by Dorien Grey
Europe was groveling around in the Middle Ages when the Moslem hordes, under Mohammed the Magnificent rode down on Constantinople. The walls he did not worry about—he brought along cannon. The only trouble was that the cannon could only be fired once every six hours—the rest of the time it was being doused in olive oil and wet rags to cool it off; and during those six hours, the defenders had time to patch up the holes made by the cannon. This went on for three months, but as was inevitable, the Moslems broke through.
The people of the city, seeing the end was at hand, crowded into the churches—10,000 of them in St. Sophia. Mohammed the Magnificent crashed through the south door and galloped into the church on horseback. Legend has it that, upon seeing the people massed within, he struck a marble column with his sword (the nick can still be seen), pressed his hand print into the wall twenty-five feet above the floor (it must have been a tall horse) and proclaimed that all people would be free to go and worship as they please.
St. Sophia was then converted to a mosque—which doesn’t say much for the legend, and remained so until 1934, when it became a museum.
Sometime later the Christians on the Fourth Crusade gained entrance to the city and ransacked it completely with no regard for the fact that half of what they destroyed had been Christian to begin with. Among other things, they broke off half of the Serpentine Column and took it to Italy.
And there you have a short, if inadvertently garbled, history of the city of Constantinople /Istanbul.
The mosques are particularly interesting, mainly because of their difference from Christian churches. First of all, as I’ve mentioned before, all mosques are of the same general outline—one huge dome, convoluted like a pumpkin, with numerous semi-domes beneath it, and from two to five minarets. The Mosque of Sultan Ahmed is the only one in Istanbul with five—he wanted to build a mosque with six minarets, but the only other one in the world with six was the great mosque at Mecca, and people resented his copying. He solved that one by building a seventh minaret at the one in Mecca, and then felt free to put six on his own. One was beginning to lean toward the big dome, so it was torn down; they plan to restore it.
Before entering a mosque, Moslems wash their hands, feet, faces, and arms so as to be clean outside as well as inside. They then remove their shoes prior to entering. Inside, the mosque is one big room with no furnishings except carpets on the floor. Chandeliers hang low over the floor, and once burned olive oil in glass cups—now they use electricity. The altar is a little sentry-box with a long, narrow stairway leading to it. It is located on the south wall, or the side facing Mecca. There are beautiful stained glass windows, but on this one side only. A balcony runs around the outer edge of the room, and to the left of the altar or sermon-box is the Sultan’s box (Sultans do not pray with the common people).
Unique in mosques: the fact that they have neither statues nor paintings nor image of any living thing in them. Around the center of the dome are the names of Allah and Mohammed, in Arabic—other decorations are quotations from the Koran, all in that fantastic scrawl called Arabic.
One good thing is that when they converted St. Sophia, they did not destroy the frescoes and mosaics inside—they merely covered them up with a sort of plaster, which has preserved everything beautifully. On entering St. Sophia, there is an excellent mosaic showing Mary holding Jesus—to her right, Constantine is shown presenting Jesus the city—to his left, Justinian giving Him St. Sophia.
Well, I’ll have to finish this tomorrow. Got to get to bed now.
Love
Roge
30 May 1956
Dear Folks
Just had a mail call, and got two from you—the 23rd and 24th. Mother said my letters sounded “different” lately. Hmmm. She didn’t say “good-different” or “bad-different,” but I can imagine. I suppose they have lost some of that Rover-boy luster and sparkling good humor. Unfortunately, you have never spent six months in Europe. That is enough to dim anybody’s outlook.
My, how I talk—like an embittered old man. Actually, I’m not—I’m an embittered young man. I guess it’s just this continual “Well, we’re going back home…oops, no we’re not” routine that gets very tiresome in almost no time.
Well, I shall try to regain my boyish charm in the future. It’s sort of like playing Russian Roulette with all six chambers filled. Really, I shouldn’t care one whoop in hell, but it is contagious, being with two thousand other guys who want to go home and don’t know when they’ll get there.
I’m rather worried about my car—with my phenomenal luck, it will need several major repairs.
Nothing new here—people kept running through the mess decks and galleys all day; everyone from Turkish naval officers to the crew of a KLM (Royal Dutch) Airliner.
As for the Commissary office—my 20 x 20 green and grey world—there are more people per square foot running in and out of here all day every day than there are in Times Square. We’re considering installing traffic lights and railroad timetables.
Tomorrow is payday, and I have $273 at my disposal, from which I am going to draw $60. I owe the Chief $20 and figure that since we get into Genoa on the 16th (next payday) and the tours to Venice begin on the 18th or so, I want to get my ticket early.
Can’t you see me running into the living room yelling “Hey, Mom, can I go to Venice?” And dad saying “Now think of all that money—you can use it for school.” Oh, well, times change….
Now here it is five till ten. I had a fascinating dream last night, if only I could remember it—I remember I was having a mental duel with some alien thing whose mental powers were next to omnipotent. I had, it granted, 18 questions to try and discover its weakness and conquer it. I said: “Well, if you can foresee the future, you can foresee the outcome of this debate. Will I destroy you?” And then I woke up. Darn, and it was better than a movie, too.
August 4th. Question of the day—will the Ticonderoga get back to the States in time for Roger’s discharge, or will there be still another extension? Can Roger adapt himself to civilian life? Will his parents and his faithful dog Stormy recognize him when he does get home? Tune in August 12th for the next thrilling chapter in this true-to-life adventure.
It is now five after ten, and I am going to bed.
Love
Roge
31 May 1956
Istanbul, Turkey
Dear Folks
And here it is 73 days B.D., and I honestly don’t think we’re going to make it. I used to build sand houses, and then poke a stick under them and raise it slowly up, watching them crack and crumble. That’s what has happened to this ship—not structurally, but morally. Surely a lot of these guys have been on equally long trips, if not longer—but this one seems to be a special case.
Me—I’m torn between behaving like Chicken Little, dashing madly off in all directions, afraid the sky will fall in, and a stoic, dumb acceptance, not giving a damn if it falls in or not. The Chicken Little part is the contagious one, the one I mentioned yesterday.
Payday today—doesn’t all this seem awfully boring? Here I am, sitting in Istanbul, Turkey, which should be very exotic and call to mind visions of beautiful women with long black lashes and veils; of snake charmers and Ali Baba, and of gongs beating somewhere in the dark oriental hills.
But it doesn’t. I haven’t seen a beautiful woman, long lashes, or a single veil. There are no snake charmers and, to the best of my knowledge, no snakes.
I have said it before and I’ll say it again, for clarification—you have a weird son. The other day, when we were in a taxi stalled in a narrow street by the Grand Bazaar, an old woman—bent and twisted, hobbled by in a shaggy grey shawl. Her stockings were sagged and had large holes in them; she carried a basket of something in her right hand. I couldn’t help but think, as I saw her and the other poorly clothed people around her: “Where do they live? What do they do all day? They can’t just pop into existence for my benefit, then vanish when they go out of my sight. That old woma
n—she has lived for years and years. How? Was she young once, and did she laugh and talk and have children and friends? Where is she going now?” And what were the others in the cab thinking? They were engrossed by the back of a young woman in the cab ahead of us.
Not to give you the wrong impression of Istanbul, for Istanbul is alive, cosmopolitan, modern. It is only in the out of the way sections that the tourists only glimpse as part of the scenery, where time flows more slowly, or lies in pools and stagnates. America has her share of these people too. We just never see them. We don’t look.
When I went “off to the wars,” Ann Zubas said: “Don’t let them change you.” Hmmm. Well, you can see for yourself in a few months.
Wrote to Gilbert Hall today for room reservations—I asked to room with someone who’s never been to Northern before. Why I don’t know.
Dad told me last time he wanted me to write every night, even if it was just to say Hello and Goodbye.
Hello. Goodbye.
Love
Roge
2–3 June 1956
Dear Folks
This evening’s movie was the 1938 Bette Davis-Henry Fonda release “Jezebel”—the story of a sort of pre-Civil War Scarlett O’Hara. I enjoyed it.
Tomorrow I’d rather like to go over just to spend the afternoon in the Grand Bazaar, but I doubt if I will. Save my money for Venice, which may well be my last European fling.
I plan to start packaging everything either tomorrow or Sunday; that way, if I do get shipped back, I can mail it—but if not, I can just bring it with me.
No mail call tonite, but probably one tomorrow—at least we hope so.
Got reminded of the NavCads this evening, while waiting for the movies; some guys were playing basketball and one had on the yellow and blue sweatshirt and brown khaki shorts we wore. Sure enough, he was an officer and an ex N/C. Oh, well—I am consoled by the idea that I only have 72 days to go, instead of two years and 72 days!
Wandered up to the library just now and caught a glimpse of my boy Boswell’s London Journal. Personally, I don’t think he ever did anything—he just sat and wrote twenty three hours a day. Of course, I’ve only been over here six and a half months, but already I almost outdo old Bos in volume if not in quality. I suppose if you took out all my “Nothing much doing tonite”s and “only (blank) days to go” you wouldn’t have much of anything left.
Recently I have been worming my way out of Coutre’s confidence—today he yelled “Are you trying to make a fool out of me?” and I replied “Coutre, you’re a self-made man.” He went on the beach tonite, and will come in tomorrow afternoon, if at all, looking as though he’d just fought his weight in hippopotami (and that’s a lot of hippopotami). His eyes will be a cross between a detailed road map and a wounded hound dog.
Oh, I forgot to mention the book I picked up this time at the library—it’s called “Studies in Murder.” I get around. Had to check it out this time, since the librarian had his eye on me while I sneaked to the door.
***And another day, like the Indians in a cheap Western, bites the dust. This one brought the dubiously good news that almost without a doubt I will be leaving the ship in Genoa. Of course they had to water my enthusiasm with the rumor that the ship is going to Cannes, France, for 15 days, from where there will be “beaucoups” (“Boo-koo”) tours to Paris. Well, I’d only spend all my money anyway.
Spent the afternoon packing all my excess junk—a total of six boxes. If I get off, I’ll send them home—if not, they’ll be all together anyway. Dad’s binoculars are all set to go Monday. Possibility of a mail call tonight—at least they have it on board. Best get off for tonite.
Love
Roge
3 June 1956
Dear Folks
Sunday, our last day in Istanbul; if days were flowers, this one would be a dandelion. The movie fare for this afternoon consisted of “Son of Sinbad”—which I’d seen before and can best sum up in the last two words of one of the dubious heroines: “How sickening.” The other, “Shane” I did not care to see again, so I returned to the office to read.
At supper I went to the head of the chow line, as is my custom and, I’d thought, my privilege—only to get into a heated argument with a Second Class Boatswain’s Mate who thought I should go to the end of the line (somewhere on the hangar deck).
Later, Coutre decided he must have a relief for me, so that someone can take over my job when I leave. His plan is to ship me back to S-1 (my old) Division. He called in a mess cook to interview him, while I sat not four feet away, and said to him: “We’ve got a guy in here….” I had the distinct feeling that I was recently and unlamentedly deceased. At least he could wait until my body got cold before shoveling dirt in my face.
I may have remarked on the fact that lately he and I have been getting along like two half-starved tigers. He likes to play boss and I don’t like to follow his rules of the game.
Oh, well, it isn’t his fault, really—he’s homesick like 2,500 other guys around here, and this extension has done no one any good.
Coutre, while on the beach the other night, bought two sets of pickle dishes; that’s what he calls them, anyway—to me they look like large ashtrays. He has given one to you, mother. I imagine they’ll come in handy.
This mail call netted two letters—one from mother, hot off the typewriter (29th) and one from a fellow named H.P. Lovecraft, 33 Rue Morgue, Arkham, Mass., who addressed the letter to “The good ship USS Ticonderoga.” Only an ex-Navy man could do a thing like that. I live in constant dread he will one day address one to “Rear Admiral F. R. Margason”—which would go over like a concrete dirigible and provide a most interesting Court Martial.
Tomorrow down through the Dardanelles—this time in daylight. More then.
Love,
Roge
5 June 1956
Dear Folks
There is so much nothing to tell you, I don’t know where not to begin. For one thing, I have a sneaking suspicion that these will be the longest 68 days on record. I will from here on out be a virtual prisoner aboard ship—afraid even to go on liberty for fear they will call a draft away. Of course I really shouldn’t worry, since my name is 17th from the bottom on a list of over 300 names. Still….. By my name there is the mystic note “5 July.” What that is supposed to mean I have no idea; since they don’t know until almost the last minute when a draft will go, it seems unlikely they’d set July 5th as a definite day just for me. I’ll still probably ride the ship back. Oh, well….
Nick put in a request for shore duty someplace in Florida, near Jacksonville. The chit was approved, and now he is certain he is leaving within the hour, even though a letter must be sent to the Bureau (of Personnel) before he can get it. As a result of his enthusiasm, the office is strewn with boxes—whole and dismantled—torn scraps of paper, two wooden crates, a pair of scissors, stenciling gear, and God knows what else.
Speaking of boxes, I mailed dad’s binoculars and ten rolls of film yesterday, insured, of course, plus Ann’s shawl. Today I sent a huge package of assorted paraphernalia to Aunt Thyra’s. She is not to open it, but to put it in a cool, dry place till I get home. More will be coming to her later—that way it removes the temptation of opening it. Also, she is home more than you are, and will no doubt be around when it arrives.
Life in the office is, to put it gently, not pleasant; Coutre and I are not speaking, Nick is all on edge, I am not in the best humor. Otherwise, everything is getting along nicely.
To say that I am not in the best of humor is a gross understatement; I can feel myself falling apart on the inside, and I am running out of adhesive tape. I want to be somewhere, do something, and my dreams do not include the Flying Dutchman (nee Ticonderoga) and her motley crew. I want to run out to the fantail and scream and holler and wave my arms—but this is frowned upon by Navy code, and so I shall just sit here, like a hollow statue, and slowly be filled up by my cracking and chipping exterior.
In front of me i
s sitting a medicine-brown bottle chock full of aspirin—the Chief claims they are bad for a person, yet people around here act as if they were candy drops. Never touch the stuff myself; never need it.
Which brings to mind for no particular reason the play “The Shrike,” wherein the hero takes one hundred and fifty-three sleeping pills, after having read that one hundred and fifty were not quite enough to kill a man.
Actually, the bottle says they are not aspirin—they are Acetylsalicylic Acid Tablets. That sounds so much better than aspirin, don’t you think?
I am quite hungry, but after a little stabbing incident the other night, we are not permitted in the galleys. So now the cooks make box lunches to eat later at night. I don’t think they made any tonite.
Coutre just walked in, looking amazingly like Captain Bligh, with his usual cheery greeting: “What the hell does this look like—the crew’s lounge?” No comment. Aha—the story comes out—he was kicked out of the aft galley this afternoon by one of the cooks.
Nick’s relief, when and if he goes (there are 300 men awaiting transfer for discharge but Nick is under the happy illusion he’s going right this very minute!!) is a German boy—he arrived in the U.S. two years ago, was married three months ago, and drafted.
My relief, when and if I go (and Coutre is doing his level best to get me shifted back to S-1) is most likely one of the mess cooks. We shall see….
Well, I have another letter to write yet, to Harry (Ens. Harrison), so I’ll close now.
Love
Roge
6 June 1956
Dear Folks
Nine-fifteen and just time for a quick bit of lugubrious chatter. The Navy is a big outfit; one you should think would be able to make decisions, but no. Nobody knows from one minute to the next what is going on.