Towards the end the Gls at Nuremberg played basketball almost around the clock, it seemed. We couldn't see them from our cells, but the percussive bap, bap, bap of the ball on the floor carried to us from the old mess hall where they played. 

Sometime between the cheese and the fruit, while the port was still being passed, Lieutenant Wilby allowed a sweet, but rather too boisterous fart to slip between his buttocks.