A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  An hour and a half and one chicken breast later, it is now after taps, and I’d better get into the rack. Had a most realistic dream (in Technicolor) of the Ti sinking—I was just ready to jump off when I woke up. Maybe I can continue it tonite. We shall soon see….

  18 February 1956

  Tonight an Armed Forces Entertainment group came aboard to present a sort of musical variety show called “Go West Young Man.” Most of them are English and some, I suspect, French; but they sang and danced to American songs and wore western costumes. They were not, by far, the most polished of theatrical troupes, but they certainly boosted the morale of a bunch of America-sick sailors. They had eight girls, two of whom I fell in love with—both brunettes, for a change; it was wonderful to look at some half-civilized women after these plain rag dolls one sees here in Europe. At the moment they’re eating cake and drinking coffee on the mess deck after the show, but naturally the MAAs are out in force to keep the peons away.

  I had toyed with the idea of going ashore today—Nick and Cou did—but changed my mind to save money for Rome. Even at that, I’ll only have thirty dollars to take with me.

  Peter Paul caught me on the ladder leading from the after mess deck to inform me he was all ready to go, except for getting Lire exchanged.

  “I’m gonna take along just one pair of blue pants, and a pair of dungarees to sit around in at night. We won’t want to wear Blues all day and all night, too.”

  Now, just what he means by that, I have no idea. I can’t imagine what he thinks we’ll be doing just ‘sitting around,’ but for myself, I plan to do other things than sit in a hotel room and stare at four blank walls and Peter Paul’s face.

  Ah, woe is me….

  A moment’s reflection on my health shows that, aside from a case of the snorts, my cold remains firmly entrenched somewhere between my nose and the top of my head. While walking down a passageway this afternoon, I rammed the back of my hand—just below the base knuckle of my middle finger—into a hatch-dog. Now the whole hand hurts, especially when I move my fingers. However, if that is all I ever have to worry about, it will be all right.

  Yesterday we had a vendor come aboard to sell us 400,000 pounds of flour, tons of meat, and a great quantity of cheese. Nick took an immediate dislike to him because he was impatient and carried an umbrella (he was quite young, wore large glasses and one of those hideous horse blankets they have the audacity to call overcoats). With him was his assistant, or side-kick, or accomplice, or whatever, equally well attired. This one spoke no English and looked as though he’d just gotten out of school.

  The Commander’s signature was required on one of the contracts, and the Commander himself was in his stateroom, sleeping. “When will the Commander wake up? When will he be able to sign the papers?”

  We tried to explain that one does not go bounding into a Commander’s stateroom gaily waving a set of contracts, but it didn’t seem to penetrate. Finally, saying he had business ashore but that he would return shortly, he took his umbrella and departed, leaving his cohort to hold down the fort. So he sat. I looked at Nick; looked at the kid, and the kid looked at the floor. Nick brought him a sandwich, which he ate with great relish (it was on an Italian roll we’d gotten that morning). After an hour or so, he decided “I go.” Cou had called from the Supply Office to hold him there. It took us awhile, but we finally got it across that he was to “wait for our boss.”

  The umbrella man came back at last and said for Nick to tear up all the contracts. Then he and his friend left.

  Mr. Clower came in shortly after and said he’d found out that they were not affiliated with any government recognized suppliers—that they’d been fired six weeks before.

  Nick was pleased. Then, as an afterthought, he said: “And to think I gave that crumb a sandwich.”

  19 and 20 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  Got your letter mailed the 14th, which said you got my package—I’m glad you liked everything, and hope none of it was broken or spilled. The robe and Ching Chong 2 came from Gibraltar, as did the tapestry and pipes.

  I never was able to figure out what Ching Chong 2 is carrying—a wine sack is most likely. I couldn’t figure out what else you might like or could use. This one shouldn’t have a crack in it as the first one did. If you like you can call one Ching and the other Chong—saves confusion.

  Slept today till eleven; something I’d like to do more often. Can’t seem to concentrate tonight—an annoying habit.

  I’ve learned by now that if you can’t fight ‘em, sometimes it’s just as well to join ‘em; so I’ll start again this morning.

  Coutre met a buddy of his in Naples, just over from the States. They know all about us over there. We’ve had more courts-martial than any other ship in the fleet, gotten into more trouble than any five other ships, lost more planes and pilots, and cost the government more money than any other carrier we have. He says if anyone causes any trouble in Norfolk they usually stop it by threatening to put them on the Ticonderoga! Oh, well, we have fun.

  Had trouble with my camera today—the door got stuck shut. I was taking pictures of flight operations (including landings as seen from directly underneath, on the fantail—and real bombings). But I guess all that film was ruined.

  Showed movies all night tonite and now I’ve got to close. Rome tomorrow.

  Bye Now

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. Enclosed are some pictures taken at Syracuse, Sicily, and Catania.

  Photographs I took in Syracuse, Sicily. Date unknown

  1) This is the amphitheater of Syracuse, where gladiators fought each other and lions fed. The gladiators entered through the arch in the back—where the two men are—and exited, if alive, through another arch directly across from it and out of the picture. The lions entered through the dark holes on either side of the men; the pool in the center held water to wash the blood from the arena.

  2) And here is the great Theatre of Syracuse carved out of solid rock. The stage was covered in marble. The deep ridges in back supported a stage that could raise or lower by water pressure.

  At the top and in the back (out of the picture) is a large ridge into which rooms were cut for the wealthy to rest on hot days.

  Postcard Dated 25 Feb. 1956 and Postmarked “U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA 14,

  Feb. 27. 1956, 9 a.m.”

  Subject: Vatican City

  Dear Folks

  This, as you may gather if you read five different languages, is the Vatican, with St. Peter’s in the back.

  I’ve already gone over my trip with a fine tooth comb and therefore won’t add anything now, except maybe by looking at the people entering and then at the dome, you might get an idea of the immensity of it. Home soon.

  Love,

  Roge

  26 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  First for the “general news:--this is the first letter I’ve written since before Rome. Yes, dad, I did get the letter about the car—I’m sure I’d mentioned it before. Waiting for me when I got back were two of the food boxes—the ones with the two boxes of pretzels in them. Still no sign of the brownies. Today is Sunday, so I went to a double feature this afternoon; this evening will be dedicated to letter writing. My eyes are a little tired, but otherwise I’m fine.

  Oh, yes—it’s definite now—we are not going North, but we are staying over here till June. We’re making another round of the Cannes-Naples circuit, and adding Tangiers N. Africa to it. Oh, well, why should I sweat it? I only have 168 days to go.

  Give Lirf my regards next time you see him. It’s getting bad when your best friend has been to your house more often than you have!

  Now, I suppose, you’d like to hear about Rome. — You wouldn’t? Hmmm….

  Rome, they say, was not built in a day; nor can it be seen in three. Still, what I did see did much to placate the bad Europe has shown me. Were all Europe like Paris and Rome, it wouldn’t be nearly so unbearable.

  Four
thirty is far too early for any sensible person to even consider getting up, so I did. My bag had been packed the night before and left in the office, along with all the accessories I thought I’d need, so that when the time came to go all I’d forgotten was my ticket.

  Off the boat and on the beach at six thirty, and directly to Naples’ cold, impersonal railway station where, for once, the train was waiting. I was the first one on and grabbed a compartment near the rear of the coach. Odd, but I’m becoming so familiar with European trains that our own will seem odd when I get back to the States.

  European trains are much more punctual than movies give them credit for—or maybe I’ve just been lucky.

  One of the greatest differences between Europe and America—one so common in the latter and so rare in the former that I’d never noticed it, was the presence of large patches of rolling green fields and hills. It was the first green, aside from the trees and occasional gardens, I’d seen since we arrived—it was beautiful, and for a moment I thought it was America. Then we pulled into some small town with a railroad yards and I noticed those weird little freight trains that couldn’t fool anybody—the box cars look like loaves of bread on wheels, the tank cars like chunks of salami, and the ore cars like cookie boxes. Why they’re made so small is beyond me.

  Between Naples and Rome, running along the right-hand (inland) side runs a ridge of mountains, some of them massive and jagged, others round and sloping. Whenever one got in the way, instead of going over or around, the train went under. Over the flatland stretching away between the mountains and the sea, the sun shined pleasantly, watching a bunch of sheep-clouds moving toward the mountains, where they bunched together and became mists and gloomy-looking sheets.

  The mountains drew further back inland, and we began to see ancient brown towers, standing alone in the midst of fields. And then broken fragments of the famous aqueducts which had carried water from the mountains to Rome. They approached from the right, swept in and crossed the tracks, then ran parallel and almost next to the tracks. The arches filled in and solid brown walls raced along with the train. And then we were in the station.

  Rome’s railway station is a huge, ultramodern affair with a long arcade of shops running its entire width. The walk from our train to the busses outside the station was longer than the ride from the station to the hotel, which is on a shady side street about five blocks away. There were two hotels, actually—the Universal on one side of the street, and the San Remo on the other. We went to the San Remo, which is smaller but nice, and fairly modern.

  Off to the left of the small lobby is a sort of lounge, which leads into the dining room. The rooms—ours at least—was nothing spectacular, but adequate—two beds with a stand between, a wardrobe, two chairs, and a desk. The view was of the center court, where all the other windows look blankly at one another.

  Lunch (it was now 11:40) was the same one I’d eaten in Paris, Naples, and every other tour I’ve gone on—spaghetti, beef and potatoes, greens, cheese, fruit. After lunch Peter Paul and I walked around a bit; we found a museum built partly in an old Roman basilica. Snow still lay in the courtyards, which were lined with broken statues, and friezes, fountains and frescoes. It struck me as if they were almost ashamed to be there—like a proud old man in a poorhouse.

  The tour left the hotel at two, stopping first at the Fountain of Trevi—of Three Coins in a Fountain fame. It was beautiful, built into the side of a building. Unfortunately, I was unable to give it the awe and admiration it deserved, because my camera chose this time to stop working.

  It still was out of order when we reached the Pantheon, one of the magnificent buildings of ancient Rome. From the outside it is nothing much—a circular building with a large dome. Inside, it is beautiful—a word which doesn’t nearly approach the correct description.

  Built in the latter part of the second century, it was intended to be exactly what its name means—Pantheon, meaning “all gods.” Here, in one temple, all the gods of Rome were honored. The dome is a vaulted masterpiece of stone paneling; at the very top of the dome is a hole, though which the gods entered. Rain has fallen through that hole for 2,000 years, and yet the marble floors are unharmed. All around the vast room are niches containing statues of seven of the Roman gods. When Christianity took over, the Pantheon was converted to a Christian church, with the condition that should anything happen to any of the statues—even the smallest chip from a finger or nose, the statue would be removed; and when all the statues are gone, the church will be taken away from the people. The huge bronze doors—twenty feet high—are the originals; beneath the marble floor lies the tomb of Raphael, the great painter whose works adorn the Vatican.

  After the Pantheon, we drove to the Forum—during which time I fixed my camera with a pair of nail clippers.

  The Forum—the heart of the Empire, whose legions ruled the known world; where was plotted the murder of Julius Caesar, and where Marc Antony carried Caesar’s body and delivered his funeral oration.

  Nestled in a valley flanked by the Capitoline and Palatine hills, the Forum begins with the Arch of Severus Septimus, through which Rome’s mighty legions rode, bringing the wealth of the world to one city. Directly to the left stands the Senate House, the only building still standing complete, stripped of its marble.

  A wide boulevard ran down the Forum, with tall columns topped by statues, and lined on either side by magnificent temples and buildings of state. Near the end of the Forum, on the right, stands the remains of the Imperial Palace which looked on its left to the Forum and on its right to the Circus Maximus which could seat 250,000 people. At the very end of the Forum stands the Arch of Titus, bearing the proud words which were the symbol of Rome—“Senatus Populesque Romanus” (The Roman Senate and People). On the left after passing through this arch stand the columns of the Temple of Venus. And then the road spread out and around the Coliseum, that fabulous giant of a ruin—the epitome of Rome. Once completely circular, it was badly decayed when used as a fortress during the Renaissance, and later partly restored by one of the Popes, who placed a cross before the Imperial box—from where so many Christians had been watched die.

  The Coliseum to the Vatican, and St. Peter’s church. On this spot, once Vatican Hill, St. Peter had been crucified upside down. Here, in 1216, St. Peter’s church had been begun—the largest in the world. Michaelangelo constructed the dome—502 feet from the floor of the church, without any braces or supports whatever.

  In front of the church is St. Peter’s Square, which is actually a circle, surrounded by two curved arcades topped with innumerable statues.

  To try and describe the inside of the church would take someone with a far greater power of words than I The first thing that impressed me upon entering was not its size, but its modernness. Not gloomy, like other cathedrals, with cumbersome cold pillars everywhere—but a soft blue-grey with flat columns blended in with the walls. Overhead, the rounded ceiling is all gold. Along the tops of the walls, in niches, stand statues of the saints who founded various religious orders—all in pure dove-grey stone.

  The size is difficult to grasp at first, because the proportions are so exquisite. On either wall, as you enter, two marble cherubs hold a bowl of holy water; these “cherubs” are six feet tall, at least—standing at one side, and looking at the other, they appear very small and delicate. Height can be noticed only by looking at a group of people half an inch high far down from you, and looking up slowly it’s awesome to say the very least. And the most beautiful thing is that none of it is the least gaudy or pompous.

  Every cathedral in the world is measured according to St. Peter’s –their length is acknowledged by gold stars on the floor. Even St. Paul’s, in London—the second largest church in the world, would fit nicely inside St. Peter’s. Notre Dame is a good half-distance down St. Peter’s floor.

  In the center, beneath the dome, is a coupella (sunken place in the floor) where St. Peter is buried. Behind this stands the main altar. The cathedral,
as are all cathedrals, is built in the shape of a cross. It is directly in the center of this cross that the dome rises. Even the dome of our own Capitol building cannot compare with the tremendous height of St. Peter’s. To look up and up and up—it leaves you numb. The dome is the exact measurement of the entire Pantheon—it too has a hole in it, covered by a smaller dome—for our God to enter.

  And so back to the hotel for supper. After supper, I went out, alone, to walk around. I’d bought an American paper—the Rome American Daily, and found out there were two theaters in Rome showing American movies with American voices. It only took two hours of walking to find it—tucked away on some side street—3 Via Nicolo de Tolino, to be exact. The name of the movie was “Rebel Without a Cause” with James Dean. I enjoyed it immensely; the theater itself was the nicest I’ve seen in Europe—nicer, even, than some back home. They permit smoking, there are no intermissions every ten minutes, and no one comes up the aisle selling pop and toasted almonds. No cartoon, and the newsreel was in Italian, as was a commercial for Motta bread.

  Tickets cost 700 Lire ($1.13, roughly) and seats are assigned. Still nice, though. Of course, if you come in in the middle of the movie, you may find your seat sold from under you at the beginning of the next showing.

  Well, this is one day—I haven’t time to finish tonite—will write more later.

  Love

  Roge

  27 Feb. 1956

  Dear Folks

  Just been day-dreaming of home, which is only 167 days away, and yet seems like an eternity (if not longer). No word yet from Northwestern, but I hope to hear from them soon.

  I was sitting here tonite, reading Robert Burns (“The best laid plans of mice and men….”) and brushing my hair—something I haven’t done in a long time. You should see the floor when I stood up and brushed myself off—it was almost ankle deep in dandruff. Oh, well—ready for the second day in Rome? Here we go—