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Show Lights of New York by L. L. STEVENSON A metropolitan railroad terminal with trains constantly arriving and departing 24 hours a day, in normal times is a place of noise, confusion and great activity. In wartime the noise, confusion and activity increase in-crease a hundred-fold. Added to civilians ci-vilians traveling on business or pleasure mostly on business these days are thousands of men in uniform uni-form who are being sent here and there about the country for more training or perhaps on a journey that eventually will end at a distant dis-tant battle-front. A scene at the Pennsylvania station sta-tion the other morning was typical. Several hundred sailors, their white uniforms immaculate, their black shoes shined, their clean-shaven faces scrubbed, had just arrived from somewhere and were plainly on their way somewhere else. Without With-out command, they fell in quickly, seabags over their shoulders. A boyish-looking lieutenant gave a command and they moved away like clockwork, their cadenced tread audible above station noises. Then came a company of soldiers. Their nonchalance and precision of movement move-ment proclaimed them to be regulars regu-lars or men who had completed their training, their bearing being further confirmation 'of the assumption. assump-tion. They too marched away. But there was no absence of uniforms. Casuals took their places officers and men who had been on leave, officers and men on their way to other units and all seemingly in a great hurry. In a space guarded by vigilant and efficient military police, were perhaps 200 young men not in uniform uni-form boys who had just been called up by their draft boards. Almost all wore working clothes and few had coats. Their baggage was exceedingly ex-ceedingly light. In contrast with the men in uniform, they looked seedy, down at the heel and exceedingly exceed-ingly awkward. Also they lucked assurance. A stocky, sun-bitten ser-' ser-' geant mounted a box. In the confusion, con-fusion, his voice was inaudible to those of us on the outside. But the boys in the reserved space heard him. They lined up in hit or miss fashion and listened intently as the sergeant gave more instructions. The non-com got down and the recruits, re-cruits, following him, walked, not marched, to an entrance of a stairway stair-way leading to a train. Relatives and friends were present in numbers. As the boys who had been called to the colors, started away, a shout went up, a shour-in which was a confusion , of names. Some of the boys looked back. Oth- ers didn't, either because they had ' not heard their names or because no one was there to say good-by. There were answering shouts and waves of hands. Tears were shed of course. Many tears. Mothers wept openly and unashamed. So did sisters and even brothers. Most fathers strove hard to mask emotion. emo-tion. But there was much blowing of noses also many masculine eyes were too bright. And when the last of those boys had disappeared, the crowded station seemed strangely deserted. A tall worn man whose gnarled hands were calloused . . . Neatly dressed, his suit looking as if it had beep pressed only that morning . . . Shoes gleaming like mirrors . . . On the lapel of his coat, a badge with a single blue star . . . The train for which he was waiting, first marked up 15 minutes late . . . Then 30 . . . With each dragging minute, he grew more and more impatient . . . Walked up and down the waiting room, those gnarled hands opening and closing ... A few drags on a cigarette, then it was tossed away and another lighted light-ed .. . Time and time again, the reading of a terse telegram, one well within the regulation 10 words . . . Just as he seemed on the point of exploding, the track was posted and he rushed toward the proper escalator ... A sturdy young man in uniform was brought up . . . The boy's hand shot out and the man took it . . . Then with the utmost ut-most calmness, "Hello, son. What's cookin'?" Not all those in the government service are in uniform. Troop movements, move-ments, even within the country, are of military importance. So there are army and navy intelligence officers offi-cers who look just like ordinary travelers. Then there are FBI men. As I was watching the father waiting wait-ing for his son, J. Edgar Hoover passed. Then too, there were senators sena-tors and congressmen on their way to Washington as well as numerous government employees. Yes, in wartime, a metropolitan railroad terminal is an interesting place. |