ACROSS OUR DESK THE LAST MONTH have come several letters from the New York office. These particular letters told how the AFS was obtaining funds. The amounts contributed weren't mentioned, but rather from whom the money was coming. With this information came the plea, "Please have the men driving ambulances with plaques on them write to their-donors."

Plaques are placed on our ambulances signifying certain amounts have been donated equal to the price of one of our rolling homes. These people certainly deserve to know that an ambulance to which they feel an attachment is serving in our work, and how it is serving. One case cited was that of a Chinese girl who bought beads and made them into necklaces to sell for 25 cents apiece. Another was that of a girls' trade school in New York attended by some of the poorest girls in that area. They had contributed $l each for our support. Likewise service clubs and individual persons have contributed in memory of some one they hold in esteem.

It isn't much to drop a letter to the donors. Write to them through the New York office if you don't know their address. Tell them what their ambulance has been through. It will make these people feel they are actively helping in the war effort. Some of you have already done this. Most have not. Perhaps you will get a reply. Many have. And there are limitless possibilities from such contacts. Drop them a note today.

UPSTAIRS ON THIS PAGE something new has been added. Field associate editors have come into being. These men, having shown an interest in promoting this BULLETIN, and having been recommended for this job, are going to serve in the field as contact men. They will probably approach you for information. Your cooperation will be appreciated. They are getting no special favors. They are doing this work in addition to their regular driving duties. We know it is hard to write, but the folks back home want to know what we are doing over here--- good or bad. So if you are approached, give them a hand. If you feel incapable of writing for this publication, (sometimes referred to as BULL-LET-IN) they will be glad to work with you. Should fiction appeal to you, send it to us. Humor writers are especially in demand. What about it?

American Field Service Middle East Casualty Lists:--

Captured:	Stuyvesant, Glenn, MacElwain, Mitchell, Belshaw, Sanders
Missing:	Foster, Perkins
Wounded:	Stratton, MacElwain, Krusi, Semple, Beatty
Killed:	Esten, Tichenor, McLarty, Kulak, Watson

According to information received in New York, Laurence Sanders, a POW in Italy has successfully recovered from an operation and is convalescing. His recovery is expected soon.

First into Tobruk, first into Benghazi, and first into Tripoli, is the record of the Cherry Pickers, the 11th Hussars, who allegedly got their nickname from being ambushed in a cherry orchard. With them, the first Americans into Tripoli, went Grafton Fay, James Doubleday, William Van Cleef, Edward Munce, and William Schorger, American Field Service.

THERE WOULD BE NO PUSH for at least a fortnight was the consensus in 8th Army on December 28.

Van Cleef, for whom I was spare driver, opportunely flew to Cairo to have some dental work attended to, whilst I remained locum tenens in 'Maxine', an ambulance presented by the patrons of the M & P Theatres in Boston, with the 11th Hussars (Prince Albert's own). Fay and Doubleday, also attached to the 11th Hussars, had not named their ambulance; probably Fay was reluctant to blazon his wife's name before so many men, while Doubleday scarcely dared elect a e pluribus unum and risk all the others hearing of it.

On the last day of the year Schorger and his beard joined us as spare driver, bearing (surely to his regret) many edibles which he had received from home. That evening he and I sat in our blacked-out ambulance writing letters, pausing now and then to welcome the New Year decently with some prized Johnnie Walker. In deference to our Scottish forbears, we called it Hogamanay.

We moved into Wadi Kebir January 2. The other ambulance went out with a squadron on patrol, while we took our turn being attached to the MO and the HQ squadron. Each day at first light we hid Maxine between sand dunes and camouflaged her quickly before the sun and the first enemy Tac R were up. At last light we leaguered. We were not bombed while we remained at that spot (either because we were unseen, or because Jerry was hunting bigger game). Although he broke through with annoying frequency and harassed whoever was living not far across the escarpments, we were strafed only once. There was some activity when we went out now and then to visit the patrolling squadrons. But, for the most part, we felt secure amidst our dunes, and spent the first fortnight of the new year watching our kit moving up, and speculating on when the push would begin.

The evening of the 13th we were addressed by the Colonel, who had just returned from Div. HQ. We sat before him in the darkness, smoking, while he told us what forces the enemy had in our way, what forces we had, and the plan of battle. We learned that Monty confidently proposed to fill the enemy with "alarm and despondency," and hurl him back. "We advance to the Zero Line tomorrow."

The next day the other ambulance rejoined us, and in the evening we moved out of Wadi Kebir. We came to Wadi. ZemZem on the evening of the 15th. We waited for about an hour before moving into it. The sun set before us, and as the western sky darkened we could see the shells of a tank-duel float above the hill which separated us from the Wadi. Now and then an armor-piercing shell would land about 300 yards to our right, but no one also seemed interested in them. By dark, those of the enemy who were able to, had withdrawn.

It was a ding-dong journey up Wadi ZemZem.. We came across herds of camels, and bedouin tents, and shell-holes --- a pot-pourri of memories remain. It was incredible that the nomads had not at least removed to one side of the Wadi.. But if they can accept the sudden appearance of Sherman tanks as a manifestation of the will of Allah, infidel ambulanciers should perhaps embrace a modified form of belief in Kismet so as to attain a similar aplomb.

Wadi ZemZem was not all been and honey; Schorger reckoned that the Stukas visited us eight times before we left it, and I must accept his count. I was either too terrified to take up a pen, or so relieved that I had no desire to enter the day's happening in my diary. One evening the Regiment intercepted three enemy ack-ack vehicles, led by a young Nazi who had lived in Allentown, Pennsylvania, until he had gone to the Reich after finishing high school. Their huge Swastika flag (used for burials or signals to their own aircraft, or both) is one of my souvenirs, and certainly the only enviable one.

By the evening of the 21st we had reached Kilo 75 on the Castel Benito-Tarhuna highway. It was in the green belt and brought grins to all our faces. Ahead of us, for a dozen kilos, the road stretched along the bottom of a deep ravine, and emerged at last on the plain which swept on to Tripoli. The enemy had several heavy guns in the hills, and the road was taped, barring our path. We were invisible to his gunners, but when we turned down an unpaved road they saw our dust and let loose, inflicting a few casualties. When night fell and the moon was bright, Schorger and I fortified ourselves with several mugs of tea and nervously started back along the same route with the wounded. It had been quiet for a little more than an hour. Our guns had moved up to deal with the pieces which delayed us. Just as we reached the spot where the casualties had occurred a few hours before, two enemy shells screamed over and exploded not too far away. Simultaneously, at exactly 21.00 hours, our batteries all about us, opened up with a hellish din, We made almost illicit speed in departing from that tactically interesting area. Later we learned that our guns fired for exactly 15 minutes, and then the infantry went in. The PBI reached the emplacements to find that the survivors had fled.

When we returned it was quiet once again, so we fell into bed. We could not have remained for more than two or three hours when we were awakened. In a few minutes the Regiment moved forward. The almost full moon lighted the road, and covered the steep walls of the ravine with silver. Soon we reached the plain. The advance cars prowled ahead of us, suspiciously, and we moved by fits and starts.

Although it was chilly---hoarfrost was forming---whenever we halted I turned off the engine and the heater, so that I could listen for unusual noises. This meant nearly freezing Schorger, who by now was fast asleep in his seat. When we dismounted and formed small groups, swinging our arms for warmth, we spoke in low voices. Now and then a glow would rise high in the northwesterly-horizon, perhaps from the RAF's bombs on the docks of Tripoli.

Soon after sunrise we drew off the road and dispersed our vehicles amongst large hillocks rising from the vegetation. Our relief was great, and we were very merry at breakfast, for we had feared that the enemy might send over bombers while we were in the ravine.

Later in the afternoon some forward cars of the Regiment investigating the road into Castel Benito were cut up by an ambush. Before it was liquidated there were some casualties; these were evacuated by Fay and Doubleday.

After supper we leaguered about a quarter of a mile up the road. The other ambulance had not returned, but we were dead tired and did not wait for them before making up our beds. As so often happens, I had just prepared a most excellent grave-like bunk, when word came that we were again moving forward. By 9:30 we were on the road. We had been moving forward for about half an hour when Fay's ambulance suddenly drew in between the MO's jeep and us, with some one. We could not see who, standing on the running board. When the column halted for a moment the figure jumped from Fay's running board to mine --- it was Van Cleef! !

Van Cleef had brought mail for us, the first we had received for weeks. A bottle of Angostura Bitters in his musette bag had broken over it en route, but in that strange evening it seemed just as it should be, as appropriate to the days we were living in as any sights we had seen or odors we had smelled. The aroma lent an air of gaiety which matched our mood. We brewed up shai and read letters, secretly hoping that nothing in the next half-dozen hours would occur which might put quietus upon future correspondence and bitters. At 0.00 hours the regiment proposed to push on, and breakfast in Tripoli!

We were parked on a narrow strip of turf between the cypress-lined highway and an orchard of young fruit trees, not far ahead of the spot where the ambush had been that afternoon. The landscape was bewitched by the moonlight, and one was almost overcome by nostalgic recollections of other moonlit nights, when there was no war. But such terrain was made for nocturnal traps and ambuscades. Everyone who had even a pistol readied it, though more for psychological, then for corporal protection. It was not possible for us to believe that we should enter Tripoli unopposed. Many of the regiment had been part of Wavell's Thirty Thousand, and were suspicious of the taste of victory, which had before burned bitter in their mouths.

While we had been resting, tanks and infantry disposed the enemy of Castel Benito. The reveille was sounded and we mounted. The exhausted spare driver of one of the two jeeps ahead of us got into the rear of Maxine to doze in warmth, while Schorger took his place. Van Cleef resumed the driver's seat and I reverted to the seat beside him. The Regiment returned to the road and headed North. As we passed through Castel Winstano ( surely it should be so renamed) the smell of beer from the brewery tantalized us: the enemy, wretched fellow, had opened the taps before he withdrew. The kilo post read "Tripoli, 23".

The shadows like the women one sees in Shepheard's were numerous and dangerous looking. Each villa, shining in the moonlight, hid, for all we knew, an antitank gun. Ahead of our ambulances were only half a dozen armoured cars, at most, and two jeeps. Every now and then Van or I would fidgit and with almost feigned eagerness say, "Yes, sir, we wuz lucky? We were used to making wry allusions to the Ace of Hearts, with which we had won our assignment to the Cherry Pickers, when the going was not all that it should be. No matter how well-favored we seemed to be, we could not help remembering the belief of many of the wisest of the sages, that Fortune is a bad woman.

We overtook about 20 nomads mounted on camels. I still can't imagine why, at that hour, they were riding hell-bent towards Tripoli, unless they were hoping for spoils, or for an opportunity to harass the Italians, left behind, whom they hated. The Regiment did not stay to enquire: first into Tobruk, first into Benghazi, they resolved not to be second into Tripoli.

Now and then a dog would bark, or run across the road; cats were intent upon their feline occupations; but we saw no people. Fruit trees were in blossom. The rustic scenes bore no visible marks of war until we came to what appeared to have been a huge barracks. It was illuminated not only by the moon, but by the flickering, ruddy light of the flames which still consumed it. Acrid smoke mingled with the perfume of the orchards.

And at last we reached the outskirts of the Imperial City of Tripoli, having crossed the deep-tank ditch uncontested. Through the Porto Bonito: the Lancia motor works on the right, the Cavalry barracks on the left; the Colonial hospital; down Via Roma and Via Lombardi. The whole Regiment was encompassed by the city, whose doors and windows were shuttered. Having come so far, should we now see the flash of the enemy's guns? Would a signal be given, when our rear had passed a predetermined spot, which would cause the shutters to be thrown open? Would grenades be hurled down upon it? Would the straight streets be swept by shrapnel? These were the reasonable, if not reassuring questions which one asked himself as we neared the centre of the City.

It was 04.30 hours, the morning of January 23, when we entered the Piazza Italia, and turned full into Piazza Castello. We parked our vehicles at the base of the old Moorish Castle, facing the flagpole-lined, cluttered harbor, and dismounted as in a dream.

As we brewed tea, we could not believe that we were there, that our footsteps were at last echoing in the streets where Il Duce's bablement of Empire had sounded. It might have been moon-madness, lunacy, and only the coming of the sun could convince us.

The city seemed to be uninhabited as we breakfasted under the moon. About 05.30 hours I noticed that a previously shuttered window overlooking the Piazza was now open. It was the first sign of other than quadruped life, but no one was visible to us. There were, we knew, eyes watching us, and we did not stray far from our vehicles. We were vividly conscious of our isolation.

About 6 o'clock, we heard tanks coming towards us. As they drew near us, we heard, over the clatter of their tracks, the stirring squeal of the pipes, and we knew that the Highland Division, which had bludgeoned its way along the coast road, was come to join us. There was but a flush of dawn in the gray morning sky when they entered the Piazza Castello. The jocks jumped down from their perches outside the I-tanks, marched with the piper's short steps, which had he been wearing kilts, would have made them swing rhythmically. Another piper joined him, and another, until at last five of them were marching when the sun rose and shone on the Union Jack which now flew above the Castle. We were persuaded that Tripoli was ours.

The hieroglyphics attached to this article stand for Supply and Transport of which Major Shaffer is the director. S.& T. is a relatively new department of the AFS---but we are getting ahead of ourselves. Major Shaffer tells the story following.

YOUR EDITOR AND MINE has asked that an explanation of the functions of Supply and Transport of the American Field Service be outlined in an article for THE BULLETIN. In this organization filled with Masters of the written word it is unfair to ask the one member who admits lack of ability, to write a single line. With the thought, however, that some of the detail involved in the planning and operation of this department may, if explained, encourage a kindlier feeling and better understanding in the minds of the AFS men of the Middle East command, this chore is undertaken.

Listing the duties assigned under the impressive designation of S. & T., we find the following:

Reception of newly arrived personnel from America, their disembarkation and transport to a Reception center.

The Clothing and Equipment of this new personnel and their dispatch to Training area.

Reception and Dispatch of personnel from Training area to Desert and Desert to Syria.

Reception of New Vehicles from the U.S.

Acquisition or replacement vehicles.

Supervision of Maintenance of all AFS vehicles and all domestic vehicles attached to AFS.

Acquisition and Supply of all parts, replacement rubber, workshop supplies other than those possible of acquisition from British Ordnance.

Maintenance and Operation of headquarters' vehicles

Supply of Transport for headquarters.

Acquisition and Supply for Company canteens through NAAFI, American commissary and public sources;

Maintenance of Clothing and equipment records.

Return of Clothing and equipment to British army.

Arrangement of Transport for repatriation.

When it is taken into consideration that the line of communication that must be maintained has increased, in 90 days, from 720 miles to over 3,000 miles, some realization of the burden of the above will be understood.

Our new department consisting of a permanent personnel and occasionally temporary personnel, has been able to accomplish its functions only through the whole-hearted cooperation of every other department in headquarters --- the understanding of Company officers and particularly Workshops officers, and the patience of the men we are working for --- you men in the field. No one knows better than your D.S. & T. the discouragement of an empty canteen truck, or the lack of spares or rubber. It is the earnest hope of everyone in headquarters that every possible item be available to you, but all the factors outlined above must be taken into consideration when the nonfunctioning of your Supply department seems unexplainable at a gripe session.

You may be interested to know that in the last 60 day period this one department of your headquarters rolled 37,000 miles in the carrying out of its duties. It equipped 196 new men, transported 325 men, purchased and dispatched $3,400.00 worth of NAFFI supplies, acquired and forwarded to the operating areas 17 tons of spares and rubber, reconditioned 21 vehicles evacuated from companies and forwarded 23 replacement vehicles.

One interesting phase of the work has been planning and acquiring transport for men repatriated because of ill health or completion of service, and the different means employed to accomplish this. To list them will make for clearer reading:

Regular sea transport
Transport as super-cargo on new Liberty ships
Obtaining work on Liberty ships in several different capacities, and getting the men on the ships
Air transport to West Coast and sea transport to United States
Air transport directly to United States, through courtesy and cooperation of Air Transport command, United States army; a total of 52 men have been repatriated.

It is hoped that the above stilted account of function will give you a better picture of what S. & T. is doing and if you will always remember that we have no Union rules re: hours, shifts, or types of work, and but one aim---that of doing more of everything in order that you may have better equipment, be more comfortable, more contented; and that we enjoy criticism if it is really constructive---every bit of effort expended will be more than worthwhile. In addition we will feel that our very prosaic, unenviable job here at base is really a part of AFS effort.

THE IRONY OF IT ALL---When a kind offer to donate cots for the AFS club was made, one caustic comment was, "And where shall we hang the placques?"

Ain't We Got Fun?

Miss Dorothy Duckboard,
Vassar College

Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dear Dorothy:

In your last letter you ask about the big show at Alamein, but I can't tell you much because old Section 5 was completely out of it, away back three or four miles behind the front. Lately, however, we have gotten a real break: the MOS we are attached to has moved up to a place right between the tanks and the 25-pounders, and Jerry has been coming over and knocking the hell out of us almost every day.

Lunch yesterday was a bit of fun. About forty ME 109's came over and circled around us, but nothing happened for a while, and I was afraid they were going to pass us by. But then --whoosh!-- down they came in a dive and let go right at us with bombs, cannon, and machine guns. One thousand-pound bomb landed about five yards from me, and a piece of shrapnel whizzed by and tore a button right off the front of my tunic. Then came a spray of machine gun bullets that put three neat little holes in my garrison cap. I didn't mind though, because it's an old one.

At night things have been pretty dull and there's nothing to do but sleep, but driving along the coast road is sometimes lots of fun. Yesterday the truck just ahead of me hit a mine and seven men were killed. Also the whole area is full of booby-traps, and every time you take a stop you expect to be blown to pieces. It's really very interesting.

For Christmas' sake stop being silly and worrying about me in your letters. There's absolutely no reason to. Everything's fine with me and next week they should be even better, because I'm being transferred to an RAP and ought to catch some real shell-fire.

Here come those 40 Messerschmidts again. Hot dog!

Love,

Chuck

Browned Off

Miss Dorothy Duckboard,
Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dear Dot,

Well, Well, things weren't so good a couple of weeks ago, but since then they've gotten even worse and I'm really "browned off". This British army is xxxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx. The food is xxxxx, uniforms. are xxxx, and the way these xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxx run the xxxxxxxxx is, to put it mildly, xxxxxxxxx. As for the AFS: xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxx ! Know what I mean?

Section 5 hasn't had an assignment all through this lousy war. All we do is sit on our behinds and once in a while carry some joker with jaundice or a cold in the nose. The O.C. of our outfit is a xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx you ever saw in your life. Unfortunately I can't tell you how I really feel about it, because it would be censored.

Today around lunch time a couple of broken-down old Messerschmitts dropped a bomb or two about five miles from our camp, and we thought maybe we'd have some work to do. But all that came in this afternoon was 16 more jaundices and a guy that had skinned his nose falling in a slit-trench. What a war!

The weather is getting worse every day---as if it wasn't bad enough before--- and the country we're going through is the most awful I've ever seen. A regular damn desert! This MDS we're attached to is the xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxx xx xxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx and if this is any example of xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx all I can say is: xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx at xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxx. And I don't mean maybe.

Well, here comes another load of jaundice patients.

So long,

Bill

Monomaniac

Miss Dorothy Duckboard,
Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dear Dot,

Since I last wrote you everything has been going much better with Section 5. Our old cook took sick (from eating his own food, I guess) and now we have a new one and everything is fine. For breakfast today we had porridge and beans, and bacon and tea; for lunch we had bully-beef fixed in a nice kind of sauce and some cheese and some honest-to-god apple pie (although the apples were canned, of course), and for supper there was M and V dumplings and tinned fruit for dessert and all the crackers and jam you could eat. The British call crackers biscuits for some strange reason, although they're not biscuits at all. Today for lunch we're having---but I guess you're tired of hearing about food.

Let's see, what would interest you? Oh, yes. A couple of days ago a mobile NAAFI stopped off at our leaguer, but all they had were some cruddy Palestine chocolate bars. Things will be looking up soon, though; an AFS company canteen is going to move up to a place only 175 miles from here and I'll be able to run in every couple of days to get some tinned fruit. Nescafe, etc.

No other news really. Chuck and I tried to fix up a welsh rarebit out of some issue cheese in our ambulance last night, but it didn't come too well. Anyhow, this war is a great experience, and my only real complaint is with the mail. Mother sent me a box of tinned stuff from S.S. Pierce three months ego and it hasn't reached me yet.

Love,

Fred

P.S. I almost forgot.--- At noon today we had a dive-bombing raid by a few Messerschmitts. I stumbled running for my slit-trench and dropped half my apple pie in the sand. Oh, well---c'est la guerre!

Soul in Torment

Miss Dorothy Duckboard
Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dearest One,

All evening long I have been sitting in the front seat of my ambulance, staring out into the darkness. Around me, night---not nothingness---the immense and brooding silence of sand and stars.--- And in this nothingness, this immensity, Man and his puny Fate; his pride, his fears, his hatreds, his wars.

Here we are, the six of us---Section 5, X Coy, AFS---six infinitesimal mates caught up in the gigantic maelstrom of war. How did we come here? Why are we here? Where are we going? For that matter, where is Mankind going? And what is Life? And Death? And God? Oh, my dearest, this war has taught me so much about this tragi-comedy of the gods that we call Life. You know what I mean---Life.

Today at noon a vast armada of enemy planes roared down upon us---filling the sky with a cosmic roar---Armageddon wings. While the others scattered to their slit-trenches. I turned my face to the shining apparition of Death and composed a few little lines of verse. I called them "Salute to Destiny". Here they are and I hope you like them: --

Life is here, life is there
Life is practically everywhere.
Up in the sky, down in the sea,
Life goes on continually,
Whence?
Thence
Whither?
Thither.

You know what I mean, don't you dearest?

Yesterday--today--tomorrow--the day after tomorrow. Where will it all end? Where indeed? Fred has just called over and invited me to his ambulance to share a can of sardines, so will close now.

Love (ah yes---what is Love?)

Richard

Man of the World

Miss Dorothy Duckboard
Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dotsy, old thing!

Your last letter--you know, the one you wrote under the table at the Stork club--was just too, too---and I adored it. I only wish I had a few choice morceaux with which to regale you in return, but, also, our life out here is barren and oafish beyond all telling. Truly, you can have no idea of the weird way we live. We're positively like Yahoos!

Nevertheless, cher amie, life has its little ups and downs. Yesterday around noon I was sitting in my ambulance reading Baudelaire's "Flowers of Evil" (ah---that wise, wicked old Baudelaire!) and preparing myself a bit of snack for lunch. I don't know if I've already told you, but I almost never eat my meals in the regular mess lines all they give you is swill, mon cherie, sheer, unadulterated swill. Well, anyhow, I was fixing myself a bit of lunch ---potage St. Germain, cheese a l'Escoffier and a dab of the patedefoie gras Strasbourg that Aunt Phoebe sent me---when a covey of beastly enemy planes passed right overhead. Just as the cheese was simmering, mind you! Ah well, mon petit bijou, I leave the rest to your imagination. It was ghastly --perfectly ghastly---after I'd scraped up the floor I was so upset that I drank a bottle of Pommery and Grino, 1926, that I had been treasuring since Christmas.

No, my sweet, I fear our life here is not too "sympatico". All we do is chase around this abominable desert like so many mad things, and do you know what they had the gall to do to me the other day? They made me move my radio, phonograph, folding bed, and deck chair out of my ambulance, just so they could fit one more jaundice patient inside!

You ask in your letter about the other chaps in Section 5, but I won't waste your time with them. I'm afraid they am all oafs and Yahoos and the way they carry on would make you simply scream. In fact, I've already asked to be transferred from my present unit to the Fighting French; I know I'll find it more "sympatico" there, because after all the French do understand the art of living.

Well, old girl, toodle-oo and all that sort of thing.

Unto death---

Toto

Censor's Delight

Miss Dorothy Duckboard
Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y. U.S.A.

Dear Dorothy:

I am fine and hope you are too. Will you marry me when I get home?

There's really nothing else to tell you.

Love,

Joe

ON FEBRUARY 21 CAPTAIN COSTER handed over the rains of the Finance Department to me in order to become Liaison Officer between these HQ. and the F.F.C. and New York.

When Capt. Coster arrived in the Middle East a year ago, the AFS was a comparatively small organization. The finance department did not exist and there was little need for it as very few of us ever thought of sending money through the AFS. One might almost say that June 2nd, the date of Capt. Coster's taking over from Lieut. Ogden, was the birth of the Finance dept. For a while he was sole executive, bookkeeper and Field cashier. He had to work day and night trying to keep up with the various correspondence from the men in the field etc. At the time he himself never realized to what extent the dept. would grow, but nevertheless he kept his head and built up the present organization to what it in today.

Capt. Coster has left behind him a smooth running department and this is best shown by the very few complaints we receive from the men in the field who after all are the ones we are working for.

We all owe him no end of thanks for what he has done and I am sure in his new position he will have our backing one and all.

William Haggin Perry
Captain A.FS.
Finance Department

VERY FEW PEOPLE have heard the story of Johnny Marks, and just in case you are one of 'em, I'll tell it again.

It happened at a place called Alamein back in '42 before the big push. Nothing but sand and rooks for as far as you could see; that was Alamein. Hot as the devil, swarming with flies, plenty of tea, but no beer.

That's where I met this Johnny Marks. He was a rich kid from some big city out west. His old man had made a pile out of automobile and truck accessories, fancy horns and all that sort of junk. And up to the time of the war he'd been leading the life of Riley. Then along came the Japs and put the skids under Johnny, heading him straight for the army, and if there was one thing that Johnny hated the thought of even, it was the army. He often said that his family never, in any way, participated in any war, not even selling materials, and he wasn't going to start now. It was nip and tuck with the army for a while, but Johnny finally got away. He volunteered for a medical service overseas, and overseas he went. No sooner had he arrived in the Middle East when they shot him out to dear old Alamein.

I can still remember the dug-out we were living in before the push. It was a neat hole in the ground with built-in bunks, and all the comforts of home. We had no sooner settled down in it, when Jerry took it into his head to pay a social call.

We were sitting around one night talking about nothing in particular, liquor, women, home, when all of a sudden hell broke loose. It seemed like there were thousands of guns blasting away. I blew out the lantern and all of us, Johnny included, piled up the steps out of the hole to have a look. Red tracers filled the sky. The ack-ack boys were throwing everything but the guns at Jerry. Then down he came, screaming through the clouds like some fiend from another world.

We all threw ourselves flat to the ground, not knowing what was going to happen next. I only caught one short glimpse of Johnny during the raid. I'll admit we were scared, but poor Johnny was shaking as though he had a chill and was practically sobbing.

Then down came another Jerry. Ack-ack burst forth with new life. The ghostly scream grew louder, louder, my hands were bathed in a cold sweat and it seemed as though my heart were about to burst. Then a terrific explosion rent the night, sheets of flame burst skyward. Another Nazi bit the dust. And then it was over; all was quiet.

We went back down into the dug-out, lit the lantern, and began to talk about what had happened. All of us were there but Joe. He'd gone over to the crashed Stuka on an ambulance

I looked at Johnny. He was pale as a ghost. I didn't blame him much, but I sure didn't think he'd take it that hard. Finally the conversation changed, and all of us more or less got back to normal.

About a quarter of an hour later Joe came back. He was carrying a shiny oval shaped metal object under one arm and when he got down into the light he held it up for all to see.

"Well, boys", he said, "behold the vocal chords of a Stuka."

Johnny was the first to speak, "Let me see it," he whispered.

Joe handed it to him and Johnny looked at it closely; his jaw kind of sagged, and with a sickly look on his face, he handed it back. Next morning he got into his truck and drove away. I never saw Johnny again. But I heard of him.. He's in the regular army now and the only man I ever heard of that stands up to a diving Stuka, muttering to himself, "Nice tone, nice tone. Might be improved, though."

Well, I kind of figured that's what would happen when I got a look at that screamer Joe brought in. Riveted right on the top of it was a steel plate with the maker's name on it. It read "Manufactured by J. Marks and Co., U.S.A."

NOT ALL DESERT WORK is action. 11 Coy found this out much to their discouragement, but their work of waiting for action did not go unappreciated; the following letter was received:--

O.C. 11 AFS

Dear Sir:

Before I leave the Western Desert, I would like you to know how much I appreciated all you and the unit under your command did when in ---Corps to make my job an easy one. I could always rely that when you were asked to carry out an order, no matter how difficult it was, it would be done---that means everything

The best of luck to you, and good hunting in Tunis.

(signed)

Yours sincerely

Q.V. B. Wallace
Brigadier

Knowing that his company was in on the last legs of the drive into Tripoli, Coy Sgt. Pat Fiero noted several incidents as they occurred to him in the chain of event leading to the actual time the AFS arrived in Tripoli. Elsewhere the NEWS BULLETIN records the activities in detail of the taking of Tripoli and the pat of the AFS.

As the old year moved on westward from Marble Arch into a field of many sweet-scented flowers and verdant fields, so did we. And when the new year rolled in it was greeted with rockets and flares --red, green, white---shooting skyward to the accompaniment of gun-fire. Only the gun-fire this time was in celebration and aimed skyward with the flares. This was but part of the show. Red tracers from a machine gun and lots of noise augmented the christening of what we hope will be the last year of war for a long time.

To start right, we got our first hot shower in a long time, on New Year's day When one of the "Tommies" was asked how he felt after a hot shower he replied "In the pink, chum, in the pink!" He was, too. . . . On again in a few days to denser fields of flowers. These are very nice except that in contrast to light sand they do not show up objects on dark nights. Well do I remember the night Charlie Snead and I were asked to supper at the officers' mess of an MAC about a mile away. We arrived there in daylight, set the ambulance pointed dead on our HQ truck and, Charlie having taken the additional precaution of a compass bearing, we went in to supper. Around 10 p.m. (22.00 hrs. Army time) we set out in absolute darkness for our HQ. I was at the ambulance wheel and Charlie at the compass. We crawled along for quite some time. Then our left front wheel eased into a hole three feet deep. The car went over at an alarming angle. We knew of no such obstacle in our path and Charlie jumped out to see what the hell it was. As he did, I was conscious of two dim figures coming up from under the car on my side. We had gone into a bivvy 50 yards to the left of HQ and what was worse, it contained three not two, of our cooks. We called to the third, not being able to see under the mess in the darkness. No answer. I was scared. It turned out that the two "live" cooks had invited the third over to have some beer; the invitee had imbibed his full share and was in a very sound sleep. We had run up the middle between the two beds and the invitee, so all turned out o.k.

We left our flowered fields with 10 days rations of bully and biscuits and headed into the sand. Dismal outlook, but our goal was heartening---Tripoli. With nothing but B& B rations we had to see a lone gazelle 50 yards away on the left at the same time a wild turkey landed only 25 yards from us on the right. Being in convoy, we "carried on" (the British way). Covered lots of ground and lots of ground covered us that day. That night for supper we had PIE. What a surprise (It was made before we set out.) I slept in the lorry on top of 75 gallons of petrol, but Jerry hadn't been strafing or bombing lately, so felt safe.

The staff car broke down in a wadi and, as the wrecker came up to take us on tow, the Tommy mechanic looked sadly at the insignia of the eagle on the door and shaking his head slowly, said: "What a ruptured little duck ...."

Let's take a few minutes to talk about mail. This subject can stand a lot of treatment. Back home, mail just meant the postman coming regularly twice a day--9 a.m. and 3 p.m. The door-bell rang and some one had to go---usually to receive a mass of advertising matter and always bills, occasionally magazines. Mail also meant a box into which letters (sometimes paying one or two said bills) were dropped. Now, out here where we haven't seen civilization for three or more months and where we're "out of touch" with things and people in the States, the word "mail" is electrifying. Undoubtedly the six cents and the few minutes spent on a letter sent from home to any of us here has more stimulation to morale than food or entertainment.

It is easily noticed that a fellow expecting mail and receiving none becomes fed up, curt, on edge. When he does receive even one letter, he seems set up for a while longer. There are a few who noticeably ring the bell when it comes to getting mail: Kneupfer, Pierce, Satterthwaite, Van der Vliet, Weaver, and Wyer. Yes, their morale is high. Others jump at the sight of a letter---usually outgoing---in the hands of anyone. "Did mail come in?" Frequently you're asked, "When is mail coming?" Out here the postman doesn't ring the door-bell regularly at 9 a.m. and 3 p.m.

The rat-race every day with droves of vehicles moving parallel beats anything Cecil B. DeMille could do with an 1849 gold rush. "Off in a cloud of dust" is more appropriate.

They tell of John Huntington having sworn a solemn oath in protest at not getting his battle-dress issued promptly. (Winter issue clothes were held back temporarily for much more needed supplies---Ed. Note). He resolved not to wash or change his clothes. After some weeks, or maybe it was days, the quartermaster gave him some trousers but no blouse. After much persuasion John gave in and changed one sock over to the other foot and vice versa.

Stopped and dispersed off the "road" last night. Three of our Tommies walking toward our wireless for news stepped on "S" mines which pop several feet into the air before exploding. Two received cuts, one nothing. Three vehicles some hundred yards away got dented. This was a miraculous escape.

Paymasters Bill Ferry and Nelson Bridger have been doing despatch-rider duty in their peep, working up and down the convoy. Nelson had also been helping out as a spare driver on an RAP where he saw plenty of action. No "base-wallers" these HQ paymasters.

Saw some trees. Looks promising.

At last saw lots of trees! And we rolled into Tripoli January 23. Traded five biscuits to natives for five eggs. All of us were washing and shaving. Captain Art Howe and I have a room with a 16 foot high ceiling and a geranium in a flower pot in the window.

As soon as the army settled down, official announcement was made of a church parade to be held Sunday morning, January 31. Each of all the participating units---and they were all represented---was allotted a proportionate number of men from their respective groups. The AFS---only Americans there---was allowed six men. These were Carleton Richmond, Arthur Jeffress, Charles Larrowe, (from Platoon I) Charles O'Neil, Edward Sieber, (from Platoon II), and myself from 15 Coy HQ.

Up at dawn, we shined our shoes---some were black and some were tan---shaved, and got out canvas anklets which were new to some of us. We also were to wear our web belts (issue) and we borrowed enough of our own overseas service caps to at least be uniformly distinctive from the rest. We reported at 8:30 to captain who was to take charge of the detachment in which we were included with several British Field Ambulance unite. By 9 o'clock, transportation was provided to drive us to Tripoli. It wasn't a long trip, but although the day was clear, the air was very sharp and we were cold. In a broad thorofare before the Governor's palace we formed up after considerable waiting.

We (AFS) knew nothing of British marching maneuvers, but a sympathetic and understanding Sergeant-Major did what he could to explain what we would be required to do. It seemed quite intricate in spite of his assurance that it was very simple.- We "fell in" and marched off trying to follow as best as we could. Down a street, past the Cathedral, and on into the huge square opposite the old Castle by the Sea. Our position was on the right of block U which comprised corps troops. The various divisions and brigades were lined up on the other two sides.

At precisely 11 o'clock General Montgomery stepped into position in the middle. A chaplain conducted the service and General Montgomery read a short message of Thanksgiving. After the service, the entire throng passed him in review on the broad avenue along the sea-front. We were very proud to have been the lucky ones to represent the good old USA and our own American Field Service.

THE AFS BULLETIN (and, doubtless, many a home-town paper) has been filled with the exploits of the Chicken Brigade, otherwise 15 ACC, American Field Service. Attached to the intrepid New Zealanders, most of them came straight off the boat, pausing at Tahag for equipment, and were sent to the front in shining new ambulances. They've done all right --- for their patients and themselves. But now, after months during which we have doubted the very existence of the Cairo office of the AFS, some of us have been asked by the editor of The Bulletin to recount what the 11th Coy has been doing all this time.

Well, I'm coming right out with the claim that we've been doing something far more difficult than anything the Chickens have done. For we have done nothing at all. For three months, three sections of 11 Coy, to which I have been attached, have just been kicking about the Western Desert --- out of touch most of the time with Company HQ, to say nothing of Cairo, except for rare occasions when somebody mysteriously appears with mail for somebody also.

Now that, I maintain, is something to try the soul. At the front, I fancy, those shells which do not kill or maim, make things nothing if not interesting. For us, the greatest excitement has been the discovery of V.D. cases among the men who supposedly had not seen a woman for weeks.

True, we did make that trek across the rain-sodden desert with RAP's of the 50th Div down to Agedabia and back again to behind Benghazi, during which the monotony was somewhat relieved by having to use ambulances to pull vehicles out of the mud.. They were driven by Pongos who refused to believe that water generally flows down hill and tends to settle in the lowest point --- making it inadvisable to try to drive through them. But even such jolly sport polls after a spell, and it was almost a pleasure to get into communication again with Company HQ and become part of the great 1st MAC, even though our merry little rivulet of patients soon dwindled to the merest trickle.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, there has been just enough to do of a loose routine nature to keep those of us inclined that way from any regular literary endeavor or hobbies of a constructive nature. Whatever of that sort of thing there was to do could always be postponed until tomorrow.

For it must be admitted that in the desert there is always something to do --- but it is o overwhelmingly trivial! We had all of us spent hours deciding whether to wash out some clothes today or tomorrow. Or should we do a spot of maintenance on the ambulance? If not, what about sweeping out the bus some day soon and making the bedroll up properly so your feet won't stick out into the frigid night air? No, to hell with it; let's play Gin rummy.

But most of the time is spent in aimless rumination --- and that isn't good for anybody for long. It is quite liable to lead to crimes of violence. After weeks of monotony broken only by taking an occasional jaundice patient to the neighboring CCS, what would normally be a harmless peccadillo in your ambulance mate becomes a major defect of character and times come along when you know you can't stand his company a minute longer. Not if he's going to crack his knuckles just once more!

That brings up the only really extraordinary thing about the Three Lost Sections of 11 Coy --- their story includes no murder, no mayhem. Not even, so far as I know, a fist-fight.

Now that can be explained in only two ways: we are equally fine, noble, understanding and forgiving characters to a man, or we are spineless poltroons, enervated by the monotony of being browned off in the blue. I know I'm the latter, so I will leave it to others to classify my fellows.

I HAVE LISTENED to a great deal of criticism about the "Cairo office." My personal opinion is that the men in that office are doing a difficult job extremely well.

Many .AFS men don't realize that we are fortunate enough to get our mail very promptly, sometimes as much as three months ahead of the British "Tommy"! Another department which is a godsend to any AFS man is the financial department. It has been extremely well organized. The newest innovation is the field cashiers. These men go around to all the Syrian and desert posts and personally handle each men's money matters. The mistakes the cashiers make are few and far between, and easily forgivable because many of the AFS men have extremely confused accounts due to cabling difficulties.

Other departments are useful and business done in them is necessary in an organization such as ours. These departments do such sueful things as, secure the best hospitalization for us by putting us in officers' wards, take care of passports and draft deferments, secure jobs after a man's year has been served, make the arrangements to send men home after their year, arrange necessary details for transport to take them to posts in Syria or the Desert.

As you can see, somebody has to do the aforesaid things and personally I think they are being done extremely well. The Cairo Office personnel really deserved more credit than they have received in the past and my only desire has been to point out this fact. --- T.A.; 11 AFS ACC (Desert)

OCTOBER 24th was a busy day for us. And we were tired when it began. Our Sub-section 6 of 15 American Field Service Ambulance Car company had moved the night before to a central stem of Quattara road. We were near a little railroad crossing known as El Alamein. The road was a desert track, ankle-deep in dust and gutted with ruts from heavy armored equipment. It ran South to an impassible depression that flanked the 8th army's battle line. That night there was no chance for sleep, for the Allies laid down the heaviest barrage in Western Desert history.

At first, in the evening, there were the hectic moments of digging in as the barrage began. The horizon was marked by giant white and red flashes. A moment before our convoy had pulled up in silence. Shrouded in moonlight, we were like Arabs on a lonely desert plain. Then thunder burst out all around us. A hundred yards on either side of the post was a battery of 25-pounders. When their shells were fired, our faces lit up in the brilliance of each explosion. I could feel the ground shake as the nearest one went off. In the flash I saw Lem (LeMoyne Billings) digging madly, further to one side, Freddie (Frederic Meyers) doing the same. We were far too busy to worry or mind. We shovelled out slit trenches. We helped erect the main tent which would protect the wounded and provide a covering under which the doctors could work.

Though the night was chilly, all were sweating from the work. Sand bags had to be filled and piled against the Reception Tent. As things became more under control and our Advanced Dressing Station was almost ready to take in casualties, most of us went back to the ambulances. Then came long sleepless hours when each man hovered close by in a slit trench and waited for an ambulance call. We could only be still and listen to the guns, almost wheel to wheel for 10 miles, blast a path before our advancing infantry. Later on prisoners dribbled through. Their stories were all the same. No man could live under that pounding barrage.

During the night we were to carry out all necessary evacuations. By dawn, ambulances were to be cleared from forward positions. Tanks were moving up continuously, and with the break of day they were to advance, consolidating the Allied position. We had to get out before they struck.

Around 2 am. the din lessened. Lt. Evan Thomas received an ambulance call. Scott Gilmore, section leader, ran over to my slit trench; "Let's go, Brook." I piled into the ambulance and started after Scott's car, which had just pulled ahead. We passed trenches which had previously been the scene of a frontal attack. Since then the line had moved forward just behind the lifting barrage.

Evan spotted one of the RAP's (Regimental Aid Posts). The MO (Medical Officer) signalled for two ambulances. Scott's car and Jim Doughty's car pulled up. They were loaded immediately, and started back to the Advanced Dressing Station.

We inquired about the other RAP's. The padre said that one was just e few hundred yards West through the gap in the minefield. Evan jumped into the ambulance and we started through the gap, squeezing between the endless line of tanks and the patrol cans which marked the edge of that narrow lane the sappers had cleared. It was a horrible feeling, the tortured squeaking of the tanks, the roar of their motors. The moon was bright. The dust gave a filmy look to it all. We gained the open place, no men's land of but e few hours before. Tanks filled it like a swarm of angry bees, waiting for the next gap to be cut through the minefields. There was no RAP there.

Some of the tanks began to move. To the right of us a gap had been cleared, and they shoved into line to move through. Jerry was shelling the infantry. He left the tanks alone. I don't know why; he should have spotted them under a full moon.

Finally the engineers opened a gap in front of us. I drove up to their truck and was warned to follow at a good distance, and directly in their tracks. Engineers will always guarantee their work by driving a truck through the path they have cleared. At the other side of the mine field, the officer again warned us not to take the ambulance any further. The RAP had not yet arrived, and groups of wounded were still scattered on the ground. Only two stretcher bearers were there. The four of us visited the groups and carried three stretcher cases to our ambulance.

There was room for one more. Out front we saw two men kneeling beside a casualty. Evan and I ran out to the spot. Mortar shells were plopping near us, and tanks roared by, but when we reached the place where the three men were, it seemed as if the five of us were alone on the desert. The wounded man, a corporal, was lying on his aide as though asleep. Evan felt for his pulse. The man was quite dead. His two friends knelt there knowing, and yet hoping that it wasn't so. They looked to me for help. I felt inside his shirt for a faint beating of his heart, and finding none, shook my head. His "cobbers" still knelt there, dazed. Even shouted to them. "If you think he's alive, we'll take him back." One of them stood up. "He's dead... It's too bad though, he was a fine fellow." I noticed that the man lying before us had smooth blond hair and a very young and handsome face.

While we stood there, the tanks had encountered enemy mortars and machine guns. Their firing was intense, and tracers flew above our heads from three directions, from cross-fire. They seemed to move slowly, beautifully, as if we could pick them out of the air.

We grabbed the stretcher, picked up another patient, and went back to the ambulance. On the way one front wheel paced the white tape marking the edge of the minefield, the other was close to the onrushing tanks. Occasionally the spare water tins on the side of the ambulance would clank against the caterpillar treed of a passing tank. It was close, but I had to stay on the track, and had to get back quickly. It was almost dawn. At every jolt from the bumpy track, one of the wounded would moan. This unnerved me, made me want to stop and give him a rest. Even reminded me, "Come on, Brook, we've got to get out of here before dawn".

Slit trenches were scattered all about, tank crews and infantry having left them and moved forward. If we hit one, it would be the end of our ambulance. The wounded wouldn't have a chance.

And so we went on, with the idea that we had to make it. The patients would have to stand it.

When we did arrive at the place we thought our ADS to be, we couldn't recognize anything. We drove directly by the Reception Tent before we finally saw it. Actually, it was there before our eyes, but the change in direction of our approach altered the appearance of our post. It's as easy as that to get lost in the desert. You can turn around one way and come back on a different side and never know you are in the same place.

By this time daylight was just breaking. We carried our patients into the tent; six ambulances had come in just four hours after the barrage and already the doctors were busy and the tent was full. An hour later, stretchers were lined up outside, rows of them, the casualties waiting their turn to be treated. One after another they were given morphia, dressed, and in severe cases operated on. Most of them were given blood transfusions to counteract the shock which usually sets in. They were then carried to our waiting ambulances and evacuated to the Main Dressing Station further behind the lines.

I was tired. It was the strain of getting patients back over rough ground where every minute counts and every jolt is certain to cause further suffering for the wounded. But then our trip had been an unusual one. Ambulances are not supposed to go up that far, but there is no way of knowing. There had always been the same answers "The RAP is up ahead". And when it wasn't there, we had to carry on alone. There were so many who needed attention.

Ed Welles, who also went out to find the RAP, arrived with a load of wounded. He and I were both sent down to the Main Dressing Station almost immediately, each with four stretcher cases. A steady stream of wounded kept on throughout the day. All of us kept on --- going back and forth between ADS and MDS.

Prisoners, thousands of them, had been trapped in two encirclements, north and south. We had won the battle in 11 days. A break through the line on November 3, and the fanning out of our strength, pocketed the enemy, disabling many divisions as active fighting forces. Rommel pulled out his valuable Panzer divisions, leaving the Italians behind, but the air force ferociously, unceasingly, bombed his transport as it scuttled across the rocky ground in an attempt to escape. The rest was a mad rush over the desert which ended beyond Benghzai.

And yet with victory came a disappointment to the New Zealanders. They went out through the desert from Alamein, west by compass point, to catch the Germans retreating along the coast road towards El Daba and Fuka. Sub-section 6 went with them. The complete division moved in a convoy many miles long.

The sand near Alamein was tough. All through the first night, car after car got stuck. It was heartbreaking. The 'Kiwis' had taken part in almost every retreat throughout the Middle East. fighting rear-guard action in Greece, Crete, and after the fall of Tobruk. And now when their chance came to strike back, the sand held them from it. Each time the cars were pulled out, it was only for a moment, for a few precious yards. Our ambulances were all right with their four-wheel drives, and, we were a great help. The first ten miles were hopelessly slow, however, and the feeling of defeat ran through the convoy. Then we reached the harder sands and flat rocky plains which characterize the Western Desert. The convoy picked up speed, but we knew that it was no use. 'Kiwi' would have to wait another day.

We were constantly evacuating wounded, even while on the move. The ambulances picked up casualties from occasional skirmishes and drove them back several miles through the convoy to the Main Dressing Station.

After Fuka, the New Zealanders cut North, coming out to Mersa Matruh. The Germans had gone through the day before. We had missed the real catch. But the Royal Air Force didn't miss them. From Matruh to Sidi Barrani, up Hellfire Pass, past Tobruk, and on to Benghazi, the fighter-bombers followed the black asphalt ribbon and strafed Jerry, cut his transport to bits. I thought of roads in the south of France where Stukas screamed 'murder' to refugees by the thousand. France will be happy to hear of the victory at Alamein. Some day they themselves will have revenge.

The remainder of our American Field Service company was along beside the 8th Army, chasing the enemy from Egypt and through Libya, evacuating wounded which were by that time, mostly prisoners.

At Matruh, we of sub-section 6 dispersed our ambulances and slept.

WHEN ED FENTON LEFT the United States for the Middle East he succeeded in getting on a boat that was torpedoed. That was the first strike against him. Eventually he arrived here and went to work in the desert.

In carrying out his duty one night he had despatched his patients and was returning to his post over a much-travelled track. He hit a mine in the road and completely wrecked his ambulance --- he was unscratched. That was strike two.

After walking five miles back to a medical station, he had an officer take him in a pick-up truck back to his ambulance to salvage personal belongings.

Approaching the ambulance, the officer commented, "Why, you were right in the middle of the road."

As he said "road," the truck hit a mine and was wrecked.

Fenton escaped unscathed --- strike three.

THE "TRAIN" RIDE from Cairo to Syria, a penal imitation invoked against all newly arrived volunteers, is an indignity not even imagined by the devil himself . This trip, past the River Jordan and the Sea of Galilee, is a punishment worthy of its evident purpose to avenge the partaker of higher civilization

As a matter of fact, however, it is probably the most interesting pilgrimage ever made by any of the hundred neophytes comprising a new unit. It's one of the things you can't imagine until you try it. Perhaps the best way to describe this odyssey is in the nature of s chronological date chart.

Wednesday noon: The new candidates tear themselves from Shepheard's porch, taxi to that which is glorified by the name railway station in Cairo, and board what is taken for the Toonerville trolley, but what turns out to be the train for Haiffa.

2:00 The volunteers, crowded six to a compartment in deuzieme classe, decide to partake of some of the bottled stimulants purchased for the journey.

2:05 Seven natives come through one after another offering to change your money, already changed from good old U.S. frogskins into Egyptian piastres, known as pistachio notes or disaster money, into Palestinian mills. The rate of exchange is found to vary within reasonable limits --- say 30 percent.

3:00 The train stops and a great assortment of native peddlers, dressed in their dirty laundry bags, start vending stale peanuts, punk candy, called Amerikani chokleeate which is made somewhere east of Suez, and varying species of nauseating pastry.

3:10 The train stops and a great assortment of native peddlers start vending stale peanuts and ---

3:20 The train stops and a great assortment of native peddlers ---

3:30 The train stops and a great --- It is now discovered that these gentlemen, who make Ebbets Field hot dog venders seem like Cambridge scholars, just get on the rear of the train and get off to pursue their profession at every station. They yell in the windows on both sides of the train. Their "what the traffic will bear" method of merchandizing catches several volunteers paying four or five times what others are paying. The price bickering make the Lucky Strike tobacco auctioneer sound like a rank amateur.

3:40 The train stops and a great --- This ten minute routine lasts all the way to Haiffa, the only variation is that for sometimes the stop is for five minutes, sometimes for half an hour, depending, it is said, on when the peddlers give the engineer the high sign that business has slowed down enough to permit the trip to continue.

4:00 Another team of vendors has joined on. They are selling delicious tangerines and oranges which are to be bought at every stop for the rest of the journey. These Palestinian oranges, selling at this time two for the piastre are the best in the world.

5:00 We stop at a routine settled place where a bunch of Arab huts are planted, and find to our mingled surprise and delight, a NAAFI (Navy, Army, Air Force Institute) Canteen where all sorts of food is available, and at very decent tariffs. These are to be found every three or four stops and they are darn good --- a credit to British organization.

6:00 Dinner is served. No dining car, but rations are passed out liberally. We were warned that there would be little food on the way. This is a lie. We had regular rations plus NAAFI meals plus all the odds and ends brought along by individuals plus stuff purchased from venders.

7:00 The train stops for an hour and six volunteers with the greatest crust pile into the local officers' club and have dinner. Talk with a British Medical officer, who wanted to know if such barging in was not a "bit irregular," wandered from Wally Simpson to stories about the amputating of arms and legs at Tobruk. Such talk spoil the appetites of all the stalwart volunteers within earshot.

9:00 The fact that we are on a Middle Eastern "sit up and suffer" begins to strike home. We w came over on a luxury liner and spent last night in Shepheard's begin to realize that this is war.

12:00 The considerable number of imbibera in spirits alcoholic have all decided to get some sleep. Some of them take up room for two so several polite and tolerant volunteers are forced to stay up most of the night. Interest now centers on the card game in one of the compartments. It is played by four fugitives from spaghetti who are being conducted by three "Tommies". These ancestors of New York's fruit peddlers had been getting a mermaid's view of things from the Mediterranean, but now were having a wonderful time travelling second class with a deck of cards and plenty of cigarettes issued by the British. They make it known in Venetian French that they are happy. We allow in Brooklyn French, imagining an Axis concentration camp, that we don't blame them.

6:00 (a.m. --- Thursday) The sun comes up and finds us in the orange orchards of Palestine. The countryside is quite attractive. Some of the guys have slept four to seven hours. Most of us settled for two. The train has run out of water. The scenery is so interesting, however, that everyone is happy. The train has stopped at NAAFI's several times during the night and most of us had partaken generously of the 6 cent quarts of tea.

10:00 The oranges are now four to the piastre about a cent a piece and they are bigger and better than ever.

12:00 We arrive at Haiffa and change trains. The staunch volunteers hail a taxi and go to the best hotels for lunch. The soldiers en route get a can of cold bully-beef on the train.

1:00 We change trains and are off for Damascus. This new excuse for a train looks like it was built from an Erector set only it's a little smaller.

2:00 The rolling hills of rural Palestine which are to be with us for hours offer interesting scenery. This, mingled with the replenished supply of alcoholic beverages and oranges, now selling seven for the piastre, make the daylight part of the trip highly bearable. We continue to stop every few minutes to let on and off varying quantities and qualities of natives known to us as "these dam' foreigners."

3:00 We pass the River Jordan and the Sea of Galilee. At this point three merry-makers take to riding in the engine and oblige the stoker with a spare beer. The shrill whistle is heard to toot even more often, A Haiffa taxi driver is brought into conversation. He speaks Arabic, Yiddish, English, French, Spanish and Italian all right, but his Russian and Turkish leave something to be desired.

4:00 Volunteer Oats pulls off the prize barter of the trip: 19 oranges for one can of sardines. We are climbing the mountains and may have to get out and push. The natives wear pants whose crotch is below the knee. Volunteer Gerhardt starts the story that Mohammed said the next time he comes to earth he will be born of man---the men wear these pants to be sure and catch him.

5:00 It is getting chilly.

6:00 It is chilly. There are no lights on this train. It is dark and the trip is really becoming an ordeal.

8:00 We stop at a sizeable village and have soup in a local restaurant ---not bad either, when mixed with a shot of abysinthe. The train toots and the proprietor has to tackle Volunteer Fogg as he follows the rest of us out the door. He pays the check and jumps on the wrong train. He runs over a mile to catch the right one as we pull out. He curses quietly for the next two hours.

10:00 It is no longer chilly. It is cold. Our great-coats are not heavy enough. There is no water. There is no hooch. Everyone is sick of oranges and bully-beef. Some of the volunteers are afraid they may die. Others are afraid that they may not.

1:30 We reach Damascus and are submitted to the unspeakable indignity of carrying our baggage 400 yards to the waiting AFS trucks. The soldiers and AFS die-hards go to the transfer camp to sleep The rest of us stay in the better hotels, don't you know. Highlight is breakfast when a dozen U.S. army nurses, all second lieutenants, show up --- and here we are several thousand miles from nowhere. Spirits begin to pick up.

8:00 We report to make the trip to Baalbeck. It is found that the Syrian pound is worth one ninth of the Egyptian pound. Thus there are 10,000 mills to a fin, 20,000 to a sawbuck. The shoe-shine boy gets a 100 mill tip; hang the expense.

10:00 Former OC Ted Borger's ambulance ceases to run en route to Baalbeck. The good man is embarrassed to find, after applying the motor mechanics course we had on the boat, that we are out of gas.

12:00 The unit arrives at Baalbeck. Headquarters are in a former French Foreign Legion barracks beside the ancient ruins of the Roman temple once there. We have completed the trip thus far without any fatality and now rate ourselves as real men, hearty soldiers of fortune. So saying, the volunteers head for the local hotel for cocktails, dinner, and a bed with sheets. Those who accept headquarters accommodations find the food good and the barracks not bad.

Syria, our home and training ground, is an interesting country. We have now travelled some 15,000 miles at British expense and are about to start making ourselves useful. We are delighted to find that the AFS is very well thought of in the Middle East. Having spent several times the monthly allowance in the past few days, it is time to settle down to the job at hand.We believe we are equal to it.

Back in New York there was a nasty rumor to the effect that an ambulance, just like the old man's car, has to be repaired and maintained. This, unlike, the "nurse with every ambulance" rumor, has proved to be true. Now the whole maintaining business is simple enough --- all you have to be is a master mechanic, and an engineering degree from MIT makes that a cinch.

New volunteers put on their monkey-suit work clothes and gather around the ambulance for an illustrated lecture by a Royal Army Service corps Sergeant-Major or some less important dignitary. It is found, most people would guess, that the engine is under the hood. This having been established, the professor proceeds to point out various strange mechanical contrivances under said hood. He identifies a group of little white porcelain gadgets as spark plugs. He speaks of such phenomena as gaskets and distributor pins. There are no two ways about it, every one of those baffling devices has a name and worse still, a purpose.

Now to maintain an ambulance, there has been devised a fiendish method, fondly referred to as the 16 tasks. This, it is soon discovered, does not mean that there are 16 things that you must check every month. It means, alas, that every day there are one or two of the 16 tasks to perform and, thanks to British modesty, each task is made up of at least 16 separate operations.

The company headquarters' workshops offer a month course in mechanics to volunteer volunteers. The "black gang" that takes this course, possibly one per cent of AFS personnel, learns how to do the 16 tasks. The rest of us are set loose with a bag of tools and given carte blanche.

The system merits looking into. First of all, inspect the exhaust manifold brackets and the front trunion block bearing assembly bolts...tighten if located, otherwise leave alone. Be sure to report all defects.

Lubricate thoroughly the crank case draincock plugs and the valve gear cover plate timing joints. Report defects. Inspect the flanged radiator tie-rod bonnet fittings and for heaven's sake don't forget the fan spindle pump gland bearings. Examine the radiator for leaks ---any alcohol is denatured. Bear in mind that the banjo unions must be flat on the carburetor face.

Remember the butterfly spindle bearing. Remember the strangler shaft joints. Remember the suction flange filter. Remember Pearl Harbor. Be sure that the steering system's split pins, looking plates and tab washers are in place. Check radiator again and make sure that the alcohol is denatured, if not, remember that overtightening may cause serious damage.

Inspect the following for wear: king pin couplings, pedal shaft bearings, battery mounting terminals; next inspect the bevel pinion housings and the hub bearing studs for backlash; forget about what is or isn't in the radiator.

Stop looking at your watch. Check the cross shaft bearing brackets. They may be too close to the bolted servo-hydraulic mounting. If so, apply artificial respiration.

You have now completed Task 1. You many re-enlist for another year by writing to 60 Beaver St. --- W.P.

AT LEAST TWO AFS MEN besides laboring for the American Field Service have found outlets for peacetime talents. Donald Neville-Willing of the Cairo office has appeared on programs of the Egyptian State Broadcasting system, and Rock Ferris, well known concert pianist recently gave a concert in Beirut under the auspices of the Army Educational Corps.

Neville-Willing, an hotel executive in peace time, regards his performances as merely a hobby, but expects to further indulge in his favorite hobby in the future.

Ferris' concert despite fate and the weather was most enthusiastically received. Having travelled many hours and having been detoured by snow and storm, without so much as an hour's practice since leaving the States several months before, Ferris arrived cold and wet an hour after the concert was scheduled.

However Ferris soon captivated his audience, opening the program with selections by Brahma and Chopin, followed by three examples of the modern Spanish school, with the third group ranging over Liszt, Debussy, Cyril Scot, and Liszt's adaption of Wagner's Liebstod.

NUTS TO YOU. It's too bad we can't give Jerry credit for a neat bit of sabotage or camouflage or some such on this one.

Near Tripoli Charles O'Neil and Howard Weisberg discovered a grove of trees, which bore some very tasty nuts. Such a wonderful chance of supplementing their rations was not to be passed up, and they set to with a will, eating huge quantities according to the report received here.

In the all too normal course of events, they discovered that they had been devouring castor beans, and they followed an all too normal course of events.

EVERYONE HAD HOPED TO GO to the Desert from Syria with a group leaving in February, but I learned that my number was just over the quota. I had wanted to go. Naturally I thought of my actual assignment and I found out soon enough. Raqqa was to be my station --- reputedly the worst post in Syria.

A few days later six of us climbed into a 3-ton lorry and proceeded to bump our way to Aleppo. It got colder the further north we got, and if we weren't getting sprayed with rain, we were being blinded and choked with dust.

We spent a night on the way at the Aleppo headquarters. Located on the top floor of a spacious building, a former apartment house, it has been converted by the English into very comfortable quarters for themselves and AFS men. Our men have two large rooms where they sleep comfortably on stretchers. They have their own mess, which includes a kitchen, complete with cook, and two young Arabs called Joe, and Joe's Brother. There is a real bathroom with a luxurious bath-tub and shower.

Bright and early the next morning we left for Raqqa. It was a welcome halt when we eventually arrived. The road had been so bad that it branched into five or six tracks every few yards, so that the driver had to shut his eyes and hope that he had picked the least pot-holed one.

A group of tents situated about 100 yards from the Euphrates river comprises the Raqqa post. It is a very lonely, dreary, and desolate spot, but not as bad as everyone claimed it to be. Because it is situated on an absolutely flat, bare stretch of land, the wind whistles about penetrating everything.

The frequent rains naturally make Raqqa and the surrounding terrain a veritable mudhole, and one gets used to seeing everyone dodging pools of water and sloshing and staggering about in the mud.

The weather is most fickle. When the sun is out, it is warm and pleasant. Occasionally this happens for a few hours during the morning, but then the sun suddenly disappears (if it has been out at all). It is then that one feels the cold. Quite often it begins raining or even hailing.

One redeeming feature of this desolate post is the food. We have few complaints. There is an eight-year-old cook who outdoes himself to please, and always keeps plenty of bread, tinned jam, and butter before us at all meals. On a typical day our menu will run something like this --- Breakfast: hot porridge, heated canned bacon, not too good coffee, and occasionally the cook's version of French toast. For lunch and dinner there is usually M & V or bully and curried rice. M & V is tinned meat and vegetables --- recent innovation in Syria.

We settled down for the work before us. Alone, desolate, bad perhaps ---but here we have a job to do.

The following notice is inserted by the N. Y. office:

Parcels arriving in the Middle East for men who have left for the States are distributed to our men in hospitals. We feel sure this is in keeping with your wishes, as it would, of course, be utterly impossible to return them.

Stephen Galatti
Director General

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Index