A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

  Oh, I forgot to tell you how one changes into and out of a bathing suit on the Riviera! One carries along a towel, naturally. When wishing to change, sometimes in the middle of the beach, one wraps the towel around one’s middle, like an apron. The trick is in fixing it so it won’t fall off, which might prove embarrassing. Then simply remove your pants (or skirt) and slip on the bathing suit. Remove the towel, and Voila! Oh, these French are clever, I tell you

  Guntar wandered off to pick up sea shells and look for crabs (“for souvenirs”); Yohakiem, in his plastic bathing suit, slept. Marc, Michel, Tom and I splashed around, jumping off the edge of the pier where it came out and covered the landing.

  Marc and Michel wore identical red-and-blue male Bikinis; I wore the old pink boxer suit I bought in Pensacola.

  About sundown we all went to supper at a little place miles away Tom had found a couple days before. Guntar was wearing Levi’s and cowboy boots, with a wide leather belt embellished with cows and brands. Yohakiem wore shorts—which made him look more Bavarian than ever—and sandals. Michel and Marc wore Levi’s and moccasins. Tom and I wore sailor suits.

  The bar—which was rather out of the way—was a small, old-ish place with large, small-paned windows. The lady who owned the bar speaks seven languages, and was very friendly. Actually, it is not a restaurant, but if you want something to eat, she will run out and get it. We explained that Marc, Michel, Guntar and Yohakiem were probably on a low budget and asked her advice accordingly. She suggested an omelet, some ham, chicken soup, and salad. Her husband ran out and returned with a head of lettuce and some carrots, fresh from the garden. The soup was delicious—a large bowl, with noodles. The ham and omelet were also very good, though the omelet was a little underdone for my taste. We also had a glass of wine and later a large bottle. Total price for the meal and wine? 2,500 Francs ($8.00 for 6 of us.).

  While waiting for dinner, and afterwards, everyone began doing stunts—Guntar yodeled (he is very good), Tom did the Charleston, Marc and Michel did balancing tricks with chairs (i.e. holding one’s body at a 90 degree angle in the air while holding onto the arms of the chairs). Guntar tried—unsuccessfully—to swallow burning matches. He is really a natural comedian, though he doesn’t mean to be.

  After we left the bar, we walked arm and arm down the street, singing old German war songs.

  A grand time was had by all.

  Yesterday, we met Marc and Michel at the ruins at 2:00, and spent the afternoon the same way—swimming and diving. I even dived for bottles this time—got them, too, only the pressure hurt my ears.

  Guntar and Yohakiem had gone to another beach, and said they’d join us later. Two girls on bicycles came by (Marc and Michel are typically French—especially Michel). Soon they were swimming with us and we spent the rest of the day with them. At sundown, again, we left—the girls peddling off a few minutes before, and went to eat.

  Tom, incidentally, had gone to and flunked out of OCS (Officer Candidate School), and one of his buddies who had gone through is on one of the ships with us. We ran into him, and he joined us. We never did find Guntar and Yohakiem.

  After supper in a little restaurant near the railroad station, we went to the Normandie Bar, a sailor hangout. Phil (Tom’s friend) had a friend in the floor show—a girl called “Cobra.” The show at the Normandie was much better than that at the U.N. Bar, where I’d stood shore patrol. The girls were all very nicely constructed, which you do not see much of in America.

  During the “intermission,” the piano player/hostess asked for five volunteers to come to the middle of the floor. Phil pushed Tom out, and the bar girls dragged out four more. Each was to do a dance—the first, a ballet; the second, a can-can (he backed out); the third, a Russian Dance; the fourth, a strip-tease, and the fifth—Tom—the Charleston. The winner was chosen by applause, and Tom won; the prize being a bottle of champagne! We decided to keep it until Sunday—Marc and Michel took charge of it until then.

  On the way back to Fleet Landing, we stopped at Shore Patrol headquarters and got six passes to come to the ship—the two girls had said they’d like to come.

  Today it rained for awhile, but cleared up and became quite hot. Marc and Michel arrived on the second boat, and Tom and I showed them around as much of the ship as we were allowed. Tom had to go back to work, and just after he left, we saw Guntar and Yohakiem. Yohakiem was fascinated by everything and anything.

  Tomorrow, if possible, I plan to go over again to drink the champagne. Monday is our last day in Cannes, and our last port (except Gibraltar) before heading for home. I rather hate to leave Cannes, in a way.

  More Monday.

  Love

  Roge

  16 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  This morning, at 0115, the last liberty boat pulled away from the fleet landing at Cannes and, with a salute to Marc and Michel—who stood behind the Shore Patrol barricade waving, we left France.

  As the Ti moved out, about 0800, I went topside to catch a last look at the ruins where we’d had so much fun. I really hated to leave Cannes, and will always remember it.

  Going ashore yesterday afternoon, the water was so rough we were almost an hour late. When we got to the ruins, Michel was the only one there. The water, usually sheltered by the squared U formed by the jetties, was washing over the landing, while small geysers shot up from holes in the floor. We made our stand on a flight of bombed stairs, which led nowhere. Michel hadn’t been in the water, as there was quite a bit of debris floating around, and the usually clear water was milky-grey. He produced from under his folded blue jeans the bottle of champagne and a bottle of red wine, which he took and placed in a water-filled pothole in the landing floor.

  Marc soon came along, as did Phil, Tom’s buddy. Guntar and Yoakeim (correct spelling—I asked Marc) never did show up. Michel was anxious to drink the champagne, and kept suggesting it every two minutes. Finally we gave in, and polished it off in a short time. Tom had brought a blanket, which we spread over a landing on the steps, and Phil brought a radio, but didn’t change into his swimming suit since he thought the water was too rough to swim. Every now and then an especially big wave would hit the other side of the jetty, and cold spray would fly all over us.

  Phil left after awhile, and Michel and I walked six blocks (in our swimming suits) to a small delicatessen, where we bought some bread, small cakes, and dried apricots. When we returned, we opened the bottle of wine, and lay all curled up and overlapping (the stair landing wasn’t big enough for four people) like a bunch of snakes. We began singing songs (“C’est si Bon”; “Hi Lili,” “Allez-vous-En,” “Brigadoon,” etc.)—Michel and Marc in French, Tom and I in English.

  Tom got to feeling pretty well on the wine—he drank most of my share because I didn’t care much for—and he and Marc bundled up in the blanket and tried to sleep. Michel and I sat on the steps, comparing feet and exchanging names of various parts of the body.

  Later we decided to go swimming. As I’ve said, water was washing over the landing where we’d laid the previous two days, and out at the end, where the landing wound around the end of the jetty, the waves washed across two feet high. Nobody wanted to be the first one in so, holding hands, we all made a dash for it and jumped in. Either the water was warmer than it had been, or we were more accustomed to it, but anyway it was quite nice.

  Michel wanted to go out to the end of the landing and lay down, letting the water run over him, which he did. I went with him, but Marc and Tom decided to stay farther down toward our stairs. Michel laid down, and I was standing over him, when a huge wave, about three and a half feet high, swept over the edge of the landing. I was knocked off my feet and washed over the side into the water, bruising my ankle and skinning my elbow. Anyway, it was fun.

  We laid around the rest of the afternoon, and about six thirty decided we’d better go and eat. I suggested we go to the little bar we’d gone to the first night, so off we went, leaving our ruins while long shadows stretch
ed off in front of us.

  Since it was such a long walk, we thought we’d take a bus. In Cannes, the busses all leave from one place and do not, I don’t believe, stop at each and every corner.

  We got off about two blocks past the bar and walked back, past a large orange apartment building where several little boys and girls waved at us from the walled front yard.

  For supper, we had chicken soup again, salad, and steak, which Helen, the proprietess, went out and got for us. That, plus one bottle and six glasses of wine, a huge loaf of French bread and two lemonades (for me, since I didn’t like that wine either and was thirsty), and a desert made from fresh plums, came to a grand total cost of 3200 Francs ($6.00 for four of us).

  We stayed there until about ten o’clock, drawing caricatures and joint-project sketches on the paper tablecloths.

  When we left the restaurant, we walked down to the sea—the beaches were all deserted, and the moon spread across the water in a wide, silver path. The waves washed against the sand as they’ve done for millions of years, unseen and unheard. We walked along in the sand, while cars rushed by on the raised highway not half a block from the water. I wrote our names in the sand and a large wave came up and washed them away, getting my feet wet.

  By the time we reached fleet landing, it was eleven o’clock. We were hoping boating might have been secured, but we could see a bunch of white-clad bodies and knew it hadn’t. Marc offered to buy us one last drink, so we hurried back into Cannes and up an alley to their favorite bar.

  Behind the polished brown bar, which ran along the right-hand wall, a bar-room mirror reflected a large bunch of gladiolas, doubly bright because of their more colorless surroundings. In front of the gladiolas stood a woman who might just have stepped out of a French comedy—heavy set, with kept-in-check brown hair that looked like it would love to fly all over the place but didn’t have the nerve. Her cheeks had just enough rouge to heighten the effect; thin, penciled eyebrows which looked comfortably out of place on her large face. Her gestures, the way she talked, and her expressions as she described some hilarious episode to a customer in French, made it no less funny for us. She was fascinating.

  Unfortunately, the mood at our table was not as festive as it might have been. Tom and I kept eyeing the clock on the wall as it edged closer and closer to 12 o’clock, when we must be back at the landing or turn into pumpkins.

  We all exchanged addresses and promises to write, and Marc asked “How you say in English ‘Triste’?” Triste means sad.

  We walked back to the Fleet Landing and stood around, not saying much. The French police came and rounded up a group of Algerians who were peddling rugs and scarves to the sailors.

  Next year both Marc and Michel must go into the army, to be sent to fight in Algiers, to try and keep hold of France’s fast-dwindling empire.

  Boat after boat came and went. We waited as long as we could, until at last everyone was gone but us. We shook hands all around, and got into the boat.

  “…and, with a salute to Marc and Michel, who stood behind the Shore Patrol barricades waving, we left France….”

  ****

  I have, as of tomorrow, only 26 days left in the Navy. It doesn’t seem possible; here I am in Europe and in only less than a month I’ll be home. Home—that sounds strange after almost two years.

  See you soon.

  Love

  Roge

  17 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  Eight twenty, a warm night, a good movie, and here I am. The office, for a change, is very quiet—only Coutre, and he’s reading. Today passed by nonchalantly, and looking back on it I can’t recall if it went fast or slow. The main thing is that it is over now, and only 25 days stand between me and August 12.

  Payday today, and I bought two rolls of movie film—I plan on stocking up before we get back; also bought four bath towels, two T-shirts, and 4 pair of shorts.

  Yesterday afternoon I started packing my sea bag; put away all my blues, my peacoat, raincoat, and two T-shirts which I had folded carefully for my first inspection at Pensacola and never used. They and the shoes I’m wearing now are the only things I have left.

  Just been sitting here thinking over the last two years—they seem like an eternity, and yet again everything seems like yesterday, if I try to pin it down.

  I can see mother stepping off the airliner in a brown suit and little white hat, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. I remember asking her about the trip, and feeling more excited for her than she must have been herself.

  I remember flying low over the road on the way back to Corry Field, listening to the steady roar of the engine and singing “Furl the Banner.”

  Los Angeles and Lief stalking down the sidewalk ahead of the band, and me wondering if he’d seen me or not.—The first sunrise over Gibraltar; Marc and Michel—all of it there, neatly laid out and waiting, crisp and brand new, only to be remembered to be relived.

  Now that my European tour is almost at a close, I think I might like to come back for a short vacation—this time, though, I’d see the Northern countries; Germany, Switzerland, England, Norway, Denmark, etc.

  If ever I should have any say in the matter, Foreign Languages would be taught—compulsory, in fact—in all American schools. You’d be amazed how it feels to be suddenly, for all practical purposes, struck dumb, and on the other hand, what a feeling of satisfaction you get from being able to speak even the rudiments of another language and make yourself understood.

  As usual around this time of night, I’m hungry. Lately I’ve been getting up in time to catch the tail end of breakfast, and it helps, but not at night. I could stay up till late chow at 11:00, but then I’d be too tired to get up for breakfast. It’s a vicious circle.

  We were talking the other day about certain almost-forgotten foods—bananas, milk, doughnuts, popcorn, and the like. Oh, well, soon…soon.

  Day after tomorrow and Friday we’re going to play those idiotic 0430 G.Q. games. They pick that time very carefully, so that it is too late to go back to sleep when it’s over, and too early to do anything else.

  Well, it’s now nine-fifteen, and I must to bed.

  Love

  Roge

  19–20 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  The day got off to an oh-so-early start at 0352 this morning with the gentle tinkle of the General Quarters gong. All this is part of an exercise by the Sixth Fleet primarily to impress the Governor of Malta. I doubt very seriously that he was up at 0352 to join in the festivities. We can look forward to more of the same tomorrow, but that, thank God, is the very last day of flight operations for this ship. Oh frumcious day, calloo, callay, he chortled in his glee.

  Around ten thirty or so, the Captain spoke to his loyal but disgruntled crew, giving us some very happy news (which is quite a unique event around here). We will arrive in Norfolk at 1300, 2 August 1956!--only two months and ten days behind our original schedule. Oh, joy—oh, ecstasy! Well, that’s the Navy for you—you’ve got to take these little alterations cheerfully.

  One of the guys from the Intrepid, who is riding back with us for discharge, says they can release you in one day now. This I find rather hard to believe, but am happily gullible enough to accept anything if it sounds good enough. Now I’m wondering when I will get to leave the ship—will it be the day we get in? Or must I wait till Monday? At any rate, I know I have only 24 days to go in the Navy, so I should care?

  And here I am again, one day later (as you may have gathered by the different colored ink). It has just occurred to me that this will possibly be the last letter I’ll have a chance to write before we get home—in two days (three, really) we’ll be in Gibraltar, and then there will not be a mail call, nor will any leave the ship, until we arrive in the States.

  As it is we haven’t had a mail call since two days ago, and I haven’t gotten any since before we left Cannes. So evidently you haven’t been writing too regularly either.

  Today started wi
th another GQ at 0400, though I woke up of my own accord about ten minutes before. From 0500 until 0930, I held a field day in the office—me being the only one up; the rest of them had gone back to bed.

  The water situation is becoming rather acute, and they’ve taken to shutting it off completely at various times to conserve. Why is it you never get thirsty until the water is turned off?

  It is now seven thirty, and they’ve just called away the changing of the watch (as they do every night at this time) including “the lifeboat crew of the watch on deck to muster.” Just what the lifeboat crew of the watch does I don’t know, but I do know that, unless the ship sank very evenly, our four huge liberty launches, two officers’ boats, and various smaller barges and gigs would never be able to be launched, being all tied down securely on the hanger deck. Even if they all could, they could accommodate no more than 750 men—our crew now, with passengers, being around 3,000. However, there are two life jackets to every man, if you could ever find them. Oh, well….

  Tomorrow I’m going to the library and get a French-English dictionary, and copy from it a letter to Michel and Marc.

  The Foreign Merchandise Store here aboard ship is almost sold out—what little they have left when we reach Gibraltar will be transferred to the Randolph. I bought five rolls of movie film at $3.65 a roll, which should last for awhile.

  It is now eight o’clock, and I think I’ll go to the second movie before going to bed.

  23 days.

  Love

  Roge

  22 July 1956

  Dear Folks

  This will be the last letter from Europe, and possibly the last one until I get home. Tomorrow we arrive in Gibraltar, eight months and eight days since we first saw it. There the last mail will leave the ship.

  In a way, it is almost impossible to think of going home. Just think—to be able to go anywhere and understand all that is around you, and be understood (to a greater or lesser degree) by everyone. It seems we have been away from America for eight years rather than eight months.