Marie looks at a photo of Fred’s B-17, surrounded by flak chaff.
“Little black flowers that grow in the sky,” says Fred.
“Huh?” says Marie. Fred flips the stack of photos over. “Hey, that’s me!” says Marie. The photo shows Marie in a bathing suit.
“Yeah, I had this picture pasted on the plexiglas over my bombsight,” says Fred. “You took a lot of trips over Germany, baby!”
“Oh, that’s sweet!” says Marie.
“The guys all used to kid me about it,” says Fred. “They’d take a look at the picture and then ask, ‘who’s the dame?’ — And when I told them it was my wife, they’d say, ‘aw, go on – – nobody’s got a wife like that! What’s her telephone number?’ “
“Oh, Freddie!” says Marie, “When we go out tonight, would you wear your uniform?”
“Ohh no!” says Fred.
“For my sake,” says Marie. “Oh, honey you look so handsome in it, and I’d be so proud to be out with you – – won’t you please?”
Fred pauses for a moment and thinks.
“Well, seeing as it’s you, and seeing as I can’t find any place to hang it up, alright,” says Fred. “But it’s the last time! From now, on, if you don’t like me in civilian clothes, we’ll just have to stay here all the time!”
Marie is trying out her new scarf as a sarong.
“Would that be so bad?” says Marie, laughing. “Seriously, honey, you’ve got to get yourself some new clothes. That suit’s awful!”
“I know,” says Fred.