A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Nothing of vital interest to write about today’s activities, for I am sure you care little about how to type up menu cards, or the procedure for running off stencils for next week’s meals.

  Mail arrived on board tonight, but since it is now almost 9:45, there is not much chance of there being a mail call.

  Ah, to be a civilian again. If this trip does nothing else for me, it will be a constant reminder to me how wonderful America is, with all its faults.

  So, with the playing of the Star Spangled Banner in the background, I will bid you goodnight….

  8 December 1955

  Like everything else in this blasted Navy, my journal writing could be piped down at 8:45 every evening, regular as clockwork. I’ve come to think of the Bos’n’s pipe (previously affectionately described) as a sort of Pavlov’s bell. He, as you probably know, was a Russian scientist who experimented on the conditioning of animals to certain bells—ring a bell and give food; ring a bell and give food—until finally all he’d have to do was ring a bell and dogs would start to drool.

  Today was the type of day I have now firmly fixed in my mind as typical European—dull, cloudy, and lethargic; the landscape and the city just sitting there, waiting for something. Perhaps it’s only a quirk of my imagination, but I seem to recall that in America, even in winter, we had some nice, clear days.

  Tomorrow morning I take a sightseeing tour of Genoa and Rapallo, though I’ve already seen all I care to. The only time Genoa is pretty is at night, and from a distance.

  By this time, as you may have gathered, I have become thoroughly homesick—or should I say “Europe-sick.” It is very nice to go to a foreign country, and walk their streets, and look in their shops—but, like skeptics say of a circus, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. For each country is just as foreign as the next, and none of them is America. Still I would not trade this experience for anything short of my discharge.

  If anyone should ever tell you a ship is not alive, don’t believe them—she pulsates, quivers, and breathes. Only during G.Q. does she cease to live—almost—and then she is frightening. Earlier this evening the movie was called “The Cruel Sea,” which I’d seen before, but wanted to see again. This second time I enjoyed it more, for I felt closer to the action; when the Compass Rose went down, it seemed much more real.

  Speaking of sinkings, the other night I had a most interesting dream (as most of mine, happily, are). I’d dreamed once before of the Ticonderoga sinking at her berth; this time it was the entire Brazilian Navy. For some reason, they were scuttling their entire fleet. Several destroyers sank gracefully, one capsizing just before she sank—a huge battleship was listing heavily to starboard, and they were using bazookas to blast more holes in her. A pretty red-and-black freighter at a pier directly across from my vantage point sank suddenly, as though the water had risen up over it, instead of its sinking. I was miserable at the gigantic waste—a Brazilian naval officer said they were all being sunk because the metal of which they were all built was greasy.

  Don’t ask me why I chose the Brazilian Navy to sink, or what greasy metal had to do with it—dreams have a wonderful logic all their own, which ceases to exist once a person wakes. I suppose the idea for it came from the fact that I’d seen a couple of sunken ships in Genoa’s harbor.

  We will have been gone a total of 140 days when we again reach the States; a notice came out regarding customs regulations on the quantity and monetary value of things being brought into the country. It is proportional to the time spent away. 140 days or more away from the States, and the goods allowable are unlimited (an asterisk explained that we would have been gone just 140 days). Haven’t figured it out yet, but it doesn’t sound like eight or even six months.

  Because of the tour tomorrow, I’ll miss Field Day (lucky me) so I’d best clean up a little tonite….

  9 December 1955

  Just got back from a tour of Genoa, Rapallo, and numerous small towns and villages in between. It was an interesting tour, but I was kept so busy watching everything it was quite tiring.

  We left the ship this morning at 7:30; the sun was not even completely up. There were 157 of us going, and I managed to get into the first boat. Seeing Genoa harbor by day made it look different, but not less impressive. I was wrong about the sunken ships—one was the end of a long pier, and I couldn’t locate the other. The white liner had slipped away sometime between Tuesday and today, and in its place was the sleek black-and-white Cristoforo Colombo, a big and beautiful liner.

  Three large busses and one very tiny one were waiting for us when we arrived; I wanted to get on the little one, but ended up on one of the larger. Since ours had been the first boat to leave the ship, there was a long delay before the others got loaded and came ashore. At about eight fifteen or so we got going. Of Genoa itself I have little to add to my previous observations. We followed almost the identical route I had walked Tuesday night, into the heart of the city. On the main square, our guide pointed out the Genoa Opera, which like Milan’s famous La Scala Opera House, had been bombed out during the war. Unlike La Scala, Genoa had never rebuilt hers, and the building stands today a hollow, broken shell.

  Caught a fleeting glimpse of Christopher Columbus’ boyhood home, behind what appeared to have been the arcade around a church garden. It stands in the shadow of one of the original city gates—huge, round fortress-like things. The house itself is almost invisible, being covered by all sorts of vines. Originally it had been three stories high, but was now reduced to at most one or two rooms. It reminded me of the card houses I used to build on the living room floor; sometimes I’d get them up to three stories. Then I’d bomb them with poker chips, and the whole thing would tumble, leaving perhaps four cards propped against one another.

  Victory Square was fairly interesting—garden-like at one end, and mall-like at the other. In the center of this mall, which is surrounded by attractive government-looking buildings, is Mussolini’s little Arch of Triumph—he called it a memorial to those killed in the First World War. And at the very end of the mall a hill rises up and, on it, in red plants are the designs of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria; one above the other; below them are three anchors, also in red plants. Stairs run up the hill on either side, and the hill is topped by an arcade of brown stone. All very pretty.

  For almost the first time since we’ve been in Europe, it was a nice day, though very cold. I had my camera, but was very low on film, so I tried shooting singles—snapshots. Surely hope they turn out; it will probably cost a small fortune to have them blown up to a visible size.

  The most fascinating place in all Genoa is, without a doubt, the cemetery. It is laid out like a city and is indescribably fascinating. At one end is a hill, covered with thick poplars and large tombs with spirals and domes and towers and arches—like an Italian Olympus. But the most beautiful part of the cemetery are the statues. They stand about in long corridors, by the graves of the people they represent. Nowhere have I seen more realistic figures. They never dust them. The result is that the dust becomes covered in the crevices and folds of clothing, making it appear as though it were real velvet. There is one statue in particular which I was interested in. It is of an old lady in a full Italian skirt and shawl. She stands on a pedestal, holding in her left hand, even with her waist, a triple string of chestnuts, which runs to her right hand, at her side, in which she also carries two large rings of bread. This woman sold chestnuts, beads, and bread on the streets all her life so that she could afford a statue to perpetuate her name. She herself posed for it. She lived only 14 months after its completing, and used to come every day to look at it and lay flowers on it. It cost her 65,000 Lira (then about $3,000), and earned every penny of it herself. That was 75 years ago.

  Briefly , to mention some of the other curiosities of the cemetery, it is like St. Michael’s in New Orleans—graves are only rented, and then only for five years with no renewals. The very floors of the corridors of statues are tombs in which bodies are p
laced five deep—one atop the other. It has, near the corridor of statues, another long enclosed corridor copied after the catacombs of Rome, wherein bodies are placed lengthwise in the walls.

  Now, to leave Genoa—Mountains are everywhere, and sprinkled all over, from base to summit, with towns and villages. Tall church steeples rise above the trees everywhere you look. The roads are narrow and writhe around the steep mountainsides crazily. Houses seem carved out of and, in some instances are, into the mountainside. Old forts, castles and churches stand on prominent ridges and peaks of every mountain, as if the mountains were put there expressly for the purpose of holding them.

  The houses, in the villages and outside them, are frustrating if nothing else. Nowhere did I see a single-story house. Even on the infrequently sparse sections of road, six story buildings are not uncommon. They are all, without exception, basically exactly the same—tall, square, small sloping roofs, and very straight—no curves or juttings; exactly straight on all four sides. To combat this, and try to appear different, they paint cornices and frames above and over the windows, balconies, and even paint windows where there are none. Each window on each house has green shutters. To hide the fact that all the walls are perfectly smooth, or at best pebble-dashed, they paint lines on to represent blocks; some they paint to look like marble. They paint fancy cornerstones, running up the sides. Paint, Paint, Paint—all of it pastel (usually a reddish-pink or variations of yellow), and all of it faded. The whole thing makes it appear as though they wallpapered the outside of the house. I called them frustrating, for when one does come upon a house with real stone, or real balconies, it is necessary to look twice to be sure. Those very rare houses one finds painted just one color with no pseudo-art aren’t half bad.

  Rapallo is one of those picturesque little villages huddled in the few places where the mountains do not run directly into the sea. It is different from all the other picturesque towns we passed through in that it has a real, honest-to-goodness castle. It isn’t a Hollywood-type castle, with walls and miles of drafty halls. This one is rather small, no outer protective walls at all. It doesn’t need them, for it sits out a safe (in those days) distance in the water, with a narrow strip connecting it to the land. It is so old that no one is quite sure who built it or when. Its thick walls are used today not to keep people out, but to keep them in—currently it is Rapallo’s jail.

  I could go on describing all the quaint and pretty things I saw today, but I’m really very tired, so if you will excuse me….

  Postcard postmarked Rapallo/Genoa, 9 12 (December 9) 1955. Subject: A middue (sic) ages castle

  Dear Folks

  Thought I’d better send at least one card home the regular way (via European mail), so you can see what an Italian stamp looks like.

  I’m sitting within view of the castle on the card—it’s used as the town jail now.

  Well, we’re shoving off for Porto Fino, where they have the submerged statue of Christ seen in Life.

  More later,

  Love,

  Roger

  10 December, 1955

  One year ago today, almost to the very minute, I was in an R5D landing at Floyd Bennett Field, New York. The day before, I had graduated from Pre-Flight. Oh, how long ago it all seems—the band, Mr. Barnes, parades on Friday, book bags, navigation classes—all as though they’d never happened. Then I’d never have dreamed I’d be aboard the USS Ticonderoga, a mere enlisted peon. But all that is gone now, and I must look to the future, which surely must be brighter but could hardly be more interesting.

  Two hours or so have passed, during which I was in the library, reading magazines. I came across a clever “filler” in this month’s Reader’s Digest and will quote it for you, in case you missed it:

  When a destroyer escort cut too close behind the flagship, an unlucky roll brought his sea boats’ davits in contact with the carrier’s stern. The Flag Officer promptly signaled to the destroyer: IF YOU TOUCH ME THERE AGAIN, I SHALL SCREAM.

  Tonite is Saturday, which means that with good luck, I should be able to sleep late tomorrow morning. Sleep, to me, is a marvelous state of nonexistence, mixed occasionally with wonderful fantasies and unrealities.

  Not, by mentioning nonexistence, that I plan to put an end to my own “veil of tears,” but I do enjoy the complete freedom possible—where the mind creates and controls things it has no power over while awake.

  Have you ever stopped to think how, though people envision a marvelous Heaven, so few of them are willing to die to attain it? How, though they curse Man as evil and moan that life is Hell on Earth, they fight, scratch, and claw to hang onto it?

  If Man would only open his eyes, he may find that, though the light hurts at first, there are colors never dreamed of. I believe that we are capable of far more power than we utilize. I have not found perfection, and never will—but that does not mean I cannot look for it, and thereby perhaps find things worth more than I have now.

  It is my desire to always seek something that is forever out of reach, and so climb only part way up an endless stair—but isn’t that better than just sitting at the bottom saying “I can’t make it” and not go anywhere at all?

  Logic is something that should be projected. If two and two made four yesterday, and they make four today, isn’t it safe to assume that they will make four tomorrow? For some unknown reason (fear of change?) Man is unwilling to even glance over his shoulder (he stands always with his back to the future) to see what might be. He assumes that, because something is not practicable or possible here, now, today, it never will be. If he prepared for it, he would not stumble over it when it arrives. All it takes is a little projection—a little acceptance that things will change; that someday the automobile will replace the horse.

  Someday; someday soon. Maybe tomorrow….

  Also 10 December 1955

  Dear Folks

  Don’t know why I’m writing this at all—you haven’t gotten any of my letters (as of 2 Dec.) and I’ve been writing every single day and sending them airmail. Yours get here in eight days with just a plain old 3-cent stamp. It’s all very discouraging, like having a broken telephone speaker and hearing someone say “Hello? Hello? Hello?” and not being able to answer. You say you wait every day for a letter—well, so do I—every time I expect to see “Finally got your seventy-two letters…” but instead: “Why haven’t you written?” It’s enough to make a man bitter (as if I weren’t already.)

  To show you the perfect timing of this cursed postal system, I received today a package from Aunt Thyra. In it were a box of Pixies and as card saying “Happy Birthday.” At the same time came a card from Pleasantville, New York, saying I was to receive a year’s subscription to Reader’s Digest as a Christmas gift (thank you, mom). The saving feature of this was the thought that I’ll be out of this damn Navy before the subscription runs out!!

  No sense in trying to write more—it’d be perfectly useless. I think I’ll stop sending my journal home too, —every now and then I’ll send a blank sheet of paper home giving perhaps the vital statistics on my health and welfare. And if you don’t get this one—I give up.

  Till August 12th

  Love, Roge

  P.S. I HATE THE NAVY!!!

  Merry Xmas

  P.P.P.S. This is my last letter (or try) till I hear you’ve received some of mine.

  11 December 1955

  A miserable day; my mind is a dark and empty reservoir, completely drained of thoughts. It’s just as well, for if I had any thoughts at all, I would feel terrible.

  For one thing, I am becoming increasingly homesick—which isn’t the correct word, but the closest thing to it. Mail from home only aggravates matters. None of the letters I send home—perhaps ¼ of them—ever get there. The letters from home ask the same questions over and over and over. So I wrote home, or rather tried to—whether it ever gets there is another question—telling them that I’m not going to write another letter while in Europe.

  Sometimes I get so
frustrated and angry I feel something will have to give. I realize that this is wrong thinking, not at all conducive to a healthy, red-blooded outlook.

  When I get back to college I’m going to have to do some research on the effects of climatical changes on people. There definitely is one.

  I give up—maybe tomorrow….

  Postcard Dated 11 Dec. 1955, postmarked “U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 12, 9 a.m.” Subject The Gardens of Victory Square, Genoa, Italy

  Dear Folks,

  These are the gardens I tried to describe in one of the letters you probably didn’t get.

  I reverse the decision made not to write home—I’ll send post cards.

  Sure wish I was home—the more I see of Europe, the more I want to be home. Oh, well, only eight more months (236 days). You can stop writing if you want, but I hope you don’t.

  Love, Roge

  12 December 1955

  At sea again, and feeling a lot better—the shaky handwriting is caused by the ship’s vibrations, not my emotional outlook. I go up and down the emotional scale rapidly, but fortunately I spend most of my time on the top of the cycle rather than at the bottom.

  Got another letter from home, which made me feel a little better. They’ve been getting my letters but almost none of my journal. It’s frustrating to think of all that work going for nothing. Perhaps I was loading the envelopes too heavily. Also, as yet, they haven’t gotten “Ching-Chong”—he’ll probably arrive in a million pieces about next June.

  The minute we leave port, the sun comes out in all its glory—it was a beautiful day; at least the ten seconds I saw of it was. The last few nights in Genoa the seas were so rough they had to cancel the liberty boats, thus stranding 200 or more guys on the beach all night. They had a terrible time—all of them had to go and rent hotel rooms and stayed up all night drinking and running around the city. Poor things. Of course, some of the guys who were completely out of money slept aboard the two destroyers moored at the end of the same pier the Christoforo Colombo was.