by Dorien Grey
Well, enough—now to get to work.
Till next time, I am
As Always
Your Loving Boy
Roge
P.S. As Confucius says: “Let’s play NavCad—you lay down and I’ll kick you.”
P.P.S. Only 17 days, 14 ½ hours, and I’ll be home.
December 7, 1954 (Tuesday)
Dear Folks
Well, it’s over! At long last, after fifteen long, grueling, tedious, torturous, horrible weeks. I still can’t believe it—my mind is still muddling through that sea of molasses the Navy has managed to make of an ordinary day.
This morning we had our last two finals—Principles of Flight and Celestial Navigation. I was really worried about P. of F., because if I flunked this test I would flunk the course, and would not be able to go to New York. But I passed it—by a narrow margin I’ll grant, but nevertheless I passed.
Instead of graduating with my class on Friday, we members of the band will be handed our diplomas on Thursday afternoon, and will move to Corry Thursday night. The thought of not going through the pomp and ceremony of graduation doesn’t hurt me in the least. I have always pictured myself marching up the stairs of the reviewing stand, which is always crowded with admirals and captains and things, and just as I’d get to the top step, I’d trip over my sword scabbard and fall flat on my face. It’s probably never been done before, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t do it.
Friday morning at 0800 we take off from Corry Field for New York—God, how wonderful that will be! We’ll land at New York about 1500 (3:00 p.m.). That night we’ve got to play a concert at the band director’s old prep school somewhere outside the city. Friday night, and Saturday, we’ll be staying at the Brooklyn Navy Yards (doesn’t that place sound like it will just reek with charm and hospitality?).
Saturday evening I’m trying to get tickets to “The Pajama Game”—Ensign Barnes’ mother is going to pick them up. If I have any time Saturday Afternoon, I’d like to see another; preferably “The Boy Friend” (a terrific take-off on musicals of the 20s).
No TV show, which didn’t surprise me too much. NBC wouldn’t tell us what kind of show they wanted, and besides we couldn’t have been ready anyhow.
Sunday morning at 1000 we leave for Pensacola, arriving back here around 1500. Then, in five days, two hours and forty-five minutes, I’ll be boarding another plane—for good old Chicago!
Now for news on the home front—good lord, I didn’t expect a new car; I realize we aren’t that rich yet.
Well, parents, I guess that is about all for now. I’ll be seeing you in a while. Till then
I am
As Always
Roge
P.S. I’m not expecting anything for a graduation present, but a new car would be nice, now that I’ll be at an outlying field with no way to get into town, and….
10 December 1954
Dear Folks
Let there be music and singing in the streets—I have just graduated from Pre-Flight. Though I haven’t yet gotten my diploma, eight of us were informally but uniquely graduated. The usual procedure is for the sixty or so members of the graduating class to line up on the parade ground, in front of the assembled battalions, march up onto the reviewing stand, take their diplomas, shake hands with the captain and march off—a mechanical process, turning out Officer Candidates at the rate of ten a minute.
This afternoon we drew flight gear—the apex of a Pre-Flight NavCad’s career: it means the end of groveling beneath sergeants’ heels; it is one rung higher on the ladder of military evolution. With the drawing of flight gear, the realization springs into the NavCad’s mind that, at last, he is actually going to get near a real honest-to-goodness airplane. Oh, he sees airplanes every day—from a respectable distance, and he knows them intimately—he’s played around with carburetors, and feeder springs and magnetos. But they are as unlike a real airplane as the preserved specimens in a biologist’s laboratory.
The magic words “Flight gear” consist of several items, all quite awesome in their own way. First, you are issued gloves. At least that’s what I think they are—perhaps they are just glove lining—they are tight fittings and of a car chamois (spelling?) material. Then come the goggles. Next the “summer suit”—an ingenious piece of clothing that covers the entire body except for the head, hands, and feet, and has more zippered pockets (upper left arm, both legs below the knees, etc.) than you can imagine. Its closest counterpart in civilian life would be the full coveralls mechanics and sometimes factory workers wear.
Next comes a leather jacket with a fur collar—mine looks a bit like a worn rug. And then—the helmet. That large, faded gold helmet that makes the head appear twice as large; and on it the Navy wings. Actually, the helmet is in two parts—the inner lining, which contains the earphones (which are like large flattened donuts—or huge powder puffs with the centers depressed). This inner lining fits and looks a bit like a 1924 bathing cap—looks something like the helmet Amelia Earhart always wore in her photographs. Onto this part fits the connections leading to the radio and transmitter.
The outer shell is of some hard material—I don’t think it’s metal, but it most likely is. It looks like a football player’s helmet, only more so.
And there you have it—what the well-dressed NavCad will wear.
As soon as I finish this letter, which will be almost immediately, I shall run down to the telephone and call you. I’ll probably repeat myself quite often, especially from here on out.
Tomorrow morning, dark (0615) and early, we shall leave scenic Pensacola for glorious New York—where, it is rumored, there is an odd substance called snow (a sort of atmospheric dandruff, I believe). I’m afraid I shall spend far more money than I should, but then I usually do, much to father’s dismay. Oh, well, you know I have a champagne taste on a water income.
Well, enough for now. I’m going down to call and I’ll mail this at the same time. It is 7:30 and poppa should be home by now. If he isn’t it’s his own fault.
Bye Now
Love
Roge
P.S. My new address (which I’ve already told you on the phone—or rather will have told you by the time you get this) is
BTU1-C (Basic Training Unit)
NAAS CORRY FIELD (Naval Auxiliary Air Station)
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Undated (Probably December 12, 1955, returning from a band trip to New York)
Dear Folks:
I am writing this at about three o’clock in the morning while stranded at the Pautuxant River Naval Air Station. The forty or so other band members sharing my involuntary exile are sprawled in various attitudes over the floors, tables and chairs of this, the Administration Building, or terminal.
At approximately 12:50 while flying at an altitude of three to four thousand feet, the plane began to vibrate and the number two (left wing inboard) started coughing blue smoke. It became increasingly obvious that we had three choices open to us; four really—we were closer to New York than to any other landing field, but we did not turn around and go back, mainly because of the Navy tradition of “never turn back.” Therefore, we had three alternate choices—to land at Pauxtant River, Maryland; go on sixty miles farther and land at Washington, DC, or land somewhere between Washington and Pensacola in some choice swamp or on a forest-covered mountain. We could have made it to Washington quite safely without the wing falling off, but the pilot preferred to land at Pauxtant River, uttering the memorable words “service would be too slow in Washington.”: That was at 1:00 (1300)—at 1330 we set down at Pax. River, a service spot, 59.5 miles from anywhere. It is now 0320 and they still don’t know what is wrong. By a process of elimination, testing each little part individually, they should be through with their diagnosis by Friday.
0415 And still nothing. NavCads under, over, and on everything—a few valiant souls still awake, but look like leftovers from a zombie convention.
It snowed earlier tonight—the first real snow I’ve s
een this winter. If this letter seems a bit incoherent at times, you must take the time into consideration.
Would you like to hear of my trip to New York? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. By the way, before I forget, did I tell you I am the official journalist for the band? I keep the log and write up accounts of our trips for the Commanders and Captains and such.
Well, onward—the trip from Pensacola took about five or six hours. We left Florida at eight and were in New York by two (three Pensacola time).
We landed at Floyd Bennett Field, on the outskirts of Brooklyn. From there busses took us to the Brooklyn Navy Yards, where we stayed at the Receiving Station. It took us exactly one half hour to unload the busses, stow our gear, draw linen, make our bunks, wash, and change clothes, and sign out for liberty.
I naturally rushed to Times Square (via a 40 minute subway ride) and headed for the nearest theatre. “The Boy Friend” was sold out, as was “Fanny,” “Victor Borge” (in his second year as a one-man show), and almost everything else. I did get a last minute ticket to “The Solid Gold Cadillac,” which was quite good and very funny.
After the theatre, I roamed down to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas Tree. It was beautiful beyond words—by far the largest tree I’d ever seen (five stories high, four feet around the base) and it was decorated with foot-round lighted ornaments.
LETTER UNFINISHED
5 January 1955
Dear Folks
After our rather hurried farewells, I dashed onto the plane (which, incidentally, was not a super constellation, just an ordinary one), turning twice as I climbed aboard to see you at the window. When I got to my seat, directly behind the wing, I again looked for you but you were gone. I surmised that you had gone to the roof to watch my plane dashing down the runway and winging its way dramatically into the sunset. I hurriedly fastened my seat belt and waited for the coughing roar of the engines. So I waited. And waited. I looked out the window to see if I could see you, but a rival airliner inconsiderately blocked my view. So I waited. And waited. The stewardess came by with magazines. I took one. And waited. The pilot used the intercom to apologize for the delay, visualizing Eastern’s customers rushing to rival air lines next time they went anywhere. It seems that one of the baggage doors in the belly of the plane wasn’t shutting properly—a small light in the cabin that told the crew when the door was safely shut hadn’t gone on. Fifteen minutes later they came to the conclusion that the light (costing approximately 10 cents at any leading dime store) was burned out.
Long before this discovery, the plane that had been blocking my view had taken off and should, about then, have been over Saigon, and I saw your wind-swept little crew atop the building.
So we took off—I waved like mad, but you didn’t see me. When the stewardess announced that we would arrive in Indianapolis in forty minutes I had a peculiar (but familiar) feeling in the pit of my stomach. My knowledge of geography had failed me for a minute and I thought I was on the wrong plane.
Came Indianapolis, and the man beside me, who had been working on a crossword puzzle diligently ever since he got aboard, left, and a woman of about fifty or so got on and sat beside me. She was flying to Miami for the winter and had just closed her apartment—she’d been flying down for the past eight years; before that, she drove, but driving is so tiresome, don’t you think?
At Birmingham, where we arrived an hour and a half late (neatly lousing up everyone’s plane connections), the steward said there was a plane for Pensacola leaving in ten minutes—there was a mad stampede as everyone who had missed their planes tried to get a seat on it. However, we were informed that a heavy layer of fog was flowing in from the Gulf and may close Pensacola and Mobile, forcing the plane down at Montgomery. I thanked Heaven that I’d decided to come back a day early (Many didn’t make it back till Tuesday morning). We who already had reservations decided we’d just as soon be stranded in Montgomery as in Birmingham, so off we went.
The Montgomery airport building evidently was constructed from two old chicken coops—a cheery place, you can imagine. Fortunately, they said the fog had either dissipated or gone back out to sea, and we arrived back at dear old Pensacola at 9:00.
Pensacola without the Navy is a seaport without a sea. Much as they may dislike us, we have a certain charm they can’t resist—money. The west is not the only place with ghost towns.
Our plane unloaded the first NavCads to return to the city—among the first, at least. We wandered down the streets; a few white-capped blue waves running across the bare shore. By the next day, a small stream of blue and white was again flowing through the town; by night it had become again the familiar river, swirling around the street corners, running into the stores, and bringing with them the ever-welcome green. A waitress where I ate supper admitted that it was dead around town, but added that it was also peaceful. Monday night the fog was back, making haloes around the streetlights; it was really pretty—the neon lights looked as though they were painted—they had no sharp outline, but just melted and faded into the grey. I took a cab back to the base.
Today is Wed. and the fog is still with us—it comes at night and stays until around noon. Then the sun comes out and the day is beautiful; no need for a jacket at all. Now that’s the way I like it!
At last we’ve started! I still haven’t been up yet, but I got into one and was showed how to raise and lower the wheels. The instructor sits in the rear seat at all times, and though he can control and fly the plane, he can’t raise or lower the wheels. Even a simple thing like that is complicated. First you press a lever which is on the floor on your left side, about even with your thigh. Then, by your left knee, there is another lever with a head like a gas cap. It slants to the front of the cockpit. You pull forward on the cap and then pull back on the lever. This brings the wheels up. To make sure they’re up, look out the cockpit and on both wings there is a small window—through these you can see a pin (or should see it) which tells you they are locked. To put them down, press the cap-lever forward, look at the two wing-windows, watch two little tabs beside the lever to see if they move back, and listen for the “wheels down” buzzer.
And so it goes. Tomorrow I go to the bail-out trainer. I’ll tell you about it after.
Got to get to bed now.
Till later, I am
Always
Roge
Letter Undated and Unfinished, but probably a misplaced first draft of the letter above.
Dear Folks
Here I am and it’s only Tuesday—however, I’m doing quite well in my promise to write. Unfortunately, I’ve also promised fifteen or twenty others I’d write—I’m devoting all tonite for that purpose, but I probably won’t get half of them written as it is.
The NavCads have re-descended on Pensacola like an inverted explosion, or a plague of locusts. From everywhere—by car, busses, trains, planes, and any other means of transportation they flowed in to the city. Sunday night, when I finally arrived, the city was practically deserted. No blues and whites bobbing around, filling the streets and stores, clustered about on the street corners. Pensacola without the Navy would be like a harp without strings. I was on the crest of the flood, though—by noon on Monday, a small river a blue was flowing into town. The cab drivers welcomed us with open arms—for from the blue came the green which is so sought after by everyone. The clerks in the stores and waitresses in the restaurants admitted it had been slow without us, but added that it had also been quite peaceful.
18 January 1955
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Margason
It has been called to my attention that your young son, Franklyn, has been a very, very naughty boy—he has been away at camp now for three weeks and hasn’t written. I know you must be terribly worried about him, so I have persuaded him to write you a little note. Now, now, Franklyn—don’t be stubborn—here you are, Franklyn—write mommy and daddy a nice letter about how much fun you’re having here at camp. But you really should you know—Very well, Franklyn, I have
no other recourse than to take away your movie privileges for the next three days….
DERE MOM AND DADI AM HAVING A SWELL TIME. I SURE LIKE IT HERE. YESTERDAY I WENT TO THE SHOW. I SURE LIKE IT HERE. TONITE I’M GOING TO THE SHOW. I HAVE BEEN A GOOD BOY AND HAVE NOT DONE NOTHIN MUCH BAD. TOMORROW I’M GOING TO THE SHOW.
LOVE
YOUR SON (ROGER MARGASON)
Well, enough drivel—let’s get down to the real gore. Yesterday we had our first test in Navigation. I went down valiantly with all hands. Today we had our first Engines test. I passed it, but just barely.
It is raining. It has been raining for two and one half days. I have lost my OD jacket. No one else minds the rain, because they have nice OD jackets to keep them dry and warm. But I don’t have one. I can feel all the little germs and microbes deep down inside holding a secret convention. I think they’re working on something that will make triple pneumonia look like a case of the sniffles in comparison.
I am feeling very sorry for myself. I have been in sheer misery ever since I went to Miami. Oh, not physical misery—mental! It reminds me of the recording of the flaming crash of the Hindenburg, at a complete loss for a description of the magnitude of the disaster cried “Oh, the humanity!” My loss of words is not from quite so gigantic or disastrous an incidence, but rather from for the frustration within me. You are aware, I believe, of my attitude not toward money, necessarily, but toward what it can buy. And what I saw in Miami, which has more billionaires per square inch than any other place in the world, really sank in. The homes and hotels are almost unbelievable; the money behind them and how the money came in is just as strange.
Take, for example, the gigantic mansion of Abner (?) Green—so huge that, after his death is was divided into three separate twenty-room houses! He was the son of Hanna Green, the most miserly character in Wall Street history. She would pick up papers on the subway, copy the stock market quotations, and give the papers to her son, making him go out and resell them to get the 2 cents back. Then, one day, he was run over by a truck. When carried to his mother in their dingy tenement, she refused to send for a doctor, though she had $30,000,000 in the bank! As a result, gangrene set in and his leg had to be amputated. He vowed that after she died, he would spend every penny his mother had ever earned. He had eight homes, of which the one I saw was the smallest. He bought 40 cars a year—five for each home. And when he died, he was almost penniless—leaving only $38,000,000.
