Armed Services Editions

My copy of The Fireside Book of Verse is as the seller promised—the stapled spine, the paper aged to Army tan—no worse for wear, given the cost of its design, six cents to make and printed on a press once used for magazines and pulp. This book was never meant to last a war much less three quarters of a century. I look for evidence of all the men who scanned these lines, crouched down in holes or lying in their racks. I read the poems secondhand. Someone has creased the page. Did he begin then stop to sleep? to clean his gun perhaps? to listen to the bugler playing taps?