by Dorien Grey
I felt like a perfect idiot wandering back and forth across the hangar deck dragging a mattress. To make matters worse, I was the only one so encumbered. First of all, the catwalks are just below the flight deck. I went up to the catwalks. They ended at frame 98—the No. 1 elevator interrupted the catwalks from running the full length of the ship. Oh, there were mattresses on the catwalks—dozens of them, hanging over the rails—a solid mass of mattresses, in fact, with no place for me to put mine.
It then dawned on me to try the other side of the ship Back to the hangar deck, and up to the catwalks again. I never did find frames 76 to 80, but found a vacant place on the railing and put the mattress over it, halfway expecting, with my usual luck, to see it slip over and fall into the sea, some four stories below.
That crisis had passed, but it somehow threw a damper on the rest of the day.
Again tonite I donned my Blues with the intention of going to the movies and again changed my mind. I’m getting so I feel downright ashamed to wear these Blues, but what can I do? Ah, for Cannes and a good cleaning service. On second thought, omit the word “good.”
Ah, what have I done to Europe? You might almost get the idea that I didn’t like it, the way I rave on. Well, I don’t. I’m told it is just because we always hit sea towns, which are not the best Europe has to offer. Perhaps.
I can just see you now, running to cancel your reservations to Europe. Well, things may be better when you get here.—I doubt it.
Paris, it is true, was wonderful. Mostly, as I said before, because people realize it is Paris and act accordingly.
You, then, may find Europe to be the charming post card you believe it to be. You may find here the Seven Cities of Gold everyone seeks and no-one finds.
I leave you with this thought—if Europe is so wonderful, why are there so many Americans?
27 January 1956
Someone around here, while browsing through my drawers—while I wasn’t around, of course—found the handwritten copy of the 25th s journal. They spread the word around and everyone seemed to think it hysterically funny that I should feel proud to be a human being. Any resemblance some of those guys bear toward human beings is entirely coincidental. Oh, well….
Find it hard to concentrate because of the gab-fest going on here in the office.
Cold today, choppy sea, but bright and sunny.
28 January 1956
Dear Folks
“When you come to the end of a perfect Menu…”—it’s an “eh” Saturday night aboard the dear old Ti. I’ve just come back from the movies (“It Came from Beneath the Sea”—and you could smell it, too), finished typing the Bill of Fare for the week of 6 February 1956, and thought I’d sit down and have a little one-sided talk with you. I won’t say “the way we used to do,” because we were very seldom under the same roof at the same time, and when we were, TV was always on. What on earth did we used to do before TV came along.
I remember vaguely the days when radio was the Messiah we bowed to; Lux Radio Theatre, Bob Hope, Fibber McGee and Molly, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Truth or Consequences. But that was so long ago, when I’d sit on the floor at the little house and build card cities.
Funny the things that rush up—little memories that crowd to the front of your head and peek out through your eyes. I remember cocoa, and how cold my bed used to be when I’d crawl in at night, and how good it felt when it warmed up—Momma and Lucky and Jerry Moore and climbing trees. So much to remember.
I’m like a miser, only I try to hoard time. But, like quicksilver, it slips through my fingers and I can’t hold on to it. I try to catch it on paper, but it is like carrying water in a sieve.
Odd—I begrudge every single instant of it that passes and I lose, and yet I can’t wait until 196 days are up and I’m out of the Navy.
I’ve been cheated—something vital has been left out, or something extra added that I can’t control. Even in my relations to you—Mother, you remember when we were coming back from New Orleans—we were driving through Mobile and I tried to turn the wrong way into a one-way street—you teased me and I snapped at you and you started to cry. You knew then that I’d grown up, and I knew it too, and I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare.
Men don’t cry—men must never cry. It is a basic part of our society and a really silly rule. Several times I’ve wanted to cry, and tried to—but it didn’t do any good.
And you, Dad—remember the first night in Norfolk, when I wanted you to sit down and look through my annual with me? You didn’t want to and I felt quite bad, because I wanted to show you everything that was familiar to me and make you understand them as I did.
How people should act and how people do act are entirely different. You know how it is—you build up a picture in your mind of something and it’s always perfect because it isn’t real.
It’s terrifying, in a way—you both know how I worshipped Uncle Buck. The last time I saw him, while home from college, my mind said “you will never see him alive again.” And it didn’t faze me at all. It was as if I’d thought “Well, that finishes that tube of toothpaste.” The last time he was Uncle Buck—my Uncle Buck—was that night we visited him at St. Anthony’s. After that, it was as if it were someone else.
As usual around this point in my narrative, I’d better say that I’m not at all in a bad or unhappy mood. I had no intentions of rambling on like this, but am glad I did.
Well, on to the more “news-from-a-happy-serviceman-writing-home-to-his-happy-parents” type thing.
Received the Anise at long last—they’re delicious and could set me off on another remembrance binge (especially those donut machines in the dime stores years and years ago). Sure would like some brownies. Sure would. Yep. Sure would. Also got the pocket books—which were all good—I’ve read two—send some more Science Fiction if you can.
Coutre is very fond of you, dad, ever since you agreed with him that I shouldn’t write “treason.” He says next time he comes to Chicago, he’s going to drive out to Rockford with a fifth of Scotch, give me fifty cents and send me off to the movies while you and he rake me over the coals.
Be looking for a package around the end of next month—I forgot to insure it and only pray it gets there intact—several other guys have gotten gloomy letters from home telling of smashed dolls, tattered clothing, etc. Received by mail. I’m hanging on to your binoculars, dad, till I get home—only used them once, as I promised.
Well, mail closes out at midnight, and the Clan is gathering for our Saturday Night scuttlebutt session. More later.
Love (Honest)
Roge
30 January 1956
Two days without writing—I plan to cast myself over the side first thing tomorrow morning. The Ticonderoga Marching and Chowder Society is currently holding a meeting. Nick and North are giving a demonstration on the two methods of boot polishing (North advocates the “Two-finger-light-polish” school, while Nick favors the “Index-finger-and-gobs-of-polish method). Andy and Cou are just sitting around, feet on desks. We’ve just finished the evening’s refreshments—hot fudge sundaes and shoestring potato chips (“Oooog,” as they say in Pogo). North seems to be winning—Nick is only a little behind. Nick was generous enough to volunteer his new boots for the contest.
Payday today and I passed it up—it hurt, but it’s the only way I’ll ever save it. Lots to do and nothing to say—I suppose that with much effort, I could no doubt think of something, but this lethargy helps pass the days.
1 February 1956
As you may have gathered, I did not “cast myself over the side” as promised, but there is a good reason for my negligence—it is colder than a polar bear’s bottom! Riviera—HAH!
I am, to put it very mildly, beat. Up until 1:30 this morning talking with Nick. It was very enjoyable, and we reached one conclusion—I am playing the role of teacher, and Nick is my pupil, if grudgingly. He said: “First impressions mean a lot.” “Yes, I suppose so—what was your first impression
of me? I came in, we shook hands, I said ‘Hello, Nick,’ and you grumbled something and we hardly said another word all day. What could you gather from that?” Well, we thought you were very quiet, and studious. I knew you’d had two years of college and been in the NavCads and you were going to let us know it.” I couldn’t help laughing. “God, I never said a word about it—how’d you know I was a NavCad?” “Oh, I forget—somebody told me. I got the idea that you were trying to show us that you’re better than we were—you still do.” My ego was much inflated by our little discussion. Nick, also, has an inferiority complex—he thinks I’m more intelligent than he is. “You’ve got an odd way of rubbing it in.” I told him that he shouldn’t envy me for my college—rather than I should envy him for having two years to look forward to. I think I treat him like a kid brother, trying to get him on the right paths. Oh, well, we shall see. Mail call will be at 11:30 tonite, and I think I’ll stay up for it, even though I am dead tired….
2 Feb. 1956
Dear Folks
Last night at 11:00 we had the first mail call in a week. Early this morning we had another; I was well pleased with both of them. In the first I learned that we now own a new Olds 98. Good for us—but I’ll be willing to bet any amount you wish that by the time I get home, it will be full of dog hair, bobby pins, and wadded up Kleenex. If I may make a suggestion—use the other car for weekend jaunts and keep the Olds in the garage! Glad to hear it is a 98—that’s the best one Olds makes; though to be truthful, they haven’t changed much since our first Olds. Try and keep it in good shape till I get home, huh?
Thanks for the price list on airplanes. I’ll take the $45,000 one (cash, of course). Also for the card—the valentine cards they sell around here are of two types—one the heavily flowered “Oh, my dearest darling, you’ve made my wish come true…” variety and the other showing two people shaking hands with a heart in the background, saying “To my friend on Valentine’s Day.” So I didn’t get you any.
And then this morning, I got a large envelope saying “Photograph.” It turned out very well, mom; the smile is just right. Those earrings are pretty—where did you get them? I’ve been taking it out and looking at it all day, to remind me that I do have a mother.
I’m beginning to think of the United States as a mythical paradise, what with fathers driving around in big new cars and mothers who can afford to have photographs taken and wear expensive clothes. You’re living far better, and in a far better world than I am.
Hope to borrow a movie projector tonite to look at my films. Got another roll back today (Pompeii), and from “hold-and-squint” method it looks beautiful. I’m quite an artist, if I do say so myself!
Glorious Riviera—HAH! And I say it with much more scorn. The first time here, it could be forgiven, or passed off as an unseasonable cold snap. But this! Five inches of snow with fog writhing over the water and everyone suffering from practically frostbite—never!
Here it is February, and I feel, with the weather and all, as though it were Christmas. Oh, well.
No movies tonite—the guy I was to borrow the projector from has gone on liberty. Oh, well (I’ve said that before, haven’t I?)
Providing the sea does not freeze over between now and Saturday, I think I’ll go ashore, just to take pictures and look around. Wonder how Nick is enjoying his three-day ski tour. Sure wish I could have gone, but I’ll save all my money for Rome.
While looking at a map of Greece, I finally found Rhodes—it’s an island about a half-hearted stone’s throw from Turkey. It is nowhere near Athens.
A persistent rumor that seems to have lost the air of scuttlebutt and been generally accepted is that our last two weeks will be spent on a NATO cruise—with Oslo and Plymouth, England being two of the four ports we’ll hit. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Speaking of Rome, Roge and Jim will be going with me. They went before, too, over Christmas. I want to go the first payday after we hit Naples.
191 days left—6 months and five days.
Yes, mother, I still want brownies—a huge, 10 or 20 lb. tin of them. I told you I liked the last ones.
Well, like a sand castle, my thoughts are crumbling away, so I’d best close now.
Love
Roge
Feb. 4–7 1956
Dear Folks
Excuse the large space of daylight between this and preceding letters, but I just haven’t been able to even think straight for the last few days. Started a letter two or three days ago, but when I went to continue it just now, my pen blobbed ink all over, so here we go again.
Before I forget—stop in at the post office and get some 1040-A income tax forms sent me. About four, if you will, in case I goof.
Saw six rolls of the film I’ve gotten back; on the whole, they’re excellent. On pan shots they blur a little; I’ve got to learn to go slower. So far, I’ve got about 300 feet of film.
Yesterday I and one of the other mess cooks, a kid named Stevens, decided to go to Nice to take some pictures. Nice is about a forty-five minute train ride from Cannes, and the scenery is pretty, even though everything had snow on it; even the orange trees with fruit on them and green things in gardens. Evidently it doesn’t snow too often around here. Far in the distance were the French Alps, and on the right the beautiful tri-colored surf (brownish-grey along the beach, fading into milk blue, finally the ink-blue of the deep sea).
One reason for going to Nice was to see the Mardi Gras, or at least the decorations. Nice struck me as being a clean town, more like America than most other European cities. Since the sun has been hiding ever since we got to Cannes, I took only two shots of the decorations on the main square.
We found our way, completely by accident, to the USO, and there had free hot dogs served on delicious French bread.
After that, we meandered back to the railroad station, stopping in one or two places—once to play a pinball machine because Steve liked the girl behind the counter, another to buy some little wine-bottle salt and pepper shakers. Somewhere along the line we started drinking white wine. When we got back to Cannes (pronounced Kahn), we stopped in at a small bar, where we ran into Mordeno, who was well on his way to extinction. He insisted on buying us several drinks, all the time telling us, like a reverse Elizabeth Barrett Browning, how many ways he hated the Navy.
After awhile he decided to move on to another bar, far across town, and wanted us to join him. I said thanks just the same, but we really had to be getting back to the ship—we didn’t, but if we stayed with him we’d never get back. But we got in the taxi with him—he said he’d drop us at fleet landing. He got out first.
To shorten a lengthy tale, as it’s near taps—we went from bar to bar, wound up with a six year old bottle of wine—dusty bottle and all, talking Spanish to a nice blonde who is engaged to a guy off the Yellowstone—one of our replenishment ships.
By the time we left the bar, Steve could still walk, but just barely. He wandered in to another bar, sat down and ordered another glass of wine (at this point we had 120 Francs and an American dime between us). So we had one last drink and I half-dragged, half-carried him back to fleet landing. A large crowd had gathered there, waiting for a boat. One finally came, pulled up to the dock, and shut off the motor.
“Boating has been secured for the night.”
And us with 10 cents!!
Thank Allah for small favors, we found another Mess Cook who still had money; he loaned us 500 Francs and, after five hotels, we found a single room. Steve and I took it, and the other guy went on to another hotel. We were lucky—200 guys ended up sleeping in bars, in Shore Patrol headquarters, the USO, or walking the streets.
Ah, such fun! First time I’d slept on dry land since November.
Well, hate to cut this short, but if I don’t mail it tonight, it’ll be another six months.
Love
Roge
8 Feb. 1956
Dear Folks
Here I am again—writing in a silence made more profound by th
e fact that there are three other people in the room. But only an occasional turning page makes me aware of them. The only thing alive is the ship—she hums and pulsates, unknowing and uncaring that I, of no more importance than a white corpuscle, am aware of her life.
And so once more we are at sea, heading—unfortunately—for Naples…a city that shall always be my very own to hate.
Cannes was very nice, on looking back. It was clean and not quite so foreign as the other places we’ve been. Her amazing wealth did not strike me as it had on our way to the train station the first night I saw it.
Monday I took a one-day tour of the French Riviera, which I enjoyed despite the awful cold of the morning. My guardian angel, or good fairy, or private weatherman was kind as always, and Monday was the first sunny day since we arrived. We left the ship at six o’clock, before the sun even thought about coming up, and stood on Fleet Landing in the bitter cold (I was the bitter one) waiting for the bus. One of the officers suggested we wait in the lobby of a hotel at the foot of the pier, and we hurried down there only to find that they wouldn’t let us come in. So we stood.
When the bus did come, we all piled in—I was one of the first in and chose a perfect seat near a large window. Of course, we’d gotten on the wrong bus—this one was for the ski tour. Another bus pulled up and in the scramble that followed, I would up in a seat directly over the front wheels—it was by a window, but I had to sit all scrunched up with little or no leg room.