A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Went to the library last night, for the first time in ages, and got two books—one of them Ogden Nash’s “The Face is Familiar,” and the other Bulfinch’s “Mythology.” The former was to elevate me out of the stupor I was in, the latter to improve my stagnating mind. Finished Nash the same night, and set about today (in what little spare time I had), to learn the names of the nine Muses—I could only recall one off hand—Terpsichore, muse of the dance. I enjoy reading mythology, but it is frequently confusing as to which god is related to which.

  If you will notice, yours truly seems to be on an “I” binge again. Much more care must be taken in the future to correct this.

  As of Naples, we’ll be required to wear our blue flat-hats instead of the white ones. Never having worn one, it ought to prove interesting. For some reason, I look ridiculous in any kind of hat.

  Also, while dissecting my writing, it may be noted that almost nowhere can you find a sentence unbroken by one or several commas, unless it is a very short sentence. I lean heavily on “therefore’s”, “Of course,” “also,” and almost any device to break up a sentence into more palatable portions.

  It is already after taps, and though I am in the mood to write indefinitely, bed beckons. As you may also have gathered, my spelling is atrocious. “I calls ‘em the way I sees ‘em”….

  13 December 1955

  A calm, almost lazy day, though I kept busy most of it. Outside, the weather was nondescript—overcast though not glumly so. The sun shines so rarely over here that its presence is more conspicuous than its absence.

  Emotionally I’m feeling fine, excepting for a few brief moments this afternoon when they started playing Christmas carols. Physically, my case of pneumonia has toned down and is content to sit idly somewhere in the cavities just above my nose, causing no bother. Currently I am engrossed in chewing my bottom lip, which is getting quite raw as I tear off tiny pieces of skin, and a gigantic hangnail, which seems intent on pulling my entire left thumb off.

  I shouldn’t have said that I kept busy most of the day—the afternoon was pretty well shot, what with G.Q. and a typing test for Petty Officer. That was the first typing test I’d taken since high school, and high school is just a memory out of the distant past.

  Someone is supposed to come in tomorrow to oil my typewriter. It’s getting so that it just creeps along and, slow as my typing is, there are occasionally five or six keys jammed up together. Especially the “h.” That is the most casual letter I have ever seen. It goes up and makes its mark with admirable speed, but then it either sticks there, or comes back so slowly that sometimes I have to stop and watch it, fascinated. Oh, well, the poor thing has been in almost constant use for almost two years with little or no repairs.

  Mentioned the other day that we’re required to wear our blue flat hats while on liberty (none yet) and our blue watch caps while running around the ship. These watch caps are ingenious little things. I had one when I was in 7th grade, and haven’t seen one since. Made of heavy cotton, they’re like a large stocking cap and, when pulled down all the way, would make us all the rage of the 1920’s. They’re very warm, which is nice for out-of-doors activities, but miserable inside. We’re supposed to wear them all the time, except in the office, but I don’t—just carry it in case, and even then not always.

  Nick is on my list for having carefully poured a cup of water down the back of my neck. I don’t know about that boy at times. We call him Joan of Arc (or Nick d’Ticonderoga) because he is rather prone to playing the role of martyr. Whenever there is work to be done, Nick does it—even though it needn’t be done right that minute. He’s a good kid, and at times reminds me of a very small boy (he’s only 18). He’ll always be epitomized by one instance of the first week I was mess-cooking. It was around lunch time and I asked him when we ate. He was sitting on the edge of his desk with his feet dangling over, not quite reaching the floor and swinging his legs back and forth. He looked up at me with the expression of a little boy with his first bicycle, and said: “I can eat any time I want to.”

  And then there’s Conrad—a 1st Class cook serving as PPO (Police Petty Officer—in charge of keeping the compartments clean). He gives the impression of being smaller than he is, perhaps because of a slightly large head. His voice is loud and sharp, though not high. He has an almost morbid fascination about death, particularly in its more violent forms—he tells in great detail how his own mother and father were killed in a car-train accident in 1949—his mother being thrown from the car after it had been shoved 200 feet. The way he talks of accidents and death—almost with relish. Andy says he was in several landing parties during the Second World War, and evidently had it tough. As a greeting, he grabs you by the muscles of the shoulder just below the neck and squeezes. This can be quite painful if the right muscles are involved. They usually are.

  What’s this? Only five after nine? I must be slipping. Better try to write some more on the Paris trip. Till tomorrow (or the next page)….

  14 December 1955

  This will have to be short, as I’ve got to take a shower before going to bed. Let’s face it—who cares?

  If I take a shower?

  Yes, if you take a shower.

  Well if I didn’t somebody would notice it.

  So what? So why write about it?

  Got to have something to write about.

  Why?

  Oh, come on, now, let’s not be bitter.

  Who’s being bitter? I’m just stating facts.

  There will now be a soft intermittent violin throbbing in the background.

  So you actually think you’re going to be a writer?

  I hope so.

  You know damn good and well you couldn’t even write an interesting piece on the end of the world.

  Well?

  Well what?

  How much paper are you going to waste?

  You know, I was just thinking, this might be called a split personality, but we both hate me.

  Quick, fetch the wood—Joan of Arc is at it again.

  Out, out damn spot—and on with the journal, if you’ll keep out of it.

  I will.

  Good.

  We refueled at sea this morning, a beautiful day with the water as smooth as glass and a deep blue. Across it glided several grey ships, among them the Lake Champlain, several tankers, and some little destroyers, dragging a white bridal train behind them. I tried taking some pictures, and hope they come out, but am slightly confused by the complexity of the lenses, and get more confused as I try to figure it out.

  Had a wonderful sleep last night, and enjoyed every minute of it, I think. Unlike my childhood I no longer begrudge going to sleep, but am still not too anxious to go to bed.

  Each week we hold an inventory of all mess gear, and it is fabulous to watch the results. Every week, we lose an average of 200 cups (placing guards at all entrances and exits to the chow halls have little or no effect). Now that is a little steep—but when we turn up missing 39 mess benches (each 8 feet long) I can’t help but wonder: where on earth could they go? Oh, well, into each rain a little life must fall….

  15 December 1955

  Dear Folks

  As you can see, I’ve broken my vow, which actually was a silly one in the first place; but I was so mad at the thought of all that effort gone to waste that I could cheerfully have scuttled the USS Ticonderoga without another thought.

  Got a card and money from Grandma, whom I intend to write as soon as possible, and a letter from you (always welcome). Also I got back two rolls of film, which I opened warily, but soon went into fits of ecstatic glee. The first one opens with a scene of the Capitol dome, and goes on beautifully. The second opens with sunrise over Gibraltar and is, as far as I can tell, prefect. Gibraltar itself is seen as in a blue haze, though it may be a slight overexposure. Then it moves on from a shot of the Rock in back of a large gold cross commemorating British dead, and wanders about over Europe, including the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and an almost iden
tical shot of the dome of the Tomb of Invalides; from almost the same angle as our Capitol dome. I couldn’t have asked for them to turn out better. A few underexposures (refueling at sea) and some overexposures. Considering the fact that a majority of the Paris pictures were taken on a very gloomy day, they came out beautifully.

  Both I and my cold are doing excellently, and hope you (minus the colds) are the same.

  Now—calling home on Xmas day is impossible, as I have the duty that day. And since I have to be back aboard the ship by 11:30, and the six hour time difference, the very latest I can call home is 5:30 and you won’t be home by then. So come home as early as possible and I’ll try (can’t promise) to call on the 27th. Don’t hold your breath, though. You have to order the call the day before, I am told, and the only time I have two days off in a row is on the 26th and 27th. But I’ll try.

  Got a letter from Lief at long last. He has less than two months to go, and the Navy is trying, in its own inimitable way, to make it seem as long as possible by putting him back on mess cooking!

  Well, I’d better close now—it’s getting late (9:30).

  Until August, I am

  Always

  Roge

  16 Dec. 1955

  Dear Folks

  Yes, it’s me again. Just a very short note to say I can’t call the 27th—we’ll be at sea. There’s a very vague chance of my calling Christmas eve about 6:00 or before—no later, though, so you don’t have to stick around the house in case I can’t get through, which is very probable.

  I feel the worst about not sending you anything for Xmas. Please excuse me, but I can’t trust it to the mails. Well, we’ll have Christmas when I get home.

  This just might get home before Xmas, so let me wish you both a very nice Christmas, and many many more. I suppose I could have chosen more orthodox parents but I’m awfully glad I got the ones I did.

  Until I see you, then, I send

  Much Love

  Roge

  P.S. Merry Xmas, Stormy

  P.P.S. Explain to all the relatives that I sent no cards—just one to you, which you probably didn’t get. Bye, now.

  M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S E V E R Y B O D Y

  (Drawing of fireplace w/3 stockings, and a Christmas tree)

  Undated letter postmark illegible, but probably Dec 18, 1955, U.S.S. Ticonderoga; letter attached to a package sent home for Christmas

  Dear Folks

  Here are a few things Santa Claus left at my house. He was unavoidably detained somewhere along the line. I was, as you know, planning on waiting till I got home, but changed my mind.

  Your boxes are marked.

  The “Tabu” goes to Aunt Thyra. She may not like it since I recently heard it’s very strong. I’ve got something else for her, but will send it along later.

  The large box of perfume (“Corday”) is for Goldie, who was nice enough to remember my birthday and Christmas.

  The pipes are the ones I described earlier. I’ll have to get something for Ann. The clock is for Aunt Marge—the tapestry for Grandma and Al. The head-scarf is yours, mom.

  Incidentally, that heavy thing in the orange paper is the weight for the clock, in case you’re wondering.

  Sorry they aren’t individually gift wrapped, and hope you will excuse the “stuffing.” But try to pretend that it’s Christmas eve, and we’ve just come back from Grandma’s.

  Give Stormy a big kiss for me, and tell him I’ll be home soon.

  Love, Roge

  Merry Christmas!!

  Undated but probably 17 or 18 Dec. 1955

  Dear Folks

  Happy anniversary—25 years, isn’t it? I’m sorry I didn’t send a card, but they’re hard to come by over here.

  Today I rated liberty, and didn’t even go ashore! Gad! Well, I’ll say everything else in the journal, but just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary.

  Keep writing every day—even though God knows when I’ll get them! Have you gotten any more letters than those five you got up till the 28th of Nov?

  Till later, I’ll send

  Love

  Roge

  18 December 1955

  Naples, like—Conrad has his teeth out; how revolting can one person be?—almost every other city in Europe, is filled with contrasts and contradictions. It is not a particularly pretty city, and were it not for the bay and the looming hulk of Mt. Vesuvius in the distance, it would be completely non-distinguished. Its buildings run from the sturdy clean sweep of the post office to the Victorian pomp of the King’s Arcade; from the graceful lines of modern, American-occupied apartments to the scarred walls of tenements. The impression given is that the war has just ended, and the city has come out second best. Flies and lean cats inhabit most of the restaurants—the streets are filled and haunted by vendors, pushers, and pimps. Boys of seven and eight beg for cigarettes—and smoke them!

  Via Roma, the “main drag” resembles a side street in an American business district. This illusion can be maintained until coming to a corner and look at one of their side streets! The buildings are old, heavy, solid—unbroken by doors and windows. Wherever there is a door, it appears to have been carved out of the thick walls as an afterthought. No signs or marquees—the occasional neons are close against the wall.

  The clothing styles, both men’s and women’s, are nothing short of hideous. In the race for most outrageous costumes, men are far ahead; the women’s are just drab. The men wear ghastly tweed pants—huge sharkstooth zigzags. The jackets—I can’t in truth call them sport jackets—are generally of the same pattern, but different enough so that they grind, if not clash. Plaid thick shirts, similar to those worn by American lumberjacks, and screaming ties. All these fit like shrouds, only not as graceful. Women’s apparel is tending toward the American, but still frequently one finds the “typical Italian mamma”—black tie shoes, black stockings, black dress, black shapeless overcoats, and black hair piled stiffly on the head, held with a black combs. If these mammas are accompanied by young girls, they invariably wear heavy brown velvet-like material, of the same texture of theater curtains; buttoned to the neck. No lipstick, no powder—just “blah.”

  The uniforms seen frequently on the street are either policemen or soldiers—I never did learn which was which. They are of a thick, olive-drab material almost like burlap, shapeless and singularly unattractive, even to the smallest degree. Their only distinguishing marks are a single tarnished small metal star on each lapel; some of higher rank wear lapel insignias of red with gold flaming swords.

  18 December 1955

  Dear Folks

  Latest flash—I’ve made arrangements to call home the 24th. Since I don’t speak Italian and the guy at the telephone office didn’t speak English, I had one heck of a time trying to make myself understood. For one thing, he obviously could not conceive the meaning of Rockford Illinois. Rockford, USA fine. I told him there were many Rockfords in America. He’d nod his head patiently, understandingly—and left it Rockford, USA.

  So—I’ll be going to the phone company at 7:30 the night of the 24th. That will make it about 1:30 back in the States. I figured you’d probably be let off at noon, being as how it’s Xmas eve. Now, that doesn’t mean I’ll get a line at 7:30—and I can only wait until 11:00, since I’ve got to be back at the ship at 11:30. Therefore, if you don’t hear from me between 1:30 and 5:00, go ahead with whatever you had planned. And don’t be too disappointed if I can’t make it—as I said, with 10,000 guys wanting to call home, things will most likely be rather confused.

  Just got back from my second night in Naples—it’s a dirty city with a few polished places, and looks as though the war had ended yesterday instead of ten years ago. I’ll go into greater detail in ye olde journal, but I want to get this sent off immediately. You’ll probably get it on the 27th.

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. I’ll be footing the bill—no such thing as collect, evidently. 3 min is about $18! (or more). Get that picture taken now!! I’ve go
t to have it before the 2nd of Jan, if at all possible.

  P.P.S. Saw my films on a guy’s projector this morning—as good as I expected, if not better.

  19 December 1955

  One of the many Italian songs familiar to most every American, and one almost sure to be brought up at a party songfest, is heard frequently in Naples—at least the title: “Feniqulee-Feniqula” (spelling more phonetic than accurate; pronounced Fein-eee-cue-lee, Fen-eee-cue-la). The Feniqulee, I learned to my surprise, is a little subway-trolley-tram that runs up and down the major mountain in Naples. It consists of several railway cars especially built so that they’re always going uphill—if placed on level ground, they would lean forward at a 45 degree angle. I call it a subway because it runs up the inside of the hill, a trolley because that’s vaguely what the cars look like—wooden benches running across them (each car is sort of terraced to prevent everybody from sliding down to one end); and a tram because it may not be English, but it certainly isn’t American. The closest thing we might have to them would be on some of the very steep hills in San Francisco, but I wouldn’t swear to it, never having been there.

  I suppose the best place to start would be on about chapter three, with my leaving the good old Ti safely moored to a sea wall about a two minute boat ride from the pier. I went ashore with the sole intention of taking pictures, as it was a beautiful day. Vesuvius slouched in the background, away from the city and the ships, and I was rather disappointed not to see smoke pouring from her crater. She’s a ragged mountain, now, shaped roughly like a camel’s humps—the right hand one is the active cone. At one time she was almost twice as high, but blew herself away in the eruption that buried Pompeii, which lies on the other side from Naples.