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  A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954−1956)

  By Dorien Grey

  Copyright 2013 by Dorien Grey

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Photos of the band and of the author in flight gear are previous Navy publicity photos. All other photos are from the author’s personal collection.

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  Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing

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  A World Ago

  A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954−1956)

  By Dorien Grey

  Introduction

  It’s nearly impossible for me to realize that it was more than half a century—indeed “a world ago”—that the letters comprising this book were written. The loving parents to whom they were addressed are now long and sadly dead, but even though I wrote them as a letters, I considered them a journal which I hoped would be read by others, some day. I thank you for fulfilling my so-long-ago wish.

  I might point out that it is possible, by reading between the lines, to fill in a key element of my life and personality I dared not make known to anyone at the time—the fact that by the age of twenty, when these letters begin, I had already known I was gay for about fifteen years. Though my parents had always known, it was a secret we kept from one another. So, if while reading you spot some passages you might conceive as having some gay undertones, chances are you are right.

  This was also almost a half century before the Roger Margason who wrote the letters became Dorien Grey, the author of currently more than twenty books.

  During my sophomore year at college, 1953–1954, I decided to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program to take advantage of the many benefits offered under the G.I. Bill, which was to end on January 1 of 1955. It would free my parents of much of the expense of putting me through my last two years of school, and I had always wanted to fly.

  The rest, as they say….

  I should note that these letters are presented exactly as written, and any grammatical errors and other inconsistencies you may note are left deliberately (sometimes to the dismay of the editors) for the sake of verisimilitude—simply because that’s the way I wrote them at the time.

  I do hope you’ll enjoy this little journey back through time in the company of a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed writer-in-training who I miss very much.

  Roger Margason/Dorien Grey

  August 9, 1954

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

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

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

  August 10, 1954

  I have no intention of beginning every other entry with “Up early and to the office….” The first few entries probably needn’t be dated at all, as they shall be taken up with the preliminaries and backgrounds, however sketchy. I am living, at this writing, at 2012 Hutchins Avenue in Rockford, Illinois. It is a two-story, flat-roofed frame building with two-tone siding (bottom half, tarnish-white, top half green). My family is composed of my father, Frank, my mother, Odrae, and our Boxer dog, Stormy (pedigree name: “Storm of Dracrest”). It isn’t a fancy home, and was once a grocery store (which accounts for the flat roof) before being remodeled into two apartments.

  You may wonder how I can be so certain, as my manner indicates, that this work will be published. That is very simple—I’m not. However, if it isn’t published, no one will be the wiser, and no one will miss it. If it is published, it will be read, and so to the reader, if any, I address my remarks.

  August 14, 1954

  My career in the Navy has now officially begun. Yesterday, August 13 (Friday the 13th—typical of my luck), I reported to Glenview Naval Air Station. I had to get up at 5:00 a.m., which I dreaded, and my parents drove me to Glenview, which is some 86 miles from Rockford. I have not yet been sworn in, though my enlistment started yesterday.

  August 15, 1954

  Tomorrow I must report back to Glenview (I had the week-end off). I’ll be sworn in and flown by Delta Air Lines to Pensacola, Florida.

  August 17, 1954

  Life at the Pensacola Naval Air Base begins officially at 5:30 a.m. At that time reveille sounds. At 5:32, everyone must report to the “quarterdeck,” the main hall of the building. At that time, you must be dressed, shaved, and had your bed made and room cleaned. As you may guess, this is a trifle difficult. Therefore, everyone gets up at 5:00. Now, as there are almost no alarm clocks, and no way of being awakened, I keep waking up every ten minutes, wondering if it’s 5:00 yet. It isn’t. After climbing out of bed, washing, making up your bed, and the various and sundry other duties, reveille is sounded by a trumpeter whose closest acquaintance with a musical instrument must have been when he played second triangle in his kindergarten rhythm band. At 5:32 you are informed by the P.A. system that you have exactly twenty seconds to report to the “quarterdeck.” Twenty-one seconds and you must go back and try again.

  We (myself and two others from Chicago) reported to Pensacola at “2144” (9:44) last night. My first impressions of Florida were (1) it’s hot, (2) a sign on a Pensacola city bus: “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach. COLORED seat from rear to front of coach.”

  The base at Pensacola is huge—we’re so far from the airstrip (there are four or five scattered around) that we very seldom hear the planes. About forty other cadets came in the same night.

  The old army adage of “hurry up and wait” certainly is applicable to the Navy Air corps. You don’t walk; you run—and when you’re not running, you’re marching.

  The morning began with calisthenics—about fifteen minutes of deep-knee bends and other amusing little exercises, to get the day off to a good start. After calisthenics, we marched back to the dorm (all the buildings, by the way, have numbers—Navcad Induction was 624), located just across the street from the hanger in front of which we went through our ritual. The sun was out in full force, and everyone had miniature Mississippi’s coursing their ways down our faces, necks, bodies, and even running slowly down the inside of our legs. The heat was so great that my watch crystal fogged and the watch stopped soon after. I noticed this morning that it is running again, but will not wind.

  August 18, 1954

  The second co
mplete day began much as the first, only it was immeasurably more difficult to get out of bed. It is now, at this writing, only about 11:00 (I have no way of knowing for sure, my watch being broken) and it seems I’ve been up for hours. Every time the P.A. system sounds, everyone jumps up and drops whatever they’re doing, expecting to have to dash to the quarterdeck. My legs, on this second day, are killing me—I have a hard time even keeping my balance sometimes.

  I am rooming with four other cadets—from California, Boston, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. Every day after lunch you can rest—but not on the beds. They mustn’t be touched from 5:30 a.m. till 9:15 p.m.

  I mentioned yesterday that we could almost never hear planes. Well, that was only partly true—directly across from our room is a large hanger, and all about it are wingless planes. Evidently this hanger is where all those planes are repaired. And naturally, to repair them they must run the engines—constantly.

  I now have had all my physicals, and all I need do this afternoon is get a haircut. Believe me, the Indians could have taken some healthy pointers from these boys. As I understand, hair must be cut once a week, whether it needs it or not. The fee for haircuts is 55 cents, I believe. Fortunately, the barber shop is located in this building which, by the way, is officially called “Induction Headquarters.” In about two weeks, we will be moved to new barracks with four men to a room, and broken up into Battalions, Platoons, and Squads.

  18 August, 1954

  Dear Mom and Dad

  Well, here I am, as I said in the post card. I would appreciate it, mom, if you would type these letters up or keep them so I can have a record of them when I get out. Don’t give (or even talk) to Bill Garson [a family acquaintance who worked for the local newspaper] any of my letters. It is against the rules to have anything published about the base unless you get permission from the Commander.

  My watch is broken—I sweat so much the crystal fogged up and the watch stopped. It started again today, but when I went to wind it, the knob just turned, but it didn’t wind. I’ll see if there’s someplace around here I can have it fixed. (It’s on now, Wednesday night)

  So far, I’ve spent $2.90 for 4 towels (white) and two laundry bags, and 55 cents for a haircut. You should see; everyone looks like they’ve gone through the Ford Dearborn massacre and came out second-best. My eyelashes are longer than the hair left on the top of my head.

  I’ve been told that, while in training, we only get off once a year—and that’s at Christmas. I think you should come down here and spend Christmas. Although from all I’ve seen of this balmy Florida weather, they can have it. It gets so hot—not really much hotter than Rockford, I suppose, but it’s so humid that the sweat just pours off everyone. Fortunately, I don’t sweat much, but it’s mighty uncomfortable just the same.

  We’re right on the Gulf of Mexico, or awfully close to it. From my window I can see it, if it is the Gulf. In fact, it’s only about a block away. It must be a bay or something, because there is land on the other side.

  A bunch of advanced NavCads are marching by my window with rifles. They wear khaki shorts and blue T-shirts. Evidently a new group comes in every week—mine is 33-54. Did I tell you about the buildings? If not, I will—they’re two story, red brick, Southern Colonial with huge, screened-in white porches. I’m in Building 624, which is used for inductions. In a week or two, we’ll move to other barracks. We have the corner room—one side is a porch-side, the other an outside. This gives us plenty of ventilation and its wonderful sleeping, what little sleeping we do.

  Someone around here has a distorted sense of humor. Reveille is at 5:30, and by 5:32 you’ve got to be up, dressed, washed, have your bed made, and be standing in formation in the “quarterdeck” (main lobby of the building). You figure it out! The answer is rather apparent—it can’t be done. So we get up at 5:00. And if I hear dad laughing, I’ll kill him! By the time I come home, I’ll be 21 and if I want to sleep till 4:00 p.m. I will and just try to get me up before that.

  My legs are killing me! I can’t even keep my balance when I first get up from a chair; stairways (“ladders”) are almost impossible. After meals, you are given fifteen minutes or so to “rest”—but you can’t lay down. “PROCEDURE FOR CARE OF YOUR ROOM…7: Cadets are not allowed to lie on bunks between the hours of 0530 and 2115 (9:15 p.m.). After 2115 cadets may get into their bunks.”

  So far today we’ve mopped, swept and dusted the entire barracks twice. Oh for some more procedure—you want to go someplace (the only place we can go is to the P.X., and then only between 4:00 and 5:00). You go to the MOD’s (Master of the Deck) office, which is down the passageway and in the main section of the building. You stand at attention in the doorway and knock three times with your right hand, which is at your side while knocking. The MOD says “come in” (it’s an open doorway and he’s seen you all the time, but that’s the way it goes). You walk in, keeping your eyes on the wall to the right and above the MOD’s head, and stop one step from the desk. You say “Cadet Margason, F R., 33-54 requesting permission to go to the P.X.” He says “Permission granted” and you step forward with your right foot, keeping your left in place. You sign out with your right hand, leaving your left at your side. Then you say “Thank you, sir,” take one step backward, do an about face, and leave. (You’ve got to sign in, too.). Well, enough Navy life for now. Write soon.

  Roge

  P.S. I haven’t saluted anybody yet! My address is:

  NavCad F. R. Margason U.S.N.R.

  Class 33-54

  U.S. Naval School, Pre-Flight

  NAS, Pensacola, Fla.

  August 22, 1954

  Dear Folks

  Currently I am being featured in Technicolor—glorious red. Went swimming in the Gulf yesterday and today—it’s like swimming in one huge gargle glass—that’s exactly what it tastes like. It is nice and warm, though. When I got out of the water the first day and came back to the room, I bent down to put on my pants and about three gallons of water ran out of my nose! The beaches are all white sand; the one we go to is about ¾ mile away—they have an “officers’” and “enlisted men’s” beaches, which are only separated by a rope on the sand and in the water (on the bottom). The sand is white and turns red further inland. I like to just lie in the water and float with the waves. As I neglected to bring a suit, I use my P(hysical) T(raining) shorts.

  The Officer’s Club is located just a little back from the beach—it makes any country club I’ve ever seen look sick. It looks like something from Gone with the Wind.

  Today is Sunday and the only meal I’ve had all day is breakfast—they don’t serve dinner till 4:00, and no supper. Went to the show this afternoon and saw Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront which started at 3:00. So….

  Next week is going to be very rough; probably won’t even have time to breathe. Took some tests yesterday—one they put us in a room (sound-proof) and had us sit at desks with regulation airplane earphones. Then they turned on the four huge amplifiers and sixteen smaller ones at the front of the room to simulate an AT6 flying at 18,000 ft. with the cockpit open. Then someone spoke over the earphones and we had to mark down what we heard.

  I sure will be glad when next week is over—then we move to our new barracks, which is about six blocks from everywhere. Start saving your money and talk to your bosses about taking a week off—if I ever graduate (in about 18 months)—and come down to Florida.

  Well, I’d better cut if off now and write more later when I get a chance.

  Did I tell you I get a 72 hour pass over Labor Day Weekend, I hope—I’m going to New Orleans, I think. ( I am not going to sit around here, that’s for sure!)

  So long for now. Write soon.

  See you soon (Xmas)

  Roge

  Date Unknown

  Dear Folks

  This will be a very short letter, I’m afraid. This week will be the hardest we’ll have (or rather, “we’ve had”) Today we marched for two hours—the sergeant bawled me out four times, grabbed me by t
he back of the neck once, and twisted my thumb once when I had it extended when it shouldn’t have been. For dad’s question as to how far Mobile is, it’s 50 miles.

  August 27, 1954

  Dear Folks:

  I don’t remember when I started this letter, but here it is Friday. We had inspection today, and your loving son went down with all hands, colors flying. It seems that the raincoat is hung in back of the pants, not in front. Therefore, “These men (my locker partner and I) are not ready for inspection.” The moral of this little tale is that I am now the proud possessor of at least five demerits and am cordially invited to spend one or more hours on the “Grinder” (affectionate name for the drill field).

  Tomorrow we move to Battalion II, which will, I gather, be our home till we graduate. We will all be very sorry to leave our kind, considerate Sergeants Calahan and Jones behind. I told you over the phone of my experiences with these two lovable gentlemen. One day last week, while marching our usual two hours in the outdoor blast furnace called Florida, I wasn’t up to my usual miserable par. Among the Sergeant (Calahan)’s other comments to me were “Lad,” (a name he calls everyone—Jones calls us “son”), “if you don’t keep that damn thumb of yours in, I’m going to break it off.” (This he punctuated by twisting it half out of its socket). “Put your feet together, lad, you remind me of Charlie Chaplin,” and finally “You’re all f---ed up today, aren’t you, boy?” The language employed by Marine sergeants isn’t always, I’m afraid, of the Tea-time-in-the-parlor caliber.

  Somewhere in Pensacola there is a very rich man who is getting richer every day. He owns a laundry, which is being supported for the greatest part by innocent NavCads. It has been estimated, and this is a conservative estimate, that the average NavCad spends approximately $20 a month on cleaning bills. Granted, the prices are reasonable, but every day almost everything must be sent to be cleaned.