Only one small boy has stayed with the
soldier—a very little boy with blond hair and gray eyes. He holds the soldier’s
hand and the soldier blushes with pleasure. “Is it as nice in America as it is
here?” the boy asks.
“No—it’s just about the same as here,” the
soldier says. “It’s bigger, but just about the same.”
“I guess you really have no goom?”
“No, not a piece.”
“Is there much goom in America?”
“Oh, yes, lots of it.”
The little boys sighs deeply. “I’ll go there
sometime,” he says gravely.
The pack returns slowly. They have lost their
quarry and are looking for new game. Then over the side the garbage is lowered
in a large box. It is golden with squeezed orange skins. The children hesitate,
because it is against all their training to break rules. But the test is too
great. They can’t stand it. They break over the line and tumble on the garbage
box. They squeeze the skins for the last drop of juice that may conceivably be
there.
A bobby comes up quickly, his high hat making
him seem a foot taller than he is. “Get ahn naow, get ahn,” he says mildly.
The rebels cram the skins into their pockets
and then, dutifully, they go back to their boundary, but their pockets bulge
with the loot.
“That’s naught naice,” the bobby says. “But
they do get very ’ungry for horanges. They really do. I ’avent ’ad a horange in
four years. It’s the law; no one hover five years old can ’ave a horange.
“They need them most, you see,” he explained.
MUSSOLINI
LONDON, August 9, 1943—The ship was in
mid-ocean when Mussolini resigned. Rumor ran among the soldiers and the crew
and the Army nurses that something important had happened. Then, down from the
bridge, came the corroboration—“Mussolini has resigned”—on that. For five days
the people on board had that for their minds and their hopes to play with. And
the process went something like this:
Two sergeants and a PFC stood out of the wind
in the lee of a life raft. “Well, you’ve got to admit it’s good news if it’s
true,” the PFC said.
“Yes,” said the technical sergeant, “but you
know how it is when a guy is quitting. He gets kicked in the pants. There must
be plenty of people who would like to take a sock at old Musso. I wouldn’t be
surprised if he didn’t live too long.”
“You got right,” the staff sergeant said. “I’d
hate to be in Musso’s shoes.”
The ship plowed through the sea and the escorts
hovered about like worried chickens. ...
A second lieutenant sat in the lounge, talking
to an Army nurse. “Gin rummy?” he asked.
