A World Ago: A Navy Man's Letters Home (1954-1956)

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 complete 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 the 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.

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 never 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.

As I said, at times you aren’t even aware he is around, until suddenly it dawns on you that he is conspicuous in his absence. It came to me in a drugstore, when two well-dressed women came to the fountain. Though there were plenty of empty seats, they stood at the end of the counter and asked for two milkshakes, which the counterman made and gave to them in covered paper cartons. They disappeared then—I don’t know where they went, but they were gone.

It was then I began noticing—the bus, trains, and plane depots with their Colored Waiting Room, the restaurants, the theaters (Colored Entrance via an outside fire escape to the balcony), the For Colored Only taverns (in the slum parts of town, of course). It is most apparent, however, on the transportation systems. Coming back to downtown New Orleans from the amusement park, Pontchatrain Beach, I was almost the only person on the bus as it started back from the end of its run. I sat, as I usually do, about even with the back door. The silver hand-rails along the back of each seat, I noticed, had two holes drilled in the top. I gave it no notice until six Negro teen-aged boys got on the bus. They came to the rear and picked up a wooden sign from the back seat and placed it on the hand rail of the seat across from me. It said For Colored Only.

On the bus from Mobile to Pensacola, I sat alone in a seat for two while five Negroes stood in the aisles. A mother and three small children got on the bus; the kids were cute as only colored children can be. One was a little girl about three, in bare feet, carrying a huge handbag. She came grinning down the aisle with her two brothers, who were carrying large bags of groceries. After a few minutes, the little girl, who hadn’t yet learned that Negroes must stand if whites sit, started to crawl up onto the seat next to me. The mother scolded her and started to pull her off the seat, but I said if she wanted to sit there, she was perfectly welcome to. The mother was evidently surprised, and said thank you, and the little girl sat clutching the handbag and grinned at me as the bus roared on….

Back in Pensacola, a Negro Marine was the only colored person on the bus back to the base. He sat in one of the side seats like we have at home. Five or six white kids, about ten to fifteen, got on and stood clustered up around the back door. There were a lot of empty seats—the side seat opposite the Marine, and the entire back seat. The bus driver stopped the bus and said Would you colored folks mind sitting in the back so these people can sit down.

I pity the Negro sailors, marines and Navcads stationed here. They can live with use, eat with us, and sleep with us, but they cannot ride a public bus with us.

                    Your Loving Boy-Child

                       Roge

September 19, 1955 Started at 6.35 p.m.

Dear Folks

I have a very few minutes before I must begin hitting the books again, so I’ll take this time to write you. I didn’t get a chance to write Friday night and here it is Sunday already. The week goes too slowly, and the weekends go too fast.

Before I forget, there is one thing I neglected to mention about New Orleans that I thought was odd—almost every single-unit house is narrow, one-storied, and has three floor-length windows and a door, which is usually on the left side. Most of these also all have shutters which are generally closed. And they invariably all have pillared porches.

This week in P.T. we’ve been having swimming, as I may have mentioned. Friday we all jumped off a twelve-foot platform into twenty feet of water. It was so much fun I sneaked back in line and jumped again. We also got a chance to see the Dilbert Dunker in action. At the far end of the pool there is a steep ramp made of what appear to be two railroad ties or I beams. About twelve or fifteen feet up is the Dunker. It is an actual airplane cockpit, cut off just in back of the engine. It sits atop the ramp, with pulleys keeping it up. I’ll bet you can’t guess what it’s for, so I’ll tell you. A few weeks before graduating, you get all dressed up in flight gear, which includes parachute and all accessories; you climb up and get in the cockpit. They strap you in, as in a real flight. Then when you’re all nice and cozy, they pull a lever which releases the dunker and you go roaring down the ramp to smash into twenty feet of water. To make things interesting, when it hits the water, it overturns. Now all you have to do is get out of there. They give you one minute and then they come under and get you. Doesn’t it sound like jolly-good, all-around, rip-snorting fun? I can hardly wait (but I’ll try).

Today I wandered over to the Survival Training Building, which is just ahead of the swimming pool. In front of the building is a crashed Corsair. Inside are all sorts of Survival exhibits, from one-man life rafts to an entire PBY (large water-plane). The building is literally built around this plane; one half is inside and the other is out (it is the oddest effect from the outside—the building runs right down the middle of the airplane). The plane is cut away so that you can see its entire interior—they have dummies at the controls and at the various stations throughout the plane. There are exhibits for survival in the sea, in the arctic, and in the jungle. Attached to the building is a greenhouse, wherein grow as many jungle plants and trees as they can fit in, including two banana trees. And out in back, in a large cage, is a six-foot alligator named Herman.

I really wish you could come down and see this place. Which reminds me—I’m going to have a devil of a time getting home Xmas—for one thing, I don’t know when I’ll be getting off, and for another, I don’t know where I’ll be. By December, I should be through with pre-flight (I hope, I hope, I hope) and when pre-flight is completed, they send you to any one of five bases located between here and Mobile, Ala. And I’ll have to have reservations ahead of time, because around Xmas everything that moves, crawls, or flies will be jammed with servicemen.

Well, it seems as how this is my week to be room captain, a nasty job with entails cleaning up everyone else’s mess. If anything is wrong in the room, no matter who did it, the room captain is put on report.

So, with your kind permission, I shall answer the call of the doorknobs. Until next time I am

                    As Always

                       Roge

P.S. Enclosed is a hymn the NavCad choir sings in church every Sunday. It is much prettier with the music, but I thought you might like it, so I tore it out of the hymnal and am sending it home.

Undated and unknown: part of a letter? Just notes to me?

One instance I always remember about this time—it was a favorite pastime of the kids in my neighborhood to lay in the back yard and look up at the clouds. There is nothing so wonderful as a child’s imagination—it is relatively untouched by human hands, and possesses a true magic; nothing is impossible. The clouds are elephants and ships and trees and dogs—anything. One afternoon, all the other kids were called in to lunch—I stayed in the yard, watching the clouds. To the Northeast was a large, billowy cloud. Suddenly, the cloud split down the middle and parted. There in the center of the rift, surrounded by blue sky and the broken cloud, was a face. I can still see it—I am positive I did not imagine it, and it could not possibly have been part of the cloud. He, whoever it was, had a black curly beard, and very rosy cheeks—his eyes, I think, were blue—he was smiling. He wasn’t looking in my direction; his gaze was to the Southwest—slowly his eyes moved, and at last he looked directly down on me. I can never forget—he stopped smiling; the cloud came together, and he was gone.

September 28, 1954

Dear Folks

Today I got the opportunity to play the role of a daring adventurer one always reads and hears about, when I went clamoring about the ruins of Fort Barrancas, one of the three Spanish forts in existence in America. It was first built in the early 1700s by the Spaniards to guard the entrance to Pensacola Bay. Subsequently, it has been held and/or razed at various times by various foreign powers and, most recently, by the Confederate States of America. It is a real movie-type fort, complete with a moat and rusty cannon all over the place. It stands atop and in a hill which I’m sure must have been man-made, as Florida is very hard put for hills. The elevation of the station here is approximately eight or nine feet above sea level (Rockford is 834 or somewhere along in there); the first breastwork of the fort, or rather the moat, is at an elevation of seventeen feet. Even on top of the fort there is a large mound of earth, which if located elsewhere than in Florida would appear that the fort had been carved out of the hill—here, however, it looks like the hill was built around the fort. How the cannon ever fired anything for a distance of more than three feet is a mystery to me; and how they could possibly hit anything with those iron bowling balls completely escapes me. There are two major types of cannon, one of which intrigued me; the majority were the regulation 18th-century type, but the other looks more like a witches’ brewing kettle tipped slightly to one side. One of these monstrosities must have weighed two tons and seemed practically immobile. No wonder it was captured so often

I’m going to take some pictures of it, if the sun ever comes out long enough. I don’t know why, but it blazes like mad during the week and hides behind the clouds on weekends.

On my wanderings along the beach before I stumbled on the fort (which is about a half-mile to a mile from the barracks and set back about two blocks from the water) I had a nodding acquaintance with two crabs and a jellyfish (approximate diameter—l ½ inches). One of the crabs was a plain old brown one which some sailors had managed to chase on shore. The other was white, almost the color of the sand, and practically scared the wits out of me when it went scurrying for the water a few feet ahead of me. It went charging along sideways on its rear claws and at the same time was reared up with its two front snappers up, ready to snap off a toe if I got in its way.

Yesterday was my last day of swimming for a while, and they celebrated the event by making us swim for forty minutes. About ten minutes before we stopped, I got terrific cramps in my calves and couldn’t move my legs on the last laps—I just floated on my back and went about