When the old man tried to close up for the night, the Marines bought him out.
IT WAS May Day, 1946, and I wasn't dancing around any maypole. I was sitting in an establishment called "Ye Olde Cellar" in Chicago, and some first lieutenant was telling me war stories.
I was sucking a soothing concoction called a "Zarovitch" through a straw to dull the pain of listening to the neophyte tell me how it was in the "Old Corps," when he made a remark that brought me straight up on my bar stool.
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