Yours Sincerely

About two weeks ago, just because I felt like doing it, I submitted to the Station Commander a request for a furlough. And for some odd reason he approved it. Soon I was on my way. Where to? Didn't know. Just intended to circulate and see some of the country. First night found me in a fairly large town in Yorkshire. Empty and tired. No place to correct either of those ailments. Practically no hotels and those all filled. Food only for those who had their rationing established. Didn't look too promising. Eventually there looked up in silhouette a form that couldn't be mistaken. The hat of a bobbie. Most helpful people in the world. They know the answer to almost any question and do their best to see you get what or where you want. He walked a half dozen blocks with me and through some alleys and passageways to the door of a church. Turned me over to a boy who opened the door and then he vanished into the night he came from. The boy escorted me to an upstairs room there... I rose, dressed and went back into the night after some hours. I had an early morning session of window shopping in the black glare of empty store windows and some wobbly walking on big, round cobble-stones.

But the sun wasn't far away. In one way and another, I've seen a lot of sunrises and I'm fond of them. There's something clean and refreshing about being there to meet the sun. All at once there's a cafe. "Yes, indeed, there'll be breakfast, if you can just wait a half-hour till the chores are done." Sounds better. Nice, clean, almost luxurious place with decent furniture and soft rugs. At the end of an hour a little, beaming, pink-cheeked spring breeze of a man, all spatted and slicked-up for sister Sylvia's graduation, sailed across the carpet, rubbing his hands and inquiring about my health and well-being. We discussed my health and his for some length of time and then he became so bold as to inquire about whether or not I wanted to eat something. Being in no mood for bargaining or haggling, I accepted on the spot. He asked what I'd like to have and immediately suggested sausages and beans. After learning that sausage and beans was what he had, I immediately decided to have sausages and beans. And coffee. He was relieved to know that I wanted no bread. And with good reason. It's practically criminal to eat bread here if you can get along without it. The campaign to promote the consumption of potatoes instead of bread is one of the biggest projects afoot in this country and I can't understand why it should take any great effort to change over. You can do a lot of things with spuds. The coffee was good. Tastes more like something else, but it's not bad. And usually good and strong.

There's usually a suggestion of meat in the sausages. I've heard of people here; not being in the best of health and required to forego the eating of meat, who took up the eating of sausages with very good results. But by now we've had breakfast and must be about. And learning if this business of being about is really worth the trouble. Not too promising at this stage. Feeling that the beauty of any country is elsewhere than in its cobblestones, I seek a little more open view of this part of the world. And find it worthwhile. A tuppeny tramride and a fifteen minute walk transforms the world from a St. Louis or a Chicago to something Little John or Allan-a-Dale might pop from if you closed your eyes for a minute. It's a beautiful place. Century-old houses and barns all green with moss and covered with grass and vines Steep hills and valleys. with little fields as neat and precise as a checker board. Little rushing streams with dams and ancient waterwheels, some still running and others showing no indication of having been used for centuries. And peaceful. That's the important thing. People there have suffered. Any number walk with crutches or not at all. Others look at you from the side of their face that still has an eye. But they've got guts. No complaints. All full of optimism and thoughts of the future now. I I think I know the British people now and they're just a Hell of a lot bigger and better than I ever thought.

After walking through some of that country for a while I came to the inevitable pub and stopped in for a bit of refreshment. Jim, the landlord, (I got to know him fairly well) not only served me, but came around, poked up the fireplace and sat and talked a while. All full of real, genuine, friendly friendliness. In a few minutes several people from the neigh borhood for their spot of something besides tea. Drinking is something that's done a bit differently in this country. Everyone does it, but everyone also does it a bit more sensibly and moderately than the people we know.

One plump, little lady of about fifty short summers came in, sat next to me on the bench and with no ceremony whatever, inquired, "Sergeant, what do you think of our goddamn ed country." I assured her I was no little fond on it and from there on I belonged there. She was Mrs. Loxley. Scotch. Took me three days to remember that was the name Robin Hood used when he went to Nottingham with a patch over one eye and won the sherriff's (that aint spelled right) archery prize. He spelled it Locksley, though. Mrs. Loxley had dropped in to go with Jim's lady to see another lady in a hospital. She had a little bowl of potato salad surrounded with some odd sort of finely chopped cold slaw and covered with a heavy thatch of dainty, young watercress. I admired the cress and before I could blink an eye, she had stuffed a handful of it in my mouth. She was just that kind of people. And they all are. She, and the rest of them, had come in about twelve and she had intended to catch a bus and go see the sick lady. No body left till almost three. In that time, almost everyone, ladies included, had ordered a whiskey (Scotch) for me, and those I couldn't drink with extracted promises that I'd be back that night or tomorrow and have one with them. And Mrs. Loxley invited me to spend Sunday with her and her husband. I explained that I didn't intend to stay in one place that long, but she left it to me. If I stayed or changed my mind, the invitation stood. Eventually I returned to the big town and booked lodging at a hotel and stayed the night. Nice decent place. Business men and British officers. Sheets and old fluffs. Cup of hot tea and a newspaper on a chair at the bedside when you're called in the morning. Never any plumbing in the room, but a big pitcher of hot water comes with the tea. Good hot tea with sugar for breakfast which sometimes offers a slice of ham. Usually beans and sausages, but it's good. Bar isn't open till eleven thirty, but a guest can have a slug of liquid warmth to get his eyes open. Maybe it never happened at all, I don't know, but it makes good remembering. The next midday found me back at Jim's fireplace with the same people. Quiet, homey and peaceful. Was invited back that night to meet Mr. Loxley, who would add a word to his wife's Sunday invitation. And did come back. He was the same kind of people. Mild, kindly and just as friendly. I accepted.

Arrived at ten in the morning and came into a tiny, neat, but comfortable two-story home with a fireplace. This one was unusual to me. Seems standard there. It's incorporated with a big iron oven with several sections. Serves for everything heat can be used in. Mr. L. walks on Sunday morning. When these people walk, they walk. They have little respect for our walking ability. We covered about six miles across hills, valleys, fields, tiny villages I'd only seen through the eyes of Dickens and Burns and explored the interiors of a number of old watermills Stopped at a pub now and then and spent a few minutes before this or that fireplace drinking beer from quartsized mugs and meeting men, always old men, you'd never find near an army camp or a big town. Just being themselves in their own element. Friendly as a vacuum cleaner salesman and unselfish as rain. Then back to a dinner that must have used more of a week's rations and contained some items that had been kept since before the war. Not hoarded. Just delicacies no longer available. Must have a spot of Scotch before dinner. Then a big steaming roast of beef right out of that fireplace oven. Yorkshire Pudding, an onion pudding that was more a dressing pie than a pudding, but delicious. And plum pudding with rum. Rum poured right out of the bottle. And good coffee. That onion pudding and the Yorkshire pudding are not the same. Y. P. is a big, thick, baked flapjack. I always run into big thick flapjacks. but it was really good.

or that fireplace drinking beer from quartsized mugs and meeting men, always old men, you'd never find near an army camp or a big town. Just being themselves in their own element. Friendly as a vacuum cleaner salesman and unselfish as rain. Then back to a dinner that must have used more of a week's rations and contained some items that had been kept since before the war. Not hoarded. Just delicacies no longer available. Must have a spot of Scotch before dinner. Then a big steaming roast of beef right out of that fireplace oven. Yorkshire Pudding, an onion pudding that was more a dressing pie than a pudding, but delicious. And plum pudding with rum. Rum poured right out of the bottle. And good coffee. That onion pudding and the Yorkshire pudding are not the same. Y. P. is a big, thick, baked flapjack. I always run into big thick flapjacks. but it was really good.

During the dinner and after, I learned that Mrs. L. has had a son in the army and the RAF for fifteen years. Guess that explains everything. She has been an invalid for a number of years. They had kept a father and a sick sister for a decade or more. Now she's a nurse. Red Cross. Just home on leave when I met her. Been through a lot of rough business in the past three years. Organized and operated a small hospital after Dunkirk when the army didn't have the facilities for caring for its own sick and injured. People like that, along with the people who stay home and work day after day and bear the brunt of taxes and rationing are the ones who deserve the glory and medals that are being handed out to soldiers every day. My hosts have a siesta on Sunday afternoon. Invited me to do the same. I asked to be permitted to stay at the fireplace and read. In no time at all I was furnished with Burns, (a leather-bound wedding gift), several of Dumas' books, and a handful of magazines and periodicals. A quart of Scotch, a bottle of soda and a dish of sweets were placed on the table at my side and I was told the house was mine. I'm grateful for all that, but the fireplace and the quiet were most important. Believe it or not, I didn't touch the whiskey. Later we stopped at the little pub for a few minutes. Met a Mr. Singleton, who wanted to take me through some factories the next morning to see some products and processes I'd never see anywhere else. Called for me the next morning and we did. Won't say any more of that. Probably should be secret. But that Sunday night I walked home with the L.'s. I know they were thinking of their son all the time. Mrs. L. kissed me when I left and Mr. L. walked to the road with me and I'll admit I was impressed. These people have little and they give a lot. I learned a lot, too. That's been several days ago, but ever since, I've been thinking of the kindness and generosity showed to a total stranger. These cold, shrewd British, who always come out of everything with a profit. We've a lot of wrong ideas about this country. And there are a great number of things about it that are easier to understand now. My time had come to an end. Had to. And I hated it. But on the way back, I allowed plenty of time and stopped several times for food or a drink and found it the same everywhere. Talked to people who had been bombed. Men with eyes and legs and hands gone. Most grinned and said, "There's lots had it worse than me." Have to admire that. They do have guts.

Sgt. Clarence A. Hulsey, 343rd Service Squadron, Α. Ρ. Ο. 634, New York, N. Y. • Arizona Highways has often published letters from folks in England expressing appreciation for the way Arizonans have treated British cadets at Falcon Field, at Mesa. Now we are privileged to show how an Arizonan is received in England.

This letter by Sergeant Hulsey was sent to a friend in Phoenix and because it describes so well England at war, and the friendliness of the English people we considered it a pleasure to reproduce it here.

"SAN FRANCISCO PEAKS."

NAVAJO IN THE PACIFIC: ... I received your March issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS magazine yesterday and enjoyed it very much. It made me feel fine after I got through reading it, even though I am way out in the middle of the Pacific.

There's only two of us Navajo Indians aboard this ship from Arizona.

I thank the Arizona State Highway Dept. for the magazine and also Mrs. Dorothy Pierson for the subscription.

HOPI BOY IN THE SERVICE:

... I had the great pleasure because of your courtesy, to read your monthly magazine, the ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, edited last December and kindly dedicated to our people and our country. I thought you might be interested in hearing from me for I am one of the native tribe from Arizona and that's one reason why this magazine is very interesting to me. I hail from the Hopi country to here and find the weather here very much like part of Arizona.

I have shown the magazine to some of my buddies and they had no idea Arizona was like the photographs show, because they thought Arizona was all barren desert and first of all they usually asked me how the people make a living out on the desert, until they have seen the magazine which proves the state.

Since I can't return to Arizona at present, I will do the next best thing and write you and say keep up the good work. May I say how much I appreciate your kindness if you send me a copy of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS magazine. I am very proud to say that my home state is Arizona.

Wish you one and all the very best of good luck, health, happiness and prosperity until we all return home.

and with all our wishes, too, for his luck, health and happiness.

NOT TOM BUT JIM:

In your story of Chino Valley in May issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS you speak of a Tom Watson coming from Indiana to develop an irrigation project in that area. That is a mistake. The man was Jim Watson who later became U. S. Senator and was several times discussed as a presidential candidate. Senator Watson was a very able legislator and is considered one of the finest statesmen Indiana has produced.

HERE FOR A REST:

Arizona is my "second love," for next to "The Closest State to Heaven," it's Sunny Arizona for me.

My recent rest there did me a world of good and made me love Arizona the more.