AAF Learns Art of Camouflage
*7 FORT BELVOIR, VA., where the engineer board is
training officers from all over the country in the gentle
■- art of making things look like what they ain’t, much
knowledge is crammed into a two-week’s course.
Three busloads of officers, ranging from second lieuten
ants to lieutenant colonels under the direction of two first
lieutenants, set out each morning to a special sector three
miles from the post. In a field of about five acres are Curtiss
P-40 pursuits staked down amid a group of pines. No air
plane, one concludes, could land in such rough terrain. How
ever, these planes are carefully constructed dummies, made
of plywood.
These “mock-ups” serve to misdirect the enemy while
the real planes, hidden a short distance away, are camou
flaged and safe.
One of the lieutenants says: “Captain Blank will take ten men with
strong shoulders, pick a likely spot and get going. You'll find ample
supplies over there—tools, brushhooks, pickaxes. Pull your plane to
your spot, find drapes, and try to conceal it.”
Officers, lieutenants and lieutenant colonels alike grab the 300-pound
dummy plane and carefully haul it to the appointed spot. Chips fly,
stumps are razed and the ground smoothed out In no time at all the
space is cleared. The plane is pulled into position, and the officers
swarm over the ship like the Lilliputians over Gulliver.
When the job is done the students return to their instructor to report.
He criticizes the job from every angle. They do the job over and over
again until it is done right.
The following series of pictures show you the camoufleurs at work.
VICTORY
lPARADE
Student officers from all parts of the country plot positions for
camouflage and emergency fields on a relief map.
Studying turtles, one of nature's best examples of camouflage.
Officers cover the plane with trees after hauling it to a wooded area.
A green netting is placed over the plane.
These dummy planes look like the real thing from ground or air.
it X F A HEN." said Eben Langley,
j "having muddy feet, were to
walk across a clean white
sheet of paper, the impres
sion inscribed thereon would be
more intelligible than Harold Brick
ell’s writing.”
And with this, Eben began to
carve around the inside of the bowl
of his pipe with a jackknife, the
blade of which testified to many pre
vious carvings, and to chuckle soft
ly
"It couldn’t be laid to inade
quate schooling,” Eben contin
ued, tamping freshly cut plug
into the cleaned bowl, "for de
spite the fact that Milistown was
at that time little more than a
clearing in the woodlot, we had
a schoolhouse and a right smart
schoolmaster. Harold’s folks be
lieved in education and the lad
attended all the grades up to
the ninth. No, it wasn't lack of
schooling. It was simply that
his fingers were the kind that
looked more at home around the
handles of a plow.
“Strange as it may seem, Harold
was endowed with an imagination
and a vague desire to do some
thing besides pitch hay all his life.
(Which fact, incidentally proved to
be even more vague than w^ at first
thought, for in the end, Harold made
farming his life work and was con
tented.)
"It may have been because of a
certain obstinacy which developed
In Harold when nearing his 20s, or
it may have been because of School
master Caleb Ricker's desperate at
Harold was endowed with an im
agination and a vague desire to do
something besides pitch hay all his
life.
tempts to improve the lad’s pen
manship, that led to the boy's ulti
mate decision.
“Three years after Harold termi
nated his attendance at school, he
announced that he was going to be
a writer. The announcement was
astounding. At first Millstown's pop
ulace was inclined to ridicule the
idea. A picture of Harold Brickell,
who couldn’t even write his name
in legible style, earning his living
writing stories, was quite beyond
their grasp. And yet, when Harold
persisted in stating that that was
his chosen profession there were a
few of us who displayed a certain
amount of interest.
“After all, Millstown was consid
ered a backwoods settlement then;
we had sent no brilliant sons into
the world to bring honor and fame
to our community. And the mere
fact that at least one among us was
endowed with even an ambition to
achieve some end besides raising an
extra good crop of potatoes was
something to get excited about.
“Our hopes, however, were short
lived. Schoolmaster Ricker, who
naturally was better equipped to
predict the possibilities of such an
ambition, looked at Harold with
scorn and contempt; was by no
means hesitant in stating emphati
cally that the remoteness of suc
cess was something about which we
could laugh very heartily without
fear of having the tables turned.
“As a matter of fact when
we who had at first displayed
interest in Harold's ambition,
were shown a sample of the
boy's penmanship and faded aft
er an hour’s close application
(even though we made allow
ances for our own illiteracy) to
decipher a single line, we were
inclined to cast a vote in favor
of the schoolmaster, agreeing to
forget the Incident.
“But our indifference and scorn in
no way undermined Harold's deci
sion. If one was to be a writer, he
said, one must not be discouraged
by the opinions of a few inexperi
enced, illiterate imbeciles. He did
not, he further stated, expect the
co-operation and support of his fel
low townsmen. They could not pos
sibly understand, simply because the
scope of their vision was narrowed
I by routine to the extent of an acre
of potatoes and perhaps a like area
of silo corn. Most artists were
forced to lead a lonely life, which,
after all, was stimulating to the
I creative instincts.
“And thus having unburdened
himself in a commendable fashion,
Harold set about the task of making
of himself a writer. He spent his
idle moments scrawling signs and
symbols on paper, which, when of
fered to curious acquaintances for
perusal, proved meaningless and un
decipherable. Yet to Harold the
signs and symbols seemed to repre
sent the expression of an inner ge
nius that bubbled and boiled and
sought an outlet. For in spite of
everything he kept doggedly at his
task and continued whenever oppor
tunity offered to expound in detail
about his career, and predicted for
himself a great future.
"After awhile Harold's expounding
became a little boresome. Espe
cially when the novelty of the idea
had been tried and found wanting,
and after we had conscientiously at
tempted to decipher three of the
boy’s completed manuscripts, suc
ceeding only in starting an argu
ment among ourselves over the pos
sible meaning of certain signs that
had a vague resemblance to Eng
lish words. We began to suggest
as gently as we could that Harold
cease boring us with recitals con
cerning his wondrous genius and
turn his efforts to the more remu
nerative subject of potatoes and
corn.
"Unruffled, Harold continued to
scrawl out his so-called stories and
to berate us with predictions of
what the future held in store for
him. And at last, as a means of
protection, Ned Feeley lost his tem
per and advised poor Harold that it
was high time he snapped out of the
state into which he had let himself
fall, that his opportunity of becom
ing a writer was nil when you con
sidered that there wasn’t an editor
in the world, including the most ex
perienced translators of foreign lan
guages, who could decipher his pen
manship; and that every one in
Millstown was fed up on hearing
about it. Ned ended his little speech
by offering to bet Harold that the
boy would never make a cent out of
writing, if he lived to be a thousand.
"This last remark served to si
lence Harold. He stood in the lobby
of the post office, looking from one
face to another, as though it were
only now that the realization of how
his fellow townsmen felt about it
all, was brought home to him. There
was a silence, during which some
of us shifted uneasily and knew a
sense of regret of Ned’s condemning
tone.
"But presently Harold shrugged
his shoulders and turned away. At
the door he paused and looked back,
a hurt expression in his eyes, a
grim determination about his mouth.
Til take the bet, Ned,’ he said.
‘And we’ll make the time limit a
year instead of a thousand.’ Then
he went out.
"For a time the bet between Ned
and Harold stirred up no little ex
citement. Of course we all knew
that Ned’s money #as safe, yet
there was that hflrt expression in
Harold’s eyes and the grimness
about his mouth to remember and
wonder at.
"However, a week later Har
old Brickell was seen through
the day plowing the lower lot
on his farm and sowing it to
corn. And it was generally
noised about that the would-be
author had conceded the bet.
"Of course we had no way of
knowing that during the time Har
old was following along behind the
plow, his mind was at work. None
of us were artistically inclined and
we could not be blamed for not sus
pecting that it is at just such times
as this that geniuses give birth to
their most astounding inspirations.
"And when, three months later,
the excitement over the bet having
died down and everyone having
practically forgotten about Harold’s
ambition, it was noticed that the
lad was not hoeing corn in his lower
lot for three days’ running, no one
guessed what he was up to. They
attributed his absence to such things
as pains in the stomach, or sun
stroke.
"Little did we know that Harold
in the very act of extracting a jun
gle weed from a potato hill, had
been smitten with the idea of ideas
promptly dropped his hoe, returned
to the house and fofr three days
thereafter labored with pen and ink
in giving expression to the inspira
tion that he was sure was going to
make him famous and win Ned’s
$200 bet
At the end of three days Harold
emerged from his abode, a stubble
of beard on his chin, his eyes red,
and a carefully wrapped manuscript
under his arm. He went • once
to the post office and dispatched his
precious burden by the evening mail.
Then he sat down to wait, confi
dent, triumphant, elated.”
Eben paused in the telling of his
tale and chuckled. And I urged im
patiently: “Well, what happened?
Was the story a good one? Did
Harold win the bet?”
Eben shook his head. “Harold
won the bet, but no one knows to
this day whether the story was good
or not. You see Harold was so posi
tive that his yarn was a master
piece, so afraid that it might be
come lost, that he insured the pack
age for $100. Dave Sampson, the
postmaster, managed with Harold’s
help, to read the address on the
envelope, and dispatched the thing
to New York. However, that was
as far as it ever got.
“No one in New York could read
Harold’s writing hence the package
was lost and Harold collected his
$100 insurance money. He also col
lected his bet from Ned Feeley, be
cause Ned was a good sport and aft
er all, it couldn’t be said that the
lad hadn’t made money from his
writing. Theie was another induce
ment, too. Harold promised to go
back to farming, which he did, and
has been doing so every since.”
Released by Weetem Newspaper Union.
White House Wedding
TlfHEN Harry Hopkins, adviser
’ ' to President Roosevelt, and
Mrs. Louise Macy, New York fash
ion writer, were married in the
White House recently, it marked the
15th time that the halls of the Ex
ecutive Mansion had resounded to
the strains of the wedding march.
The first was back in 1811 during
President Madison's administration
and the last was 103 years later
while Woodrow Wilson was Presi
dent. Here is the chronological rec
ord:
1811— Thomas Todd, associate jus
tice of the Supreme court, and Lucy
Payne Washington, the widow of
George Washington’s nephew and
the sister of Dolly Madison, the
President’s wife.
1812— Congressman John J. Jack
son, a greatuncle of Gen. T. J.
(‘‘Stonewall”) Jackson, and Anna
Todd, a cousin of Dolly Madison.
1820—Samuel L. Gouverneur and
Marie Hester Monroe, daughter of
President James Monroe.
1828— John Adams, son of Presi
dent John Quincy Adams, and Marie
Helen Jackson, niece of Mrs. John
Quincy Adams.
1829— Alphonse Joseph Pageot, a
member of the French legation, and
Miss Delia Lewis, daughter of a
member of President Jackson’s
"kitchen cabinet.”
1831—Lewis Donaldson, grandson
of Thomas Jefferson, and Emily
Martin, niece of President Andrew
Jackson.
1835—Lucien B. Polk, related to
James K. Polk, and Mary Easton,
niece of President Andrew Jackson.
1842—William Waller and Eliza
beth Tyler, daughter of President
John Tyler.
1874—Algernon C. F. Sartoris, an
officer of the British legation, and
Nellie Grant, daughter of President
U. S. Grant.
1878—Russell Hastings, United
States army officer, and Emily
Platt, niece of President Ruther
ford B. Hayes.
1886—President Grover Cleveland
and Miss Frances Folsom.
1906—Congressman Nicholas Long
worth and Alice Roosevelt, daughter
of President Theodore Roosevelt.
1913— Francis B. Sayre and Jessie
Woodrow Wilson, daughter of Presi
dent Woodrow Wilson.
1914— William Gibbs McAdoo, sec
retary of the treasury, and Eleanor
Wilson, daughter of President Wil
son.
Of all the weddings that have
taken place in the White House, the
Grover Clevelam
ceremony on June
2, 1886, was out
standing. For on
that date Grover
Cleveland, one of
our two Presi
dents who en
tered the White
House as a bach
elor but the only
Chief Executive
to be married
there, was wed
ded to Frances
I F o 1 s o m, the
daughter of his
lormer law partner, xne oeauiy ux
the bride and the advance newspa
per accounts of the President’s wed
ding gilt to her
(it was a superb
diamond neck
lace) and of the |
lavish display ol
flowers which j
were to decorate ;
the Blue Room,
where the cer
emony was to be
held —■ all com
bined to create
great public in
terest in the event. I
According to a
contempora r y
Frances Folsom
newspaper description, me re
places were filled with red begonias
to represent burning fires, with cen
taureas scattered at their base to
imitate ashes, while blossoms were
laid below in the form of tiles. One
mantelpiece was banked with dark
pansies, bearing the date in light
pansies; the other with .red roses.”
Although only a few relatives of
the bride and high public officials
were invited to the ceremony, a vast
crowd gathered around the door of
the White House to hear the music
of the United States marine band
when the ceremony began. It was
still there when the newlyweds tried
to slip out the back door of the
White House and it showered them
with rice and old slippers. Grover
Cleveland may have been President
of the United States but on that
day he was a bridegroom and Amer
ican democracy insisted upon exer
cising its traditional right of treat
ing him as one!
President Cleveland’s Wedding.
SEWING CIRCLE
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Stickler for Good Diction <
Meets Stickler for Facts
Several men were seated around
a table, reminiscing. One fellow,
who had been trying to tell his
story, finally broke in:
’‘On the day on which my wed
ding occurred—”
“You’ll pardon the correction,”
broke in the correct dictionist,
“but affairs such as marriages,
receptions, dinners, and things of
that sort ‘take place.’ It is only
such things as calamities which
‘occur.’ You see the distinction,
I am sure.”
The “corrected” one thought for
a moment, then replied: “Yes, I
see. As I was saying before I
was interrupted, on the day on
which my wedding occurred—”
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