by Dorien Grey
The guide we had on the tour did not have the gift of narration that would have been so helpful—I knew more of the legends and mythology than he, and carried on a sort of secondary running commentary on whatever he said for those who didn’t understand what he was getting at. Still, it was interesting to see what I’ve been reading about.
And here it is still another day—I have developed a muscular tic in my left arm, which is going to town at this minute. It only goes away when I concentrate on it. There—it’s gone. It will be back.
The weather here has been from warm to mild, with occasional showers and cold winds in the hills and mountains. Other than that, it’s been excellent. I shot another two rolls of film on the tour Saturday, and so when I get home we’ll have to spread them out over several evenings. Doesn’t Jack have the kind of projector you can stop on one frame to look at it like a slide or still picture? If so, we must borrow it. Maybe we can rent a hall for the showing.
I got a kick out of mom’s saying that the sea air might harm the film—they are inside a steel box in a metal locker three decks down in a steel ship. They never even see daylight, let alone salt spray.
Tomorrow we leave Athens—it doesn’t seem possible that we’ve been here a week.
Rumors still going around concerning our extension. It is almost a dead certainty now that we won’t be home until July. Just so long as we’re there by August 12, I’ll be happy. Which reminds me—I have only 97 days left! Let there be singing and dancing in the streets!
One of the movies yesterday was a new one called “Ransom.” I had seen it as a television play when I was home for Xmas leave. It was almost exactly the same. Pretty good, though.
Someone has donated a tape recorder, to which we are now listening—the current selection is a classical gem called “Who Put the Devil in Evelyn’s Eyes?”—a question which remains unanswered through the entire three minutes it takes the vocal group to ask the same question one hundred thirty-four times.
Later this evening Lloyd and I are going to play canasta—for which we bought two decks of cards.
You know, Saturday night we tried to figure out just why it is we should be such good buddies—I’m not the kind to have tons of friends—in the Navy, anyway. I came to the conclusion it is because he is everything I am not, or would like to be, rather; and he looks up to me for some reason; I’m a combination of big brother and conscience. At any rate, we get along. Besides, I always wanted a brother.
Ah—tempus fudgits so fast—which is good for getting out of the Navy but bad on letter writing.
Oh—now they’ve got a real tear-jerker—a “mountain-William” with the heartrending repetition of the phrase “Dawn’t let me hang around if yew dawn’t care.” (Excerpt from a conversation—highly intellectual—about the new records of a friend—“Man, they got some terrific stuff—Hank Williams, Ernest Tubb—man, that’s fine music.” The horrible thing was that he meant it!)
I’m getting several members of our little group highly irritated. Now, I fully believe that “to each his own”—but why THAT? Only five thirty—which only makes me four days late.
Love
Roge
9–10 May 1956
Dear Folks—
Surprise! It’s me, your long-lost son.—Roger—remember?—you know, the skinny, stupid-looking one? — Yeah, I thought you’d remember.
Wonder what ever happened to my journal? Today’s would probably begin with “One hundred eight-eight days out of Norfolk, and no land in sight…”; sort of Mutiny on the Bounty-ish. Actually, we did sight land yesterday—two islands looking very romantic and mysterious; also a turtle, but I don’t think we could include him. The water is as clear and smooth as a tray of ice, though I doubt it is as cold. It’s an unbelievably beautiful blue, and you wonder how it can be so blue and so clear at the same time.
Oh, yes—dad’s binoculars will be on the way in the next few days—I finally got the box packed with paper tablecloths swiped from a storeroom. Also in there you will find eight or ten rolls of film (I want to see if they can get home all right via parcel post). You can look at them once if you wish, but I’m warning you it will get boring—three minutes of film, five minutes of winding and rewinding. Figured out the other night that I’ve spent well over $100 in film alone on this cruise! Oh, well, it’s worth it; to me, anyway.
Had GQ today for the first time in days (never have it in port). Worked our little rear-ends off for a change, rigging emergency power lines. This ship—or rather its designers—thought of almost everything. At regular intervals, no more than fifty feet apart in any direction throughout the entire ship, are small, round boxes with a triangular spacing of holes approximately the size of a dime. The boxes are black and by each hole is a white A, B, or C. Above each letter is a raised dot—one for A, two for B, and 3 for C; these are tipped in white, and they and the letters are luminous, and can be seen in the dark. By each of these boxes is a coil of heavy, rubber insulated cable, in some cases several. These can be attached from box to box (three wires at each end of the cable—one with one raised circle—it’s yellow—, one with two circles—red—and one with three—black.) It sounds complex, but there’s a reason—you put the wrong wire in the wrong socket in the dark and you get electrocuted.
We did it in the maximum time allowed, only to find we were on the wrong side of the ship. If it were a real emergency, the flight deck would be about sixty feet underwater by the time we got it rigged
Now only 94 days left. As I said in my last letter (dated 4 May 1834), the way the time goes is wonderful for whittling away the days left, but it’s hell on letter writing.
Yesterday morning a batch of German Admirals arrived on board—there’s more brass around her today than on a ton of doorknobs. Germany may not have a Navy, but she’s sure got a lot of Admirals. They’ve been prowling around the ship all day.
This afternoon, while watching flight operations, a landing plane blew one of the German Captains’ hat over the side. And what did we do; let it go at that? What—and lose all that gold braid? Heavens to Betsy, no! We sent out our helicopter after it—one of the crew members was lowered down on a hoist while a destroyer raced to the scene. The helicopter won, and the Captain got back his hat, soggy but intact.
Replenishment again the 20th of this month; our biggest yet—280 tons of food. That’s 550,000 pounds. Burp.
Bought myself a pair of gloves from Ship’s Store tonite. Don’t know what material it is. (Chief thinks pigskin—I can’t tell, but it doesn’t look like a football.) They’re light tan and cost $3.50. I like them. Hmmm—there’s a goat’s picture on the cellophane bag they came in—maybe it’s goat skin. How much do they cost in the States?
I only made one purchase in Athens—incidentally, their cloth was very poor quality—it all looked like flour sacks.
Word has it that there are three plane-loads of mail on board. That probably means two postcards and a newspaper. If gossip and rumors could be packaged, they’d make the greatest fertilizer the world has ever known.
Just been thinking again what a rat I am for not having written—I know how I feel if one mail call goes by without my getting a letter, so I can imagine how you feel now that four days or more have gone by without a word.
Well, all apologies being made and forwarded, I’d best close now and write to Lirf—incidentally, I see where they’ve quarantined his entire ship (the cruiser Toledo) after the outbreak of a throat infection. Oh, well….
Love
Roge
11 May 1956
Dear Folks
Six thirty (p.m.) and a mail call with no mail—from you, that is; one from Effie saved the day. As I said, I know how you feel when you don’t get any. Of course you have the advantage of being at home and of not being in the Navy, a privilege I hope to share in the near future.
Sitting there at dinner today, it suddenly dawned on me where I am—this happens occasionally, and fills me with a rare childish awe. M
y mind works in many, if not wondrous, ways. I have yet to empty a trash can and not think (if something in there belonged to or was handled by me) of it lying on the bottom of the sea, all alone. Sometimes, when the wind is right, the papers whip into the air and fly along behind the ship, as if they didn’t want to fall and sink; for the sea is clear and blue on the surface, but cold and black on the bottom.
It never ceases to fascinate me how the blue water can be whipped into a white frothy foam, like the finest lace.
Latest “when-we’re-getting-back-home” scoop: it has been definitely (HAH) confirmed that we arrive home June 28—we will be relieved two hundred miles west of Gibraltar. Oh, well.
What gets me is that every single one of these rumors is Grade A-1 First Class Straight 100% Scoop. It is usually told in whispers, in huddled groups of two or more. Now, the guy who tells it is in R Division; he got it from a buddy in V-2 who heard a chief in X Division say he knew a yeoman in the Captain’s Office who had seen a dispatch on the Captain’s desk. The rumor? —We’re to be extended until Christmas because of possible Jewish-Arab riots. The dispatch?—“Vice Admiral Arleigh Strunk, Commander One Hundred Forty Fifth Naval District Wishes All Fleet Commanders a Belated Merry Christmas.”
And so it goes….
Movie tonite was “The Stars Are Singing”—an old one I’d seen before, but I enjoyed it as much if not more the second time. It had Rosemary Clooney, Lauretz Melchior, Anna Maria Albergehetti. Sitting beside me was James Bixby—don’t recall if I’ve ever mentioned him before. He’s an odd looking kid, thin red hair like dyed straw, millions of freckles and pale blue eyes (the girl he writes to signs her letters “Yours Truly” so he’s madly in love with her). Anyway, the movie had quite a bit of opera, during which time I sat absorbed. Bixby, having nothing better to do, (opera being as far over his head as his feet are below) sat and stared at me, amid chuckles that anybody could be so stupid as to go for that opera junk.
Now about three minutes to ten and I have accomplished almost nothing constructive, except to tuck another day into my suitcase.
I find there is so much for me to enjoy in the world, I have time for little else.
Tomorrow begins another weekend, thank God.
Just went in the galley for a meat loaf sandwich. Mordeno was playing games this afternoon and brought me a sandwich—which I should have known was odd in itself—which he had covered with Cayenne pepper. He watched me expectantly as I ate it (I tasted the pepper but didn’t show any signs of it), and finally said “Doesn’t it taste a little hot?” I said “Not very.” That took all the fun out of it, and he left. As soon as he was gone, I made a beeline for the nearest water fountain.
Well, it being after taps, and I still being hell on getting up in the morning, I’ll close now.
Write soon.
Love
Roge
12–13 May 1956
Dear Folks
I am deeply puzzled—our Captain spoke over the intercom a while ago and said he would give us the rest of our schedule. We’re returning to Rhodes, which I was glad to hear; we get there Monday. But that isn’t what bothers me. June 18 we arrive in Gibraltar for one day, to take on Attack Squadron 66; from there, on the 19th, we will proceed to the United States, to arrive there on 27 June.
“Where” I asked Coutre, “is the United States?”
“Far across the sea, my son” he said.
“Is it nice there?” I queried.
“They probably won’t give us any liberty,” he answered.
“Why? Are we at war with them?”
“No, but they say human beings live there.”
“Gee,” I said, my voice in an awed hush: “I’ve never seen a human being before….”
Tonite, after the movie, I walked out to the foc’sle and watched the stars, as I did when I was little and allowed such things as dreams. And I thought again how little they were, and how very far away—so far that it takes millions of years for their light to reach us. I never fail to think: “Around some of those stars are planets, and on some of those it is night, and someone, somewhere is looking up at their stars and see our own sun as a dot of light.”
And then I get…homesick?…for the stars, and feel cheated and hurt to think that I won’t be around when man steps out of his playpen and goes calling on his neighbors. Someone once said “Everyone has 20/20 hindsight.” When someone has a dream, and it is fought for with minds and bodies, and generations have died—some of them violently—for their dreams; then, when it is finally accepted, those same people who laughed and threw stones say: “Why sure, I saw it all coming years ago….”
When we began this cruise, there seemed to be lots of time for writing letters (and there was—six months), but now with only 45 days until we get back, I have no time at all. Oh, well, the mail didn’t go off yesterday, so it doesn’t really matter—you’re getting two letters in one envelope, that’s all. As you may have gathered, it is now Sunday (or rather one day later than the previous paragraphs).
Tomorrow we pull into Rhodes, and I want to go over and rent a bicycle. We won’t have much time until it gets dark, but it should be fun.
Oh, yes—Oh, yes, what? Left the sentence there for three hours’ fruitless attempt at sunbathing. You should have seen that flight deck—all we needed were Confederate uniforms and Scarlett O’Hara and it would have been exactly like the railroad station scene from “Gone with the Wind.” I’ll bet there were more guys above decks than below.
Of course after three hours of sunlight reflecting off white pages (I was reading) and having no sunglasses, everything here below has a nice yellowish tint.
Took a shower this morning, and looks like I’ll have to take one again, since I smell of suntan lotion (57 % alcohol—some guys drink it). You think they don’t? I know for a fact that certain cooks have an arrangement with Sick Bay whereby they get and drink the alcohol used to clean surgical instruments!
Just came back from another shower and clothes-changing. I can still smell that lotion. Oh, well, maybe it’ll wear off in a few weeks.
I can see now I’m going to be a busy boy tomorrow—Mr. Clower has presented me with 12 letters to type, plus the next week’s menus, plus 135 Replenishment Orders (13 pages each) I’ve got to assemble.
Speaking of money—let’s. By the time we get back, I should have almost $300 saved. For souvenirs and film, I’ve spent already about $300 or more. When I get out, I’ll get credit for 43 days leave—about $170, if they pay me full time for it. Plus my $100 getting out pay, plus travel pay. The way I figure it, it should be about $600. That’s the way I figure it—how the government figures it is something entirely different,.
Mail closes at 1000 tomorrow morning, so I’d best get this mailed. It’s Mother’s Day, I see—hope you got the flowers.
Well, enough for now. See you later.
Love,
Roge
14 May 1956
Dear Folks
I went to “quarters for entering port” as a participating member for the first time since we left the States. It was a nice day, the sky cluttered with nondescript clouds that never seemed to get in the way of the sunlight. We entered Rhodes, Greece, close on the tail of the heavy cruiser Newport News, and were among the first ships in. All day long the other ships came—more heavy cruisers than I knew we had over here—four of them in all; cargo ships, supply ships, transports; in the late afternoon the destroyers came, precise as a drill team and graceful as a ballet; all looking like mirror images of one another. Landing craft and their mother ships, submarines, and odd little semi-destroyers. God knows how many are here; from a mountain we counted 22, and later saw more on the other side of the island.
Rhodes itself is shaped something like a ship, with the bow pointing toward the massive, shrouded hills of Turkey. Rhodes (the city of) is located at the end of the island, and at the very tip, which comes to a distinct point about twenty feet across, is an aquarium, standing all by itself sin
ce there is no room for much else.
At 1300 today, Lloyd and I decided to go over. It was almost 1420 (2:30) by the time we got there, and the first thing we did was hunt a bicycle shop. One of the mess cooks, a kid from the south—at the base of the hills if not in them—named Thompson came with us.
We rode. And we rode. And then we rode some more—most of it uphill. We must have been at least five miles from the town. From a flat mountain on which someone was growing wheat, we looked out and down at the ships and the town. It was very pretty, but I had chosen to run out of film a few moments before.
The road we had originally intended on taking ran along the sea; we obviously made a wrong turn somewhere, and ended up in the mountains. A little gravel road, like some country lanes back home, sprouted off the main road and meandered into the trees. We followed, hoping it might go down—it did, through pine trees, past small farms where the people stopped work in the fields to watch us go by—down and down; we had to keep constantly on the hand brakes or we would have gone splattering all over the countryside.
After four happy hours in the saddle, we got back to the ship. Oh, my poor legs!
Mail closed out ten minutes ago, but I’ll see if I can make it.
Love
Roge
15 May 1956
Dear Folks
At payday this morning, I drew the grand sum of $19; shortly thereafter, I learned our schedule had been changed, substituting Istanbul, Turkey, for Salonika, Greece. I quickly mounted my horse and rode off in all directions. I’ve got to get some more money, somewhere…. Then, to make the morning even more enjoyable, we had a mail call, at which I received my fifth consecutive nothing from you.
