A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  It seems I am getting off the subject again. Good. I’ve grown tired of it all of a sudden, and there isn’t much more to tell anyhow. Maybe some other time….

  Coutre and I have just been talking about our houses—the ones we’re going to have, that is. The more I think of my house, the more I am crazy about it and want it. Oh, well, someday I shall have the required amount of money. I know I want that house more than anything in the world (and surrounding areas).

  Let’s speak of money now, for a moment—a topic which never ceases to fascinate me: As of the 1st, I will have $300 on the books. By the 15th I’ll have $350 on the books. With all the miscellaneous stuff I’ll gather, such as leave time, etc., I should come home with close to $500. School is about $300 a semester. Oh, well—anyway, I should have some money left.

  Hooray! They have film on board again! How long it will last I don’t know, but I scraped enough change together to buy one roll. I have $29 loaned out, but aside from that, I’m broke.

  Tomorrow we replenish (again)—at the cheery hour of 0600. Which means it is going to be one hell of a long day.

  Every time I get my hands on a men’s magazine (Esquire, True) or any substantial mag with a fair degree of advertising, I paw through it eagerly, looking for the latest in men’s fashions. (I note they have practically done away with button shoes and spats. Oh, well.)

  Coutre says hello, by the way. “Greetings, Salutations, and Know Ye….”

  You know, there is nothing that gives a boost to the morale like a mail call—either a boost or a kick, depending on whether you get any or not. I like to hear from you both as often as possible, so write. Mother has been very good about it, but slips up occasionally, and dad could do much better. Also have Stormy drop a few lines every now and then.

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. No mail will probably leave the ship till we get to Cannes, so you’ll get batches again. Envelopes will be dated until the stamps run out, then there’ll be a long silence.

  6 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  I could say that the reason I haven’t written for the past six days is that I’ve run out of stamps, but that wouldn’t be a very good excuse. Or, I could say that we’ve been working very long and hard, which would also be true, but not too good a reason either. And then I could always say that I’ve had no interest at all in writing letters, and that would probably be the best reason, though the poorest excuse.

  Almost every day I’d start a letter, write three or four lines, and then quit, thinking: “Well, I’ll get at it tomorrow.” Finally, tomorrow has caught up with me. I can’t promise that it won’t happen again, but only that I’ll try not to let it.

  I have a bad case of Short-Timer’s Fever, the symptoms being 48 hour days and a general slowing down of the external world contrasted with a speeding up of mental processes. The victims of this fever, though seemingly in good health, are addicted to fingering the pages of a calendar as though it were a rosary, incessant glances at the clock, and scanning of newspaper and magazine datelines.

  Fortunately, I am not nearly as bad off as some of the other guys, and I only have 37 days to go (869.5 hours as of this writing). One other thing—whether in my favor or against it—is that I am almost Senior-in-line-of-discharge. Everyone who gets discharged up to two days before me has left the ship. Oh, well….

  Ran over to Nice on the 4th. Cannes and Nice are swarming with movie stars and assorted celebrities. Some guys who took a tour to Monaco got to see a fleeting glimpse of Grace Kelly’s hat (“white with lots of feathers”) driving past from the cathedral to the Palace. She and the Prince had gone to mass to celebrate the American 4th of July. Darn nice of her, I’d say.

  I saw one mess cook (being carried down a ladder by a buddy) who had been on the tour. When he saw me he said “Oh, hi!” and then, very confidentially: “I saw Princess Margaret,” and went on down the ladder.

  The Riviera is all now that it wasn’t in November. People everywhere—many Americans—sidewalk cafes, small orchestras playing on the patios in front of the stately and dignified white Ruhl and Martinez Hotels—the beaches thick with the bright, mushroom-like beach umbrellas—the water dotted with little pontoon boats for two (the kind you paddle with your feet)—the light surf a brownish green from the swirling sand. All very picturesque. The water is wonderfully clear, its only bad feature being that it is salt.

  I went over with Tom Dolan, a college graduate who plans to work in Istanbul when he gets out of the Navy. We rented bicycles, and peddled along the coast almost to Golf Juan—the next town to Cannes. When the road left the shore and crossed over to the inland side of the railroad tracks, we half rode, half walked up a mountain to find a French Chateau belonging to Louis XIII. We found it, halfway up the mountain. It must have had a beautiful view, though we could see nothing but the walls which lined the road on both sides, topped with shards of broken glass to keep unwanted guests away. Tom thought we should see if the chateau was open to visitors at any time, so we stopped by a wrought iron gate. Through it we could see the yellow-tan house with its wooden shutters and bits of the garden in front of and below the house—patches of bright pink flowers and green grass. To the right of the gate, and a part of the wall along the road, was evidently the caretakers’ or servants’ home. A small woman in a nondescript blue smock came out and to the gate. Tom spoke for us—was this the Chateau of Louis XIII? Yes, it was—did we wish to see the Prince?

  Somewhat taken aback, Tom said “Yes.” The Prince, it seemed, was away “in the South,” and the Princess was upstairs, asleep. We thanked her for her trouble and rode off, completely mystified.

  “I wonder,” I said as we peddled away, “what would have happened if the Prince had been home?”

  After returning the bicycles, we decided to take a train for Nice. Back in the Cannes railroad station, with which I have become very familiar, I decided what the covered waiting platform reminded me of—one of the Exhibition buildings at the 1898 World’s Fair.

  The “train” we took was more like a subway, with streamlined red-and-yellow cars. The driver, or conductor, or whatever he’s called, sits in a raised bump on the roof in the center of each car.

  While in Nice, we looked around various clothing stores and antique shops. Tom has some friends living in Williamsburg, Virginia—the reconstructed colonial town—who asked him to try and locate an 18th century mirror.

  Browsing through a newspaper, we found that one of the theartres was playing two Russian films—one of them an animated cartoon—that had won the grand prize at the recent Cannes Film Festival. The theatre didn’t open until 9 p.m., and the last train to Cannes left at 10:30. We decided to wait, see the cartoon at least, and make it back to the station in time for the train. While waiting for the theatre to open, we walked around some more. Each of us bought a small box of fresh raspberries from a small shop, and walked along the street in front of the Ruhl Hotel (one of the world’s most exclusive) eating raspberries.

  The cartoon, “L’Antilope d’Or” (“The Golden Antelope”) was a very pleasant surprise. The movement of the characters was smooth, the colors were soft and pleasing, and the backgrounds and characters very well drawn. The story takes place in India and deals with a young boy who hides an antelope fleeing from the Raja’s hunters. The antelope, by striking the ground with its rear hooves, makes gold coins. The Raja learns of the Antelope’s powers, and that the boy has befriended it. He brings the boy before him and demands a certain payment of gold for some trumped-up offense. The boy seeks out the Antelope by coming to the rescue of various animals, who in turn aid him in finding the Antelope. Of course, the boy is being followed by an unscrupulous character in the employ of the Raja At last the boy finds the Antelope, in a silver cloud. The Antelope gives the boy the money and a flute, telling him to play it whenever he needs her, and she will come to him. The stooge tells the Raja, who takes the money the boy has brought and steals the pipe, summoning the Antelope
. She appears and is seized by the palace guards. The Raja commands her to make gold, and she begins leaping about the court, a shower of gold coins falling wherever her feet strike the floor. The guards soon go into a frenzy, running after her and falling all over themselves, trying to get more gold. The boy calls her and she leaps up the stairs, striking the steps again and again with her hooves, until a cascade of gold rushes down the steps and knocks the Raja off his feet, burying him. The gold then changes to stone, and the Raja is buried alive. The guards, seeing the gold they’ve gathered turning to stone, walk away in disgust. The boy and the Golden Antelope go quietly up the stairs and out into the night….

  No doubt many could and would find the whole story a sinister communist plot, with the Raja representing Greedy Capitalism, the boy Russia, Everybody’s Pal, and the animals the nations of the world. But I prefer to think of it as the story of a boy, an evil villain, and an Antelope of Gold….

  Tomorrow I have Shore Patrol, which I am looking forward to with no great glee. They haven’t paid me for the last time, yet.

  Oh, did I tell you I got a letter from the garage where my car is stored? Already I owe them $83. Oh, well—it’s only money….

  The other day they were selling 1956 Fords and Chevrolets on the Hangar deck for $1500; delivery when we get home. Had I $1500 or father’s excellent advice, I might have gotten one. They were also selling Wedgwood China, some of it beautiful (for $141 you could get a $450 set). I wanted to get some very badly, but again didn’t have the money.

  Again, the hint about stamps—the envelope to this letter is probably plastered with six one-centers. If you haven’t sent any by the time you get this, don’t bother, because I won’t be writing. Either that, or will wait until 20 cents worth has collected, then ship them off.

  Well, the mail situation has been pretty bad all the way around—I’ve only gotten 3 letters from you in the 6 days.

  Something is going around the ship—we don’t know what, but it’s causing diarrhea and stomach cramps. At first we thought it was the food, but officers, chiefs, and enlisted men all have it and they eat in different messes. No doubt it’s the water. Nothing is quite the same when you’re thirsty as running to the fountain for a nice, cool drink of salt water. They’re doing that too often to be even vaguely amusing anymore. When someone turns the wrong valve, salt water flows through fresh water mains and contaminates the whole ship.

  Well, more Sunday.

  Love

  Roge

  8–9 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  And then it was Sunday afternoon, and here I am, all wet-nosed and bushy-tailed, eagerly looking forward to the 35 days I have left in the Navy.

  Last night I spent in the U.N. Bar, on Shore Patrol. There were two of us assigned to “keep the peace,” but they needn’t have bothered—that was the only bar in Cannes where the Shore Patrol outnumbered the sailors. The only excitement of the evening came during one of the times the place was fairly crowded. A bunch of guys came in to see the floor show, but they didn’t want to buy anything. The manager told them they’d have to buy a drink or they couldn’t stay. They were completely loaded anyway, but got highly indignant when the manager called off the show in the middle of a dance. Words flew hot and heavy, and we were asked to tell them to get out. Within two minutes, the place was swarming with Shore Patrol—chiefs, officers, and whitehats. Where they’d all come from I can’t guess. At last the insurgents left (calling the owner “A Communist; that’s what y’are; a Communist—won’t serve American sailors. Shore Patrol ought’a lock up the place”), and the Shore Patrol left, and all the other sailors left, leaving just the two of us and the five barmaids.

  The “floor show” consisted of a belly dancer who came out in a grass skirt and a lei, and another dancer whose object was rather vague. Prices were terrific, I understand—beer was 275 Francs (about 80 cents). Fortunately, they closed at 12, and we got to come back earlier than the roving Patrol, who stayed out till three.

  Cannes late at night is very pretty—the night was warm, and along the boulevard beside the sea, colored lights projected in and from trees and bushes—greens, pinks, blues. People strolled along, not at all in a hurry; out in the water the spangle of lights from an ocean liner glimmered on the water….

  The next day was Monday, that being the way things went in those days, and as we look in on our hero, we find him hunched over his pen and paper after a long hard struggle with two sets of whites and an iron.

  The movie for this evening is a Hollywood extravaganza called “The Cult of the Cobra” starring no one in particular. It deals with a voluptuous young woman (always good material for a movie) who has the rather annoying habit of turning into a cobra at the most opportune times. She runs (or slithers) about biting people until there is just her, the hero (with whom, as a woman, she is madly in love), and the hero’s girlfriend—of whom the cobra lady is not overly fond. I will not tell you who triumphs in the end, for that would spoil it for you, and I am sure you will want to see it next time it comes to your neighborhood nickelodeon.

  One month from today I should receive my discharge, if all goes well. You must excuse me if my letters become wider apart; I honestly don’t feel like writing—no gloom, no nothing—it’s just that if I try to find something to do every single minute, the time goes by so much faster.

  I’m sending off another roll of film today, most of it on the Riviera. By the time you get it, I should almost be home, so I’d rather you didn’t look at it. I’m not in it, anyway.

  The first week I’m home we’ve got to go to DeKalb so I can pre-register. The first few weeks we’ll have to stick together like glue to make up for the two years I’ve been away.

  It is comforting to look at the calendar and know I have more leave time accumulated than I could possibly use.

  Tom Dolan loaned me a book of Aldous (“Brave New World”) Huxley’s short stories, and I am considering sending Mr. Huxley a shovel so that he can dig a hole and bury himself alive. If life is so terrible to cynics, why do they bother living it at all?

  It is now ten minutes till nine. Above the office, in the barber shop, they are weight lifting. Every time they drop one, it is as though we were inside a bell tower at the stroke of midnight.

  You will notice this letter has a 9 cent stamp. I’m desperate. Now to take a shower and then to bed.

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. Tell me, do you think Roosevelt really has a chance at a fourth term?

  The happiest five days of my Navy experience occurred in Cannes, France, at the end of our Med tour, in the company of Frenchmen Marc (l.) and Michel (r.)

  14 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  The last three days have been a sort of star-spangled climax to my European tour. They have been more like a vacation; for two days I laid on the Riviera, soaking up the sunlight and swimming in the glass-clear water. But the best part of it happened like this….

  Tom Dolan and I decided Thursday to go ashore and go swimming, just so we could say we’d been swimming on the Riviera. Neither of us wanted to go to the “Plages Public,” where the sky is all umbrellas and the sand is all people, so we began walking up the half-moon seafront toward Nice.

  We had seen, while bicycling, the ruins of a fort with extensions out into the water, and thought we’d stop off there. These ruins are about halfway up the crescent, just past the cement sea wall which sweeps along most of Cannes’ waterfront. At the end of the concrete pier, covered with flagstone, steps lead down to a landing, evidently used at one time for small boats. Four young guys were already there—all of them between twenty and twenty-three.

  “Hello, boys—come on down” one called, and then began yodeling (he did it very well). We couldn’t figure out what they were (nationalities, that is), for they spoke two different languages and English.

  We found out that two were Germans, and two were French. Since the French didn’t speak German, and the Germans did
n’t speak French, they “conversed” in English, all of them knowing at least a little of it. One of the Germans (the one who yodeled) spoke quite good English; his name is Guntar (Goon-tar). The other’s German name is unspellable, but it is pronounced “YO-hah-kiem”; he looks typically Bavarian—blondish hair, blue eyes, and a fascinating way of speaking German. Tom also speaks German, so they got on well right from the start. The Frenchmen’s names are Marc (“Mahk”) and Michel.

  All of them were campers—Guntar and Yohakiem hitchhiking from Munich, Germany; Michel and Marc came the same way from Paris, where both work. Yohakiem likes Americans because “there are many American soldiers in Munich, and they fight a lot.” Guntar was part Swiss (i.e. the yodels), and learned English from the American soldiers around Munich.

  Marc is a bartender in Paris, and Michel works just outside Paris, though what he does I don’t know—he is the Junior Champion Skin-Diver of all France, as we soon discovered without anyone telling us.

  We spent the afternoon talking (many gestures; “compre?,” “understand?” and such), swimming and generally fooling around. The water beside the landing is about twelve to twenty feet deep, and you can see every rock on the bottom. One of Marc and Michel’s favorite games was throwing a water-filled bottle in, letting it sink to the bottom, and then diving down after it—they never missed. Another trick was to dive down, pick up a large white rock, and walk across the bottom with it.