The Second Armistice Day

> This letter from a Casablanca representative of the American Friends Service Commitee (Quaker) was forwarded to TIME: Dear Helen:

. . . The first I knew that things were beginning to happen was when the air-raid sirens blew before daylight Nov. 8. I got up, looked out of the window, and saw nothing but a clear, cloudless sky, with no sound of planes or antiaircraft. So I concluded that it was a false alarm, and went back to bed. I dozed off, but came to with the sound of troops running through the streets, so I tumbled out to have another look; and then realized for the first time that there was really something up. It was then light enough to see to dress. I did not wish to turn on my lights, but I couldn't have anyway as the power had been turned off, although I didn't know it. By the time I got down into the street, quite a number of people had appeared but no one seemed to know what was up. An Arab told me that sometime before the sirens sounded, planes had flown low over the town and had dropped circulars which said the Americans were coming. I was so incredulous that I told him I would give him ten francs for one! Just about then we could hear heavy firing up on the coast; still no one seemed to know what was going on. Shortly a Frenchman told me he had been up on the hotel roof, had found one of the circulars, and had seen what were apparently gun flashes at sea. So I decided to take a look. Soon I found two of the circulars, and brought them down to my room--one of them later disappeared--I think the chambermaid swiped one! As the firing continued, I went up again just as the antiaircraft in the port opened up. The French guns made a heck of a racket and the sky was full of black bursts. There was the continual rattle of machine-gun fire. At first I couldn't make out what they were blazing at. Then I saw a plane suddenly take what I thought was a nose dive, when it suddenly started to level off and I saw some bombs drop out and start down. Then I realized it was a dive-bomber attack. I looked farther up and there was a whole line of these planes headed for the port. I saw one ship struck, and in no time the whole port seemed covered with bomb bursts, and from the dense clouds of smoke which appeared almost immediately, it looked like a tremendous fire had been started. At about the same time antiaircraft bursts appeared over the airport, and from the sound of the explosions I judged the airport was being either bombed or shelled by heavy stuff. . . . There was a continual rumpus at the port; but by that time the smoke was so thick I could see very little. . . .

I didn't have the heart to watch it any longer. To see a ship struck that way with the smoke rolling out gives one rather a sickening sensation. . . . There were other explosions during the forenoon, with planes flying over. It was perfectly clear that the Americans had very heavy forces available from the character of the attack on the port, so I was simply flabbergasted when people told me that a very small French fleet had gone out to fight them. It was worse than suicide. In less than half an hour after they sailed out of the harbor they were all put out of action with a frightful loss of life--all for nothing. One of the French warships returned all afire, and was run ashore making a horrible sight all that evening. Many were afraid there would be heavy air raids that night. One very kindly Frenchman came to me that evening and said, "Well, I hope your countrymen will permit us to sleep tonight." They did, and I began to hope that an armistice had been arranged, but the next morning things livened up again, and it appeared that a French warship tied up in the port was using her guns. A notice appeared in the paper saying that all Americans and British between 17 and 50 years must report to a certain place at a certain time. ... I found that the French had taken all the American officials at the consulate away. So I went to the Region Civile. A very nice French captain whom I knew, along with a French naval officer, greeted me cordially. When I asked what I was supposed to do, the captain said, "You have read the paper?"

"Yes."

He said, "Then do that."

"But," I said, "I happen to be over 50."

"Wait," said he, while he reread his instructions. "It says nothing; so do nothing."

"Well," said I, "do I have to have any special papers or anything else?"

"Nothing more than you already have and do just as you always have."

I told them I was sad that this battle apparently had to be; that I had come to Maroc not as a man of war but as a man of peace. Their genial manner disappeared, and they both bowed their heads. The Naval officer put forth his hand to shake mine, and as he raised his face, there were tears in his eyes. The captain also shook hands in a very moving manner, and I was free to go about a city under siege entirely unmolested.

People whom I did not know bowed to me on the street, and everyone was most kind. The civil population really were wonderful during those tense days. Boy Scouts twelve and 14 years old went about on bicycles, wearing their metal helmets like veterans, during the air attacks and during the shelling. The time I went up to the Military Hospital to see the wounded Americans who had been brought in the first day, the older Scouts were serving as stretcher-bearers. They were big husky boys. I have never seen any nicer looking boys--not even in Denmark and, as thee knows, that is a lot for me to say. As I returned from the hospital, troops were digging machine-gun nests, and I heard that machine guns were being placed on the tops of buildings and that some of the roads on the edge of the town were being mined. . . .

I remember going to the cemetery, after the Americans arrived, to be present at the first burial of American dead. . . . The cemetery is on the edge of the town. When we arrived, the graves were all dug and a number of the coffins had already been lowered, all the work being done by charcoal-black Senegalese. A French official arrived to ask if a French military representative would be welcome. He received an affirmative and shortly afterward several French officers arrived. While we were waiting for the last of the coffins to be lowered, we were introduced to the American officers, including the battery of chaplains. One was a big husky Irish priest, and there were two varieties of Protestants. Flowers were arranged on the mounds of earth, the chaplains lined up in the aisle between the two lines of graves with the firing squad on their left, the officers on their right. . . . The firing squad then fired the required number of volleys, and then the bugler sounded taps. . . .

Nov. 11 certainly will stand out in my memory more than ever, as it is now my second Armistice Day. The afternoon before planes came over, amidst a hail of machine-gun fire and antiaircraft, and dive-bombed a remaining French warship which apparently had been shelling some of the American forces some distance from the town. The dive-bomb attacks evidently finished her. Some days later I saw her from a distance, down by the stern with a list. The evening of Nov. 10 was an anxious one, for while we had no really definite news it was perfectly clear that the Americans were closing in on the town. And with the obvious folly the French had already shown in the earlier operations, I wasn't sure they might not be fools enough to attempt to try to make a Stalingrad of the town. So the morning of the 11th maybe it wasn't a relief to find that an armistice had been arranged! I called on the Swiss consul who had taken over American interests, found that the American consulate people were expected back soon. The Swiss took me out there in his car. The news had already spread, for the streets all around the consulate were lined with people and there were swarms of French police at hand to hold them back. When the American cars arrived, there was tremendous enthusiasm. There were two American soldiers in full field equipment sent to guard the consulate, but this was only a gesture, as the . . . only task was to hold back the enthusiastic throng.

To my utter surprise, when the consulate opened there was thy telegram for Thanksgiving ! It apparently had arrived during the siege and was it a welcome greeting! . . .

It has been truly marvelous that the town has suffered practically no damage with all the hell in the port. A Frenchman who had been caught in a hotel near the port told me he had never seen such superb gunnery in his life--that every shot which came in landed in the port and none lit in the town. Some shell fragments did scatter, naturally, and in at least one other locality, some houses were hit and a number of Arabs were killed. However, I would not have believed it possible for operations on such a scale to cause so little harm to civilians. Certainly the Americans did everything to avoid injuring the town. . .

The day that the Americans came into the city there was quite a riot in the old native town. It seems that the Jews celebrated the arrival of the Americans most indiscreetly, loudly proclaiming that now they the Jews would have their opportunity to rule! Well, the Arabs couldn't quite overlook that, and they went to it. At first wild rumors spread through the town that there had been a huge number of Jews killed, but I am satisfied that there were no deaths, although there were a large number badly beaten and smashed up. And the casualties were not all on one side! . . . By the time I got there the French police had things in hand, and the old town apparently had been cleared and there were only a few sporadic tussles going on outside the wall. One Arab was roughhousing a Jew; a French cop told him to quit and move on, but the Arab kept on and the cop went after him. The Arab was soon caught, and the crowd of Arabs quickly closed in on them and I was afraid there would be serious trouble. The Arab tried to shake off the cop, and the cop freely and energetically used his club on the Arab's head. It was certainly a hard head! And instead of becoming inflamed because their comrade was being beaten up by the cop, the rest of the crowd of Arabs just roared with laughter. It was a huge joke the Arab had been so dumb as to get caught and pounded in this fashion!

It is difficult for us to understand their thinking. Just at that moment, a big gang of Americans turned into the Place and the whole mob forgot all about the Jews and rushed off to stare at the Americans. When they discovered that the Americans were actually giving away free for nothing cigarets, candy and chewing gum they just about went wild! As one of the refugee doctors said of the Arabs, "they have very primitive minds," and, he added, "so do the native Jews." The doctor is a Jew himself. . . .

The first Arab family that I was called on to help had lost the father the first day of the bombardment. He was killed by a shell fragment, the house being on the edge of the town. I had misgivings that when other Arabs heard that I was giving this family aid there would be a stampede of other demands for help, but while a group of Arab neighbors showed me around, pointing out the different houses which had been hit and solemnly relating how many had been killed in each, not one--not even the smallest child--asked for even a sou. As it turned out, the mother and the smaller children who did not work had moved to the other side of town to stay with relatives. So we continued the journey across Casablanca in an old carriage with a horse which had the disposition of a very ornery mule. . . .

We reached the abode of the relatives just at nightfall. The news spread that foreigners had appeared and quite a good size crowd quickly collected around the door. I shall never forget the scene. Numerous relatives of all ages were sitting around on the floor, which was covered with matting that was immaculately clean. In the dim light of some sort of lamp it was possible to see the bereaved mother sitting in the middle of the assembly holding a small child. She seemed almost in a stupor. All the relatives leaned forward to see what it was all about. When they realized that I, a foreigner, had brought the widow money, a murmur of astonishment escaped them. . . . The money which I gave the mother seemed to daze her still more. When they made her understand that the money was actually hers and all that she was expected to do was to sign a receipt, she simply became wide-eyed. Her signature consisted of a thumb print! I am told the Arabs would not have considered it proper to receive money in that way without a receipt of that sort. The light in the room was so dim that I could hardly see to prepare the receipt. It was almost miraculous how quickly and how silently small candles and strange Arab lamps appeared, being brought in by neighbors. I was followed out to the carriage by this strange procession of torches to light the way. Many of these people had the faces of patriarchs, silhouetted by the strange light in the darkness. I shall never forget the fervent handclasp of one old fellow who was black as the ace of spades. He couldn't speak a word of French, but he understood everything. . . . There are a number of other families who will need help of this kind.

L. O. H.

Casablanca

The Bells of Bow

Sirs:

What do you mean "ex-Cockney Herbert Morrison" (TIME, Jan. 25)?

An ex-Cockney is like Dickens' Mrs. 'arris. "There ain't no sich person."

A Cockney is one who was born within the sound of Bow bells now, alas, silenced by the birds of hell. Nobody can ever be ex-that! . . .

CAPTAIN J. D. MUGFORD

Washington

Wylie's Vipers

Sirs:

Author Philip Wylie must have had some mother to inspire such a ridiculous, untimely attack on American mothers (Generation of Vipers, TIME, Jan. 18). God knows that we have enough affairs on the national and international scenes open to criticism (strikes, politics, etc.). Instead of choosing one or more of the innumerable latter, Writer Wylie denounced some of America's proudest possessions: Mom, the common man, the Brooklyn Dodgers, the Star-Spangled Banner. . . . After his lusty vulgarity, civilization-pitying Mr. Wylie dares to quote from Christ's text!

To Author Wylie: Dominus Vobiscum!

WILLIAM J. BARTON

Providence

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