In Atlantic City's Ritz a beribboned young fighter pilot with the taut-strung face of his trade stood looking out of the window of his room. He wondered why a pilot with a combat career behind him and a restless uneasiness in his soul had been ordered to Atlantic City, of all places. He was not wounded. He was not consciously sick of anything but British flying weather.
He surveyed his room. Irving Berlin's "Army" was never like this. There was no bedside telephone, but the room was carpeted and curtained. There were twin...
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