A World Ago
Page 4
I’ll try to write more this weekend. Till then I am
As Always
Roge
P.S. The paper is coming regularly now—thanks. Did you get any of Chicago’s floods?
Undated, but still in the 8th week of Pre-flight. Probably begun on the 15th and finished Friday, Oct. 22nd, 1954
Dear Folks
It is now about 8:45 p.m. on Friday night, and I think I will go to bed—it will be the safest place for me. Tonite has been one of “those” nights; any blue smudges you may notice on the paper are from the stenciling ink I have all over my fingers. It got there when I tried to get the ink I spilled all over the table. In my frantic attempts to blot it up and make sure it wouldn’t stain the table, I rubbed some of the paint off the tabletop. I have a legitimate excuse, though—it was all caused by this darned ringing in my ears, which sounds like a cricket convention in an Iowa field some warm summer night.
The cause of all this trouble was our jaunt this afternoon to the pistol range. The trusting souls who put loaded revolvers into the hands of that group of trigger-happy NavCads were far more naive than sensible. I guess we didn’t do so bad, though. We each fired forty rounds at a ten-inch square target fifty feet in front of us. I hit it a grand total of sixteen times, and haven’t been able to hear ever since. Of course, today being Friday, there was the inevitable parade; this one being a special affair complete with Admiral, top brass, and instructors. If you have ever tried playing a clarinet when you can’t even hear the rest of the band, you can get a vague idea of what it was like.
Yesterday afternoon, or morning rather, I started my very first airplane engine. Unfortunately, the engine was not attached to an airplane at the time. Early (7:00) in the morning we were trundled onto a station bus and driven a mile or two (a real treat—we usually march) to what they call the Test Stand. It is a long, narrow building divided into about seven partitions. Two of these are classrooms, and the other five are engine rooms. These engine rooms are open on both sides of the building; an engine is mounted on the east side of the room, divided by a strong wire fencing. On the west side is a small, partitioned control room. First of all, you go to the classroom, where you’re briefed on starting the engine: Battery switch on, Throttle ½ to ¾ inches forward, Mixture Control lever on Full Rich, Pitch adjuster in High; check wobble pump—emergency hand fuel pump. Prime engine with three or four strokes of primer valve; get all clear signal, and turn on the ignition switch. When the engine starts running, watch your oil pressure gage—you must have at least 40 lbs. pressure in 30 seconds. When oil pressure is up to 50 lbs., set pitch in low (pitch is the angle of the propeller as it turns). Push throttle up till you get 1000 R.P.M., pull it back to 600–700 R.P.M. and make an ignition safety check (to make sure your electrical system is working properly). Increase R.P.M. to 1000 again, watch cylinder head temperature gage for temperature of 100 and oil pressure of 40. Check fuel system (to make sure you’ve got gas in both tanks). Increase throttle to 1800 R.P.M., and make a pitch check, move from low pitch to high…. Well, you can see how it goes.
Speaking of going, almost a week has elapsed since I began this letter—I’ve started the engine once more and played with it three times—loads of fun.
Just returned to the Bat after seeing “Rear Window” to receive the cheery news that a cadet was killed today in boxing class: jolly good sport, boxing. He fought this afternoon, put his gloves away, passed out, and died early tonight. I imagine his parents will be very happy that he joined the program. Thus far, I have survived ten weeks of Navy life; only five more to go. Tomorrow I have an MOD (Mate of the Deck) watch from 12 midnight till 4 a.m., and Sunday from 12 noon till 4 p.m. I go on duty tomorrow afternoon at 4:30 and just sit around till 12.
Next week is what is affectionately known as “The Bloody Ninth.” It is our ninth week of study, and all final exams are held. That means I have a Navigation phase quiz (given once a week) on Monday, a Naval Orientation final also on Monday, an Engines phase quiz on Monday or Tuesday, and an Engines Final on Wed. or Thurs. I don’t know when our Aerology final is.
Bought some film at the Gedunk (Navy Exchange—whey they ever call it Gedunk I’ll never know) tonite and I’ll take it tomorrow. Did you see the other yet? If not, get hot and see them—that’s what I took them for, you know; not to sit around and gather dust. Or, you can hold them till I get home, and I’ll give you a narrated tour.
Took my 40 minute, ½ mile swim today (fully clothed) and almost didn’t make it. My legs have a nasty habit of getting cramps in them about ten minutes before the period ends.
Did I tell you I’m planning on going to Atlanta for Thanksgiving? Whether I do or not depends on several things: a) if I can afford it; b) how long a liberty we have, and c) whether I can afford it.
Hear tell there isn’t going to be an Armistice Day anymore—it’s to be changed to Veteran’s Day (I like Armistice Day better). Wore my dress Blues last weekend on liberty—they really look good—in this Naval District, we wear white cap-covers with our Blues, but in Rockford’s district, I’ll have to wear my blue cover.
Please send some (a lot of) three cent stamps—I’ll try to scrape up enough to mail the picture tomorrow. I was really overwhelmed at your generosity--$5 whole dollars, all my very own (film is $3.25). This morning I plunked out $3.95 for laundry, so don’t ask me where all my money goes. I got the brownies a long time ago and ate them at once—they were very good, but crumbly. Enclosed (maybe, if I remember it) is a letter the band received from the Admiral--and to get a letter from a real live Admiral is really an accomplishment. We received the music to St. Louis Blues March today, and will play it tomorrow.
Well, I’d better close now. Write soon (I haven’t gotten a letter in two days—take that back—got one from Ann Margason yesterday.)
So long for now
Love
Roge
HEADQUARTERS ne2:403:gba
NAVAL AIR BASIC TRAINING COMMAND
U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA 14 October 1954
From: Chief of Naval Air Basic Training
To: Commanding Officer, U.S. Naval School, Pre-Flight
Subj.: Letter of Appreciation
1. The Chief of Naval Air Basic Training was most pleased with the quick and timely formation of the Naval Aviation Cadet Band and the fine performance on the evening of 9 October 1954 at the Camp Lejeune-Goshawks football game.
2. It is realized that only five days lapsed from the time the band instruments were received at this command and the band made its first public appearance. Ensign L.G. Barnes and members of the band are to be commended for devoting much of their free time to practice and in providing excellent entertainment not only for the personnel of this command and civilians from the local area, but for the guests of the Secretary of Defense who were aboard for a visit in a Joint Civilian Orientation Conference.
/s/ D. Harris
D. HARRIS
Sunday, October 24, 1954
Dear Folks
The time is approximately 2:25 a.m. on a pleasant Sunday morning. I am sitting in the BSOOD’s (Battalion Student Officer of the Day’s) office with my tongue stuck out, staring at the reflection of the overhead fluorescent tubes mirrored in the glass desk top. I’ve just finished eating two unbuttered bologna sandwiches (brought in earlier this evening by an RMESS (Regimental Messenger). The sandwiches were washed down with a small carton of milk from a newly-installed vending machine.
I went to bed at 7:30 last night, and got up at 11:00; I don’t know how much more sleep I’ll be able to get today—I go off watch at 4:00 a.m., and come back on at noon. Because Monday is a test day, I really ought to be doing all sorts of studying, but somehow, at 2:30 in the morning, my heart just isn’t in it.
Today, in the three hours I had free Band practice from 8-10, Extra Academic Instruction from 10–12, lunch till 1, on duty at 4. I took another roll of film. I most certainly hope they come out better than the
last ones. This time I took pictures of all sorts (2) of airplanes, the two corrugated-iron hangers around which I’ve run about 30 times, a few scattered bits of flora, a passing schooner, the Monterey (again—this time I didn’t go aboard), a destroyer, and some odd looking ship I’d never seen before. Some porpoises were playing just off the edge of one of the slips (wharf or dock) but I didn’t get a chance to photograph them. Oh, yes, I also got about five feet of a blue jay in a palm tree, which will be very pretty if it turns out. And then there is about two feet of some friends (the one on the left is from Chicago and came in when I did—Jim Oakey) and about three inches of me. If I ever get a splicer when I get home I’ll have a production that will put Cecil B. Demille to shame. Also I got a shot or two of what I usually have to go through Saturday afternoons—“extra military instruction.” (I especially hope those shots turned out, though they don’t last long.)
Called last night and made reservations on the Dec 17th plane (7:45 p.m.) to Chicago. Round trip will cost me $95.00, and I’ve got to have it in by December 3rd. So the sooner you can get it down to me, the better it will be—as I said, there will be 825 cadets scrambling to get home that night, and so I’d best get my “order” in soon.
Speaking of the carrier (as I was about two minutes ago), we will be going out on a trip on it a week from Wed. or Thurs. That ought to be fun. I want to buy some fore film for that occasion. (HINT)
Band got “St. Louis Blues March” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” today—they sound good, though the “Blues” is awfully hard. It is the exact arrangement that we have at home, so just listen to it and you’ll know what we sound like…well, maybe not quite that good, but almost. Well, I guess I’ve just about talked myself out for now. Regards to Grandpa, and kiss Stormy for me.
Till later
Love
Roge
P.S. Are you saving my letters like a good little girl, mother. Also, thanks for the stamps, but I could still use some more. Poppa could try pushing a pen a little more frequently.
Friday, October 29, 1954
Dear Folks
Well, here it is Friday night again; the “Bloody Ninth” is over, and I am to be listed as one of those missing in action. I was last seen going down on the slanting decks of the U.S.S. Navigation.
As a result, I went today before the Academic Director, along with about ten other members of my class. I was granted one week of extra instruction, at the end of which I shall take another test and, if I pass it, be placed in the ranks of Class 34. Extra instruction means, in this case, eight hours a day of navigation for five days, to be given in the Black Hole of Pensacola—a windowless, airless room in Building 633 for village idiots like myself.
I really don’t mind going back except for the fact that I’ll feel bad about leaving good old 33 Dog. That and the week farther away my wings will be placed. I won’t be moving from Batt II until late next week, at any rate.
I’m quite proud of myself as far as P.T. goes, though. This morning I swam one mile, which is no mean accomplishment, I can assure you.
Tomorrow I have a 24 hour pass, which will be spent in Pensacola. If I can afford it, I’ll get a room in town tomorrow night and sleep all day Sunday. Also tomorrow I’ve got to check on my plane reservation and see about that other picture.
Speaking of pictures—I’m glad you liked the one I already sent. You said last night that you thought I’d changed—I have.
Actually, my life—the old one—ended abruptly the morning I stood on the porch and said goodbye. I don’t even surprise myself anymore—I have, for instance, grown accustomed to picking wee beasties out of my food and continue eating—with much less gusto, I’ll admit, but the mere fact that I do it would have revolted the old me no end. However, when I come home, don’t attempt to flavor my food with such delicacies. I rather miss the old me—the new one is too blasé (spelling?)—I’m no longer quite the wide-eyed little boy I used to be; it has its advantages and disadvantages, I suppose, just as everything else.
I have come to the conclusion that whatever life is—it’s real; and this is quite disillusioning to an old romanticist like myself. When you learn that your fairy castles are made of cold stone and that the roof leaks and the fairy princess has a lousy temper and the prince charming is allergic to horses, things just lose some of their sparkle.
The reason for this lengthy and perhaps confusing dissertation can be traced to a trait of mine (and I consider it a good one) to be able to be put into a mood by music—I used to do it at school all the time—if I wanted a studying mood, I’d play one kind of music; if I wanted to be silly or happy, I’d play another. Well, the guy across the hall has a phonograph and has been playing Ravel’s “Bolero” (another record I want) and other, more reflective music.
Besides, I like to ramble on every now and then, just for kicks. Trouble is, the only one who understands me is me. Oh, well…. Got back another (the other) roll of film—it turned out even better than I’d expected. There are only three or four spots ruined by the sun, and the others are excellent, if I must say so myself. You should see me when I take pictures—I’ll wander around something for five minutes sometimes before I take a picture of it, looking for what I think is the best angle. Still think I should have been a photographer. The shot of the sign “vehicles prohibited…” was a little off. That sign is right in back of where I live, and it shows the “grinder.” It was taken Saturday afternoon, and you can see the poor souls who got demerits marching them off. The building at the very far end of the grinder is Indoctrination. Unfortunately, the camera acts as a sort of telescope-in-reverse, and things I take fairly close up look far away. The shot of the waterfront and the “Fish at your own risk” sign is supposed to show a passing schooner, but it looks small on the film. Sure, I have no doubts that they would send the film home if I asked them, but I want to see it, too, and I don’t want to wait till Xmas.
Well, I’d better sign off now. By the way I didn’t get a letter today!
Till next time, I am
As Always
Roge
Monday, November 1, 1954
Dear Folks
This isn’t going to be a pleasant letter—at least not the first part of it—mainly because it deals with a very unpleasant subject.
In class 25, which graduated about four weeks ago, I got to know several guys; one of them our platoon leader—a quiet guy from California named Franson. He was Norwegian and reminded me vaguely of Zane.
Today, at Corey Field, he and his instructor were taking off—Franson was at the controls. Something happened and he got “shook” as we say; he pulled the nose up sharply—it began to stall—he got more nervous and pulled back on the stick as hard as he could….
The instructor is still alive--Franson resembled a department store dummy that had been hit by a truck.
Death comes in many forms, and is unpleasant in any of them—it can be remote, where someone dies in some futile little war in a nameless country; or it can be personal—like Uncle Buck. Franson was a third type—a vague mixture of the two others. He was no great friend, and yet again, he wasn’t a statistic in the newspapers.
Everyone, I am told, has an intense desire to live—that is one habit or trait I have acquired, and is very deep-rooted. Truthfully, I don’t see how the world could get along without me.
The guy across the hall is playing bop, and I loathe bop! To me, music is something you can hum or whistle; bop is like a surrealistic painting done by a lunatic.
Sorry if I sound morbid—I didn’t mean to, but I get “shook” when it comes to things like that. Death, like life, is also very real, and I suppose I must learn to accept that idea. Tomorrow, no doubt, on the commanding officer’s desk at Corey will be five or six letters requesting permission to D.O.R. (Drop On Request). It always happens when a serious accident occurs.
The command is always very unhappy when someone is inconsiderate enough to go and kill themselves; especially around the holidays;
for then guys get to thinking about their families and girls and things, and decide that two years of rough Navy life is better than five months of glory that will end in flames at the end of a runway. Don’t worry, dad; I’m not considering DORing—but should I ever, it won’t be because I disliked the idea of dying—rather that I loved life more (a paraphrase from “Julius Caesar”—Act II, Scene V; I think). Anyhow, which would you rather have—a dead hero or a live nobody?
Well, now if I’ve made everyone perfectly miserable, I feel a bit better. And I’m not discouraged—just a wee bit suspicious of the workings of this old world. Cheer up—I have.
Love
Roge
P.S. Remember how I used to be when I was smaller; get all broke up any time I’d see a dead cat or dog? Well, I’ve put on the hardened shell of growing up; but I think I leak a little here and there….
Hope to mail the picture tomorrow. I’ll write more when I can;, and in a much less serious mood, I hope.
Till then
Bye
P.P.S. Plane lands Chicago Midway airport 6:35 a.m. Dec. 18, 1954; I’ll have to leave Jan. 1.
Wednesday, November 3, 1954
Dear Folks
Just read your letter and thought I’d better take some time off to answer it right away. First of all, poppa, don’t get shook. I’d like to play a little game with you called “Simple Mathematics for Fathers of Struggling Navcads.” Now—we get $50 every 16 days—that figures out to be about $2.85 a day (and believe me, we earn every penny of it). Laundry averages about $1.25 per day (you’ve got to get everything washed after its first wearing—a clean outfit every day). That neatly cuts my daily wages down to $1.60 per day. Figure in other little items (.50 a day for personal stuff—shoe laces, food, etc.). Now we’re left with $1.19 per day clear (AAAAAALMOST!) Then we throw out $10 for one picture, $7 for another, $4 for a band party, etc. See what I mean? Also, Christmas is coming up. Sure, I could have paid my own way home--and gotten you both a penny stick of bubble gum hand-wrapped in some old newspaper.