Two fighters escorted us toward French fields neat and green, and we landed sharply on a strip laid down by detachments of this same transport group.
We were approached at once by soldiers curious about the new arrivals. They were tired and grim, saying little at first, yet wanting to talk. Their field uniforms were dusty, but they had found time to shave. They watched and listened as you wrote one man's name and experiences in a notebook.
"Will the story be in my hometown paper?" was the closest any of them came to asking anything outright. They asked that because it is a way of letting the homefolk know they are safe.
It was the same with both men and officers. Among them were seaman second class John Dolan, West Orange, New Jersey; Capt. Robert Mulligan, Capron, 111.; and Warrant Officer Curtin Ferrell, Pontotoc, Mississippi.
Home things come first in their conversations with a woman correspondent, but they also are eager to know all about the flying bombs the Germans have been firing into southern England. Trucks come for the planes' loads and hurry off. Ambulances rumble up. Patients are quickly transferred to the planes-usually about 24 litters to each one - and the planes take off. It is not safe to linger.
Well-camouflaged is the tent of Major Milton Evans, Gulfport, Mississippi, Commander of Advance Headquarters, reached by crossing a clover field. You stay in the path resisting the temptation to pick beautiful red poppies. There is a dull boom-and dust thrown high on the beach shows why. Mines are still being found.