A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  “Yet where can the Jews go? They come from all over the world to their promised land; they’ve never had a real home.

  “It’s just a crazy, mixed up, terrible mess. You want to tear somebody’s hair out, but you don’t know whose.”

  Mr. Anderson came back a while later, and we went up on the roof to take pictures of the people walking along the Corniche. Every Sunday afternoon the people come and just walk along the sea, winding their way slowly up the hill to Pigeon Rock—which Lebanese lovers use for a suicide leap.

  We talked some more, and had supper—chicken casserole. They have a Lebanese maid who speaks French (Lebanon was until 1943 a French protectorate) and whose name is Juliette.

  We listened to the radio—to BBC and short wave stations all over Europe. We tried to get the Voice of America, but the Russians were jamming it. This “jamming” is cleverly done—the Russians have monitors who listen to the programs as they’re being broadcast—when they hear something they don’t like, they turn on huge oscillators set to the Voice’s frequency—the result is a humming “bzzzuuumbzzuumbzzuum” which completely blocks out every word. We do the same for them every chance we get.

  Now, since it’s after taps, I’ll quickly answer your questions. Yes, I am thin—I always have been—no, I’ve not lost weight—any appreciable amount, that is (I’ve gone from 143 to 140); the only reason I know that is that the Andersons had a bathroom scale.

  Got your money, mother—I’ll try and call home from Valencia or Barcelona (Spain). Check that date-place list I sent you for the dates we’ll be where.

  I now have 13 rolls of film—6 more in the process of delivering and developing. Haven’t sent any home yet.

  No, father,—I cannot get off 22 days early. I’ll have 43 days on the books, for which I will be paid, but not (NOT) let off early.

  Well, got to get to bed—I’m tired.

  Love

  Roge

  P.P.S. The candle is from the catacombs: I don’t recall sending any money.—I think those were ticket stubs. Here’s some Spanish money—worth about 12 cents. Notice the watermark—hold it up to the light to see it.

  15 March 1956

  Dear Folks

  Just a very quick line to let you know I haven’t forgotten you—I don’t know where the time goes, but I’m glad it goes so quickly. I should have written several letters tonight, including this one, but one of the guys from the Personnel Office was showing me some shirts he’d had made over here in Beirut. We got to talking and talking and soon the night was gone. I’ve got to take a shower—not that I need one or anything.

  I caught something last night—I don’t know what yet as it’s still in its infancy. Either that or it’s lying there waiting for me to turn my back—and then it will jump in full force.

  Last night, before leaving the USO (I’ll tell you all about yesterday when I have more time), I ran into Dick Hagenbach, a former mess cook. He’d been up since 0430 that morning and been drinking since about noon. He asked me to make sure he got back to the ship all right, and I promised I would.

  We got into the cab and he passed out completely. He’s a big boy, about 180 or so. Down to fleet landing. Woke him up—got out of the cab. Waited for ten minutes for a boat. Ed Cortright and I got him in the boat all right, and Dick proceeded to pass out again, but he was propped up against the gunwale and in no danger of falling.

  Out to the ship—a ten minute ride as compared to the two minutes it took before—very rough, boat crowded. Aside the ship—boat bobbing up and down ten-foot waves. Ted Kakuk, another mess cook who’d come in after us and sat beside me, became violently ill all over the bottom of the boat. I pulled my legs away just in time.

  Everybody out but us and a Marine, sound asleep, just behind us and in our way. We (Ed and I) wake him up and ask him to move. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t have to—he’s a Marine! It’s raining. Dick topples over backward into the Marine’s lap. The Marine looks at him. I pull him back into a sitting position. He wakes up. I have his hat in one hand and his ID and Liberty cards in the other. He gets up and tromps over the Marine, almost falls flat stepping over the next seat. Raining. Boat still bobbing wildly up and down. Dick gets up on the gunwale to step onto the gangway. I’m trying to hold him back. He takes a huge step just as the boat comes up, and steps on the rope buffer about a foot below the gangway. Somebody there grabbed him and gave a jerk just as the boat goes down again. Ed pulls, I push up the ladder. We get on board—none of us salute the OD (Dick couldn’t see him and Ed and I had our hands full). When we get in, Dick takes his liberty card and guides us over to the liberty card box. He can’t get his card in the box (slits are about four inches long, one-half inch high). Ed puts it in for him.

  Comes now the ladder leading down into the sleeping compartments. Ed on one side, I on the other. Dick starts to goose-step down the stairs (“No, Dick—take little steps—that’s a boy. Baby steps. There we go…”) Into the compartment. Fortunately, he sleeps about ten feet from the ladder. Pitch dark. (“Where do you sleep, Dick?”) He points with his one finger and leads us over. Can’t see a thing. (“Ed, go see if you can get a light.”) Plop—Dick falls back against some lockers and slides down onto the deck. I can’t even see him. Ed goes off to find a flashlight. One of the guys in the compartment wakes up. (“Hey,—you know where Hagenbach sleeps?”—“Yeah—top rack.”) He’ll never make it. I pull him to his feet. (“There’s an empty bottom rack there by his feet.” “Thanks.”) He’s standing there, head on my shoulder, propped up. I manage to pull his peacoat and tie off. (“Come on, now—let’s walk.”) He tries to climb into the top rack. (“No, Dick—we’ll sleep in a bottom one tonite. Come on, now, walk backwards.”) Get him over to the rack, turn him around. He falls over and I push him into the rack just before he hits the deck. Ed comes back with a flashlight. (“He’s OK now—thanks, Ed.” “Yeah—good night.”) I unbutton his pants and manage to wiggle him out of them, taking off his shoes and socks first. The jumper is impossible. I go over to his top rack, fold his pants, lay them on his peacoat, and get a blanket. Cover him up to the waist. (“Good night, Dick.” And to bed I go.

  And to bed I go.

  Love

  Roge

  16 March 1956

  Dear Folks

  Gee Whilikers, look—yellow paper. We just got it in today. Can’t say as I’d care to have a suit this color. but it will do for variety as writing paper.

  First—general news, mainly about me. Someone is strangling me—from the inside—I’m rather disappointed that it’s turned out to be just an ordinary cold instead of some wonderful new disease. Oh, well, give it time. Aside from my physical condition (which seems to be generally excellent) there isn’t too much to say about your loving son. He eats, moderately and continuously; works—12 to 24 hours a day—writes letters occasionally, and sleeps—a vocation I would like to devote more time to.

  The Navy and I are still on speaking terms, but just barely. And speaking of the Navy—I shall wind my way into the main body of the letter by pointing up a glowing symbol of Naval efficiency….

  It seems—well, I started to retell the tale, but you can read it in the enclosed Bulletin.

  Now, let’s see—to go back to last Wed. morning (the last letter I sent dealt with Wed. night).

  At about four o’clock on Wed. morning—though I was too sleepy to know what time it was—reveille was sounded, along with: “Now Flight Quarters—Flight Quarters; set all special sea and anchor details. This is an emergency. Now Flight Quarters…the ship has broken her moorings aft. This is an emergency.”

  Somehow, the six-to-ten-inch cables mooring us to two floating buoys had broken, and the tide was swinging us around, rear-end-first, directly toward the five destroyers, one tanker and British frigate tied up at the Beirut Dock—about a block away. The Ti is 888 feet long.

  Our liberty boats were nosed against us, between us and the dock, trying to push us away. The Ti weighs 43,000 tons.<
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  On and around the dock was pandemonium—the watch standers on the tanker and destroyers looked up to see 888 feet and 43,000 tons swinging slowly toward them. Some of the “cans” sounded G.Q.—battle stations. The tanker, laying inboard of one of the destroyers, broke out all her fire hoses—guys on the flight deck said they could see men pouring out of the hatches—some heading for the dock.

  The planes on the flight deck were, fortunately, lined up correctly—engines facing in—for “pinwheel” (since we were so close in and had so little room to move about, we had pulled in bow first and the planes, acting as huge fans, turned us around). Now we hoped they could keep us away from the dock. Even though we were moving slowly, we are so big we would have crushed the destroyer like an eggshell and pushed the tanker into the dock—the result of that could be a terrific fireworks display that could blow all seven American and one British warships out of the water, as well as a good portion of Beirut.

  It was the planes who saved the day—but not before our fantail had scraped the destroyer and wrinkled one of her gun mounts so badly she may have to return to the States.

  So we pulled up anchor and moved way out, about a ten minute ride.

  And where was your son while all this was going on? In his rack, sound asleep.

  Speaking of sleep—it’s that time again. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get around to Wed. afternoon and evening.

  By Now

  Love

  Roge

  17–18 March, 1956

  Dear Folks

  Here it is once again the witching hour and your son appears in a flurry of paper and unrelated thoughts. We’ve just passed into a different time zone and gained a valuable hour, which I shall employ tomorrow morning in sleep.

  Rumors, having fallen so thick and heavy that they crush themselves to death under their own weight, seem to have risen again, Phoenix-like, to sweep the ship. Something, it would appear, has happened to our catapults, so that we are now unable to launch jet aircraft. In order to repair them, it is necessary to go to a port which has a large crane (for what I haven’t the slightest idea). So, consequently, we are not going to San Remo, but are headed for Naples/Genoa/Gibraltar/Home (check one only). Oh, yes, I neglected one—Liverpool, England.

  I have before me a sheath of paper—all the different colors the Commissary Office has to offer. Whether I’ll get to use the rainbow effect tonite or not I don’t know.

  My pseudo-cold is getting along famously with my throat. I can just imagine it, peering up out of my esophagus with its bead little eyes, just waiting for me to swallow.

  I’m sorry, but sleep is winning the battle of the mind and eyelids—I’ll try to finish tomorrow….

  Up fairly early for a Sunday morning (9 a.m.) only to read in the Daily Press that Lebanon has had a series of severe earthquakes, in which 127 people died. Beirut itself was apparently little damaged; most of the force being felt in the southern part and in the Bekka Valley—which I think is the same place I described a few letters ago. I hope Baalbek wasn’t damaged. If it was, I may have some of the very last pictures taken of the “grandest ruins on Earth.” I’ve got to write to the Andersons today.

  Also read where the U.S. has had another blizzard—Nature seems to be in a bad mood.

  Today, in the middle of the Med, she is on her best behavior—sun shining (not her very best A-1 day, but a good one), blue ocean, fairly warm. I spent some time wandering around the flight deck and catwalks, but the wind up that high was cold, so I came back down fairly soon.

  My cold was temporarily blasted out of my head last night by an overnight barrage of honks, snorts, and hacks. Let’s hope its defeat is a permanent one, though I doubt it.

  Well, I have a little over an hour before the Sunday Afternoon Double Feature starts, so shall we go back to last Wed. and fill in the gaps from morning to late evening?

  George and I had decided to get the Andersons something as a “token of our appreciation.” We bought from the ship’s store a small 1,000-day clock. I typed a note authorizing us to take it ashore and get it through customs, and had it signed by Cdr. Fitzpatrick.

  Everybody in the Commissary Department (or office, anyway) was planning on going ashore for one reason or another, and I thought for a minute that I might be “requested” to stay aboard, having been ashore every day but one. Fortunately, no one said anything, and we left the ship at about quarter till two. We had a little trouble getting off—George had the package (wrapped in wax paper and getting white stuff all over his Blues) and I was ahead of him, with the note. I was about halfway down the ladder when I realized George wasn’t behind me. The OD had stopped him to ask what was in the box. So I trotted back up, showed him the note, and we got off.

  Civilians had been visiting the ship since about eleven that morning, and our liberty boat was half full of them. Up forward, where most of the civilians were, were two women with babies.

  Since our new anchorage was far out in the bay, the water was a lot rougher than it is close in. Soon we were plowing through the waves, slapping down on them and sending huge sprays of water all over everyone in the forward part. The women were drenched, as were several Lebanese soldiers and other assorted civilians. The boat slowed down and all of them moved back in the boat so that the hood could be lowered—which gives the whole boat the look of an elongated baby carriage.

  Got ashore and, after a brief scuffle with customs officials, a taxi. George had seen Pat at the USO Tuesday night, and told her we’d like to see her folks again before we left; she invited us out again for Wed. afternoon. Neither of us knew their address, so we thought we’d better go to the USO and get it from their records.

  Mrs. Anderson was there waiting for us, with their car. Coutre had asked me to send a telegram for him to his sister, whose birthday was Thursday, and I agreed. Also, I wanted to do a little shopping (with the money mother sent me for the call home).

  The only place in Beirut where you can send a telegram is the Post Office. I told Mrs. Anderson I’d take a cab there, and come to their apartment later, by tram (streetcar). George would go out to the apartment with Mrs. Anderson.

  One thing being in Europe has taught me, which will not carry over to the states, I hope—and that is: “always haggle.” You never enter a cab over here without first establishing how much you’re going to pay. Someone had told me I could get a cab for L1 (one pound, Lebanese)—33 1/3 cents. The cab wanted L1.50 (one pound fifty), which I refused to pay, until I found out that was the cheapest any of them would go. Incidentally, you never tip them either—in Europe, service fees are included in the price.

  The telegram Coutre wanted sent contained seven words and cost L15.25 (roughly five dollars and ten cents). Since he hadn’t given me any money at all, my shopping plans took a sudden change for the worse.

  After leaving the Post Office, which looks more like a bank on the inside—I wandered down one of the narrow, shop-lined side streets, looking around—shoes, clothes, pots and pans, all hanging outside the shops like weird fruit clusters.

  I was inevitably “picked up” by a young man in a brown suit. These boys and young men go around looking for lone tourists, or groups of them, and offer to take you to various bars, shops, and stores—where they get commissions on whatever you buy.

  After meandering through several side streets and Indian stores, we found ourselves in the market area—where sides of half-dried meat dangle in front of open butcher shops, and where the streets are filled with broken hand-made crates and vegetable leaves, not to mention large amounts of animal residue and other less tempting items.

  Finally found our way (why do I say “our”—he knew where he was going) back to the same shop I’d bought the tablecloth. This time, with what little money I had left, a beautiful blue brocade robe—either for dad or for myself—whichever one of us it fits best (it’s a little large for me).

  After than I found a tram headed for the “Ban Militaire”—I think that means “Military Road,” b
ut I’m not sure. Tram fare is 5 piastres—about 1 ½ cents. They’re all very narrow, with front and rear platforms (all depends on which way the thing is going) and wooden seats. They’re also electric cabled, and painted an orange-red.

  I stood on the rear platform and watched the city go by. At one section, near the poplar-studded campus of the American University, I noticed the stores had advertisements and names in three alphabets—French, Arabic, and another that looked vaguely Russian to me, though it probably was Hebrew or some other Eastern language.

  Near the University, a kid in a brown suede jacket and Levi’s got on. He said “Hi” and we got to talking—of course, I’d had a sneaking suspicion he might be American even before he spoke. He was a good looking kid of about nineteen—the kind you see all around you in the States. His dad is an oil engineer in Saudi Arabia—he, too, is going back to the States this fall, to join the Air Corps. They evidently do not draft Americans living over here, but they warn them to return home before they do.

  He hopped off the tram near a barber shop—above its red-and-yellow pole the name was scrawled in Arabic—and waved so long. I rode on to the end of the line, where the conductor shifts the electric pole from one cable to another and starts back to town.

  I walked down a winding road to where the Corniche ran past the large tent and numerous wagons of the German “Circus Belli.” From there I could see the Anderson’s apartment house. In a small store in the same building, I bought two American magazines and went on up to the apartment.