A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  This morning I went to “Classification,” where I sat for almost an hour, as inconspicuous as the yellow tile walls, and as unnoticed. The room had all the quiet charm and homey comfort of a prison visiting room. In one corner, huddled over a coffeepot (which is the Navy’s crucifix) were the staff, eagerly discussing the sworn fact of one of the chief petty officers that the sea was gradually rising. From the heat of the discussion, one might expect water to begin seeping in over the windowsills at any moment.

  “Classification” consisted of me choosing from four places I’d like to be sent—on the Atlantic coast. I chose Boston, Brooklyn, Philadelphia, or Miami. They will undoubtedly put me on a ship. I don’t think I’d mind a ship at all—especially the new aircraft carrier Forrestall, which has not yet been commissioned and is going on a world cruise.

  At dinner today, a Negro next to me summed up the Navy’s efficiency perfectly. He was talking to some of his buddies, and I was a casual but interested eavesdropper. It seems he wanted to get off duty one half hour early for liberty. He talked to a petty officer (P.O.) second class, who sent him to a P.O. first class, who sent him to a chief. By the time he got permission, everyone else had left on liberty a half hour ago.

  The Naval base here is sprawling, and you can almost get snow-blind looking at all the white uniforms. An average meal takes a little less than an hour—twenty-five minutes in line to get in, ten minutes to eat, and twenty to get out again. One of the utmost sins of the U.S. Navy is to be an individual. The very idea of someone possessing an independent thought is unspeakable. To the end of a perfect sailor, you are pushed, prodded, insulted, treated like a rabid dog; your brains are washed and hung out on a line to dry in the pure sunlight of naval ideology. Pompus sounding, but true. (Note the spelling—ugh!)

  I’m very much afraid, as I may have mentioned before, that I may have to spend some time in the brig before my happy association with the Navy is over. I never could stand to take orders, even from you, and I will not be pushed around by some ignorant, sadistic tin god. The smaller the man (in character at least) the more godlike he becomes. Civility is a word with three syllables more than his vocabulary includes—except, of course, for profanity, and which he can ramble for ten minutes, using extremely complex and hyphenated words. Confidentially, I don’t give a good tinker’s damn for what the Navy thinks; if the time should ever arrive (heaven forbid) when one of these blithering idiots (who, incidentally, are not officers, and many of whom haven’t even graduated from high school) tells me to do something to please his inflated little ego, I shall give in to a long-harbored impulse to tell him where he can go, how to get there, and what to do when he arrives. Once again, though, heaven forbid. The Navy can be exceptionally nasty if it wishes, and would no doubt end up before a firing squad. You don’t think it can be done?

  Funny—I was just a few minutes ago standing outside with a batch of guys who can’t even stand in a straight line, for one of our innumerable daily musters (presided over by the aforementioned kindly gentlemen) when three Navy patrol planes flew over, very slowly and gracefully, and did carrier breakups prior to landing at nearby Chambers field. I got an odd empty feeling in my stomach….

  Like many things, the further removed I am from NavCad life, the better it appears to have been, in retrospect. I do miss it very much, but it is too late now. Like Scarlet O’Hara, “I won’t worry about it today; I’ll worry about it tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.”

  Love to all

  Roge

  P.S. While glancing through my billfold, I find that my driver’s license expired Aug. 8. Suggestions, dad?

  P.S. I’d give almost anything to be stationed in or near New York!

  P3S. Only 363 more days! (Not counting brig time)

  (The above letter was written on NavCad stationery with matching envelope featuring, on the back, a pair of naval aviator wings. On the flap of the envelope I drew an arrow pointing to the wings, and wrote “Alas, Poor Yorick—I knew him, Horatio….”)

  Postcard from Washington D.C., The Lincoln Memorial. Dated August 24 (?) 1955

  Hi Folks

  Was in Washington last week and it is highly impressive, as it should be. The Lincoln Memorial was really beautiful. I expected to see people in togas and sandals running up and down the steps. I’ll tell you all about it when I write.

  Still don’t know where or when I’m going. Regards to Grandma and Al, and kiss Stormy for me.

  Love,

  Roger

  24 (?) August, 1955

  Dear Folks

  This is my twelfth (?) day in Norfolk, and I am no more attached to it than the last time I wrote. Nobody in the Navy seems to know (or care) that I exist—if, in fact, this can be called existence. Ah, no no no, Roger—no bitterness. Well, it isn’t quite all Hell.

  Last Saturday, after standing an 8-12 Fire watch (which is really a burglar watch and consists solely of pacing up and down the bunk room eyeing everyone suspiciously) I and Dave Bagg, a guy from Binghamton, New York, took off for Washington.

  To get from Norfolk to Newport News, which lies directly across the wide bay made from the mouth of the Elizabeth River, we took a ferry. It was a fine day, and the ferry plowed through the brown water, making a billowing white foam along her sides. I have never seen so many ships in my life! Large freighters in black and red, rusty old merchant vessels, sleek Navy tankers and troop carriers, and far off the grey hulks of battleships, cruisers, and aircraft carriers. Yet large as each one of these was individually, they looked like toys in a huge pond.

  The ferry trip and the trip to Washington (about 187 miles) took us five hours. It was still light when we reached the city, and the first thing we’d seen, while still out in the country, was the tall white spire of the Washington monument.

  The city itself is unique. It is in and surrounded by several states, and yet is a part of none of them. The District of Columbia is the shape of a tilted square, with one corner knocked off by the Potomac River, I believe. Its citizens have their own license plates, and are not allowed to vote.

  Immediately upon crossing the Potomac on U.S. Highway 1 from the South, you enter the city. On your left is the round dome of the Jefferson Monument, modeled after the home of the gods upon Mt. Olympus. The highway then curves around it, in a half moon effect, and upon crossing another bridge you are in the outer rim of the business section. This goes on for about three or four blocks, and then comes the Mall. It is a two-block wide park stretching from the Capitol to your right (several blocks away) to the Washington Monument, about two blocks or more to the left beyond that to the Lincoln Monument, near the banks of the Potomac. All these are directly in line. From the Washington Monument, cutting off to the North (?) at a 90 degree angle, another wide park leads to the White House.

  Since the Washington Monument was closest, we drove to it first. It is located on a man-made hill constructed about a huge, pyramid base. The monument rises straight up as a needle for 560 feet. Standing at its base and gazing up, it seems to lean out over you. Of greyish-white marble, it is two toned, the bottom 136’ being slightly lighter than the top. It was at this point that work on the monument was halted for almost forty years due to the civil war, lack of funds, and political arguments. An elevator rises to the top, while a recorded voice tells you the history of the monument. From the top, you look out over the city at the Capitol, the White House, and the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials. From the Washington to the Lincoln monuments of a distance of roughly eight blocks. Between the two stretches the Reflecting Pool, wherein both monuments are mirrored in the calm waters.

  The Lincoln Monument, which we visited first thing the next morning, fascinated and completely awed me. As I said in the postcard, I fully expected to see people in togas milling about the thirty-six huge columns, or ascending and descending the long flights of stairs, so broad they were like terraces. It is like nothing so much as a Greek or Roman temple, wherein Lincoln, like Zeus, sits and stares out over his peop
le. A group of Negroes posed for their picture beside one of the great fire-urns which flank the stairs. The monument is open only on one side, and Lincoln sits serenely against the opposite wall beneath the words “In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.” On the left wall, as you stand facing the statue, is the Gettysburg Address—on the right is his Second Inaugural Address (which is excellent, though largely unfamiliar). I spent about ten minutes just staring at the building itself. It is modeled after the Parthenon in Athens. The Jefferson monument gets more attractive the closer you get to it, until when you stand beside it, towering columns and sweeping lines, it becomes beautiful, with its shining white dome and sugar-colored marble. Unlike the Lincoln monument, this is open on all sides. The entrance (main entrance) faces upon the Potomac, toward the Washington monument. Gleaming stairways cascade almost to the water’s edge. The statue of Jefferson, in contrast to the rest of the structure, is of dark bronze. It is 19 feet high and stands upon a six-foot pedestal of black granite, facing toward the Potomac.

  And now we come to the grandest building of them all. (Enter Sunday edition—written to the accompaniment of organ music from Divine Services being held on the flight deck).

  The Capitol building itself is immense—great and sprawling, yet not heavy or clumsy. It possesses the dignity such a building should have. It sits (surprisingly) on a hill—when you approach from behind, three are flights and flights of stairs, and two huge terraces. Upon one is a large tier-bowl type fountain, looking also dignified despite the little boy who lay in his shorts on its edge requesting everyone who passed to throw pennies into the fountain so that he could go in after them. The second terrace, at the foot of the building, has long rows of vivid flowers, which contrast very nicely with the solemn grey of the building. Walking around to the front of one of the wings, under a great pillared portico, you find evidence that, even though it is a very stately and important building, it is still a symbol of a highly unorthodox America. On one of the windows, which was slightly dusty, someone had traced with his finger –“Wash these windows once in a while—A Taxpayer.”

  The front view is the one with which we are most familiar, the whole dominated by the Dome. Atop the dome stands a 19’ statue of Freedom, a plaster replica of which stands in the basement of the building—she is quite ugly.

  The main doors are a wonder—of wrought bronze (or brass, or iron), they contain tiny (1’) statues of Columbus, Isabella, and many others who had to do with the founding of America. These statues fascinated me, for they are perfect in every minute detail—complete scenes in the panels, with individual statues along the edges. On either side of the main doors are the large statues of a Roman warrior (right side) and his lady (left) He has his nose and chin missing, she a right arm. No doubt the work of eager souvenir hunters. They look like marble, but evidently aren’t, for in the lady’s broken hand can be seen the rust marks and indentations of a metal frame.

  Inside is a kaleidoscope of statuary, paintings, marble colonnades and hallways, murals and paintings, staircases and chandeliers. The Senate and House chambers are dignified—the House done in pale blue, the Senate in gold. The Senate sit in chairs with desks attached, like in old fashioned schools. The House, because of so many members, has no individual desks. Both have galleries around and above.

  The lady guide who showed us around had a marvelous effect—she believed deeply in everything she said, and she had a fine sense of the dramatic, without being “corny.” I remember her remark as we sat in the Senate galleries and looked about at the plain, but very dignified, room, with no huge drapes or gaudy paintings. She said: “you see how wonderful it all is? Something that is good and honest doesn’t need to be plush or elaborate.” Well, I have rambled on now for five pages, which should be enough for anyone. I forgot to mention we also went to the Smithsonian Institute—I’ll take Chicago’s Hall of Science and Industry any day. So, my good parents, I will close now and send this off.

  Please remember your erring son, and count the days with me. Until I see you, I am,

  As Always

  Roge

  Friday–Sunday, 26–28 August 1955

  Dear Folks

  This is the second draft of a letter begun some days ago, and is in pencil mainly because my pen chooses the most inopportune times to run out of ink.

  The other letter was a detailed description of my trip to Washington, and sounded more as though it was a travelogue than a letter. Also, like Aunt Maude, I have a habit of beginning with the dessert and making my way back to the appetizer.

  Life in Barracks “C” is not, to put it mildly, pleasant. It is composed of mess-cooks (how aptly named!), and men fresh out of the brig awaiting orders. I never got more than 6 hours sleep a night, with one thing and another. During the day we were kept amused by sweeping, swabbing, and polishing. At night (and occasionally during the day) we were allowed to stand watches. And night before last, we were all highly pleased by a Gestapo raid at four in the morning—police all over the place, searching for concealed weapons. They did find one or two innocent hunting knives; their owners moved quickly to Barracks “K”—the brig.

  So, this morning it came as a great surprise to be called upon to check out. I was handed one of those little oblong cards with holes punched in it, reminding me of an office building at night with some of its lights on. These cards are ingenious, being composed of rows of number (each row identical)—the spacing and pattern of the holes tells everything imaginable about you. Well, anyway, to get back to the subject at hand.

  I stood in a line for two hours, waiting to get my medical records, reading a collection of stories by Guy de Maupassaunt (?). I had gathered, from looking at the card, that I was to go aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Ticonderoga. To make a long day short (which is easier to write about than do), I had to wait a total of eleven hours before I finally got my orders. I wish Lief could have been around while I frantically packed my sea bag; he would have died laughing, though I didn’t see the humor in it. After lugging that thing for six blocks (my arms are still sore), we caught a station bus to Pier 7, where loomed the monstrous bulk of the U.S.S. Ticonderoga—on one side of her, on the opposite side of Pier 7, lay the battleship Iowa, bristling with cannon and looking very formidable. On the other side, at the next pier, crouched the Valley Forge, another aircraft carrier.

  Ships, for some reason, are referred to as “she”—if the Ti is a she, she is an amazon; a metal giant. Everywhere is metal—her veins and arteries are the passageways through which course hundreds of sailors like white corpuscles—her blood. Miles of pipes, tubes, hatches, switches, levers, ladders, wire; all making up her inner fibers. Her innards are her great engines and bilges. She is alive—you can feel it in her decks—a throbbing and quivering that never ends. Below her landing-field flight deck are immense hanger decks, without planes at the moment, but showing the vastness of it by several power boats and launches (two larger than anything around home or the lakes—about 60’) stuck in one corner, and taking no more space than two corn flakes in a box of cereal. Beneath the hanger decks is the labyrinth of quarters, passageways, offices, galleys and storerooms, Down here day and night is regulated only by the electric switches. Everything is both chaos and efficiency. I sleep in a room two levels beneath the hanger deck, not much larger than our living room which I share(d) with twenty-three other guys. Two feet above my rack was the ceiling, girders and pipes. Next to my head was a stainless-steel ladder, heavily hung with green steel battle helmets. Reminded me of a Christmas tree with odd ornaments. Since beginning the sentence where the pencil left off, I’ve moved to a much larger (comparatively) bunkroom. There is only one set of racks four tiers deep (like carried-away bunk beds), and I was given the topmost of the four—I almost have to be a mountain climber to get up there.

  We were supposed to leave for Philadelphia today, or so the scuttlebutt said—as usual it was wrong.
Our agenda, as far as I can gather, is Philadelphia for a week, then down to Florida (that will be novel) for an undetermined time, and then on to the Mediterranean for eight months! We leave for the Med sometime in November and won’t return until the following July. In a way, I’m as excited as a kid with the prospect of going to a zoo; but then again I feel terrible—just think—the first Xmas away from home in 22 years! Oh, well, I’ll be saving you tons of money on phone calls anyway. Or I can call from Europe.

  I put my car in storage last night—inside and insured at $10 a month. If I find I’ll be gone too long, I’ll see about sending it home. Incidentally, I’ve been assigned to strike for Aviation Storekeeper (don’t ask me what “strike for” means, ‘cause I don’t know; it means something to the effect that if I ever become rated, that’s the rate I’ll get.)

  I hope it’s a good deal, but in the Navy you never can tell.

  Word just came over the squawk-box that we’ll probably leave tomorrow. Oh, well….

  There are several Japanese destroyers in port—real novel. Hah—I almost forgot—my address—it is

  F.R. Margason, AN

  S-1 Div.

  U.S.S. Ticonderoga (CVA-14) –love that name

  c/o F.P.O., N.Y., N.Y.

  Letter from “Headquarters, Naval Air Basic Training Command, U.S. Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Florida” undated but postmarked Pensacola, Fla., Aug. 31, 1955, 1 p.m.

  Mr. and Mrs. Frank G. Margason

  2012 Hutchins Ave.

  Rockford, Illinois

  Dear Mr. And Mrs. Margason:

  I desire to express my sincere regrets and those of the United States Navy that your son has been released from the Naval Flight program. He will be retained on active duty elsewhere in the Navy until the current selective service requirements have been fulfilled. It is unfortunate that some of those who enter flight training are unable to complete the program. Naval flight instruction is designed to efficiently train aviators in the most expeditious manner. Although this is vital from the standpoint of time and appropriation expenditure, it does result in an extremely concentrated program. With an intensive course of instruction combining academic, military and flight training, a certain number of participants find it impossible to qualify in the required periods. Each case is individually judged and carefully reviewed prior to any final decision.