One moonlit night in the rolling hill country near Bath, a tall, uniformed figure stopped at a lorry driver's cottage and tapped on the door. A window was raised, a few words were exchanged and presently a woman stepped out with a coat thrown over her nightdress. She walked down the road beside the man in the uniform.
Last week the same soldier, a strapping Negro, stood, solemn-faced, before a court-martial of seven U.S. Army officers. Before the same court-martial had appeared the Bath lorry driver's wife. She said that the Negro had knocked and asked for directions to Bristol. She...