A World Ago
Page 39
Dear Folks
I was just standing here twiddling my thumbs wondering what it was I’d forgotten to do when it came to me—write to you. So here I am. As was predicted yesterday, we had a mail call today—I got two letters from you, with the clippings about Sandy. Good Lord, but we have a crazy family. The last letter was dated 30 March, and this being only the 3rd of April, I’d say it made excellent time.
Lloyd wants to go to a bullfight when we get to Valencia. I have absolutely no desire to. Maybe I’ll go to take pictures of the pomp and ceremony, but I can’t see watching a bunch of mad animals screaming for blood. I’m talking about the animals not directly engaged in the slaughter; those who sit in the stands and chomp hot dogs, watching the blood spurt from a safe distance, through beady, inhuman eyes.
Ah, but there I go, preaching again. Forgive me if I get carried away at times.
At times, such as now, I feel as though I could write words that would be remembered as long as there are people to remember. But then something always gets in the way, and I end up doing nothing—or at best scribbling a few sentences in a book of dead stories.
I once wrote a poem; did you know that? It was written down in Pensacola and was quite fatalistic and very revealing. But it got lost somewhere along the line. It had something to do with the last leaf on the last tree in the world, which was about to be drowned by the rising seas. The rhyme scheme itself was quite da da, da da, da da, da DA-ish, if I recall. But I liked it and wish I could remember it. Oh, well.
I was just thinking—if someone could take a battering ram and knock down these walls I’ve built around myself, I wonder what they’d find? Either something about two inches high that looks like it just crawled out from under a wet rock, or an explosion so great and powerful it would put the sun to shame.
Always I have the feeling that people are in mental cocoons; some of them more developed than others—and I keep waiting for us to come out of them—to turn ourselves into the butterfly I’ve always expected myself to be.
Sometimes, when I try to think very hard, I can actually feel it—like trying to push against a gigantic door. And there’s always the maddening idea that it would be easy to open, if we only knew how. Once again, “oh, well.”
Thank you for the stamps, mother. They came just one step ahead of the cavalry. The last batch of cocoa you sent was in such a lousy shape that I only salvaged two bags out of the whole mess. But it’s good.
Well, dad, now that bowling’s over, what are you going to do with yourself? Why not try writing every now and then? Incidentally, if you have any pictures of the cottage, please send them to me—either the old way (to give Lloyd the general idea) or the new way—so I can get a general idea.
Regards to all the relatives.
Love
Roge
4 April 1956
Dear Folks
Just for a change, I thought I’d type a letter. Just got done typing one to Lief. All I do twenty-four hours a day is sit at this darn (now that’s an odd looking word—I was just being polite) typewriter, so a few minutes more will give me a chance to practice.
Tomorrow is the big day for the Mess Cook Change-over; 45 guys coming and 45 guys going. This place will be a mad-house for awhile—at least my end of it will be.
A bunch of VIP’s flew on today from somewhere, and in order to give them a really good show, full of chills and spills, they sacrificed an enlisted man tonite (thought at first it was a pilot, but enlisted men are lots cheaper). They’ll be bringing him down to the reefers in a while now.
Chief just clamored all over my chair to turn on an air vent—it is awfully hot in here.
The Intrepid joined up with us today—she came over to relieve the Lake Champlain. Funny that she’s back so soon; we relieved her in November, when we came over.
Afraid there’s going to have to be a day’s pause in letters—I’m tired and think I’ll go to bed. Hope you understand and will forgive
YOUR Loving Son
Roge
5 April 1956
Dear Folks
One thing I will say for myself that can’t be said for you lately—I write every day, almost. Another mail call with nothing from the Margasons; nothing from anybody, as far as that goes. Sure is good to get mail. Oh, well.
128 days to go. I keep hearing the rumor that everyone whose discharge date falls prior to mid-September will be released the first part of July. This is a wonderful rumor, and the only thing that keeps me from believing it completely is that the only guys I hear it from are getting discharged prior to mid-September.
Slightly rough today, and I loved it. Also a little on the chilly side. Unfortunately, some of the guys fresh out of boot camp did not find the rocking and rolling quite as enjoyable as I did.
Went back on the fantail twice to watch the waves—they fascinate me. Those poor little destroyers trailing us really take a beating in weather like this. They pitch and toss like a wild bull—charge head on into huge waves and come rearing up in a fountain of spray, till their black keels show above the water. With us, we ride several waves at once, and the action of one more or less cancels out the other. But the destroyers ride each one as it comes, rising high out of the air and crashing down the other side, only to plow into another.
Today was “M” day, and it went off very smoothly, all things considered. I signed my name 180 times in about three hours, and 90 men came and went.
Saturday we arrive in Valencia, and I may go ashore and make arrangements to call home Sunday. Of course, by the time you get this, Sunday will have come and gone.
Imagine—we complain when it takes six days to get a letter halfway around the world; two hundred years ago—even one hundred—it took three months to get as far.
Ten after nine—thank God the days go as fast as they do. I’d go nuts if they went slower.
Well, again it is time to go to bed, even though it is short.
Till tomorrow
Love
Roge
6 April 1956
Dear Folks
Just spent a most enlightening, if not enjoyable, hour and a half trying to clean the white stripes on my dress blue jumper. I was spurred on to this Herculean task by the fact that tomorrow we arrive at Valencia, and I wish to go ashore, to see what kind of telephone connections I can get with home.
We have two Puerto Ricans on mess cooking, and I try to talk to them only in Spanish. Usually, though, the conversation breaks down into English when it comes to the main points. It will be fun trying to get around in Spain. Incidentally, I’m glad I didn’t plan too strongly on going to Madrid, since they canceled the tour anyway.
Mail call today and, wonder of wonders, I got a letter from home! It was strung out over three nights, and only goes to show you’re slipping. I want one every day, even if it’s only a movie schedule.
The latest “discharge” report hot off the grapevine—we get back to the States on the 17th or 16th, or the 18th of June; a “draft” (Navy term for “group”) will leave the ship for the receiving station—those whose discharge dates come between 20 June and 17 July. On the 27th of June, another draft leaves: those getting discharged between the 17th of July and 17th of August—that’s me. I heard it from a guy who gets out the 7th of August, but it sounds good anyhow. That would mean I’d be discharged by the first week of July.
Yes, dad, I agree—I’ve done quite a bit of “gadding about,” and I’d love nothing better than just to sit home watching TV, going to shows, and buying clothes. But—one never knows, in this outfit, just what is coming off.
Oh, yes, also received your package of cocoa and books. Someone had tied it up with string, but it still was trailing a stream of brown. Very clever idea, putting the cocoa in between the pages of the book. I salvaged three and a half packets from it—the half packet coming from between the pages and poured from the big envelope. I hope you read that article on Lebanon in that “Highways of Happiness” booklet, mother. The photo, wh
ich I’ll send back, was taken, oddly enough, on the exact corner where the USO Canteen was—the building it’s in can be seen to the right. It’s a small world.
Hope you’re buying and saving Life every week for me.
How nice it is to be grown up at last and have dad ask me what I’m planning on doing, rather than telling me what I’m going to do. Just think—I can do anything in the world I want to, and nobody short of the police can stop me.
I must give you credit, though—you were never too strict on me—not many nineteen year olds go galloping off to New York by themselves. Remember the first time I went to a movie all by myself? How old was I, anyhow? I remember it was either a double feature (at the State), or so good I sat through it twice, or both—anyway, I was late getting home and you nearly had fits.
Oh, yes, it was Easter, wasn’t it? I don’t remember a thing about it, except that Lloyd and I had gone ashore the night before. Speaking of Lloyd, he’s slightly sea-sick today—only seen him twice, and he went to bed right after supper. Me it doesn’t bother in the least.
Beautiful bright day today—still cold—and the sea is still rough. The Intrepid has been tagging along with us for two days now. She’s pulling into Valencia with us. So are six destroyers. That ought to be lots of fun—ten sailors for every two feet of ground.
Just clipped out the Beirut pictures and story, in case you missed it. The “x” is where the Ti was before she broke loose; on the far side of the sea wall. The second floor of the building at right is the USO, or Lebanese-American club. Your loving son walked right along the same road, and looked out the window beneath the second (pillbox) thing. Notice all the American cars.
Well, bed time again.
Love
Roge
9 April 1956
Dear Folks
Saturday morning we anchored three miles off Valencia, Spain, where (according to the ship’s Bulletin “it almost never rains”) it was raining like mad and the seas were amazingly rough. The day got off to a good start with the arrival, in a private boat, of a contractor who wanted to sell provisions—among them fresh milk—to the ship. One man came to the office, and said he had two friends waiting in the boat to come aboard. I was sent to tell them to come on, and show them the way to the Commissary Office. When I got to the quarterdeck, the OOD told me to go down and give them a hand. The boat was bobbing and tossing like a cork and trying to maneuver up to the gangway. One of them men threw me a line, which I could not fasten anywhere because one moment the boat would be even with the gangway and the next be ten feet down and twenty feet away. At this point, two waves swept over the gangway, up to my knees. I tried to get up on the railing before a third hit, but didn’t quite make it. The OD called me back and told me to go change my clothes, which I did.
That afternoon I wanted to go over and make arrangements for the phone call home. The sky was black with dirty grey clouds racing low over the water. The Ti had three liberty launches in operation for the 34 minute ride to the beach; two of them were covered and one was not. Guess which one we got? To top it all, the rain began as soon as we got in, and didn’t let up all afternoon. I am beginning today to reap the rewards of all that damp and drizzle.
Valencia is a good sized town—about 500,000; the downtown area is a good three miles from the landing. We were lucky enough to be given a ride in a shore patrol truck. Valencia’s main Plaza is a large, roughly triangular affair surrounded by substantial buildings—all corner buildings being rounded and usually one or two stories higher than the others.
We wandered all around, looking in all the stores—they have a lot of material for sale, but Beirut spoiled me for material. I got a chance to use my Spanish, and got along fairly well. Lloyd seems fascinated by my semi-ability to speak at least a few words of every language, and by the fact that I’ve got their money down pretty well.
The telephone office is on the main square, in a building that looks like a telephone office. I made arrangements to call Los Estados Unidos (EE.UU) Sunday at seven. For that, I paid 475 pesetas (roughly $11), which isn’t bad at all.
Afterwards we wandered to the Bull Ring, which looks vaguely like the Coliseum in Rome. It seats 20,000 people on plain wooden benches. The center is a large circle covered with sand, roughly the size of a round football field (if you can imagine a round football field).
In back—the whole thing being circular, by “back” I mean on the opposite side from the street—we looked down on the bull pens, where five great black animals with impressive but not conspicuous horns stood or laid placidly about, waiting to die. In another pen were two white bulls—why they were separated I can’t guess. A lean tomcat strolled casually between their thick legs.
I could go on and on, but time is getting short, so I’ll get on to yesterday. It sure was wonderful to talk to you, even though I had nearly an hour’s wait. It was a few minutes after eight, Sunday night, that the call came through. I was talking to one of the telephone operators, who said that there was only one line between Spain and the U.S., and at times it took awhile. I think the connection was much better than the one from Naples. You all (grandpa especially) sound good—hope to see you soon.
When the call was through, I was refunded 115 pesetas—$2.75! Spain has a “tariff” on phone calls—Saturdays and weekdays are more expensive than Sundays—I paid Saturday rates for a Sunday call. So it only cost about $8.00 for the call!!
I’ll relate more of my Valencia adventures tomorrow. Right now it’s time to go to bed.
Love
Roge
10 April 1956
123 days to go
Dear Folks
I was just talking to Wheeler, who had gone to the bullfight yesterday—and I am very glad I didn’t go. How can anything be as horrible? The way he described it, it wasn’t a fight, but a massacre. On second thought, I wish I had been there, sitting in the center of the ring with a large machine gun and several thousand rounds of ammunition. I would honestly enjoy nothing more than spraying that crowd with machine gun fire. They want to see blood? Fine—then let them see their own, damn them. They came to see suffering—I’d love to show them “But the bulls are only animals; wild and cruel.” Well, what do you suppose those things sitting there cheering are?
No doubt Lloyd will drag me to one next Sunday, and I will undoubtedly become very ill. Maybe I can sneak a machine gun from the ship’s armory. Wouldn’t that be fun? Can’t you just see the looks on their faces? Ah, but there I go, daydreaming again—wishful thinking.
Sadistic little soul, aren’t I? Well, I’m only human….
I’d go on to more pleasant subjects, if there were any more pleasant subjects to go on to. Had a lousy night last night—woke up in the wee hours with one hell of a sore throat. My nose has been playing Niagara Falls all day.
At about 8:00 tonite I took my NavCad book up to show Lloyd. It is now 9:15. It was fun to talk about it again, and I didn’t feel at all bad—oh, a little nostalgia, perhaps—but it didn’t hurt.
Evidently there is to be no mail call tonite. Didn’t get any mail the last couple of mail calls—the last one I got said you’d received and seen the film; I hope you enjoyed them. The 8 feet of nothing comes from not taking the lens cover off. Did you get an idea of the size of the columns from the pictures/
No, mom, the kids weren’t Americans, I don’t think. I suppose kids are kids any place. Speaking of kids, how about—uh, no, that’s another film—or is it? Did I send the one with the two lambs butting their heads together? If so, how did it turn out?
The five pesetas enclosed in yesterday’s letter was done so as an afterthought—it’s worth about 10 cents.
Realize this is short, but I’ve got to take a shower and get to bed, to give my throat a chance to get really sore again. Till tomorrow
Love
Roge
12 April 1956
121 days to go
Dear Folks
Here I am again, after just having been cha
sed off the quarterdeck by the OD—all we were doing was playing leapfrog. It all started when Lloyd, Jack Moore, and I went out to get a breath of fresh air after the movie. We went out to the wing deck near the quarterdeck, and were looking down at the ladder-gangway. I said I’d bet that if you had to jump from where we were, you’d spatter all over the ladder—or at least hit it on your way down. Lloyd said no. So we measured out a spot on the wing deck and tried jumping it from a standing start. I think Lloyd was winning when the OD came up and asked us icily if we were on watch. We said no. He thereby ordered us to go play our games elsewhere.
It was a beautiful day today—we pulled out to sea just for the day, and I got a chance to take almost two rolls of film of launching and landing planes. Also got a shot of the dropping of the anchor when we pulled back in, for which I had to lean halfway over the railing, and still got Lloyd’s hat in it (he was below me on the catwalk.)
Sorry I didn’t write last night but I tried writing a bit on a story I’d done once before. Most of my stories I find are pseudo-psychological. The endings can be taken two ways—either logically, wherein whatever befalls the person is brought about by his own mind, or fantastically, where the mind is not restricted to the limits of the body.
This particular one is about a mentally defective man with the mind of a seven-year old. He wants to be a bird. I’m going to do more on it tonite.
Another day with no mail call and, logically, no mail. I’d much prefer to have a mail call and get some mail.
I’ve already picked out the courses I want to take when I get back to school—Education 488; Introduction to Philosophy, Social Science 385, Public Opinion and Propaganda; English 400, Creative Writing, English 48s; Modern Drama, and Journalism 231: Radio Writing.
Though it’s a beautiful day outside, it’s hot as an oven inside. Hate to cut this short, but it’s 8:30 and I want to work on the story.