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Of glendale, california has sent in a story about his great grandfather, john jones, who joined up with the 18th missouri volunteers in 1861.He was just twenty at the time, a long legged farm boy with blue eyes and a deep revulsion against the institution of slavery, and over the next four years he fought as an infantryman in some of the fiercest and bloodiest battles of the civil war.At one point, kuretich writes, is unit was ordered to guard a railroad line.They dug some earthworks surrounding the railhead, and in the early morning hours a battalion of confederate cavalry charged their position.They held their ground until their ammunition ran out.John jones could see the enemy advancing over the embankment, and as the union soldiers in the forward positions crawled out of their earthen bunkers and stood up, their heads were chopped off by sabre wielding confederate horsemen.He jumped to his feet and started to run.He heard several southern soldiers yell, hat yankee is mine.?He looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, several cavalrymen were galloping after him at full speed.He said to himself, f god ever gave me long legs, it was for this moment.?He knew that he was running for his life and somehow managed to stay ahead of the pursuing cavalrymen.He saw a thicket, plunged straight into it, and came out on the other side.The horses had to slow down when they came to the bushes and john jones got away.The men who survived the battle said that it was the first time they had ever seen a man outrun a horse. "

Father served as a volunteer ambulance driver during world war i.In june 1917, he left the grinnell college campus in iowa before graduation ceremonies to join up.Without a single day of training behind the wheel of the ambulance, he was sent to a field of operations in northern italy at the foot of mount grappa.At the top of the mountain, italian soldiers were engaged in heavy combat with austro hungarian forces.He attack waxed and waned in november,?Mrs.Burkett writes.Inally, reinforcements arrived from france and england and the enemy was driven back as the alpine winter gripped the region.The enemy retrenched, and a fresh attack was mounted in the spring.Current records estimate the casualties of the two italian campaigns at more than 150, 000 men.The number of wounded was so great that the medical facilities at the base of the mountain were overwhelmed.Orders went out from the italian military command that medical corpsmen were to ignore the enemy wounded and bring down only wounded italian soldiers.This change of policy did not sit well with the ambulance drivers least of all my father.Not long after the order was given, he picked up an austrian soldier and started carrying him to the ambulance.An italian soldier ordered him to halt and drop the man.'I won do that, ' my father said, and the Italian said, 'Then Il have to shoot you.' So the soldier lifted his rifle and took aim, and the ambulance driver with the wounded man in his arms just stood there.They stared at each other for what must have seemed like an eternity.They were both in their early twenties;Neither one had ever expected to be involved in a war.After who knows how long they started to laugh.Stil laughing, my father carried the austrian down the mountain. "Mieke c.Melandramakes her home in lebanon, pennsylvania, but she was born in holland and lived through the second world war there as a child.As she puts it in her handwritten letter to me, which i received early last fall,"I am nearly sixty seven years old, but every october when the weather turns, i am eleven again.In the last year of the war, fall in holland was cold and wet.No lighted stoves, no coal.No lamps to make the room seem warm, no electricity.No supper worth the name.The soup from the central kitchen, a mixture of potato peels and cabbage leaves in water without salt, was cold by the time we got it home.That day in october, just when it began to get dark, army trucks closed off our street, as they had done many times before, and a platoon of german soldiers started a house to house search for men.'Raus!Raus!' The loudspeaker drove us outside to stand on the sidewalk while soldiers ran through our houses poking in attics and closets.'Raus!Raus!'

My little brothers forgot to grab their coats.Jacob's little body warmed me.Our street filled up with women and children.The soldiers had nearly come to the end of the street, and no men had been found.We became quiet.And then we heard someone crying.All the mothers turned.It was the sound of a crying child.On the stoop ofMr.Van campen's house sat a soldier, his rifle propped up next to him, his face hidden in his coat.He tried to swallow his sobs, but then he gave up.A mother walked over and talked to him softly in german.'What's wrong?' she asked.She bent over him as he spoke and then stood up straight.'This war must nearly be over, ' she announced to us.'He's sixteen year's old and hasn't had anything to eat today.' Two or three mothers slipped away from the group and went into their houses.A german officer came walking down the street half a block away.I was scared and very cold.The mothers managed to get back in time.A cold cooked potato, a piece of bread, a wrinkled apple were passed through the group to the boy.The officer came closer.The boy turned into a soldier again.'Danke, ' he said, and then climbed to his feet and grabbed his rifle.The truck engines started up.We could go inside.For the rest of the war, for the rest of my life, i have remembered that soldier who cried.He was the same age as my sister. "Robert m.Rockof santa rosa, california, was part of the occupation army on okinawa after the end of world war ii.One day, a japanese pow was brought in from the prison compound for work duty.He seemed to be around forty. "

He was quiet,"Mr.Rock tells us,"He was handsome, he stood erect, he listened attentively.Over the past few months, there had been several robberies in our base yard area.Window screens had been cut, items in my shack had disappeared but mostly candy and little doo dads, nothing of real value.On one occasion, dried muddy prints of bare feet showed on the floor and wooden table.They seemed to belong to a small child.If that's who our robber was, there wasn't much to worry about.It was known that small bands of orphaned kids roamed the island in packs, living off whatever they could find, stealing whatever was not bolted down.But then my prized waterman fountain pen had disappeared, and that was going too far.Now, suddenly, there it was clipped to the pocket of this dignified japanese man.I couldn't believe that he would steal it.I was usually a good judge of character, and this man had impressed me as reliable.But i must have been wrong this time.He had my pen, and he had been working in our area for several days.I decided to act on my suspicions and ignore the compassion i felt for him.I pointed to the pen and held out my hand.He drew back, surprised.I touched it, and asked again by gesture for him to hand it over.He shook his head.He seemed slightly afraid, but also totally sincere.But i wasn't going to let myself be scammed.I put on an angry face and insisted.Finally, he gave it to me, but with great sadness and disappointment.After all, what can a prisoner do if the representative of the conquering army demands that he do something?Punishments had been meted out for such behavior, and he must have had his fill of that kind of thing.He didn't come back the next day, and i never saw him again.Three weeks later, i found my pen in my room.I was horrified at the atrocity i had committed.I knew the hurt of being victimized of being unjustly outranked, of watching a trust killed in cold blood.I wondered how i could have made such a mistake.Both pens were identically colored, with gold stripes.But on one the stripes were horizontal, and on the other they were vertical.To make matters worse, i knew how much more difficult it must have been for this man to own one of these prized american artifacts than it was for me.Now, fifty years later, i don't have either one of those pens.But i wish i could find the man so i could apologize to him. "Doreen tracey when she was twelve, doreen tracey became one of the original mouseketeers.Walt disney said to her,"Doreen, being a mouseketeer is probably the greatest thing you will ever do with your life. "Years later, during the vietnam war, she worked as a uso entertainer at american military installations around the world.Eventually, she wound up"In country,"Arriving in saigon during the tet offensive of 1968.She performed with a band of filipino musicians called the invaders, and by the time they were flown in to play for the seventh army cavalry, black horse, they had been doing shows every day for a month and were exhausted. "

As the chopper makes its landing,"Miss tracey writes,"A field of army green can be observed in front of a flatbed truck that resembles a stage.Before the blades stop twirling, we are unloading the instruments.I'm escorted by a nurse to her barracks, where i can change into my costume and repair my makeup.A few minutes later i reappear dressed in a mini skirt, clinging t shirt and knee high white boots, with platinum hair hanging long and loose.Each step i take plunges the white go go boots into the red mud.As i ascend the steps of the flatbed, globs of mud are left behind.The crowd goes wild.I grab the mike from its stand and swing it high in the air, catching the cord in time to retrieve the mike and belt out"Hold on, i'm coming. "Again, the audience goes crazy with excitement.Some of the soldiers in the front row start dancing with several of the nurses.As long as the music goes on, the reality of the war is forgotten.After a while, some of the fellows are getting pretty drunk.They open beer cans with their bare teeth, laughing hysterically between each gulp.One guy's lip is cut on the open beer can.Blood spurts out as he tries to stop the bleeding with several slugs of beer.He smiles up at the makeshift stage, showing me his bloody teeth.Our last number,"We got to get out of this place,"Drives the audience into a frenzy.As the band and i take our bows, the applause becomes deafening.Then, out of the corner of my eye, i see a pair of mouseketeer ears being passed down the aisles.A good looking guy in the middle row puts the mickey mouse ears on his head.Then, magic time begins.It happens when an audience becomes connected.Call it electrical energy or the excitement of the moment.The mouse eared soldier stands up and starts singing the mickey mouse theme song.One by one throughout the audience, men start standing until the whole audience is standing at attention and singing the song.Now it's time to say good bye to all our company, m i c, see you real soon, k e y, why, because we love you.M o u s e.I cry as i watch these grown men singing with such reverence.I had traveled halfway around the world and still, i couldn't escape the past.Mickey mouse was everywhere! "Paul ebeltoft finally, i would like to share something written by paul ebeltoft of dickinson, north dakota.The title is"The ten goal player. ""It was midyear, 1942.My squadron was in new york, slated for overseas.Nazi u boats were sinking thousands of tons of allied shipping every month.The convoy system hadn't been perfected.Air cover was good for about ten percent of the voyage.Being shipped out was not a trip to look forward to.My squadron flight surgeon,"Doc"Saunders, john milburn, a mutual friend, and i were hoping for a nice, quiet time togetether on our last night in america.We wanted to collect our thoughts, to be with friends, and to remember home.A small concession on the night before our own personal"D day. "With the ralph lauren giacche extra hours in hand, john invited doc and me to his parents' home on long island for a going away dinner.Doc and i knew that john milburn's family was wealthy.In the 30s, in north dakota, being wealthy meant that you had enough to share with the neighbors.But john and his brother had attended private academies, driven fast cars and taken degrees at oxford.But doc and i didn't really understand how wealthy john was until we reached his place.We drove through the grounds of a manicured estate.Servants took our flight jackets at the door.The dinner was grand.This american aristocratic family welcomed us as if doc and i were their own.I was wondering if i would ever see america again after tomorrow.But john's mom and dad did their best to make it seem like we would be back with them soon, enjoying food, wine, and learning about new ways like polo.As men of wealth often were, we learned, john's father was an ardent polo player.On the wall in the second floor hallway of their palatial home was a life sized painting of john's father, dressed in full polo regalia.'

My dad's a ten goal player, ' said John when we passed that painting.To a boy from the midwest that didn't mean much, but i soon learned that being a ten goal player is something like hitting 50 home runs in a season, or winning the masters.'There are only a few ten goal players in the world, ' we were told.Doc and i thought, 'well, we'll only know one of them, then.'A year passed.The war had not gone particularly well for the allies that year, but there were hopeful signs.The afrika korps had been stopped.Goering had almost run out of planes.Doc and i were still together but our friend, john milburn, had been transferred out.We lost touch, as too often happened when war time mail was the only hope of keeping connected.Then the squadron moved to a base deep in the english countryside.On our first day at the new field, a distinguished looking man called to doc and me from the perimeter fence.'Yanks, ' he said, 'join me for a cup of tea?'His home was old English.It had a tall, thatched roof covering its oldest part, while a large, new addition in the back showed that this was a man of means.The gentleman gave us a tour.Passing a large office and den, which was fitted out like one would expect of a british sporting man, i stopped in my tracks.There, in the middle of a wall was a painting of a polo player.It was a companion piece to the picture of john's father we had seen on long island.'That's John Milburn's dad, ' I said in amazement.'I say, do you know him?' our new English friend asked.'He is my best friend.He was on my polo team for years.He's a ten goal player, you know.'
 

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