by Dorien Grey
I’m going out this afternoon to see about renting a cottage on Pensacola Beach for you—if it’s too high, of course, I’ll look elsewhere. But there’s no harm in looking. Hurry up and take your vacation—it’s been six months, almost!
Love
Roge
A Naval Aviation SNJ flight trainer comes in for a landing at Corry Field, one of several training bases surrounding the main Pensacola naval base.
16 May 1955
Dear Folks
I awoke this morning at about five o’clock and, though it was really too dark outside to tell, decided that we weren’t going to fly today. It seemed as though I had been sleeping for several years, and had full intentions of sleeping several more. At five forty-five, though, I forced myself out of bed, got dressed, folded my bedding (I haven’t made my bed since pre-flight), washed, and straightened up my room, which always seems to be in a state of high disorder. By morning formation, at six thirty, the clouds covered about nine-tenths of the sky, but there were still some hopeful-looking holes. Dual hops were sent out on schedule at seven-thirty, although they held solos on the ground. By eight, the western sky (where we do most of our flying) was getting ominously dark. Mother Corry began getting anxious, and called her chicks home. I stood outside the hanger and watched the little yellow J’s running home, chased by dull, flat-bottomed clouds. As soon as the planes landed, they were tied securely down, and the wind started blowing. On the horizon I could see the rain, a grey curtain hanging beneath the clouds. Finally the rain came, very undramatically, and it has been drooling monotonously ever since. Everyone is sitting around the hanger waiting for the magic words “Secure from flight operations.”
Friday was what I consider a beautiful day for flying. I went out on a solo first thing in the morning—the sky was full of huge, billowing clouds that reminded me of mountains of whip cream. We aren’t allowed to fly through them, or even get within five hundred feet of them, but it is fun to know that you could, if you wanted to. I like to dive down toward them and then pull out and skim over them. Also it’s fun to go behind the clouds, to see what’s there. Friday I found a clear spot, like a valley in mountains, completely surrounded by huge puffs of clouds. I played around, doing my acrobatics, all by myself and having a wonderful time.
On the radio, which solo students must have turned up all the time, I kept hearing someone calling the tower at Corry: “Corry Tower, this is Charlie Baker 302 (CB are on all our planes): I am on a B2 solo and would like to know if Magnolia Field is open for Corry planes.” Magnolia Field is one of our small outlying surfaced fields, usually used only by Barin Field students, but one of the fields we always use, Summerdale, is being resurfaced, and we’d been allowed to use Magnolia in the afternoon while they worked on Summerdale. B2 students are on their very earliest solos—their second, in fact (A20 is their first—B1 is a dual, and B2 is the second solo). He kept calling and calling the tower, which evidently didn’t hear him, for it never answered. Finally he shut up, and about two minutes later, someone called “Crash! Crash! Crash! Plane down one mile southwest of Magnolia Field.” I thought “Oh, oh….” I was sure it as the poor little guy who couldn’t get the tower.
Although you aren’t supposed to go near the scene of an accident lest you get in the way of rescue operations, I headed toward Magnolia, flying down alleys and corridors between the clouds. On the way, I was kept busy listening to the radio—the crash crew from Magnolia had reached the scene…the plane was completely demolished, in at least twelve pieces…they had not yet removed the pilot…Search and Rescue had launched a helicopter from Corry Field…no word yet on the pilot’s condition….
By this time I was in sight of the field. It is a fairly large field, with four runways, arranged so that, from the air, it looks like an arrow pointing to the south. They were using the Southwest/Northeast runway, taking off toward the Southwest and Mobile Bay.
Very close to the end of the S/w runway are a large grove of trees, and beyond them, plowed fields. I had used that runway the day before, and several times just missed the trees while taking off. This guy had evidently hit the trees and crashed into the plowed field beyond. I got close enough to see the crash truck and several cars around, and the tail section of the plane lying on its side, sticking up into the air. I didn’t want to get too close and have them take my number, so I headed back to Corry in a light rain shower. On the way back I learned that it hadn’t been my radio friend but some O.I. from Barin. He wasn’t killed—just broke his hip, several ribs, an arm or two, and severe lacerations. Incidentally, it was Friday the 13th.
I Am
Always
Roge
23 May, 1955
Dear Folks
Got back to sunny Florida last night about 9:15—eleven hours after taking off from Los Alamitos, Calif. On the way we ran into some beautifully violent storms—the plane bucked and plunged all over the sky; the clouds were so thick that we couldn’t see our own engines. One time, the plane lurched so violently that luggage, instruments, and everything else was thrown out of the overhead storage racks and all over the plane. My clarinet flew half the length of the plane. The guy next to me was a marine hitchhiking a ride across country (his first time in a big plane)—a box lunch flew from somewhere and hit him—a small cup of catsup opened up and spread all over his pants and hand. He looked as if he had been in a particularly horrible accident. After dark they turned all the lights out on board, and it was weird and rather exciting to look out the windows and watch the green wing-tip light winking on and off—whenever we flew through a cloud, the light looked twice as powerful, but no brighter. And lightning seen from inside a cloud doesn’t appear in any streaks—just a general glare of yellow-grey, outlining the wings and engines, with the blur of the propellers eating away at the night.
Going out was rough, but not so abruptly so—instead, it took the form of slow oscillations; up and down, up and down, sideways, up and down, etc. After nine hours of this, you can be sure we had some very green NavCads—pre-flight boys; they were miserable. Even a few hardened “advanced” cadets got sick and cursed themselves for it. I was riding in the very rear of the plane, which is the worst place to be under such conditions, and I’ll admit that after nine hours, I wasn’t feeling my peak, either; but I wasn’t sick—I have a very wonderful ability to talk myself out of being sick when my stomach tells me I should be.
I saw mountains and deserts for the first time—and I was glad I was far up above them rather than on the ground. We flew for at least two hours over land I didn’t think existed outside of science fiction books. Any visitor from space, landing by chance on Texas, Arizona, or New Mexico would swear ours was a dead world and return to where he came from. The very clouds over these deserts are a dull sand-red, either a reflection of the land below or colored by dust particles. How our pioneers ever lived to get across these wastes is a miracle.
What is really amazing is when, after flying over miles and miles of dead earth, to suddenly come upon a city—no warning; no farms or little towns. One moment it is desert, and the next is the city. With no trees or rivers, they look scorched brown under the relentless sun. And, as soon as they’ve come, they’ve gone, and there is only the endless sands.
The desert laps at the mountains like a dead sea. First comes a small ridge of mountains, which acts as a reef in the sea, breaking the desert and turning the sands on the other side from yellow to drab and mottled browns and greys.
Arizona west of Phoenix is a monotonous winter brown. Between the ridges the earth looks like nothing so much as dirty snowdrifts.
Well into Southern California the landscape takes on the appearance of the surface of the moon—huge bumbling mountains surrounding a completely flat yellow plain. Slowly the desert ended—not gradually or gracefully but in well-defined patches and chunks. How man has done this without any visible signs of water is amazing.
Somehow I get the impression that Californians believe that when they d
ie, they go neither to hell nor heaven, but to California. I doubt even Texans are as zealous over their home state as Californians. Personally, they can keep both of them—I’ll take Illinois and the Mid-West.
We landed at NAS Los Alamitos at about five o’clock, their time. Getting out of the plane was like walking into an open refrigerator. Overhead the clouds (I could never tell if they were really clouds or just high smog) scampered by, looking as though they belonged there. Sunny California—HAH!!
No Little Lirf in sight. I figured either he hadn’t gotten my telegram, or else he had gotten it and, being Lief, decided he’d rather go to a movie than come and meet me.
We were given liberty almost immediately, and I hurried into my Blues (which felt very good) and headed for the gate, to go into Long Beach. However, it seems that Los Alamitos is ten miles from Long Beach, and no busses run from there (only an occasional Greyhound). Even worse, it is not even on a main highway. Fortunately, I got a ride into town with a Negro man who works on the base.
I spent most of that evening looking for Lief. Long Beach is where his ship was docked. The town was crawling with sailors, but none of them was Lief. I considered going down to the ship, but decided against it, since it was a long way, and he probably wouldn’t be on board anyway. I ended up going to see Daddy Long Legs. Now comes the problem—how to get back. Not another NavCad was in sight, so at last I got discouraged and took a cab ($6.45).
Next morning we were informed that we were to play for an Armed Forces Day TV program to be held, by a strange coincidence, aboard the U.S.S. Toledo. First, however, came the Armed Forces Day Parade in Long Beach. I kept looking around, hoping to see Lief, but finally gave up. About three-quarters of the way through the parade, I caught a glimpse of someone striding along behind the people watching. I could recognize that walk a mile away. Sure enough, it was Little Lirf—he was about twenty feet ahead of us, and marching straight down the sidewalk, in the same direction as the parade was moving. He didn’t look back once, and kept on walking. He was outdistancing us, and I thought “Oh, great!” He stopped briefly to speak to a policeman, and then on he went. Finally comes the end of the parade, and there is Lief, looking about vacantly. He looked at me about four times before he saw me. I was at attention, supposedly, and couldn’t do much but grin at him. He glared back.
We were dismissed and told to get back on the busses to go back to Los Alamitos for dinner. Got a chance to talk to him for a second, and told him to meet me on the Toledo; also told him to write home.
The U.S.S. Toledo is huge, blue-grey, and very formidable looking. It fairly bristles with guns. Although most of the ship is heavy steel, the main deck is covered with wood, for reasons I’ve known but forgotten.
This was the first time I’d ever been on a big ship, aside from the Monterey, and the second time I’ve had to salute the national ensign (flag)—really military. Of course, today the whole place was swarming with civilians and enemy agents, and all sorts of pennants and flags flew everywhere. I was on board half an hour before Lief strolled up casually. He took me downstairs to show me where he lived—my God; at that proportion of space to men, twenty-three people could live in our front closet! We talked for awhile, back on deck, and then came time for the TV program. We played “Anchors Aweigh” and were told we could quit for an hour while the program went on. Part of it consisted of a demonstration of frogmen, whose job is underwater demolition. Lief and I were rather hoping they’d blow up a giant cargo vessel alongside the Toledo, but were disappointed. After an hour we came back, played the national anthem, and were secured for liberty—we didn’t have to be back till 0700 Monday morning.
Lief and I went to downtown Long Beach, where he changed into civilian clothes. Although it’s against the rules, a lot of guys rent lockers in a private locker store. We then ate supper and hopped a trolley for Los Angeles—an hour’s ride.
After looking around town for a while, we went to see a Japanese movie called “Ugetsu”—Gate of Hell. It had English subtitles and was very good. By the time this got out, it was quite late. I got a room in a hotel and Lief went to someplace like a U.S.O; it was free (and he’s saving money to come home) but I didn’t care to sleep with fifty or so guys—he’s used to it in that hole he lives in.
Sunday morning, bright (HAH!) and early, Lief came over for me and we went trundling off to glorious Hollywood, where I stood on Hollywood and Vine, saw Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and all the footprints of the movie stars, walked by the Pantages Theatre, where the Academy Awards are held, strolled into NBC and CBS to see if we could get tickets to a TV show (we couldn’t—what they had available we didn’t care to see), and meandered about from one place to another. Saw two pictures: “The Little Kidnappers” (English) and “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday” (French).
Later that evening, back in LA, went to Little Tokyo, the Japanese section of town, and to another Japanese movie. It was a double feature—one was a classic, like “Ugetsu,” and the other took place in modern Japan. Though I couldn’t understand a word they said, it was very interesting—especially the modern one. It showed, though it was not its purpose, the contrasts in Japan today—the heroine (it was a romantic comedy) wears the latest New York fashions, but removes her shoes in the house and sits on the matted floor.
The hero wears a kimono or a western suit, whichever he feels like.
Stopped in a little Japanese restaurant and had a glass of Sake—which, as you probably know, is a rice wine served warm. It tastes both bitter and sweet at once, and is all right, though I didn’t care for it particularly.
Back to Long Beach, where I walked Lirf back to his ship—it was pulling out to sea at 0700 the next morning (it was now about 12:30). We shook hands (the first time he’s ever volunteered to do so) and made tentative plans to see one another in another year or so. Then he went up the gangplank, and I walked back into Long Beach. It was too late to try to go to bed, so I went to an all-night movie, went back to Los Alamitos at 0600, and came “home.”
And there you have my adventures in Sunny California.
Don’t forget, mother—as I told you in the card—that print that Lief sent you is a 17th century original Japanese print on rice paper—unfold it carefully and put it under glass.
Well, I have a bad case of writers’ cramp, so I’d best close now. More later.
Love
Roge
31 May–1 June, 1955
Dear Folks
Sorry for the long delay in writing, but I haven’t had much of an opportunity, what with moving and all. I’ll star this letter tonite, May 31, but won’t guarantee having it finished before tomorrow or the next day.
Before I forget—I gave you the wrong address; as a result, I haven’t gotten any mail since I’ve been here. I suppose it will catch up with me eventually, but we’d better get it straightened out. My complete address is—“Me” Bldg. 837, Rm. 117, NAAS Saufley Field, Pensacola, Florida. No BTU-2 at all.
Thank God tomorrow is payday. I honestly haven’t been this broke since college (my first year, at that). I have exactly eight dollars, and those I can’t spend because I’m saving them (they’re crisp new bills I got when I cashed my last few checks). Out of this pay must come $37.60 for car insurance. Also, I can get a used rear end and have it put in for around $80.00 I think. Looks like a lean period coming up. No, poppa, I’m not hinting for a slight advance in my defunct allowance.
In thirteen days I will have been in the Navy ten months. That is a long time, and a longer time will pass before I’m a civilian again.
About five miles north of Saufley is a paper mill which, in the daytime, is used by most flyers as a prominent landmark, which also shows by its billowing smoke which way the wind is blowing. At the moment, it is night, and the smoke is blowing due south, bathing Saufley Field not in haze but a stench not unlike Stormy can produce from an upset stomach.
Told you we were going to Miami last weekend. Well, some of us did, and some of us didn’t. The
plane I was in was forced to turn back because of a bad fuel line in the left engine. After waiting eight hours to have it fixed, we were informed that we weren’t going to bother going, as the parade we were to march in had ended an hour previously. Many of the guys on both planes had their uniforms and baggage on the other plane, and mass confusion reigned, since nobody could go anywhere without their uniforms.
How the United States ever won the Second World War, or any other war, is a miracle, if the Navy’s speed and efficiency is any indication of the nation as a whole. I suppose it’s just as well I didn’t go to Miami—I couldn’t have afforded it anyway.
The headlines in tonite’s paper deal with the Supreme Court’s ruling on segregation in schools. The South greeted the edict of “as soon as possible” with great satisfaction—this means that they can keep it as long as they wish, which can mean forever. Georgia says it “will not be possible in the foreseeable future,” and the other states are putting their Writs of Secession away again for awhile.
