by Dorien Grey
My “trip” to Pensacola (distance five miles) was fabulous, and I spent gobs of money on two shows and a room at the YMCA so that I could sleep Sunday morning (a shocking extravagance, I will admit).
And if you are under the fond illusion that I am going to spend the four day Thanksgiving holiday cooped up in this scenic spot, you can think again. It’s like you going down to work on a Sunday, just to sit by your machine and twiddle your thumbs.
In conclusion, I shall sum up my case thusly—I’m not saving money hand over fist because I haven’t got it to save; secondly, I feel that on those very rare moments when they let me out of the grist mill, I like to stretch my legs (just for a moment, though).
Now, about my “extra administrative time” fiasco—don’t worry, it happens to the best of NavCads. Most of my instructors have spent several of their happiest Pre-Flight days in extra-time classes. First, you go to the Academic director, who automatically gives you a week or two. Then, if you flunk again, you go before the Speedy Board, which can give you two weeks more; finally, you go before the Admiral who, if he wants, can keep you here till 1997, or till you pass. Clear? Good.
The suitcase arrived—at least it’s in Pensacola. They can’t deliver it to the base (afraid of smuggled A-bombs and Russian spies, evidently). So I have to go down and pick it up. However, we’ll be working for the next three Saturdays to make up for Thanksgiving.
Sorry, mom, if I sounded “quite cynical”—but that’s just the way I am. By the way, be sure you keep track of all my letters—not just the sweetness-and-light parts.
Well, I think I’d better get over to supper and then to some more “extra instruction” (eight hours a day and two hours a night—fun?!?!?!).
Enough now—I’ll write more later. Also sorry if I sounded gruesome last time, but I still have a nasty habit of feeling things.
Bye now
Love
Roge
Friday, November 6, 1954
Dear Folks
And so another Friday sinks slowly behind the horizon, leaving your humble son two weeks behind, but not much the wiser. Took my Nav. Test again today—missed passing by one point. So I went before the Academic Director again (he’s getting to be a familiar face in my routine); was given the chance for an immediate re-exam, which I took. The final returns aren’t all in yet, but it looks like I’ll be spending another week in Navigation. And next time, I’m afraid I’ve “had the course” as we say. It seems that the Powers-That-Be are being urged by the Powers-Above-Them to put the screws on anyone with a low average. It is one of those perennial crusades wherein many heads will roll to appease the angry gods. They dislike losing as many planes as they have been lately, they claim, to low academic averages in Pre-Flight. Pilots they don’t mind losing, but planes are expensive.
(The above paragraph is what might be called the softening up process before the final blow falls. If you see me coming home in a blue bell-bottomed sailor suit and a white hat, you won’t be too surprised.)
Called tonite to make reservations for Rockford. God, I could practically walk home in the time it’s going to take me to fly—a four hour layover in Atlanta and two hours in Chicago. I’ll get into Rockford about 8:20 Saturday morning, Dec. 18. You will meet me at the airport, won’t you; or should I take a cab home?
Happy news hour—a guy in our class (Charlie company) got his neck broken today in wrestling! The cold wind of misfortune seems to be blowing strongly around here, getting uncomfortably close to yours truly. As you may have guessed in the twenty-odd years of our acquaintance, I am one of those unfortunate people who is classified as “accident prone” (scientifically proven that some individuals are actually more likely to have accidents than others). Also unfortunately, many of the accidents are of a “permanent” nature. You’ve heard of the old trick question of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? I’ll be something of a living example of this should something happen—what happens when something that wants to kill someone meets someone who refuses to die? Sorry—I seem to be ranging on the rim of morbidity lately. Well, it isn’t morbidity—it’s realism.
Enclosed is a cut-out of the base paper showing some of our beloved sergeants. I have had every one of them except the one in picture 5. These photographs are really quite remarkable—I’ve always been under the impression that ghouls, werewolves, vampires, and sergeants do not photograph. Picture 1 shows my two buddies, sergeants Calahan and Jones enjoying their favorite pastime—chewing some poor devil to shreds. Picture 2 was taken in the Batt Watch Office where I wrote that letter at 3 a.m. or so. The sergeant at the left is the one I dumped a water fire-extinguisher on. Well, I’d better close now—tomorrow is a full working day, and I’ve got to get to work, and bed.
I’ll write more later.
Till Then, I am
Always
Roge
P.S. I don’t have access to a projector to view my films. I use the old “unravel and squint” technique.
November 14–25 1954
Dear Folks
Though I really can’t afford the time, I can’t let such an “important occasion” as my twenty-first birthday go by without any comment.
I don’t know what I expected—what sort of metamorphosis or symbiosis would take place—perhaps I didn’t at all. The day passed, as do most days around here, frantically and without distinction--I took in a movie (White Christmas—Bing Crosby, Rosemary Cloony, etc.) which was very good and proceeded to make me briefly very homesick. Homesickness is something that does me no good, so I never let it bother me (with exceptions such as the above).
Your caterpillar son is still a caterpillar—but I’m still hoping.
Tomorrow the First Lord of the British Admiralty is arriving—perhaps with the Queen Mother, which is just scuttlebutt so far, but it is possible.
Enough for now—I’ll write more when I get the chance—I just had to say something on my 21st birthday—Goodnight, sweet Prince—may flights of angles guide thee to thy rest….
This letter was begun, obviously, on November 14. It is now November 24—Thanksgiving. I’ve never eaten Thanksgiving dinner off a metal tray before, and I can’t say as I would care to make it a regular holiday habit. I’ve got the menu, which I’ll bring home with me—we had shrimp cocktail, ham, turkey, potatoes, fruit cake, mince meat pie, etc. It was quite good, considering.
Well, as of today, my military career has lasted exactly three months, one week, and four days.
By changing civilians into soldiers, sailors, and NavCads, they have been very effective and methodical to try and root out any traces of individuality one may have, the end result being a well-oiled machine that has all the freedom of a Mark VIII computer, if not the intelligence.
Ann Zubas said to me before I left “Don’t let them change you” and I assured her no-one could. However, they’re trying their best. I must say I don’t care for it—at all. I may not have been perfect, but darn it, I liked me that way. Now I don’t know what I am. I only hope you can recognize me.
Well, it won’t be long now—only three weeks or so. And I don’t mind saying I’ll be mighty glad to get home. Only two more finals to take—I’m right on the borderline in one of them (Principles of Flight); I hope I pass it. Florida weather isn’t bad, but I have nothing to compare it with, so I can’t tell if it’s warm or not. Usually in the morning it is cool enough for a jacket, but it warms up in the afternoon so that you can run around in shirt sleeves (though it isn’t hot by a long shot).
Did I ever tell you our daily routine? Probably, but I’ll tell you again. Reveille is at 0530; everyone hops out of bed the minute it sounds. Because you can never tell when the RDO (Regimental Duty Officer—a Captain (marine) or Lieutenant (Navy usually) may come around, and if he catches anyone in bed, they go on report; which means twenty demerits and four hours on the grinder. Up, wash, and get dressed in P.T. outfits (khaki shorts, blue and gold reversible shirt; sweat gear is of thick gre
y cotton material (I think it’s cotton)—this is worn over the shorts and shirt, naturally). Beds have to be made by 0600—as I seldom sleep under my sheets anyway this doesn’t take me too long. The room has to be cleaned every day before morning formation (0630); swept, dusted, brass polished, sink and mirrors cleaned, waste basket emptied, etc. You can see why I haven’t eaten breakfast since I moved into the Fourth Battalion. At 0625 the five minute warning for formation goes down, and we all muster on the grinder. Two days a week they hold inspections, where you must stand like automatons while class and regimental student officers go up and down each rank, straightening hats (the caps must not have “dips” in them, but must be highly starched so that they don’t sag) and putting various people on report for not having brass polished, shoe laces dirty, shoes not shined, collar anchors on upside down (the loops on the anchors must be pointed up), etc.
After formation we “run the gauntlet” as I call it. Only the Fourth Battalion does it, and it is really pointless. Each section marches between two rows of the class officers, while said officers yell at everyone (“Straighten up there;” “Leshock, get in step;” “Crummy looking section;” “Third man second rank wipe that grin off your face.”). Since 34 is now the senior class, we stop after running the gauntlet and help jeer at the other sections. Then the class officers come and join the ranks and we march to P.T., which is about four blocks away. Sometimes we walk along the edge of the bay, in back of the hangers. After P.T., at about 0840, we go to the Regimental Armory and draw swords, to practice for our graduation. When we get our swords, we march all the way back to the Batt, and after practice we march back to the Armory (which is in Batt I), put away our swords, and march back to the Batt. By now it’s 0940. We go in, take off our clothes (in the hall so that we don’t get lint all over our floor), take a shower, get into the ‘uniform of the day’ (“Clean starched Khakis, low cut brown shoes, field scarves (ties)…”) and are allowed to study until 1030, when we march to chow. This is when we get our mail; by the way, I’m now 34H’s mailman.
At 1120, we muster outside Batt I, across the street from the mess hall, and march to classes, which start at 1130. Whenever an instructor enters the room, everyone must snap to attention and remain there until told to be seated by the instructor.
Classes are over at 1600 (4:00—just subtract 12 from any hour over 12 and you’ve got the right time). Then, at 1615 we have band practice. This lasts until 1800; we eat supper, back to the Batt or to band study hall and study till 2115. Taps at 2200.
Well, enough for now—I’ll write tomorrow or so (can’t remember what I haven’t told dad—next time).
By now
Roge
Monday, November 29, 1954
Dear Folks
I have time (where it comes from or how I don’t know) to dash off a short note, partially to make up for my long silence. Saturday (no, Friday) I went down and helped Eastern Air Lines buy a new DC-6. And it only cost me $112.90—I had to pawn some old family heirlooms to be able to get my ticket. I cashed my last government check ($50.00) and when I came home I had a little over twenty left! $17 for the plane, plus $5 for a new head for my razor.
Saturday night the band played for a football game—did fairly well, even though we had to compete with the drill team and the Pensacola High School Band, which was really terrific. After returning to the base, I was in one of my “moods,” if it could be called that, and felt like taking a walk. It was raining like mad, but I like to walk in the rain. By this time it was 11:40; a bus came by heading for town, so I took it. Oh, well—it’s fun to be different every now and then.
Just think—only about ten or twelve more days in this place—and only seventeen days more till I come home—I’ve been away so long the very thought of home doesn’t even sink in. I’ll have to believe it when I see it.
I’m sorry if every time I write I seem to be in a bad mood, but at the moment, I could cheerfully DOR and be done with this …*@…program. It has been proven that certain people are “accident prone”—well, I am “frustrating situation prone.” Nobody, and I mean NOBODY can get into the trouble I do in as short a time and with as little effort. At the moment I am not sure if I will ever get through this program (and I don’t care—“at the moment”). I am, as usual, on “academic probation” (—not being set back a week). Every night I go to band study hall. Also every night the battalion has its own study hall, for men who are on academic probation. Band study hall is supposed to excuse you from the battalion “stupid study,” as it’s called. The only drawback to this is that no-one bothered to tell the battalion captains; as stupid study is compulsory, and since I was not there, I was put on report, and chewed out by the captain.
After telling appropriate people, I was assured that the captains would be told and demerits canceled, which they were. So tonight, I went to band study hall, to return to the battalion and face another report chit; tomorrow I must see the same captain who chewed me out before and who evidently still hasn’t been told that I’m excused. And Battalion 4 is noted for its sweet and gentle captains.
Well, here I am again, a day later and no wiser. Went to speak to the Captain, forgot to sound off properly, and was given another five and one. If my demerits were Confederate money, the South would rise again.
Another day—by now its Wed. I think I’m in a little better spirits, but I really can’t tell. Only two more finals and I’m through! You know, it’s funny how the band can pick up my “lagging spirits.” Last night at band practice we got a whole bunch of new music—Song from Moulin Rouge, Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker Suite” (which is one of my favorites) the Triumphal March from Quo Vadis, which is fabulous, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue, and some others which we didn’t get a chance to play. Since the band is now officially recognized by the Navy, we get free music every month from Washington.
The Admiral received a letter from NBC saying that Arthur Godfrey wasn’t on that week-end, but asked how we would like to play a half hour show of our own. So that’s the latest. Now, if we play, you’ll be sure to see us (you’d better). It’s only ten days or so away, though, so there’s a possibility we won’t be able to be ready. We also don’t know the date or time yet for sure.
Well, as I’ve said before, the days till I graduate are rushing by (though they can’t rush by fast enough to suit me); and this being one of those days it is also rushing by, I’d better get busy and study if I want to pass those finals. Hope to have more time to write in the future—I know I will once I get out to Corry.
Till then, I remain
Your Prodigal Son
Roge
P.S. Do me a big and important favor, will you? Take my clarinet down to American House of Beauty (or Music, whichever it is) and have it cleaned and checked. Please do this as soon as possible, ‘cause it will no doubt take a few weeks. I’ll be bringing it back with me after Xmas.
December 1, 1954
Dear Folks
Two letters in one day—you are in luck! (HAH). I really don’t have the time, but I guess I have sounded pretty glum in the last few letters.
Well, actually, that’s the only thing I have to write about that’s out of the ordinary. As to poppa’s references to “my troubles”—I haven’t the vaguest idea what he means. I don’t have any “problems” that I know of—just this Navy life in general. And as it’s being “too tough” for me…it is tough—damn tough (pardon my crudeness, but it’s the best explicative I could think of), and I’ll be very proud of myself if I ever get through this program.
See, I have to sit down here in sunny Florida and take all the dirt and mud and garbage the Navy can throw at me. Probably it is harder for me than for most of the other guys down here because I was always so choosy (“But mom, I don’t like carrots.”). And the only way I have of blowing off steam is in my infrequent letters home. Sorry if you have to take the brunt of my woes, but that’s partially what mommas and daddys are for—no? So—just take my idiosyncrasies with a grain
of thought—like a hangover, I always feel better in the morning.
I could take up talking to myself, but I always end up in a violent argument with myself so that I find it futile.
I remember when I was little, I used to talk to Momma (the cat—remember her?), especially when you’d send me to the store at night. Instead of whistling in the dark, I’d call Momma and talk to her. Wonder whatever became of her? Anytime I’d whistle “Shines the Name of Roger Young” (remember that one—an old World War II favorite) and no matter where I was, Momma would come to me—within a radius of a block of 328 Blackhawk Ave., that is. Then one day I whistled for her and she didn’t come—I still miss her after all this time.
My roommate (one of them) is sitting here pouring over his navigation, saying “Why can’t I be brilliant? Why, darn it, why? This is a miserable *@ life.”
So you see, other people have their troubles, too….
I can be an officer, but I don’t particularly care to be. They have about as much “individuality” as an Egyptian water buffalo. And as for “molding character” I think I should have an idea of what kind of a character I want to be molded into. Don’t kid yourself—the Navy is not my calling or my career. One the happiest days of my life will be the day they slap the discharge into my grubby little hand.
By the way, I expect to be picked up at the airport in a shiny new Cadillac—I don’t care too much for the new Olds’—not enough change. I don’t know what I’m going to wear when I get home—the only thing the Navy will authorize you to wear are your Blues and Greens--and I have no jacket for the Greens. It will seem so funny to get into civilian clothes; after four months.
