A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  The mob scenes from “The Last Days of Pompeii” have nothing over what happened then—everyone who hadn’t been thrown in broke ranks and began running off in all directions, quickly pursued by those who had already received the water treatment and those who hadn’t soloed yet.

  Though I was in one of the outer platoons, I didn’t start running soon or fast enough. All-too-eager hands snatched me up and carried me, like Ophelia’s corpse, to the edge of the pool. They removed my shoes, watch, and wallet.

  And then, very unceremoniously, I was flailing my arms and watching the pool come up to meet me. By the time I came to the surface, the water and air all around me were filled with NavCads in various stages of entering the water. Oh, yes—they wait till you’re almost out, and then throw your hat in, as far as they can throw it—you have to swim out and get it, and with full clothes on, this isn’t too easy. Oh, well, it was fun.

  Well, more Adventures of Roger in Blunderland later.

  Till then, I send

  Love

  Roge

  25 April 1955

  Dear Folks

  Well, here I stand, neither with my heart in my mouth nor my hat in my hand. I still don’t know what is to become of your loving son—I am not yet anywhere near getting kicked out of the program, but there is always the possibility, in my case heightened by four “downs.” To be perfectly truthful, I don’t care, really.

  Oh, I will care—it would be hard to go white-hat after being a NavCad, but the mere fact that I’d only have two years to serve would act as a soothing medicine to any wounds I might have. Were I planning to make the Navy a career, or if I were really “gung-ho” over flying, it would be different.

  As I’ve said, my problem is quite simple—they want precision and I am not precise. I can fly the airplane with no difficulty, but I can’t fly it to suit them. Father’s attitude of “other guys made it; why can’t you?” doesn’t help matters. Of course other guys make it—other guys also make atomic physicists and trench diggers—that doesn’t mean that I can make an atom bomb or dig a Panama canal. I’m satisfied that I’ve done my best—that’s all I can do.

  However, and be that as it may, I’m not out yet—but if I do get the boot, you can be prepared for it. Also, a letter from me saying I’m going white-hat is considerably better than a letter from the government (“regretting to inform you….”); at least I think so!

  The guy next door was on his last check ride here at Corry, before moving out to Saufley; he got a down on it, and DOR’ed today. That I’ll never do—they can kick me out if they want to, but I’m not going to leave voluntarily.

  My, this all sounds depressing, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t supposed to be. I’m not in the least depressed; just sensible.

  I’ve already had the grease and oil changed ($4.70)—went to see about getting the upholstery sewn up. Don’t have any idea how much that will run. I’ll also stop in and see about the rear end—it sounds like a charging rhinoceros. There is a hole in the roof—very small one, though; it hasn’t rained lately so I can’t tell if it will matter or not.

  It drank $4.00 of gasoline Sunday. I don’t know how many miles per that is, but it sounds pretty expensive—it will have to spend most of its time here at Corry.

  Nothing much else new—never is, it seems. I go swimming just about every day—just got back from the pool, in fact—I don’t like swimming at night—you can’t see under water. I still can’t hold my breath under water for more than ten seconds. It must be psychological, ‘cause I can hold it for over a minute above. Oh, well, such is life.

  Well, I’d best close now. Just wanted to let you know the score in the ninth inning. Don’t be too shocked, Poppa, if things don’t turn out—wouldn’t you rather start supporting me again in two years than in four? I’m still planning on being on being a professional civilian.

  Till later then, I am

  As Usual

  Roge

  26 April 1955

  Dear Folks

  Two letters in two days! Will wonders never cease? Just got back from a short bout with the swimming pool and thought I’d drop a line. It will, of necessity, be short, as I told you yesterday, nothing much is new.

  I don’t know what it is—must be spring in the air; but guys are dropping out like flies—three more DOR’ed this morning. Tomorrow or Thursday will tell the story for me—I didn’t have to go before a Speedy board; I was given two more extra times and another recheck. Also, they changed instructors on me—gave me one of the instructors who gave me a down. They aren’t supposed to do that, but I’d just as soon have him as anyone.

  This morning after our hop he said “I want to have a serious talk up with you.” He then said everything but “bon voyage”—all of it very true, and none of it that I hadn’t already discovered or realized myself.

  As I said yesterday, I’ve given up worrying about it. If I do drop out, it will be because they wanted me out, not that I couldn’t take it.

  Just realized also that if I do get dropped, I’ll only have 18 months to serve!! The way it is I have 40! Now, if I had, as I said, planned on making the Navy a career, or were really wild about flying, it would be different. From the outside, all appears to be glamour—from the inside it looks different. As the old saying goes, the grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence—until you get there.

  Of course, I will admit I do like the NavCad uniform (it’s a lot sharper than regular navy blue). Oh, well, we shall see what we shall see. I’m not out yet.

  Both the band and the choir are going to Shreveport this weekend. It will take about four planes to get us all down there.

  I’ve been offered a commission as rear admiral in the new Confederate Navy. I’m considering it. One thing you’ve got to admit, these Southerners never give up.

  Till later, then, I am

  Your obedient (bell-bottomed) Son

  Roge

  Monday 2 May 1956

  Dear Folks

  Well, you can stop chewing your nails (if you were)—I’ve been granted a temporary reprieve—at least until the next check hop. However, I’m never going to worry about any other hop as long as I last in the program. Now that you’ve been alerted to the fact that there are termites in the structure, don’t be surprised if it collapses one day—in other words, don’t expect all to be rosy now that I’ve got one problem behind me.

  Started acrobatics today—they seem like they might be fun. Tomorrow I have two solos, and will have a chance to practice some loops and rolls. I blacked out on a loop today—first you go straight up and then come straight down. Gravity does some odd things to you—it can make you weigh several times as much as you actually do. When you’re heading straight down and try to pull out of the dive, all the forces of gravity tend to keep pulling you straight down; all the blood is pulled down, too, and leaves your head—and you may black out. If you attempt to pull out of a dive too very fast, the gravity (or “G”‘s as we call them) can tear the wings off the plane.

  Get my card from Shreveport? That town is, I believe I said, as dead as a dormouse. No amusement parks, no good movies, no nothin’. Oh, well. We marched in two parades and played in one concert. Did learn something of interest, though. The people of Shreveport are Acadians—remember “Evangeline” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow? The Acadians were a group of settlers in Nova Scotia; they were driven out and their settlements burned by the British in 1755. I’d never given much thought as to where they’d gone, but it was nice to find out, anyway.

  Louisiana is the only state in the Union that does not have “counties”—they call them “parishes.”

  We stopped at Barksdale Air Force Base while we were in Shreveport—in fact, that’s where we stayed. It is a huge base, lined with practically miles of B47s (jet bombers) and air tankers to refuel the 47s in midair. Talk about security! They wouldn’t even let us go to our planes to return to Pensacola without calling somebody on the phone to get clearance. While one sentry wa
s doing this, the other walked around our bus, looking under the body and behind the wheels—I haven’t the vaguest idea what they thought we might be trying to smuggle in or out, but they were taking no chances. Those air corps men almost broke their arms off saluting us until they finally caught on that we were not admirals. Someone mistook me for one of the Blue Angels, the Navy’s crack jet acrobats who were to appear there Sunday.

  Well, I have six other letters to write tonite, so I’ll close now. Till then, regards to everyone.

  See you soon, I hope

  Roge

  8 May, 1955

  Dear Folks

  Excuse the wine-colored ink, but I just bought a new pen (the old one was left on the plane I took back from Shreveport), and filled it with ink at the drugstore.

  I bought a new record today—one I’ve wanted for a long time; the music from The Robe. I got it for only $3.75 (the usual price is $6.00). My roommate Lee bought an album I’d like to get. It’s called “The Confederacy” and has many of the South’s marches and popular songs of the Civil War.

  The poor South—how hard and bitterly they fought a war that was lost before it began. I’ve always admired their courage and deplored the North’s ruthlessness in destroying their finest cities and plantations. A simile could be dawn between the South and the early Christian martyrs—they were both doomed, yet met their respective deaths bravely, not afraid to die for a cause they considered right.

  I’m afraid I admire people too much, and expect too much from them as a whole. That is why I still boil every time I hear an asinine commercial or song. Why we insist upon degrading ourselves by talking down to ourselves. We have capabilities far greater than we imagine.

  I’ve finally decided on my “calling” in life—for some reason it is human nature to resist change. Yet, if there had been no change, we would still be living in trees and caves, and eating our meat raw. Ever hear of an ameba (aomeba, aemeba…?…one celled animal, anyhow)? It moves along by first projecting a little of itself out beyond the mass, and then flowing the rest of the body into it. Well, to me, that is how Man moves—a little segment moves out from the whole—this is change—any new idea or invention. At first, everyone is against it (“Hmph! I wouldn’t have a TV set if you paid me!”— “I tell you, the automobile will never replace the horse,” etc.); but very slowly it becomes more and more common, until its absence is more conspicuous than its presence. That is the way Man has always been, and no doubt the way he will always be. He must be prodded—he cannot be pushed. So that’s what I’m going to try to do—prod people here and there. It is a very unpopular thing to do, and at times quite dangerous, as in great religious reforms. But someone has to start people thinking, even at the risks that may be involved. Like Johnny Appleseed, I’ll go around sowing ideas that will become facts in the future.

  As I’ve mentioned, perhaps the greatest and most dangerous field of change is in Religion. You have noticed, no doubt, my seeming lack of interest in religion. I’ve always had the nasty habit of asking questions where none should be asked—the first sign of Change Advocate. I’ve reached the conclusion that about 2,000years ago, Man got off on the wrong track, and has remained stubbornly on it since that time.

  For an analogy, let’s imagine Thomas Edison and his gift of light to the world. Let’s suppose, instead of applying his principles as we did, that we bowed before an unlit light bulb and worshipped this great man who invented it. Our cities would still be lit by gas light and candles, while great temples were erected to a burned-out light bulb.

  Oh, well, Reverend Margason, the sermon is about over for this evening. Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast and to set me off on rampages.

  However, if I don’t go off on an occasional “rampage,” I have very little to say, as nothing much new happens around here.

  Oh, yes—tonight, after coming home from the beach, I raised the top, locked it, and pressed the button to raise the windows—but they wouldn’t raise. The motors hummed, but nothing happened. Upon getting out of the car to investigate, I saw a stream of dark and sweet-smelling liquid running from the right door onto the ground. Let’s pray it doesn’t rain until I can get it fixed! Well, enough for now. I’ll try and write more often and let you know how things are going. I wish you’d hurry on down here—it has already been five months since I’ve seen you; longer than before.

  At this point, I leaned forward slightly on the edge of my bunk (where I’m using the stationary box as a desk); the wind blew the window shade, and the wooden bottom hit me in the forehead. I yanked the shade in anger and the whole thing came down and tore off the roller. I spent the following five minutes with a roll of scotch tape, up to my knees in green window shade, trying to tape it back together. I finally got it and put it back up. It’s sitting there now, billowing slightly, and just waiting for me to lean forward again.

  And such is the life I lead.

  Your Devoted Offspring

  Roge

  P.S. Telephone strikers have just dynamited the telephone relay station so that no calls can come in to or out of Pensacola. Bless them.

  15 May 1955

  Dear Folks

  Sorry again for my usual delay, but I just don’t seem to have the ambition to do anything.

  Last night I went to see an ice review called “Ice Vogues of 1955.” It was pretty good, and I recognized several of the people in it—Chet Nelson is back after three years. They had one act that was done on a trampoline and had absolutely nothing to do with skating—I wonder why they did that? Also, one of the acts they billed as being “for the first time in America” featured a guy named Ron Priestly, who had been wandering around before the show selling programs. Even then I was certain I’d seen him before. Does he sound familiar to you, dad?

  The show was held in the new Million-dollar Municipal Auditorium, and whoever set up the seating arrangements really goofed. The front of the ice rink, instead of facing the majority of the people, was put toward a side wall, where there were no more than two hundred people, if that. A poor arrangement, you must admit. Pensacola is almost as bad as Rockford as far as applause goes. They had the usual production numbers, but no top act, like the guy on stilts they used to have.

  Now for a little bad news—I took the car down yesterday morning to have it looked at; I went to a small but reasonable garage, as you suggested. They took the rear end apart to look at it, and told me that the fluid from the hydromatic leaks down from the front and into the rear end. The fluid, when mixed with the grease in the rear end, forms a sort of acid that eats the gears. There was a good half-inch wobble between the two main gears, which should be perfectly meshed. So, to make a long story short, they said it would cost around $135.00 to have it fixed. After I picked myself up off the floor, I asked if they could just adjust the gears to mesh better. They said yes, and it might stop some of the noise—but then again, it might not; at least the gears wouldn’t tear themselves apart. So they adjusted them, and we took it out on a road test, to see if it had helped the noise. When we stepped on the gas, cars started pulling over to the side of the road—it sounds like an air raid siren! Any suggestions, poppa?

  I am nearly broke. Yesterday I also paid out $16.95 for a new pair of trop pants. It was worth it, to keep my set of trops from wearing out. In the summer, we don’t have to wear blouses, and to just wear the pants time after time, and having them cleaned without cleaning the blouse would wear them out in no time, or at least change the color. Oh, yes—I forgot to mention about the car—I told you that a hydraulic line broke so that I couldn’t close the windows—well, I had it fixed—for $12.67.

  And that’s the way my money goes….

  Just think—this Thursday I’ll be leaving for California! I’m kind of anxious about it. As I’ve said, I’ll never begrudge being in the Navy as far as traveling goes. I hope I get to see Lief—but if he’s out on a cruise or something…. I sent him a special delivery letter telling him we are leaving Thursday and landing
at Los Alamitos, which is just outside Long Beach, Calif. That is all I know—I don’t know what time we’re leaving, what time we’ll get there, or what we’ll do when we get there. I told him I’d send a telegram as soon as I found out for sure—and that if I missed him somehow, I’ll try and stay at the Long Beach YMCA (since I don’t know any hotels there, and everyone can find the Y.).

  I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to call home—I’d like to call from California, just for kicks, but it would be rather expensive, I imagine.

  Thursday afternoon I spent fifteen minutes on my back under a 1950 two-tone green Chevrolet, talking to a kitten who had climbed up into the undercarriage. It had wandered from somewhere into one of the hangers—a sailor caught it climbing a flight of stairs, and carried it outside. He took it across the wide cement mats that separate the hanger from the Administration building and set it carefully down on the Ad building’s lawn. The poor little guy was scared stiff and obviously lost—it took a few steps in one direction and then a few in another. Then it bolted back across the mat and hid under a parked car. I had been on my way to see if I could get a ride home this weekend (I couldn’t). With cars coming and going all the time, the kitten wouldn’t last long, so down I went and tried to coax it out. It was evidently wild, and not used to seeing people, so it crawled as far away as it could get, up behind the wheels, in among a bunch of greasy crossbars and springs. The poor thing was shaking as if it would fall apart. At long last, after talking and petting failed, I got a hold on it and pried it loose (getting myself covered with axle grease and dirt). A chief petty officer came over and said he’d seen its mother by the Ad building behind some bushes. I carried the kitten over, across the Navy’s well-kept lawn, and saw its mother, watching us through a low bush. When I approached, she scurried away, and evidently dived through a window under the building (none of the buildings here have basements—they’re just set up off the ground like the cottage, with a space underneath). I put the kitten on the window sill and stepped back. It hesitated a minute, looking around, and then jumped in and disappeared in the darkness.