"You make me sick," said Butch as he gathered up his R.O.T.C. maps and headed for his own room. Gene looked at me and smiled.
"Butch will be a general some day," I said.
"At least he may graduate from college---which is more than either of us will do at this rate."
I mumbled something about "Poor Butch" (thus putting the finishing touches on our routine weeknight nine o'clock ritual) and settled down to a lengthy discussion about the war---or maybe about girls, or Thomas Wolfe, or rowing, or people we didn't like. As I remember, those were the main topics of conversation between Gene and myself at that time.
The three of us had roomed together during junior year and had enjoyed ourselves in many and various ways. Now that senior year was five weeks old we were still managing to live together fairly peaceably and had even added some new pleasures to our everyday existence. For one thing, I had managed to persuade the director of the Athletic Association that a telephone would be a useful addition to my life. The telephone had just been installed, and I worshiped it tremendously as a symbol of all sorts of things, particularly as a symbol of minor prestige. Then the janitor had presented us with a wooden ice-box, and we'd stocked it with beer. To make life even more complete, we'd bought a new phonograph attachment to our radio (on credit) and Andre Kostalanitz and his orchestra made the evening mellow with renderings of "All the Things You Are," and so on.
At times like this the war seemed a long way off, and yet at odd moments of the day or night I'd sometimes get a sickening feeling that it wasn't so far off really and some time in the not too distant future I'd have to rush off and leave the life of friends and conversation and beer and Princeton that I had learned to be so fond of. I never had the feeling that we were wickedly fiddling while Rome burned, nor do I feel now that my college days were in any real sense wrong or shallow. The sickening feeling was really a mixture of fear and bewilderment. The war seemed so wrong to me that I wanted to have nothing to do with it; or I felt I should accept the inevitable and go quickly before I had a chance to think about it too much. Aside from---or perhaps I should say alongside of---this subjective emotional feeling about the war, I was ready to argue at any time of the day or night that it meant national suicide for us to enter the war, and I always entertained grave and vociferous doubts as to whether the British Empire was fighting our war, or Freedom's war, or any other war that was not a belated attempt at survival. It seemed to me that the war could end only in a stalemate of exhaustion with very little left of the liberty we prized, other than perhaps a few meaningless phrases turned into weapons of hate and intolerance.
Perhaps I'd seen too many pictures of Mayor Hague's bully boys acting in the name of "Americanism." The only "get up and go to war" argument that had ever really shaken my stanch isolationism was that employed by an older friend of mine, who stated simply enough that the house of our neighbors was being burned by the worst kind of criminals and it was high time we should do something about it. Perhaps, at times, I did have a twinge of conscience at the spectacle of brave men fighting with their backs to the wall---very much alone.
At any rate I knew that there was something very big going on; something that might just possibly require more than a rationalized abhorrence if any sort of understanding was to be reached.
Sometimes---and especially during my long conversations with Gene, who was by way of being a very exceptional person---I'd get to thinking about moving around and seeing things for myself. At such times I was quite ready to rush off and do anything. So it happened that when an old friend of mine, back from various adventures with the British Ambulance Corps, wandered into the room on such a typical evening and announced his intention of sailing for Egypt with the American Field Service, I immediately took interest. Within four days I had resigned from college (leaving a few bills unpaid and several papers unwritten), received my family's blessings, and was more or less signed, sealed, and delivered into the hands of the A.F.S.
In spite of the fact that I always liked to think of myself as something of a radical during my years of prep school and college, I must confess that I did acquire certain very conservative and mellow tastes. I acquired a marked partiality for gray flannel suits, black sweaters with the proper six-inch letter on the back (not too big), and people who laughed at the right time. Needless to say, it was something of a shock to find myself dumped on a huge troopship with a hundred other Americans of every type and description---to say nothing of six thousand English. men who reminded me not at all of a brief visit to the Henley Royal Regatta in the summer of 1938. As I remember now, I alternated between feeling like a very small boy far away from home and a very superior being, smugly convinced that most of these people were utterly beyond the pale.(1)
Of course I had given myself all sorts of stern little lectures on the importance of keeping an open mind and a stiff upper lip, but nevertheless I was a ready victim of disillusionment and consequent discouragement. For one thing, I had imagined that a group of ambulance drivers, rushing off to a war not necessarily their own, would be a mixture of three parts idealistic humanitarians to one part "Soldier of fortune." It hadn't even occurred to me that I came under neither of these headings myself. I guess I expected to find rough diamonds---but still obvious diamonds. For another thing, my preconceived notions about England and Englishmen were rather too heavily drawn from Cavalcade, Rudyard Kipling, and jolly boating weather---in spite of my "hard-headed" isolationism.
Needless to say, my discouragement was premature. It seems that during two long days and one long night of traveling toward our port of embarkation, I had been very superficially observing my new companions of the American Field Service. For the most part we (although I didn't include myself at the time) looked tired and frowsy and generally down on our luck. For all the world like a lot of fifth-rate brush salesmen, with a few unfrocked ministers thrown in, sitting on a train going nowhere. The rest of our adventurous group was made up of that minority which managed somehow to maintain a continuous and unbelievable state of intoxication. These were the soldiers of fortune---or misfortune---when the flesh could not keep pace with the spirit.
By the time our convoy had made its impressive way out of the cold northern port, my first shock of meeting my comrades-without-arms was over, and I was giving more attention to the problem of troopship life and close association with countless numbers of Englishmen who were fast losing the glamour of full packs, gleaming buttons, and the stirring strains of "Tipperary."
The first forty-eight hours on board the transport were something like the first two days in a new school. Homesickness and smugness were temporarily set aside as I nerved myself to the business of eating and sleeping, and maybe even washing, among so many strange people. For that brief period I looked upon the English soldiers as older boys and was impressed beyond measure as I saw them singing and laughing with all the proper nonchalance and swagger that older boys should possess. Never having had anything to do with the military before, I was so properly subdued that I even forgot to worry about whether or not the A.F.S. boys were all that I had imagined they should be.
After the first few days, however, all sorts of things began to change. Life had become considerably more routine, and the business of waiting in line for a meal was no longer an adventure; an atmosphere of boredom and discontent began to settle over large portions of the ship. Furthermore, we had made considerable progress to the south, and the heat was terrific,
The British had discarded their winter uniforms, and the ship seemed overrun with bad-smelling, pasty-looking men dressed in oversized shorts. They used to play a game called "'ousey-'ousey"---a kind of bingo---and the air was filled from morning to night with numbers yelled out and repeated in the oddest accent I had ever heard. To make life even more unpleasant, practically the entire ship's company was fast coming to the conclusion that not only that particular ship, but the world in general, could do very nicely without the A.F.S. This feeling was brought to a head one evening when one of our number staged a one-man drunken riot and had to be carried off to the brig.
We were berthed in regular troop quarters---twenty men in a cabin meant for two---on a long corridor which was constantly teeming with an overflow of ambulance drivers and Tommies. I had the misfortune to be living in the same cabin with the one-man riot. It really was a sensational and climactic affair. We had already attracted more than our share of notice by virtue of the fact that we were completely without training or discipline of any sort. At best we weren't an impressive sight. We were dressed in the oddest assortment of civilian and "military" clothes the world has ever seen. We had much too much baggage to fit in our given space. We hadn't the vaguest notion how to keep ourselves or our cabins neat and clean. We either couldn't understand or wouldn't read the formal rules and regulations, and our officers managed to keep themselves well over on the proper side of those boldly painted lines which marked the end of our world and the outer perimeter of theirs.
Of course, the key to the whole situation was lack of experience with any sort of military life or discipline. Under the proper circumstances our officers could very well have left us completely alone with full confidence that we would settle into a normal routine as a matter of course. It wasn't any one's fault particularly, since the main object was to get us overseas in a hurry and train us later. Our officers were simply obeying the old precept: when in Rome do as the Romans do, and the Romans (or British officers in this case) quite naturally spent very little time playing mother to their men.
Had things been different, the ninety per cent of us who were normal, healthy escapists (with perhaps more than a touch of idealism and restlessness thrown in) might have learned to understand and even appreciate one another in short order. Certainly we might have learned not to confuse one another and the organization as a whole with the meager ten per cent who left a trail of shame and bad repute over half the world before they were gradually eliminated.
Things being as they were, it's small wonder that some of us, including myself, were guilty of what might be called a bad mental attitude. There's nothing wrong with complaining about heat, crowding, five-thirty reveille, boredom, and so on, but it got to the point where I couldn't enjoy the company of any except a very "select" group of people, and where I became extremely critical of most of the Tommies, partly because I couldn't understand what they were saying (or wouldn't) and partly because Englishmen really do look odd when they're fresh out of England and stripped down to those short pants they wear. I was unhappy about the A.F.S. simply because I never could get detached enough to accept people for what they were instead of for what circumstances and my own lack of understanding made them seem to be. In spite of my "bad attitude" it wasn't so very long before I ran across a certain number of people in our ranks whom I immediately respected---and craved the respect of.
There were older men like John Wylie, Fred Hoing, and Chan Ives---trained teachers and lawyers who had given up their civilian occupations because they were really interested in doing a job of work in this war. There was Andy Geer, a professional writer, who had been something of a boxer and football star at the University of Minnesota in the twenties. Andy had seen a lot of the world and planned to see some more, but that didn't keep him from wanting to do a real job while he was at it. Then there were younger men---Tom DePew, late of Colgate and Oxford, who was the most amazingly Christian person I had ever run across in my young life. I must confess I thought he was kidding some one at first, but no, as a matter of fact the guy actually had a sense of humor. Bob Sullivan was another character---a top-flight amateur heavyweight boxer, he managed to mix a genuine kindliness with an Irish toughness and sincere love of adventure. Another boy for whom I acquired a tremendous admiration from the first was Bill Nichols, a Harvard lad who was the most honest-to-God gentleman, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, that ever lived. It was impossible for Bill to do anything without giving it his best. Of course, there were other men who were immediately outstanding from many points of view, but I always thought of the really outstanding people as being something separate and apart from the Field Service as a whole.
I can't pretend that I suddenly came under the influence of the high type of men and changed my outlook overnight. I just don't learn that quickly. But I did begin to find certain pleasures in life, and by the time the voyage was three weeks old and we were beginning to speculate on our position in relation to the South African coast, I had arrived at the point where I could wake up in the morning and put a very good face on the prospect of another day at sea.
The daily routine, which started off with reveille and stand-to with life-jackets at 5:30 A.M. and ended with lights out at 9 P.M., included nothing more strenuous than three meals a day, an inspection of quarters, and perhaps an occasional lecture on army organization or first aid. I'm afraid I can not boast of any great hardship, and we were so well convoyed that danger was almost non-existent. The most annoying thing about daily life was that we had to eat our meals off long wooden shelves, standing throughout, squeezed in with a tremendous crowd of soldiers. The main problem of the day was what to do between meals. Every inch of the ship either below decks or above was crowded with troops---except, of course, the forbidden territory reserved for officers or ship's crew. For a while it seemed that the only way to pass the time was either being jammed up in one's bunk, going slowly mad to the rhythm of housey-housey numbers being shouted up and down the corridor, or leaning up against the rail on deck, watching the water go by. The main trouble with the latter alternative was the fact that it had the same rush-hour atmosphere as the mess hall without benefit of food. Finally some of us hit upon a solution of sorts. We dug up some boxing gloves and disported ourselves on that portion of the deck reserved for petty officers. Apparently the petty officers were laboring under the illusion that we were training there for some sensational affair, because they never saw fit to throw us out. So it happened that I was introduced to the world of amateur boxing.
I always think of the hours spent on our special deck with a great deal of pleasure. I didn't enjoy being pommeled about very much, but it was good exercise, and it really was a wonderful opportunity to get out in the sun and to appreciate the impressive spectacle of a well-escorted convoy. For reasons I can not mention here, we were so well escorted that the number of navy craft accompanying us was almost double the number of troopships. One couldn't help feeling at times like the King of England reviewing his fleet as our guardians went through their paces. I never tired of watching them, because there was always something new to see. I could always count on either a new formation or at least new background supplied by the ever-changing scenery of sky and sea.
I got into the habit of going up to our special deck practically every day. At first I didn't like to go there when there were too many people around, because I was such a poor boxer; so Ken Ungerman, a good friend of mine, used to spar with me until I finally lost some of my self-consciousness, and as we approached Capetown I was ready to think about entering a novice boxing tournament.
By the time we had been to sea for three or four weeks I'd pretty much forgotten about America and her problems, though I still took time out occasionally to argue with Fred Hoing or Chan Ives about the advisability of our staying out of the war. I knew from the ship's bulletins that the Japanese Government was talking things over with ours, and I knew that Roosevelt had told the Japs that he'd like to see them behave themselves, but I didn't figure that the United States was in any position to do anything about it, and the question seemed largely academic to me.
On the night of December 7th I was lying in my bunk, thinking about all the food I was going to eat in Capetown, when suddenly the word came round that the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor. "I don't believe it," said I---largely out of habit, since it was always advisable to believe nothing that any one told you on that floating rumor factory. Yet suddenly I felt that it was true. My immediate mechanical reaction was to join the crowd in the hallway who were saying pretty much what every other American was saying at the time.
We certainly said some silly things: "Yellow bastards." "Beat 'em in two weeks." "Sink their navy." "They must be out of their minds." "How about Hitler?" "We'll finish this war off properly now." "What in hell are we doing in this limey outfit? Our own country's been attacked and I am not going to stay here: no, sir, I'm going home and fight the Japs." And so on, far into the night. Needless to say I put in my share of nonsense. I was in a great mood for nonsense because I wanted to feel that now we were in it maybe we actually could see it through in a hurry and perhaps do an overnight job on the brave new world I'd heard so much about.
When I finally crawled back into my bunk it was with a sick heart in spite of all the fighting words. I was terribly homesick---not just for home and family but for the kind of world I'd lived in. The thought of any sort of new world, brave or otherwise, suddenly became frightening. I thought of the schools I'd gone to and the friends I'd left; of hockey games and crew races and summers spent on the Sound, sailing my own boat or trying I to teach kids' to handle boats so that they could get the same thrill that I did out of matching their skill and luck and sense of "feel" with that of others. I may have been living in an evil world in the larger sense, but I had led a very happy life. So much for my immediate reaction to the dreadful news.
In the morning the entire ship was buzzing with news of the Pearl Harbor tragedy and for the next three days we stood around talking, through our hats. One thing that bothered some of us, particularly in the cold light of day, was that now our dream of returning to a peaceful and hero-worshiping America at the end of our year's enlistment was shattered. Also some of us who had felt rather adventurous about rushing off to war were unpleasantly disturbed to think that, even in America, there would soon be nothing very spectacular about any one rushing off to anything. Something of a let-down. In war time you really do have to glamorize what you're doing in order to get the proper thrill of conceit.
There was only the space of three or four days between the news of Pearl Harbor and our arrival in Capetown. For some reason the sight of land put the war practically out of our minds, and we turned our attention to speculations and rumors about shore leave and the prospect of enjoying the world-famous hospitality of the South Africans.
When you've been cooped up on a troopship for over a month, any sort of land is sure to be appreciated. However, it would require a first-rate poet to describe the joy that the sight of Capetown brought to our hearts. Even from a distance we could tell that Capetown was just what the doctor ordered. The climate at that time of year was spring-like; the city looked sparkling and clean and modern in the best sense, and the surrounding country-side was a delightful composite of spectacular hills rising above green and prosperous fields and valleys.
It seemed to take our ship forever to get to the quayside and tie up. Hours before there was any possibility of going ashore we were dressed and polished to a point where we looked almost military. The Tommies were suddenly transformed into smart-looking soldiers in their tropical uniforms and sun helmets, and I noticed for the first time that somehow they had snatched sufficient sunshine and exercise on board so that their deathly pallor had given way to a reasonably healthy complexion. The entire atmosphere of the ship had changed. For the first time every one was getting along with every one else---except, of course, for the fact that we all joined in an unreasoning hatred of any power, naval or military; which might keep us from getting ashore without delay.
Finally we were informed that the ship would spend at least four days in port and that we would all be granted daily shore leave, provided we behaved ourselves and reported back by 11:59 each night. Our immediate reaction was mixed: "Four days sound good, but I'll be damned if I'll come back to this tub every night."
My own visit to Capetown was not too exciting: suffice it to say that I went swimming daily, did a certain amount of drinking and an awful lot of eating, and thus enjoyed myself tremendously. I was thoroughly impressed by the South Africans. They may have their racial and minority problems, and they probably have no intention of creating a political world of equality for all, but they certainly have a beautiful country and are about the nicest people, on the whole, that one could ever hope to meet.
Some of my good friends managed to spend their nights ashore, in contravention of regulations, and I came very close to joining them. A combination of ambition and the fact that some of the older people whom I respected felt so strongly on the subject accounted for my religious observance of the rules---though I do think there was much to be said for those who viewed the matter from the stay-ashore angle.
As usual there were a certain number of Field Service boys who diligently applied themselves to the task of seeing to it that the A.F.S. was publicly shamed by their individual actions: wearing campaign ribbons and decorations which the wearers had never won the right to display, leaving unpaid hotel bills, and doing some unduly raucous tippling just as a starter.
It was hard to leave Capetown when the time came and even harder to settle down to troopship life once more. There was a good deal of speculation as to our next stop. I think that we were all hoping and praying that it might be Port Tewfik (Suez) or at least somewhere in that general direction, but we were doomed to disappointment.
It soon appeared that the novice boxing tournament was about to start, and so, with considerable trepidation, I lined up for the great weighing-in ceremony one morning. Every time I'd look at one of the hundreds of soldiers in line I'd breathe a silent prayer: "Oh, God, I hope I don't have to fight that bruiser!" I couldn't understand why the Tommies had ever seemed small and pale. What could I have been thinking of? When I learned that I was to fight in the lightweight class (I weighed 136), I immediately had some one point out a lightweight to me. There was never such a grizzly-looking customer.
I had a few days of grace in which to "practise up"---that is to say, Bob Sullivan let me poke at him and then clouted me in an offhand manner. Then one evening came the awful summons to present myself on the sports deck at ten o'clock the following morning. I was really ready for the big fight. My left shoulder began to ache---I'm left-handed---I decided I had an awful cold in the head, and I had worn a groove in the passage leading to the W.C.
Morning finally came, and at ten o'clock my disgustingly cheerful seconds (Andy Geer and Bob Sullivan) poured me into the ring. I never felt worse in my life. There across the ring from me was a smallish British infantryman. I must admit that he was small, but then, hadn't I read some place that British soldiers learn Commando tactics? To make matters worse, I suddenly realized that this fellow was going to try and beat me up in front of an awful lot of people.
"Hit him in the stomach," said Andy.
"This is going to be easy," said Bob.
"How do you mean?" said I.
All of a sudden I found myself standing alone in the ring with my opponent. Obviously I was expected to do something about it. With a strength born of sheer nervousness I hit him in the face with a left. Nothing happened. I hit him again with a left to the stomach. He bent over slightly, and the expression on his face was such that I half expected him to say: "Pardon me, but I can't quite hear you." In desperation I threw a wild right-hand punch. To my complete surprise the guy fell down. I didn't know what to make of it and stood there gaping at him for a bit until Andy shouted me back to the corner. The boy got back up on his feet.
"Jesus!" thought I. "He's going to want to hit me now.
As a matter of fact I guess he did hit me a couple of times, but I landed one more lucky punch, and, to my great joy, they stopped the fight and waved a little red flag signifying that I had won.
I never felt better in my life. In fact, I felt so well that I almost forgot to shake hands with my erstwhile opponent. He really was very small, and his mouth was bleeding, and he looked more hurt with me than angry. I felt a little foolish just for a second, but I got over it in plenty of time to climb out of the ring just as I'd seen Joe Louis do in the movies---but feeling about twice as tough as Joe ever did.
I continued to feel twice as tough as Joe Louis, imagining as I swaggered around the ship that all eyes were glued upon my marvelous physique, all voices whispering, "There goes Killer Thomas," until the dreadful day when I was notified that the time had come for me to meet my second opponent. Unfortunately, this new threat belonged to the same regiment as the late lamented; furthermore, he proved to be a rather better physical specimen. I had the misfortune to meet this fellow before we went into the ring. Trying to make conversation, so that he wouldn't be too mad at me, I asked him if he were as nervous as I.
"Yes," said he.
"Impossible," thought I.
Still, I went into this second fight with a certain amount of confidence that it was possible for me to win. Bob Sullivan advised me to try to finish the fight off quickly, so I started out with a great rush. At first things looked very promising. At the end of a minute I had my man crouching by the ropes and was unharmed myself. I backed away slightly, planning to hit him with everything I had just as soon as he should straighten up enough so that I could see him. I guess I must have let my mind wander momentarily because the next thing I knew he had come out of his lair and was delivering some very effective blows. This was quite a different story from my first fight: I'd been hit fairly hard, and didn't know how to clinch, so I stood there wasting my energy on a lot of wild and ineffectual punches that couldn't have bothered him in the slightest. As the round ended and I returned to my corner I found that I was suddenly terribly tired. The interval between rounds was taken up by Sullivan, telling me how it was "in the bag," and a doctor, examining a cut under my eye which proved to be nothing serious.
I started the second round with better science than I had finished the first. Again I managed to get my man against the ropes, only this time he got in a few good punches beforehand. He came away from the ropes, clinched, and suddenly delivered such a beautiful punch that I spun completely around and thought seriously of lying down for a nice rest. Somehow I managed to resist the temptation and kept on fighting---more or less. These preliminary fights were only two rounds long, so the fight ended with both of us gasping for breath and pawing at each other. We weren't in A-1 condition.
We were kept sitting in our corners for a bit while the judges made their decision. There were two judges, and their votes were split. Properly enough, the referee awarded the fight to my opponent. He was kind enough to make some polite comment before awarding the decision, and I was well pleased enough to be able to make a fairly dignified exit from the tournament. However I didn't feel exactly like superman any more.
Some of my friends were also in this tournament. Tom DePew, who was fighting in the same weight class as myself, managed to put away three of his opponents before bowing to the fourth in a truly spectacular battle. Of course, Bob Sullivan was the heavyweight champion of the ship, having won his crown in a special tournament prior to the novice bouts. The boy who defeated me was put out of the tournament on a default in the quarter finals, so at least I did not have to see him beaten.
By the time I had finished my ring career, Christmas was almost at hand, and we had learned, much to our surprise, that the ship's convoy was headed for Bombay and would arrive some time during Christmas week. Christmas Eve was quite a melancholy affair. Some of us had got together and formed a very small glee club which provided us with a real, though brief, pleasure in singing with various :groups of Tommies. However, in spite of the singing, the whole ship had an atmosphere of dejection which didn't connote so much a lack of Christmas spirit as, a profound and universal homesickness. Furthermore, the ship was bone dry, and we spent most of our time hoping against hope that New Year's Eve on shore might provide us with some sort of cheer.
Christmas Day was nothing very special to most of us except that we did get a turkey dinner and managed to be extra nice to one another. In the afternoon the Brigadier presented the boxing prizes, and I had the good fortune to draw down a dollar watch as a "best loser" prize. That doesn't sound too impressive, but it gave me a terrific thrill to line up with all the other prize-winners on the sports deck and go through the little ceremony of saluting and shaking hands. As he presented me with my prize, the Brigadier said, "I saw your fight, and I'd rather have this prize than anything." I don't think I'll ever forget that Brigadier as long as I live.
On December 27th we had our final disembarkation inspection, and on the next day we caught our first glimpse of Bombay and the gateway to India.
There are a lot of things floating around in Bombay Harbor, and you can look at it any way you want. Louis Bromfield would (and apparently did) find it hot and sticky in a very romantic way; a travelogue commentator might marvel at the meeting of east and west, and a young American, seeing it for the first time from the deck of a crowded troopship, might make a good many unfavorable comparisons between this and happier anchorages such as Capetown or New York. If you are really interested in dhows and battleships, garbage and minarets, then Bombay is an exciting harbor. Personally, I was interested in the possibility of getting close to some of the more obvious twentieth century luxuries and was rather disappointed in the generally unpromising view.
None of us could understand just why we were in Bombay, and we all had hopes of being transferred immediately to some ship bound for Suez---allowing time for maybe a couple of days' riotous living in the city. It didn't work out that way.
Within twenty-four hours we had been herded into third-class railway carriages, in company with a few hundred Tommies who had likewise been detached from the convoy, and were heading for the reinforcement center of Deolali, about ninety miles inland from Bombay. Apparently there was no means of transporting us to Suez, and we were to spend a "few days" in camp waiting for a suitable luxury liner.
We had been given a free afternoon and evening in town, and I had spent a morning supervising the. unloading of our excessive baggage by the native. bearers, so that, by the time we boarded the train, I was already an authority on India. I had decided that the natives on the wharf were slaves to the British Army and to white men in general---at least they did look tired, dirty, and unhappy, and had to listen to an awful lot of abuse from every one, including myself; that the Taj Mahal Hotel was really a nice place and full of, some elegant officers, and that all Bombay outside the Taj and environs was an unspeakably dirty place. Most of us had heard fabulous tales of Grant Street, which is lined with brothels, and consequently we spent a good deal of time looking the situation over. Suffice it to say that the situation is not good. In a sailor's tattoo parlor operated by a black midget who looked like a monkey, I had acquired a tattoo in the form of a snake on my left forearm during the course of our half-day's leave, and, as I rode on the train for Deolali, my profound thoughts on India were occasionally interrupted by a genuine concern for the throbbing arm.
I always feel unhealthy on train rides, and this one was no exception. In spite of some beautiful stretches of rolling green country and fine hills, I found it depressing to be sitting there feeling hot and tired, and I wasn't at all sympathetic toward the swarms of native children who crowded along the track screaming, "Baksheesh," (tips) every time we passed through an inhabited area. The inhabited areas were depressing enough in themselves---filthy hovels built of wood and mud, set among crudely irrigated fields and giving off that typically oppressive Indian smell which seems a combination of new-mown grass, urine, and fertilizer.
Now that I had become an authority on all matters pertaining to India and the Indians, I was surprised and disappointed to find that, instead of experiencing the anticipated thrill of righteous disapproval of Imperial Britain, I rather wondered how white men had ever found the necessary energy to exploit this land.(2)
At the end of an all-day train ride we arrived at Deolali station and were "marched" out to the reinforcement camp. I have it on good authority that we were mistaken for Italian prisoners.
Deolali isn't a bad place really, and although we were constantly fretful at the delay in getting on our way, we spent a very beneficial month there.
Our officers followed their usual practice of keeping to themselves except on special occasions, and Andy Geer, who was by this time a sort of top sergeant, managed to organize a fairly successful daily routine. We slept in rope-and-frame beds in barracks made out of woven matting with concrete floors and were cared for by our own Indian bearers, who were paid a rupee a week (thirty cents) by each of the five or six men served, in return for which the quarters were kept clean, beds tidied, and shoes shined. Laundry was cheap, and it was a wonderful luxury to live in clean clothes for a change, even if the clothes were more or less ruined. The food was terrible (fried onions and some sort of water-buffalo meat for the most part), but it was nice to have a mess hut to sit down in.
Reveille (or as the English say, "Revalley") was blown by a fancy Indian soldier at daybreak, and we were supposed to race out into the icy cold morning and do "PT" (physical training). Then after breakfast and a sort of inspection, we were supposed to drill in the barrack yard---a very hot and dusty business. Most of us didn't do the PT, but we did manage to show up for drill. Our afternoons and evenings were usually free to take trips around the country-side and drink beer in the canteen or stronger spirits in the local hotel. Aside from the fact that we had more free time and a lot less military discipline than the Tommies, our life was that of private British soldiers at a soft camp.
We were divided into three platoons with a platoon leader and sergeant to each platoon, and I was temporarily given the job of a platoon sergeant. This pleased my ego and ambition, but it was very embarrassing in some ways---particularly as I was supposed to instruct in the fine art of drilling, and I'd never drilled before in my life. At first we must have looked like awful fools to the British soldiery watching us drill, and most of us thought it was silly for ambulance drivers to practise infantry formations; nevertheless, the drilling did us a lot of good. For one thing, it's bound to be worth while to have a hundred individualists who aren't particularly fond of each other do anything together, and for another thing it always helps an individual's esprit de corps if he can see his associates looking fairly healthy and uniformly dressed, for a change. Of course, Andy had a terrible time trying to persuade an occasional adventurer that green underwear and rolled stockings weren't exactly fitting for the parade ground, but on the whole we did look respectable, and some of us began to loosen our hold on the conviction that every one besides ourselves in the A.F.S. was a freak.
I spent most of my off-duty hours with Bob Sullivan, the big Irishman; Ken Ungerman, my original boxing instructor; and Homer Spurlock, a sailor who, had a sailor's easy attitude about everything but his hatred for the A.F.S. Unfortunately, I gained a certain amount of well-earned unpopularity by trying to live up to their natural swagger---which didn't come very natural to me. However, it was well worth while, for they proved to be three of the best boys that ever lived, and we had a wonderful time together.
The four of us spent our leisure time poking around the near-by "towns," bicycling to the "holy" city of Nasik, about twelve miles away, and drinking up Sullivan's money at the Lemur Hotel---a small local establishment where we were allowed in the officers' bar. Personally, I didn't have the interest or vigor to appreciate many of the local sights. The towns in particular always depressed me, with their atmosphere of poverty and disease and their awful smell. I don't think my depression was caused by mere snobbishness, but rather by the fact that the decay seemed so ageless and so complete that it left me with a weariness which overwhelmed any realization that perhaps this was a challenge to a world engaged in a terrific struggle for a better life.
We did see some beautiful temples which presented a shocking contrast to their surroundings; witness to the fact that if man's life on earth is not an it might be, he can always turn toward the supernatural. That sort of thing may be all right if man can think of this life as nothing but a short period of waiting and preparing for the real thing. Personally, I don't get it.
I kept myself fairly happy during our stay in India largely because I didn't give myself time to sit around thinking gloomy thoughts. It was a good healthy life, with plenty of exercise---especially when a couple of route marches were added to our drilling routine---and I was getting to know and appreciate more people than I'd had a chance for on the ship. I was a bit too busy "swaggering" around to keep touch with some of the quieter people whom I had looked up to from the beginning, but I saw enough of Tom DePew so that I didn't make too many mistakes. When I'd get disgusted with the Field Service on account of the antics of a few members, Tom would remind me that the important thing was to do my own job as best I could; when I got to feeling unfriendly toward people I couldn't understand, Tom would try to supply me with a better understanding, and when I was feeling low about life in general, Tom did his best to restore my spirits.
The poor boy had to provide a lot of support at odd times, but he never begrudged it in any way.
I'll never forget one particular occasion when I called on Tom for help. I was returning to the barracks from the Lemur Hotel at about eleven o'clock on New Year's Eve when I saw one of the A.F.S. boys stretched out in the middle of the parade ground, stiff but not quite cold. I walked over and picked up the body, but no sooner did I start toward the barracks than the body began to wriggle and moan. "This is getting to be a two-man job," thought I. So I set down my burden and roused Tom out of bed. We picked the boy up and were making good headway when suddenly he came to life, and the three of us hit the ground in a heap.
"I'm going to kill you," said I.
"Go on---kill me; I want to die in India," yelled the body and proceeded to thrash around and chew at the earth. Tom and I got a firmer grip and somehow propelled the screaming hunk of would-be ambulance driver around the corner of the barracks. By this time the entire camp had been awakened: the Tommies were yelling for quiet, and half the Field Service had come out to see the fun. Encouraged by the audience our man went into his act with new vigor. The act was terminated abruptly by the arrival of Andy Geer and the threat of severe discipline---a bluff, since there was no such thing as discipline in the A.F.S. at that time---but before Andy arrived we put in a very embarrassing half hour trying to persuade the character to put off his "death in India" program until another day and let us get some sleep.
There were a number of veteran British soldiers in camp who claimed to have seen action in Egypt and Libya. These soldiers spent a good deal of time filling us new-comers full of harrowing tales of war---all about how they seldom took prisoners but usually despatched their enemies by thrusting a hand grenade between their legs, and so on. These veterans didn't appeal to me much, but by this time I had acquired a marked respect for the British Tommies. I had now been living among them day in and day out for over two months, and I had to admit that you couldn't judge them by their stature, the peculiar whiteness of their skins, or their unfamiliar manner of speech. The most amazing thing about the rank and file of the British soldier is his ability to carry on under almost any circumstances. He has a courage, a lack of imagination, and a willingness to fight for the honor and survival of his country, himself, and his mates, which can't be beat. It must mean an awful lot to be an Englishman. It's hard for an outsider to understand just how much it does mean. British Tommies will crab about their lot in life from morning until dusk. Sometimes they sound as if they were on the verge of mutiny, but British Tommies have always fought and died for England, and their sons will do it, too. Maybe the ordinary English people will demand something more out of life before they are willing to go and fight the next war, but, if they don't get it, they'll probably still "carry on" and hope for better luck next time.
Toward the end of our month in India, Sullivan, Spurlock, Ungerman, and myself were given four days' leave which we spent in Bombay. Our activities were pretty largely confined to sleeping in the Grand Hotel and drinking in the Taj barroom, though we did manage to make our way out to the Towers of Silence, where the Parsees dispose of their dead---in a manner which seems as sensible as any---by exposing their bodies to the tender mercies of the birds, the sun, and the rain. We spent some time with a couple of officers of the Indian Army--one of whom had a phonograph and a large selection of Strauss waltzes, which made me very nostalgic---and we went to a night club where a British sailor stole the show from the belly dancer by chewing and swallowing his beer glass. We didn't find much in the way of female companionship. They were all too fancy or not fancy enough.
When we returned to Deolali we were greeted with the pleasant news that soon we'd be on our way to Egypt.
One dark night we were marched to the railway station---looking fairly military---and the next day we were embarked on the ancient tub which was to carry us to Suez. The trip was a matter of two weeks and was uneventful enough except that most of us were supposed to sleep in hammocks down in the hold and that the food was terrible and full of animals.
As we came in sight of the sandy harbor of Port Tewfik (Suez), with its mass of shipping riding under a blue sky dotted with the sliver shapes of barrage balloons, I experienced a thrill of excitement, heightened by the first small twinges of fear. So we really were going to war! Up to this point I had given little thought to the physical dangers which might lie ahead and still less thought to the actualities of the job we might be expected to do. Although we'd been more or less a part of the war for three months now, still the war had seemed quite vague and unreal, and the business of driving an ambulance had never presented itself as anything more than a slightly dangerous humanitarian pastime which shouldn't provide too severe a test for one's personal adequacy.
Now I had my doubts that I could ever qualify to perform any sort of useful service in such a grim and gigantic game. It was something like entering an important examination in a subject which I had neglected to study properly---only this time I really hadn't cracked a book. It seemed to me that we were a bunch of junior high school kids who had suddenly wandered into a graduate college by mistake.
To make matters worse, we were called to an assembly while waiting for the order to disembark, and Andy Geer (who had acquired a flare for the sensational in his career as short-story writer for Red Book ) informed us that the honeymoon was over and we could "expect to be in some sort of action within ten days." Luckily, Andy was talking through his hat. As we lined up to go down the gangway I managed to catch a few words with Colonel Richmond, who had flown to Cairo ahead of us to make arrangements for training and equipment. Richmond let slip the information that we could expect to be working shortly, but the work would be in Syria, a lovely, quiet country. I felt much better---though somewhat let down.
Once ashore we were loaded on to three-ton lorries---standing room only---and trundled off toward the Royal Army Service Corps mobilization center. We didn't get on the truck until late afternoon, and it was a long, cold, four-hour ride. I really didn't feel any discomfort, since my mind was taken up with the newness and excitement of passing through this fascinating area which had been converted into a base of service, training, and supply for the army in the Western Desert. As darkness fell, we could see searchlights crisscrossing in the sky, and occasionally we'd pass a brilliantly lighted area surrounded with barbed wire and watch-towers. It all seemed quite romantic. At about ten o'clock we turned off the macadam road on to the gravelly desert and drew up to the cluster of army tents that had been assigned to us by the Service Corps. Here we were given a very hospitable reception by a number of British soldiers, who served us a hot meal and showed us to our tents. The soldiers seemed quite impressed by the fact that we were Americans, and they certainly went out of their way to be helpful and decent. It meant a lot to us under the circumstances to be able to go directly from the truck to eat and sleep without the usual confusion involved in getting settled at a new camp. When I rolled up in my blankets that night I hardly noticed the stony ground underneath and immediately lapsed into a state of restful unconsciousness which wasn't broken until morning.
At the crack of dawn we were up and going through the soon-to-be-familiar routine of standing in line with our mess kits for a portion of porridge, sausage, and tea. By the light of day I could see that the mobilization center consisted of hundreds of confusingly similar tents pitched in a desolate waste of rocky desert. A few hundred yards away I could see the black road, flanked by a large canteen tent, the "Garrison Cinema," which looked like a wooden barn, and the administrative headquarters tents.
Immediately after breakfast we were drawn up in formation and informed that there was a job waiting for us in Syria but that we were to remain at this center for a couple of weeks for the purpose of drawing equipment, receiving a certain amount of instruction, and being organized into what is known technically as an Ambulance Car Company.
At the risk of being previous, I will explain how the British system of medical evacuation is organized.
Each infantry battalion or artillery regiment has a medical officer and stretcher-bearers who are part of the battalion or regiment. This medical officer is known as an R.M.O., or Regimental Medical Officer, and he operates what is known as a Regimental Aid Post---usually a truck or a dugout located near the battalion headquarters. This is the first center of treatment for a wounded man.
When a casualty leaves the R.A.P. he becomes involved in the Field Ambulance System. "Field Ambulance" is the name of a medical unit (not a type of vehicle) which, in the case of infantry, theoretically serves a brigade made up basically of three battalions and an artillery regiment. A Field Ambulance has a certain amount of tentage and medical equipment, eight to twelve doctors, a number of medical orderlies, and anywhere from six to twenty ambulances driven by army service corps drivers. The unit is divided into three companies, one of which is sent out to establish an Advance Dressing Station (A.D.S.) somewhere near brigade headquarters, while the remaining two companies establish a Main Dressing Station (M.D.S.) farther to the rear. The ambulances attached to the Field Ambulance have the job of transporting the patients from the R.A.P. to the A.D.S. and on to the M.D.S. The patients are usually carried from the M.D.S. to a Casualty Clearing Station (a sizable mobile hospital) by ambulances belonging to what is known as a Motor Ambulance Convoy.
A Motor Ambulance Convoy is a group of vehicles commanded by a medical corps officer but operated largely by service corps personnel. In theory, the patients are transported from the C.C.S. back to base and general hospitals by ambulances belonging to an Ambulance Car Company. An A.C.C. is part of the service corps and is commanded by a service corps officer, though it must of necessity take direction from the medical authorities. Actually, A.C.C.'s and M.A.C.'s get all mixed up and may be given almost any sort of job. I imagine that we were originally organized as an A.C.C. because we had no medical officer commanding us and because it was simpler to organize us as a bastard service corps unit, since we were to receive service corps equipment and instruction and eventually to have service corps cooks and workshops attached as an integral part of our company.
The Royal Army Service Corps was indeed a good host to us during the next two weeks. They provided us with tents, food, and cooks; they equipped us completely with British uniforms (warm woolen "battle dress"), steel helmets, gas masks, packs, webbing, etc. They loaned us an officer and a number of N.C.O.'s for instruction, and they provided us with vehicles---trucks, motorcycles, and some of the Dodge ambulances the Field Service had shipped over (many of our cars were already in Syria). The Royal Army Service Corps is an organization primarily concerned with transporting supplies and equipment to forward areas and operating light workshops, supply dumps, and Vehicle Reserve Depots---some of their work has been taken over by the ordnance corps---but they managed to handle the influx of a hundred green Americans as though it were a routine responsibility.
We spent the first two days drawing equipment, and on the third day we found that a detailed plan of organization had been posted, together with a schedule of instruction. We were divided into two platoons with Andy Geer as lieutenant of one platoon and Chan Ives (Yale '30, S.E.C. lawyer) as lieutenant of the other. Captain King, who had been our commander in India, was created commanding officer of the new company, and the other officers who had started out with us, Colonel Richmond, Major Benson, and Lieutenant Ogden, were to hold down the fort in Cairo. A sergeant was created for each platoon, and the platoons were divided into six sections of six men each, under a "section leader" (corporal).(3) Immediately Captain King had to listen to an awful lot of crabbing about personal dissatisfactions over place or station. The crabbing went on interminably and is probably still going on, but at that time I was pleased enough to find myself a corporal in Geer's platoon, with very good men in my section.
Being a corporal involved some extra work and responsibility, because the N.C.O.'s were obliged to attend special lectures and because I never could keep track of Sullivan and Spurlock, who, were in my section. On the whole, however, I put in two very profitable weeks at the "Mob" center. We had a Tommy N.C.O. instructing us in vehicle maintenance, and I couldn't understand what he was saying, but the R.A.S.C. lieutenant who lectured us on map reading, sun compass, prismatic compass, the responsibilities of an N.C.O., and army forms turned out to be the most interesting and successful teacher I've ever run across. The sun compass is a particularly fascinating instrument. It works on the same principle as a sundial---you set the round plate according to course and date, and then, making allowances for time and position, you keep your vehicle headed so that the shadow of the pointer falls on the proper hour and off you go. The dullest part of the lectures had to do with army forms. There are a lot of 'em.
We were required to practise driving the ambulances, trucks, and motorcycles in convoy. I was delighted to find that I could very nearly handle a motorcycle, and I almost enjoyed driving the ambulances. I still wouldn't know a good ambulance from a bad one, but our American Dodges were delightfully new and easy to handle; furthermore, they had as little mechanical trickery as any truck could have, and they were blessed with four-wheel drive. We soon found the value of the four-wheel drive when we took a short run through a sandy stretch of desert.
Now that I was learning something and had actually driven an ambulance for the first time, I began to feel that maybe the war wasn't so far over our heads after all, and there seemed to be a good chance that we would be able to do a job. As the strangeness wore off, I got a good deal of pleasure out of pretending that I was some sort of soldier, particularly in the evenings when a group of us would go to the "Garrison Cinema" (age-old pictures with the reels in backward sequence) or drink beer in the N.A.A.F.I. (Navy, Army, Air Force Institute). Although we did a lot of complaining about being uniformed as British soldiers, I think we must have all felt a certain thrill at being part of this army which was actually fighting the war.
At the end of two weeks our orders came through to get under way for Syria. Each section leader was given a sheet of convoy orders and assigned a single ambulance and a motorcycle which would be the responsibility of his section. The orders gave full, information as to formation, interval---150 yards except through towns---convoy discipline, time, and so forth. Our destination was given as Beyrouth---a two-and-a-half-day trip.
We started off early in the morning, driving in an easterly direction, and within a few hours came to the Suez Canal. We came in sight of the Canal just in time to be thoroughly impressed by the spectacle of a large gray warship seemingly ghosting its way through a sea of sand. At the Canal I left the security of our ambulance and with a beating heart and a tremendous lack of confidence took over the job of riding a motorcycle. The bikes we'd been issued were light and extremely easy to handle, but it seemed like a terrific adventure to me to find myself suddenly alone and at the mercy of a machine which I hardly knew how to start and had never operated more than fifteen minutes all told, and then in first gear. It took me an hour of experimenting to find that the thing had a third and fourth gear.
Actually, I wasn't supposed to ride the motorcycle at all. But Sullivan, who was supposed to be our main rider, had gone A.W.O.L. a few nights earlier and had lacerated his arm in a fight with a Cairo window-pane. To this day I am grateful to Sully for giving me such a glorious trip. I was bitterly cold most of the time in spite of my woolen battle dress, heavy overcoat, gloves, and crash helmet, but once I got used to the machine, I scarcely noticed the biting February winds as I roared along, pretending I was a motorcycle cop or a very special despatch-rider or hardened trooper. I'd hate to take up motorcycling as a business or hobby, but I certainly enjoyed that first thrill of power.
Our first day's journey took us along a winding black tar road through the Sinai desert---miles and miles of mountainous rolling sand---and on the second day we entered Palestine. The Palestine I saw was definitely not part of the "shepherds with their flocks by night" tradition, though it certainly called to mind the Jewish search for a promised land. It's quite an experience to come across the Sinai waste and suddenly find yourself in a country of fertile red soil, fruit trees, and clean white houses. Of course, we passed through only a thin strip of the country, and that at an ideal time of year, when the warmth of the noonday sun softened the February winds sweeping in from the sea and the air was full of springtime, but what little I saw of Palestine seemed just about ideal to me. Any one who thinks of the Jews as a race of money-lenders who grew rich on the toil of others should take a quick trip through Jewish Palestine and see the beautiful communities the Jews have established through their own labors and in the face of every obstacle.
On the third day we crossed the Syrian border and passed through the picturesque French towns which lie on the seacoast beneath the Lebanon Mountains. In the afternoon we arrived at the army transit camp on the outskirts of Beyrouth.
I understand that at one time Beyrouth was widely advertised as the Paris of the Mediterranean. Well, it was rainy and cold while I was there, and I had an awful cold in the head which prompted me to spend all my spare time sitting around the most American-looking hotel in town, the Normandie, so I didn't get much chance to draw any comparisons with the Paris I knew---which was the Paris of the movies. It did occur to me that under proper weather conditions, Beyrouth undoubtedly would have a charm of its own. There is a nice-looking harbor; the houses are mostly white or cream-colored with red roofs, and a fine range of green hills with cultivated terraces rises about the town.
When we first arrived at Beyrouth it was thought that most of our assignments would be in the vicinity of the town, but after three days of waiting around, our commanding officer received orders that we were to relieve the Australian Service Corps ambulance drivers who had been stationed in small sections all over Syria.
The sections which had been made up back in Egypt were altered to allow larger numbers of drivers for some stations and fewer for others, and I found myself assigned as second in command of a larger section, which was to be stationed at Deir Ez Zer, on the Euphrates. I was very unhappy when I learned that I was no longer in charge of a section of my own---particularly since I didn't at all like the man who had been put over my head. His name was Dick Tevis; he was a big, good-looking California college boy whom I had always thought of as a no-account character who didn't seem to have much besides his looks. For good reasons, he didn't care for me too much either, but by the time we had been thrown together for a few days I learned that Dick was a very capable fellow in his own easy-going way. Anyhow, we got along very well and had some good times together. The section also included my good friends Sullivan and Spurlock; Tom Esten, a first-rate painter; Leo Marx, a big good-natured man who had been driver mechanic in my original section; Jack Pemberton, a law student; and Johnny Nettleton, who was something of a mechanical genius. A very congenial group.
Andy Geer shepherded us to Deir Ez Zer. We were piled into a couple of spare ambulances (our Field Service cars were already at the post being used by the Australians) and made our way across the beautiful Lebanon Mountains to a transit camp on the outskirts of Damascus and thence across some four hundred miles of open desert to our destination.
Deir Ez Zer turned out to be a collection of mud and plaster houses on the banks of the muddy Euphrates. We were housed in a very nice-though freezing cold-white plaster house situated in an American Presbyterian missionary compound on an island in the middle of the river. The missionary hospital had been taken over by the British Army, and was staffed by a young Scottish captain-doctor and a handful of Indian orderlies.
The Australian ambulance drivers gave us a friendly welcome---though they freely admitted that they were sorry to be relieved of a good soft job---and explained our duties to us. The duties involved nothing more than indenting" (that is, putting in a request) for "rations," a word which includes all necessary supplies, once a day at the supply depot; taking care of five ambulances; and perhaps making a trip each week to carry a few venereal disease and dysentery patients to Palmyra---half-way point between Deir Ez Zer and Damascus.
There really was no need for the number of ambulances or the number of men we had at Deir Ez Zer, since the town boasted nothing more in the way of a military establishment than a sub-area headquarters, a small number of engineers, and a few hundred Indian infantrymen. Consequently, we spent a good deal of time, once we got settled in our quarters, rolled up in our blankets trying to keep warm. We hired an Arab cook who turned out some wonderful crępes suzettes made with issue marmalade, kept ourselves reasonably well supplied with beer and imported English gin, and generally lived the life of gentlemen of leisure. A strangely unsatisfactory life on the whole.
At first I enjoyed loafing around and found many small pleasures to keep me happy. It used to be great fun to watch Homer Spurlock bartering empty petrol tins for eggs with the Arab children, to argue pacifism with Jack Pemberton, or to mix ersatz cocktails under the expert supervision of Dick Tevis. Sometimes I even overcame my distaste for the "French" (Arab) cafes in town and spent an evening drinking bad wine and listening to a big Irish fusilier from area headquarters sing sentimental songs. After a couple of weeks, however, the life began to wear on me. Aside from a couple of dull rides across flat, uninteresting desert to Palmyra and back, I didn't get a smell of anything that looked like work, and the situation got to be pretty demoralizing. I made up my mind that the Field Service was a no-good organization, never would accomplish anything, and ought to be disbanded immediately. I turned into a strange sort of super-patriot and decided that I had been cut out for the job of Jap-killer and was wasting my talents in the A.F.S.
Every week or so the mail would be brought out to us from the Field Service company headquarters outside Beyrouth, and we'd catch up on the latest news of the rest of the men. Invariably there would be a story on the activities of one or a number of people (the original "soldiers of fortune") who had stolen an ambulance and gone on a drunken spree, or had added to the good name of the A.F.S. by embarking on a career of theft. Every damn thing from insulting British officers to breaking store windows, and always the same small group which had made life difficult from the first was involved. The thing that drove me crazy was that nobody seemed able to do anything about it all. Of course, this was all a matter of "growing pains," and the bad actors were eventually weeded out, but at the time I was ashamed of the Field Service insignia on my uniform and flooded the company headquarters with letters of "resignation." Actually, I thought I was just too good for the A.F.S. Now that I look back on that period I am thoroughly ashamed of my own lack of faith: the only consolation is that perhaps I might not have had such an insufferable attitude if I hadn't had so much time to sit around and think.
Fortunately for me, my thinking days were numbered. By the kindness of Andy Geer I was put in charge of the ambulance section at Palmyra for the second half of my two-month stay in Syria.
Palmyra was a far cry from the luxury of Deir Ez Zer. In fact, without much alteration, the place could very well have served as a setting for Beau Geste. The town itself is a small collection of Arab dwellings under the shadow of the famous ruins of Queen Zenobia's capital. Outside the town there are three old-fashioned French forts, two of them deserted and one garrisoned by native levy troops under French officers. Together with a signal corps section under the command of a corporal, and a handful of R.A.S.C. men, likewise under a corporal, our ambulance section occupied one of the deserted forts. Aside from the ruins of the ancient city, the only scenery worth looking at for over a hundred miles in any direction was a steep, symmetrical, cone-shaped hill with an old Turkish castle perched on top. I was very fond of that castle, but to my way of thinking the French forts and the town itself could have been, and probably will be, swallowed up by the surrounding wastes of rock and sand without any loss to the world.
The fort we lived in was particularly unattractive. No light, no water---we had to cart it in tins from a well on the other side of town---no sanitation, and very little protection against heat or cold. However, in spite of everything, I was a little better off in Palmyra than I had been at Deir Ez Zer.
I suppose the best thing about Palmyra as far as I was concerned was that here I was boss of my own section, and, although our only "work" consisted of sending a couple of ambulances across the desert to Damascus once a week, I could occupy my mind by playing efficiency expert. I used to write a daily report of everything that happened. I checked each of our five ambulances with the driver mechanic practically every time I saw one of them; I made countless inventories of our little store of blankets, stretchers, and bed-pans, and I wrote countless official-looking documents pretending that we were in dire need of all sorts of impossible equipment which I knew we'd never get, and sent them off to platoon headquarters in Damascus. I found that if you are really looking for something to do you can even spend time reading the routine orders that are always pouring in from "headquarters" in any even vaguely military organization.
Of course I couldn't spend all my time playing efficiency expert, so I had plenty of time to enjoy the company of the drivers in my new section. I used to argue politics with Jim McGill, a conservative Baltimore lawyer who had a fine sense of humor and an intelligent mind but who was always baiting me with statements such as: "The only reason why some people in America don't get enough to eat is because they're always buying Packard cars." I used to spend a lot of time talking to Ed Pattulo, a recent Northwestern University freshman, about girls and what a terrible place the world was going to be after the war---they were not related subjects. Once I went out fox-shooting with Thane Riley, a naturalist who was collecting specimens for the University of California, and managed to kill a fox, though it took so many shots, and the fox was so badly mangled, that it wasn't any use as a specimen.
Whenever I felt like clearing the cobwebs out of my brain, I'd climb up the hill to the old Turkish castle and sit there looking down at the ruins of the ancient city, which somehow took on shape and form from that vantage point. I never could appreciate those ruins when I got right up to them: they just seemed like a lot of old rocks.
Our immediate superior at Palmyra was Captain Banerji, in command of the Indian staging section which maintained a sort of overnight hospital in town. Banerji was an Indian Brahmin, a big handsome fellow with one of the kindest and most philosophical minds I've ever run across. I frequently stopped in to visit Banerji, and he'd always greet me with a big smile and---"Ah, Mr. Thomas, I am so glad to see you. Now we'll have some whisky." (I never saw him take a drink himself. It was always for his guests.) Then we would sit down and talk about the war. Banerji hated the war, but he had a sense of duty toward it that came above everything else. He used to tell me that he had learned to "detach" himself from his home and family and the things he loved, so that he could see it through to the end.
I was in Palmyra at the time that the Cripps Mission to India went on the rocks, and I remember asking Banerji why Gandhi was never willing to compromise. To which Banerji replied: "I do not agree with Gandhi myself, but you must remember that Gandhi believes he has found the truth---and there is no compromise with the truth."
I was quite upset by the course of events in those days, and I once had a long conversation with my Indian friend about what a bloody mess the world had got itself into. I'll never forget Banerji's closing remark to this conversation. He said: "After all, there must be some power for good in the world. You and I are entirely different by age, nationality, race, and religion, and yet we sit here, we talk as two human beings, and we understand one another."
Besides being a philosopher, Banerji was also one of the most tolerant men in the world. One time I got very irritated with the French commandant of the local garrison, who was always trying to bluff me into lending him our ambulances and drivers, even though he could have got all the ambulances he wanted if he'd taken the trouble to go through the proper channels. I told Banerji that I thought it shameful the way some of the French officers in Syria went parading around in trick uniforms, drinking great quantities of native liquor, and sleeping with female camp-followers, while their own country was enduring such suffering and humiliation. Banerji had had plenty of trouble with the French himself, but instead of damning them he went to great lengths to explain to me that one should feel nothing but sympathy and understanding for men whom we were inclined to condemn because we were unable to put ourselves in their places. Another time I drew some unfavorable comparisons between the desert Arabs, who seemed like a clean, self-respecting lot, and the town Arabs, who seemed like a lot of degenerate beggars. Banerji wouldn't even listen to such talk.
What with Banerji, the castle, the efficiency game, and the good company of my friends, it didn't seem long before the day came in the latter part of April when we were relieved by new men fresh from the U.S.A.(4) and were brought back to Egypt and the R.A.S.C. (Mobilization Center) to organize for new assignments with the famous Eighth Army.
While we were on the troopship the news from North Africa had been so good that we had been generally worried for fear the fighting would be over before we should have a chance to take up our work. However, by the time we arrived in Syria, Rommel had driven the Eighth Army out of Benghazi and back to within thirty miles of Tobruk. While we were in Syria, there were frequent rumors of an impending attack, which made us anxious to get to the desert in a hurry.
By the time our two "veteran" platoons got down to the mobilization center in Egypt, the Field Service had rid itself of most of the smart boys who had been giving us trouble, and we were all set to go, our morale greatly lifted by the fact that at last we were going into action. We spent a couple of weeks getting additional training from Royal Army Service Corps instructors and drawing brand new ambulances and summer equipment. On the fifteenth of May we started westward on the long journey to Tobruk. This time my section was made up of Bob Sullivan, Jim McGill, Ed Pattulo, Bill Nichols, Peter Glenn, and Jim Crudgington (my old Princeton classmate who had introduced me to the A.F.S.: he had become an authority on British Army traditions and was then known as "The General"). I had special reason to rejoice in that all these boys were personal friends of mine.
The trip to Tobruk was quite an adventure. There were no Germans dropping down from the sky to impede our progress, but once we got west of Sidi Barrani---the point farthest east which the Axis forces had threatened---there was plenty of the atmosphere of war. Derelict vehicles, planes, and guns were scattered along the coast road, and as we passed by towns bearing such famous names as Solum, Capuzzo, and Bardia, we were able to look for ourselves and get a pretty good idea of the fierceness of the battles that had transformed these places into such awful shambles.
The coast road passes between the Mediterranean on the north and the desert on the south. It is (or was) the main artery of supply for the desert forces. The soldiers of the Eighth Army call the desert the "Blue." You can see what they mean when you drive westward on the coast road. It seems to wind on endlessly; it extends to the horizon and beyond the horizon. It literally passes into the blue.