Windy: Hey, Tinker? How do you spell 'Mare Nostrum?'
Tinker: What's that?
Windy: The Mediterranean. It's what the Eye-ties call it. It means 'our sea.'
Tinker: Why?
Windy: I'm writing to my sister.
Tinker: Whattya mean, you're writing to your sister? You're packed on a landing barge, bouncing on your Mare Nostrum, and waiting to hit the beach like the rest of us slobs.
Windy: A man's hands never seem to get clean, even if he don't touch nothing. They just stay dirty. Sort of a special kind of dirt. G.I. dirt. I bet one of those criminologists could take a sample out of a guy's fingernail, put it under a microscope, and say, 'That's G.I. dirt.' The dirt's always the same color, no matter what country you're fighting in.