July 28, 1993

On White Plains Road in the north Bronx, they all know their beat officer, John Crowley. Elvira Wyart, a neighborhood civic leader, has the highest praise for him. Kevin Eybergen, owner of the Deli, can't see enough of him. Residents at St. Luke's housing for the elderly gave him a rousing ovation one recent night. Children at Public School 21 wave when the 6-foot-4-inch 220-pound officer passes, and neighborhood drug dealers seek his support when in a bind. Officer Crowley was walking the beat some months back, when Mark DaCosta, an oft-convicted marijuana dealer, came running his way. Crack dealers on 223d Street, marijuana dealers on 228th -- they know the name Crowley. He's arrested most of them, including Mr. DaCosta, some several times. Cop of the Month "Mr. Crowley, Mr. Crowley!" yelled the dealer. "Mr. Crowley, it's me, it's me, I'm shot in the leg."

Car bombs rocked historic sites in Milan and Rome late last night and early today, killing at least five people and raising official concerns that Italy's political turmoil has unleashed a new wave of terrorism intended to destabilize the country. "At the very moment we are speaking of elections, at the moment at which anti-corruption investigations have reached a crucial point, I do not think that these attacks are a coincidence," said Francesco Saverio Borrelli, head of the magistrates investigating Italy's vast and still unfolding political corruption. At Basilica and Forum Witnesses and officials said three car bombs -- one in Milan and two in Rome -- went off just before and shortly after midnight, killing 5 people in Milan and injuring 13 in Rome.

PARENTS who are sick of mealtime skirmishes have learned that peace reigns under the golden arches, where children are happy to consume vast quantities of Big Macs, fries and shakes -- in short order and with dismaying caloric consequences. They love the place they call Mickey D's or Old McDonald's. Food served at home cannot compete, at least not in my suburban Detroit home, which is populated by a 5-year-old boy and two teen-agers -- a 14-year-old girl and a 17-year-old boy. Certainly not leftovers, salads or "Mom's little makeup casseroles," as my daughter sneeringly calls them. What's wrong with improvisation, or casseroles? my wife and I inquire. Casseroles are tasty, contain the major food groups and inflict little fat.

In a deal that only the end of the cold war could produce, America's largest munitions maker will soon begin cutting up more than 200,000 tons of surplus Ukrainian ammunition, much of it made for firing at United States troops, and selling it for scrap. The joint venture between Alliant Techsystems Inc. of Edina, Minn., and the Ukrainian Defense Ministry is believed to be the first between an American company and a former Soviet republic for dismantling such materiel as tank ammunition, artillery shells and mortar rounds.

The venues are quintessentially Soviet -- the Lenin Stadium, the October movie theater, the Locomotive sports complex -- but what goes on there would have old Bolsheviks turning in their urns. Thousands pack Lenin Stadium to hear the Rev. Billy Graham, then a few weeks later Jack Finley, then Morris Cerullo. At the dark, cavernous October Theater on the seamy New Arbat Street, just over a garish car dealership, an American charismatic preacher named Bob Wilcox calls the sufferers forward and cries out: "I speak to back pain! In the name of Jesus, I command you to go!" A Russian interpreter deftly echoes Mr. Wilcox's gesture and rhythm, and the people stretch out their hands in ecstatic worship.