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The form of an Army Service Corps private emerged from the mist, his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets, and his walk the walk of a free man. I never saw a welcomer sight than that jam-merchant. We stood up and greeted him. 'What's this place? I shouted. He raised a grubby hand to his forelock. ''Ockott Saint Anny, sir, he said. 'Beg pardon, sir, but you ain't whurt, sir?
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