A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  In the case of your son, Franklyn, this command terminated his flight training because he was unable to attain a required proficiency in flying. This course of action was taken with reluctance, and it constitutes no reflection on his ability not associated with this particular subject. The fact that he was originally qualified and was selected for Naval Air Training signifies that he possesses the mental and physical attributes, personality and background desirable in young American men.

  I extend my best wishes to you and also your son for every success in whatever field of endeavor he may elect.

  Sincerely yours,

  J. P. Monroe

  Captain, U.S. Navy

  Chief of Naval Air Basic Training

  3 September 1955

  Dear Folks

  The good word for the day is—send food! There isn’t a single place on this gigantic toy that you can get something to nibble on. Even the fingernail supply is running dangerously low. Why don’t you see if maybe you can send me a CARE package?

  Got the mail today—it only took two days! I’ve read it all twice and am planning on going over it again. That is a very good idea, mom, sending money to the Cancer fund. Everyone should do it. You realize that that was the first mail I’ve gotten in over a month! Poppa, you should write more often—if you expect me to write twice a week, you’ve got to write at least once.

  As for this “rank” business—I’ll try for Petty Officer 3rd Class, but I can’t do it till February, and the results don’t come back for from three to five months. But I’ll try. It all reminds me of my old Cub Scout days.

  Save that letter you got from Pensacola—I think I’ll pin it up on my wall. Is it trimmed in black?

  The ship has been crawling with civilians all day, who come clutching their little kiddies and gaze wonderingly up at the towering hulk. “How many men on board?” (3,000) “Is it brand new?” (No, commissioned in 1944) “How do you pronounce it?” (Ty-kon-der-o-gah) “Where’s the ladies’ room?” (???) To quote Thumper in Bambi: “I made that last part up myself.”

  On the way up here, they were having all sorts of drills. In the short space of one hour, we were rammed by a destroyer (port side), had a terrific fire in B compartment, a lesser fire in D, and cruised through an atomic explosion. During these drills, everyone is supposed to go to his assigned duty or battle stations. However, about 1/3 of the guys on board are new, and don’t have duty or battle stations. So we just hid. This place would be hell if anything ever did happen—all the hatches are closed and locked, and anyone caught in the wrong compartment has had it, with no way to get out. Some of the hatch doors are so large they need several men and a pulley to close them. The guys around here have an odd sense of humor, but I like it. During one of the drills, during which things supposedly got worse and worse, section after section of the ship was abandoned. Finally, the order came for everyone except rescue and repair teams to get onto the flight deck. Everyone had to tuck their pant legs into their socks, button the top button on their shirts, and don battle helmets, if available. So up we went. The gun turrets were revolving back and forth like mad, and had they been firing, they would have blown hell out of the ship and each other. Finally, one of the gunners got off his turret and came up onto the flight deck to speak to a buddy. One of the guys in our section—a huge guy, who bulged out of his dungarees and looked positively ridiculous in the tiny green helmet that perched on his head, leaned up against the tail of a plane and said: “Man, we’re really going down—they’re abandoning the guns.”

  A few minutes later, the gunner strolled back to his post as a little 12-foot speedboat came running out toward us. He probably wondered what was going on, seeing 3,000 guys cluttered around the flight deck in battle gear. One of the guns swung around in his general direction and somebody yelled: “For God’s sake, don’t shoot! That’s our rescue ship!”

  Well, enough for now. Write soon and send me a ton or two of Brownies and stuff.

  Regards to all the relatives. See you next year

  Love

  Roge

  Sunday, 4 September 1955

  Dear Folks

  Yes, it’s me—your globe-trotting son. I have a feeling you’ll be hearing quite a bit from me, since there is absolutely nothing else to do around here; of course, it’s going to cost somebody a small fortune in air-mail stamps. You’ll probably get them in batches, especially once we get to sea and the mail is not picked up every day.

  Today is the Sabbath, and the ship is once again swarming with wide-eyed civilians. Of course, technically, they own the ship. The run around taking pictures like mad (Daddy and junior in front of an F7U, Mom and sis in back of an F7U, junior clambering into the tailpipe of an F7U), and all the while a tired voice keeps saying: “Visitors will refrain from taking pictures on the ship—we regret that exposed film must be confiscated.” HAH! Just try to get their film! “We’re American citizens, and we pay taxes—In fact, young man, we pay your salary!” …Excellent; why don’t you see about getting us a raise?

  And so it goes. I’ve been “on duty” for the past two days, which means nothing except that I’ve got to sit in the Supply office all day. Actually, if anyone wants to sit anywhere on this thing, they’ve got to go to some office—that’s the only place on board where there are chairs. When I say “office” I mean a space containing two or three desks and cabinets. There are always the wires and levers and pipes and vents and hatches. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

  At times I wish I didn’t write so small. Even though I write for ages, I never fill the page. This is exceptionally bad in cases like today, when I have very little to say.

  Every notice the exorbitant number of “I”‘s in my letters? I must be terribly conceited. Of course (third time for that phrase) when “one” is writing a letter, usually it’s about that person’s doings; therefore the “I” is necessary.

  I think they’re launching planes—I’m going to go and see. Never knew a carrier could launch planes from a stopped position, but we’ve been doing it for two days now. Wish I could get to see the National Air Show. We’re tied up about a mile from there, but we can’t see much. I just went up into the causeways (where the guns are—just below the flight deck) and there are people galore out there, waiting to come aboard, with a steady stream of busses arriving all the time. From there, I could see the tails of some of the larger planes—caught a glimpse of them the other day on my way downtown. They have all the latest fighters and bombers, and the rockets which are used to shoot them down.

  Oh, well, such is life. If you will excuse me, I’m going to close now and go eat dinner. Until next time, I am

  As Always

  Roge

  Monday, 5 September 1955

  Dear Folks

  Well, it may be Labor Day for you, but it’s just another day here on the ship.

  Yesterday I was talking about food—it, like the weather (cloudy) is always good for a conversation opener. Navy shipboard food is adequate, almost plentiful, and certainly ingenious. They have one recipe for dough and, with minor alterations, produce bread, rolls, cake, pie crusts, and other “pastries.” We always have fresh cold milk for breakfast and supper, but how that will be affected by our going to sea, I don’t know. For lunch, we usually have the Navy’s version of Kool-Ade. This is another example of Navy efficiency—they mix up huge batches of Jell-O before lunch, serve it to us still liquid as Kool-Ade, and solid for supper. Occasionally, though, they goof. Last night we were evidently supposed to have fruit Jell-O, but they started putting the fruit in before lunch. As a result, we were surprised to see chunks of “things” floating around beneath the surface, or settling slowly to the bottom. I wasn’t very thirsty.

  Occasionally they treat us to Pumpkin pie or strawberry shortcake with whip cream. Unfortunately, they never take the trouble to whip it—they just ladle it out. Oh, well, it isn’t the gift that counts, it’s the thought behind it.

  The ice cream tastes
as though it were packed in mothballs and stored in a dentist’s office. And the only way to tell if we’re eating bread or toast is by the color (and sometimes even that doesn’t help). Otherwise the food is pretty good.

  Our compartment is directly beneath the room housing the machinery for one of the plane elevators on the side. Whenever it is in operation, the effect is like being on the inside of a tolling bell.

  Be sure you go to the show frequently this coming week—they are sure to have newsreels of the National Air Show, and maybe some of the Ti. I got to see some of it yesterday afternoon, and it was certainly something to see. The Air Force had practically every plane it owns fly over—the giant, lumbering bombers, the swift and sleek jet bombers, and the darting jet fighters, skimming through the sky like a flat rock skips over the water.

  The Navy did its part by sending the Ti, which just sits here for civilians and enemy agents to swarm over, and occasionally catapults planes from her deck. But we also have the Blue Angels, the acrobatic jet team that has anything and everything the Air Force has beat.

  This afternoon, there are going to be speed races, which ought to be something—last year some guy did 800 miles an hour! Of course, ten years from now, that will be like somebody in 1903 saying: “One of them autobuggies did 25 miles an hour!! Don’t you dare laugh, Esmirelda, I tell you I saw it with my own eyes!” I’ll be mailing this from downtown tonight, so you’ll probably get it the same day, if not before the one I wrote yesterday. Funny thing about Liberty—even though you have no place special to go, you do, just to get away for awhile.

  A guy on the catwalks (I called them causeways yesterday) was talking to a lady on the flight deck when I went up a while ago. She asked him where he was from, and in a drawl so thick it could catch flies, he said Louisiana. She said she and her husband had just been there for a vacation. “Tell me, ma’m,” he drawled, “when you was down there, you ever eat any Louisiana ice cream?” She looked puzzled. “You know, ma’m—Louisiana ice cream—namely, grits.”

  Your Confederate son

  Roge

  Tuesday, 6 September 1955

  Dear Folks

  The U.S.S. Ticonderoga is, at this moment, moving silently (if not too swiftly) down the river from Philadelphia. I am sitting, once again, on the very back edge of the Flight deck, on the metal stairs that lead the short distance to the catwalks. We’re being pursued by a large freighter. She’s about a mile away, and her grey hull is almost lost in the blending of mist and water. Her red bottom can be seen, pushing a frothy white wake. It always strikes me as peculiar how such dirty water can turn white under the bow of a ship. She’s rather pretty—seen from head-on, she looks quite broad, with her white superstructure and black funnel.

  Behind me now, or rather ahead of the ship, is the large bridge we passed under on our way up—I believe it shows in that picture I sent.

  Suspension bridges are pretty things; graceful, almost musical—like a great harp.

  The two “memories” I carry away with me from Philadelphia would not, I’m afraid, please the chamber of commerce. One took place on a trolley—something interesting usually always happens to me on a public transportation system. It was in the form of a slightly-past-middle-age man in a faded blue work shirt and pants of a nondescript color and nature. He was being continually pestered by mosquitoes (nonexistent) which he banished by rubbing his arms, neck and face—especially the tip of his nose—with a stick deodorant, which he generously offered to everyone on the trolley. When he was not busy chasing mosquitoes, he was kept occupied by making witty observations on topics vague to everyone but himself, and taking swigs from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He laughed a great deal—the “ho-ho-ho” Santa Claus type laugh, and kept addressing the driver (a full 1/3 of the car away) as” John”—saying that John was the best bus driver in the whole world, God love ‘im, and it was a shame that a man could work all week and get drunk and never get sober and boy was she surprised ho-ho-ho, and look at that sloppy sailor (yours truly).

  He gave John instructions to let him off at Marshall St. Since we were on Market Street, and it was the closest thing to “Marshall” on the route, the driver kept suggesting he get off at every corner. “Here you are,” he’d say, and our friend would say “ho-ho-ho, best driver in the world, God love ‘im—God love everybody,” he’d add, in kind deference to the other passengers. Finally, as is the custom in Philadelphia, the trolley went underground and became a subway. We were all prepared for the event by our friend, who informed us that we were going into a dark hole now. At the first station beneath the ground, he got up to leave—the name bore no resemblance to Marshall, and he was in no condition to care. He stood up and walked to the front, where I was, and where the driver took fares from those getting off. He stood and looked at me for some time before getting off—I looked out the window. The second also had to do with a subway, in a way. While waiting for the bus back to the ship, a guy came up the dirty subway stairs, proclaiming the virtues of John Barry who, it seems, was a Mason. Upon seeing all the sailors, he informed us all that Mr. Barry was the father of the American Navy, and signed something or other in Philadelphia; that he was Irish and could speak Spanish like that (making a non-successful attempt to snap his fingers). To illustrate his linguistic abilities, he sang a few snatches of a song that didn’t sound very Spanish to me, and went into a little soft shoe dance (which goes over well enough in Hollywood movies, but not in real life Philadelphia). The bus came before he left, and I didn’t get a chance to see the results of an impending fight between him and a newsstand dealer They say it takes all kinds to make a world, but does there have to be so many of that kind?

  (Same Letter, continued) Wed. 7 September 1955

  Here I am again, sitting this time just below the flight deck, on a little platform beside the catwalks. The sea is very pretty today—and exceptionally calm. There are waves, but they aren’t the choppy kind—just gentle rollers. The color of the ocean is not blue—it is more the color of pencil lead. Directly beneath and beside the ship, it turns a milky blue to turquoise, as the ship churns it. And behind, in the exact wake of the propellers, it is robin’s egg blue—almost green. No land is in sight, but far off on the horizon a destroyer is pacing us—it looks like the silhouette of a very small toy boat.

  If my writing appears more shaky than usual, it is not from palsy or old age—it’s just that the ship is turning, prior to starting flight operations. I watched some planes land yesterday, while standing on the catwalks—I’m rather glad I never had to try it. The planes make a horrible noise when they touch down, and you can smell the rubber from the wheels.

  Either we’re turning again or picking up speed, because she’s shaking again.

  I haven’t had any mail since the large envelope.

  Another destroyer has joined us, only about a half mile away—perhaps closer. A helicopter just left us and went flitting over to the destroyer, like a large, wingless dragon fly. Four planes came suddenly from the same direction the destroyer did. I hope they’re going to land, cause if they do, they’ll come within 20 feet of me (straight overhead). The ‘copter is coming back now; maybe it has the mail (I hope so). Here comes a plane! God, it was beautiful—flew almost into my lap. Something tells me I’m not supposed to be here. Oh, well….

  (Same Letter, continued) Friday, 9 September 1955

  Well, you’ve gotten the happy news via telephone about my being elected to mess-cooking. It’s a good job <*> but my God, the hours (0730 to 8:30 to 11:00 p.m.) and no time off for lunch except just to eat. Haven’t seen the sky all day.

  Just a brief glimpse of the Ti’s appetite. Since I’m in the commissary office, I get to see some of the orders. This one is for about two weeks or so:

  35,000 lbs of potatoes, 68,000 lbs Flour, 5,280 lbs crackers, 50 gallons of catsup; 36,000 lbs Sugar, 15,000 lbs peas, and 10,000 lbs tomatoes. — Burp.

  Love

  R

  <*> Each Division on
ship had to provide a certain number of men for mess cook duty; a 3 month shift of working in the ship’s kitchens. Usually, the newest members of each Division were assigned, as was my case. However, at the time I was assigned, the Commissary Office was replacing an office worker and, since I could type, I got the job. I remained there (thus saving my original Division from having to supply one of its members every three months) for the rest of my Navy tour.

  Wednesday, 14 September 1955 AD

  Dear Folks

  This is the fourth draft of a letter begun late Monday night; I never got more than a paragraph or two into them when something would drive me away or distract me by one thing and another. But I’ll try to finish this one. I’ve got to take a shower and wash my hair tonight, but it’s only eight o’clock, so I’ll have plenty of time.

  On the very rare occasions when I find myself with nothing to do, I’ve discovered that that is just the trouble—I have nothing to do. I can’t even go out and play in the yard.

  Mail arrived on board today, which came as a very happy surprise, especially when I got your “goodies” package. Thanks a lot. I’m sitting all alone in the office, munching on the apricots.