A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  To answer poppa, Saufley is about seven miles from Corry—it is the second step in the training command after pre-flight. Cadets from both Corry and Whiting Fields come here. At the present time, there is a terrific backlog of students building up—as a result, it will be at least three weeks before I can begin flying.

  Here we learn formation flying, which sounds like fun but can also be very “hairy”—you must fly twenty feet from the plane ahead; at times even closer. This is about twice as difficult as it sounds, because you must keep exactly the same speed and altitude as the guy ahead of you (at Corry I considered myself lucky to be within fifty feet of any given altitude, and ten knots of any airspeed).

  Also here we get introduced to night flying, which I look forward to with no great glee.

  Oh, yes—in the next two weeks or so I’ll be getting the Dilbert Dunker, which I’ve told you about before. My camera is broke again, and the company that made it is out of business, so I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Here it is June—WHEN ARE YOU COMING DOWN?? Make up your mind now and let me know!

  Enough for now—I’d best study a little Aerology.

  Always

  Roge

  8 June–12 June, 1955

  Dear Folks

  I am in no mood, either physically or mentally, to be writing letters, so this will no doubt be very short. However, as has become my custom, I figured I had best write on the passing of another small milestone (or should I say millstone) in my life—the Navy chapter, at any rate.

  This morning I took a short but interesting journey in the cockpit of an SNJ, down two steel ramps and into twelve feet of water. As a direct or indirect result of my trip, I have tonite a beautiful sore throat, for which I think the best remedy would be going to bed immediately, which I shall do at once, and continue this tomorrow.

  Well, it is now tomorrow, as so often happens, and I’ve just come back from down town. Also just read your duplex letter, which I enjoyed no end. I’m really sorry if I sound at times like a callous cad, but nothing I said I hadn’t said before, and none of it in my estimation was too far from the truth.

  I can see this is turning into another chain letter. I started it Wed. and here it is Sunday already. The time is 0630, and I am up, if not wide awake. I have the dubious honor of being COOD (Cadet Officer of the Day)—another long watch.

  Yesterday I went to Mainside to watch an air show put on by the Blue Angels, the Navy’s jet acrobatic team. They were terrific. Almost everyone was watching from the flight deck of the carrier Saipan, and the jets would come roaring overhead, and sometimes so low that they were between the flight deck and the water. There are six of these Blue Angels, and some of the things they do are stupendous—they fly sometimes only three feet from one another. Their prettiest maneuver was four of them flying in a diamond shape. Just as they got above the carrier they broke off in all directions, with blue and red smoke trailing from their wing tanks. It looked like a 4th of July fireworks.

  Speaking of the 4th—it still isn’t certain about Boston, though very probable—also the Choir is going to New York that weekend to be on Ed Sullivan’s show. They’ll be there for four days! (Sigh)

  Finally got the title straightened out—I’m having it registered in Illinois for several reasons, one of them being that Florida registration and plates would cost $21, whereas Ill. Registration only costs 50 cents.

  Well, enough for now. Hope to see you soon.

  Love

  Roge

  20 June, 1955

  Dear Folks

  This is my very last piece of gold-lief (leaf, I mean) stationery—as a matter of fact, it’s my very last piece of stationery, period. I don’t know why I’ve hung on to this one sheet for so long. Do you know I have two T-shirts and two skivvies I have never worn? I folded them exactly according to the book when I was in Indoctrination, and haven’t touched them since—always put them in the front of my drawer in case of inspection. I’m afraid my letters are not quite the literary gems I envision them, but my pen has a habit of being about three words ahead of my mind. My roommate is talking to the guy across the hall about getting married—the navy is giving commissions to all the guys who have college degrees, which means they can get married. It also means they’ll be getting about $150 more than we plebeians do. Two of my three roommates are getting their commissions. Oh, well.

  My old doubts about remaining in the program are back again—I simply cannot seem to be able to fly formation. Imagine trying to fly ten feet away from someone, trying to keep the same speed, not getting too close or too far (especially too close). Plus the fact that both planes are bobbing around in an air mass. The sensations you get are both fascinating and a little terrifying. When you are “wing man,” or following a leader, you can concentrate on nothing but him—to look away for even one second could either drift you into him, or far behind. It becomes almost hypnotic—nothing moves—only him. He is the sky and the ground and the sun. I used to amuse myself watching a choir, and concentrating so that I could only see their mouths moving in the common nothing of their faces. Or, at a lecture, to stare at the speaker and watch the entire world become hazy until all I could see was his face, sharp against the blur. Well, that’s about what flying formation is. The perfect position, so they tell us, is one where you in the front cockpit have the leader’s tail wheel balanced on the tip of his far wing. It is an illusion, of course, but it becomes an obsession—you are completely motionless—the wheel moves slightly from the wing tip, and you make the necessary throttle corrections to put it back. When the leader turns, you are scarcely aware he is turning—he just moves into a new position, which you match and keep. Fascinating, and so simple—it sounds! But doing it is a different matter.

  I was thinking he other night, after a particularly “hairy” hop, and after hearing of a mid-air formation crash in which one guy was killed, about dying. No, not morbid or anything—just thinking. The possibility or even the realization of such a fact is still remote as ever. But I devised what I think is a foolproof plan. When I die, eventually (say in five or six hundred years) I shall have it all arranged. I am going to have built a special compartment, rather like a large deep-freeze, but far colder—so cold that anything placed in it would freeze solid instantly. Now, the instant I die, I am to be placed in this container—rather like a large fruit jar. Then I am to be flown to the north pole, or south pole, or as close as is possible to get, and left there, will all my papers and specified things.

  When, should civilization ever be allowed to advance so far, man has acquired the ability to rid himself of death (which is really nothing but a disease) and can restore life, they can come and get me—I shall be complete physically, and should be worth reconstruction if only for historical purposes.

  Sounds silly, doesn’t it? I suppose it is, but I honestly intend to do it if I have the chance. I will not be buried like a dead dog in a field of green grass, which may be very pretty and all that, but robs one of all individuality—he might as well never have lived at all. I’ve discovered recently that the ancient Greeks, whom I already admire, had the same philosophy as I—a man is only dead when he is forgotten.

  Now, should the remote possibility arise whereupon I find it necessary to shuffle off this mortal coil without the aid of my little ice box, I would like very much to have the following done (no, this isn’t a last will and testament; it’s just a calm expression of my wishes)—all my things—everything that has anything to do with me (pictures, stories, letters, etc.) put in a steel box, which should be made as much a vacuum as possible—the box enclosed in lead, and the whole placed in thick cement and buried and marked, with a notation that it not be opened for at least five hundred years. Of course, people being very inquisitive, they might not wait that long, so make it 1,000 years. In all seriousness, I really would like it done. See? You think I’m in a mood or something—why people refuse to even think of certain things is beyond me. Just closing your eyes or ears
to something doesn’t mean it’s gone away. Granted, I dislike thinking about it as much as the next fellow—maybe even more, but I did want to let you know what to do just in case. (Also granted that flying has its moments when it scares me stiff.)

  Enclosed find the title, money order, and everything that goes with it—I give up—I can never get to town when a notary is open. You send it in and have it sent down here.

  Seeing as I’m almost out of paper and have no more, I had better close now, though I should go on in a more cheerful note than most of this has been. Until I see you both, I am

  Always,

  Roge

  Sunday 26 (?) June 1955

  Dear Folks

  By all rights, I should be studying Civil Air Regulations right now, but I can’t force myself to concentrate on it for any length of time. Anyway, I’ve been neglecting you too much lately. I guess it’s just one of those nights.

  It’s raining out—quite a little storm was brewing, with thunder and angry clashes of lightning, but I guess it changed its mind. The wind came whistling in the window, putting the fan to shame. Across the hall a guy was playing the storm scene from the William Tell Overture—all very fitting.

  I’m writing this while standing in my skivvies and shower shoes, using the upper bunk and a course rules manual as a desk. When I sit down I get too restless and start thinking of how hungry I am. If it weren’t raining, I’d run over to the ACRAC and get something—a ham and cheese sandwich, most likely. Not that I’m particularly wild about ham and cheese, but that’s the only kind of sandwich they have.

  I’m very proud of myself—out of my last check ($48) I’ve managed to save $20. That is exceptionally good, for me. I hope I can keep it up. Believe me, I’ll need every cent I can get for the rear end. Only one more payment on the insurance—$37.28. That will have to come out of my next check.

  Why can’t I learn to polish shoes? Everyone else can; all they do is go “whisk-whisk-whisk” with a rag and some polish and you need sun glasses to look at them. Not me. I can spend ten hours on each shoe and have them look worse than when I started. I remember even in Pre-Flight, during room inspections, the captain would invariably make me stand beside one of my roommates just to point up the difference in our shines. I told you, didn’t I, that the last personnel inspection we had here, with over 1,000 cadets, officers, and swabbies lined up on one of the runways, the captain of the base made a special point to stop and talk to me—insignificant little me. And what did he say? “Those shoes could stand a little better shine.” Hmmmmmmmmmm.

  Well, tell me all about Lirf—how did he look, what did he have to say, etc. Do you think he’s changed any? I know I’ve just seen him a couple of weeks ago, but a lot can happen in three weeks. I still can’t figure out why we’re such good friends, or how we happened to get that way. We’re as different as night and day, and fight like cats and dogs. I resent the idea of him sitting in my house, petting my dog, watching my TV set, and me way down here in Florida. You can tell him I’ll do my utmost to return the favor.

  Went over to Mainside this afternoon to see a show (it only costs 10 cents—God, I’m cheap), and saw one of the guys in the band who was just dropped from the program. He’s waiting now to be shipped to Norfolk.

  Now, let me run over the “instructions” for mom, in case I’m still here on the 15th. Should I get the boot, I’ll call home at once and let you know so that you can cancel reservations (which can be done at any time). Check your bags at the airport when you arrive (Rockford airport, that is). That is all you have to worry about them—they’ll be automatically shifted from plane to plane. You’re allowed 40 pounds, which is more than enough. When you arrive in Chicago and Atlanta, go to the reservation desk for whatever airline you’re taking and confirm your reservation. Be sure to do this, or if there is a big crowd, they might give your seat to someone else—I almost lost mine coming home for Christmas. When you get here, I’ll no doubt be waiting for you. If something should come up where I’m unable to get away, wait half an hour for me. As soon as they unload the baggage, take your claim tag and get it. If I don’t show up within the half hour, take a cab to the San Carlos Hotel (maybe to the Town House—I’ll let you know. The Town House is very nice, but I haven’t found out about meals yet). See—all very simple.

  Well, I’d best get back to my civil air regulations. Tomorrow I fly my first solo hop, if the weather’s good. Personally, I wish we wouldn’t fly for two weeks!

  Until I see you both, I am

  Always

  Roge

  27 June 1955

  Dear Folks

  Yes, it’s me again and no, I’m not ill. It’s just that I’ve grown momentarily tired of watching the many-legged little beasties running up and down the walls near the sink. Glancing by my left foot, I notice a recently deceased member of the clan. Speaking of the sink, the faucet drips (the hot water tap), making a rust-colored spot on the otherwise white porcelain. The fan is doing a thankless and futile job of trying to cool the room, but Pensacola’s summers are no match for anything less than full air conditioning

  Whereas yesterday it rained and made itself generally disagreeable, today it did not—the sun glared down until early afternoon, when dirty grey clouds started to form. The sun might as well have spared its efforts this morning, on me at least, since I was in the nice air-conditioned ground school building answering such questions as:

  PNS M490 50 0 8 172/79/70 (left arrow) 8/992 RW-E25

  1. in the above sequence report

  2. the ceiling was measured at 4900 above ground

  3. fog will not be present unless the wind shifts

  4. rain showers ended at 25 minutes past the hour

  In case you hadn’t guessed, c) is the correct answer. There were much harder questions. I’m getting so that I can read off sequence reports, area forecasts, terminal forecasts, and other similar jargon with comparative ease and accuracy.

  Sunday while washing the car, I was viciously attacked on the fourth toe of my left foot by an ant (quite a small ant at that). Today I have a good-sized welt there. And, speaking of ants, one is scurrying across the top of my stationery box at this moment. I see it has wings—well, what can you expect on an air base?

  From ants, we shall now move on to the subject of flies. I assure you, my room alone is a veritable biologist’s (or zoologist’s) paradise. Anyway, I was sitting in one of the padded but otherwise fairly uncomfortable chairs in our room, reading Robert Graves’ “I, Claudius” when all of a sudden, a fly came strolling across the page. Now I’ve seen flies before, but never one like this. He was of medium stature, for a fly, and had, as far as I could tell, the usual number of appendages and other paraphernalia usually associated with flies. But here the resemblance ended. He was green, for one thing—not a drab old-shade green, but a glossy, iridescent green. His eyes were his saving feature, though—they were concentric circles of red and green, both very vivid. For some reason, he seemed to take a liking to me, for he meandered across the book and wandered up my let index finger, across my hand, and on up my sleeve to a short distance below my elbow.

  I must state right here that he did not strike me as being a very intelligent fly, for he just stood there looking wherever a fly’s eyes look, and working his forelegs and mandibles (or whatever they are) like mad. The effect was like someone rubbing their hands in anguish, or greed.

  Being the soft hearted slob that I am, I couldn’t bring myself to hit him with the book—besides, he might squish unpleasantly and I can’t stand the sight of blood.

  So I nudged him with one finger, which can in part vouch for my opinion of his mental rating. He just stood there with those huge red and green eyes of his. I showed him to my roommates, who did not seem to share my enthusiasm (peasants, the lot of them—no spirit of adventure).

  Finally, he condescended to fly two feet to the edge of my chair. I soon went back to my book and probably, in the course of my shifting positions, sat on him. Whic
h only goes to prove, you can’t trust anybody these days.

  Well, enough trivia for this time. Until next time I am

  Always

  Roge

  P.S. What about the car title? Thank you for the letters—they did a lot to cheer me up (though this morning I knew I was going to crash today). Flew two solo hops and they both went very well. Should everything go well, and I do not get any more downs, I could be out of Saufley Field before mother comes down—then I’d be at Barin, which is 20 miles from here, but still near enough Pensacola

  5 July, 1955

  Dear Folks—

  Before I forget, please tender my formal apologies to grandpa and Aunt Thyra for not sending them a card from Boston, but I didn’t buy a single card in Boston—the one you got was from Nantasket. I bought three—all of the roller coaster, since Nantasket has nothing else to offer—but only had time to dash off one to you. The other two I stuck in my hind pocket and sat on, neatly shaping them to the contours of my behind. I then took them out of my pocket and placed them in my lap, where I would be sure to remember then. I lost them somewhere between Quincy and South Weymouth.

  Boston, we are told, is the land of the broadened “a”’s, the home of the baked bean and the stuffed shirt. The Boston I saw was somewhat different—it was a little girl crouching in the dirty-grey sand of a littered beach, digging stones out of the sand with a popsicle stick; it was a beach pavilion with old-fashioned summer concerts played by a pleasing band that was heavy on woodwinds instead of the usual brass. It was a very tiny little girl and an even tinier black puppy, chasing one another across the floor. Ah, but the Pilgrim influence is still present, if somewhat overshadowed. I saw two perfect pilgrims—even to look at them would bring back grade school memories. Both of them I encountered, at different times, on the subway. The first was a young girl of about eighteen. She had rosy cheeks, dark hair and eyes, and was strikingly pretty, though not in a beauty-contest way. She wore a crisp white dress with green flower designs, and sat feet together, hands folded in her lap, and seemed very well poised.