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The Era -- Day By Day


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
When we last saw Harold, back in the spring, he had an essential job with a war contractor, but as a single man in his early twenties, it must be an extremely essential job to keep him out of the draft this long. The Joes of the world would not be happy to get inducted while he's still swanking around in his big-shouldered pre-war suit.

If he ended up getting drafted off-camera that might make for an interesting surprise plot twist, but I can't imagine his buddies wouldn't have had something to say about it by now. Especially since there's no excuse for at least Lilacs and Poison not to be in uniform by now, yet here they are at the party today living it up. SLACKERS.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Awwwwright now," says Joe aloud, standing behind the counter regarding a tall, empty soda glass before him. "Fois' t'ing is, ya squoit inna syrup, one, two, t'ree pumps. Yeh. T'at's good. An'nen wit' t' milk -- lit'l mo'eh, lit'l moeh...poifec'. An'nen ya squoit inna sodeh wawteh like.....OOOP, not so fas'....an'nen ya stirritup...Oh. Not s'posta foam up T'AT much...well, it's how it tastes t'at counts, an'..." But his monologue is interrupted by the entry of Uncle Frank, accompanied by a short, heavyset woman dressed a bit flamboyantly for an East Flatbush morning. "Jooooseph, me lad," exhales Uncle Frank, a broad grin creasing his ruddy features. "I'd like ye to know Missis Bevan. Missis Bevan, this is Joe Petrauskas, me -- well -- son-in-laaaw." "Gladdameetcha," nods Joe, wiping his hands on his white apron, and lightly brushing Mrs. Bevan's proffered fingertips. "Missis Bevan," continues Uncle Frank, "is the lady Oi was tellin' ye about yestarrday. She haas a hoose just down the way herre, down on Fenimaaar Street, roit acrass the street from the Methodist Chaarch, a very propaar home, whar she takes in lady roomars, very refoined lady roomars, aaand she has agreed to look aaaftar little Leonora in the aaafternoons. Until Nora is well, of caaarse." "Yeh," shrugs Joe, "about t'at. Me'n Sal tawked it oveh las' night, an' we do'wanna to put yez t'any trouble. I mean, y'been swell to us, an' we jus' don't feel we'c'n take advan'age of yeh like t'is. So what weeh gonna do til Ma gets betteh is t'have Sal take Leonoreh out t'Joisey inna mawrnin', an' put'eh innis comp'ny noissery t'ey got out t'plant t'eh. She says it's a real nice setup t'ey got, reg'lar noisses on duty awla time, a lunch room, toys an' t'ings, an' cribs t'take naps in. She says f'Leonoreh it'll be good f'heh developm'nt t' spend t'day wit' awlese utteh diff'nt kids'n awl. So while we 'preciate ya lookin' out'fr'us..." "T'ell be no refun's, Leary," growls Mrs. Bevan. "You know me policies." "That's foine, me dear," purrs Uncle Frank. "We'll taaalk that oover at anotharr time. Ye certain 'bout t'is, Joseph?" "Oh yeh," nods Joe, recalling the vigorous discussion of the matter that lasted until 3AM. "I couldn' be moeh soiet'n.")

Allied artillery, only two hours away, pounded a bombed and shell-torn Japanese base at Finschaven, to pave the way for the capture of that enemy stronghold. Australian troops landed under cover of naval and air bombardment on Wednesday, and had advanced four miles toward the base, a communique announced, hauling up guns as far as the north end of the adjacent airfield, about two miles from the town itself. The communique revealed that the push up the New Guinea coast more than 60 miles beyond Lae was followed by a 20 minute air battle in which American fighters shot down 40 to 45 planes out of an enemy fleet of 50 to 70 attacking the convoy. Not an Allied ship or passenger was injured.

Congress looked to Government employees today as a possible source of draft manpower today, as prospects grew very dim for Senate approval of the Wheeler bill to defer the induction of fathers. Further Congressional moves in connection with Selective Service calls will come next week with the pattern outlined by these two developments: (1) Selective Service Director Lewis B. Hershey will be summoned to appear before a Congressional committee to explain why 150,000 single and 150,000 married-but-childless Government employees have not been drafted, and (2) One of the best-informed Administration sources in the Senate predicted that Sen. Burton K. Wheeler's bill to delay the drafting of pre-Pearl Harbor fathers until January 1, 1944 will receive no more than 25 votes when it comes to a Senate vote next week.


(Attention Shadow Smart...)

An official Brooklyn Dodgers cap now adorns the head of a courageous bomber pilot in the Pacific, a Brooklyn boy who will proudly represent his hometown team as he flies into battle. Twenty-seven year old Lt. John Most of Bay Ridge, a graduate of Manual Training High School and St. Francis College, wrote a letter home early in the summer, noting several of his Flying Fortress crewmates were sporting the caps of their hometown teams -- a Cleveland boy wore an Indians bonnet into battle, a Chicago boy displayed the headpiece of his Cubs, and even a Newark pilot flew under the insignia of the minor-league Bears. But Brooklyn, he lamented, was not receiving appropriate representation. His family passed the letter along to a friend who knew a reporter on the Eagle -- who passed the letter on to Dodger business manager John Collins. A word with equipment manager Dan Comerford followed, and the headpiece was immediately dispatched from Ebbets Field to points east -- traveling first to China, then on to India, and finally to Lt. Most himself. Collins soon received a letter from the Pacific Theatre, thanking him for the gift. "I feel singularly honored," wrote Lt. Most, "to be, as I understand it, the only pilot in the United States Army Air Forces thruout the world, to be wearing a Dodgers cap." He went on to remind the ballclub that many Brooklyn men under arms will be dead before they get to read another Dodger box score, and urged the Flock to play on with honor in their memory.

Preparations for the High Holy Days are under way at Brooklyn's synagogues. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, begins at sundown next Wednesday, followed by Yom Kippur, most solemn day on the Jewish calendar, at sundown October 8th.


(How many more variations on this theme will they find? Errol Flynn, Robert Taylor or Joel McCrea?)

The Eagle Editorialist acknowledges that the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers has a point when it notes that there really hasn't been an outstanding song to emerge from the present war, in part because every good song that comes out has its edges ground off by constant repetition on the radio, but he also notes that there have been quite a few good songs -- "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition," "Coming In On A Wing and a Prayer," "Rosie the Riveter," and "Johnny Doughboy Found a Rose in Ireland," for example. "Some of them," he predicts, "will still be sung years hence," in the same way that "There's a Long Long Trail" and "K-K-Katy" have outlived the last war.


("I mean, where's the wings? Don't you read Popular Mechanics?")

Declaring the situation "a draw," Magistrate Francis F. X. Masterson yesterday dismissed a complaint by 73-year-old Joseph Pelochofsky of Brownsville that his roommate, 88-year-old Gadalia Lazarovich, had hit him over the head with a piece of wood during an argument over sand Lazarovich had left in the bathtub following a trip to Coney Island. Magistrate Masterson threw out the case after Lazarovich pointed out that Pelochofsky had started the fracas by hitting him over the head with an iron bar.


("Bum!"" sneers Leonora, pointing to the photo of Walker Cooper on the sports page spread out on her mother's lap as the H&M train rattles into the Hudson Tube. "Howja like ya fois' day, kiddo?" chuckles Alice. "Punchin'a clawk jus' like ya ma!" "Sppppppppt!" replies Leonora. "Kid BITES." "What kid bitcha?" demands Sally. "What'd he look like?" "BUM!" sneers Leonora, pointing again to the picture of Walker Cooper. "RRRRRRRR!.," she adds, growling like a small, ferocious terrier. "I don't t'ink she got bit," snickers Alice. "I t'ink she done t'bitin'." "Oh," ohs Sally. "Izzat so, honey? Didja bite somebody?" "GRRRRRRRRRR!" growls Leonora, showing her teeth to the photo of Blll McKechnie. "Awrya sueh she's had alleh shots?" laughs Alice. "Ahhh, noitz," sighs Sally, sinking back in her seat. "BUM!" shouts Leonora, as the train rattles on toward home.)

Word from the Coast is that the Oakland Oaks of the Pacific Coast League are negotiation with the Giants for the rights to retired ex-Dodger Dolph Camilli, who quit baseball and went home to his California ranch rather than report to the Giants following an August trade. The Oaks are searching for a new manager for the 1944 campaign, and rumor has it that Camilli will be that man, although other rumors have the job being offered to Babe Ruth. For either man, the $20,000 salary that comes with the position would be quite a comedown from past heights.

Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto, now serving in the Navy, will be home on leave in Queens this weekend, and plans to suit up for the Bushwicks on Sunday at Dexter Park against the New London Coast Guard team.


("Numbo?" "Gimpy Wales?" Hops Gaffney puts down the comic page and lets out a derisive snort.)


(This is why, when buying a robot, you should always pay the extra for the rustproofing.)


(When I was little I used to hide my money in the dictionary, at the listing for "Money," and I thought I was very clever.)




(Go BIG or go home.)


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


"HAH!" scoffs Sally. "RIDICULOUS. Arrested for Sinatra! HAH!" "Arrested for Rudy Vallee," sighs Ma. "T'at," snaps Sally, "was diff'nt."


"So how much should I put you down for again?"


"Say, what's your last name, anyway? Warthog? Warpup? War-" "Never mind that, just get to work."


"And besides, thar be too many of those crazy milk wagon hosses!"


Nothing dangerous about that.


Didn't I read once that flour dust, given the right circumstances and a source of ignition, can -- explode?


"Well, let's see -- which way does the Big Dipper point?"


Odds that the crash reunites Terry with -- The Dragon Lady: 2-1 Burma: 10-1. Hu Shee: 20-1, April Kane: 100-1. Bonus: Terry falls into the clutches of Cheery Blaze: 1000-1.


Surprise health inspection tomorrow, eh Pop?


Eighty years from now, a mentally-disturbed billionaire will buy this fence and name it "X."


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
Cheery is the awe-inspiring daughter of Pat and Terry's old ally, the roisterous British pirate Captain Blaze. Cheery is consumed with hatred for her father and everyone who associates with him, and when last seen, she attempted to poison April Kane, Pat, her father, and all of his men with opium-laced stew, and to turn them over to the Invader -- only to be kidnapped by Singh-Singh, a demented warlord with a Jerry Colonna moustache. I don't know what became of them after that, but I'd imagine that Mr. Singh would be, after three years under Miss Blaze's thumb, a very instructive and interesting sight. I very much hope they turn up soon.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Awright," greets Dannny "The Neck" Leary, as he slouches up to the counter with his hand extended. "Hand it oveh so I c'n be on me way." "Oh," nods Joe, feeling a nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Y'mean...?" "Yeh," nods "The Neck." "Y'know, t'bag t'Hoppeh drawpped awf. Han'it oveh." "Oh yeh," acknowledges Joe, reaching under the counter for the zippered canvas pouch. "Y'din' op'n it, didja?" demands Danny, his mouth a thin slit. "Nah," quivers Joe. "Look, t'ez t'ings in life I wanna know about an'nez t'ings in life I do'wanna know about, an'nat bag, why, t'at's one'a t't'ings I -- um -- know about but I do'wanna know about, y'get me?" "Yeh," smirks Danny. "I getcha, bud. Y'awright." He picks up a toothpick from the little glass jar on the counter and jams it into the back of his mouth. "Lateh, gateh," he chuckles, sauntering toward the door. He stops short, his hand on the door handle. "Oh yeh, meant t'tell ya. Jimmy'll be by roun' noon t'pick up t'nick'ls. Have'm counted." "Oh," jitters Joe. "Yeh. Right." "Good." nods Danny, opening the door. "Abyssinia, kid." Joe raises his palm in a slight wave and slaps it down on the counter as Danny disappears into the Rogers Avenue traffic. He exhales and shoots a reluctant glance toward the door leading into the back room...)

A Chinese man who came to Brooklyn more than ten years ago is one of twelve local servicemen reported by the War Department to have been killed in action in the North Africa-Sicily theatre of operations. Twenty-eight year old Pfc. Jung G. Coon of Williamsburg came to Brooklyn with his family as a youth, and graduated from high school before returning to China to marry. He returned to Brooklyn in 1938, and was drafted into the Army at the outbreak of the war. He was killed in action on August 12th during the invasion of Sicily, and leaves a widow and three children who are living in China. His brother, Jung F. Chung, lives in at 369 Broadway in Williamsburg.

Residents of Rockville Centre are strongly protesting an OPA edict withdrawing the supplies of fuel oil which operate the diesel engines of the municipal power plant, while directing the village to purchase its power instead from the Long Island Lighting Company. Charles J. Gerndt, chairman of the recently-organized Citizens Municipal Utility Defense Committee, claimed that the village is being used as "a guinea pig for OPA meddling" and as "the goat of confiscation," targeted due to the municipal plant's ability to provide power for residents at lower costs than any privately-owned utility. The Long Island Lighting Company has already informed Rockville Centre that it cannot purchase power from the firm due to the coal shortage. The village of Freeport, which also has a municipal power plant, was also included in the OPA order.


(The Dollar A Year Man collects his change.)




("T's Campanellis ain' half bad," acknowledges Alice. "Quiet," hisses Sally. "I'm tellin' Leonoreh a story, try'na get'teh t'go t'sleep. I don' wanneh tearin' up t'at noissrey again t'day like she done yes'tday, t'ell t'row'eh out." "What kin'a story ya tellin'?" "You lissen," replies Sally. "I got a good story. Awright, like I was sayin'. Oncet upona time t'eh was a boy name Petey, an' he lived in a big cas'le on a sunny cobblestone hill. An' evry day he wen'out an' played wit' his frens, Dolphy an' Pee Wee, an' Cookie, an'ney had a swell time. An' ev'rybody loved Petey 'cause he played so good. But one day t'is big-shot Prince named Hoiman come to t'castle, an' sudn'ly Petey didn' have no frens no moeh. An'nen t' King, King Larry, d'cided t'at he had to send Petey away f'm t' sunny cobblestone hill an' t'beautyful cas'le, off to a smoky terrible lan' run by Pirates! An' Petey was very sad. An'nen one day King Larry himse'f went away on a royal quest, an'nis eeeeeeeevil wizard come an' took oveh t'kingdom, ohhhh he was terr'ible, wit' big black eyebrows an' a big black cigar an' a bow tie..." "AWLOUT!" comes the cry of the conductor as the train pulls into Newark Penn Station. "Awwww," grumbles Alice. "Right at t'bes pawrt...")


(Frank Fay and Billy Gilbert. One of the cruelest and most vicious men in show business paired with one of the kindest and gentlest. "Mild amusement" indeed.)


(Exercise your agency, kid -- while you still can.)


(It pays to buy high-grade batteries!)








Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


Westbrook Pegler will lie awake tonight, tormented by his secret desperate urges to see Eleanor Roosevelt cavorting in a "Hula-Hula skirt."


How does Hope rate all caps?


Sandy's back! HOW WAS VACATION, KID?


The Compliant Patient.

Terry learned all this reading "Smilin' Jack."


The strangler chokes to death on flour dust? THAT'S A GOULD MOVE ALL RIGHT.


The Bank of Bim.


Willie is a very graceful man.


Pop has a blast furnace and a forge in his basement. It's a hobby.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Ye don't need to fuss ovarr me!" snaps Ma Sweeney. "Oi can take care a'meself, daaghter, staap tryyy'n t'lead me aroond loike Oi'm..." "Y'hoid what t'docteh said, Ma," interrupts Sally. "Y'need t'take it easy f'ra while, letcha'self getcha strenght' back. Joe's down'eah wit' Uncle Frank inna stoeh, an' I'm gonna keep ya comp'ny up heeh f't'day, huh? Be jus' like ol' times." "Now doon't poot those dishes in thaar," interjects Ma. "They goo in th' oothar cab'net. An' leave thaat ledger aloon, Oi've got to look it ovarr an' make cerrrtain noothin's gone missin' since Oi been gaaahn." "Now justa minute," flares Sally. "Whatcha mean wit'tat 'gone missin'.' Joe wouldn' do..." "Oi'm not acuusin' nobody," insists Ma. "But -- Oi got me own way'a doin' books, is aaahl, an' Joseph, as well-meanin' a boy as ever lived, has naaaht been -- trained in th' proparr method. That's ahhl." "Well, jussa same," retorts Sally, "y'shouldn' be messin' 'roun' wit' no bookkeepin'. Heeh, I brung ya oveh some stuff t'read. I got heeh 'Victr'y T'ru Aieh Poweh." T'at's a good one, y'know, t'ey made a movie cawrtoon out'v it, n'awl. An'nen I got t'is one, 'Mot'eh Fin's A Bawdy," by Gypsy Rose Lee. An' nen..." "Give me thaat laaast one," commands Ma. "Settle back inna chaieh t'eh," directs Sally. "T'eh. Now, close yeh eyes, 'n I'll read it to ya, 'K? Awright. Chapteh One. 'A temp'ra'cheh of a hunne't'n ten at night isn' 'zackly t'climate f'as'meh awr moideh -- an' Mot'eh was suff'rin' fr'm a chronic case'a bot'...'")

Nazi Gestapo agents in Rumania were reported tonight to have uncovered a plot to overthrow the Axis-affiliated regime of Gen. Ion Antonescu, and replace it with a democratic government. The official German DNB news agency broadcast a report that Gestapo men had obtained details of a plan for a revolution to substitute a government composed of "former democratic political personalities" for that of the dictator. Reports of the revolutionary plot indicated that its centers were in Bucharest and Ploesti, an oil center recently bombed by Allied Liberators. Those reports stated that the Gestapo will mete out "summary executions" to the leaders of any resistance movements but did not indicate whether the leaders of the present plot have been executed.

The long drama of the war in the Mediterranean appears to be approaching a conclusion, with German forces seen to be in general retreat along a line thru Corsica and Italy to the Balkans. Correspondent Richard D. McMillian of the United Press, reporting from Allied Headquarters in North Africa, indicates that General Eisenhower is "about to unleash a great weight of men, planes, and guns" which, it is anticipated, will drive the German forces into full retreat "by the first of the year."


(There's A New World Coming...)

Brooklyn Councilman Rita Casey took exception yesterday to comments from her colleague Councilman Genevieve Earle defending her vote against the anti-smoke bill, approved by the Council last week by a 21 to 1 margin. Mrs. Earle, while acknowledging that the smoke menace, especially prevalent in Williamsburg, is costly and a menace to health, declared that the solution to the problem is not adding a new law to the books but instead insisting on strict enforcement of the extant anti-smoke clauses in the Sanitary Code. Mrs. Casey reprimanded Mrs. Earle for her opposition to the bill, declaring that "the only persons speaking against it were the representatives of the city agencies and utilities responsible for the nuisance." She added, "the people of the borough do not wish the Board of Health to make excuses for the nuisance -- they want it stopped."

A nineteen-year-old Brownsville boy is touted in the current issue of "Author and Journalist" as "the youngest professional writer in the country." Scott Feldman, who operates from his bedroom in his parents' home at 1470 Pitkin Avenue, has published more than 300 articles appearing in magazines ranging from "the pulps" to "the slicks," on a broad range of topics. He writes under many names -- readers of "Charm -- the Magazine for Women who Work" know him as "Scotta Elizabeth Layton," while readers of a certain child-care magazine know him as "Wise Mother." Other bylines used by the ambitious young author include R. R. Lyons, Cord Elliott, W. A. Schwartz, Andre Scotti, Robert Minton, and the distinguished Flynn V. Livingston. He notes that he made his first sale, at the ripe old age of eight, to a Street and Smith fiction magazine, a story entitled "The Domed City -- A Scientific Fantasy," dealing with what might happen if Manhattan sinks under the sea. Mr. Feldman leans back in his chair and declares that all these articles, which net him about $3000 a year, a fine wage indeed, are but a means of support while he works on his novel -- which, he declares, will be in the style of sophisticated wit made popular by P. G. Wodehouse and Thorne Smith. "Humor," he insists, "is my true medium."


(Easier said....)

The Eagle Editorialist predicts that better relations with Russia are vital to the future of the world. "That a more satisfactory basis of understanding may be reached, there must accordingly be a further rapprochement of Russia, Britain and the United States," he declares, "and with this end in view, a meeting of President Roosevelt, Prime Minister Churchill, and Premier Stalin becomes imperative."


("What t'ey need," declares Alice, seated on an upended milk crate in the basement, "is a lot moeh tawl guys." "Hunh," agrees Krause the super, absorbed in the adjustment of a furnace damper. "See," continues Alice, "if t'ey gawt moeh tawl guys, see, Howie won' hafta t'row so low. It's when he's t'rowin' low, see, t'at t'bawl gets awayf'mim. T'at's pretty good t'inkin', huh?" "Humnh,," acknowledges Krause, rocking the damper plate back and forth with satisfaction. "T'at's what I like aboutcha Siddy, y'know t'at?" grins Alice with a wrinkle of her pert Irish nose. "You 'preciate sound t'inkin'." "Yeh," nods Krause.)

Old Timer Anthony J. Poplar was four years old when the famous Blizzard of '84 struck Brooklyn, but he remembers well how his father had to work for "a day or two" to shovel out enough snow to enable the family to exit the shack where they were "squatting," at the corner of Centre and Hicks Streets. Mr. Poplar recalls that as quickly as his father could remove the snow, his mother melted it down in a wash boiler to get fresh water. He also recalls an actor, who had been performing at the Elephant at Coney Island, was stranded with the family during the storm, and "remained for a week or more."


(Mrs. Rosenman, "the former Dorothy Rueben," is really the one who ought to be profiled here. She was, and is, one of the leading figures in the public-housing movement, and, as much as any one person, is responsible for the reform of New York City's tenement laws.)

Radio's famous Baron Munchausen returns to Broadway next week when Jack Pearl co-stars with fellow dialect comic Harry Green in "All for All," re-opening attraction at the Bijou Theatre. This is Mr. Pearl's first appearance in a non-musical play, and marks a significant departure from his "Vas You Dere, Sharlie?" radio characterization which first convulsed broadcast audiences more than a decade ago.


(For a cowboy, Mr. Ryder certainly seems to spend a lot more time falling than he does riding. Perhaps he should consider the circus.)


(From elevator boy to pool hustler in fifty easy years. Where's the movie???)




(Household tip: Hang your pictures from rubber bands, and they'll absorb the shock. And I'm disappointed that the poor microfilm reproructions means we can't learn interesting facts about rats today, because that's a really disturbing picture of -- what, an anteater? A porcupine? A tank hidden under a novelty hunting-trophy rug?)


("I hope Patti doesn't think I'm an old busybody." TOO LATE. And no wonder Doc Putty's dead, he didn't clear that record with Petrillo.)


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


"Everybody wins!" = Nobody won.


If you noticed that Mr. Hill did not draw this page, you are correct. Nell Hott was a prominent magazine illustrator of the 1920s and a colleague of good ol' W. E.'s on the old "Life" magazine, who fills in for him when he's on vacation, misses a deadline, or both. Least they can do, though, is put her name in the headline.




I hope Mr. Gray plans to tie all these loose threads together. And wait -- MOTHER HUBBARD IS MR. KITSON! OR IS MR. KITSON MOTHER HUBBARD? I"M CONFUSED!


Later generations will find Kayo's art "problematic." And just how many "incendiary blondes" ARE there?


And it was then that Judy realized she would devote her life to feminism. As for "The Teenie Weenies," it will continue on and off in the Sunday News until 1970. Much to my puzzlement.


"BREAK IT UP VAN WINKLE!" You tell 'im, kid. And what can I say about "Smokey Stover" other than that it was my childhood introduction to surrealism.


Borgnine is milking this role for all its worth. And yeah, Lava will get your hands clean, but don't be fooled, it'll go all hell on your manicure.


Jeez kid, you hung out with Connie, speaker of multiple local dialects, for seven years, and that's the best you can do with Chinese?


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
That youngster Scot Feldman's literary hustle was good copy sure, but the earlier profile of the older gent
who ran his draft dodger artful dodger school for conscript avoidance still remains my absolute favourite.

Terrence is a very sharp lad indeed though for an 'old' China hand his lingo lack is surprising.
And so too his obvious lack of fluency with women. Mr Caniff has his reasons for these and those I assume.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("I cawl'd'a coal man," reassures Joe. "Uncle Frank tol' me how much t'ordeh, an'nit's awl taken care'a. Y'don' hafta worry. Ev'ryt'ing's took care'a." "Thank ye, Joseph," sighs Ma. "It's a great relief. You done a good job takin' care o'things faar me. Ahh -- those bags Hops Gaffney brought by...?" "Do'worry, Ma," replies Joe. "I give'm t' t' Leary boys when'ney come by." "You -- didn't..." queries Ma with great hesitation. "I neveh ev'n looked," declares Joe. "Hops gimme t'bags, I putt'm undeh t'counteh, an' whenna boys showed up I handed'm oveh." "Good, good," smiles Ma. "Ahhhh....aboot th' nickels..." "Yeh," nods Joe. "Y'sueh got a lotta -- um -- gum an' cigarette machines inna back room, don'cha?" "Indeed," sighs Ma, a great load slipping off her shoulders.)

From the air, the city of Naples appeared as dead yesterday as the nearby Roman town of Pompeii. Correspondent Leonard Packard of the United Press flew over the city aboard a Mitchell bomber in a routine reconnaissance flight disturbed neither by anti-aircraft fire nor enemy fighters, and saw no sign of motor traffic below, a "motionless state due partly to the 24 hour curfew recently imposed by the Germans. Neapolitans were ordered to remain in their homes at all times, after being given only a few hours to obtain the necessary supplies. But Packard also speculates that much of the city may have already been evacuated.

A possible compromise on the matter of the drafting of pre-Pearl Harbor fathers was reported to be under discussion in the Senate, with sentiment said to be building for drafting at this time only fathers under the age of thirty, with it being pointed out that there would be enough eligible fathers in the 18-to-30 age group to meet draft quarters at least for the rest of 1943. Another suggestion under consideration would call only fathers in the 18-to-21 age group in the first wave of conscriptions, with subsequent age brackets called only after the first group has been exhausted. Meanwhile, some Congressional sources speculate that Sen. Burton K. Wheeler's bill to postpone any drafting of fathers until 1944 will never come to a vote, with anticipation that it will be killed in committee before it comes, as scheduled, before the full Senate tomorrow.

The War Relocation Authority indicated today that it is looking for jobs for 15,000 Japanese-American citizens in labor-shortage areas over the remaining months of 1943. WRA director Elmer Shirrell indicated that about 2500 jobs a month will be needed for persons now in relocation camps, and predicted that "the problem should not be insurmountable." By finding jobs for these evacuees, the WRA hopes, it was stated, to kill two birds with one stone -- relieve the manpower situation and re-establish guaranteed liberties to a loyal minority group. Shirrell noted that of the 40,000 born-and-bred American citizens, out of the 107,000 persons now in the ten relocation camps, there are many trained technicians whose skills are needed for the war effort. The solution seems obvious, but Shirrell noted that the main obstacle to the plan remains "understandable if unfounded public prejudice." Under the plan being prepared by the WRA, those wishing to leave the camps for jobs outside the relocation zone must be matched with industrial needs, undergo and pass a Government background check, and must agree to notify the WRA of any future change of address.


(It's gonna be a long winter...)


(Isn't it WORTH $18.75 to see Jack Oakie on skates?)

Reader Henry Hock suggests that it might be appropriate for the people of Brooklyn to raise funds by public subscription to erect a statue or a bust of the borough's last Civil War veteran, the late Robert G. Summers, at Grand Army Plaza.


(War is Heck.)



The Bushwicks bagged two close ones yesterday at Dexter Park, sweeping the New London Coast Guardsmen 5-4 and 4-3. Lefty Gomez didn't pitch, having been called out of town on defense work, but his young former teammate Phil Rizzuto, home on leave from the Navy, played all twelve innings of the opening game, going 1 for 6, before retreating to the bench for a rest.

The "Lights Out" series of horror chillers ends its run over WABC tonight with author Arch Oboler having written himself into the final script. He will kill himself off in the play, marking a fitting end to the series.


(Hmph, ever hear of a contract manufacturer for private labels?)


(All these robots running around, you'd think they'd need license plates.)


("Huh, not a very good song. Hey, put on 'Rosie the Riveter!'")


(Some are born saps, some are made saps, and some have sapdom thrust upon them...)


("That? Oh, I thought that was a cherry jelly bean. Kinda stale, too.")


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


The Society For The Prevention of Disparaging Remarks About Brownsville won't like this.


"Sorry, they were all out of horsemeat."


Wait'll you get the bill for the plane.


"Ew, who is this creepy old man?"


"Now who's for fudge?"


"Besides, he's using that whole place to smuggle recapped tires."


Why white-collar workers need a union.


"Ehh, needs salt."


"Also goes into the pinball machine, but you didn't hear that from me."


"Ooooh, Casanova!"

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