by Dorien Grey
The bay inside the sea wall is rather small—smaller than Genoa. Andrews had said that when he first came to Naples, at the close of the last war, that the harbor was impassable—clogged with capsized and sunken ships. The Italian Navy scuttled itself there, if I’m not mistaken. Now there are no sunken ships and nothing in the waters to remind you that a war had been there and gone. A large ocean liner, the Conte Biancamano, was just pulling out, escorted by little tugs, like a large old lady and several small boy scouts. The pier was lined with relatives and friends waving handkerchiefs at the ship’s stern.
21 December 1955
Dear Folks
Just got your letter of the 15th and the package with the books of doodles and photos—loved every one of them. Went into hysterics over the “Sleeping Under Blankets.”
Glad to hear you finally got Ching-Chong, and that you like him. I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing of him. Next time back in Gibraltar I’ll try to pick up one of his other positions.
Nothing much new on this end—I’ll send along some more of my journal tomorrow, just to keep you posted on my daily routine—I’m getting brave. You still didn’t get my other ones, did you? You should have one for every day from Nov. 16 to the 22nd, and from the 28th or so on up. Do you? Also one a day from 4 Nov. to 14 Nov. Let me know how many you did get.
Tomorrow I go to Pompeii, and will write much on my adventures. Right now it’s near taps, and I’ve got to take a shower!
Until later, I am, as always your
Devoted Offspring,
Roge
22 December 1955
Today I walked the streets of a city dead for almost 2,000 years, and descended into the crater of the volcano which destroyed it. I saw two loaves of bread left in an oven to burn when the inhabitants fled—I saw the thick, cake-batter looking lava which splashed over the mountain and ran down its sides in rivers of molten rock. I saw four of the citizens, in the exact positions they had assumed while making the transition from life to death. I stood in the amphitheater where people laughed and cried, as the wind ran its fingers through the tall poplar trees. I walked along streets with ruts worn in the stone from centuries of chariot tracks, and crossed them on the raised stepping stones that protected the people’s sandals when the streets ran with rain water and mud. I entered the villas of the rich and the hovels of the poor; the wine shops where seamen bringing goods from Egypt and Greece stopped after unloading their ships at the docks which today are almost a mile inland.
Pompeii was a favored city of the Roman Patricians; here they had homes and their mistresses. In its forums and scattered about the city lie temples to a multitude of gods, from Apollo to Isis. And next to its pharmacies were its houses of prostitution, directions to which were quite obvious but a little embarrassing.
Pompeii today is a city of roofless columns and broken walls. Little remains of its public buildings but what there are are maddeningly enticing. Some, like the public baths, are still almost exactly as they stood, complete to the frescoes on the ceiling and the marble of the floors. Such is the condition of Pompeii, and the story it tells of its one-time glory, that it seems that today’s Italy is backwards by comparison. The inside of almost every shattered wall still bears the paint put on when the building was whole. Had it not been for an earthquake in the 18th century, much more of the city could be seen as it was buried—for the ash was light—19 to 23 feet of it covered the city after the eruption. 2,000 of the 25,000 inhabitants died. One of the bodies (now covered in plaster of Paris) was found in a crouching position in a cellar; evidently he’d thought the rains of ashes would end in a few hours. All the other bodies have their hands or arms over their faces—killed probably by the poison gas accompanying the eruption. A dog, left forgotten and chained when his master fled, is also among the ones who perished.
Plumbing, an underground water system of lead pipes, indoor toilets; all were part of Pompeii.
The city is built on a slight hill, with a beautiful view in all directions. Its streets, though narrow, are fairly straight. All streets running to the Forum—a wide flat area surrounded by shops and public buildings—end just before reaching it. The streets are dug down, instead of being raised up, and near the Forum large stone blocks (about the size of tombstones) stand at the ends of the streets to prevent chariots from entering. The shops were fairly small, one-room affairs, completely cut off from the rest of the building, unless a wooden stairway ran to the second floor—though most buildings had second stories, few are left. From the streets, doorways look down passageways between buildings, —or between two of the thick walls forming the passage into quiet gardens, surrounded by columns patiently supporting the sky.
The private homes are fascinating and very attractive—all rooms face a central garden. The main disadvantage being the lack of lighting.
Pompeii was destroyed, it is said, because it was so wicked—this may be true, but it did not die in vain. Because of its destruction, we have today a section of the past which gives a more accurate account of the lives and practices of its people than any number of written accounts could possibly do.
23 December 1955
Two days from Christmas and 3,000 miles from home. But only 283 days more in the Navy. How wonderful it will be to be free again!
Last night was the Division party. I left the ship about five o’clock; it had been raining on and off all day, and the streets were shiny black, reflecting every light in long, wavy strips.
The party was to be held at the “Little Paradise” restaurant, far on the other side of the city, overlooking the Bay of Naples. I decided to take a bus instead of a cab, not only because it would be cheaper but also more fun. After wandering aimlessly about looking for the bus, and with the aid of a non-English speaking policeman (who for some reason was dressed just like a British Bobby) I found the right corner and stood there. My bus was number 240—an electric trolley. After a few minutes, one turned a corner and came my way. I got ready to get on, but it whizzed right by—you’ve got to flag them down, which is quaint but a little inconvenient. The next one that came along I waved at wildly and it stopped. You enter from the rear—that is, if you can. It must have been the rush hour, for every bus was jammed with people, to the very doors. After getting on, you pay the conductor, who sits in a special little booth just behind the door, 35 Lire (4 ½ cents?). And off we went, stopping every block or two as the guidelines to the wires bounced off with a boom and a great flash. The conductor would patiently get off, put the guides back on the lines, get on, and we’d be off. Most of the time he didn’t even have to bother getting off, as there was a transit company employee on almost every corner, evidently for just that purpose.
No matter where you go in Europe, you run into at least one American. On the bus were a woman and her mother, whom I knew immediately was American (you can spot them in any crowd). She looked exactly like thousands of American women on our own busses, going home from a day’s shopping. We exchanged a few words as they squeezed past me on the way to the door. And then they were gone.
The conductor signaled me about a block before we got to the restaurant, but by the time I fought my way to the door (helped by an American man and a friendly Italian who pulled me through by my coat sleeve) it was two blocks past my stop.
By the time I got to the restaurant, everyone was nearing the saturation point, and a couple were past it. We’d rented the whole place for the night, so there was no one else coming and going.
The two chaplains on the ship are leaving for other duty soon, and so both were invited, and a cake, white frosting with green trimming and a green cross in the center, had been made for them. One had gone to Rome, and Father Kelly was just getting ready to leave, tactfully pleading another engagement.
Along one wall a buffet had been set up, with food commandeered from the ship. Drinks were served at a bar at the far end, and a three or four piece band was at the other.
One of the cooks, Botz, was already fai
rly well on the way to oblivion, and was at the stage where everything he does is immensely funny (he thinks). He came staggering by the table with the cake and, grabbing the knife, started brandishing it at everyone. Someone told him to put it down, so he swung it with all his might and stabbed it into the cake, then walked away, laughing, leaving the knife sticking out of the cross.
And so the party progressed. I satisfied myself by grabbing a plate of food and a glass of gin and soda (mostly gin). Soon, Botz tore a photograph belonging to one of the other guys (Winston). Winston then proceeded to pour his beer over Botz’s head. The fight was broken up quite nicely and no one was hurt.
By this time, Tiny Lishman (6′3″, 320 lbs), who had been completely smashed and was dancing with everyone and everything, disappeared. General speculation was that he’d fallen over the outside balcony and into the sea, but no one was in much of a state to care. Pappy Daniels, who after his last liberty was found asleep on the floor of an officer’s stateroom, had been carried into an adjoining room where our coats were stowed, laid out in state on a couch, and covered with a white sheet.
Several of the guys had crowded around the microphone and were singing, marvelously off key on every note, as the band struggled valiantly to keep up with them
When arrangements for the hall had been made, it was agreed that, along with ice, Coca-Cola, and waiters, the management would also furnish girls (“…the best!”). Well, they were girls, anyway. I had my gin to keep me warm and, since there weren’t enough to go around anyway, didn’t press the issue. It was amazing to watch the contrast—the Americans, drunk and reeling, happily singing and shouting, and the Italians—the waiters looking disdainful and the girls looking completely bored. They kept busy by eating and wrapping sandwiches to take home.
Pappy came out of seclusion to join the line at the balcony railing and, somewhere along the line, lost his teeth.
One of the choir had taken over the drummer’s position and was keeping fairly good time, except that he’d slow down when the band went faster, and sped up when they slowed down.
Girls kept popping in, taking one look, and popping out. The midget, whom we’d met at the “private home” a few days before, was there, as were several of the girls.
At about 9:30, feeling very nice but definitely not drunk, I and three other guys setback for the ship.
On the way, Grinshaw, the kleptomaniac among us, stole the little doll that dangled on a string from the rear window of the taxi….
24 December 1955
Naples is such a friendly city—happy people bustling about the streets (all of them within a five-foot radius of you); inviting your presence at their social gatherings (“Hey, Joe—you like nice place? Many girls; you come, no?”), pulling at your arm. Three of them thus managed to walk off with my watch. Knowing that this was all in good natured fun, I chuckled heartily when I finally discovered it was gone, at the telephone office. I went back but they were gone, of course—bringing a little cheer into someone else’s Christmas eve. Ah, this wonderful, wonderful Europe!
It was very nice to call home—I only had to wait about an hour, which is much less than I’d expected. And it was also much less expensive than I would have guessed—only $12.80 or thereabouts. Oh, yes, while waiting, I’d bought two American magazines and read in one that the insurance company covering my car had gone bankrupt. Happy day—Merry Xmas.
Coming back on the liberty boat, which I just barely caught, I sat as far forward as you can go—on the gunwale in fact. Sitting directly in front of me, as I sat facing the rear of the boat, was a guy who made me mad just to look at him. He was one of those fat, pug-nosed characters with glasses and the kind of face that looks as though he were smelling something unpleasant. He had a gigantic sandwich, made of a half loaf of large Italian bread, crammed with onions, cheese, meat, pickles, and God knows what all. This he kept shoving into his face at an amazing speed—his cheeks were puffed out and his mouth was so full that crumbs kept falling out. Every two minutes or so he’d open the sandwich and peer at it closely, fingering through it to see what was left. Then he’d cram it into his mouth again. When we reached the ship, instead of dropping it over the side, he let it fall to his feet on the deck and, when getting up, stepped on it. I could gladly have shoved him over the side.
It is now four minutes after twelve—Christmas day. And it may as well be the 10th of August or the 31st of May for all I care. I’m afraid I’m getting sleepy and less coherent, so I’d better close for tonite….
Merry Xmas….
26 December 1955
Off to an early start today—it’s only two in the afternoon. I rate liberty tonite but won’t take it: Naples has little to offer and is too eager to take. Today is Holiday routine, as Christmas fell on a Sunday. I was rather surprised at how little it mattered. It will go as unmentioned as it went unnoticed. The dinner, though plentiful, was spoiled by the fact that it was served on trays and eaten on benches on a metal floor, with steam pipes and intakes humming overhead.
Aside from the fact that there was nothing to write about yesterday, I also spent the evening at the movies. For a change (maybe because of Christmas) they had a double feature, both of which I’d seen before: “Three Ring Circus” with Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, was one of their less-funny pictures; “Mr. Roberts” mom and I had seen when she came to Pensacola, and I enjoyed it as much the second time as I had the first.
One saving feature—much as I dislike Norfolk, I will always have something to do when we get back—go to the movies. There is an eight-month lull in my movie going habits, which I fully intend to make up for.
Latest scuttlebutt is that our Mediterranean vacation has been lengthened until mid-June, leaving Gibraltar on the 7th, and limping home somewhere around the twentieth. It is going to be very hard not to request leave the minute the ship pulls in, but I will try to resist the temptation.
By the time I do get home, I will not have seen mother in over a year, dad in ten months, Aunt Thyra in one year and eight months, and will have spent all but 16 days in two years away from home! Which is a long time.
All I think about is getting out; going back to college. Occasionally I think about money—and how little of it I have. As they say, “I have a champagne taste on a water income.”
Mail closes out at 1700 tonite, and it being 1625 (4:25 p.m.) I’d best get busy. Dad seems to draw a distinction between letters and the journal. Besides not having a “Dear Folks” at the top, and a “Love, Roge” at the bottom, everything included here is a letter. That’s my main objective—to write a letter to and for everyone who’d care to read it. But, I’ve discovered, in order for someone to be remembered on this spatial pea, they must leave something worthy of remembering. There are no doubt countless attics with dusty trunks crammed with letters and memos of somebody long gone, and there they lie—unread and unnoticed. I’ve got to be different; so I figure that maybe, by addressing myself to everyone, I’ll make myself known to them. It would be nice if I could know everyone, but time is rather limited and there are so many people.
Well, I see by the oooold clock on the wall (bulkhead) that time’s up for now—also space….
Postcard postmarked U.S.S. Ticonderoga, 9 a.m. December 26 1955.
Subject: Naples Panorama
Dear Folks
This is sort of a kinescope postcard. Every card I’ve ever seen of Vesuvius shows smoke coming out of it, but it’s just been sitting there since 1944. Hope you got the manila envelope with my “journal.”
My pen, which I used on the address, has something wrong with it—maybe the point, maybe the ink. I’ll have to start saving for a new watch—got one in mind I like.
Regards to all the relatives. I’ve got to send this off now or it’ll never go—we’re going to sea tomorrow.
Love to all,
Roge
27 December 1955
Dear Folks
Since you’re saving my letters and my journal (I hope) thi
s will have to serve as both for today. It is now two days past Christmas—or should I say “past the 25th,” and we are at sea off the southern coast of Italy. It is inventory time in the office, when all quarterly returns and bookwork must be brought up to date. Fortunately, I have little to do with this, except for some typing.
I’m sitting at my desk with the little light over it on (the big ceiling lights are out to discourage visitors), staring at a three-gallon stainless steel thermos jug of coffee. The top of it is missing, and the heat is kept in by a manila folder over the opening, with an inkwell on top to hold it tight.
Got a letter today—probably won’t get another till we get back to Naples—in which mom says she’s waiting for my call. I’m sorry it had to be such a short one, but I’m low on money. This is not a hint, and I don’t want you to send me the money. Unless, of course, you have 8,000 Lire handy. Seriously, though, don’t send anything. It was a small enough Christmas present.
Yes, I still want the photo, and as soon as possible. I’ve asked you before, but what did you think of “The Confederacy?” My favorite of all of them is “Furl the Banner”—that is really beautiful, and it epitomizes all lost causes. I used to sing it to myself while I was on solos at Pensacola. Turn on the hi-fi, and listen to the drums in “The Bonnie Blue Flag.” I’m crazy about that beat. Tin pan alley has massacred it into “The Bonnie Blue Gal,” and it thereby loses most of its charm, at least in the vocal. Read carefully the book part in front. Incidentally, you did get it in 45rpm didn’t you?
Did I tell you the company insuring my car went bankrupt? And they owe me $40!!! Not only did they go bankrupt, but are $1,500,000 in the red. I hope they don’t try to take it out on me.
