At fog-wreathed Grimsby on the North Sea, where British fishermen now don the greasy dungarees of the Royal Navy to go fishing for mine and submarine, Writer A. J. Liebling of The New Yorker found British character wondrously salted away in the diary of a patrol-boat captain. The captain was dead: he had "copped it in a fight with some motor torpedo boats. A one-pound shell took half of his head off." But he had left his immortally mortal diary behind him:
"Dec. 11. Coventry. London, Manchester. Ow I wish I could come up with a Jerry plane. I would...
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