by Dorien Grey
This particular bar was cut into a block of sheer-faced brown buildings set back from the street by a broad sidewalk. No doors—just a tall wide opening with red drapes that billowed out into the sidewalk. Sawdust on the white marble doorstoop reminds me of a butcher shop.
Inside, a smallish room with six or seven tables and a bar on the right, just as you enter. Mostly civilians, four or five “girls.” At one table, just to the left, a fat, balding man sits across from a bored-looking woman in a brown sweater. On the outside of the table, a small thin woman with very bleached hair, pinched face, and red dress being pawed by a dark, silent-screen idol type. A girl in a green suit, thin and attractive only when she smiles, dances—very well—a mambo with a short, middle-aged guy in a brown suit without the coat. The music must be by Victrola, though it’s possible they’re hiding an accordionist and piano out of sight to the left.
From a room in back comes a little old woman in black, carrying a wicker hand-basket. She sings a few notes to the music, showing that most of her teeth are missing, and shuffles across the floor. Short and heavy, she looks like the Italian Momma-Mia’s you see in the movies.
One of the civilians at the bar offers me a drink—cognac. I refuse, since we aren’t allowed to drink on duty (besides, I hate cognac), but he hands it to me, and I drink it quickly, practically choking, and hope to God no one reports me. My partner is discussing a business arrangement for later in the evening with one of the girls—he’s behind a potted palm at the end of the bar drinking a beer—I can see him in the mirror behind the bar.
“Gratzia” I say to the cognac man.
“Prego” he says.
Ate supper at the Seaman’s Club—in a cold, echoing former palace. The club itself is upstairs, in what was evidently a suite. The ceiling of the room where we ate (just off the bar room) had fallen in at one time, and was bare bricks, but around the curved edges can be seen the very ornate murals typical of Italian palaces. They might have been beautiful at one time, but I can never imagine them being comfortable.
French doors open onto a terrace, which looks out over a garden, now gone to seed, with a cracked and broken fountain.
“Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
We were finally secured at about 0130, after having secured boating until 0700. I got a room at a nearby hotel and went to sleep immediately, only to get up at 0545. It was raining again.
55 days to go and I’m going to bed.
Love
Roge
P.S. Oh, yes—got word from Gilbert Hall—they have something new—“a three room suite with eight men.” I’m not going to like that one bit.
19 June, 1956
Dear Folks
In the last mail call Ohls, the kid who relieved Nick, got a Father’s Day card, and suddenly it dawned on me! I’m sorry I didn’t send you a card or something, dad, but evidently America is the only country that celebrates it. Anyway, you are not forgotten, believe me.
Today was the day I should have gone on the tour to Milan, if they hadn’t canceled it. Oh, well, that’s just that much more money saved. As of this coming payday, I’ll have a little over $300 on the books. That will come in very handy.
I mentioned in yesterday’s letter about the new arrangement at Gilbert Hall—8 men to 3 rooms—how they figure that “Suite” part I’ll never guess. One thing I do know, and that is that I’m not going to like that set up at all. Two to a room was nice, but eight guys cluttered together will be impossible. Oh, yes—room rent is $288 a semester.
If I don’t like it the first semester, I’m going to drop out and look around for another college.
Well, let me see—what is new. Nothing is new, that’s what. Fifty-four days from now I’ll be out.
Got another roll of film back from Istanbul—pretty good from what I can gather by squinting at it. In the box was a notice that developing costs are no longer included in the purchase price due to a Federal Court Decree. Now what was wrong with that, I wonder? Now you buy your film, take it to your friendly Kodak dealer, and he will send it in for developing. If they think for one minute I am going to run all the way back to Genoa, Italy, to have my film developed, they are sadly mistaken.
Read an article the other day which says your handwriting mirrors your health. If that is true, I owe somebody about sixteen years. Today I went back to Plato. That Socrates irritates the hell out of me sometimes. You should read it sometime. He takes any plain simple statement like “John, you are a naughty boy” and breaks it down into its atoms and molecules, twisting it around until if finally comes out that John isn’t really naughty, after all—in fact, John isn’t really a boy. Of course all this is made easier by the fact that whomever he is speaking with never says more than “Yes” or “In that case, Socrates, I should say that we must agree.” Still pretty good, though, at times.
I am hungry, which also isn’t new, but not much can be done about it at the moment. I also stink, which can be remedied, I hope, by taking a shower.
When I get home I want to have a six month’s stock of pretzels, three gallons of milk on hand at all time, and an ice cube tray full of Kool-Ade popsicles. If we go to the lakes, don’t expect me to be around much in the evenings, as I will be taking the car into Fort Atkinson to any and all movies.
I’m worried about my movie film. I hope it isn’t ruined. Let me know as soon as you get the binoculars.
Don’t think I’ll be going over any more unless possibly Saturday. If I do, my sole purpose will be to get stinking drunk.
It is as hot as a pizza oven in here tonite, and we still must suffer through wearing whites every day. We wear them because the Captain says we will wear them—and he has his clothes cleaned and pressed every day.
My writing (hand-type as mentioned before) is improving, or at least changing. I used to write uphill. Now I write downhill. Oh, well.
Oh, did I tell you I bought a shirt? I really like it—it’s blue and short-sleeved, which means I probably won’t get to wear it until next summer; by the time I get home, snow will be ready to fall.
Which reminds me, for no particular reason—that I’ve got to clean out my locker. It’s a mess—I just jam everything into it and force the door shut. Think I’ll do that tonite.
Enough for now.
Love
Roge
20 June 1956
Dear Folks
I wish I had had Shore Patrol last night; they had some lovely riots. At least five guys I know were involved; one got kicked in the face when a guy he hit fell backwards over the seat in a liberty launch. Another cold-cocked a Second Class Corpsman as he was coming to the aid of one of the fallen at Fleet landing—a Shore Patrolman then proceeded to pound lumps on his short-blond head. Fun? I tell you, boy….
Botz just came running in with a new rumor, which he handled like a hot potato—we will be in the States by the 16th of July (you may take this letter out on the 16th and chuckle to yourselves if we end up in Suda Bay again). A certain Chief who shall remain nameless (Humphries) because the Captain threatened to break him if he let out any more rumors—says it is in the Captain’s safe.
Mail closes out in twenty minutes, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it.
Everyone has emotional cycles, like a bowling ball suspended on a string and let swing. On the “outside,” as I awesomely refer to That-Part-of-Human-Existence-Which-Does-Not-Come-Under-Jurisdiction-of-the-Navy, everyone goes their own merry ways, like the workings of a gigantic clock. In the Navy, though, the swinging is as ponderous and heavy as the steel ball used to wreck large buildings. Either everyone is going through a soft-shoe dance accompanied by witty sayings, or black crepe hangs thick over the entire ship. There are, of course, few exceptions—one guy in a bad mood will stay miserable all day and do his best to louse up everyone else. But everybody in a bad mood can smash flat anyone who has the audacity to feel halfway human.
Coutre had a wart removed from his finger about a week ago, and
has been going about like something out of “East Lynn” ever since. Whereas Steidinger, who fell into a barbecue pit during the last beach party and was so badly burned on his arm and hand that he’ll be lucky if he isn’t scarred for life, never says a single word.
Godwin—the guy in the butcher shop who loves Hillbilly music and never wears socks, had a heart attack on the beach the other night. He didn’t want to come back to the ship and staggered into a bar, while guys tried to drag him back, saying “No, dammit, I’m going to get drunk if it kills me.” Now that’s the spirit!
Please inform my bosom buddy L.D. Ayen Jr. That if he doesn’t get on the ball and write, I’m going to cancel his subscription to Howdy-Doody Comics.
Aha! Mail doesn’t close yet for another half hour—I can still make it (it was 2200, not 2100). So, con su permiso, I am
Su Hijo
Roge
21 June 1956
Dear Folks
And here we are at the fluorescent-lit Three-Quarters of another day. This pen has a new point. Isn’t that nice? How could you possibly have gotten through the day without knowing that.
You know, there’s such a thin line between humor and sarcasm it is impossible to tell them apart. At least for me it is.
The other day a sullen young man was brought before the Captain. This young man did not like the Navy. The Captain, in an unusually good mood, said: “Tell me, son, what’s bothering you?” Silence. “Come on, speak up—just what seems to be the trouble?” More of the same. “What’s the matter, boy? You needn’t be afraid to say what you think. Let’s drop this Captain-and-enlisted man stuff and talk man to man. Now, off the record, what do you think of me for instance?” .
Interest entered the boy’s eyes: “You sure it’s off the record?”
“Yes, son; now, what do you think of me?”
“I think you’re a no-good son of a b….”
That ended that interview.
Suppose now that I were a very young boy just home from school—rosy cheeks and all the usual equipment. You say: “Tell me what happened at school today, Roger” which, if I remember, you seldom did. And I would say that today I bought a box of cookies which lasted exactly long enough to get the wrapping ripped off and that I typed twenty liberty cards and shuffled twenty new mess cooks (fresh out of Boot Camp in the New World); that I argued with Mordeno and laughed at the Chief’s songs (today’s favorite being: “Tomorrow’s the Day They Give Babies Away With A Pound of Grated Cheese”), and ran as thither and yon as is permissible aboard this vessel, accomplishing not a great deal, and that I sat down and picked my nose for a moment trying to think of something to say, and finally picked up the pen and got from the beginning of the letter to here before I ran out of ideas.
But ideas are rather like an escalator—no sooner is one step gone than another pops up. I’m afraid my escalator is broke.
Why is it I get such a huge kick out of reading what other people wrote, yet seem unable to do it myself? I just finished a short story about the people in a model-railroad town, and how they plan to kill the brat who owns it.
Coutre and Andy borrowed $20 from me tonite to go over and get smashed. I think it’s an excellent idea. Lloyd is having a case of the Navy-blues because he hasn’t heard from his girl since the 1st of this month.
One of the MAA’s discovered his wife is expecting a baby. We have been over here eight months. Hmm.
The moment the ship docks in Norfolk, I plan to dash down the gangway with a French flag on a pole, plunge it into the ground and claim the land in the name of Louis, Emperor of France. That ought to shake them.
A couple of the guys I know who went on the Venice tour just came back and I, as I knew I would be, have been “beating myself severely about the head and shoulders” for not having gone. Oh, well, maybe next time we’re in Genoa.
Love
Roge
24 June 1956
Dear Folks
For some reason I feel like writing tonight—why I can’t say, and what I don’t know. Someone has spit in the wastebasket; that is one thing that makes me violently ill. I am not the type who usually goes peering into wastebaskets, but when I do, I very much dislike looking into someone’s expectatorial (?) remains. Oh, well….
I have just come back from the beach, and it is only nine o’clock, which proves either that I’m a very good boy or else that I’ve run out of money. In this case, it’s the former; I still have 3,000 Lire I don’t know what do to with, and will probably never have cause to use again.
If there were just some way you could see the interesting places in Europe and yet not have to spend twenty-four hours a day there, it would be very nice. Europe at night is far more alien than Europe in the day; the only possible thing to do is sit in a bar (or, if you’re very wealthy, go to a nightclub, which amounts to the same thing)—television, plays, almost everything else is out unless you speak the language fluently.
America has her faults, as I’ve said often before, but she is still my America.
Tomorrow being Sunday once again, I can and plan to sleep as late as possible; naturally, I’ll get up around nine. The kid two racks above me (I sleep in the bottom rack of a tier of three) has acquired a fondness for the guitar, two of which have mysteriously appeared in our compartment in the last few days. He also likes to sing, and what he lacks in quality, he more than makes up for in volume. Also, he has a friend who thinks anyone remaining in bed past 0600 is mentally deficient, and he does his best to arouse his acquaintances by shaking the rack and bellowing in a stage whisper : “Time to get up now” over and over and over and over and over and over until everyone in the compartment is awake except the one he’s trying to get up. I’m afraid I tend to get a wee bit cross with him at these times.
Whenever I go ashore alone, I try to take a book of some sort (the smaller and least conspicuous the better) to read while waiting in the various lines leaving and returning to the ship. I finished the one I brought today before we even left the ship. You may inform my friend Lirf that I picked up two Fantasy and Science-Fiction books for him at a second hand book stall. He should enjoy them very much, as they are both in Italian. Well, that’s what he said he wanted.
It had been my intention, as was mentioned a few days ago, to go over tonite and get quietly plastered. Whether I did or not, I’ll leave to your judgment (only by the content of the letter—not by the mistakes, which I make all the time). However, I do not feel more than just a little “good;” a fact which I attribute to sticking to Vermouth (via one bitter sweet wine and one gin fizz), eating one pizza (good cheese), and absorbing the alcohol with a large doughnut and a cup of cocoa—which was made in the same container as a pot of coffee and thereby had some features of both.
I went once again to the cemetery, which still fascinates me. I think it would have been even more fun if I’d gone alone, but I got stuck with a guide who rushed me through and out before I really was satisfied. Ran out of film once again, after taking some shots of a few statues (there are 3,500 in the cemetery). Most of them are in long arcades around the grounds, and the lighting was not of the best. Met an American tourist who’d just come from Yugoslavia, where he’d visited his parents’ home town. I definitely think every American child should be taught at least two different languages (one of them preferably not Swedish).
To get back to the cemetery—some of the crypts cost up to 50000 dollars ($50,000). The main part of the cemetery, enclosed within the walled arcades, is for the middle class and poor of Genoa. Here the dead may be buried for seven years; no more (there is a section for nuns and priests with a thirty year option). After that the bones are disinterred and buried in a common grave with 300,000 to 500,000 other defunct Genoans. Remind me never to die in Genoa.
This cemetery is the only one in the city—from twenty five (in the summer) to seventy (winter) dead come to it each day. No burials are permitted between the hours of ten and five; anyone coming in between those hours rest in a large
chapel until burying hours are resumed. Outside the entrance to the cemetery is a long row of flower shops and small stores selling candles and souvenir pictures of Genoa. As you walk in the main gate, directly to the right is the chapel just mentioned. Further on ahead is the common grave (entrance below ground—covered with flowers and trees); to the left the solid wall of the mass crypt. Inside this, long corridors stretch away in gloom, the walls on both sides lined with lengthwise crypts. From there you step into the arcade of the statues which surrounds the major part of the cemetery. On the hill which acts as a background for the whole, is a church copied after the Parthenon in Rome. To the far side of it, on a smaller outcropping of the same hill, are the elaborate tombs of the very wealthy (one the miniature of the Duomo Cathedral in Milan—another a complete tiny church with steeple and stained glass), all odd shapes and sizes, giving the effect of a grotesque fairyland, set among tall poplars.
I’ve spoken before about the detail on the statuary; really amazing. I should very much like to have a statue made of myself. I have a habit of placing people in pictures as I would have them painted. Nick, for instance, I pictured standing on a dark, windy hill, dressed in purple, with great storm clouds behind him, and he himself framed in front of a flash of lightning. Myself I rather fancy as dressed in a white and gold toga, complete with laurel wreath, my right hand raised in a sort of Papal blessing.
Well, I see my typing is degenerating almost as badly as my handwriting; besides that it is nearly taps, and I think I’ll go to bed.
Love
Franklyn Roger Margason
24–25 June 1956
Dear Folks
Oh, what a night I had! I got up at least three times for various reasons, and felt I was going to be sick—which I successfully fought off. Every waking-time would be preceded by a dream that everybody wanted their liberty cards and I couldn’t get them for them.
