To the Editor of the Crimson:

An Army physical at the central Chicago recruiting station consists of running an endless gauntlet of corrugated wooden booths, each dedicated to one specific branch of medical science. The psychiatrist, I remember, came somewhere between venereal diseases and athlete's feet.

"So you're a college man," he said, glancing through my papers.

I said, "Yes, sir."

He turned three pages. "Which college?"

"Harvard," I said.

"Which?"

"Har-vard."

He looked up at me strangely. "Which college?"

"Har-v-ard," I fairly shouted.

"Oh, Harvard. Yeah, I've heard of it." I took a deep breath. "Pretty snooty up there, aren't they?" he shot back.

I said, "I dunno, Sir, they took me."

The psychiatrist thought this was funny. He thought it was practically riotous. He tipped back precariously in his chair and roared until that corrugated box shook on its foundations. Then suddenly he stopped and yelled, 'Next." before I ever had a chance to ask him if he knew of Professor Allport.

It was the only time, since entering the Army, that I have had to endure discomfort in Harvard's name. Pvt. Ralph T. Siegler '43, U.S.A.S.C.