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Published every Thursday with the kind permission of Col. FJ. Kaufman, Commanding Officer, 4 Wing, Baden-Soellingen, Germany. Printed by Erich Pabel GmbH, 7550 Rastatt.

MANAGING EDITOR             Capt. A.M. DeQuetteville
EDITORIAL STAFF               Lt. P. Adelberg
                                                Mrs. W. Bisset
                                               Mr. B.Quinn
SPORTS EDITOR                  Sgt. K. Coleridge
PHOTO EDITOR                  Cpl. J. Tremblay
ADVERTISING MANAGER    Cpl. E. Prebinski
SECRETARY                         Mrs. B. Corkum

'THE SCHWARZW�LDER" is an unofficial service newspaper, and the views expressed herein, unless attributed to a special DND or civilian agency, are those of the individual contributor. The Editor reserves the right to edit cop] and reject any advertising material. All correspondence should be addressed to "THE SCHWARZWÄLDER", 4 Wing, CAF, CFPO 5056, or 757 Baden-Baden 1, West Germany. The Offices of the Newspaper are located in the Recreation Centre, Building 32, Telephone 279.

EDITORIAL

The divine right, freedom of expression, takes on a somewhat restricted meaning when applied to government employees in general, and members of the Armed Forces in particular. An unofficial service newspaper produced by the members of a base or unit, has definite guidelines that set it apart from the normal and somewhat more liberal civilian journalistic enterprises with which we are all more familiar.

It becomes most difficult when decide, on the policy of a service newspaper to determine which approach to take. In other words, do we factually report the multitude of day-to-day events that occur on a base as active as 4'Wing, or do we take a more extreme stand, ban the bomb, promote long hair and bare feet, and push for T. C. Douglas as the next Minister of National Defence. While both approaches would probably achieve the same aim, a short life for the newspaper, the second would achieve an even shorter life for the staff.

We would like to think that the professional serviceman wants to read a newspaper somewhere in-between. A newspaper lets us tie together this multitude of events and publicize, the activities in which we and our fellow servicemen are involved. However, this feature alone is not sufficient to get a newspaper past the acid test, receptive anticipation each week by its readers. To do this a good service newspaper must provide something else.

While functioning as an omnshudsman, partly controversial and partly informative, it must still remain within the guidelines of the military code to which we are all devoted. The mind of today's professional military man demands stimulation. Servicemen are better educated and better informed than at any previous time in our history.

As times change within our forces and questions arise about morale and the future, the service newspaper can provide the valuable function of a safety valve. We, on "THE SCHWARZWÄLDER", hope to provide that service. We eagerly await the constructive criticism that is so necessary to improve the paper and make it a voice which all 4 Wingers are proud to support.

A service newspaper is one of those tantalizing objectives, like pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, to which you can stretch but never quite reach. Working within the confines of both time and talent, the end product is never quite what you had in mind, normally something short of the goal, invariably something different from the concept.

A newspaper, however, is a peculiar creation, it must arise fresh from the typewriter each week with something fresh to say, some different approach to the world, something topical, useful or interesting to report. It has a unique dependence upon its readers whose wishes will help shape it as much as the hacks scratching their brows every week to beat some copy out of their typewriters. Together reader and writer will decide both its fate and its form and, on a unit of this size, should both attempt to add something to its content.

The prime job of a newspaper, of course, is to present news. What is news? Any occurrence affecting the world in general, countries or areas, or individuals themselves. In the Western World, at least, we expect our Newspapers to tell the truth. But, again, what is the truth? Even 2,000 years ago when Pontius Pilate posed the question it was difficult to answer. In the complicated world of today it is often almost impossible to sort out fact from fiction.

Having gone through its birth pangs the stripling "SCHWARZWÄLDER" will now experience its growing pains and somewhere along the way will either reach maturity as a well-produced, informative and acceptable medium, or will fade away, ashes to ashes, and printer's ink to dust. All who have had anything to do with its appearance and have looked forward so long for its first issue are confident that "THE SCHWARZWÄLDER" will find a place in the hall of fame for service newspapers. It will, we hope, be at least as good as the best to date, and, if enthusiasm has anything to do with it, will top them all.

Christmas Cheer?

by Joe Demora

Once again it's the time of the year for Ho! Ho! Ho! and Jingle Bells! The time of furtive hiding of Christmas presents and inquisitive kids sneaking a look into the wardrobe (shrank?) The time of parties, bonhomie and Peace and good will. In a few days' time you will sit back thoroughly full of Turkey and Plum Duff, pleasantly satisfied that you have successfully survived all the weeks of preparation and nothing remains to be done except to pay the bills and get over your indigestion.
At the same time, it must be admitted, Christmas is also a time of some frustration. There seems to be all kinds of pitfalls along the way to the great day. No doubt you will remember �the times when, after having ordered your kiddies' super doll houses from Simpson's or Eaton's you discover on Christmas Eve that the darn things have been delivered unassembled and, perhaps a wee bit too full of the Christmas spirit, you have vainly tried to follow those included instructions. You know the kind of thing I mean; they appear to have been written by a psychotic engineer with a grudge against non-technical fathers. The whole sheet seems full of details of how to fit lug YY into slot XX, or to bend metal strip XYZ into a parabolic shape. Right up until that time you had always thought that parabolic was a kind of soap.
Then there is the great Christmas card game. Have you ever noticed that no matter how many cards you buy, you always run out two or three days before Christmas, only to find a few mom addresses which you had forgotten. It seems that some well-wishers derive a great deal of pleasure out of seeking, some nearly forgotten acquaintance, waiting until the last minute, and popping a card in the mail to arrive Christmas Eve. By that time it's too late to retaliate and you are left with the alternative of ignoring the card altogether or dashing off a New Year's Greeting, mute admission that you were caught by surprise.
Still it's all a part of Christmas, and if just for a few days a year we can act with a little more tolerance, feel genuine friendship, and be inspired by the gentler side of our natures, then the minor difficulties along the way are all worth while.

SMOKE
SIGNALS

421 Squadron enthusiastically welcomes the re-appearance of the 4 Wing Newspaper. The two squadron correspondents pledge a reasonable degree of punctuality in the submission of the 421 column. As the leading Squadron both in numerical order and in merit, 421 assumes in return that the Editor will position its column accordingly.

It would be normal for a Squadron article to recount recent adventures and misadventures of its personnel, but on this occasion it would be superfluous. During the last Squadron dinner, Ed McKeogh gave the "News of the Week", a highly inaccurate account of individual activities that reflected such discredit on innocent Squadron members that it will be omitted from this column. In its place there follows a tale from the Squadron's rich historical past; to be exact, the reciprocal visits between 421 Squadron and the Royal Danish Air Force's 725 Squadron .in March and July of this year.

Any letters to the Editor will be gratefully accepted.
However, time and space will not allow letters to be published in this issue. Also, because of these limits, the Editor reserves the right to reduce letters, if necessary. Only signed letters sent to the Editor will be considered for publication, but names .will be withheld by request.

THE LOST POLE: It was almost a typical Canadian winter scene. The tall green trees were heavily laden with snow. Much dog-like whining announced the arrival in our camp of a friendly Indian tribe from the North. Their arrival was innocent enough. The chiefs greeted one another in the normal grunting manner. The occasion was the exchange between the 421 Red Indians and a tribe from the North' 'known as 725 Squadron from a land � called Denmark.
Two long weeks of festivities commenced. Many tribal customs were exercised. War dances, fertility rites, peace piping and the age old use of fire water all abounded. However, very little was done in the way of war-work as the stagger-like morning snow dance was well answered, rendering our instruments of war thankfully unusable.

Then it happened, during the last few moments on the day the visiting tribe left, war was declared. Our beloved Totem Pole was missing. It was noticed by Warrior Gainforth as he was groping his way outdoors the morning after the departure ceremonies.

Many moons passed. The snow left and the sun waxed strong during the day. Our water Chief Oxholm announced that the gods on the auto bahn to the South had seen fit for a return visit.

We went the long one-hour journey to the land of Denmark and planted our weapons of war outside their camp. Subtle festivities re-commenced. This time, however, we worked hard during the day. We re-learned from 725 their knowledge of war. Although more primitive, it is popular these days, and we had largely forgotten it over the years. We relied until then on a device producing fire much like the sun. We practiced hunting in packs. Gradually we became as adept as our hosts in dropping stones on unsuspecting enemy from great heights. We also surprised large shiny canoes full of war parties that were floundering about in the North Sea. But all this time we were plotting.

The task was simple enough. Our beloved Totem Pole was brazenly exhibited in front of their Chief Ova's tent. It was to happen the last day. The two warriors that felt well enough were to shove it in a large mangy bird called "Hercules" owned by helpless friendly natives from the South.

The plot failed. The cunning Danes had used a new thing called electricity to make certain we could not retrieve our prized pounded metal Totem Pole. Our warriors were defeated. It is still there.