A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Had a most interesting dream last night—all my dreams seem to have plots and are very detailed—I can’t recall whether I dream in color or not, but I think so. Anyway, I was in Shanghai on an American ship during the Japanese invasion. Something happened to the ship and I found myself in a longboat—a powered liberty launch. We decided to try to head inland rather than face the Japanese fleet in the harbor. I was sitting up forward and was terrified that Jap troops along the shore would open fire—I kept expecting to feel a bullet in my back any moment. The next scene (I change scenes frequently without losing the main thought) we were much further up the river, plowing through a bunch of floating debris and branches—I remember watching the boat’s wake washing over them, and the branches riding the waves. To my right was a fallen bridge, a large section of rusty metal jutting from the water. In the next scene we were on shore, near a two-story American-type white frame house, with outside stairs leading to the second floor. On the porch railing was a hand-winding air raid siren, and a Chinese man standing by it, watching the sky. An American woman and her two young sons lived in the house, and wanted to go with us as we fled inland. Suddenly (I was now detached and acting merely as a spectator) a plane dived out of the sky. The woman ran from the house, pushing one son ahead and pulling the other, when a bomb exploded directly behind her—I saw her outline in the doorway for an instant and then she and it were gone. I remember thinking with little or no emotion that now we had a young boy (the one who’d gone ahead) on our hands. End.

  Not exactly Hollywood, but what do you want on the spur of the moment?

  Mom asked me in a recent letter how the food was over here. Well, I really don’t know—in hotel restaurants and on tours, it consists always and everywhere of spaghetti; followed by veal (sliced), a few potatoes (quartered and semi-French fried), and spinach; cheese, and fruit. When I’m by myself I get only Pizza—which is fairly good, but not all decorated like American—just cheese and tomato. And always white wine—which is only a few steps below vinegar on the fermentation scale. I haven’t had a drink of milk since we left the States.

  New Year’s Day Nick, I, and two of the other guys decided to go to Pompeii by taxi. It turned out that Pompeii is closed only two days a year—Christmas and New Year’s. So we went into New Pompeii and visited the Cathedral—the second Cathedral of Italy in importance. It was very pretty—especially the different marble columns around the altar. Some of the large supporting columns are covered in pure gold leaf—over the altar is a fresco of the Virgin Mary, embossed with a diamond necklace—actually, her whole body from the waist up is studded with them, worth a paltry 2000,000,00 Lire (about $300,000—give or take $100,000). I was impressed….

  6 January 1955

  Dear Folks

  I suppose this is what would be called “the morning after the night before,” only it should be “the night after the morning before.” I was up until three this morning trying to untangle the mess made during the day. Seventy three came in and roughly seventy three went out; the smoke still hasn’t cleared sufficiently to get a really clear view. I signed my initials approximately two hundred and ninety-three times. Oh, well, it was fun, seeing all the happy faces (those checking out). The guys coming in acted, for the most part, as though someone had just offered them a cigarette at a firing squad in their honor.

  Bless those wastebaskets! Every day at sea that I’ve had the opportunity to get outside has been beautiful. I’d just as soon we stayed out for months—God knows it’s the only way I’d be able to save money.

  Palma is the next stop—on the 10th. Incidentally, the name of the island is Majorca, not Mallorca. There seem to be two of them—the other is called Minorca—I challenge you to figure out which one is largest. Found out also they don’t speak Spanish, but Catalan, whatever that is. Also that they are descendants from the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, as if it really matters. Since we’ll only be there two days, I probably won’t get bored. Then back to Gibraltar, where they speak that beautiful language, English. Oh, how good it will be to walk down the street and actually understand what half the people are saying—the other half are Spanish, and if they carry on conversations concerning “big buildings” and “see the green tree” I might be able to understand them, too. Still have ten shillings in my wallet left over from last time.

  Did a little office re-arranging this afternoon—Nick moved his desk away from the door (people are always running in and out bothering him), the MAA’s moved their desk to the spot Nick vacated, and Cou moved to where they’d been. I stayed where I was.

  Zone inspection today. Since I’d been up till three, I didn’t come down till ten; Nick was just starting to hold field day. So he took one side and I took the other—we scrubbed, dusted, and straightened until the office looked spotless (which is very rare). Unfortunately, neither of us had bothered with the middle. Commander Custer (our Supply Officer) came steaming in, walked directly to the liberty card box—which is in dead center of the rear wall (bulkhead)—ran his fingers over the top, and came away looking like something from a minstrel show. He was not pleased.

  This morning when I got up, all the heads were secured for field day, so I couldn’t wash. I’d certainly hate to have diarrhea on this ship, especially on Friday morning. Later, when I did go to wash, I was standing next to a gear locker when someone opened it, dropping a formidable sized piece of lead pipe on my foot. Nothing was broken, or you would have heard about it much sooner than this.

  At the moment I have a strong hunger for waffles—earlier today it was popcorn. I’ve completely forgotten how milk tastes.

  Oh how I wish we were back in the States. I think the biggest problem Man will have to face when he reaches for the stars will be homesickness. It affects even the most independent—to be placed in unfamiliar surroundings and situations. It’s bad enough just 3,000 miles from home—where there are at least some similarities. Imagine being millions of miles away, where your home is just a twinkle in the night sky.

  Well, the shower calls—I feel filthy.

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. The two stains on the upper corner of the first page are peanut butter. I had to settle for that.

  7 January 1956

  Walking through cold, metal passageways—from an open hatch leading to a compartment comes the sad soft voice of an accordion. Into another compartment, past tiers of racks, guys standing around in skivvie shorts and heavy sweat shirts. Down through a hatch to the mess decks and a long line of guys waiting to buy lemon sherbet and strawberry topping at the Gedunk. Into the office, down at Mr. Clower’s desk, and up with the pen.

  Someone fixed the office door today—it’s been badly sprung for almost two months now; seems strange not to have to batter your way out.

  On the mess decks the night mess cook crew is busy buffing. All the tables and benches are folded and stacked in racks along the bulkhead, leaving the halls clear. One guy goes along with a pan of soap, sowing it over the floor like Hannah the Chicken Girl. This makes the floor (deck) look like it’s snowed, and is quite pretty, if you have a vivid imagination and aren’t too particular. It also makes everyone sneeze. After the soap has been spread liberally over the deck and anyone in the way, another mess cook comes along with a pitcher of water, which he sloshes indiscriminately around. These two flower girls are followed by an electric buffer, with steel-wool under the regular brush. This turns the white soap and colorless water into a dirty slush, reminiscent of State and Main on a busy winter afternoon. After all this is done, the whole place is swabbed, and the deck glimmers brightly, almost (but not quite) shined enough to cast a reflection. It lasts about an hour, or until a sufficient number of transients to and from the Gedunk have the opportunity to slosh strawberries and sherbet over everything.

  Didn’t go to the movies tonight—I’d seen it once and it hadn’t impressed me as being worthy of seeing again. I get the biggest charge out of these up-to-date “Telenews” sports shorts they show.
Not that they’re old or anything, but last night they had an interview with some football coach, and the interviewer asked “Well, Ty, what would you say your team’s prospects are for ‘52?” Oh, well…. The last two nights’ offerings have been “Madame Curie” (vintage 1940–42) and “Donovan’s Brain” (??). Whenever we’re at sea, movies are held on the mess decks. Try sitting for two hours on a metal deck with three hundred other guys in a space about the size of the front half of our house.

  They were in an unusually benevolent mood last night, and showed a cartoon—if you can call it that. It was one of those “join-in-the-singing; just-follow-the-bouncing-ball” things. Though it was fun singing, the cartoon itself was very unfunny. It is amazing what some of these guys will laugh at! But, as I said, it is so rarely we get to see any sort of cartoon, we have to make the best of whatever we get.

  Went to the library tonite (for which I had to change from dungarees into Blues) just to see if they had a large map of the United States (a mythical country located somewhere between Olympus and Valhalla). I wanted to find a road map, to plot my course home—not that I’m anxious or anything. Naturally, they didn’t have one.

  On thinking it over, I have come to the conclusion that this is an extremely unorthodox journal—if it can be called that. For one thing, there are entirely too many “Naturally,” “Needless to say,” “However,” and “Actually”‘s to suit any self-respecting English teacher. For another, they should never mention “you”—it should be “one” or something like that. Never in literature or anywhere else have I seen the dash (—) used as a punctuation mark. Perhaps I’ve started something new; if so, I won’t have been a total loss. As for the “you,” I’m addressing this to you, whoever you are. Next, “one” does not emphasize words by underlining them—this is just not done. Well, I do.

  Nick incurred my wrath this afternoon by telling me I’m getting a bald spot. The idea of getting bald and that of growing old have always been my greatest dreads—ever since I’ve been very (which should be underlined) small.

  Anchored today off Majorca, singularly uninviting spot, with crude bare hills and mountains looking like third-class Hollywood scenery. No forest, not many trees; a few houses perched here and there, but we’re too far out to get a close look. The weather is cold and gloomy (naturally—we’re in sight of land.) We anchored at about two this afternoon with absolutely no fanfare.

  The entire crew is in a sort of a mechanized lethargy, where nothing either disturbs or excites us, save the frequent rumors of home.

  8 January 1956

  Our second day at anchorage of Majorca, which looked no more inviting today than it had yesterday. Sprinkled around the bay, like leaves over a pond, is half the United States Mediterranean Fleet from the battleship Iowa on down to a tiny submarine. It’s probably the same one as we saw off Sardinia—we only have two submarines in the entire Mediterranean.

  Got a lot accomplished today, in a small way. Finished the Greek mythology and entered Egyptian; studied some for the rate test coming up in February sometime, and rewrote and typed some of my Paris trip, which Nick glanced at and found very dull. Maybe he’s right.

  See by a plan of the day for tomorrow, which Conrad just brought in, that we’re replenishing from an ammunition ship tomorrow. Photographing the replenishment is “verboten.”

  Two hundred and seventeen days to go. Does that sound boring to you, reading it page after page? You should try living two hundred and seventeen days—there is much difference.

  The paper lies blank before me—to you it is filled with words. With each word you’re seeing my present, my past, and my future. You are seeing something right now I cannot see—a full page of words. I will not be able to see it until it ceases to become my future and becomes my past.

  There are always people in the world who bemoan the past, curse the present, and fear the future. They cry out that the world will surely end within a matter of a few years; that Man will destroy himself and bring a horribly and bloody climax to everyone and everything.

  But I believe in tomorrow. I’ve had many of them and hope to have many more. My tomorrows have come and gone—I live, hope, and die. So shall you. Never fear tomorrow. If you expect it, it cannot startle you. Tomorrow never jumps out from behind a bush and says “boo.” We ride smoothly from yesterday into tomorrow on the eternal crest of today.

  Ah, enough philosophizing for today—on to lighter (and we hope clearer) subjects.

  In the library today I stumbled over a copy of Boswell and leafed through it. How did the man possibly find time to write all that, and still find time to do the things he wrote about? He must have had a phenomenal memory, to be able to record those conversations. Well, perhaps days were much longer in Boswell’s time.

  What do white spots on your fingernails indicate? I have a good sized patch in the shape of a clown’s mouth on the second finger of my left hand. It’s pure white, and I wish it would either go away or have all my nails turn that color.

  Tomorrow starts another week of menus, mess cooks and mayhem. The gang just stormed in from the movie, half blue with cold. Ah, the balmy Mediterranean.

  Chief Sewell, who is a real character, refers to me alternately as Markus and “Father Kelly.” He says I’m too good to the mess cooks when they come in to ask questions. I keep telling him I don’t like to give anyone a hard time, because I don’t like for anyone to give me one. On the Ticonderoga, it is a rare thing indeed to ask a civil question and get a civil answer. Nick calls me “Boy Wonder-Champion of the People-Guardian of the Fundamental Rights.”

  Oh, well, you can’t win all the time—(but I sure like to try; just once)….

  9 January 1956

  Eight-thirty already and once again plunging through surveys, inventories, quarterly reports, and short tempers. The captain has been sitting on a small slip of paper which, as you might guess, is absolutely vital in order for the invoices to be put out on time. He’s had it for three days now, during which time Coutre has chewed his fingernails to a nub and swears loudly with increasing gusto that he “wants off this damn, half-assed excuse for a naval vessel.” Things will go along smoothly for awhile, and then he’ll turn around and say “I’m going over the hill in Gibraltar. I want off—out!” When he gets angry he glowers and threatens to put everyone on report; when Nick gets mad, or hurt, he pouts. When I get mad (rarely) I throw things—usually only paper. I have so much fun watching that I never bother getting mad.

  “Markus,” the Chief said today, “you’re too mature. You never enjoy life—when we hit port, you go over, take a few pictures, and come back for supper. I’ll bet you never had a childhood.”

  “Now wait a minute, Chief,” I replied, donning my armor; “for one thing I don’t come back for supper, but if you can tell me anything else to do over here, let me know. I don’t particularly enjoy sitting in some bar and soaking up the atmosphere. I have fun. My major trouble is not that I didn’t have a childhood but that I had too much.”

  Ah, so…. I rather like that name, with a different spelling (Marcus—or however the Romans spelled it).

  Coutre is presently reciting from a list of figures which flows over the chair and onto the deck—Nick is checking them against another list, in an attempt to find a missing $19.51. Mr. Clower is seldom around, and doesn’t seem to care much even when he is.

  Tomorrow we anchor in Palma—let’s hope we are not too far out so that it will take an hour to get ashore (plus waiting for the boat). For some reason, the Powers that Be have been carried away with generosity, and extended our liberty until twelve midnight. Previously it expired at eleven-thirty. Bought five dollars’ worth of Spanish money—which has the lowest exchange rate I’ve thus far encountered in Europe—43 to the dollar. (Compared to 350 Francs and 625 Lire). Their money is issued from the Bank of Spain though, as I’ve mentioned, their language is not Spanish. Like all European money, it has a watermark—though the bills are smaller than usual, they’re elaborate i
n a superficial way, and printed on the same paper as all European currency. Their predominate colors are blackish-green and winter brown—the face being one color, the back the other.

  Sitting here gorging myself on Fruit Cake which North, one of the bakers, brought up from a storeroom where it has been since Christmas—we didn’t make them ourselves but had them bought and shipped to us.

  10-12 Jan. 1956

  Dear Folks

  Got a total of six letters today—three this afternoon and three this evening. The later three were dated the 3, 4, and 5th. I enjoyed your “sermon,” dad. However—you realize I’ve grown up; mother realizes I’ve grown up—but when will I?

  Mother was right—I have accumulated a little common sense along the way—the Mighty Ti at the last count had roughly 197 men on the “sick” list. I have no intentions of joining the happy throng. ‘Nuff said?

  Anchored about two miles off Palma, and I’ll go ashore tomorrow. Stayed up till three this morning on this inventory—looks like we’ll be at it tonite too.

  I’ve been missing flying like mad—think I’ll try buying an airplane and flying home—I think that would be a good idea. Start pricing pontoon planes, dad—we can fly up to the lakes every weekend.

  Nine thirty already and no end in sight.

  Two days later and it’s over. Up till three-thirty that morning too. Started to rewrite it because I could hardly read this one.