We've been having many fascinating training films of late. Most recent was "The Anti-Submarine Platoon in the Attack, Supported by a Section of 60-mm Mortars."

In rowboats.

The table of organization for this unit is a little unusual. It includes four basic pearl divers, an ASTP graduate (recently promoted to technician sixth grade) and two corporal ex-garbage collectors.

The later pair is included in case ash cans are to be heaved. The ASTP man is there because the War Department didn't know what else to do with him.

The anti-submarine platoon comes under the jurisdiction of the Ambiguous Training Command with headquarters at the abandoned WAC Information Booth on Boston Common.

Training methods take full advantage of the Boston climate, which is so amphibious that a school of swordfish showed up on Plympton Street yesterday and were promptly served for supper.

New Haven weather is something like Boston's. Wednesday I felt as though I were wallowing in a puddle in Portal 15, Section C of the Yale Bowl, and in a few minutes the Harvard team would run onto the field across the way, take a good look at the Eli eleven, and beat a hasty retreat to Cambridge.

The last Yale-Harvard game to be played in decent weather was an accident. The weather man overslept and forgot to turn on the wind-snow-rain-cold-fog machine. He'd been out the night before celebrating South Carolina's secession from the Union.

Of course this is the one year that the teams could have counted on clear weather. It never rains on Saturdays between 1:30 and 3:30. We know. That's when we drill.

As a matter of fact, the New England weather has been pretty comfortable this year. But I, for one, hate to think of the coming winter after two years on the southern fringes of the U. S. I tried to give a transfusion last week and couldn't bleed at all. Seems that my corpuscles couldn't bear to leave me, or each other. We three have come to be very attached to one another.

My blood's as thin now as Green River's 69 cent special will be in 1944. A Cambridge mosquito (they disguise themselves during the day as Harvard Yard pigeons) bit me last night and nearly strangled me. Reminded me of W. C. Fields when they tried to revive him in that movie. "I'm poisoned," he cried. "It's water."