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The Lonely

AT FIVE MINUTES to six, Lieutenant Jerry Wright fidgeted at the bar of the officers’ club of Gedsborough Airbase, near Kenwoulton, Huntingdon, some ninety miles north of London. He wished the leisurely finger of the clock would reach six, when the meager supply of Scotch would be come available. He felt he needed a drink badly, for the Flight Surgeon had just grounded him and told him to go north to Scotland, for a two weeks’ rest furlough.

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Paul Gallico

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The New American Library

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Categories: , Tags: , Product ID: 25682


Ditch!” He lit a cigarette and thought: “Nerves, my eye. I’ll go nuts away from here.”
Major Lester Harrison, Jerry’s idol and commander of his wing, was feeding shillings into a slot machine near the door, his cap suspended miraculously, apparently by one blond tuft of hair at the back of his head, an expression of deep concentration on his face. He was a big man, too handsome, square-jawed, with pale, deep-set flier’s eyes. and a close-clipped light mustache. Jerry had not dared to raise one like it, but he tried to copy the major in every- thing else. At twenty-three, Jerry Wright was an enchanting ado- pescent whose most serious contact with life up to that point had occurred in an airplane flying over enemy-held territory.



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