A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  The tour was, as I said, very nice. The countryside of France is as strewn with houses as Sicily is with stones.

  We passed through Nice, along the English Promenade—a sort of Riverside Drive built about a hundred years ago simply to keep the people busy.

  Over the mountains and into the independent province of Monaco, a tiny republic surrounded entirely by France and supported almost solely by the proceeds from the world famous Casino of Monte Carlo.

  Monaco is the only fairy tale kingdom left in our modern world—crowded and jostled by republics and democracies and totalitarian states. Here, high on a hill overlooking the city and the little blue bay, in a building that looks not quite like a castle and not quite like a palace, lives the sole remaining Prince. Outside the main door parades a single soldier–Monaco has a standing army of 80—elaborately dressed in blue and red, before two little barber-pole sentry boxes. All along the wall, and on the edge of the cliff facing the outside world, are lined formidable cannon—a gift of Napoleon’s nephew.

  The Casino itself looks vaguely like an exhibition building left over from a world’s fair. Inside is a theatre opened by Miss Sarah Bernhardt. The gambling rooms are attractive and expensive, but not Hollywood-type plush.

  Behind and around Monaco are the mountains—huge, proud, pensive but not brooding.

  Back to Nice for dinner, past wide, almost dry rivers fed, and Spring-flooded, by the white topped mountains. Past, too, several houses looking like sand castles kicked in by a small child; reminders of when the Americans came calling with other than money.

  I won’t bother describing dinner—I’ve had it before and you’ve read it before.

  After dinner into the mountains; along Wolf Canyon; the bus was an ant out on Main Street. Tall, clean cliffs, an unbelievably clear stream rushing through a narrow valley cut patiently over thousands of years—large valleys with black-green trees. In one spot, a three-hundred-foot arch of a railway bridge supports nothing but the tiny section of rail atop it; in the valley below large chunks of bridge, destroyed by retreating German armies. In another, a large bridge happened to pass over a town. It too, was blown, and when it fell, it toppled onto the buildings below. They still lie together, broken toys.

  Atop the highest mountains, and in the most ungodly places, are the villages—hanging on to the cliffs as thought the buildings had roots. No cars go here—the streets are too narrow—in some places the streets are merely stairways. Most of these villages are walled, founded before Christ. Ese got its name from the Egyptian goddess Isis.

  Though quaint and picturesque, both looking out on and presenting lovely views, I cannot understand why people could ever want to live there, or what they find to do with themselves.

  The last stop of the day was in Grasse (Grahs) where, both for enjoyment and also for commercial reasons, we visited a perfume factory. The smells were beautiful and our factory guide, “Mother,” showed us all around and explained the manufacture of perfume step by step, ending in the showroom, where we were expected to buy gallons of liquid odor at $5 an ounce. I had no money, which is probably a good thing.

  And so back to the ship. And now, since it’s taps, to bed.

  Love

  Roge

  9-10 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  The ship has been writhing all afternoon—at supper the tables slid across the mess decks and water sloshed out of cups. The soup was up to the brim on one side of the bowl and touching the bottom on the other. At the moment, she’s creaking like a Spanish galleon.

  Currently engrossed in a quasi-legal discussion—we’ve gone from courts martials to Canadian-American relations. Andrews says “Canada and America will be the same thing some day.” It probably never occurred to him that Canada might not want to become a part of the great U.S. If I remember correctly, we tried that once. As any map can tell you, we didn’t quite succeed.

  The conversation, from which I have been generally excluded, has broken up while Andy goes in quest of some hot bread and Coutre has gone to fetch some butter. The bread won’t be hot for half an hour, so Nick has substituted some good old Navy hardtack.

  Quarter till ten and here I sit, reading Christopher Marlowe.

  10 February, 1956

  Just finished reading, in one of those twenty-five cent Man’s magazines, an article on the assassination of President McKinley. From this article and one I’d read previously, McKinley was evidently shot by two different men with the same name (Czolgosz). My subconscious, or alter-ego, or whatever you wish to call it remarked bitterly—it’s always bitter—that I’d better go out and shoot a President, because that’s the only way I’ll ever become famous. Oh, well….

  The storm continued all through the night and up until late this afternoon—I loved it; twice the ship lurched as though it had been thrown into the air and let drop down again. All hands were warned to stay clear of the Foc’sle and all weather decks, but I, curious as usual, decided to go back to the fantail.

  The sea thrashed about like a madman in a strait jacket—steam and spray were mixed with the heavy snow and the clouds of smoke from our breaths—yes, there are others as curious as me.

  Water washed an eighth of an inch deep across the hangar deck, and the cold was enough to force me back below before too long. After warming up, I went back with the wastebaskets. One I dumped into the chute hanging over the fantail fell directly into the water—the other had a fifty-foot drop, and colored bits of paper flew off into the snow like bright birds. Waves were breaking even with and above the level of the fantail, which somehow escaped getting swamped. In the distance, the dark grey of our destroyer bobbed between the lighter greys of sea and sky. If I’d had a coat, I’d have stood there a lot longer, but that was too much for me.

  Cut off as we are from the world, our only contact is through the ship’s Daily Press—printed on two sheets of 8 1/2x13 heavy paper. I haven’t even seen one of those in two days. From what I’ve gathered, Italy is in bad shape because of the snows—rumors of hunger riots and other major catastrophes float throughout the ship. If this is true, we will no doubt put into port as soon as possible and set up soup kitchens for the Communists, who will take it and curse us for not giving them enough.

  I don’t see how we can spare anybody anything—we are on slightly low rations ourselves. The food used on this ship is tremendous—we give away over 500 lbs of coffee a week to different divisions here on board—that doesn’t count the amount we use for meals.

  Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down sufficiently, we take on another 116 tons of supplies—including 25 tons or so to be delivered to the USS Courier—a radio ship off Rhodes broadcasting propaganda to Russia and the Communist countries.

  In Naples we are to pick up five hundred cases of baby food for somebody or other. Ah, such is life on our great ships of war.

  I wish I had some cocoa—maybe mom will be nice enough to send me a box of Nestles’ individual bags.

  A trip to the calculator shows I have just 184 days to go—tomorrow will make it exactly one half year! And with that cheery news, I leave you….

  Love

  Roge

  11 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  Despite seas that threw the ships so high out of the water that their screws whipped the air, we held replenishment at sea today. It took twelve hours for three ships to come alongside and unload. The rough seas were coupled at times with snow so thick the alongside ship could hardly be seen, and always it was bitter cold.

  In order to buy my ticket to Rome, I’ve got to borrow $1.25—the first time that’s happened since I joined.

  Coutre and John Lanasa are bound and determined to go down in my journal as combination Simon Legree and Nero—for the past week they’ve stayed up nights thinking of sarcastic comments to make. Nick, relieved that the pressure is off him for awhile, joins in with an occasional kick in the face. I don’t mind it, really, because it is I who am getting their goat by not becoming an
gry.

  Actually, John can be forgiven, since he is in a state of semi-delirium caused by an approaching discharge. Only—no, I won’t mention how many days I’ve got left—you should know it by heart by this time. Just look ahead a few pages, and I’ll be out, since my past and future are all your present.

  12 February, 1956

  A short day—beginning at about 11:15 this morning, a movie this afternoon, reading and monkeying around this evening, and here we are. Ah, if they all go this fast.

  Submitted my request to go to Rome on the 21st. But I have a slight problem. I may have mentioned Peter Paul Kreiger before; he is a stocky blond, rather reminiscent of an ox. He isn’t stupid, but he is almost unbelievably naïve. Several weeks ago he came to me and said “Let’s go to Rome, Roger.” I said I didn’t know if I could, though even then I’d planned on it. So, every two or three days he’d ask me again. I kept putting him off and putting him off.

  I don’t want to sound like a snob or anything like that, but I like to feel that whatever I want to do, I can. But Peter Paul is the kind who won’t let you move without being right there. To top it all off, we have absolutely nothing in common. I am also very naïve at times, but not to the obvious extent Peter Paul is. He’s a good kid, and will do anything for you, but he is the proverbial small town boy in the big city.

  So tonite I came into the office and here was Peter Paul, making out a tour chit for Rome on the 21st.

  “Are you going to Rome, Roger?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “On the 21st?” I nodded.

  “Swell—we’ll have to sort of stick together there, you know, won’t we?”

  What can I say? I can’t hurt the poor kid’s feelings, even if I have a miserable time myself. Oh, but I do sound like a snob. I can see us now—I’ll want to spend as much time in the ruins as possible. While standing in the Forum, pondering the glory that was Rome and seeing the great buildings and beautifully-dressed people in my mind’s eye, Peter Paul will say:

  “Gee, this is old, isn’t it?”

  And nights, when I want to just walk up and down the streets looking in the windows, Peter Paul will be there. Oh, well….

  The captain made a little speech over the intercom this evening, saying that the USS Ticonderoga is the worst ship in the Mediterranean Area (by 8 to 1) as far as getting into trouble ashore. What a ship!

  The storm of the past few days has completely passed—we are anchored once again off Sardinia, which seems to be our home port. Damage done by the waves was considerable. One sponson deck on the port (left) side, from which our gangway is let down, was twisted up two feet, so that the ladder cannot be lowered. One compartment forward is completely flooded, several more have buckled. I enjoyed the whole thing.

  Replenishment yesterday—delayed report—went off with typical Naval efficiency. We ordered 20 cases of skimmed milk and received 207; asked for 400,000 lbs of potatoes and got 21,000.

  And so to bed.

  Love

  Roge

  14 February 1956

  Dear Folks

  Today, as I walked down the passageway on my way from the Photo Lab, I glanced at the tour ticket in my hand and saw, really saw, for the first time, the words “Rome, Italy.” For a moment then I regained the thrill of the new, the exciting, and the unknown. But pleasure is so dampened by reality that very little can be really enjoyed in the present—it must wait until it becomes the past, when it can retain some of its magic.

  I suppose this is partly coupled by the fact that the view changes, but the house doesn’t. It’s as though you were to get up one morning and step out the door into a completely different city. But when you come back home, everything is the same.

  Our brief run from Sardinia to Italy was one of the roughest we’ve ever been through—water rolled back and forth across the hangar deck in tidal waves with the ship’s rolls. It washed into the mail room to a depth of about a foot. One jolt during the noon meal broke half the plates in the Chiefs’ quarters, spilling tables all over the deck.

  When I returned to the office after the movie, it had been secured for heavy weather, so I had no chance to write.

  This morning service-wide examinations for Petty Officer Third Class were held in Hangar Bay #1. I took the test for AK (Aviation Storekeeper), but I might as well have stayed in the office—having spent only five days in the Aviation Supply Office when I first came aboard, I didn’t know beans.

  Tomorrow is payday, thank God! I spent my very last dollar for the tour ticket ($28.00). I haven’t been paid in six weeks.

  A batch of new men came aboard tonight, fresh from the States—most of them fresh from Boot Camp. It only took them a month to get here—flying—via Scotland, Heidelberg (Germany), Frankfort (Germany), and Port Leyute (N. Africa).

  One of the first purchases I make when getting home will be a tape recorder (Webcor). It will come in very handy for college. Some of the guys have been tormenting me with the thought that they may release me as much as two weeks early. But that would be too much to hope for—they can also hold you 30 days over your discharge date, which is more likely.

  Vesuvius, which I hope may someday destroy Naples as completely and more irrevocably than it did Pompeii, is coated in a somber cloak of snow, which makes it look very impressive—sort of like an English judge.

  The snows here must have been very bad, as the mountain is white to its very base.

  Unless we can buy bread and flour ashore, the USS Ticonderoga is going to be in very poor straights, having only eleven days’ supply of flour left—and our next replenishment is not scheduled until March.

  Just finished Milton in the book of Poetry—the poets are in more or less chronological order—I still have three hundred years or so to go. So, “con su permiso”….

  Love

  Roge

  15 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  Something is not as it should be—either the mail is fouled up or you aren’t writing every day. How did I reach this conclusion? We were at sea for seven days without a mail call, and when we finally had one, last night and this morning, I got three letters. See what I mean?

  Got paid today, as well as a Cholera shot they gave out with each pay chit—sneaky of them. It felt so good to have real honest-to-goodness money for a change. I ran out (or rather “down”) to the ship’s store and bought four rolls of film—at $3.65 (up 40 cents from last time) a roll, which should last me through Rome.

  Vesuvius was beautiful today—when it could be seen at all—pure white and towering over the city larger than it ever did before. Snow almost all day—thick, heavy flakes. Some guys built a snow-woman on the Number 2 elevator, while others threw snowballs into the water.

  Because a strong wind was driving the ship into the sea wall to which we’re moored, all the hangar bay doors were opened to allow the wind to pass through. Needless to say, it was a wee bit chilly.

  According the chart you sent, I owe the government $7.46, which I will not pay until they ask me for it.

  Nick, Cou and Andy went out early this afternoon for the express purpose of getting smashed drunk. Last time Andy and Cou went out, they came back with a bar stool. They had another chair picked up from a sidewalk café, but the owner caught them at fleet landing and they had to give it back.

  Nick, I’ve found out, is very bitter toward the Navy (who isn’t?) because when he finished boot camp he asked to be sent to communications school and someone told him he couldn’t go because he is a security risk (his father was born in Russia).

  We only have five more ports to hit—excluding the NATO cruise—before heading home—Rhodes, Beirut, San Remo, Valencia, and Barcelona.

  I asked Andy to steal me something this time. He was highly indignant. Last time he woke everyone in the cook’s compartment one by one and ceremoniously presented each of them a peanut. Coutre will be hell in the morning, and I don’t expect to see Nick much before noon.

  Oh, well….
/>   Till next time

  Love

  Roge

  16 February, 1956

  At one thirty this morning, I was awakened by a flickering light. It was Andy and Nick, who said “We brung ya sum’m” and plopped onto my bed one pepper shaker, four matched glasses (two large and two small), three rolls, and an orange (“Thought you might be hungry”). Andy recanted and took one of the rolls back “For Dickie-Poo” (North). I thanked them profusely, and they staggered off to bed.

  About a week ago, the Captain spoke over the loudspeaker about our outrageous shore-patrol record, and concluded with “let’s make our stay at Naples one without a single bad report.” Out of the five report chits handed out last night, four were from S-2 Division.

  So today the ax fell. The Captain spoke again—this time not so cajoling, with the warning that from this moment on, Gestapo techniques by the Shore Patrol would not only be condoned, but encouraged. Every night twenty officers and thirty petty-officers without Shore Patrol brassards, would patrol the city and send anyone they thought might get into trouble back to the ship. If this does not work, we will avoid liberty troubles by curtailing liberty.

  And knowing the dear old Ti as I do, we are very likely to sit out the rest of our cruise. My loathing for the Navy has not abated in the least.

  Perhaps, just to get out and walk around, I might go over this Saturday, but I doubt it very much. It all depends on the weather, and how I feel (mood, not physically). I’ve had one of those annoying “snort” type colds for several weeks now—slowly driving me nuts.

  Time out for a cup of chicken soup—it looks hideous but tastes very good. Fresh milk coming aboard tomorrow—the Navy has a farm it maintains by U.S. Government standards for the Naval Air Station and some of the 10,000 Americans in and around Naples.