by Dorien Grey
USS TICONDEROGA (CVA-14)
c/o Fleet Post Office
Suda Bay, Crete
My Dear(est) ____________
Well, since that last letter I wrote, we have received a little more information about our schedule. It seems that the date I gave you of ________, 19__ was wrong, and that we will not be able to start home until sometime in _________ of this/next year. Since it looks like we will be going to the U.S. by way of ____________, it will probably take us about ____ (days) (weeks) (months) (years) to get home. That means that after we get rid of our squadrons in _______________ we should be seeing each other about the _____ of _______, 19__. Of course, this is not definite but will give you something to think about.
It hardly seems that we have been gone only ______ (months) (years) and that you have already been able to pay off the car (house) and get _______ started in (school) (high school) (college). To think that he was only ___ (months) (years) old when we left. Sure was surprised to hear that your hair has turned grey. Of course I have lost most of my (hair) (teeth) (or both), so we will have a few changes to get used to when we do get together again.
We have been given another port to visit besides Suda Bay and Augusta Bay. It will nice to get to ____________; even if there isn’t a town there, it will be a change.
Well, it sure has been nice visiting with you in these letters, and I’ll be sure to write next week.
Sincerely, your devoted
(husband) (father) (grandfather) (sweetheart)
(brother) (son) (uncle) (cousin) (nephew),
25 May 1955
Dear Folks
Night before last I neglected letter writing in order to stand on the foc’sle and watch the Dardanelles slip by, made ghostly white by the moon, which skipped along the water beside the ship. The water was smooth and black, and the night so clear even the stars left spidery reflections. The air smelled green and fresh, like pine needles and hay; like the America we’ve almost forgotten.
Yesterday morning we arrived in Istanbul, which some Irish poet describes as: “The view of Istanbul from the sea is the most splendid of all pageants presented to the eye by the metropolitan cities.” Well, my first view of Istanbul was from our anchorage in the Bosphorus, where we are surrounded by the city. I must have missed something, because aside from the numerous needle-like minarets and humped domes of the mosques, it might as well have been San Remo, Italy, or a dozen other European cities.
The Bosphorus is nothing more than a wide river—the only link between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean (via the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles). We have been cautioned not to fall overboard in the Bosphorus, for the current is so strong we would be swept far out into the Sea of Marmara before a rescue boat could reach us. Of course, Leander used to swim it every night to see his beloved Hero (who stood on a hill with a torch to guide him), until one night a storm blew out Hero’s torch and Leander to sea, where he drowned. There is a tower—which looks like a cross between a church steeple and a windmill minus its arms—erected in memory of Leander behind and to the right of the ship.
We are anchored with our bow toward the Black Sea. To our left, a high hill solid with buildings hides Istanbul, or rather the major part of it. To our right, on the other side of the Bosphorus, is Uskadar, which is in Turkey and also in Asia. Ahead of us, the Bosphorus winds around a hill and disappears; behind and off to the right, the silver-mist of the Sea of Marmara. Almost directly behind, framed by two freighters and numerous of the small, half-moon shaped fishing vessels, rises the great mound of St. Sophia, flanked by four minarets—two tall and two short. As I’ve said, all the mosques are similarly shaped and all, from a distance at least, singularly ungraceful and unattractive.
This morning, I stood my first Shore Patrol, from 0800 to 1200. I was one of three Beach Guards—two of whom were entirely unnecessary. I amused myself for about an hour by throwing small pieces of cement and little chunks of rust from an iron barge at jellyfish. This sport soon lost its fascination, especially since I wasn’t hitting any—unless they happened to be particularly stupid jellyfish (which is quite an accomplishment, since almost anything is smarter than a jellyfish).
They’re completely transparent, and look like little circles of very thin smoke; something like a parachute. In their dead center, they have four round circles of slightly thicker smoke, and they range in size from two to twelve inches in diameter.
The Turks are the flag-flying-est people I’ve ever seen; their flag is red, with a white half-moon and a five-pointed star on the inside curve. You see them everywhere—on the buildings, on flagpoles, on the streetcars and fishing craft.
When the Intrepid was here some weeks ago, two sailors climbed a flagpole and tore down the flag, ripping it and stomping. They were so completely stupid they couldn’t tell a half moon and star from a hammer and sickle. Needless to say, they were badly mauled by a mob—two Marines who tried to help the sailors were stabbed. Well, it serves them right—anyone who would tear down another country’s flag in the flag’s own country should be hung by the thumbs and left to rot!
Lloyd and I are going over tomorrow, so don’t be surprised if you don’t get a letter.
Oh, yes—guess what came in the mail today? (Yes, we actually had a mail call.) A box of brownies! I’m going to eat them, even if they are stale. Also got five letters from you—14th to 17th, which came as a very welcome relief. Glad you got the flowers, mom.
Money over here is very confusing. They positively forbid taking American money ashore, and back it up with a jail sentence if you try. The legal, stated exchange is 2.8 Turkish Lire to $1.00; the ship is giving 11.9 to $1.00! Inflation is tearing this place apart.
Well, I have a few more letters to write, so I’d best close. Oh, before I forget—got back four rolls of film from Athens—and almost every single shot of the Acropolis is overdeveloped! Oh, well—you can at least get the idea.
Write soon.
Love
Roge
P.S. Also, I guess I won’t be taking many more pictures—the ship is out of film.
79 days
27–28 May 1956
Dear Folks
I probably won’t have time to finish this tonite, since it is already past nine, and couldn’t mail it if it were finished, as I have no envelopes. Let me tell you, or begin to, of yesterday’s excursion to Istanbul.
Andy Hansen, one of the mess cooks, had asked me to go ashore with him to buy some souvenirs for his mother and girlfriend, and I agreed. He had to work until liberty call at least, so Lloyd and I told him we would meet him and two other guys at 2:30 at the USO. We left the ship on the second liberty boat.
After leaving fleet landing and its flags, where I’d spent four delightful hours the day before, we passed the stadium where they are currently having the World Wrestling Tournament—which was also bedecked with flags. We followed a road which soon became mostly dust, around in almost a complete circle—except that now we were on top of a hill. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but…a wooden house! An honest-to-goodness building made of wood. Believe it or not, this was the first wooden building I’ve seen in Europe!
The business streets were lined with shops, and in front of every single one flew…that’s right; a Turkish flag. In one store, closely resembling a drugstore (the closest resemblance Europe has shown me yet) I bought Grandpa Margason a Meerschaum pipe, which proved to be my only purchase of the day.
By the time we finally reached the USO, it was 2:40, but there was no sign of the others. The place was called the “Summer USO,” since it has one side open, with a terrace overlooking the Golden Horn, a river which flows into the Bosphorus. Located high on a hill, and facing away from the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara, the view showed the clustered, red-grey of the city on both .sides of the Golden Horn, and the light green of the hills, where the city ends casually. There are many trees in the city, which also makes it unique, but none on the hills.
Three
of Lloyd’s buddies came in and joined us, while we ate luke-warm hot dogs on hard buns, and drank synthetic lemonade. At 3:30 we all decided to leave, there being six of us now; as we walked out the door, Andy and three others came in.
Where would be a good place to go? “The Grand Bazaar,” I said, having read of it in the Bulletin. So into two taxies, and off to the Grand Bazaar. I am going to write the Cinerama people and tell them that if they want to film excitement, ride an Istanbul taxi to the Grand Bazaar. I wasn’t, unlike the other guys, the least bit terrified after I pretended I was watching Cinerama. I knew the people and busses would melt out of the way before we hit them, and they did.
We were let off by a gate, through which we could see green trees and the quiet, grey walls of a mosque. “This is the Grand Bazaar?” I thought.
A few small shops selling goatskin rugs, one having a design of some general or other, sit behind the mosque. Beneath the trees, vendors peddle hand-made slippers and wooden spoons. Another gate opens on a narrow street jammed with people and shops, the merchandise being piled outside and giving the effect of utter confusion.
Directly across from us was another gate, leading into the real Grand Bazaar. How large the building housing it is I can’t imagine. It’s like the inside of a subway—lined on both sides with shops, and the wide street or alley or passageway filled with people. From one of these mile-long corridors, others branch out at right angles—some of them are boarded off, and a chill wind blows through the dark, ruined parts seen beyond. All the shops are small—some only three feet by three feet; they go in sections, it seems. The first we came into were all silk shops selling beautiful quilts and bedspreads for around $15. I would have bought one without a minute’s hesitation, except that I’d read warnings in the Bulletin against the “high” prices—also, the other side of the matting was only rough muslin. But oh, how beautiful were the colors and patterns! Then came shoe stores, and off down one corridor it appeared to be furniture; next were the clothing shops, purses, ornaments, brass works—you could spend a day in the Grand Bazaar and not see it all.
We finally came out onto another street—to the right it wound around a corner in a jumble of shops and people, and to the left we could see the sky and some permanent-looking buildings. We decided to go right, which turned out to be the wrong way—Bader wanted to find the Ferris Wheel he had seen from the ship. We hadn’t the vaguest idea which way the ship might be, but we could see the sea. I suggested that, since you could see the Ferris Wheel from the ship, you should be able to see the ship from the Ferris Wheel and if, when we reached the bottom of the hill, we couldn’t see either, we should walk to the left until we did.
We covered more back-back streets than any other group of sailors in Istanbul—down dirt streets where little children in dirty smocks played tag, or ran to the shelter of the houses when they saw us coming. Old women and girls peeked out of windows at us, and we must have been an odd sight—ten of us tramping through nowhere.
At long last we climbed another hill by a huge mosque with five minarets and past two obelisks—one Egyptian and a gift to the Emperor Justinian, I believe. From a garden near the mosque we looked down on the city and the sea, and being unable yet to see the Ti, we gave up and took a taxi. We’d lost two of our group a few minutes before, who’d gotten disgusted with all that walking and taken a cab to the nearest bar.
We asked to be taken to Abdullah’s, a well-known restaurant, where the food is excellent and the prices inexpensive. It was, we found, closed, so we visited a few of the bars in the immediate vicinity, waiting for Abdullah’s to open, at seven.
One of these bars, the Rose Bud, employs girls who are no more than twelve years old, if that. They are dressed in almost nothing, and do belly dances when not “entertaining” the customers. That was too much for us, so we left, and left behind three more, among them Andy—he had bought one scarf in the Grand Bazaar.
Our numbers now reduced to five, we stopped in a restaurant that served only coffee and pastries, which were delicious. The lights went out just after we were seated, and we ate by candlelight provided by the management.
After, we made our way back to Abdullah’s and had supper. A very nice restaurant—one you should visit the next time you’re in Istanbul. When we’d finished eating, we hopped in a cab for the Istanbul Hilton.
They say Miami Beach has some sumptuous hotels, and they look it, from the outside—but the Istanbul Hilton can hold its own with the very best of them. All glass and carpeting—blue lights play on the large swimming pool overlooking the lights of Istanbul and the liquid dark of the Bosphorus. To one side of the pool, music flows from the glass restaurant with its flowing plastic roof. A wide staircase sweeps grandly down to a “basement” bar and restaurant. Men and women, all Americans, walk about—the women in magazine dresses (one in a gold lame dress). I was very proud of myself, acting (I hope) as nonchalant as possible, and as though it were an everyday occurrence. I like to pretend.
We drank Tom Collins’, Screwdrivers, and Vermouth—all of which was astonishingly inexpensive, considering the surroundings. I plan to go back tomorrow. And so our evening ended.
I did a very backwoods-ish thing—I swiped a Vermouth glass with “IH” etched on it. But I’m glad I did.
Mail call tonite—three letters from you—thank you.
Now comes the “good” news—are you sitting down? I am. We had a little talk from the Captain. He told us when we are going home:
“The USS Ticonderoga will be relieved on or about 25 July 1956 by the USS Randolph. We will arrive in the States on either 3 or 4 August 1956.”
And there it is. We will come limping home exactly nine months to the day since we left. I will have eight days to serve before my discharge.
There is a very strong possibility that I may leave the ship before she heads for home, but I don’t know.
Our next port will be Genoa, Italy—second time around. From there, during out ten day stay, I hope to go to Venice for three days. After Genoa, we might possibly go to Barcelona—from where I shall go to Madrid if at all feasible.
Please take as many snapshots as possible of everything and everyone and send them, so that I’ll be able to recognize you when and if I get home.
If I do get sent back ahead of the ship, I’ll have to send my stuff home. God, what a mess that will be. You’ve got to promise not to open any of it till I get there.
Well, I’ve said more than enough for tonite. Tomorrow we’re going on tour, so I probably won’t get a chance to write. Oh, well
Love
Roge
29 May 1956
Dear Folks
Here I am, bright, early, and stone sober—rather than spend my money, Lloyd insisted on coming back to the ship; since I didn’t care to stay over alone, I came back too.
You’ve probably already seen the enclosed picture—we got six this size and one eight by ten for 20 Lire (not quite $2.00). Not too bad, all things considered (namely, me). How could two so handsome people have one so ugly son. I only recently made a discovery—my left eyelid droops—just a bit, granted, but noticeable. Have you ever noticed it before? And I do have a lopsided smile. Oh, well….
Had lunch at the Hilton, where I took a majority of my film. We had a drink on the roof terrace, and looked out over the city. Rates there range from $2.75 to $10.00 a day, and that is downright cheap.
The tour was very interesting, in spurts. When Rome fell to the barbarians, the emperor Constantine searched the East for a place to serve as a capital city. He picked a town founded by the Greeks several hundred years before the birth of Christ, and renamed it Constantinople, for obvious reasons. He evidently wished the new capital of the Empire to be as proud and ornate as the fallen Rome had been, so he sent word to all the provinces—Egypt, Greece, and all the others, to send works of art. Greece sent the Serpentine Column; rather, it was taken from Greece—I doubt she gave it of her own free will. This column has an interesting histo
ry—the Greeks had defeated the Persian attacking forces at the Battle of Salamis; from the vanquished Persians the Greeks took all weapons (bronze in those days), melted them down, and made the Serpentine Column. Constantine also built a wooden church in front of the Hippodrome—the Constantinople version of the Roman Circus Maximus, where chariot races were held. Egypt sent, as its contribution, the obelisk I mentioned in the last letter. However, in between the time it was ordered and the time it arrived in Constantinople, Constantine died. When the obelisk finally got there, it laid on the dock for twenty years until Theodosius, the then-current emperor, had it dragged up the hill and placed in the Hippodrome, atop a pedestal showing scenes from Theodosius’ own life. It is amusing to note that, while the obelisk itself looks brand new, the pedestal is badly worn.
Comes now the time of Justinian, who was not too popular with his subjects. During a rebellion, Justinian wanted to flee, but his wife, Theodora, gave him courage to stay. The rebellion was put down and, in gratitude to God, Justinian ordered the erection of St. Sophia (the original and one successor having been burned at various times). This took five years, a surprisingly short time, considering the size of the building and what they had to work with. Justinian himself prayed in the newly finished church, saying “Solomon, I have exceeded even thee.”
Constantinople, being located where it was, had always had trouble with roving bands of savages, both European and Asian. Over the years, successive walls had been built around the city until the outer walls were seventeen and a half miles long. Seventeen times barbarians attempted to destroy the city—even Attila the Hun was turned away (he probably would have kept after it until it fell, but the city fathers gave him a large sum of money to go and destroy somebody else). The city’s one major problem was water—every time an invader would come along, the first thing they did was cut off the water supply by knocking down an aqueduct. This was solved by Constantine and succeeding emperors by building huge underground cisterns—one of them called “the Sunken Palace” because it has 360 columns supporting the roof.
