A native of the borough that produces "them lovely bums", Brooklyn, Sergeant Coffey won his first lottery 14 months ago, and Uncle Sam gave him, as a prize, a complete wardrobe, free lodgings, and a steady monthly income.  After receiving his basic training at Croft, they decided that it would be a better idea if he worked in an office.  They wanted to win this war.  Presently he is stationed in headquarters company, IRTC.

 Reads Dorothy Dix

  His taste in reading matter is a bit peculiar.  He reads Dorothy Dix 's lovelorn column.  We saw him do it.  He says he corresponds with her, too.  If she were younger, he wouldn't waste time writing letters.  One of his biggest problems is how many chowhounds he can ship.  Headquarters company table commandos seriously cramp his style.  Its getting so he can't wolf down more than four pork chops at a meal.

  Elucidating on his eating habits, there are some uncharitable souls who say that he eats as if there were no tomorrow.  The talk is rife that he came darn near being limited service by reaching there places over for the butter somebody else was using.  Sergeant Coffey, however, says this is all very unfair.  The little he eats wouldn't even fill a GI washtub.

  One of his favorite sports is swimming.  The first time he went swimming at some lake with an unholy name somewhere near Chimney Rock everybody thought the Army was launching a new submarine.  When he did the swan-dive, belly first, the water level rose four inches, almost drowning two kids.

  His suppressed desire is to be an orderly in an old ladies' home with the service club's Sergeant Daily as cook.

  Sergeant Hanlon is the gentleman who puts the jingle-jangle around the swan-like throats of America's warriors.  He's the guy who misspells names on GI dogtags.  He is still normal, that is to say unmarried; but lest any eligible young ladies hereabouts get their hopes too high let us add that he intends to remain in his present happy state until after the war. He has a chick waiting for him in Chicago and he's true to her.

A Promoter

  He is a promoter par excellence which probably accounts for his unusual hobby of hitching rides in the scientific manner, and when we say scientific, we don't mean anything else.  When old sarge wants a ride, he doesn't wear out his thumb doing it, but promotes himself some free time on the radio station and lets the world know that he wants to chisel a free ride somewhere, and it usually works.  But there is one time he didn't do so well.  He got a ride all right, but what happened afterwards shouldn't happen to a dog.  It was an open truck, and a few after the ride got started, old lady nature puckered her lips and let out a terrific Bronx cheer in the form of a hail storm and got the sergeant's disposition slightly on the icy side.  He usually pays off for his rides by telling the story of his life, which is one of those yarns that could easily beat the 1001 Nights by about 24 hours.

  Former manager and coach of the headquarters company softball team,  Hanlon copped the state championship last year. After listening to him, however, we're not at all sure that he didn't talk the powers that be into awarding his team the championship without even bothering to play any games.

  Although his gift of gab could put the sale of the Brooklyn Bridge to New York's mayor entirely in the realm of possible, he found himself on the negative end of the deal when he started picking on a Greek.  He was selling candy to stores at the time and did a colossal job of it until he hit the gent with the Hellenic profile.  We strongly suspect that not only didn't he sell and candy to the Greek storekeeper, but most likely the Greek sold him half the store. 

  We, too, have had experiences with merchants of Greece.

   WHAT WE'D LIKE to know is what Broadway is doing for acors.  All celebes seem to be on the army's KP rosters.  The guy we snared this week is Pvt. Marden Bate of New York who was the featured singer with Fred Wrings orchestra.  His star studded career includes association with Leopold Stokowski, Frank Black's Orchestra, Kate Smith, and Gladys Swarthout in the "Prudential Hour."  But it took the army to give him a speaking acquaintance with Maggie's drawers.

  Presently Marden is warbling sweetly in the spring-time while swinging a mop in D-31st's latrine.  The army plucked him from the leading role in the Broadway production "Rosalind" to give him star billing on the gig list May 31.  He thinks the army is a marvelous thing to make a man out of a mouse.  Marden would rather have remained a mouse.  At least a mouse has a hole to crawl into where he can be alone.  The only privacy Marden gets now is at 3 o'clock in the morning when he creeps under the covers.  There's no guarantee that he wouldn't find a first sergeant even there.

Had Own Program

  Before he got into the army Marden also had his own radio program on the West coast running shows for the Fisher Blend Flour program.  He had experience conducting glee clubs, and has conducted the Midshipman's choir at Columbia University in New York, an outfit consisting of 80 men.  His secret ambition is to conduct the best army chorus that ever dodged a barrage of vegetables. 

AFTER THIS OPERA in Europe is over, Marden wants to go back into show business, but this time to work from behind the scenes.  A pretty astute decision, sez we.  A mess of scenery between oneself and the audience affords excellent cover and concealment in case some disgruntled customer starts heaving tomatoes that have reached the twilight of their existence. 

Marden is married to the understudy of the star part in "Roselind", the Broadway show.  He's been married for nine years and still likes it.  He doesn't mean anything by it, but he likes to give gals the once over, and if the subject deserves it, he'll even go over the terrain twice.  His wife is dying to get away from New York as soon as possible to be with him. 

She probably wants to keep her eye on him while he keeps his eye on the South's femininity.