by Dorien Grey
“And what did you say to the MAA when he saw you? You said you didn’t have to eat it if you didn’t want to. You realize that’s a good way to poison all your shipmates, don’t you? Your division chose you to come down here mess cooking, trusts you enough to let you handle their food. You want to poison them all?…. How old are you, lad?”
“Seventeen” (very low, almost a whisper).
“Well, you’re a man now, doing a man’s work. You’ve got to work hard down here. We don’t ask you to do any more than we ask a hundred other mess cooks to do. What would your mother say if you did that at home?”…(silence)…“You got any brothers and sisters?”…(silence…a nod yes)…“Don’t just nod your head—when you speak to an officer you’re supposed to say ‘yes, sir’. You live with your family?….” “No, sir.”
“Your parents alive?”…(shakes head no)…“Mother died when you were little?”…(again shakes head no).
The poor kid was standing there with tears running down his face, trying very hard not to cry.
“Well, I shouldn’t do it, but I might keep your report chit down here and not send it to the captain. Do you think you can promise to get up in the morning?”…(shakes head yes)…“What do you think, Brasted (MAA)?”
“Well, sir, the sleeping is all right, but taking a bite of something and putting it back with the food his shipmates will eat is inexcusable.”
“Well, OK—I guess we’ll have to go up and see the Captain. But I’ll tell him that you promised to do better if you’re given another chance. That’s all for now.” The kid turned around, wiping his eyes with his hat, and walked out, followed by the MAA.
A Captain’s mast goes on your record permanently.
And so goes life in the United States Navy.
As for yours truly, life goes by without the benefit of sunrise or sunset—only the light switch, and the gleaming red eye of the fire lantern serving as the moon. Last night I practically froze. Very seldom do we hit a comfortable medium—either we roast or freeze. I hope it’s nice and warm in the Mediterranean.
Latest grapevine on visiting places—Athens, Greece; Izmir, Turkey; Cannes, France (or Le Havre, or Marseilles); Gibraltar (almost certain); Naples, Italy; Barcelona, Spain. It is by now almost a dead certainty about Naples for Xmas. Naples is such a long walk from Rockford, Illinois, U.S.A. But still, much as I’ll miss being home, I wouldn’t trade the opportunity to go to Europe for anything in the world.
In remembering back, I think I mentioned in one of my infrequent letters from the receiving station that I wouldn’t mind getting stationed aboard the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, which, it was rumored, was going on a Med cruise sometime in November.
Well, it has been exactly two months and four days since I took my last ride in a little yellow SNJ (pronounced “Snidge”).
Like to know my daily routine? No? Well…up at 0700, up, dress, make my rack (smooth out the wrinkles—we use mattress covers like I had in college), and wash (up one deck to just below the hanger deck). To work at 0730; sometimes I grab a roll or carton of milk or just a chunk of bread, if the galleys are still open. Make out muster reports, have them signed by Mr. Clower, run them up one deck to Personnel. (Our sleeping compartment is on the same deck as the mess decks, but cut off from it.) From Personnel on down the passageway, heading forward, or to the front of the ship, to the Supply Office, where I pick up any notices or miscellany in the S-2 box. Back to the office. Monday to Wed. I spend the morning typing menus and running stencils for them. Thursday is check-in day for new mess cooks—I have to make cards on them, list them on our work boards, type up liberty cards for them and run them up to Supply to have signed. Friday is inspection day—clean up. Afternoons I type forms and requisitions, straighten files, write memos, run errands, and catch up on the work that has been piling up all morning. Time out for chow at 1030 and 1600 (4:00), then right back to work. Fun? You bet!
Tomorrow comes a locker inspection, so best I close and get busy (it is now 2050—8:50). See you on Oct. 21, dad, and you on Aug 12, mom.
Till then I am
Always
Roge
16 October 1955
Dear Folks
Excuse again the long loud silence; I am an ungrateful and unworthy son, and would commit hara-kiri post-haste except that I can’t stand the sight of blood.
Here it is another weekend. God, how many of my letters start that way—little chips and flakes of time, trapped on paper. I was sitting in a movie the other night, with a small bag of Hershey’s Kisses, and I’d count them as I ate them, watching the number left in the bag get smaller and smaller; as it got near the end, I’d try to eat them slower, so they’d last longer—but they didn’t. That’s the way I am with time—I let each day pass without doing anything, and feel angry and confused with myself for wasting them. Always watching them, like the candy, getting fewer and fewer. Odd that someone as “young” as I am should be bothered with things like that, but I am and always have been. I realize that I have years and years and years ahead of me, but I dread watching them go by—every second is a second less.
No, I’m not gloomy—you should know by now that I can be serious without being gloomy. And it gives me a chance to pawn off some of my excess philosophies on someone. “My cup runneth over”—well, that’s the part that “runneth.”
So, onward. I’ll be getting the car out about Wed. They’re going to wash it for me. I wonder how much the bill will be? No matter how much, it will be too much.
Went down and made reservations for dad yesterday—they don’t have any big hotels in town, but this is the nicest one. You know, I was just thinking—we didn’t take any pictures of the place mom stayed. That’s too bad, but it’s too late now.
Boy, is it ever cold—not quite winter-type cold, but cold enough that you know winter is just around the corner. Hope it warms up by next weekend. And I certainly hope it is warm in the Med.
Still can’t believe it, really. In just two short (backward-looking) years I have done more, seen more, and been more places than ever before in my life. Just hope I’m not disappointed. Things in reality are unfortunately not what they seem on paper and film.
Got a letter from DeFoe the other day—he’s almost ready to go to Corpus Christi. One of my other roommates, D.B. Lee, is already there, and a third, George Jackson (the gung-ho one) somehow managed to lose a wing (the whole wing) on a night-flying hop. I guess he was on the ground at the time, cause DeFoe didn’t mention his bailing out. Good old George (or “Pudge” as I called him).
As of today, we have 19 more days in the States—and I have around 301 more days in Uncle Sam’s Service. Incidentally, the 12th of next August falls on a Sunday, so maybe they’ll get real generous and let me off a day early. You suppose?
Soon as dad brings that tin back, mom, please fill it at once with brownies—I’m starving. Tell Aunt Thyra that I want her to meet me at the door (next Aug.) with two banana cream pies. I told her in the postcard, but keep reminding her for me. Tell grandpa I said hi, and give my regards to all the relatives.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat Supper—as I said, I’m starved. —(denotes passage of time) —Just finished supper, which was filling if not particularly appetizing. Hope it lasts me.
Well, I guess I’d better close now. I’ll try to write more often. Till next time, I am
Su hijo
Roger
The USS Ticonderoga, CVA 14 at anchor off Mayport, Florida, Nov. 1, 1955, the day before departing for an 8-month deployment to the Mediterranean.
3 November 1955
Dear Folks
Permit me to introduce myself; my name is…. I won’t say I’m sorry for the delay—that line’s a little stale by now anyhow. I plan to take Mom’s suggestion and write a journal of my trip; it may not be Samuel Pepys (pronounced “peeps”) but it will do.
Tomorrow we return to Mayport for the last time. Sometime Friday morning we shove off for the Med. At sea for ten days
, and arrive at Gibraltar on the 14th, as a special birthday treat for yours truly. Our stay there will be very short, though, for on the 16th we again put to sea to relieve the carrier Intrepid, one of the Ti’s sister ships. On the 22nd of this month, the ship will anchor off Cannes, France, where it will remain until the 30th, when we again put to sea. That is as far as our schedule goes up to now.
One of our biggest problems will be that we will be unable to actually enter a port, since only Naples has a pier large enough for us. So, we must anchor out and stand in endless lines waiting for the liberty boats to take us ashore.
Mom, I don’t know if you’ll be getting a birthday card or not—I got you a nice one in Jacksonville and lost it in a movie. If I can find another one just like it, I’ll send it.
Met one of my ex-NavCad buddies in Jax—he’s getting married in Feb. to a swell girl whose father runs the U.S.O.
At sea we play games—I’ve mentioned them before; they’re interesting and all, but have an un-pretend purpose. It’s really exciting, sort of; just like the movies—gongs clang wildly with a monotonous urgency, men running all over, feet racing up ladders. The only difference between it a and the movies is that the “camera” is more or less restricted; it is incapable of flashing from the scurrying feet to the Captain’s anxious face; from the swinging guns to the flights of enemy planes and the sneering profile of an enemy pilot as he prepares to drop his bombs.
Instead, our little anchored camera swoops up a ladder, down several passageways, and through several compartments, shutting valves and closing hatches, which clang shut with a sound not unlike a slamming car door and a refrigerator door. Then suddenly there are no more running feet, no more clanking hatches, and the whole ship is still—not completely silent, but more as if you can hear and feel her holding her breath. It’s a weird sensation, and you feel locked in. Everywhere you look are the closed hatches, secured with a dozen “dogs”—double levers. Along the bulkheads are banks of dials, slender white needles indicating the water level in various compartments, resting reassuringly on “empty.” Some dials glow a soft red, showing that certain valves are closed. You go to the scuttlebutt (water fountain) for a drink—step on the activator, and nothing happens. You’d be surprised how thirsty you get when you know there is no water.
When you look around, you feel closed in—but when you look up, you feel trapped. The ladders leading to the hanger deck lead up to five inches of solid steel! On all decks below the hanger deck, the inner-deck hatches all have scuttles—small round openings in the hatches which can be unscrewed and allow one man at a time to escape in an emergency. But there are no scuttles on the hanger deck—all the hatches are solid steel, and there is no way out.
I’ve told you that in 1945 the Ti was hit by a kamikaze and almost sunk—that 345 were killed. I’m still surprised it wasn’t more. Imagine an all-metal ship which in a fire would heat like a frying pan—all enclosed, so that the least smoke seeps through the ship and lingers, even with the blowers and vents on.
I was taught to use a rescue breathing apparatus, which is quite complex and would be completely useless to anyone who did not know how to operate it properly. It also takes some time to adjust and get working correctly; time in which you could die most unpleasantly. (For one thing, if you had the mask on too tight before it began working, you could suffocate.)
And then there is the canister of chemicals which, when mixed with carbon dioxide from the lungs, produces more oxygen, but if mixed with water has the explosive force of three pounds of TNT.
And so life goes aboard the good ship Ticonderoga. I’d write more, only we’re shaking so (which always happens—the convulsions being in direct proportion to the speed) that I can hardly read it myself. So, if you will excuse me, I will close with
Love
Roge
4 November 1955
The day began with a wintry chill reminiscent of the Illinois I had not seen in a year, and will not see for almost another. The small typhoons which always blow through the ship’s hatches were enough to wish ourselves back in bed under thick Navy blankets.
I got up around seven, when the voice box near my head blared “Now up all late bunks.” It took quite a bit of willpower to force myself out of the top rack; when I jumped down, the metal deck was not much warmer. Breakfast consisted of two half-pints of fresh milk, a “luxury” not to be found in the Med. The ship will also have to go on water hours beginning when we left port. This will be hard, but necessary, as lately the ship has been consuming 39,000 gallons more per day than she is able to produce.
About 0830 I caught my last glimpse of America. I’d gone up onto the hanger deck to get the liberty cards from a box on the quarterdeck. Because it was so cold, I only took a fleeting glimpse of a bright day and yellow-white sand.
Quarters for leaving port were held about 1245, and the ship got under way at five minutes till one.
The only other time I went topside was to empty our wastebasket, at five this afternoon. Evidently we are already far out at sea, for the water is deep blue and the waves comparatively larger—and the United States lay somewhere out of sight, attached to the ship only by an ever-lengthening wake.
5 November 1955
The second day of our Great Journey was as uneventful as the first. Even though I try to look upon it as a sort of Columbus-in-reverse, the conditions are completely different. Where Chris came bobbing haphazardly across the seas in a little pea-shell scarcely bigger than those toy ships one floats in a bathtub, we are plowing unerringly for Gibraltar in a steel world where night and day are regulated by a light switch. It’s difficult to imagine that we’re going anywhere, for life goes on as usual.
Began the morning with a big breakfast, which is surprising in that my usual morning ration consists of a carton of milk and an occasional roll snatched from the gallery or bake shop. This morning, however, I had sausage, farina, grapefruit, and milk. They had egg omelet (powdered eggs, which look and taste like sponge rubber) and fried potatoes, which I passed up. The Captain held a personnel inspection, which I happily did not have to attend, and will hold another next Saturday, which I will be forced to stand. I must try to leave something unbuttoned or unpressed so that the Captain will stop and speak to me. They usually do anyway.
Work went on much as usual, though it was a little slower than it has been—for which I’m duly grateful. Last night Nick (Lyzchyn—pronounced La-cision, like decision) and I held a field day in the office in preparation for the below-decks inspection to follow today’s personnel inspection. We scrubbed the floor (deck) and spread wax on with two rags, on our hands and knees. Naturally, nobody bothered to even look in. When I say nobody, I mean the inspecting party. I think they are about the only ones on the ship who didn’t come shuffling in at one time or another. A wax-and-shine job lasts about two minutes in this place. We have linoleum tile on the deck, which few places aboard do. In a way it’s better, but mostly it’s a bother.
One indication that we are quite a ways out at sea is the ship is rolling. It seems that the further we are from shore, the larger the waves. The ship has adopted a “rock-a-bye-baby” motion. Another is the radio—we can still get stations from the States, but they’re becoming poppy.
The flight deck is comparatively empty, but every place else is packed—the hanger deck is jammed with planes; even the catwalks outside the hanger bay doors are loaded with gear. The bow, which in wartime carries two five inch guns, are now filled with sixteen jet and radial engines. We’ll be a long time and a long way from home.
6 November 1955
Noon on our first Sunday out. Unless the ship sinks from under us, it looks like this day will be as uneventful as the rest. Samuel Pepys had the London fire; Boswell had Johnson; but all I have is the U.S.S. Ticonderoga. Now you’d think that with 3,000 men aboard, something would happen, but it doesn’t. Reminds me of an ant colony I saw once in a movie in High school—thousands of ants, running around like mad, going nowher
e.
Turkey for dinner, evidently a preview of Thanksgiving; well, if Thanksgiving dinner is no better than this one, it looks like a lean winter. The only thing outstanding was the whipped cream, which was whipped for a change.
Been working on my novel (I’ve decided to expand the Harrisonville story) and rewritten the first half page four times. If anyone ever says writing is not work, don’t believe them.
We lost the first of six or so hours last night; probably will lose one a day from now on.
The day is cloudy, with patches of sunlight on the horizon. The ship is still going through her rocking motion—it’s most noticeable on the flight deck, where the horizon disappears and comes back. Walked way up forward, to the edge of the flight deck. The catwalks aren’t steel way out there—the first ten feet are only heavy wire mesh. You can stand there and look straight down at the water. Under the leading edge of the flight deck runs a very small catwalk—from there you can look right down at the bow of the ship. The water is very blue, but you can make out the shape of the hull and prow under the water—a very unusual effect. The forward gun tubs are not, as I said yesterday, loaded with engines—I don’t know where they’ve got them. On the hanger deck by the island, the bulkheads are hung with wing-tip tanks, looking like ornaments in a knit shopping bag. Eight o’clock the same night. Well, the day hasn’t been a complete loss—the library opened. It’s been closed for remodeling ever since I came aboard; the Captain opened it officially at 1500, amid many posed pictures of happy sailors studiously reading. Not quite the Library of Congress, but it will do. The furnishings are comfortable and modern, and the room painted in bright colors, which is quite a relieving change from the grey of the rest of the ship. Now I’ll have something to do nights beside count my toes….
7 November 1955
