Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1943)

5U WAR-TIME CANNING ALL-GLASS SAVE METAL! f CAN all you can from your Victory Garden BALL Ideal Jar: "Ideal" for all homecanning this year because it saves vital metals. The glass top lasts as long as the jar. "No-stretch" spring steel wire clamp. Easy to seal, easy to open. Many experienced home-canners will use no other. BALL No. 10 Glass Top Seal Jar: New, different! Uses less metal and rubber. Metal band should be removed after 12 hours and re-used. Glass Top Seal closures fit any Mason jar with smooth top edge, replacing all-metal closures. Buy them separately for jars you have on hand. BALL BROTHERS COMPANY Muncie, Indiana BALL BLUE BOOK! Fill out and send in the coupon from the circular from a box of BALL Jars and Ket a BALL BLUE BOOK free. If you do not have the coupon, send 10<» with your name and address. SffiS® YOU WON'T BE HUNGRY IF YOU CAN! f IS Tftt/e ABOUT 7H6 VSSUt CALLED *SIT-TR(/fc" softer-* > «stronger wore absorbent J SITROUX SAY SIT-TRUE CLEANSING TISSUES, f',4 men give the orders. They always seem to be going somewhere. On the roads by day or night, you pass small herds of them. November 19th. Started out at dawn. It is a hell of a road, choked with motor convoys, narrow and steep in places, but scenically picturesque. The country here is very much like Del Monte and Cypress Point; in fact, all of Algeria reminds me of California. The V for Victory sign has swept North Africa. Wherever we go, we are greeted by upraised hands, fingers forming the V. Native children wave at us as we pass. They catch on quickly; already they have mastered enough English to ask for "chewhing-gum" and "cigarette Americaine." The days are pleasant here, but the nights are next to freezing. November 22nd. At Souk el Arba I headed for Headquarters to check in. As I was about to enter the building, something made me look up. Directly over my head a flight of planes came into view, not more than 2,000 feet up. It all happened in a sudden shocking instant. Bombs rained on us from every direction, it seemed, including the earth. Plaster flew off the walls. Machine-gun bullets splattered on all sides. A terrific explosion seemed to cave in the building, and down the road toward the airport, a bomb landed in the ammunition which exploded and sent flares of live bullets rocketing in every direction. I flattened out on the floor and hugged the wall as another terrific explosion shook the building. Our own ack-ack opened up; the din was deafening. The moment they turned away I grabbed my camera and headed for the airport, which was by now a mass of flames and billowing smoke. Officers and men alike pitched in to salvage what they could. Ugly clouds of black smoke blotted out the sky. I had my flask of brandy, and I passed it around freely. In the middle of this, the rats came over again. We were caught on the runway with no shelter or protection of any kind and had to make a dash for it. This time, like everyone else, I was damn well frightened. I wasn't alone. There wasn't a soldier on the field who didn't light out for the nearest tree or ditch. The Nazis made one sweep and went on. As we were excitedly discussing the events of the day, Sergeant Edwards spotted a new attack coming in at a higher level. How long it lasted I will not attempt to say. It might have been five minutes or an hour. Sometimes the planes would come as low as a few hundred feet. A Messerschmitt dove right over our heads not higher than the treetops, its guns blazing and black smoke pouring out of the tail. I let go with my Tommy gun and fired three clips in all, and while I know some of my lead hit home I probably did no damage, yet there was always the chance that one lucky shot might strike a vital spot. Exhilaration and a feeling of supreme satisfaction swept over me. I wanted to shoot more and more. I could feel my heart pounding, and afterwards I was surprised to find myself out of breath and sweating. In the excitement I had managed to sit in a lovely platter of cow dung. Thank heaven for that extra pair of britches! Momentary fright is a peculiar thing. In odd moments I discussed the subject of battle conduct with several seasoned cam paigners. They all freely admit their momentary fright and call any man a liar who claims he isn't afraid when the going gets really hot. But the soldier to worry about and send home to a base is the one who worries before things happen and continues to sweat and look pale and drawn after they have happened. This man will never stand up and fight back if he has to. But the fact that you run for cover and duck and hold your breath and hug the dirt and say a quick silent prayer at the very moment of acute danger has nothing whatever to do with fear. November 23rd. During the night our troops captured about forty Italian paratroopers. We photograph them. They are a happy lot, delighted to be out of the war. They pose for us and do acrobatic stunts, anxious to butter their bread on the right side this time. November 25th. This is the day set for the advance on enemy-held ground positions. We are on the north flank aimed at Mateur. We hide the truck in a farmyard halfway from Beja to the Front and take the Chevrolet, with myself at the wheel and one cameraman on each running board to watch for attacking planes. Three times in an hour we had to abandon the car and take to the ditches. Suddenly we halted. I could hear machinegun firing not far away. Five hundred yards down the road a Nazi tank column had clashed with our tanks and a detachment of the enemy was now taking potshots at us from the farmyard I could see just ahead. This was the firing I had heard. The British battery opened up. We could see a group of Italian and German soldiers run out of the farmyard, waving white handkerchiefs as a token of surrender. This is something we could not miss. You do not often get a chance to photograph German soldiers at the very moment of surrender — and this was it. We got some interesting stuff. There were about forty Italians and ten Germans. The Germans wouldn't mingle with the Italians and were none too pleased to be photographed, but we took care of that. There was firing of every type going on all around us now. The person who coined the phrase about there not being any atheists in a foxhole certainly knew his business, and I might also add that there are no social lines in a slit-trench. On our way back to the truck this evening after the battle had cooled off, we had a Messerschmitt dive at us, or in our general direction, just as we passed a unit of huge black Senegalese soldiers who were guarding a deserted railroad crossing. I wound up in a hole with the biggest and blackest man in all Africa. And was I delighted! His broad shoulders and thick chest were as good as a stone wall and, as we crouched together in the tiny hole, practically in each other's arms, I wondered what Hitler would do in a similar situation. I am sure I know the answer. November 26th. When I asked for volunteers to go back to the forward position, the boys all clamored for the chance. We camouflaged the car in the grove and went forward on foot. After a few miles we climbed a barren hill and had a good view of the tank battle. A wrecked and burning Nazi tank stood out on the horizon. A British battery of ack-ack guns moved in alongside us.