A World Ago
Page 43
This afternoon, however, we had another mail call and got three, on your new stationery (which meets with my approval). You’d be surprised what mail (or lack of it) can do to a day.
Speaking of TV, did you happen to see “A Night to Remember” a few weeks ago? It was about the sinking of the Titanic and all the critics raved about it. Sure wish I could have seen it.
Towels—big ones cost 60 cents, medium 45 cents and little (wash rags) 30 cents; I can get tons of them, but compare prices first. As I said before, you can dye them any color you want.
My car insurance at Pensacola cost $126 for a year. Which is just a little more than $72. The road maps came today and were greatly appreciated. I’ve got to write to that garage soon and tell them to fix it up for me (battery, hydraulic fluid, oil?, grease?, wash it up, and all that).
You liked that picture of me? Let’s put it this way—it wasn’t as bad as some of them, but it’s still horrible. Of course, I spend my life on the inside of my face, looking out, and I suppose I sort of imagine things that aren’t there, or rather change things that are there around.
We’re still wearing Blues, although it’s warm enough to make anyone happy. The result is that we roast. Yet, when we switch to whites it will be even worse because they get so dirty so quickly. Oh, well….
No, I haven’t received any brownies or handkerchiefs for several months, but am looking forward to them.
As for your binoculars, dad—they’re all packed and ready to go, except for two things—one of them is the fact that I need some brown wrapping paper—which chose this time to make itself very scarce, and the second is money—I can’t afford to send it until next payday. See? That’s what you (I) get for trying to save money. Oh, well….
Nick went ashore tonite; Coutre is around but I don’t know where, and Lloyd is studying for his Seaman test, which is to be given tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon, both Cou and Nick are going over—I have so much work to do I’ll be working all day.
Coutre just came back in, with his “Lift-That-Barge-Tote-That-Bale” spiel, then he left, expecting upon his return to find 1) the trash cans emptied, 2) floors swept, 3) desks dusted and washed, and 4) chairs straightened. Boy, is he going to be surprised!
Upon re-reading the first paragraph, it sounds like a hint. It wasn’t. Besides, it couldn’t reach me in time to do any good; we’ll be long gone before your answer gets here.
Oh, yes—two visitors from the Intrepid (CVA-11), which pulled in this morning, have said we are not going to Istanbul at all, but right home, arriving June 15 as originally-originally-originally scheduled. You would think Christ had spoken to His disciples the way everyone takes it for gospel, All I have to say is—Hmmmm.
Well, I think I’ll close for now. Please send more stamps—lots more.
Till next time
Love
Roge
16 May 1956
Dear Folks;
Eight-ten—the office filled with odd, lobster-colored creatures with very bleary eyes (S-2 had a beach party complete with beer today). Luckily I was working, and therefore not one of those present.
For some reason, I don’t feel much like writing tonite—I’ve started a “light” book that shouldn’t take too long—but I have got to start practicing willpower sometime, and now is as good as ever.
The movie for tonite was “State Fair,” made in Technicolor in 1942. It is now 1956 and it was in black and white (which might be called Technicolor of sorts, if you only happen to have a two-color spectrum). Oh, well, it was good anyway.
We leave Rhodes tomorrow morning—several ships have left today, including two of the cruisers, of which at least one is returning directly to the States. Still no “official” word on what comes next but everyone says Istanbul, which must make it so. One nice thing about being at sea—we’ll be able to wear dungarees instead of these hot Blues.
Oh, yes—tonite while we were standing in the movie line, about fifty rosy cheeked Airmen Apprentices came on board, fresh from the States. They all had on nice starched whites with two bright green stripes on their arms, carrying their sea bags. You should have heard the wolf whistles. Four of them will be sacrificed tomorrow on the great Mess Cook altar, to replace four we lost when one of our squadrons left.
The rover boys have all gone someplace else to collapse. Nick came in completely saturated last night, so tonite Coutre had his turn. A good time was had by all apparently, including the one inevitable fight. Botz, a huge CPO cook who reminds me somewhat of a St. Bernard dog, took a swing at Steidinger, who’s about my size (his distinguishing features being his tattoos and his eyebrow—he only has one that runs clear across his face, only dipping slightly in reverence to the nose), “Stinky,” as we call him, just laid there in the sand, while Botz tried to get him to get up and shake hands. “Oh, no you don’t, you S.O.B.—I’m not going to get up just so you can knock me on my ass again.” Then he started crying. Coutre asked him what was wrong—“Oh, nothing—I always cry when I get drunk.” As I said, everyone had an excellent time.
Botz has one of those “Ho-Ho-Ho” type laughs that sounds like a mad Santa Claus—he gets playful after a few drinks, and he plays rough.
A chief came over this morning from the Roxbury, a troop transport, to borrow 5,000 lbs of flour and 3,500 lbs of sugar. Naturally, the good old Ticonderoga, the cornucopia of the 6th Fleet, poured forth.
Aha!! The word is spelled Corniche—not Corneesh or Kornech or however I spelled it in describing the road along the sea at Beirut. My will power sagged a bit and I started reading my book—the trials and tribulations of a war correspondent in the Med.
Well, if you’ll excuse me, I will close now. Till tomorrow.
Love
Roge
18 May 1956
Dear Folks
Last night’s movie offering was the 1932 classic “Rasputin and the Empress” starring Ethel and Lionel Barrymore. Despite the fact that you couldn’t see Lionel’s face for the beard, his voice was the same, and his hands foretold the arthritic he later became. Ethel was twenty-four years younger and very pretty, in a singular way.
The story of the movie was fascinating, and all the more so because it was true. It begins with “Father” Rasputin curing the hemophiliac young heir to the Russian throne, follows through his schemes and plots to become more powerful that the Czar, and ends in a cold damp basement in 1917, where the entire Russian royal family is mercilessly shot to death.
Perhaps it was through the Barrymores’ acting, but more than likely it was the story itself, but I sat through the whole picture in a sort of horrified sick helplessness; you know what’s going to happen, and yet you hope something will come along and save the day.
Mail call today, and the fact that it was a small one didn’t make me any less disturbed at not getting any. Accomplished absolutely nothing all day; GQ this afternoon gave me a chance to read.
Nothing at all new; even the rumors are weakly revised echoes of what we’ve heard before. We continue to bob around the sea like little boats in a gigantic bathtub, playing secret little games, with no one knowing the rules.
The trip to Istanbul ought to be very interesting—we must go through the Dardenelles—that long, river-like corridor which joins the Mediterranean with the Black Sea. You may recall reading about the Dardenelles during the last war—they’re a combination Suez and Panama Canal. Andy has been here before and says it’s fun, especially if your ship is the last one in the column, to watch the heavy grey snouts of the Turkish guns follow you as you pass. The width of the Dardenelles varies, from the large, semi sea of the Sea of Marmara, to a place where you can throw things at the shore on either side of the ship, and hit it. Istanbul lies at the end of the Sea of Marmara, at the bottom of a hump of land which creates a narrow almost-canal into the Black Sea. And almost every inch of the distance is covered by Turkish heavy artillery. Andy told me that on one occasion, his ship was forced to turn around and go back out four times
after entering the Dardenelles for failure to give the right code.
Just returned from the head (bathroom), and noticed the guy beside me was reading a pocket novel called “Gunfighter’s Return.” You would be amazed at how much of that trash there is on board. Millions and millions of words, and none of them saying a thing; but over half the crew gobble them up avidly, exchange them among themselves until they are ragged and fallen apart. We call all westerns “shit-kickers.” It’s not profanity—it’s just a word we apply to practically every movie or novel with the location west of the Mississippi. Perhaps it was swearing at one time—I know I thought so at first—but it has become so common through usage that no one thinks anything about it. The Navy has a language all its own—the ceiling is the “overhead,” stairs are “ladders,” going outside is going “topside,” starboard is right and port is left—though I occasionally confuse these two.
As for profanity, it is conspicuous only in its absence. Personally, I feel that with 600,000 words in the English language to choose from, you could do without it. But that involves thinking of what you want to say. Sailors don’t think in words—they think in ideas, and fill in the vocal communication of these ideas with a vast store of profanity.
The Chief spent the morning singing Irish Ballads, of which he has an unlimited supply. He has an odd, not quite nasal tenor that is not unpleasant. He has inherited a lot more than ballads from the Irish members of his family.
I hope, when we get home, that I can remember all the customs of the country. It will seem odd to walk into a store and not be expected to haggle over the price, or to speak to an average girl.
One of those little trade magazines mom sent had a quotation on its back page—“Nothing is impossible to one who doesn’t have to do it himself.” Our commander, Cdr. Custer, lives by this motto. He is tall, dark, and quite young for a Commander, and has a fascinating way of saying “pound.” He is also a scribbler—to him, no job is done, no work complete, until he has made adjustments, even if it’s only the addition or deletion of an “a” or “an.” Little does he care that you’ve spent three hours typing a letter—he has to add something, or switch a word around. This sort of thing loses its charm in an amazingly short time.
Latest scoop, hot off the press—we’ll be home the 22nd. HAH
Love
Roge
19–21 May 1956
Dear Folks
Yesterday I made the mistake of saying there was nothing new in the rumor field; actually, it was only a formative period while a new one built up. This one I rather like—it has style, color, imagination and a punch which leaves you sitting there with the look of someone standing before a firing squad.
We are supposed to be relieved by the USS Coral Sea on or about 18 June 1956. Something, it appears, has happened to the Coral Sea. This much we know pretty much for sure, several different persons claiming to have seen the dispatch. No doubt it is her steam catapults, without which she cannot launch planes and is therefore quite useless as an aircraft carrier.
I’ve given you the basic pattern—you work out the rumor from there. Here are some to get you started: 1) absolutely nothing will happen to our schedule, and they’ll send another ship to relieve us (probably the Randolph)—2) we’ll have a ten day extension after which time the Coral Sea will be here. But here is the real gem—the “coup de etat”—we have been extended until 14 August! That I like. That means they’d take me off and send me back before the ship.
Oh, well—I’ll believe it when I see it….
Meanwhile, the ship—or rather its occupants—are coming apart at the seams. Yesterday two guys strolled by my little window, singing at the tops of their lungs. A few days ago we had oyster stew for dinner. One of the cooks, Mike Santessie (who drinks the pure alcohol) stood by with his hands behind his back; whenever somebody would come by and say “Jeez, where’s the oysters?” Mike would take the little oyster he had tied on a string, plop it in the stew, pull it quickly back out, and hide it behind his back again.
And then we have Commissary Seaman Jack Eardley. Commissary Seaman is a non-existent rate, but he puts it on all his letters. He is, to put it kindly, a trifle dense. The other day the Post Office caught him putting used stamps on his letters. Not only did he put used stamps on, but he put them in the right hand corner of the envelope! God, how can anyone be so stupid and not be in an institution?
Ten o’clock Sunday night—sorry, but no mail went off today anyway. We shifted into whites this morning, which are more comfortable but get dirty too fast.
And here it is another night—I’m really sorry, but as long as the days pass so quickly I’m happy. As was said, the mail hasn’t gone off in days now and God knows when it will. We replenished today—250 tons; God, what a day.
Tomorrow we hit Rhodes again, and Thursday we’ll be in Istanbul—that is going to be a fast run. Traveling full speed, we can make about 810 miles in one day. Oh, well….
Captain spoke the other day—yes, something is wrong with the Coral Sea, and “it is possible we may be extended.” Hmmmmm. Oh, well—the motto of the Ti is: “Norfolk in ’57.” I wonder where they’ll be spending Christmas this year?
I get a big kick out of replenishments—long lines of men passing crates and boxes like an old fashioned bucket brigade; little yellow trucks and fork lifts dashing around the hangar deck; stacks and piles of everything from grated cheese to turkeys, from potatoes to tomato juice. And all the while the nets are swinging back and forth—to us full, back empty. Soon the deck is cluttered with splinters of wood from broken crates, here and there a little hill or puff of sugar or flour where a sack has broken open. Great walls rise, made of boxes of cereal or toilet paper. The tractors come and go, the drivers of the fork lifts driving slowly, half standing so they can see over the pile of boxes on the forks; little plane-pullers dragging sleds of wood loaded high. Chiefs trotting along beside the tractors, pleading with the drivers to come to their particular loading station (stuff comes aboard in four different places at the same time). Counters trying to keep track of everything as it comes aboard, making sure everything gets into the proper storeroom. A white trail of sugar runs from one end of the ship to the other, little piles of it here and there as the tractor or fork lift slowed down or stopped. And afterwards, when the other ship has broken away, the hangar deck looks like a deserted warehouse, smelling of onions and oranges.
Well, if I don’t get this mailed tonite, I never will. Once again, I’m sorry not to have written before. Please write soon—it’s been almost a week.
Love
Roge
The immensity of the Ti can be judged by comparing it to the size of the liberty boat passing the ship’s bow.
22 May 1956
Dear Folks
I don’t know whether I will be able to mail this or not, since I am almost completely out of stamps, with the exception of some 9-centers and one 20-cent Special Delivery. We had hoped that while sitting here in Rhodes all day as we were, they might sneak us at least one mail call, but they didn’t. As a revision of a statement in last night’s letter, it has been well over a week since I’ve heard from you, It seems like a year.
Nothing much new—we’re riding off Rhodes like a great, squat grey swan, surrounded by ugly ducklings of various sizes and ancestries.
This is the second draft of this letter, as the first was so completely illegible even I couldn’t make it out. Today has been a weird day—everyone is in a protoplasmic mood—that is to say, ghostly; no one seemed quite themselves. Perhaps it is just me, and I’m very tired. This is a strange type of tired—not sleepy and not exhausted, just as though I were a million miles away. Not pleasant, and not unpleasant.
Enclosed find two “letters” I copied from something the Chief had. Oh, how true, how true.
Istanbul day after tomorrow.
Enough for tonite.
Love
Roge
P.S. KSFM
Dear Comrade:
I would like to take this opportunity to dispel some rumors that are currently rife aboard the ship. It is not true that we will be here indefinitely. This ship will definitely go into mothballs in the Continental United States. It is expected that what remains of the crew will be paid off at that time.
There is no truth in the idea that a man can enlist on board the ship, stay with it through this deployment, and then retire. The initial enlistment must be made within the continental limits of the United States.
There is some truth that, due to the extended nature of this deployment, those who were with the ship when it initially arrived in the area might lose their citizenship due to prolonged absence from the States. Congress recognizes the initial disadvantage of this situation and is attempting to do something about it.
As for rumors of our being shifted to the Western Med, this is not likely due to the fact that Ben Gurion’s grandson has just succeeded to the throne of Israel and since he has no heir, we must wait to make sure that whoever succeeds him will be able to maintain the status quo.
Now, men, I would like to see a bigger turnout at the shuffleboard games for all men under fifty. You youngsters just do not seem to care about keeping in shape.
And last, but not least, there is a good chance of our getting liberty again in Suda Bay, so save your money for the big city.
Literally yours
P.G. GRUBB
Your Friendly Morale Officer
_________ 19__