A World Ago Read online

  Dad asked me the other night if I liked it—that is a very hard question to answer. It’s like when the dentist fills your tooth full of Novocain and then asks if you like the drilling—you can’t feel a thing, but you don’t like the principle of it.

  I don’t know what life in Bat. II will be like, but I can only hope it will be an improvement over this.

  The other day we had a lecture (one of many) on what was expected of us, and how we are graded. They grade 38% on academic work, 28% on military skills (mine are nil) and 44% on Physical Training, at which I am miserable. Those percentages may not be exact, but they’re approximate. So I can expect to be dropped at any time.

  I won’t be too terribly unhappy, ‘cause two years is better than four any day.

  Well, I have about five letters to write, so I’d better do it while I have the chance.

  Don’t forget what I said about notifying the Red Cross in case of emergency! It’s the only way I can get an emergency leave. I hope I never have to have one, but if so, do it right.

  Write soon, and I’ll see you at Xmas.

  Bye now

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. Oh, Mother, dear…it’s NAVAL, not NAVEL.

  Saturday, August 28, 1954

  Dear Folks

  Today we moved into our new “home”—Bat. II, a large, yellow building with all the general appearances, both inside and out, of blowing away the first time a strong wind comes along. In one of our orientation books at Indoctrination, there was a short history of the city of Pensacola I thought was quite interesting, if I can remember it…Pensacola was the first city in America—even before St. Augustine, founded about seven years before by 2000 French (or Spanish) settlers. After two years and a hurricane which blew away the settlement, discord among the people forced them to abandon the place: thus St. Augustine gets all the honors. Well, after a few years it was resettled by the French, who were bombed out by the Spanish fleet, which took over until they were driven out by the French, who lost it to the English, etc. etc. Add to this five or six periodic hurricanes which neatly wiped everything away, and you have the very colorful, if somewhat checkered, history of Pensacola. I’ve been sitting here ever since we first arrived at Indoctrination wishing for a hurricane. I should imagine it would really liven things up.

  We won’t even be allowed to go to the movie tonight or tomorrow because we haven’t gotten our tropical uniforms back from the tailors’ yet. When I come home, if I’m still a NavCad, I hope to wear our Blues, which are really sharp. We were issued three sets of uniforms—Khakis, Tropicals, and Blues. The Khakis are exactly like the army and marines, the only difference being that we wear anchors on our shirt collars and on our hats instead of a world-and-anchor like the marines; also we wear black ties—the marines wear khaki-colored ties.

  Florida has the weirdest looking trees I have ever seen—the leaves resemble those found on rubber plants. I’ll try to enclose one, if it will fit, to show you what I mean. One thing I’ve noticed about trees down here—they are all comparatively short—they aren’t big and bushy like the trees at home. Of course that’s just the trees on the base here. Also they are the greenest trees I’ve ever seen

  Yesterday (Friday) we were issued books and a leather book bag. I’m afraid I’m going to have a devil of a time with navigation—everyone says that is the toughest subject here. And if I live through Physical Training I’ll be surprised. One day last week the sergeant got mad at me, as usual, and had me do fifty push-ups on the quarterdeck. I did about twenty and then couldn’t even get myself off the floor—I just laid there till he told me I could get up. (There were other guys besides myself doing them, so it wasn’t just a personal grudge against me.) For two days after that I could hardly lift my arms and when I did I couldn’t control my hands too well.

  Next Tuesday, in P.T., we must take what is called, technically, the “Step Test” (it is called other things by those who have taken it). It consists, as far as I can tell, of stepping up and down (floor to chair or something), in time, for five minutes. Then you must do 47 pushups and a few chin-ups. You have to do this or else! So if I come home for Christmas in a blue sailor suit, don’t be surprised.

  We won’t get another leave between this Christmas and next, either. Well, enough for now.

  See you in four months and eighteen days

  Love

  Roge

  September 1, 1954

  Dear Folks

  Today is Sept. 1, 1954. It is a memorable date for two reasons. The main one is that today is the day the flies came to Pensacola. It seems they have been up in the swamps somewhere, breeding with mosquitoes. This afternoon they descended in force upon us while we were, appropriately, dressed in nothing but our PT shorts and shirts. Naturally, they would wait until we were standing at attention; one drew blood, which trickled down my leg. Up until today, the local fly population has been conspicuous in its absence. I can’t recall seeing any at all since I’ve been down here. Of course, I hadn’t given it too much thought previously, my mind being occupied with other things than the absence of our little winged friends.

  The animal (or rather insect) population around here is fortunately sparse. But one variety is present in abundance. What they lack in quality they more than make up for in quantity. These little beasties are to be found under, around, in, over, and on food in the mess hall. If sold by the pound, they would bring someone a tidy profit. But there doesn’t see, to be much of a market for cockroaches this season. — I got paid today! Hooray!!

  For the past two days we have been engaged in PT class in doing two solid hours of calisthenics. Not of the old “1-2-3” variety. We also then must run around two hangers (two large hangers) twice in a figure 8.

  Sept. 3, 1954

  I mentioned running—today we have to run three miles to an obstacle course! I only hope I make it. And after we complete the obstacle course, we must run back again. Then we get haircuts and then we can go on liberty.

  (Later) Got your letter today and one yesterday—Me? Discouraged? Don’t be silly—I think the whole thing is hysterically funny (with the emphasis on hysterical). I especially enjoy little things like we did today. We ran out to the obstacle course as I said we were going to. It is located roughly three miles from anywhere, near a bay (across which can be seen a town—it may be Pensacola, but is more likely Washington, DC). The average time for the obstacle course is 1 minute and 36 seconds. The ground is sand, which makes running almost impossible. Two men start out at a time, at twenty-second intervals. You run about fifty feet, jump over (you may use your hands) a five foot fence—about seventy-five feet from that is a maze accommodating two men—for each man there is only one way in and one way out. About two hundred feet from the maze is a twenty-foot-long ladder-wall over which you must climb; fifty feet from that is a series of five log-fence-like obstructions; under one, over the next, under the next, etc. Then comes a large low place under which you’ve got to crawl. Next comes two comparatively short hurdles (3 ft.). Now there is a clear curve, which brings you back in the direction you started; it goes slightly down-hill for about three hundred feet. At the bottom is a twelve-foot water hole (you’re supposed to jump over it, but by this time you’re lucky if you get within six feet of the outer edge). Now you’re almost back—only two more obstructions. As it is uphill, there are two straight stretches with a step-like effect to climb over (or crawl, as the case may be) A hundred foot stretch, and you’re through.

  Your little boy fell flat on his face after crossing the finish line and was almost sick. At that I fared better than a lot of guys, some of whom really got sick. I made it in 207 seconds—the average for our class being 206. It is days like this that make me wish I were dead and not in Uncle Sam’s Navy. Don’t get me wrong, though—I’m not discouraged—just tired.

  On the way back we walked—no one was in any condition to run, and I, to keep moving, made minute observations of the local flora and fauna. I shall n
ever again be able to sit through a movie short in which the glories and virtues of Florida plant life is extolled. Well, enough of that. My uniforms—I was issued three of them. Tropical, Blues and Greens. Also I got (earlier last week) six khaki shirts and four khaki pants. In addition to these, my entire wardrobe consists of two khaki fore-and-aft (overseas) caps, one bridge cap (something vaguely like dad’s old sheriff’s office hat) with four different covers (blue, khaki, white, and tropical). Tropicals, incidentally, are almost the same color as khaki, only lighter and of a lighter material. They are the kind with the shoulder-boards. I had my picture taken in it the other day—if they turn out good (which I doubt) I’ll order a big one. My blue is for winter. It is heavy Navy blue with all the shiny buttons. I only hope I’m in the program long enough to wear it home for Xmas.

  I should, providing I don’t get dropped out, be through with pre-flight in early December. I wish you could come down if I graduate, but I won’t get my wings for another 14 months.

  Well, enough of everything for now. I’ll send you a card from New Orleans (if I ever get there).

  So long for now

  Love

  Roge

  P.S. I also got two pairs of shoes (black and brown) which must glisten in the sun. Kiss Stormy for me and don’t forget to send my camera (loaded).

  Date unknown

  Dear Folks

  I broke my old long-standing rule of never taking sightseeing busses; New Orleans being an exception in that I figured that if I didn’t take a tour, I couldn’t possibly see all the things I wanted—also, I didn’t know what to look for or where to go to find it. It was really very interesting. This card, or rather the picture on the back is the only place we didn’t go.

  I’m sending you a recording I made at the local amusement park. I got a big kick today in a dept. store when two kids asked if I was a general.

  Spent the day roaming around—bumped into quite a few NavCads—none I knew though. Unfortunately, the Mardi Gras crowds had rather thinned out by the time I got here (Mardi Gras is in February). Canal St., so named because it supposedly has a canal under it is billed as the widest main street in the world. It doesn’t have many (or hardly any) dept. stores; mostly just large shops. All the men’s stores are on one side of the street, and all the women’s are on the other Also, streets change names here. On one side is the “old city” with French and Spanish names, and on the other side it’s American.

  The local cemeteries are fascinating. Ninety-five percent of all the dead are buried above ground; the five percent exceptions being the Jewish, who don’t permit it, and those in “potters field” who can’t afford to “rent” a vault. The way things go down here is—you rent a space from the church for $5 a year. Conditions around here completely decompose a body with one year and a day. At the end of that time, the old body’s remains are pushed back into a hole at the end of the vault, and it’s all ready for a new one.

  Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Some of these things have sunk three feet into the ground.

  In Jackson park there are real live banana trees with real bananas. On one side of the park is The Cabildo, where the papers were signed giving the U.S. the Louisiana territory. The park is flanked by America’s first apartment buildings, built to keep people from moving out of the old city into the new. All the buildings are built as close to the street as possible for some reason, with beautiful patios on the inside. The cathedral is very pretty, being all wood on the inside. First time I’d ever been in a Catholic church. Beautiful stained glass windows and paintings on the ceilings. At the moment of writing this, I am sitting in the Union Depot, waiting to get the heck out of this place. I plan to go to Mobile, if I ever get there. Well, I’m here—by bus, not train. I walked back to town and got the next bus out. I’m awfully sorry I couldn’t afford to buy you some better souvenirs than these little cards, but….

  And here I am back in Pensacola, just before going to P.T. class. God! How I loathe that class. Talk about Hell on Earth. We do pushups—that is, everybody else does pushups. After just so many my arms won’t lift me off the floor. And tomorrow I’ve got to go through that Step Test again. I don’t know what they’ll do if I flunk it again. I’ll probably end up in the regular Navy.

  September 11, 1954

  Dear Folks

  This is the first opportunity I have had in a week to write, so I shall start a letter, not knowing if I will get to finish or not. Before I forget it—if I don’t get put back, I will graduate in December—about the seventh or eighth or somewhere around there.

  There is so very much to tell that I don’t know where to begin—I think I’ll start with yesterday and work my way back to anything I missed about New Orleans plus my journalistic outlooks on “the old South.”

  To begin, I’d better explain that though today is Saturday, we had to go to class to make up for last Monday; we don’t have P.T. today, though—thank God!

  Yesterday, at 11:30 (we start at 7:00), we were marched back from Building 633, the academic building, and were told on arriving back at Bat II that we had to go at once to Building 625, the Dispensary, for shots. So back we went, past 633 for about a block, and stood in line for our shots. Now, as you know, I am not overly joyed at the thought of needles, in any way, shape, or form. As long as I don’t look at them, I’m all right. So there I stood, staring at the ceiling or out the window, trying not to appear obvious, while those directly ahead of me were injected. Then it was my turn. A Wave gave me a shot in my left arm, which didn’t hurt too badly; and then a sailor plunged another one into my right arm. I was afraid he was going straight through.

  Well, we then came back to Bat II and changed into our P.T. gear. As we were late for P.T., we had to double-time all the way to Bldg. 45 (a reconverted hanger) with rifles, a distance of about five blocks. Of course, one of our exercises was to run twice around the two hangers.

  Comes the afternoon, and I got to march in my first parade. Every Friday a class graduates, and all the cadets (825) hold competitive drill. It is a long and tedious affair, through the entire length of which you must stand at Parade Rest. So there we stood, one hundred men of our section (Dog), in the blazing sun (which, fortunately, would be cast over by a cloud every so often). I said one hundred men at Parade Rest (which isn’t as stiff as Attention, but just as grueling)—I should have said ninety-nine; Pete Roberts (who used to room with me in Indoctrination) was casually surveying the countryside while everyone else stood rigidly with eyes front. After about twenty minutes, everyone was sweating like mad, and the guy next to me began weaving back and forth. A Sergeant came up and told him to stand up straight, which he did. In about two minutes, he was weaving again. The sergeant saw he was sick and told him to squat down; our section leader, in the row ahead and five men to the right, fell forward like a tree, flat on his face. They hauled both of them away, and we went on standing at Parade Rest. Several men were sick last night and today, but no more collapsed during the parade. As I always say, life may not be much fun around here, but it certainly is never dull. I dread P.T. It is my personal hell on earth. The thing I really loathe are push-ups. I simply cannot do them (the average during a P.T. period is forty). We have been marching back and forth to P.T. with rifles lately, which is a minor torture in itself. To keep going, I write Mental letters—it may sound odd, but it helps.

  Monday we get to run the obstacle course again—then we begin swimming class. I have tacked a huge mental note in the back of my mind—it is one of those framed, embroidered expressions like Grandma has on her walls (“Be it ever so humble…,” etc.) Mine says “ALL THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS.”

  Every morning at 6:35 we muster out in back of the Bat to march to classes. We carry all of our books in our book-bags, which resemble large briefcases. In the main hall entranceway of Bldg. 633, they have a huge (about 20 feet) plastic aircraft carrier model, which is an exact replica of the Essex. You can see every room, compartment, and passageway
in it. It stands in a giant glass case, and when I leave Pensacola, I intend to take it with me—I’ll put it in the basement of my new house.

  If you would care to see something hilariously funny, you should stand in 633 while classes are changing. Everyone marches from one class to another, in columns of two. You march at a half-step; eyes straight ahead, book-bags in your right hand. The effect is that of little tin wind-up soldiers, and Chinese coolies with rickshaws. And the halls are filled with them—some going one way and some going another. And all you hear is “shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle.” Then, supposing you were marching down the right side of the hall, and your classroom was on the left. The column halts when the first two men come abreast of the door; you wait until the way is clear, and then you “left-step,” which is just what it says—the whole column marches sideways until they get to the other side of the corridor. I never get tired of watching. Oh, by the way, there is a picture of the U.S.S. Rockford hanging on one of the corridor walls.

  I never sleep with a pillow anymore. Every day we have a room inspection, and the beds must be made just so. Therefore, everyone sleeps on top of the sheets to keep them from getting too messed up. I put my pillow carefully on the dresser every night so as not to get it wrinkled.

  Well, enough personal life—now to get back to my tour.

  I’ve met a very interesting character down south. His name is Jim Crow. He is a barefooted little girl, an old man in coveralls, a well-dressed man in a business suit. I had a nodding acquaintance with him the first day I arrived in Pensacola and rode a city bus. A sign says “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach—colored seat from rear to front of coach—Florida Law.” He is so quiet at times, you are scarcely aware he exists. At other times, he is a vicious, despicable animal.