A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  As part of the “morale building” program, a special board has been set up to issue each division a box of games—ours included two chess sets, one cribbage board, five decks of playing cards, and a game of Parchese—such fun. This same board has also suggested skeet-shooting off the flight deck. Hmmmm….

  13 November 1955

  Sunday, though you’d never know it; the major blessing of the day was that I got to sleep until nine o’clock. At that time, Gibraltar was only 167 miles away. We dock tomorrow morning. I hope to be able to get some photographs as we approach, if it is light enough.

  The main social events of the day were the official opening of radio station WTIC (original, isn’t it?) and the evening’s Smoker. The radio station will operate from and for the ship all the time we’re in the Mediterranean area, playing Armed Forces Radio Service recordings of programs heard back home. I saw them in the library the other day—stacks of them all over and around the piano—everything from Judy Canova to interlude music.

  While on the flight deck this afternoon, taking advantage of the clear but cool weather to take some pictures, someone had a little portable radio tuned in to some Spanish station—the music would not go over in the U.S., I’m afraid.

  Let’s hope our mail has reached Gibraltar before us—they announced today that all mail being sent from the ship had to be in by 2400 this evening—I saw guys going up to the box with fistfuls of letters—there have been more letters written aboard this ship in the last ten days than in the last ten weeks!

  Not being as expert at connected and logical step-by-step thought as I should be, I neglected to mention the Smoker. We used to have them once a month in Pensacola—we were told we would attend them , and we would enjoy ourselves—or else! It consists of several boxing and wrestling matches, which I’ve always classed in enjoyment on the same scale as flower arrangement, and the nocturnal habits of the double-breasted Blue jay.

  So tomorrow I’ll be twenty-two years old. It is most likely that I won’t have time to write an “entry,” but I’ll catch up the next day, when we leave Gibraltar for Cannes.

  Spent the evening playing Parchese and blackjack, with a little double solitaire thrown in.

  Fred Kobel, another X-NavCad in my Pre-Flight class and now aboard the good old Big Ti has relatives in Switzerland whom he was planning to visit. We found out yesterday, however, that no one is permitted to wear a uniform in Switzerland (or Spain, or Sweden—who’d want to go to Sweden anyhow?). Let’s hope they make an exception in Spain, since we’re going to Barcelona, and it would be nice to get off the ship. The Smoker has just let out, and the participants are coming down for steaks, which reminds me—I’m hungry.

  Tomorrow Columbus arrives in Europe….

  13 November 1955

  Dear Folks

  Second “letter”—the mail is leaving the ship as soon as we hit port tomorrow. God, they must have at least two freight cars full of it by now. Sure will seem good to get a letter—the only one I get mail from is me.

  You’ll probably be getting all six of these letters (or four or five or however many there are) on the same day—that is why I’ve numbered them on the upper left hand corner of the envelopes. I was going to number them on the upper right hand corner, but I didn’t figure you’d care to look under the stamps for them.

  One of the main reasons why I wrote the first letter was to ask dad how much I should sell my other camera for? I’ll hate to lose it, but I need the money. Four guys want it.

  So tomorrow is the big day, in more ways than one—my 22nd birthday (second year away from home) and the first glimpse of Europe. Well, anything else that comes up, or has come up, can be found in my “journal.” —Till I see you (Don’t forget about New York!) I am

  As Always

  Roge

  P.S. Mom, I need stamps—tons of them—only 3 cent and 1 cent, and even some heavier ones if necessary—no, anything larger I mail, I’ll have to mail ashore.

  15 November 1955

  At 7:30 in the morning, the sun had not yet risen—the silhouette of low hills and sudden huge mountains was my first glimpse of Europe. During the complete darkness just an hour or so before, we had passed through the Strait of Gibraltar and were now in the Mediterranean sea, launching planes and circling slowly until time to dock on the inward side of the peninsula. Most of the crew were lined up at the various hanger bays and catwalks, waiting for the sun to come up. Following astern of us and slightly to starboard, a sleek grey destroyer moved silently, flashing messages from her bridge. To one side is Spain—to the other, Africa. The sun rose slowly behind the clouds, saturating them with red and orange. On the horizon, directly in the center of the growing dawn, a ship trailed black smoke across the sky.

  The effect could not have been greater if it had been carefully planned and staged. Slowly, as the ship turned, the view from the hanger bay, like a huge picture window, showed the hills and mountains as the day spread over them—Toward Africa, low dark hills rolled away like a carpet into the interior. Spain provided mountains that looked as though they’d been painted; there was just enough mist and haze to remind me of a Shangri-La, or Bali Hai—some land that should be but wasn’t.

  And then came Gibraltar—not the face we are familiar with from photographs and life insurance policies, for we were on the other side—but she stood out, almost vivid against the softer surroundings. As it became lighter, the yellow of the rocks changed to a light grey, and the city could be more clearly seen, cluttered at the foot of the mountain, as though it had tumbled down from the top. Along the top of the ridge could be seen the miniature buildings and tiny radio towers. High over the Rock was a large cloud; the sun was just beginning to cap it with brilliant silver. A fine birthday present. We docked beside one of the few piers in Europe large enough to accommodate us. This one was at least a mile long, for docked directly ahead of us were two British carriers, squat weird-looking things. Aircraft carriers are not supposed to be things of beauty, but beside those British ships, the Ti looked as graceful as a gazelle and as strong as an elephant.

  These British carriers are, as I said, squat, and give the appearance of being smaller than they are. Where the Ti’s shape, from head on, is like a gently curving “V” the British carriers look as though they’d started out to be that way, and then were pared off near the flight deck. No forward gun tubs, no catwalks—nothing on the exterior—she’s all enclosed. I was amazed at her armament—unless she had some guns hidden somewhere, she’d have trouble warding off a bunch of mosquitoes. Almost no island; not at all like the Ti’s, which looks about six stories high. In fact, I was never at an angle where I could even see the island—only some radar antennae. No hanger bays—not even a hanger deck that could be seen—no outside elevators. Perhaps the lack of a hanger deck is one thing that makes her look so squat. And the British sailors still sleep in hammocks! I saw this through a porthole (another commodity that went out with World War I on American ships).

  I got to go ashore about 3:30 that afternoon. Either they have awfully low docks or we have an unusually high ship—the gangway was so steep it was almost a ladder.

  Gibraltar is a fortress—of that it makes no efforts to hide—everywhere along the dock are thick stones and heavy gates. The Rock itself is honeycombed to such a degree that it’s practically hollow. In the pre-atom era, it was without a doubt impregnable. And it is also very, very British—the defenses, at least—the city is a mixture of British, Spanish, and God Knows What.

  The dock is made of cobblestones, it appears, and must be quite old since the roadway is rutted and worn. More gates, more stone—stone, stone, stone. And then you reach the end of the dock and the end of the naval base, and there is the city, winding away along the base of the mountain in narrow, solidly-lined streets. Most of the buildings are a brownish-orange. The sidewalks are either two to three feet wide, or nonexistent. This make the streets more like canyons—the cars are small with very few American models, though som
e of them are really beautiful. The people seem to have as much right in the streets as the cars, and no one appears to mind much. The “downtown” is like no American downtown I have ever some seen—same narrow streets—one or two side spaces where several streets join. When they do meet, it is as if it were purely by accident, and they go meandering their merry ways, often as not ending in—not in a dead end; just ending. All shops—few restaurants, several bars, all of which line the streets with open shutters (few have windows, where you can rest your elbow on the windowsills and reach out and touch almost anyone in the street).

  Approximately ¼ of all the shops are strictly for the tourist and sailor trade, selling everything from cigarette lighters (3 for $1) to three-foot-high dolls that walk, talk, and do everything but breathe ($8) to 400-day clocks ($8). What fascinated me most was the oriental influence—in every single one of these shops, silk Kimonos, ivory and jade were standard items. One jade statue of a Chinese lady, about 5” tall, sells for L27 ($75). That’s asking price—I don’t know what it would be if you argued them down. Stopped at a bank (or the Gibraltar equivalent thereof) and exchanged $5 for Gibraltar currency.

  Gad, it’s taps—more tomorrow.

  16 November 1955

  To continue—I got, for my five American dollars, one pound (roughly $2.80), a couple of half crowns ($.38 each) and assorted shillings and pence.

  This bank was located on what might be called the town square—the other wide spot mentioned previously was flanked by Government buildings—the intersection of five streets. At one corner was a Lipton store; sort of a grocery, looking like it belonged to the Lipton Tea family. Across the street is the Cathedral—the only catholic church we saw there; of that type of architecture that is attractive without distinction and of an indeterminate age.

  17 November 1955

  Another of those wasted days that, when it’s done, you wonder where it has gone. There isn’t even much of a memory of it, unless you try hard to remember. And even then it is blended into a hundred other days just like it.

  Yesterday we worked straight through from 0730 until almost 2300 (11:00 p.m.). Mr. Clower is very generous about taking on work belonging to other divisions—no job is too great for him; and we, as his underlings, have the privilege of doing it all for him.

  One thing is for certain—I should be quite masterful at the typewriter when I get out—if I have any fingers left.

  I hate days like these—trying to think is like running a race in a sea of tar. The mind is at once a blank and crammed with thought; there is nothing to do or say, and yet there are a dozen things which should be done immediately.

  The only saving feature of the day was mail call—it was flown in from someplace—either Gibraltar or Cannes. Still no packages, though. Supposedly there are several somewhere between here and home; cookies and things. Maybe I’ll get them by Xmas.

  An illustration of my laziness—or better still, lethargy—are the postcards lying in my bottom desk drawer; they’re all written—I just haven’t gotten around to putting a stamp on them yet.

  Had terrifically stormy seas yesterday—the ship bobbed and jolted and moaned—I loved it. About noon I took a small break and went up as close to the foc’sle as I could get—we had been warned to keep away from the catwalks and the foc’sle due to heavy seas. I tried to get to the foc’sle anyway, but all the hatches leading to it had been secured. So I found a spot just below the catwalks, where a ladder leads up to them from a platform, and stood there watching and listening to the waves smash and roar against the ship. Went back to the fantail to watch our little destroyer-shadow plowing through the waves—her whole bow would rise out of the water, like a rearing horse; then she’d smash down into the trough, and only her top masts and a bit of the bridge could be seen. I’d love to have been on her. Several guys (mostly squadron personnel unused to sea life) were violently ill. How anybody can possibly get seasick I’ll never know. After finally getting to bed and asleep, I was nearly bounced out of the rack a couple times, but this morning there was almost no noticeable movement (though the sea was still choppy).

  Been debating on whether I can afford the trip to Paris from Cannes. It costs $55, which is wonderfully cheap, considering, but still quite a bit when compared with what I have on hand. I’ve decided not to draw another cent on paydays until what I have is gone; I learned that if you don’t go to get paid, they keep it on the books for you—maybe that way I’ll be able to save some money. For the past few days I’ve been thinking of what I’ll do when I get discharged—I’m going to sell everything the Navy ever gave me, aside from a few momentos, hop in my car, and roar away to New York as fast as I can. After a week there (maybe only four days), I’ll head for home.

  Actually, if you wish to overlook the nasty incidentals which have comprised most of my career, my Navy life hasn’t been bad—I’ve traveled from Boston to Miami; from New York to Los Angeles, and from Rockford to Gibraltar, with more to come.

  The jets on this thing evidently burn kerosene—reminds me of the kerosene stove we had in the trailer when I was very small. Certain smells and tastes bring back complete memories or, more maddeningly, sensations I recognize but cannot place.

  And so to letter-writing….

  18 November 1955

  One of the traits of a good writer seems to be that he can find something interesting, if not fascinating, from the least little thing—every event is fraught with juicy literary tidbits. But Boswell and Pepys never served aboard a United States aircraft carrier. Their days were also apparently 30 hours long, for they had the opportunity to write lengthy passages every day. On board an aircraft carrier, however, life becomes as mechanical as the engines which drive us through the water, and as unvarying as the radar scanners which endlessly search the sky.

  Sometime between yesterday and now we have been joined by a sister carrier, the Lake Champlain, and four destroyers. The carrier was running directly alongside us, at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile. She has a destroyer shadow too; looks very impressive to see all those ships—I took some pictures and only hope they turn out.

  Late this afternoon, the destroyers started coming alongside us (one at a time) for refueling. As one pulled alongside—they would come to within 30 feet—and the lines were thrown across to her, our band played “Hi Neighbor”—corny, but effective. I went up on the island to take pictures—the wind was blowing wild and cold; the sea was a lot calmer than the last two days but still rough. Off at about a mile and a half now, and ahead, the Lake Champlain flashed messages to us. The destroyer beside us looked very small—the top of her highest mast only reaching level with our bridge. The sun was setting in a cloudy sky without much glory, but gave a nice shade-and-light effect on our trailing destroyer. The one being refueled was completely in the carrier’s shadow, fuel lines and ropes between the two looking as fragile as string—in a way the destroyer looked like a small insect caught in the web of a large spider.

  We anchor tomorrow for replenishment from another ship—that ought to liven things up—we’ll be of the coast of Italy; Sardinia or someplace.

  I don’t know if Boswell or Pepys ever took a shower, but I’ve got to, and now.

  “And so to bed….”

  19 November 1955

  Anchored today off the coast of Sardinia which, if my knowledge of geography serves me right, is an island about an inch or two off Spain and France, on a large map.

  Only got topside for a moment today, and practically froze even in that length of time. Sunny Mediterranean—HAH. The occasion for my going out into the harsh elements was to run a breakfast inspection sheet up to the Officer of the Day. Since he is located on the bridge, it gave me a chance to get my first look at the brain-center of the carrier. It is an angular, heavily-shielded room; or rather two rooms. The first one, furthest forward, is where the Captain and/or Admiral and/or OOD stand. From here, the ocean spreads out in front endlessly—the flight deck is far below and off to the lef
t—almost the sensation of flying. This room is quite large and rather angular—like half of a twelve-sided sphere. The windows which run around it are set in thick protective steel, and have large shutters with only small viewing-slits which can be lowered in case of attack. Behind this first room is the steering room. The wheel which turns the carrier is about two and a half feet in diameter—a metal vertical disc rimmed in wood. Beside it are the small but complex machines and indicators which convey directions to the engine rooms. All quite simple, and yet very complicated. The days of the bearded sailor standing on the quarterdeck amidst raging seas, struggling with a huge, many spoked wheel are over. The driver of the U.S.S. Ticonderoga was a young kid in Blues, not over nineteen. Ah, this brave, new world….

  Today I also did what may be considered a foolish thing, but I’m sure I shall never regret it—I signed up for a four day tour to Paris, leaving from Cannes, France the evening of the 22nd. The cost, as I believe was mentioned yesterday, is only $69, which is unbelievably low. But considering that I have only $100 to my name, representing almost two years in the service, it is quite a large sum. Also the fact that Christmas is almost here.

  As for Christmas, I like to pretend that there is no Christmas at all this year (for me, there isn’t). But I’ve got to buy presents and send them home, even if they don’t get there until February.

  I meant to mention it yesterday, but didn’t have time—yesterday morning I had the most unusual sensation—it lasted from about eight o’clock to five after 10—what those who are not confirmed skeptics might call a premonition. Of what I do not know and cannot guess. That would be about 2 a.m. back home in the States. Probably it was nothing, but it was an odd feeling