At Lisbon the sweating Portuguese censors begged for mercy. Aboard the Swedish liner Drottningholm, the third-class bar shook and trembled with the chattering of typewriters. In Manhattan last week the fountains of prose still poured out, orally and in print. Twenty-two word-congested correspondents who for five months of Axis internment had not been able to file a dispatch were finally satisfying their urge, telling of loot, mayhem and starvation in occupied countries, of Axis morale that has begun to sag in Germany, is almost finished in Italy but still does not warrant easy...
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