A slight, relatively unimportant picture of our country at war, as seen by a journalist as he travels by car across the continent, then south. From Miami by plane to focal spots of the Caribbean, gathering impressions, surface ones at best. He writes chattily, breezily, of cities and people; he is for the most part a typical Pollyanna -- everything is lovely. He gives one confidence that we are getting on with the war on the home front. He winds up with suggestions to rubberless-gasolineless New Yorkers on how to see New York first. No tax on the brain cells -- this.