by Dorien Grey
General Quarters at 1300 to liven up the day. They have the habit of announcing that they are going to have G.Q. five minutes before the gongs sound. This gives everyone a chance to get to their stations and have half the ship secured before G.Q. starts. Unfortunately, were there ever any real danger, there will be no five minute leeway.
Learned something quite interesting at G.Q. today, in line with my job—if the ship sinks, I‘m the last one to leave, unless the Captain happens to be an extreme romanticist. The title of my particular job is O.B., which seem to be letters picked at random, since nobody knows what it means. It’s probably “observation” something or other, but I wouldn’t swear to it.
Supposing, just for the sake of something to do, we were hit by a torpedo amidships on the port (left hand while facing forward) side. This is our territory. G.Q. sounds. We rush around, closing valves and securing hatches. I don my rescue breathing apparatus. They want to know where the hole is. Guess who has to go and find it. That’s right. I am loaded down with gear. On my head is a battle helmet with a coal miner’s lantern on it. I’m carrying a large wrench, a “plumb tapper” or some such thing (explained later), and a plumb line. Also an “explosometer.” First I use the wrench; beside most hatches are air escape nozzles, bolted closed. If, when opened, air rushes out, there is something in the compartment to force it out; probably water. I open it; nothing happens. So far so good.
Open the hatch and enter the compartment with my little explosometer. After manipulating this, it tells whether or not there are explosive gasses in the compartment. No. I want to get to the next deck below (the 3rd). I open a scuttle in the deck hatch. The ladder has been knocked away. Back I go for a rope. The rest of the repair party comes in with me, if there is no poison gas or explosive fumes. They lower me down into the compartment with a rope. Beneath this deck are the fuel storage tanks. Now comes the “plumb tapper”—on the deck are small brass plates, in the center is a sunken X, like a large screw. That’s just what it is, I guess. And the “plumb tapper” is a sort of screwdriver, though it looks more like a small car tire wrench. Open the plate. The plumb line, which is like a large metal tape measure with a metal weight on the end, goes down. If it hits bottom without a splash, and the hold is supposed to be full, you can deduce something is wrong—or if sea water gushes in, you can also get a slight hint that all is not well.
Of course, if sea water roars in, you’ve had it. Of if there is explosive gas and someone sets off a spark, you get a close-up view of your own personal fireworks. More darn fun….
8 November 1955
Just finished eating a small tin of chocolate chip cookies purchased at the ship’s store across the way. I will probably be sick. They had the vague taste of, if not being soaked in, at least baked near, rum. The taste lingers; a sort of gastronomic hangover. A beautiful day today—warm with just enough clouds to make occasional shade—like driving down a tree-lined street. The sea was calmer than I’d imagined it could be. No waves, just gentle rolling swells. The water itself was a blue no ink-bottle could match, with occasional cookie-brown clumps of seaweed floating by. It was the kind of day when I wish the ocean were made of glass, and I could go walking for miles and miles and miles.
Been at sea four days now, and still no mail; none till we get to Gibraltar. I’d better get used to the idea.
This ship has the most remarkable laundry system; very efficient. You put your clothes in one of the large (6’high) white canvas laundry bags in your compartment. It is carried down to the laundry by the same people every day. Once at the laundry, it is taken from the bags and placed immediately in one of the large washing machines. The contents of one bag should be sufficient to just fill one machine. From the machine, it is put directly back into the same bag, brought up by the same person, sorted out and returned. So far, I have only lost ten T-shirts, seven pairs of shorts, two hats, and one dungaree shirt. How in hell they could get lost I’ll never know. Everyone else seems to get their clothes back. But not me. I think somebody hates me….
Yesterday afternoon we spent at least an hour discussing the advantages of staying in the Navy. I had it explained to me how much one could save, the medical benefits, the opportunity to retire at an early age with a large pension, etc. I was not impressed.
Lost another hour last night—I’d be willing to wager that on our return, we’ll have it arranged so that the hours will change during the day—that way they can get another hour’s work out of us. G.Q. again today—no warning this time, not even a book to read.
Played “Hannah the scrub-woman” last night with 7 ½ pairs of socks in a head wash basin. How I got 7 ½ pair of socks dirty is a complete mystery. But I swore I’d not send them to the laundry. At this moment, I am only wearing a dungaree shirt, because I only have two T-shirts left. Of course, there are always the three I folded my first day of indoctrination in Pre-Flight and have never worn. And I never will….
9 November 1955
Variety, they tell us, is the spice of life. Therefore I am writing on green paper instead of yellow.
As of this morning, we were 1837 miles west of Gibraltar and 1800 miles east of Norfolk. Either we’ve been chasing ourselves around in circles, or somebody’s widened the ocean. Still, I guess, 300 miles a day isn’t bad at that.
Somehow, last night, I went on a ghost rampage. Got two books on the subject from the library—one was quite interesting, but the other wasn’t very convincing. I went to bed wondering what it would be like to be on a haunted aircraft carrier.
The only near-psychic experience I’ve ever had, next to the time when I was quite small and saw God, was a time at the Little House. I remember it very distinctly.
My room had not yet been built, and I was sleeping in what later became the bathroom. It was late at night—how late I cannot say, since I had been asleep. Luckie’s scratching in the living room. I know I was awake. Someone was walking in the living room, very slowly, as if on tip-toe. I thought it was mom or dad. The steps were about five seconds apart. They moved from the living room (pausing even longer by my door) to the kitchen. I became frightened and whispered “Mom?…Dad?” And the steps stopped in the kitchen, then they started back for my room. By this time I was terrified, and said “Mom?…Dad?…Lucky?” The steps stopped again for a second then began again. Finally, I yelled “Help” several times and mom and dad came running. They found nothing and no one, and said I’d been dreaming. …I hadn’t. This was supposed to have been a journal of the Cruise of the Good Ship Ticonderoga, but one day differs so little from the next that it is difficult to find anything to write about.
G.Q. again today—they’ve taken to not announcing it, which makes it a lot more fun. There is one valve I have to shut off that takes a good sixty seconds to close. I dislike that one very much. There is also a small, vertical-dogged hatch (with individual bars previously described as opposed to the single lever which dogs the whole thing) leading to a closed vent room where there is a valve. By one of the dogs at the top of the hatch is a small hook, on the hatch itself. I invariably smash my finger between the hook and the dog. This I do not care for….
Broke down this afternoon and bought two new T-shirts (which should make someone very happy, since I probably won’t have them long); also bought a new towel—nothing is sacred around here—my last one was “borrowed” right from my rack.
I’m playing sort of teacher and father confessor to Nick. He wants to go to college when he gets out (three years!) and I’m helping him, I hope, by suggesting what he should read in preparation, and discussing them with him.
Went to a movie tonite for the first time since we started over. Prior to that, we were shown a propaganda film entitled “A Scrap of Paper,” intended to show us the importance of giving out no information whatsoever in the Med, and to leave all our private papers, even our drivers licenses and home address on board ship. Somewhere along the line someone crossed a few wires, because the film was made in about 1943, and its mor
al was to turn in any papers found on dead Japanese or in waste cans. Well, if we ever go to war with Japan again, I’ll be ready. When I was working at W.F. and John Barnes, I found a label written in Russian in a wastebasket—maybe I should have turned it in and perhaps prevent the third world war.
“Discussing” religion for the last half hour—as usual, nothing comes of it. Why can’t everyone see things logically—or is my logic wrong? I doubt it….
10 November 1955
God, what a day. Around here, we don’t do things gracefully—we go our own merry way with nothing to do but look at one another; and then the roof and walls fall in. Everyone and everything is on edge. 750 things have to be done this minute. Mr. Clower has five or six voluminous reports that have been lying around, gathering dust. But now they’ve got to be typed (eight copies—the most I can get on carbon copies is five—after that it’s all just a smudge). New mess cooks are lined up outside the window, waiting to check in; the guys they’re relieving are waiting to check out. Schnappauf, one of the MAAs, wants to change the jobs of ten or twenty others, giving the older guys the best vacant jobs. He wants the boards changed immediately, which necessitates standing on a chair, erasing names of those checking out, putting in the new, reshuffling jobs. Each new mess cook must have an index card filed, aside from having his name, rate, division, job, and date he reported to mess cooking on the board.
To top it all off, we have the Geneva Convention cards. Everyone must have one before setting foot on European soil. It is a small white card stating that you, ____, are a member of the United States Navy, and your serial number is ____. This is so in case you are captured by the Russians, who wouldn’t obey the rules of the Geneva Convention anyway, you show them the card and they’re only supposed to ask you your name, rate, and serial number. So we have 132 mess cooks. Over half of them don’t have G.C. cards. I’ve got to make them up. But Personnel, always tops in teamwork, doesn’t want to give me any. They don’t believe the mess cooks don’t have them. “Do you realize how many men we’ve got on this ship?” “That’s your problem—this is mine.” I should have said “Yes, I know how many men there are—and I’ve got to worry about almost 1/10 of them!” And so it goes; fight, argue, bicker, plead—call here, call there; run to Supply, to Personnel: “The ship’s MAA says that rack you assigned me is already taken, so they won’t sign my check-in sheet.” Call the MAA—explain patiently that that rack is now empty—that we will send him a correct list of all rack assignments as soon as possible. Back up to the MAA he goes—back again in ten minutes. “He still won’t sign it cause he says that rack is taken.” Several handfuls of hair later, the dust suddenly settles and there you stand, ready to scream if one more thing goes wrong; but all is calm, all is bright. Peace settles over the Commissary office; Andy (the PPO –Police Petty Officer) and Nick get out the chess board, and I reach for a pen and paper.
Lost another hour last night, and another tonite. I think they just don’t want us to get any sleep.
At G.Q. today, a drill was held in which yours truly participated. It consisted of the OBA’s (there being two in my repair party) sounding tanks. The first one was an oil tank, with oil so thick and black it would stick to mercury—16’4” of it. Each team of two came equipped with the metal tape measure I described previously. What the drill was supposed to prove, I can’t say, since when the metal weight hits the bottom of the tank it goes “plunk” and you can’t help but tell where the oil reached when you reel the tape back in. Surprisingly, almost everyone got exactly the same answer. Next we sounded a void (or air ballast) tank, which had all of three inches of water in it. Water is harder to detect on the metal than the oil was, but luckily it was oily water, so we were OK. We only missed it by 3″—or 150% error
Chop suey for supper, so naturally I’m hungry. Caught myself singing Silent Night today (as witness “all is calm, all is bright” on the previous page). This has got to stop….
11 November 1955
Mother’s birthday—the first time in 22 years I haven’t spoken to her (or in my earlier years, burbled). And in three more days I’ll be 22—I can hardly believe it.
Today’s “entry” will probably be quite short, since my mind is not exactly at its sharpest. Just returned from a movie (a different one for a change—they’ve shown the last one three times), which I’d seen before but nevertheless enjoyed.
The day itself was one of those vacuum (?) days, during which practically nothing happened. Quite a relief from yesterday. It being Friday, a below-decks inspection was held; as usual we worked like mad to get the office cleaned and, as usual, they didn’t even bother to look in. On the one brief trip topside, I found the weather much in character with the rest of the day—overcast skies, but not particularly gloomy; very nondescript waves.
The radios have begun picking up England and the semi-monotonous voices of the BBC. They would announce the end of the world with as much emotion as a weather forecast.
Returned the ghosts to the library and picked up a book containing all of Shakespeare’s comedies, and a book on the complete writings of Thucydides, the first real historian of Greece. It deals mostly with the Peloponisian War and is not at all as dull as it may sound. Have you ever seen photographs of the original manuscripts of great writers? No matter how bad the penmanship, they all are perfectly constructed—no grammatical errors (such as in the spelling of grammatical) no crossed out words—no hesitations, dashes, or underlined phrases. Then sometime look at my writing. Quite a difference
It’s odd to live in a world completely of men; it is just as bad as any woman’s world; just as petty, and just as much gossip. These are the men, cooks and mess cooks mostly, I work with. Mordeno, the baker, who is never without a cigarette and a coffee cup. He has a little boy’s face and a large paunch. He is completely impartial in that he hates everyone, and tears each of them to pieces, dissecting them among the others.
There is Allen Davis, a nice guy with beautiful blond hair—it fascinates me. Then there’s Frazier, the 17 year old who’s always in trouble—the one who cried when Mr. Clower scolded him. Schnappauf, the MAA, a good guy with little education who reminds me of my uncle Pete, though not near as tall; he plays Simon Legree to the mess cooks and has a terrible disposition; Coutre, the SK2 (storekeeper second class) in our office. From Chicago, he has erratic changes in disposition—one day he doesn’t have a care in the world, and the next muttering how he “hates this God-damned Navy!” Miller, a cook who works in the galleys and could pass for the original illustrated man—almost solid tattoos (which I consider about on the same level as painting oneself blue, like the ancient Celts). Everyone around here seems to have tattoos, each one more hideous than the others. Of all the idiotic things in the world to do—get drunk one night and go around for the rest of your life looking like an advertisement. I suppose to them it is a symbol of manhood—well, brother, they can have it!
Tomorrow is another inspection. I’m going to try to get out of it, if possible; if not, I’m ready. Let you know tomorrow. Right now, on with Shakespeare….
12 November 1955
The day started out on the wrong foot with the loss of still another hour. As a result, I forced myself awake (and believe me, it was a real battle) and glanced at my watch. Through the haze of my newly opened eyes and mind, the watch read 25 ‘til 6. Since I am the type who is rigidly alert at the first moment of awakening, I immediately remembered that we’d lost an hour during the night, thought it was 25 ‘til eight, and practically broke my neck trying to get down to the mess decks.
Fortunately, the one good thing about it was that I managed to miss standing the inspection. I type the list of those who have to stand it, and somehow I neglected to put down my own name. Good thing I did, too, because I’ve been working straight through since eight this morning (it is now 7 p.m.), minus an hour spent at G.Q.
Speaking of G.Q., they kept us busy every minute—we (the other OB and myself) were sent running around,
sounding tanks (measuring the depth or lack of liquid in a tank, described previously). Two were thick black gooey oil—26 feet of it in one tank—and the other two were supposedly void. One of these had roughly four inches of water, which is hard to measure on a metal tape, since it doesn’t cling like the oil does. Upon removing the valve on the other, air began rushing out in such volume and at such length that I supposed a ventilation fan were on inside it (what a fan would be doing in a closed tank I didn’t think of). I’d learned that if air came out that meant something else was in there with it. The size of those tanks must be enormous, for the air rushed out for a good five minutes. When we lowered the plumber into the small (3” diam.) opening, we found that this supposedly void tank had 18’7 ½ “ of water in it! I got a little shook, thinking we’d sprung a leak someplace, and envisioning us all standing on the flight deck singing “Nearer My God to Thee” as the Ti sinks slowly out from under our feet. Strump, the other OB, allayed my fears by telling me that these void tanks can be filled for ballast—if the ship is too heavily loaded on one side, the void tanks are filled on the other to prevent listing. These void tanks also serve as an outer protective hull around the ship, so that if she should be hit by a torpedo, it wouldn’t be fatal (we hope). Things started coming apart at the seams again this afternoon—troubles cascaded in and upon us with not quite the same intensity of a few days ago. This time, we reacted differently to the crisis—the worse things got, the less we seemed to care, and the sillier we got. Geneva Convention Card worries were on me again, and as I called different people to find out if they needed cards or not, and if so why, Botz (one of the cooks) enlivened matters by blowing a police whistle into the connecting office phone, scaring the wits out of whomever I was calling—I had to call one guy three times, cause he kept hanging up after the whistle.
