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Posted on 11/10/2005 9:22:39 PM PST by snippy_about_it
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 are acknowledged, affirmed and commemorated.
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| Our Mission: The FReeper Foxhole is dedicated to Veterans of our Nation's military forces and to others who are affected in their relationships with Veterans. In the FReeper Foxhole, Veterans or their family members should feel free to address their specific circumstances or whatever issues concern them in an atmosphere of peace, understanding, brotherhood and support. The FReeper Foxhole hopes to share with it's readers an open forum where we can learn about and discuss military history, military news and other topics of concern or interest to our readers be they Veteran's, Current Duty or anyone interested in what we have to offer. If the Foxhole makes someone appreciate, even a little, what others have sacrificed for us, then it has accomplished one of it's missions. We hope the Foxhole in some small way helps us to remember and honor those who came before us.
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 To our veterans - Thank You  Veterans Day A day set aside to honor our country's living veterans. At the Foxhole honoring veterans is a major part of our mission. Whereas we will not forget those who died or our POW/MIAs, and those who are currently serving, today we specifically honor those men and women living among us who have served our country in times past, our living veterans. Especially here at the Foxhole we are blessed to have veterans as part of our Foxhole family both as readers and contributors.  We would like to welcome all our veterans to the Foxhole on this very special day as we attempt to honor you and thank you for your service to our country. Freedom is not free and our debt to you and those gone before you can never fully be paid. May God richly bless you all. Welcome home and we will never forget. It matters not where, when or how your served; here at home or in a foreign land, in the air, at sea or on land; in peacetime or in war, on the battefield or behind a desk; on supply lines; as an engineer, a mechanic, an infantrymen, a cook or medic. You chose to volunteer or fullfilled your duty by the draft and served America and we are forever grateful. Every job is important as they all support each other and the cause of freedom. Some sacrifices are greater, yes, and some service more dangerous than others, yet all service is sacrifice by the troop and their family and we highly respect that service. Some gave all, all gave some. Thank you all - from SAM and snippy "These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." --Thomas Paine, Founding Father "The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional as to how they perceive the veterans of earlier wars were treated and appreciated by their Nation." --George Washington "Let us solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom, and let us reconsecrate ourselves to the task of promoting an enduring peace so that their efforts shall not have been in vain." --Dwight D. Eisenhower  Veterans Day is the day set aside to thank and honor ALL those who served honorably in the military - in wartime or peacetime. In fact, Veterans Day is largely intended to thank LIVING veterans for their service, to acknowledge that their contributions to our national security are appreciated, and to underscore the fact that all those who served - not only those who died - have sacrificed and done their duty. --- Department of Veterans Affairs      |
That looks totally fun!
("Let them burn cake." ~Jock Chirac~)
ROFLMAO!!!!
Well that's because you don't understand the deeper existential significance of this masterpiece!
MAN! Can I shovel it out or what.
Thank you . . . sniff . . . that's one of nicest things you've said about me.
[I can shovel it too!] ;^)
8^D
I got that pic, in a round-about way, off the AVWeb site.
I ain't sure if that's a picture of joy or fright
Regards
alfa6 ;>}
Thanks for the ping, PE. TGIF to all! And, if we don't talk next week, a happy and blessed Thanksgiving to all of my Foxhole Friends.
Squeeze here (Worldsfinest navy) for a brief bio of Adm. Shepard.
Regards
alfa6 ;>}
The Right Stuff (Paperback)
by Tom Wolfe
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/product-description/0553381350/ref=dp_proddesc_0/104-3660606-6320766?%5Fencoding=UTF8&n=283155
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Angels
Within five minutes, or ten minutes, no more than that, three of the others had called her on the telephone to ask her if she had heard that something had happened out there.
“Jane, this is Alice. Listen, I just got a call from Betty, and she said she heard something’s happened out there. Have you heard anything?” That was the way they phrased it, call after call. She picked up the telephone and began relaying this same message to some of the others.
“Connie, this is Jane Conrad. Alice just called me, and she says something’s happened...”
Something was part of the official Wife Lingo for tiptoeing blindfolded around the subject. Being barely twenty-one years old and new around here, Jane Conrad knew very little about this particular subject, since nobody ever talked about it. But the day was young! And what a setting she had for her imminent enlightenment! And what a picture she herself presented! Jane was tall and slender and had rich brown hair and high cheekbones and wide brown eyes. She looked a little like the actress Jean Simmons. Her father was a rancher in southwestern Texas. She had gone East to college, to Bryn Mawr, and had met her husband, Pete, at a debutante’s party at the Gulph Mills Club in Philadelphia, when he was a senior at Princeton. Pete was a short, wiry, blond boy who joked around a lot. At any moment his face was likely to break into a wild grin revealing the gap between his front teeth. The Hickory Kid sort, he was; a Hickory Kid on the deb circuit, however. He had an air of energy, self-confidence, ambition, joie de vivre. Jane and Pete were married two days after he graduated from Princeton. Last year Jane gave birth to their first child, Peter. And today, here in Florida, in Jacksonville, in the peaceful year 1955, the sun shines through the pines outside, and the very air takes on the sparkle of the ocean. The ocean and a great mica-white beach are less than a mile away. Anyone driving by will see Jane’s little house gleaming like a dream house in the pines. It is a brick house, but Jane and Pete painted the bricks white, so that it gleams in the sun against a great green screen of pine trees with a thousand little places where the sun peeks through. They painted the shutters black, which makes the white walls look even more brilliant. The house has only eleven hundred square feet of floor space, but Jane and Pete designed it themselves and that more than makes up for the size. A friend of theirs was the builder and gave them every possible break, so that it cost only eleven thousand dollars. Outside, the sun shines, and inside, the fever rises by the minute as five, ten, fifteen, and, finally, nearly all twenty of the wives join the circuit, trying to find out what has happened, which, in fact, means: to whose husband.
After thirty minutes on such a circuit — this is not an unusual morning around here — a wife begins to feel that the telephone is no longer located on a table or on the kitchen wall. It is exploding in her solar plexus. Yet it would be far worse right now to hear the front doorbell. The protocol is strict on that point, although written down nowhere. No woman is supposed to deliver the final news, and certainly not on the telephone. The matter mustn’t be bungled! — that’s the idea. No, a man should bring the news when the time comes, a man with some official or moral authority, a clergyman or a comrade of the newly deceased. Furthermore, he should bring the bad news in person. He should turn up at the front door and ring the bell and be standing there like a pillar of coolness and competence, bearing the bad news on ice, like a fish. Therefore, all the telephone calls from the wives were the frantic and portentous beating of the wings of the death angels, as it were. When the final news came, there would be a ring at the front door — a wife in this situation finds herself staring at the front door as if she no longer owns it or controls it — and outside the door would be a man ... come to inform her that unfortunately something has happened out there, and her husband’s body now lies incinerated in the swamps or the pines or the palmetto grass, “burned beyond recognition,” which anyone who had been around an air base for very long (fortunately Jane had not) realized was quite an artful euphemism to describe a human body that now looked like an enormous fowl that has burned up in a stove, burned a blackish brown all over, greasy and blistered, fried, in a word, with not only the entire face and all the hair and the ears burned off, not to mention all the clothing, but also the hands and feet, with what remains of the arms and legs bent at the knees and elbows and burned into absolutely rigid angles, burned a greasy blackish brown like the bursting body itself, so that this husband, father, officer, gentleman, this ornamentum of some mother’s eye, His Majesty the Baby of just twenty-odd years back, has been reduced to a charred hulk with wings and shanks sticking out of it.
My own husband — how could this be what they were talking about? Jane had heard the young men, Pete among them, talk about other young men who had “bought it” or “augered in” or “crunched,” but it had never been anyone they knew, no one in the squadron. And in any event, the way they talked about it, with such breezy, slangy terminology, was the same way they talked about sports. It was as if they were saying, “He was thrown out stealing second base.” And that was all! Not one word, not in print, not in conversation — not in this amputated language! — about an incinerated corpse from which a young man’s spirit has vanished in an instant, from which all smiles, gestures, moods, worries, laughter, wiles, shrugs, tenderness, and loving looks — you, my love! — have disappeared like a sigh, while the terror consumes a cottage in the woods, and a young woman, sizzling with the fever, awaits her confirmation as the new widow of the day.
The next series of calls greatly increased the possibility that it was Pete to whom something had happened. There were only twenty men in the squadron, and soon nine or ten had been accounted for ... by the fluttering reports of the death angels. Knowing that the word was out that an accident had occurred, husbands who could get to a telephone were calling home to say it didn’t happen to me. This news, of course, was immediately fed to the fever. Jane’s telephone would ring once more, and one of the wives would be saying:
“Nancy just got a call from Jack. He’s at the squadron and he says something’s happened, but he doesn’t know what. He said he saw Frank D — take off about ten minutes ago with Greg in back, so they’re all right. What have you heard?”
But Jane has heard nothing except that other husbands, and not hers, are safe and accounted for. And thus, on a sunny day in Florida, outside of the Jacksonville Naval Air Station, in a little white cottage, a veritable dream house, another beautiful young woman was about to be apprised of the quid pro quo of her husband’s line of work, of the trade-off, as one might say, the subparagraphs of a contract written in no visible form. Just as surely as if she had the entire roster in front of her, Jane now realized that only two men in the squadron were unaccounted for. One was a pilot named Bud Jennings; the other was Pete. She picked up the telephone and did something that was much frowned on in a time of emergency. She called the squadron office. The duty officer answered.
“I want to speak to Lieutenant Conrad,” said Jane. “This is Mrs. Conrad.”
“I’m sorry,” the duty officer said — and then his voice cracked. “I’m sorry ... I...” He couldn’t find the words! He was about to cry! “I’m — that’s — I mean ... he can’t come to the phone!”
He can’t come to the phone!
“It’s very important!” said Jane.
“I’m sorry — it’s impossible — ” The duty officer could hardly get the words out because he was so busy gulping back sobs. Sobs! “He can’t come to the phone.”
“Why not? Where is he?”
“I’m sorry — ” More sighs, wheezes, snuffling gasps. “I can’t tell you that. I — I have to hang up now!”
And the duty officer’s voice disappeared in a great surf of emotion and he hung up.
The duty officer! The very sound of her voice was more than he could take!
The world froze, congealed, in that moment. Jane could no longer calculate the interval before the front doorbell would ring and some competent long-faced figure would appear, some Friend of Widows and Orphans, who would inform her, officially, that Pete was dead........
My name Jose Jimenez.
I thought they were famous for being on a quarter or something.
About a century later some bearded engineer dude of questionable repute was born in Mark Twain Hospital in San Andreas, Calaveras County, CA.
TGIF, only 5 more working days until Thanksgiving!
Very peaceful scene. I could camp there. :-)
xoxox
Actually they are most famous for accompanying Sacagawea
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