By Jonna Doolittle Hoppes
Chronicling the sacrifices made via in a different way normal humans, this memento beneficial properties profiles of and interviews with the lads and girls who replied to the decision to motion through placing their lives on carry to struggle for his or her kingdom at domestic and abroad.
From squaddies and spies to manufacturing facility employees and nurses, the heroes profiled during this heritage contain Dick Hamada, a jap American who turned a undercover agent for the workplace of Strategic companies; Edith McClure, a military nurse stationed in England; Bobby Hite, one of many famed Doolittle Raiders, who was once captured by way of the japanese and continued years of torture and solitary confinement; and pilot Bob Hoover, who was once shot down over enemy territory and imprisoned yet controlled to flee via stealing a German plane.
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I knew the money wouldn’t last, but I planned to enjoy every bite of good food while it did. Within hours of the feast, Dean Hallmark developed a stomachache. Leaning over the benjo, he vomited until only bile was left. His temperature shot up and his muscles grew too weak to support his body. We took turns helping him to the benjo. We gathered our jackets into a pallet bed. I supported Dean’s head in my lap. “Sing ‘Stardust,’” Dean asked. ” “Sing it again,” Dean requested when the last fragile note faded.
The damage mounted, and our run for it came to an end. Fires burned on the decks. Water leaked into the hull. Our junior officers were young and they still hoped to stay in the fight. They steered her toward the shore and the soft bottom on the west side of Ford Island. But fearing that the ship would settle too far into the soft sand, she was ordered to reverse. Two tugs, the Hoga and Avocet, came alongside and guided her to the peninsula. We ran her aground, stern first, the bow eventually settling in the shallow water off Hospital Point.
Remembering Doc White’s lectures on the Japanese use of human excrement as fertilizer, I cringed and tentatively sniffed the air. At least the smell wasn’t overpowering . . yet. With great effort, I pulled my foot free from the muck and, limping on my injured ankle, hobbled across the levee to the road. Rain pelted my flight jacket and my shoes, manure soaked and squishy, rubbed my socks against the cold skin of my feet. The storm clouds, spitting rain, covered the stars, leaving the uneven road nearly impossible to navigate.