Word: hung
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...onetime Hamburg-America Line cabin boy who entered the Navy in 1933, saw service in Spain. On the third, fourth and seventh days of World War II he sank the British merchantmen Bosnia, Rio Claro and Gartavon respectively. Adolf Hitler received him and his men at the Chancellery, hung on Prien the Ritter Cross (oversized Iron Cross), the highest German military decoration today. Crowds outside yelled: "Prien, the deed was wonderful!" That night the heroes were regaled at the Wintergarten (vaudeville) where Goebbels presented them each with a book of news clippings and the audience sang...
...hung out near the gun and got the men coffee. That's all I could think of doing. I heard somebody say 'Here he is' and then came an explosion. Oh, mother! I'll never hear another like that. Our mainmast went down and the whole centre of the bridge and all the steering apparatus...
Each summer, to the smoke-blackened, pseudo-Renaissance pile of the Carnegie Institute at Pittsburgh come canvases from all over Europe and the U. S. for the Carnegie International, world's biggest competitive show of contemporary painting. In the Institute's galleries they are expertly hung by Jack Nash, a slight, nervous, white-pated ex-jockey. Once the jury of award did the hanging, but for the past 20 years Director Homer Saint-Gaudens has given the job to Jack, who pays small heed to names, more to effect. Jack has seen enough Carnegie juries in action...
Three dozen newsmen met in the Great Room of London's War Office one afternoon last week, peered solemnly up at walls hung with the colors of glorious regiments. Some, like Edward Angly and Walter Duranty, were correspondents for U. S. newspapers and wire services abroad. Others, like Ward Price, represented the press of Britain and her Empire. They had gathered to meet plump, fawn-faced Leslie Hore-Belisha, Secretary of State...
...cannot be so accepted this side of Teheran. The language of Prokosch's Americans is a salty, sometimes melodious mimicry, but it rings false too often in such mixtures as "One can't be sure of nothin'. . . ." He speaks of "oil wells burning through the moth-hung night" in Texas, when any Texan could tell him that what characteristically burns at night in Texas is gas, not oil. Through the whole book, despite its fluency and literary skill, runs a vitiating imprecision. Prokosch's words on America seem to apply as well or better...