by Dorien Grey
Roge
28 November 1955
Ah, I fear this “journal” is falling apart at the seams—I have less and less time and more and more things to write about. Two more days in Cannes and then we’re off for Genoa (arrive 6 December, leave 12 December).
Just spent three and a half hours arguing various things, beginning with the difference between imagination and faith. I was holding down the corner with the opinion that they are, if not the same thing, at least interrelated, and that one could not have faith without imagination. As usual, I was in the distinct minority, with Nick, Coutre, and Chief Sewell against me.
As is inevitable in any argument dealing with intangibles, religion was soon dragged into the picture, and I played the role of Martin Luther to their Inquisition. The chief soon gave up in disgust, Coutre refused to enter the debate on the grounds of the fifth amendment, and Nick and I were left alone on the field.
“In other words, you don’t believe in God.” This statement is also inevitable.
“Of course I do. But I cannot and I will not accept such a petty and restricted God. My God does not have five fingers on each hand, and does not give a tinkers dam whether we go out and steal an apple or not.”
“Oh, he’s one of those green things from Mars with tentacles and everything.”
“No, I never said that. He has no shape or form. He does not sit Somewhere and watch us with eyes and judge our little quarrels.”
Things along in here usually go from bad to worse, and I roll out my heavy artillery—almost a speech by this time. It is the one dealing with our worshipping of carven images and Thomas Edison’s invention of the light bulb.
To me, Man is supreme—and a part of God, not a dirty shoe. I despise man’s constant degrading of himself— “Forgive us sinners, oh God….” I do not believe in Adam and Eve as two individual people; I do not believe in or have any claim to any Original Sin. If Christ did not die in vain, at least he died futilely. If He were to appear again on Earth, he would no doubt be assassinated by some religious fanatic, most likely a Catholic, for theirs is the strongest religion.
The bible is a wonderful book, contains the fundamentals of our lives. But it was written by human beings who, being perhaps overly zealous, padded reality, as humans are prone to do. Therefore, while it’s basic principles should be followed, it should not be taken word for word.
The church, as such, is no longer necessary. Each church preaches brotherly love, yet few practice it. You can come to my church any time you want—but I can’t go to your church.
Man spends too much time on his knees—he should learn to stand.
Such is the way I see it. It frustrates me that others cannot see it the way I do. Using sheer, utter, step by step logic, they should be able to understand.
Here, for what it is worth, is my basic philosophy on everything, including religion.
Man, much as he hates to admit it, is an animal; no more and no less than a dog or a monkey. The only difference being that he has an intelligence and thumbs enabling him to build a civilization.
In all animals there is one basic and inescapable law—the law of preservation of the race. Man is no exception. When men-things evolved into Man, the things they did not know far outnumbered the known. Therefore, whatever they did not know, they feared. We still do. So gods were invented—good gods, evil gods, big ones, little one. Anything that went wrong was blamed on the gods, and good fortune was a direct blessing from a deity. But things got a little out of hand. The Babylonians, for instance, believed that when they died (Death, as man became more civilized, became more fearsome) they went to a long, misty grey corridor. There they sat—for eternity. This, obviously, did not go over too well with the general population. So they lived as recklessly and as wildly as possible, to make up for the eternity they faced.
The Babylonians did not last very long. As civilization advanced, an afterlife was assured the wealthy and powerful. The common herd were no better than the oxen who carried their water.
But soon, even the peons and slaves wanted to have an afterlife. About this time, though it had been seeping in slowly for ages, Man also developed a conscience. He began to realize that he was something special. Men began to set down rules for living.
And then came a man named Jesus. He was out of place, a mutant; a man so far ahead of his time that the world had only begun to imagine such a thing as he possessed. Perhaps he did not fully realize the gift he had. He went about the people, teaching and healing. He was an unknown and was feared. Man, being still largely animal by nature, took the animal’s way of ridding itself of this danger. And so Christ was crucified up on a cross.
“Thou shalt have no craven idols.” So Man fell to his knees before a wooden cross, which is no less a symbol of their God than the fat, bull-faced statues of Baal.
The church came into being as a guide, a sort of police force. Its word was the watered down preachings of Jesus—watered by ignorance, translations, and individuals. It was the pot in which a redwood is planted.
And the tree grew, in spite of malnutrition—even the weak teachings contained the strong basic food it needed. It soon grew to a size where it cramped and choked itself. With Martin Luther, the pot cracked, and pieces fell away, but the tree was still contained.
And so it is today. The wonder and marvel that is Mankind is stunted and distorted upon itself. It is still growing. All it needs is someone to untangle the roots. Someone, someday, may come. And Man can lift the head he has had hidden in his hands for the past 2,000 years.
28 November 1955
Dear Folks
Just a quick line to say anything I’ve missed in the “Journal.” Haven’t had a chance to write about Paris yet—haven’t even finished the one on Gibraltar, as far as that goes. I just don’t have enough time.
Mailed a batch of postcards today, from both Paris and Gibraltar. Think I’ll mail what I have of the Gibraltar story written sent home. Hope you open these letters in sequence—did you note the numbers? Been getting occasional letters (in batches of three or four), which are very welcome. Write soon and often!!!
Dad, I was looking at some 8x56 binoculars; they had some 10x50 but the guy said they were so powerful you have to have a tripod to set them on, or they’ll shake all over. Answer right away if this is what you’d like.
Got Aunt Thyra’s cookies on the night I got back from Paris and they were gone the next day. Tell her thanks for me, as I already did on the card.
Damn, there it is taps again. See what I mean; you just can’t win in this racket.
Glad you liked the dress, mom. I was wondering if you would. I know I liked it.
For some reason I’m very tired tonight. I guess arguing takes a lot out of you. Don’t mind my occasional rampages in the journal. Write soon and often. Till then, I’ll be sending
Much Love
Roge
P.S. It is now 10:05 p.m., 28. Mail goes out at 12:00. How long did it take you to get this?
29 November 1955
Dear Folks
As you can see by the new stationary , I finally got my package—thank you much. I enjoyed and can use everything, including the harmonica. I’m planning on giving a concert soon. The handkerchiefs will put an end to my sniffling and running madly to the head for a piece of toilet paper when I have to blow my nose.
The stationary, I fear, came out second best in the battle of the U.S. Mail. The box was unrecognizable as such, but aside from being wrinkled and somehow slightly water stained, it will do very nicely. Mom and I have many similar tastes.
Speaking of taste, you must learn how to make Bouliabaise (horrible spelling)—anyway it’s like potato soup. The French have it all the time.
Haven’t been ashore at all in Cannes—loaned out my remaining 4,000 Francs, so I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. It’s just as well, I suppose—I was thinking of going over tonite, but I just would have spent it all.
Just went topside to see if they sti
ll were selling American magazines—several weeks old. They weren’t, but there are about forty mail sacks; probably all packages, but I hope there’s some regular mail, and some of it is for me.
Been stuffing myself all day with bread—yesterday I happened to be in the Bake Shop and saw some of the guys playing football with a batch of leftover dough. I told them that next time they had any left over, I’d like it if they just plopped it in the oven, as is, and gave it to me. So today they came over with my own personal loaf of bread, divided into four parts like a pan of Parker house rolls. So I’ve been eating. And eating. I’ve got one section to go, then will start on the apricots.
Haven’t heard yet from the insurance company about my car. If no word comes in this mail, I’ll send them another. Of course, they can ignore that, too, and there’d be nothing I could do about it.
A couple hours have gone by, during which time I’ve been busy cutting stencils for replenishment—what goods go where, etc. Also, we’ve had mail call, and I got four very welcome letters, asking me why don’t I write; that you haven’t heard a word from me and that you wondered if my letters could be mailed without stamps. Nothing quite like the rapid handling of mail by the good old U.S. Navy.
First of all, the only time you can mail letters without stamps is when we are at war and the letter sender is in a war zone. Between “when” and “we” a whole day has gone by. I was cut off in mid-sentence by more work—and still more work.
Spent all day working out a new liberty schedule—completely erasing and rewriting 3 boards with 131 names—surprising I can still write tonight.
Tell me—did you read about our accident in the papers? One of the guys got a letter from home (Chicago) and said the Tribune had a big story on it. The commander who lost both his legs died in a hospital in Munich. That makes 12 guys the Ti has lost since I’ve come aboard.
Got a letter from Gary, at long last. I’ll have to write him tonite, if I have time. Just think—he’s a 2nd Lieutenant and I’m a slob. Oh, well, such is life.
Did you get Ching Chong yet? God, Christmas is going to be all fouled up this year, as far as presents go. Mr. Clower said he was at the Nice airport when our mail came in on an R5D or some big plane—you know how high those things are off the ground. He said they just opened the cargo doors and threw stuff out on the ground. They were very good about insured fragile packages—they threw them out, too, but didn’t throw anything else on top of them.
Well, I’d better close or I never will get finished. Probably the mail won’t go off until Genoa anyhow. Till I see you, then, I will send
Love,
Roge
P.S. I’m homesick.
30 November 1955
Just up brushing my teeth, and as I looked in the mirror I thought: “Who are you trying to kid? Here you want to be a writer and all you can do is write a half-assed journal even I don’t enjoy, so how can anyone else?” What I am and what I think I am are two very different things. My writings are loose, disjointed, and choppy—I can never find the words I need. However, rather than feel sorry for myself, I think it is a good thing that at least I’ve admitted my faults to myself.
There are times, such as now, when I get very zealous, swearing that I’ll really buckle down and work—let’s hope it can be carried out, this time. Too bad there are only 24 hours in a day.
Days—hah—every one is a carbon copy of the one before and a shadow of the ones to come. Read in the Daily Press—our own little New York Times—that the States are really having some unusual weather. Over here it’s an even, steady chill. Below decks it ranges from Sahara to Antarctic, depending on whether the fans and blowers are on full blast or turned off. Whenever movies are held on the mess decks, the engineering department plays a game they call “Turn off the Blowers and See How Hot it Can Get.”
Another of my pet peeves in the dear old Navy is the Bos’n’s pipe. It’s quite shrill, and they use it to announce everything. Like most Navy traditions, its practical use has long since terminated, but because it has become tradition, it clings on. The most aggravating is the call to meals—now, they announce over the loudspeakers that “Early Dinner for Messmen and other required personnel, “and everybody knows it’s dinner time, but still they blow it. Not only is it the longest call they have, but they try to set new records in length. God, will I be glad to become a civilian.
The Navy being very rank-conscious (or, I should say “rate-conscious”), there is usually very little open friction between the higher echelons of the non-rated. Today, though, we almost had a battle royal between one of our chiefs and a First Class mess deck M.A.A. The chief decided to hold a meeting of cooks on one of the mess decks while the M.A.A. was cleaning it up. The M.A.A. told the chief to get the hell out. Now, this just isn’t being done, this or any other season. The Chief almost had a stroke, he was so furious. They both came in to Mr. Clower and we (Nick, Coutre, and I) had to leave while they thrashed it out.
Now among peons like myself, things are settled somewhat differently. Last night two of our Mess Cooks got into a little argument. They agreed to meet on the fantail, where they proceeded to beat the living tar out of one another.
Tomorrow we meet a replenishment ship and take 218 tons of gear aboard. With their usual Navy efficiency, they (the Powers-That-Be) let us know yesterday. So we had to type, stencil, run off, and put together 180 twelve-page notices on who was to do what where and when. Ah, such fun.
Some interesting but otherwise useless bits of information about the good old Ti:
888 feet in length, 164 feet in extreme width. Has 1,644 doors, 2,892 telephones; carries enough gasoline to drive a family car for 350 years, enough fuel to supply fuel for a home for 4,000 years! Also, she generates enough electricity to supply more than 2,800 homes. And, last but not least, her steam catapults are powerful enough to shoot an automobile over a mile straight up in the air. (Now that is a fascinating tidbit.)
Notice the unconscious selection of writing paper tonight—red (?) and green—Xmas. Oh, woe is me. The first time in 22 years away from home. I still remember my first Christmas in a wicker wash basket at Aunt Thyra and Uncle Buck’s. Won’t even have a Christmas tree—green needles smelling like pine, bright strips of tinsel—red balls and silver bells. The little Santa Claus in his red costume, surrounded by a cloud of cotton, now dirty with age.
When I was very small, we used to set out cocoa and peanut butter sandwiches for Santa, so that if he were hungry he could have a bite to eat. And the stockings—we never had a fireplace, but always stockings, put over the back of a chair. It was such a disappointment to find out there was no Santa Claus. Mom told me in a way I’ll always remember: “No there isn’t a man called Santa Claus, but there is a spirit of him in all of us, and that is something very real.” Always struck me as an excellent bit of psychology.
Grandma’s on Xmas eve, and her tree, always smaller than ours, and always with three white envelopes in the branches—one for Shirley, Sandy, and me. And I always anxious to go home, to open our presents. I always get as much enjoyment out of what others think of what I gave them as I do with my own presents.
Snow on the front porch, TV and a box of pretzels—the light from the kitchen, Stormy with his head on my lap to be petted.
Aunt Thyra always smelling clean and with just the slightest bit of perfume; Uncle Buck calling me “Guggenheimer”—sitting on his lap “helping” to drive the car—standing on a baggage cart watching for the train to come huffing in, walking in steam.
I’ve always resented growing up—I don’t think I ever will, really. At least, I hope not….
2 December 1955
Nine-fifteen and another day shot (to paraphrase a quaint Navy colloquialism) in the posterior. I can’t get over the impression that every day spent in the Navy is a day lost. That isn’t fair, of course; without the Navy I wouldn’t be in Europe—which, surprisingly, has exactly the same type of air, land, water, and human beings as America. So let’s
not say every day has been a total loss—just most of them.
An excellent example of the importance of each day may be gotten from the fact that I dated yesterday’s entry as the 30th of November. As a matter of fact, I even neglected to put down “November” and had to add it just now—after first writing December. Now you may see why my letters are addressed AN instead of N/C.
Replenishment today, and I got to watch none of it—instead stayed in the office and held a one-man field day. We were supposed to get aboard 218 tons—how many we actually got is a mystery. One full sling of provisions—about four tons, dropped off the transferring lines and into the sea, still neatly secured. Also lost were a group of movies we were sending to them, which will make them very happy, I’m sure.
Somehow, after the tallies were taken, we ended up with ten cases of rutabaga—you think my spelling is bad, you should see theirs. It took us a full five minutes to decipher it. Where it came from or where it went we don’t know, because no one had ordered it and no one has seen it since.
Always, during replenishment, there is the problem of a little fun-loving graft. Usually most of the credit goes to the ship sending it over to us. They are supposed to give us, say, 10,000 lb. of steak. We only get 9,000. Where is the other thousand pounds? You guess. So we chalk it up as being lost over the side, or some such thing. Those replenishment ships are the best-fed vessels in the Navy.
And here on board the Mighty T last replenishment, the Engineering department managed to walk off with two cases of fruitcake, one case of assorted nuts, and several crates of oranges. They were caught—that’s the only way we knew about it. Otherwise it would go on our Lost at Sea report.
Today, though, we fooled them. Someone got away with three large crates—no one knew who it was. Later, the crates were found on the hanger deck behind one of the boats; it was three crates of vegetable oil.
