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This room smells of cigar smoke and my breath smells of whiskey.

Jesus.

Ever see a National Football game? I went down to the Polo Grounds in 1934 to cover the Giants clobbering the Bears for the Siren. It was so cold that I wore two jackets, and the boys, to keep traction on the field, wore sneakers. It had rained the night before and the ground was iced over. Ken Strong, number 50, weighed over 200 pounds and was more than 6 feet tall. A monster running back. If a wereman existed, I always assumed he look like a hairier Strong.

I was wrong. What I saw tonight, who I saw tonight, was at least double the size. And the speed at which he moved - Jesse Owens couldn't beat him in a race. I didn't quite fear for my life - been shelled too many times, been shot at at least a dozen. But there was still somethin that crept up in my throat and sent shivers down my spine.

May god have mercy on our souls.

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Apparently that Viola gal used to fly for the WASPs, or the WFTD, or the WAFS. One of those female flying groups. She lost her husband in Sicily awhile ago, but I can't help but feel conflicted about that. One hand, you go into war, you know you might never come back. On the other, I just can't imagine her sorrow. Is it wrong that sitting there, thing foremost on my mind was whether all the American girls had gotten married in the last five years? Probably. Another guilty thought to weigh on my soul.

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It's real early morning in London. My roommates are still asleep. Anyway, this one time in Paris, during the occupation, a gal with a sequins-splattered cocktail dress told us she could do the most unlikely stunts. They involved split legs and a variety of multi-colored and shaped plastic balls. I was dubious at first, but a few drinks loosened me up and some buddies and I watched the antics of the very talented Christiane Swingle. Which goes to show you something. For the life of me, though, can't remember what.

Fact is, you stay skeptical till there's proof otherwise. Tell me some story about a ten foot tall creature, I'm gonna ask for the photo negatives. Tell me there's a wolfman in the ruins, well, I'll believe it when I see it. Only thing gives me pause is that the army ain't in the business of tall tales, and with the papers talking about an invasion on the Normandy Peninsula, I can't imagine they'd drag me out here for a practical joke. Which leaves the unlikely. And the frightening.

Apparently I missed President Roosevelt on the radio last night in the States. He said "victory still lies some distance ahead." Sometimes, though, it seems much further.

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I had a pleasant chat with a gal named Magda. She a smoker and a drinker and up close she smells like a real woman. There were plenty of girls in Seville, but not many of these. She seems like she could be a bit something fierce, but you could trust your back with her.

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Ben Rapp here, flying over Corsica on the government's dime. They promised me the scoop of a lifetime if I served my country. I wouldn't mind a Pulitzer and this seems like a good way to make that happen. Hell, only Fitzgerald got to write about parties. Some of us have to risk our lives to be famous. Running low on bourbon. Some cute girls here on this C-76 Caravan though. Maybe I'll make some conversation.

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