by Dorien Grey
Left Palma this morning—I went ashore yesterday and had a fine time, all on five dollars. As I’d feared, we were anchored the farthest out of the eight American warships in the harbor. The ride in took twenty minutes and was the roughest I’ve ever seen. The liberty launch (forty feet long with almost 100 guys in it) bobbed around like a cork.
Palma is a nice town, much cleaner than Naples—and nobody is dragging at your arm and following you around the streets. Happily, all the inhabitants speak Spanish, though they have their own dialect they use at home. My Spanish is sufficient enough to get me into a conversation, but not enough to get me out. They all seem pleasantly surprised to find that someone speaks Spanish. Went to a Spanish movie later in the evening, but they spoke too fast for me—I could get the general ideas but not the details.
Earlier in the day, after walking around and finding all the stores closed (they close from 1 till 4 every day), I took a trolley to a real Hollywood-type castle. The trolleys look like the Tooner Trolley’s they used to have in the funnies—small, orange, big glass windows, and seating 18, they’re almost comical. The castle sits high on a hill, overlooking the entire bay and city, and the mountains behind—an ideal place for a castle. Built in a circle, it is surrounded by an amazingly deep moat—ten feet of water would be sufficient to drown anyone, but these were at least thirty. A huge round tower, topped with battlements, stands in the moat and is connected to the main part of the castle by a high arched passageway. No one could possibly have gotten in—or, for that matter, out.
Three stories high, the rooms radiated off a central round patio. All the rooms were, therefore, shaped like slices of angel food cake. They were all quite large and, even though it was a castle and therefore probably exceedingly hard to heat, comfortable. In the center of the patio, surrounded by statuary—mostly Roman, was a well, which no doubt supplied water during sieges. I even saw two bathrooms (something that has always intrigued me whenever I saw a knights-in-armor movie). They were both in the tower mentioned previously, and must have been rather inconvenient, especially during winter and battles, as it is accessible only over the roof and across the connecting bridge.
I climbed to the very top of the tower, up stairs worn down in the center by countless knights, ladies-in-waiting, and tourists. The view was magnificent—a pompous word but the only one at hand to describe it—behind the green hills rolled themselves into mountains, which ran, jagged and increasingly grey, into the horizon. Beneath, in front, and far below, the city lay by the sea; and on its shimmering blue-grey sat eight tiny ships. The wind blew, as it always does on high places, and I walked to the edge of the tower—around which was a lattice of stone; no guard rail—I looked down, down, down into the moat so far below, and I felt frightened, as everyone does when they realize how much nothing there is between them and death, and backed away.
I said the castle sat atop a hill. Well, it did—a small mountain would be more like it. The trolley stops about half-way up. Streets go up a little further, and then they end—from here steps go up a distance more and end at a chapel looking down on the city and up on the castle. From there out, it is sheer mountain-goat territory. A car road does go up, but it winds so it is shorter (distance-wise) to go straight up. I doubt that the castle was ever attacked with much strength or success, for the invaders would be so tired from their climb they couldn’t do much fighting.
And so once again we find ourselves at 9:30. So, with your kind permission, I will close now with
Love
Roge
Postcard date unreadable.
Subject: the Castle of Bellver, Palma de Mallorca
Hello Parents
This is the castle described in my journal; it only goes to prove that a picture is worth 1000 words—my words, anyway.
212 days as of today. I’ll probably write tonite too, so this will be short.
Regards to all the relatives and Stormy and tell them I’ll see them soon. Till then,
Roge
14 January 1955
With two American aircraft carriers, two British, one Yankee battleship, one heavy cruiser, two destroyers and God knows how many English escort ships anchored in and about the bay, Gibraltar’s businessmen must be among the most wealthy in the world. Even at one thirty this afternoon, the town’s narrow streets were crowded with a variety of uniforms—mostly blue. Civilians were very much in the minority on the streets—most of them working in the shops and stores. Even of the civilian clothes seen, nine-tenths of them were American and British officers—it is not difficult to tell them apart.
Not wishing to cause any international ill-will, I still feel it necessary to say that the British have hideous taste in clothes. Brown—brown tweed, brown wool, brown flannel, brown Butch/golfing caps, brown shoes. Horrible pinstripes, obnoxious sharks-tooth patterns. And all of it seems planned so as to permit not a clash, but a dull thud. The cut of the suits seem to resemble most closely those of the American in 1918. The officers look like something out of Horatio Hornblower in physical make up—leathery, stiff upper-lipped, and very British. The enlisted men, especially the young, have soft white complexions and rosy cheeks; beneath their white caps with black bands proclaiming the name of their ship (HMS Delight; HMS Courage; HMS Pinafore) they look fresh from a doll factory. Their speech is fascinating—I love it, and wonder how we must sound to them.
Occasionally, to break the monotony of so much blue, one sees a British Marine—dressed, oddly enough, in brown wool, with flaming red covers on their bridge caps. And, very rarely, a Scot, with his plaid kilt, with a white tassel hanging from his side, and knee length socks. They are by far the most colorful sight I’ve seen. And, though they must get into countless fights over the fact that they wear “skirts,” they are among the most attractive uniforms in the world.
The Ti had anchored out, about a ten minute ride from the pier; almost beside her lay the Lake Champlain, our sister ship. They look very powerful.
Unfortunately, we did not merely window shop. I ran out of money about five, and we came back to the ship. I’m quite happy with my purchases, and won’t describe them here because certain people for whom they are intended might read it.
When I get home, I plan to spread everything out on the living room floor—maybe we can even have a Christmas tree. The one thing I will mention, to soothe curiosity, is three Dutch clay pipes for Grandpa Margason. They’re made in Holland and are quite fragile, but they’re different and I hope he enjoys them. I had planned on getting him one of those long-stemmed varieties, but changed my mind when I saw these—I was almost tempted to take up pipe-smoking myself. They’re small; one is hand painted and must be held like a cigarette to smoke, since the clay bowl becomes quite hot. The other two have different contrivances (one like a bull’s horns sticking forward from the base of the bowl) by which he can smoke and not burn his hand. No filters, though, something he might not appreciate.
Tomorrow is Sunday—Monday we leave for seven days at sea, and then pull in to Augusta, Sicily.
Tonite is Saturday, and it’s getting very late….
15 January 1956
I’m hungry—a physical state I find myself in most of the time. Only ate two meals today: brunch and supper, and neither one of them held me for very long. Earlier this afternoon I nibbled on some toast left over from brunch; wish I had some now.
Went to the first movie on the hangar deck. Two gigantic steel electric sliding doors can divide the hangar deck into three sections, in case of emergency—the forward doors are closed most of the way, and in this section movies are held; they can seat up to 1,500 or 2,000. The movie started early, about ten till six, and they had a funny cartoon, for a change.
At six o’clock every evening, they announce “Attention to colors,” as the flag is being lowered on the fantail. The movie had just begun when the whistle blew, and 1,000 men stood up, turned around, and stood at attention. It was very impressive. I always get a kick out of mass actions.
Mail call this morning, much to my delight. Got three letters from home—all from Mother. She asked if I’d received the fifteen dollars she sent; I thought I’d thanked her before for it.
I still wonder how Pepys and Boswell did it—they wrote pages and pages, all of it in pattern; containing some of the most elaborate conversations. Unfortunately, when I attempt to write dialogue, everyone talks exactly as I do.
Sitting at Mr. Clower’s desk and just had a terrific struggle with the desk tray I’m now writing on. Is it called a “desk tray?”—Anyway, it’s a part that slides out from over the drawers on the right hand side, used for an arm rest, or putting things while typing, or anything.
You know, this isn’t really a journal—they’re more “thoughts at random”—and they are about as random and disjointed as anyone would care to get.
It frustrates me to think I may not be the genius I think I am. There, now—four I’s in one sentence. That’s nearly a record, isn’t it?
Frankly, Roger, who gives a damn what you do or think. Everyone is much too busy living their own lives—it’s a full time job—to care anything about you
Ah, now I’m getting bitter again. I think I have definite masochistic tendencies—I enjoy tormenting myself. I’ve always been like that—I’ll make a mistake on the typewriter and it will get me angry, and so I’ll erase very hard and possibly tear the paper or smudge it with the eraser, and then I’ll hit the keys as hard as I can in that slow, maddening “don’t go too fast—the boy is an idiot, you know” fashion and in no time I’ll make another mistake, which will be much worse, since I’m hitting the keys too hard, and I’ll get into a positive rage and rip the paper from the machine, swear vehemently (which always startles Nick), tear it and the carbon paper to shreds, and throw it into the wastebasket or on the floor. Happily, these moments are few and far between.
Eight “I”‘s in that one.
That is wrong, you know, telling people your faults—it only draws their attention to them. As Stu Iversen used to say: “Roger, you keep telling us how inferior you are until pretty soon we get to believe it.”
See what I mean by masochism?
Well, it wouldn’t do any good to tell anyone how marvelous I am because no one will believe it, least of all me.
I’ve come to the conclusion that today’s sermons on the evils of Margasonism is because, unlike Ching-Chong, my belly is empty. For this supposedly being the mess decks, there is nothing around to eat. Oh, well—my hand grows too weak to hold a pen. Till tomorrow….
16 January 1956
This will have to be short, since I can’t wait to get up and take a shower. It is mandatory that we wear Blues, but we are never in a port long enough or with facilities for cleaning—this set I have on now has just about “had the course.”
The long awaited and long feared inspection party arrived today, and do not appear to have two heads and breathe fire as I was led to believe. Everyone’s been going around for the last two days with the air of Joan of Arc eyeing the stake.
Last night we held a special field day, cleaning and dusting and all, to have everything just so when the inquisitors arrived. I’d been warned by Coutre to get all my personal gear out of the way before they came, so this noon I borrowed a large box from the small stores across the way. I didn’t exactly borrow it—I took it. It was full of junk—papers and pieces of cardboard and other paraphernalia, which I tried stuffing in our two already overloaded wastebaskets. Most of it landed on the floor. I’d been keeping several things in a large coffee tin (50 lb. size) and so proceeded to unload it over my desk and several chairs.
The door opened and Mr. Clower stepped in, saying “This is my office, Commander.” Oh, well.
Coutre endeared himself to Mr. Clower while the Commander was asking stock questions about the office spaces. Were they adequate? Mr. Clower nodded yes—his head is built on some sort of lever, I believe. Do we keep certain files? Yes. Is the lighting adequate? Mr. Clower was just on the downward stroke of his nod when Coutre said “Pardon me, Commander, but frankly I don’t think this lighting’s worth a damn!” Oh, the silence. “Well,” added Mr. Clower after a pregnant silence, “we’ve got overhead fluorescents and lamps over the desks—you go into a compartment that doesn’t have florescent lights sometime and you’ll notice the difference.” He seems to have won on that response, but lost on a technicality—as far as I know, almost all the compartments have florescent lights. (…No, I’ll take that back, but the sentence is too long to scratch out.)
See, I told you it would be short—the shower calls….
Love
Roge
18 Jan. 1956
Dear Folks
Received your letters of the 9th and 12th, and must say that for sending them air mail, I’d hate to see how long it would take by regular mail. In one was the license application, requesting notarization. Unfortunately, Notary Publics in the Mediterranean are amazingly few and far between. When does it have to be in?
Please, both of you—I get out August 12, not 16—let’s not make it any worse than it already is. Speaking of getting out, Lief should be any time now. With luck, he should be just about even with me in school by the time I get out—much as I hate him, I wish we could go to the same school. I’ll have to send a letter to Northwestern; also to Northern, and maybe one to the U. of Missouri, which has an excellent journalism school.
Lost two planes and pilots yesterday; one during the day, and one at night. The first one came in too low and was given a wave-off—he put on full power but his tail hook caught on one of the arresting wires and pulled his whole tail off. He went sliding over the deck, his fuel tanks burst and spreading flaming gasoline over everything, setting fire to the flight deck, the number two elevator, and burning several men in the catwalks and on the hangar deck—the plane itself went right on over the side—we didn’t even slow down.
That night, two planes were hooked to the catapults at the same time—one had on full power, ready to be launched, while the other, on the opposite catapult, had only quarter power, waiting for the first. When the director gave the signal, the two catapult operators threw their switches and both planes were shot off at the same time. The one with full power made it—the other had only enough time to pull up his wheels before hitting the water. A destroyer came up immediately, while the plane was still afloat, but the pilot was gone.
Father, you are now the possessor of a very fine and very powerful set of 8x30 Hensholt binoculars—Merry Xmas. I had planned on ordering them through the ship’s store, but while buying film for my camera saw they had a pair someone had ordered before and never picked up. Should I take a chance and mail them home, or keep them till I get there? I’d like to use them myself, but won’t, thus insuring that nothing will happen to them.
In case you didn’t notice or couldn’t translate the note on the last envelope, I said “Can use more stamps” and can—all sizes, but mostly 3’s. Got a few today in one of the letters.
Do you know that the Navy will be paying me more per month while I’m in school than it does now? I’ll get $110, whereas now I’m only getting $100.
Received my income tax withholding statement—I earned $1475.56 during the last year, and $140.54 was taken out of my pay. On $1,500, the charge is $154, so I owe them some money. If you haven’t filled out your returns yet let me know and I’ll send you mine so you can have it done, too.
Just think—206 days from today and I’ll be a free man. God, I can’t imagine what I’d do if I had three years to do!
More food (178 tons) coming aboard tomorrow, and it’s about time—we’re running short on or out of everything. We ran out of cocoa several weeks ago, so I’ve been drinking nothing but water, and that only occasionally.
Since I can think of nothing more scintillating to say than to ask once
again what these white spots are on my fingernails, I’ll close now and do some reading.
Until next time, I am
Always
Roge
Receiving 116 tons of food from the USS Hyades, foreground, while she was also servicing a destroyer on the other side.
19 January 1956
A very busy day—not for me necessarily; all I did was walk around and take pictures—but for the U.S.S. Ticonderoga (CVA-14). Starting at one o’clock this afternoon, we’ve had at least four ships pull up beside us—at one time there were two alongside at the same time. First came the stores ship Hyades, bringing us 116 tons of food. She had a hard time, for while she was sending us things, a destroyer pulled up on her other side, and she replenished it, too. It was fascinating to watch—I went way up to the 0-7 level (the seventh deck above the flight deck, in the island), and took two rolls of film on the whole process.
It was really a sight to remember—the huge carrier towering over the supply ship (which was no bathtub toy by itself), and on the other side of it the sleek, almost tiny destroyer, cutting a clean wake through the blue-green water.
Nothing was lost over the side or between-ships transfer, though the way some of those slings and nets were loaded and frayed, it’s a miracle. Some guy was carrying a case of tomatoes (canned) and threw them to the next one in line (storing and stacking is done on the old bucket-brigade principle), who didn’t catch it, and it dropped on the deck. An officer standing nearby proceeded to give the guy who’d thrown it a ten minute lecture on the necessity for the careful handling of food. He never quite finished, for at that moment a sling came swinging over from the Hyades, smacked into the side of the Ti, and spilled fifty cases of assorted canned goods all over the sponson deck. The officer shook his head and walked away.
