A Letter From The Publisher, Jun. 30, 1947

For three and a half years during the late war, William Dailey, now 23, a blue-eyed, dark-haired, happy-go-lucky Irish-American, had plenty of opportunity to get acquainted with his favorite vehicle: the motorcycle. As a member of a U.S. Army reconnaissance group for a tank battalion, his job was motorcycle reconnaissance ahead of the armor. It was an all-out job with an understandably final objective. "If we came back," says Dailey, "they knew they could advance."

Obviously, Bill Dailey came back—with one wound, a .45 caliber slug in the face, suffered in training in Kentucky, and a confirmed belief that nothing quite equalled...

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