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16
S.
radio broadcasts from
short wave Berlin.
On one of these they announce the names and serial numbers of their new prisoners of war, and the previous night, he said, he had heard the name of Capt. Dexter Lishon, the serial number, which he repeated and which was accurate to the last digit, and his home address — the one which had correctly brought the post card.
V
I don't know what this German radio program is. Probably it's a scheme of the diabolical Goebbels to trick Americans into listening to his unhallowed preachments, but this patient New Yorker was .evidently out-smarting the Nazi from a distance of nearly four thousand miles.
Discarding all else, he listened, and so far as I venture to judge, still listens, only for the names, serial numbers and home addresses of the Eagles With Clipped Wings and the other American lads officially behind the enemy wire.
And then, as a labor of love, he sends the word winging to the address he has heard. This was the
u/in^ January, 1945
2943rd message he'd sent, he said, and he is herewith nominated for some civilian facsimile of the Congressional Medal of Honor.
But here was hope — real hope.
The news was quickly sent speeding the rounds.
Shortly came official wires to all the families. These were from the government. All the boys v.-erc officially registered prisoners of war.
The families were free to assume that they all got down safely, although no details were given. These sometime would follow. Sometime, too, they'd all be home again.
War is war, and in it, gallant lads such as these, and yours, must, perforce, take their chances.
But the story of the families behind them, these and others all over the land, bound in new-found ties of sympathy, solace, prayer and faith because their lads are in those skies, or those foxholes, shoulder to shoulder, regardless of faith or creed or social strata, should, please God, build a better, a more human, a more unified America.
If there's any balm in Gilead, this is it.
On my first stay in Samoa 1 undertook to give a lesson in Basic English to an aged native reclining beneath a coco palm.
Pointing to a marine cleaning his carbine, I said "Man." ■
The native repeated, "Man."
Pleased, I pointed to the palm. "Tree," I announced.
He echoed, "Tree."
Just then a plane roared overhead.
Pointing, I asked, "What?"
The native stood up, squinted and said, "I'm not sure. It looks like a PB 2Y. but it might be a B-24."
— Buzz Saw.
Mother: "I'm so glad, twins, you're sitting quietly and not disturbing daddy while he has his nap."
Twins: "Yes, mummy, we're watching his cigarette burn down to his fingers."