Word: subway
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...holes, half-demolished trenches, heaps of spent cartridge shells, fresh graves, corpses still awaiting burial, masses of white flags, crowds of glum and hungry inhabitants lie before our eyes. . . . On Friedrichstrasse ... it is impossible to pass on foot. . . . The pavement has sunk into the ground. The ceiling of the subway which runs just below the street has caved in. ... The Tiergarten is burning; trees crack and writhe in flames. The Reichstag is smoking. . . . The new Imperial Chancellery, Hitler's Berlin residence, is also burning. The windows are blocked with heaps of books, and machine guns stick out between them...
...wife (Lucile Gleason) gives them breakfast and some easygoing advice about marrying in a hurry. Almost against their will, they come to suspect, that they are in love. The suspicion becomes a desperate certainty when, still without knowing each other's last names, they get separated in a subway crush...
...from the caldrons of the subways came a hot, sour, brownish odor-a smell of sweating men, of dank nests burned out by flamethrowers. Out of the subway's stench emerged boys in grey-green and hobnailed boots. These were among the last-the Hitlerjugend. Some were drunk and some reeled from weariness, some sobbed and some hiccupped. One more Platz in the last long mile to the Wilhelmstrasse had been won, and one more Red banner flapped over a scene of dead bodies and discarded swastika armbands...
...poorer Randy Phillips who spurred his subway car ever onward Saturday last. The "Dolph", once of Hollywood, has made a standing date at one of Beantown's favorite nightspots--the Touraine Bar. How naive must have been the faces of Bill "The Bradford" Shirey, Don "Raymore Playmore" Royce and Rod "Scollay Square" Rolain as this threesome was asked to desert their regular haunts for a well-spent Saturday in Wellesley...
...word starved urchin of the Missouri wastelands are designed only to throw the spotlight of ridicule upon us, thus freeing the richly deserving J. Bernard Mathes, whose unshaven face grins stupidly before us daily, of that oblivion. Julian is so cheap, incidentally, he makes out P.V.'s for his subway fare--when he doesn't crawl under the rail...