by Dorien Grey
Going on tour Monday, and hope to see the site of the Colossus, if there’s anything left to see. The island itself, from what I can see of it, looks like something out of mythology—low hills, looking higher because they rise above the sea, march back in rows of color—becoming more and more purple and misty as they go. Pretty.
The Ti is supporting a USO here in Rhodes—supporting: that means we’re furnishing cooks, mess cooks, and food for as many ships as may come into the harbor. Food is free—now I know I’m going over tomorrow! Ah, don’t I sound cheap?
Second movie just let out (I went to the first one), so this place will probably be crawling in a few minutes—here they come—Cou and John Lanasa—in and out again in search of coffee.
All of which reminds me; I’m hungry.
You know, I keep telling myself I’m going to be a great writer, but I just can’t get started. Coupled with that is the fact that I don’t care much for my way of writing—it seems too stilted, choppy. Oh, well—I’ll try anyway—I’ll force myself. Starting now.
With your kind permission, I’ll close with
Love
Roge
5 March 1956
Dear Folks
Last night, after a landslide receipt of mail (your letters of the 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, two manila envelopes—one of mangled cocoa packets and the other contained on Science Fiction book; one large box of brownies (excellent), one letter from Ann Margason, one dated Feb. 24, 1483 and signed by “Richard, Duke of Gloucester”—return address 910 Windsor Road; two rolls of developed film, and one photograph—8 x 10—of the interior of St. Peter’s Church in Rome). I started a letter. However, by the time I finished reading it all—including a Reader’s Digest I neglected to mention and merely glanced at—it was time to go to bed. Somehow, between then and now, the letter became lost. So here I am—“and here’s the show.”
Yesterday, Nature came out with her beautiful 1956 Spring model, featuring deep blue skies (neatly offset by attractive sheep-wool clouds), a brilliantly polished sun, and neutral temperatures (which are the very best kind, for that is when the body is not aware that there is any temperature).
Rhodes is a clean, pleasant city, whose differences are far more acceptable than most of Europe’s almost-similarities. Turkey can be seen only a short distance across the straits, and its influence is apparent in the minarets of several mosques, the style of several buildings, and certain fashions—especially the white headdress of the women. These headdresses are like shawls; over the head and then one end wrapped around the face like a veil.
Rhodes is a beautiful Greek island within sight of Turkey. Renting bicycles and riding around the countryside provided some of my fondest Navy memories.
I think I had more fun yesterday in Rhodes than I have anywhere in Europe. We (Carl Greiner—an ex NavCad—and I) rented two bicycles and went peddling all over the city. I couldn’t help laughing just for the joy of laughing. Up hills, down hills, into the narrow, stone streets of the walled Old City—through parks and down tree-lined residential streets of stone homes; my cameras (both of them) bouncing in my lap—my new one was around my lap.
Rhodes could best be described as “picturesque”—I like it very much, though I don’t think I’d care to live here. We hated to turn the bicycles in.
Everywhere we went—on bicycle and on foot, kids run after us—“Cigarette for Poppa—Cigarette for Poppa.” The people are very friendly and seem to like Americans—a pleasant surprise.
The USO was doing a thriving business—feeding almost 5000 men from the Ti, four destroyers, one AK (Supply ship) and the United States Coast Guard Ship Courier—a radio ship broadcasting to communist countries. Unfortunately, the entire expense for all that food, and the food itself, is borne by the Ti. And we can’t afford it, in the shape we’re in.
We returned to the ship in time for supper, well pleased with the whole day.
Monday morning I went on the tour. So did about 300 other guys—the largest tour party I’ve seen. It took twelve busses—old, battered and uncomfortable—to hold us all. Three busses did not have English-speaking guides. Ours was one of them.
I sat with Cannon, a guy who had been a yeoman in my barracks at Saufley Field—he’s on board with one of the squadrons.
Once outside the city of Rhodes, which lies at the very tip of the Island of Rhodes, the land becomes mountainous and semi-barren. The hills and mountains are rough and choppy—reminded me of a bunch of solidified waves.
The entire trip, coming and going, we passed only four automobiles. The main source of private transportation are mules, donkey, burros, and jackasses (I can’t tell them apart). Only saw one horse and very few cows—several small flocks of sheep and many goats.
The houses and villages are all white square structures, looking more Arabian than anything. Almost everyone waved at the busses and we waved back.
Some of the villages were merely scatterings of house with flat roofs of grass, and no streets or sidewalks. Only near Rhodes did the houses have peaked roofs.
The scenery, especially where the sea lapped at the mountains, was beautiful—the Mediterranean is definitely the world’s most beautiful sea—greens and blues and greys—liquid colors against the brown of the land.
We passed through one area—the only large level area along the sea, where not a single house stood—only broken ruins—square windows shattered to round holes by explosions.
Someone—odd how quickly the memory of war dies—had built an airfield there (skeletons of planes still lay among the trees) and someone else had pulverized the entire area. Bomb craters gaped between the rows of trees and in the fields. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, there were houses and villages again, all white and unmarked.
Climbing higher in the hills, toward Lindos, the hills burst into color; millions of flowers lay strewn over them like gay Easter eggs. It was one of the prettiest sights I’d seen in Europe.
Lindos was our destination—it nestles at the bottom of a lone hill, standing beside the sea, apart from all the other mountains cluttered in the background. On the top of this hill is the Acropolis of Lindos—temples erected countless years ago by the Greeks who lived in mythology.
The busses stopped at the base, and we climbed through mosaic streets of white and black stones. The top of the hill had been surrounded in the Middle Ages, no doubt, by towering walls, making it a fortress.
But within the fortress stood the temples of the Acropolis—proud columns not of marble but of some light tan porous rock which evidently weathers better than marble. A row of these columns stand at the base of a wide flight of steps, leading to the very top of the Acropolis, where one temple still stands, roofless and without one side, but more real than many of the cheap, dirty cities that came after it. It is built on the very edge of an unguarded cliff which falls away, hundreds of feet, to the restless sea.
The view? Unbelievably beautiful—the water so clear you can see bottom, winding along the shore in white rollers, turning to a shimmering silver in the sun and fading off to a rainbow of blues and greens as the shore recedes and disappears around a mountain.
And whom should I meet, standing on the steps of a Greek temple 8,000 miles from the world we know? A former NavCad buddy, stationed aboard one of the destroyers with us. It isn’t a small world—it’s just crowded.
Almost Taps—I’ve got to close now or I’ll never get this mailed.
Love,
Roge
9 March 56
Dear Folks
It would appear that my “journal” has recently been shot to hell. I’m sorry, but the days seem to be getting shorter rather than longer. The Commissary Department of the USS Ticonderoga is coming apart at the seams; everyone is walking around on tip-toes lest the roof fall in on everyone. It’s like mother [Note: mom worked for a John Deere sales and service dealership] crediting sales of ten road-movers when they only had four to start with. Oh, well, if somebody stamps their foot down, I’m fa
r too little a bug to get squished.
We left Rhodes this morning—a beautiful day with a chill wind—on our way to Beirut. We’ll arrive there Saturday.
Everyone who is anyone in the Commissary Department is now in the office, voices weighted with impending doom. I find it extremely difficult trying to concentrate amid talk of invoices and surveys and issues.
Got a letter from Effie yesterday—her sister had died the week before, of cancer. Someday it, like scarlet fever, will be a thing of the past, but meanwhile hundreds of thousands of us die without hope.
See what I mean about time flying and all that—another day gone by and yours truly has been busy most of the time. Ship’s Store got a load of candy bars in, which are hoarded and dispensed as generously as gold nuggets.
The brownies are all gone, and I’ll return the box soon, with odds and ends. Tell you what—I’ll send the films home on condition that you only look at them once, and then put them away till I get home. Otherwise, you’ll show them every time someone comes over and be so sick of seeing them you won’t care what they’re of. Is it a deal?
I was thinking about getting married today—not that I want to or am going to—just thinking about it. I just can’t see myself in the role of dutiful husband. Oh, well….
Last mail call—yesterday or the day before—I got another Science Fiction book from mother—thank you; it’s very good. Wish you could pick up some “Mad” magazines for me; I’d appreciate muchly (a new word I’ve cultivated).
For some reason, I dislike dumping wastebaskets at night—I guess it stems from my old “don’t-say-you-don’t-like-one-thing-better-than-another-because-you-might-hurt-the-other’s-feelings” days. All I know is that I wouldn’t want to be dumped over the side on a very dark night. I’m afraid I was much too much influenced by Peter Rabbit—I don’t like to hurt anything.
Tomorrow we anchor off Beirut—the furthest point we’ll get beyond home. Three months from today we’ll be on our way home.
According to the magazines and newspapers we occasionally see from the States, I am missing myriads of good movies, including “Carousel”—Rodgers and Hammerstein—from which comes “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Well, maybe I can catch them third-time-around at the Rialto or Capitol.
You still haven’t told me what’s new in Rockford—any new buildings downtown? Is Jackie Fearn still planning on going to college? If so, when?
I think I’ll try to live off campus this time—get a room somewhere, where I can be all by myself and do whatever I want to with nobody to bother me, unless I want them to. All I think about lately is college. Hope I’m not building up too much of a dream so that I’ll be disillusioned when I finally get back.
Enclosed is a cartoon I got from Coutre—his wife sent it to him. Oh, yes, did I mention I comshawed (somewhere between “borrowed” and “stole”) a large map of the U.S. and plotted my way home? I didn’t get the exact mileage, and won’t have a chance now because someone stole it from me, but I got all the routes and towns. I’d appreciate dad getting me a map from some gas station—the Eastern U.S.—that way I’ll have something to trace out and look at every now and then.
Today’s “Daily Press” listed the top ten songs on the Hit Parade—I haven’t heard a single one of them.
Say, mother—there’s a record I’d like to have you get for me—I’ll send the money—it’s “Tchaikovski Fantasy”—all the themes from his works—really beautiful. I heard it this morning over the BBC.
Everywhere is America—the Armed Forces Network broadcasts all over Europe from Frankfort, Germany. It seems so odd to hear them say: “Weather forecast for today is mild, with some rain in Northern France and the Low Countries—Italy cloudy and slightly warmer…” or “Come to beautiful Bertschesgarten—a holiday you can afford and will long remember.” Remember Bertschesgarten? Used to belong to some guy named Hitler. Why is it we forget some things so soon and remember others so long?
Incidentally, save the Life Magazines, if you still get them. I very seldom get to see one and miss them.
The office looks like something from the burning of Atlanta sequence in “Gone with the Wind.” Gettysburg could hardly have been more littered. Miles of adding machine tape, acres of cigarette ashes, scissors, magazines, paper coffee cups, clothes, pencils, notebooks, etc. More fun. And to think, it’s only ten thirty.
Conrad insists on walking around with his teeth half out. I looked out my little window this afternoon to see Conrad leaning nonchalantly against the rack of foam cans (for firefighting), his mouth half open and his upper teeth sticking out even with his upper lip. He looked like a horse. I looked away, quickly.
Well, enough for now. I’ll try and be better in the future.
Love
Roge
13 March 1956
Dear Folks
Here I am, you errant son, feeling very ashamed of himself for not having written before. We arrived in Beirut last Saturday, and today is the first time I didn’t go ashore. I like Beirut very much, and only wish I had about $300 to spend. My God, you should see some of the beautiful things they have—especially cloth: silks and velvets and brocades. In one store I saw a bolt of pure white silk with a gold brocade—they wanted $9 a yard for it, but in America it would cost at least $15 for the same amount of material. I bought a pretty white rayon scarf with a simple black design for $.75. I also bought (for you both) a beautiful Damascus silk red-and-gold tablecloth, with two napkins of the same design. It’s a bit too elaborate for most American tastes, but I love it—and you can’t buy an oilcloth tablecloth at Kresses for as cheap as I got this!
Sunday evening was spent in an apartment overlooking the Mediterranean sea—with a record player and a family of three—Americans—while below in the streets vendors with baskets of odd-shaped rolls sold their wares to the throngs of turbaned men and women strolling along the “Corniche” (a street running along the ocean front.).
Over 10,000 Americans—all civilians—live in Beirut. They fall into three groups—Embassy workers, Point Four workers, and civilians employed by the vast oil companies of Lebanon and Arabia.
You can’t imagine what it was like—two worlds, completely alien, and yet running nonchalantly along, side by side.
The USO canteen is located in the American-Lebanese Club—the three groups of Americans take turns in furnishing hostesses each night—Mothers, grandmothers, and daughters—they all sit and talk, or dance, and invite us to their homes.
George Le Sage, one of the mess cooks, had met Pat Anderson the first night we arrived. Sunday we saw her there, and she invited us to her home.
Rules of the club insisted that she go by Embassy car and we follow in a cab, which we did. We drove out to the fringes of Beirut, where modern apartments dot the hills next to the skeletons of more buildings going up.
Inside the building-width glass front, a set of marble stairs led to a small, four-person elevator. A man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, stepped off just as we got there. It was Pat’s father, who shook hands with us and said he’d be back shortly, and left. We rode up to the sixth floor, walked down a short hall, and went into the apartment. Pat’s mother was standing in the small vestibule, and we were introduced. We went into the living room while Pat’s mother went to the dining room for some material from which she was making Pat a dress.
The apartment was very nice—gaily painted—there were at least seven rooms, all of them a different color. The furnishings wer
e all American, the family was definitely American, and yet, somehow, the rooms were not. Perhaps one reason was that there were no rugs—the floors were tile. And they seemed rather angular; though actually all rooms are, I suppose.
The view, I’ve mentioned, was beautiful—the building faces the east, and the sea is always changing color with the dawn and sunset.
Pat played some of her records—only a few of them were purchased over here—and we talked.
Mr. Anderson works as a Conservation Engineer for the Point Four Plan. They have been in Lebanon fifteen months—Pat attends an American high school, and is returning to the States this August to finish her senior year and attend college. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are to follow in September—government workers overseas are given 30 days Home Leave each two years (the travel cost evidently borne by the government, and the leave time beginning upon arrival at their destination).
It felt so good just to talk—and so out of place, as I said before. We got to talking of the Arab-Israeli relations. Mrs. Anderson had some very interesting points—
“You know, when we first came here, I had no idea of what was really going on. Oh, I’d read about it in the papers and I’d always thought ‘Well, isn’t it wonderful that those poor Jews will have a home now.’ But I didn’t realize that when all the Jews moved in, the Arabs had to move out. Mr. Anderson’s driver—one of the men who works for Point Four—had a brother living in Palestine; he had a small store there. One day the police came and told him to leave in two hours or be shot! He got out and they wouldn’t let him take a thing with him.
“These Arabs don’t want to fight—why, I don’t think they could if they wanted to. The Israelis would beat the pants off them. And it just tears my heart out to see some of these little refugee kids wandering around—their little bodies all covered with sores from malnutrition. These poor Arabs, they just look lost—they think that tomorrow they can just walk back home and take up where they left off—they just don’t realize that they don’t have any homes anymore. It’s like you and I had locked our doors one day and gone away, and think we’ll be back someday.
