A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Mail call today-one letter from Harry Harrison, the only NavCad buddy I still keep in touch with, one from Sandy Bonne, my cousin, and only one from home.

  Payday is tomorrow, and will it ever be welcome! In my pocket at this moment I have 20 Francs and sixpence—a combination hard to beat, but for all general purposes worthless.

  I’ve had a book of Shakespeare’s comedies on my desk now for weeks and just haven’t gotten around to reading it—not through lack of will, but lack of time.

  Think I sold my small camera today. I hate to get rid of it. I get so childishly attached to this; hate to throw anything away. I remember once, when quite a bit smaller than now, mother asking me which of two throw rugs I liked best in a store. I said I liked them both, because I didn’t want to hurt the less-pretty one’s feelings. I’ve always been that way.

  I, I, I, I, I—focus your eyes just right and that’s all you can see. Well, how else does one write an autobiography without them?

  Taps, Taps—only 284 more times will I have to hear that.

  And so (candle in hand) to bed….

  3 December 1955

  Nine o’clock—I’m beginning to think of it as my witching hour (occasionally a different spelling). A beautiful day for a change, though the atmosphere below decks couldn’t prove it. Nick is busy playing Joan of Arc. Poor kid—he never gets any mail from home; I’d go nuts if it weren’t for mom writing every day.

  Come to the conclusion that it is impossible to try to write and listen to the surrounding conversation at the same time. It was quiet until a couple MAA’s came in. Oh, well.

  Tonite I feel like a real writer—been working on my Paris tour, and now this.

  Anchored today off Sardinia again—a different part this time—very pretty; cloud-topped mountains, a small town clustered on the edge of the water, and half of the United States 6th Fleet anchored off shore. The Lake Champlain is back with us; on the other side is a battleship (the New Jersey). Sprinkled liberally around are five or six destroyers, ten oilers, cargo ships and various other ships—oh, yes, and one black submarine, close in to shore.

  Pay day today—Xmas presents tomorrow. It seems so nice to have money again, though I know I won’t have it long. I was honestly broke for the first time in my life—well, maybe the second.

  I’m afraid I’ll have to make this awfully short—got to drop a line (short) to Sandy—she was nice enough to write me.

  3 December 1955

  Dear Folks

  Yes, it’s me again. I don’t know why I even bother to write these little preambles—just to let you in on a few details I forgot in the Daily Journal.

  First, mother, I want a picture of you—a good picture, one taken at a studio. That and the Confederacy are all I want for Xmas.

  As for your Xmas presents—you will be getting them all year, I’m afraid. But, better late than never.

  Dad—did you tell me about those binoculars? Let me know immediately if not sooner.

  As for calling home Xmas—there are about 10,000 American soldiers, sailors, and marines in Europe who will be wanting to call home. Initial time difference is six to eight hours--and it takes three hours to connect calls—that is if I can get a line right away. Cost from Gibraltar was $18.00 for 3 min. What think ye? Shall we set a date sometime after Xmas or before, or shall we drop it?

  Well, taps again. Don’t forget that picture—a good one of either you or you and dad; not a snapshot. And make it as soon as possible: this Saturday if you can. I have my reasons….

  Till I hear from you, I am

  As Usual and Always

  Roge

  P.S. Don’t forget that picture—a big one.

  P.P.S. Sign in Supply Office: “:BEFORE YOU GET CARELESS AND LOUSE SOMETHING UP—THIMK!”

  Postcard dated 12-3-55, postmarked “U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 4, 1955, 9 a.m. Subject: The Rock of Gibraltar at night

  Dear Stormy

  I’ve had this card laying around my desk for weeks—best I mail it off tonite.

  Hope you still remember me when I get home—we’ll probably both be getting old and grey by that time. Oh, well, only 253 more days. I can’t wait to get out of this man’s Navy.

  See you

  Roge

  4 December 1955

  A very nice day in all, notwithstanding the fact that I have half a sore throat (right side) and an aggravating case of the “blows”—trying to blow my nose when there’s nothing there. I hate that sensation. Always had an intense dislike of being sick—fortunately, I seldom am. Usually I have but one cold a year—it generally starts in December and lasts until March. But I don’t really mind it, since it’s usually very unobtrusive and only shows itself by an occasional sniffle.

  Somehow all the ships in the harbor, with the exception of the Lake Champlain and ourselves, managed to turn around during the night. The submarine sank, or did whatever submarines do, as it was missing when I looked for it this afternoon.

  Took an entire roll of film of Sardinia yesterday—I only hope it turns out. The mountains are really beautiful—some rugged and brooding, others bright and almost gaudy. Some of them are as though they’ve been painted—tan and brown of bare rock, shadows, and the green of vegetation—no trees, that I noticed.

  Don’t feel much like writing tonight—I’m in one of my neuter moods, when I don’t feel particularly good or bad; no sensations whatever except the annoying area around my throat. Here it is twenty-five to ten already, and I have to take a shower and stencil some of my clothes prior to sacrificing them to the laundry.

  Mail is leaving the ship tonite, but we haven’t received any for several days now. I won’t mail this until later this week, when we get to Genoa. Sure would like to take that tour to Venice, but can’t afford it. They had a tour scheduled for Munich, Germany, but because of an Austrian law forbidding the wearing of uniforms, they had to cancel it.

  Well, short as this is, I’ve got to take that shower….

  5 December 1955

  Dear Folks

  I have a stinking suspicion that all is not well between the State of Illinois and the USS Ticonderoga—I’ve sent several more than five letters home, plus Ching-Chong, whom if you haven’t received by now you probably won’t at all.

  That settles it, though—I’m not mailing another single thing home—Christmas will have to wait till next August, and that’s all there is to it.

  It only affirms a belief I have held for some time—namely that I despise the United States Navy and everything connected with it with an undying passion. I would not spit on the best part of it and advise anyone considering joining to shoot themselves without further ado!

  I do have Xmas presents for you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll mail them.

  Of course I got the camera—I wrote and thanked you profusely. You in fact have a very short memory, because I received a letter from dad telling me how much to ask for my other one. Oh, hell, this whole Navy is so damn …**@ed up it’s a wonder all its ships are still afloat.

  Yes (again) I got the cookies—very good. Yes, I got the fudge—sorry to say it was excellent. Ah, but now it sounds as though I’m bitter—Well, I am. I hate, loathe, abominate, abhor, despise, detest, and generally dislike the U.S. Navy. Do I make myself clear? The point I’m trying to get across is that I am not particularly enthralled with military life.

  Got two letters from the Auto insurance company addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason—H A H ! ! !

  Sorry—don’t know what made me blow up like this, but I honestly am so damned fed up with the whole mess—not disheartened, mind you; just sick.

  I’ve written every single day, usually mailing them in batches of two to four days in one letter.

  Didn’t you read about our “explosion” as the papers called it? Gary wrote and mentioned it—it happened on the 21st and your letters I got today (5th) were mailed the 28th—not a word.

  Enough drivel—I’ll vent the rest of my spleen in tonite’s journal.
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  Love

  Roge

  P.S. KSFM Remember that picture—have it taken at once! Excuse the profanity, but I hear so much of it, it becomes a part of me.

  5 December 1955

  During the night my sore throat mellowed and blossomed into a case of pseudo-pneumonia, causing me to keep half the compartment awake by continual sniffling, wheezes, and futile attempts to breathe. You never realize what a job it is to breathe until you try.

  So the day got off to not exactly a flying start, liberally interspersed with trips to the head for toilet paper—which is much cheaper than handkerchiefs, even though the capacity is limited.

  The only thing of even vague interest, aside from our sailing away from picturesque Sardinia, was that a homosexual was discovered on board. How, I neither know nor care, but the whole matter was handled with such obvious inconspicuosity that the whole ship knew about it. I was sure we would all be invited to the flight deck for a public stoning. Instead, he was shuffled off in a helicopter to an unknown but assuredly unpleasant fate. Homosexuals are viewed by the Navy in the same light as witches and little men with ticking briefcases.

  Mail call today, which instead of helping my battered spirits, only kicked them harder. For one thing, the letters from home were dated later than the last ones I’d gotten, but were written asking questions and saying things they had known and mentioned before —have I received my camera? Did the cookies come? And last time, dad had told me how much to ask for my old camera, now that the new one was here. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least. And then came two letters from my auto insurance company, addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason, which went over like a concrete dirigible.

  Tomorrow we land, or rather anchor, in Genoa, Italy. This afternoon I exchanged American money for Italian Lire—huge, 6″12″ sheets of paper, which struck me as being not only unhandy but downright cumbersome. Italian money is not the least bit pretty as were French Francs, but they both employ the watermark. On either side of the center of the bills is a white space, apparently blank—but when held up to the light, a face can be seen in each; quite ingenious, but I still prefer good old American greenbacks.

  There must be quite a battle raging inside my head, for I’m constantly flushing gallons of semi-fluids from my nose. I’m considering installing a spigot.

  I have been informed by Mr. Coutre that what I have been writing, aside from my physical woes, is treason, detrimental to the Navy, scandalous, and not nice. The Navy must be considered by all as a living Post Office poster. No doubt this is true, but being an incurable romanticist, I still believe in freedom of speech. In a few short moments I could be transformed from an average airman to a hardened criminal, strongly suspected of having Communist leanings. My court martial would be held by several zealous gentlemen no doubt violently waving American flags while sentencing me to, at least, an Undesirable discharge.

  The difficulty with being pure white is that it cannot remain that way while there are other colors around. America, if she allows all the freedoms in their widest sense, leaves herself wide open for the powers wishing to destroy her. Yet she cannot forbid these freedoms and still remain America.

  My outlook on life might be compared to a news article I read sometime back. It concerned a 19 year old boy who had a loose tissue or nerve in the back of his throat. The result was that he ticked—not audibly; only he could hear it. He never mentioned it because he took it for granted that everybody ticked. That is my problem—have I something no one else has, and do not realize it? Or, more likely, does everyone have something I don’t have? Everyone else manages to muddle through life naturally enough, but for me, life is one great mystery after another.

  Tatoo, which means nothing except that taps will be in five minutes.

  6 December, 1955

  In 1492 Christopher Columbus discovered America. In 1955, I discovered Genoa. Chris got the far better bargain.

  The first glimpse of Genoa was strikingly beautiful—it was slightly after noon, and a heavy mist was just clearing away, showing the city as if in a dream, spread out over the hills; grey towers and steeples rising above huddled buildings, and white skyscrapers along the shore.

  That was Genoa as seen from the USS Ticonderoga (CVA14). Once in the city, the impressions are somewhat different. First, like most European cities, there seems to be no plan—streets meander thither and yon with no purpose or destination in mind. There are myriads of side streets, invariably going up or down-hill steeply. Neon signs are everywhere, but just plain raw tubes—no backing; if you come upon them from the wrong direction, they appear to be written backwards—which doesn’t mean much since I can’t understand Italian anyway. The effect of all these signs sticking out in the narrow alleys (can’t truthfully call them streets) is that of a kaleidoscopic rainbow.

  The buildings themselves are heavy, old, and sprawling. As usual, they sit out on the street, and look like they’re trying to squeeze the already narrow streets—like a closing trap. Many of the buildings are huge, with ornate, palatial staircases and archways behind great doors which open inward from the streets. Some of the banks are literally drive-ins, for I saw cars parked inside the large courtyards, as they might be called.

  There are several “main drags,” but they also wander so aimlessly that they’re almost impossible to follow. Most of the business is conducted on the side streets—the sidewalks in front of Marshall Fields in Chicago—even in front of the Talcott Building in Rockford, are much wider than most of the streets. Almost every other business establishment is either a grocery, a bar, or a butcher shop. These butcher shops are fabulous places—refrigeration is unheard of, and the meat hangs around on large hooks—they have some of the most disgusting looking things for sale there; squid and entrails and other things I have no idea at all of what they could be. All these grocers and butchers are in sharp contrast to Gibraltar, where there are none to be seen

  So I walked up one street and down another, the only pattern to my travels being to take the direction with the most lights.

  Being the foreigner is quite an unpleasant change—never again will I think anyone who does not speak perfect English—or any English, is stupid.

  No doubt by morning I shall have lost my voice entirely; right now I can hardly speak--and even then it’s an effort.

  The harbor of Genoa is swarming with ships—long black tankers, graceful white ocean liners, and stubby little freighters. Though it was dark when we came in, and we were in a covered boat, I think I noticed several sunken ships lying about the harbor, lights marking their masts and outlines. Coming back, we were in an open boat, and I was so enthralled with watching the city, glistening and glimmering on the mountains, that I didn’t check the ships.

  Now, if you will excuse me, I shall exit, playing Camille….

  7 December 1955

  14 years ago today, on a chilly but bright Sunday afternoon, I stood in Aunt Thyra’s living room and listened to the tall, ornate wooden radio announce that United States military bases and ships in Oahu Island, Hawaii, had been attacked by planes of the Imperial Navy; no one knew the exact number of casualties as yet, but the death toll was undoubtedly high. And so a stunned and shocked America saw herself thrown into the longest, bloodiest war in her history.

  Today, aboard the USS Ticonderoga anchored off Genoa Italy, a ship where 345 men died in one day of that war, not a word was said—none remembered. Wars are forgotten so soon, as are the lessons they taught….

  My cold is much better today—that is to say, I have it under a semi-control; it only bothers me when I cough.

  I neglected to mention yesterday that in the brief time I was in Genoa, I manage to throw away 600 Lire! For this fabulous sum, I bought one pizza, one beer, one glass of wine, one Time magazine, and four chocolate covered cherries (unpitted), one of which is still in my peacoat pocket and must be disposed of. It is a little less shocking to consider that 600 Lire equals roughly 90 cents in American money.

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p; Just checking my drawer, and found about six pages of accumulated scrawlings not mailed home yet. I’ll do it tonite. Of course, the six pages does not include my Paris adventures. I’ve finished it up to the point of the first half of the first day, and already have eight pages. By the time I finish it, it should about equal “Gone with the Wind” in volume.

  No weather report forthcoming in today’s entry, as the only time I stuck my little head outside it was very early and almost dark.

  The major problem of the day seems to be the Christmas Present Situation. Oh, woe—what to do. As for myself, I’m already resigned to the idea that there just won’t be a Christmas this year—just pretend they left it off the calendar. But what a dirty thing to do to the folks back home—it will still be Xmas for them. But I’ve decided I won’t send anything home, though I have presents for everybody. A present will do no good if it doesn’t get there, or if it arrives in forty or fifty pieces.

  Nick was rummaging through my billfold this evening (with my permission) and when he got through, everything was lying in a huge mound in the center of the MAA’s desk. So I sorted through it, and put away all the movie ticket stubs from Los Angeles and Miami and New York, and my entrance pass to the Louvre Museum in Paris, and my special request chits (one requesting to go to NAS in the Uniform of the Day for band practice—the other asking to get off early to meet dad at the airport in Norfolk), and dozens of other things. Not one of them is worth anything, but to me it tells a story (of great depth and pathos) of my adventures and misadventures in this cruel world. Every single scrap of paper means something very special to me, if to no one else.