by Dorien Grey
A steady but invisible rain fell all afternoon, and it is rather cold. Tomorrow I’ll have to go over and see what the town is like. Let’s hope the rain is gone by then. I’ll be going with Lloyd Meyers, one of the kids fresh from boot camp—he’s never seen Europe before. He’s in for a surprise.
Almost nothing doing in the line of work today—a few letters for Mr. Clower and, of course, Field Day this morning.
The movie for this evening was “Deep in My Heart,” which I’ve seen twice before and was having its premier at the Radio City Music Hall when I was in New York four years ago. Oh, well—someday I may catch up.
Payday was the 17th, at sea—I drew $39.00 and now have $30 of it left. Actually, only $20—Cou borrowed $10 for his car insurance. Out of that remaining $9, I bought two rolls of film for $7.30, and a tour ticket for $5.00; all of which adds up to $3.30 more than I had to begin with. Oh, well, why fight it? Just goes to prove I can spend money and not even go ashore.
Tonite’s letter will be confined to just this one page, if you don’t mind—I got a book of Robert Benchley I want to start. My cold, in case you’re interested, is still firmly entrenched in my throat, having gained some territory and moved back up to directly in the back of my mouth.
I can always use more stamps, mother—2 cent ones, too, so I can send postcards. Mail closes out at ten o’clock, so with your kind permission I will close now.
Love
Roge
27 March 1956
Dear Folks
Yes, it is I—your roving son, four days late but here nonetheless. Saturday Lloyd Meyers and I (haven’t I written since then? Seems I recall mentioning him somewhere) went over to see the town. It rained every single minute, but we had our raincoats and didn’t get too wet. San Remo is a nice little town, typically Italian with narrow side streets and back alleys. Some beautiful modern apartments—many, in fact, growing out of steep hillsides and along the coastline. Buildings are all pastels, with a few harsh shades in the modern ones. We covered almost every inch of the city, including going up and down mountains. In some places in the older parts of the city, the streets are only six feet wide or so, and very steep. People evidently throw their garbage right into the streets, for they’re lined with eggshells and bits of vegetables. Sometimes the streets become tunnels, where the buildings are built right over them. And then, in all these narrow little passageways, you’ll come to a small open square surrounded with pink and yellow buildings, with green shutters on the windows and laundry hanging out of them. In the center of these little squares will be a small fountain of some kind—usually shaped vaguely like the Washington Monument, only about six feet high.
That night we had spaghetti and wine for supper. I ordered “Vino dolche”—sweet wine—but they bought that just-been-stomped-on stuff the Italians drink for water. From there we went on and had a vermouth, more wine, and finally ended up in a small bar and settled down to gin fizzes. The bars over here are just beginning to advertise TV. This one had it, too, though it wasn’t advertised. The station (no “s”) comes on at 8:30 p.m. Reception is fair, and programs pretty good.
This particular bar is run by a family—momma, who reminds me somewhat of Aunt Marge—poppa, and Maria, their 16 year old daughter. It’s a small place, with only five or six tables, but modern, being in one of the new apartment buildings.
Sunday I can’t remember what I did—went to the movie, probably. Don’t remember writing a letter, though I may have. Yes, I guess I did at that. Oh, well….
Monday we (Lloyd and I) went on a tour. Aside from the fact that we drove off and left our guide—who didn’t catch up to us until we’d sat at the French-Italian border for an hour—was pretty good. It was worth the money just to get off the ship. We crossed the Franco-Italian border on foot just far enough to take a quick picture and came back to the bus, safely parked in Italy. From where we were, I could see the odd-shaped mountain that rises over Monaco (Monte Carlo).
Ate lunch in Imperia, a smallish (I’m “small-happy” tonite, aren’t I?) town—the bus parked in the town square, directly across from the gloomy building housing the “Partito Communista Italiene”—Italian Communist Party (Imperia branch).
Back to San Remo by four; we left the bus and fleet landing and headed for a park along the waterfront—Lloyd wanted to get a picture of some palm trees with the Ti in the background. Another kid came with us—Jack Moore, a good looking kid from Tennessee, minus the drawl. He has, if I may say, beautiful eyes—he’s very dark and his eyes are light blue or grey—you seldom see people like that, and they fascinate me.
We went back later to the same bar and more gin fizz. I was elected to talk to Maria because I can speak a little Spanish. Maria can’t speak Spanish, but we got along, after long struggles with me trying to think of the right word.
Incidentally, I’m getting to be quite a linguist. I can say “sweet wine,” “thank you” (Gratzia), “you’re welcome” (Prego), “excuse me” (permisso—pronounced like “pedermeeso”), “good morning/evening” (Buena suerte/sera), and “goodbye.” (Arivederche). My spelling is probably as bad as my pronunciation, but I have fun.
On the way back to the ship, Jack pretended he was completely drunk—he does it very well —and whiled away the forty-five minutes we had to wait for a boat by dickering with a peddler over some music boxes. There were about fifteen music boxes on the cart, and Jack had to listen to every single one of them. He ended up buying a Parker 51 pen with his last 1,000 lire.
Now for more news on the European Front. The Lebanese earthquake, I learned from as reliable a source as it is possible to get around here, did hit Baalbek and toppled two of the remaining 6 columns of the Temple of Jupiter, and all the remaining cornice. That is a real shame—they were so beautiful and so unbelievably huge. To think, had it come four days earlier, had we been there four days later, we might have seen it. And I do have some of the last pictures ever taken of them. I don’t know what happened to the Temple of Bacchus—it was just being reconstructed after an earthquake in 1745. Things do happen.
A mere 137 days to go.
Oh, yes—I’m allowing myself one more extravagance while in the Med; a tour is leaving from Valencia (by air) for four days in Madrid. I’m going, if I possibly can.
Well, it’s almost taps, and so I’d better close.
Love
Roge
29 March 1956
Dear Folks
On the way to you now, perhaps getting there the same day and perhaps even before—I mailed them this morning—are two rolls of movie film. One of them is of Rhodes (I have another that hasn’t come back yet) and one of Lebanon and Baalbek. I decided I want you to see Europe while I see it. You’re seeing, on these films, Europe exactly as I saw it. But remember—I only saw it once, and you promised to show them only once until I get home. Otherwise, you’ll be so sick of seeing them that no explanation of mine will interest you in the least.
On the film boxes you will find what little explanation is necessary; I’ll go into detail when I get home. I’ve only seen them by picking them up and squinting, but they look excellent (except for a ten-foot-long blank space in the Baalbek one). There should be another roll on. Baalbek, too. I still can’t get over the magnificence of those six pillars, and a feeling of awe when I think of them falling.
Only two letters from home—why? Got the envelopes with the Morning Star front page and dad’s typewritten letter.
In answer to mom’s question about the location of Beirut and Lebanon—Lebanon is on the Mediterranean—a very small country, roughly the size of Connecticut, if that big. It is right next to Jordan, and Beirut is only a short distance from Jerusalem (100–150 miles?). If a straight line were drawn around the world, passing through the Strait of Gibraltar, Lebanon would be the first land it touched, on the far side of the Med. It is now independent, ruled by a President, was once a French protectorate, and before that was part of ancient Persia; even before that, it figured promi
nently in the Bible on numerous occasions (as mentioned previously, King Solomon built his temple with Cedars of Lebanon).
I’ll call home from Madrid if I have enough money. Don’t know what date yet, but will let you know roughly later. Wonder what the telephone operators think—after all, not everyone in Rockford gets phone calls from Europe.
I’ve promised Lloyd (after many gin fizzes) that he can use the cottage for a week for his honeymoon. OK? He’s all excited about it, and has written his girl already.
So now I shall close. With only 136 days to go, I shall be seeing you very soon. Till then
Love
Roge
30 March 1956
Dear Folks
Amid the turmoil and confusion we call the Commissary Department, I sit down to write my nightly note. In the last few weeks, several minor tremors have shaken the ship—occasioned by the slow unveiling of a gambling syndicate aboard ship that would do Al Capone proud. First off came the discovery, in a remote diesel or hydraulic pump room, of a home-made gaming table, complete with red and black numbers. Shortly thereafter, in an S-2 provisions storeroom, a compact little social group was deeply involved in a game of hearts, or some such, when who should walk in but the Executive Officer. So intent were the players on the game that they didn’t even notice him standing behind them until several hundred dollars were in the “kitty.”
There are many ways to make a not-legal but very profitable living in the Navy. Of these, one of the most profitable is called the “slush fund”—a sort of Household Finance Corporation. I have five dollars; you want to borrow it. Fine—you take it and give me six (if I’m a rat and you need it badly enough, I’ll get seven) next payday.
One of the cooks started out in this modest fashion and, a la Horatio Alger, soon built it up to a tidy $5,000. And this is not the only source of income he has.
The major quake came today. It began innocently enough the other day, when the shore patrol stopped a guy skirting Customs. He was carrying a large can of spice. Now, you’ve probably never thought of it or even known it, but the people over here will give almost anything for spices. You can get more for a can of spice than for a carton of cigarettes.
One thing led to another and climaxed with a discrete “investigation” early this afternoon. That’s what I like about the Navy—they’re always discrete. One full Commander, one Lieutenant Commander (Fitzpatrick), one Ensign, Mr. Clower, and two gigantic Masters-At-Arms—one of them clutching a large pair of lock-cutters—stomped quietly from the Commissary Office to my compartment. They’d asked me to go along to show them where O’Haire (the cook)’s locker was.
Joe O’Haire himself was on leave, living it up in Cannes—and if anyone can afford to, he can. The Masters-At-Arms looked very disappointed when they found that Joe didn’t have a lock on his locker.
While one MAA spread a blanket, the ensign started placing on it things from the locker. I don’t know what they’d expected to find, but they all looked a little disappointed. They did come up with a good-sized bag of poker chips, and a brand new box of twenty decks of playing cards. The ensign nearly went into spasms of ill-concealed glee (though he tried to look very solemn) when he found a notebook containing the names of dozens of guys, across from varying amounts of money.
No doubt when they find him, he will be ceremoniously fed through a jet intake, after a lovely court-martial.
And so it goes aboard the Mighty Ti.
Don’t know now whether I’ll be able to call from Madrid or not. If not, then it will definitely as soon after the next payday as possible.
Have I mentioned the color of the water around San Remo? It’s green—almost grass green at times, but usually several shades lighter.
Sure could use some 3 cent stamps. Sure could. Yep.
We’ll have to have both our Xmases (1955 and 1956) next August when I get home. I surely hope you like what I got you. So far, I’ve acquired some three five-pound tea-tins full, plus some other things that are either too large or too bulky to fit. Gee, I can’t wait to get home. Two years is a very long time, you know.
And so to the movies.
Love
Roge
1 April 1956
Dear Folks
Eight-fifteen on Easter Sunday, 1956—a holiday on the calendar only. The whole day has passed in that state of passive nothingness so many of the days do around here. Two months and six days and we’ll be on our way home. 133 days before my discharge.
Tomorrow we leave San Remo for Valencia, from where I hope to go to Madrid. But nothing is certain around here, so we shall see.
Last night we climbed a mountain. Lloyd, myself, and two other mess cooks were out wandering around when we ran into two American girls going to school at the Sorbonne in Paris. One was from Georgia and the other from Louisiana and they had just the syrupy-est drawls you evah did heah. We talked to them for awhile—they speak French with a Southern drawl, which is no mean accomplishment.
After awhile we left them, and Bader (one of the guys) said he knew a nice place “up on the hill.” San Remo is surrounded by “hills” that would stand out like sore thumbs in Illinois. We said OK, and he said: “We can either walk or take a taxi.” Only having about four dollars between us, we decided to walk.
So we walked—it wasn’t so bad at first. As we got into the older part of the city, where the houses cluster together and only grudgingly permit narrow streets, it got a little steeper. At last we came to the “suburbs,” where the houses are more scarce, but where the paths are hemmed in by garden walls. An occasional dim streetlight emits a bare light. The paths became very steep, and on the other side of the walls, the tall silhouettes of poplar trees stand black against a black sky. Now and then a dog barks, but otherwise it is deathly silent, with only the ghostly street lamps far apart.
We came, half dead, to a place where we could look down on the city, twinkling like scattered diamonds, with a necklace of light along the shore reflecting from the water. Out in the water was another group of lights, echoed in long shimmering lines, that might have been a small village on an island—it was the Ti. I could have stayed up there and just looked for hours.
When we finally reached the restaurant, 787 feet above sea level, we had a large plate of spaghetti (for only 50 cents).
Where I’d had trouble coming up, Lloyd had trouble going down—somehow, though the path twisted and turned and there was only one way down, we lost the other two, who’d walked on ahead.
Not wanting to come back to the ship, we went back to the little bar we’d visited every time we’d been ashore, to say goodbye to Maria and her folks. We stayed there for awhile, watching the Milan Opera Company do “Madam Butterfly” on TV, and returned to the ship at about 2300 or so.
And so to bed, after first sweeping down the office—which I am quite sure Boswell never had to do.
Love
Roge
2 April 1956
Dear Folks
Just got word that mail will leave the ship sometime tomorrow. It hasn’t gone for several days now, so you’ll probably get a batch of letters all at once. If I remember it, I’ll try to keep putting the date on the upper left hand corner of the envelope, so that when you do get a bunch all at once you’ll be able to read them in order.
Actually, if I were a model Mess Cook Yeoman, I’d be busy trying to dig my out of the six tons of work I’ve accumulated and been bequeathed during the day. Oh, well, it will only take ten or twenty days to catch up, working 24 hours a day.
It feels good to be at sea again, which is really a rather inane comment, since the only way I can tell we’re moving is by the vibrations.
I’ve been reconsidering going to Madrid; much as I’d love to go, it would be nice to have that money saved. But you know me when it comes to a choice of buying something I want or saving money. Well, we shall see.
Actually, aside from Berlin, I’ve been to every major city in Europe—Paris, Rome, Naples—not to mention
Cannes, Nice, Genoa, Beirut, Rhodes, Palma, Gibraltar, and San Remo. I’ve covered almost every foot of both the French and Italian Rivieras. So if I don’t get to Madrid…well…. If I don’t go, I’ll definitely call home from Valencia, which will be somewhere between the 7th and 16th of this month. You probably won’t even get this until the 10th or so.
Tell me (you may already have)—did you receive the film yet? And did you, as promised, show it only once? As I said, I’ve only seen Baalbek once, and I wouldn’t want you to beat me at my own game.
Speaking of movies—I wish they’d get some good ones on this tub; the other night we saw “Random Harvest” with Ronald Coleman and Greer Garson. It was good, and I was way too young to remember the first time I’d seen it. Oh, when I get home.
I managed to get Lloyd a job in the ship’s store office as a yeoman, and he got off mess cooking today. He’s a good kid—typical All American Boy type. All he’s worried about is getting home to see his girl—poor kid; he’s been away from home four months now, if that long.
131 days.
Chief Sewell has taken over the management of the mess decks and control of the Mess Cooks. He advocates a steel fist regime, which makes it misery for the poor mess cooks. He’s taken over almost all my duties, which leaves me rather lost.
I never have been quite sure just what I’m supposed to be around here. Officially, I am the Mess Cook Yeoman—I check them in and out, make up liberty cards and do any paperwork in connection with them. However, I also type up the menu for the Chief, type all sorts of letters for Mr. Clower, and do odd jobs for Coutre. I belong to everyone and no one. Oh well.
Did you know that 131 days has 3,144 hours—I’ve already spent 600 days or 14,400 hours in.
And with that fascinating bit of news, I leave you.
Love
Roge
3 April 1956
