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to material No. 300 when he solved the problem.

The substance is a military secret, but its action can be described. It's a film of translucent stuff sandwiched between the synthetic rubber and natural rubber-and it stops the aromatics. And thus was cured another headache brought on by a sudden change in aircraft specifications. 

When they try to praise Jim Merrill, he gets embarrassed. He's the first to point out that he had the assistance of some fifteen chemists and engineers and the cooperation of the other rubber companies. He wants his associates to share the credit. And, he emphasizes, his method is an innovation only so far as the new types of fuel are concerned. 

In short, he makes it sound rather unimportant. Well, here's how unimportant it really is. His discovery has been officially adopted by the Army and Navy air forces and has been written into the specifications for fuel tank buildings by all manufacturers. His new principles of construction also simplify building methods, reduce defects in finished tanks, and step up the rate of production.

Finally, a very busy man took time off from a global war to bestow on Jim Merrill personally the War Production Board's rare Citations of Individual Production Merit. At the time, although there were 400,000 nominations, only six such awards had been made. The busy man was the Presi-dent Roosevelt; the place, the White House.
That was the proudest moment in the life of Priscilla Merrill, Jim's wife. Threr of their children, Jim George and Priscilla, are quick to chime in that it was theirs too. The fourth, Sonny, is too young yet to know just what it's all about, but he's glad to see his daddy around home a little more often now.
And there'll be other dads, and other sons, returning home one day-all because of men like Jim Merrill. 
THE END
ALL, ALL ARE GONE, THE UNFAMILAR FACES
(Being the Plaint of a Contact Man with Only One Day in Town)
Mr. A has just stepped out.
Mr. B ain't in yet.
Mr. C is not about.
"Can't say where he's been, yet."
Mr. D has gone to lunch.
Mr. E's "in meeting."
(Always is a business bunch 
Meeting and/or eating?)

Mr. F has gone to court.
Mr. G has gone to Bangor or Newburyport
Or, perhaps, Toronto.
Mr. H is out- they say
(How these bozos string you!)
Mr. J's "tied up today."
Mr. I "will ring you."
Am I getting sore? Dun't esk!
Time's a-wastin' ever.
Ain't nobody at his desk
Nohow, no time, never?
-Berton Braley.
July 1, 1944
THE ARMY'S GOT A NAVY, TOO
Continued from Page 22
in equipment for the Seabees, and also the anti-submarine nets that must be laid. Sometimes they double as mine sweepers.
They are, in short, inter-island craft of general utility, moving often through shallow uncharted waters. There is not much they can do to defend themselves. They have no armor plate, and their main battery-indeed, their only battery-is a machine gun manned by an Army private.
They haven't got much speed, as modern surface vessels go. But they do have canny, seawise skippers in command. And though they are operating everywhere through the islands, often under the most adverse conditions, the Japs haven't got a single one of them yet, so far as I know. 
The set-up under which these craft sail out to their work is a rather curious one. The ships are owned by the Army, but their crews, with the exception of the single enlisted machine gunner, are not members of the Army. They are civilian employees and get their pay on civil-service ratings, rather vaguely under the supervision of the Maritime Commission.
The crews are not underpaid, by Army and Navy standards. The hands get $100 a month, plus a 100 per cent bonus for serving in a war area. The officers get $2,200 a year, plus the same bonus. That wouldn't be popcorn to a Navy boot. 
In the wardroom of the H boat, that day at dinner, all hands referred to them-selves lovingly as the 4-F Navy. It was pretty nearly true, at that. Of the whole ship's company, only two of three could have got into the regular armed services if they had tried.
The captain was a hale and hearty fel-low, to be sure, and still in the sunny neighborhood of forty. The chief engineer was certainly full of health, although he was up in his sixties. Both were seasoned, able saltwater men- and the only seasoned saltwater men in the whole crew. Most of the others aboard had been released by their local draft boards because they were not acceptable for the armed services. The draft board had lost all interest in one, the third mate, when he reached sixty and hadn't become interested in a young deckhand who had shipped aboard at New Orleans.
The general rule among the relief boats is that captain and chief engineer must be thoroughly experienced meant, with their certificates in good order. The mates, first, second, and third, are acceptable if they have so-called "limited" masters' cer-tificates. Yachtsmen, accustomed to lake, bay, and sound sailing, hold such certifi-cates, which generally restrict them to craft of limited size. And it is from yacht owners and professional yacht captains that most of the relief ship mates are recruited.
THE third mate, who sat next to me over the ham and beans, was a merry and scholarly-looking and seemed a little out of place in his khaki work clothes. He had spent his life as a construction en-gineer with a big New York firm, and, for amusement he had sailed Long Island Sound with a friend who owned a forty-foot ketch. Over the years he had taken his regular examinations as a small-boat navigator, and won his master's certificate. Recently his company had wanted him to move to a rather distant city and take charge of a big building job-and he had decided not to go. He had quit, announced to his friends that he was going to take
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