S. S. Fehr's Letters to Mom

Excerpts from Letters to Mom in italics.

Yeoman Warders at the Tower of London

15 July 1965
I'm half-finished here in London and looking forward to the weekend. I got a glimpse of Adlai S. [Stevenson, who unfortunately had just died at the US Embassy. Stevenson, parenthetically, was the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations and had been secretly exploring the possibilities for negotiations regarding South Vietnam with U.N. Secretary -General U Thant. AG2 Fehr was almost conscripted to be a pall bearer.] as they removed him from the embassy, which is just across the way from the Navy bldg on Grosvenor Sq.

I've gotten the money system down [No easy feat as the Brits still had farthings and pence and had not yet converted the currency to the metric system.] and am riding the tubes & double-decker buses like a native (almost). I'll be home by the end of next week, probably several days after you receive this card.

AG2 Fehr re-enlisted in London on 16 July 1965, with a Final Overall Trait Average of 3.77 and with recommendations for a Good Conduct Medal.

Sentries at Whitehall

Civilian clad Steve stayed at the Douglas House, a hotel run by the U.S. Air Force for all U. S. military personnel in London. The Douglas House was in a residential section just off Oxford Circus, very close to Hyde Park and its famous soap box Speakers Corner. Yet, the Dog House as some irreverently called the Douglas House, was still within walking distance to the Navy building located just northeast and within plain view of the U.S. Embassy on Grovesnor Square. Fortified with pints of "arf 'n arf" (half and half), or a mixture of half dark bitters and half light ale, the lad managed to stretch his stay to near a fortnight. Fortuitously, the worst problem the ex-Oh Worster encountered was keeping his few civilian neckties dry.

In Germany, the bier glasses contained a short horizontal line etched a little below the brim inscribed with the contents such as 0.5 l to denote a half-liter. The remaining portion to the top of the glass was reserved for the "schaum" or beer foam. In jolly olde England, Steve discovered there was no such mark and the barman would routinely scrape the foam off the top with a tongue depressor instrument to assure the client a full measure of beer. Fehr invariably and instinctively would pour the initial sip onto his tie forgetting about the crucial absence of the allowance for foam. A slow learner.

Steve took up one day with a sergeant also billeted at the Douglas House to embark on a random tour of London. They strolled through several of the many paths crisscrossing Hyde Park. The pair curiously viewed hippies assembled beneath Lord Nelson at Trafalgar Square amid the fountains, pigeons and lion statues. The aimless, but happy wandering duo, were just content appreciating their good fortune on such a fine day. But after seeing a sight or two they luckily ran into a retired British military gentleman who offered to give the pair a personal guided walking tour for a consideration. With some slight misgivings the two decided to split the fee and received for their trust a dandy afternoon filled with interesting stories and fascinating details of British history.

The history lesson consumed at least three or four hours taking in, and not in the particular chronology of the tour due to memory lapse, the following sites: Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Westminster Hall, London Bridge and the Tower Bridge on the River Thames, the Tower of London with its grisly tales and the royal shops lining a cobblestone street called Pall Mall. The duo and guide were alone wandering through the House of Commons and Steve was astonished that the great chamber was so small! The boys met one of the Beefeaters, so named for their prodigious consumption of beef, a portly ceremonial guard whose visage still adorns the London gin of the same name. Their Beefeater or Yeoman Warder led them on a blood-and-guts view of the Tower and environs.

Irish Guards at Buckingham Palace

The lads also witnessed a Royal Procession with mounted cavalry accompanying a gilded carriage transporting the Queen or other impressive royalty into Buckingham Palace, the home of the Royal Family since Queen Victoria's reign. The guide escorted the boys behind the scene inside an old barracks compound, probably the Horse Guards quarters, where they chatted with the guardsmen who explained their ceremonial life and duties. They also observed Lord Nelson perched high upon his column peering out to see beyond the horizon, his cold gaze fixed upon the watery site of his great victory at Trafalgar.

The lads visited No. 10 Downing Street inhabited then by Prime Minister Harold Wilson, Leader of the Labour Party, and made their way to Whitehall, the British equivalent of the Pentagon. During World War II in secret underground chambers Prime Minister Winston Churchill kept vigil. The guide told stories about Churchill's famous cigars, his not so exaggerated reputation for consumption of spirits and numerous examples of Churchill's famous wit. Both lads conceded and concluded the personal tour was well worth the tariff.

After a sunny summer afternoon strolling through English history, the lads ventured alone through Soho Square and on to Piccadilly Circus where they got picked up by two comely lasses. Fehr's lass proclaimed to possess a "wee" hole, which, of course, titillated his growing amorous curiosity. The mysterious object piqued a prurient interest to perform an inspection to determine whether it was the wrong aperture or the desired adjective. All's well, that ends well. Both lads left a few pounds lighter.

Steve visited several pubs and enjoyed them with the exception of his penchant for dousing his necktie and the rather peculiar habit of the pubs closing too early in the evening. He soon learned that one could join a private club or two (or three) to continue socializing and imbibing after the pubs premature closure.

One of the pubs seemed a tad schizophrenic because a wall separated the bar. And, the establishment had two separate entrances. Class segregated the pub, the plebian or proletarian side was bare wood and flooring while the other exhibited fine wall coverings, linen covered tables, paintings and carpeting - but both served by the same barman. Fehr could glimpse a few of the finely clad clientele across the cultural and economic abyss from the vantage point where he was bellied up to the bar. Although Fehr was suitably dressed for the aristocratic side, with the exception of the soggy tie, the charges on the plebian side were more agreeable to his billfold.

Maybe the folks on the other side of the divide did not want to risk an encounter with someone like the old shabbily dressed, wizened drunk who blathered repeatedly something unintelligible to young Fehr. The wizened one did not seem to be trying to scrounge up a free drink, but who knows because he sounded like a shit salesman, as the Navy saying went, with a sample in his mouth. The old man may have been Welsh, or cockney; Steve drew a blank. It was a perfect example of the two great countries separated by a common language. Herr Fehr was overcome with a longing to be back in Germany where he could understand the natives.