A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Tomorrow is Sunday—we replenish Monday. I suppose the only reason we’ve anchored is to save fuel. Now there is an example of clear and logical thinking. Oh, well, that is the way I keep house—it may be messy, but I like it that way….

  19 November 1955

  Dear Folks

  Here I am again—just take my “journal” as a continued letter—you’ll probably be the only ones who’ll ever read it anyway. Everything there is to say is said therein (hey, I like that). Till I see you, I send

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. You’ll probably get your Xmas presents next August.

  20 November 1955

  Here it is the witching hour again, and another grain of sand has been dropped onto the Desert of Eternity. As is usual about this time, I am hungry—a sandwich of dried bread and Spam did little to fill me up. Though I will probably never be able to taste anything again—at least not with the tip of my tongue, which has had all the taste buds scalded off. For lunch today, we had cocoa—while waiting for the chow line to open, suddenly great clouds of steam rolled around the turn in the passageway leading to the mess decks. It was a very wet steam, and I could feel it on my arms, even through my Blues. It also smelled deliciously like cocoa. A swab brigade was formed and rushed into the fog, returning shortly to report that a sea of cocoa was washing across the mess deck, having boiled out of the copper (the 45 gallon ones). I thought no more of it, and when the line filed past the cup racks, I took one and filled it with cocoa. The first thing I did upon sitting down was to take a big swig of cocoa, which differed from lava only in color. That was at ten this morning. It is now almost ten at night, and I have an annoying void-of-taste spot on the tip of my tongue. Today being Sunday, we were permitted to work a little less hurriedly than usual, and I got a chance to go and get a close-up view of Sardinia which, if it is an island, is an awfully big island. It seems to be entirely mountainous, with several mountains (my term for mountains being awfully large hills and on up) going half-way up and dropping suddenly off. It was a very cloudy day, with sheets of clouds rather than puffs—occasional holes in them let the sun leak through in long slender rays. The harbor, which this must be, as we are almost completely surrounded by land, contains a good portion of the United States Mediterranean fleet. We found the Lake Champlain again, and boats have been running back and forth between us and all the other ships all day. The crew of the Lake Champlain wear identification tags on their left sleeve, near the shoulder. They look quite nice—wish we had them.

  Taps again. Because of replenishment tomorrow (which promises to be a madhouse) reveille is at 0400—what an ungodly hour!

  21 November 1955

  Several entries in this journal have begun “Nothing new today,” or words to that effect—I would rather have every day like that than one like tonight!

  The movie on the mess deck was “Houdini”—the story of the great magician. I was sitting crouched on my chair, the better to see over the heads of the guys in front of me. About two hundred other guys were seated on benches, chairs, or the hard steel deck, or standing in the back. The movie was approaching its climax when suddenly the squawk box blared: “Man Overboard—Port Side!” The ship swung so sharply and suddenly to starboard that benches and chairs toppled and everyone was forced to the side of the hall. The lights came on almost immediately, and everyone began filing from the room, with much confusion. I saw one of the cooks and asked where we were to go—he said we had to muster on the hanger deck; that is the only way they could tell who it was who had gone over.

  The scene on the hanger deck was one of mass confusion. Many planes were parked about, and guys were running every which way, getting to their stations. A jet was on the number two elevator, evidently just being lowered—I noticed it was a very dark night—the kind of blackness found only on the ocean. An officer came running across the hanger deck, yelling for guys to push the jet off the elevator and onto the hanger deck.

  Since only cooks muster on the hanger deck and mess cooks muster on the mess decks, I went below. A few moments later Nick came down, looking very pale. I asked him what was wrong. He said “You can’t walk on the flight deck without slipping.”

  A jet, coming in for a landing, had missed all the barriers and smashed into a group of guys preparing to launch planes—no one knew how many were dead, or how many had been thrown over the side. The bodies were scattered all over the flight deck, all dismembered. They’d started bringing them down on the elevator just after I’d left.

  No one knows yet how many are gone—we’re missing two mess cooks (guys sometimes go up to the flight deck to watch operations). Six bodies were brought down, with God knows how many injured.

  Sick Bay has been calling for blood donors; there is blood in the passageways leading to Sick Bay. As I am writing this, a call came to the Commissary Office to open the Garbage Disposal room so that the stretchers can be washed. The Reefers (Refrigeration Rooms) have been opened to receive the bodies. As the muster was called, I looked at the faces around me—all silent, some very pale; a few smoked cigarettes, others looked around as each name was called, wondering who would not answer. Something I will not soon forget.

  Rumors and scuttlebutt will sweep the ship for days, but we will never be told how many went over the side, or how many more died. It may be in the stateside papers, but I doubt it.

  And just a few moments ago, the squawk box announced, as it has hundreds of times during flight operations: “The smoking lamp is out while fueling aircraft.”

  The doctor was just in, asking for keys to the Reefers again—“We found some more gear belonging to one of them—we don’t know which one.” A destroyer just came alongside with the pilot of the plane—other destroyers are busy searching for others. Let’s hope they are all found.

  I could go on, but somehow I just don’t feel like it….

  Another call just came for O-blood; at least thirty guys are standing in line, from seamen to Commanders. People can be marvelous beings….

  27 November 1955

  The Big Ti anchored in Cannes harbor at about 0900 the morning of the 22nd. I spent most of the day in the office, straightening things up for my 4 day absence.

  If it were not for emptying the wastebasket, I would seldom see anything. On my pilgrimage to the incinerator, I caught a glimpse of a fair day, somewhat cloudy, and cold enough to destroy any illusions about Cannes being a year-round resort similar to Florida. The city itself wound along the narrow band of land between the mountains and the sea, and even from a distance it looked quite wealthy.

  About four that afternoon, I quit work, went to the compartment, packed all my clothes, and took a shower. At six thirty all of us going to Paris met on the quarterdeck. It couldn’t be called a muster, since everyone just milled around waiting for the boat. I made good use of this extra time by running below decks at least three times for forgotten items, such as my peacoat, socks and ticket.

  Thirty two of us, including six officers in civilian clothes, got into one of the liberty boats (much to the displeasure of those waiting in line to go on liberty), and rode the half mile to shore. We landed at the head of Cannes’ one long pier, illuminated by rows of neon lights and lined by small yachts belonging to Cannes’ wealthy summer inhabitants.

  Some small boys were playing tag near a group of dingy house trailers half way up the dock. They were exactly the same as boys everywhere, except that they wore short pants, longer hair, and shouted in French instead of English. An American Express bus was waiting for us. At seven ten, after waiting for a Commander from the Ti and three sailors from our shadow destroyer, we got going.

  Cannes struck me as being an extremely wealthy city—the stores offered things found in only the best shops in America; were it not for the slightly narrow streets and dim-lighted foreign cars, it could easily have been mistaken for any city in America.

  The railway station is a sprawling, cold building without restrooms (which always seem to be
lacking in Europe whenever they’re needed). There wasn’t even a waiting room—just the one, large room, partly divided off into a baggage room at the far end. The only place to sit was on round table-like things near the ticket windows. The whole effect was that of the movies I’ve seen of the betting windows at race tracks. All along the walls were posters in French to the effect that when traveling, one should go by train.

  We were introduced to our guide, a short man in a beret, who continually smoked a pipe, which he used as a baton when emphasizing points. At eight forty-five we shuffled through the one narrow gate, being eyed suspiciously by the “controller” and counted like sheep.

  For some reason, the French feel it necessary to cover not only the waiting platforms but the entire train, though all sides but that of the station may be open to the elements.

  Fruit and soft drinks, among them one called “Pschitt” were available on the platform, with Coca Cola selling for about twenty cents. European coke bottles are of pale glass, and not marked on the bottoms as are their U.S. cousins.

  At one end of the platform, to our left, was a tunnel leading beneath the city, from which the trains emerged. A newsstand was situated at the other, selling French and American magazines. I was amused at a batch of French comic books. They seem to go in for westerns in a big way. One of them was called “Le Petit Sheriff”—a sort of French “Bobby Benson of the B-Bar-B.” Another had the French version of a cowboy on its cover. He was riding an oddly distorted horse; behind him was what was supposed to be a ranch house, but more closely resembled a Swiss Chalet—and behind it was a simple, flat-topped mountain.

  I bought an American magazine to read on the train and, while reading an article entitled “Should Honeymoons be Banned?” (conclusion—No) I ran into Bob Schmahl, a former mess cook, and two of his buddies—Roger Riso, from Utah, and Jim Bessette, from Aurora Illinois. Bob was carrying a box of pastries he’d bought across the street from the station; Roge was too busy eyeing all the passing women to be carrying anything. Jim and I were trying to find who, if anyone, we knew in common, and reassuring each other that there really was such a place as Illinois. The sound of a train coming through the tunnel sent everybody jostling to the edge of the platform. It turned out to be a false alarm in the form of a single engine.

  French engines, like everything in France, resemble the American enough to be recognizable, but are different enough so that you know they aren’t. The two major differences are a complete mystery to me, as to the reason behind them. First are the two long heavy-looking shields, running the entire length of the boiler section. This gives it the impression that it is either trying to hide something, or from something. The second is the lack of smokestacks, which are missing only on diesel and electric trains in America. The result is that the smoke boils out of the engine and falls directly back on the train, wrapping it in a continual fog and spreading a thick layer of soot over everything if you are foolish enough to open a window.

  Soon another engine appeared, this time pulling our train. Even reality didn’t quite spoil the expectancy or the magic of seeing the sign by the waiting room door saying “Paris—Arivee 845.”

  From the outside, French railway cars also resemble ours—entrances at either end. Once inside, the resemblance ends—a corridor runs along the right side of the coach; enclosed compartments take up the rest of the space. Each compartment seats—and, in the case of couchettes, sleeps—six. Entrance to each compartment is through a sliding door, half glass and half wood, flanked by two narrow windows. Inside, two full-width seats face one another across a very narrow aisle.

  The seats are covered in a slightly coarse material about the color of dark burlap. The walls and paneling are of brown stained wood—the ceiling is painted white, and covers the entire width of the car—the space over the outer corridor is used for baggage. All the windows have shades, and a three-bulbed overhead fixture furnishes light. Arm rests can be lowered out of the backs of the seats, dividing them into six separate chairs. Directly above the seats is a paneling of green wood, with mirrors and photographs of European scenery. In the couchettes, these pull down to make the second of three tier beds. The third tier was already lowered when we came aboard. Fortunately, Europe has many mountains, for it takes a very agile person to climb up into the top rack. Jim, Roge, Bob and I were joined by a Photographer First Class who was serving on the shore patrol, and a Gunner’s Mate Second Class. We soon found out that the compartment idea is not so much for privacy as for warmth. It got colder and colder, and we never did figure out how to operate the thermostat (a long handle on a silver half-moon; one end of which said “ferme” and the other “chauld” or something like that).

  As for privacy, there can be none. Six perfect strangers may be thrown in together and have to sleep together—therefore, they seldom remove their clothes while sleeping.

  Bob opened his pastries soon after the train started and discovered that one piece of cake had been baked with a liberal amount of rum, which made him very happy, and the rest of us sad, for that was the only piece of that kind he had.

  I read my magazine, or tried to, while everyone discussed the accident of the night before. Jim was trying to finish a pocket novel and had reached the climax, where the hero and heroine are obligingly left alone by 10,000 Amazon headhunters long enough to make passionate love. Actually, according to Jim, who kept us informed, there were only 6,000 Indians left after ten pages of fighting. He was bitterly disappointed when everyone died in the end, including the hero’s horse.

  About ten thirty or so, Navy habit got the best of us and we decided to go to bed. Oh, what fun that was—six guys in a space of 2x6 feet, trying to undress at the same time. I clambered up to a top rack and undressed there, which was no mean accomplishment in itself. The “sheets” were like large canvas handkerchiefs—the pillows were filled with straw, and the blankets were of exactly the same material we use as mats beneath our rugs. But it was so cold it didn’t matter. The seats and bunks are 6’ long—Bob is 6’1,” which made it a little inconvenient for him.

  Our “guide” woke us about seven thirty the next morning, and the undressing process was repeated in reverse. There are toilets at either end of each car, but are not specified for men or women—first come, first serve. The commode looks directly down on the railroad tracks, which may save the railway company some money, but most certainly discourages undercarriage hitchhikers.

  The sound of the wheels over the tracks was like a wild, prolonged drum solo, with an intriguing detached rhythm.

  The day itself, when we had rubbed enough steam off the windows, was pensive, if not downright glum—low dirty-grey clouds covered the sky as far as the eye could see, and the gingerbread, completely un-American houses slipped by silently, like solidified shadows. Once or twice I caught sight of the type of French farms you read about in fourth grade—a square of buildings with the farmyard in the center. We arrived in Paris without fanfare and without actually realizing it—the houses just blended into one another and became streets and then the train was in the rail yards, sighing to a stop in the high-arched corrugated, iron-domed railway station. Paris.

  A bus was waiting from American Express to take us to the hotel. The streets in Paris range from very wide to so narrow two pedestrians and a car cannot be on it at the same time. No horns—they’re outlawed—few traffic lights—the ones there are either on a two-foot high pole in the center of the street, or wafer-thin versions of American lights. And above all, there are no rules—you do not drive a car in Paris: you maneuver. It reminded me of a popular ride in American amusement parks where you just sit in little cars and steer, seeing how many other cars you can hit. Surprisingly few American cars—I guess they are too big to survive long in Paris traffic. Oh, and no gas stations as such—just two gas pumps on the curb.

  The style of buildings is old, 1890ish and a bit heavy. They apparently are very fond of buildings with rounded-corners, and as most of the streets shoot off
at odd angles, you see them often. And almost every building, no matter how big, has some sort of slanted roof. No matter how new the building, it manages somehow to look old—their version of “modern” is largely of the neo-modern style favored in America in the mid-to-late 30s.

  On the way to the hotel, we passed Bastille (pronounced Bahs-TEE) square, where stood the prison so often mentioned whenever France is the setting for an 18th century novel. Not a stone remains of the building—a tall column stands in the square, engraved with the names of the 1,305 people beheaded on that same spot by liberty loving revolutionaries.

  Drove past Marshall Foch Avenue—at the end of which, on top of a gentle rising hill, stands the Arch de Triumph. The same street, on the other side of the Arch, becomes the Champs Elysees (?).

  We were now entering Monmartre—the naughtiest part of naughty Paris—but you’d never know it—shops, stores, banks like anywhere else. The gates of St. Mark’s and St. Denis’ stand guard over a now-wall-less city; two of the three remaining gates to the ancient City. At one time there were 14. They look vaguely like narrow Arches de Triumph.

  A left turn on Rue Faubourg; on one corner an advertisement for pizza and another for a movie “Le Cusine d’Angeles” (an American picture originally called “My Three Angels”). Further down the same street, another movie was playing something I was unable to translate, but had a billboard with an unmistakable Rhett Butler and Scarlet O’Hara. All this time, streets were coming and going aimlessly.

  And then at last came the Gran Hotel Suisse (Swiss); a four story building of yellow plaster, at the top crotch of a Y of streets. Down farther, in the opposite direction to where we’ve come from was a large sign underlined with a red arrow, saying “Follies Bergere.”

  After unloading all our gear and stacking it in the lobby, we went directly into the dining room to the right of the desk for breakfast. The Europeans waste an awful lot of plates—they serve everything in courses. The main course for breakfast (and the only one I can recall) was ham and eggs—the ham placed directly in the center of the egg, so that you had to eat them together. The French eat an awful lot of bread, which is really quite good; it has real body to it and a crisp, thick crust. It is roughly oval, and cut at an angle, instead of straight, like we do.