"That's Where I Live"

It was all real, the river's ice through which the transport inched, the towers of Manhattan like a backdrop in the haze. There were the pier, the music, the unbelievable feeling of being home again. There was the luxury of the warm, green-cushioned train, talking its metallic monologue across the wintry miles of home. At Camp Shanks, N.Y., there were white sheets, steaks and cold, country-fresh milk. Like gamblers fingering impossible mountains of winnings, the 1,300 soldiers could see and feel it all. But their minds could not yet quite accept this fairy-tale return.

Like Sergeant Harry Myrand of Brooklyn, N.Y., most had been in the lines, under fire, when they heard the incredible news: picked men of the First, Third, Seventh and Ninth U.S. Armies--decorated veterans all--were going home on 30-day furlough.

Myrand was assembling a patrol in the chill darkness near Eschweiler when a company runner told him. "Go back," he said. "I got no time for gags." Then he started toward the Nazi lines. Returning, he was blown out of a jeep by a bursting mine. Then, bruised, unbelieving, he found himself traveling to the U.S.

Paris Was Different. Bathed, shaved, in clean uniforms, the returning soldiers had assembled in Paris. Paris, its liquor, its shows, its bullet-scarred buildings could be believed. But this, at last, was home. "Jesus," they repeated. "The dream's come true."

They had tumbled out in the dawn at a cry from the ship's rail: "There's the Old Lady, fellas. There's the Old Lady. . . ." As the Statue of Liberty took shape through the mist, they yelled and banged fists on other men's shoulders. But they were quiet as the ship docked. On the pier they reached out like children to touch the Gray Ladies who served them food--American women.

When they left the train at Camp Shanks, out of long habit they formed ranks. Then an unreal officer told them unreal things through a loudspeaker. "We want to make your stay here pleasant and short. You leave tomorrow for your homes. . . ."

In a barracks a blond soldier stared at a steamy windowpane. After a while he scrawled, with a finger, "USA . . . USA. ..." The telephone booths were mobbed by noisy, excited men. Now & then a man pushed out with tears on his cheeks: "It was my mother. When she cried I couldn't hold it." Nobody laughed or said a word.

A ruddy-faced fighting man had said it for all as the train was rattling across the Jersey meadows that morning. He pressed close to the window and his eyes followed one spot on the moving, snow-covered landscape.

"That's my home," he said. "That's where I live."

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