The definitive book on the history of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier written by former Arlington National Cemetery Historian, Philip Bigler as part of the upcoming Centennial commemorations of the Memorial Amphitheater (2020) and the Tomb (2021).
Fifty years ago in April 1969, Allen J. Lynch was discharged from the U.S. Army, and a year later he received the Medal of Honor. But the act of heroism that brought Lynch that distinction is only one part of a lifelong story that can serve as inspiration to anyone.
Did the Japanese attack the wrong war ships at Pearl Harbor?
“You listen to Grandma when you clean up your room and you make your bed. You listen to Grandma when you hang your clothes up in the closet.”
Gold Star kids and their parent too!!!!
CHAPTER ONE RMS Lusitania 2:10pm, 7th May 1915 11 miles off the Old Head of Kinsale, the south coast of Ireland “Torpedo! Starboard side!” The lookout grasped the cold metal handrail tightly, his knuckles white, staring helplessly as a 20-foot torpedo, travelling at 60 feet per second, disappeared from his view to ram 400 pounds of high-explosive TNT-Hexanite into the majestic ocean passenger liner. The detonation rocked through the ship, instantly killing those below decks where the torpedo hit. Passengers and crew braced themselves against whatever they could hold on to or fell to the deck. A column of water powered into the air and cascaded over the ship, damaging lifeboats and leaving the surfaces slick with water and punctuated with debris. Then a second, much larger explosion ripped through the doomed vessel. The blast reverberated through the metal hull, buckling metalwork and shattering glass. Smoke billowed from the forward funnels, and soot rained down onto the decks be- low. Stokers in the forward boiler room screamed inhumanely as pressurized steam erupted from fractured boilers, blinding and scalding them. Within seconds, steam burned their bare sweat-drenched torsos, plunging them into a sensory hell before they found a merciful death from shock and drowning. No one near the first or second explosions lived. They were either incinerated or trapped in the forward boiler rooms, far below the waterline, as the cold dark waters of the Atlantic rushed in through the ruptured hull to drown those who lay blinded, bleeding, and damaged on the industrial metal deck. On the bridge, Captain Turner ordered a hard turn towards the Irish coast in a desperate attempt to reach safety, but just after the ship altered course, the steam lines ruptured, and the liner’s four Parsons turbine engines failed to respond. RMS Lusitania, once the world’s fastest ship- the greyhound of the seas- suddenly had no power.
I followed Papa and Glock back through the trenches to the bunker. We sat on the bunker roof under the bright sunlight. Below, the vast expanse of jungle shimmered in the growing heat. We ate quietly. Ted, the guy that met us earlier at the chopper pad, came over carrying a green patrol radio. A loud, staticky voice issued from it, saying something I couldn’t make out. Ted decreased the volume. He called over to the guys at the next bunker, “Friendlies on the way in.” Then he yelled to Papa, “I’ve got Ron on the horn right now. They’ll be coming up through the wire any minute, okay?” “Okay,” said Papa. He put down his plate and stood. We moved to the edge of the bunker and looked down to where the maze of barbed wire, mines and trip flares met the tangled green of the jungle. I could barely make out something moving through the greenery. Then bamboo crackled loudly and they emerged, hunched over, the green rucksacks high up on their backs like humps, weapons cradled in their arms. They plodded slowly up the winding path like a team of mules tethered together, three black guys, soul brothers they liked to be called, and a white guy bringing up the rear. One of the soul brothers carried an M-79 grenade launcher and another an M-16 rifle and the radio. The point man was very dark, and carried a sawed-off, automatic shotgun. The white guy carried the M-60 machine gun. All four of them had belted machine gun ammo X-ed across their chests like Mexican banditos. Papa yelled down to them. They looked up and waved feebly. I think they were too winded to yell or say anything. The dusty-colored guy lost his helmet as he leaned back to see us. He quickly grabbed it and laughed. The darker point man’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses.
A closer look into the reasons for the involvement of the United States in the First World War.
Loved ones caught in the wake of the post-war battles of PTSD, you are not alone!
When we arrived at graves registration there was a row of bodies, all Marines. There was a body bag lying beside each body, but some of them were not in their bag. I could see the tag on the toe of one of the bodies. I saw some with unattached arms and legs lying beside them. I walked past, and immediately knew the meaning of death, and the reality of these people no longer being here.