A World Ago

2007-02-07T14:22:00.000-08:00

IF YOU'RE JOINING US FOR THE FIRST TIME...AND WELCOME!...A BRIEF EXPLANATION IS DUE. THE TWO YEARS WORTH OF LETTERS THAT COMPRISE THIS BLOG WERE POSTED, NATURALLY, FROM FIRST TO LAST, WITH THE RESULT THAT TO START FROM THE BEGINNING, YOU MUST GO TO THE "ARCHIVES" ON THE BOTTOM RIGHT SECTION OF THIS PAGE AND CLICK ON JUNE 2006, SCROLLING DOWN TO THE VERY BOTTOM, WHICH IS THE FIRST OF THE LETTERS, AND WHICH IS FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE REPOSTED BELOW. I KNOW IT'S SOMETHING OF A BOTHER, BUT I HOPE YOU'LL FEEL IT WAS WORTH IT.

ANYONE INTERESTED IN KNOWING WHAT HAPPENED TO THIS YOUNG SAILOR SINCE AND BEFORE 1956 IS REFERRED TO MY "DORIEN GREY AND ME" BLOG (www.doriengreyandme.com) AND MY WEBSITE (www.doriengrey.com).

I LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING YOU AS A TRAVELING COMPANION THROUGH BOTH THESE JOURNEYS. THANKS FOR BEING HERE.

ROGER/DORIEN

August 9, 1954

Having, in my sophomore year at Northern Illinois State Teachers College, studied with no little interest the Diary of Samuel Pepys (pronounced “Peeps” though I’ll never know why) and similar works, I have decided to write my own, somewhat modernized, journal. I differ from Mr. Pepys in many ways; one being that I am writing this journal, or diary, with the object of its eventual publication in mind.

I am, at the start of this modest work, twenty years old; the date is August 9th, 1954. On August 13, 1954, I shall, I hope, enter the United States Navy for 4 years, wherein I hope to become a pilot.

I plan to make this journal as revealing and honest as possible (it is far easier to make confessions to one’s future than to one’s present), and the reader must bear with my frequent ramblings. I intend to present, not to my own day, but to some future age, a complete picture of myself, my life, and my world. To the future this journal is hopefully dedicated.

2007-02-05T04:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Reader:

Life aboard a warship is not always easy. Here is a log of some of the incidents which occurred during the 1955-1956 deployment of the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 while I was aboard.

THE CRUISE OF THE T I C O N D E R O G A

On the ten day cruise from Norfolk to Gibraltar, two died of a heart attack (one CPO and one Lt. Cdr.)

One AD (Ens. Barnes, VA35) noses over, pilot dies on way to sick bay.

One F9F lost landing gear, no one killed.

An F2H-3 on night flying crashed on landing, killing seven as the plane swept over the bow and fell into the sea.

One AD lost over the side on take-off; pilot saved.

F9F into the barrier; no one hurt.

F7U made a good landing, then hit Tillie with wing tip.

Another F9F into the barrier, same pilot as No. 6.

On landing, an F9F crashed into an F7U, pushing it into one AD and scraping another AD; one airman hit on the head with a jury strut.

AD on landing nosed up, fell back on tail wheel, and buckled the fuselage; same crew as No. 5.

F7U nose gear collapses on landing; pilot taken to Sick Bay on stretcher.

F2H-3 given a wave off; tail hook caught a small barrier, pulling the plane to the deck just aft of #2 elevator; plane skids across elevator, explodes, and falls into the sea with the pilot (Martin) Date 1/17/56.

Same date as No. 12, an F2H3 was shot off the catapult without permission; the pilot (Doane) was lost with the plane.

Pilot of F2H-3 shot off with a "dead" catapult saved (Jessie Miller, CAG-3).

AD lands, noses up; "struck" (complete loss).

An F2H-3, coming in too low, hooked the edge of the flight deck instead of an arresting cable, sheared off the shoe, damaging the tail section of the plane. Pilot (Manfredi) unhurt; 3/15/56.
Same date as No. 16, another F2H-3 missed all arresting cables but was stopped by the barrier. The pilot (Werner) unhurt, the plane a total loss.

Plane giving demonstration of dog-fighting went into a dive and did not pull out; pilot lost.

April 4, 1956; AJ turning up, man walked into the propeller.

Same date as above, an AD coming in on a GCT (Ground Controlled Approach) missed the ship completely. Pilot (Melhorn) and crew picked up by Destroyer.

July 17, 1956; F2H-3, G.F. Haggquist pilot, landed so that the tail hook hit the gutter along the flight deck, forcing the tail hook back up into the tail section; the plane went on into the barrier. No one hurt.

F7U Cutlass pilot made a normal landing, when his tail hook snapped off; the plane went on into the barrier and the nose landing gear, ten feet tall, collapsed; as the plane fell forward, the landing gear went through the fuselage, killing the pilot. As a result of this crash, all F7Us were removed from the ship.

2007-02-04T04:10:00.000-08:00

22 July 1956

Dear Folks

This will be the last letter from Europe, & possibly the last one until I get home. Tomorrow we arrive in Gibraltar, eight months & 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 & understand all that is around you, & 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.

I have gone over my arrival home a countless number of times in my mind; all of it is, of course, glorified & will not be at all like that in reality. Still, it will be fun.

As for the presents—my all too few acquisitions in Europe—I plan to send you into the kitchen while I spread them all over the living room. Then you can come in & see them all at once. Unfortunately there are not nearly so many as I should have liked, but you will understand. If only we could have a Christmas tree!!

Last night I wrote a letter to Marc & Michel (in English) & one to Michel entirely in French, which is quite an accomplishment, if I do say so myself. It was done with a French-English dictionary, and I only hope Michel can understand it.

One night in Cannes, Marc asked us what we ate on our ship. When we told him, he seemed duly impressed, & then asked what we drank. Both he & Michel were astonished that we didn’t drink wine. When we told them no alcoholic beverages at all were allowed on board, they seemed downright disappointed—especially Michel, who drinks wine as if he were a fish in water. And when I told them about Prohibition in the States, I think they didn’t believe me.

The three major physical differences between America & Europe are: 1) Europe—or what I’ve seen of it.—has very few rivers—lot of river beds & streams, but none even the size of the Rock, not even the Seine. Secondly, the absence of green grass—it is almost nonexistent. Third is the absence of wooden buildings; only in Turkey did I see a wooden house.

Well, the day after tomorrow will be my last day in Europe. I hope, through my letters (infrequent as they may be) that you’ve gotten some idea of what Europe is like. When I return, with you, I hope, I shall have studied much more language, so that I wont seem quite so lost. As soon as I get home, let’s start a travel fund of quarters & half dollars--& every three or four years, we can take a nice long trip—to Europe, to Hawaii (first), & anyplace else we want to go. ($10 a week for three years is $1560.00)

Meanwhile, time is happily flying….

Today was quite busy, considering that I didn’t do anything of importance—went to the movie this afternoon, read a book (The Haploids), & wrote this letter. Had a wonderful sleep last night, & got up this morning around 0900.

Tomorrow I’m going to try to go ashore for some last-minute buying—mainly some good snuff for Grandpa if I can find any.

For the past few weeks I’ve been living completely in the future, dragging the present along behind me like a little red wagon.

No mail now for a God-awful time. I certainly hope there is some waiting for us in Gibraltar. How are you both? Fine, I hope.

Well, since I am now reduced to basic cordialities (the next question in line being: "How’s the weather up there?") I think it best .to close. If you hear nothing more from me for ten days, don’t worry—I’ll be at sea on my way home.

Love

Roge

P.S. In fact, at the moment you are reading this, I am somewhere in the Atlantic, bound for the New World & untold adventures….

2007-02-03T04:19:00.000-08:00

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 & 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, & 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, & I haven’t gotten any since before we left Cannes. So evidently you haven’t been writing too regularly either.

Today started with 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, & 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, & 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, & various smaller barges & 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 & get a French-English dictionary, & copy from it a letter to Michel & 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, & I think I’ll go to the second movie before going to bed.

23 days.

Love

Roge

2007-02-02T03:56:00.000-08:00

17 July 1956

Dear Folks

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

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

Yesterday afternoon I started packing my sea bag; put away all my blues, my peacoat, raincoat, & two T-shirts which I had folded carefully for my first inspection at Pensacola & never used. They & 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, & 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 & little white hat, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. I remember asking her about the trip, & 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 & singing "Furl the Banner."

Los Angeles & Lief stalking down the sidewalk ahead of the band, & me wondering if he’d seen me or not.---The first sunrise over Gibraltar; Marc & Michel—all of it there, neatly laid out & waiting, crisp & 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, & on the other hand, what a feeling of satisfaction you get from being able to speak even the rudiments of another language & 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, & 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, & the like. Oh, well, soon…soon.

Day after tomorrow & 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, & too early to do anything else.

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

Love

Roge

2007-02-01T04:14:00.000-08:00

16 July 1956

Dear Folks

This morning, at 0115, the last liberty boat pulled away from the fleet landing at Cannes &, with a salute to Marc & 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, & 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, & the usually clear water was milky-grey. He produced from under his folded bluejeans the bottle of champagne & a bottle of red wine, which he took & placed in a water-filled pothole in the landing floor.

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

Phil left after awhile, & Michel & I walked six blocks (in our swimming suits) to a small delicatessen, where we bought some bread, small cakes, & dried apricots. When we returned, we opened the bottle of wine, & lay all curled up & 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 & Marc in French, Tom & 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 it--& he & Marc bundled up in the blanket & tried to sleep. Michel & I sat on the steps, comparing feet & 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, & 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 & 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 & lay down, letting the water run over him, which he did. I went with him, but Marc & Tom decided to stay farther down toward our stairs. Michel laid down, & I was standing over him, when a huge wave, about three & a half feet high, swept over the edge of the landing. I was knocked off my feet & washed over the side into the water, bruising my ankle & skinning my elbow. Anyway, it was fun.

We laid around the rest of the afternoon, & about six thirty decided we’d better go & 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 stretched 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 & do not, I don’t believe, stop at each & every corner.

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

For supper, we had chicken soup again, salad, & steak, which Helen, the proprietess, went out and got for us. That, plus one bottle & six glasses of wine, a huge loaf of French bread & two lemonades (for me, since I didn’t like that wine either & was thirsty), & 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 & joint-project sketches on the paper tablecloths.

When we left the restaurant, we walked down to the sea—the beaches were all deserted, & 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 & 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 & a large wave came up & 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 & knew it hadn’t. Marc offered to buy us one last drink, so we hurried back into Cannes & 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 & I kept eyeing the clock on the wall as it edged closer & closer to 12 o’clock, when we must be back at the landing or turn into pumpkins.

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

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

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

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

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

See you soon.

Love

Roge

2007-01-31T04:56:00.000-08:00

14 July, 1956 (Part 2)

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

While waiting for dinner, & afterwards, everyone began doing stunts—Guntar yodeled (he is very good), Tom did the Charleston, Marc & 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 & arm down the street, singing old German war songs.
A grand time was had by all.

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

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

Tom, incidentally, had gone to & flunked out of OCS (Officer Candidate School), & one of his buddies who had gone through is on one of the ships with us. We ran into him, & he joined us. We never did find Guntar & 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, & 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, & the fifth—Tom—the Charleston. The winner was chosen by applause, & Tom won; the prize being a bottle of champagne! We decided to keep it until Sunday—Marc & Michel took charge of it until then.

On the way back to Fleet Landing, we stopped at Shore Patrol headquarters & 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 & became quite hot. Marc & Michel arrived on the second boat, & Tom & I showed them around as much of the ship as we were allowed. Tom had to go back to work, & just after he left, we saw Guntar & Yohakiem. Yohakiem was fascinated by everything & anything.

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

More Monday.

Love

Roge

2007-01-30T04:18:00.000-08:00

14 July 1956 (Part 1)

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 & swimming in the glass-clear water. But the best part of it happened like this….

Tom Dolan & I decided Thursday to go ashore & 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 & 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, & 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 & twenty-three.

"Hello, boys—come on down" one called, & 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 & English.

We found out that two were Germans, & two were French. Since the French didn’t speak German, & the Germans didn’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, & 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") & Michel.

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

Marc is a bartender in Paris, & 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?" & such), swimming & generally fooling around. The water beside the landing is about twelve to twenty feet deep, & you can see every rock on the bottom. One of Marc & Michel’s favorite games was throwing a water-filled bottle in, letting it sink to the bottom, & then diving down after it—they never missed. Another trick was to dive down, pick up a large white rock, & walk across the bottom with it.

Oh, I forgot to tell you how one changes into & 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) & slip on the bathing suit. Remove the towel, & Voila! Oh, these French are clever, I tell you

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

Marc & Michel wore identical red-&-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 & cowboy boots, with a wide leather belt embellished with cows & brands. Yohakiem wore shorts—which made him look more Bavarian than ever—& sandals. Michel & Marc wore Levi’s & moccasins. Tom & I wore sailor suits.

2007-01-29T04:24:00.000-08:00

8 - 9 July 1956

Dear Folks

And then it was Sunday afternoon---& here I am, all wet-nosed & 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 & heavy, & we were asked to tell them to get out. Within two minutes, the place was swarming with Shore Patrol—chiefs, officers, & 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"), & the Shore Patrol left, & all the other sailors left, leaving just the two of us & the five barmaids.

The "floor show" consisted of a belly dancer who came out in a grass skirt & a lei, & another dancer whose object was rather vague. Prices were terrific, I understand—beer was 275 Francs (about 80 cents). Fortunately, they closed at 12, & 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, & along the boulevard beside the sea, colored lights projected in & from trees & 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, & as we look in on our hero, we find him hunched over his pen & paper after a long hard struggle with two sets of whites & 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), & 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, & 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 & 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, & I am considering sending Mr. Huxley a shovel so that he can dig a hole & 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 & then to bed.

Love

Roge

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

2007-01-28T04:44:00.000-08:00

6 July, 1956 (Part 2)

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-&-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 & antique shops. Tom has some friends living in Williamsburg, Virginia—the reconstructed colonial town—who asked him to try & 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., & the last train to Cannes left at 10:30. We decided to wait, see the cartoon at least, & 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, & 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 & pleasing, & the backgrounds & characters very well drawn. The story takes place in India & 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, & that the boy has befriended it. He brings the boy before him & 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 & a flute, telling him to play it whenever he needs her, & she will come to him. The stooge tells the Raja, who takes the money the boy has brought & steals the pipe, summoning the Antelope. She appears & is seized by the palace guards. The Raja commands her to make gold, & 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 & falling all over themselves, trying to get more gold. The boy calls her & she leaps up the stairs, striking the steps again & again with her hooves, until a cascade of gold rushes down the steps & knocks the Raja off his feet, burying him. The gold then changes to stone, & the Raja is buried alive. The guards, seeing the gold they’ve gathered turning to stone, walk away in disgust. The boy & the Golden Antelope go quietly up the stairs & out into the night….

No doubt many could & would find the whole story a sinister communist plot, with the Raja representing Greedy Capitalism, the boy Russia, Everybody’s Pal, & the animals the nations of the world. But I prefer to think of it as the story of a boy, an evil villain, & 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 & 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 & stomach cramps. At first we thought it was the food, but officers, chiefs, & enlisted men all have it & 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 & contaminates the whole ship.

Well, more Sunday.

Love

Roge

2007-01-27T04:22:00.000-08:00

6 July 1956 (Part 1)

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 & 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, & that would probably be the best reason, though the poorest excuse.

Almost every day I’d start a letter, write three or four lines, & 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 & 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 a the clock, & scanning of newspaper & magazine datelines.

Fortunately, I am not nearly as bad off as some of the other guys, & 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 & Nice are swarming with movie stars & 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 & 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!" & then, very confidentially: "I saw Princess Margaret," & 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 & dignified white Ruhl & 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, & peddled along the coast almost to Golf Juan—the next town to Cannes. When the road left the shore & 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 & bits of the garden in front of & below the house—patches of bright pink flowers & green grass. To the right of the gate, & 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 & 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," & the Princess was upstairs, asleep. We thanked her for her trouble & rode off, completely mystified.

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

2007-01-26T05:05:00.000-08:00

28 June, 1956 (Part 2)

I’ve saved Paris for last because it was the best. There, I had a marvelous time & made no bones about it. I even got a big charge out of Pigalle. The very first night we were there, we were stopped by a very pretty redhead in a fur coat. She was willing to take us all for 1,000 Francs apiece! Well!! That got things off to a rousing start. One of the three other guys kicked himself ever since for not accepting her offer.

In Paris, prostitution is taken as much for granted as the SUZE signs & the Eiffel Tower. Paris just wouldn’t be Paris without it.

In a restaurant we met Yvonne & Kitty. Kitty was heavy-set & spoke Spanish, so we got along beautifully until the time came when I had to decline an invitation to go dancing. Yvonne & Bob Schmall were getting along very well, too, & it was they who suggested the going someplace. Jim Bessette had run off to a movie with a Russian named Olga, who showed Jim a picture of her brother (in the Red Army) in front of the Kremlin. He endeared himself to her by yelling: "Yea, Bolsheviks! I’m a Bolshevik from way back" & drinking a toast to the Revolution—in vodka, of course.

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

Coutre & 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 & 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 (& 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 & spats. Oh, well.)

Coutre says hello, by the way. "Greetings, Salutations, & 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, & dad could do much better. Also have Stormy drop a few lines every now & 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.

2007-01-25T04:12:00.000-08:00

28 June 1956 (Part 1 of 2)

Dear Folks

Our little chat for this evening should be called "Prostitutes I have Known". Granted, one does not generally discuss such things in letters—especially to one’s parents, but I have no qualms (though I probably wouldn’t be able to talk about it), being of Pure Heart & Mind.

I have no intentions of going into sordid details, sobbing confessions, or hatchet-waving denunciations. However, it is a subject which does affect the Navy in particular &, therefore indirectly, me. It is something which is as much a part of our in-port liberty as is sightseeing & drinking. In many cases it is much more important than either sightseeing or drinking.

Coming, as I do, from a comparatively isolated town with amazingly high morals—compared to what I’ve seen since—I knew there was such a thing, but had never seen it, just as I knew there was a Europe, but had never seen it either.

My impressions of Norfolk’s East Main Street have been recorded before. Norfolk, being a Sailor Town was therefore a Den of Iniquity & other trite exclamations for "somewhat promiscuous."

Not to be waving a little American flag (while a music box tinkles The Star Spangled Banner), but Norfolk’s worst only comes up to Europe’s average. I suppose a lot of factors enter into it—the war, the low standards of living, etc.—enough things to write a large & not very interesting volume.

It’s here, it’s been here a long time (the Second Oldest Profession—what is the Oldest?), & will most likely to be here for a long time.

However, we seem to be getting away from the topic—namely Prostitutes I have known. Actually, there aren’t a great number. I try to avoid the bars where the B-girls come with every bottle of champagne (in some places, they’re included with the champagne). Whenever I’m with a group of guys, though, we almost always end up in one of these bars.

Naples was where we held our divisional party. The manager of the restaurant we’d rented said he would provide "everything," & sent the word among the girls of Naples.

Most of them spoke no English—or only enough to transact the necessary financial arrangements. They simply came in, sat down, & ate. Some of them looked half starved, & ate accordingly. Almost all of them wrapped sandwiches in napkins & put them in their purse. One small, mousy-looking girl was seen scooping potato salad into her purse. They didn’t try to laugh, but just sat there, eating & being mauled & looking bored. One short, plump girl in a white sweater looked like a 1929 Betty Boop (or whatever her name was). She looked definitely disdainful & didn’t try to hide it even by looking bored. There was also a midget, whom I may have mentioned at the time. Had she been normal size, she might have been very pretty—rather like Donna Aden. I’d seen her before, in a "business establishment" which I believe I described before,-- if not, I will sometime in the future.

In Valencia, I talked with a girl whom I like to think was not a professional, or even an amateur, but then I’m pretty gullible. She gave me the story on the operations of the bar—how the girls get a commission on every drink they make the guys buy. All in all a very sound business, & quite complex, too. I enjoyed talking to her, because she was not the clinging-vine type, & was also not stupid. We conversed as much as was possible with my limited Spanish, & I had a very good time. Later that night, after we left the bar, we met a very young girl I like to think of as an apprentice streetwalker. One of the guys was fascinated by her, with the result that we followed her all over Valencia. She was definitely new at the game, & giggled quite a bit when he tried to talk to her. Then she’d shake her head & walk off down the street, only to stop at another store window & wait for us to catch up. I won’t tell you whether they ever came to terms or not.

In Istanbul, one bar employed girls under 14—I know I told you about that place! I didn’t even try to talk to them—we left as soon as we could. That was going a little too far.

(To Be Continued)

2007-01-24T03:45:00.000-08:00

27 June 1956

Dear Folks

This afternoon I tried to spell Connecticut; whether I spelled it correctly or not is another matter. I tried it three different ways, & none of them looked right. A trip to Webster’s showed the above to be correct, but even it looks funny. Massachusetts I can manage, after quite a struggle.

Mother mentioned in a recent letter—recent being 1956—that my first word after Mom & Dad was "Constantinople.". Doesn’t it strike you as a little odd that out of 600,000 words in the English language—among them such commonplace gems as "dog," "cat," & "the"—I should come out with "Constantinople"? Maybe it was just baby talk that sounded like Constantinople.

Which brings us to the subject of penmanship, for no particular reason. I have the feeling that somewhere, deep in my subconscious, I have a hidden loathing of my Penmanship teacher, & am showing my resentment every time I take up a pen or pencil.

Penmanship, as I recall, was a class squeezed in between History & Mathematics (or, as it was known in my younger days, Arithmetic) twice a week. For this class we were issued thin, blue paper bound books about half the size of a comic book. On its cover was a beautifully written "penmanship" with a pen trailing off the last "p" as though someone had just dashed it off. It became increasingly obvious that no one just "dashed it off," but that it had been written with a pair of calipers & several fine machine-tooled instruments. The idea being given by Miss Hines that we were all supposed to write like that, with improvements.

Now, to make things worse, we had all been raised on pencils, & pens were as cumbersome as trying to write with a crowbar. The pens we were to use were only one step above the sharpened ostrich-plume stage, & the points looked like someone’s buck teeth from our habit of dotting our names on our desktops with them. Inkwells were in the upper right hand corner of the desk, at the end of the pencil trough. Most of the inkwell holes were without inkwell, though which we pushed pieces of paper & shreds of art gum erasers. What few inkwells there were were dry, caked with a blue smudge.

Upon opening our Penmanship books, which we did grudgingly, we saw wide, blue-lined pages like an enlarged section of a sheet of music. The paper itself was something of a marvel—in the middle days of the war, the paper available for our everyday use was coarse & rather yellowish—the Penmanship book’s pages were smooth & white. I hated to louse it up.

At the top of each page was the exercise for the day. The first page was circles—sort of like a compressed steel spring.

Again, it was machine-drawn, & don’t try & tell me it wasn’t. The object was to repeat this exercise, using swift, circular motions. Mine, I’m afraid, left something wanting. It was a rare thing if my circles even resembled circles to begin with, & if they somehow touched either line, it was a miracle. And to think we were graded on that stuff! To this day, I doubt if I could make a passing mark.

The remarkable thing about it all is that not once since I left fourth grade have I been called upon to make freehand coiled springs.

I have finally figured out how they’re working that "Three-Room Suite" bit at Northern. Two rooms next door to each other will have four bunks each, for sleeping. One room across the hall will be a "Study Room" for the eight men. Frankly, I think it’s a lousy idea & I wish now I hadn’t enrolled there again. I think also that one semester will be plenty, & then I’ll drop out & look around for another college—if I stay at Northern sure as hell I’ll end up teaching & that is far down on my list of Things I Would Like to Do.

What I would like to do is write to Pensacola & see about buying an SNJ—they’re changing from SNJ’s to T28’s, & have literally hundreds of them sitting around down there. Some of them are in excellent shape, & the J is a good little plane all-around. They should be fairly cheap, as the Navy now has no further use for them.

Mmm—a quick calculation throws a thin blanket on things—the J uses 110 gallons of gas in about four hours. Now, I don’t know the cost of Aviation Gasoline, but at, say, 50 cents a gallon, the price is a little prohibitive. Well, let’s face it—on my income almost everything is prohibitive.

Today we had "Battle Messing" which means feeding 2,600 men during General Quarters. The result was a little like a picnic—I laid on a large bag of laundry & sipped pink lemonade (Fruit Punch) from a paper cup, while munching on a ham sandwich, a beef sandwich, & a piece of cake—simultaneously. I had an orange, too, but didn’t like the feel of it so didn’t bother eating it.

Cannes is our next port, where we arrive 8 July, & I have that old "Gee, maybe I’ll be leaving" feeling again. Like 9/7 of my premonitions, though, I’ll end up riding the ship back.

On sale in the Ship’s Store are some beautiful pieces of Wedgwood China. I fell in love with all of them but can afford practically none of it. It is, in my humble opinion, the most perfect china in the world—the simple, clean lines with the white figures on the blue of the china. Today they offered a dinner set of 109 pieces—serving for 12, for $228.00. It isn’t like the other in color, design, or anything but the name—it’s called Florentine Wedgwood. I don’t particularly care for it.

Haven’t heard from Lirf for some time now. Tell him to get on the ball.

Say—what do I do about voting? I’m eligible, you know, but I won’t be home in time to pre-register, or will I?

Just had a surprise mail call—one letter from Dad & one from Mother.

Now it is I who feel slightly sheepish—I would like to say that I planned down to the minute when the package would arrive, but unfortunately the Navy doesn’t work that way—I mailed the package Aunt Thyra got about a week after I mailed the binoculars. Besides, they are your Christmas present (last Christmas, that is). Still, I’m very glad they got there when they did. I am also pleased to hear that they met with your approval; I was pretty sure you’d like them.

Now that I know the other packages got back all right, I think I’ll send the rest after the 1st of July (taking no chances with Customs—relieved that they didn’t charge for that last batch). All told, they made pretty good time.

Well, this should hold you for one night. Till tomorrow or so.

Love

Roge

2007-01-23T04:39:00.000-08:00

26 June 1956

Dear Folks

Now that’s an original beginning. I’ve been sitting here for three minutes, staring at it & wondering what was going to come next. I still am.

I suppose I could tell you what we had for supper (stew, & not very good), or go from there into a brief resume of the week’s menu, but somehow I doubt that it would hold your interest—or mine—very long.

My admiration for Benchley grows by leaps & bounds. He shares with other writers that ability which I covet & lack; to ramble on at great lengths about almost anything. In the case of the first person singular, it is an impossibility; had I been designated to write "The Decline & Fall of the Roman Empire" it would have been about three pages long--& then only by using short paragraphs.

My mind is rather like the little ball in a pinball machine, bounding from one thing to another & remaining on none of them long enough to do much good.

In line with the idea-duration in the physical makeup of my sentences, most authors write so fluently that the reader is scarcely aware when one sentence ends & another begins. With me there is no doubt; they are as conducive to smooth reading as a brisk gallop over a stone quarry.

Just went out & bought a box of candy bars, which I will regret, even though they don’t last long. Since I had to get up from this letter to do it, I bawled myself out for running away just because there was "nothing to say." It is wonderful the lengths to which I will go to avoid work. It is so much simpler, when stymied, to say: "Well, I’ll do it later" & go off to something more pleasant & less exacting. By sheer will power (badly underdeveloped), I dragged myself back.

No one ever "forgets" anything. Just by sitting here concentrating, all sorts of things come back—First grade in Loves Park; the long white building with the porches onto the play-yard. Miss Johnson, my teacher, about whom I remember very little except that she lived in a big frame house on a corner, which had been there when most of the rest of the town was its farm. The little colored boy whose mother died of a heart attack trying to chase him out from beneath a bed, where he’d hid to avoid a spanking. David Wrena—poor, ugly David, whose parents wouldn’t allow him to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag—and this in the thunderstorm first days of the war. We used to sit in his unfinished basement & build sand houses until his father (E-ville Personified) came & chased us off. What an unhappy life he must have had.

One thing, no matter how I may have turned out, I’m glad I had you for parents. Several things could have been arranged so that the end result came out differently, but it’s too late for that now.

Then there was the time I fell backwards off the outhouse roof & was saved from a broken neck by being caught on a nail halfway down. Of course, I stayed there, upside down, yelling like mad until Mother came out & picked me off like an overripe banana (they grow upside down, don’t they?).

The"185" stamped on the side was put there by Andy, who has been playing with a numbering machine. He tells me a number, clicks it furiously, & then asks me what number he’s on now.
They’re having a tour to Paris, & I must say I’m tempted. But $69 will buy a few clothes, which I’ll need pretty badly. And besides, there’s always that "maybe they’ll send you home" possibility.

Latest rumor is that now something has happened to the Intrepid & that when the Randolph arrives, she will relieve the Intrepid instead of us! One more extension, & I’m afraid this crew has "had the course."

We are now into our third extension (from 23 May to 17 June to 27 June to 3 August to ???)

I’m writing this at Mr. Clower’s desk—mine I haven’t the energy to try & find amid all that rubble--& staring out at me from the protective safety of the plastic top is a paper on which is printed the following "Ship’s Schedual" (their spelling, not mine).

May 29 - 1 June – Naples, Italy
June 4 - 7 – Gibraltar
June 7 - 16 -- Enroute to States
June 17 -- Norfolk.

Oh, well; guess I’ll go to the movie.

Love

Roge

2007-01-22T04:18:00.000-08:00

Fleet Operations from rescue helicopter. U.S.S. Ticonderoga CVA-14, 1956. Photo courtesy of Dale Royston, V1 Div.

2007-01-22T04:01:00.000-08:00

24 - 25 June 1956

Dear Folks

Oh, what a night I had! I got up at least three times for various reasons, & 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.

I’m sure it wasn’t the negligible quantity of alcohol that brought it all on—I haven’t been feeling too well in the stomach department for about two days.

When I was not surrounded by clamors for liberty cards, I was directing shipping for the entire port of Genoa. All in all it was a strenuous night.

Oh, yes, at about five thirty, JL (he has no name, just initials) woke the compartment strumming on a guitar & singing: "It’s reveille, you all."

Just got back from a quick breath of fresh air. We are now underway from Genoa as of ten minutes ago, so we haven’t gone very far. I thought I’d go up & take on last look at it. It isn’t a very nice day—not raining or anything, but the whole sky & sea (& Genoa, which hasn’t gotten out of bed yet) are a stodgy grey, & the wind imported from a Scottish castle.

Somehow I was tricked into getting out of bed at 0600, but didn’t know it until I got down to the office and began wondering where everybody was. Once I’m asleep, there is nothing I like better than to stay asleep. Today we start 72 straight hours of Fleet Exercises, which means GQ at any & all hours of the day & night. Oh, such fun.

With a pleasant surprise, I noticed that today my calendar says there are only 48 days between now & 12 August. Isn’t that nice?

{LATER (MUCH)} Do you know what the name of the movie for tonite is? No, not "Birth of a Nation," but you’re close—it’s "Naughty Marietta" with Nelson Eddy & Jeanette McDonald! I think the Navy should have a new motto to replace "Join the Navy & See the World;" we’ll call it "Join the Navy & See All the Movies You’re Far Too Young to Remember." Actually, I guess I wasn’t "far too young"—I may have been a devil-may-care rogue of six months when I sat through it the first time.

I’ve been reading some more of Robert Benchley. I think he’s influenced me—that is, I hope he’s influenced me. Just think, he was funny day after day, & always found something humorous—even if it was only a blackbird doing a pratfall (which doesn’t strike me as being particularly amusing—but then I don’t have a daily column in the "World.").

Mail call today bought forth two letters from you, in which Father mentioned the fact that Father’s Day had come & gone with no word from yours truly. Again I say I’m sorry, but you are not forgotten, & I’ll make up for it next Father’s day.

{STILL LATER} Now why should I criticize the Navy’s choice of movies? Every now & then they come up with one like "Camille" or "Rasputin & the Empress" or "Naughty Marietta" which are excellent or, at least, very enjoyable. It’s amazing how well movies got on before the advent of Technicolor, Wide Screen & Stereophonic sound.

Perhaps the shortest, & by far the most fascinating conversation of the day took place this evening between Andy & myself:

"Did you know," asked Andy, "that I can crack a walnut with my big toe?"

"No, I did not," I said, expectantly.

"Well, I can."

And so to bed.

Love

Roge

2007-01-21T04:32:00.000-08:00

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 & 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

2007-01-20T04:23:00.000-08:00

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 & 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-&-enlisted man stuff & 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 & 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 & that I typed twenty liberty cards & shuffled twenty new mess cooks (fresh out of Boot Camp in the New World); that I argued with Mordeno & laughed at the Chief’s songs (today’s favorite being: "Tomorrow’s the Day They Give Babies Away With A Pound of Grated Cheese"), & ran as thither & yon as is permissible aboard this vessel, accomplishing not a great deal, & that I sat down & picked my nose for a moment trying to think of something to say, & finally picked up the pen & 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, & how they plan to kill the brat who owns it.

Coutre & Andy borrowed $20 from me tonite to go over & 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 & 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 & I, as I knew I would be, have been "beating myself severely about the head & shoulders" for not having gone. Oh, well, maybe next time we’re in Genoa.

Love

Roge

2007-01-19T04:39:00.000-08:00

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 & 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 & 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 & 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 & 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, & 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 & was so badly burned on his arm & 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 & never wears socks, had a heart attack on the beach the other night. He didn’t want to come back to the ship & 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 & 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

2007-01-18T04:01:00.000-08:00

19 June, 1956

Dear Folks

In the last mail call Ohls, the kid who relieved Nick, got a Father’s Day card, & 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 got a letter from Northern about the new dorm arrangement at Gilbert Hall—8 men to a 3 room "suite"—how they figure that "Suite" part I’ll never guess. One thing I do know, & 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 & 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, & 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" & breaks it down into its atoms & 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, & an ice cube tray full of Coolade 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 & 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, & we still must suffer through wearing whites every day. We wear them because the Captain says we will wear them—& he has his clothes cleaned & 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 & 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 & force the door shut. Think I’ll do that tonite.

Enough for now.

Love

Roge

2007-01-17T03:44:00.000-08:00

18 June 1956

Dear Folks

After three false starts (one got up to ¼ page) & several detours, I’m back again. The mail finally caught up with us—I got four or five letters from you, which came as a very welcome relief from the somnambulistic molasses existence I’ve been leading.

Yes, I know it’s easy to say "stiff upper lip" (have you ever actually tried to keep a stiff upper lip?) & all that; I can do it myself when I’m in the right mood. At the moment, I’m sort of on the upswing.

Last night I had Shore Patrol. It rained. I did not bring a raincoat. Our "beat" was the long ramp from fleet landing to the heavily ornate Maritime Building, where the Shore Patrol Headquarters was. Running parallel to the town, the "ramp" had as a background a long, viaduct-like passageway, with a long building underneath. People stood in droves along the rail, watching the two American destroyers tied up, fantail-first, to the ramp—about halfway between the Maritime Bldg & the pier on which fleet landing was located. Our liberty launches were sharing the pier with the liner "Constitution" out of New York. She pulled out while we were there; it was almost as much fun to watch as trains used to be.

There was a cold wind, & the rain, when it came, didn’t help much. To climax the evening’s festivities, boating was canceled due to heavy seas. Being the Navy, however, they did not say: "Go, my children, & find a nice warm bed for the night." They instead canceled it "temporarily," from seven o’clock on. We spent most of the evening huddled under the viaduct, or sitting in a tiny restaurant eating pizza (not too good) & drinking hot chocolate. Whenever the rain let up, we made the rounds of a few bars, checking to see that none of our flock got into trouble. None did. When we arrived at 5:30, the first casualties began to come back—liberty had begun at 1:00. One kid, an SA (Seaman Apprentice) obviously just over from the States, came up in the arms of one of his buddies, an SN (Seaman) & therefore more accustomed to drinking. When he saw us, he stopped short (the Shore Patrol brassard does that to a lot of people) & turned to his buddy with tears in his eyes & said: "They’re gonna write me up."

"Nah, they wouldn’t do that."

"Oh yes they would—I’m drunk & they’re gonna write me up."

Reminded me of a mother trying to convince Junior that Santa Claus won’t bite.

One of the bars we visited, which wasn’t on our regular beat but fairly close to it, was owned by an acquaintance of my partner.

Never will I get used to these bars over here—the ones with hot & cold running blondes.

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 & 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, & red dress being pawed by a dark, silent-screen idol type. A girl in a green suit, thin & 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 & 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, & shuffles across the floor. Short & 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, & I drink it quickly, practically choking, & 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, & 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 & broken fountain.

"Look upon my works, ye mighty, & despair."

We were finally secured at about 0130, after having secured boating until 0700. I got a room at a nearby hotel & went to sleep immediately, only to get up at 0545. It was raining again.

55 days to go & I’m going to bed.

Love

Roge

2007-01-16T04:20:00.000-08:00

14 - 17 June 1956

Dear Folks

I saw an ice cream machine today. It drips white, & when you try to carry five cups of semi-fluid ice cream (two in each hand & one clenched in your teeth), you drip white, too. I left a trail like a punctured milk truck all the way from the forward Gedunk to the office. I passed an officer who said very cheerily: "Say, where are they selling the ice cream?" I hope he wasn’t hurt when I didn’t answer; not intelligibly, anyway.

When one’s entire daily adventures reach the state where a trip to the ice-cream stand is a newsworthy item, things are not exactly at their peak. I still wish we had sea monsters. Things like that made a voyage interesting. Nowadays you can’t even find a halfway decent mermaid. Oh, well, times have changed.

No mail call now for a week. Somebody in the Post Office Department is under the happy illusion that we arrived back in the states the 23rd of May & is holding it at the dock for us. His supper will be cold.

Latest "who’s-getting-out-when?" news is that everyone with discharge dates prior to 11 August 1956 will leave in Genoa. I get out 12 August. Ha-ha. Is that not a funny joke on me? No, it is not.

Taps, & goodnight.

Now wasn’t that the fastest three days on record. I’m sorry for not having written, but no mail has come on or gone off in that time, so it is only the volume, not the frequency of delivery, that suffers.

Today being Sunday, I slept till eight thirty, which was a pleasant change. I have shore patrol from 3 this afternoon till about 0300 tomorrow morning; which should be lots of fun.

Yesterday I went over to Genoa, & walked at least two miles (uphill) in the wrong direction looking for the down-town area. I finally spotted it—by locating the 24-story skyscraper—from the top of a mountain, & walked back down again.

I had only ten feet of film in my camera, & the ship is completely out. I tramped all over Genoa trying to find 8mm Magazine, Color. Some places had 8mm Magazine, but in black & white. Finally found a shop that had some, & paid L3,900 (roughly $7.00) for one roll. That one is going to have to last me until the ship gets some more.

Walked around window shopping for a couple hours, & decided to go to a movie. There are quite a few new American movies playing here, but all are in Italian. Since I had read the book "The Man Who Never Was," I figured I could struggle through. It was very good, & I must see it again in English so I can hear what it’s all about.

The theatre was modern & comfortable, even though they had an intermission halfway through, plus ten or fifteen minutes of Technicolor & very elaborate commercials before the main feature.
After the movie, I was walking down the street when I started shaking like a leaf—I wasn’t cold, though, particularly It was more like spasms, & I had to bite my lip & fight like mad to try & stop. Don’t know what caused it & I wouldn’t care to have it happen again; I was afraid I was cracking up.

Just goes to show what the Ti & an eight month cruise can do.

All in all, Genoa is much the way I remember it—I still have to remember to hold my breath while walking past the butcher shops.

Well, I’ll end this now, to make sure it gets off, & will write more later.

Love

Roge

56 Days

2007-01-15T04:28:00.000-08:00

11 - 12 June 1956

Dear Folks

"You know, I’ve always wondered—how come you can touch the rails on an electric train & not get a shock?"

The train the Chief was speaking of was of the Lionel variety. This led into further mysteries, such as "What makes the whistle blow?" & awesome observations along the line of "I saw this one once, where it had a cattle car that made noises, & then when it stopped the cows came out on a ramp & went back in again. No they didn’t walk, they slid."

Oh, well, as has been said before—it’s been a long cruise.

As for myself, after having read another book, I sit chewing the skin around my fingernails—the nails themselves are more or less intact. The movie on the mess decks tonite is "The Gun that Won the West"—a light situation comedy, I gather.

The USS Ticonderoga Literary & Letter-Writing Guild is gathering for its nightly meeting, armed with ink-less or leaky pens, pencil stubs, & writing paper of varying quality. They use these only as props, however, & their motto appears to be "Silence is Coal."

Andy, one of the members, has a cold—I keep waiting for the next sniffle, which is on the same level of mental agony as the Chinese Water Torture.

One of the mess cooks, Andres (a boy from Durand, Ill.), fell asleep while sun bathing & now resembles a cherry popsicle. He’s in agony, but since it is a court martial offense to become sunburned so badly it interferes with your work, he’s working.

News is that we’re planning on playing games tomorrow morning about 0430 (again). If it would be all right with them, I’d just as soon not join in, but that would dampen the "camaraderie" & jolly good humor which is expected of eager young sailors of His Majesty’s Fleet.

My name is back on the list at Personnel—only about fifty guys ahead of me. By my name is "5 August," which means I must be back in the States by 5 August—one week before discharge. We get back on the 3rd. Oh, well….

New day, & I’ve decided to go to Venice & to hell with sitting around chewing my nails. I know when my discharge date is, & have enough confidence in the Navy to think they can get me back before that time. Just to make sure, I’m going to ask Mr. Clower to check with the Personnel Officer to see if he has any ideas. The more I think of it, the more sure I am.

Cities I have visited up till now—Paris, Cannes, Nice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, Beirut, Istanbul, Athens, & Valencia. That’s only the bigger ones. Venice will just about top it all off.

Another nice day, only not as sharply defined as yesterday—the sky was a milky-mist, & the water was choppy (beautiful blue-&-white contrasts in the waves) but not too high.

Oh; we didn’t play games at 0430, but my sleep was ruined nevertheless, because I kept waking up every half hour waiting for it..

Glancing down at my shoes, I see they are badly in need of a shine. They look as though everyone had walked on them but me. The designers of this ship are largely to blame. Every hatch combing is exactly one half inch higher than I think it is—with the result that I almost never fail to stub my toe.

The decks around here are actually dangerous—it’s a wonder several people haven’t been killed or seriously injured by falling down on them. The least little spot of water makes them as slippery as ice, & with nothing to fall on or against but metal. Twice I have fallen (with poise & dignity, of course) flat on my face. It’s especially dangerous if you happen to be stepping through a hatch & slip—I still have the scars from the time it happened to me.

Before me sit two Special Request Chits, requesting that I be allowed to go on a 3 day tour to Venice, which I filled out between the first page of this letter & this one.

Oh, well, such is life.

A book I would like to get ahold of (a literary phrase from the ancient Gaelic) is "The Search for Bridey Murphy"—a true story of a modern woman who claims, under hypnotism, to have lived in the 18th Century in Ireland as one "Bridey Murphy." Though a Reader’s Digest article pretty well disproves it, it seems like it might make interesting reading. Why do you see if you can get it for me, mother?

And speaking of getting things, what happened to Tchaikovski?

Oh, let there be singing & dancing in the streets—two months from today I’ll be out!!

And so to bed.

Love

Roge

2007-01-14T04:45:00.000-08:00

10 June 1956

Dear Folks

Though it is now well into June, we are 5,000 miles from home, & the temperature is sufficiently warm to scorch cloth, I sat in Hangar Bay 1 & watched the movie "White Christmas." I’d seen it before, of course, but I liked it the second time almost as well.

Got a surprise during the "intermission" between the first & second movies—a guy walked up the aisle in civilian clothes (thereby he was an officer) & I’ll swear he went through Pensacola the same time I did. It was quite a shock.

Quite a bit going on for a change—Nick left this morning for transfer back to the States, while I still sit here. It sure will seem strange not to have him around.

It was a beautiful day, & the flight deck was littered with masochistic sun worshipers. I got brave & laid up there for an hour, watching helicopters take off like grasshoppers from the escort carrier Siboney (like the one we were on in Pensacola, mom). With me, though, a little sun is enough—I don’t get burned, but I just can’s see sitting &/or laying around doing nothing. I think when I get out, I’ll print books in assorted colors so that the glare won’t hurt your eyes so much.

Last two days I’ve read two books—one of them the biography of Robert Benchley, & the other a good pseudo-fantasy.

Naturally, they are having no less than five wonderful tours from Genoa—three days to Venice; three days to Florence; one day to Milan, etc. And I don’t dare go on any of them. Damn them.
In two days I have managed also to dirty two sets of whites. The ship generously deigns to press one pair a week. As you can see, things soon get out of hand if you don’t happen to have an iron.

On the Siboney came 79 new boots, all with the usual rosy cheeks & wide eyes. The first day they got here (Saturday) I overheard two of them complaining about the chow: "Gee, on that one we came over on we could get all we wanted to eat; we served ourselves, too." I tried to explain to them that A) we have almost twice as many men as the Siboney, B) we have been over here seven months & are surprisingly short on "pate de fois gras" & roast guinea hen under glass, & C) if we tried giving everybody all they wanted, we’d last about two days. They were not satisfied.

As the Chief says: "We’re here to feed ‘em, not fatten ‘em."

Tomorrow morning we’re having Quarters for Leaving Port, which is almost as useless a tradition as I can think of at the moment. Here we are, surrounded by mountains, where nobody can see us, or would be very interested if they did, yet we fall in on the flight deck in whites & look very impressive.

Short, but sweet. More tomorrow.

Love

Roge

2007-01-13T04:38:00.000-08:00

8 June 1956

Dear Folks

The day began at 0430 with the cheery clamor of the GQ warning. This time I was ready for ‘em. I’d carefully placed a book under my rack, which I grabbed along with my socks & T-shirt. Thank God today was the last of these exercises (we hope).

No, I am not coming home early. Oh, well….

We have started wearing whites, & nice as they may be in the States, where a cleaning service pulls up to the dock every day, they do not go over so big with yours truly here in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Already the pair I put on this morning looks like I’d been dragged through the streets.

Suda Bay tomorrow, operations with 13,000 Marines off Turkey from the 12th to 14th. Then a mad dash to make it to Genoa by the 16th.

You’ll probably be getting at least two letters today (your today, not mine); this one & yesterday’s. You’ve no doubt noticed they’re more or less in the same tone—namely a dull grey. If the Navy would stop playing its silly little games for long enough to make one definite statement & stick to it. Oh, well, all is not a bed of roses.

The Navy acts as an opium, deadening even the staunchest hearts, & blurring the brightest of eyes. This has its advantages—mainly that I have been counting the last 150 days of my enlistment; I am now down to sixty-five, & the preceding eighty-five have been just a "blah," each a carbon copy of the one before. Next time the Navy offers me a $10,000 cruise, I’ll ask for the cash instead.

Oh, there have been bright spots—ones I wouldn’t change for the world—but at the moment it is hard for me to look at it that way. From where I stand, boredom stretches away in all directions. I use the word "boredom" not exactly in Webster’s sense. There is always the partial escape of reading—but only the mind gets away; the body still sits in the same general position, acquiring a secretarial or middle-age spread without being either.

So, for a change, I get up—I walk around the office in my battleship greys, hands behind my back. I sit down. I look at the paper & see nothing but Sanskrit—a rather illegible Sanskrit at that
.
Mr. Clower has just come in—an MAA & a mess cook have been waiting for him. The mess cook’s name is Reuben Gimple. He has been placed on report so many times we’re thinking of starting a file on his report slips.

I feel a little better now—just got back from the library, where I read some halfway recent magazines & listened to some light music. Still nothing new or exciting. They had a mail call tonite, but it was a very small one, & I got what the little boy shot at.

Think I’ll go to bed & play solitaire. Love

Roge

2007-01-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

6 June 1956

Dear Folks

Nine-fifteen & just time for a quick bit of lugubrious chatter. The Navy is a big outfit; one you should think would be able to make decisions, but no. Nobody knows from one minute to the next what is going on.

If they would jut say to me: "Margason, you're not leaving the ship till we get back," I'd say: "Too bad, but OK." Maybe they did stuff like that in the Confederate Navy, but not here. Here they say, in a sniveling, nasal tone: "You might get off. Maybe in Genoa, or Cannes. Then again, maybe you won't get off. No, you won't! Well, maybe…." Etc. ad nauseum.

The other happy bit of news for today is that yesterday, after shipping a huge package to Aunt Thyra's, I find that the government allows you to send only $50 a month through the mail—everything else is liable to Customs. So, Aunt Thyra might get slapped with a bill for from $38 to $50. Oh, ho ho, what a jolly life we lead!

For breakfast we had boredom, for dinner monotony, & for supper limbo.

Which brings to mind a beautiful dream I had last night—I really enjoyed it and only wish I could remember more of it—it concerned a man who could fly (sometimes it was me, sometimes it was someone else—you know how dreams go). He/I had no wings, but could fly—by my time-worn method of two running steps & a leap, arms upward.

This man was married, & lived in a white house on a corner. His wife was ashamed that he could fly. The only time he was unable to fly was when wrapped in a blanket.

He was flying—over a sidewalk with bushes along it, & over a policeman, who didn't seem at all surprised to see a man flying. This was the only time he was really happy—when he was flying.

He was walking toward his house—his wife came out with a blanket. I felt his/my sick fear &, crying, he leaped high into the air, twisted around, & plunged to the ground---.

It was so very real; no doubt there is a moral in there somewhere, & a very significant one, but I don't know where to look.

So you see, aside from my dream world, there is very little to tell you. We are at sea, & the sea is no doubt very blue & very wet—I wouldn't know, since I didn't even get near the hangar deck all day.

I went to Personnel Office today to re-check the list of discharges—this morning my name was there, 17th from the bottom, & the list ended 14 August. Tonite I went back & the entire page with my name is gone—the list now ends at 7 August. See what I mean?.

Tomorrow's plan of the day promises that it will be no less nor no more exciting a day than this. More then.

Love

Roge

2007-01-10T03:48:00.000-08:00

5 June 1956

Dear Folks

There is so much nothing to tell you, I don’t know where not to begin. For one thing, I have a sneaking suspicion that these will be the longest 68 days on record. I will from here on out be a virtual prisoner aboard ship—afraid even to go on liberty for fear they will call a draft away. Of course I really shouldn’t worry, since my name is 17th from the bottom on a list of over 300 names. Still---. By my name there is the mystic note "5 July." What that is supposed to mean I have no idea; since they don’t know until almost the last minute when a draft will go, it seems unlikely they’d set July 5th as a definite day just for me. I’ll still probably ride the ship back. Oh, well….

Nick put in a request for shore duty someplace in Florida, near Jacksonville. The chit was approved, & now he is certain he is leaving within the hour, even though a letter must be sent to the Bureau (of Personnel) before he can get it. As a result of his enthusiasm, the office is strewn with boxes—whole & dismantled—torn scraps of paper, two wooden crates, a pair of scissors, stenciling gear, & God knows what else.

Speaking of boxes, I mailed dad’s binoculars & ten rolls of film yesterday, insured, of course, plus Ann’s shawl. Today I sent a huge package of assorted paraphernalia to Aunt Thyra’s. She is not to open it, but to put it in a cool, dry place till I get home. More will be coming to her later—that way it removes the temptation of opening it. Also, she is home more than you are, & will no doubt be around when it arrives.

Life in the office is, to put it gently, not pleasant; Coutre & I are not speaking, Nick is all on edge, I am not in the best humor. Otherwise, everything is getting along nicely.

To say that I am not in the best of humor is a gross understatement; I can feel myself falling apart on the inside, & I am running out of adhesive tape. I want to be somewhere, do something, & my dreams do not include the Flying Dutchman (nee Ticonderoga) & her motley crew. I want to run out to the fantail & scream & holler & wave my arms—but this is frowned upon by Navy code, & so I shall just sit here, like a hollow statue, & slowly be filled up by my cracking & chipping exterior.

In front of me is sitting a medicine-brown bottle chock full of aspirin—the Chief claims they are bad for a person, yet people around here act as if they were candy drops. Never touch the stuff myself; never need it.

Which brings to mind for no particular reason the play "The Shrike," wherein the hero takes one hundred & fifty-three sleeping pills, after having read that one hundred & fifty were not quite enough to kill a man.

Actually, the bottle says they are not aspirin—they are Acetylsalicylic Acid Tablets. That sounds so much better than aspirin, don’t you think?

I am quite hungry, but after a little stabbing incident the other night, we are not permitted in the galleys. So now the cooks make box lunches to eat later at night. I don’t think they made any tonite.

Coutre just walked in, looking amazingly like Captain Bligh, with his usual cheery greeting: "What the hell does this look like—the crew’s lounge?" No comment. Aha—the story comes out—he was kicked out of the aft galley this afternoon by one of the cooks.

Nick’s relief, when & if he goes (there are 300 men awaiting transfer for discharge but Nick is under the happy illusion he’s going right this very minute!!) is a German boy—he arrived in the U.S. two years ago, was married three months ago, & drafted.

My relief, when & if I go (& Coutre is doing his level best to get me shifted back to S-1) is most likely one of the mess cooks. We shall see….

Well, I have another letter to write yet, to Harry (Ens. Harrison), so I’ll close now.

Love

Roge

2007-01-09T04:39:00.000-08:00

2 - 3 June 1956

Dear Folks

This evening’s movie was the 1938 Bette Davis-Henry Fonda release "Jezebel"—the story of a sort of pre-Civil War Scarlett O’Hara. I enjoyed it.

Tomorrow I’d rather like to go over just to spend the afternoon in the Grand Bazaar, but I doubt if I will. Save my money for Venice, which may well be my last European fling.
I plan to start packaging everything either tomorrow or Sunday; that way, if I do get shipped back, I can mail it—but if not, I can just bring it with me.

No mail call tonite, but probably one tomorrow—at least we hope so.

Got reminded of the NavCads this evening, while waiting for the movies; some guys were playing basketball & one had on the yellow & blue sweatshirt & brown khaki shorts we wore. Sure enough, he was an officer & an ex N/C. Oh, well—I am consoled by the idea that I only have 72 days to go, instead of two years & 72 days!

Wandered up to the library just now & caught a glimpse of my boy Boswell’s London Journal.. Personally, I don’t think he ever did anything—he just sat & wrote twenty three hours a day. Of course, I’ve only been over here six & a half months, but already I almost outdo old Bos in volume if not in quality. I suppose if you took out all my "Nothing much doing tonite"’s & "only (blank) days to go" you wouldn’t have much of anything left.

Recently I have been worming my way out of Coutre’s confidence—today he yelled "Are you trying to make a fool out of me?" and I replied "Coutre, you’re a self-made man." He went on the beach tonite, & will come in tomorrow afternoon, if at all, looking as though he’d just fought his weight in hippopotami (& that’s a lot of hippopotami). His eyes will be a cross between a detailed road map & a wounded hound dog.

Oh, I forgot to mention the book I picked up this time at the library—it’s called "Studies in Murder." I get around. Had to check it out this time, since the librarian had his eye on me while I sneaked to the door.

***
And another day, like the Indians in a cheap Western, bites the dust. This one brought the dubiously good news that almost without a doubt I will be leaving the ship in Genoa. Of course they had to water my enthusiasm with the rumor that the ship is going to Cannes, France, for 15 days, from where there will be "beaucoups" ("Boo-koo") tours to Paris. Well, I’d only spend all my money anyway.

Spent the afternoon packing all my excess junk—a total of six boxes. If I get off, I’ll send them home—if not, they’ll be all together anyway. Dad’s binoculars are all set to go Monday.

Possibility of a mail call tonight—at least they have it on board. Best get off for tonite.

Love

Roge

2007-01-08T04:38:00.000-08:00

31 May 1956
Istanbul, Turkey

Dear Folks

And here it is 73 days B.D., & I honestly don’t think we’re going to make it. I used to build sand houses, & then poke a stick under them & raise it slowly up, watching them crack & crumble. That’s what has happened to this ship—not structurally, but morally. Surely a lot of these guys have been on equally long trips, if not longer—but this one seems to be a special case.

Me—I’m torn between behaving like Chicken Little, dashing madly off in all directions, afraid the sky will fall in, & a stoic, dumb acceptance, not giving a damn if it falls in or not. The Chicken Little part is the contagious one, the one I mentioned yesterday.

Payday today---doesn’t all this seem awfully boring? Here I am, sitting in Istanbul, Turkey, which should be very exotic & call to mind visions of beautiful women with long black lashes & veils; of snake charmers & Ali Baba, & of gongs beating somewhere in the dark oriental hills.
But it doesn’t. I haven’t seen a beautiful woman, long lashes, or a single veil. There are no snake charmers &, to the best of my knowledge, no snakes.

I have said it before & I’ll say it again, for clarification—you have a weird son. The other day, when we were in a taxi stalled in a narrow street by the Grand Bazaar, an old woman—bent & twisted, hobbled by in a shaggy grey shawl. Her stockings were sagged & had large holes in them; she carried a basked of something in her right hand. I couldn’t help but think, as I saw her & the other poorly clothed people around her: "Where do they live? What do they do all day? They can’t just pop into existence for my benefit, then vanish when they go out of my sight. That old woman—she has lived for years & years. How? Was she young once, & did she laugh & talk & have children & friends? Where is she going now?" And what were the others in the cab thinking? They were engrossed by the back of a young woman in the cab ahead of us.

Not to give you the wrong impression of Istanbul, for Istanbul is alive, cosmopolitan, modern. It is only in the out of the way sections that the tourists only glimpse as part of the scenery, where time flows more slowly, or lies in pools & stagnates. America has her share of these people too. We just never see them. We don’t look.

When I went "off to the wars," Ann Zubas said: "Don’t let them change you." Hmmm. Well, you can see for yourself in a few months.

Wrote to Gilbert Hall today for room reservations—I asked to room with someone who’s never been to Northern before. Why I don’t know.

Dad told me last time he wrote to write every night, even if it was just to say Hello & Goodbye.

Hello. Goodbye.

Love

Roge

2007-01-07T04:24:00.000-08:00

30 May 1956

Dear Folks

Just had a mail call, & got two from you—the 23rd & 24th. Mother said my letters sounded "different" lately. Hmmm. She didn’t say "good-different" or "bad-different," but I can imagine. I suppose they have lost some of that Rover-boy luster & sparkling good humor. Unfortunately, you have never spent six months in Europe. That is enough to dim anybody’s outlook.

My, how I talk—like an embittered old man. Actually, I’m not—I’m an embittered young man. I guess it’s just this continual "Well, we’re going back home…oops, no we’re not" routine that gets very tiresome in almost no time.

Well, I shall try to regain my boyish charm in the future. It’s sort of like playing Russian Roulette with all six chambers filled. Really, I shouldn’t care one whoop in hell, but it is contagious, being with two thousand other guys who want to go home & don’t know when they’ll get there.

I’m rather worried about my car—with my phenomenal luck, it will need several major repairs.

Nothing new here—people kept running through the mess decks & galleys all day; everyone from Turkish naval officers to the crew of a KLM (Royal Dutch) Airliner.

As for the Commissary office—my 20 x 20 green & grey world—there are more people per square foot running in & out of here all day every day than there are in Times Square. We’re considering installing traffic lights & railroad timetables.

Tomorrow is payday, & I have $273 at my disposal, from which I am going to draw $60. I owe the Chief $20 & figure that since we get into Genoa on the 16th (next payday) & the tours to Venice begin on the 18th or so, I want to get my ticket early.

Can’t you see me running into the living room yelling "Hey, Mom, can I go to Venice?" And dad saying "Now think of all that money—you can use it for school." Oh, well, times change….

Now here it is five till ten. I had a fascinating dream last night, if only I could remember it—I remember I was having a mental duel with some alien thing whose mental powers were next to omnipotent. I had, it granted, 18 questions to try & discover its weakness & conquer it. I said: "Well, if you can foresee the future, you can foresee the outcome of this debate. Will I destroy you?" And then I woke up. Darn, & it was better than a movie, too.

August 4th. Question of the day—will the Ticonderoga get back to the States in time for Roger’s discharge, or will there be still another extension? Can Roger adapt himself to civilian life? Will his parents & his faithful dog Stormy recognize him when he does get home? Tune in August 12th for the next thrilling chapter in this true-to-life adventure.

It is now five after ten, & I am going to bed.

Love

Roge

2007-01-06T04:38:00.000-08:00

Roger Margason (L), Lloyd Meyers 1956. Photo referenced below.

2007-01-06T04:31:00.000-08:00

29 May 1956

Dear Folks

Here I am, bright, early, & 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 & 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, & looked out over the city. Rates there range from $2.75 to $10.00 a day, & 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, & renamed it Constantinople, for obvious reasons. He evidently wished the new capital of the Empire to be as proud & ornate as the fallen Rome had been, so he sent word to all the provinces—Egypt, Greece, & 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 history—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, & 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 & 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 & 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 &, in gratitude to God, Justinian ordered the erection of St. Sophia (the original & one successor having been burned at various times). This took five years, a surprisingly short time, considering the size of the building & 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 & Asian. Over the years, successive walls had been built around the city until the outer walls were seventeen & 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 & 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 & succeeding emperors by building huge underground cisterns—one of them called "the Sunken Palace" because it has 360 columns supporting the roof.

Europe was groveling around in the Middle Ages when the Moslem hordes, under Mohammed the Magnificent rode down on Constantinople. The walls he did not worry about—he brought along cannon. The only trouble was that the cannon could only be fired once every six hours—the rest of the time it was being doused in olive oil & wet rags to cool it off; and during those six hours, the defenders had time to patch up the holes made by the cannon. This went on for three months, but as was inevitable, the Moslems broke through.

The people of the city, seeing the end was at hand, crowded into the churches—10,000 of them in St. Sophia. Mohammed the Magnificent crashed through the south door & galloped into the church on horseback. Legend has it that, upon seeing the people massed within, he struck a marble column with his sword (the nick can still be seen), pressed his hand print into the wall twenty-five feet above the floor (it must have been a tall horse) & proclaimed that all people would be free to go & worship as they please.

St. Sophia was then converted to a mosque—which doesn’t say much for the legend, & remained so until 1934, when it became a museum.

Some time later the Christians on the Fourth Crusade gained entrance to the city & ransacked it completely with no regard for the fact that half of what they destroyed had been Christian to begin with. Among other things, they broke off half of the Serpentine Column & took it to Italy.
And there you have a short, if inadvertently garbled, history of the city of Constantinople /Istanbul.

The mosques are particularly interesting, mainly because of their difference from Christian churches. First of all, as I’ve mentioned before, all mosques are of the same general outline—one huge dome, convoluted like a pumpkin, with numerous semi-domes beneath it, & from two to five minarets. The Mosque of Sultan Ahmed is the only one in Istanbul with five—he wanted to build a mosque with six minarets, but the only other one in the world with six was the great mosque at Mecca, & people resented his copying. He solved that one by building a seventh minaret at the one in Mecca, & then felt free to put six on his own. One was beginning to lean toward the big dome, so it was torn down; they plan to restore it.

Before entering a mosque, Moslems wash their hands, feet, faces, & arms so as to be clean outside as well as inside. They then remove their shoes prior to entering. Inside, the mosque is one big room with no furnishings except carpets on the floor. Chandeliers hang low over the floor, & once burned olive oil in glass cups—now they use electricity. The altar is a little sentry-box with a long, narrow stairway leading to it. It is located on the south wall, or the side facing Mecca. There are beautiful stained glass windows, but on this one side only. A balcony runs around the outer edge of the room, & to the left of the altar or sermon-box is the Sultan’s box (Sultans do not pray with the common people).

Unique in mosques: the fact that they have neither statues nor paintings nor image of any living thing in them. Around the center of the dome are the names of Allah & Mohammed, in Arabic—other decorations are quotations from the Koran, all in that fantastic scrawl called Arabic.

One good thing is that when they converted St. Sophia, they did not destroy the frescoes & mosaics inside—they merely covered them up with a sort of plaster, which has preserved everything beautifully. On entering St. Sophia, there is an excellent mosaic showing Mary holding Jesus—to her right, Constantine is shown presenting Jesus the city—to his left, Justinian giving Him St. Sophia.

Well, I’ll have to finish this tomorrow. Got to get to bed now.

Love

Roge

2007-01-05T04:08:00.000-08:00

27 - 28 May 1956

Dear Folks

I probably won’t have time to finish this tonite, since it is already past nine, & 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 & girlfriend, & I agreed. He had to work until liberty call at least, so Lloyd & I told him we would meet him & two other guys at 2:30 at the USO. We left the ship on the second liberty boat.

After leaving fleet landing & 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, & 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, & facing away from the Bosphorus & the Sea of Marmara, the view showed the clustered, red-grey of the city on both .sides of the Golden Horn, & 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 & joined us, while we ate luke-warm hot dogs on hard buns, & drank synthetic lemonade. At 3:30 we all decided to leave, there being six of us now; as we walked out the door, Andy & 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, & off to the Grand Bazaar. I am going to write the Cinerama people & 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 & busses would melt out of the way before we hit them, & they did.

We were let off by a gate, through which we could see green trees & 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 & wooden spoons. Another gate opens on a narrow street jammed with people & shops, the merchandise being piled outside & 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, & 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, & 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 & 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 & patterns! Then came shoe stores, & 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 & not see it all.

We finally came out onto another street—to the right it wound around a corner in a jumble of shops & people, & 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 & 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 & girls peeked out of windows at us, & 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 & past two obelisks—one Egyptian & a gift to the Emperor Justinian, I believe. From a garden near the mosque we looked down on the city & the sea, & being unable yet to see the Ti, we gave up & took a taxi. We’d lost two of our group a few minutes before, who’d gotten disgusted with all that walking & taken a cab to the nearest bar.

We asked to be taken to Abdullah’s, a well-known restaurant, where the food is excellent & 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 yeas old, if that. They are dressed in almost nothing, & do belly dances when not "entertaining" the customers. That was too much for us, so we left, & 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 & pastries, which were delicious. The lights went out just after we were seated, & we ate by candlelight provided by the management.

After, we made our way back to Abdullah’s & 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, & they look it, from the outside—but the Istanbul Hilton can hold its own with the very best of them. All glass & carpeting—blue lights play on the large swimming pool overlooking the lights of Istanbul & 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 & restaurant. Men & 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, & as though it were an every day occurrence. I like to pretend.

We drank Tom Collins’, Screwdrivers, & 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 & everyone & send them, so that I’ll be able to recognize you when & 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

2007-01-04T04:31:00.000-08:00

25 May 1955

Dear Folks

Night before last I neglected letter writing in order to stand on the foc’sle & watch the Dardanelles slip by, made ghostly white by the moon, which skipped along the water beside the ship. The water was smooth & black, & the night so clear even the stars left spidery reflections.
The air smelled green & fresh, like pine needles & 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 & 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 & the Mediterranean (via the Sea of Marmara & 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 & Leander to sea, where he drowned. There is a tower—which looks like a cross between a church steeple & a windmill minus its arms—erected in memory of Leander behind & 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 & also in Asia. Ahead of us, the Bosphorus winds around a hill & disappears; behind & off to the right, the silver-mist of the Sear of Marmara. Almost directly behind, framed by two freighters & numerous of the small, half-moon shaped fishing vessels, rises the great mound of St. Sophia, flanked by four minarets—two tall & two short. As I’ve said, all the mosques are similarly shaped & all, from a distance at least, singularly ungraceful & 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 & 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, & 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, & 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 & a five-pointed star on the inside curve. You see them everywhere—on the buildings, on flagpoles, on the streetcars & fishing craft.

When the Intrepid was here some weeks ago, two sailors climbed a flagpole & tore down the flag, ripping it & stomping. They were so completely stupid they couldn’t tell a half moon & star from a hammer & 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 & left to rot!
Lloyd & 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, & 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--& 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

2007-01-03T04:39:00.000-08:00

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 & 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 & 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, & I’m very tired. This is a strange type of tired—not sleepy & not exhausted, just as though I were a million miles away. Not pleasant, & 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:

Enclosed is a form letter from your friendly moral officer. It is designed to aid you in keeping the people back home informed of the rather frequent schedule changes that we seem to be enjoying. We realize that it is difficult to write often enough to keep your family informed of our schedule so if you will fill in the blanks as the changes are promulgated, it will help cut down on Admiral Burke’s correspondence to your families.

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__
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),

2007-01-02T11:09:00.000-08:00

Destroyer approaching U.S.S. Ticonderoga for replenishing, May 1956

2007-01-02T04:39:00.000-08:00

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 & 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 & 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, & 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 & 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, & 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 left hand corner of the envelope! God, how can anyone be so stupid & 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 & God knows when it will. We replenished today—250 tons; God, what a day.

Tomorrow we hit Rhodes again, & 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, & "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 & boxes like an old fashioned bucket brigade; little yellow trucks & fork lifts dashing around the hangar deck; stacks & piles of everything from grated cheese to turkeys, from potatoes to tomato juice. And all the while the nets are swinging back & forth—to us full, back empty. Soon the deck is cluttered with splinters of wood from broken crates, here & 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 & 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 & 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 & 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

2007-01-01T05:10:00.000-08:00

18 May 1956

Dear Folks

Last night’s movie offering was the 1932 classic "Rasputin & the Empress" starring Ethel & Lionel Barrymore. Despite the fact that you couldn’t see Lionel’s face for the beard, his voice was the same, & his hands foretold the arthritic he later became. Ethel was twenty-four years younger & very pretty, in a singular way.

The story of the movie was fascinating, & 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 & plots to become more powerful that the Czar, & 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, & yet you hope something will come along & save the day.

Mail call today, & 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 & Panama Canal. Andy has been here before & 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, & 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 & go back out four times after entering the Dardenelles for failure to give the right code.

Just returned from the head (bathroom), & 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 & millions of words, & none of them saying a thing; but over half the crew gobble them up avidly, exchange them among themselves until they are ragged & 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 & 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, & 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 & 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, & quite young for a Commander, & 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

2006-12-31T04:53:00.000-08:00

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, & 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, & now is as good as ever..

The movie for tonite was "State Fair," made in Technicolor in 1942. It is now 1956 & it was in black & 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 & 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 & 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, & he plays rough.

A chief came over this morning from the Roxbury, a troop transport, to borrow 5,000 lbs of flour & 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 & I started reading my book—the trials & tribulations of a war correspondent in the Med.

Well, if you’ll excuse me, I will close now. Till tomorrow.

Love

Roge

2006-12-30T04:33:00.000-08:00

15 May 1956

Dear Folks

At payday this morning, I drew the grand sum of $19; shortly thereafter, I learned our schedule had been changed, substituting Istanbul, Turkey, for Salonika, Greece. I quickly mounted my horse & rode off in all directions. I’ve got to get some more money, somewhere….Then, to make the morning even more enjoyable, we had a mail call, at which I received my fifth consecutive nothing from you.

This afternoon, however, we had another mail call & 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 & all the critics raved about it. Sure wish I could have seen it.

Towels—big ones cost 60 cents, medium 45 cents & 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 & were greatly appreciated. I’ve got to write to that garage soon & tell them to fix it up for me (battery, hydraulic fluid, oil?, grease?, wash it up, & 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, & 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 & 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, & 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, & Lloyd is studying for his Seaman test, which is to be given tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon, both Cou & 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 & washed, & 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

2006-12-29T04:42:00.000-08:00

14 May 1956

Dear Folks

I went to "quarters for entering port" as a participating member for the first time since we left the States. It was a nice day, the sky cluttered with nondescript clouds that never seemed to get in the way of the sunlight.

We entered Rhodes, Greece, close on the tail of the heavy cruiser Newport News, & were among the first ships in. All day long the other ships came—more heavy cruisers than I knew we had over here—four of them in all; cargo ships, supply ships, transports; in the late afternoon the destroyers came, precise as a drill team & graceful as a ballet; all looking like mirror images of one another. Landing craft & their mother ships, submarines, & odd little semi-destroyers. God knows how many are here; from a mountain we counted 22, & later saw more on the other side of the island.

Rhodes itself is shaped something like a ship, with the bow pointing toward the massive, shrouded hills of Turkey. Rhodes (the city of) is located at the end of the island, & at the very tip, which comes to a distinct point about twenty feet across, is an aquarium, standing all by itself since there is no room for much else.

At 1300 today, Lloyd & I decided to go over. It was almost 1420 (2:30) by the time we got there, & the first thing we did was hunt a bicycle shop. One of the mess cooks, a kid from the south—at the base of the hills if not in them—named Thompson came with us.

We rode. And we rode. And then we rode some more—most of it uphill. We must have been at least five miles from the town. From a flat mountain on which someone was growing wheat, we looked out & down at the ships & the town. It was very pretty, but I had chosen to run out of film a few moments before.

The road we had originally intended on taking ran along the sea; we obviously made a wrong turn somewhere, & ended up in the mountains. A little gravel road, like some country lanes back home, sprouted off the main road & meandered into the trees. We followed, hoping it might go down—it did, through pine trees, past small farms where the people stopped work in the fields to watch us go by—down & down; we had to keep constantly on the hand brakes or we would have gone splattering all over the countryside.

After four happy hours in the saddle, we got back to the ship. Oh, my poor legs!

Mail closed out ten minutes ago, but I’ll see if I can make it.

Love

Roge

2006-12-28T04:22:00.000-08:00

12 - 13 May 1956

Dear Folks

I am deeply puzzled—our Captain spoke over the intercom a while ago & said he would give us the rest of our schedule. We’re returning to Rhodes, which I was glad to hear; we get there Monday. But that isn’t what bothers me. June 18 we arrive in Gibraltar for one day, to take on Attack Squadron 66; from there, on the 19th, we will proceed to the United States, to arrive there on 27 June.

"Where" I asked Coutre, "is the United States?"

"Far across the sea, my son" he said.

"Is it nice there?" I queried.

"They probably won’t give us any liberty," he answered.

"Why? Are we at war with them?"

"No, but they say human beings live there."

"Gee," I said, my voice in an awed hush: "I’ve never seen a human being before…."

Tonite, after the movie, I walked out to the foc’sle & watched the stars, as I did when I was little and allowed such things as dreams. And I thought again how little they were, & how very far away—so far that it takes millions of years for their light to reach us. I never fail to think: "Around some of those stars are planets, & on some of those it is night, and someone, somewhere is looking up at their stars & see our own sun as a dot of light."

And then I get…homesick?…for the stars, & feel cheated & hurt to think that I won’t be around when man steps out of his playpen & goes calling on his neighbors. Someone once said "Everyone has 20/20 hindsight." When someone has a dream, & it is fought for with minds & bodies, & generations have died—some of them violently—for their dreams; then, when it is finally accepted, those same people who laughed & threw stones say: "Why sure, I saw it all coming years ago…."

When we began this cruise, there seemed to be lots of time for writing letters (& there was—six months), but now with only 45 days until we get back, I have no time at all. Oh, well, the mail didn’t go off yesterday, so it doesn’t really matter—you’re getting two letters in one envelope, that’s all. As you may have gathered, it is now Sunday (or rather one day later than the previous paragraphs).

Tomorrow we pull into Rhodes, & I want to go over & rent a bicycle. We won’t have much time until it gets dark, but it should be fun.

Oh, yes---Oh, yes, what? Left the sentence there for three hours’ fruitless attempt at sunbathing. You should have seen that flight deck—all we needed were Confederate uniforms & Scarlett O’Hara & it would have been exactly like the railroad station scene from Gone with the Wind. I’ll bet there were more guys above decks than below.

Of course after three hours of sunlight reflecting off white pages (I was reading) & having no sunglasses, everything here below has a nice yellowish tint.

Took a shower this morning, & looks like I’ll have to take one again, since I smell of suntan lotion (57 % alcohol—some guys drink it). You think they don’t? I know for a fact that certain cooks have an arrangement with Sick Bay whereby they get & drink the alcohol used to clean surgical instruments!

Just came back from another shower & clothes-changing. I can still smell that lotion. Oh, well, maybe it’ll wear off in a few weeks.

I can see now I’m going to be a busy boy tomorrow—Mr. Clower has presented me with 12 letters to type, plus the next week’s menus, plus 135 Replenishment Orders (13 pages each) I’ve got to assemble.

Speaking of money—let’s.. By the time we get back, I should have almost $300 saved. For souvenirs & film, I’ve spent already about $300 or more. When I get out, I’ll get credit for 43 days leave—about $170, if they pay me full time for it. Plus my $100 getting out pay, plus travel pay. The way I figure it, it should be about $600. That’s the way I figure it—how the government figures it is something entirely different,.

Mail closes at 1000 tomorrow morning, so I’d best get this mailed. It’s Mother’s Day, I see—hope you got the flowers.

Well, enough for now. See you later.

Love,

Roge

2006-12-27T05:05:00.000-08:00

11 May 1956

Dear Folks

Six thirty (p.m.) & a mail call with no mail—from you, that is; one from Effie saved the day. As I said, I know how you feel when you don’t get any. Of course you have the advantage of being at home & of not being in the Navy, a privilege I hope to share in the near future.

Sitting there at dinner today, it suddenly dawned on me where I am—this happens occasionally, & fills me with a rare childish awe. My mind works in many, if not wondrous, ways. I have yet to empty a trash can & not think (if something in there belonged to or was handled by me) of it lying on the bottom of the sea, all alone. Sometimes, when the wind is right, the papers whip into the air & fly along behind the ship, as if they didn’t want to fall & sink; for the sea is clear & blue on the surface, but cold & black on the bottom.

It never ceases to fascinate me how the blue water can be whipped into a white frothy foam, like the finest lace.

Latest "when-we’re-getting-back-home" scoop: it has been definitely (HAH) confirmed that we arrive home June 28—we will be relieved two hundred miles west of Gibraltar. Oh, well.

What gets me is that every single one of these rumors is Grade A-1 First Class Straight 100% Scoop. It is usually told in whispers, in huddled groups of two or more. Now, the guy who tells it is in R Division; he got it from a buddy in V-2 who heard a chief in X Division say he knew a yeoman in the Captain’s Office who had seen a dispatch on the Captain’s desk. The rumor?--We’re to be extended until Christmas because of possible Jewish-Arab riots. The dispatch?--"Vice Admiral Arleigh Strunk, Commander One Hundred Forty Fifth Naval District Wishes All Fleet Commanders a Belated Merry Christmas."

And so it goes….

Movie tonite was "The Stars are Singing"—an old one I’d seen before, but I enjoyed it as much if not more the second time. It had Rosemary Clooney, Lauretz Melchior, Anna Maria Albergehetti. Sitting beside me was James Bixby—don’t recall if I’ve ever mentioned him before. He’s an odd looking kid, thin red hair like dyed straw, millions of freckles & pale blue eyes (the girl he writes to signs her letters "Yours Truly" so he’s madly in love with her).

Anyway, the movie had quite a bit of opera, during which time I sat absorbed. Bixby, having nothing better to do, (opera being as far over his head as his feet are below) sat & stared at me, amid chuckles that anybody could be so stupid as to go for that opera junk.

Now about three minutes to ten & I have accomplished almost nothing constructive, except to tuck another day into my suitcase.

I find there is so much for me to enjoy in the world, I have time for little else.

Tomorrow begins another weekend, thank God.

Just went in the galley for a meat loaf sandwich. Mordeno was playing games this afternoon & brought me a sandwich—which I should have known was odd in itself—which he had covered with Cayenne pepper. He watched me expectantly as I ate it (I tasted the pepper but didn’t show any signs of it), & finally said "Doesn’t it taste a little hot?" I said "Not very." That took all the fun out of it, & he left. As soon as he was gone, I made a beeline for the nearest water fountain.

Well, it being after taps, & I still being hell on getting up in the morning, I’ll close now.

Write soon.

Love

Roge

2006-12-26T04:55:00.000-08:00

9 - 10 May 1956

Dear Folks—

Surprise! It’s me, your long-lost son.---Roger---remember?---you know, the skinny, stupid-looking one? --- Yeah, I thought you’d remember.

Wonder what ever happened to my journal? Today’s would probably begin with "One hundred eight-eight days out of Norfolk, & no land in sight…"; sort of Mutiny on the Bounty-ish. Actually, we did sight land yesterday—two islands looking very romantic & mysterious; also a turtle, but I don’t think we could include him. The water is as clear & smooth as a tray of ice, though I doubt it is as cold. It’s an unbelievably beautiful blue, & you wonder how it can be so blue & so clear at the same time.

Oh, yes—dad’s binoculars will be on the way in the next few days—I finally got the box packed with paper tablecloths swiped from a storeroom. Also in there you will find eight or ten rolls of film (I want to see if they can get home all right via parcel post). You can look at them once if you wish, but I’m warning you it will get boring—three minutes of film, five minutes of winding & rewinding. Figured out the other night that I’ve spent well over $100 in film alone on this cruise! Oh, well, it’s worth it; to me, anyway.

Had GQ today for the first time in days (never have it in port). Worked our little rear-ends off for a change, rigging emergency power lines. This ship—or rather its designers—thought of almost everything. At regular intervals, no more than fifty feet apart in any direction throughout the entire ship, are small, round boxes with a triangular spacing of holes approximately the size of a dime. The boxes are black & by each hole is a white A, B, or C. Above each letter is a raised dot—one for A, two for B, & 3 for C; these are tipped in white, & they & the letters are luminous, & can be seen in the dark. By each of these boxes is a coil of heavy, rubber insulated cable, in some cases several. These can be attached from box to box (three wires at each end of the cable—one with one raised circle—it’s yellow--, one with two circles—red—& one with three—black.) It sounds complex, but there’s a reason—you put the wrong wire in the wrong socket in the dark & you get electrocuted.

We did it in the maximum time allowed, only to find we were on the wrong side of the ship. If it were a real emergency, the flight deck would be about sixty feet under water by the time we got it rigged.

Now only 94 days left. As I said in my last letter (dated 4 May 1834), the way the time goes is wonderful for whittling away the days left, but it’s hell on letter writing.

Yesterday morning a batch of German Admirals arrived on board—there’s more brass around her today than on a ton of doorknobs. Germany may not have a Navy, but she’s sure got a lot of Admirals. They’ve been prowling around the ship all day.

This afternoon, while watching flight operations, a landing plane blew one of the German Captains’ hat over the side. And what did we do; let it go at that? What—& lose all that gold braid? Heavens to Betsy, no! We sent out our helicopter after it—one of the crew members was lowered down on a hoist while a destroyer raced to the scene. The helicopter won, & the Captain got back his hat, soggy but intact.

Replenishment again the 20th of this month; our biggest yet—280 tons of food. That’s 550,000 pounds. Burp.

Bought myself a pair of gloves from Ship’s Store tonite. Don’t know what material it is. (Chief thinks pigskin—I can’t tell, but it doesn’t look like a football.) They’re light tan & cost $3.50. I like them. Hmmm—there’s a goat’s picture on the cellophane bag they came in—maybe it’s goat skin. How much do they cost in the States?

I only made one purchase in Athens—incidentally, their cloth was very poor quality—it all looked like flour sacks.

Word has it that there are three plane-loads of mail on board. That probably means two postcards & a newspaper. If gossip & rumors could be packaged, they’d make the greatest fertilizer the world has ever known.

Just been thinking again what a rat I am for not having written—I know how I feel if one mail call goes by without my getting a letter, so I can imagine how you feel now that four days or more have gone by without a word.

Well, all apologies being made & forwarded, I’d best close now & write to Lirf—incidentally, I see where they’ve quarantined his entire ship (the cruiser Toledo) after the outbreak of a throat infection. Oh, well….

Love

Roge

2006-12-25T04:07:00.000-08:00

6 - 7 May, 1956

Dear Folks

After several days’ silence, I rise from the dead & take pen in hand once more. Today is the Greek Easter—the Orthodox religion differs from Catholicism in this & many other ways. Today is also the morning after the night before, though I am quite proud of myself, having come through the entire ordeal with what I consider "flying colors."

Lloyd & I went on tour yesterday. The tour got over about three thirty—we got back to the ship at five minutes to twelve. Between the hours mentioned came God only knows how many bottles of wine. If it hadn’t been for the goodness of three Greek sailors, we probably never would have gotten back. We met them in the subway, & stayed with them a couple hours. A grand time was had by all.

I suppose I should be ashamed of myself—I’ve been spending far too much money, but who cares? This will be the last good liberty port we will hit until we return home. Which reminds me—did I mention our month’s extension? Now we’re not supposed to get back to the States until July sometime. (And then again, I heard today that we’d received another dispatch canceling the extension.) Oh, well, think what you will.

The guide we had on the tour did not have the gift of narration that would have been so helpful—I knew more of the legends & mythology than he, & carried on a sort of secondary running commentary on whatever he said for those who didn’t understand what he was getting at. Still, it was interesting to see what I’ve been reading about.

And here it is still another day—I have developed a muscular tic in my left arm, which is going to town at this minute. It only goes away when I concentrate on it. There—it’s gone. It will be back.

The weather here has been from warm to mild, with occasional showers & cold winds in the hills & mountains. Other than that, it’s been excellent. I shot another two rolls of film on the tour Saturday, & so when I get home we’ll have to spread them out over several evenings. Doesn’t Jack have the kind of projector you can stop on one frame to look at it like a slide or still picture? If so, we must borrow it. Maybe we can rent a hall for the showing.

I got a kick out of mom’s saying that the sea air might harm the film—they are inside a steel box in a metal locker three decks down in a steel ship. They never even see daylight, let alone salt spray.

Tomorrow we leave Athens—it doesn’t seem possible that we’ve been here a week.

Rumors still going around concerning our extension. It is almost a dead certainty now that we won’t be home until July. Just so long as we’re there by August 12, I’ll be happy. Which reminds me—I have only 97 days left! Let there be singing & dancing in the streets!

One of the movies yesterday was a new one called "Ransom." I had seen it as a television play when I was home for Xmas leave. It was almost exactly the same. Pretty good, though.

Someone has donated a tape recorder, to which we are now listening—the current selection is a classical gem called "Who Put the Devil in Evelyn’s Eyes?"—a question which remains unanswered through the entire three minutes it takes the vocal group to ask the same question one hundred thirty-four times.

Later this evening Lloyd & I are going to play canasta—for which we bought two decks of cards.

You know, Saturday night we tried to figure out just why it is we should be such good buddies—I’m not the kind to have tons of friends—in the Navy, anyway. I came to the conclusion it is because he is everything I am not, or would like to be, rather; & he looks up to me for some reason; I’m a combination of big brother & conscience. At any rate, we get along. Besides, I always wanted a brother.

Ah—tempus fudgits so fast—which is good for getting out of the Navy but bad on letter writing.

Oh—now they’ve got a real tear-jerker—a "mountain-William" with the heartrending repetition of the phrase "Dawn’t let me hang around if yew dawn’t care." (Excerpt from a conversation—highly intellectual—about the new records of a friend—"Man, they got some terrific stuff—Hank Williams, Ernest Tubb—man, that’s fine music." The horrible thing was that he meant it!)
I’m getting several members of our little group highly irritated. Now, I fully believe that "to each his own"—but why THAT? Only five thirty—which only makes me four days late.

Love

Roge

2006-12-24T04:57:00.000-08:00

Roger Margason (r), Lloyd Meyers, Parthenon in Athens, 3 May, 1956

2006-12-24T04:52:00.000-08:00

3 May 56

Dear Folks

Yesterday I made my pilgrimage to Athens. Aside from being deceptively expensive, it was also very enjoyable. Went through 300 drachmas faster than Grant went through Richmond.

The Acropolis lived up to all my expectations—I was awed by the Parthenon. Now follows a short history of the Acropolis:

The earliest town was built on top of the Acropolis—an excellent location; a sheer drop of about two hundred feet on three sides, & an almost uninterrupted view of the entire countryside.
Soon, Nature being what it is, the population grew & spilled out onto the plains around the Acropolis. When the city beneath the Acropolis became larger than the one on top, the people decided to dedicate the city to one of the gods. Athena & Poseidon both wanted it, & it was decided to give the city to whichever god presented the greater gift to the people. Poseidon, god of the sea, struck a rock with his trident & brought forth either a spring of salt water, or the horse (accounts vary—the latter is more accepted. Besides, I can’t see what earthly good a spring of salt water could do anyone). Athena then produced the olive tree. The people chose the olive tree as the better gift, & the city was named Athens.

Atop the Acropolis was then constructed the magnificent Parthenon, in honor of Athena.
Parthenon means "Temple of the Virgin," which Athena supposedly was. It is one of the seven wonders of the world, & the most perfect building in the world. The name of the architect escapes me, unfortunately—Epidus or Epirus or something like that. For one thing, there is not a straight line on the building—the base of the temple is 20" higher in the center than at either end—this is not noticeable, but only adds to the light, graceful look of the building. He also set the style for all temples constructed thereafter; if a temple has six columns on either end, it must have twice that number plus one on either side—the Parthenon has eight on each facet & therefore 17 on each side. The temple faces the east (actually, since it is exactly the same on both ends, it faces east & west). On the west facet, the frieze—that part of the temple between the tops of the columns & the roof—depicted in bas-relief the contest between Athena & Poseidon. Thanks to an English gentleman named Lord Elgin, there is almost none of the original frieze left—he had it all removed & carted back to Britain, where it was placed in the British Museum & called "The Elgin Marbles."

Opening into the inner temple from the west facet was a huge stone door, which could be swung closed in emergencies. There are still deep ruts in the floor from the swinging of the door. Inside the temple, which is the size of a football field—no, about half that—the stones remaining are beautifully smooth. To the right, just after entering through the west door, was a small room wherein were kept all the treasures of the city.

The most remarkable thing about the entire structure is that it did not decay with the passage of time. With the coming of Christianity, the Parthenon became the Church of St. Sophia—some of the murals can still be made out on the walls. Greece, & Athens, fell into Turkish hands sometime around the 10th or 12th century, & was used by them as a mosque. They whitewashed the walls & tried to destroy all vestiges of the Christian works. Through all this the Parthenon stood, unchanged.

And then came the Greek war of Independence, in 1646. The Turks used the Acropolis as a fortress, & the Parthenon as an ammunition dump. A stray cannonball entered the temple through the columns of the north side & set the munitions afire. The Parthenon, which had stood for 2,000 years, was almost completely destroyed.

If only you could see the magnificence of it, even in ruins, & imagine it to be whole & complete….
Inside the temple, facing to the east & the main entrance, stood the fabulous statute of Athena.
The statue, who was seated, was 40 feet high; its dress of solid gold, & its arms & face of ivory!
Being so huge, it was hollow, & a sort of ramrod ran through the center as a support—it is the only spot in the building floor which is not of marble—the hole for the support is still there. The goddess remained, facing the east, until the Romans came along.

Rome & Romans had a terrific case of kleptomania—they never borrowed, they took. Athena, being one of the many gods the Romans took as their own, became Minerva, & her statue in the Parthenon, being gold & ivory, was removed (for sentimental purposes, of course). The ship carrying the statue to Rome was sunk in a storm, & no one has ever found any trace of it.

The frieze of the east facet, under the triangle of the roof showed Athena’s birth. One day Zeus had a splitting headache & asked Hephaestus (Vulcan) to hit him in the head with a thunderbolt. This the obliging Hephaestus did, & from Zeus’ head, fully grown & clad in battle dress, came Athena.

Alexander the Great, conqueror of Asia Minor, gave to the Parthenon large shells of solid gold—these were placed in the frieze (must have been very large, for they had to make holes to support them, which are still visible). Everything went along fine until our friends the Romans stormed into the picture. At the time, they had an emperor who fancied himself a poet of great talent. He had Alexander’s shells removed & covered the frieze with his own poems, in huge gold letters.

When Christianity came into its own & the Parthenon became a church, the poems were hastily removed; Nero had not been ardently admired by the Christians.

People today wonder why the steps surrounding the Parthenon are so high off the ground. The answer is very simple—nobody ever used them—all the festivals & great pilgrimages to the Parthenon took place on the outside; nobody went in.

The picture enclosed of Lloyd & I will give you some idea of what I’ve been talking about. This is the west facet.

Oh, yes—one more thing—the roof was of transparent marble, to allow light to enter! And it was built 2,500 years ago..

And so we have had out guided tour of the Acropolis for today. More (with revisions & corrections) Saturday, when I get back from the tour.

Well, mail closes out at 0500, so I’d best close.

Love

Roge

2006-12-23T04:47:00.000-08:00

May 1, 1956

Dear Folks

And a happy, happy May Day to you! Arrived head-on at Athens this morning, amid the sleepy sunlight & playful forty mile an hour gales that blew an uncounted number of white hats over the side, while their owners stood in more-or-less formation for Quarters. Two salutes were fired as we entered the harbor—a 21 gunner for the King & Queen, & later a 12 gun for obscure reasons. Let’s hope our coming had been previously announced in the Greek papers, or the Athenians might have gotten a rather unpleasant surprise to be jarred out of bed by the heavy "pom-pom"ing of cannon, & rushing to their windows to see the formidable American Sixth Fleet sweeping in on them.

Athens is more or less surrounded by mountains, large & small. The largest part of the city lies in a hollow behind a tall but rolling mountain. In the center (or what appears to be the center) of town is a high hill, shaped roughly like a volcano. On the very top of it perches a white building—I don’t know what it is. In front (toward the sea) is another hill—it is broader & about half as high. It looks as though it were a long ramp leading to a table; in fact it looks as though it were man made. And on top of this hill—better known as the Acropolis, stand the ruins of the world’s first great civilization. The Parthenon, huge & broken, crowns the Acropolis, To the right & rear stands a large mass which may have been a gigantic statue; to the left & almost on the down-ramp, are lesser ruins; small, toppled temples.

The total impression of Athens & its surrounding mountains is one of brown. The city itself is sprinkled with white, & green fields lap at the base of the mountains. But there are almost no trees. On top of the round mountain behind which Athens rests are three trees, looking very, very small. Along the shore can be seen a few more; but aside from them, the land is naked.

Tomorrow I’m going ashore at 1300, armed to the teeth with camera & film. And guess where I’ll be going first thing?

Mail call & I received two letters from you & one from Harry Harrison (NavCad made good). First, to answer your questions—yes, I got the pictures of the cottage, as you know by now—& no, I did not go to the bullfights, which brought no tears to my eyes.

Once again, I didn’t fill in the "home town paper forms" because I do not find it at all a great distinction to have made 3rd class. That’s like Einstein passing a third grade math test.

The chief has appointed me a "supernumerary Master At Arms," which can mean almost anything, good or bad.

I am now down to two pair of skivvies, & don’t know what I’ll do after they’re gone. And with no more of my size on board ship, I am in a slight predicament.

Nick has come out of his shell at last, & today was driving his car (the imaginary one) complete with sound effects, which means he’s fully back among the living. Let us hope he doesn’t try his Garbo again—not until August at least, when I won’t have to worry about it.

Haven’t had time to read all day—trying to type the menu, run errands for various people, etc. It being the first day in port, the office was crowded with assorted Greek civilians, trying to sell produce & fresh foods to the ship.

From the back of one of those clippings you sent, I see Little Annie Rooney is still at it, blabbering happily away about her coming adoption (if I had a nickel for every time she’s been going to be adopted, I could retire), while Zero, her trusty 27 year old dog, is still stuck with the same old line: "WUFF." One of these days someone is going to get wise.

Well, tonight being Shower Night, I’ve got to knock off early. I was up till midnight last night, talking with Jim Bassette about our Paris adventures. Ah, well….

Till tomorrow (or maybe Thurs., since I’m going ashore tomorrow)

Love

Roge

P.S. Oh, yes—we’ve been extended—get home around 22 June.

2006-12-22T04:18:00.000-08:00

27-28 April 1956

Dear Folks

Nine thirty & time for a quick if not too inspired letter. Spent most of the evening trying to polish my shoes.

As usually happens, it is now Saturday morning & the announcement has just come that mail closes out today at 1200 noon. It is now a race to see if I’ll make it or not.

The first two lines were all the further I got. Lloyd had been in, studying for his seaman test, & left to sweep his compartment. Coutre had stepped out for a cup of coffee, & all was still….For a moment, that is—then both Coutre & Lloyd came back, & we sat up till eleven; Cou working & me asking Lloyd questions from his seaman book.

Nick has been playing the role of St. Joan at the Stake & has succeeded in getting on everyone’s nerves, including mine. He has that "Oh, life is just too, too…" attitude. It is now about nine thirty, & he hasn’t said one single word since he came in at eight.. A day or two I can see—but this has been going on now long enough to get any psychiatrist interested. If he doesn’t snap out of it, he’ll crack up before the cruise is over.

Speaking of the cruise being over—let’s. Only forty more days & we’ll be heading for home--& only 106 before I get out. Oh, what a wondrous day that will be.

This is a lost cause, I can see—guess I’d just better give up & finish it tonite, even though it won’t go off today.

Just had a mail call—got three letters from you (20-23rd) & two rolls of film, which look like they should be excellent. It’s always so nice to get mail, especially since the office atmosphere resembles the least attractive aspects of the Okeefenokee swamp I am ashamed of myself for not having written sooner or more often, but the lethargy I’ve mentioned previously really gets at a person.

Tomorrow, praises be to Allah, is Sunday, which means I can sleep to my little heart’s content. This means one of two things—either I will wake up of my own accord about seven o’clock, or someone will do it for me by having a shouting contest. Oh, well, we shall see.

It was a nice day today—the sea a beautiful blue & the wind just a bit cold. The sun was a nice warm yellow & displayed an attractive sunset, the sleepy reddish-yellows reflecting from the surrounding ships & skimming the tops of the waves.

There are quite a few civilians aboard, with pot bellies & blueprints; trying to get some things straightened out before we come into the yards.

Many times I have bemoaned the neutral-grey if not the dullness of life at sea. True, there isn’t much to write about—the physical day doesn’t alter much, but there are variations, all of them mental, which make it not uninteresting. I read, & think (occasionally), & watch & listen. But at times I think of myself as a sort of blotter—I absorb, but it doesn’t do much good. Oh, well….
I am anxious to get back to college, because there I’ll be forced to work. I have, at times, all the will power & forcefulness of a three-toed sloth.

Nick has deigned to give us the honor of his exalted presence. Andy & I are the only mortals in the office. To Andy he speaks—I am only a part of the furnishings & not worthy of his notice. I’m not saying anything—two can play at his asinine little game; & I can play it longer. If he ever decides to come back to Earth, he will find that Roger doesn’t live here anymore. Coutre still tries cajoling him out of it—I’ve washed my hands. He’s named the tune—let him dance to it!

The book on mythology is long overdue at the library—until I hear from them, it will stay overdue. Conscience to the contrary, the vow I made when I left Pensacola still goes—anything that the Navy hasn’t got nailed down, I’ll take.

Subject—film, mailing of. It has been decided not to mail certain films home. There now being approximately twenty rolls, it would be impractical to mail them air-mail (not to mention expensive). And to place them in a box to lie in the bottom of some hot, stuffy hold on a ship would be unwise, as it would most likely end up as a wad of fused plastic & melted film.

For padding for dad’s binoculars, I have an ingenious idea. Coutre suggested last night that prior to discharge I stock up on a few items from Small Stores—namely, towels & pillowcases. The latter are a little small for civilian-type pillows, but the towels are excellent. They are Canon towels, & come in wash-cloth, regular, & bath sizes. They range in cost from 45 cents for the regular to 60 cents for the bath size (22x44"). I understand they are quite expensive on the "outside". How about it, mother? If you want, I can get tons of them—they can be dyed any color you wish.

Well, my dear parents, I shall try very hard not to be so negligent in the future. And with your kind permission, I will close

Your Obedient Son

Roger

2006-12-21T04:29:00.000-08:00

26 April 1956

Dear Folks

Last night I got all of two lines of a letter written, & then gave it up—there just wasn’t anything to write about. This is the second draft of this letter. The handwriting in the first was so atrocious even I couldn’t read it. I can see this is not going to be too much of an improvement. My handwriting is definitely going down hill.

Been munching cookies, of which I took a handful from the galley to stave off my hunger. Besides, we had liver for supper, & you know how I love liver!

You’d be amazed how clear the water is around here. Lloyd & I were up on the foc’sle after dinner today, & we could see the entire bow of the ship (which goes down quite a way). It was so clear we could see streaks of rust on the hull.

The sun came out for awhile today, but it wasn’t very strong—sort of diluted. The Intrepid is still with us, about two miles ahead & two miles off to port, with a little destroyer toddling along after her like a puppy. Two prop planes were doing acrobatics & made me wish I were up there with them.

This is only our fourth day at sea, but it’s the tenth—no, the 12th, since I’ve been ashore; the longest single stretch I’ve ever done on this thing. We pull into Athens on Monday, which is also May Day. In America, we used to make May baskets & fill them with candy—in Europe, May Day is the day when all the Communists come out in full force, spreading their own special brand of pleasantries in the form of riots, stonings, & burnings. We’ll probably have to stay on board until everything cools down.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…Nick has been sulking around for three days now, saying next to nothing, & on the rare occasions he does speak, it’s an unintelligible mumble. Can’t figure out what’s wrong with him, but he’s certainly doing his best to make everyone miserable.

Just finished reading some more out of the mythology book I got two weeks ago from the library—this time it was the Trojan War. This particular legend never ceases to fascinate me, though I’ve read it a dozen different times in different books, from "The Iliad" on down. I’ve found that the characters in mythology are all inter-related & linked, even though they do tend to blend & fade together at times. Mythology is far more enjoyable, & at times more believable, than history. And now why do I say that? Mythology is a history—a sort of "pre-history" that lived more by word of mouth than by printed page.

Well, now, I’ve got to go take a shower. I see my handwriting has degenerated into illegibility.
More tomorrow.

Love

Roge

2006-12-20T04:31:00.000-08:00

24 April 1956

Dear Folks

I’m starting tonite’s letter early, so that what it may lack in quality it may partially atone for in quantity. Of course, like I said last night, if I insist on writing so small, no matter how much I write it won’t look like much.

Slept like a log last night, & hated to get up, as usual. Today was a second-class day—cloudy but not really too bad. Oh, I forgot to mention in passing the last few days—Saturday while we were out strolling along the flight deck, we sat down on the edge where the catwalk had been torn away by the storm. When we looked down at the water, I couldn’t believe it at first—there were literally thousands of jellyfish—so light & transparent they could hardly be seen, floating just below the surface. They were completely surrounding the ship; whether we attracted them or they’re like that all over, I don’t know. They were almost a solid mass, just lying there, wafting slowly back & forth with the motion of the waves.

We’ve had more mail calls in the past week than in the preceding two weeks. Got a letter from you today, mailed on the 19th, which isn’t bad, all things considered.

Oh, about that Fantasia record again, mother—I know it has Swan Lake on it—it has all his great works, & I think it is beautiful. Please get it & I’ll pay you for it.

I have a box for your binoculars, dad, & will send them on in a few days. I think I’ll also put in several rolls of film with it; you may look at it once, if you like.

Tell me, mother—do you want me to pick up any silks or brocades if I get a chance in Istanbul/Ismir (whichever one)? I can get just plain cloth—roll or bale or whatever you call it—by the yard. I still kick myself for not having gotten any in Beirut. It was $9 a meter (39"), but would be about $15 or $20 in the States. I won’t pass up a chance like that again, if you’d like some. Oh, well….

Athens is supposed to have some good buys, too. If there is anything you want in the way of practically anything, let me know & I’ll try to pick it up. After all, my Mediterranean Cruise is just about over.

Here are some "advised buys" in Athens: "dolls in regional costumes, ceramics, ash trays, vases, plates, etc.; hand made silver & silver plated jewelry, mirrors, desk sets, etc.’ hand embroidery & hand woven covers for tables & luncheon sets, bags, blouses, & children’s clothes; hand woven silk & cotton by the yard; hand woven mufflers & scarves, men’s ties,….." The underlinings are mine. If you want me to pick up any of this stuff, either for you or for Xmas presents for the relatives, let me know. I have, or will have next payday, about $200 on the books, so you needn’t worry about my having enough money.

Don’t count too heavily on my getting out early—the other day I did what I should have done the first time I heard those rumors—called a buddy in Personnel & asked him. Personnel Office handles all transfers & discharges, & said they hadn’t heard a word about anyone getting out early. It’s possible, of course, but then almost anything is possible in the Navy.

Oh, yes—it’s official now about being 3rd Class ("glorified seaman") so you can address my letters AK3 instead of AN.

It’s been awfully warm down here (below decks) lately. Guess Spring is here.

Any further ideas or thoughts on coming out to meet me? You can no doubt get last-minute plane reservations at almost any time. I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. I remember mother standing before the Cathedral in New Orleans, & eating toasted cheese sandwiches by the swimming pool at the motel. That was a very nice place—too bad we didn’t get any pictures of it. And I remember both of you when you got off the planes—mom in a brown suit or dress—I can see it, but don’t recall which it was) & dad looking out that weird egg-shaped window.

Well, I think I’ll start cutting that box down to mail the binoculars. More tomorrow.

Love

Roge

2006-12-19T04:07:00.000-08:00

23 April 1956

Dear Folks

This will have to be short, since it’s quarter after nine & I’ve got to take a shower yet. They’ve announced that mail will close out at 0600 tomorrow morning. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going anywhere—just that it might. Again today we had another surprise mail call, & I got a letter from you. (As Chip Muchler, one of my NavCad classmates used to say, "Good-O.")

For some reason, I’m very tired—well, not very, but quite. I’d love to sleep for days. This afternoon I went to Clothing & Small Stores to buy some more skivvies—mine have a habit of disappearing at the rate of three pair returned for every four sent. The smallest size they had were 34’s, which I’m sure I’ll fit into very nicely, if only I can find someone to share them with me (I got one pair). Also bought another white hat (incidentally, in the navy, we say it whitehat, not white hat.)

It’s so quiet in here tonite—sounds from the movie on the after mess decks drift in occasionally, & there is a fan going, but it is comparatively silent. Don’t recall if it was mentioned, but last night I saw "The Jazz Singer," a remake of the Jolson classic, & the woman who played the mother reminded me an awful lot of you, mom—she even looked vaguely like you.

I wish I didn’t write so small; here it is 9:25 & it looks as though I’ve scarcely begun.

Finished reading Polly Adler’s "A House is Not a Home;" enjoyed it a lot. We arrive in Athens on payday, as I probably said yesterday, & I plan to spend every spare second ashore.

Getting so I can’t even think straight. Please excuse me for cutting it off here, but I need my beauty sleep. God knows I need something.

Love

Roge

2006-12-18T04:39:00.000-08:00

Sunday, 22 April, 1956
111 Days to Go

Dear Folks

I must really be slipping—I didn’t write at all yesterday. Well, let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. A surprise mail call woke me up this morning around nine, & I netted two letters from you, including the pictures of the cottage.

Both yesterday & today were beautiful, sunny & warm. The entire United States Sixth Fleet is crammed together in Suda Bay—all neatly laid out if anybody wanted to pull a quick raid. Suda Bay is a long, finger-like inlet that is almost a lake. Its only entrance is through a narrow inlet, past a small fortified island. The whole thing is completely surrounded by bare mountains. We’d be pretty bottled up if anything happened.

The captain talked to us via the loudspeakers today, telling us we leave tomorrow, to be at sea for eight days. On May first, we arrive at Athens, Greece—wonder of wonders! We’ll be there for eight days, then put to sea again until the 16th, at which time we will "put in to an unknown port in either Greece or Turkey." (Most likely Ismir, Turkey.) After that, who knows? And who cares, for by that time we’ll be ready to head for home. I hope we stop at Gibraltar for a few days so I can buy a lot of last-minute things.

Actually, this trip to Athens about climaxes my European "tour deluxe." With it, I will have been to every major city in Southern Europe, with the exception of Madrid!

Lloyd & I went sun bathing this afternoon on the flight deck, after seeing the first half of the afternoon double feature. And guess who we saw, out for his daily stroll? My old buddy, Dale Harris, from Pensacola. Perhaps I should say Carrier Division Four (one of his titles), or "Admiral Dale Harris, onetime Chief of Naval Air Basic Training." He walks from the island structure to the forward end of the flight deck—starboard (right) side, turns around, & walks back again. This he does at least six times, & was still pacing when we left. He’s accompanied by an armed Marine, who stands discreetly but comfortably distant.

Tonight I went back to see the second half of the double feature, & as a result staying up after taps to get this written. I know it is short, but trust you will forgive me. Again, thanks for the pictures & send more any time you have a chance.

Till tomorrow, I am

Your Humble Son

Roge

2006-12-17T08:46:00.000-08:00

Replenishing the U.S.S. Ticonderoga at sea, 1956. Photo courtesy of Dale Royston, V1 Div.

2006-12-17T04:44:00.001-08:00

20 April 1956

Dear Folks

Thought I’d break my long-standing rule about typing a letter and try it for a change.

Typewritten letters are so impersonal (except Mother’s, of course), but certainly more legible.

Sorry I haven’t written in three days; which also is not something in the rules, but I’ve been kept slightly busy. Up at four a.m. this morning (brilliant—that’s like saying "that-there" or "ain’t go no") for replenishment at sea, which went off quite well with only a few minor mishaps like a guy falling over the side of a destroyer. They picked him up all right. We certainly look impressive, if nothing else—two carriers, eight or ten destroyers, several tankers, oilers, AF’s (food cargo ships) and AK’s (material), and even a heavy cruiser or two. And we are all going to pull into Suda Bay, Crete, tomorrow morning. That ought to be loads of fun. From what I hear of Suda Bay, a good time will be had by all; the Shore Patrol has to take over its own drinking water, the town isn’t even a wide spot in a cow path—it was completely wiped out during World War II and never bothered to rebuild. Oh, well, we’ll only be there two days,. Forgot to mention that liberty is up at 5 in the afternoon. Monday we pull out to God knows where; you may take your choice—1) since the Arab-Israeli peace treaty has been signed (and everyone knows that automatically means the solution to all problems), we will skit right back and pick up our schedule where we left off, in Barcelona. 2) We are going back to the Western Med, but first stopping at Athens, Greece, and Ismir, Turkey. 3) No one has the vaguest idea where we’re going, and all the big wheels in the 6th Fleet are having a get-together tomorrow night to figure things out.

I would rather fancy the second one, if I had my choice. Well, we’ll see.

Today has been a very long day, now stretching into its eighteenth hour.

I also got a little note from the government, about which I may have said something previously, saying I owe them $7.46—first time I’ve ever paid any income tax. Made a money order out this morning. From the sounds of the typewriter, I’m almost out of paper. And, being sleepy, I will ask your permission to close. Yep, I was right.

Love

Roge
.

2006-12-16T04:52:00.000-08:00

16 April, 1956

Dear Folks

Let there be singing & dancing in the streets—I finally got a letter; it was good to hear from you after such a long silence. Also very happy to hear things are going along so nicely at home.

Now for the bad news—the rumor is not a rumor. The Captain announced this morning that we are going "to the Eastern Mediterranean for an indefinite period in support of United States policy. We will go first to Suda Bay, Crete, where we will anchor for three days. Our schedule after that is unknown. There is a possibility that we may not be relieved at Gibraltar, but somewhere in the Eastern Med. If such is the case, there may be a delay of ten days in our arrival home. The ship will be operating out of Crete, & Greek & Turkish ports."

So off we go, into the wild blue yonder, to aim an unloaded pistol at a bunch of people who want to get rid of unwanted guests. As I may have said yesterday, I hope we hit Beirut again.

I wrote to the Andersons this evening—which I should have done a long time ago.

Remember what I told you in yesterday’s letter about the cottage. I mean it.

Oh, yes, I become officially rated on the 16th (Monday). From then on, I’ll be getting twenty dollars a month more. And you can believe me—it will come in very handy.

The yellow paper-blue ink combination isn’t too good, or easy on the eyes. Better luck next time.

Tomorrow is the day Lloyd wants to go to the bullfights. I don’t know how we’ll manage it for several reasons—1) we only have $5 between us, 2) liberty is up at 8:00 at night, so that we can pull out at 12.

You’ve probably heard by now whatever has happened to us—we never hear anything. The only time we get any news at all is while we’re at sea.

Well, now if you will excuse me, I must get back to my mythology. I never get tired of reading that stuff.

Love

Roge

2006-12-15T04:55:00.000-08:00

13 April 1956

Dear Folks

Up until now all our rumors have been semi-pleasant ones, concerning going home. The one making the rounds today is not so pleasant—according to this one, we will be leaving Valencia at midnight tomorrow or Sunday, to proceed to Suda Bay, Crete; from there to Cypress—an island you may have read of recently in the papers. We should know later tonite, when tomorrow’s Plan of the Day arrives. This is one rumor I hope is no more than that.

Should, by any weird set of circumstances, a war develop—a real one, I mean—I want you to 1) rent a trailer & move all the valuable stuff up to the lakes; commute from the lakes to work every day, if possible. If not 2) sleep in the basement, on the side nearest the driveway. 3) Go to the cottage every weekend or if anything should happen at home. That way I’ll know where you were.

As for myself—we’ll probably be quite busy with one thing & another. Don’t believe anything you hear, unless you hear it from me directly. I’ll manage to get home somehow, but I don’t want to worry about you being in town in case anything happened.

All the above may sound very dramatic, but should anything happen, do as I’ve said. Remember that.

I’ve just been thinking—if a war starts, I doubt that it will begin in a blossom of atom bombs—it will start like this one could; two kids fighting & then the parents stepping in.

Now don’t start worrying—nothing will come of all this, but I just wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t have to worry about you.

Today, oddly enough, is Friday the 13th. Along with the above rumor & the fact that we had a mail call last night & everyone in the division got a letter but me, the day didn’t look too promising.

Then, around noon, I heard that I made 3rd Class Petty Officer; which really doesn’t mean much except $20 a month more. I still don’t believe it, though—after all, I only spent about a week in Aviation Supply before they sent me mess cooking! If it’s true I am now an AK3, but don’t address my letters differently till I know for sure. If so, it will make quite a difference in my discharge pay, & will help me in the reserves. Well, I’ll close now---till I hear from you.

Love

Roge

2006-12-14T04:16:00.000-08:00

Flight Operations U.S.S. Ticonderoga from Rescue Helicopter. Photo courtesy Dale Royston, V1 Div.

2006-12-14T04:11:00.000-08:00

12 April 1956
121 days to go

Dear Folks

Here I am again, after just having been chased off the quarterdeck by the OD—all we were doing was playing leapfrog. It all started when Lloyd, Jack Moore, & I went out to get a breath of fresh air after the movie. We went out to the wing deck near the quarterdeck, & were looking down at the ladder-gangway. I said I’d bet that if you had to jump from where we were, you’d spatter all over the ladder—or at least hit it on your way down. Lloyd said no. So we measured out a spot on the wing deck & tried jumping it from a standing start. I think Lloyd was winning when the OD came up & asked us icily if we were on watch. We said no. He thereby ordered us to go play our games elsewhere.

It was a beautiful day today—we pulled out to sea just for the day, & I got a chance to take almost two rolls of film of launching & landing planes. Also got a shot of the dropping of the anchor when we pulled back in, for which I had to lean halfway over the railing, & still got Lloyd’s hat in it (he was below me on the catwalk.)

Sorry I didn’t write last night but I tried writing a bit on a story I’d done once before. Most of my stories I find are pseudo-psychological. The endings can be taken two ways—either logically, wherein whatever befalls the person is brought about by his own mind, or fantastically, where the mind is not restricted to the limits of the body.

This particular one is about a mentally defective man with the mind of a seven-year old. He wants to be a bird. I’m going to do more on it tonite.

Another day with no mail call &, logically, no mail. I’d much prefer to have a mail call & get some mail.

I’ve already picked out the courses I want to take when I get back to school—Education 488; Introduction to Philosophy, Social Science 385, Public Opinion & Propaganda; English 400, Creative Writing, English 48s; Modern Drama, & Journalism 231: Radio Writing.

Though it’s a beautiful day outside, it’s hot as an oven inside. Hate to cut this short, but it’s 8:30 & I want to work on the story.

Till Tomorrow

Love

Roge

2006-12-13T05:17:00.000-08:00

10 April 1956
123 days to go

Dear Folks

I was just talking to Wheeler, who had gone to the bullfight yesterday—& I am very glad I didn’t go. How can anything be as horrible? The way he described it, it wasn’t a fight, but a massacre.
On second thought, I wish I had been there, sitting in the center of the ring with a large machine gun & several thousand rounds of ammunition. I would honestly enjoy nothing more than spraying that crowd with machine gun fire. They want to see blood? Fine—then let them see their own, damn them. They came to see suffering—I’d love to show them "But the bulls are only animals; wild & cruel." Well, what do you suppose those things sitting there cheering are?

No doubt Lloyd will drag me to one next Sunday, & I will undoubtedly become very ill. Maybe I can sneak a machine gun from the ship’s armory. Wouldn’t that be fun? Can’t you just see the looks on their faces? Ah, but there I go, daydreaming again—wishful thinking.

Sadistic little soul, aren’t I? Well, I’m only human….

I’d go on to more pleasant subjects, if there were any more pleasant subjects to go on to. Had a lousy night last night—woke up in the wee hours with one hell of a sore throat. My nose has been playing Niagara Falls all day.

At about 8:00 tonite I took my NavCad book up to show Lloyd. It is now 9:15. It was fun to talk about it again, & I didn’t feel at all bad—oh, a little nostalgia, perhaps—but it didn’t hurt.

Evidently there is to be no mail call tonite. Didn’t get any mail the last couple of mail calls—the last one I got said you’d received & seen the film; I hope you enjoyed them. The 8 feet of nothing comes from not taking the lens cover off. Did you get an idea of the size of the columns from the pictures/

No, mom, the kids weren’t Americans, I don’t think. I suppose kids are kids any place. Speaking of kids, how about—uh, no, that’s another film—or is it? Did I send the one with the two lambs butting their heads together? If so, how did it turn out?

The five pesetas enclosed in yesterday’s letter was done so as on afterthought—it’s worth about 10 cents.

Realize this is short, but I’ve got to take a shower & get to bed, to give my throat a chance to get really sore again. Till tomorrow

Love

Roge

2006-12-12T03:55:00.000-08:00

9 April 1956

Dear Folks

Saturday morning we anchored three miles off Valencia, Spain, where (according to the ship’s Bulletin "it almost never rains") it was raining like mad & the seas were amazingly rough. The day got off to a good start with the arrival, in a private boat, of a contractor who wanted to sell provisions—among them fresh milk—to the ship. One man came to the office, & said he had two friends waiting in the boat to come aboard. I was sent to tell them to come on, & show them the way to the Commissary Office. When I got to the quarterdeck, the OOD told me to go down & give them a hand. The boat was bobbing & tossing like a cork & trying to maneuver up to the gangway. One of them men threw me a line, which I could not fasten anywhere because one moment the boat would be even with the gangway & the next be ten feet down & twenty feet away. At this point, two waves swept over the gangway, up to my knees. I tried to get up on the railing before a third hit, but didn’t quite make it. The OD called me back & told me to go change my clothes, which I did.

That afternoon I wanted to go over & make arrangements for the phone call home. The sky was black with dirty grey clouds racing low over the water. The Ti had three liberty launches in operation for the 34 minute ride to the beach; two of them were covered & one was not. Guess which one we got? To top it all, the rain began as soon as we got in, & didn’t let up all afternoon. I am beginning today to reap the rewards of all that damp & drizzle.

Valencia is a good sized town—about 500,000; the downtown area is a good three miles from the landing. We were lucky enough to be given a ride in a shore patrol truck. Valencia’s main Plaza is a large, roughly triangular affair surrounded by substantial buildings—all corner buildings being rounded & usually one or two stories higher than the others.

We wandered all around, looking in all the stores—they have a lot of material for sale, but Beirut spoiled me for material.. I got a chance to use my Spanish, & got along fairly well. Lloyd seems fascinated by my semi-ability to speak at least a few words of every language, & by the fact that I’ve got their money down pretty well.

The telephone office is on the main square, in a building that looks like a telephone office. I made arrangements to call Los Estados Unidos (EE.UU) Sunday at seven. For that, I paid 475 pesetas (roughly $11), which isn’t bad at all.

Afterwards we wandered to the Bull Ring, which looks vaguely like the Coliseum in Rome. It seats 20,000 people on plain wooden benches. The center is a large circle covered with sand, roughly the size of a round football field (if you can imagine a round football field).

In back—the whole thing being circular, by "back" I mean on the opposite side from the street—we looked down on the bull pens, where five great black animals with impressive but not conspicuous horns stood or laid placidly about, waiting to die. In another pen were two white bulls—why they were separated I can’t guess. A lean tomcat strolled casually between their thick legs.

I could go on & on, but time is getting short, so I’ll get on to yesterday. It sure was wonderful to talk to you, even though I had nearly an hour’s wait. It was a few minutes after eight, Sunday night, that the call came through. I was talking to one of the telephone operators, who said that there was only one line between Spain & the U.S., & at times it took awhile. I think the connection was much better than the one from Naples. You all (grandpa especially) sound good—hope to see you soon.

When the call was through, I was refunded 115 pesetas--$2.75! Spain has a "tariff" on phone calls—Saturdays & weekdays are more expensive than Sundays—I paid Saturday rates for a Sunday call. So it only cost about $8.00 for the call!!

I’ll relate more of my Valencia adventures tomorrow. Right now it’s time to go to bed.

Love

Roge

2006-12-11T04:39:00.000-08:00

6 April 1956

Dear Folks

Just spent a most enlightening, if not enjoyable, hour and a half trying to clean the white stripes on my dress blue jumper. I was spurred on to this Herculean task by the fact that tomorrow we arrive at Valencia, & I wish to go ashore, to see what kind of telephone connections I can get with home.

We have two Puerto Ricans on mess cooking, & I try to talk to them only in Spanish. Usually, though, the conversation breaks down into English when it comes to the main points. It will be fun trying to get around in Spain. Incidentally, I’m glad I didn’t plan too strongly on going to Madrid, since they canceled the tour anyway.

Mail call today &, wonder of wonders, I got a letter from home! It was strung out over three nights, & only goes to show you’re slipping. I want one every day, even if it’s only a movie schedule.

The latest "discharge" report hot off the grapevine—we get back to the States on the 17th or 16th, or the 18th of June; a "draft" (Navy term for "group") will leave the ship for the receiving station—those whose discharge dates come between 20 June & 17 July. On the 27th of June, another draft leaves: those getting discharged between the 17th of July & 17th of August—that’s me. I heard it from a guy who gets out the 7th of August, but it sounds good anyhow. That would mean I’d be discharged by the first week of July.

Yes, dad, I agree—I’ve done quite a bit of "gadding about," & I’d love nothing better than just to sit home watching TV, going to shows, and buying clothes. But—one never knows, in this outfit, just what is coming off.

Oh, yes, also received your package of cocoa & books. Someone had tied it up with string, but it still was trailing a stream of brown. Very clever idea, putting the cocoa in between the pages of the book. I salvaged three & a half packets from it—the half packet coming from between the pages & poured from the big envelope. I hope you read that article on Lebanon in that "Highways of Happiness" booklet, mother. The photo, which I’ll send back, was taken, oddly enough, on the exact corner where the USO Canteen was—the building it’s in can be seen to the right. It’s a small world.

Hope you’re buying & saving Life every week for me.

How nice it is to be grown up at last & have dad ask me what I’m planning on doing, rather than telling me what I’m going to do. Just think—I can do anything in the world I want to, & nobody short of the police can stop me.

I must give you credit, though—you were never too strict on me—not many nineteen year olds go galloping off to New York by themselves. Remember the first time I went to a movie all by myself? How old was I, anyhow? I remember it was either a double feature (at the State), or so good I sat through it twice, or both—anyway, I was late getting home & you nearly had fits.

Oh, yes, it was Easter, wasn’t it? I don’t remember a thing about it, except that Lloyd & I had gone ashore the night before. Speaking of Lloyd, he’s slightly sea-sick today—only seen him twice, & he went to bed right after supper. Me it doesn’t bother in the least.

Beautiful bright day today—still cold—& the sea is still rough. The Intrepid has been tagging along with us for two days now. She’s pulling into Valencia with us. So are six destroyers. That ought to be lots of fun—ten sailors for every two feet of ground.

Just clipped out the Beirut pictures & story, in case you missed it. The "x" is where the Ti was before she broke loose; on the far side of the sea wall. The second floor of the building at right is the USO, or Lebanese-American club. Your loving son walked right along the same road, & looked out the window beneath the second (pillbox) thing. Notice all the American cars.

Well, bed time again.

Love

Roge

2006-12-10T05:47:00.000-08:00

One of the Ti's destroyer escorts. Photo courtesy of Dale Royston, V1 Div.

2006-12-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

5 April 1956

Dear Folks

One thing I will say for myself that can’t be said for you lately—I write every day, almost. Another mail call with nothing from the Margasons; nothing from anybody, as far as that goes. Sure is good to get mail. Oh, well.

128 days to go. I keep hearing the rumor that everyone whose discharge date falls prior to mid-September will be released the first part of July. This is a wonderful rumor, & the only thing that keeps me from believing it completely is that the only guys I hear it from are getting discharged prior to mid-September.

Slightly rough today, & I loved it. Also a little on the chilly side. Unfortunately, some of the guys fresh out of boot camp did not find the rocking & rolling quite as enjoyable as I did.

Went back on the fantail twice to watch the waves—they fascinate me. Those poor little destroyers trailing us really take a beating in weather like this. They pitch & toss like a wild bull—charge head on into huge waves & come rearing up in a fountain of spray, till their black keels show above the water. With us, we ride several waves at once, & the action of one more or less cancels out the other. But the destroyers ride each one as it comes, rising high out of the air & crashing down the other side, only to plow into another.

Today was "M" day, & it went off very smoothly, all things considered. I signed my name 180 times in about three hours, & 90 men came & went.

Saturday we arrive in Valencia, & I may go ashore & make arrangements to call home Sunday. Of course, by the time you get this, Sunday will have come & gone.

Imagine—we complain when it takes six days to get a letter halfway around the world; two hundred years ago—even one hundred—it took three months to get as far.

Ten after nine—thank God the days go as fast as they do. I’d go nuts if they went slower.

Well, again it is time to go to bed, even though it is short.

Till tomorrow

Love

Roge

2006-12-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

4 April 1956

Dear Folks

Just for a change, I thought I’d type a letter. Just got done typing one to Lief. All I do twenty-four hours a day is sit at this darn (now that’s an odd looking word—I was just being polite) typewriter, so a few minutes more will give me a chance to practice.

Tomorrow is the big day for the Mess Cook Change-over; 45 guys coming and 45 guys going. This place will be a mad-house for awhile—at least my end of it will be.

A bunch of VIP’s flew on today from somewhere, and in order to give them a really good show, full of chills and spills, they sacrificed an enlisted man tonite (thought at first it was a pilot, but enlisted men are lots cheaper). They’ll be bringing him down to the reefers in a while now.

Chief just clamored all over my chair to turn on an air vent—it is awfully hot in here.

The Intrepid joined up with us today—she came over to relieve the Lake Champlain. Funny that she’s back so soon; we relieved her in November, when we came over.

Afraid there’s going to have to be a day’s pause in letters—I’m tired and think I’ll go to bed.
Hope you understand and will forgive

YOUR Loving Son

Roge

2006-12-08T04:51:00.000-08:00

3 April 1956

Dear Folks

I was just standing here twiddling my thumbs wondering what it was I’d forgotten to do when it came to me—write to you. So here I am. As was predicted yesterday, we had a mail call today—I got two letters from you, with the clippings about Sandy. Good Lord, but we have a crazy family. The last letter was dated 30 March, & this being only the 3rd of April, I’d say it made excellent time.

Lloyd wants to go to a bullfight when we get to Valencia. I have absolutely no desire to. Maybe I’ll go to take pictures of the pomp & ceremony, but I can’t see watching a bunch of mad animals screaming for blood. I’m talking about the animals not directly engaged in the slaughter; those who sit in the stands & chomp hot dogs, watching the blood spurt from a safe distance, through beady, inhuman eyes.

Ah, but there I go, preaching again. Forgive me if I get carried away at times.

At times, such as now, I feel as though I could write words that would be remembered as long as there are people to remember. But then something always gets in the way, & I end up doing nothing—or at best scribbling a few sentences in a book of dead stories.

I once wrote a poem; did you know that? It was written down in Pensacola & was quite fatalistic & very revealing. But it got lost somewhere along the line. It had something to do with the last leaf on the last tree in the world, which was about to be drowned by the rising seas. The rhyme scheme itself was quite da da, da da, da da, da DA-ish, if I recall. But I liked it & wish I could remember it. Oh, well.

I was just thinking—if someone could take a battering ram & knock down these walls I’ve built around myself, I wonder what they’d find? Either something about two inches high that looks like it just crawled out from under a wet rock, or an explosion so great & powerful it would put the sun to shame.

Always I have the feeling that people are in mental cocoons; some of them more developed than others—& I keep waiting for us to come out of them—to turn ourselves into the butterfly I’ve always expected myself to be.

Sometimes, when I try to think very hard, I can actually feel it—like trying to push against a gigantic door. And there’s always the maddening idea that it would be easy to open, if we only knew how. Once again, "oh, well."

Thank you for the stamps, mother. They came just one step ahead of the cavalry. The last batch of cocoa you sent was in such a lousy shape that I only salvaged two bags out of the whole mess. But it’s good.

Well, dad, now that bowling’s over, what are you going to do with yourself? Why not try writing every now & then? Incidentally, if you have any pictures of the cottage, please send them to me—either the old way (to give Lloyd the general idea) or the new way—so I can get a general idea.

Regards to all the relatives.

Love

Roge

2006-12-07T04:41:00.000-08:00

2 April 1956

Dear Folks

Just got word that mail will leave the ship sometime tomorrow. It hasn’t gone for several days now, so you’ll probably get a batch of letters all at once. If I remember it, I’ll try to keep putting the date on the upper left hand corner of the envelope, so that when you do get a bunch all at once you’ll be able to read them in order.

Actually, if I were a model Mess Cook Yeoman, I’d be busy trying to dig my out of the six tons of work I’ve accumulated & been bequeathed during the day. Oh, well, it will only take ten or twenty days to catch up, working 24 hours a day.

It feels good to be at sea again, which is really a rather inane comment, since the only way I can tell we’re moving is by the vibrations.

I’ve been reconsidering going to Madrid; much as I’d love to go, it would be nice to have that money saved. But you know me when it comes to a choice of buying something I want or saving money. Well, we shall see.

Actually, aside from Berlin, I’ve been to every major city in Europe—Paris, Rome, Naples—not to mention Cannes, Nice, Genoa, Beirut, Rhodes, Palma, Gibraltar, & San Remo. I’ve covered almost every foot of both the French & Italian Rivieras. So if I don’t get to Madrid…well…. If I don’t go, I’ll definitely call home from Valencia, which will be somewhere between the 7th & 16th of this month. You probably won’t even get this until the 10th or so.

Tell me (you may already have)—did you receive the film yet? And did you, as promised, show it only once? As I said, I’ve only seen Baalbek once, & I wouldn’t want you to beat me at my own game.

Speaking of movies—I wish they’d get some good ones on this tub; the other night we saw "Random Harvest" with Ronald Coleman & Greer Garson. It was good, & I was way too young to remember the first time I’d seen it. Oh, when I get home.

I managed to get Lloyd a job in the ship’s store office as a yeoman, & he got off mess cooking today. He’s a good kid—typical All American Boy type. All he’s worried about is getting home to see his girl—poor kid; he’s been away from home four months now, if that long.

131 days.

Chief Sewell has taken over the management of the mess decks & control of the Mess Cooks. He advocates a steel fist regime, which makes it misery for the poor mess cooks. He’s taken over almost all my duties, which leaves me rather lost.

I never have been quite sure just what I’m supposed to be around here. Officially, I am the Mess Cook Yeoman—I check them in & out, make up liberty cards & do any paperwork in connection with them. However, I also type up the menu for the Chief, type all sorts of letters for Mr. Clower, & do odd jobs for Coutre. I belong to everyone & no one. Oh well.

Did you know that 131 days has 3,144 hours—I’ve already spent 600 days or 14,400 hours in.

And with that fascinating bit of news, I leave you.

Love

Roge

2006-12-06T04:20:00.000-08:00

1 April 1956

Dear Folks

Eight-fifteen on Easter Sunday, 1956—a holiday on the calendar only. The whole day has passed in that state of passive nothingness so many of the days do around here. Two months & six days & we’ll be on our way home. 133 days before my discharge.

Tomorrow we leave San Remo for Valencia, from where I hope to go to Madrid. But nothing is certain around here, so we shall see.

Last night we climbed a mountain. Lloyd, myself, & two other mess cooks were out wandering around when we ran into two American girls going to school at the Sorbonne in Paris. One was from Georgia & the other from Louisiana & they had just the syrupy-est drawls you evah did heah.. We talked to them for awhile—they speak French with a Southern drawl, which is no mean accomplishment.

After awhile we left them, & Bader (one of the guys) said he knew a nice place "up on the hill." San Remo is surrounded by "hills" that would stand out like sore thumbs in Illinois. We said OK, & he said: "We can either walk or take a taxi." Only having about four dollars between us, we decided to walk.

So we walked—it wasn’t so bad at first. As we got into the older part of the city, where the houses cluster together & only grudgingly permit narrow streets, it got a little steeper. At last we came to the "suburbs," where the houses are more scarce, but where the paths are hemmed in by garden walls. An occasional dim streetlight emits a bare light. The paths became very steep, & on the other side of the walls, the tall silhouettes of poplar trees stand black against a black sky. Now & then a dog barks, but otherwise it is deathly silent, with only the ghostly street lamps far apart.

We came, half dead, to a place where we could look down on the city, twinkling like scattered diamonds, with a necklace of light along the shore reflecting from the water. Out in the water was another group of lights, echoed in long shimmering lines, that might have been a small village on an island—it was the Ti. I could have stayed up there & just looked for hours.

When we finally reached the restaurant, 787 feet above sea level, we had a large plate of spaghetti (for only 50 cents).

Where I’d had trouble coming up, Lloyd had trouble going down—somehow, though the path twisted & turned & there was only one way down, we lost the other two, who’d walked on ahead.
Not wanting to come back to the ship, we went back to the little bar we’d visited every time we’d been ashore, to say goodbye to Maria & her folks. We stayed there for awhile, watching the Milan Opera Company do "Madam Butterfly" on TV, & returned to the ship at about 2300 or so.

And so to bed, after first sweeping down the office—which I am quite sure Boswell never had to do.

Love

Roge

2006-12-05T04:48:00.000-08:00

30 March 1956

Dear Folks

Amid the turmoil & confusion we call the Commissary Department, I sit down to write my nightly note. In the last few weeks, several minor tremors have shaken the ship—occasioned by the slow unveiling of a gambling syndicate aboard ship that would do Al Capone proud. First off came the discovery, in a remote diesel or hydraulic pump room, of a home-made gaming table, complete with red & black numbers. Shortly thereafter, in an S-2 provisions storeroom, a compact little social group was deeply involved in a game of hearts, or some such, when who should walk in but the Executive Officer. So intent were the players on the game that they didn’t even notice him standing behind them until several hundred dollars were in the "kitty."

There are many ways to make a not-legal but very profitable living in the Navy. Of these, one of the most profitable is called the "slush fund"—a sort of Household Finance Corporation. I have five dollars; you want to borrow it. Fine—you take it & give me six (if I’m a rat & you need it badly enough, I’ll get seven) next payday.

One of the cooks started out in this modest fashion &, a la Horatio Alger, soon built it up to a tidy $5,000. And this is not the only source of income he has.

The major quake came today. It began innocently enough the other day, when the shore patrol stopped a guy skirting Customs. He was carrying a large can of spice. Now, you’ve probably never thought of it or even known it, but the people over here will give almost anything for spices. You can get more for a can of spice than for a carton of cigarettes.

One thing led to another & climaxed with a discrete "investigation" early this afternoon. That’s what I like about the Navy—they’re always discrete. One full Commander, one Lieutenant Commander (Fitzpatrick), one Ensign, Mr. Clower, & two gigantic Masters-At-Arms—one of them clutching a large pair of lock-cutters—stomped quietly from the Commissary Office to my compartment. They’d asked me to go along to show them where O’Haire (the cook)’s locker was.

Joe O’Haire himself was on leave, living it up in Cannes--& if anyone can afford to, he can. The Masters-At-Arms looked very disappointed when they found that Joe didn’t have a lock on his locker.

While one MAA spread a blanket, the ensign started placing on it things from the locker. I don’t know what they’d expected to find, but they all looked a little disappointed. They did come up with a good-sized bag of poker chips, & a brand new box of twenty decks of playing cards. The ensign nearly went into spasms of ill-concealed glee (though he tried to look very solemn) when he found a notebook containing the names of dozens of guys, across from varying amounts of money.

No doubt when they find him, he will be ceremoniously fed through a jet intake, after a lovely court-martial.

And so it goes aboard the Mighty Ti.

Don’t know now whether I’ll be able to call from Madrid or not. If not, then it will definitely as soon after the next payday as possible.

Have I mentioned the color of the water around San Remo? It’s green—almost grass green at times, but usually several shades lighter.

Sure could use some 3 cent stamps. Sure could. Yep.

We’ll have to have both our Xmases (1955 & 1956) next August when I get home. I surely hope you like what I got you. So far, I’ve acquired some three five-pound tea-tins full, plus some other things that are either too large or too bulky to fit. Gee, I can’t wait to get home. Two years is a very long time, you know.

And so to the movies.

Love

Roge

2006-12-04T04:28:00.000-08:00

Roger Margason (l.), Lloyd Meyers, 1956

2006-12-04T04:24:00.000-08:00

29 March 1956

Dear Folks

On the way to you now, perhaps getting there the same day & perhaps even before—I mailed them this morning—are two rolls of movie film. One of them is of Rhodes (I have another that hasn’t come back yet) & one of Lebanon & Baalbek. I decided I want you to see Europe while I see it. You’re seeing, on these films, Europe exactly as I saw it. But remember—I only saw it once, & you promised to show them only once until I get home. Otherwise, you’ll be so sick of seeing them that no explanation of mine will interest you in the least.

On the film boxes you will find what little explanation is necessary; I’ll go into detail when I get home. I’ve only seen them by picking them up & squinting, but they look excellent (except for a ten-foot-long blank space in the Baalbek one). There should be another roll on .Baalbek, too. I still can’t get over the magnificence of those six pillars, & a feeling of awe when I think of them falling.

Only two letters from home—why? Got the envelopes with the Morning Star front page & dad’s typewritten letter.

In answer to mom’s question about the location of Beirut & Lebanon—Lebanon is on the Mediterranean—a very small country, roughly the size of Connecticut, if that big. It is right next to Jordan, & Beirut is only a short distance from Jerusalem (100-150 miles?). If a straight line were drawn around the world, passing through the straight of Gibraltar, Lebanon would be the first land it touched, on the far side of the Med. It is now independent, ruled by a President, was once a French protectorate, & before that was part of ancient Persia; even before that, it figured prominently in the Bible on numerous occasions (as mentioned previously, King Solomon built his temple with Cedars of Lebanon).

I’ll call home from Madrid if I have enough money. Don’t know what date yet, but will let you know roughly later. Wonder what the telephone operators think—after all, not everyone in Rockford gets phone calls from Europe.

I’ve promised Lloyd (after many gin fizzes) that he can use the cottage for a week for his honeymoon. OK? He’s all excited about it, & has written his girl already.

So now I shall close. With only 136 days to go, I shall be seeing you very soon. Till then

Love

Roge

2006-12-03T04:29:00.000-08:00

27 March 1956

Dear Folks

Yes, it is I—your roving son, four days late but here nonetheless. Saturday Lloyd Meyers & I (haven’t I written since then? Seems I recall mentioning him somewhere) went over to see the town. It rained every single minute, but we had our raincoats & didn’t get too wet. San Remo is a nice little town, typically Italian with narrow side streets & back alleys. Some beautiful modern apartments—many, in fact, growing out of steep hillsides & along the coastline. Buildings are all pastels, with a few harsh shades in the modern ones. We covered almost every inch of the city, including going up & down mountains. In some places in the older parts of the city, the streets are only six feet wide or so, & very steep. People evidently throw their garbage right into the streets, for they’re lined with eggshells & bits of vegetables. Sometimes the streets become tunnels, where the buildings are built right over them. And then, in all these narrow little passageways, you’ll come to a small open square surrounded with pink & yellow buildings, with green shutters on the windows & laundry hanging out of them. In the center of these little squares will be a small fountain of some kind—usually shaped vaguely like the Washington Monument, only about six feet high.

That night we had spaghetti & wine for supper. I ordered "Vino dolche"—sweet wine—but they bought that just-been-stomped-on stuff the Italians drink for water. From there we went on & had a vermouth, more wine, & finally ended up in a small bar & settled down to gin fizzes. The bars over here are just beginning to advertise TV. This one had it, too, though it wasn’t advertised. The station (no "s") comes on at 8:30 p.m.. Reception is fair, & programs pretty good.

This particular bar is run by a family—momma, who reminds me somewhat of Aunt Marge—poppa, & Maria, their 16 year old daughter. It’s a small place, with only five or six tables, but modern, being in one of the new apartment buildings.

Sunday I can’t remember what I did—went to the movie, probably. Don’t remember writing a letter, though I may have. Yes, I guess I did at that. Oh, well…

Monday we (Lloyd & I) went on a tour. Aside from the fact that we drove off & left our guide—who didn’t catch up to us until we’d sat at the French-Italian border for an hour—was pretty good. It was worth the money just to get off the ship. We crossed the Franco-Italian border on foot just far enough to take a quick picture & came back to the bus, safely parked in Italy. From where we were, I could see the odd-shaped mountain that rises over Monaco (Monte Carlo).

Ate lunch in Imperia, a smallish (I’m "small-happy" tonite, aren’t I?) town—the bus parked in the town square, directly across from the gloomy building housing the "Partito Communista Italiene"—Italian Communist Party (Imperia branch).

Back to San Remo by four; we left the bus & fleet landing & headed for a park along the waterfront—Lloyd wanted to get a picture of some palm trees with the Ti in the background.
Another kid came with us—Jack Moore, a good looking kid from Tennessee, minus the drawl. He has, if I may say, beautiful eyes—he’s very dark & his eyes are light blue or grey—you seldom see people like that, & they fascinate me.

We went back later to the same bar & more gin fizz. I was elected to talk to Maria because I can speak a little Spanish. Maria can’t speak Spanish, but we got along, after long struggles with me trying to think of the right word.

Incidentally, I’m getting to be quite a linguist. I can say "sweet wine," "thank you" (Gratzia), "you’re welcome" (Prego), "excuse me" (permisso—pronounced like "pedermeeso"), "good morning/evening" (Buena suerte/sera), & "goodbye." (Arivederche). My spelling is probably as bad as my pronunciation, but I have fun..

On the way back to the ship, Jack pretended he was completely drunk—he does it very well--& whiled away the forty-five minutes we had to wait for a boat by dickering with a peddler over some music boxes. There were about fifteen music boxes on the cart, & Jack had to listen to every single one of them. He ended up buying a Parker 51 pen with his last 1,000 lire.

Now for more news on the European Front. The Lebanese earthquake, I learned from as reliable a source as it is possible to get around here, did hit Baalbek & toppled two of the remaining 6 columns of the Temple of Jupiter, & all the remaining cornice. That is a real shame—they were so beautiful & so unbelievably huge. To think, had it come four days earlier, had we been there four days later, we might have seen it. And I do have some of the last pictures ever taken of them. I don’t know what happened to the Temple of Bacchus—it was just being reconstructed after an earthquake in 1745. Things do happen.

A mere 137 days to go.

Oh, yes—I’m allowing myself one more extravagance while in the Med; a tour is leaving from Valencia (by air) for four days in Madrid. I’m going, if I possibly can.

Well, it’s almost taps, & so I’d better close.

Love

Roge

2006-12-02T04:50:00.000-08:00

23 March 1956

Dear Folks

Arrived today at San Remo, Italy, where the clouds lay like thick grey wool, cutting off the tops of mountains. The sea is very green, & the city itself quite small—scattered along the shore like sown seed.

A steady but invisible rain fell all afternoon, & it is rather cold. Tomorrow I’ll have to go over & see what the town is like. Let’s hope the rain is gone by then. I’ll be going with Lloyd Meyers, one of the kids fresh from boot camp—he’s never seen Europe before. He’s in for a surprise.

Almost nothing doing in the line of work today—a few letters for Mr. Clower &, of course, Field Day this morning.

The movie for this evening was "Deep in My Heart," which I’ve seen twice before & was having its premier at the Radio City Music Hall when I was in New York four years ago. Oh, well—someday I may catch up.

Payday was the 17th, at sea—I drew $39.00 & now have $30 of it left. Actually, only $20—Cou borrowed $10 for his car insurance. Out of that remaining $9, I bought two rolls of film for $7.30, & a tour ticket for $5.00; all of which adds up to $3.30 more than I had to begin with. Oh, well, why fight it? Just goes to prove I can spend money & not even go ashore.

Tonite’s letter will be confined to just this one page, if you don’t mind—I got a book of Robert Benchley I want to start. My cold, in case you’re interested, is still firmly entrenched in my throat, having gained some territory & moved back up to directly in the back of my mouth.

I can always use more stamps, mother—2 cent ones, too, so I can send postcards. Mail closes out at ten o’clock, so with your kind permission I will close now.

Love

Roge

2006-12-01T03:55:00.000-08:00

22 March 1956

Dear Folks

Having eaten just enough shoe-string potatoes to make me never want to see one again, it now comes time to sit down & write today’s entry into the "journal," while my stomach decides whether it wishes to be uncomfortable or not.

A mail call today helped brighten the entire week, even if there was only one letter; plus one from Lief.

Life on the bounding main may have been exceedingly attractive & adventurous at one time, & offered innumerable journalistic possibilities, such as storms at sea, dissension & mutiny among the crew, pirates, scurvy, & sadistic captains. But today, roaming the innards of a 43,000 ton whale, things are different. Storms? We have them occasionally, at which time they are fascinating. But an aircraft carrier lacks some of the cork-like qualities of wooden ship. Dissension? Lot of it, but hardly the type wherein the crew cares to mutiny—& if it did, where could one hide an aircraft carrier? Scurvy? The Chief has a fit if we have less than half a ton of lettuce on board.

Onward & onward & onward. Tomorrow San Remo, Italy. According to reports, it can’t be too much—its main industry being the cultivation of flowers. In a way, that is good—that way perhaps some of us can save money. Being located almost exactly between Nice & Genoa, the "girls" of both cities will no doubt drop over, to renew old friendships & make new ones.

For some of the men on this cruise, their tours of Europe have been limited to the distance between Fleet Landing & the nearest bar.

After reading mother’s letter, I have decided 1) not to live "off campus" & 2) not be a school teacher.

It is now nine-fifteen. The office is unusually still, with only the sounds of the ship (soft hums & purrs & the tingling vibration). Around me, two chairs by Mr. Clower’s desk—in "railroad" fashion—on the first the book of poetry, open to page 1185 & beneath it a dictionary. The telephone, with its hook on backwards (no wonder it’s been so quiet). On the desks, two stained coffee cups, several ashtrays with the mangled bodies of cigarettes—many, many papers, all scattered about, very un-military; one pair of shoes in Coutre’s basket (under "Incoming"); one glass of pencil stubs of varying sizes & sharpness); & one can of "Betty Lou Shoestring Potatoes"—oogh!

Tomorrow is also Friday—field day—when the office will be cleaned & scrubbed so that no one will come in and look at it, anyway. Well, it needs cleaning. This will be the first time in three weeks.

Now, with your kind permission, it is time to close.

Love

Roge

P.S. Did you notice, not a single "first person" (excluding three "me"’s).

2006-11-30T04:45:00.000-08:00

21 March 1956

Dear Folks

Every night about this time the Chief & I go through a little office ritual I call "the battle of the pen." There are numerous pens in the office, but most of them don’t work--& of the ones that do, the Chief has a favorite. Since it writes a little heavier, I use it too. Do you think he would use any other pen? No, he would not. Reminds me of our seating arrangements at the table at home. I used to get so irritated by father’s insistence that we sit in the same place, night after night. I remember one night when I beat him to the supper table & moved my glass over to "his" spot. We both nearly had fits—dad insisting I move & me not being able to understand why he had to sit in that exact spot! Ah, what fun.

Up at 0510 this morning, much to my regret. Replenishment went off exceedingly well; we loaded 168 tons in just two hours.

Read some more poetry this evening—I am now 1083 pages deep into it. I’ve come to the conclusion that I like poetry very much—IF it rhymes or has a rhythm, & if it comes out & tells what it wants to, & is not so distorted or loftily symbolic that it takes a slide rule to figure it out.

The modern poets (I’m up to Robert Frost) seem to ramble too much, or try so hard to make it crash & bang that it wears you out before you’re halfway through. From tonight’s reading, I especially like an excerpt from George Santayana—

For some are born to be beatified
By anguish, & by grievous penance done;
And some, to furnish forth the age’s pride,
And to be praised of men beneath the sun.
And some are born to stand perplexed aside
From so much sorrow—of whom I am one.

I like it all except for the "sorrow" part—I’d substitute "confusion", if it would fit the metrical scheme, in which I am not the least bit interested.

I’ve been thinking, lately, about becoming a teacher. Oh, not of sniffly-nosed little fourth-graders, but of High School or college. Why, I don’t know—maybe because that is about the only way I can talk for hours without interruption. Yet, somehow, I have a dread of it. Of course, I have no doubt I’d be kicked out of a school as fast as I got in, & labeled anything from "extremely liberal" to "downright fanatic." I would, no doubt, be what my students label a "character." There’s something fatalistic about the whole idea. But if, as I hope, I am t become a free-lance writer, what I do for eating money? Oh, well, I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them

144 days left. Oh, how tired you must be, listening to me slowly tick off the days like an old clock. The days past are nothing—garbled memories stacked, with more pattern than I realize, in the front of my brain. But the days ahead—one tomorrow is farther away than a thousand yesterdays.

Tell me—do you think I’ll ever be a writer? Or do my thoughts run onto the paper like dead may-flies on a bridge. While I’m thinking these thoughts, they’re alive—I hear myself thinking, speaking the words very distinctly in a voice of silence. But once they hit the paper, they are as dead and meaningless as yesterday.

Why do people ask opinions when they will only be willing to accept one answer? Still, what do I expect you to say? You are too busy living your own lives & thinking your own thoughts (not just you—everybody) to bother with mine.

And yet, if I could just effect a "breakthrough"; if people said "Why, that’s exactly the same was I feel (or think)," then we could all unlock our minds—not to let our secrets out, but to let the fresh air in.

I find it almost impossible not to "do unto others what you would have done unto you." That isn’t particularly conducive to success in this "survival of the fittest" world.

Maybe I should teach philosophy? Heavens, no! I’d have everyone in the madhouse.

Oh, well….

Love

Roge

2006-11-29T03:44:00.000-08:00

20 March 1956
145 B.D.

Dear Folks

I’ll start this letter, but know it will be a short one, for any minute now Cou will come roaring in the door & we shall all begin running around like something out a Max Sennett (spelling) chase scene.

Tomorrow, one hundred & sixty-eight tons of food will pass from one ship to another—the Ti on the receiving end, for a change. I’ll have to get up at 0500 for the occasion, though I’d as soon stay in bed.

We are, supposedly, operating with NATO forces in some sort of exercise, though I haven’t seen a single ship other than ourselves.

It has suddenly become 2030 (8:30 p.m.) & I’m still waiting for something to do. No doubt the fun will start around 9:00, & the festivities will stretch far into the night. I may not even bother going to bed tonite—who knows.

Just sitting here, picking my nose (a nasty but necessary habit if I wish to breathe), wondering what to say next. Something will probably come up.

Daydreaming of coming home again. Neither of you are home from work yet—I unload the car, play with Stormy, & spread all my gear all over the living room, like one of those shops over here.

I’m still debating on whether to send my film home or not. I have a dread fear of them being lost in the mail. Yet if I send them to you, it will be like you were there, too—God knows I’ve got to do something with them—I’ve got 15 rolls now. Oh, well….

If, when we get to either Valencia or Barcelona, they have a tour to Madrid, I’m going to take it. I regret not having much money saved, but can you blame me? Sure wish I had enough to go to Venice!

Took a little time off this evening, earlier, to read some more poetry. I really enjoy some of it—Omar Khayam’s translations & Robert Browning especially. These guys make me feel terribly inferior—I just don’t have the "word power." Oh, I’ve got it all right—you ask me what a word means & two times out of five I’ll give the right definition, but putting it on the other hand—when I know a definition I’ll be damned if I can think of the word I want.

My cold, if not a topic of interest at least one to fill up space until something more intelligent shows up, is still with me. The scene on the Throat front finds the cold moved down to where my neck branches out & becomes my shoulders. Here it is apparently making a last-ditch stand, with the result that every time I swallow, I have the uncomfortable feeling of something being wedged there. There is also a sensitive spot directly above it so that every time I breathe it tickles & I am forced to cough. I tried solving this by not breathing (read in this morning’s "paper" that a guy held his breath for 10 minutes & some seconds. It must have been a lovely funeral), but it didn’t work—which just goes to show what habit will do to you.

Oh, yes—the ship has affected "water hours"—water is turned on only during certain hours. We’ve been gone from home now for almost five months, & never had to worry about it before.
But suddenly everybody "has been exorbitantly wasting water" & they slammed it into effect.
Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that some knucklehead allowed salt water to get into two of our fresh water storage tanks (mentioned it when we were in Beirut).

Just think—after tomorrow we’ll have some food on board! Real American-type food. Which reminds me…

It’s now twenty till ten & still nothing. Now I’m sure I’ll be up all night. Well, back to poetry. More tomorrow.

Love

Roge

2006-11-28T04:32:00.000-08:00

19 March 1956

Dear Folks

A mail call today—in fact, two of them; first one for days. I got the St. Pat’s card, the one from Stormy, & three letters from you (which were as always very welcome).

Dad asked about whether we would join the Sixth Fleet. Father, we are the Sixth Fleet—us, the Lake Champlain (she’s returning to the States this month), & fifteen tin cans. The only really trouble spot we’ll be hitting is Algiers, & we might not even go there, if it gets too bad.

I hope, for the Andersons’ sake, there is no Arab-Israeli war; we haven’t a single battalion over there to protect them.

The last two days at sea have been weird ones—the sea like glass with a silver-grey haze blending sea & sky. Yesterday was beautiful in its "difference"—today was more drab.

A tour is leaving from San Remo to Venice & Milan—four days for only $49.00. Unfortunately, I just can’t afford it, so will go on a one-day Riviera tour. By the time I get home, I shall have traveled both the French & Italian Rivieras from Cannes to Genoa.

Our schedule, unless something unforeseen happens (such as going to war—unlikely—or the bottom of the ship falling out—probably), will be almost exactly as you have it.

Received two rolls of film from Rome & an entry blank to NISC. The film came out excellently. I was a little disappointed to find Northern only offers a minor in Journalism. Oh, well….

Tonight’s movie offering was that all-time classic "Fireman, Save My Child" with Spike Jones. I forced myself to stay away. When I get back to the States, I plan to take every weekend off—Friday nights will be spent at the movies, Saturdays shopping for clothes & at the movies, & Sunday getting my pilot’s license, & going to the movies.

Tomorrow is Tuesday already—Hooray! As of today I have only 146 more days to go.

Let’s see—it’s nine o’clock—have I time to tell you of my last day in Rome? Well, I can try—briefly.

I slept through breakfast & hated to get up for the tour at nine. We went first to the Vatican museum, & the Sistine Chapel. The museum itself is vast, ranging from the modern, pleasantly blended colors in some of the rooms of statuary to the gaudy & over-elaborate Library, whose books are securely locked in cabinets & whose every possible surface is covered with paintings—on the wood, wall, ceilings, & supporting pillars. It would take years to see it all in detail.

In a different section of the museum are the large paintings by Raphael (done when he was between 15 & 18 years old) & other famous painters. And then, into the world-famous Sistine Chapel. Built by Pope Sixtus IV, it is here that the Holy See meets to elect new Popes.

Michaelangelo was contracted to paint a mural on the back wall of the long, high, rectangular room. This he did in two years or so—depicting Judgment Day (I have a feeling I’ve written all this before—but I’ll do it again, for practice). The wall is about fifty feet square, broken only by a single door in the lower right hand corner. Before this wall stands the main altar. In the center of the wall is God, hand raised in passing judgment. He looks young, beautifully muscled. To his right stands Mary, unable now to intercede for the sinners, & about Him stand the Disciples, all with looks of awe & fear. Above Him are the Angels, hovering among clouds. Below is Earth—to the left, a graveyard with the souls & skeletons leaving the graves & ascending into Heaven, amid Angels & cherubs. To the left, Charon (a black, featureless form) rows the dead across into hell.

When he painted them, he made them all completely nude, figuring that no one would have time or need for clothing on Judgment Day. However, even in Michelangelo’s time there were prudes. One critic complained so loudly that Michelangelo was told that the figures would have to be clothed or the entire wall cleaned & begun again. Michelangelo became rightfully fed up & went back home. One of his pupils, trying to save the day, laboriously painted flowing bands of cloth over everybody, including God, which seemed a little presumptuous of him. Michelangelo was finally coaxed back, & when he saw what had happened, he because so furious with the critic that he painted him, naked except for a large snake wrapped around the appropriate places, & with the ears of a jackass, leading the condemned into hell.

The critic rushed at once directly to the Pope, insisting Michelangelo be punished or at least repaint the portrait. The Pope informed him that he was very sorry, but that he had no power whatever over hell.

And there he stands today, over the door in the lower right-hand corner, jackass ears & snake & all, glancing over his right shoulder & leading the souls into Hell….

Yes, I’m sue now I told you all this before. Just in case I haven’t, tell me & I’ll continue. If I have, accept my apologies.

Almost Taps, so I’ll close for now.

Love

Roge

2006-11-27T03:54:00.000-08:00

17-18 March, 1956 (Part 2 0f 2)

One thing being in Europe has taught me, which will not carry over to the states, I hope--& that is: "always haggle." You never enter a cab over here without first establishing how much you’re going to pay. Someone had told me I could get a cab for L1 (one pound, Lebanese)—33 1/3 cents. The cab wanted L1.50 (one pound fifty), which I refused to pay, until I found out that was the cheapest any of them would go. Incidentally, you never tip them either—in Europe, service fees are included in the price.

The telegram Coutre wanted sent contained seven words & cost L15.25 (roughly five dollars & ten cents). Since he hadn’t given me any money at all, my shopping plans took a sudden change for the worse.

After leaving the Post Office, which looks more like a bank on the inside—I wandered down one of the narrow, shop-lined side streets, looking around—shoes, clothes, pots & pans, all hanging outside the shops like weird fruit clusters.

I was inevitably "picked up" by a young man in a brown suit. These boys & young men go around looking for lone tourists, or groups of them, & offer to take you to various bars, shops, & stores—where they get commissions on whatever you buy.

After meandering through several side streets & Indian stores, we found ourselves in the market area—where sides of half-dried meat dangle in front of open butcher shops, & where the streets are filled with broken hand-made crates & vegetable leaves, not to mention large amounts of animal residue & other less tempting items.

Finally found our way (why do I say "our"—he knew where he was going) back to the same shop I’d bought the tablecloth. This time, with what little money I had left, a beautiful blue brocade robe—either for dad or for myself—whichever one of us it fits best (it’s a little large for me).

After than I found a tram headed for the "Ban Militaire"—I think that means "Military Road," but I’m not sure. Tram fare is 5 piastres—about 1 ½ cents. They’re all very narrow, with front & rear platforms (all depends on which way the thing is going) & wooden seats. They’re also electric cabled, & painted an orange-red.

I stood on the rear platform & watched the city go by. At one section, near the poplar-studded campus of the American University, I noticed the stores had advertisements & names in three alphabets—French, Arabic, & another that looked vaguely Russian to me, though it probably was Hebrew or some other Eastern language.

Near the University, a kid in a brown suede jacket & Levi’s got on. He said "Hi" & we got to talking—of course, I’d had a sneaking suspicion he might be American even before he spoke. He was a good looking kid of about nineteen—the kind you see all around you in the States. His dad is an oil engineer in Saudi Arabia—he, too, is going back to the States this fall, to join the Air Corps. They evidently do not draft Americans living over here, but they warn them to return home before they do.

He hopped off the tram near a barber shop—above its red-&-yellow pole the name was scrawled in Arabic--& waved so long. I rode on to the end of the line, where the conductor shifts the electric pole from one cable to another & starts back to town.

I walked down a winding road to where the Corniche ran past the large tent & numerous wagons of the German "Circus Belli." From there I could see the Anderson’s apartment house. In a small store in the same building, I bought two American magazines & went on up to the apartment.

Mrs. Anderson was changing clothes to go to a reception for the President of Lebanon—George had gone back to the USO for the package, which he’d forgotten. Mr. Anderson came in, told me to make myself comfortable, & that they would be back around six. Juliette brought me a Pepsi, & I listened to the radio till George came.

Pat came in a moment later & George & I decided to unpack the clock & put it together before Mr. & Mrs. Anderson got back. That provided an amusing half hour while we tried to get the thing together & running.

Mrs. Anderson had invited one of Pat’s girlfriends & her brother to supper with us. The girl—her name is Sharon, & that’s all I recall—came up immediately—we all talked & ate candy(Delicious) Pat ordered from the store downstairs.

When Mr. & Mrs. Anderson came home, the clock was sitting on an end table, working quite well. Mrs. A was very surprised & pleased, as was Mr. A. He in turn gave both George & me two packets of rare seeds from the Cedars of Lebanon. There are only about five hundred of these trees left in the country—there are rigid laws on exporting or importing any seeds or saplings of these trees. The only reason Mr. A. had any was because he works in forestry. I’ll bring them home with me—I don’t dare mail them. And we will start raising little Cedars of Lebanon in our back yard. Of course, they take 3,000 years to grow, at which time they are 80 feet tall & the second largest trees in the world, next to our own redwoods—they look like this (Very Roughly).

Sharon’s brother John came up (they live in the same building). He’d been out to the ship that afternoon & had an exciting time trying to smuggle four cartons of cigarettes ashore. Since possession of more than two packs is punishable by a nice long jail sentence by the Lebanese government, he was not too anxious to get caught. He’d had them shoved up his shirtsleeves & in his belt—anywhere & everywhere. Waiting to leave the ship, he stood in front of two customs officials—naturally, two packs had to fall down his pant leg & onto the deck. Fortunately, he got in a different boat than they, & was long gone by the time they got ashore.

Mr. Anderson broke out two bottles of champagne & took pictures of us all opening them. We really had a wonderful time.

Supper consisted of tons of spaghetti, an excellent chopped Lebanese salad, two kinds of pie, & other side dishes. I was completely bloated. After supper we all went to the USO (except John, who wasn’t allowed)—it was the Point-Four night to be hosts, & the Andersons & Sharon all had to be there.

We talked & Mrs. Anderson dragged me out to do the Polka, which I haven’t done in years. At about ten thirty, they began removing all the ships’ flags hanging around the room, & left only the Lebanese & American.

Dick Hagenbach had joined us by this time, & you know the rest of the tale.

I really hated to say goodbye to the Andersons—they did more to boost my morale than anything in the world—aside from going home—could have done. Maybe, someday….

Love

Roge

2006-11-26T04:42:00.000-08:00

17-18 March, 1956 (Part 1 of 2)

Dear Folks

Here it is once again the witching hour & your son appears in a flurry of paper & unrelated thoughts. We’ve just passed into a different time zone & gained a valuable hour, which I shall employ tomorrow morning in sleep.

Rumors, having fallen so thick & heavy that they crush themselves to death under their own weight, seem to have risen again, Phoenix-like, to sweep the ship. Something, it would appear, has happened to our catapults, so that we are now unable to launch jet aircraft. In order to repair them, it is necessary to go to a port which has a large crane (for what I haven’t the slightest idea). So, consequently, we are not going to San Remo, but are headed for Naples/Genoa/Gibraltar/Home (check one only). Oh, yes, I neglected one—Liverpool, England.

I have before me a sheath of paper—all the different colors the Commissary Office has to offer. Whether I’ll get to use the rainbow effect tonite or not I don’t know.

My pseudo-cold is getting along famously with my throat. I can just imagine it, peering up out of my esophagus with its bead little eyes, just waiting for me to swallow.

I’m sorry, but sleep is winning the battle of the mind & eyelids—I’ll try to finish tomorrow….

Up fairly early for a Sunday morning (9 a.m.) only to read in the Daily Press that Lebanon has had a series of severe earthquakes, in which 127 people died. Beirut itself was apparently little damaged; most of the force being felt in the southern part & in the Bekka Valley—which I think is the same place I described a few letters ago. I hope Baalbek wasn’t damaged. If it was, I may have some of the very last pictures taken of the "grandest ruins on Earth." I’ve got to write to the Andersons today.

Also read where the U.S. has had another blizzard—Nature seems to be in a bad mood.

Today, in the middle of the Med, she is on her best behavior—sun shining (not her very best A-1 day, but a good one), blue ocean, fairly warm. I spent some time wandering around the flight deck & catwalks, but the wind up that high was cold, so I came back down fairly soon.

My cold was temporarily blasted out of my head last night by an overnight barrage of honks, snorts, & hacks. Let’s hope its defeat is a permanent one, though I doubt it.

Well, I have a little over an hour before the Sunday Afternoon Double Feature starts, so shall we go back to last Wed. & fill in the gaps from morning to late evening?

George & I had decided to get the Andersons something as a "token of our appreciation." We bought from the ship’s store a small 1,000-day clock. I typed a note authorizing us to take it ashore & get it through customs, & had it signed by Cdr. Fitzpatrick.

Everybody in the Commissary Department (or office, anyway) was planning on going ashore for one reason or another, & I thought for a minute that I might be "requested" to stay aboard, having been ashore every day but one. Fortunately, no one said anything, & we left the ship at about quarter till two. We had a little trouble getting off—George had the package (wrapped in wax paper & getting white stuff all over his blues) & I was ahead of him, with the note. I was about halfway down the ladder when I realized George wasn’t behind me. The OD had stopped him to ask what was in the box. So I trotted back up, showed him the note, & we got off.

Civilians had been visiting the ship since about eleven that morning, & our liberty boat was half full of them. Up forward, where most of the civilians were, were two women with babies.

Since our new anchorage was far out in the bay, the water was a lot rougher than it is close in. Soon we were plowing through the waves, slapping down on them & sending huge sprays of water all over everyone in the forward part. The women were drenched, as were several Lebanese soldiers & other assorted civilians. The boat slowed down & all of them moved back in the boat so that the hood could be lowered—which gives the whole boat the look of an elongated baby carriage.

Got ashore &, after a brief scuffle with customs officials, a taxi. George had seen Pat at the USO Tuesday night, & told her we’d like to see her folks again before we left; she invited us out again for Wed. afternoon. Neither of us knew their address, so we thought we’d better go to the USO & get it from their records.

Mrs. Anderson was there waiting for us, with their car. Coutre had asked me to send a telegram for him to his sister, whose birthday was Thursday, & I agreed. Also, I wanted to do a little shopping (with the money mother sent me for the call home).

The only place in Beirut where you can send a telegram is the Post Office. I told Mrs. Anderson I’d take a cab there, & come to their apartment later, by tram (streetcar). George would go out to the apartment with Mrs. Anderson.

2006-11-25T04:09:00.000-08:00

16 March 1956

Dear Folks

Gee Whilikers, look—yellow paper. We just got it in today. Can’t say as I’d care to have a suit this color. but it will do for variety as writing paper.

First—general news, mainly about me. Someone is strangling me-from the inside—I’m rather disappointed that it’s turned out to be just an ordinary cold instead of some wonderful new disease. Oh, well, give it time. Aside from my physical condition (which seems to be generally excellent) there isn’t too much to say about your loving son. He eats, moderately & continuously; works—12 to 24 hours a day—writes letters occasionally, & sleeps—a vocation I would like to devote more time to.

The Navy & I are still on speaking terms, but just barely. And speaking of the Navy—I shall wind my way into the main body of the letter by pointing up a glowing symbol of Naval efficiency….

It seems---well, I started to retell the tale, but you can read it in the enclosed Bulletin.

Now, let’s see—to go back to last Wed. morning (the last letter I sent dealt with Wed. night).

At about four o’clock on Wed. morning—though I was too sleepy to know what time it was—reveille was sounded, along with: "Now Flight Quarters—Flight Quarters; set all special sea & anchor details. This is an emergency. Now Flight Quarters…the ship has broken her moorings aft. This is an emergency."

Somehow, the six-to-ten-inch cables mooring us to two floating buoys had broken, & the tide was swinging us around, rear-end-first, directly toward the five destroyers, one tanker & British frigate tied up at the Beirut Dock—about a block away. The Ti is 888 feet long.

Our liberty boats were nosed against us, between us & the dock, trying to push us away. The Ti weighs 43,000 tons.

On & around the dock was pandemonium—the watch standers on the tanker & destroyers looked up to see 888 feet & 43,000 tons swinging slowly toward them. Some of the "cans" sounded G.Q.—battle stations. The tanker, laying inboard of one of the destroyers, broke out all her fire hoses—guys on the flight deck said they could see men pouring out of the hatches—some heading for the dock.

The planes on the flight deck were, fortunately, lined up correctly—engines facing in—for "pinwheel" (since we were so close in & had so little room to move about, we had pulled in bow first & the planes, acting as huge fans, turned us around). Now we hoped they could keep us away from the dock. Even though we were moving slowly, we are so big we would have crushed the destroyer like an eggshell & pushed the tanker into the dock—the result of that could be a terrific fireworks display that could blow all seven American & one British warships out of the water, as well as a good portion of Beirut.

It was the planes who saved the day—but not before our fantail had scraped the destroyer & wrinkled one of her gun mounts so badly she may have to return to the States.

So we pulled up anchor & moved way out, about a ten minute ride.

And where was your son while all this was going on? In his rack, sound asleep.

Speaking of sleep—it’s that time again. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get around to Wed. afternoon & evening.

By Now

Love

Roge

2006-11-24T03:50:00.000-08:00

15 March 1956

Dear Folks

Just a very quick line to let you know I haven’t forgotten you—I don’t know where the time goes, but I’m glad it goes so quickly. I should have written several letters tonight, including this one, but one of the guys from the Personnel Office was showing me some shirts he’d had made over here in Beirut. We got to talking & talking & soon the night was gone. I’ve got to take a shower—not that I need one or anything.

I caught something last night—I don’t know what yet as it’s still in its infancy. Either that or it’s lying there waiting for me to turn my back--& then it will jump in full force.

Last night, before leaving the USO (I’ll tell you all about yesterday when I have more time), I ran into Dick Hagenbach, a former mess cook. He’d been up since 0430 that morning & been drinking since about noon. He asked me to make sure he got back to the ship all right, & I promised I would.

We got into the cab & he passed out completely. He’s a big boy, about 180 or so. Down to fleet landing. Woke him up—got out of the cab. Waited for ten minutes for a boat. Ed Cortright & I got him in the boat all right, & Dick proceeded to pass out again, but he was propped up against the gunwale & in no danger of falling.

Out to the ship—a ten minute ride as compared to the two minutes it took before—very rough, boat crowded. Aside the ship—boat bobbing up & down ten-foot waves. Ted Kakuk, another mess cook who’d come in after us & sat beside me, became violently ill all over the bottom of the boat. I pulled my legs away just in time.

Everybody out but us & a Marine, sound asleep, just behind us & in our way. We (Ed & I) wake him up & ask him to move. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t have to—he’s a Marine! It’s raining. Dick topples over backward into the Marine’s lap. The Marine looks at him. I pull him back into a sitting position. He wakes up. I have his hat in one hand & his ID & Liberty cards in the other. He gets up & tromps over the Marine, almost falls flat stepping over the next seat.

Raining. Boat still bobbing wildly up & down. Dick gets up on the gunwale to step onto the gangway. I’m trying to hold him back. He takes a huge step just as the boat comes up, & steps on the rope buffer about a foot below the gangway. Somebody there grabbed him & gave a jerk just as the boat goes down again. Ed pulls, I push up the ladder. We get on board—none of us salute the OD (Dick couldn’t see him & Ed & I had our hands full). When we get in, Dick takes his liberty card & guides us over to the liberty card box. He can’t get his card in the box (slits are about four inches long, one-half inch high). Ed puts it in for him

Comes now the ladder leading down into the sleeping compartments. Ed on one side, I on the other. Dick starts to goose-step down the stairs ("No, Dick—take little steps—that’s a boy. Baby steps. There we go…") Into the compartment. Fortunately, he sleeps about ten feet from the ladder. Pitch dark. ("Where do you sleep, Dick?") He points with his one finger & leads us over.

Can’t see a thing. ("Ed, go see if you can get a light.") Plop—Dick falls back against some lockers & slides down onto the deck. I can’t even see him. Ed goes off to find a flashlight. One of the guys in the compartment wakes up. ("Hey,--you know where Hagenbach sleeps?"—"Yeah—top rack.") He’ll never make it. I pull him to his feet. ("There’s an empty bottom rack there by his feet." "Thanks.") He’s standing there, head on my shoulder, propped up. I manage to pull his peacoat & tie off. ("Come on, now—let’s walk.") He tries to climb into the top rack. ("No, Dick—we’ll sleep in a bottom one tonite. Come on, now, walk backwards.") Get him over to the rack, turn him around. He falls over & I push him into the rack just before he hits the deck. Ed comes back with a flashlight. ("He’s OK now—thanks, Ed." "Yeah—good night.") I unbutton his pants & manage to wiggle him out of them, taking off his shoes & socks first. The jumper is impossible. I go over to his top rack, fold his pants, lay them on his peacoat, & get a blanket. Cover him up to the waist. ("Good night, Dick." And to bed I go.

And to bed I go.

Love

Roge

2006-11-23T04:35:00.000-08:00

13 March 1956

Dear Folks

Here I am, you errant son, feeling very ashamed of himself for not having written before. We arrived in Beirut last Saturday, & today is the first time I didn’t go ashore. I like Beirut very much, & only wish I had about $300 to spend. My God, you should see some of the beautiful things they have—especially cloth: silks & velvets & brocades. In one store I saw a bolt of pure white silk with a gold brocade—they wanted $9 a yard for it, but in America it would cost at least $15 for the same amount of material. I bought a pretty white rayon scarf with a simple black design for $.75. I also bought (for you both) a beautiful Damascus silk red-&-gold tablecloth, with two napkins of the same design. It’s a bit too elaborate for most American tastes, but I love it--& you can’t buy an oilcloth tablecloth at Kresses for as cheap as I got this!

Sunday evening was spent in an apartment overlooking the Mediterranean sea—with a record player & a family of three—Americans—while below in the streets vendors with baskets of odd-shaped rolls sold their wares to the throngs of turbaned men & women strolling along the "Corniche" (a street running along the ocean front.).

Over 10,000 Americans—all civilians—live in Beirut. They fall into three groups—Embassy workers, Point Four workers, & civilians employed by the vast oil companies of Lebanon & Arabia.

You can’t imagine what it was like—two worlds, completely alien, & yet running nonchalantly along, side by side.

The USO canteen is located in the American-Lebanese Club—the three groups of Americans take turns in furnishing hostesses each night—Mothers, grandmothers, & daughters—they all sit & talk, or dance, & invite us to their homes.

George Le Sage, one of the mess cooks, had met Pat Anderson the first night we arrived. Sunday we saw her there, & she invited us to her home.

Rules of the club insisted that she go by Embassy car & we follow in a cab, which we did. We drove out to the fringes of Beirut, where modern apartments dot the hills next to the skeletons of more buildings going up.

Inside the building-width glass front, a set of marble stairs led to a small, four-person elevator. A man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, stepped off just as we got there. It was Pat’s father, who shook hands with us & said he’d be back shortly, & left. We rode up to the sixth floor, walked down a short hall, & went into the apartment. Pat’s mother was standing in the small vestibule, & we were introduced. We went into the living room while Pat’s mother went to the dining room for some material from which she was making Pat a dress.

The apartment was very nice—gaily painted—there were at least seven rooms, all of them a different color. The furnishings were all American, the family was definitely American, & yet, somehow, the rooms were not. Perhaps one reason was that there were no rugs—the floors were tile. And they seemed rather angular; though actually all rooms are, I suppose.

The view, I’ve mentioned, was beautiful—the building faces the east, & the sea is always changing color with the dawn & sunset.

Pat played some of her records—only a few of them were purchased over here--& we talked.
Mr. Anderson works as a Conservation Engineer for the Point Four Plan. They have been in Lebanon fifteen months—Pat attends an American high school, & is returning to the States this August to finish her senior year & attend college. Mr. & Mrs. Anderson are to follow in September—government workers overseas are given 30 days Home Leave each two years (the travel cost evidently borne by the government, & the leave time beginning upon arrival at their destination).

It felt so good just to talk--& so out of place, as I said before. We got to talking of the Arab-Israeli relations. Mrs. Anderson had some very interesting points---

"You know, when we first came here, I had no idea of what was really going on. Oh, I’d read about it in the papers & I’d always thought ‘Well, isn’t it wonderful that those poor Jews will have a home now.’ But I didn’t realize that when all the Jews moved in, the Arabs had to move out. Mr. Anderson’s driver—one of the men who works for Point Four—had a brother living in Palestine; he had a small store there. One day the police came & told him to leave in two hours or be shot! He got out & they wouldn’t let him take a thing with him.

"These Arabs don’t want to fight—why, I don’t think they could if they wanted to. The Israelis would beat the pants off them. And it just tears my heart out to see some of these little refugee kids wandering around—their little bodies all covered with sores from malnutrition. These poor Arabs, they just look lost—they think that tomorrow they can just walk back home & take up where they left off—they just don’t realize that they don’t have any homes anymore. It’s like you & I had locked our doors one day & gone away, & think we’ll be back someday.

"Yet where can the Jews go? They come from all over the world to their promised land; they’ve never had a real home.

"It’s just a crazy, mixed up, terrible mess. You want to tear somebody’s hair out, but you don’t know whose."

Mr. Anderson came back a while later, & we went up on the roof to take pictures of the people walking along the Corniche. Every Sunday afternoon the people come & just walk along the sea, winding their way slowly up the hill to Pigeon Rock—which Lebanese lovers use for a suicide leap.

We talked some more, & had supper—chicken casserole. They have a Lebanese maid who speaks French (Lebanon was until 1943 a French protectorate) & whose name is Juliette.

We listened to the radio—to BBC & short wave stations all over Europe. We tried to get the Voice of America, but the Russians were jamming it. This "jamming" is cleverly done—the Russians have monitors who listen to the programs as they’re being broadcast—when they hear something they don’t like, they turn on huge oscillators set to the Voice’s frequency—the result is a humming "bzzzuuumbzzuumbzzuum" which completely blocks out every word. We do the same for them every chance we get.

Now, since it’s after taps, I’ll quickly answer your questions. Yes, I am thin—I always have been—no, I’ve not lost weight—any appreciable amount, that is (I’ve gone from 143 to 140); the only reason I know that is that the Andersons had a bathroom scale.

Got your money, mother—I’ll try & call home from Valencia or Barcelona (Spain). Check that date-place list I sent you for the dates we’ll be where.

I now have 13 rolls of film—6 more in the process of delivering & developing. Haven’t sent any home yet.

No, father,--I can not get off 22 days early. I’ll have 43 days on the books, for which I will be paid, but not (NOT) let off early.

Well, got to get to bed—I’m tired.

Love

Roge

P.P.S. The candle is from the catacombs: I don’t recall sending any money.—I think those were ticket stubs. Here’s some Spanish money—worth about 12 cents. Notice the watermark—hold it up to the light to see it.

2006-11-22T04:16:00.000-08:00

9 March 56

Dear Folks

It would appear that my "journal" has recently been shot to hell. I’m sorry, but the days seem to be getting shorter rather than longer. The Commissary Department of the USS Ticonderoga is coming apart at the seams; everyone is walking around on tip-toes lest the roof fall in on everyone. It’s like mother [Note: mom worked for a John Deere sales & service dealership] crediting sales of ten road-movers when they only had four to start with. Oh, well, if somebody stamps their foot down, I’m far too little a bug to get squished.

We left Rhodes this morning—a beautiful day with a chill wind—on our way to Beirut. We’ll arrive there Saturday.

Everyone who is anyone in the Commissary Department is now in the office, voices weighted with impending doom. I find it extremely difficult trying to concentrate amid talk of invoices & surveys & issues.

Got a letter from Effie yesterday—her sister had died the week before, of cancer. Someday it, like scarlet fever, will be a thing of the past, but meanwhile hundreds of thousands of us die without hope.

See what I mean about time flying & all that—another day gone by & yours truly has been busy most of the time. Ship’s Store got a load of candy bars in, which are hoarded & dispensed as generously as gold nuggets.

The brownies are all gone, & I’ll return the box soon, with odds & ends. Tell you what—I’ll send the films home on condition that you only look at them once, & then put them away till I get home. Otherwise, you’ll show them every time someone comes over & be so sick of seeing them you won’t care what they’re of.. Is it a deal?

I was thinking about getting married today—not that I want to or am going to—just thinking about it. I just can’t see myself in the role of dutiful husband. Oh, well…

Last mail call—yesterday or the day before—I got another Science Fiction book from mother—thank you; it’s very good. Wish you could pick up some "Mad" magazines for me; I’d appreciate muchly (a new word I’ve cultivated).

For some reason, I dislike dumping wastebaskets at night—I guess it stems from my old "don’t-say-you-don’t-like-one-thing-better-than-another-because-you-might-hurt-the-other’s-feelings" days. All I know is that I wouldn’t want to be dumped over the side on a very dark night. I’m afraid I was much too much influenced by Peter Rabbit—I don’t like to hurt anything.
Tomorrow we anchor off Beirut—the furthest point we’ll get beyond home. Three months from today we’ll be on our way home.

According to the magazines & newspapers we occasionally see from the States, I am missing myriads of good movies, including "Carousel"—Rodgers & Hammerstein—from which comes "You’ll Never Walk Alone." Well, maybe I can catch them third-time-around at the Rialto or Capitol.

You still haven’t told me what’s new in Rockford—any new buildings downtown? Is Jackie Fearn still planning on going to college? If so, when?

I think I’ll try to live off campus this time—get a room somewhere, where I can be all by myself & do whatever I want to with nobody to bother me, unless I want them to. All I think about lately is college. Hope I’m not building up too much of a dream so that I’ll be disillusioned when I finally get back.

Enclosed is a cartoon I got from Coutre—his wife sent it to him. Oh, yes, did I mention I comshawed (somewhere between "borrowed" & "stole") a large map of the U.S. & plotted my way home? I didn’t get the exact mileage, & won’t have a chance now because someone stole it from me, but I got all the routes & towns. I’d appreciate dad getting me a map from some gas station—the Eastern U.S.—that way I’ll have something to trace out & look at every now & then.

Today’s "Daily Press" listed the top ten songs on the Hit Parade—I haven’t heard a single one of them

Say, mother—there’s a record I’d like to have you get for me—I’ll send the money—it’s "Tchaikovski Fantasy"-all the themes from his works—really beautiful. I heard it this morning over the BBC

Everywhere is America—the Armed Forces Network broadcasts all over Europe from Frankfort, Germany. It seems so odd to hear them say: "Weather forecast for today is mild, with some rain in Northern France & the Low Countries—Italy cloudy & slightly warmer…" or "Come to beautiful Bertschesgarten—a holiday you can afford & will long remember." Remember Bertschesgarten? Used to belong to some guy named Hitler. Why is it we forget some things so soon & remember others so long?

Incidentally, save the Life Magazines, if you still get them. I very seldom get to see one & miss them.

The office looks like something from the burning of Atlanta sequence in Gone with the Wind. Gettysburg could hardly have been more littered. Miles of adding machine tape, acres of cigarette ashes, scissors, magazines, paper coffee cups, clothes, pencils, notebooks, etc. More fun. And to think, it’s only ten thirty.

Conrad insists on walking around with his teeth half out. I looked out my little window this afternoon to see Conrad leaning nonchalantly against the rack of foam cans (for fire fighting), his mouth half open & his upper teeth sticking out even with his upper lip. He looked like a horse. I looked away, quickly.

Well, enough for now. I’ll try & be better in the future.

Love

Roge

2006-11-21T04:48:00.000-08:00

5 March 1956

Dear Folks

Last night, after a landslide receipt of mail (your letters of the 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, two manila envelopes—one of mangled cocoa packets & the other contained on Science Fiction book; one large box of brownies (excellent), one letter from Ann Margason, one dated Feb. 24, 1483 & signed by "Richard, Duke of Gloucester"—return address 910 Windsor Road; two rolls of developed film, & one photograph—8 x 10—of the interior of St. Peter’s Church in Rome). I started a letter. However, by the time I finished reading it all—including a Reader’s Digest I neglected to mention & merely glanced at—it was time to go to bed. Somehow, between then & now, the letter became lost. So here I am—"and here’s the show."

Yesterday, Nature came out with her beautiful 1956 Spring model, featuring deep blue skies (neatly offset by attractive sheep-wool clouds), a brilliantly polished sun, and neutral temperatures (which are the very best kind, for that is when the body is not aware that there is any temperature).

Rhodes is a clean, pleasant city, whose differences are far more acceptable than most of Europe’s almost-similarities. Turkey can be seen only a short distance across the straits, & its influence is apparent in the minarets of several mosques, the style of several buildings, & certain fashions—especially the white headdress of the women. These headdresses are like shawls; over the head & then one end wrapped around the face like a veil.

I think I had more fun yesterday in Rhodes than I have anywhere in Europe. We (Carl Greiner—an ex NavCad--& I) rented two bicycles & went peddling all over the city. I couldn’t help laughing just for the joy of laughing. Up hills, down hills, into the narrow, stone streets of the walled Old City—through parks & down tree-lined residential streets of stone homes; my cameras (both of them) bouncing in my lap—my new one was around my lap.

Rhodes could best be described as "picturesque"—I like it very much, though I don’t think I’d care to live here. We hated to turn the bicycles in.

Everywhere we went—on bicycle & on foot, kids run after us—"Cigarette for Poppa—Cigarette for Poppa." The people are very friendly & seem to like Americans—a pleasant surprise.

The USO was doing a thriving business—feeding almost 5000 men from the Ti, four destroyers, one AK (Supply ship) & the United States Coast Guard Ship Courier—a radio ship broadcasting to communist countries. Unfortunately, the entire expense for all that food, & the food itself, is borne by the Ti. And we can’t afford it, in the shape we’re in.

We returned to the ship in time for supper, well pleased with the whole day.

Monday morning I went on the tour. So did about 300 other guys—the largest tour party I’ve seen. It took twelve busses—old, battered & uncomfortable—to hold us all. Three busses did not have English-speaking guides. Ours was one of them.

I sat with Cannon, a guy who had been a yeoman in my barracks at Saufley Field—he’s on board with one of the squadrons.

Once outside the city of Rhodes, which lies at the very tip of the Island of Rhodes, the land becomes mountainous & semi-barren. The hills & mountains are rough & choppy—reminded me of a bunch of solidified waves.

The entire trip, coming & going, we passed only four automobiles. The main source of private transportation are mules, donkey, burros, & jackasses (I can’t tell them apart). Only saw one horse & very few cows—several small flocks of sheep & many goats.

The houses & villages are all white square structures, looking more Arabian than anything. Almost everyone waved at the busses & we waved back.

Some of the villages were merely scatterings of house with flat roofs of grass, & no streets or sidewalks. Only near Rhodes did the houses have peaked roofs.

The scenery, especially where the sea lapped at the mountains, was beautiful—the Mediterranean is definitely the world’s most beautiful sea—greens & blues & greys—liquid colors against the brown of the land.

We passed through one area—the only large level area along the sea, where not a single house stood—only broken ruins—square windows shattered to round holes by explosions.

Someone—odd how quickly the memory of war dies—had built an airfield there (skeletons of planes still lay among the trees) & someone else had pulverized the entire area. Bomb craters gaped between the rows of trees & in the fields. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, there were houses & villages again, all white & unmarked.

Climbing higher in the hills, toward Lindos, the hills burst into color; millions of flowers lay strewn over them like gay Easter eggs. It was one of the prettiest sights I’d seen in Europe.

Lindos was our destination—it nestles at the bottom of a lone hill, standing beside the sea, apart from all the other mountains cluttered in the background. On the top of this hill is the Acropolis of Lindos—temples erected countless years ago by the Greeks who lived in mythology.

The busses stopped at the base, & we climbed through mosaic streets of white & black stones. The top of the hill had been surrounded in the Middle Ages, no doubt, by towering walls, making it a fortress.

But within the fortress stood the temples of the Acropolis—proud columns not of marble but of some light tan porous rock which evidently weathers better than marble. A row of these columns stand at the base of a wide flight of steps, leading to the very top of the Acropolis, where one temple still stands, roofless & without one side, but more real than many of the cheap, dirty cities that came after it. It is built on the very edge of an unguarded cliff which falls away, hundreds of feet, to the restless sea.

The view? Unbelievably beautiful—the water so clear you can see bottom, winding along the shore in white rollers, turning to a shimmering silver in the sun & fading off to a rainbow of blues & greens as the shore recedes & disappears around a mountain.

And whom should I meet, standing on the steps of a Greek temple 8,000 miles from the world we know? A former NavCad buddy, stationed aboard one of the destroyers with us. It isn’t a small world—it’s just crowded.

Almost Taps—I’ve go to close now or I’ll never get this mailed.

Love,

Roge

2006-11-20T04:43:00.000-08:00

U.S.S. Ticonderoga Liberty Boats, Rhodes, Greece, March 1956 Photo courtesy of Dale Royston, V-1 Division

2006-11-20T04:36:00.000-08:00

161 Days
3 March 1956

Dear Folks

Excuse me for not writing yesterday but, with one thing & another, I just didn’t get time. Tonite being Saturday, I’ll no doubt stay up quite late.

We pulled into Rhodes, Greece, today—or rather, we came within a mile of it—that’s how far out we’re anchored. I’ll be able to tell you more about it tomorrow, when I run over to take a quick look. I won’t be able to do much, that’s for sure—I haven’t got a drachma to my name. They were changing money here on ship, but only in multiples of $10.00--& I most certainly can’t afford that. In fact, I have just ten dollars to last me through both Rhodes & Beirut.

Going on tour Monday, & hope to see the site of the Colossus, if there’s anything left to see. The island itself, from what I can see of it, looks like something out of mythology—low hills, looking higher because they rise above the sea, march back in rows of color—becoming more & more purple & misty as they go. Pretty.

The Ti is supporting a USO here in Rhodes—supporting: that means we’re furnishing cooks, mess cooks, & food for as many ships as may come into the harbor. Food is free—now I know I’m going over tomorrow! Ah, don’t I sound cheap?

Second movie just let out (I went to the first one), so this place will probably be crawling in a few minutes—here they come—Cou & John Lanasa—in & out again in search of coffee.

All of which reminds me; I’m hungry.

You know, I keep telling myself I’m going to be a great writer, but I just can’t get started.
Coupled with that is the fact that I don’t care much for my way of writing—it seems too stilted, choppy. Oh, well—I’ll try anyway—I’ll force myself. Starting now.

With your kind permission, I’ll close with

Love

Roge

2006-11-19T04:42:00.000-08:00

1 March 1956

Dear Folks

Just been talking over "old times" with a kid who wants to join the NavCads. I have an awful lot to be proud of—things most other guys would never dream of doing. Up to the point, that is, where they ask "Well how come you quit?"

In my locker I still have a box of stationery from Pensacola & in it an unfinished letter saying I didn’t think I’d be with the NavCads very long.

July 15—that’s an awful long time, Mom—it will have been over a year since I saw you last—that’s a year too long.

I hope you’ve received (probably one with this letter) the two large envelopes I sent yesterday & the day before. You know, at times I think: "Now suppose you got off the boat at Fleet Landing & there were Mom & Dad." Then I think of all the things I’d show you & everything we could do--& wonder if you’d be as thrilled with it all as I’d want you to be.

Let’s face it, parents—you have a weird son. But personally, I’d be bored green to be average.

Chief Sewell & I spent a good two hours today hotly debating whether, if war came & we were cut off in the Mediterranean (it would be very easy—there are only two ways out—Gibraltar & the Suez), & if we had expended our bombs, planes, & fuel, we would surrender the ship intact or scuttle. I claimed that rather give the enemy a potential weapon to be used against us somewhere else, we would most definitely sink ourselves. The Chief contended that we wouldn’t dare sink 200,000,000 dollars of the taxpayer’s money—that we should put into port & surrender, having first disabled all our guns & instruments, in hopes that we’d be able to take it back by force or it would sit in port till the American armies (victorious as ever) should come & recapture it. He claimed I was very stubborn because I couldn’t agree. What do you think?

"What in hell good reason would we have for sinking it?"

"So they couldn’t get it."

"There are 3,000 men on this thing—what are they supposed to do?"

"We have lifeboats & life jackets."

"You know how long they’d last in that water? We haven’t got that many lifeboats to begin with."

"So you’d going to sail blissfully into port & say: ‘Here we are, take us’? Oh, no, Chief. If you were kicking me in the face, I wouldn’t offer you my shoes."

And so on into the night. We finally agreed that we would make a run for it, even if we knew we could never make it, & go down fighting.

The United States Sixth Fleet—consisting entirely of thirty-five ships, including two submarines, & two aircraft carriers, is right now in the awkward position of a sacrificial lamb.

But we only have 107 days until we get back to the good old U.S.; & only 163 until I get out.

Still plowing through poetry—I’m some 746 pages deep now, reading Shelly. I especially like his
Ozymandius

I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast & trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, & sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well that visage read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, & the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings.
Look on my works, ye Mighty, & despair!:"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless & bare,
The lone & level sands stretch far away.

And on that cheerful note, I leave you with

Love

Roge

2006-11-18T04:12:00.000-08:00

28 February 1956

Dear Folks

This one will probably be mailed before the one I started yesterday, because it has the second day in Rome—I’ve got three pages & we haven’t even seen the Pope yet. Do you mind my writing in such detail? I figure that that way, you know everything that went on & it’s sort of like being there yourselves.

Got a very cold, impersonal letter from Northwestern today—not even a letter, just some pamphlets. Tuition, it seems, is $765 a year, & room (you must live on campus) runs from $600 to $900 a year. So I wrote a letter to Northern—I think I’ll go back there. Ask Lief if he’d care to join me?

About the razing I’ve been getting—it isn’t any particular reason, just that this is the Navy & I take it better than most guys. It definitely isn’t because of the Valentine, mother—they got it & appreciated it very much, & as I’ve said before, every letter I get from home they ask you have to say about them. Still no sign of the brownies—the food boxes lasted two nights. Speaking of food…..

Mailing a box of stuff home tonite—I only hope it has enough postage to go air mail. Fortunately, they can’t weigh every package. As for the movies being sent home—yes, I guess I’d better—but I’ll have to write detailed descriptions of everything so you won’t miss out. I’ll send them two at a time so they don’t all get lost together. Store them in a cool, dry place.

Come to think of it, I’ll save myself six cents & mail this along with the rest. Did you ever get those other pictures of the Ti? If not, let me know. The one with the C on it was taken of Augusta bay. Also included is a bunch of stuff on the different ports we’ve hit, some postcards from the Cannes Tour & Sicily, some sugar from the San Remo, etc.

Oh, yes, the other picture was taken just as we left the dear old U.S. & A.

Well, enough for now.

Love,

Roge

2006-11-17T04:36:00.000-08:00

Feb. 27, 1956 (Part 2 of 2)

The main audience chamber is a long, narrow room, the vaulted ceiling in gold as in St. Peter’s. We entered through the green curtains I’d seen from the other room, & were ushered into another "corral" just to the right of the door. Far up at the other end of the room, on a raised dais surrounded by red velvet, stood the Papal throne.

Directly across from us was a huge painting—showing a woman with a sword holding the severed head of a man, while the blood poured from his neck over her feet. This struck me as being slightly out of place in the Vatican, even if it was, as I found out later, supposed to represent Ruth slaying the leader of the Philistines.

The room was rapidly filling up, & a solid mass of people choked the aisle. Into the "pen" across from us, beneath the picture, came a group of young nuns, all looking excited & happy. They wore the tight-fitting headdress that showed plainly their heads must have been shaven.

Still they came—into our enclosure came all sorts of Americans & English, as well as a few French. Three-quarters of the entire Italian Army came pouring in—some wearing the red tasseled caps of the mountain fighters—generals, enlisted men, & all ranks in between.

Civilians—women with black lace handkerchiefs on their heads, from all classes & walks of life.

I can’t imagine where they put them all—more nuns, with huge white Dutch-looking hats, Italian sailors & airmen. A Japanese priest in black & a monk in brown-&-white—more & more & more.

At long last (after an hour and fifteen minutes) the green curtains were drawn & lights went on over the thrown. A hush fell on the people—a quiet, expectant murmur.

The curtains were drawn open & the soldiers in blue & gold entered again—everyone burst into applause. I turned around to see—the Pope, dressed all in white, carried on a sedan-chair by men in red velvet. He was smiling & giving the scooping-upward movement of his hands. He looked old, but not his eighty years.

People holding up rosaries & crucifixes—one of the sailors further down held up the little blond, & the Pope patted him on the head. The soldiers with the red-tasseled hats waved them in the air & yelled something in Italian. Then someone started singing a Latin hymn, & soon everyone took it up. For some reason, it reminded me of the early Christian martyrs being thrown to the lions, singing.

He at last reached the throne, & descended from the sedan-chair & climbed the steps to the throne. Two cardinals appeared from somewhere on either side of him, & someone else placed a microphone before him.

All this I saw by standing on tip-toe & craning my neck, for he was a good half-block away.

When he began to speak, everyone fell silent—he has a soft but powerful voice &, speaking first in Italian, I notice the way he slurred the R’s, as most Italians do. He spoke to each group represented; you could tell which one by the applause.---The soldiers waved their caps & chanted again, & the nuns across the way hopped up & down & clutched their rosaries when he spoke to them. Since it was a predominantly Italian gathering, he spoke at great length to them.

During this time, I got to speaking with an American in civilian clothes—found out he’s in the army stationed somewhere in Germany & was on his way to Naples to visit the grave of his uncle, who was killed during the war. We were getting along quite well when we heard the Pope say: "And now, the Americans…." His English, I am sorry to say, is so broken it was almost impossible to understand him—of course, when one speaks as many languages as the Pope, it is difficult to be perfect in all of them. He welcomed us to Rome, & gave his blessings to all—Catholic & Protestant. And that, unfortunately, is all I was able to understand or remember.
Then he lapsed into French.

After the audience was officially over, with the Papal blessing upon us all, there was a great delay from the time he descended from the throne until I saw him again. Since I couldn’t see what he was doing, I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on.

At last he got into his sedan-chair & was carried back down the aisle, while the people sang the Latin hymn. He was carried past me, & the green curtains closed behind him. When they re-opened, we all filed out.

I & the soldier (his name is Joe Golden) almost got lost in the maze of stairways & passages (we left somehow differently than we’d come in).

When we got outside, I went to the bus & got my camera, & Joe & I went back into St. Peter’s. Had I mentioned that Pope Leo X’s body lies embalmed in a glass coffin in one part of the church?

We left St. Peter’s & walked to the USO for dinner, then decided to go to the Forum to take pictures. It had become quite cloudy as we took a bus (No. 64—cost 25 Lire: 4 cents) to Victor Emanuel Square, which is crowned by the first Italian King’s magnificent monument—the most beautiful building in Rome—in classic style.

By the time we got there, it had started to rain. We got thoroughly soaked running back & forth wondering what to do. Finally settled on going into a bar until it let up.

About an hour later, we decided to try again—we got all the way to the Forum walls (it lies, as I said, in a valley—on one end is a street, quite high above it, & with a wall on one side & the Palatine hill on the other). This time we really got wet. We ran into a building near the head of the Forum & found it was the Carcere Marmitine—the ancient cistern-like jail in which Peter & Paul had been held nine months—we saw the post to which they had been chained & the two-foot hole (there were no stairs in it in those days) through which they’d been lowered—two levels below the street.

Made our way back to the USO for something to eat, & went to the show—some one I’d seen before, but wanted to see again. After the show we found a Restaurant-Bar called The Californian. Very modern & very good food—all American; even the menu had American prices on it. By now it was one a.m., & I was tired.

We agreed to meet at 1:00 the next day at the USO & went our respective ways….

P.S. More tomorrow—I have an acute case of writer’s cramp at the moment.

Love

Roge

2006-11-16T04:44:00.000-08:00

St. Peter's Square, Rome, February 1956 (cropped version below)

2006-11-16T04:28:00.000-08:00

27 Feb. 1956 (Part 1 of 2)

Dear Folks

Just been day-dreaming of home, which is only 167 days away, & yet seems like an eternity (if not longer). No word yet from Northwestern, but I hope to hear from them soon.

I was sitting here tonite, reading Robert Burns ("The best laid plans of mice & men….") & brushing my hair—something I haven’t done in a long time. You should see the floor when I stood up & brushed myself off—it was almost ankle deep in dandruff. Oh, well—ready for the second day in Rome? Here we go----

To sleep in a real bed, between real sheets, is a privilege not enjoyed since Paris—the night the boats stopped running won’t count because it was only for four hours. The buzzing of the phone woke us at 8:00. Peter Paul answered it: "Yeah, he’s getting up now" & hung up. I sat up & said "Who was that?" Nonchalantly putting on his socks, Peter Paul said "I dunno; I couldn’t understand him anyway."

Why I bother taking my electric shaver along I don’t know—it was one of those triangle-of-holes affairs. We washed & dressed & went down to breakfast—two eggs with a strip of bacon dead in the center, cocoa, & bread. From what I could gather by looking out into the street, shady anyway, it was a beautiful day. A notice at the desk said we were to have an audience with the Pope at 0930.

The busses came at 9, & I, my pockets jammed with two rolls of film, two rosaries & a crucifix for the Chief, climbed on board. We drove first to the USO, on the Via della Conseliazione, which looks directly on St. Peters. A block or two behind us on the same street is the round Castle de San Angelo, better known as the Tomb of Adrian . Built by the emperor Adrian as a tomb for himself & all succeeding Emperors, it was turned into a fortress during the middle ages, & is connected to the Vatican by a long, covered passageway like an aqueduct, through which the Pope fled to the safety of the fortress if danger threatened.

While we waited outside the USO, an American woman working there came on the bus & explained the protocol of the audience, & to give us all special tickets, to allow us to enter. It was wonderful to see an American, & to hear her talk to us in a language we could understand. She was very friendly & cheerful, & made us feel much better. She said we had until ten fifteen, & suggested we come into the USO for coffee. "Is it American coffee?" someone asked; the stuff they serve over here is nothing but melted coffee beans.

An American away from Americans is as lost as a week-old puppy; you can’t possibly
imagine what it’s like until you’re in that position—& then you wish you weren’t. That’s why such little things as an American cup of coffee, or hearing an ordinary American voice can mean so much.

Inside, since I don’t care for coffee, I went into the USO. A red-headed woman was there with her three children—one of them the cutest little blond I’ve seen in ages, & a lot of other people, in & out of uniform.

Another group was to leave the USO & walk to the Vatican—we were to drive down & meet them in St. Peter’s Square.

When we arrived in the Square, we had to leave our cameras on the bus. The other group of about forty came along shortly, & we walked to the right-hand arcade. Audience is the correct word for it—there were already over a hundred & fifty people, with more coming all the time.
Our guide, another American girl, took us around on a sort of flanking movement, & brought us up near the head of the line. The group of people we were standing near looked familiar. They were. Americans, naturally. I got to talking with a woman from Detroit.

"We’ve been here two weeks now; we’re going back next week, & I’ll certainly be glad to go." I was saying how it seemed like you could spot an American six blocks away—she agreed. "You know, the other night my friend & I were looking for a nice place to eat, & we stopped in this small restaurant. Well, we’d no sooner gotten in the door when a waiter came over & said ‘Good evening, ladies’ & he showed us to a table & they brought over a little American flag.---And we hadn’t even opened our mouths!"

Ahead of us, standing in the entrance to the building, were the fabled Swiss Guards, dressed in orange & black pantaloons, & carrying a spear as they did 300 years ago—really a sight Behind them were a flight of stairs to rival anything Hollywood has ever produced.

Suddenly someone must have given some sort of signal & everyone began rushing toward the entrance, swarming past the guards & up the stairs—young priests running pell-mell up the stairs, their cloaks puffing out behind them. The long corridor echoed with the scuffling of hundreds of feet. Nuns, Italian women all in black, Americans—two sailors hurried by carrying the kids I’d seen in the USO. Men, young women, old women,--all scurrying up the long steps, like citizens flying from a Sodom, or toward a paradise.

The stairs turned a sharp corner & ended in a large room, heavy hung with Cyclopean tapestries & red velvet curtains. Men in red velvet robes took our tickets, & we headed into penned-in enclosures—the wooden railings were the only thing that kept us from completely flooding the room. On either long wall were immense tapestries depicting various battles—rather incongruous, I thought. Though we’d been told to stay together, we were spread all over. To the right, another door led somewhere I couldn’t see, being masked by heavy green drapes.

A troop of guards, in blue & gold, came marching from a large door center, past me, & out the door to the right. People, among them the woman I’d been talking with, followed the guards.
"Where are they going?" someone asked.

"I don’t know—maybe they’ve got a private audience."

But when a few sailors from our party started drifting after them, I began to suspect that somebody was fouled up somewhere. Our guide came hurrying up, gathering everybody together & told us to follow the stream.

"Now, when you get in the next room, stand by the railing—don’t let anybody shove past you; some of these little nuns & priests get carried away with enthusiasm sometimes & go charging in like football players—but don’t you let them. Hurry, now—everyone else will be going in there in a moment." And with that she vanished into the crowd.

2006-11-15T04:28:00.000-08:00

St. Peter's Square, Rome, Feb. 1956. Me on right, kneeling.

2006-11-15T04:11:00.000-08:00

26 Feb. 1956 (Rome letter, Part 2)

The tour left the hotel at two, stopping first at the Fountain of Trevi—of Three Coins in a Fountain fame. It was beautiful, built into the side of a building. Unfortunately, I was unable to give it the awe & admiration it deserved, because my camera chose this time to stop working.

It still was out of order when we reached the Pantheon, one of the magnificent buildings of ancient Rome. From the outside it is nothing much—a circular building with a large dome.
Inside, it is beautiful—a word which doesn’t nearly approach the correct description.

Built in the latter part of the second century, it was intended to be exactly what its name means—Pantheon, meaning "all gods." Here, in one temple, all the gods of Rome were honored. The dome is a vaulted masterpiece of stone paneling; at the very top of the dome is a hole, though which the gods entered. Rain has fallen through that hole for 2,000 years, & yet the marble floors are unharmed. All around the vast room are niches containing statues of seven of the Roman gods. When Christianity took over, the Pantheon was converted to a Christian church, with the condition that should anything happen to any of the statues—even the smallest chip from a finger or nose, the statue would be removed; & when all the statues are gone, the church will be taken away from the people.

The huge bronze doors—twenty feet high—are the originals; beneath the marble floor lies the tomb of Raphael, the great painter whose works adorn the Vatican.

After the Pantheon, we drove to the Forum—during which time I fixed my camera with a pair of nail clippers.

The Forum—the heart of the Empire, whose legions ruled the known world; where was plotted the murder of Julius Caesar, & where Marc Antony carried Caesar’s body & delivered his funeral oration.

Nestled in a valley flanked by the Capitoline & Palatine hills, the Forum begins with the Arch of Severus Septimus, through which Rome’s mighty legions rode, bringing the wealth of the world to one city. Directly to the left stands the Senate House, the only building still standing complete, stripped of its marble.

A wide boulevard ran down the Forum, with tall columns topped by statues, & lined on either side by magnificent temples & buildings of state. Near the end of the Forum, on the right, stands the remains of the Imperial Palace which looked on its left to the Forum & on its right to the Circus Maximus which could seat 250,000 people. At the very end of the Forum stands the Arch of Titus, bearing the proud words which were the symbol of Rome—"Senatus Populesque Romanus" (The Roman Senate & People). On the left after passing through this arch stand the columns of the Temple of Venus. And then the road spread out & around the Coliseum, that fabulous giant of a ruin—the epitome of Rome. Once completely circular, it was badly decayed when used as a fortress during the Renaissance, & later partly restored by one of the Popes, who placed a cross before the Imperial box—from where so many Christians had been watched die.

The Coliseum to the Vatican, & St. Peter’s church. On this spot, once Vatican Hill, St. Peter had been crucified upside down. Here, in 1216, St. Peter’s church had been begun—the largest in the world. Michaelangelo constructed the dome—502 feet from the floor of the church, without any braces or supports whatever.

In front of the church is St. Peter’s Square, which is actually a circle, surrounded by two curved arcades topped with innumerable statues.

To try & describe the inside of the church would take someone with a far greater power of words than I The first thing that impressed me upon entering was not its size, but its modernness. Not gloomy, like other cathedrals, with cumbersome cold pillars everywhere—but a soft blue-grey with flat columns blended in with the walls. Overhead, the rounded ceiling is all gold. Along the tops of the walls, in niches, stand statues of the saints who founded various religious orders—all in pure dove-grey stone.

The size is difficult to grasp at first, because the proportions are so exquisite.. On either wall, as you enter, two marble cherubs hold a bowl of holy water; these "cherubs" are six feet tall, at least—standing at one side, & looking at the other, they appear very small & delicate. Height can be noticed only by looking at a group of people half an inch high far down from you, & looking up slowly it’s awesome to say the very least. And the most beautiful thing is that none of it is the least gaudy or pompous.

Every cathedral in the world is measured according to St. Peter’s –their length is acknowledged by gold stars on the floor. Even St. Paul’s, in London—the second largest church in the world, would fit nicely inside St. Peter’s. Notre Dame is a good half-distance down St. Peter’s floor.

In the center, beneath the dome, is a coupella (sunken place in the floor) where St. Peter is buried. Behind this stands the main altar. The cathedral, as are all cathedrals, is built in the shape of a cross. It is directly in the center of this cross that the dome rises. Even the dome of our own Capitol building cannot compare with the tremendous height of St. Peter’s. To look up & up & up—it leaves you numb. The dome is the exact measurement of the entire Pantheon—it too has a hole in it, covered by a smaller dome—for our God to enter.

And so back to the hotel for supper. After supper, I went out, alone, to walk around. I’d bought an American paper—the Rome American Daily, & found out there were two theaters in Rome showing American movies with American voices. It only took two hours of walking to find it—tucked away on some side street—3 Via Nicolo de Tolino, to be exact. The name of the movie was Rebel Without a Cause with James Dean. I enjoyed it immensely; the theater itself was the nicest I’ve seen in Europe—nicer, even, than some back home. They permit smoking, there are no intermissions every ten minutes, & no one comes up the aisle selling pop & toasted almonds. No cartoon, & the newsreel was in Italian, as was a commercial for Motta bread.

Tickets cost 700 Lire ($1.13, roughly) & seats are assigned. Still nice, though. Of course, if you come in in the middle of the movie, you may find your seat sold from under you at the beginning of the next showing.

Well, this is one day—I haven’t time to finish tonite—will write more later.

Love

Roge

2006-11-14T04:13:00.000-08:00

Postcard Dated 25 Feb. 1956 and Postmarked "U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA 14, Feb. 27. 1956, 9 a.m." Subject: Vatican City

Dear Folks

This, as you may gather if you read five different languages, is the Vatican, with St. Peter’s in the back.

I’ve already gone over my trip with a fine tooth comb & therefore won’t add anything now, except maybe by looking at the people entering & then at the dome, you might get an idea of the immensity of it. Home soon.

Love,

Roge

26 Feb. 1956 (Part 1 of 2)

Dear Folks

First for the "general news:--this is the first letter I’ve written since before Rome. Yes, dad, I did get the letter about the car—I’m sure I’d mentioned it before. Waiting for me when I got back were two of the food boxes—the ones with the two boxes of pretzels in them. Still no sign of the brownies. Today is Sunday, so I went to a double feature this afternoon; this evening will be dedicated to letter writing. My eyes are a little tired, but otherwise I’m fine.

Oh, yes—it’s definite now—we are not going North, but we are staying over here till June. We’re making another round of the Cannes-Naples circuit, & adding Tangiers N. Africa to it. Oh, well, why should I sweat it? I only have 168 days to go.

Give Lirf my regards next time you see him. It’s getting bad when your best friend has been to your house more often than you have!

Now, I suppose, you’d like to hear about Rome. --- You wouldn’t? Hmmm….

Rome, they say, was not built in a day; nor can it be seen in three. Still, what I did see did much to placate the bad Europe has shown me. Were all Europe like Paris & Rome, it wouldn’t be nearly so unbearable.

Four thirty is far too early for any sensible person to even consider getting up, so I did. My bag had been packed the night before & left in the office, along with all the accessories I thought I’d need, so that when the time came to go all I’d forgotten was my ticket.

Off the boat & on the beach at six thirty, & directly to Naples’ cold, impersonal railway station where, for once, the train was waiting. I was the first one on & grabbed a compartment near the rear of the coach. Odd, but I’m becoming so familiar with European trains that our own will seem odd when I get back to the States.

European trains are much more punctual than movies give them credit for—or maybe I’ve just been lucky.

One of the greatest differences between Europe & America---one so common in the latter & so rare in the former that I’d never noticed it, was the presence of large patches of rolling green fields & hills. It was the first green, aside from the trees & occasional gardens, I’d seen since we arrived—it was beautiful, & for a moment I though it was America. Then we pulled into some small town with a railroad yards & I noticed those weird little freight trains that couldn’t fool anybody—the box cars look like loaves of bread on wheels, the tank cars like chunks of salami, & the ore cars like cookie boxes. Why they’re made so small is beyond me.

Between Naples & Rome, running along the right-hand (inland) side runs a ridge of mountains, some of them massive & jagged, others round & sloping. Whenever one got in the way, instead of going over or around, the train went under. Over the flatland stretching away between the mountains & the sea, the sun shined pleasantly, watching a bunch of sheep-clouds moving toward the mountains, where they bunched together & became mists & gloomy-looking sheets.

The mountains drew further back inland, & we began to see ancient brown towers, standing alone in the midst of fields. And then broken fragments of the famous aqueducts which had carried water from the mountains to Rome. They approached from the right, swept in & crossed the tracks, then ran parallel & almost next to the tracks. The arches filled in & solid brown walls raced along with the train. And then we were in the station.

Rome’s railway station is a huge, ultramodern affair with a long arcade of shops running its entire width. The walk from our train to the busses outside the station was longer than the ride from the station to the hotel, which is on a shady side street abut five blocks away. There were two hotels, actually—the Universal on one side of the street, & the San Remo on the other. We went to the San Remo, which is smaller but nice, & fairly modern.

Off to the left of the small lobby is a sort of lounge, which leads into the dining room. The rooms—ours at least—was nothing spectacular, but adequate—two beds with a stand between, a wardrobe, two chairs, & a desk. The view was of the center court, where all the other windows look blankly at one another.

Lunch (it was now 11:40) was the same one I’d eaten in Paris, Naples, & every other tour I’ve gone on—spaghetti, beef & potatoes, greens, cheese, fruit. After lunch Peter Paul & I walked around a bit; we found a museum built partly in an old Roman basilica. Snow still lay in the courtyards, which were lined with broken statues, & friezes, fountains & frescoes. It struck me as if they were almost ashamed to be there—like a proud old man in a poorhouse.

2006-11-13T04:18:00.000-08:00

19 & 20 Feb. 1956

Dear Folks

Got your letter mailed the 14th, which said you got my package—I’m glad you liked everything, & hope none of it was broken or spilled. The robe & Ching Chong 2 came from Gibraltar, as did the tapestry & pipes.

I never was able to figure out what Ching Chong 2 is carrying—a wine sack is most likely. I couldn’t figure out what else you might like or could use. This one shouldn’t have a crack in it as the first one did. If you like you can call one Ching & the other Chong—saves confusion.

Slept today till eleven; something I’d like to do more often. Can’t seem to concentrate tonight—an annoying habit.

I’ve learned by now that if you can’t fight ‘em, sometimes it’s just as well to join ‘em; so I’ll start again this morning.

Coutre met a buddy of his in Naples, just over from the States. They know all about us over there. We’ve had more courts-martial than any other ship in the fleet, gotten into more trouble than any five other ships, lost more planes & pilots, & cost the government more money than any other carrier we have. He says if anyone causes any trouble in Norfolk they usually stop it by threatening to put them on the Ticonderoga! Oh, well, we have fun.

Had trouble with my camera today—the door got stuck shut. I was taking pictures of flight operations (including landings as seen from directly underneath, on the fantail--& real bombings). But I guess all that film was ruined.

Showed movies all night tonite & now I’ve got to close. Rome tomorrow.

Bye Now

Love

Roge

P.S. Enclosed are some pictures taken at Syracuse, Sicily, & Catania.

Photographs I took in Syracuse, Sicily. Date unknown

This is the amphitheater of Syracuse, where gladiators fought each other & lions fed. The gladiators entered through the arch in the back—where the two men are--& exited, if alive, through another arch directly across from it & out of the picture. The lions entered through the dark holes on either side of the men; the pool in the center held water to wash the blood from the arena.

And here is the great Theatre of Syracuse carved out of solid rock. The stage was covered in marble. The deep ridges in back supported a stage that could raise or lower by water pressure.
At the top & in the back (out of the picture) is a large ridge into which rooms were cut for the wealthy to rest on hot days