Every man is a peece of the Continent

 

"We might be the only Americans on the island," they had blithely hoped to one another. Such illusory dreams were dissipated whence they sat next to an Army trainer on the flight to the island. They had each tried to brood for the duration of the flight but found it impossible due to the repeated jabs to the ribs, followed by twenty-minute lectures on the geography of the European continent falling beneath their airship with the same fluidity as the Great Lakes, or the Rockies, or the Mighty Mississippi. Your America is just like this.