We reprint from the first issue of the NEWS BULLETIN:--

" . . . Unfortunately this work has not been accomplished without losses May I extend my deep sympathy and the sympathy of the AFS to the families of those men who have given their lives in relieving the suffering of others, and to the families of those men who are wounded, missing, or captured."

Ralph S Richmond
Colonel, AFS

(Cairo, October 26)

Colonel Richmond received the following cablegram:

ON JUNE 1st, the French sent out an offensive column from Bir Hacheim to Rotunda Segnali, behind the Axis lines and directly athwart their communications.

Alan Stuyvesant, Lieutenant AFS, persuaded the French to consent to send two ambulances with the expedition. Semple and Kulak, in cutting cards, won the assignment, (It is to Semple's story, THE AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE AT BIR HACHEIM, that we are indebted for this information.)

They started at noon, heading Northwest over the desert, with a force of men and a number of batteries of artillery. From the start the expedition was ill-fated. They were strafed on the way out; several of the armored cars were hit, and there were some casualties.. In preparing to camp for the night the column dispersed widely because its AA protection was light. But the Luftwaffe found them. ME 110s, with light bombs as well as guns, attacked them again and again until dark. There were a number of casualties, a few of them severe; and, since the column was planning to move on the next morning, it was necessary somehow to evacuate the wounded. A radio message was sent to Bir Hacheim, calling for a relief column of ambulances.

Alan Stuyvesant and all the rest of the AFS drivers started off at once that night, the night of 1/2 June. After a grueling drive across the desert they arrived at the rendezvous at seven in the morning. Heavy dust storms protected them from air attacks. The wounded were delivered in the relief ambulances which immediately started back to Hacheim. On the way, about fifteen miles from their destination, Stuyvesant had a flat tire. He insisted that the others go on, as they had wounded aboard. One of the Foreign Legion drivers they had borrowed, a Persian, remained behind to help him.

Meanwhile, entirely unknown to any of them, the Germans were moving heavy forces up to Bir Hacheim for a real full-scale attempt to take the stronghold, which was interfering with their communications. The other eight AFS ambulances slipped into camp just as the Germans started to shell them. Stuyvesant was not so fortunate. It seems (wrote Sample) that he was actually within sight of the camp when a German armored car rushed up and captured him.

On July 19, in a cablegram from Mr. Galatti, received at HQAFS GHQ MEF, we were informed that Stuyvesant was a POW in Italy and well.

In November, this letter was received at HQ AFS:-

Expediteur:	Prenom, nom et grade Stuyvesant, Alan, Lieut. AFS Campo P.G. 75 PM 3450
To	Colonel Ralph Richmond American Field Service Cairo, Egypt

Dear Colonel,

Have been hearing very good things about your fellows

with the New Zealanders. Congratulations. "Saunders"-*- has been reported a POW in some OR camp. Very anxious to hear news of our crowd. Please write and give their news! Glenn . ** . and I well and healthy. I have written New York and Rome concerning possibility repatriation or exchange as non-combattant medical personnel. Believe precedent exists with F.A.U. Please push at your end, enlisting aid Gen. Giric, F.F. DMS. Thanks. Hope Ogden able change AFS FFF account Barclays without my signature. I left a greenish canvas bag in hold of Windsor Hotel: could you please retrieve and keep with AFS luggage. Best all, particularly Ogden and yourself.

Alan

*"Saunders" undoubtedly was SANDERS, a member of Unit I, missing since late in June. (See copy of cablegram from New York on page 2.)

** Peter Glenn, also of Unit I, was captured sometime after June 13th. On the afternoon of the 13th, Colonel Richmond and Captain (now Major) King talked with Glenn. He was at a petrol point on the plain below the Pilastrino escarpment where the AFS was encamped. He had just brought a load of casualties in to the Tobruk Hospital and was preparing to return to the unit to which he was then attached.

Along with Stuyvesant's letter there was a note from Glenn to Colonel Richmond:

Wrote you in early July. Appreciate if you sent mail and some kit. Like news of crowd and unit. Best to Crudge, Nichols, E. Thomas. Good luck and fond wishes to all.

Peter

Another letter from Stuyvesant follows:--

Dear Jeff and Smitty.

Also Tom, Tich, Arthur, Moans, Goat, Stan, Tim, Mac, Hirschberg, and Nancy! Hope this reaches you all in good health and spirits and still doing a swell job. Also that recent events have changed your minds about changing jobs, Jeff and Smitty. Very keen to hear all about you all and if all still O.K. !! Also news of GSD and other friends. Please give names of any in the bag. Also write my brother (L.R.S., 60 Wall Street, N.Y.) giving names, so he can see to having them send things from U.S. Last news of any of you came from Fitzgerald, captured after Hacheim. Was any of my kit rescued? If so, please send negatives home and keep movie camera for Unit's use. Also send me some snaps of all of you! Miss you all a lot and keep kicking myself for having fallen in trap so easily! Luckily time passes faster than I had expected. Ask Colonel V.G. to push possibility repatriation (see above). Keep doing your stuff and keep cheerful. Give my best to all my friends. Please write and don't forget your friend,

Alan R. S
23 August 42

(NOVEMBER --- HQ AFS)

The report below was received from Lt. Greenough of the AFS unit attached to the French. The attack referred to was part of the general allied attack on the Axis positions along the El Alamein 'line', which led to the defeat and retirement of the enemy.

"On the night and morning of the 23/24, during the French attack, John Dun (MS Unit 4) did magnificent work, and by his courage and devotion to duty saved the lives of his wounded as well as being instrumental in recovering two ambulances which had been abandoned. For this action and his courage in remaining by his ambulance in the face of intense enemy fire, Dun has been commended by the MO of the French Tank Corps. as well as by Col. Viallard Gouder, head of the let Brigade Medical Corps who has requested they if possible Dun be transferred to the F.F.C. group of the American Field Service."

EARLY IN NOVEMBER the 54 men of Units XXVI and XV disembarked in Suez. They proceeded to Mob Centre, at Tahag, where they were issued clothing and equipment. During their short stay in Egypt they were given leave to Cairo. On November 10th these men entrained for Syria to join the two platoons of 11 AFS ACC (485 Coy.), under the command of Captain C.B. Ives. The rosters of the units:--

Later in November, Units XVIII and XXVIII disembarked. The 23 men of these units will also be sent to the Syrian platoons of 11AFS ACC (485 Coy.) The rosters:--

DURING THE OCTOBER-NOVEMBER attack in the Western Desert the AFS was represented by two platoons of 11 AFS ACC.( 485 Coy.), under the command of Captain W.L. Marsh, and by two platoons of 15 AF8 ACC (567 Coy.), under the command of Captain A.C. Geer,

It is announced officially that up to the date of our going to press ---November 27th --- there has not been a single AFS casualty of any sort during the "push" from El Alamein to Benghazi. The last AFS casualty (reported in BULLETIN No. 3) was Arthur Foster, who has been missing since the night of September 3/4.

Latest news of our Desert Platoons comes from William Pfeiler (Unit IV), recently returned from Tobruk. The following items are compiled from entries in Pfeiler's diary:--

(Mon Nov. 9)

Left Cairo late in the morning, driving an ambulance I was to deliver to Captain Marsh; somewhere in the Western Desert. Bill Conner; just out of the hospital; went with me to rejoin his unit. We stopped for lunch at the Halfway house on the Cairo-Amiriya Road, and found Captain Coster, Simpson, and Fenton there. Coster and Simpson were taking money out to our men in the desert; Fenton was taking an ambulance to Captain Geer's Company. We arrived at Alexandria at 5:30. It was already dark, and we decided to spend the night there.

(Tues. Nov. 10)

Marsh's company was last reported to be in El Hamman, but when we arrived there we heard that the company had moved on to Nieras Matruh or Sidi Barrani. Conner and I felt sure we'd catch up with them before nightfall. Driving across the El Alamein Line, we could see what had been happenings there were hundreds of enemy vehicles of all types, aircraft, and tanks knocked out or abandoned. From the El Alamein Line all the way to Matruh we passed Italian and German cemeteries, and we saw enemy dead yet unburied. There were charred bodies in the burnt-out lorries and tanks. Prisoners by the hundreds, mostly half-starved Italians who had been deserted by the Germans, were streaming back East. Traffic to the West was very heavy, too, with supplies of all kinds being sent ahead. Sappers had cleared the road and tracks of mines, but we saw one lorry stray too far off a track and get blown up. We ate lunch at a transit camp. Although it wasn't long since there'd been fighting on this very location, the camp had an appearance of permanency about it. The salvage parties were fast in cleaning up. At 7 in the evening we arrived at Matruh. From the military authorities who'd just moved in we learned that Marsh's company had moved still farther ahead. Conner and I scrounged some food and water and spent the night in the recently ex-Italian A.P.O.

(Wed. Nov. 11)

We were up at dawn and looked the town over. The destruction was unbelievable: every building hit by bombs and the harbor full of wrecked ships. We left at 7:3O for Sidi Barrani. Passed several AFS ambulances evacuating patients to the East Grove, driving one of the ambulances, gave us the exact location of the company. By 10:30 we found it. The men were excited: they'd had a little bombing and strafing with their breakfast that morning. We were happy to hear there were no casualties --- none, in fact, during all the push. I turned over the ambulance to Marsh and talked with him and Lieutenants Nettleton, Payne, and Hoeing. Hoeing said his platoon was up ahead. Mostly, our ambulances were doing MAC work; several sub-sections were attached to CCSs, Field Ambulances, and armored divisions. They were moving forward almost every day with the general advance. I chatted with Terry Harding and with Dave Becker, who was the only one of my old section around. He was acting sub-section leader during Sullivan's illness. I was told that Carter and Desloge were with the Fighting French, and that Ofner was in the hospital.

(Thurs. Nov. 12)

Woke up early. The nights were getting colder and the dew was as heavy as rainfall. The group here with Marsh was not to have moved forward immediately; so I caught a ride with Ned Fenton, who was en route to 15 AFS ACC. At Buq Buq, we were told that the Geer company had moved farther forward. We eventually found them camped near the road, waiting to climb either Salum Hill or Halfaya Pass. First person I bumped into was an old school mate, Carl Adam. During the evening I met some of the new men. We listened to the news from the radio on the canteen lorry. Blackwell, in charge of the canteen, had it well stocked with tinned fruit, tinned soup, chocolate, cigarettes, and so forth. This company, they said, had been bombed a good deal. They'd been kept fairly busy doing the same types or work as our other company, and they were using some captured German vehicles. I went to sleep this night in a dugout that had been used by Germans just a few nights before.

(Fri. Nov. 13)

Friday the thirteenth. But the news was goods Tobruk reoccupied by Allied Forces. Orders arrived for 15 AFS ACC to move ahead. The men packed and lined their vehicles in convoy formation. A large part of the day was spent waiting to get over the Pass, and we had time to go for a short swim in the Mediterranean. Traffic was extremely heavy with materials being rushed forward. It was nine in the evening when we got up onto the escarpment in Cyrenaica: 12 hours to go about 40 miles. The cooks had a good hot bully beef stew ready for us at this new-camp site. We were all glad to get into the bedrolls early.

(Sat Nov 14)

We took a walk after breakfast to see what the Germans had left behind. Found a large ammunition dump. Met Howe, Lt. of 15 AFS ACC. Howe said his platoon was busy a short distance forward. He told me how Joe Jarrell had got mixed up in a German convoy a few days ago. It happened when Jarrell went by mistake on a road that wasn't yet officially open. He had a few shots fired at him, but got away safely. I was also told that John Himmel's ambulance had been hit by an anti-personnel bomb. Himmel had been in it just a few minutes before. He was O.K. Kahlo's sub-section had this amusing incident: they went for a swim, found an abandoned enemy rifle, and were shooting it off for fun when, suddenly, from behind a sand dune came nine half-starved Italians with their hands up. Ragle and Pierce, I heard, had a similar experience. During the day, Draper and Elmslie drove in here to have a spring fixed at the company W/S, and, when they started back to Tobruk to the division they were attached to, I joined them. It was dark when we arrived in Tobruk. The town was a pest hole, full of flies, mosquitos, rats, and filth. We spent the night there in the old Tobruk Hospital. Enemy planes came over during the night and dropped a few bombs in the harbor.

(Sun. Nov 15)

Was given breakfast at the hospital, where a light section had just moved in. I met DeTraym who had brought in a load of patients, and we looked around the town. Everything appeared to be badly damaged. But the church still stood. I heard that there would be some delay before the AFS companies went forward again; so I decided to try and get a ride back to Cairo with Colonel Richmond, who was in the field. Not being able to locate him or Captain Coster, I started back 'on the thumb'. I hoped for a hitch in one of our ambulances, but was told that casualties were so light and distances so great that patients were being flown back to base hospitals. A very nice old Colonel of a CCS gave me a lift to an airfield. Ten minutes there and I had managed to bum a ride partway back on an RAI bomber. It landed me at Daba. In a few hours we made what it had taken me several days to cover by ambulance. The RAF Squadron Leader said there wouldn't be a plane to Cairo until next morning and invited me into their mess. They wined, dined, and bedded me for the night.

(Mon. Nov 16)

Had breakfast in the squadron mess. Boarded a plane at ten A.M., landed in a Cairo suburb an hour and ten minutes later. I was able to report to Captain Hinrichs at our HQ before lunch, and turned some rolls of film from the men in the field over to Koenig. Then I went to a hotel to clean up. This was the eighth day since I'd started out. I must say that they were the most exciting and enjoyable days I've spent since arriving in the Middle East in April.

This account, written with deep feeling by an officer of Unit I, takes you through one of the phases of AFS activity in the Western Desert.

IN THE MORNING Major Coutts, OC 4th ADS, called me in and told me that two Brigades were to attack south through the minefields to a ridge which they were to occupy and thereby cut off the supply line of the enemy's tank columns. The 5th Brigade was to go through first and occupy positions on the ridge and lip of the ridge; the 132nd Brigade was to come through and take up secondary positions and certain territory West of the 5th. We had AFS ambulances with both Brigades, and Coutts ordered me to pass this information on to the men. Then he said that the attack was set for 10:30 this night.

During the morning it was very quiet in our box (or defended area, as they prefer to call it), with only occasional shelling and that mostly by our batteries of 25-pounders. I went the rounds to tell our men to hold themselves in readiness, to expect heavy work during the next twenty-four hours. It was anticipated that early in the attack casualties would be light and that fierce fighting would take place about daybreak. I explained the plans for evacuation to the men. There were to be two gaps in the minefields. Our ambulances with the RAPs of the 5th Brigade were to evacuate from the battle area to a car post stationed approximately 1000 yards south of the eastern gap. At the car post a Medical Officer would decide whether the patients should be unloaded there and taken back to the ADS by other ambulances, or if they were so badly injured that they should be taken straight back by our ambulances. This car post was to be a sort of nerve center for ambulances evacuating to the 4th ADS.

At the western gap in the minefields, the ambulances were to use the Military Police check point and evacuate straight to the ADS. The tracks back to the ADS were to be lit by green lanterns spaced every hundred yards or so. The gaps through the minefields were to be well marked and wide enough that there could be no mistaking them.

There were a few German planes overhead in the afternoon. They were flying high, and our ack ack had no luck and succeeded only in keeping them from diving towards the box. In the late afternoon and early evening the battalions made their preliminary shifts in preparation for the attack. By 8 in the evening all of our men were ready to move with their RAPs.. At about 8:30 Terry Herding ( who was driving for me), Harry Grobleweski ( who was to drive our ambulance stationed at the car post), and I checked in with the Medical Officer in charge of the car post. There, we joined up with his three ambulances. We went over the plans again, waited for the word from Major Coutts, and at 9 o'clock we started off for the eastern gap in the minefields.

It was pitch dark. We moved very slowly in convoy along the dusty green lights to the gap. It very quiet: nothing seemed to be moving. Although it was too dark to distinguish units, we were conscious of passing stationary vehicles on either side. At the gap, we hauled up. We weren't to go through until after the Bren gun carriers and the Maori transport. My watch showed 9:30. There was an hour before the attack was scheduled to start, and there was nothing we could do but sit around and wait.

Our MO reported to the check post at the entrance of the gap. The three New Zealand ambulance drivers and their orderlies dug themselves s rough slit trench, rolled up in their greatcoats, and went to sleep. It was getting quite cold. Terry and Harry and I put on our battledress jackets and wished we had slacks to cover our bare knees. The Padre was with us. The four of us just sat around and talked. I don't actually remember one definite thing that was said in the whole time we waited. Our conversation consisted mostly of reminiscences, home talk . . . the inevitable "I remember one time we had . . ". It was pretty small talk and rather silly.

At 10:30 the forward movement started. But our MO walked back from the check post to tell us that we had a couple of hours more to wait. A lot of lorries came up and went through the gap, and it was quiet again. Then several Jeeps rolled up. There were staff officers in them and they asked where various units were and if the units had gone through yet, and off they raced. I wondered how their drivers could see well enough to drive so fast. Terry and I took turns closing up the back of our bug and having a much needed cigarette. It was awfully quiet again. There were a few remarks about it, including the usual, "lull before the storm." I was about to lie down for a little sleep when two or three planes flew over and dropped what seemed to be --- from the amount of light that suddenly burst --- dozens of flares.

They were the flares that are attached to parachutes and take an interminable period of time to come down. They looked to be over by the ADSs, but they lit up everything as far as you could see. It was as bright as under a full moon. You could easily distinguish faces around you and see vehicles everywhere. To know that everything you did, every bit of movement was now clearly visible to any enemy observer who happened to be over was not a pleasant feeling... We watched the flares as they floated down and the tracer bullets that were shot at them in an effort to bring them down.

Lorry transport began to move through the gap. Bren gun carriers rattled up and started through. Someone said there were 50 of them. I counted 28 and got tired. Then the Maori transport arrived. This was about eleven-thirty. There was a long line of them and they pulled over to one side and cut off their motors. They had to wait for some one else to go through. And we had to wait for them.

I talked with the Padre for a few minutes and lay down to sleep. I don't know how long I slept. Suddenly I was awakened by a very loud noise right by my ear: it literally shook me upright. It was an air-burst, Terry said. In the lorry of the Maori transport opposite us, about 40 feet from our bug, some one was groaning. The Padre and I were nearest to it and went to see what we could do. A Maori had been sitting on the tire between the cab and the body of the lorry and his left leg had been hit by the biggest part of the burst. He was lying back on some kit. We tried to pull him into the lorry, but all he did was groan. His other leg was holding him back: it had become wedged in between the tire and the lorry-body. He was in a most difficult position. At the time there was no light and it was hard to see just what had happened to him. I reached for his left leg. There was nothing there. Then my hand brushed something wet and sticky and something sharp pricked me. When a flare burst out in the night sky, I saw that this leg had been shot off up beyond his thigh. I had put my hand on his bare, jagged thigh bone. The Padre, using his greatcoat for a shield, snapped on his pocket flashlight and directed the beam at the wound. For a moment I felt sick. It was the worst I'd ever seen. His completely shredded clothing disclosed that bits of shrapnel had torn gaping wounds all up his side. His whole lower intestine was hanging out. Pieces of flesh were splattered all over the canvas top of the lorry. The smell was horrible.

Finally we got him onto a stretcher and lifted him out the back end of the lorry. It was certain that he wouldn't live more than a few minutes. He was still conscious and moaning. The MO came over just as we got him out and gave him a large dose of morphine. There'd be nothing they could do for him at the ADS, but, as two other casualties had to go back, we sent him along too. Harry also went back in the ambulance. He'd been trying to do some first aid on a Maori who had a shrapnel wound in the head, but he'd been forced to give it up because of the dark. We found another casualty after the ambulance left, but this one was already dead.

For about the next hour and a half there was intermittent shelling on both sides. More transport started going through the minefields Among the vehicles, we caught sight of one of our ambulances. I'm not sure who the driver was. Duncomb, I believe. Six Italian prisoners with two guards walked past us in the dark. They passed us so quietly that for a minute I thought they were our own troops. The transport was through now, but still we waited. I finally slept for a little while. I don't know how long. When I woke up all of the vehicles were gone except for a few odd lorries that had been hit. Just as I went to the check point to find out when we were supposed to go through, another batch of flares burst out and started slowly floating down.

It was almost as if these flares were a signal, for shelling started again. It kept on rather constantly during the rest of the night. When we finally got word to go through, my watch read 5 past 2 The position of our car post had been shifted to three hundred yards beyond the exit of the minefield, instead of the original thousand yards I don't know why. Perhaps they thought it would be easier for ambulances to find us nearer the minefield. At our new position we dispersed the cars well. We found some slit trenches that had been occupied by Germans or Italians, and we rolled up in blankets and tried to get some sleep. I couldn't sleep at all. Terry dozed off and slept peacefully. How he did I' ll never know. Bren gun carriers kept rumbling by, fairly close to us; the shelling continued; and there was occasional bombing. With the bursts of bombs and the light of flares I could see troops marching through the gap in the minefield behind us. Every once in a while a shell whistled.. The shells were all pretty high and landed inside the box . Casualties started trickling in from various points in the area. A Bren gun carrier brought in one with an arm wound and one with a bad head wound. The MO gave them first aid treatment and a shot of morphine. Harry returned from the ADS. When we had moved to this position, the padre stayed behind to show him the way. We loaded the two casualties, and Harry started back with them. Three or four men who had been hit coming through the gap walked over to us and were treated and sent on back. Duncomb and Metcalf brought in a load from their battalion and were ordered to go directly to the ADS:

Then, for a time all hell broke loose. Shells from both sides went over us, and what they call "garden city lights" kept landing in and around the minefield. These insidious contraptions are a three-unit type of bomb: the center is the actual bomb and the two outer units are of magnesium or oil or something which flames up and runs along the ground. More casualties came through, mostly from around the entrance to the minefield. These were Tommies. I wondered how they had got over here: they were supposed to be south and far west of where we were. I found out that they'd got lost and had taken the wrong gap. It was pathetic: they hadn't even had a chance to move the rifles off their shoulders; they were done in before they were close enough actually to be in the battle even before they could see the enemy. Bewildered, dazed, many of them couldn't understand what had happened. It was still too dark to work in the open so our MO took them inside one of his ambulances and turned on the light. The Padre went back with this load. He was cool and quiet and altogether fine. He helped with each man, and talked, and half-way joked with them. I think he did as much for them as the doctor. He changed my opinion of army Padres.

Shells started dropping fairly close to us. They came more frequently, and closer still. Some landed so near to where we were working that drivers, orderlies, wounded, the MO, and myself--- all of us had to flatten ourselves. A piece of shrapnel bounded off my steel helmet. It was red hot. Although a fair-sized chunk, it was well spent and it felt as if some one had thrown a rock at me. Wïth the shells landing intermittently it became impossible for the MO to do anything for the wounded except give them a shot of morphine and send them on in. John Meeker came by with a load and was sent directly to the ADS

It grew quiet where we were. But you could hear anything from machine gun fire to shells and bombs bursting in the distance. Then there were more flares and garden city lights.. If they weren't so insidious they'd be pretty in a Fourth of July sort of way. I sat inside an ambulance with the MO and smoked a cigarette. Harry wasn't back yet from the ADS; so we had only one ambulance at the car post. There was a definite lull now and everybody felt relieved. Dawn was beginning to break. With it came that clammy feeling of dew. It was still cold; for the first time since we'd waited at the gap I noticed my knees and legs cold. One of the drivers suggested brewing some tea, but before anything could be done about it Jerry opened up with more shells. They came fast and furious, and there was no mistaking the target. They were aiming at the gap in the minefield.

We moved about 200 yards Southwest, close to the track. Wounded came in fast. We ceased to function as a car post and became what might be called an all-unit RAP. There was so much gunfire ahead of us that it was hard to distinguish any one kind. Two NZ ambulances reported back. One was filled immediately and sent in. More wounded appeared. Everyone helped with stretchers and blankets. The wounded were supporting each other; those with head and shoulder injuries supported those with leg wounds. One soldier with a bad shoulder wound collapsed while he was trying to help a "cobbler" hobble over to the doctor. Then, again, shells started dropping close by. Once, all of us --- doctor, orderlies, wounded --- had to drop flat where we were and stay there for several minutes. It was sickening: these poor guys having to dodge more bursts before their initial agony could be relieved. At last we packed them all into the remaining ambulances and we moved off again. We went across the track now and farther West. We found more wounded. Three who had been brought in by a Bren gun carrier. We loaded the three into the ambulances and sent the whole crowd in to the ADS. All of them were Tommies. I decided that they'd got to where we were by having been mixed up with the anti-tank unit that had been at our last position.

One soldier walked over to tell us that there had been some bad casualties in his unit, across the track. We had no ambulance lefts so Terry and I went in the bug to find them. Several hundred yards to the cast, we could see a head poking up from a slit trench. When this chap recognized the Red Cross on the bug he motioned us farther South and East, to approximately where we had been before. There was an anti-tank gun there. A shell had landed right beside it. The only casualty was the gunner, and he was dead. I got out to make sure. A great hole gaped in his neck. He was still warm. It must have happened when the last shell burst. We searched, found no more casualties, and went back to where the MO was. We arrived there just in time for a series of close ones. They caught me between slit trenches. I had to decide whether to fall flat. Soon I spotted one of our ambulances going past on the track. It must have been Meeker going to his RAP. Another of our ambulances was coming through the minefield when shells landed around it and its path. The driver turned it around and went back. There was no good trying to get through then. Jerry was still aiming at the gap, but his shells were going wide or falling short --around where we were.

Only a few dead lay here now. There were no more wounded around us, no more troops. So the MO decided that inasmuch as the Germans seemed to have a direct range on us and in a matter of minutes might score a direct hit it would be best to move back to the ADS. We waited for the first lull to make a dash for it. On the way not one shell dropped near us. Inside the box, we passed burnt-out vehicles of all types and a large bunch of Italian and German prisoners. They were sitting around in a big circle, well guarded. We got back to the ADS at about 8:30. That was too late for anything to eat: all they had left was some tea. The Padre opened a tin of sausages he'd carried with him and shared them with me. I didn't eat much. I didn't feel hungry after seeing the ADS.

Both ADSs were jammed with wounded waiting to be treated. They were as thick as flies; they lay five and six deep around the reception tent, I never wanted to be doctor so much in all my life as I did then. I felt miserably helpless. There was nothing really constructive I could do except to take cups of water around to the wounded. They groan or moan. They were just quietly and patiently waiting for one of the tired and overworked doctors to patch them up as best he could. The doctors worked carefully but quickly. They were wonderful. The men who were brought in to them were so messed up with blood and dirt and so wrapped in field dressings that it was sometimes difficult to make out a man's features. They'd been hit everywhere. The doctors would patch two or three wounds and in so doing would find numerous others. Some men had shrapnel wounds literally all over their bodies. There were flesh wounds and vital wounds. It is horrible the way a shell can cut up a man. I couldn't help but think of the picture I'd seen recently in a newspaper. It was a picture of women working in a munitions factory in the States, and they were all smiling broadly. The caption was, "Happy to do Their Bit." I wonder how happy they'd be if they could see what one of the shells they're making does to a man. That is not a pacifist thought. I feel as strongly about this war as I ever did; we've got to keep on and win and then stop this ridiculous business once and for all. But a lot of my ideas have changed. This was my first action, and the first real enemy engagement that I'd seen. And quite frankly I didn't like what I saw. Not one bit of it. It's a horrible business. And if anyone says he likes it he's either lying or insane. So many things happened in such a short period of time that I'm just now beginning to digest them. In some things, I'm confused still. I've never hated the Germans or Italians. I've always had a benign attitude towards them, that they were poor-misled peoples who can't be too much blamed because we're giving back to them what they give us. But I must confess I hated them that night and the next day. To see men whole one minute and literally torn to pieces the next had a terrific effect on me. As I said, it changed a lot of my ideas, I think it changed a good many of us. I think that night and the next day opened our eyes.

All that day our ambulances worked back and forth As quickly as they returned from the MDS after a run they were loaded up and sent down again. Trip after trip. We even took three back in the bug --- two stretcher cases in the back and one who could sit up front. We did this twice. I don't know how many trips each man with an ambulance made. By nightfall one ADS had been cleared. Everyone pitched in and helped: those who were spare drivers helped the medical orderlies and stretcher bearers. I was eager that our men do all they could, and they did --- from driving ambulances when the going was "sticky" to lending a hand in the reception tent. Anywhere help was needed one of our men was there doing something.

By 9 o'clock the next morning the other ADS had been cleared. All the following day wounded kept dribbling in from RAPs, men who had been lost or had been picked up by some transport. The dribble finally ended. And with it came the end of what they call a "divisional show". A minor sort of thing, they said.

This, the fourth issue of the NEWS BULLETIN, is the last to be published by the present editor, who will start the return trip to the States around the first of the year.

The organization proposed for the 'new regime' includes:-- (1) an editorial board to read, advise and decide; (2) an editorial associate to solicit material from the men, to edit and prepare material; and (3) a business manager to assist in the final preparation and to arrange for the mimeographing and distribution in the Middle East.

Colonel Richmond, Major King, Captain Hinrichs and Captain Coster have agreed to become members of the editorial board. Koenig, appointed business manager, has worked on this issue. The editorial associate is yet to be named.

So much for the future.

For the brief past, the period since July 10th, we wish only to put our appreciation into black and white. We wish to thank all of the contributors, especially those who were quick to help when the editor first suggested the NEWS BULLETIN; and we are grateful to those at home who have cabled and 'written of their interest in it.

Our news of Syria this month has come in a letter from Raymond A Schroth.

Schroth, Dartmouth '43, was a member of AFS Unit XX, which also included Willets, Congdon, LeSure, Williams, Yeakey, Woods, McMullen, Stephens, and Stumpp. These men had a remarkably fast crossing from the States on a big, luxuriously fitted ship. It knifed out from an American port on the 15th of the month and on the 15th of the next month it dropped anchor in port Tewfik (Suez).

Unit XX was sent to Syria. The ten men were scattered to various posts around the country. Schroth went to the North. We asked him to describe his life and work there, for the BULLETIN, and he graciously wrote this letter:--

I am sure that for sheer "travel" experience, learning to know a strange country and people representative of the Middle East, Syria offers better opportunities than does the Western Desert. In contrast to the fighting aspect on the desert, we see here the intricate workings of an army engaged in normal "wartime activities": organizing, supplying, and reenforcing. Here also we mingle with a fascinating foreign-tongued civilian populace. We learn to know the people, not as mere "Wogs", but as human beings.

It was a beautiful day when we first saw this city, one of the largest in Syria. As we approached from a high, outlying hill, we could see the entire city. It looked gray to us, hardly to be distinguished from the surrounding hills of gray waste. Later we learned that, seen at other tines of day under various gradations of sunlight, it may take on any number of unexpected colors. Driving into it, we found a quite modern and surprisingly clean city.

We live on the top floor of a typical Syrian house. Under us, an ambulance company of Sikhs is quartered. Our trucks are parked in a courtyard behind the house. Our billet consists of eight rooms, most of them large and airy. There is a tiled bathroom and a small, homey kitchen. I share a large room with only one other driver. We all sleep on iron, springed beds with fairly comfortable mattresses (a luxury not often available). Much of our free time is spent in the sitting room, around the large table deep with books and magazines. A spacious veranda stretches the entire length of the front side of our quarters. We slept there until the rain and cold drove us indoors.

When we first arrived, AFS drivers ate in the Sergeants' Mess at the military hospital. We tried some three weeks of that and found too much of the food greasy, served cold, thrown at us rather then placed in front of us. Then we arranged, after a lot of conversation, to have our own mess where we live. We cleaned up the kitchen, hired a cook, obtained the necessary equipment, and at last served our first meal. Now we eat as well as and probably better than the average. officers's mess, We draw rations on what is called "American scale". That means that we have coffee (in addition to tea), more meat, more eggs --- in fact, more of everything. Besides, there is always the hope of drawing butter.

The rations allow us a considerable variety in our meals, and we supplement them by means of the mess fund from the AFS. We buy such extras as chicken, fruit and vegetables, and sauces. We enjoy good pastry since Ken LeSure volunteered to act as baker. Our new mess has gained an admirable reputation: we are continually being visited by AFS men from other Syrian posts. Then, too, we often have guests for dinner, including Mr. and Mrs. Harry Dorman (Americans), and various American, English, and Lebanese officers.

The army pays the wages of our cook, Bogus Annoyan. An Armenian, Bogus speaks Armenian, French, and Arabic --- but practically no English. I speak the best French in the house; so I have to handle the kitchen duties. I make out the menus and give instructions. It's a pleasant chore. Bogus is obliging and likeable and competent. He persists in expressing his desire to learn, not English, but "American ". In the midst of frying an egg, he'll scamper for his pad and pencil and ask me to write down some American word or idiom I've just uttered. Every day a different one of us is assigned to KP; he has to set the table, serve, and help Bogus wash the dishes.

We have a "batman". He's a little fifteen-year-old Jewish boy named Raffoul Belilos. We call him "Rifle". He's highly intelligent and often indispensable. He speaks flawless Arabic, fluent French, and satisfying English (which he learned by himself through association with English speaking soldiers). Rifle, like so many persons in the Middle East, lives for the day when he might go to America.

Our work here is not exhausting but at times it is most interesting. Usually there are four "runs" a day, and, in addition, we are often called upon to drive new officers or doctors. We very seldom carry patients: our work is similar to a taxi service. Our chief duty is to take medical personnel on inspection tours in the city. The "Major Carter run" starts with our 8:45 telephone call to him (the ADMS;) then, almost invariably we have to drive straight away to the Sub Area to pick him up for his daily rounds in the city. The "Greek Doctor run" is more interesting. At 8:30 every morning we call at the Elian Hotel for Lt. Kyrie Koss Surafimakiss. He speaks very little English, but excellent French. A delightful person, he often invites his driver up to his room for a drink -- and a banana, the Doctor's favorite fruit. After we drop him at the former Turkish Barracks, the head nurse there --- Lily Charackian, an Armenian --- and five or six Greek women and children join us, and we make the rounds of the various military and civilian hospitals in the city. Some of the Greek passengers are patients; most of them are just relatives of the hospital inmates. The hospitals themselves are very interesting. Once, while waiting for Lily and Co., at the French hospital, my inquisitive nature got the upper hand and I pushed open an always closed door. I found the most gorgeous little chapel I have seen anywhere in Syria. Now, whenever I take Lily to the French hospital, I make it a point to visit "my" chapel.

The former Turkish Barracks is a huge haven for some fifteen hundred Greek refugees. Whenever I'm parked in the courtyard, waiting, Greek children, heads shaved and clothes in tatters, climb all over the ambulance. They keep chattering incoherently. Their favorite expression is a strongly accented, "American very good!" Some of the children sing a song with extremely rude lyrics about Mussolini. Of course, the scene at the Barracks is almost completely pathetic. I feel sorry for the men, because they are given something to do; but the women must sit all day long and watch their thin-cheeked, ragged children. The future must seem dismal to them, as they sit there huddled against the walls, homeless and penniless.

AFS men like the "Special runs". These usually entail driving a native doctor to outlying villages for vaccinations, investigations of epidemics, and other medical purposes. One day I went with a doctor to a village about. forty miles away. There we visited. Sheikh Midjhim ibin Mhid, who is the most important Sheikh in Syria. He has absolute life and death power over the populations of twenty villages. Sheikh Midjhim rose to greet us as we entered his large Bedouin tent. He was magnificently dressed in a Bedouin costume of flowing, colorful robes. He is a tall, trim, austere man, and his appearance immediately bespeaks leadership.

The doctor and I were invited to sit down (actually to recline) on a beautiful oriental rug. We were propped up with long, soft, luxurious pillows. Presently our meal was placed before us --- seasoned rice and boiled chicken. Following the custom, we all dug into the one bowl. The Sheikh honored us by tearing the meat from the bones and throwing pieces on each man's section of the large dish. Properly to show our appreciation, we had to stuff ourselves until we couldn't swallow another mouthful. Then came the washing ritual. The doctor, being guest of honor, went first to scrub his hands and face while the servant poured warm water. I was next, and then the Sheikh. The food that we had left was placed among the many men who had been sitting and watching us eat. When they finished, the remains went to the women and children and, finally, to the dogs.

The Sheikh ordered a guide to take us to one of his villages which was plagued. As we reached the village, I heard the weirdest wailing imaginable. We walked closer to where the wails came from and soon found a group of Bedouin women hysterical with grief. They were rolling their eyes, screaming, moaning, falling to the ground. Some of them exposed their tatooed breasts and tugged savagely at them. The guide led us on, to a cone-shaped mud hut. From it came a nauseating stench. Inside, lay an old Bedouin man, weak and diseased. At his feet; and at right angles to his body, was the corpse of a young Bedouin woman. She was yellow and sallow in new death. The doctor glanced at the woman, examined the old man and turned to me. 'Malaria", he said, indifferently, in French. "Everybody in the village has it."

There is an AFS outpost on the banks of the Euphrates, and each of our drivers takes his turn of a week at it. I consider my week spent there worthwhile. The trip itself (about 70 miles) is fascinating. The roads are mostly rough donkey-cart tracks, meandering in a northerly direction through some bright fields and mud-hut villages. Eventually, one comes to the river valley and to the military camp which overlooks it The camp is made up for the most part of about fifteen long, tin huts. One of the huts is the AFS driver's home for a week; and he has it entirely to himself. His duties at this post correspond roughly to those of a Medical Officer; he has to administer as best he can to the medical needs of the military personnel. Any serious case, of course, must be evacuated to a hospital.

Sheikh Hamudi lives in the small town whore the camp is situated. Hamudi was a great friend of Lawrence of Arabia; was his foreman on excavation expeditions. He once nursed Lawrence, dangerously ill with typhus, back to health, and was given a winter's visit to England by Lawrence's grateful father. Hamudi now lives only in the past he shared with his beloved companion. His house is a sanctuary for many pictures, statues, books, and relics of Lawrence. I shall always remember being there for dinner at the Sheikh's invitation. The conversation was almost entirely in Arabic, but just to sit and look was enough. The other guests, the Governor of the district, Lt. Moody of the Field Security Mission, and "Ferdy" of the FFS, told me that the Sheikh talks of little but the adventurous days which Lawrence spent in his tribe.

During the week I went with Lt Moody on some of his tours of the surrounding villages Each one had its own particular fascination. Each village has a leader, whom Moody sought out for a chat or for an exchange of information. Hospitality was the keynote of all these visits. As Moody said, "To these people, hospitality is life itself They have no cinemas or cafes or nightclubs. They don't read or write. Their only entertainment is to entertain others". This is true. Never have I seen such generosity as these Syrian people offered.

My week up there seemed very short.

I should not neglect to mention that at our main post we have a number of alternatives for amusement We often play volley ball in the courtyard with the Sikhs. The movies in the city are almost always American, even if many years old. Before it came too cold, we made trips daily to a downtown cafe for chocolate ice-cream. We call on the Doormans, who are connected with an American institution here; and these visits are extremely pleasant. The Doormans keep open house for us; we drop in for a talk or a cup of tea or to read a back issue of Life.

The evening of pay-day we inevitably spend at the French Officers' Club. We start off quietly, five or six of us at the bar, but we always end up singing every American song in our repertoire.

As you can judge, our situation isn't bad at all. We eat well, sleep comfortably, enjoy the issue of fifty English cigarettes per week, have access to a fairly well stocked NAFFI, play casually and work sufficiently.

It will certainly do for awhile

Months ago, a freighter carrying s small group of AFS men (bound for the Middle East) was torpedoed. All of those on board reached shore safely.

The first torpedo struck the ship at 1:20 A.M. on Tuesday, and on the following Sunday the last lifeboat arrived in Nantucket. The AFS men proceeded to New York HQ., where they gave their individual versions of what had happened. Their accounts were taken down by Edward Koenig.

The story of the torpedoing is not widely known among the several hundred AFS men in the Middle East; and many have asked about it. Perhaps it is not much known among AFS families and friends. In any event, we feel that the experiences of the torpedoed Unit should be a part of the permanent record of the AFS in World War II. We print some of the accounts word for word as they were taken down.

 

Edward B. Fenton, who crossed later with Unit XVI and is now a member of one of our ambulance car companies, said:

"I did not hear the alarm. I was awakened by the turning on of the cabin lights Morrisey, my roommate was dressing. We were both due on watch at two o'clock, and I thought that possibly he was dressing for that. Then Gubelman burst into the cabin and said, "What's going on here?" I grabbed my lifebelt and rushed up to the deck.

"All I can remember out of the confusion was my surprise that the decks were wet, and the cold. I dashed down again, grabbed my overcoat; and returned to my station, it was time to climb the ladder down to lifeboat ---No. 2. Everything was very much under control. The First Mate was the last to leave. Then we shoved off, rowing.

"We didn't put up the sail until about dawn. I'll never forget how beautiful it was --- the great red sail unfurling, and the sun upon it, and the men in their yellow suits against it. We sailed on all day, the other three boats following. We had an extremely good time in our boat, laughing, telling jokes; and the British engineers taught us a number of songs to which we have words. We were very pleased the way the seamen accepted us and liked us. They called me "Tubby". Edwards was a good sailor, and Madeira was outstanding in his stoicism. We slept in the lifeboat, uncomfortably, but with good cheer, and with occasional songs and jokes.

"About 6 in the morning we saw a smokestack on the horizon. We got near it and recognized a similarity of cargoes between it and our own sunken ship; and we figured that their destinations were probably the same. The First Mate, therefore, asked only for positions and cigarettes (which were given); and we shoved off. We had gone half an hour when we noticed that the ship was steaming towards us again. The first lifeboat, with the captain, had been picked up, and we also were taken aboard. It was a Norwegian ship, and there was coffee and cheese in the Salon, and a general reunion. For the first time since the torpedoing, I found myself trembling. The coffee slopped all over from my shaking hand. We had a good time with the crew. Edwards and I shared bunks with the men aft.

"At six the next morning we hove into Halifax, and, after arrangements were made, were landed. We were rushed in a bus to the Allied Seaman's Institute, where tables had been roped off, with signs on them that read "Reserved --- For Survivors Only". We had eaten so well on the Norwegian ship that we weren't particularly hungry, but we did want a pie a la mode and milk, which we hadn't been able to get on shipboard. The expression on the waitress's face was wonderful to behold when we gave our order. I refused the hot soup. The Red Cross women brought us chintz bags filled with the necessary toiletries; and we shoved off to the Halifax hotel. We spent our time ---after going to the Consulate --- being interviewed by the naval authorities.

"The next day there was a bang up farewell party, and all of us and the crew had our pictures taken. There was an exchange of addresses, wisecracks, and they saw us off on the train. The thing that impressed me most about the entire business was the spirit of the crew. For the first time, they gave me a real sense of what the war was about. When we waved goodbye to them, we felt that we were saying goodbye to some of our best friends."

Richard Edwards, who eventually arrived in the Middle East as a member of AFS Unit XVI, made this statement:--

"Had just turned in after the 10 to 12 watch, and suddenly was awakened by a bang. We went to No. 2 lifeboat, the First Mate's boat. We lowered away. The First Mate was gathering papers and he was the last to come aboard. He was on deck when the second torpedo hit. Water and flames came over from the starboard side. He came down the ladder, hardly touching a rung Then we were able to push off and watch the ship go down. She buckled in the middle as she went down. We could see the gash in the bow, where the first one had hit. Fortunately, it was calm; so we had no difficulty keeping the boat up. We then established contact with the other boats and found that the four of them were all right, and all people got safely off the ship. The Captain gave us a north-westerly course for Nantucket. We put up our sails, and we were out all that day and all night. We took pride in the fact that we were the best sailors, and were able to outdistance all the others. We lost sight of boat No. 3 about six in the evening. The next morning it continued to rain. We sighted the Norwegian ship and got cigarettes. We found that we were on our course, that were 110 miles away. We were told that they had given gasolene to the motor launch. The Captain's boat, No. 1, came alongside. The Captain of our ship persuaded the Norwegian Captain to take us all aboard; so he picked up our --- No. 2 --- boat. Then we looked for the motor launch, but the fog had set in and we couldn't delay very long because of submarine danger. The Norwegian ship fixed us up with food, clothing, and sleeping accommodations. We headed for Halifax, arrived there the next evening."

Nicholas J Madeira, who later made the crossing with Unit XVI, had this to say:

"I was on watch on the starboard side when the torpedo struck. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure I saw the wake of the torpedo just before it hit. I was in the gun turret, and the tremendous spray come over me from the torpedo holes. Then I saw the men from the bridge running down. I hurried from the gun turret to wake up Wilson, who had not been feeling too well. As I ran down the stairs, all the other AFS men came running up. I got to Wilson just as he came out of the room. I grabbed my musette bag and ran up to my boat station.

"By that time, everyone was in the boat --- No. 2 --- but the First Mate and another officer. I went down the ladder, got in, and then came the First Mate No. 3 boat had already got off. We had the usual difficulty getting started rowing. Our boat was in the forward position Between the time that I got on and the First Mate came aboard, the second torpedo hit We worked very fast for about four minutes. We were about fifty yards from the ship when she sank. There were only a couple of small explosions and she broke in half just before she sank.. We turned around with little difficulty. A couple of negroes were picked up by one of the other boats. By my watch, the explosion was at 1:25, the sinking was twelve to fifteen minutes later. Two boats on each side of the ship, we eventually got within shouting distance of each other.

"We rowed intermittently until dawn, when we put up the sail. All along, the Third Mate's boat --- No. 3 --- had trouble keeping up with us. They had picked up one of the negroes, and this had delayed them. They had twenty or twenty-one in their boat --- a few more than we had. After we put the sails up, the launch had difficulty getting the motor started; but the First Mate's and the Captain's boats --- Nos. 1 & 2 --- sailed ahead very easily. We soon left the launch and the Third Mate's boat behind us. Once, our boat slowed up and waited for the launch to catch up; and meantime they had got their motor started and went ahead of us. The Captain's boat was behind at the time. The Third Mate's boat was 5 or 6 miles behind him. When night came, we could just barely see the Third Mate's boat on the horizon.

"That night was fairly uncomfortable for everyone, since it was raw and cold. But we all huddled under tarpaulins and rubber suits, with six blankets among us. Often we bailed out water from the bottom of the boat. We all woke up soon after five and had something to eat. The wind had died down considerably, and we were going much slower than the previous day. We couldn't see the Third Mate's boat at all. The launch had gone way ahead of us. The Captain's boat was some distance to the rear. Between seven and eight, we sighted a ship on the horizon and, after a lot of conjecture, we decided that the ship was approaching us. Finally it drew within about a quarter of a mile, and we rowed over to it.

"The Mate asked if any of us wanted to get on the ship, and we did not. We accepted some cigarettes and matches from the Captain, and he gave us a correct bearing. We started off again. Soon after, the ship turned around and the Captain signalled us to come aboard. We found out that the Captain of our ship had requested that the Norwegian Captain take us on board, since we had a long way to go, and it was cold without much wind. They fed us and bunked us and were very nice to us in every way. We heard that the launch had been given 15 gallons of gas, enough to reach land.

"The Norwegian Caption decided that it was too dangerous to go back for No. 3; so we continued on a North by Northeast course. The fog came in very close and slowed us up. It was fairly cold, but we were very comfortable on the ship. We arrived in Halifax about six in the evening."

Edward LeBoutillier, who also came to the Middle Last with Unit XVI, said:

"I was rooming with Gubelmann. He put on the light and I thought it was for me to go on for watch at 4 o'clock. Then I smelt powder, knew we had been hit, and got to the lifeboat. In the boat were Gubelmann and Wilson. The next thing, about 1:22, the submarine struck again in the engine room, and she sank in about a minute.

"The only missing man was a negro deck hand, and we picked him up. He had two leg injuries and a gashed eye.

"When dawn came, the Captain said that we were all to keep together. The others went ahead, however, and we never saw them again. It rained for three nights, and about six o'clock Saturday morning we were sighted by a Navy Patrol plane. They circled the lifeboat and dropped supplies, and at evening they repeated the procedure, this time enclosing a note saying that the Navy was coming to the rescue.

"On Sunday morning, about nine or ten, a coast guard cutter came out and we were taken aboard. We reached Nantucket about 2 A.M. A naval intelligence officer came on board to question the Third Mate. Then we proceeded to Newport, where we were met by Mr. Warren."

Marshall C. Phelps, who later arrived in the Middle East as a member of Unit XIX, said:

"Approximately 1:20 we were awakened by the jar of a torpedo, which we recognized instantly, never having heard one before. It also woke my roommate. We were sleeping in our clothes. We donned our shoes, trench coats, light jackets, and went on deck to lifeboat station. I was ordered into the bow of my lifeboat, in the position to cast off the master lifeline. Submarine was pointed out to me, in a position about 200 yards off the starboard quarter. No time to look at the sub much. The boat was lowered. There was no confusion or panic. The lifeboat was still in the falls when the second torpedo struck, about 15 feet astern of the boat. It hit the engine room. Pretty messy. We got off, down the tidal wave it caused. The ship sank about three minutes after that.

"Splendid bunch of 'teen age kids were the crew. Swellest bunch you would want to meet. Skipper of our lifeboat was the Second Engineer. Everybody did everything he could. Credit should go to the English boys. There was no whimpering among them. They were always ready to help. When I sail again, I only wish that it could be with the same group of English boys."

We regretted their absence from the last issue It was, as you will soon learn, an enforced absence.

Now we have the privilege of offering a return engagement of TUG and WILLIE. We welcome back these top-favorites, wan but debonair as always, in:

THIS DEPARTMENT HAS JUST EMERGED from an extended stay in the hospital; so our column must confine itself to Bedtime Observations, or, I View Life From The Horizontal.

You all know the dismal feeling of being wheeled down the corridor and planked on an iron bed. The average AFS man invariably recoils at the sight of those smooth, white things --- but then realizes that these are only sheets, and, plucking them reverently, proceeds to lie back in sheer ecstasy.

And just as you doze off for a much-needed nap there comes an impatient prodding and you open your eyes to observe a couple of the local Dr. Kildares all set for what is mysteriously referred to as the "preliminary observation". In our case, the medico armed himself with a sinister little hammer and after bending our limbs into positions that recalled the dear-dead days of Yogi worship proceeded to tap us warily --- now here, now there. Satisfied that our joints produced no ringing noises, we were subjected to the stethoscope: and no matter what anybody says, that clammy rubber thing punctuating our back and chest always makes us horribly uneasy.

"Obviously a case for my colleague, Dr. Powell Smythe-Rivers", says the Dr. in a whisper pregnant with overtones, as if we were afflicted with some horrifying malady from which only three have ever recovered. Dr. S-R being duly summoned (he wears a gauze mask and smells funny), we were pinched and prodded some more.

"You have septimaxima plythenthoraxises", says Dr. P. S-R. and is he happy about it!

"Oh", we reply weakly, as if this makes everything clear.

Our diet is then prescribed: a horrid outlay consisting of boiled fish and cabbage, served at one-hour intervals. We suppose there are cases where steak and beer constitute the cure, but so far we've never been afflicted with 'em. Blankets and bedpans are heaped upon us in bewildering confusion; pills are prescribed; and a succession of fruit juices poured into us. Finally we come in contact with Our Nurse

Far be it from this department to cast aspersions on that gallant breed known as the Sisters of Mercy. Possibly we just aren't lucky, but invariably the nurse assigned to look after us is six foot three in her cotton stockings, loathes humanity as a whole, and never fails to point out how much more cooperative her last patient was (Who, incidentally, we strongly suspect to have been Gargantua.) She exhales efficiency, forever complains that our night table isn't neat enough, and hovers over the bedside like some giant vanilla parfait. But perhaps her most maddening characteristic is the airy assumption that we really aren't sick at all --- a point which she constantly emphasizes: "Come now, take this bucket of castor oil. There's nothing wrong with you, young man! Not a bit of it! My last patient, Bombadier McDonegall, had triple hernia and a bad rash, but he didn't refuse his treatment, No indeed." (How could he? The Nurse a first lieutenant, and poor McDonegall a humble bombadier.)

However, there are consolations. A brace of Cairo debutantes used to pass out books and ice cream. Only one afternoon they came along just before temperature-taking, with the result that several erstwhile mild cases found themselves on the danger list. And friends drop by-- true lifesavers, even if they occasionally describe that roast-beef dinner they had last night ("Boy, what a meal!") Such dreamy visions tend to harass the famished patient, to whom even a graham cracker seems ambrosia: but these are trifles, really, and it's very satisfactory to lounge in bed, listening to the local dirt, happy in the knowledge that you don't have to do one blessed thing for days.

One morning we woke up a dull saffron color (ah, jaundice!), a turn of events that didn't frighten us half so much as the suspicion that we might be shot for a Japanese agent. For days we lolled about, a symphony in chrome yellow, while the friends viewed us with uneasy glances --- prefacing their remark with, "Wow! Do you look lousy!" Gradually we returned to our normal ash-gray, though; and the time was not long before we could get up and go downstairs to the canteen This momentous event necessitated wearing "blues." For the benefit of those unfamiliar with British hospital regulations, we will explain that convalescents are made to don a frightening costume of bright blue coat and trousers, topped off by a red tie of such screaming hue that the wearer is continually ill at ease lest people whistle as he goes by. This radiant get-up is enforced as a precaution against patients wandering in to town, though we can't imagine how any one could have the nerve to appear in public so grotesquely attired.

While we were still in the hospital, news came over the radio of the tremendous allied advance in the Desert. This was a very moving experience for us. Along the corridors the word spread in excited whispers. Many of the boys on our ward had served in all the campaigns out here --- in Greece, in Crete, in Syria, in Egypt and in Libya. Some had been at Dunkirk. Their reactions were electric: they shouted and laughed; they were filled with a tremendous admiration and enthusiasm. "This time surely . . . !"

Willie agrees.

This is a Start Press rather than a Stop Press story: it came to us after the present issue was completed. We hasten to include it here, partly because it tells of the recent scene in the Desert, but mainly because of the way it is written.

The writer, Captain Charles H. Coster, is head of the Finance Department. Of his work in bringing about the smooth efficiency of that department, the AFS has long been appreciative. More important to us at the moment, however, is his fine feeling for the mot juste and his pleasing wit:--

WHEN IT BECAME CLEAR that the Germans had lost the Battle of Egypt and were in full retreat from their lines at El Alamein, I realized that our North African units would soon be far away from Cairo, and widely scattered at that, so that if they were to receive any of their money, it would be necessary for me to find out what was happening to them, how they could be reached conveniently, how money could be sent to them when it could not be taken out. Besides, I had been stuck in the office for a very long time, I wanted a change, and the moment seemed an interesting one to get out and see things So I was duly ordered to "proceed on a tour of inspection and payment to the Units of the American Field."

In obedience to these orders, Bill Simpson and I left Cairo in time to pass a most agreeable evening in Alexandria. A couple of drinks at one place or another, and excellent dinner at the Union Bar, and then some more drinks and talk with an old Silenus who is a friend of Bill's. A repulsive old man, I suppose, but a real throwback to at least one side of the Alexandria of the Ptolemies, and very amusing in his way.

We woke up to the exquisite view of the water-front in the washed colors of early morning; the cheerful little Castle of Kait Bey stood white on its point (the site of Pharos) between the blue of the wide bay and the blue of the sea beyond. Soon an early organ-grinder appeared on the esplanade the tinkle of his silly little music was as gay as the tinsel on a Christmas tree.

A good breakfast, a few last minute commissions, and we were off along the coast road. The whole supply train of the advancing army was moving up endless convoys of trucks, tank carriers, armored cars, artillery, ambulances: soldiers of all the nationalities and races composing the armies of the Middle East--- the various British and Dominion troops, Free French, Poles, Greeks and Cypriotes, Indians, Sudanese. Every variety of vehicle, face, and uniform, and all rolling westward. Staff cars, too, and jeeps, those bobbing little impertinences that would look absurd if it weren't that they have just that appropriateness and the inexplicable something more that would make me sell my soul to Hitler for the privilege of having one. As a single ambulance, we were allowed to pass convoys where the conditions of the road permitted it, but one had to be careful in doing so, because after El Alamein the shoulders of the road had not been cleared of mines, as one was reminded by signs, and, more forcibly, by the occasional wreck of a car that had imprudently left the hard surface in the attempt to get around a block.

On the road, the fascinating, live, moving evidence of victory. To either side, the still, dead evidence of defeat. Abandoned cannon, tanks, trucks, wrecked or burnt planes, staff cars, jerricans and munition boxes, heaps of shells. Little groups of graves, sometimes neatly bordered with designs in small, white-washed stones in ugly Teutonic attempts at decoration, more often dug too hastily for that, but still with tidily arranged wooden crosses. At one such cemetery, a heap of these crosses ready for use, but abandoned by the fleeing grave-diggers. And, perhaps more pathetic, everywhere discarded uniforms, shoes, water-bottles, miscellaneous clothing, personal effects of all kinds, letters in German and Italian. One could picture the soldiers, told that they had to evacuate on short notice with what they could carry; they would empty their duffle bags and knapsacks on the ground, and sort their belongings hastily, deciding what to take, what to abandon. "To hell with that! Damn my extra shoes! Where's my bloody sweater?" Or rather, the German and Italian equivalents of these inelegant, but very human and touching, remarks.

At the transit camp at Daba, where we stopped for lunch, I was amused to recognize the sergeant who had given Colonel Richmond and me the last drinks served in the transit camp at Matruh at the end of June. Then, in the deserted town, he had been packing his bottles to the rapidly nearing sound of gunfire; now, he said with a grin that the old camp at Matruh was being opened that afternoon, and that he would be moving himself in a day or so. We did not wait for him, but made Matruh that night, having paid off several detachments of our unit along the way --- or at least paid such of them as we could find and as had credit.

It may be in part due to my own good humor at getting out of the office, but it does seem to me that the members of the AFS, when I meet them in the field, are different people from when I see them in Cairo. There is a human relationship, a readiness for give and take, that seldom survives the formalities of offices and city uniforms. But when I write of my satisfaction at getting out, let me be honest: that is because it is a change and a holiday for me. I do not mean that after ten or twelve days the first bath is not a pure delight, or the first restaurant meal an extremely welcome change. So perhaps it is not only my good humor, but in part, too, that when I appear in camp, people, so far as they notice it or think about it at all, are really pleased to see me, but when they come to Cairo, think: "The old fool. Here he sits and swills in Cairo, week in and week out, and won't even lend us two pounds on the Company, when, for the first time in six weeks, we get two nights in town." And right enough; I do sit and swill in Cairo, and I won't lend the two pounds on the Company.

At Matruh, there was s very well built German latrines, with a placard on which was written in neat lettering:

"Nach dem Stuhlgang,
"Vor dem Essen,
"Hande waschen
"Nicht vergessen."

Nursery rhymes for supermen.

The next day, we reached Captain Marsh's headquarters. Tin hats were in fashion there, because the camp had been strafed in broad daylight the morning before. We met with no inconveniences of that sort, however, and I had a swim in a beautiful sandy cove without having to receive the surrender of seven Germans. But then, Mr. Pierce didn't happen to be bathing that day.

At night, though, I met with an inconvenience of another sort. Just as I had settled comfortably into my blankets in my ambulance, a man tapped at the window, and a very drunken but pleasant voice said, "Could you show me the way to Captain Mathewson's tent, Sir?" it was one of the British personnel, who had somehow got more than his share of that very rare commodity, whiskey. (Not from me, I hasten to add, though I had brought some along.) I could indeed have shown him the way to Mathewson's tent, as that was only a few yards off, but I felt that it would be a grave mistake, whatever he might wish, for him to present himself there that night. On the other hand, I certainly did not want to invite him into my ambulance, and neither did I want to leave him to sleep off his liquor in the cold desert with its extremely heavy dew. Then, too, I really like drunks. So I crawled wretchedly out of bed, grasped the drunk's left arm over my left shoulder, held him around the waist with my right arm (see the First Aid Manual my sister gave me before I sailed), and managed; in spite of various ditches and mounds, to pilot him back to his quarters without breaking his neck or mine. But God, to reward me for my kindness, made me lose my own way as I returned, and I wandered about for an hour and a half before I got back to my blankets. I always do get lost, even at Tahag, and I usually get angry at myself for doing so, but this time I took it very cheerfully because my bibulous friend had put me in mind of a translation of some verses in the Greek Anthology, learnt very many years ago from clergyman who was a teacher at my school:

"I am drunk,
"I have taken my liquor neat,
"And there's no one to guide my circuitous feet
"As I wander about the town,
"O Bacchus, I call your behaviour unfair,
"For I cheerfully carry you everywhere,
"But you pay me by knocking me down."

The next morning, we made our way past the slow-moving, interminable procession of vehicles, and up the famous Halfaya Pass. I was most heartily grateful that the Germans did not have control of the air, (As a matter of fact, there was some bombing there the next day, just as some of our men were going up the escarpment.) A few miles beyond the top, we fell into bad company, and our troubles began: Colonel Richmond was sitting in his ambulance by the side of the road waiting for Captain Geer. He told us where they were going to camp, and as I knew they would be short of water and I had poured all the supply I had brought with me into the radiator of one of our ambulances that I had met in trouble on the road, we went on to see whether we could get some more at a water-point.

We did get the water, but on our way back we were stopped at the prisoners' cage by an M.P., who asked whether we could take an injured Italian to a doctor. As there was still time, I said we should be glad to. On looking into the matter, we found that the nearest hospital unit was supposed to be at Bardia, a dozen miles or so to the west. Evening was approaching, so we arranged with the Colonel that we should go to Bardia, spend the night there, and return to Geer's camp in the morning.

Unfortunately, when we got to Bardia, we found there was no dressing station there, and, indeed, not much else except a ruined town and a most beautiful view. There were a couple of British officers discussing arrangements for moving troops in in the morning, but they had, and obviously could have, no suggestions. So we ensconced ourselves in the remains of the loggia of the Town Hall, which opened on a broad terrace overlooking the sea, made our prisoner (he had a bad burn on the leg) as comfortable as possible, shared with him a dinner of bully beef, biscuits, and a cup of cold water each (a very little whisky, as most had gone down the throats of various members of the companies of Captains Marsh and Geer), and slept the sleep of the righteous A few sticks of bombs were dropped during the night, but very far away, so that one woke just long enough to think luxuriously that there was no need to get up, and dropped off to sleep again.

In the morning, bully beef, biscuits, and water again. Leaving Bardia, we presently found a doctor who attended to the Italian's leg (as he was a very likeable man, we were glad to hear that it was doing well), and then went on to Captain Geer's headquarters. That night --- this chronicle seems to consist mostly of a list of drinks--- the whole Company indulged in very passable Italian wine, taken at Tobruk.

"When rosy-fingered Aurora, the daughter of the dawn, appeared", the Colonel, Simpson, and I arose, and, generously equipped with rations by Geer, set out, first to find some units near Tobruk, and then to look for others farther inland. The harbor of Tobruk was cluttered with sunken ships, but the English were already busily exploding mines, and I have no doubt that the port will soon be usable again, if indeed it is not already so.

At the old hospital (a very handsome group of buildings, originally a large missionary school, in a most successful Italo-African style but now much ruined), we met one of our drivers, who offered to guide us to the inland unit we were seeking. But his zeal rather exceeded his knowledge of local geography, and we arrived --- most inconveniently for our hosts only just at mess time on a bitterly cold and windy evening. Most inconveniently for ourselves, too, since we found ourselves seated at the mess table before we had a chance to get warm clothes out of the ambulance. And for some reason, or rather, some utter lack of reason, the meal was served in the open on the windward, not the leeward, side of a truck. I have had colder dinners, but I have never been colder at dinner, and I think that the Colonel, too, had great difficulty in keeping his teeth from chattering as he made polite conversation with his neighbors.

After dinner, shelter of tenting was rigged up against the side of the truck. We sat there, six or eight men about a deal table in the light of a single lantern, and listened over the radio to the glorious sound of peal on peal of bells, ringing out in jubilation over the victory of the Eighth Army.

By this time, Colonel Richmond was considerably overdue in Cairo, and I had finished the business that brought me out; so, although we were much tempted to go on (as it turned out, we should have wasted no additional time if we had gone clear to Benghazi and Agheila), we decided to return. At Tobruk again, we said goodbye to Simpson, and started off. We started off with what was intended to be a slight detour to see the main square of the town, to which I had not been. Just after we left the square, our car stopped dead. Like most AFS ambulances, ours was equipped with a plentiful dearth of tools, and we soon found that we did not have what we needed to locate the cause of the trouble. (I may add, speaking for myself only, that I should not have known what to do with the tools if we had had them.) I hurried back to the place where we had left Simpson, to see whether he was still there, and whither by some miracle he might have tools. But he had gone. So we got hold of some English mechanics. They were most obliging, and they did a thorough job -- far more thorough than either they or we had expected when they began. They examined the feed, the spark, and every other thing there is about an engine. Finally, we remembered that Simpson, by way of being helpful, had poured an extra jerrican of gas into the Colonel's tank just before we left. So we drained a little gas, emptied it on the ground at a safe distance from the motor, threw matches into it. Out went the matches. Simpson, though at least as familiar as can be considered desirable with the more interesting forms of liquid, never did have much understanding of the proper use of water.

So we were towed back through the dusk to the old hospital, the tank was drained, the contacts dried, etc. Then, in the moonlight, our friends began to tow the ambulance behind a truck in the hope of getting it to start. We watched it for a while, not without hope, but it presently disappeared behind the corner of a building. Suddenly, a most ominous crash. The truck towing the ambulance had fallen into a pit, and the ambulance had collided with the back of the truck. "She was going lovely, Sir, but now the fan is jammed, and we'll have to tow you to workshops in the morning. She was going real lovely, Sir; it's too bad." We rather thought it was too bad ourselves. But there was nothing else to do, and in the morning they towed us to workshops, some fifteen miles off. On the way, they fell into no more pits, but they did give the ambulance some pretty sharp jerks, which we found by no means reassuring. On our arrival at workshops, the mechanics there found that the fan was jammed against the radiator, which we had known before; that of the side doors, one wouldn't open and the other wouldn't close (the back door on the Colonel's ambulance never would work), which we had since found out; that the starter was jammed --- but it could be operated by opening the hood every time one wished to start, and fishing around the insides of the motor with an odd piece of iron we had picked up that there was a serious leak in the radiator, which we had suspected; and, finally, that the frame was broken and would have to be welded.

It is all very well to say that one may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, but it is not flattering to ones pride to present oneself at a strange workshop with an ambulance in such condition. Not only would the necessary repairs delay our return, our presence would also impose a very distinct burden on the mess of the unit we were visiting. The indifference between their normal mess of seven and one of nine was almost; a third, and if Captain Gear had found it difficult to ration two of his own unit on the main road at Capuzzo, it was asking much more of this unit to feed two total strangers in the middle of nowhere. However, they could not have been more hospitable, and the mechanics held out hopes, of which I was skeptical, of having the car ready by evening

It was not ready by evening; so we had supper and breakfast there, and lunch too. After lunch, the car was reported ready; and we drove triumphantly over to the mess officer to thank him and take our leave. Just beyond his tent, the car stopped dead. There was still water in the gas --- may Simpson's soul, etc., etc. -- and we had to walk shamefacedly back, and be invited to stay for another dinner and another breakfast. This new aspect of the disaster, moreover, involved the gift of some gallons of gas, a material of which the unit was acutely short. Never have I felt so much like "The Man Who Came For Dinner"; or rather, as that brash creature ought to have felt As for the Colonel; who will endure anything rather than put a mouse to inconvenience, there were some excellent sausage rolls, and, although there were enough for all, I noticed that he took none.

The next day, we actually did get off. We passed the night by the roadside, and the next night at Daba, having been delayed by a puncture and various minor incidents. At Daba, there was a severe sandstorm, and we, who had not been too clean before, awoke to find everything, ourselves very definitely included, covered with thick layers of new dust. To find, too, that the tire we had put on the afternoon before had gone flat during the night. I maintained that, since the tire had held out all afternoon, the trouble was obviously a slow leak in the valve, and that all we needed was a truck to pump the wretched thing full again. Those in authority, however, insisted that there might be an injury to the tube, so that we should have the wheel off. This we did, assisted by an English major; who had adopted us that morning as he wished to return to Cairo; The Colonel, the Major, and I proved, not the best mechanics in the AFS, but certainly quite as well worth $15.00 a month as two thirds of them. We did get the tube out, and found that there was nothing wrong with it, but the trouble was a leaking valve. We got the thing back, too, and the valve changed, and found a truck to pump up the tire. All this with the sandstorm still going full blast.

The storm lasted, often so thick that one had to stop driving to look for the side of the road, from Daba to beyond Amiriya --- "The drifting sands of windswept Amiriya"; it is always windy and the sand is always drifting across the road at Amiriya, so some one must have written that verse, and I, therefore, put it in quotation marks. But just beyond Amiriya, our jinx deserted us; the weather cleared, the road was open, the engine ran as smoothly as a Mozart sonata, and we sailed triumphantly up the desert road in time to reach Cairo for the opening of the office in the afternoon.

Cairo, --- a woman who has let herself go. Not young. Over-painted, over-powdered, over-scented, fat. One deplores not so much her vices, which can be amusing, as her lack of fastidiousness with regard to her own person. But definitely a lady, and with great remains of good looks. A pungent wit, too. Not quite the Venus of one's dreams; not quite, if one had had reasonable good fortune, the equal of some Venuses of ones memory. But still not without attraction. To every Mars, his Venus; and Cairo is perhaps a very appropriate Venus for an old money-bags of a Mars like me.

Next month, AFS Middle East Unit II will come to the end of its period of enlistment.

The NEWS BULLETIN will list the members of the unit who are still in the Middle East, and, so far as possible, list their choices of action for the immediate future.

And we will publish brief Log of the unit starting with December 30th, 1941 (when the men went on aboard the El Nil) and ending with December of this year,,

AFS News Bulletin, No. 5

Index