All the world's a puzzle All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
intelligence floundered in a miasma of vaporous generalities. Only once in four years of war—at the Marshalls—did it get word to a garrison early enough to help it prepare for an impending attack. The Japanese Army, personified by the combined War and Prime Minister General Hideki Tojo, had panted for this war much more than the Navy, and so might have been expected to produce striking communications-intelligence results when the desired hostilities broke out. The woeful actuality was summed up in one sentence after the defeat or iNippon by Lieutenant General Seizo Arisue, chief of Army intelligence: "We couldn't break your codes at all." An incident of 1943 epitomizes Japanese incompetence in this whole field. It involved a future President of the United States, who, with his crew, formed the subject of a series of dispatches the Japanese apparently never solved. These messages were transmitted by three brave Australian
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