joined on 12/17/08
last updated 12/18/09
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It's the soldier, not the reporter who has given us Freedom of the Press.
It's the soldier, not the poet, who has given us Freedom of Speech.
It's the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the Freedom to Demonstrate.
It's the soldier, not the lawyer, who has given us the Right to a Fair Trial.
It's the soldier who salutes the flag, serves under the flag and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who gives the protester the right to burn the flag.
~~Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
Fri, June 19, 2009 - 10:33 AM
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Look carefully at the B-17 and note how shot up it is - one engine dead, tail, horizontal stabilizer and nose shot up.. It was ready to fall out of the sky. (This is a painting done by an artist from the description of both pilots many years later.) Then realize that there is a German ME-109 fighter flying next to it.
Charlie Brown was a B-17 Flying Fortress pilot with the 379th Bomber Group at Kimbolton, England. His B-17 was called 'Ye Old Pub' and was in a terrible state, having been hit by flak and fighters. The compass was damaged and they were flying deeper over enemy territory instead of heading home to Kimbolton.
After flying the B-17 over an enemy airfield, a German pilot named Franz Stigler was ordered to take off and shoot down the B-17. When he got near the B-17, he could not believe his eyes. In his words, he 'had never seen a plane in such a bad state'. The tail and rear section was severely damaged, and the tail gunner wounded. The top gunner was all over the top of the fuselage. The nose was smashed and there were holes everywhere.
Despite having ammunition, Franz flew to the side of the B-17 and looked at Charlie Brown, the pilot. Brown was scared and struggling to control his damaged and blood-stained plane.
Aware that they had no idea where they were going, Franz waved at Charlie to turn 180 degrees. Franz escorted and guided the stricken plane to, and slightly over, the North Sea towards England. He then saluted Charlie Brown and turned away, back to Europe. When Franz landed he told the CO that the plane had been shot down over the sea, and never told the truth to anybody. Charlie Brown and the remains of his crew told all at their briefing, but were ordered never to talk about it.
More than 40 years later, Charlie Brown wanted to find the Luftwaffe pilot who saved the crew. After years of research, Franz was found. He had never talked about the incident, not even at post-war reunions.
They met in the USA at a 379th Bomber Group reunion, together with 25 people who are alive now - all because Franz never fired his guns that day.
When asked why he didn’t shoot them down, Stigler later said, “I didn’t have the heart to finish those brave men. I flew beside them for a long time. They were trying desperately to get home and I was going to let them do that. I could not have shot at them. It would have been the same as shooting at a man in a parachute.”
Both men died in 2008.
www.snopes.com/military/charliebrown.asp
Sun, May 10, 2009 - 9:51 AM
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One of my favorites - reposted:
Posted on Wed, Jun. 20, 2007
McClatchy Newspapers
Here's Lt. Col. Bateman's account of a little-known ceremony that fills the halls of the Army corridor of the Pentagon with cheers, applause and many tears every Friday morning. It first appeared on May 17 on the Web-log of media critic and pundit Eric Alterman at the Media Matters for America Web site.
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"It is 110 yards from the "E" ring to the "A" ring of the Pentagon. This section of the Pentagon is newly renovated; the floors shine, the hallway is broad, and the lighting is bright. At this instant the entire length of the corridor is packed with officers, a few sergeants and some civilians, all crammed tightly three and four deep against the walls. There are thousands here.
"This hallway, more than any other, is the `Army' hallway. The G3 offices line one side, G2 the other, G8 is around the corner. All Army. Moderate conversations flow in a low buzz. Friends who may not have seen each other for a few weeks, or a few years, spot each other, cross the way and renew. Everyone shifts to ensure an open path remains down the center. The air conditioning system was not designed for this press of bodies in this area. The temperature is rising already. Nobody cares.
"10:36 hours: The clapping starts at the E-Ring. That is the outermost of the five rings of the Pentagon and it is closest to the entrance to the building. This clapping is low, sustained, hearty. It is applause with a deep emotion behind it as it moves forward in a wave down the length of the hallway.
"A steady rolling wave of sound it is, moving at the pace of the soldier in the wheelchair who marks the forward edge with his presence. He is the first. He is missing the greater part of one leg, and some of his wounds are still suppurating. By his age I expect that he is a private, or perhaps a private first class.
"Captains, majors, lieutenant colonels and colonels meet his gaze and nod as they applaud, soldier to soldier. Three years ago when I described one of these events, those lining the hallways were somewhat different. The applause a little wilder, perhaps in private guilt for not having shared in the burden ... yet.
"Now almost everyone lining the hallway is, like the man in the wheelchair, also a combat veteran. This steadies the applause, but I think deepens the sentiment. We have all been there now. The soldier's chair is pushed by, I believe, a full colonel.
"Behind him, and stretching the length from Rings E to A, come more of his peers, each private, corporal or sergeant assisted as need be by a field grade officer.
"11:00 hours: Twenty-four minutes of steady applause. My hands hurt, and I laugh to myself at how stupid that sounds in my own head. `My hands hurt.' Christ. Shut up and clap. For twenty-four minutes, soldier after soldier has come down this hallway—20, 25, 30. Fifty-three legs come with them, and perhaps only 52 hands or arms, but down this hall came 30 solid hearts.
"They pass down this corridor of officers and applause, and then meet for a private lunch, at which they are the guests of honor, hosted by the generals. Some are wheeled along. Some insist upon getting out of their chairs, to march as best they can with their chin held up, down this hallway, through this most unique audience. Some are catching handshakes and smiling like a politician at a Fourth of July parade. More than a couple of them seem amazed and are smiling shyly.
"There are families with them as well: the 18-year-old war-bride pushing her 19-year-old husband's wheelchair and not quite understanding why her husband is so affected by this, the boy she grew up with, now a man, who had never shed a tear is crying; the older immigrant Latino parents who have, perhaps more than their wounded mid-20s son, an appreciation for the emotion given on their son's behalf. No man in that hallway, walking or clapping, is ashamed by the silent tears on more than a few cheeks. An Airborne Ranger wipes his eyes only to better see. A couple of the officers in this crowd have themselves been a part of this parade in the past.
"These are our men, broken in body they may be, but they are our brothers, and we welcome them home. This parade has gone on, every single Friday, all year long, for more than four years."—(Copyright 2007 by Robert Bateman)
Mon, May 4, 2009 - 8:55 AM
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An old boyfriend just sent me an article that our old bar is closing it's doors.
I got my fake id when I was 14 and frequented this bar near the University. My oldest brother's friend ran the bar, and my id was never asked for.
It was tradition: on your birthday you showed your id and you got a free pitcher of beer. So on my 18th birthday (after hanging around for four years), I showed Frannie, the manager, my id for my free pitcher. She was not amused to find she had been serving me all these years underaged.
It was mostly bikers then, and I fell in love with motorcycles. Anna Bannana's was the clubhouse. Most nights there was a live band upstairs, and the doors didn't open until 9pm with a cover. Monique, our favorite bartender, would let us in the backdoor as she prepped the bar for the evening. We would meet the bands and drink with them and hear them do their warm ups. When the doors opened and it got crowded, we would slip out the backdoor and head back downstairs to our corner of the bar.
The backyard was always filled with motorcycles. We started and ended our Sunday rides there. We would haul out the barbeque and shade structures and music and host poker runs.
These were some of my good old days. Damn, I'm getting old.
From the article:
This year, the bar celebrates its 40th and final year, and after four decades of giving this city a reason to raise a glass to everything from visiting punk rockers to home-grown music fests to pau hana gatherings, Anna's will go out almost exactly like she came in, because if there's one thing everyone knows for sure, it's that Anna's is endearingly resistant to change.
Opened in 1969 by entrepreneur Gary Budlong, Anna's started out as a dive whose walls, furniture and light fixtures paid serious homage to the 1960s.
That hasn't changed. The place is a hippie museum, if nothing else. But it's more than just a time capsule. It's home to a loyal pack of daily regulars. It's the frat house of Honolulu punk rock. It's a breeding ground for local indie music. It's where the young 'uns cut their teeth on raw rock 'n' roll and gritty, sweaty all-day music gantlets.
It's Anna's. Groovy, grungy, hip, homey Anna's.
Entire article: www.honoluluadvertiser.com/arti...ana+s
May 11, 2009
Let me tell you about Miss Risky Burn!
She is one of lifes unknown treasures...That I have had the miracle of being able to KNOW!
She's just a little bundle of high energy with tons of wonderful'ness!
Risky is One in a million of a dying breed of true friendship!
Love ya Babe!
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