Letters
Dartmouth Club of Melbourne
To THE EDITOR:
I am all the officers and members of the above alumni club, and thought I'd just let you know that every night is Dartmouth night in Melbourne. Get out your map or globe or what-have-you and figure how long it would take you and Al and Charley to get here for a speech and luncheon on your pogo-sticks.
I am moved to write you, particularly to ask you to send the ALUMNI MAGAZINE along to the above address. I have accidentally gotten hold of the January issue, of all things, which was destined to Chuck Fette '39. Last I heard he had set off for Shanghai from the U. S. and God knows where he may be now, nor why his mail wound up in Melbourne. But then, there are a lot of inexplicable things happeningl
A lot of water has gone over the dam, or under the bridge, since I last saw you! But in the past few weeks things have begun to look brighter again—with MacArthur coming and with all the news from U. S. Obviously I can't tell you much—censorship is fairly strict and properly so; so I have to write innocuous letters without much reference to what's been going on. Trust you will read my book some day—"My Life and Times in Australia" or, "Life Among the Duck-Billed Platypusses." Australia is a great place, however, and the Australians are a hospitable lot if I ever saw one. They're like Americans in many ways; more like Southerners than Yanks, however.
Gawd, how I miss the hills of Hanover! The best to you all.
Ensign USNR. 357 Little Collins Street,Melbourne, Australia.
Sergt. Horton '15
To THE EDITOR:
Concerning the photograph on page 9 of the May ALUMNI MAGAZINE, in addition to mentioning that Charles R. York '14 was not present, you might also note that Sergt. Dabney Horton '15, who won fame and medals in the classic Corps, is likewise absent. Perhaps you may recall Dabney personally, but in any case I suppose you met him, yclept "a wild and romantic aviator."
Incidentally, Dabney has set a good example for ancient warriors (as well as for some younger men) by abandoning a lucrative writing career to work night-shift at a lathe in an airplane factory. I kidded him about being so patriotic—and I transcribe here his reply which I received a couple of days ago:
" 'Patriotism' is a much-abused word. I am doing this because it's all I can do, but it's better than working for the guys we'll have to work for the rest of our lives if we don't work for ourselves right now. Patriotism is plain practical self-preservation. I am taking the hard way of doing my part because it's gotta be done. I could'a' had a soft job teaching elementary machine work in a defense school, at shorter hours and better pay. And my job has to be done standing up, and it's not an automatic machine either. I hafta turn them goddam handles with my own personal arms all night, ona them jobs for a weak mind and a strong back, like they say. And I make fifty- four bucks a week of which three bucks goes inta bonds. And the bomber parts we make are already blasting hell outa them yella b... Last week I was profiling bomb release parts and now I'm working on aileron hinges and by the size of the orders for parts, a heluva lotta bombers are being built..."
I take it that Horton's is "the old Dartmouth spirit" we hear a lot about, but don't find exemplified quite so frequently.
Great Bend, Pa.
Earlier Radio
To THE EDITOR:
Have just finished reading your very interesting article about the new Dartmouth Broad- casting System. Congratulations to Bill Mitchell '42 on a good story and a fine achievement.
Some of us old members of the Dartmouth Radio Association, the "bunch of hams" who conducted some short wave broadcasting from atop Wilder Hall "about a decade ago," may feel mildly slighted, but obviously you could not cover Dartmouth's radio history thoroughly within the scope of your article.
I believe radio actually started at Dartmouth at about the same time that Marconi was conducting his famous experiments. Gordon Ferry Hull would be the man who could supply this information. In 1934 S. C. Brown and I (both '35) were conducting what we thought were some rather interesting experiments in the relatively new field of microwave transmission —wavelengths of about 18 centimeters. We had occasion to ask Prof. Hull, our advisor, if he thought a particular experiment would work. "Well," he replied, "I think it will. Let's see, I believe I tried something similar—About 1907, I think it was. Never bothered to write it up."
From about 1912 until our entry in World War I, Dartmouth had one o£ the country's most powerful and best known amateur stations. That was in the days of "spark," and the radio shack at that period was a terrifying spectacle. During the war, a great many men were trained in radio work, and joined the Signal Corps. After the war they returned to complete their education and incidently to continue with radio as a hobby.
WiYB was the Dartmouth call in the post- war years, and it was soon known to amateurs in every part of the world. The station theoretically ran at the legal maximum of 1000 watts, but the meters often had pins in the right places. Among its many achievements, WiYB was relay station for traffic to and from the MacMillan Arctic expedition of 1924, and was the first American station to establish direct contact with Norway.
I wonder if you know that Dartmouth had an actual broadcasting station in operation for a short time shortly after "radio" as we know it was born? I have forgotten the call letters and the exact date, but it would be in the period 1922-24. It was h<:- intention at that time, as now, to put on the air all important College events as well as worth while musical intertainment. The thing is rumored to have gotten off to a bad start right with the inaugural cere- monies, which were to start with organ selec- tions from the Chapel, and an address from President Hopkins. They got through the opening announcement and the music all right, but when it came time to put the President on the air, somebody along the line threw the wrong switch, and the next words the listening audience heard were, "Shut that God damned door!!," spoken by some earnest engineer atop Wilder.
After that, the Dartmouth Radio Association went back to strictly amateur activities, which continued with more or less success through my years in College, and for at least a few years afterwards. Dick Dorrance '36, who Was with WOR when I last saw him, was one of the more recent radio enthusiasts at Dartmouth. Possibly he has helped in the present venture. Alexander MacKenzie '32 is a Dartmouth man still active in radio. He did the preliminary work for the high frequency station on Mt. Washington in 1934-35, spending the winter on the mountain, and I believe he is now with Harvard's Blue Hill observatory or possibly the Yankee Network.
Somewhere in Wilder Hall you should be able to find all the old records of the Dartmouth Radio Association, and they might even furnish interesting material for a broadcast, or another article in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE.
Glad to see that radio is not dead at Dartmouth, and I know that if properly handled, it will be of real benefit to the College, and furnish good training and good fun for the undergraduates directly concerned.
Best of luck, and 73!
Duluth, Minn.
Bolte L
KING'S ROYAL RIFLES NOW INCLUDES FIVE DARTMOUTH MEN
(Abstracts from recent letters ofCharles G. Bolte '41 to his father areprinted below. In addition to Bolte, JackBrister '41 and Bill Durkee '41, whohave by now received their commissionsin the King's Royal Rifles, in England,the regiment includes Tom Braden andTed Ellsworth both class of 1940.—ED.)
PACKAGES HAVE BEEN GUSHING IN for everyone except me—the other 4 have had from sto 8 apiece in the last 3 weeks. I suppose my Xmas job was sunk by the dirty Japs. One of the boys has just come in with 3 dozen hot doughnuts from the canteen, and we filled them with some of Durk's (Bill Durkee '41) American cow butter and gorged. What a dish, followed by one of Jack's (Brister '41) Lucky Strikes, what a cigarette (is this worth anything to the American Tobacco Company)? Food is everything these days—Pete Bowring, who is becoming a firm friend, took me over to see friends of his on Sunday, and we ate and drank sumptuously—read Life and Fortune with more pleasure than I ever did at home.
The exam was Saturday. I studied nonehad slept through most of the last fortnight's lectures and thought I booted the exam. I got 64, which placed me about fourth in the class. I also had a very good report from my sergeant and my troop officer, all amazing and annoying to my friends.
We have renewed promises that we will finish here in 2 months and go straight to the ancient land of Moses. They need replacements after the Libya campaign. Sir John (Colonel Commandant of the Corps) is coming down in a fortnight and writes us that he wants to "discuss certain propositions" with us. We are expectant.
We have been having lots of laughs and gay times, but I think our humor got so distorted and primitive I dassan't retell any jokes for fear you would be bored, or worse. AngloAmerican arguments continue, however, noisy and comic as ever. Durk said tonight that whatever the exchequer had paid for our passage was little enough in return for our great contribution to international cooperation— which nearly killed little Manfe, his great debating opponent.
It is hard to believe news from home—one friend after another in the service writing fierce happy letters, college commencement on May 10th, Normandie ablaze, New York black- outs. Well, I am learning war and yearning for peace in the sun; on Lincoln's 133rd birthday we are still engaged in the great civil war.
Leave was pleasant but I got tired of being social, and wanted to go home. However, guess there is no good in talking about that. Looks like 4-5 years good war yet.
While on the mail subject I must report the sad adventures of Deering Danielson, Yale '35, newly arrived and stout fellow, who has the package-racket so well taped he is screaming for mercy. He wrote home detailing the lack of toilet paper in the United Kingdom and his family promptly dispatched 6,000 sheets of Scot tissue. Fearing the packet might be lost at sea they asked some merchants in Montreal to send some—so another 7,000 were sent. Somehow an order was duplicated, all the boats arrived and poor Danielson is now the slightly baffled owner of no less than 19,000 sheets, all arrived in 2 days. He said he hates to see the mailman now.
Danielson just brought me 2,000 sheets of his toilet paper, causing cheers from the room. The packets are actually inscribed "The Consumption of Paper is the Measure of a Nation's Culture."
Spent a swell week-end with the good old Bensons to whom I introduced Braden ('40) and Ellsworth ('40) mutually satisfactory. Tom and Ted have been cold ever since they landed. When we got in Benson's drawing room "Ellsy" blew out 2 or 3 times and said "look, Tom, you can't see your breath." Tom sat in the fireplace shuddering with what he calls the "aig," and Ellsy said, "look, Whistler's Mother." Both boys look entirely rookie, hats square on heads and battle dress refusing to fold over" gears. It was hilarious and warming.
We have a new major who is a dead ringer for Robert Taylor and a real soldier. He threatens to teach us something useful about platoon leading and tactics, having splendid forthrightness and decision—his confidence is inspiring. In 2 days he has flatly contradicted several of our platoon commander's cherished beliefs, to our delight. We, are doing river crossings, road block attacks, carrier platoon in the advance, etc.
I drove a carrier madly through the mud and last week motor-biked all over the country, during a blackout convoy march, all dangerous and good sport. Yesterday we marched 9 miles in 2 hours 20 mins. (Too fast for my taste even without marching order) and I had an egg Saturday, too, which is more important.
The new major has really jabbed the place in the arm and we are all working like stoats. We've had several night operations, and if we don't work nights we're too tired to write. I've even given up my military studies and fallen with pleasure into a novel by Turgenev, "Fathers and Sons," which I'm reading at the rate of about 50 pages a week.
Tonight we just got in from a scheme that started yesterday morning. Yesterday we held a river-line tor an imaginary armored division to advance through. I was the platoon commander's runner and rode a motorbike at top speed over dinky wet roads—about as much fun as I've ever had in a day. High spot came when I delivered a message to the major at company HQ ten minutes ahead of schedule and he invited me to a pint (HQ of course, being in a pub). After tea we went right out again on a night river-crossing. It was a little unrealistic because the Avon is only 30 feet broad at this crossing-point and the river's so shallow we have to wade the boats across. But with the full moon we had a good attack up the slope on the other side. By then I was fairly tired, having been on guard Friday night and done some noting with the Old Guard in Winchester over the week-end. I slept in the back of the truck while we night-marched miles to our harbor-site. We had three hours' sleep there under the trees, but Jack and I were on sentry for one of them. Today we held a hill-top against possible attack, which involved digging weapon pits and putting up wires. We finally came in this afternoon to hear a lecture on the Middle East by one of our boys'who was there, and who told some grand stories of night patrols and Italian comic opera.
My health is improved. Limits of endurance are staggering. If I had felt as bad at home as I've felt over here one day in five would have been spent in bed. I've suffered an incredible variety of colds, sore throats, coughs, indigestion, aches, pains and sores, but it's easier to go through the day than report sick, so you always do. None of my ills have been serious, just attendants on the first English winter and the first year of army diet interspersed with week-end splurges, but since the new major's Bernarr MacFadden policy has come, I've felt better.
P.S. I sent you a package of photos taken by the M. of I. the other day just for laughs. It will probably be sunk, showing that God's hand still works for the general welfare.
Immensely cheered by the Trib's Pearl Harbor edit, which echoes my own thinking exactly. It's good to find a newspaper that still has sense. I've been maddened by these papers lately all attacking the government for not doing things which are obviously impossible.
The Trib is the first paper I've seen which admits that "the peoples' servants serve them right." No one here will admit that the army, the government and the public policies are all factors of the people themselves; they act and squawk as if they believe the war can be won by government edict, or their own apathy and selfishness abolished by act of Parliament. Pearl Harbor and Singapore are logical sequences of Munich and the Neutrality Act. It will take a long time for us to wash out the ostrichism o£ 1920-1940; years of blood to wash that away, I reckon. Get into production, build an army, a fleet and most of all an offensive spirit, a belief in attack and a refusal to retreat—what a program. See you in 1947, Pappy.
LlFE—well it hardly ever ceases being as funny as it's tragic. We laugh all the time at each other or the army. All regulations and official things give us childish delight, for their pompousness. One day there was a notice on detail. "All ranks and dirty pillow cases xvill be handed in to coy. stores at 0800 hrs." All the stuff about procedure, courtesy, conduct of church parades, is so funny. Sunday we spent two hours to get ready for church, cleaning and polishing. Church was at 11 :05 and from 10:10 we paraded, were inspected, formed threes and stood about in the cold. As for the service, what with chants and prayers "for all those set over us in authority" I came more and more to feel that I prefer my dealings with God direct.
Actually I've had spells of great peaceful- mind and unflurried-soul lately when I feel I can take or leave absolutely anything and always live inside myself no matter what they do. I wrote Marc that this war, won or lost, meant the death of the laissez-faire individual. But not the end of the individual who is always everything, the world within himself, and the only thing that can ever make the world. Funny old George Mcßride makes me believe that and believe in myself. I'm reading a lot—Wavell's "Allenby," books on war, Army Council pamphlets, etc., and thinking now. A lot of things add up to answers which are gloomy, provocative, amazing and somehow (sometimes) funny. Hope I live to see how some of it works out.
World War I
To THE EDITOR:
The group of volunteers shown on page 10 of your May issue was composed mostly of 'iBers who later went into camion and ambulance service.
To the best of my knowledge this group sailed on the French Liner "Lorraine," landing at Bordeaux, not on l'Espagne.
The group includes most of the men shown in the picture of the "Dartmouth Fusiliers" on page 20, same issue. I cannot identify more than 5 of the group on page 10, however: standing, 3rd from right, "Men" Ross; 4th from right, your correspondent; 6th from right, "Mike" Pounds; 8th from right, Walt Car; kneeling, center, Frank Lewis. Many of the other faces are familiar; but I can't recall the names.
Denver, Colo.
DARTMOUTH IN THE KING'S ROYAL RIFLES, ENGLAND By this time the three members of the class of 1941 shown above have received theircommissions in Britain's historic regiment, the King's Royal Rifles, after nearly a yearof intensive training. They are, left to right: Charles Bolte, John Brister, and BillDurkee. Not pictured above, because of their later arrival in England and location at adifferent training camp, are two other officer-candidates: Tom Braden '40 and TedEllsworth '40.
