Probably no one on this earth has a more thankless job than the overland truck driver. I couldn't help thinking how much these knights of the concrete pathways and their roaring steeds were doing to ease crowded wartime shipping conditions as I watched that great lumbering fifteen ton monster roll noisily into a small country filling station on that boiling August afternoon. From its glass encased cab perched high above the gravel driveway stepped the young driver. He couldn't have been over twenty-two or three. His face was damp and grimy after the long straining hours of bouncing over the Illinois highways under the blazing prairie sun. The back of his gray shirt where he had leaned against the black leather seat was as wet as if he had fallen into a stream. After removing a pair of green sun glasses and lighting a cigarette, he strolled slowly into the station.
Manuscripts: Vol. 11
, Article 18.
Retrieved from: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol11/iss2/18