by Dorien Grey
I’ve turned out to be quite the little office worker. Though it isn’t at all bad, I can’t see spending my life at it.
Working right next to a galley has its advantages—you can always get something to eat if you want it badly enough. The late cooks (on duty until wee hours of the morning) are always around, and when we work late, too, we can go down and get ham and eggs, milk, sandwiches, and stuff. And the bakery is just a little ways away, and furnish pleasant smells, with an occasional cookie or two.
The ship has the unpleasant habit of rolling from side to side, very slowly—just enough to notice it out of the corner of your eye. If you look closely, you can see that people are walking slightly out of perpendicular. (Drawing of hatch doorway w/stick figure at a 45 degree angle) Well, not that bad, but that’s the general idea. Gad; study that drawing carefully—what dignity—what artistry of lines—those exact features, correct to the smallest detail—the subtle shadings! Oh, I’ll bet Rembrandt would be terribly jealous if he could see it.
I remember the only thing I ever did draw perfectly was a silhouette of Abraham Lincoln, in sixth grade. We were given a choice of drawing a squirrel or Mr. Lincoln. I drew the squirrel, but Miss Hines didn’t know that, and I didn’t tell her. Dear Miss Hines—remember her? How many times did Dad have to come up and have a little man-to-monster talk with her? I’ll never forget the famous “Did Lonitta Throw the Bean That Hit Miss Hines on the Eyeglass Or Did She Not?” case. Miss Hines never forgave Lonitta for that. And the only time I ever skipped school. I asked Miss H. for permission to go to the bathroom and never came back. There were about five of us, and we wandered around, and went over to Lillian Anderson’s trailer for awhile, then I decided to go to the show, so I walked home, strolled casually in and asked mom for some money. I don’t remember what happened then—probably have a mental block against it. Ah, those were the days.
As for the money belt, mom—I can use it, I’m sure. Blues do have pockets, but Whites don’t. And thanks a lot for the film money—it financed my last weekend in town.
The scotch blood in me is trying to figure out if I should mail this now and take the chance of having it sit till we get to some port, or letting it collect and mailing it in one lump sum later. Oh, heck, I’ll splurge and mail it now.
Love
Roge
P.S. 335 More Days!
P.P.S. Now that I’m a mess cook, change my S-1 to S-2 Div. O.K.? G’nite
Sunday, 18 September 1955
Dear Folks
Here it is Sunday again—another week gone almost completely to waste. We are now scurrying away from Norfolk, hotly pursued by Hurricane Ion, which is a mere 1,000 miles to the southwest of us. Oh, well, they say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I honestly can’t see why we have to run, though—almost all the other ships are remaining in port. The United States Navy, like God, moves in many mysterious ways.
Before I forget, which I have in the last three letters, I meant to tell you (mom especially) that Bill DeForest and one of my other roommates, Carl Hinger, got their commissions, and are now officers. A guy from my old pre-flight class is now here on the Ti—he washed out, too. That makes about six of us on here, now. And some of the guys in my battalion in Pre-Flight are just about ready to get their wings. Ah, such is life on the planet Earth.
They have movies on board every night, but I almost never go (“almost never?”??) Either I’ve seen the picture, or we’re working, or I’m just too lazy to go and put on a pair of Whites.
After being at sea all week, we pulled into Norfolk about 4:00 Friday afternoon. For some reason, we couldn’t get a pier and had to anchor way out in the harbor, on the outermost edge of a cluster of ships. In order to get from the ship to shore, we had to use the ship’s power lifeboats. Now, there are 3,000 guys on this thing, and about 1500 were given liberty. We have three power lifeboats, each with a seating capacity of about 65; two enclosed 40’ launches with capacities of 24 each, and two officers’ boats, which needn’t interest us at the moment. After waiting three hours Friday night, I finally got ashore. After the first hour and a half, I didn’t really want to go, but I was so mad by then that I swore I’d go ashore even if I had to turn right around and come back again, which is practically what I had to do. They have a very clever way of doing it around here—officers first, Chiefs next, first-class POs next, then second class, then third, and finally us peons. And naturally, everyone at the head of the line have five or ten buddies at the back of the line, and they generously let them in ahead. Then, too, everyone jams toward the exits for the boats. The MAA’s (Masters At Arms—ship’s police, more or less) come and make us all fall back into four ranks. The first rank goes first, and so soon there is no second, and third and fourth ranks—just a big mob in the first rank. You fight your way to the exits again—back come the MAA’s; back you go, further behind now than you were when you started. The guy who was in front of you a minute ago is now fourteen guys ahead of you. The MAA’s with their “God damn you, get back—ain’t nobody goin’ no place till you get back.” Ah, such fun—such good, clean American sport—I‘m going to make the Navy my career (as it says on the posters in front of the Post Office). Well, I’ll tell you what—when I get out, I’m going to make it a point to go to the Post Office once a week and throw rocks at the Recruiting Station. And then I’ll stand outside the office and catch prospective enlistees and give them the scoop. Somebody evidently has already been doing this, as I see the Navy is going to have to draft 10,000 guys this November!
Just been out on the fantail watching the waves. They are getting bigger. I’m hoping we’ll be in for a real violent storm, but the guys who’ve been in them say no. They say a hurricane can swamp a ship, but this is too big to imagine it sinking. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call Sunday (today) but they just don’t have phone booths in the middle of the ocean. I wonder how far out we are?
Soon as the sketches of the house are done, I’ll send them along. Hope you like them. Always wished I could draw. Oh, well.
Enough for now. I’ll write more the first chance I get.
Regards to All
Love
Roge
P.S. Mom—I could use one of those plastic coin purses—I’ve lost the one I had.
21 September 1955
Dear Folks
Greetings from the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA 14, the pride of the U.S. Navy. We’ve just sneaked back into Norfolk Harbor, after intermittently pursuing and being pursued by good old “Ion.” She passed right over Norfolk, but as usual there are 3,000 different versions as to the extent of damage, or lack of it.
We are now three days behind schedule on loading supplies, and everything is in mass confusion—we need three hundred men to load them on board; we were given 227; of these, many are married and have families in Norfolk and are anxious to see how they rode out the storm. We are still anchored out, waiting for a pier to be opened to us. Then the fun will really start!
Speaking of storms, I was fascinated by the rough seas we battled for two days. I’ve never seen anything like it—waves as big as hills; mountains and valleys forming and disappearing in an instant. Some of them appeared to be leaping for the sky, only to fall back upon themselves in a cloud of spray. Very impressive, though I was told that it could (and did) get worse.
Aside from feeding of our regular crew of 3,000 today, plus all the confusion, we are having 200 civilians on board to dedicate a new 30 cent stamp to Robert E. Lee. Why in God’s green Earth they should pick the Ticonderoga for such an honor is completely beyond me. The battle of Fort Ticonderoga was fought in the Revolutionary War, not the Civil, and it took place in New York, not Dixie. The “Mississippi” is in port—why couldn’t they use her? Ah, well….
At two o’clock this afternoon I’m looking forward to receiving three shots prior to the Med Cruise. I hate, loathe, abominate, and abhor needles; always have and always will. I suppose a pound of prevention is worth an ounce of typhus, bu
t I’d just as soon forget the whole thing!
It is now 8:00 the same night, and happily the ordeal of the needles was put off in the chaos. Imagine, if you can, having 9 freight cars of food to bring on board and store. God knows what will happen when we go to the Med.
The brownies came today, much to the delight of yours truly and the Supply Department of the U.S.S. Ticonderoga. They are very good, though had been smashed and crumpled in the process of shipping. The tin came through with flying colors, and is an ingenious little gadget. I’ll probably be able to call home tomorrow night.
Do you realize, Dad, that I will not have seen you for almost two years? Now, don’t go blaming anyone—it couldn’t be helped, but I would like to have seen you. Oh, well, you’ll still be the same—and don’t give me any of that “your old man isn’t getting any younger” routine—you aren’t even half-way through middle age yet. Another batch of papers came with the cookies—sure hope I can recognize Rockford when I see it again. So, with your kind permission, I will close now and read them. Until later, I am
As Always
Roge
25–26 September 1955
Dear Folks
It’s been a long time since I’ve used any of this stationery. I set what was left of the box away with the rest of my NavCad things. I wouldn’t be using it now, except that my other stationery is locked in the office, and I’ve just come back from a most interesting, if not amusing, weekend—which I’m sure you’re dying to hear about (HAH!)
First, though, let me say that after pricing some of those Turret Cameras in downtown stores, I’ve decided that the one I have will do quite nicely. Nowhere did the prices run below $280.
Now—the weekend. Friday afternoon, about five o’clock, I left the ship and took a bus into town. I then proceeded to get a room at the “Y,” ate supper (hot dogs and milk) and went to a movie (“The McConnell Story”). After that, I started strolling down the street looking in store windows at all the things I’d like to buy. I was just about to go into a drugstore and have a coke when I ran into two guys from the ship, who worked with me during my brief stay with Aviation Supply. We got to talking and I asked where they were going. They said nowhere in particular and I said fine, I’d wander that way with them.
That was the wrong thing to say—I should have known that sailors “with no place in particular” to go are invariably drawn to East Main Street like flies to honey.
East Main St. is a unique phenomenon, being six blocks of solid bars--and every single one of them selling nothing but beer. In the course of the evening, we hit every bar on both sides of the street, with the exception of three, which one of the guys had gotten forcibly removed from the week before.
It wasn’t the bars that got me; it what was what we found inside them. At one of the first places we stopped, I got a bag of pretzels to keep my mind off the fact that I don’t care for beer. Suddenly, there was an arm on my shoulder, and a voice saying “You got a quarter for the juke box honey,” I turned around very slowly to see that it was one of the waitresses and, it turned out later, that is what she did want. I said no, I’m sorry, I didn’t (I did), she moved on down the line. I was talking to one of the guys when another voice said “You know, I haven’t had pretzels for a long time.” On the heretofore vacant stool beside me sat a small woman with glasses, about mother’s age. She reminded me vaguely of Mrs. Jarvis (remember her from the store?).
Now, as you may or may not have noticed, I frequently find myself in situations which I cannot comprehend—I just don’t know how to react or what is expected of me. So I said “Here, be my guest” and pushed the pretzels in her direction. She said “Oh, no, thanks—I used to eat them all the time, but I got sick on them one night.” She went rambling on in the same general vein, and after awhile I said I had to go to the restroom, got up, and went. The minute after I walked in, someone became very sick behind the door, so I turned around and walked out again. One of the guys I was with had slipped over into my place and was carrying on the conversation where I left off. He offered her a cigarette, and she said “You don’t smoke my brand.” “That’s too bad” he answered. “you come to my place and I’ve got some.” Fortunately, at about this time we were through with our beers and left. And that’s how it was at every place we went—the waitresses were all obviously engaged in other fields of work after hours—no self-respecting woman could work, let alone just go into one of those places, what with saturated sailors all over the place. They are continually asking for money for the continually blaring juke-boxes (one asked for a dime and when I said I didn’t have it, emptied my jumper pocket and took one). Others asked for a drink, which is only orange soda pop and costs the “host” from 50 cents to $1.00. For some reason I kept thinking of mom (not that there was the slightest resemblance) but merely that they could be my mother, or somebody’s mother, and what a terrible waste their lives were and what on earth they had to live for. Night after night to be insulted and pawed-at by drunk slobs (the younger ones make the biggest fuss). God, what a life!
Well, now, that wasn’t exactly pleasant, but then, life isn’t always, either. And as I said, it was most interesting. Sometimes I wish I were just another one of the “common horde,” always at home in any situation, able to make idiotic jokes and mix in with everybody at any time. But just think how dull it would be!
I hope you haven’t gotten the idea that I’m in a gloomy mood or anything. On the contrary, I feel fine and am in the best of spirits. I just like to get serious for awhile now and then. Honestly, I am a strange creature!
It is now (and has been for some time) Monday night, and we are steaming our merry way to Jacksonville, Florida.
We’ll be in Mayport (outside Jacksonville) for 17 days, only 3 of those in port, the rest of the time we’ll be at sea. Think about it—I do want to see you before I leave. We’ll be in Norfolk from 12 to 24 October. Well, it’s almost taps, and I’d best get to the rack.
Write soon and often. Till then, I am
Your son
Roge
3 October 1955
Dear Folks
Well, here it is Monday night and we are somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean—not far from shore, but far enough so that I’d hate to have to walk home. We are being escorted by two heavy cruisers and a destroyer, which spent the afternoon intermittently running around and being hidden in heavy rain squalls. Rain squalls at sea are different from those on land, save perhaps on the great plains; there are no buildings or hills to break the wind, and the rain beats with such fury on the waves that clouds of mist or steam roll over the waters.
The other day I saw my first flying fish, and they seem to do just that, even though science claims they merely glide with extended fins. They are quite small, I’d judge from my vantage point on the foc’sle (bow or front end), and glide low over the waves for distances up to two city blocks.
The day before we entered Mayport, we sailed through a slight current from the River Styx. One chief died of a heart attack during flight operations at night, and was found on the wing of a plane. A Lt. Cdr. Died that same night in his sleep, and a pilot was killed flying from shore to the ship. The chief was carried below decks, down steep ladders and through narrow hatches, to the vegetable refrigeration room. The next morning one of our mess cooks, who had been asleep and heard nothing of the event, went down to get something for the noon meal. The poor guy practically had a fit. I imagine it would be a slight shock to open your refrigerator and see a body lying among the onions and potatoes. Just got a letter from one of my NavCad buddies—Harry Harrison (I’ve mentioned him, I think—he was four classes ahead of me in Pre-Flight). He’s in Corpus Christi now and going to get his wings very soon.
Bought some postcards in Jacksonville, but don’t know when I’ll get around to mailing them. You know, I’ve just had a thought—I told you about the “I”‘s in my letters; well, from now on I’ll do like the kings do. Refer to myself as “we.”
Right now it i
s near taps, so I’d better finish up for now. I’ll write more later.
Till then, I am
Your waterlogged Son
Roge
P.S. When you coming dad? There isn’t much time!
308 Days Left
10 October 1955
Dear Folks
Please excuse the delay, but in the last week, I’ve worked at least twelve hours a day every day, and didn’t have time for anything, even writing.
I felt sorry for a kid who came in here today—he had overslept and missed a muster, and gotten into trouble on the mess deck (he had taken a bite out of a green pepper and replaced it in the Salad Bar tray). Whenever anyone does anything wrong—one of the cooks or mess cooks, that is—the Master at Arms brings him in to have a little “talk” with Mr. Clower, our division officer and my boss. The MAA, like a guardian angel, stands by.
He came in, holding his hat in his hand, and stood at partial attention before Mr. Clower’s chair.
“Well, Frazier, what’s the matter with you? The MAA says you didn’t get up for muster this morning.”
“He didn’t wake me up.”
“I did, Mr. Clower—he opened his eyes and said he was awake.”
“Well, I wasn’t—five other guys didn’t get up either.”
“But you were the only one late for muster. I know it’s hard to get up some mornings—I have to get up, and there isn’t anyone to wake me.” The conversation went on along this line for several minutes (when I say conversation I mean it was more of a monologue, with the MAA contributing every now and then.) “What’s this about you taking a bite out of something and then putting it back?”
(Silence)
“A green pepper.”
