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
Friday, November 24, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
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
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
Monday, November 20, 2006
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
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
Sunday, November 19, 2006
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
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
Saturday, November 18, 2006
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
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
Friday, November 17, 2006
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
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
Thursday, November 16, 2006
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.
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
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.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, November 13, 2006
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
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
Sunday, November 12, 2006
18 February 1956
Tonight am Armed Forces Entertainment group came aboard to present a sort of musical variety show called "Go West Young Man." Most of them are English & some, I suspect, French; but they sang & danced to American songs & wore western costumes. They were not, by far, the most polished of theatrical troupes, but they certainly boosted the morale of a bunch of America-sick sailors. They had eight girls, two of whom I fell in love with—both brunettes, for a change; it was wonderful to look at some half-civilized women after these plain rag dolls one sees here in Europe. At the moment they’re eating cake & drinking coffee on the mess deck after the show, but naturally the MAAs are out in force to keep the peons away.
I had toyed with the idea of going ashore today—Nick & Cou did—but changed my mind to save money for Rome. Even at that, I’ll only have thirty dollars to take with me.
Peter Paul caught me on the ladder leading from the after mess deck to inform me he was all ready to go, except for getting Lire exchanged.
"I'm gonna take along just one pair of blue pants, & a pair of dungarees to sit around in at night. We won't want to wear blues all day & all night, too."
Now, just what he means by that, I have no idea. I can't imagine what he thinks we'll be doing just 'sitting around,' but for myself, I plan to do other things than sit in a hotel room & stare at four blank walls & Peter Paul's face.
Ah, woe is me….
A moment’s reflection on my health shows that, aside from a case of the snorts, my cold remains firmly entrenched somewhere between my nose & the top of my head. While walking down a passageway this afternoon, I rammed the back of my hand—just below the base knuckle of my middle finger—into a hatch-dog. Now the whole hand hurts, especially when I move my fingers. However, if that is all I ever have to worry about, it will be all right.
Yesterday we had a vendor come aboard to sell us 400,000 pounds of flour, tons of meat, & a great quantity of cheese. Nick took an immediate dislike to him because he was impatient & carried an umbrella (he was quite young, wore large glasses & one of those hideous horse blankets they have the audacity to call overcoats). With him was his assistant, or side-kick, or accomplice, or whatever, equally well attired. This one spoke no English & looked as though he’d just gotten out of school.
The Commander’s signature was required on one of the contracts, & the Commander himself was in his stateroom, sleeping. "When will the Commander wake up? When will he be able to sign the papers?"
We tried to explain that one does not go bounding into a Commander’s stateroom gaily waving a set of contracts, but it didn’t seem to penetrate. Finally, saying he had business ashore but that he would return shortly, he took his umbrella & departed, leaving his cohort to hold down the fort. So he sat. I looked at Nick; looked at the kid, & the kid looked at the floor. Nick brought him a sandwich, which he ate with great relish (it was on an Italian roll we’d gotten that morning). After an hour or so, he decided "I go." Cou had called from the Supply Office to hold him there. It took us awhile, but we finally got it across that he was to "wait for our boss."
The umbrella man came back at last & said for Nick to tear up all the contracts. Then he & his friend left.
Mr. Clower came in shortly after & said he’d found out that they were not affiliated with any government recognized suppliers—that they’d been fired six weeks before.
Nick was pleased. Then, as an afterthought, he said: "And to think I gave that crumb a sandwich."
Tonight am Armed Forces Entertainment group came aboard to present a sort of musical variety show called "Go West Young Man." Most of them are English & some, I suspect, French; but they sang & danced to American songs & wore western costumes. They were not, by far, the most polished of theatrical troupes, but they certainly boosted the morale of a bunch of America-sick sailors. They had eight girls, two of whom I fell in love with—both brunettes, for a change; it was wonderful to look at some half-civilized women after these plain rag dolls one sees here in Europe. At the moment they’re eating cake & drinking coffee on the mess deck after the show, but naturally the MAAs are out in force to keep the peons away.
I had toyed with the idea of going ashore today—Nick & Cou did—but changed my mind to save money for Rome. Even at that, I’ll only have thirty dollars to take with me.
Peter Paul caught me on the ladder leading from the after mess deck to inform me he was all ready to go, except for getting Lire exchanged.
"I'm gonna take along just one pair of blue pants, & a pair of dungarees to sit around in at night. We won't want to wear blues all day & all night, too."
Now, just what he means by that, I have no idea. I can't imagine what he thinks we'll be doing just 'sitting around,' but for myself, I plan to do other things than sit in a hotel room & stare at four blank walls & Peter Paul's face.
Ah, woe is me….
A moment’s reflection on my health shows that, aside from a case of the snorts, my cold remains firmly entrenched somewhere between my nose & the top of my head. While walking down a passageway this afternoon, I rammed the back of my hand—just below the base knuckle of my middle finger—into a hatch-dog. Now the whole hand hurts, especially when I move my fingers. However, if that is all I ever have to worry about, it will be all right.
Yesterday we had a vendor come aboard to sell us 400,000 pounds of flour, tons of meat, & a great quantity of cheese. Nick took an immediate dislike to him because he was impatient & carried an umbrella (he was quite young, wore large glasses & one of those hideous horse blankets they have the audacity to call overcoats). With him was his assistant, or side-kick, or accomplice, or whatever, equally well attired. This one spoke no English & looked as though he’d just gotten out of school.
The Commander’s signature was required on one of the contracts, & the Commander himself was in his stateroom, sleeping. "When will the Commander wake up? When will he be able to sign the papers?"
We tried to explain that one does not go bounding into a Commander’s stateroom gaily waving a set of contracts, but it didn’t seem to penetrate. Finally, saying he had business ashore but that he would return shortly, he took his umbrella & departed, leaving his cohort to hold down the fort. So he sat. I looked at Nick; looked at the kid, & the kid looked at the floor. Nick brought him a sandwich, which he ate with great relish (it was on an Italian roll we’d gotten that morning). After an hour or so, he decided "I go." Cou had called from the Supply Office to hold him there. It took us awhile, but we finally got it across that he was to "wait for our boss."
The umbrella man came back at last & said for Nick to tear up all the contracts. Then he & his friend left.
Mr. Clower came in shortly after & said he’d found out that they were not affiliated with any government recognized suppliers—that they’d been fired six weeks before.
Nick was pleased. Then, as an afterthought, he said: "And to think I gave that crumb a sandwich."
Saturday, November 11, 2006
16 February, 1956
At one thirty this morning, I was awakened by a flickering light. It was Andy & Nick, who said "We brung ya sum’m" & plopped onto my bed one pepper shaker, four matched glasses (two large & two small), three rolls, & an orange ("Thought you might be hungry"). Andy recanted & took one of the rolls back "For Dickie-Poo" (North). I thanked them profusely, & they staggered off to bed.
About a week ago, the Captain spoke over the loudspeaker about our outrageous shore-patrol record, & concluded with "let’s make our stay at Naples one without a single bad report." Out of the five report chits handed out last night, four were from S-2 Division.
So today the ax fell. The Captain spoke again—this time not so cajoling, with the warning that from this moment on, Gestapo techniques by the Shore Patrol would not only be condoned, but encouraged. Every night twenty officers & thirty petty-officers without Shore Patrol brossards, would patrol the city & send anyone they thought might get into trouble back to the ship. If this does not work, we will avoid liberty troubles by curtailing liberty.
And knowing the dear old Ti as I do, we are very likely to sit out the rest of our cruise. My loathing for the Navy has not abated in the least.
Perhaps, just to get out & walk around, I might go over this Saturday, but I doubt it very much. It all depends on the weather, & how I feel (mood, not physically). I’ve had one of those annoying "snort" type colds for several weeks now—slowly driving me nuts.
Time out for a cup of chicken soup—it looks hideous but tastes very good. Fresh milk coming aboard tomorrow—the Navy has a farm it maintains by U.S. Government standards for the Naval Air Station & some of the 10,000 Americans in & around Naples.
An hour & a half & one chicken breast later, it is now after taps, & I’d better get into the rack. Had a most realistic dream (in Technicolor) of the Ti sinking—I was just ready to jump off when I woke up. Maybe I can continue it tonite. We shall soon see….
At one thirty this morning, I was awakened by a flickering light. It was Andy & Nick, who said "We brung ya sum’m" & plopped onto my bed one pepper shaker, four matched glasses (two large & two small), three rolls, & an orange ("Thought you might be hungry"). Andy recanted & took one of the rolls back "For Dickie-Poo" (North). I thanked them profusely, & they staggered off to bed.
About a week ago, the Captain spoke over the loudspeaker about our outrageous shore-patrol record, & concluded with "let’s make our stay at Naples one without a single bad report." Out of the five report chits handed out last night, four were from S-2 Division.
So today the ax fell. The Captain spoke again—this time not so cajoling, with the warning that from this moment on, Gestapo techniques by the Shore Patrol would not only be condoned, but encouraged. Every night twenty officers & thirty petty-officers without Shore Patrol brossards, would patrol the city & send anyone they thought might get into trouble back to the ship. If this does not work, we will avoid liberty troubles by curtailing liberty.
And knowing the dear old Ti as I do, we are very likely to sit out the rest of our cruise. My loathing for the Navy has not abated in the least.
Perhaps, just to get out & walk around, I might go over this Saturday, but I doubt it very much. It all depends on the weather, & how I feel (mood, not physically). I’ve had one of those annoying "snort" type colds for several weeks now—slowly driving me nuts.
Time out for a cup of chicken soup—it looks hideous but tastes very good. Fresh milk coming aboard tomorrow—the Navy has a farm it maintains by U.S. Government standards for the Naval Air Station & some of the 10,000 Americans in & around Naples.
An hour & a half & one chicken breast later, it is now after taps, & I’d better get into the rack. Had a most realistic dream (in Technicolor) of the Ti sinking—I was just ready to jump off when I woke up. Maybe I can continue it tonite. We shall soon see….
Friday, November 10, 2006
15 Feb. 1956
Dear Folks
Something is not as it should be—either the mail is fouled up or you aren’t writing every day. How did I reach this conclusion? We were at sea for seven days without a mail call, & when we finally had one, last night & this morning, I got three letters. See what I mean?
Got paid today, as well as a Cholera shot they gave out with each pay chit—sneaky of them. It felt so good to have real honest-to-goodness money for a change. I ran out (or rather "down") to the ship’s store & bought four rolls of film—at $3.65 (up 40 cents from last time) a roll, which should last me through Rome.
Vesuvius was beautiful today—when it could be seen at all—pure white & towering over the city larger than it ever did before. Snow almost all day—thick, heavy flakes. Some guys built a snow-woman on the Number 2 elevator, while others threw snowballs into the water.
Because a strong wind was driving the ship into the sea wall to which we’re moored, all the hangar bay doors were opened to allow the wind to pass through. Needless to say, it was a wee bit chilly.
According the chart you sent, I owe the government $7.46, which I will not pay until they ask me for it.
Nick, Cou & Andy went out early this afternoon for the express purpose of getting smashed drunk. Last time Andy & Cou went out, they came back with a bar stool. They had another chair picked up from a sidewalk café, but the owner caught them at fleet landing & they had to give it back.
Nick, I’ve found out, is very bitter toward the Navy (who isn’t?) because when he finished boot camp he asked to be sent to communications school & someone told him he couldn’t go because he is a security risk (his father was born in Russia).
We only have five more ports to hit—excluding the NATO cruise—before heading home—Rhodes, Beirut, San Remo, Valencia, & Barcelona.
I asked Andy to steal me something this time. He was highly indignant. Last time he woke everyone in the cook’s compartment one by one & ceremoniously presented each of them a peanut. Coutre will be hell in the morning, & I don’t expect to see Nick much before noon.
Oh, well….
Till next time
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
Something is not as it should be—either the mail is fouled up or you aren’t writing every day. How did I reach this conclusion? We were at sea for seven days without a mail call, & when we finally had one, last night & this morning, I got three letters. See what I mean?
Got paid today, as well as a Cholera shot they gave out with each pay chit—sneaky of them. It felt so good to have real honest-to-goodness money for a change. I ran out (or rather "down") to the ship’s store & bought four rolls of film—at $3.65 (up 40 cents from last time) a roll, which should last me through Rome.
Vesuvius was beautiful today—when it could be seen at all—pure white & towering over the city larger than it ever did before. Snow almost all day—thick, heavy flakes. Some guys built a snow-woman on the Number 2 elevator, while others threw snowballs into the water.
Because a strong wind was driving the ship into the sea wall to which we’re moored, all the hangar bay doors were opened to allow the wind to pass through. Needless to say, it was a wee bit chilly.
According the chart you sent, I owe the government $7.46, which I will not pay until they ask me for it.
Nick, Cou & Andy went out early this afternoon for the express purpose of getting smashed drunk. Last time Andy & Cou went out, they came back with a bar stool. They had another chair picked up from a sidewalk café, but the owner caught them at fleet landing & they had to give it back.
Nick, I’ve found out, is very bitter toward the Navy (who isn’t?) because when he finished boot camp he asked to be sent to communications school & someone told him he couldn’t go because he is a security risk (his father was born in Russia).
We only have five more ports to hit—excluding the NATO cruise—before heading home—Rhodes, Beirut, San Remo, Valencia, & Barcelona.
I asked Andy to steal me something this time. He was highly indignant. Last time he woke everyone in the cook’s compartment one by one & ceremoniously presented each of them a peanut. Coutre will be hell in the morning, & I don’t expect to see Nick much before noon.
Oh, well….
Till next time
Love
Roge
Thursday, November 09, 2006
14 February 1956
Dear Folks
Today, as I walked down the passageway on my way from the Photo Lab, I glanced at the tour ticket in my hand & saw, really saw, for the first time, the words "Rome, Italy." For a moment then I regained the thrill of the new, the exciting, & the unknown. But pleasure is so dampened by reality that very little can be really enjoyed in the present—it must wait until it becomes the past, when it can retain some of its magic.
I suppose this is partly coupled by the fact that the view changes, but the house doesn’t. It’s as though you were to get up one morning & step out the door into a completely different city. But when you come back home, everything is the same.
Our brief run from Sardinia to Italy was one of the roughest we’ve ever been through—water rolled back & forth across the hangar deck in tidal waves with the ship’s rolls. It washed into the mail room to a depth of about a foot. One jolt during the noon meal broke half the plates in the Chiefs’ quarters, spilling tables all over the deck.
When I returned to the office after the movie, it had been secured for heavy weather, so I had no chance to write.
This morning service-wide examinations for Petty Officer Third Class were held in Hangar Bay #1. I took the test for AK (Aviation Storekeeper), but I might as well have stayed in the office—having spent only five days in the Aviation Supply Office when I first came aboard, I didn’t know beans.
Tomorrow is payday, thank God! I spent my very last dollar for the tour ticket ($28.00). I haven’t been paid in six weeks.
A batch of new men came aboard tonight, fresh from the States—most of them fresh from Boot Camp. It only took them a month to get here—flying—via Scotland, Heidelberg (Germany), Frankfort (Germany), & Port Leyute (N. Africa).
One of the first purchases I make when getting home will be a tape recorder (Webcor). It will come in very handy for college. Some of the guys have been tormenting me with the thought that they may release me as much as two weeks early. But that would be too much to hope for—they can also hold you 30 days over your discharge date, which is more likely.
Vesuvius, which I hope may someday destroy Naples as completely & more irrevocably than it did Pompeii, is coated in a somber cloak of snow, which makes it look very impressive—sort of like an English judge.
The snows here must have been very bad, as the mountain is white to its very base.
Unless we can buy bread & flour ashore, the USS Ticonderoga is going to be in very poor straights, having only eleven days’ supply of flour left—& our next replenishment is not scheduled until March.
Just finished Milton in the book of Poetry—the poets are in more or less chronological order—I still have three hundred years or so to go. So, "con su permiso"….
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
Today, as I walked down the passageway on my way from the Photo Lab, I glanced at the tour ticket in my hand & saw, really saw, for the first time, the words "Rome, Italy." For a moment then I regained the thrill of the new, the exciting, & the unknown. But pleasure is so dampened by reality that very little can be really enjoyed in the present—it must wait until it becomes the past, when it can retain some of its magic.
I suppose this is partly coupled by the fact that the view changes, but the house doesn’t. It’s as though you were to get up one morning & step out the door into a completely different city. But when you come back home, everything is the same.
Our brief run from Sardinia to Italy was one of the roughest we’ve ever been through—water rolled back & forth across the hangar deck in tidal waves with the ship’s rolls. It washed into the mail room to a depth of about a foot. One jolt during the noon meal broke half the plates in the Chiefs’ quarters, spilling tables all over the deck.
When I returned to the office after the movie, it had been secured for heavy weather, so I had no chance to write.
This morning service-wide examinations for Petty Officer Third Class were held in Hangar Bay #1. I took the test for AK (Aviation Storekeeper), but I might as well have stayed in the office—having spent only five days in the Aviation Supply Office when I first came aboard, I didn’t know beans.
Tomorrow is payday, thank God! I spent my very last dollar for the tour ticket ($28.00). I haven’t been paid in six weeks.
A batch of new men came aboard tonight, fresh from the States—most of them fresh from Boot Camp. It only took them a month to get here—flying—via Scotland, Heidelberg (Germany), Frankfort (Germany), & Port Leyute (N. Africa).
One of the first purchases I make when getting home will be a tape recorder (Webcor). It will come in very handy for college. Some of the guys have been tormenting me with the thought that they may release me as much as two weeks early. But that would be too much to hope for—they can also hold you 30 days over your discharge date, which is more likely.
Vesuvius, which I hope may someday destroy Naples as completely & more irrevocably than it did Pompeii, is coated in a somber cloak of snow, which makes it look very impressive—sort of like an English judge.
The snows here must have been very bad, as the mountain is white to its very base.
Unless we can buy bread & flour ashore, the USS Ticonderoga is going to be in very poor straights, having only eleven days’ supply of flour left—& our next replenishment is not scheduled until March.
Just finished Milton in the book of Poetry—the poets are in more or less chronological order—I still have three hundred years or so to go. So, "con su permiso"….
Love
Roge
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
12 February, 1956
A short day—beginning at about 11:15 this morning, a movie this afternoon, reading & monkeying around this evening, & here we are. Ah, if they all go this fast.
Submitted my request to go to Rome on the 21st. But I have a slight problem. I may have mentioned Peter Paul Kreiger before; he is a stocky blond, rather reminiscent of an ox. He isn’t stupid, but he is almost unbelievably naïve. Several weeks ago he came to me & said "Let’s go to Rome, Roger." I said I didn’t know if I could, though even then I’d planned on it. So, every two or three days he’d ask me again. I kept putting him off & putting him off.
I don’t want to sound like a snob or anything like that, but I like to feel that whatever I want to do, I can. But Peter Paul is the kind who won’t let you move without being right there. To top it all off, we have absolutely nothing in common.. I am also very naïve at times, but not to the obvious extent Peter Paul is. He’s a good kid, & will do anything for you, but he is the proverbial small town boy in the big city.
So tonite I came into the office & here was Peter Paul, making out a tour chit for Rome on the 21st.
"Are you going to Rome, Roger?"
"Yes," I said.
"On the 21st?" I nodded.
"Swell—we’ll have to sort of stick together there, you know, won’t we?"
What can I say? I can’t hurt the poor kid’s feelings, even if I have a miserable time myself. Oh, but I do sound like a snob. I can see us now—I’ll want to spend as much time in the ruins as possible. While standing in the Forum, pondering the glory that was Rome & seeing the great buildings & beautifully-dressed people in my mind’s eye, Peter Paul will say:
"Gee, this is old, isn’t it?"
And nights, when I want to just walk up & down the streets looking in the windows, Peter Paul will be there. Oh, well….
The captain made a little speech over the intercom this evening, saying that the USS Ticonderoga is the worst ship in the Mediterranean Area (by 8 to 1) as far as getting into trouble ashore. What a ship!
The storm of the past few days has completely passed—we are anchored once again off Sardinia, which seems to be our home port. Damage done by the waves was considerable. One sponson deck on the port (left) side, from which our gangway is let down, was twisted up two feet, so that the ladder cannot be lowered. One compartment forward is completely flooded, several more have buckled. I enjoyed the whole thing.
Replenishment yesterday—delayed report—went off with typical Naval efficiency. We ordered 20 cases of skimmed milk & received 207; asked for 400,000 lbs of potatoes & got 21,000.
And so to bed.
Love
Roge
A short day—beginning at about 11:15 this morning, a movie this afternoon, reading & monkeying around this evening, & here we are. Ah, if they all go this fast.
Submitted my request to go to Rome on the 21st. But I have a slight problem. I may have mentioned Peter Paul Kreiger before; he is a stocky blond, rather reminiscent of an ox. He isn’t stupid, but he is almost unbelievably naïve. Several weeks ago he came to me & said "Let’s go to Rome, Roger." I said I didn’t know if I could, though even then I’d planned on it. So, every two or three days he’d ask me again. I kept putting him off & putting him off.
I don’t want to sound like a snob or anything like that, but I like to feel that whatever I want to do, I can. But Peter Paul is the kind who won’t let you move without being right there. To top it all off, we have absolutely nothing in common.. I am also very naïve at times, but not to the obvious extent Peter Paul is. He’s a good kid, & will do anything for you, but he is the proverbial small town boy in the big city.
So tonite I came into the office & here was Peter Paul, making out a tour chit for Rome on the 21st.
"Are you going to Rome, Roger?"
"Yes," I said.
"On the 21st?" I nodded.
"Swell—we’ll have to sort of stick together there, you know, won’t we?"
What can I say? I can’t hurt the poor kid’s feelings, even if I have a miserable time myself. Oh, but I do sound like a snob. I can see us now—I’ll want to spend as much time in the ruins as possible. While standing in the Forum, pondering the glory that was Rome & seeing the great buildings & beautifully-dressed people in my mind’s eye, Peter Paul will say:
"Gee, this is old, isn’t it?"
And nights, when I want to just walk up & down the streets looking in the windows, Peter Paul will be there. Oh, well….
The captain made a little speech over the intercom this evening, saying that the USS Ticonderoga is the worst ship in the Mediterranean Area (by 8 to 1) as far as getting into trouble ashore. What a ship!
The storm of the past few days has completely passed—we are anchored once again off Sardinia, which seems to be our home port. Damage done by the waves was considerable. One sponson deck on the port (left) side, from which our gangway is let down, was twisted up two feet, so that the ladder cannot be lowered. One compartment forward is completely flooded, several more have buckled. I enjoyed the whole thing.
Replenishment yesterday—delayed report—went off with typical Naval efficiency. We ordered 20 cases of skimmed milk & received 207; asked for 400,000 lbs of potatoes & got 21,000.
And so to bed.
Love
Roge
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
11 Feb. 1956
(Dear Folks)
Despite seas that threw the ships so high out of the water that their screws whipped the air, we held replenishment at sea today. It took twelve hours for three ships to come alongside & unload. The rough seas were coupled at times with snow so thick the alongside ship could hardly be seen, & always it was bitter cold.
In order to buy my ticket to Rome, I’ve got to borrow $1.25—the first time that’s happened since I joined.
Coutre & John Lanasa are bound & determined to go down in my journal as combination Simon Legree & Nero—for the past week they’ve stayed up nights thinking of sarcastic comments to make. Nick, relieved that the pressure is off him for awhile, joins in with an occasional kick in the face. I don’t mind it, really, because it is I who am getting their goat by not becoming angry.
Actually, John can be forgiven, since he is in a state of semi-delirium caused by an approaching discharge. Only---no, I won’t mention how many days I’ve got left—you should know it by heart by this time. Just look ahead a few pages, & I’ll be out, since my past & future are all your present.
(Dear Folks)
Despite seas that threw the ships so high out of the water that their screws whipped the air, we held replenishment at sea today. It took twelve hours for three ships to come alongside & unload. The rough seas were coupled at times with snow so thick the alongside ship could hardly be seen, & always it was bitter cold.
In order to buy my ticket to Rome, I’ve got to borrow $1.25—the first time that’s happened since I joined.
Coutre & John Lanasa are bound & determined to go down in my journal as combination Simon Legree & Nero—for the past week they’ve stayed up nights thinking of sarcastic comments to make. Nick, relieved that the pressure is off him for awhile, joins in with an occasional kick in the face. I don’t mind it, really, because it is I who am getting their goat by not becoming angry.
Actually, John can be forgiven, since he is in a state of semi-delirium caused by an approaching discharge. Only---no, I won’t mention how many days I’ve got left—you should know it by heart by this time. Just look ahead a few pages, & I’ll be out, since my past & future are all your present.
Monday, November 06, 2006
9-10 Feb. 1956 (Letter & Journal combo)
Dear Folks
The ship has been writhing all afternoon—at supper the tables slid across the mess decks & water sloshed out of cups. The soup was up to the brim on one side of the bowl & touching the bottom on the other. At the moment, she’s creaking like a Spanish galleon.
Currently engrossed in a quasi-legal discussion—we’ve gone from courts martials to Canadian-American relations. Andrews says "Canada & America will be the same thing some day." It probably never occurred to him that Canada might not want to become a part of the great U.S. If I remember correctly , we tried that once. As any map can tell you, we didn’t quite succeed.
The conversation, from which I have been generally excluded, has broken up while Andy goes in quest of some hot bread & Coutre has gone to fetch some butter.---The bread won’t be hot for half an hour, so Nick has substituted some good old Navy hardtack.
Quarter till ten & here I sit, reading Christopher Marlowe.
10 February, 1956
Just finished reading, in one of those twenty-five cent Man’s magazines, an article on the assassination of President McKinley. From this article & one I’d read previously, McKinley was evidently shot by two different men with the same name (Czolgosz). My subconscious, or alter-ego, or whatever you wish to call it remarked bitterly—it’s always bitter—that I’d better go out & shoot a President, because that’s the only way I’ll ever become famous. Oh, well….
The storm continued all through the night & up until late this afternoon—I loved it; twice the ship lurched as though it had been thrown into the air & let drop down again. All hands were warned to stay clear of the Foc’sle & all weather decks, but I, curious as usual, decided to go back to the fantail.
The sea thrashed about like a madman in a straight jacket—steam & spray were mixed with the heavy snow & the clouds of smoke from our breaths—yes, there are others as curious as me.
Water washed an eighth of an inch deep across the hangar deck, & the cold was enough to force me back below before too long. After warming up, I went back with the wastebaskets. One I dumped into the chute hanging over the fantail fell directly into the water—the other had a fifty-foot drop, & colored bits of paper flew off into the snow like bright birds. Waves were breaking even with & above the level of the fantail, which somehow escaped getting swamped. In the distance, the dark grey of our destroyer bobbed between the lighter greys of sea & sky. If I’d had a coat, I’d have stood there a lot longer, but that was too much for me.
Cut off as we are from the world, our only contact is through the ship’s Daily Press—printed on two sheets of 8 1/2x13 heavy paper. I haven’t even seen one of those in two days. From what I’ve gathered, Italy is in bad shape because of the snows—rumors of hunger riots and other major catastrophes float throughout the ship. If this is true, we will no doubt put into port as soon as possible & set up soup kitchens for the Communists, who will take it & curse us for not giving them enough.
I don’t see how we can spare anybody anything—we are on slightly low rations ourselves. The food used on this ship is tremendous—we give away over 500 lbs of coffee a week to different divisions here on board—that doesn’t count the amount we use for meals.
Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down sufficiently, we take on another 116 tons of supplies—including 25 tons or so to be delivered to the USS Courier—a radio ship off Rhodes broadcasting propaganda to Russia & the Communist countries.
In Naples we are to pick up five hundred cases of baby food for somebody or other. Ah, such is life on our great ships of war.
I wish I had some cocoa—maybe mom will be nice enough to send me a box of Nestles’ individual bags.
A trip to the calculator shows I have just 184 days to go—tomorrow will make it exactly one half year! And with that cheery news, I leave you….
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
The ship has been writhing all afternoon—at supper the tables slid across the mess decks & water sloshed out of cups. The soup was up to the brim on one side of the bowl & touching the bottom on the other. At the moment, she’s creaking like a Spanish galleon.
Currently engrossed in a quasi-legal discussion—we’ve gone from courts martials to Canadian-American relations. Andrews says "Canada & America will be the same thing some day." It probably never occurred to him that Canada might not want to become a part of the great U.S. If I remember correctly , we tried that once. As any map can tell you, we didn’t quite succeed.
The conversation, from which I have been generally excluded, has broken up while Andy goes in quest of some hot bread & Coutre has gone to fetch some butter.---The bread won’t be hot for half an hour, so Nick has substituted some good old Navy hardtack.
Quarter till ten & here I sit, reading Christopher Marlowe.
10 February, 1956
Just finished reading, in one of those twenty-five cent Man’s magazines, an article on the assassination of President McKinley. From this article & one I’d read previously, McKinley was evidently shot by two different men with the same name (Czolgosz). My subconscious, or alter-ego, or whatever you wish to call it remarked bitterly—it’s always bitter—that I’d better go out & shoot a President, because that’s the only way I’ll ever become famous. Oh, well….
The storm continued all through the night & up until late this afternoon—I loved it; twice the ship lurched as though it had been thrown into the air & let drop down again. All hands were warned to stay clear of the Foc’sle & all weather decks, but I, curious as usual, decided to go back to the fantail.
The sea thrashed about like a madman in a straight jacket—steam & spray were mixed with the heavy snow & the clouds of smoke from our breaths—yes, there are others as curious as me.
Water washed an eighth of an inch deep across the hangar deck, & the cold was enough to force me back below before too long. After warming up, I went back with the wastebaskets. One I dumped into the chute hanging over the fantail fell directly into the water—the other had a fifty-foot drop, & colored bits of paper flew off into the snow like bright birds. Waves were breaking even with & above the level of the fantail, which somehow escaped getting swamped. In the distance, the dark grey of our destroyer bobbed between the lighter greys of sea & sky. If I’d had a coat, I’d have stood there a lot longer, but that was too much for me.
Cut off as we are from the world, our only contact is through the ship’s Daily Press—printed on two sheets of 8 1/2x13 heavy paper. I haven’t even seen one of those in two days. From what I’ve gathered, Italy is in bad shape because of the snows—rumors of hunger riots and other major catastrophes float throughout the ship. If this is true, we will no doubt put into port as soon as possible & set up soup kitchens for the Communists, who will take it & curse us for not giving them enough.
I don’t see how we can spare anybody anything—we are on slightly low rations ourselves. The food used on this ship is tremendous—we give away over 500 lbs of coffee a week to different divisions here on board—that doesn’t count the amount we use for meals.
Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down sufficiently, we take on another 116 tons of supplies—including 25 tons or so to be delivered to the USS Courier—a radio ship off Rhodes broadcasting propaganda to Russia & the Communist countries.
In Naples we are to pick up five hundred cases of baby food for somebody or other. Ah, such is life on our great ships of war.
I wish I had some cocoa—maybe mom will be nice enough to send me a box of Nestles’ individual bags.
A trip to the calculator shows I have just 184 days to go—tomorrow will make it exactly one half year! And with that cheery news, I leave you….
Love
Roge
Sunday, November 05, 2006
8 Feb. 1956
(Dear Folks)
Here I am again—writing in a silence made more profound by the fact that there are three other people in the room. But only an occasional turning page makes me aware of them. The only thing alive is the ship—she hums & pulsates, unknowing & uncaring that I, of no more importance than a white corpuscle, am aware of her life.
And so once more we are at sea, heading—unfortunately—for Naples… a city that shall always be my very own to hate.
Cannes was very nice, on looking back. It was clean & not quite so foreign as the other places we’ve been. Her amazing wealth did not strike me as it had on our way to the train station the first night I saw it.
Monday I took a one-day tour of the French Riviera, which I enjoyed despite the awful cold of the morning. My guardian angel, or good fairy, or private weatherman was kind as always, & Monday was the first sunny day since we arrived. We left the ship at six o’clock, before the sun even thought about coming up, & stood on Fleet Landing in the bitter cold (I was the bitter one) waiting for the bus. One of the officers suggested we wait in the lobby of a hotel at the foot of the pier, and we hurried down there only to find that they wouldn’t let us come in. So we stood.
When the bus did come, we all piled in—I was one of the first in & chose a perfect seat near a large window. Of course, we’d gotten on the wrong bus—this one was for the ski tour. Another bus pulled up & in the scramble that followed, I would up in a seat directly over the front wheels—it was by a window, but I had to sit all scrunched up with little or no leg room.
The tour was, as I said, very nice. The countryside of France is as strewn with houses as Sicily is with stones.
We passed through Nice, along the English Promenade—a sort of Riverside Drive built about a hundred years ago simply to keep the people busy.
Over the mountains & into the independent province of Monaco, a tiny republic surrounded entirely by France & supported almost solely by the proceeds from the world famous Casino of Monte Carlo.
Monaco is the only fairy tale kingdom left in our modern world—crowded & jostled by republics & democracies & totalitarian states. Here, high on a hill overlooking the city & the little blue bay, in a building that looks not quite like a castle & not quite like a palace, lives the sole remaining Prince. Outside the main door parades a single soldier–Monaco has a standing army of 80—elaborately dressed in blue & red, before two little barber-pole sentry boxes. All along the wall, & on the edge of the cliff facing the outside world, are lined formidable cannon—a gift of Napoleon’s nephew.
The Casino itself looks vaguely like an exhibition building left over from a world’s fair. Inside is a theatre opened by Miss Sarah Bernhardt. The gambling rooms are attractive & expensive, but not Hollywood-type plush.
Behind & around Monaco are the mountains—huge, proud, pensive but not brooding.
Back to Nice for dinner, past wide, almost dry rivers fed, & Spring-flooded, by the white topped mountains. Past, too, several houses looking like sand castles kicked in by a small child; reminders of when the Americans came calling with other than money.
I won’t bother describing dinner—I’ve had it before & you’ve read it before.
After dinner into the mountains; along Wolf Canyon; the bus was an ant out on Main Street. Tall, clean cliffs, an unbelievably clear stream rushing through a narrow valley cut patiently over thousands of years—large valleys with black-green trees. In one spot, a three-hundred-foot arch of a railway bridge supports nothing but the tiny section of rail atop it; in the valley below large chunks of bridge, destroyed by retreating German armies. In another, a large bridge happened to pass over a town. It too, was blown, & when it fell, it toppled onto the buildings below. They still lie together, broken toys.
Atop the highest mountains, & in the most ungodly places, are the villages—hanging on to the cliffs as thought the buildings had roots. No cars go here—the streets are too narrow—in some places the streets are merely stairways. Most of these villages are walled, founded before Christ. Ese got its name from the Egyptian goddess Isis.
Though quaint & picturesque, both looking out on & presenting lovely views, I cannot understand why people could ever want to live there, or what they find to do with themselves.
The last stop of the day was in Grasse (Grahs) where, both for enjoyment & also for commercial reasons, we visited a perfume factory. The smells were beautiful & our factory guide, "Mother," showed us all around & explained the manufacture of perfume step by step, ending in the showroom, where we were expected to buy gallons of liquid odor at $5 an ounce. I had no money, which is probably a good thing.
And so back to the ship. And now, since it’s taps, to bed.
Love
Roge
(Dear Folks)
Here I am again—writing in a silence made more profound by the fact that there are three other people in the room. But only an occasional turning page makes me aware of them. The only thing alive is the ship—she hums & pulsates, unknowing & uncaring that I, of no more importance than a white corpuscle, am aware of her life.
And so once more we are at sea, heading—unfortunately—for Naples… a city that shall always be my very own to hate.
Cannes was very nice, on looking back. It was clean & not quite so foreign as the other places we’ve been. Her amazing wealth did not strike me as it had on our way to the train station the first night I saw it.
Monday I took a one-day tour of the French Riviera, which I enjoyed despite the awful cold of the morning. My guardian angel, or good fairy, or private weatherman was kind as always, & Monday was the first sunny day since we arrived. We left the ship at six o’clock, before the sun even thought about coming up, & stood on Fleet Landing in the bitter cold (I was the bitter one) waiting for the bus. One of the officers suggested we wait in the lobby of a hotel at the foot of the pier, and we hurried down there only to find that they wouldn’t let us come in. So we stood.
When the bus did come, we all piled in—I was one of the first in & chose a perfect seat near a large window. Of course, we’d gotten on the wrong bus—this one was for the ski tour. Another bus pulled up & in the scramble that followed, I would up in a seat directly over the front wheels—it was by a window, but I had to sit all scrunched up with little or no leg room.
The tour was, as I said, very nice. The countryside of France is as strewn with houses as Sicily is with stones.
We passed through Nice, along the English Promenade—a sort of Riverside Drive built about a hundred years ago simply to keep the people busy.
Over the mountains & into the independent province of Monaco, a tiny republic surrounded entirely by France & supported almost solely by the proceeds from the world famous Casino of Monte Carlo.
Monaco is the only fairy tale kingdom left in our modern world—crowded & jostled by republics & democracies & totalitarian states. Here, high on a hill overlooking the city & the little blue bay, in a building that looks not quite like a castle & not quite like a palace, lives the sole remaining Prince. Outside the main door parades a single soldier–Monaco has a standing army of 80—elaborately dressed in blue & red, before two little barber-pole sentry boxes. All along the wall, & on the edge of the cliff facing the outside world, are lined formidable cannon—a gift of Napoleon’s nephew.
The Casino itself looks vaguely like an exhibition building left over from a world’s fair. Inside is a theatre opened by Miss Sarah Bernhardt. The gambling rooms are attractive & expensive, but not Hollywood-type plush.
Behind & around Monaco are the mountains—huge, proud, pensive but not brooding.
Back to Nice for dinner, past wide, almost dry rivers fed, & Spring-flooded, by the white topped mountains. Past, too, several houses looking like sand castles kicked in by a small child; reminders of when the Americans came calling with other than money.
I won’t bother describing dinner—I’ve had it before & you’ve read it before.
After dinner into the mountains; along Wolf Canyon; the bus was an ant out on Main Street. Tall, clean cliffs, an unbelievably clear stream rushing through a narrow valley cut patiently over thousands of years—large valleys with black-green trees. In one spot, a three-hundred-foot arch of a railway bridge supports nothing but the tiny section of rail atop it; in the valley below large chunks of bridge, destroyed by retreating German armies. In another, a large bridge happened to pass over a town. It too, was blown, & when it fell, it toppled onto the buildings below. They still lie together, broken toys.
Atop the highest mountains, & in the most ungodly places, are the villages—hanging on to the cliffs as thought the buildings had roots. No cars go here—the streets are too narrow—in some places the streets are merely stairways. Most of these villages are walled, founded before Christ. Ese got its name from the Egyptian goddess Isis.
Though quaint & picturesque, both looking out on & presenting lovely views, I cannot understand why people could ever want to live there, or what they find to do with themselves.
The last stop of the day was in Grasse (Grahs) where, both for enjoyment & also for commercial reasons, we visited a perfume factory. The smells were beautiful & our factory guide, "Mother," showed us all around & explained the manufacture of perfume step by step, ending in the showroom, where we were expected to buy gallons of liquid odor at $5 an ounce. I had no money, which is probably a good thing.
And so back to the ship. And now, since it’s taps, to bed.
Love
Roge
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Feb. 4-7 1956
Dear Folks
Excuse the large space of daylight between this & preceding letters, but I just haven’t been able to even think straight for the last few days. Started a letter two or three days ago, but when I went to continue it just now, my pen blobbed ink all over, so here we go again.
Before I forget—stop in at the post office & get some 1040-A income tax forms sent me. About four, if you will, in case I goof.
Saw six rolls of the film I’ve gotten back; on the whole, they’re excellent. On pan shots they blur a little; I’ve got to learn to go slower. So far, I’ve got about 300 feet of film.
Yesterday I and one of the other mess cooks, a kid named Stevens, decided to go to Nice to take some pictures. Nice is about a forty-five minute train ride from Cannes, & the scenery is pretty, even though everything had snow on it; even the orange trees with fruit on them & green things in gardens. Evidently it doesn’t snow too often around here. Far in the distance were the French Alps, & on the right the beautiful tri-colored surf (brownish-grey along the beach, fading into milk blue, finally the ink-blue of the deep sea).
One reason for going to Nice was to see the Mardi Gras, or at least the decorations. Nice struck me as being a clean town, more like America than most other European cities. Since the sun has been hiding ever since we got to Cannes, I took only two shots of the decorations on the main square.
We found our way, completely by accident, to the USO, & there had free hot dogs served on delicious French bread.
After that, we meandered back to the railroad station, stopping in one or two places—once to play a pinball machine because Steve liked the girl behind the counter, another to buy some little wine-bottle salt & pepper shakers. Somewhere along the line we started drinking white wine. When we got back to Cannes (pronounced Kahn), we stopped in at a small bar, where we ran into Mordeno, who was well on his way to extinction. He insisted on buying us several drinks, all the time telling us, like a reverse Elizabeth Barrett Browning, how many ways he hated the Navy.
After awhile he decided to move on to another bar, far across town, & wanted us to join him. I said thanks just the same, but we really had to be getting back to the ship—we didn’t, but if we stayed with him we’d never get back. But we got in the taxi with him—he said he’d drop us at fleet landing. He got out first.
To shorten a lengthy tale, as it’s near taps—we went from bar to bar, wound up with a six year old bottle of wine—dusty bottle & all, talking Spanish to a nice blonde who is engaged to a guy off the Yellowstone—one of our replenishment ships.
By the time we left the bar, Steve could still walk, but just barely. He wandered in to another bar, sat down & ordered another glass of wine (at this point we had 120 Francs & an American dime between us). So we had one last drink & I half-dragged, half-carried him back to fleet landing. A large crowd had gathered there, waiting for a boat. One finally came, pulled up to the dock, & shut off the motor.
"Boating has been secured for the night."
And us with 10 cents!!
Thank Allah for small favors, we found another Mess Cook who still had money; he loaned us 500 Francs &, after five hotels, we found a single room. Steve & I took it, & the other guy went on to another hotel. We were lucky—200 guys ended up sleeping in bars, in Shore Patrol headquarters, the USO, or walking the streets.
Ah, such fun! First time I’d slept on dry land since November.
Well, hate to cut this short, but if I don’t mail it tonight, it’ll be another six months.
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
Excuse the large space of daylight between this & preceding letters, but I just haven’t been able to even think straight for the last few days. Started a letter two or three days ago, but when I went to continue it just now, my pen blobbed ink all over, so here we go again.
Before I forget—stop in at the post office & get some 1040-A income tax forms sent me. About four, if you will, in case I goof.
Saw six rolls of the film I’ve gotten back; on the whole, they’re excellent. On pan shots they blur a little; I’ve got to learn to go slower. So far, I’ve got about 300 feet of film.
Yesterday I and one of the other mess cooks, a kid named Stevens, decided to go to Nice to take some pictures. Nice is about a forty-five minute train ride from Cannes, & the scenery is pretty, even though everything had snow on it; even the orange trees with fruit on them & green things in gardens. Evidently it doesn’t snow too often around here. Far in the distance were the French Alps, & on the right the beautiful tri-colored surf (brownish-grey along the beach, fading into milk blue, finally the ink-blue of the deep sea).
One reason for going to Nice was to see the Mardi Gras, or at least the decorations. Nice struck me as being a clean town, more like America than most other European cities. Since the sun has been hiding ever since we got to Cannes, I took only two shots of the decorations on the main square.
We found our way, completely by accident, to the USO, & there had free hot dogs served on delicious French bread.
After that, we meandered back to the railroad station, stopping in one or two places—once to play a pinball machine because Steve liked the girl behind the counter, another to buy some little wine-bottle salt & pepper shakers. Somewhere along the line we started drinking white wine. When we got back to Cannes (pronounced Kahn), we stopped in at a small bar, where we ran into Mordeno, who was well on his way to extinction. He insisted on buying us several drinks, all the time telling us, like a reverse Elizabeth Barrett Browning, how many ways he hated the Navy.
After awhile he decided to move on to another bar, far across town, & wanted us to join him. I said thanks just the same, but we really had to be getting back to the ship—we didn’t, but if we stayed with him we’d never get back. But we got in the taxi with him—he said he’d drop us at fleet landing. He got out first.
To shorten a lengthy tale, as it’s near taps—we went from bar to bar, wound up with a six year old bottle of wine—dusty bottle & all, talking Spanish to a nice blonde who is engaged to a guy off the Yellowstone—one of our replenishment ships.
By the time we left the bar, Steve could still walk, but just barely. He wandered in to another bar, sat down & ordered another glass of wine (at this point we had 120 Francs & an American dime between us). So we had one last drink & I half-dragged, half-carried him back to fleet landing. A large crowd had gathered there, waiting for a boat. One finally came, pulled up to the dock, & shut off the motor.
"Boating has been secured for the night."
And us with 10 cents!!
Thank Allah for small favors, we found another Mess Cook who still had money; he loaned us 500 Francs &, after five hotels, we found a single room. Steve & I took it, & the other guy went on to another hotel. We were lucky—200 guys ended up sleeping in bars, in Shore Patrol headquarters, the USO, or walking the streets.
Ah, such fun! First time I’d slept on dry land since November.
Well, hate to cut this short, but if I don’t mail it tonight, it’ll be another six months.
Love
Roge
Friday, November 03, 2006
2 Feb. 1956
Dear Folks
Last night at 11:00 we had the first mail call in a week. Early this morning we had another; I was well pleased with both of them. In the first I learned that we now own a new Olds 98. Good for us—but I’ll be willing to bet any amount you wish that by the time I get home, it will be full of dog hair, bobby pins, & wadded up Kleenex. If I may make a suggestion—use the other car for weekend jaunts & keep the Olds in the garage! Glad to hear it is a 98—that’s the best one Olds makes; though to be truthful, they haven’t changed much since our first Olds. Try & keep it in good shape till I get home, huh?
Thanks for the price list on airplanes. I’ll take the $45,000 one (cash, of course). Also for the card—the valentine cards they sell around here are of two types—one the heavily flowered "Oh, my dearest darling, you’ve made my wish come true…" variety & the other showing two people shaking hands with a heart in the background, saying "To my friend on Valentine’s Day." So I didn’t get you any.
And then this morning, I got a large envelope saying "Photograph." It turned out very well, mom; the smile is just right. Those earrings are pretty—where did you get them? I’ve been taking it out & looking at it all day, to remind me that I do have a mother.
I’m beginning to think of the United States as a mythical paradise, what with fathers driving around in big new cars & mothers who can afford to have photographs taken & wear expensive clothes. You’re living far better, & in a far better world than I am.
Hope to borrow a movie projector tonite to look at my films. Got another roll back today (Pompeii), & from "hold-&-squint" method it looks beautiful. I’m quite an artist, if I do say so myself!
Glorious Riviera—HAH! And I say it with much more scorn. The first time here, it could be forgiven, or passed off as an unseasonable cold snap. But this! Five inches of snow with fog writhing over the water & everyone suffering from practically frostbite—never!
Here it is February, & I feel, with the weather & all, as though it were Christmas. Oh, well.
No movies tonite—the guy I was to borrow the projector from has gone on liberty. Oh, well (I’ve said that before, haven’t I?)
Providing the sea does not freeze over between now & Saturday, I think I’ll go ashore, just to take pictures & look around. Wonder how Nick is enjoying his three-day ski tour. Sure wish I could have gone, but I’ll save all my money for Rome.
While looking at a map of Greece, I finally found Rhodes—it’s an island about a half-hearted stone’s throw from Turkey. It is nowhere near Athens.
A persistent rumor that seems to have lost the air of scuttlebutt & been generally accepted is that our last two weeks will be spent on a NATO cruise—with Oslo & Plymouth, England being two of the four ports we’ll hit. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Speaking of Rome, Roge & Jim will be going with me. They went before, too, over Christmas. I want to go the first payday after we hit Naples.
191 days left—6 months & five days.
Yes, mother, I still want brownies—a huge, 10 or 20 lb. tin of them. I told you I liked the last ones.
Well, like a sand castle, my thoughts are crumbling away, so I’d best close now.
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
Last night at 11:00 we had the first mail call in a week. Early this morning we had another; I was well pleased with both of them. In the first I learned that we now own a new Olds 98. Good for us—but I’ll be willing to bet any amount you wish that by the time I get home, it will be full of dog hair, bobby pins, & wadded up Kleenex. If I may make a suggestion—use the other car for weekend jaunts & keep the Olds in the garage! Glad to hear it is a 98—that’s the best one Olds makes; though to be truthful, they haven’t changed much since our first Olds. Try & keep it in good shape till I get home, huh?
Thanks for the price list on airplanes. I’ll take the $45,000 one (cash, of course). Also for the card—the valentine cards they sell around here are of two types—one the heavily flowered "Oh, my dearest darling, you’ve made my wish come true…" variety & the other showing two people shaking hands with a heart in the background, saying "To my friend on Valentine’s Day." So I didn’t get you any.
And then this morning, I got a large envelope saying "Photograph." It turned out very well, mom; the smile is just right. Those earrings are pretty—where did you get them? I’ve been taking it out & looking at it all day, to remind me that I do have a mother.
I’m beginning to think of the United States as a mythical paradise, what with fathers driving around in big new cars & mothers who can afford to have photographs taken & wear expensive clothes. You’re living far better, & in a far better world than I am.
Hope to borrow a movie projector tonite to look at my films. Got another roll back today (Pompeii), & from "hold-&-squint" method it looks beautiful. I’m quite an artist, if I do say so myself!
Glorious Riviera—HAH! And I say it with much more scorn. The first time here, it could be forgiven, or passed off as an unseasonable cold snap. But this! Five inches of snow with fog writhing over the water & everyone suffering from practically frostbite—never!
Here it is February, & I feel, with the weather & all, as though it were Christmas. Oh, well.
No movies tonite—the guy I was to borrow the projector from has gone on liberty. Oh, well (I’ve said that before, haven’t I?)
Providing the sea does not freeze over between now & Saturday, I think I’ll go ashore, just to take pictures & look around. Wonder how Nick is enjoying his three-day ski tour. Sure wish I could have gone, but I’ll save all my money for Rome.
While looking at a map of Greece, I finally found Rhodes—it’s an island about a half-hearted stone’s throw from Turkey. It is nowhere near Athens.
A persistent rumor that seems to have lost the air of scuttlebutt & been generally accepted is that our last two weeks will be spent on a NATO cruise—with Oslo & Plymouth, England being two of the four ports we’ll hit. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Speaking of Rome, Roge & Jim will be going with me. They went before, too, over Christmas. I want to go the first payday after we hit Naples.
191 days left—6 months & five days.
Yes, mother, I still want brownies—a huge, 10 or 20 lb. tin of them. I told you I liked the last ones.
Well, like a sand castle, my thoughts are crumbling away, so I’d best close now.
Love
Roge
Thursday, November 02, 2006
30 January 1956 (Double Letter)
Two days without writing—I plan to cast myself over the side first thing tomorrow morning. The Ticonderoga Marching & Chowder Society is currently holding a meeting. Nick & North are giving a demonstration on the two methods of boot polishing (North advocates the "Two-finger-light-polish" school, while Nick favors the "Index-finger-&-gobs-of-polish method). Andy & Cou are just sitting around, feet on desks. We’ve just finished the evening’s refreshments—hot fudge sundaes & shoestring potato chips ("Oooog", as they say in Pogo). North seems to be winning—Nick is only a little behind. Nick was generous enough to volunteer his new boots for the contest.
Payday today & I passed it up—it hurt, but it’s the only way I’ll ever save it.
Lots to do & nothing to say—I suppose that with much effort, I could no doubt think of something, but this lethargy helps pass the days. Only
1 February 1956
As you may have gathered, I did not "cast myself over the side" as promised, but there is a good reason for my negligence—it is colder than a polar bear’s bottom! Riviera—HAH!
I am, to put it very mildly, beat. Up until 1:30 this morning talking with Nick. It was very enjoyable, & we reached one conclusion—I am playing the role of teacher, & Nick is my pupil, if grudgingly. He said:
"First impressions mean a lot."
"Yes, I suppose so—what was your first impression of me? I came in, we shook hands, I said ‘Hello, Nick,’ & you grumbled something & we hardly said another word all day. What could you gather from that?"
"Well, we thought you were very quiet, & studious. I knew you’d had two years of college & been in the NavCads & you were going to let us know it."
I couldn’t help laughing. "God, I never said a word about it—how’d you know I was a NavCad?"
"Oh, I forget—somebody told me. I got the idea that you were trying to show us that you’re better than we were—you still do."
My ego was much inflated by our little discussion. Nick, also, has an inferiority complex—he thinks I’m more intelligent than he is. "You’ve got an odd way of rubbing it in."
I told him that he shouldn’t envy me for my college—rather than I should envy him for having two years to look forward to. I think I treat him like a kid brother, trying to get him on the right paths. Oh, well, we shall see.
Mail call will be at 11:30 tonite, & I think I’ll stay up for it, even though I am dead tired….
Two days without writing—I plan to cast myself over the side first thing tomorrow morning. The Ticonderoga Marching & Chowder Society is currently holding a meeting. Nick & North are giving a demonstration on the two methods of boot polishing (North advocates the "Two-finger-light-polish" school, while Nick favors the "Index-finger-&-gobs-of-polish method). Andy & Cou are just sitting around, feet on desks. We’ve just finished the evening’s refreshments—hot fudge sundaes & shoestring potato chips ("Oooog", as they say in Pogo). North seems to be winning—Nick is only a little behind. Nick was generous enough to volunteer his new boots for the contest.
Payday today & I passed it up—it hurt, but it’s the only way I’ll ever save it.
Lots to do & nothing to say—I suppose that with much effort, I could no doubt think of something, but this lethargy helps pass the days. Only
1 February 1956
As you may have gathered, I did not "cast myself over the side" as promised, but there is a good reason for my negligence—it is colder than a polar bear’s bottom! Riviera—HAH!
I am, to put it very mildly, beat. Up until 1:30 this morning talking with Nick. It was very enjoyable, & we reached one conclusion—I am playing the role of teacher, & Nick is my pupil, if grudgingly. He said:
"First impressions mean a lot."
"Yes, I suppose so—what was your first impression of me? I came in, we shook hands, I said ‘Hello, Nick,’ & you grumbled something & we hardly said another word all day. What could you gather from that?"
"Well, we thought you were very quiet, & studious. I knew you’d had two years of college & been in the NavCads & you were going to let us know it."
I couldn’t help laughing. "God, I never said a word about it—how’d you know I was a NavCad?"
"Oh, I forget—somebody told me. I got the idea that you were trying to show us that you’re better than we were—you still do."
My ego was much inflated by our little discussion. Nick, also, has an inferiority complex—he thinks I’m more intelligent than he is. "You’ve got an odd way of rubbing it in."
I told him that he shouldn’t envy me for my college—rather than I should envy him for having two years to look forward to. I think I treat him like a kid brother, trying to get him on the right paths. Oh, well, we shall see.
Mail call will be at 11:30 tonite, & I think I’ll stay up for it, even though I am dead tired….
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
28 January 1956
Dear Folks
"When you come to the end of a perfect Menu…"—it’s an "eh" Saturday night aboard the dear old Ti,. I’ve just come back from the movies ("It Came from Beneath the Sea"--& you could smell it, too), finished typing the Bill of Fare for the week of 6 February 1956, & thought I’d sit down & have a little one-sided talk with you. I won’t say " the way we used to do," because we were very seldom under the same roof at the same time, & when we were, TV was always on. What on earth did we used to do before TV came along.
I remember vaguely the days when radio was the Messiah we bowed to; Lux Radio Theatre, Bob Hope, Fibber McGee & Molly, Edgar Bergen & Charlie McCarthy, Truth or Consequences. But that was so long ago, when I’d sit on the floor at the little house & build card cities.
Funny the things that rush up—little memories that crowd to the front of your head & peek out through your eyes. I remember cocoa, & how cold my bed used to be when I’d crawl in at night, & how good it felt when it warmed up—Momma & Lucky & Jerry Moore & climbing trees. So much to remember.
I’m like a miser, only I try to hoard time. But, like quicksilver, it slips through my fingers & I can’t hold on to it. I try to catch it on paper, but it is like carrying water in a sieve.
Odd—I begrudge every single instant of it that passes & I lose, & yet I can’t wait until 196 days are up & I’m out of the Navy.
I’ve been cheated—something vital has been left out, or something extra added that I can’t control. Even in my relations to you---Mother, you remember when we were coming back from New Orleans—we were driving through Mobile & I tried to turn the wrong way into a one-way street—you teased me & I snapped at you & you started to cry. You knew then that I’d grown up, & I knew it too, & I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare.
Men don’t cry—men must never cry. It is a basic part of our society & a really silly rule. Several times I’ve wanted to cry, & tried to—but it didn’t do any good.
And you, Dad—remember the first night in Norfolk, when I wanted you to sit down & look through my annual with me? You didn’t want to & I felt quite bad, because I wanted to show you everything that was familiar to me & make you understand them as I did.
How people should act & how people do act are entirely different. You know how it is—you build up a picture in you mind of something & it’s always perfect because it isn’t real.
It’s terrifying, in a way—you both know how I worshipped Uncle Buck. The last time I saw him, while home from college, my mind said "you will never see him alive again." And it didn’t faze me at all. It was as if I’d thought "Well, that finishes that tube of toothpaste." The last time he was Uncle Buck—my Uncle Buck—was that night we visited him at St. Anthony’s. After that, it was as if it were someone else.
As usual around this point in my narrative, I’d better say that I’m not at all in a bad or unhappy mood. I had no intentions of rambling on like this, but am glad I did.
Well, on to the more "news-from-a-happy-serviceman-writing-home-to-his-happy-parents" type thing.
Received the Anise at long last—they’re delicious & could set me off on another remembrance binge (especially those donut machines in the dime stores years & years ago). Sure would like some brownies. Sure would. Yep. Sure would. Also got the pocket books—which were all good—I’ve read two—send some more Science Fiction if you can.
Coutre is very fond of you, dad, ever since you agreed with him that I shouldn’t write "treason." He says next time he comes to Chicago, he’s going to drive out to Rockford with a fifth of Scotch, give me fifty cents & send me off to the movies while you & he rake me over the coals.
Be looking for a package around the end of next month—I forgot to insure it & only pray it gets there intact—several other guys have gotten gloomy letters from home telling of smashed dolls, tattered clothing, etc. Received by mail. I’m hanging on to your binoculars, dad, till I get home—only used them once, as I promised.
Well, mail closes out at midnight, & the Clan is gathering for our Saturday Night scuttlebutt session. More later.
Love (Honest)
Roge
Dear Folks
"When you come to the end of a perfect Menu…"—it’s an "eh" Saturday night aboard the dear old Ti,. I’ve just come back from the movies ("It Came from Beneath the Sea"--& you could smell it, too), finished typing the Bill of Fare for the week of 6 February 1956, & thought I’d sit down & have a little one-sided talk with you. I won’t say " the way we used to do," because we were very seldom under the same roof at the same time, & when we were, TV was always on. What on earth did we used to do before TV came along.
I remember vaguely the days when radio was the Messiah we bowed to; Lux Radio Theatre, Bob Hope, Fibber McGee & Molly, Edgar Bergen & Charlie McCarthy, Truth or Consequences. But that was so long ago, when I’d sit on the floor at the little house & build card cities.
Funny the things that rush up—little memories that crowd to the front of your head & peek out through your eyes. I remember cocoa, & how cold my bed used to be when I’d crawl in at night, & how good it felt when it warmed up—Momma & Lucky & Jerry Moore & climbing trees. So much to remember.
I’m like a miser, only I try to hoard time. But, like quicksilver, it slips through my fingers & I can’t hold on to it. I try to catch it on paper, but it is like carrying water in a sieve.
Odd—I begrudge every single instant of it that passes & I lose, & yet I can’t wait until 196 days are up & I’m out of the Navy.
I’ve been cheated—something vital has been left out, or something extra added that I can’t control. Even in my relations to you---Mother, you remember when we were coming back from New Orleans—we were driving through Mobile & I tried to turn the wrong way into a one-way street—you teased me & I snapped at you & you started to cry. You knew then that I’d grown up, & I knew it too, & I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare.
Men don’t cry—men must never cry. It is a basic part of our society & a really silly rule. Several times I’ve wanted to cry, & tried to—but it didn’t do any good.
And you, Dad—remember the first night in Norfolk, when I wanted you to sit down & look through my annual with me? You didn’t want to & I felt quite bad, because I wanted to show you everything that was familiar to me & make you understand them as I did.
How people should act & how people do act are entirely different. You know how it is—you build up a picture in you mind of something & it’s always perfect because it isn’t real.
It’s terrifying, in a way—you both know how I worshipped Uncle Buck. The last time I saw him, while home from college, my mind said "you will never see him alive again." And it didn’t faze me at all. It was as if I’d thought "Well, that finishes that tube of toothpaste." The last time he was Uncle Buck—my Uncle Buck—was that night we visited him at St. Anthony’s. After that, it was as if it were someone else.
As usual around this point in my narrative, I’d better say that I’m not at all in a bad or unhappy mood. I had no intentions of rambling on like this, but am glad I did.
Well, on to the more "news-from-a-happy-serviceman-writing-home-to-his-happy-parents" type thing.
Received the Anise at long last—they’re delicious & could set me off on another remembrance binge (especially those donut machines in the dime stores years & years ago). Sure would like some brownies. Sure would. Yep. Sure would. Also got the pocket books—which were all good—I’ve read two—send some more Science Fiction if you can.
Coutre is very fond of you, dad, ever since you agreed with him that I shouldn’t write "treason." He says next time he comes to Chicago, he’s going to drive out to Rockford with a fifth of Scotch, give me fifty cents & send me off to the movies while you & he rake me over the coals.
Be looking for a package around the end of next month—I forgot to insure it & only pray it gets there intact—several other guys have gotten gloomy letters from home telling of smashed dolls, tattered clothing, etc. Received by mail. I’m hanging on to your binoculars, dad, till I get home—only used them once, as I promised.
Well, mail closes out at midnight, & the Clan is gathering for our Saturday Night scuttlebutt session. More later.
Love (Honest)
Roge
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