wind) would take it down before a fire did. It is one of those cases where you hurry up and repair one wing while the rest of the building sags in the middle, and then repair the middle while both wings sag. Finally, I guess they got tired of stumbling over cadets all the time, and so they’re going to move us down the street two blocks (away from everything) while they patch up this place. Then we’ll move back.
Do you realize that next week is the 8th week in this hellhole? Pre-flight is already half over (thank God)! Just been thinking, though—we’ll start flying just about in the middle of winter—and it gets mighty cold way up there.
Enclosed is a picture of the Monterey and a little bit of the dock portion of the base. In the background is a little destroyer escort. The helicopters were fluttering over our heads during Friday’s parade and everyone in the parade was far more interested in watching them than in standing at parade-rest. As far as getting any news down here is concerned, I hadn’t even known there was a flood in British Honduras; and, should the South secede tomorrow, the only knowledge I would have of it would be on hearing the guns of Fort Barrancas opening fire on the U.S. fleet.
Well, I think I’d better close now and do some studying. If you would arrange it, mom, I’d like to get the Rockford paper down here—I think they might have special rates for servicemen.
Till later, I am
As Always,
Roge
Being in the NavCad band was a wonderful experience, and gave me opportunities to travel the country I’d never have had otherwise.
Wednesday, October 13, 1954
Dear Folks
Today we saw a movie in P.T. on How to Survive in the Tundra (semi-arctic regions). It was one of those “how to survive on a broken compass and old fish heads” things. I thought it was terrifically funny (though it wasn’t supposed to be). Of course there were, among the six marooned men, several familiar characters. There was a George Washington Carver who could whip up a tasty dish out of a bunch of rock lichen; a Daniel Boone type, who could (and did) trap everything from a lemming (a glorified field mouse—they are delicious) to a caribou which, unfortunately, they missed—they had set up an ingenious device with two twigs and a 90-lb piece of sod, but the caribou outsmarted them (not a difficult task, I assure you); and, of course, there was the General-All-Around-Genius who could make more things out of one lousy parachute than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. This latter genius also, in his spare time, made a dandy kite (out of the parachute, of course) for attracting airplanes—I expected at any moment to see him attach a key to it and discover electricity, but he never got around
to it.
Now, to answer dad’s questions—I want just my one suitcase, so that when I come home Xmas I’ll have something larger than my duffle bag to pack my things in. Send them (or rather it) any time you want, just so it’s fairly soon. Yes, the band instruments are furnished, and I hope to stay on after moving to Corry or Whiting (which I’ll do on or about Nov. 26).
I surely am glad I joined the band! I told you, I think, all about what we may get to do. November 20 we are going to the Duke-South Carolina game (the Duke-Georgia Tech game would be too soon for us to be ready). We will all be flown to Durham, North Carolina for it. Last Saturday night we played for the Admiral at a football game, and he liked us so well he’s planned a “surprise” for us (which, it is rumored, may be a trip to the Army-Navy game!). Miami is still pending. Nov. 11 we’re to lead a parade in Pensacola. Four days before Xmas vacation, if all goes well, we will be flown to New York City to appear on “Toast of the Town”; then we’ll fly home from there if we want. God, I’d give my life’s blood to get to New York for four days!!
Haven’t been doing much of anything lately except study—haven’t even gone to a show in two weeks! Saturday morning we have band practice, but Saturday afternoon I hope to get downtown to pick up my picture. I hope you like it—it will have to be hung as it is too large to put atop the record cabinet.
Did the movies come? Have you looked at them yet? The large blank space at the beginning is where I had written “Welcome to Florida” in the white sand, but it was evidently too bright. Well, I’d better close for now. I would appreciate your sending some money for new film. (Note—this is the first time I’ve ever written home for money! I’ve gotten $15 from you all the time I’ve been here, and that’s pretty inexpensive if you ask me).