After graduating in 1929, he began working in the newsroom of the International News Service (INS) in NYC. Here Bowen reported mostly on stories involving police brutality and communist protests. He gained a reputation around the city, known as the "Rover Boy of Park Row," for ignoring rules, refusing to follow reporter norms, and regularly bursting through police barriers and loudly announcing “I’m Bowen of the INS!” He was soon transferred as a correspondent in Washington, D.C. where he covered high-level press conferences, many with Secretary of State Henry Stimson. Things were going well for him until his father passed away in 1931, which deeply affected him. Later that year, Japan staged a railway explosion and pinned the blame on China, leading to the invasion of Manchuria. Sitting in the front row at Stimson’s next conference, Croswell was fed up with him suggesting that it never happened, and interrupted him to ask about it. His bosses at INS were infuriated with the incident, and fired him afterward.

     Back in New York, he found another job at the New York World-Telegram and later the New York American, but was continually frustrated with what he was told to report as he worked through the Great Depression. Moving towards the 1940s, he watched as the US grew closer to war, and also began taking classes in photography with the hopes of becoming a photojournalist. The result of his classes came in the form of his first published book, “The Hudson: Great River of the Mountains,” a look at the history of the Hudson River featuring photos taken by Croswell. However, he found much of his previous work boring and tedious, and wanted to take his new skills to the sands of the Middle East and Africa.

     Being an independent journalist at the time, Bowen knew the only way he could afford to go overseas was if he represented a publication as a war correspondent. So, he pitched his idea to Collier’s Magazine and secured the funding, then asked to come along with the American Field Service (AFS)–a civilian volunteer ambulance unit, known for its role in the First World War. To his excitement they accepted, and he left New York on November 6, 1941, to go to a port in Halifax, Canada. The group consisted of about 100 AFS volunteers; the first sent to the Middle East, all with no paycheck and $200 uniforms they paid for out of their own pocket. Boarding the USS West Point with the AFS and thousands of British and Canadian troops, Bowen waddled with luggage bags filled with his photography equipment, including two cases full of flashbulbs. To Bowen’s horror, some British troops started using the flashbulb cases as stools on the ship and kept asking about them, giving him the nickname “Flash” Bowen. He and the other Americans were very popular on the ship, since the other troops had no clue where the ship was headed. It took a few days for everyone to board, but they soon left for Trinidad. On the ship, Croswell was given a two-person cabin, but shared it with 18 other men.

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     The US wasn’t in the war yet, and Bowen noticed much of the US Navy crew’s disdain at the fact they had to transport British troops to “their war.” He also noticed the stark differences between British and American troops. When Americans were boastful, the British were modest, and when Americans treated officers like people, the British treated them like royalty. Bowen also described that while the two nationalities did not hate each other, but didn’t exactly get along either. British and American officers were rarely seen together if they didn’t need to be. However, the ship’s pharmacy didn’t take English currency, so Americans bought up everything and traded it for British knives, caps, badges and other souvenirs. They would soon need to get along better, however, as Bowen heard about Pearl Harbor when a member of the officer’s mess ran through the room shouting the news. America had now officially joined the war.

     Croswell became close friends with four British officers, who would invite him into their first class suite to play pontoon, listen to music, and talk. They soon arrived in Cape Town, and one of them took him to a country club for officers. Here he brushed shoulders with Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr., who was aboard a submarine destroyer in the convoy. Back on the ship, he found that all the men had a story to exchange about local women they met while docked, and they disembarked once again. After more long days at sea and a Christmas celebration on the ship, they docked at Bombay (now Mumbai), where Bowen took his first pictures of British soldiers talking to locals. The AFS received some additional training in India, and Bowen met a local shopkeeper who tipped him off to some good pictures to take. Before long, however, the AFS boarded the HMS Talma to go to a mobilization center in El Tahag, Egypt. He said goodbye to the British troops he came to know over the past few months, who he learned two weeks later had all been killed or captured at Singapore.

     Making their way to Beirut, Lebanon, the AFS found some downtime. Here, Croswell heard about the extremely organized red light district, which spanned multiple blocks and was now guarded by Commonwealth police who gave out care packages to troops that entered. A British Military Police friend invited him on a nightly “clearing out” of troops from the brothels to make sure none spent the night, to which he agreed to come along. Bowen wrote about the dreary state of all soldiers here, doing anything to satisfy themself after being ripped from their families, and before being brought to their death.

     After making their way through Syria and Libya, the AFS was attached to the British 8th Army in May 1942. However, Bowen heard that British officers felt that some of the photos he took violated his photographer’s pass, so he went to Cairo to straighten it out. Here he got a place to stay at Shepheard’s Hotel, where he found a clean room with a bed and bath: the first in 7 months. Croswell visited Colonel Sir Philip Astley of the British Army Public Relations Office. Knowing Astley had a history of antagonizing American correspondents, Bowen expressed to him that he’s not satisfied with his pass only allowing photos of the AFS, and asked if he can allow him to take more varied photos. Astley quickly and bluntly shot him down, so Bowen found Douglas Williams, the head of the Ministry of Information in the Middle East who Collier’s recommended. Williams reiterated that there’s nothing he could do, but gave Bowen some advice: he’s got a uniform, pass, and camera, so he can either follow it or take whatever pictures he wants and ask for forgiveness instead of permission.

     With America now in the war, Bowen saw Americans all over Cairo, but again never saw them intermingled with the British. Bowen spent some time enjoying himself and taking pictures in the city, in an attempt to take his mind off the fact he would soon be on the front. Croswell and most other correspondents gathered on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel, exchanging jokes and gripes with the censors. Unlike their soldier counterparts, British and American correspondents got along very well. Towards the end of his leave, Bowen sat in the lounge of the hotel, and expressed his fear as he was about to go into combat: 

It is not exactly fear of death. It is fear of not living some more, not living until I see the end of the war and the days of peace that will follow, not living until I have a son and a home of my own and a wife who believes in me and loves me.
 

     Saying his goodbyes, Croswell found himself back with the AFS. They went through gas mask testing tents, where they ran around both with and without masks to be ready in the event of chemical warfare. When told to take off the mask, open their eyes, and try to escape, Bowen took a deep breath, memorized where the exit was, closed his eyes, and ran out to get some pictures of the others as they were leaving. Afterwards they got a lecture on desert warfare, and Bowen photographed the AFS painting their vehicles and throwing sand on top for camouflage. Around dusk, Croswell went to the Catholic Canteen and confessed to the priest. That night he went to Benediction and was deeply affected; he cried, felt very comforted, and was no longer afraid to face the battlefield.

     The AFS convoy headed to Tobruk and Bowen was immediately faced with the reality of war: he passed through towns that were bombed until nothing was left, and saw fresh field cemeteries for German, Italian, and British dead. They finally arrived in the outskirts of Tobruk on May 20, and Croswell immediately noticed that everyone seemed to think there was an attack from the Germans coming soon. Strangely, they were going about their business as normal anyways. The first fight Bowen witnessed interrupted his conversation with some South Africans, when he saw two RAF bombers fly overhead, then a group of Messerschmitts following behind. Both of the bombers were shot down, one safely, and the other burning. Despite this, the biggest worry seemed to be water. Bowen described it as hard to come by, and any that was given to troops was treated with chemicals that made it taste terrible; many of the men fantasized about “good” water and how to get some.

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     Before long, Croswell became familiar with troops in the field. On a trip to take pictures in Tobruk Hospital, he learned that lots of British troops started burning themselves just so that they could escape the desert conditions; they told their officers that they were spraying their dugout with petrol to keep warm when it caught fire from a cigarette. The story was so common that the British Army began to punish anyone who told it. On another visit to a bombed cathedral in the city, he met the Angel of Tobruk: an angel statue in front of the altar that, among broken statues and crucifixes that littered the floor, stood completely untouched apart from some small shrapnel in her right eye. Some of the troops started worshipping her as a sign of good luck, and said that as long as she’s standing, Tobruk would never fall. When reflecting on what he gathered from soldiers so far, Bowen said that “there is no one answer that sums up their attitude to the war, or what they’re fighting for, or their emotions about being at this godforsaken desert front. The only thing they all have in common, of course, is that they want to go home.”

     A week passed in Tobruk, and Bowen began to wonder if the seemingly-incoming attack would even happen at all. The most interesting lead he followed up on comes from some British RAF fliers he interviewed who were shot down while bombing Crete, then were able to make their way back to a harbor to be picked up by the AFS. On his way back he passed by a British engineer clearing a minefield who set one off, blowing both of his feet off right in front of Croswell. Trying to clear it from his mind, he made his way back to his dugout. On May 27th, Bowen began the day bored, and brought his broken cot to one of his British friends, Syd, who said he would fix it. While working they heard some planes coming their way, which Syd reassured were RAF bombers coming back from a run. As they got closer, they both realized that the long-awaited attack had finally started: a formation of German dive bombers was headed straight towards them. Croswell described the horror as he saw the enemy for the first time: 

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You feel danger; you hear danger. It is thick in the air. It is like the sound of a locomotive gaining speed. The time has come; this is it; this is terror. You feel pulled in all directions, but there is no escape. You stand transfixed, earthbound.

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Freezing up as the planes creeped closer, Syd dragged Bowen by his arm to a nearby dugout, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to get one last look. Croswell peeked outside one last time, and saw one of the bombers break from formation and dive straight towards the dugout. The sound, he said, “drills into my spine. It is a roar like the grinding gears of creation.”
 

     Bowen was absolutely terrified as bombs rained around the dugout. He began to recite the Lord’s Prayer and, for the first time since arriving, questioned why he was there. He wanted to live to take pictures back home, have a family, or maybe make another book. He thought that maybe it would make more sense for him to be there if he was fighting for his country, rather than just take pictures for a magazine that people will ogle at. Then, just as quickly as it began, it went silent. Emerging like a newborn from his dugout, Croswell decided it might be a good idea to try and snap some pictures of the bomb damage and craters. Afterward he went from dugout to dugout, trying to find people who were just as scared as him. Most of the troops were trying to keep their mind off of it, acting like it never happened, but Bowen tried finding someone to keep him grounded. Along the way he walked past a troop carrier that was hit, and saw a glove. Looking closer he noticed the hand was still inside, blown from the arm it was once attached to. At the sight, reality hit him, and he threw up.