19 December 1955
One of the many Italian songs familiar to most every American, & one almost sure to be brought up at a party songfest, is heard frequently in Naples—at least the title: "Feniqulee-Feniqula" (spelling more phonetic than accurate; pronounced Fein-eee-cue-lee, Fen-eee-cue-la). The Feniqulee, I learned to my surprise, is a little subway-trolley-tram that runs up & down the major mountain in Naples. It consists of several railway cars especially built so that they’re always going uphill—if placed on level ground, they would lean forward at a 45 degree angle. I call it a subway because it runs up the inside of the hill, a trolley because that’s vaguely what the cars look like—wooden benches running across them (each car is sort of terraced to prevent everybody from sliding down to one end); & a tram because it may not be English, but it certainly isn’t American The closest thing we might have to them would be on some of the very steep hills in San Francisco, but I wouldn’t swear to it, never having been there.
I suppose the best place to start would be on about chapter three, with my leaving the good old Ti safely moored to a sea wall about a two minute boat ride from the pier. I went ashore with the sole intention of taking pictures, as it was a beautiful day. Vesuvius slouched in the background, away from the city & the ships, & I was rather disappointed not to see smoke pouring from her crater. She’s a ragged mountain, now, shaped roughly like a camel’s humps—the right hand one is the active cone. At one time she was almost twice as high, but blew herself away in the eruption that buried Pompeii, which lies on the other side from Naples.
The bay inside the sea wall is rather small—smaller than Genoa. Andrews had said that when he first came to Naples, at the close of the last war, that the harbor was impassable—clogged with capsized & sunken ships. The Italian Navy scuttled itself there, if I’m not mistaken. Now there are no sunken ships & nothing in the waters to remind you that a war had been there & gone. A large ocean liner, the Conte Biancamano, was just pulling out, escorted by little tugs, like a large old lady & several small boy scouts. The pier was lined with relatives & friends waving handkerchiefs at the ship’s stern.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
18 December 1955 (1st of 2)
Naples, like—Conrad has his teeth out; how revolting can one person be?—almost every other city in Europe, is filled with contrasts & contradictions. It is not a particularly pretty city, & were it not for the bay & the looming hulk of Mt. Vesuvius in the distance, it would be completely non-distinguished. Its buildings run from the sturdy clean sweep of the post office to the Victorian pomp of the King’s Arcade; from the graceful lines of modern, American-occupied apartments to the scarred walls of tenements. The impression given is that the war has just ended, & the city has come out second best. Flies & lean cats inhabit most of the restaurants—the streets are filled & haunted by vendors, pushers, & pimps. Boys of seven & eight beg for cigarettes—& smoke them!
Via Roma, the "main drag" resembles a side street in an American business district. This illusion can be maintained until coming to a corner & look at one of their side streets! The buildings are old, heavy, solid—unbroken by doors & windows. Wherever there is a door, it appears to have been carved out of the thick walls as an afterthought. No signs or marquees—the occasional neons are close against the wall.
The clothing styles, both men’s & women’s, are nothing short of hideous. In the race for most outrageous costumes, men are far ahead; the women’s are just drab. The men wear ghastly tweed pants—huge sharkstooth zigzags. The jackets—I can’t in truth call them sport jackets—are generally of the same pattern, but different enough so that they grind, if not clash. Plaid thick shirts, similar to those worn by American lumberjacks, & screaming ties. All these fit like shrouds, only not as graceful. Women’s apparel is tending toward the American, but still frequently one finds the "typical Italian mamma"—black tie shoes, black stockings, black dress, black shapeless overcoats, & black hair piled stiffly on the head, held with a black combs. If these mammas are accompanied by young girls, they invariably wear heavy brown velvet-like material, of the same texture of theater curtains; buttoned to the neck. No lipstick, no powder—just "blah."
The uniforms seen frequently on the street are either policemen or soldiers—I never did learn which was which. They are of a thick, olive-drab material almost like burlap, shapeless & singularly unattractive, even to the smallest degree. Their only distinguishing marks are a single tarnished small metal star on each lapel; some of higher rank wear lapel insignias of red with gold flaming swords.
18 December 1955 (2nd of 2)
Dear Folks
Latest flash—I’ve made arrangements to call home the 24th. Since I don’t speak Italian & the guy at the telephone office didn’t speak English, I had one heck of a time trying to make myself understood. For one thing, he obviously could not conceive the meaning of Rockford Illinois. Rockford, USA fine. I told him there were many Rockfords in America. He’d nod his head patiently, understandingly--& left it Rockford, USA.
So—I’ll be going to the phone company at 7:30 the night of the 24th. That will make it about 1:30 back in the States. I figured you’d probably be let off at noon, being as how it’s Xmas eve.
Now, that doesn’t mean I’ll get a line at 7:30—& I can only wait until 11:00, since I’ve got to be back at the ship at 11:30. Therefore, if you don’t hear from me between 1:30 and 5:00, go ahead with whatever you had planned. And don’t be too disappointed if I can’t make it—as I said, with 10,000 guys wanting to call home, things will most likely be rather confused.
Just got back from my second night in Naples—it’s a dirty city with a few polished places, & looks as though the war had ended yesterday instead of ten years ago. I’ll go into greater detail in ye olde journal, but I want to get this sent off immediately. You’ll probably get it on the 27th.
Love
Roge
P.S. I’ll be footing the bill—no such thing as collect, evidently. 3 min is about $18! (or more). Get that picture taken now!! I’ve got to have it before the 2nd of Jan, if at all possible.
P.P.S. Saw my films on a guy’s projector this morning—as good as I expected, if not better.
Naples, like—Conrad has his teeth out; how revolting can one person be?—almost every other city in Europe, is filled with contrasts & contradictions. It is not a particularly pretty city, & were it not for the bay & the looming hulk of Mt. Vesuvius in the distance, it would be completely non-distinguished. Its buildings run from the sturdy clean sweep of the post office to the Victorian pomp of the King’s Arcade; from the graceful lines of modern, American-occupied apartments to the scarred walls of tenements. The impression given is that the war has just ended, & the city has come out second best. Flies & lean cats inhabit most of the restaurants—the streets are filled & haunted by vendors, pushers, & pimps. Boys of seven & eight beg for cigarettes—& smoke them!
Via Roma, the "main drag" resembles a side street in an American business district. This illusion can be maintained until coming to a corner & look at one of their side streets! The buildings are old, heavy, solid—unbroken by doors & windows. Wherever there is a door, it appears to have been carved out of the thick walls as an afterthought. No signs or marquees—the occasional neons are close against the wall.
The clothing styles, both men’s & women’s, are nothing short of hideous. In the race for most outrageous costumes, men are far ahead; the women’s are just drab. The men wear ghastly tweed pants—huge sharkstooth zigzags. The jackets—I can’t in truth call them sport jackets—are generally of the same pattern, but different enough so that they grind, if not clash. Plaid thick shirts, similar to those worn by American lumberjacks, & screaming ties. All these fit like shrouds, only not as graceful. Women’s apparel is tending toward the American, but still frequently one finds the "typical Italian mamma"—black tie shoes, black stockings, black dress, black shapeless overcoats, & black hair piled stiffly on the head, held with a black combs. If these mammas are accompanied by young girls, they invariably wear heavy brown velvet-like material, of the same texture of theater curtains; buttoned to the neck. No lipstick, no powder—just "blah."
The uniforms seen frequently on the street are either policemen or soldiers—I never did learn which was which. They are of a thick, olive-drab material almost like burlap, shapeless & singularly unattractive, even to the smallest degree. Their only distinguishing marks are a single tarnished small metal star on each lapel; some of higher rank wear lapel insignias of red with gold flaming swords.
18 December 1955 (2nd of 2)
Dear Folks
Latest flash—I’ve made arrangements to call home the 24th. Since I don’t speak Italian & the guy at the telephone office didn’t speak English, I had one heck of a time trying to make myself understood. For one thing, he obviously could not conceive the meaning of Rockford Illinois. Rockford, USA fine. I told him there were many Rockfords in America. He’d nod his head patiently, understandingly--& left it Rockford, USA.
So—I’ll be going to the phone company at 7:30 the night of the 24th. That will make it about 1:30 back in the States. I figured you’d probably be let off at noon, being as how it’s Xmas eve.
Now, that doesn’t mean I’ll get a line at 7:30—& I can only wait until 11:00, since I’ve got to be back at the ship at 11:30. Therefore, if you don’t hear from me between 1:30 and 5:00, go ahead with whatever you had planned. And don’t be too disappointed if I can’t make it—as I said, with 10,000 guys wanting to call home, things will most likely be rather confused.
Just got back from my second night in Naples—it’s a dirty city with a few polished places, & looks as though the war had ended yesterday instead of ten years ago. I’ll go into greater detail in ye olde journal, but I want to get this sent off immediately. You’ll probably get it on the 27th.
Love
Roge
P.S. I’ll be footing the bill—no such thing as collect, evidently. 3 min is about $18! (or more). Get that picture taken now!! I’ve got to have it before the 2nd of Jan, if at all possible.
P.P.S. Saw my films on a guy’s projector this morning—as good as I expected, if not better.
Monday, October 02, 2006
16 Dec. 1955
Dear Folks
Yes, it’s me again. Just a very short note to say I can’t call the 27th—we’ll be at sea. There’s a very vague chance of my calling Christmas eve about 6:00 or before—no later, though, so you don’t have to stick around the house in case I can’t get through, which is very probable.
I feel the worst about not sending you anything for Xmas. Please excuse me, but I can’t trust it to the mails. Well, we’ll have Christmas when I get home.
This just might get home before Xmas, so let me wish you both a very nice Christmas, & many many more. I suppose I could have chosen more orthodox parents but I’m awfully glad I got the ones I did.
Until I see you, then, I send
Much Love
Roge
P.S. Merry Xmas, Stormy
P.P.S. Explain to all the relatives that I sent no cards—just one to you, which you probably didn’t get. Bye, now.
M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S E V E R Y B O D Y
(Drawing of fireplace w/3 stockings, & a Christmas tree)
Undated letter postmark illegible, but probably Dec 18, 1955, U.S.S. Ticonderoga; letter attached to a package sent home for Christmas
Dear Folks
Here are a few things Santa Claus left at my house. He was unavoidably detained somewhere along the line. I was, as you know, planning on waiting till I got home, but changed my mind.
Your boxes are marked.
The "Tabu" goes to Aunt Thyra. She may not like it since I recently heard it’s very strong. I’ve got something else for her, but will send it along later.
The large box of perfume ("Corday") is for Goldie, who was nice enough to remember my birthday & Christmas.
The pipes are the ones I described earlier. I’ll have to get something for Ann. The clock is for Aunt Marge—the tapestry for Grandma & Al The head-scarf is yours, mom.
Incidentally, that heavy thing in the orange paper is the weight for the clock, in case you’re wondering.
Sorry they aren’t individually gift wrapped, & hope you will excuse the "stuffing". But try to pretend that it’s Christmas eve, & we’ve just come back from Grandma’s.
Give Stormy a big kiss for me, & tell him I’ll be home soon.
Love, Roge
Merry Christmas!!
Undated but probably 17 or 18 Dec. 1955
Dear Folks
Happy anniversary—25 years, isn’t it? I’m sorry I didn’t send a card, but they’re hard to come by over here.
Today I rated liberty, & didn’t even go ashore! Gad! Well, I’ll say everything else in the journal, but just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary.
Keep writing every day—even though God knows when I’ll get them! Have you gotten any more letters than those five you got up till the 28th of Nov?
Till later, I’ll send
Love
Roge
Dear Folks
Yes, it’s me again. Just a very short note to say I can’t call the 27th—we’ll be at sea. There’s a very vague chance of my calling Christmas eve about 6:00 or before—no later, though, so you don’t have to stick around the house in case I can’t get through, which is very probable.
I feel the worst about not sending you anything for Xmas. Please excuse me, but I can’t trust it to the mails. Well, we’ll have Christmas when I get home.
This just might get home before Xmas, so let me wish you both a very nice Christmas, & many many more. I suppose I could have chosen more orthodox parents but I’m awfully glad I got the ones I did.
Until I see you, then, I send
Much Love
Roge
P.S. Merry Xmas, Stormy
P.P.S. Explain to all the relatives that I sent no cards—just one to you, which you probably didn’t get. Bye, now.
M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S E V E R Y B O D Y
(Drawing of fireplace w/3 stockings, & a Christmas tree)
Undated letter postmark illegible, but probably Dec 18, 1955, U.S.S. Ticonderoga; letter attached to a package sent home for Christmas
Dear Folks
Here are a few things Santa Claus left at my house. He was unavoidably detained somewhere along the line. I was, as you know, planning on waiting till I got home, but changed my mind.
Your boxes are marked.
The "Tabu" goes to Aunt Thyra. She may not like it since I recently heard it’s very strong. I’ve got something else for her, but will send it along later.
The large box of perfume ("Corday") is for Goldie, who was nice enough to remember my birthday & Christmas.
The pipes are the ones I described earlier. I’ll have to get something for Ann. The clock is for Aunt Marge—the tapestry for Grandma & Al The head-scarf is yours, mom.
Incidentally, that heavy thing in the orange paper is the weight for the clock, in case you’re wondering.
Sorry they aren’t individually gift wrapped, & hope you will excuse the "stuffing". But try to pretend that it’s Christmas eve, & we’ve just come back from Grandma’s.
Give Stormy a big kiss for me, & tell him I’ll be home soon.
Love, Roge
Merry Christmas!!
Undated but probably 17 or 18 Dec. 1955
Dear Folks
Happy anniversary—25 years, isn’t it? I’m sorry I didn’t send a card, but they’re hard to come by over here.
Today I rated liberty, & didn’t even go ashore! Gad! Well, I’ll say everything else in the journal, but just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary.
Keep writing every day—even though God knows when I’ll get them! Have you gotten any more letters than those five you got up till the 28th of Nov?
Till later, I’ll send
Love
Roge
Sunday, October 01, 2006
15 December 1955
Dear Folks
As you can see, I’ve broken my vow, which actually was a silly one in the first place; but I was so mad at the thought of all that effort gone to waste that I could cheerfully have scuttled the USS Ticonderoga without another thought.
Got a card & money from Grandma, whom I intend to write as soon as possible, & a letter from you (always welcome). Also I got back two rolls of film, which I opened warily, but soon went into fits of ecstatic glee. The first one opens with a scene of the Capitol dome, & goes on beautifully. The second opens with sunrise over Gibraltar & is, as far as I can tell, prefect.
Gibraltar itself is seen as in a blue haze, though it may be a slight overexposure. Then it moves on from a shot of the Rock in back of a large gold cross commemorating British dead, & wanders about over Europe, including the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, & an almost identical shot of the dome of the Tomb of Invalides; from almost the same angle as our Capitol dome. I couldn’t have asked for them to turn out better. A few underexposures (refueling at sea) & some overexposures. Considering he fact that a majority of the Paris pictures were taken on a very gloomy day, they came out beautifully.
Both I & my cold are doing excellently, & hope you (minus the colds) are the same.
Now—calling home on Xmas day is impossible, as I have the duty that day. And since I have to be back aboard the ship by 11:30, & the six hour time difference, the very latest I can call home
is 5:30 & you won’t be home by then. So come home as early as possible & I’ll try (can’t promise) to call on the 27th. Don’t hold your breath, though. You have to order the call the day before, I am told, & the only time I have two days off in a row is on the 26th & 27th. But I’ll try.
Got a letter from Lief at long last. He has less than two months to go, & the Navy is trying, in its own inimitable way, to make it seem as long as possible by putting him back on mess cooking!
Well, I’d better close now—it’s getting late (9:30).
Until August, I am
Always
Roge
Dear Folks
As you can see, I’ve broken my vow, which actually was a silly one in the first place; but I was so mad at the thought of all that effort gone to waste that I could cheerfully have scuttled the USS Ticonderoga without another thought.
Got a card & money from Grandma, whom I intend to write as soon as possible, & a letter from you (always welcome). Also I got back two rolls of film, which I opened warily, but soon went into fits of ecstatic glee. The first one opens with a scene of the Capitol dome, & goes on beautifully. The second opens with sunrise over Gibraltar & is, as far as I can tell, prefect.
Gibraltar itself is seen as in a blue haze, though it may be a slight overexposure. Then it moves on from a shot of the Rock in back of a large gold cross commemorating British dead, & wanders about over Europe, including the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, & an almost identical shot of the dome of the Tomb of Invalides; from almost the same angle as our Capitol dome. I couldn’t have asked for them to turn out better. A few underexposures (refueling at sea) & some overexposures. Considering he fact that a majority of the Paris pictures were taken on a very gloomy day, they came out beautifully.
Both I & my cold are doing excellently, & hope you (minus the colds) are the same.
Now—calling home on Xmas day is impossible, as I have the duty that day. And since I have to be back aboard the ship by 11:30, & the six hour time difference, the very latest I can call home
is 5:30 & you won’t be home by then. So come home as early as possible & I’ll try (can’t promise) to call on the 27th. Don’t hold your breath, though. You have to order the call the day before, I am told, & the only time I have two days off in a row is on the 26th & 27th. But I’ll try.
Got a letter from Lief at long last. He has less than two months to go, & the Navy is trying, in its own inimitable way, to make it seem as long as possible by putting him back on mess cooking!
Well, I’d better close now—it’s getting late (9:30).
Until August, I am
Always
Roge
Saturday, September 30, 2006
14 December 1955
This will have to be short, as I’ve got to take a shower before going to bed. Let’s face it—who cares?
If I take a shower?
Yes, if you take a shower.
Well if I didn’t somebody would notice it.
So what? So why write about it?
Got to have something to write about.
Why?
Oh, come on, now, let’s not be bitter.
Who’s being bitter? I’m just stating facts.
There will now be a soft intermittent violin throbbing in the background.
So you actually thing you’re going to be a writer?
I hope so.
You know damn good & well you couldn’t even write an interesting piece on the end of the world.
Well?
Well what?
How much paper are you going to waste?
You know, I was just thinking, this might be called a split personality, but we both hate me.
Quick, fetch the wood—Joan of Arc is at it again.
Out, out damn spot--& on with the journal, if you’ll keep out of it.
I will.
Good.
We refueled at sea this morning, a beautiful day with the water as smooth as glass & a deep blue. Across it glided several grey ships, among them the Lake Champlain, several tankers, & some little destroyers, dragging a white bridal train behind them. I tried taking some pictures, & hope they come out, but am slightly confused by the complexity of the lenses, & get more confused as I try to figure it out.
Had a wonderful sleep last night, & enjoyed every minute of it, I think. Unlike my childhood I no longer begrudge going to sleep, but am still not too anxious to go to bed.
Each week we hold an inventory of all mess gear, & it is fabulous to watch the results. Every week, we lose an average of 200 cups (placing guards at all entrances & exits to the chow halls have little or no effect). Now that is a little steep—but when we turn up missing 39 mess benches (each 8 feet long) I can’t help but wonder: where on earth could they go? Oh, well, into each rain a little life must fall….
This will have to be short, as I’ve got to take a shower before going to bed. Let’s face it—who cares?
If I take a shower?
Yes, if you take a shower.
Well if I didn’t somebody would notice it.
So what? So why write about it?
Got to have something to write about.
Why?
Oh, come on, now, let’s not be bitter.
Who’s being bitter? I’m just stating facts.
There will now be a soft intermittent violin throbbing in the background.
So you actually thing you’re going to be a writer?
I hope so.
You know damn good & well you couldn’t even write an interesting piece on the end of the world.
Well?
Well what?
How much paper are you going to waste?
You know, I was just thinking, this might be called a split personality, but we both hate me.
Quick, fetch the wood—Joan of Arc is at it again.
Out, out damn spot--& on with the journal, if you’ll keep out of it.
I will.
Good.
We refueled at sea this morning, a beautiful day with the water as smooth as glass & a deep blue. Across it glided several grey ships, among them the Lake Champlain, several tankers, & some little destroyers, dragging a white bridal train behind them. I tried taking some pictures, & hope they come out, but am slightly confused by the complexity of the lenses, & get more confused as I try to figure it out.
Had a wonderful sleep last night, & enjoyed every minute of it, I think. Unlike my childhood I no longer begrudge going to sleep, but am still not too anxious to go to bed.
Each week we hold an inventory of all mess gear, & it is fabulous to watch the results. Every week, we lose an average of 200 cups (placing guards at all entrances & exits to the chow halls have little or no effect). Now that is a little steep—but when we turn up missing 39 mess benches (each 8 feet long) I can’t help but wonder: where on earth could they go? Oh, well, into each rain a little life must fall….
Friday, September 29, 2006
13 December 1955
A calm, almost lazy day, though I kept busy most of it. Outside, the weather was nondescript—overcast though not glumly so. The sun shines so rarely over here that its presence is more conspicuous than its absence.
Emotionally I’m feeling fine, excepting for a few brief moments this afternoon when they started playing Christmas carols. Physically, my case of pneumonia has toned down & is content to sit idly somewhere in the cavities just above my nose, causing no bother. Currently I am engrossed in chewing my bottom lip, which is getting quite raw as I tear off tiny pieces of skin, and a gigantic hangnail, which seems intent on pulling my entire left thumb off.
I shouldn’t have said that I kept busy most of the day—the afternoon was pretty well shot, what with G.Q. & a typing test for Petty Officer. That was the first typing test I’d taken since high school, & high school is just a memory out of the distant past.
Someone is supposed to come in tomorrow to oil my typewriter. It’s getting so that it just creeps along &, slow as my typing is, there are occasionally five or six keys jammed up together.
Especially the "h". That is the most casual letter I have ever seen. It goes up & makes its mark with admirable speed, but then it either sticks there, or comes back so slowly that sometimes I have to stop & watch it, fascinated. Oh, well, the poor thing has been in almost constant use for almost two years with little or no repairs.
Mentioned the other day that we’re required to wear our blue flat hats while on liberty (none yet) & our blue watch caps while running around the ship. These watch caps are ingenious little things. I had one when I was in 7th grade, & haven’t seen one since. Made of heavy cotton, they’re like a large stocking cap &, when pulled down all the way, would make us all the rage of the 1920’s. They’re very warm, which is nice for out-of-doors activities, but miserable inside. We’re supposed to wear them all the time, except in the office, but I don’t—just carry it in case, & even then not always.
Nick is on my list for having carefully poured a cup of water down the back of my neck. I don’t know about that boy at times. We call him Joan of Arc (or Nick d’Ticonderoga) because he is rather prone to playing the role of martyr. Whenever there is work to be done, Nick does it—even though it needn’t be done right that minute. He’s a good kid, & at times reminds me of a very small boy (he’s only 18). He’ll always be epitomized by one instance of the first week I was mess-cooking. It was around lunch time & I asked him when we ate. He was sitting on the edge of his desk with his feet dangling over, not quite reaching the floor & swinging his legs back & forth. He looked up at me with the expression of a little boy with his first bicycle, & said: "I can eat any time I want to."
And then there’s Conrad—a 1st Class cook serving as PPO (Police Petty Officer—in charge of keeping the compartments clean). He gives the impression of being smaller than he is, perhaps because of a slightly large head. His voice is loud & sharp, though not high. He has an almost morbid fascination about death, particularly in its more violent forms—he tells in great detail how his own mother & father were killed in a car-train accident in 1949—his mother being thrown from the car after it had been shoved 200 feet. The way he talks of accidents & death—almost with relish. Andy says he was in several landing parties during the Second World War, & evidently had it tough. As a greeting, he grabs you by the muscles of the shoulder just below the neck & squeezes. This can be quite painful if the right muscles are involved. They usually are.
What’s this? Only five after nine? I must be slipping. Better try to write some more on the Paris trip. Till tomorrow (or the next page)….
A calm, almost lazy day, though I kept busy most of it. Outside, the weather was nondescript—overcast though not glumly so. The sun shines so rarely over here that its presence is more conspicuous than its absence.
Emotionally I’m feeling fine, excepting for a few brief moments this afternoon when they started playing Christmas carols. Physically, my case of pneumonia has toned down & is content to sit idly somewhere in the cavities just above my nose, causing no bother. Currently I am engrossed in chewing my bottom lip, which is getting quite raw as I tear off tiny pieces of skin, and a gigantic hangnail, which seems intent on pulling my entire left thumb off.
I shouldn’t have said that I kept busy most of the day—the afternoon was pretty well shot, what with G.Q. & a typing test for Petty Officer. That was the first typing test I’d taken since high school, & high school is just a memory out of the distant past.
Someone is supposed to come in tomorrow to oil my typewriter. It’s getting so that it just creeps along &, slow as my typing is, there are occasionally five or six keys jammed up together.
Especially the "h". That is the most casual letter I have ever seen. It goes up & makes its mark with admirable speed, but then it either sticks there, or comes back so slowly that sometimes I have to stop & watch it, fascinated. Oh, well, the poor thing has been in almost constant use for almost two years with little or no repairs.
Mentioned the other day that we’re required to wear our blue flat hats while on liberty (none yet) & our blue watch caps while running around the ship. These watch caps are ingenious little things. I had one when I was in 7th grade, & haven’t seen one since. Made of heavy cotton, they’re like a large stocking cap &, when pulled down all the way, would make us all the rage of the 1920’s. They’re very warm, which is nice for out-of-doors activities, but miserable inside. We’re supposed to wear them all the time, except in the office, but I don’t—just carry it in case, & even then not always.
Nick is on my list for having carefully poured a cup of water down the back of my neck. I don’t know about that boy at times. We call him Joan of Arc (or Nick d’Ticonderoga) because he is rather prone to playing the role of martyr. Whenever there is work to be done, Nick does it—even though it needn’t be done right that minute. He’s a good kid, & at times reminds me of a very small boy (he’s only 18). He’ll always be epitomized by one instance of the first week I was mess-cooking. It was around lunch time & I asked him when we ate. He was sitting on the edge of his desk with his feet dangling over, not quite reaching the floor & swinging his legs back & forth. He looked up at me with the expression of a little boy with his first bicycle, & said: "I can eat any time I want to."
And then there’s Conrad—a 1st Class cook serving as PPO (Police Petty Officer—in charge of keeping the compartments clean). He gives the impression of being smaller than he is, perhaps because of a slightly large head. His voice is loud & sharp, though not high. He has an almost morbid fascination about death, particularly in its more violent forms—he tells in great detail how his own mother & father were killed in a car-train accident in 1949—his mother being thrown from the car after it had been shoved 200 feet. The way he talks of accidents & death—almost with relish. Andy says he was in several landing parties during the Second World War, & evidently had it tough. As a greeting, he grabs you by the muscles of the shoulder just below the neck & squeezes. This can be quite painful if the right muscles are involved. They usually are.
What’s this? Only five after nine? I must be slipping. Better try to write some more on the Paris trip. Till tomorrow (or the next page)….
Thursday, September 28, 2006
12 December 1955
At sea again, & feeling a lot better—the shaky handwriting is caused by the ship’s vibrations, not my emotional outlook. I go up & down the emotional scale rapidly, but fortunately I spend most of my time on the top of the cycle rather than at the bottom.
Got another letter from home, which made me feel a little better. They’ve been getting my letters but almost none of my journal. It’s frustrating to think of all that work going for nothing. Perhaps I was loading the envelopes too heavily. Also, as yet, they haven’t gotten "Ching-Chong"—he’ll probably arrive in a million pieces about next June.
The minute we leave port, the sun comes out in all its glory—it was a beautiful day; at least the ten seconds I saw of it was. The last few nights in Genoa the seas were so rough they had to cancel the liberty boats, thus stranding 200 or more guys on the beach all night. They had a terrible time—all of them had to go & rent hotel rooms & stayed up all night drinking & running around the city. Poor things. Of course, some of the guys who were completely out of money slept aboard the two destroyers moored at the end of the same pier the Christoforo Colombo was.
Went to the library last night, for the first time in ages, & got two books—one of them Ogden Nash’s "The Face is Familiar," & the other Bulfinch’s "Mythology." The former was to elevate me out of the stupor I was in, the latter to improve my stagnating mind. Finished Nash the same night, & set about today (in what little spare time I had), to learn the names of the nine Muses—I could only recall one off hand—Terpsichore, muse of the dance. I enjoy reading mythology, but it is frequently confusing as to which god is related to which.
If you will notice, yours truly seems to be on an "I" binge again. Much more care must be taken in the future to correct this.
As of Naples, we’ll be required to wear our blue flat-hats instead of the white ones. Never having worn one, it ought to prove interesting. For some reason, I look ridiculous in any kind of hat.
Also, while dissecting my writing, it may be noted that almost nowhere can you find a sentence unbroken by one or several comma’s , unless it is a very short sentence. I lean heavily on "therefore"’s, "Of course", "also", & almost any device to break up a sentence into more palatable portions.
It is already after taps, & though I am in the mood to write indefinitely, bed beckons. As you may also have gathered, my spelling is atrocious. "I calls ‘em the way I sees ‘em"….
At sea again, & feeling a lot better—the shaky handwriting is caused by the ship’s vibrations, not my emotional outlook. I go up & down the emotional scale rapidly, but fortunately I spend most of my time on the top of the cycle rather than at the bottom.
Got another letter from home, which made me feel a little better. They’ve been getting my letters but almost none of my journal. It’s frustrating to think of all that work going for nothing. Perhaps I was loading the envelopes too heavily. Also, as yet, they haven’t gotten "Ching-Chong"—he’ll probably arrive in a million pieces about next June.
The minute we leave port, the sun comes out in all its glory—it was a beautiful day; at least the ten seconds I saw of it was. The last few nights in Genoa the seas were so rough they had to cancel the liberty boats, thus stranding 200 or more guys on the beach all night. They had a terrible time—all of them had to go & rent hotel rooms & stayed up all night drinking & running around the city. Poor things. Of course, some of the guys who were completely out of money slept aboard the two destroyers moored at the end of the same pier the Christoforo Colombo was.
Went to the library last night, for the first time in ages, & got two books—one of them Ogden Nash’s "The Face is Familiar," & the other Bulfinch’s "Mythology." The former was to elevate me out of the stupor I was in, the latter to improve my stagnating mind. Finished Nash the same night, & set about today (in what little spare time I had), to learn the names of the nine Muses—I could only recall one off hand—Terpsichore, muse of the dance. I enjoy reading mythology, but it is frequently confusing as to which god is related to which.
If you will notice, yours truly seems to be on an "I" binge again. Much more care must be taken in the future to correct this.
As of Naples, we’ll be required to wear our blue flat-hats instead of the white ones. Never having worn one, it ought to prove interesting. For some reason, I look ridiculous in any kind of hat.
Also, while dissecting my writing, it may be noted that almost nowhere can you find a sentence unbroken by one or several comma’s , unless it is a very short sentence. I lean heavily on "therefore"’s, "Of course", "also", & almost any device to break up a sentence into more palatable portions.
It is already after taps, & though I am in the mood to write indefinitely, bed beckons. As you may also have gathered, my spelling is atrocious. "I calls ‘em the way I sees ‘em"….
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
11 December 1955
A miserable day; my mind is a dark & empty reservoir, completely drained of thoughts. It’s just as well, for if I had any thoughts at all, I would feel terrible.
For one thing, I am becoming increasingly homesick—which isn’t the correct word, but the closest thing to it. Mail from home only aggravates matters. None of the letters I send home—perhaps ¼ of them—ever get there. The letters from home ask the same questions over & over & over. So I wrote home, or rather tried to---whether it ever gets there is another question—telling them that I’m not gong to write another letter while in Europe.
Sometimes I get so frustrated & angry I feel something will have to give. I realize that this is wrong thinking, not at all conducive to a healthy, red-blooded outlook.
When I get back to college I’m going to have to do some research on the effects of climatical changes on people. There definitely is one.
I give up—maybe tomorrow….
Postcard Dated 11 Dec. 1955, postmarked "U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 12, 9 a.m." Subject The Gardens of Victory Square, Genoa, Italy
Dear Folks,
These are the gardens I tried to describe in one of the letters you probably didn’t get.
I reverse the decision made not to write home—I’ll send post cards.
Sure wish I was home—the more I see of Europe, the more I want to be home. Oh, well, only eight more months (236 days). You can stop writing if you want, but I hope you don’t.
Love, Roge
A miserable day; my mind is a dark & empty reservoir, completely drained of thoughts. It’s just as well, for if I had any thoughts at all, I would feel terrible.
For one thing, I am becoming increasingly homesick—which isn’t the correct word, but the closest thing to it. Mail from home only aggravates matters. None of the letters I send home—perhaps ¼ of them—ever get there. The letters from home ask the same questions over & over & over. So I wrote home, or rather tried to---whether it ever gets there is another question—telling them that I’m not gong to write another letter while in Europe.
Sometimes I get so frustrated & angry I feel something will have to give. I realize that this is wrong thinking, not at all conducive to a healthy, red-blooded outlook.
When I get back to college I’m going to have to do some research on the effects of climatical changes on people. There definitely is one.
I give up—maybe tomorrow….
Postcard Dated 11 Dec. 1955, postmarked "U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 12, 9 a.m." Subject The Gardens of Victory Square, Genoa, Italy
Dear Folks,
These are the gardens I tried to describe in one of the letters you probably didn’t get.
I reverse the decision made not to write home—I’ll send post cards.
Sure wish I was home—the more I see of Europe, the more I want to be home. Oh, well, only eight more months (236 days). You can stop writing if you want, but I hope you don’t.
Love, Roge
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
10 December 1955
Dear Folks
Don’t know why I’m writing this at all---you haven’t gotten any of my letters (as of 2 Dec.) & I’ve been writing every single day & sending them airmail. Yours get here in eight days with just a plain old 3-cent stamp. It’s all very discouraging, like having a broken telephone speaker & hearing someone say "Hello? Hello? Hello?" & not being able to answer. You say you wait every day for a letter—well, so do I—every time I expect to see "Finally got your seventy-two letters…" but instead: "Why haven’t you written?" It’s enough to make a man bitter (as if I weren’t already.)
To show you the perfect timing of this cursed postal system, I received today a package from Aunt Thyra. In it were a box of Pixies & as card saying "Happy Birthday." At the same time came a card from Pleasantville, New York, saying I was to receive a year’s subscription to Reader’s Digest as a Christmas gift (thank you, mom). The saving feature of this was the thought that I’ll be out of this damn Navy before the subscription runs out!!
No sense in trying to write more—it’d be perfectly useless. I think I’ll stop sending my journal home too,--every now & then I’ll send a blank sheet of paper home giving perhaps the vital statistics on my health & welfare. And if you don’t get this one—I give up.
Till August 12th
Love, Roge
P.S. I HATE THE NAVY!!!
Merry Xmas
P.P.P.S. This is my last letter (or try) till I hear you’ve received some of mine.
Dear Folks
Don’t know why I’m writing this at all---you haven’t gotten any of my letters (as of 2 Dec.) & I’ve been writing every single day & sending them airmail. Yours get here in eight days with just a plain old 3-cent stamp. It’s all very discouraging, like having a broken telephone speaker & hearing someone say "Hello? Hello? Hello?" & not being able to answer. You say you wait every day for a letter—well, so do I—every time I expect to see "Finally got your seventy-two letters…" but instead: "Why haven’t you written?" It’s enough to make a man bitter (as if I weren’t already.)
To show you the perfect timing of this cursed postal system, I received today a package from Aunt Thyra. In it were a box of Pixies & as card saying "Happy Birthday." At the same time came a card from Pleasantville, New York, saying I was to receive a year’s subscription to Reader’s Digest as a Christmas gift (thank you, mom). The saving feature of this was the thought that I’ll be out of this damn Navy before the subscription runs out!!
No sense in trying to write more—it’d be perfectly useless. I think I’ll stop sending my journal home too,--every now & then I’ll send a blank sheet of paper home giving perhaps the vital statistics on my health & welfare. And if you don’t get this one—I give up.
Till August 12th
Love, Roge
P.S. I HATE THE NAVY!!!
Merry Xmas
P.P.P.S. This is my last letter (or try) till I hear you’ve received some of mine.
Monday, September 25, 2006
10 December, 1955
One year ago today, almost to the very minute, I was in an R5D landing at Floyd Bennett Field, New York. The day before, I had graduated from Pre-Flight. Oh, how long ago it all seems—the band, Mr. Barnes, parades on Friday, bookbags, navigation classes—all as though they’d never happened. Then I’d never have dreamed I’d be aboard the USS Ticonderoga, a mere enlisted peon. But all that is gone now, & I must look to the future, which surely must be brighter but could hardly be more interesting.
Two hours or so have passed, during which I was in the library, reading magazines. I came across a clever "filler" in this month’s Reader’s Digest & will quote it for you, in case you missed it:
When a destroyer escort cut too close behind the flagship, an unlucky roll brought his sea boats’ davits in contact with the carrier’s stern. The Flag Officer promptly signaled to the destroyer: IF YOU TOUCH ME THERE AGAIN, I SHALL SCREAM.
Tonite is Saturday, which means that with good luck, I should be able to sleep late tomorrow morning. Sleep, to me, is a marvelous state of nonexistence, mixed occasionally with wonderful fantasies & unrealities.
Not, by mentioning nonexistence, that I plan to put an end to my own "veil of tears," but I do enjoy the complete freedom possible—where the mind creates & controls things it has no power over while awake.
Have you ever stopped to think how, though people envision a marvelous Heaven, so few of them are willing to die to attain it? How, though they curse Man as evil & moan that life is Hell on Earth, they fight, scratch, & claw to hang onto it?
If Man would only open his eyes, he may find that, though the light hurts at first, there are colors never dreamed of. I believe that we are capable of far more power than we utilize. I have not found perfection, & never will—but that does not mean I cannot look for it, & thereby perhaps find things worth more than I have now.
It is my desire to always seek something that is forever out of reach, & so climb only part way up an endless stair—but isn’t that better than just sitting at the bottom saying "I can’t make it" & not go anywhere at all?
Logic is something that should be projected. If two & two made four yesterday, & they make four today, isn’t it safe to assume that they will make four tomorrow? For some unknown reason (fear of change?) Man is unwilling to even glance over his shoulder (he stands always with his back to the future) to see what might be. He assumes that, because something is not practicable or possible here, now, today, it never will be. If he prepared for it, he would not stumble over it when it arrives. All it takes is a little projection—a little acceptance that things will change; that someday the automobile will replace the horse.
Someday; someday soon. Maybe tomorrow….
One year ago today, almost to the very minute, I was in an R5D landing at Floyd Bennett Field, New York. The day before, I had graduated from Pre-Flight. Oh, how long ago it all seems—the band, Mr. Barnes, parades on Friday, bookbags, navigation classes—all as though they’d never happened. Then I’d never have dreamed I’d be aboard the USS Ticonderoga, a mere enlisted peon. But all that is gone now, & I must look to the future, which surely must be brighter but could hardly be more interesting.
Two hours or so have passed, during which I was in the library, reading magazines. I came across a clever "filler" in this month’s Reader’s Digest & will quote it for you, in case you missed it:
When a destroyer escort cut too close behind the flagship, an unlucky roll brought his sea boats’ davits in contact with the carrier’s stern. The Flag Officer promptly signaled to the destroyer: IF YOU TOUCH ME THERE AGAIN, I SHALL SCREAM.
Tonite is Saturday, which means that with good luck, I should be able to sleep late tomorrow morning. Sleep, to me, is a marvelous state of nonexistence, mixed occasionally with wonderful fantasies & unrealities.
Not, by mentioning nonexistence, that I plan to put an end to my own "veil of tears," but I do enjoy the complete freedom possible—where the mind creates & controls things it has no power over while awake.
Have you ever stopped to think how, though people envision a marvelous Heaven, so few of them are willing to die to attain it? How, though they curse Man as evil & moan that life is Hell on Earth, they fight, scratch, & claw to hang onto it?
If Man would only open his eyes, he may find that, though the light hurts at first, there are colors never dreamed of. I believe that we are capable of far more power than we utilize. I have not found perfection, & never will—but that does not mean I cannot look for it, & thereby perhaps find things worth more than I have now.
It is my desire to always seek something that is forever out of reach, & so climb only part way up an endless stair—but isn’t that better than just sitting at the bottom saying "I can’t make it" & not go anywhere at all?
Logic is something that should be projected. If two & two made four yesterday, & they make four today, isn’t it safe to assume that they will make four tomorrow? For some unknown reason (fear of change?) Man is unwilling to even glance over his shoulder (he stands always with his back to the future) to see what might be. He assumes that, because something is not practicable or possible here, now, today, it never will be. If he prepared for it, he would not stumble over it when it arrives. All it takes is a little projection—a little acceptance that things will change; that someday the automobile will replace the horse.
Someday; someday soon. Maybe tomorrow….
Sunday, September 24, 2006
9 December 1955
Just got back from a tour of Genoa, Rapallo, & numerous small towns & villages in between. It was an interesting tour, but I was kept so busy watching everything it was quite tiring.
We left the ship this morning at 7:30; the sun was not even completely up. There were 157 of us going, & I managed to get into the first boat. Seeing Genoa harbor by day made it look different, but not less impressive. I was wrong about the sunken ships—one was the end of a long pier, & I couldn’t locate the other. The white liner had slipped away sometime between Tuesday & today, & in its place was the sleek black-&-white Cristoforo Colombo, a big & beautiful liner.
Three large busses & one very tiny one were waiting for us when we arrived; I wanted to get on the little one, but ended up on one of the larger. Since ours had been the first boat to leave the ship, there was a long delay before the others got loaded & came ashore. At about eight fifteen or so we got going. Of Genoa itself I have little to add to my previous observations. We followed almost the identical route I had walked Tuesday night, into the heart of the city. On the main square, our guide pointed out the Genoa Opera, which like Milan’s famous La Scala Opera House, had been bombed out during the war. Unlike La Scala, Genoa had never rebuilt hers, & the building stands today a hollow, broken shell.
Caught a fleeting glimpse of Christopher Columbus’ boyhood home, behind what appeared to have been the arcade around a church garden. It stands in the shadow of one of the original city gates—huge, round fortress-like things. The house itself is almost invisible, being covered by all sorts of vines. Originally it had been three stories high, but was now reduced to at most one or two rooms. It reminded me of the card houses I used to build on the living room floor; sometimes I’d get them up to three stories. Then I’d bomb them with poker chips, and the whole thing would tumble, leaving perhaps four cards propped against one another.
Victory Square was fairly interesting—garden-like at one end, & mall-like at the other. In the center of this mall, which is surrounded by attractive government-looking buildings, is Mussolini’s little Arch of Triumph—he called it a memorial to those killed in the First World War. And at the very end of the mall a hill rises up &, on it, in red plants are the designs of the Nina, Pinta, & Santa Maria; one above the other; below them are three anchors, also in red plants. Stairs run up the hill on either side, & the hill is topped by an arcade of brown stone. All very pretty.
For almost the first time since we’ve been in Europe, it was a nice day, though very cold. I had my camera, but was very low on film, so I tried shooting singles—snapshots. Surely hope they turn out; it will probably cost a small fortune to have them blown up to a visible size.
The most fascinating place in all Genoa is, without a doubt, the cemetery. It is laid out like a city & is indescribably fascinating. At one end is a hill, covered with thick poplars & large tombs with spirals & domes & towers & arches—like an Italian Olympus. But the most beautiful part of the cemetery are the statues. They stand about in long corridors, by the graves of the people they represent. Nowhere have I seen more realistic figures. They never dust them. The result is that the dust becomes covered in the crevices & folds of clothing, making it appear as though it were real velvet. There is one statue in particular which I was interested in. It is of an old lady in a full Italian skirt & shawl. She stands on a pedestal, holding in her left hand, even with her waist, a triple string of chestnuts, which runs to her right hand, at her side, in which she also carries two large rings of bread. This woman sold chestnuts, beads, & bread on the streets all her life so that she could afford a statue to perpetuate her name. She herself posed for it. She lived only 14 months after its completing, & used to come every day to look at it & lay flowers on it. It cost her 65,000 Lira (then about $3,000), & earned every penny of it herself. That was 75 years ago.
Briefly , to mention some of the other curiosities of the cemetery, it is like St. Michael’s in New Orleans—graves are only rented, & then only for five years with no renewals. The very floors of the corridors of statues are tombs in which bodies are placed five deep—one atop the other. It has, near the corridor of statues, another long enclosed corridor copied after the catacombs of Rome, wherein bodies are placed lengthwise in the walls.
Now, to leave Genoa—Mountains are everywhere, & sprinkled all over, from base to summit, with towns & villages. Tall church steeples rise above the trees everywhere you look. The roads are narrow & writhe around the steep mountainsides crazily. Houses seem carved out of &, in some instances are, into the mountainside. Old forts, castles & churches stand on prominent ridges & peaks of every mountain, as if the mountains were put there expressly for the purpose of holding them.
The houses, in the villages & outside them, are frustrating if nothing else. Nowhere did I see a single-story house. Even on the infrequently sparse sections of road, six story buildings are not uncommon. They are all, without exception, basically exactly the same—tall, square, small sloping roofs, & very straight—no curves or juttings; exactly straight on all four sides. To combat this, & try to appear different, they paint cornices & frames above & over the windows, balconies, & even paint windows where there are none. Each window on each house has green shutters. To hide the fact that all the walls are perfectly smooth, or at best pebble-dashed, they paint lines on to represent blocks; some they paint to look like marble. They paint fancy cornerstones, running up the sides. Paint, Paint, Paint—all of it pastel (usually a reddish-pink or variations of yellow), & all of it faded. The whole thing makes it appear as though they wallpapered the outside of the house. I called them frustrating, for when one does come upon a house with real stone, or real balconies, it is necessary to look twice to be sure. Those very rare houses one finds painted just one color with no pseudo-art aren’t half bad.
Rapallo is one of those picturesque little villages huddled in the few places where the mountains do not run directly into the sea. It is different from all the other picturesque towns we passed through in that it has a real, honest-to-goodness castle. It isn’t a Hollywood-type castle, with walls & miles of drafty halls. This one is rather small, no outer protective walls at all. It doesn’t need them, for it sits out a safe (in those days) distance in the water, with a narrow strip connecting it to the land. It is so old that no one is quite sure who built it or when. Its thick walls are used today not to keep people out, but to keep them in—currently it is Rapallo’s jail.
I could go on describing all the quaint & pretty things I saw today, but I’m really very tired, so if you will excuse me….
Postcard postmarked Rapallo/Genoa, December 9 1955. Subject: A middue (sic) ages castle
Dear Folks
Thought I’d better send at least one card home the regular way (via European mail), so you can see what an Italian stamp looks like.
I’m sitting within view of the castle on the card—it’s used as the town jail now.
Well, we’re shoving off for Porto Fino, where they have the submerged statue of Christ seen in Life.
More later,
Love,
Roger
Just got back from a tour of Genoa, Rapallo, & numerous small towns & villages in between. It was an interesting tour, but I was kept so busy watching everything it was quite tiring.
We left the ship this morning at 7:30; the sun was not even completely up. There were 157 of us going, & I managed to get into the first boat. Seeing Genoa harbor by day made it look different, but not less impressive. I was wrong about the sunken ships—one was the end of a long pier, & I couldn’t locate the other. The white liner had slipped away sometime between Tuesday & today, & in its place was the sleek black-&-white Cristoforo Colombo, a big & beautiful liner.
Three large busses & one very tiny one were waiting for us when we arrived; I wanted to get on the little one, but ended up on one of the larger. Since ours had been the first boat to leave the ship, there was a long delay before the others got loaded & came ashore. At about eight fifteen or so we got going. Of Genoa itself I have little to add to my previous observations. We followed almost the identical route I had walked Tuesday night, into the heart of the city. On the main square, our guide pointed out the Genoa Opera, which like Milan’s famous La Scala Opera House, had been bombed out during the war. Unlike La Scala, Genoa had never rebuilt hers, & the building stands today a hollow, broken shell.
Caught a fleeting glimpse of Christopher Columbus’ boyhood home, behind what appeared to have been the arcade around a church garden. It stands in the shadow of one of the original city gates—huge, round fortress-like things. The house itself is almost invisible, being covered by all sorts of vines. Originally it had been three stories high, but was now reduced to at most one or two rooms. It reminded me of the card houses I used to build on the living room floor; sometimes I’d get them up to three stories. Then I’d bomb them with poker chips, and the whole thing would tumble, leaving perhaps four cards propped against one another.
Victory Square was fairly interesting—garden-like at one end, & mall-like at the other. In the center of this mall, which is surrounded by attractive government-looking buildings, is Mussolini’s little Arch of Triumph—he called it a memorial to those killed in the First World War. And at the very end of the mall a hill rises up &, on it, in red plants are the designs of the Nina, Pinta, & Santa Maria; one above the other; below them are three anchors, also in red plants. Stairs run up the hill on either side, & the hill is topped by an arcade of brown stone. All very pretty.
For almost the first time since we’ve been in Europe, it was a nice day, though very cold. I had my camera, but was very low on film, so I tried shooting singles—snapshots. Surely hope they turn out; it will probably cost a small fortune to have them blown up to a visible size.
The most fascinating place in all Genoa is, without a doubt, the cemetery. It is laid out like a city & is indescribably fascinating. At one end is a hill, covered with thick poplars & large tombs with spirals & domes & towers & arches—like an Italian Olympus. But the most beautiful part of the cemetery are the statues. They stand about in long corridors, by the graves of the people they represent. Nowhere have I seen more realistic figures. They never dust them. The result is that the dust becomes covered in the crevices & folds of clothing, making it appear as though it were real velvet. There is one statue in particular which I was interested in. It is of an old lady in a full Italian skirt & shawl. She stands on a pedestal, holding in her left hand, even with her waist, a triple string of chestnuts, which runs to her right hand, at her side, in which she also carries two large rings of bread. This woman sold chestnuts, beads, & bread on the streets all her life so that she could afford a statue to perpetuate her name. She herself posed for it. She lived only 14 months after its completing, & used to come every day to look at it & lay flowers on it. It cost her 65,000 Lira (then about $3,000), & earned every penny of it herself. That was 75 years ago.
Briefly , to mention some of the other curiosities of the cemetery, it is like St. Michael’s in New Orleans—graves are only rented, & then only for five years with no renewals. The very floors of the corridors of statues are tombs in which bodies are placed five deep—one atop the other. It has, near the corridor of statues, another long enclosed corridor copied after the catacombs of Rome, wherein bodies are placed lengthwise in the walls.
Now, to leave Genoa—Mountains are everywhere, & sprinkled all over, from base to summit, with towns & villages. Tall church steeples rise above the trees everywhere you look. The roads are narrow & writhe around the steep mountainsides crazily. Houses seem carved out of &, in some instances are, into the mountainside. Old forts, castles & churches stand on prominent ridges & peaks of every mountain, as if the mountains were put there expressly for the purpose of holding them.
The houses, in the villages & outside them, are frustrating if nothing else. Nowhere did I see a single-story house. Even on the infrequently sparse sections of road, six story buildings are not uncommon. They are all, without exception, basically exactly the same—tall, square, small sloping roofs, & very straight—no curves or juttings; exactly straight on all four sides. To combat this, & try to appear different, they paint cornices & frames above & over the windows, balconies, & even paint windows where there are none. Each window on each house has green shutters. To hide the fact that all the walls are perfectly smooth, or at best pebble-dashed, they paint lines on to represent blocks; some they paint to look like marble. They paint fancy cornerstones, running up the sides. Paint, Paint, Paint—all of it pastel (usually a reddish-pink or variations of yellow), & all of it faded. The whole thing makes it appear as though they wallpapered the outside of the house. I called them frustrating, for when one does come upon a house with real stone, or real balconies, it is necessary to look twice to be sure. Those very rare houses one finds painted just one color with no pseudo-art aren’t half bad.
Rapallo is one of those picturesque little villages huddled in the few places where the mountains do not run directly into the sea. It is different from all the other picturesque towns we passed through in that it has a real, honest-to-goodness castle. It isn’t a Hollywood-type castle, with walls & miles of drafty halls. This one is rather small, no outer protective walls at all. It doesn’t need them, for it sits out a safe (in those days) distance in the water, with a narrow strip connecting it to the land. It is so old that no one is quite sure who built it or when. Its thick walls are used today not to keep people out, but to keep them in—currently it is Rapallo’s jail.
I could go on describing all the quaint & pretty things I saw today, but I’m really very tired, so if you will excuse me….
Postcard postmarked Rapallo/Genoa, December 9 1955. Subject: A middue (sic) ages castle
Dear Folks
Thought I’d better send at least one card home the regular way (via European mail), so you can see what an Italian stamp looks like.
I’m sitting within view of the castle on the card—it’s used as the town jail now.
Well, we’re shoving off for Porto Fino, where they have the submerged statue of Christ seen in Life.
More later,
Love,
Roger
Saturday, September 23, 2006
8 December 1955
Like everything else in this blasted Navy, my journal writing could be piped down at 8:45 every evening, regular as clockwork. I’ve come to think of the Bos’n’s pipe (previously affectionately described) as a sort of Pavlov’s bell. He, as you probably know, was a Russian scientist who experimented on the conditioning of animals to certain bells—ring a bell & give food; ring a bell & give food—until finally all he’d have to do was ring a bell & dogs would start to drool.
Today was the type of day I have now firmly fixed in my mind as typical European—dull, cloudy, & lethargic; the landscape & the city just sitting there, waiting for something. Perhaps it’s only a quirk of my imagination, but I seem to recall that in America, even in winter, we had some nice, clear days.
Tomorrow morning I take a sightseeing tour of Genoa & Rapallo, though I’ve already seen all I care to. The only time Genoa is pretty is at night, & from a distance.
By this time, as you may have gathered, I have become thoroughly homesick—or should I say “Europe-sick.” It is very nice to go to a foreign country, & walk their streets, & look in their shops—but, like skeptics say of a circus, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. For each country is just as foreign as the next, & none of them is America. Still I would not trade this experience for anything short of my discharge.
If anyone should ever tell you a ship is not alive, don’t believe them—she pulsates, quivers, & breathes. Only during G.Q. does she cease to live—almost--& then she is frightening. Earlier this evening the movie was called “The Cruel Sea,” which I’d seen before, but wanted to see again. This second time I enjoyed it more, for I felt closer to the action; when the Compass Rose went down, it seemed much more real.
Speaking of sinkings, the other night I had a most interesting dream (as most of mine, happily, are). I’d dreamed once before of the Ticonderoga sinking at her berth; this time it was the entire Brazilian Navy. For some reason, they were scuttling their entire fleet. Several destroyers sank gracefully, one capsizing just before she sank—a huge battleship was listing heavily to starboard, & they were using bazookas to blast more holes in her. A pretty red-&-black freighter at a pier directly across from my vantage point sank suddenly, as though the water had risen up over it, instead of its sinking. I was miserable at the gigantic waste—a Brazilian naval officer said they were all being sunk because the metal of which they were all built was greasy.
Don’t ask me why I chose the Brazilian Navy to sink, or what greasy metal had to do with it—dreams have a wonderful logic all their own, which ceases to exist once a person wakes. I suppose the idea for it came from the fact that I’d seen a couple of sunken ships in Genoa’s harbor.
We will have been gone a total of 140 days when we again reach the States; a notice came out regarding customs regulations on the quantity & monetary value of things being brought into the country. It is proportional to the time spent away. 140 days or more away from the States, & the goods allowable are unlimited (an asterisk explained that we would have been gone just 140 days). Haven’t figured it out yet, but it doesn’t sound like eight or even six months.
Because of the tour tomorrow, I’ll miss Field Day (lucky me) so I’d best clean up a little tonite…..
Like everything else in this blasted Navy, my journal writing could be piped down at 8:45 every evening, regular as clockwork. I’ve come to think of the Bos’n’s pipe (previously affectionately described) as a sort of Pavlov’s bell. He, as you probably know, was a Russian scientist who experimented on the conditioning of animals to certain bells—ring a bell & give food; ring a bell & give food—until finally all he’d have to do was ring a bell & dogs would start to drool.
Today was the type of day I have now firmly fixed in my mind as typical European—dull, cloudy, & lethargic; the landscape & the city just sitting there, waiting for something. Perhaps it’s only a quirk of my imagination, but I seem to recall that in America, even in winter, we had some nice, clear days.
Tomorrow morning I take a sightseeing tour of Genoa & Rapallo, though I’ve already seen all I care to. The only time Genoa is pretty is at night, & from a distance.
By this time, as you may have gathered, I have become thoroughly homesick—or should I say “Europe-sick.” It is very nice to go to a foreign country, & walk their streets, & look in their shops—but, like skeptics say of a circus, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. For each country is just as foreign as the next, & none of them is America. Still I would not trade this experience for anything short of my discharge.
If anyone should ever tell you a ship is not alive, don’t believe them—she pulsates, quivers, & breathes. Only during G.Q. does she cease to live—almost--& then she is frightening. Earlier this evening the movie was called “The Cruel Sea,” which I’d seen before, but wanted to see again. This second time I enjoyed it more, for I felt closer to the action; when the Compass Rose went down, it seemed much more real.
Speaking of sinkings, the other night I had a most interesting dream (as most of mine, happily, are). I’d dreamed once before of the Ticonderoga sinking at her berth; this time it was the entire Brazilian Navy. For some reason, they were scuttling their entire fleet. Several destroyers sank gracefully, one capsizing just before she sank—a huge battleship was listing heavily to starboard, & they were using bazookas to blast more holes in her. A pretty red-&-black freighter at a pier directly across from my vantage point sank suddenly, as though the water had risen up over it, instead of its sinking. I was miserable at the gigantic waste—a Brazilian naval officer said they were all being sunk because the metal of which they were all built was greasy.
Don’t ask me why I chose the Brazilian Navy to sink, or what greasy metal had to do with it—dreams have a wonderful logic all their own, which ceases to exist once a person wakes. I suppose the idea for it came from the fact that I’d seen a couple of sunken ships in Genoa’s harbor.
We will have been gone a total of 140 days when we again reach the States; a notice came out regarding customs regulations on the quantity & monetary value of things being brought into the country. It is proportional to the time spent away. 140 days or more away from the States, & the goods allowable are unlimited (an asterisk explained that we would have been gone just 140 days). Haven’t figured it out yet, but it doesn’t sound like eight or even six months.
Because of the tour tomorrow, I’ll miss Field Day (lucky me) so I’d best clean up a little tonite…..
Friday, September 22, 2006
7 December 1955
14 years ago today, on a chilly but bright Sunday afternoon, I stood in Aunt Thyra’s living room & listened to the tall, ornate wooden radio announce that United States military bases & ships in Oahu Island, Hawaii, had been attacked by planes of the Imperial Navy; no one knew the exact number of casualties as yet, but the death toll was undoubtedly high. And so a stunned & shocked America saw herself thrown into the longest, bloodiest war in her history.
Today, aboard the USS Ticonderoga anchored off Genoa Italy, a ship where 345 men died in one day of that war, not a word was said—none remembered. Wars are forgotten so soon, as are the lessons they taught….
My cold is much better today—that is to say, I have it under a semi-control; it only bothers me when I cough.
I neglected to mention yesterday that in the brief time I was in Genoa, I manage to throw away 600 Lire! For this fabulous sum, I bought one pizza, one beer, one glass of wine, one Time magazine, & four chocolate covered cherries (unpitted), one of which is still in my peacoat pocket & must be disposed of. It is a little less shocking to consider that 600 Lire equals roughly 90 cents in American money.
Just checking my drawer, & found about six pages of accumulated scrawlings not mailed home yet. I’ll do it tonite. Of course, the six pages does not include my Paris adventures. I’ve finished it up to the point of the first half of the first day, & already have eight pages. By the time I finish it, it should about equal Gone With the Wind in volume.
No weather report forthcoming in today’s entry, as the only time I stuck my little head outside it was very early & almost dark.
The major problem of the day seems to be the Christmas Present Situation. Oh, woe—what to do. As for myself, I’m already resigned to the idea that there just won’t be a Christmas this year—just pretend they left it off the calendar. But what a dirty thing to do to the folks back home—it will still be Xmas for them. But I’ve decided I won’t send anything home, though I have presents for everybody. A present will do no good if it doesn’t get there, or if it arrives in forty or fifty pieces.
Nick was rummaging through my billfold this evening (with my permission) & when he got through, everything was lying in a huge mound in the center of the MAA’s desk. So I sorted through it, & put away all the movie ticket stubs from Los Angeles & Miami & New York, & my entrance pass to the Louvre Museum in Paris, & my special request chits (one requesting to go to NAS in the Uniform of the Day for band practice—the other asking to get off early to meet dad at the airport in Norfolk), & dozens of other things. Not one of them is worth anything, but to me it tells a story (of great depth & pathos) of my adventures & misadventures in this cruel world. Every single scrap of paper means something very special to me, if to no one else.
Nothing of vital interest to write about today’s activities, for I am sure you care little about how to type up menu cards, or the procedure for running off stencils for next week’s meals.
Mail arrived on board tonight, but since it is now almost 9:45, there is not much chance of there being a mail call.
Ah, to be a civilian again. If this trip does nothing else for me, it will be a constant reminder to me how wonderful America is, with all its faults.
So, with the playing of the Star Spangled Banner in the background, I will bid you goodnight….
14 years ago today, on a chilly but bright Sunday afternoon, I stood in Aunt Thyra’s living room & listened to the tall, ornate wooden radio announce that United States military bases & ships in Oahu Island, Hawaii, had been attacked by planes of the Imperial Navy; no one knew the exact number of casualties as yet, but the death toll was undoubtedly high. And so a stunned & shocked America saw herself thrown into the longest, bloodiest war in her history.
Today, aboard the USS Ticonderoga anchored off Genoa Italy, a ship where 345 men died in one day of that war, not a word was said—none remembered. Wars are forgotten so soon, as are the lessons they taught….
My cold is much better today—that is to say, I have it under a semi-control; it only bothers me when I cough.
I neglected to mention yesterday that in the brief time I was in Genoa, I manage to throw away 600 Lire! For this fabulous sum, I bought one pizza, one beer, one glass of wine, one Time magazine, & four chocolate covered cherries (unpitted), one of which is still in my peacoat pocket & must be disposed of. It is a little less shocking to consider that 600 Lire equals roughly 90 cents in American money.
Just checking my drawer, & found about six pages of accumulated scrawlings not mailed home yet. I’ll do it tonite. Of course, the six pages does not include my Paris adventures. I’ve finished it up to the point of the first half of the first day, & already have eight pages. By the time I finish it, it should about equal Gone With the Wind in volume.
No weather report forthcoming in today’s entry, as the only time I stuck my little head outside it was very early & almost dark.
The major problem of the day seems to be the Christmas Present Situation. Oh, woe—what to do. As for myself, I’m already resigned to the idea that there just won’t be a Christmas this year—just pretend they left it off the calendar. But what a dirty thing to do to the folks back home—it will still be Xmas for them. But I’ve decided I won’t send anything home, though I have presents for everybody. A present will do no good if it doesn’t get there, or if it arrives in forty or fifty pieces.
Nick was rummaging through my billfold this evening (with my permission) & when he got through, everything was lying in a huge mound in the center of the MAA’s desk. So I sorted through it, & put away all the movie ticket stubs from Los Angeles & Miami & New York, & my entrance pass to the Louvre Museum in Paris, & my special request chits (one requesting to go to NAS in the Uniform of the Day for band practice—the other asking to get off early to meet dad at the airport in Norfolk), & dozens of other things. Not one of them is worth anything, but to me it tells a story (of great depth & pathos) of my adventures & misadventures in this cruel world. Every single scrap of paper means something very special to me, if to no one else.
Nothing of vital interest to write about today’s activities, for I am sure you care little about how to type up menu cards, or the procedure for running off stencils for next week’s meals.
Mail arrived on board tonight, but since it is now almost 9:45, there is not much chance of there being a mail call.
Ah, to be a civilian again. If this trip does nothing else for me, it will be a constant reminder to me how wonderful America is, with all its faults.
So, with the playing of the Star Spangled Banner in the background, I will bid you goodnight….
Thursday, September 21, 2006
6 December, 1955
In 1492 Christopher Columbus discovered America. In 1955, I discovered Genoa. Chris got the far better bargain.
The first glimpse of Genoa was strikingly beautiful—it was slightly after noon, & a heavy mist was just clearing away, showing the city as if in a dream, spread out over the hills; grey towers & steeples rising above huddled buildings, & white skyscrapers along the shore.
That was Genoa as seen from the USS Ticonderoga (CVA14). Once in the city, the impressions are somewhat different. First, like most European cities, there seems to be no plan—streets meander thither & yon with no purpose or destination in mind. There are myriads of side streets, invariably going up or down-hill steeply. Neon signs are everywhere, but just plain raw tubes—no backing; if you come upon them from the wrong direction, they appear to be written backwards—which doesn’t mean much since I can’t understand Italian anyway. The effect of all these signs sticking out in the narrow alleys (can’t truthfully call them streets) is that of a kaleidoscopic rainbow.
The buildings themselves are heavy, old, & sprawling. As usual, they sit out on the street, & look like they’re trying to squeeze the already narrow streets—like a closing trap. Many of the buildings are huge, with ornate, palatial staircases & archways behind great doors which open inward from the streets. Some of the banks are literally drive-ins, for I saw cars parked inside the large courtyards, as they might be called.
There are several "main drags," but they also wander so aimlessly that they’re almost impossible to follow. Most of the business is conducted on the side streets—the sidewalks in front of Marshall Fields in Chicago—even in front of the Talcott Building in Rockford, are much wider than most of the streets. Almost every other business establishment is either a grocery, a bar, or a butcher shop. These butcher shops are fabulous places—refrigeration is unheard of, & the meat hangs around on large hooks—they have some of the most disgusting looking things for sale there; squid & entrails & other things I have no idea at all of what they could be. All these grocers & butchers are in sharp contrast to Gibraltar, where there are none to be seen.
So I walked up one street & down another, the only pattern to my travels being to take the direction with the most lights.
Being the foreigner is quite an unpleasant change—never again will I think anyone who does not speak perfect English—or any English, is stupid.
No doubt by morning I shall have lost my voice entirely; right now I can hardly speak--& even then it’s an effort.
The harbor of Genoa is swarming with ships—long black tankers, graceful white ocean liners, & stubby little freighters. Though it was dark when we came in, & we were in a covered boat, I think I noticed several sunken ships lying about the harbor, lights marking their masts & outlines. Coming back, we were in an open boat, & I was so enthralled with watching the city, glistening & glimmering on the mountains, that I didn’t check the ships.
Now, if you will excuse me, I shall exit, playing Camille….
In 1492 Christopher Columbus discovered America. In 1955, I discovered Genoa. Chris got the far better bargain.
The first glimpse of Genoa was strikingly beautiful—it was slightly after noon, & a heavy mist was just clearing away, showing the city as if in a dream, spread out over the hills; grey towers & steeples rising above huddled buildings, & white skyscrapers along the shore.
That was Genoa as seen from the USS Ticonderoga (CVA14). Once in the city, the impressions are somewhat different. First, like most European cities, there seems to be no plan—streets meander thither & yon with no purpose or destination in mind. There are myriads of side streets, invariably going up or down-hill steeply. Neon signs are everywhere, but just plain raw tubes—no backing; if you come upon them from the wrong direction, they appear to be written backwards—which doesn’t mean much since I can’t understand Italian anyway. The effect of all these signs sticking out in the narrow alleys (can’t truthfully call them streets) is that of a kaleidoscopic rainbow.
The buildings themselves are heavy, old, & sprawling. As usual, they sit out on the street, & look like they’re trying to squeeze the already narrow streets—like a closing trap. Many of the buildings are huge, with ornate, palatial staircases & archways behind great doors which open inward from the streets. Some of the banks are literally drive-ins, for I saw cars parked inside the large courtyards, as they might be called.
There are several "main drags," but they also wander so aimlessly that they’re almost impossible to follow. Most of the business is conducted on the side streets—the sidewalks in front of Marshall Fields in Chicago—even in front of the Talcott Building in Rockford, are much wider than most of the streets. Almost every other business establishment is either a grocery, a bar, or a butcher shop. These butcher shops are fabulous places—refrigeration is unheard of, & the meat hangs around on large hooks—they have some of the most disgusting looking things for sale there; squid & entrails & other things I have no idea at all of what they could be. All these grocers & butchers are in sharp contrast to Gibraltar, where there are none to be seen.
So I walked up one street & down another, the only pattern to my travels being to take the direction with the most lights.
Being the foreigner is quite an unpleasant change—never again will I think anyone who does not speak perfect English—or any English, is stupid.
No doubt by morning I shall have lost my voice entirely; right now I can hardly speak--& even then it’s an effort.
The harbor of Genoa is swarming with ships—long black tankers, graceful white ocean liners, & stubby little freighters. Though it was dark when we came in, & we were in a covered boat, I think I noticed several sunken ships lying about the harbor, lights marking their masts & outlines. Coming back, we were in an open boat, & I was so enthralled with watching the city, glistening & glimmering on the mountains, that I didn’t check the ships.
Now, if you will excuse me, I shall exit, playing Camille….
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
5 (?) December 1955
During the night my sore throat mellowed & blossomed into a case of pseudo-pneumonia, causing me to keep half the compartment awake by continual sniffling, wheezes, & futile attempts to breathe. You never realize what a job it is to breathe until you try.
So the day got off to not exactly a flying start, liberally interspersed with trips to the head for toilet paper—which is much cheaper than handkerchiefs, even though the capacity is limited.
The only thing of even vague interest, aside from our sailing away from picturesque Sardinia, was that a homosexual was discovered on board. How, I neither know nor care, but the whole matter was handled with such obvious inconspicuosity that the whole ship knew about it. I was sure we would all be invited to the flight deck for a public stoning. Instead, he was shuffled off in a helicopter to an unknown but assuredly unpleasant fate. Homosexuals are viewed by the Navy in the same light as witches & little men with ticking briefcases.
Mail call today, which instead of helping my battered spirits, only kicked them harder. For one thing, the letters from home were dated later than the last ones I’d gotten, but were written asking questions & saying things they had known & mentioned before —have I received my camera? Did the cookies come? And last time, dad had told me how much to ask for my old camera, now that the new one was here. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least. And then came two letters from my auto insurance company, addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason, which went over like a concrete dirigible.
Tomorrow we land, or rather anchor, in Genoa, Italy. This afternoon I exchanged American money for Italian Lire—huge, 6"12" sheets of paper, which struck me as being not only unhandy but downright cumbersome. Italian money is not the least bit pretty as were French Francs, but they both employ the watermark. On either side of the center of the bills is a white space, apparently blank—but when held up to the light, a face can be seen in each; quite ingenious, but I still prefer good old American greenbacks.
There must be quite a battle raging inside my head, for I’m constantly flushing gallons of semi-fluids from my nose. I’m considering installing a spigot.
I have been informed by Mr. Coutre that what I have been writing, aside from my physical woes, is treason, detrimental to the Navy, scandalous, & not nice. The Navy must be considered by all as a living Post Office poster. No doubt this is true, but being an incurable romanticist, I still believe in freedom of speech. In a few short moments I could be transformed from an average airman to a hardened criminal, strongly suspected of having Communist leanings. My court martial would be held by several zealous gentlemen no doubt violently waiving American flags while sentencing me to, at least, an Undesirable discharge.
The difficulty with being pure white is that it cannot remain that way while there are other colors around. America, if she allows all the freedoms in their widest sense, leaves herself wide open for the powers wishing to destroy her. Yet she cannot forbid these freedoms and still remain America.
My outlook on life might be compared to a news article I read sometime back. It concerned a 19 year old boy who had a loose tissue or nerve in the back of his throat. The result was that he ticked—not audibly; only he could hear it. He never mentioned it because he took it for granted that everybody ticked. That is my problem—have I something no one else has, & do not realize it? Or, more likely, does everyone have something I don’t have? Everyone else manages to muddle through life naturally enough, but for me, life is one great mystery after another.
Tatoo, which means nothing except that taps will be in five minutes.
During the night my sore throat mellowed & blossomed into a case of pseudo-pneumonia, causing me to keep half the compartment awake by continual sniffling, wheezes, & futile attempts to breathe. You never realize what a job it is to breathe until you try.
So the day got off to not exactly a flying start, liberally interspersed with trips to the head for toilet paper—which is much cheaper than handkerchiefs, even though the capacity is limited.
The only thing of even vague interest, aside from our sailing away from picturesque Sardinia, was that a homosexual was discovered on board. How, I neither know nor care, but the whole matter was handled with such obvious inconspicuosity that the whole ship knew about it. I was sure we would all be invited to the flight deck for a public stoning. Instead, he was shuffled off in a helicopter to an unknown but assuredly unpleasant fate. Homosexuals are viewed by the Navy in the same light as witches & little men with ticking briefcases.
Mail call today, which instead of helping my battered spirits, only kicked them harder. For one thing, the letters from home were dated later than the last ones I’d gotten, but were written asking questions & saying things they had known & mentioned before —have I received my camera? Did the cookies come? And last time, dad had told me how much to ask for my old camera, now that the new one was here. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least. And then came two letters from my auto insurance company, addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason, which went over like a concrete dirigible.
Tomorrow we land, or rather anchor, in Genoa, Italy. This afternoon I exchanged American money for Italian Lire—huge, 6"12" sheets of paper, which struck me as being not only unhandy but downright cumbersome. Italian money is not the least bit pretty as were French Francs, but they both employ the watermark. On either side of the center of the bills is a white space, apparently blank—but when held up to the light, a face can be seen in each; quite ingenious, but I still prefer good old American greenbacks.
There must be quite a battle raging inside my head, for I’m constantly flushing gallons of semi-fluids from my nose. I’m considering installing a spigot.
I have been informed by Mr. Coutre that what I have been writing, aside from my physical woes, is treason, detrimental to the Navy, scandalous, & not nice. The Navy must be considered by all as a living Post Office poster. No doubt this is true, but being an incurable romanticist, I still believe in freedom of speech. In a few short moments I could be transformed from an average airman to a hardened criminal, strongly suspected of having Communist leanings. My court martial would be held by several zealous gentlemen no doubt violently waiving American flags while sentencing me to, at least, an Undesirable discharge.
The difficulty with being pure white is that it cannot remain that way while there are other colors around. America, if she allows all the freedoms in their widest sense, leaves herself wide open for the powers wishing to destroy her. Yet she cannot forbid these freedoms and still remain America.
My outlook on life might be compared to a news article I read sometime back. It concerned a 19 year old boy who had a loose tissue or nerve in the back of his throat. The result was that he ticked—not audibly; only he could hear it. He never mentioned it because he took it for granted that everybody ticked. That is my problem—have I something no one else has, & do not realize it? Or, more likely, does everyone have something I don’t have? Everyone else manages to muddle through life naturally enough, but for me, life is one great mystery after another.
Tatoo, which means nothing except that taps will be in five minutes.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
5 December 1955
Dear Folks
I have a stinking suspicion that all is not well between the State of Illinois & the USS Ticonderoga—I’ve sent several more than five letters home, plus Ching-Chong, whom if you haven’t received by now you probably won’t at all.
That settles it, though—I’m not mailing another single thing home—Christmas will have to wait till next August, & that’s all there is to it.
It only affirms a belief I have held for some time—namely that I despise the United States Navy & everything connected with it with an undying passion. I would not spit on the best part of it & advise anyone considering joining to shoot themselves without further ado!
I do have Xmas presents for you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll mail them
Of course I got the camera—I wrote & thanked you profusely. You in fact have a very short memory, because I received a letter from dad telling me how much to ask for my other one. Oh, hell, this whole Navy is so damn …**@ed up it’s a wonder all its ships are still afloat.
Yes (again) I got the cookies—very good. Yes, I got the fudge—sorry to say it was excellent. Ah, but now it sounds as though I’m bitter---Well, I am. I hate, loathe, abominate, abhor, despise, detest, & generally dislike the U.S. Navy. Do I make myself clear? The point I’m trying to get across is that I am not particularly enthralled with military life.
Got two letters from the Auto insurance company addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason—H A H ! ! !
Sorry—don’t know what made me blow up like this, but I honestly am so damned fed up with the whole mess—not disheartened, mind you; just sick.
I’ve written every single day, usually mailing them in batches of two to four days in one
letter.
Didn’t you read about our "explosion" as the papers called it? Gary wrote & mentioned it—it happened on the 21st & your letters I got today (5th) were mailed the 28th—not a word.
Enough drivel—I’ll vent the rest of my spleen in tonite’s journal.
Love
Roge
P.S. KSFM Remember that picture—have it taken at once! Excuse the profanity, but I hear so much of it, it becomes a part of me.
Dear Folks
I have a stinking suspicion that all is not well between the State of Illinois & the USS Ticonderoga—I’ve sent several more than five letters home, plus Ching-Chong, whom if you haven’t received by now you probably won’t at all.
That settles it, though—I’m not mailing another single thing home—Christmas will have to wait till next August, & that’s all there is to it.
It only affirms a belief I have held for some time—namely that I despise the United States Navy & everything connected with it with an undying passion. I would not spit on the best part of it & advise anyone considering joining to shoot themselves without further ado!
I do have Xmas presents for you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll mail them
Of course I got the camera—I wrote & thanked you profusely. You in fact have a very short memory, because I received a letter from dad telling me how much to ask for my other one. Oh, hell, this whole Navy is so damn …**@ed up it’s a wonder all its ships are still afloat.
Yes (again) I got the cookies—very good. Yes, I got the fudge—sorry to say it was excellent. Ah, but now it sounds as though I’m bitter---Well, I am. I hate, loathe, abominate, abhor, despise, detest, & generally dislike the U.S. Navy. Do I make myself clear? The point I’m trying to get across is that I am not particularly enthralled with military life.
Got two letters from the Auto insurance company addressed to NavCad F.R. Margason—H A H ! ! !
Sorry—don’t know what made me blow up like this, but I honestly am so damned fed up with the whole mess—not disheartened, mind you; just sick.
I’ve written every single day, usually mailing them in batches of two to four days in one
letter.
Didn’t you read about our "explosion" as the papers called it? Gary wrote & mentioned it—it happened on the 21st & your letters I got today (5th) were mailed the 28th—not a word.
Enough drivel—I’ll vent the rest of my spleen in tonite’s journal.
Love
Roge
P.S. KSFM Remember that picture—have it taken at once! Excuse the profanity, but I hear so much of it, it becomes a part of me.
Monday, September 18, 2006
4 December 1955
A very nice day in all, notwithstanding the fact that I have half a sore throat (right side) & an aggravating case of the “blows”—trying to blow my nose when there’s nothing there. I hate that sensation. Always had an intense dislike of being sick—fortunately, I seldom am. Usually I have but one cold a year—it generally starts in December & lasts until March. But I don’t really mind it, since it’s usually very unobtrusive & only shows itself by an occasional sniffle.
Somehow all the ships in the harbor, with the exception of the Lake Champlain & ourselves, managed to turn around during he night. The submarine sank, or did whatever submarines do, as it was missing when I looked for it this afternoon.
Took an entire roll of film of Sardinia yesterday—I only hope it turns out. The mountains are really beautiful—some rugged & brooding, others bright & almost gaudy. Some of them are as though they’ve been painted—tan & brown of bare rock, shadows, & the green of vegetation—no trees, that I noticed.
Don’t feel much like writing tonight—I’m in one of my neuter moods, when I don’t feel particularly good or bad; no sensations whatever except the annoying area around my throat. Here it is twenty-five to ten already, & I have to take a shower & stencil some of my clothes prior to sacrificing them to the laundry.
Mail is leaving the ship tonite, but we haven’t received any for several days now. I won’t mail this until later this week, when we get to Genoa. Sure would like to take that tour to Venice, but can’t afford it. They had a tour scheduled for Munich, Germany, but because of an Austrian law forbidding the wearing of uniforms, they had to cancel it.
Well, short as this is, I’ve got to take that shower….
Postcard dated 12-3-55, postmarked "U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 4, 1955, 9 a.m. Subject: The Rock of Gibraltar at night
Dear Stormy
I’ve had this card laying around my desk for weeks—best I mail it off tonite.
Hope you still remember me when I get home—we’ll probably both be getting old & grey by that time. Oh, well, only 253 more days. I can’t wait to get out of this man’s Navy.
See you
Roge
A very nice day in all, notwithstanding the fact that I have half a sore throat (right side) & an aggravating case of the “blows”—trying to blow my nose when there’s nothing there. I hate that sensation. Always had an intense dislike of being sick—fortunately, I seldom am. Usually I have but one cold a year—it generally starts in December & lasts until March. But I don’t really mind it, since it’s usually very unobtrusive & only shows itself by an occasional sniffle.
Somehow all the ships in the harbor, with the exception of the Lake Champlain & ourselves, managed to turn around during he night. The submarine sank, or did whatever submarines do, as it was missing when I looked for it this afternoon.
Took an entire roll of film of Sardinia yesterday—I only hope it turns out. The mountains are really beautiful—some rugged & brooding, others bright & almost gaudy. Some of them are as though they’ve been painted—tan & brown of bare rock, shadows, & the green of vegetation—no trees, that I noticed.
Don’t feel much like writing tonight—I’m in one of my neuter moods, when I don’t feel particularly good or bad; no sensations whatever except the annoying area around my throat. Here it is twenty-five to ten already, & I have to take a shower & stencil some of my clothes prior to sacrificing them to the laundry.
Mail is leaving the ship tonite, but we haven’t received any for several days now. I won’t mail this until later this week, when we get to Genoa. Sure would like to take that tour to Venice, but can’t afford it. They had a tour scheduled for Munich, Germany, but because of an Austrian law forbidding the wearing of uniforms, they had to cancel it.
Well, short as this is, I’ve got to take that shower….
Postcard dated 12-3-55, postmarked "U.S.S. Ticonderoga, CVA-14 Dec. 4, 1955, 9 a.m. Subject: The Rock of Gibraltar at night
Dear Stormy
I’ve had this card laying around my desk for weeks—best I mail it off tonite.
Hope you still remember me when I get home—we’ll probably both be getting old & grey by that time. Oh, well, only 253 more days. I can’t wait to get out of this man’s Navy.
See you
Roge
Sunday, September 17, 2006
3 December 1955
Nine o’clock—I’m beginning to think of it as my witching hour (occasionally a different spelling).
A beautiful day for a change, though the atmosphere below decks couldn’t prove it. Nick is busy playing Joan of Arc. Poor kid—he never gets any mail from home; I’d go nuts if it weren’t for mom writing every day.
Come to the conclusion that it is impossible to try to write & listen to the surrounding conversation at the same time. It was quiet until a couple MAA’s came in. Oh, well.
Tonite I feel like a real writer—been working on my Paris tour, & now this.
Anchored today off Sardinia again—a different part this time—very pretty; cloud-topped mountains, a small town clustered on the edge of the water, & half of the United States 6th Fleet anchored off shore. The Lake Champlain is back with us; on the other side is a battleship (the New Jersey). Sprinkled liberally around are five or six destroyers, ten oilers, cargo ships & various other ships—oh, yes, & one black submarine, close in to shore.
Pay day today—Xmas presents tomorrow. It seems so nice to have money again, though I know I won’t have it long. I was honestly broke for the first time in my life—well, maybe the second.
I’m afraid I’ll have to make this awfully short—got to drop a line (short) to Sandy—she was nice enough to write me.
Still 3 December 1955
Dear Folks
Yes, it’s me again. I don’t know why I even bother to write these little preambles—just to let you in on a few details I forgot in the Daily Journal.
First,--mother, I want a picture of you—a good picture, one taken at a studio. That & the Confederacy are all I want for Xmas.
As for your Xmas presents—you will be getting them all year, I’m afraid. But, better late than never.
Dad—did you tell me about those binoculars? Let me know immediately if not sooner.
As for calling home Xmas—there are about 10,000 American soldiers, sailors, & marines .in Europe who will be wanting to call home. Initial time difference is six to eight hours--& it takes three hours to connect calls—that is if I can get a line right away. Cost from Gibraltar was $18.00 for 3 min. What think ye? Shall we set a date sometime after Xmas or before, or shall we drop it?
Well, taps again. Don’t forget that picture—a good one of either you or you & dad; not a snapshot. And make it as soon as possible: this Saturday if you can. I have my reasons….
Till I hear from you, I am
As Usual & Always
Roge
P.S. Don’t forget that picture—a big one.
P.P.S. Sign in Supply Office: ":BEFORE YOU GET CARELESS AND LOUSE SOMETHING UP—THIMK!"
Nine o’clock—I’m beginning to think of it as my witching hour (occasionally a different spelling).
A beautiful day for a change, though the atmosphere below decks couldn’t prove it. Nick is busy playing Joan of Arc. Poor kid—he never gets any mail from home; I’d go nuts if it weren’t for mom writing every day.
Come to the conclusion that it is impossible to try to write & listen to the surrounding conversation at the same time. It was quiet until a couple MAA’s came in. Oh, well.
Tonite I feel like a real writer—been working on my Paris tour, & now this.
Anchored today off Sardinia again—a different part this time—very pretty; cloud-topped mountains, a small town clustered on the edge of the water, & half of the United States 6th Fleet anchored off shore. The Lake Champlain is back with us; on the other side is a battleship (the New Jersey). Sprinkled liberally around are five or six destroyers, ten oilers, cargo ships & various other ships—oh, yes, & one black submarine, close in to shore.
Pay day today—Xmas presents tomorrow. It seems so nice to have money again, though I know I won’t have it long. I was honestly broke for the first time in my life—well, maybe the second.
I’m afraid I’ll have to make this awfully short—got to drop a line (short) to Sandy—she was nice enough to write me.
Still 3 December 1955
Dear Folks
Yes, it’s me again. I don’t know why I even bother to write these little preambles—just to let you in on a few details I forgot in the Daily Journal.
First,--mother, I want a picture of you—a good picture, one taken at a studio. That & the Confederacy are all I want for Xmas.
As for your Xmas presents—you will be getting them all year, I’m afraid. But, better late than never.
Dad—did you tell me about those binoculars? Let me know immediately if not sooner.
As for calling home Xmas—there are about 10,000 American soldiers, sailors, & marines .in Europe who will be wanting to call home. Initial time difference is six to eight hours--& it takes three hours to connect calls—that is if I can get a line right away. Cost from Gibraltar was $18.00 for 3 min. What think ye? Shall we set a date sometime after Xmas or before, or shall we drop it?
Well, taps again. Don’t forget that picture—a good one of either you or you & dad; not a snapshot. And make it as soon as possible: this Saturday if you can. I have my reasons….
Till I hear from you, I am
As Usual & Always
Roge
P.S. Don’t forget that picture—a big one.
P.P.S. Sign in Supply Office: ":BEFORE YOU GET CARELESS AND LOUSE SOMETHING UP—THIMK!"
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