The area langue group of the AST unit has long stood back and watched the psychology students get all the write-ups in the SERVICE NEWS. The main reason has been obvious--no member of our gang has the time to write a column. In fact, most of us are hard pressed to take care of even the most elementary necessities of natural existence.
This, of course, brings up the question of how I'm able to dash off a column for the A-L boys. Frankly, it's a knack multiple endeavor is relatively easy for an old newspaperman (I quit the racket in 1939, when the bottom fell out of the price of old newspapers). The facility remains: I can fall out on the double for reveille in my bare feet, putting on my GI shoes as I run down the stairs. I lace 'em up, too--living as I do on the fourth floor, I have plenty of time.
It's a Military Secret
Other difficulties have also beset potential chroniclers of the doings of the A-L mob. For instance, there's the darndest amount of hush-hush which must surround our pursuits (including the extra-curricular ones, of course). All we can say is that the boys are learning xxxx xxxx xxxx, and studying all there is to know about xxx x xxx xxx xx.
So that's why all the stuff about the Army Specialist has been confined to the psychology boys, whom we all suspect of training for the Sorokin Abstinence Test (and secretly planning to flunk in an orgasm of orgiastic depravity).
Now that the cleft hot wear the A-L's and the psychologists is firmly established (this column should be and be an inflammatory wedge by the time the psych lads have laboriously spelled their way down this far), let us start stumping for the 1st Platoon softball team, an A-L gang (naturally), and as solid a gang of ten-thumbed ball hawks as ever left three men on base in five consecutive scoreless innings.
After the Harvard intramural program gets going, the 4-platoon Specialists League will select an all-star group to represent our section of Harvard-at-war. Meanwhile, the aforementioned 1st Platoon (also known as the Left Bank Chapter of the Charles River Tombstone Carvers' and Trolley Motormen's Marching and Chowder Association, Especially Marching) is currently leading the Specialists League by virtue of having whaled the blithering daylights out of each of the other three clubs last week.
In closing, my nine (count 'em--nine) room mates and I would like to raise a collection of enough nickels and dimes to fill the coin box of ELIot 8361 sufficiently to persuade Western Union to send an invitation extending the hospitality of our unused broom closet (which has a semi-Murphy bed folded up in it) to Benny the Book, who probably would like to find some place that would be nice to come home to.
Our broom closet would really be a dilly, and after all the ten men and true of D-41 McKinlock can always, like the street car conductor, find room for one more. So rally round, boys, leave your small change with Uncle George and we'll get that cablegram off right away. Or possibly make last Sunday night's beer party a weekly event.
Hic transit gloria, or, as they say in New Haven, let's have another ale before we tackle the broader aspects of minority plebiscite.