The Riley Historians

We were missing Leo today in class. 

I picked up five new digital voice recorders at Staples this morning and sat down with the students and showed them how they worked.  They spent a few minutes looking them over and then broke up into two groups (of two) and interviewed each other for about five minutes.  After listening to the interviews we talked about them and then the kids switched places. 

After a few tries they got together and picked twenty questions to ask me and took turns interviewing me.  They then broke apart again and listened to the tape for follow up questions.  We had a very productive and fun two and a half hour class this morning.   Next week we are looking forward to interviewing some of the Riley School teachers!

Riley Historians – Update

Phew – the kids have been busy, busy, busy the past few weeks! Lots of practice interviews happening amongst themselves and with me.

Last week they interviewed Glenna, the school’s Founder.  They worked together to come up with a list of questions and took turns asking them.  This Thursday they will be listening to their tapes and take some notes.  Hopefully they will start to write as well!

I am out of town for the week so students will be working with Christine Chamberlin, of Camden Writers on Thursday.

Next week we are off to Quarry Hill!

November 11, 1943

On the alert to move in a few hours, was the story on Nov 8. I find the record of the past 7 1/2 weeks abortive. I shall try to summarize the high spots, first pointing out that fact that my letters to Doris constitute a running summary of chief events. In the early days, about Sept 29, we fixed up the tent fairly well, had a trench dug, wooden slots put in as a floor. The alerted outfits, Capt. Lewis, Fantus, Joe ? etc, finally left after a false alarm alert, about 2 weeks after their arrival. Went on to New Zealand as they suspected, leaving 5 platoons desolate and forlorn, at the mercy of the 8th Gen. Then began anew the Battle of the 8th Gen. the arid, disintegrated aspect of the place, as evidenced by no one meeting us on the grounds when first we came, the hurried ever busy air of everyone, lack of congeniality was rather amazing, and contrary to all the levels of camaraderie usually established by countrymen on foreign shores. 30 31 Of course, our immediate necessity was totally American, and the town was overrun by us. Thatched barracks were a-building. Let me divide the account into its most impressionable aspects. Colonel Miller proved an unmitigated louse, and the most unpopular CO ever in my experience. And this conclusion was personally drawn by Kelly and me long before its corroboration. It seemed that I had left the tent ward about 2:15 after doing some history and physicals and clearing up rounds. I was very sleepy and took a nap. Kelly came in and was outside when I heard the Col. bawling him out for not being on the ward in no uncertain terms. I hastily arose, eyes sleep drenched. The Col. went up and down tent row looking for more trespassers – found me. He was almost apoplectic, with suppressed rage. Immediately to the wards! We went without a word and because we talked with each other about his disproportionate anger over such a matter came the parting of our paths, at which we lingered in earnest discussion. Up pops the Colonel again, full of disgusting rage about our delay en route. This time we really went. Spoken to next day by Capt. Riehm, my immediate boss, about it and about. We sure tread easy around there after that. Of course we achieved a violent dislike, based on our prejudiced attitude. But the expressed opinion of so many was quite abusive and amazingly frank at times. Let me mention the category of ineptitudes I have compounded thru discussion. The treatment of us platoons was most miserable, the responsibility being his, since betterment could have come from there. Co. Miller was living in his splendidly isolated thatched hut, with running water, shower and orderly service, and his 2 subordinate Lt. Cols, both elderly men also, were still in tents, still had to chase after water do occasionally minor washing in helmet. The garden about the hut was reclining. The enlisted men hated him most violently because he had never done anything for them – always to them. They had no place to foregather of on an evening except their barracks, (same thing with officers – we all stuck to our tents!). Swimming in the Donbra River was a treat, and one of the real advantages of the place. How simple to improve the approach, or provide a platform, a line perhaps, or diving board. This was done, but not directed by official action – made by the men thru their ingenuity, and ingenuity it was to make a small diving board and a trapeze hanging from long ropes from an overhanging tree, which carried them from the board, from other trees on shore a long, swinging arc over the water, release hold and dive in. The mess was poor. The cooking was pretty good, but the wherewithal was missing. One of the worst messes on the island, by those with a variety of experience. The PT was also bad, finally improving to a pallid mediocrity, from tent to building of its own. Smallness, during Sat morning inspection, running finger above the window ledge, and pointing to dust, in a dusty atmosphere where walls have not been completed as yet, where even one end of the ward was on earth floor, where construction activity was still violent and feverish, where ward staffs were inadequate. These are signposts. There are many more. Lt. Col White was bitter in his hatred for him, and displayed it openly for all to see. Come the denouement, when Col. M was relieved, his inner circle organized a public (and appropriate following day) function of farewell for him. Some eulogies, a poor song dedicated to him, and the Cols tearful speech of gratitude, even mentioning from an overburdened conscience about Cpl. Stokes, whom he had denied access to OCS despite his intelligence, zeal, and courtesy, and who, he declared was much happier in his new found religious experience as assistant to the Chaplin. This reference turned the mental stomachs of most of those present, as I found out later. The acid and bitter comments later expressed were most amazing. I can only say that those who he had not swayed by the largesse of promotions he had made (not Capt. Sailer, head nurse, in only 3 months, Capt. Eccles, Maj. Williams) respected only his rank, and not the man. The Col. explained his new assignment as a response to his volunteering to go up north, near the front lines, to relieve any worthy, war weary C.O. 32 33 He had been accepted. His actual reluctance to go was well known. Surprise 1 week after departure, when Col. Miller enters the 8th Gen Hosp. as a patient with goiter? is boarded, and is waiting for plane transportation to states. We now come to Capt. Richman, my boss, a little, grey haired man with marked Hungarian accent, aged about 48, married 8 years, of considerable intelligence, of a philosophical disputatious nature, that was superior. He was a good physician, knew his medicine, as well as his specialty of allergy, taking the exam for Bd. Of Int. Med. He could be nice. But his natural professional instinct, combined with his function of command made slaves out of his staff, of whom I was one. Even my internship was loaded with more responsibility, and less detail, administrative flunkey type of attendance. He threw up his hands at the overmuch amount of paper work required by the hospital and proceeded to add much more of his own in his effort to systematically organize the care of all his pts. He was systematic and thorough, I grant you and knew about all the pts in his service, but this he could do only by driving the chariot, with Frank Stevens, Kelly, for awhile (later left Captain Tachou) and I in harness. It was disgusting to be told to cut rounds short and do histories and physicals, neglect the patient for the paperwork, which was behind any way. Added to this he held court at 8:00 AM every morning, first to make sure we were there on time and secondly to parcel out the particular work he expected to see done that day. An odious way of doing such. Then he wanted a 7:00 o’clock conference to discuss administrative problems of certain patients, usually dictating while Stevens (or I when I couldn’t help it) wrote it down. A damned secretary. It was true that he was ever busy with something. In fact his office in Ward 15 really looked occupied. The walls were covered with lists of numerous categories. There were at least 15 lists, including the asthmas, the skin cases, the C.V. cases, those requiring an EKG, those needing a spinal tap (which was done entirely by me), those to be boarded, those having been boarded, the N.Ps, those upon whom casual cabins would be requested, those newly admitted; those to be shifted around to lump similar cases, those to be fluoroscoped, etc., the constant keeping up to date of which was transferred from our indifferent care finally, to a battery of aides culled from ambulatory patients , about 6. 1 of them acting as a sub-secretaries. It was an effort to get the Capt. to acquiesce in a day off, tho its feasibility, right, and necessity was recognized by him. The height was reached one Sunday afternoon at 4:00 PM when he, with considerable large, and grandiose clarity told us we’d all knock off for the rest of the afternoon. Withal it was far better to work alongside of him rather than for him. He was Hungarian (Budapest), 8 yrs married, a small round shouldered little man with iron grey hair, flashing large eyes, and a manner that distinctively derived from his sense of his philosophical aristocracy. He had written a book once centering about his boyhood, in which his Aunt Julia was a unique character, whom he described in terms of awe, understanding and appreciation. She apparently was forceful, was versed in herb practice and empiric remedies of a sternly living people, and had long since learned of her superior wisdom and strength of character over her relatives. Of the Frenchman, Gaston, with his one arm and charming manner, letters home have described the dinner, his habitat and perhaps his mind, which once had flared open at the innocent question in our halting French as to his relation to the Colonial government. He had once been Mayor of the town, which was a primitive town of whites. Of Major Porta and his medical sub Dept., gratitude belongs equally to Val and Dot, who had made his acquaintance back in Camp Stoneman, or some other place. He had been on E.M. in the last war, becoming therein an officer, and having been in France. He it was who advanced friendship with Gaston. He was very friendly, fraternal even, and was just the type of C.O. one would want. His unit was intensely loyal, yet respectful withal. He certainly went all out for Val and Dot, being exceptionally nice to them and purely in a benevolent 34 35 manner. I shall remember Maj. Porta with respect and gratitude. The type of incident that constitutes an anecdote. Introductory to it concerns Watts, who was colored and appeared to me either confused or quite dumb even exuding the usual Negroid stolidity. Diagnosis was n.p. and for one reason or another it was several weeks before I got to take his history and physical. I was on the verge several times. Anyway, I had progress noted him as apparently having a low IQ, slow and complaining without explanation, yet interrogation of post history disclosed him to have been student at Alabama State Teachers College and having taken electrical engineering at night for awhile. At any rate, to go on, one hot day several of [5 ½ pages blank]

Part IV of World War II Travel Diary

Sept 1^st – Left the port under guard and passing thru the channel and reviewing the grim souvenirs of a fateful earlier day.

Just prior to departure portion of a clear rainbow arching thru the clouds bade us Hawaiian farewell.

First night out a thin sliver of moon, a thin mist made eerie gloom of the night, with the milky way and stars clear and lucid above.  The gentle sway of the steel fore structure, inclining in harmony to the waves and changes in direction.  A vile movie tonight.  Lights out very early.  Our cabin steamy almost, my hand perspiring while writing.

 Sept 6. Mon – Apparently Labor Day.  This day quite warm, the windy air yet velvety and sweat inducing in the sun.  Yesterday we passed the equator.  The day was cool, with fitful squalls of rain, mounting waves, and recurrent jets of spray.  The ship calmly thundered against powerful waves, crashing them asunder.  Life on board quite boring, being chased out of each comfortable settlement for more regular duty as irregular drill.  Have taken thoroughly and gladsomely to chess.  Said to have picked up an unseen plane yesterday, probably Jap.  No alarms.

 Sept 9, 1943

Subtle change in the tempo of the voyage.  Day very humid and stuffy this morning.  Earnest emergency drill with firing enough to rattle the steel plates.   All troops and us were off the decks.

Then in the afternoon, sudden genuine alarm, our first.  Several white, scared faces.  Thrumming of the engines louder as ship picked up speed, and zigzagged furiously.  Report of a nearby submarine drifting in.  Sailors scooted energetically to their posts.  Tension.  Soon,  “Secure from general quarters” given, and the relief was audible.  Steel compartment doors unlocked and we returned to our ordinary inactivity.

Must record my enjoyment of book “On a Paris Roundabout” by Jan Gordon.

 Sept. 17 – Written from 8^th Gen. Hosp. New Caledonia.  Arrived 9/14 in bay, staying aboard overnight.  Profoundly intending to see the hills and extensive lands, the large bay.  Our first journey’s end had the original excitement.   Next day in helter-skelter fashion, we disembarked into lighters, and went to port, about 40 minutes ride.  In the distance could be seen numerous ships, mostly transport and freighters.  Beautiful sight of a naval hospital ship, white and gleaming with suave lines, black borders leading to large red cross.  The quay was small, shallow, and supported a brass band welcoming us.  Many gaping natives, few Frenchmen.  Cross of Lorraine seen on some small ships and patrol boats in the harbor.  A brick walled enclosure on the hillside said to house Free French Troops.  Into trucks and over winding roads, thru the shabby town of Nouvea.  several natives with hair dyed with a lice-killing brilliant orange dye.  Native women walking barefoot.  A black old man with towel draped headgear drooping in back of him.  Passed view of 3 or 4 sunken ships, said to have been Japanese, scuttled.  Past naval ammunition dept, repair depot.  Ducas nickel plant, very important and large.  Over some mountains, passing colored Free French Colonial barracks.  Off the main road to 8^th Gen. Hosp. which turned out to be collection of some finished, but mostly unfinished wooden structures, barrack like.  Gangs of men, toiling away at roads, at new barracks, etc.  Some adobe barracks with overhanging heavily thatched roofs, for the enlisted men.

Went in to eat, passing the Colonel’s (Col. Miller) thatched cabin, standing lovely and regal nearby.  Told that Eleanor Roosevelt had been there about an hour previously, at the same table, having just arrived that morning.

Went to our “nests”, consisting of just erected Arab-like, huge Army tents with two cots in each, and straw filled mattress covers, no electric lights.  Water obtainable from taps about 3 blocks away, washing done in helmets.  Hot and cold showers about 2 blocks away, latrine 2 blocks.  Very inviting clear creek 5 blocks, platform for shaving even.

 Sept 29 – Tents proved clumsy and discomforting to our civilized trainings.  Restless nights – first 2.

Same day we arrived Capt. Fontes (nephew of Dr. Bernard Fontes, Chicago Therapeutics) and I hitched to town in 353^rd Engineers truck, driven by special service officer 2^nd Lt. (Galezo?), of Brooklyn!  A beer at the Pacific Club, officers club, a patio and a measly bar of a place.  Walked thru the town, dismal stores with little showing, and that little unprepossessing souvenirs, mostly handkerchief at 1.00 strip, post cards at 75, belt knives at 14-18.00, carved wooden, paper at 6.00 (3.00 at another place).  Awful.  Walked into a Dept. store, an anachronism of a Dept. store.  Same story. French in tongue and conception of Americans.  Young French lad served us.   He kept smiling, as if enjoyed the prospective trimming and American foolishness.  We tried out our French with very indifferent success.  Walked back toward Pacific Club passed the Governor’s mansion, walled and guarded by a colored colonial.  Dinner at the club 1:00, fair, back to camp.  Slept on straw filled mattress covers.

About 4 days later, Fontes and I went in again, after he exerted much persuasion.  We were heading for a French movie.  Discovered multitude of bugs on my mattress and blanket, flicked them off, and left mattress outside.  Went to town, wandering always in the wrong direction, as given us by passerby as to French movies whereabouts.  Wandered into Police Station, spoke finger and mouth French, he was reading l’australe francois.  Finally chose the Hickman, showing “Desiree.”  Trouble again finding the Hickman. Show began 8:30, about a hour to kill.  Found Quartermaster Office next door, wandered in, borrowed typewriter.  Show began, theater small, cozy, peculiar boxy low hanging balcony.  Infants in arms in theatre, colored colonials, sprinkling of French natives, considerable loud chaffing and gossiping, even when picture began.  Could make no head or tail of the picture, talked too fast and too guttural.  Afterwards 10:30, considerable difficulty getting a hitch, finally caught 2 trucks, standing up, cramped, 12:00, began to rain on us, roads muddy, let off at dark side road junction,  into puddle of water, mosquitoes biting, night dark, rain!  So far away.  Caught a truck finally, just in time to escape a violent downpour, arrived in camp, my mattress all wet, me tired, sleepy, wet, so I braved the taboo against removing any unused mattress from unoccupied bed and put it to good use.

 Sept 29 – stories told by Pts. in Ward 17 –

Doughten – orthotic -gave me Jap one pound occupation  note.  Many stories 1) In foxholes nude Jap woman appeared beckoning to men, few men licking lips, about to move out.  Capt threatens to shoot first man to move, turns and shoots woman, she falls, and 2 hand grenades slip from her arm pits and explode on ground, blowing her apart.  2) Lying in fox hole with buddy.  2 shelter halves, standing his half of half and half guard when zoom! Jap jumps in bayonets sleeping companion to death.  Doughten picks up BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) and cuts Jap in half.   3) Doughten as advance scout, dead American lying in road, 12 men group to move body, Jap has machine gun trained on the spot, holds string 10 yards away, pulls string to trip trigger, 12 men dead, Doughten sees the Jap and string,  kills Jap, another one springs to gun,  other scout gets him, another sprang up, shot, dead are marked for future burial,  on ahead  4) By another Pt.  Men barricaded in certain area, sniper shoots from tree, finally get him.  Next night another sniper in this big tree get him.  Same thing next night.  Marvel at this, tree environ is surrounded completely by American territory.  5 nights they shoot a sniper from this tree, squad of men investigate, find 8-9 more Japs and officer living in trunk, have medical and food supply there.

Part III World War II Diary

April 6, 1943-

            Since my Spokane trip a new era began at the hospital for me… my formal induction to the Flight Surgeon’s Wing.

            All was still hectic and rushing as in the days of Hollis Burrow, so rushing, indeed, that I escaped to play volleyball in the hot sun, leaving Capt. Petterson steaming in the wing, much to his just annoyance.  Short arm inspection had further drawn me away.

            Little by little I learned the mass of regulations, memoranda, bulletins, changes, circulars, deletions and additions which affect the Examining service.  Oh yes, my title now was Chief of Examining Service.

            I have 3 enlisted men to help and an irregular number, usually 5, from the 34^th group, plus 1 or 2 of their medical officers.  Many had a habit of disappearing irregularly, leaving me stranded at inconvenient times.  The duties were multitudinous, doing 64s, 63s, direct commissions, transfers to paratroops, applicants for aviation, cadets, applicants for pilot training, in grade (officers), officer candidate schools, average discharges, insurance examinations, civil service examinations , all these had slightly different requirements and regulations.

            Hollis Burrow used to come in about 7:00 AM and frequently overstayed to 6:30 and 7:00 PM finishing up.  He would help with 64 exams, and do everything on the other type exams at appointed times, times which did not interfere with the 64s, therefore confusing and making extra work.

            It behooved me therefore to get a line-production system going, and training the enlisted men to do everything but professionally requisite techniques.  So I conducted classes of instruction in blood pressures, use of photometer, color vision, and measuring angle of convergence and accommodation.  

            My 3 men were enlarged to 4.  Corporal Hines, who was intelligent, but goldbricky in type, was transferred to the kitchen, not at my request, but it satisfied me.  I got Corporal Shoeffer instead who proved a smart aleck, insincere and a goldbrick of the worst sort.  He got into hot water with me and would have stayed, but for his being transferred by higher up down to Rio Station in Blythe .  He was exchanged for Sutton, now working for past 3 days.  Jack Cornett is the mainstay, having finished a course in Flight Surgeon Asst., then Pvt. Barry, earnest, competent and OK, then Sgt. Johnson, old time army, who will work hard when the task is hot and heavy. Quite ok for me, too.

            Since my trip also there has been a change in Doris’ mental attitude toward the ranch.  She is getting fed up with its constant boredom.  Last week’s heat (128 in the sun, 98 inside) tho intense, was tolerable.  So now we are looking for a place in town.  Doris is worried about driving into town, the difficulty of shopping, the lack of companionship, the lurking dangers to Lynn.

            Tonight we just came back from a USO show, Roy Heibeck and orchestra, to us a good background and dance orchestra but not a show in itself.

            Met Lt. Smith’s wife there tonight.

            Kit left the ranch yesterday for the summer, suddenly, with her elder brother Jim, for Phoenix.  Lynn has lost a playmate, we a guardian for her and a mild annoyance.

            Oh yes, the rodeos of April 4 and 5 were missed entirely by us.  The Stewarts prepped feverishly, Frank came out 1^st in team roping, Cyril capped the cow hide race.  That was all.  I was O.D. Sunday and missed all, including the heat.

 

June 11, 1943-

            En route to San Francisco, written at Fresno, Motel Fresno.

            These past few days have been utterly filled with busy-ness and the prospect of new horizons.

            Certainly the first part of the week was pretty much like other weeks at Blythe.  On Tues. eve we entertained the Fallons, giving them a bridge lesson.  Next morning I arrived at the hospital, dutifully 10 minutes late, and told to report immediately to the front office.  There told secret orders awaiting me and Capt. Stewart.  Secret orders!  What the hell did that mean?

            We chased pronto up to Hdqtrs and saw the orders.  Immediate exitus from Blythe to San Francisco, plus what will be recorded later, when future events will have become past.

            My mind of course could think only of poor Doris, about to be faced with the thing she has been fearing all along, cleavage from me.  Upon thinking I decided she should remain for several weeks in Blythe waiting to hear from me, and then she could take the train back to Brooklyn.

            Stewart and I scurried around the hospital deposing of our official affairs.

            The week had started with the arrival of 3 A.M.Es fresh out of Randolph Field.  I was given one as assistant in examining Service; one relieved me in ENT, which I had been gladly administering, especially refractions.  I had also taken over Ward IV, contagion, and venereal for Smith who was away in a troop train.

            I phoned Doris and went home to tell her.  The orders had come so unexpectedly it took everyone by surprise.

            The upshot was, she decided to travel along to San Francisco, sell the car and train home in event of necessity.

All that afternoon then we packed, putting my stuff together separately, packing one large wooden packing case and one large pasteboard box with stuff to be expressed directly back to Brooklyn.

            That evening we had a small drop in farewell party.  Stewart was there, Alex Winter and wife, Fallon and wife.  Mrs. Stewart (ranch), John and Ruth Marsh, Mrs. Jean Smith, Bob Foster and wife.

            Next morning was hectic in running around, clearing the base and adjusting final matters, among which I arranged to have all my excess stuff crated and shipped by the quartermaster.

            About 2:45 we arrived at the Base, picked up Stewart, bade goodbyes, signed out, drank sodas at Officer’s Club, and were on our way in a very intense heat.  That desert heat blew in faces and we were wet wherever our bodies touched anything.  We finally felt a breeze at Banning, couldn’t find a room in Beaumont, and went on to Redlands where we stopped at the La Pasada Hotel, a nice place for that town, rather cozy, neat, dignified and respectable.  Each floor had a small sitting room or lobby of its own.  Couldn’t find a restaurant open in town.  Ate sandwiches etc. in drugstore. 

            Breakfast was good.  What was better was the morning dampness and rain.

            Went on, thru San Bernardino, over the mountains and the dense fog bank on the summit, thru Victorville, Adelanto, Mojave, Born, and Bakersfield where we lunched beautifully at the Hotel Padre Coffee Shop, filet of halibut for me, arrived about 1:30, left about 2:30.

            Reached Fresno and the present about 5:45.  The air was delightfully cool, even breezy (an unusual occurrence I later found out.)

            At Doris’ insistence we had dinner at Omar Khayyam, and didn’t regret it.  We razzed Stewart (incidentally he came along with us, cum foot locker, suitcase and barracks bag), because he ate steak well-done, instead of ordering some Armenian dish as we did.  Doris had Tchokhokhbelle (chicken sautéed in wine), I had Shish Kebob with Pilaf (Braised lamb, with cracked wheat).

            The impending cleavage between us hangs a pall over otherwise beautiful scenery, good food, exciting changes.  Lynn’s huge delights and innocently hearty fun causes us to exchange glances, and her despair when I am not around to be hugged and kissed goodnight also underlines her future misery.

 

(Aug. 31 – written)

Undated – Regarding Camp Stoneman interlude.

            Over the mountains and into the hills of upper California, finally going over the Bay Bridge, how long and simple and fine, into San Francisco.  First thing I did was have the car appraised.  First place offered 850.00, second one 950.00, and third one 1025, most amazing.  Town very crowded.  No rooms available.  Finally directed to 50 Rust St., Military Housing Bureau, given a room at Drake-Wiltshire Hotel, which turned out to be a renovated antique with all the flash on the ground floor.  Moved next day to Victoria Hotel.  Lynn rather difficult to handle and quite an anchor to our activities; very lively and playful. Manning Restaurant, neat, good food.  Hotel sitting on a high hill; in fact sitting on a bridge, tunneled by a street below.  Steep steps down to the street, or a steep descent the other direction; back of it a very sharp upgrade.  Drove around the city, hilliest city have ever seen.  Shopping spree at White House Dept. Store, sending stuff home.

            Had to report 15^th of June.  Last few days seemed portentous and fateful, Doris bravely restraining constant tears, Lynn enjoying herself hugely.  Arranged train passage via Western Pacific.  Decided to complete sale of car… to be completely unburdened.  Trouble about Bill of Sale.  How I was to regret this action.

            Finally signed over the car, kissed my loved ones goodbye and was driven to Ft. Mason.  Sent to Camp Stoneman, oh yes, had already reported the day before and wheedled delay until that morning.  Took bus out.  The country we went thru was beautiful, typical unrolling hills, spreading fields, dotting trees.  Distinct rise in temperature just over a particular rise.  Signed in Camp Stoneman.  Hot.  Camp big, compressed, seething.  Tiresome walking; no transportation handy on the base.  Found it ok to go back to San Francisco next day.  Would surprise Doris, who had bid final goodbye.  Got a hitch easily to Oakland, from there to Frisco, walking thru street to hotel bumped into Ben Fink, wife and friend.  Brought them to hotel when knocked and Doris saw me, she was at first frightened, but then she embraced me in a unforgettable hug, with her heart in her eyes and mouth.  Lynn dancing to see me.

            Final and actual goodbye next day on the train in Oakland.  Trip by taxi to Ferry building, ferry over the bay, a poignant trip.  Cars on the bridge over head; San Francisco serene and stony beyond, crowds of travelers.

            Last good bye on the train platform – a constant wrench at the emotions, Doris looking and looking at me, and I at her, with all our inward eyes.

            Trip back to Stoneman via Greyhound bus was pensive.

            And so began in earnest the episode of Camp Stoneman.  Assigned to 587^th MHSP, c Lt. Grenn for C.O.  he turned out to be all meaningless, and somewhat foolish, smiles.  He liked to say what he didn’t mean in a humorous way.  Because of his attempts to advance his disability of ankle to point of evasion of responsibility, I accepted the opportunity to transfer to Lt. Forte’s 581^st, which augured better.  Grenn had the most glowing, strongest, and powerful physique of any of us.  He looked radiant at the pool.  Just before leaving Stoneman, he indicated that he had been transferred to a coded unit.  His own outfit had already gone several weeks before, without him.

            Life at Stoneman fairly well indicated by my letters to Doris.  GI mess very good, especially H Mess hall.  Large cafeteria for officers and civilians, welcomed as change and for late meals and snacks.  The officers 7-11 club was sad, spiritless and usually desolate.  Improvements being made when we left.  Another casual officers club good for dancing, rousting.  No eating and juke box music the rule, with nurses lionized.

            Little to do after hours at Camp.  I spent my nights reading, movies, occasional sipping at officers club or downtown bar.  Daytime there was so little to do, it became a matter of principle to evade even that little.  Organization and reorganization took place, with ambitious cracking down, usually fading under complexities of detached duties.  I got 2 weeks at O Dispensary under Capt. Julius Kaufmann.  Busy with large sick call for 1 1/2 hours in AM.  Only special short arm or pre-embarkation physicals brought me over in the afternoon.  Had a week at the processing station, during a lax time, just before an expected heavy onslaught.

            Met Lt. Paul Egidio in the ENT clinic at the Hospital.  He had been there over a year.  Got his captaining during my stay.  Also met Greenblott, 1^st Lt. Sanitary Corps, running the lab under a Major Capt. Irving Fuhr was also in MHSP, I tried for a time getting into his outfit, then met Mike Kaplan , MHSP, sent out same time as me.  Also Van Roy, remember from Miami OTS.

            10 days after, got Don Stewart as roommate.  He had just been commissioned 2^nd Lt. from OCS at Berkley, Texas; feeling the newness and strangeness of officerial status in naïve and refreshing manner.  Don is very nice kid; young; pleasant; agreeable and willing.  He and Tom Tipscomb and Fred made a trio that set a very fast pace, too fast for me.  Drinking often and freely, women, out late and early.  Fred finally went back east to his old station, I filled in the gap, mostly day light activities.  Tom had an Oldsmobile, which came in mighty handy.  We very often went swimming at Mitchell’s Canyon or golfing at public course.  Tom was a dentist and a real roustabout and Don Juan, with a wife in Portland just having a baby, he took an emergency furlough for the event.  Saw colored stills of his home in Portland, beautiful grounds and flower beds, which was his hobby.  He certainly was a restless soul, come nighttime.

            The afternoons spent at Mitchell’s Canyon swimming in an unexpectedly clear and well constructed 25 yard long pool, were memorable, set in the middle of a deep valley, with hills rolling smoothly away, almost like giant waves, sculptured in yellow grass and dotted with occasional green trees.  Hot California afternoons with windy evenings, and wonderful, cool lucid mornings.

            Writing letters to Doris weren’t usually casual affairs.  Had enough time to work at it.  Censoring mail helped reduce any sense of embarrassment.  I knew what they wanted to say and tried to, and I felt so capable of expressing it.  In fact, that is why I was dissatisfied if my letters to Doris were casual.  I seemed to be letting the men down. I expressed their emotion to their loved ones, when I wrote to mine.

            Had one trip to San Francisco for the weekend, with Mike Gianani.  Spent a lot of money and did not have a good time.  Bought a chess book, and Romain Rolland, Jean Christophe.

            Five months slipped by, in boring fashion, always feeling the real job was right around the corner.  When the alert came, I was calm enough, having seen many others come and go.  Remember the Vet Major, unit, used to play chess with him and bridge.  Wished I went along with his unit.

            Harbor boat O.D. once, down the Sacramento River on the Army Queen.  Long files of men, stumbling down and up gangplanks with heavy barrack bags.  Humorous relief of an occasional guitar.  Embarking late dusk.           

 

Aug.

            Sailed from the Big Town on Aug., on the S.S., after bubbling preparation and excitement.  The ship to me was immense and full of devious passages, decks, steel knobs, ropes, chains, windlasses, etc.  Found myself in an apparently just completed room, new-fashioned, in which thirteen of us slept, in double decker beds, dormitory style.  Water plentiful but not wasted, even enough for showers.  Meals good, but neither bounteous nor outstanding.  First day out troubled by nausea, but no vomiting.  Actually did much better then expected.

            Having 2 shifts at meals with preliminary settings and clearings left not very much time for using the dining room for cards, etc.  Certain number of deck chairs available. 

            Portholes closed throughout, ventilation poor, heat and humidity very high making sleeping uncomfortable.  Many enl. men sleeping on deck.

            Combating the boredom with all the various games of chance and skill present.  Bridge players poor.

            Blowing of whistle before p.a. announcements.  Chortling over the 3 long drawn whistles, presaging important announcement and then, “Sweepers!  Man your brooms!  A clean sweep down fore and aft.”

            The inadequate number of deck chairs, making us the goat for the first shift at meals secured seats while we ate. Our only compensation, they ate earlier breakfast.

            The

 

Aug. 31 – Still in Pearl Harbor Port here at Honolulu.  First day off the boat, 2 days ago, went directly to town in a jeep, wildest jeep ride I ever had, bumping, skewing around, racing and tearing into town!  The town this Sunday evening was desolate.  Everything closed tight.  Few people on the streets and mostly soldiers.  Returned to ship disappointed and disgruntled.  Enl. men not allowed off.  Next day however what a contrast.  Stores open, crowded, teeming population, many curio shops, milling soldiers and knavery.   Drinks at Alexander Hotel Bar.  Few gifts for home.  Met Stewart and his brother-in-law at the YMCA.  Met part of our crowd, Capt. Lewis , Mike, Big-Belly Capt.  And few others along the Midway, which is part of the main street.   Some of these took pictures with hula girls.  Went with Stewart out to Waikiki, taking the Kaikumi , Ft. Ruger Bus changing at the Kauhula theater for another bus which went the back way into Waikiki Beach.  We got off at Hale Kai, an officers club, where in full view of Diamond Head, the Royal Palms Hotel.  We went swimming in the blue-green clear waters, paddling on the surf board and falling off frequently trying to ride the waves into shore.  It took average of 21 hours, I was told by a Hawaiian, to get the knack of riding a board.  The board is about 12 to 15 feet long, hollow and quite heavy.  It looks enormous on land, but small enough in the water.  The water is very warm and very heavy with salt, making swimming quite easy.  The officers club is an old mansion, upstairs a bar and snackery, tables on a veranda, with another veranda for those in suits, and a sunning roof.  Charge was 25 locker, 25 swim trunks and towel and 1.00 for renting a surf board.  There also were outrigger canoes.  I saw a team of 4 or 5 in them paddle a considerable distance and turn around and let the rolling wave hurry then pull well toward shore.  The clouds are clearly outlined, the air soft and humid, the sun hot, the vista spacious.  It was mellifluating especially with rum cakes.  Liquor hard to get, imitation bourbon and imitation rum was the usual.  After swimming we had a steak dinner across the way, a huge thick steak that appeared tremendous to our rationed eyes.  A nice curio shop in the neighborhood also was visited.  Then bussed home, picking up 2 quarts of pineapple, canned, juice for my men.

Next day went shopping again, first looking over the submarine base near our ship.  25 taxi to the outskirts of town; off and wandered among native fruit, vegetable stores and the shoddier more natural parts of Honolulu.  Then a few drinks, shopping, and out to Hale Kai again.  Picked up 4 pineapples, totaling 22 lbs, for 85.  The day was memorable and luxuriating.  Content to leave now at any time.

Poland

I’m excited to start a new travel diary today. 

I am transcribing a travel diary and log from Poland in 2002.  So far a lot of towns, cities and restaurants for me to research.  I love it!

Second entry of World War II Travel Diary is posted!

I’ve added another entry of Harry Lebow’s World War II Travel Diary.  I hope you enjoy reading it.  If you didn’t get a  chance to read the first part it’s there too.  Remember that the diary is unedited, so it’s his words, his style etc…  parts of it can be a little confusing, so go back and read the whole thing again!

I’ll post the next installment in a few weeks.

Part II of Travel Diary

Feb 20, 1943 – Saturday

            The introduction to this diary is still incomplete. Started today.

            Thursday went out to the gun rifle range, as per orders, with Capt. Welch and Capt. Miller.  Using Springfield 1903, targets 200 yards, I made a 79.  Coming back noted the machine gun range.  We climbed into the ball turret used on the B 17.  Wonderful mechanism of revolving, sighting and firing, while lying on an arc of the sphere.  Fired the flexible machine gun 50 caliber bullets, with tracers.  The noise terrific, the feeling of power terrific.

            Last night, Thursday, took Doris to Base Theater to see “In Which we Serve” with Noël Coward.

            Today, I went and fired the pistol, scoring 67 at 15 yards, and 71 at 25 yards, also fired the Thompson submachine gun.

            Rode Dink for a while, trotting and galloping with moderate success.

            Learned a little about throwing a lasso.

 

Feb. 22 – 7:15

            On O.D. yesterday with little eventfulness.  Gave Diarovic Hoover his 4^th blood transfusion came back to ranch for an hour as a surprise to Doris and Lynn.  Returned to stand O.D.

            To-day Lt. Winter left for Carlisle Barracks Course – 6 weeks.

            Doris and I going tonight to see Bob Hope “They Got Me Covered”.

 

Feb. 23.  Quite an adventurous day.

            Sudden appropriation of hospital airplane making it feasible to transport Pt. Hoover.  I’m assigned to accompany him to Palm Springs.  Sudden flurry of activity and I have him off with me on this C 36, 99 ft. wing spread, carrying 25 with ease, 35 pinched, piloted this trip by Colonel Crumrine.  En route the rather heavy lunch and chocolate bar freighted at the altitude and leaped the esophageal barrier.  The plane nurse held my head, while the med-officers laughed.

            At Palm Springs, to Torney Gen. Hosp. in beautiful Packard Ambulance, delivered Pt. Calling up, found I just missed the 4:45 bus back to Blythe (orders read return by Comm. T. as the plane wasn’t returning). 

            Next bus at 8:19.  So, walked around a bit, dropped into the Officers Club treated to a drink, beat a Major Harry in ping-pong, had the ambulance drive me into town, bought a bus ticket, wandered around window-shopping at the resort, sporty, expensive looking shops.  Some nice cozy hotels, sprawling ranch style type.  Bite to eat, rubbernecked at the different colored stores and palmy lawns.

            Boarded the bus and promptly fell into earnest conversation with seat mate, Mitchell Gross by name, plays occasionally on Gene Autry’s program, teacher, was returning from Burbank after landing an airplane defense job at Vega.  His wife is from Brooklyn, Eastern Parkway.

            The run between Palm Springs and AAB Blythe runs 8:20 to 12:15, covering about 125 miles.

            Called hospital, got ambulance take me home.  Had Doris unbarricade the door.

 

Feb. 24 –

            Serenity of the day disturbed profoundly at lunch time learning Hollis Buren leaving.  I to start learning to refill in Flight Surgeon’s Office, a monotonous task, routine physicals of all degrees.

            I went around all PM feeling ass-kicked.  The confusion and closeness in the place terrifying.

 

Mar. 10, 1943

            The 5 days following last entry I learned the Flight Surgeon’s Office business, remaining singularly unimpressed.  About 2 days after learned I was to take a cadre out somewhere unknown.

            Which begins the adventure of my trip to Spokane, Washington, beginning Sunday, 2/28/43 and ending 3/9/43.

            Doris viewed the thing as distasteful and unfair on the part of the military authorities.  She was quite blue at being thus left behind for the first time, and we both went around mentally bushed, on tip-toe at the impending prospects ahead.

            I entrained Sunday evening at 6:30 waiving farewell to Doris and Lynn.  Lynn wasn’t quite sure of the whole thing, and I left Doris to deal with her expected remonstrances.  I later learned that she was completely solaced by the assurance that Daddy was bringing back a present for her.

            C.O. of troop train of 155 men was Pilot 1^st Lt. Wirt, I the only other officer present.  The trip up was fairly uneventful, mostly sitting in my drawing room compartment, double-seat, lounge and private bathroom, reading, pipe-smoking and chatting with the E.M.  Toward the end got rather chummy with 3 sergeants, one from Pennsylvania and 2 from Texas.  Wirt played black-jack and hearts.  I read, wrote and talked.  Medically very little. One soldier bit another’s ear, several drunks scraped themselves, the Sgt. Major erupted grandiosely, and itchingly, and persistently.  I kidded him along telling him I had orders to bring him back with me, if his rash broke out.  He swore to go over the hill first.

            The soldiers disheveled and rather disorderly at our first restaurant stop, in view of many orderly, and disciplined sailors, and near a hospital train of recently arrived casualties from New Guinea, that was a breakfast at 11:30 at Barstow.  Other detraining meals were quite different and much more respectable; self-imposed too.  The men on the whole were pretty well-behaved, after their first bingeing was over, despite the loose discipline we maintained they were on their own self-respect.

            The ride was a succession of frequent stops, taking other cars on and off and a diner the last 2 days.  I cured the dining steward, Major Adams, of an incipient cold.  He expressed his gratitude by a large salad bowl, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, etc., milk and crackers.

            The scenery of course grew in grandeur and beauty as we traveled north.  Washington and Oregon like New England scenery except more primitive and on broader scale.

            Arrived in Spokane at 12:30 P.M. so to Grieger Field, nice barracks, shower, etc.  Slept late, looked around a bit, and after lunch was driven to town in staff car, checking luggage at station.  Shopped around town, walking up and down dropped into Liberty Theatre and saw Jack Benny in George Washington Slept Here.  Quite funny.  So late in getting out, had to hurry to make the 9:00 P.M train to Portland where I changed trains for San Francisco where a stop-over of 8 hours appeared necessary.  The conductor then told me he could switch me on to a train boarding Frisco going on to L.A., so I said yes.

            And on this train I first met the juvenile 1^st Lt – Finance Dept – with ski-lame knee.  Acquainted them with Mrs. Leonard, a charming, very pretty Spokane lady, visiting her husband in Frisco.  And then we formed a bridge game, meeting Spig (Minard) Fossett, as 4^th.  We all enjoyed it hugely.

            After hearing my plans, Spig finally urged me to visit San Francisco, lunching with him there mentioning the interesting chap we would meet.  I agreed and next day we detrained at Oakland, accompanying Mrs. Leonard across the ferry.  I felt swell, with the right amount of fog over the bay, the sea gulls hovering over the ferry and following it along, dropping their bird dung with dispassion, and flying with unification.  The long Bay Bridge, the flats of Treasure Island, the partial view of Golden Gate Bridge, and of course the entire city of San Frisco was easily seen.

            Spig was quite companionable and I liked him.

            After docking we taxied to the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, where I dropped my luggage in his room, Spig informing me that my chances of getting out of San Francisco was quite slim and I could stay in the room with him.  At the Hotel we met Jack How and his secretary, Jessica McLacllin, who proceeded to the Persian Room for a drink.  We went to the room and had some drinks, then to the Persian Room, when to my utter argument, I found the curfew forbade selling a soldier a drink before 5 or after 12.  It was really needed.

            So on we taxied in a quick bumping hurry to the Big Ben Restaurant, fish place, I had Beauvais Chablis and a crabmeat curry, delicious and spicy. Also tasted Jack’s crabmeat and Jessica’s delicious prawns.  I was a little dizzy and almost sick and went carefully for a little.  The company was entrancing to my spirited mind.  Afterward we took a cable car up the hill, stopped while Spig bought a shirt in a store, and Jack bought a gardenia for MacLacllin.  We then walked about, took another car and got out in front of the Grace Church.  Looked about inside, and then was met and walked about by an ascetic lame priest in a cloak, who related to us how a certain parishioner’s wants were simple and therefore didn’t need his full annuity of 30,000 yearly. He bought the carillon and promised to complete the North End, but they were afraid to take a chance, since he was rather old and on annuity was so vulnerable.

            We then walked to the Mark (Marque) Hotel and Marque Room on top, fairly naval in spirit affording it a distinguished visitorial view of San Francisco and her points of interest.  I couldn’t touch the beer I had to order in face of their winery.

            Down a steep hill we walked, past a noble institutional building looking like a Supreme Court or a civic building put up by monumental taxes, monument to the efficiency of tax collectors, however it turned out to be an insurance building, a mausoleum of dignity.  Down, down we went, to Chinatown, a clean Chinatown, much smarter, more urban and sophisticated than New York Chinatown.  We visited several shops, bought some things, Spig something for MacLacllin and I also something for her.  Also a necklace for Doris.

            We then returned to the Hotel, had drinks up in the room.  Jessica left for her evening.  Downstairs Spig met the fellow who was taking him home to dinner, Carl Zachussian, and had included me in the dinner invitation.  We drove out past the Presidio, into Seacliff, past the Golden Gate entrance up to a house, 3 stories, on a knoll looking onto the Bay, half of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, thru the large window so fashionable throughout that country.

            Here I met Mrs. Zachussian, her mother and father (in butcher business) (Carl Zuchussian an advertising man with N.W. Ayer, handling the Dole Pineapple account), his little tow headed son, who had perfect manners, clipped enunciation and whose occasional outbursts of playfulness were quickly squelched, on account of the company perhaps.  Then later came Mrs. Z’s brother Lou, and his wife.  The dinner of roast beef very well prepared, rendered, and served, sparkled with industrious conversation.  The conversation was the chief sport of the evening, and I entered with zeal, application and, I believe, aptitude.  I championed first one, then the other, until finally I was matched against them all.  We left at about 11:30 after a gladsome evening for me.  We got out at “Iggy’s”, a dive whose host is one of the few survivors of the original Barbary Coast days, a greasy Mexican (?) standing behind bar with hat in hand.  Bar of course full of soldiers.  We had time for one drink, went downstairs and lo! It was 12 o’clock and the streets suddenly became flooded with soldiers and sailors and civilians drained from the bars and clubs by the stringent curfew.  The scenes, of course, were variegated and frequently hilarious.  We wended our way gradually back to the Hotel, where we started and finished a game of chess before dousing the light at 2:30 AM.

            Up Sunday morn with the sun sparkling and fresh, down several blocks to breakfast at a nice restaurant, a prior phone call by Spig had again kept me in pace with him, we were bound for Palo Alto and Frank J. Taylor’s home in Los Altos.

            We rode the barn–like coast train to Palo Alto, met Frank Taylor, rode with him past the beautiful hospital near Stanford, where his 81 year old mother lay gravely ill.  I was shown environs of Stanford and the inside quadrangle and gawked at the extensive lands and grounds, the ancient Spanish American architecture and its cultured rusticity.  Joe College was much in evidence, especially along fraternity row.

            Frank J. Taylor turned out to be an old time newspaperman, who was a prolific contributor to Sat. Eve Post, Readers’ Digest and others.  More important he turned out to be a very mild mannered gentleman, knowledgeable, agreeable and reserved, just what you picture such a newspaperman not to be.

            His home appeared on top of a winding narrow road that glimpsed estates, gardened terraces, grasses, etc. of neighboring homes.  The house was an angular, rustic log cabinish affair, low and stretching with a very old, “gnarled”, pretentious tree on the front lawn; there were some in the back.

            Going over the grounds after a swell dinner with his wife and son Bob present.  I met his agricultural friends, his walnut transplants, his orange and lemon trees, peach trees, etc., quite a profusion which left my ignorance sorely exposed.  His land is extensive and encompasses a variety of fields, hills, knolls, valleys, thickly treed, thickly bushed as would assuage almost anybody’s mood.  The view, of course, would be, and was superb, extensive vista of picture-post card California landscape.  One could see Frank Taylor’s love for that countryside.  The trees in back of the house held memories of his 3 sons growing up.  There was in one tree their Boy Scout project of a land bridge leading from a steep hillside onto a broad platform, Eagle’s nest solidly ensconced in a tremendous tree.  We walked espying a large 5 foot snake, and of the beneficial gopher-killing variety.  We climbed up to and on top of the water tower yonder on the hill giving us the best view of all.  We went back for lawn croquet with the son, gentle and rather dull, but friendly and homey.

            Oh yes, we saw the original log cabin he built by himself, completely hidden by low hanging trees, now used as a den, with fireplace, etc., set up to be written in, but on occasions usurped by the new generation.

            We then rode along to the Griffin estate where Mrs. Taylor cut him some cuttings for grafting, and incidentally showed us a wealthy estate, the Griffins manage Western Del Monte or something.  Anyhow the pond, the Japanese bridge and pagoda; the courtyard filled with towering trees, including peeling eucalyptus, also a grove of orange, tangerine, and grapefruit trees.  Nearby a swift running brook, spineless cactus miserable near by, and round here and there olive trees, apricot trees without number.  The garage was solid, respectable and sturdy enough to satisfy most modern requirements for a house.  It was obviously a barn that had been built where strength, space and stolidity were the prime requirements.

            Back to the house and a cozy little supper of toasted cheese and crackers, then sitting by the fireside, talking, finally, about last war and then Frank Taylor dragged out the volumes of clippings and photographs of the war, a newspaper history of the 1^st war with many personal contributions.  Mrs. Taylor proved well informed, and intelligent.  One son was undergoing naval aviation training beginning several weeks ago; the other was in for army air force training, aviation cadet.

            The evening slipped agreeably by.  We listened to the first 15 minutes of news at 9:00 o’clock, then left for the train, the Lark was due at 9:30, they did this so often, they knew just when to make it.

            And so a fond farewell to the Taylors for a very pleasant interlude, just like a furlough home as I wrote them later.

            Then the Lark, to me a wondrous toy.  Spig got the reservation from Frank Taylor who was supposed to go but couldn’t because of his sick mother.  The reservation included the entire compartment which was meant for two, so I got in on it.  Quite a feat since it was very difficult to get accommodations on it.

            The Lark is a super duper train running the night between Frisco and L.A., beautifully stainless steel outside and in, a many gadgeted compartment with a marvelous full fledged folding toilet, folding up wash basin; mirror thermos jug, air conditioning, levers and hooks and handles for various purposes.

            Drank considerably in the very gleaming, beautifully appointed bar, with a 2^nd Lt, just riding the parlor car.

            Went to sleep pleasantly, and so awoke next AM, nearing Los Angeles.  Finally entered the beautiful mission-like station, with concrete and aluminum lining, then to the Greyhound Bus Station, after saying au revoir to Spig.

Bus station very crowded and loaded with soldiers.  Walked about the main street, shop windows, priced watches.  Bought Doris a pair of huaraches in a dept store.  Decided to get some food delicacies, finally hit May’s Dept. Store.  Choice strictly limited came out with a crock of cheese, block of cheese, smoked salmon, and pickled herring, carefully placed in carton, which blotched moderately in the bus.

The bus trip back uneventful.  Noted a girl carrying a coat with an Atlanta label, and wearing a pilot’s wings.  Sat next to her and as expected, found she was to meet her husband just assigned to Blythe AFB.  She came by Atlanta, but her soul remained behind.  Her cerebration was purely formal; her ideology dull.  I was tempted to offer the rabbit lodging for the night since Blythe at night is a tough spot.  When the bus “docked” I met her husband casually, and instinctively disliked him.  He had made no effort at all to find a place.  I left them to their own resources.

Called the ambulance and finally came home.  Doris removed the barricades and welcomed me home hugely and lovingly.

Next morning Lynn delightedly crawled into bed and asked for her present.  It was the instant reminder of the latter that had kept her soul from exploding into desolate bits at the persistent absence of her daddy.

And so ended my wonderful trip to Spokane.

Part One – Harry Lebow Travel Diary

2/20/43

            Begun instead of lunch hour this day at the Station Hospital, Army Air Base, Blythe, Cal.

            Starting with a brief recapitulation of the main events transpired since leaving Brooklyn with Doris and Lynn of a cool, sunny morning, dated Oct. 29, 1942.  First the complete packing of the car, and then the repacking of the car to make room for the folding carriage, which haunted our comfort through out the trip.  Then Staten Island and the first night spent at intriguing and exhilarating with the interesting unknown ahead of us lying in our thoughts.  Over a long ferry ride next day, along the Atlantic Seaboard, with the number of darkies showing manifest increase.  Past huts, hovels and squabbey villages, and neat towns.

            Then the episode of the fire bursting all at once in North Carolina.  Had to pull a heavy jack 150 yards and change tires with aid of an agreeable urchin.  Pulled up at next town to worry about getting spare.  The chairman of the Tire Rationing Board, cold faced and tobacco chewing, but surprisingly putting in the final good word in the telephone conversation to somebody in Raleigh, N.C., that effected departure next day with an excellent new tire.  The Inn, colonial and aristocratic in accommodations, with a broad-bosomed, broad beamed hostess, with a narrow mind.

            And finally down and around and thru Charleston.

St. Augustine, Florida, Jacksonville, Daytona Beach with its magnificently empty summer houses and windy beach.  Then West Palm Beach and finally Miami.

            The search for accommodations with the misleading help of friendly Service Bureau; the temporary stay and considerable cordiality.

            The first change to Army uniform and the prompt beginning of saluting, with Doris tickled silly and chortling.  Down to Headquarters a day early to find out something, and being immediately reported and training schedule begun that afternoon leaving Doris the task of finding a place by herself, with the hindering assistance of Lynn.  The restaurant fare burdensome to Lynn and fatiguing to Doris and finally finding the place we remained the full time.

            The celebration of Lynn’s birthday on Oct. 31^st at the Olney Inn – swank and good.

            Then the entire Miami episode of 6 weeks which constitutes a whole chapter, relating my experience of early rising, breakfasting, walking to my formation – on the Line in Squadron D, of Flight D, going to classes, calisthenics in the military manner, inspections, shoe-shining, buckle-cleaning, marching drill, exams, reports, studying at night, lights out time, check in time at the Hotel Triton, swimming, rushing here and there hectically, especially rushing in and out to see Doris and Lynn.  Association with our neighbors.

Then the handing out of assignments – like counting the straws of a fateful lottery – much as it was.  The dreaded Salt Lake City, where wives, families and autos were verboten.  Doris and I stopped and thunk.  The pros and cons debated, the choices open considered.  Then suddenly we were packed and onward thru a heavy downpour.  On to St. Louis for final decision.  Thru the Everglades road and Tamiami Trail, up to Lake Okeechobee, and around, thru Ocala, Fla, Thomasville, Ga, and the “American Restaurant”.  Lunch in Nashville, Tenn. at Kleemans, thru rains and open coalfields of Kentucky, across the river to Shawnee on the queer Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn contraption of a ferry, thru Illinois, stop at Mascoutah, Ill., and the amazing requiem of Charlie Reinhardt turning out to be an addict, and finally reaching St. Louis.

Rest at St. Louis.  Revivifying the car during the whole of 1 day.  Leaving next day after being urged to drop off Doris and Lynn, and not doing so.

Thru Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas City, Grand Island, North Plato, Laramie, Cheyenne, Evanston, and thru snow and over the old Mormon trail, humbled by the courage, endurance and determination that was necessary to traverse those vast vistas, those steep craggy hills, ravines, and canyons, to reach the valley of Salt Lake.

            A week’s waiting at Salt Lake, glued to the loud speaker at the officers club, wondering and waiting.  It was the fate of Doris and Lynn that hung on my orders, more than mine that worried us.  I had to go somewhere.  But were they to be banished by the wildness of my new destination?  Then orders for our medical contingent from Miami, excepting four of us, me among them.  The first cracking of my patience.  Then the orders to Blythe, California.

In a flash we were packed and on our way, orders to duplicate train time.

We skimmed along, all three of us, exultant at the magical implications of California, tho hearing disturbing rumors of Blythe in a desert.  Breaking into song – Miami O.C.S. songs – California here we come, noting the husbandry and neatness of Utah towns and landscapes.  The bulging hills and mountains, rangy lands, arrowlike roads.  The cessation of snow, not to be seen again.  The gradual appearance of aridity and desiccation.  Cutting corners of Nevada and Arizona.  The cowboys in certain towns.  I’ve looked for the Hollywood camera, but they were real.

Thru Las Vegas the Wicked City, somewhat insipid at the noon hour, but obviously slumbering, waiting for the night to waken.  Past the tremendous magnesium plant, on to Boulder City and lunch.  An architected town, pushing the desert back, sweeping it off the back door.  Boulder Dam with its military convoy, guards, identification, etc.  The magnificent spectacle of the dam itself, the descent from the hills and the rolling plains beyond.

The wrong turn at Ringmont and retracing the last 25 miles.

Then over the Ute Mountains on a secondary main road, narrow, twisting, climbing and descending by turns, cliffs that constantly threaten movie heroines, crumbly towns and questionable gas stations.

Finally negotiating the descent and its turns, with gratitude for difficulties past.  Leaving Arizona, and on the road to Needles and Blythe.  The rugged, brown, and stamp of the Ute Mountains still vivid on the scene.  The final turn away from Needles, and the road open straight to Blythe, and for 60 miles we saw not one civilian car, nor one civilian house until we reached Blythe.  A way station, 4 corners and agricultural inspector at Rose, after passing long tank and truck convoys, with marks of much tank maneuvering. 

At Rose, hesitated and then picked up 2 sergeants bound for Blythe.  The sun was settling, and the gloom of evening deepened as they outlined the housing situation in Blythe.  Impossible.  We finally reached Blythe, hungry, late, disconsolate, with the pressing need of finding unobtainable lodging.  Waited 1/2 hour in a restaurant before able to get a seat.  The meal good – but the air of pressure, and overcrowding foreboding.  Pathetically then we tried hotels, motor courts and the like.  We were pitied.  We finally tried the police station.  It was still a problem to them.  We finally retreated for the night to the Sgts. Living room, cot for Lynn, sofa and inadequate blankets for us, we were chilled to the marrow by morning. 

After waiting for breakfast, we scurried around again, following one flimsy lead after another.  One tip exploded leaving us out in the country 5 miles from town.  On the way back we saw a group of buildings from afar.  No harm in trying.  Turned out to be a ranch.  Several unkempt kids about.  Room to put us up, well maybe.  The bunkhouse hasn’t been used in months. A quick glance, double decker bed, solid furniture, but an empty room.  The owner was away.  We could use it till he came back, or use the little cottage which was used by his serving couple.  The foreman thought it would be o.k, and it was.  I am sitting in it now, late at night, 11:15.  With lamp lit, and Doris and Lynn asleep and the droning of B17s constantly ebbing and flowing far and near.

The cottage was a mess, rickety furniture, grimy dust, refrigerator stinking from decaying food in it.

Will, elbow grease, and soap and water helped to remove the first layers of dirt.  We slept and ate amidst a rubble of partial unpackings and flim flam furniture.

Meanwhile reported to Base Hdqtrs, and established as Chief of Infirmary at the Station Hospital.  My predecessor there lying sick in a room, with a terrific celluliitis and infection of his finger.  And turned out, after seeing him on 1day, to be Ed. King, classmate of mine at Loyola!  The hospital apparently erected rapidly and roughly.  Everything was barely adequate with many holes.  But obviously on the expand.

And so I reported to this base on Dec. 31, 1942, looking askance at the desert, sand and cactus abounding, the overcrowding in Blythe, the widely dispersed Base.

            Important to our memory is the feeling of traveling that final 60 miles and not seeing human habitation or tree or grass, and suddenly meeting vivid green fields, rather pretty little homes, a wide street, deluxe looking motor courts and lodges (albeit full), tall close cropped trees, and symmetric palms and shrubs.  An oasis in the desert.  And indeed it is that.  157 miles to Phoenix in 1 direction and 250 miles to Los Angeles in the other direction.  A natural haven for travelers between the 2 cities.

            The owner of the Wayne Fisher Ranch, LW, Luayne registered brand, turned out to be wealthy, agreeable and accommodating, when they visited the ranch, fixed up the cottage for us, using an easy chair from the main house, and a desk.

            A page of personalities, at the ranch and an adequate description should crop up somewhere.

 Personalities –

 Mr., Mrs. Fisher – a hurrying scurrying duo.  Always on the go, arrive from L.A. and are out working within an hour, their car comes and goes in and out of the ranch all day, at 6:30 the running of their motor points in accusing decibel at our sloth, still lying snug-a-bed.

            Mr. Fisher a tall, well built rugged appearing gentleman, with a dominant hearty laugh, interesting to talk to, but always scampering away after a short time.  Full of projects, those being done and those yet to be, doing a full time job in the half time he is here, probably doing the same in L.A., if not more so.

            Mrs. Fisher – genuinely hearty and nice at odd moments, with a ringing, oh so hearty laugh that becomes too, too democratic after constant repetition.  Especially when combined with a peculiar talent for rubbing me the wrong way with a few direct and ill chosen words – must be essentially good hearted, but this couple so devoted to each other, as to leave the world outside a place in which time is spent but not lived.

Introduction

I thought this would be a great place to share part of a story.  The next few posts will be portions of a travel diary from Harry H. Lebow a World War II Medical Officer, which he entitled:  Being an Account of the Travels, Travails and Decent Pleasures encountered by Harry H. Lebow, 1st Lt. MC, A.V.S. incidental to the Pursuit of His Military Duties.  This diary was written between 1943 and 1945 and has been transcribed as written. 

Here, you can follow Harry’s journey through World War II to see where it leads him.

Check back in a few weeks for the next section!