Beside his bungalow, in a tropical garden riotous with frangipani, hibiscus and flame trees, sat Douglas MacArthur. In one hand he held messages from the New Guinea front, in the other a quarter-head of green lettuce flown into New Guinea from the Australian mainland. As he read he munched, as he munched he reflected.
The old warrior had cause for happier reflections than he had had since World War II began: the culmination of his first successful offensive was in sight; the fall of Buna might come at any time. Buna is merely a...
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