That comments appearing in parenthesis throughout The Drizzle are the personal observations of The Drizzler. However, many of the nicknames clothed in parenthesis in a number of the letters reproduced in The Drizzle are the brain children of the individual letter writers.
THE OL' TAIL GUNNER'S BACK FROM THE FLAK, FIT AS A FIDDLE-
Winner of the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal with Three Oak Leaf Clusters, Staff Sgt. Wilbert Marty, whom the Drizzler likes to call the "ol' tail gunner" even though he won't be 21 until next December 14, set foot in the old home town the other day and it was undoubtedly his most delightful experience since leaving the states for England last October. Yes, the sergeant was mighty glad to get back home-and the folks back home were mighty glad to see the sergeant, too.
Wilbert arrived in England Nov. 2nd and went on his first of 27 missions over Europe on Dec. 13, the day before his 20th birthday. In the next six months he was to go through more harrowing and thrilling experiences than many persons would undergo in two or three lifetimes.
For instance, Wilbert participated in five big daylight raids over Berlin, some of them in huge 2,000-plane formations. His group also raided both Kiel and Frankfurt three different times among other Axis armament targets.
The local boy's last mission, a raid into France, provided two rare experiences. On the way back across the English channel, the No. 3 engine of their Flying Fortress began to smoke and the crew members feared that it might be afire. This, of course, would have meant that the flames would spread quickly through the gas lines to the gasoline tank and blast the whole ship to pieces. There was only one thing to do. Rip off their flak jackets and fasten on their parachutes for the leap down into the turbulent channel, several miles below. Just as the crew members were preparing to jump, the pilot succeeded in feathering (stopping) the engine and thus averted the danger of an explosion. When the crew landed at its base in England, they discovered that they had just enough gasoline left for only one minute of flying time!
On his 26th mission-over Berlin, the round trip to the Ratzi capitol ordinarily requiring 9 ½ hours, every minute of which Wilbert was on his knees because the cramped quarters of the tail gunner make no other position possible-the crew happened to be flying a Fortress which Wilbert describes as "an old crate of a ship." The result was that they limped back to base a half an hour behind the other American bombers to find upon their arrival that they had been listed as missing.
Wilbert's crew participated in at least two continental raids which were marked by particularly heavy losses of Yank bombers. They were on the giant raid over Brunswick-which had an exceptionally thick fighter belt to protect enemy plane plants-when 60 American heavies were shot down by the German vermin. Forty-eight big bombers were lost on one of their raids over Augsburg.
On these two raids, the Monticello staff sergeant could see these huge Flying Fortresses plummeting earthward around him. Some of them were blown to bits the second enemy shells struck them, apparently hit in the ship's vitals-the gasoline tank. An enemy strike in that vital spot is the dread of all fliers because usually the plane bursts into flames and the crew members have no chance to parachute to safety.
Fighting on some of these raids was at very close quarters-so close, in fact, that enemy pursuit ships came thundering in at 350 miles an hour with their guns blazing and dove right under the Fortress wings. There were times when Wilbert could see the outlines of the Ratzi pilots as they blurred past. Their ship often felt the stab of enemy fire and once came back to base with 40 bullet holes in it. The bombardier, Lt. Jimmy Wallace, San Antonio, Texas, was seriously wounded in the right thigh and along the right cheekbone when the Fortress was caught in the fire of a nest of enemy antiaircraft batteries on one of the Frankfurt raids.
Wilbert's crew members called their plane, "The Duchess," which was the same sobriquet the ship's pilot, Lt. Jim Howry, Danville, Ill., called his wife. Nicknames of some of the other Flying Forts in the local boy's squadron were: Wham Bam; You've Had It (referring to the devastating raids over Berlin); Liberty Run; Yo-Yo; Pistol Packin' Mama; We, the People; and the Barrel House Bessie from Basin Street.
Fate treated "The Duchess" crew kindly many times, but no more thoughtfully than on the one occasion when the members asked to go on a certain mission. The boys were anxious to "pull" their quota of raids as quickly as was reasonably possible. They were ruled out of this particular mission by the squadron operational officer, who instead piloted his own Fortress in the very same spot which "The Duchess" would have occupied on the formation and he was shot down.
The ol' tail gunner-you'll have to excuse me Wilbert because it just sorta slips out-was awarded the Air Medal after his 5th mission. His first Oak Leaf Cluster came after his 10th raid, his second after the 15th, and this third following the 20th. He received the Distinguished Flying Cross after completing his 25th mission, and had he finished 30 missions, he would have been awarded a fourth Oak Leaf Cluster.
Lt. Leon Babler, a navigator on a Flying Fortress and a former Monticello boy, who is stationed at the same base in England which Wilbert recently left behind, has the Air Medal and one Oak Leaf Cluster. "Old Fizzletop," as some of his high school pals call Leon-for reasons as yet unexplained to The Drizzler-had a swell start on his 25 missions, having completed his 13th raid when he had the misfortune to break his arm and he has been grounded ever since.
Wilbert, who has high praise for the courteous treatment and fine hospitality which the English people have extended to American soldiers, is due to report July 1st at Miami Beach (Fla.) Air Base for reclassification and reassignment. He also received his basic training in the air corps there.
For the information of some of the former Monticello residents receiving
The Drizzle, I might add here that Wilbert is the son of Mr. and Mrs.
Albert Marty. His older brother, Sgt. Melvin, is a machine gunner
with the United States 8th Infantry and may now be in the thick
of the invasion of France. Lt. Leon Babler is a son of Mrs. Florence
and the late H. O. (Terry) Babler. His two brothers are also in the
service-Art, the oldest, in the Coast Guard, and Carl, the
youngest, in the army.
WELL, FELLAS, HOW ABOUT A LITTLE RAMBLE AT RANDOM-
Ah, that's fine. Now, if you're all set to go, let's get goin'. Let's see. How'll we start 'er off. I've got it! It's a letter from that astute agriculturist and former philosopher of Mt. Pleasant township, Pvt. Emil Weigert, who is in the same infantry outfit as "Mel" Marty. Writing from England some time before D-Day, Emil says: "Just received The Drizzle, or as Capt. Paul Voegeli would say, "Sunshine." Well, Capt. Paul, we get a lot of drizzles over here, too, but the Monticello Drizzle is one I really like to see come. Of course, if there is a lot of fellows who would like to change the name of our monthly morale builder, it's o.k. with me, just as long as it keeps coming-may it be Drizzle, Sunshine, Hailstorm, or just plain Mud-Slinging, it is awful easy on the eyes and heart-warming under any name. (Well said, Emil, m'boy, very well said.) Well, I haven't seen any Budweiser or Kessler's so far, but I managed to get on the outside of a fair portion of Scotch last week and that ain't hay over here. (A couple of Drizzles ago when Emil was thirsting for some Budweiser and Kessler's, the Drizzler suggested that if Emil's commanding officer would see that he got a couple of bottles of Budweiser and a few snorts of Kessler's, Emil'd be a regular Battling Bearcat Bound for Berlin. Maybe the Scotch served the same purpose. How about it, Emil?) Happy memories 'til next time. Emil" . . A card from Herman and Georgia Baebler, Honolulu, T. H., where Herman is employed as a machinist in the navy yards: "Thanks for sending us the Drizzle. We enjoy every bit of it. Will try to write a letter next time." . . An orchid from Don Anderson, Publisher of the Wisconsin State Journal at Madison: "Dear Roz: Thanks much for sending me a copy of The Drizzle. This sort of a thing is an interesting way of maintaining contact with the home boys in service, and I think you do a swell job of it." (Thank you, Don.) . . Pfc. Don Pearson, who has seen some stiff fighting with the Marines in New Britain, says to tell Bo Woelffer that overseas cooks will change his mind about the excellence of dehydrated foods. Don also wants to be remembered to "Cec" and "Bud" Wirth, then grows a little sympathetic with the remark that "I can't bear to take any more cracks at poor old, Whitey Hill." (Don't worry about Whitey, the Whizz, Don, because he'll take care of himself, all right. Take a look at those bouquets of thistles which God's gift to the girls tosses at some of his old cronies later on in the Drizzle. I'm saving Whitey's letter cuz I'll probably need some of his punchy paragraphs to help prop up the Drizzle if it starts to bog down. Say, what's getting into me! Praising Whitey Hill when I really didn't mean to. Guess I must be slipping.) Don closes his letter like this: "Give my best regards to all the fellows and keep that Drizzle coming. It can't come too often! (Okay, Don, we will!) . . Gaylord Miller, S 2/c, aboard the U.S.S. Cowpens, writes that he has been in the Marshall Islands where he had a chance to eat lots of cocoanuts. Often goes swimming at night alongside the ship where the water is 190 feet deep. Gaylord reports watching U.S. Anti-Aircraft batteries firing on Jap planes at night and he describes this as a "pretty sight." He works in the ship's laundry-from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. . . Leo Felts, with the United States Navy at a Marine Corps base in Cuba, writes: "Just freshening up after a hot round of golf this afternoon. I won't say anything about the score because it's a little too embarrassing. I'll pin the alibi on the three Navy nurses who were playing just ahead of us. Whitey Hill used to tell us in school to keep our eye on the ball, but how could I under the circumstances? (Too bad Whitey couldn't have been there to show you just how to do it. Can't you just see the Sparta Spoofer heaving his own ball wildly into some sand trap on purpose, then tripping nimbly up to those three navy nurses, and with that coy little irresistible smile of his blandly suggesting that they make it a foursome. You know, Leo, that Whitey's a mighty smooth operator. I've often wondered why our state department hasn't hired him as a roving (or a raving) diplomat.) There isn't much of anything exciting to write about from here, Roz. I'm just hoping that in a short while the monotony will be broken with a transfer. Guess you'd call it tropical fatigue. Give my regards to Boob Kissling, Don Trickle, and all the gang. Be seeing you boys. As ever, Leo." (That's swell, Leo, we'll be looking for you.) . . What's the matter, gentlemen, what is the matter? Weeks have passed and not a word from that literary genius of New Britain island, far away in the Southwest Pacific-"Doc" Youngreen-nor that old university cronie of his, Capt. P. Emil Voegeli, late of England and later still of Scotland. And here's a few lines-just a few!-from Sgt. C. J. (Jake the Joker) Dick, that letter-writing wizard of Cardiff, Wales? Come on there, fellows, prance for those pens 'n' pencils! . . It's swell to hear that Lt. "Ott" Blum, with the navy medical corps somewhere in New Guinea out there in the Southwest Pacific, has recovered sufficiently from his "tussle" with malaria to permit his discharge from the hospital. Original plans were to fly "Doc" to a rest camp in Australia, but apparently this never materialized. His wife, Elsie, and son, Grant, were in Monticello over the week-end enroute from Miami to spend the summer in La Crosse. Glad to learn that you received my airmail letter, Doc, and let's have a few lines from you whenever you have a little spare time. . . A mighty interesting session at the business men's dinner in the Grand Central Monday evening with Lt. Wallie Barlow, Staff Sgt. Wilbert Marty, the ol' tail gunner-there I go again-present to give the merchant princes of the old home town all kinds of fascinating sidelights about their colorful experiences as airmen. What these two boys don't know about flying you can stick in a thimble and still have plenty of room for your finger. Wallie returns to Glenview this week-end after a week's leave at home. . I wonder what's happened to Sgt. Louie (The Lonely Lover) Wyss, the Dandy Dan of Australia society? No letter from him for weeks. The sergeant is a stockholder in the notorious Jordan-Becker-Wittenwyler Dog Kennels in association with a trio of local shrewdies-Cecil Frederick Jordan, H. Adolphus Becker, and C. Mathias Wittenwyler, the local publisher. Lis'en, Louie, you'd better be hustling back home some of these days before you wake up and find that these three smoothies have converted you from a stockholder into a sockholder. . . When Pvt. John Streiff dropped us these lines, he was with a demonstration company putting on demonstrations for the armored school at Fort Knox, Ky. Says the former local grocery baron: "We have put on demonstrations for officers from England, Russia, China, and other countries. I see Squirt Wittenwyler every once in a while." Since then, the army's decided to make a butcher and a cook out of John-a bit of news which should be of particular interest to his old pal, Capt. Norman Steussy, who's probably out of breath right at this very minute trying to keep the supply lines intact over in Italy as those Yanks and Tommies pound at the heels of the fleeing Ratzis. Say, Norman, you'd never have known the grocery baron when he was here on his furlough recently. He was a mere 35 pounds thinner! And I wonder what's going to become of John now, especially if they force him to eat his own cooking. Good heavens! I hate to even think of it.
AND NOW LOOK, MEN-JUST LOOK!!--WHO WE HAVE HERE!-
It's none other than Lt. Urho G. (Whizz) Hill, variously known as the Sparta Spoofer, Whitey the Whizz, the Lover of the Louisiana Lagoons, God's Gift to the Girls, and From Coast to Coast the Toast of Fickle Females! O-kay, Whitey, the Drizzle microphone is yours so let loose with both barrels:
"Right off the pan, let me send "Al" Deppeler at Camp Rucker (Ala.) a message. I have a good friend in Co. B of the 263rd. His name is Lt. McElwrath and a prince of a fellow. Look him up, but don't believe everything he tells you. We used to be in the 95th together. (In other words, Al, the things you shouldn't believe that McElwrath tells you are most likely the wild stories that Whitey himself stuffed him with.)
"Bo," (Woelffer) how come you're able to play tennis-of course you can't-why there used to be a day when your sister had to open all doors for you because you couldn't lift your hands above your hips. You must be getting stronger or those nurses are doing things for you. Are they?
"Must be tough on King Kong Kissling to be working instead of having that soft touch at Yale. That ASTP was really a snap. Come on, Kiss, 'fess up. (Reminds me I haven't heard from The King for this issue, his first miss-which is a mighty fine record, anyway. What's the matter, Boob? Are you yearning for Yale's sorority row and all of its little lumps of loveliness?)
"Got back into the coaching racket the other night when I threw our company's kittenball team at Company A's bunch of cream puffs. I had the boys swinging from their heels and fielding the impossible to get ground balls and running a mile (You're sure it wasn't two or three, Whitey?) to catch long drives. They finally edged us, 11 to 3 (From the size of the score, it sounds to me as if the Great Hill musta been on the hill for the losers.)
"I notice that Erv Spring gets his mail in pretty regular, but what about those other balls of fire up Alaska way, namely Fritz Haldiman and that supposed-to-be-wizard at wielding the cue-Harris (Hoppe) Babler. (I wouldn't know about Fritz, but apparently he's too busy hunting Polar Bear and trapping Japs. And why, Whitey, haven't you heard?-Hoppe's hopped home 'n' hopped right into the sea of matrimony. You'll probably read about it in the Messenger before you get this.)
"Texas is getting plenty wet from repeated rains and this mud really gets heavy when you carry it around all day and most of the night. We're half through our cycle, but it just doesn't seem possible. Seems we just got started. Must be because they keep us so busy. (A-hem) No comments please. (All right, Whitey, I'll let this one slip by.)
"If I don't forget, I'll send three patches in this letter-one for the 95th, one O. C. S. at Ft. Benning, and the school replacement command patch. (You've got a wonderful memory, Urho, old boy. You didn't forget a one of 'em. Thanks-lots!)
"Bed looks good. Think I'll hit it. Whitey."
Norma Freitag, who is a medical technologist in the medical division of the vast DuPont mystery project which covers a half million acres of desert near Hanford, Wash., is well pleased with her new connection despite the furious desert sand storms which some times rage as often as twice in every three days. Norma tells of one particularly wild storm which broke loose while two of her girl friends were in the camp grocery store which happened to have all of its windows open at the time. The sand literally poured in through the openings and it was impossible to see across the room. DuPont is operating this vast project for the government and it is expected to be just as vital in peace as in war. The entire venture is shrouded in complete secrecy and it is so huge that an entirely new city of 15,000 is arising just to accommodate part of the workers. Norma asks about "the little baby girl?" Ronda Kay is coming along just fine, Norma. She was three months old June 11 and weighs 13 pounds, 9 ounces. . . Pvt. Vincent Gerry, with the Paratroopers in England when last heard from, writes: "Dear Roz: Just a few lines to let you know I really enjoy The Drizzle. It makes me feel right at home. The last two weeks of every month, I sweat out the mail waiting for it. "Mel" Marty was sure tight when he said that England is a beautiful country. Wilbert may ride backwards in his Flying Fortress, but that doesn't seem to hurt his eyesight any when it comes to girls. The tail gunner is all right there. So "Cec" Wirth must have traveled up there where I used to go once in a while with Armin Loeffel. I wonder if Armin can remember the grand times we used to have up there. (All right, Armin, it's your turn to speak. How about it?)
FROM THE PEN-'N'-PENCIL FRONT-
Well, well, well, look what the airmail brought in! If it isn't a nice letter from Pvt. Huldreich (Witt) Wittwer, better known as "Hoot" when he was cavorting at a forward position on M. H. S. cage quintets back there in 1926. After saying some nice things about The Drizzle, Hoot warms up in his best literary style like this: "I've been in the army about seven months now. Had 4 months of basic down deep in the heart of Texas-let's give it back to the Indians. Then was sent to Fort Ord, Calif.-the land of liquid sunshine. (Easy there, Hoot, if the California State Chamber of Commerce reads that crack, they'll have a pack of bloodhounds on your trail.) It wasn't long before they had me feeding the fish on the blue Pacific. Sure glad I didn't join the navy-those boats just rock too much. After zig-zagging all over the Pacific, the boat finally landed in New Caledonia. Wasn't long before I was back on board, feeding the fish again-maybe some of the same ones. I wouldn't be surprised if they waited for me. (Seems to me, Hoot, that you have a clear-cut claim to the Fish-Feeding Championship of the Pacific Ocean. I'll bet those poor fish flapped their fins in despair when you finally went ashore for good. What a meal ticket you musta been for them.) When the boat finally docked again, I found it was an island in the Southwest Pacific, a land of cocoanuts and no females-not even black ones-which should make it a land of paradise for some and hell for, I should say about 99 9/10%. I haven't decided which class I fall in. If I was 60 years older, maybe I would enjoy this. Our squad is trying to organize a basketball team, have plenty of players but no coach. How about you, Roz? Could you get away long enough to teach the boys the good old Meanwell system? Those were the good old days, eh, Roz? (You bet they were, Hoot. 'Member the day you and your brother, Swanny, Marv Babler, Colie Blum, Rip (Van Winkle) Ripley, and Shimmy Milbrandt trimmed Fennimore in the afternoon, then moved on to Mineral Point and toyed with the Pointers in the evening, 52 to 2?) The chow here is good under the circumstances. However, I miss my Swiss a lot, especially Kalberwurst and that notorious stinker-Limburger cheese. Save me some-I should be back in about 2 years. Well, old timer, must sign off. Your friend, Witt." (Now that you're in the swing of things, Hoot, let's hear from you more often.) . . From Sgt. Warren Murphy, idol and idolizer of the ladies as well as former close associate of G. Clarke Zimmerman, the ace movie and detective story fan, and G. Kooreman, the local waltz king: "Still in Camp Barkeley, but now with the 74th, a newly activated battalion where they train men for general hospital duty. All of the trainees are non-coms who have been in the army for quite a while. Some are from the air corps, infantry, medic, and other branches of the service. Training period is only 8 weeks-no more bivouacs. The training periods in the 61st were 17 weeks with 15-day bivouacs. (A welcome relief, eh, Warren?) I believe I'll begin baking here tonight. (Okay, Murph, make mine an apple pie.) I'll let you know later how I like it here. Sincerely, Warren. (Now see that you don't forget, sergeant.)
HOW ABOUT ANOTHER RAMBLE AT RANDOM?-
It took that wizard of the billiard tables, Hoppe Babler, only about 48 hours to travel the distance of nearly 4,000 miles from his base in the Aleutian islands to Milwaukee. He had reservations aboard a transport plane. Hoppe, who is looking hale and hearty, hadn't been home for more than two years. He's a captain now and leaves June 26th, due to report in Seattle on the 27th on his way back to the Aleutians. . . From far away Iran has finally come some letters from Wendell (Windy) Miller, with a military police battalion and now a corporal technician, who was unheard from since January. One reason for the absence of word from Windy was because he was away to a secret destination for some time. Apparently he is no longer in the desert, where last summer he told of the heat hitting 180 and also of the terrific sand storms, but is now closer to the mountains. "The days," he says, "are pretty warm, but the nights are sure swell-nice and cool. The moon shines brightly and there is never a cloud in the sky." . . Staff Sgt. "Cec" Wirth, stationed with the Marines Somewhere in the Southwest Pacific, pauses long enough from his duties to let his thoughts drift back home, wondering about the swimming pool and the baseball team. He also inquires about "Ran" Elmer, who now has a position in the legal department of the OPA office in Milwaukee. "Imagine Marty should be home soon," writes "Cec". "Sure wish my arrival would jibe well enough one of these years to enable us to get together. There would be a bit of h--- raising done if that did happen!" (Oh, Cec, please say hello to all of your girl friends out there. What's that? You say you haven't any! Apparently those dusky damsels don't appeal to you.) . . Pfc. Orville Anderson writes of the cool weather prevailing in England lately; also of the long days. "We get up around 5:30 and it is light already and it doesn't get dark until after 10 p.m. It makes me homesick every time I see a team of horses or a tractor in the fields because I was a farmer before coming into the army. Well, Roz, news is scarce so will close. Hope those Drizzles keep coming my way always. Just one of your faithful readers, Orville Anderson." (You're on the list for the duration, Orville. Awfully glad to know you enjoy 'em.) . . "Bob" Blumer, the bard of Northern Ireland and former fashion plate of Nickle Plate Avenue, and Johnny Blumer, Mt. Pleasant township-no relation-were among 31 Wisconsin soldiers in Northern Ireland commended by the war department for their outstanding performances, competitive spirit, excellence in training, and outstanding teamwork after demonstrating fighting technique which they are probably now using against the Ratzis in the great invasion of France. The pair are members of a rifle platoon. Described as "a rough, tough preparation for a tougher job," these rugged tests "require courage, physical endurance, and skill of a high order" and includes assault firing and bayonet charging by individual riflemen. (Mighty nice going, fellows!) . . In his last letter to The Drizzler, "Bob" says: "Well, if the next two years aren't any worse than the last ones, then I think I'll manage alright. Some of those blokes back home don't know what they're missing overseas. It isn't half as bad as some think it is. After you're away for a while, you don't mind it and learn to accept things as they are. Have my doubts about all of us guys getting back o.k. because I haven't seen any super-men among us. (Seems to me, Bob, you and Johnny did very, very well.) Well, with the help of God and a good aim, I hope to be lucky enough to get back. Say, Roz, the Cliffs of Dover are really white. I was there once. 'Til next time, Bob. P.S.-Say hello to Harry Walters, Chevrolet Leon, J. W. Bill Blum, Chite Clark, and Dr. Horne."
WHAT A DELIGHTFUL SESSION THIS MUSTA BEEN!-
The city of Philadelphia, famous as the site of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, was the scene of another great historical event recently when four distinguished graduates of Monticello high during that brilliant scholastic era preceding the 1920s gathered in the Quaker City for one of those glorious "Them Were the Days" sessions. Participating were the Edwards twins-Ray and Roy-who operate a highly successful auditing and accounting firm in Philadelphia; "Al" Blum, with the federal securities commission also in that city, and Herb Burgy, who has a position with the Department of the Interior in Washington. The Drizzler trusts that a phonographic recording was made of this historic pow-wow because if it wasn't, posterity will suffer greatly for the thoughtlessness. Incidentally, Al, do you remember the time Miss Schoenemann caught you in the act of inserting a couple of live bull frogs in Stasia McCann's desk while she was away to class? I do if you don't. As I sit here reminiscing about those good old days, the names of other illustrious scholars of that glorious era parade my mind. There was Adam Albert Schuler, the Monticello OPA czar and insurance magnate; Barney Karlen, the local sports impresario; W. Dunham Elmer, lord of the "Dude" ranch at the northwest edge of the hamlet; Boscoe Zimmerman, on the engineering staff of the Morrison Hotel in Chicago; W. Casper Dick, a supervisor at the Badger Ordnance Works near Baraboo; J. Vincent Egan, the Exeter township agricultural wizard; Sir Cecil Frederick Jordan, the renowned local poet, composer, and historian; Sgt. John Jacob Theiler, now a finance officer with the armed forces in North Africa, and Cloyance Walter Karlen, the Monticello car king. How heart-warming it must have been for Prin. C. L. Stillman and his assistant, E. W. Foster, to have such a brilliant group of intellectual giants under them. I was going to reminisce some more, but I just can't spare the space. I'll wait 'till a later issue.
To these Drizzle donors: Jack Steinmann, Fred G. Blum, Miami; Norma Freitag, Hanford, Wash.; Ernie Spring, Monroe; Viola Rupp; Kathryn Stauffer; H. A. Walters; Emil G. Voegeli; Anonymous; Dr. Baebler; Glenn Zimmerman; Geo. Griffey; "Al" Blum, Philadelphia; Karl Holsinger; H. D. Freitag; Ernest Schuerch; Adam Duerst; Dr. Horne; Mrs. H. V. Babler; Mrs. Herman Klassy; and Mrs. O. S. Blum, La Crosse.
This is The Drizzle clearing off again. Please write-all of you!-if
it's only eight or ten lines. And in the meantime, may God bless and protect
all of you in the crucial months that lie ahead.