World Ago

Dorien Grey

Description

It's not often one has the chance to become 20 again...A World Ago chronicles, through one young man's journal and vivid letters to his parents, his life, adventures, and experiences at a magical time. It follows him from being a Naval Aviation Cadet to becoming a "regular" sailor aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga on an eight-month tour of duty in the politically tense Mediterranean Sea.Learn to fly a plane, to soar, alone, through a valley of clouds, experience a narrow escape from death on a night training flight, and receive the continent of Europe as a 21st birthday gift. Climb down into the crater of Mt. Vesuvius, visit Paris, Cannes, Athens, Beirut, Valencia, Istanbul and places in-between; wander the streets of Pompeii, have your picture taken on a fallen column on the Acropolis, ride bicycles on the Island of Rhodes, experience daily life aboard an aircraft carrier during the height of the cold war-all in the company and through the eyes of a young will-be-writer coming of age with the help of the United States Navy.A World Ago is a rare glimpse into the personal and private world of a young man on the verge of experiencing everything the world has to offer-and discovering a lot about himself in the process.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Military history
• Diaries
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Untreed Reads
• Date de parution: 08 avril 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611875416
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

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.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing Short Circuits: A Writer’s Life in Blogs
http://www.untreedreads.com
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 9 th , 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 13 th —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