 At some point in the battle, a barrage of grapeshot had struck the stock of his gun, splintering it into a hundred pieces. It had been a close call, close enough, suggested one Marine comrade, to merit the astonishment and the admiration of all of the girls in the next port. So there was George, graphically describing the disintegration of one very fine piece of artillery. When one of the two women keeping company with the Marines that night began a conversation of her own,