A World Ago Read online

  The second was an older woman of about forty-five. She wore a stylish black-and-white check dress with a white collar and black belt. She also had black shoes and a small black hat vaguely resemblent of a man’s straw hat. A strand of hair kept falling over her forehead, which she would push away with her elbow-length black gloves. Her face was hardened, but not hard--and she looked very proper but not stuffy. She, like the young girl, sat very straight, without looking uncomfortable, and with her feet together. On the same car sat three girls in their mid-twenties. Each wore tight, high-necked pullover sweaters and some type of pants that were neither dungarees nor slacks nor lounging pajamas but a combination of all three. Each also wore a pair of sandals, and carried huge shoulder-bag purses. One of them would have been quite attractive, if her light brown hair had not been so long and floozy. I might have guessed their profession, but I didn’t try.

  Boston also has the Commons, which is a forty-acre park in the center of the city—it’s pride and joy during the day, but at night is the outdoor hotel for the city’s bums, the rendezvous for its lovers, and off limits to servicemen after ten p.m. A corner of it, near a graveyard that dates back to 1703, can compare proudly to Chicago’s Bughouse Square. It is here that the mental degenerates can go and amuse themselves at the expense of some harmless old women religious fanatics. Here they can show off their rapier wit, and lash out at a world they cringe from in the daylight. Each city has its zoo—it is a great pity that there are far more animals outside the cages than in.

  And then there is the historic Boston—the site of the Boston massacre, a circle of stones directly in front of an old British government building, with the Lion and the Unicorn, the British coat of arms, atop the two story, red brick structure. The circle is also exactly in the center of a busy thoroughfare, and were the scene to be suddenly re-enacted, several more Bostonians would die by taxicabs than by British bullets. There is Paul Revere’s home, a small, grey frame building scarred by countless engravings of tourists eager to show the world that they were there. It stands in the heart of a clustered Italian neighborhood, if not slum. Feniual Hall, the cradle of democracy where the Boston tea party was planned, now houses, among other things, a fish market and a florist. Nothing happened on Bunker Hill—the Bunker Hill monument and the battle it commemorates are on Breed’s Hill.

  But for all the disillusion, there is a certain intangible dignity and flavor of the past about these spots. They somehow seem to stand apart, even aloof, from the modern jungle that surrounds them.

  The Old North Church, which is just now having its famous steeple replaced, is an island of the past—here the country’s first organ is still played—Paul Revere’s descendants still come to sit in the high, box-like white pews, so built because there was formerly no heat in the church during the winter—you brought a foot-warmer, shut the door of the pew to keep out the drafts, and peered over the edge of the walls at the minister. Some 1100 Bostonians are buried beneath the aisles and pews of that church. Even today, there is no electricity—the only light being furnished by candles from the heavy iron chandeliers. Time is told by a two-hundred-year-old clock made in England by hand for the phenomenal price of (modern equivalent) $2.68. Boston is surrounded by innumerable villages and small towns, most of them showing definite British influence, such as Dorchester, and Framingham. There are countless West This-and-that’s South Such-and-so’s. There is Weymouth, Weymouth Landing, and South Weymouth.

  So, my parents, you have the ten cent guided tour of Boston and its environs. I could go on indefinitely, but time and paper are growing short. More next time. Until then, I am

  Always,

  Roge

  P.S. Mother, keep one hand on the phone ready to cancel reservations. But I might make it yet .

  Postcard of The World’s Most Famous Roller Coaster in Paragon Park, Nantasket Beach, Mass. Postmarked Nantasket Beach, Mass, July 4 (?) 1955

  Dere Folks

  At the moment I am in Nantucket. I have ridden on the thing on the card.

  I do not like it in Nantucket. I want to go to Boston. I am going to Boston

  Boston is a big town. There are many people here. Most of them are dead. Some of them just look that way.

  It rained yesterday. It is hot today.

  Your loving son,

  Luke

  13 July, 1955

  Dear Dad

  —And so ends the short and not too tragic career of a would-be Naval Aviator. The “stationery” is filched from the Jackets Office, where I am now sitting awaiting a trip to the Admiral tomorrow morning.

  In a way I feel quite bad, and yet in another I am quite relieved. At least now, barring a war or act of God, I shall be sure of getting out of the service alive. And just think—a year from this October I’ll be a civilian again!

  A Speedy board, I think I’ve told you, is a contraction for Special Pilots’ Disposition Board. This board is composed of the Captain, a Commander, and other assorted Lt. Commanders and such—a total of five men.

  I, with five other guys, was ordered to report before the Captain at 1000 Tuesday, 12 July (the night before, I’d seen a movie called “Black Tuesday”). The captain’s office is located in the Administration Building—the last room on the right in the center corridor. Outside his office is a long grey bench, typical of Naval furniture design. Here we sat. One by one we were called into the office. Each guy would be in there about ten minutes, then he would come outside while the board debated his case. They then would call him back and give him the verdict.

  On one side of me sat a young ensign, who would get up frequently and walk up and down the passageway on pretext of getting a drink, or looking outside at the rain, which has been falling intermittently for four days. On the other side sat a fellow NavCad whose shirt, from under each armpit to well below each pocket, was the dark olive drab of wet khaki. Farther on down sat a guy who wants to DOR, calmly (or apparently so) reading a pocket novel. I also was reading from a book of short stories.

  One by one they went in, to come out minutes later, go back in, and come out once more, giving the thumbs up signal. Finally the field was narrowed to three—the DOR, the ensign, and me. The ensign remarked “I guess they’re saving the best for last.” The DOR was next. When he came out he told us that they had been highly indignant and tried to get him to stay in, saying that “well, we made it and everyone else makes it—why can’t you?” Hmmmmmmmm. He was forwarded to the Admiral, however.

  That left the ensign and me. I knew who was going to be last, but I hoped I’d be wrong and get it over with. In between the dismissal of one and the calling of another into the office, there would be a five minute interval while they reviewed the jacket (wherein are all the records of the student since pre-flight) of the next person.

  Sure enough, in goes the ensign. Well, at least now I knew that I was bound to be next, since there wasn’t anyone else.

  The ensign got a down—he had wrecked an airplane while at Whiting Field, and had three downs here. He was to be given a depth-perception test before being sent to the Admiral.

  And then it was my turn! I was completely over being nervous by this time; either than or in that state of nothing that lies just beyond nervousness. Major Keim, a marine and Saufley’s safety officer, called me in. (“Margason?” “Yes, sir.”) From the corridor you walk directly into the Captain’s office—no vestibule or small office between. On the floor was a thick blue or green carpet. Behind the Captain’s desk, in the center of the room, were two large windows, flanked by American flags. Around the room were leather sofas and lounge chairs, with a small table or two between them. Directly in front of the Captain’s desk is a green leather lounge chair. Major Keim said “Stand at attention beside the chair,” which I did, looking straight ahead, out through the venetian blinds of one of the windows. The Captain said “Sit down, Mr. Margason,” and I sat. The Captain is a thin man, almost gaunt, with greying hair and an almost mean look about his face, which is deceivin
g.

  “Mr. Margason, you are before this board today because you have failed to meet the standard requirements set up by this field. You have received unsatisfactory marks on your F-4, F-4 re-check, and F-12. You are a below average student and show no signs of improvement….” And so on. After the run-down, the Captain said “We are going to ask you several questions—you may feel free to say whatever you wish.”

  The questions came fast and furious, mostly from a Commander who sat on the Captain’s left, in the corner of the room. They started with “Why do you want to fly?” To which I answered that I always had, but there was no one reason. “Are you interested in mechanics?” I answered that I understood all the basic principles necessary, but that as for a desire or talent for taking engines apart or putting them back together, I had no great attraction.

  “Do you drive a car?” “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “Do you try to think in a coordinated, analytical way?” I said I tried to.

  When it came Major Keim’s turn, he said “You realize, of course, that you have set a new mark in below averages in headwork?” No, I didn’t. “The record up until this time was 32—you have 38. After 16 you aren’t average, after 24 you’re far below average, and after 27 we start watching you.” The Captain interrupted to ask how many I’d gotten here at Saufley and was told six, which he remarked was a big difference. Asked why I got so many, I said that I try to do things right, and when I make a mistake, I get irritated with myself and consequently make more mistakes. Also that I learn some things slowly. “You realize, of course,” continued Major Keim, “that the Navy works on a time basis—we only have so much time we can give. Do you think you would be a detriment to the Navy?” I said I most certainly would not try to be, and that all I could do was to try my best. After more questions of a similar nature they told me to wait outside.

  Rather than try to repeat the long, court-martial sounding verdict, I will say simply that I got a down. After taking all things into consideration, the facts that I learned slowly, had had bad luck at Corry, and all, they were afraid they would have to forward my case to the Admiral. One of them said “Do you feel a little better now?” And I said “Not particularly, sir.” The captain said “You have a very good attitude,” and I said “Thank you, sir.” “If you have no further questions, that is all.” “Thank you, sir,” I stepped one step backward with my left foot, did an about-face on my right, opened the door, and went out into the hall….

  Your Banished but undamaged son

  Roge

  Sunday, 8 August, 1955

  Dear Folks

  This is the first letter I’ve written in my long (10 days) career as a whitehat. This isn’t at all strange, since most whitehats are not given credit for the intelligence to write their own names, let alone a letter.

  The Navy has, I figure, spent out something like $30,000 on me--and what do they have to show for their money? Well, I can sweep floors, and polish brass doorknobs, and paint walls, which you must admit are very necessary—they are, as the posters say, preparing us for a career—as busboys, janitors, and third-rate house painters. I don’t suppose it is necessary to add that I detest the Navy wholeheartedly.

  The final stages in the degeneration of a character are preceded by such things as writing letters in pencil. However, since I have misplaced my pen (again) and, since writing with a pen would be far too pretentious for one of my lowly station, I must be satisfied with pencil. Let’s pretend it is brown ink.

  This is my last letter from Pensacola. Tonite, while walking “home” from the Gedunk, I looked at the lights shining from all the windows, and at their reflections on the white pillars and porches; and I remembered the first time I’d seen them, just eight days short of a year ago. I have been through a lot since then, but the Gulf and the night and the buildings are still the same.

  And during the day I watch them—the cadets in stiffly clean Khakis marching to and from classes with their book bags. And then I see the indoctrinees—bewildered looking kids in civilian clothes with their close-cropped hair, stumbling over their own feet, looking in awe at anyone with a solo bar. I can’t help but wonder where they‘ll be, a year from now.

  Tomorrow I shall be on my way to Norfolk, Virginia. Funny, but I still think of myself as a cadet—at least as something apart from the guys around me. Tomorrow will bring the awakening, when I leave for good.

  In the slight irony department, we have an angry young lady named Connie. She is a hurricane. Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve hoped for a hurricane—to see or be in one—and it will strike sometime next week—when I am safely inland, where hurricanes never reach. Oh, well. Last week we had a tropical storm named Brenda—she never became a hurricane, but was very interesting nevertheless. Mother, remember Santa Rosa Island, where you picked up your seashells, on the way to Fort Pickens? Well, much of that road was washed away as waves rolled over the island. I walked down to the seaplane ramps, and watched the huge waves smashing themselves against the sea wall, colliding with one another in great cymbal-crashes of spray.

  Been to a movie every night now for two weeks—yes, I still love them—also there is nothing else to do with yourself.

  This place is positively and literally swarming with amusing reddish-brown, many-legged little insects. I have yet to open my locker and fail to find at least half a dozen staring placidly at me, or strolling casually across my underclothes. Oh, well, I suppose they’re better than scorpions or rattlesnakes, but not much,

  Enough rambling for now—the pencil and my mind are rapidly becoming duller. I’d best find some ink to sign the envelope—I will not sink so low as to address a letter in pencil.

  Hope you had a nice vacation, dad. Regards to all from

  Su hijo,

  Roge

  13 August 1955

  Dear Folks

  Yes, it is I, your long-lost son, writing to you from the quaint and lovely “capital of the Navy”—Norfolk, Va. You will notice that I’m using pencil again. Also, if you look closely, you will probably notice several spelling, diction, and punctuation errors, all signs of the Navy’s highly effective demoralization system. Yesterday, I spent two hours walking around and around a room with a rag, dusting woodwork. About five feet ahead of me, and five feet behind were two other guys with rags, dusting the same woodwork. Of course, when my time is up, I plan to rush right out and reenlist.

  Today is an anniversary, of sorts. Exactly one year ago I joined the Navy. August 13, 1954—a day that will go down in my personal opinion with Dec. 7, 1941. What’s this?? Do I sound bitter? Heaven forbid. If you have somehow gotten the impression that I haven’t enjoyed every instant of it, and do not worship the very toes the Navy treads on, you are right!

  I was even cheated out of my hurricane. Connie followed us all the way up the coast, though we were too far inland to be affected by her. Then she staged two or three sit-down strikes, sulking off shore, while everyone concerned felt rather like the smaller member of a cat and mouse game. The Navy (bless her) sent all her larger ships to sea—downtown Norfolk taped its windows and piled sandbags in its doorways. Yesterday she came this way—tides rose, turning some of the downtown area into imitation Venices. The sandbags came in handy as salt water lapped up the streets. I thought “A-hah—tonite come the winds.” I stayed downtown after the tide receded, and went walking in the rain, which was almost a fine spray. The streets looked very pretty—splashes and ribbons of color reflected from the neon signs overhead. But no winds came. Connie had passed meekly by, to the great relief of all (that is, almost all.)

  We (a guy named Don Stalhut and I) bid a teary farewell to Pensacola at about ten o’clock Monday, August 8. By 8 o’clock that evening we were in Atlanta, Ga. (354 miles) where we spent the night. Left Atlanta about 9 the next morning, and arrived in Greensboro, North Carolina about 8 that night. Got to Norfolk at five Wed. night. I was very proud of the car; it didn’t give me a bit of trouble. Of course, last night I had to spend $3.40
for new fluid for the window lifts, and they told me I should get a new voltage regulator—the one I have is not the right type.

  Norfolk is an odd town—a business district completely out of proportion to the size of the town—probably because of the Navy. There are lots of bars, but the peculiar thing is they can sell nothing but beer! I can’t figure out how so many places can be supported by such a limited thing as beer. After all, there are only so many brands of beer. Of course, none of that phases me too much anyhow—I don’t care for beer. Even if they were regular bars, I’m afraid I have too much Scotch blood in me (national, not alcoholic)—I can’t see spending all sorts of money for drinks and then have absolutely nothing to show for it.

  Well, I could go on indefinitely, but I guess I’ll end it here. I’ll write again soon.

  Regards to all the relatives

  Love

  Roge

  Monday, 15 August 1955

  Dear Folks

  Look!…Ink! Ah, what a noble work of art is Man; beaten, degraded and disgraced, yet he fights valiantly upward, if only flaunting the powers that be by the forbidden use of pen and ink. “Hah,” they cry, in imitation of Marie Antoinette, “let them use pencil!”

  Have I ever mentioned that fact that I loathe the United States Navy? Permit me—I loathe the United States Navy! Of course, those words contain more than enough treason to have me hung from the highest yardarm and investigated by numerous House Committees. But, unfortunately, I must speak the truth. The truth means many things to many people, and is elastic enough to be bent and twisted into whatever shape desired.