Remembering the Great Nakatomi Plaza Raid of 1988

32 years ago, the world watched in horror as events unfolded at Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles. A group of German terrorists led by the evil Hans Gruber disrupted the Christmas Party being celebrated by employees of the Nakatomi Corporation, a major logistics and construction firm headquartered in Tokyo, Japan.

Nakatomi CEO Joseph Takaki was mudered by the terrorists, along with Director of Planning Harry Ellis, who was shot by Gruber while enjoying a Coke as he attempted to facilitate a negotiation between the terrorists and vacationing New York City police officer John McClane.

Ultimately, it was the heroic efforts of McClane and Los Angeles police Sgt. Al Powell that disrupted the terrorists’ mercenary plot to steal millions in Nakatomi Corp. bearer bonds and retire on a Caribbean beach while earning 20%. Gruber died when he fell from a 32nd floor window while clutching a gun in one hand and McClane’s watch in another. Another terrorist with long, flowing blond hair and the grace of a famous ballet dancer was shot by Powell as he attempted to rush McClane in a crowd that had gathered at the base of the Nakatomi skyscraper. It was the first time Powell had discharged his weapon while on duty since his unfortunate and unintentional killing of a kid several years before. The body of a third terrorist – later identified as the brother of the graceful blonde – was discovered by police on the 35th floor wearing a sweat shirt with the words “ho-ho-ho, now I have a machine gun” scrawled on it in blood.

New York Police officer John McClane, who had just come out to the coast to have a few laughs.

A pair of FBI agents – mysteriously identified only as “Big Johnson” and “Little Johnson” – also died in a helicopter crash during the conflict that erupted at the tower. Calls by Lt. Dwayne T. Robinson for “more FBI guys” went unanswered by the Bureau’s Los Angeles office. Several members of a special Los Angeles Police unit were injured during the incident as they attempted to force their way into the tower via the use of an armored vehicle which the terrorists stopped with a huge flame-thrower that they had anchored to the 2nd floor amid shouts of “schnell! schnell!.”

In an amusing incident during the capture of the remaining members of the terrorist crew, KFLW-TV news anchor Richard Thornburg was punched out by McClane’s wife, Nakatomi Vice President Holly Gennero, as the world watched live on television. No explanation was given for Ms. Gennero’s action, as she and her husband climbed into a mysterious black limousine driven by a man McClane was heard to call “Argyle” and driven away to safety.

In later years, McClane went onto become entangled in a series of subsequent terrorist plots even though he always seemed to just be minding his own business. It just seemed as if trouble followed him around throughout the rest of his life. McClane is now semi-retired and living in parts unknown. Sgt. Powell passed away earlier this year after enjoying a late night snack of Hostess Twinkies and milk.

As the years have rolled on since the terrorist plot was defeated, debate has raged among those who don’t have enough to worry about regarding whether or not the tale of the famous Nakatomi Raid of 1988 is a Christmas tale or not. Polls taken on the matter regularly show an almost even-split among respondents on the odd question, a result that shows no regard for race, religion or political party affiliation.

Suffice it to say that, 32 years later, the legend of the Nakatomi Raid of 1988 lives on in the hearts and minds of enthusiasts all over the globe.

I may watch that tonight...:)

I watched a movie the other night "Silent Night" about the Christmas Eve Truce during the Battle of The Bulge between three American and four German soldiers, who spent the night together, out of the bitter cold.

I loved it. Though the movie apparently takes Hollywood license, the fundamental story is true as related by the 12 year old German boy hiding out in a family hunting shack with his mother.

Some history on this story: Fritz and his parents survived the war. His mother and father passed away in the Sixties and by then he had gotten married and moved to Hawaii, where he opened Fritz's European Bakery in Kapalama, a neighborhood in Honolulu.
,br>For years he tried to locate any of the German or American soldiers without luck, hoping to corroborate the story and see how they had fared. President Reagan heard of his story and referenced it in a 1985 speech he gave in Germany as an example of peace and reconciliation

But it wasn't until the television program "Unsolved Mysteries" broadcast the story in 1995, that it was discovered that a man living in a Frederick, Maryland nursing home had been telling the same story for years. Fritz flew to Frederick in January 1996 and met with Ralph Blank, one of the American soldiers who still had the German compass and map. Ralph told Fritz “Your mother saved my life”. Fritz said the reunion was the high point of his life.

Fritz Vincken also managed to later contact one of the other Americans, but none of the Germans. Sadly, he died in on December 8, 2002, almost 58 years to the day of the Christmas truce. He was forever grateful that his mother got the recognition she deserved.

"Truce In the Forest"
by Fritz Vincken (the 12 year old boy)

"It was Christmas Eve, and the last, desperate German offensive of World War II raged around our tiny cabin. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door... "

When we heard the knock on our door that Christmas Eve in 1944, neither Mother nor I had the slightest inkling of the quiet miracle that lay in store for us.

I was 12 then, and we were living in a small cottage in the Hürtgen Forest, near the German-Belgian border. Father had stayed at the cottage on hunting weekends before the war; when Allied bombers partly destroyed our hometown of Aachen, he sent us to live there. He had been ordered into the civil-defense fire guard in the border town of Monschau, four miles away.

"You'll be safe in the woods," he had told me. "Take care of Mother. Now you're the man of the family."

But, nine days before Christmas, Field Marshal von Rundstedt had launched the last, desperate German offensive of the war, and now, as I went to the door, the Battle of the Bulge was raging all around us. We heard the incessant booming of field guns; planes soared continuously overhead; at night, searchlights stabbed through the darkness. Thousands of Allied and German soldiers were fighting and dying nearby.

When that first knock came, Mother quickly blew out the candles; then, as I went to answer it, she stepped ahead of me and pushed open the door. Outside, like phantoms against the snowclad trees, stood two steel-helmeted men. One of them spoke to Mother in a language we did not understand, pointing to a third man lying in the snow. She realized before I did that these were American soldiers. Enemies!

Mother stood silent, motionless, her hand on my shoulder. They were armed and could have forced their entrance, yet they stood there and asked with their eyes. And the wounded man seemed more dead than alive. "Kommt rein," Mother said finally. "Come in." The soldiers carried their comrade inside and stretched him out on my bed.

None of them understood German. Mother tried French, and one of the soldiers could converse in that language. As Mother went to look after the wounded man, she said to me, "The fingers of those two are numb. Take off their jackets and boots, and bring in a bucket of snow." Soon I was rubbing their blue feet with snow.

We learned that the stocky, dark- haired fellow was Jim; his friend, tall and slender, was Robin. Harry, the wounded one, was now sleeping on my bed, his face as white as the snow outside. They'd lost their battalion and had wandered in the forest for three days, looking for the Americans, hiding from the Germans. They hadn't shaved, but still, without their heavy coats, they looked merely like big boys. And that was the way Mother began to treat them.

Now Mother said to me, "Go get Hermann. And bring six potatoes." This was a serious departure from our pre-Christmas plans. Hermann was the plump rooster(named after portly Hermann G ring, Hitler's No. 2, for whom Mother had little affection) that we had been fattening for weeks in the hope that Father would be home for Christmas. But, some hours before, when it was obvious that Father would not make it, Mother had decided that Hermann should live a few more days, in case Father could get home for New Year's. Now she had changed her mind again: Hermann would serve an immediate, pressing purpose.

While Jim and I helped with the cooking, Robin took care of Harry. He had a bullet through his upper leg, and had almost bled to death. Mother tore a bedsheet into long strips for bandages.

Soon, the tempting smell of roast chicken permeated our room. I was setting the table when once again there came a knock at the door.

Expecting to find more lost Americans, I opened the door without hesitation. There stood four soldiers, wearing uniforms quite familiar to me after five years of war. They were Wehrmacht¡ªGermans! I was paralyzed with fear. Although still a child, I knew the harsh law: sheltering enemy soldiers constituted high treason. We could all be shot! Mother was frightened, too. Her face was white, but she stepped outside and said, quietly, "Fröhliche Weihnachten." The soldiers wished her a Merry Christmas, too.

"We have lost our regiment and would like to wait for daylight," explained the corporal. "Can we rest here?" "Of course," Mother replied, with a calmness born of panic. "You can also have a fine, warm meal and eat till the pot is empty." The Germans smiled as they sniffed the aroma through the half-open door. "But," Mother added firmly, "we have three other guests, whom you may not consider friends." Now her voice was suddenly sterner than I'd ever heard it before. "This is Christmas Eve, and there will be no shooting here."

"Who's inside?" the corporal demanded. "Amerikaner?" Mother looked at each frost-chilled face. "Listen," she said slowly. "You could be my sons, and so could those in there. A boy with a gunshot wound, fighting for his life. His two friends¡ªlost like you and just as hungry and exhausted as you are. This one night," she turned to the corporal and raised her voice a little, "this Christmas night, let us forget about killing." The corporal stared at her. There were two or three endless seconds of silence. Then Mother put an end to indecision. "Enough talking!" she ordered and clapped her hands sharply. "Please put your weapons here on the woodpile¡ªand hurry up before the others eat the dinner!" Dazedly, the four soldiers placed their arms on the pile of firewood just inside the door: three carbines, a light machine gun and two bazookas. Meanwhile, Mother was speaking French rapidly to Jim. He said something in English, and to my amazement I saw the American boys, too, turn their weapons over to Mother.

Now, as Germans and Americans tensely rubbed elbows in the small room, Mother was really on her mettle. Never losing her smile, she tried to find a seat for everyone. We had only three chairs, but Mother's bed was big, and on it she placed two of the newcomers side by side with Jim and Robin. Despite the strained atmosphere, Mother went right on preparing dinner. But Hermann wasn't going to grow any bigger, and now there were four more mouths to feed. "Quick," she whispered to me, "get more potatoes and some oats. These boys are hungry, and a starving man is an angry one."

While foraging in the storage room, I heard Harry moan. When I returned, one of the Germans had put on his glasses to inspect the American's wound. "Do you belong to the medical corps?" Mother asked him. "No," he answered. "But I studied medicine at Heidelberg until a few months ago." Thanks to the cold, he told the Americans in what sounded like fairly good English, Harry's wound hadn't become infected. "He is suffering from a severe loss of blood," he explained to Mother. "What he needs is rest and nourishment."

Relaxation was now beginning to replace suspicion. Even to me, all the soldiers looked very young as we sat there together. Heinz and Willi, both from Cologne, were 16. The German corporal, at 23, was the oldest of them all. From his food bag he drew out a bottle of red wine, and Heinz managed to find a loaf of rye bread. Mother cut that in small pieces to be served with the dinner; half the wine, however, she put away¡ª"for the wounded boy."

Then Mother said grace. I noticed that there were tears in her eyes as she said the old, familiar words, "Komm, Herr Jesus. Be our guest." And as I looked around the table, I saw tears, too, in the eyes of the battle-weary soldiers, boys again, some from America, some from Germany, all far from home.

Just before midnight, Mother went to the doorstep and asked us to join her to look up at the Star of Bethlehem. We all stood beside her except Harry, who was sleeping. For all of us during that moment of silence, looking at the brightest star in the heavens, the war was a distant, almost-forgotten thing.

Our private armistice continued next morning. Harry woke in the early hours, and swallowed some broth that Mother fed him. With the dawn, it was apparent that he was becoming stronger. Mother now made him an invigorating drink from our one egg, the rest of the corporal's wine and some sugar. Everyone else had oatmeal. Afterward, two poles and Mother's best tablecloth were fashioned into a stretcher for Harry. The corporal then advised the Americans how to find their way back to their lines. Looking over Jim's map, the corporal pointed out a stream. "Continue along this creek," he said, "and you will find the 1st Army rebuilding its forces on its upper course." The medical student relayed the information in English.

"Why don't we head for Monschau?" Jim had the student ask. "Nein!" the corporal exclaimed. "We've retaken Monschau." Now Mother gave them all back their weapons. "Be careful, boys," she said. "I want you to get home someday where you belong. God bless you all!" The German and American soldiers shook hands, and we watched them disappear in opposite directions.

When I returned inside, Mother had brought out the old family Bible. I glanced over her shoulder. The book was open to the Christmas story, the Birth in the Manger and how the Wise Men came from afar bearing their gifts. Her finger was tracing the last line from Matthew 2:12: "...they departed into their own country another way."

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