On a nostalgia kick: Imagine a fishing village on the grey North Atlantic during the war, a Fairey Swordfish making a forced landing on the beach in front of our one-room school when I was 11. We often had corvettes outside our windows riding out storms. Each weekend we scoured the headlands for remnants of cargoes---K-rations, chocolate bars, chewing gum, oranges, sailor hats, life jackets and carley floats---from torpedoed ships sailing to Europe from Halifax, 30 miles away. Taking our schooner to Halifax for provisions, we once confronted a long black U-boat in a fog bank charging its batteries; we waved, they waved and we sailed on. But the Swordfish was the highlight of my "war."