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IN THIS ISSUE

• Les Davison is on the move again in his wartime memories
• Don Henderson tells the story of a blonde golfer
• Jack Peaker sends another version of My Favourite Things
• Miriam Ockenden forwards some clues that suggest aging
• You may decide to give up your lawn after Catherine Green's story
• Jay sends a story of a godfather and a lawyer
• To read about the latest scams, read ScamBusters

Les Davison and Capt. Redman leave their refuge with a Dutch minister's family:

WARTIME MEMORIES

Theo and I, of course, were very anxious to hear news of our impending move and the days seemed to drag on. Finally, a gentleman whose name was Mr. Doktor but in fact was a baker, informed us that we should be ready to leave the following evening about 7 p.m. The next evening we said our goodbyes to Lena and Nico, and were told by the courier "Henk" to follow him in the usual fashion - 100 metres to the rear and to ignore him if he was stopped by the authorities. We mounted the same bicycles we arrived on, no tires, and set off in the rain with raincoats covering our uniforms.

We had no idea where we were going, and had learned not to ask. We were told only what we needed to know, this being the method adopted by the underground forces to protect themselves in case any of their charges were picked up by the S.S. or the "Green Police" (Dutch police who were collaborating with the Germans) and was based on the fact if you didn't know, then you couldn't tell, even under the most extreme torture. We pedalled doggedly for about an hour with no problems. We were very obvious as the tire-less bicycles made a hell of a racket on the cobblestone roads. However, because of the heavy rain and the fact that it was now after the curfew hour of eight o'clock, there was no one else about and we were not challenged.

It was about this time that we got a scare. We were riding on a two-lane highway and a German army truck, travelling in the same direction, slowed down to our speed. The soldier in the passenger seat leaned out of the window and asked Theo, who was on my left, for directions to Amersfoort. Fortunately, Theo could speak German but hadn't the foggiest idea where Amersfoort was. So he gave them some meaningless directions and to our immense relief, the truck went on its way. It was some time before my heart stopped pounding.

About one a.m. Henk turned into the driveway of a very large house and ushered us inside. We were very surprised to find the place crawling with Airborne soldiers from the various units that had fought at the Battle of Arnhem, R.A.F. types who had been shot down and evaded capture, and a few other odd characters who were on the run from the Germans.

Theo immediately recognised some of his fellow medical officers, among whom was Capt. Lippman Kessel, a surgeon from South Africa, and Major 'Shorty' Longland, another surgeon. Naturally, there was quite a bit of reminiscing by all of us, mainly about how we had escaped and where we had been in the meantime. We were also told that we would be there overnight and given some food. We were to try to get some sleep wherever we could find a place on the floor, as it might be some time before we got another chance. The next evening, as soon as it got dark, we were packed into various vehicles, some of which had been stolen from the Germans, and started on a journey south towards the Rhine. We had been briefed earlier that we would be taken as close to the river as was prudent and from there would march to the Rhine where boats from the other side would be waiting for us to ferry us to safety.

The road trip was uneventful, if somewhat uncomfortable, and after about an hour and a half we turned off into a wooded area and were told to disembark. We formed up in single file and as it was pitch dark, held onto the coattails of the man in front. When everybody had arrived, there were about 120 of us we moved off due south through thick woods with instructions to keep quiet, no talking and no smoking. I estimated that we were about 25 miles north of the Rhine and it was now nine p.m. We had five hours to get to the river if we were to be on time. This would be sufficient if we simply had to march this distance, but walking single file through woods and having to take numerous detours to avoid enemy posts, it was obvious that we would be very late. We could only hope that our friends from the south side of the river would wait for us.

In the event, it didn't matter as after about an hour's walking, we suddenly heard machine gun fire ahead and everyone scattered in every direction. Four of us ran together to the east and after about a quarter of an hour, stopped to discuss our situation. There was a Capt. Noble, a Scottish medical officer, two Sgt. Glider Pilots, and myself. We decided that as we didn't know where we were and the fact that there was a distinct possibility of our running into German patrol, we had better hole up somewhere and try to contact the underground again.

We quickly found a cowbarn and settled in on the upper floor under the hay. Everybody was soon asleep, and in no time, or so it seemed, I was awakened by movement in the barn below. It was six-thirty and I silently crawled over to the hole in the floor from which the hay was dropped down. Very carefully I peered down into the stable area and saw a rather tall Dutchman who was preparing to milk the cows. I said, in a conversational way, 'Good morning,' and the startled farmer looked up quickly to see who was speaking. It was apparent that he was aware of what had happened the night before as he did not appear to be too surprised to see me.

By now the others were awake and they all showed themselves to the farmer. He said that he did not speak much English but got the message across that he would bring us some food. Within ten minutes he was back with a shopping basket filled with ham and cheese sandwiches and a jug of fresh milk with four mugs. He indicated that he would bring someone to see us after he had finished milking and asked us to stay where we were and keep quiet as he didn't want any of the farmhands to know we were there. We spent the morning talking quietly among ourselves, discovering who was who and what had happened to them since their escape. By pure coincidence, it turned out that one of the Glider Pilots was called Geoffrey Mallinson and came from my home town of Keighley in Yorkshire. His father was the manager of the Yorkshire Penny Bank where I had an account.

Around noon our friendly farmer came with lunch, which consisted of delicious soup and black bread. He told us, as best he could, that someone would come in the afternoon and that we would be leaving. We thanked him for his hospitality but he indicated that it was the least he could do for the liberators of his country....

To be continued.

Don Henderson sends this story about

THE BLONDE GOLFER

A father, son and grandson went to the country club for their weekly round of golf. Just as they reached the first tee, a beautiful young blonde woman carrying her bag of clubs approached them. She explained that the member who brought her to the club for a round of golf had an emergency that called him away, and asked the trio whether she could join them.

Naturally, the guys all agreed. Smiling, the blonde thanked them and said, "Look, fellows, I'm an exotic dancer, so nothing shocks me anymore. If any of you wants to smoke cigars, have a beer, bet, swear or tell off-color stories, or do anything that you normally do when playing a round together, go ahead. But I enjoy playing golf, consider myself pretty good at it, and so don't try to coach me on how to play my shots."

With that the guys agreed to relax and invited her to drive first. All eyes were fastened on her shapely behind as she bent to place her ball on the tee. She then took her driver and hit the ball 270 yards down the middle, right in front of the green.

The father's mouth was agape. "That was beautiful," he said. The blonde put her driver away and said, "I really didn't get into it; looks like I faded it a little." After the three guys hit their drives and their second shots, the blonde took out a nine iron and lofted the ball within five feet of the hole (she was closest to the pin). The son said, "Damn, lady, you played that perfectly."

The blonde frowned and said, "It was a little weak. I've left a tricky little putt." Then tapped in the five-footer for a birdie.

Having the honors, she drove first on the second hole and knocked the hell out of the ball, and it landed nearly 300 yards away smack in the middle of the fairway. For the rest of the round the statuesque blonde continued to amaze the guys, quietly and methodically shooting for par or less on every hole.

When they arrived at the 18th green, the blonde was three under par, and had a very nasty 12-foot putt on an undulating green for a par. She turned to the three guys and said, "I really want to thank you all for not acting like a bunch of chauvinists and telling me what club to use or how to play a shot, but I need this putt for a 69 and I'd really like to break 70 on this course. If any one of you can tell me how to make par on this hole, I'll take him back to my apartment, pour some 25-year-old Scotch in him, fix him dinner, and then show him a good time the rest of the night."

The yuppie son jumped at the thought. He strolled across the green, carefully eyeing the line of the putt and finally said, "Honey, aim about six inches to the right of the hole and hit it firm. It will get over that little hump and break right into the cup."

The father knelt down and sighted the putt, using his putter as a plumb. "Don't listen to the kid, darlin'. You want to hit it softly 10 inches to the right and run it left down that little hogback, so it falls into the cup."

The old gray-haired grandfather walked over to the blonde's ball, picked it up, handed it to her, and said, "That's a gimme, sweetheart. Your car or mine?"

Age and experience triumph over youth and skill every time.

Jack Peaker forwards this parody of a famous song which was supposedly sung by Julie Andrews on her 69th birthday at a benefit for the AARP. Sadly, by that time, Ms. Andrews had lost her singing voice. This "blue hair" version of the song appeared first as a Usenet newsgroup posting, according to Snopes, which suggested that readers "start humming like Julie Andrews with grey hair." However, it is still a very clever and amusing version of

MY FAVOURITE THINGS

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak,
When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don´t feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no need for sinnin´,
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin´,
And we won´t mention our short, shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache,
When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I´ve had,
And then I don´t feel so bad.

Still on the topic of aging, Miriam Ockenden forwards these clues that you may be

GETTING OLD

* There are three signs of old age. The first is your loss of memory. I forget the other two.

* You're getting old when you don't care where your spouse goes, just as long as you don't have to go along.

* Middle age is when work is a lot less fun - and fun is a lot more work.

* Statistics show that at the age of seventy, there are five women to every man. Now isn't that a great time for a guy to get those kind of odds?

* You know you're getting on in years when the girls at the office start confiding in you.

* Middle age is when it takes longer to rest than to get tired.

* By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he's too old to go anywhere.

* Middle age is when you have stopped growing at both ends, and have begun to grow in the middle.

* A man has reached middle age when he is cautioned to slow down by his doctor instead of by the police.

* You know you're into middle age when you realize that caution is the only thing you care to exercise.

* You're getting old when you wake up with that morning-after feeling, and you didn't do anything the night before!

* The cardiologist's diet: if it tastes good, spit it out.

* It's hard to be nostalgic when you can't remember anything.

* When you lean over to pick something up off the floor, you ask yourself if there is anything else you need to do while you are down there.

Catherine Green sends this timely story about a heavenly perspective on

LAWN ECOLOGY

God: Frank, you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there on the planet? What happened to the dandelions, violets, thistles, and stuff I started eons ago? I had a perfect, no-maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought, and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long-lasting blossoms attracts butterflies, honeybees and flocks of songbirds. I expected to see a vast garden of colours by now, but all I see are these green rectangles.

St. Francis: It's the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers "weeds" and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.

God: Grass? But it's so boring. It's not colourful. It doesn't attract butterflies, birds and bees, only grubs and sodworms. It's sensitive to temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?

St. Francis: Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn.

God: The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy.

St. Francis: Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it - sometimes twice a week.

God: They cut it? Do they then bail it like hay?

St. Francis: Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.

God: They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?

St. Francis: No, Sir. Just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.

God: Now let me get this straight. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?

St. Francis: Yes, Sir.

God: These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.

St. Francis: You aren't going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it.

God: What nonsense. At least they kept some of the trees. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn, leaves fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. Plus as they rot, the leaves form compost to enhance the soil. It's a natural circle of life.

St. Francis: You'd better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.

God: No fooling? What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter and to keep the soil moist and loose?

St. Francis: After throwing away the leaves, they go out and buy something which they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.

God: And where do they get this mulch?

St. Francis: They cut down trees and grind them up to make the mulch.

God: Enough. I don't want to think about this any more. St. Catherine, you're in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight?

St. Catherine: "Dumb and Dumber", Lord. It's a really stupid movie about....

God: Never mind. I think I just heard the whole story from St. Francis.

Jay forwards the story of a

MAFIA GODFATHER

A Mafia Godfather finds out that one of his underlings has screwed him out of ten million bucks. This underling happens to be deaf, so the Godfather brings along his attorney, who knows sign language.

The Godfather asks the underling, "Where is the 10 million bucks you embezzled from me?"

The attorney, using sign language, asks the underling where the 10 million dollars is hidden.

The underling signs back, "I don't know what you are talking about."

The attorney tells the Godfather, "He says he doesn't know what you're talking about."

That's when the Godfather pulls out a 9 mm pistol, puts it to the underling's temple, cocks it and says, "Ask him again!"

The attorney signs to the underling, "He'll kill you for sure if you don't tell him!"

The underling signs back: "OK! You win! The money is in a brown briefcase, buried behind the shed in my cousin Enzo's backyard in Queens!"

The Godfather asks the attorney, "Well, what'd he say?"

The attorney replies, "He says you don't have the guts to pull the trigger."

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This week's ScamBuster newsletter is about a scam that's growing very fast and that you really need to be aware of: how fake anti-virus and anti-spyware software is being used by scammers and identity thieves in many cunning ways. To find how you can distinguish between useless - or even malicious - security software and the real deal, go to issue #232 at http://www.scambusters.org:80/fakeantivirus.html

History is a gallery of pictures in which there are few originals and many copies. - Alexis de Tocqueville