Robby Campbell was interviewed on April 5, 2013 for a web site to "record your front row to history."  You can see and hear his interview at www.generationslestweforget.com.  The interview covers his early years growing up in Mt. Vernon, Texas, through high school, through WW II, through college, to the present time.  Thanks to The Daughters of WW II organizations for arranging this interview.  Also interviewed on this web site were Orville Rogers and Lamar Lovvorn.

Guy H. Tinnirello, OIF 06-08

TO ALL THE DALLAS-FORT WORTH WELCOME HOME A HERO FOLKS:

By Guy H. Tinnirello, OIF 06-08

I am an OIF veteran.  I came through DFW Airport on leave in December 2006.  Many stories have been told about the kindness, generosity and patriotism of my fellow Texans.  With tears in my eyes, I have told loved ones of the greeting I received.  Talking about it, still today, gets me chocked up.

Thank you so much for what you did.  I will never forget it.  The memories of that moment will stay with me till my dying day.  All of you made such a difference to all of us.

I hear that the program at DFW is closing down.  I just wanted to let you know how grateful I am.   Thanks again for taking care of me and taking care of our Soldiers, Marines, Airmen and Sailors.

Quang Nguyen from Vietnam

It looks like we did some good after all! On Saturday. July 24th. 2010 the
town of Prescott Valley, Arizona hosted a Freedom Rally. Quang Nguyen
was asked to speak on his experience of coming to America and what it means. He spoke the following in dedication to all Vietnam Veterans. Thought you might enioy hearing what he had to say.

35 years ago. if you were to tell me that I am going to stand up here
speaking to a couple thousand patriots, in English, I'd laugh at you. Man,
every morning I wake up thanking God for putting me and my family in the greatest country on earth.

I just want you all to know that the American dream does exist and I am
living the American dream. I was asked to speak to you about my
experience as a first generation Vietnamese-American, but I'd rather speak to you as an American.

If you hadn't noticed. I am not white and I feel pretty comfortable with my
people. I am a proud US citizen and here is my proof. It took me 8 years to get it. I still remember waiting in endless lines. but I got it and I am very proud of it.

I still remember the images of the Tet offensive in 1968. I was six years old. Now you might want to question how a 6 year old boy could
remember anything. Trust me, those images can never be erased. I can't
even imagine what it was like for young American soldiers, 10,000 miles away from home, fighting on my behalf.

35 years ago. I left South Vietnam for political asylum. The war had
ended. At the age of 13. I left with the understanding that I may or may not ever get to see my siblings or parents again. I was one of the first lucky 100,000 Vietnamese allowed to come to the US. Somehow, my family and I were reunited 5 months later, amazingly, in California. It was a miracle from God.

If you haven't heard lately that this is the greatest country on earth, I am
telling you that right now. It was the freedom and the opportunities
presented to me that put me here with all of you tonight. I also remember
the barriers that I had to overcome every step of the way. My high school
counselor told me that I cannot make it to college due to my poor
communication skills. I proved him wrong. I finished college. You see, all
you have to do is to give this little boy an opportunity and encourage him
to take and run with it. Well, I took the opportunity and here I am.
This person standing tonight in front of you could not exist under a
socialist/communist environment. By the way, if you think socialism is the
way to go, I am sure many people here will chip in to get you a one way
ticket out of here. And if you didn't know, the only difference between
socialism and communism is an AK-47 aimed at your head. That was my
experience.

In 1982, I stood with a thousand new immigrants, reciting the Pledge of
Allegiance and listening to the National Anthem for the first time as an
American. To this day, I can't remember anything sweeter and more patriotic than that moment in my life.

Fast forwarding, somehow I finished high school, finished college, and like
any other goofball 21 year old kid. I was having a great time with my life. I had a nice job and a nice apartment in Southern California. In someway
and somehow, I had forgotten how I got here and why I was here.

One day I was at a gas station, I saw a veteran pumping gas on the other
side of the island. I don't know what made me do it, but I walked over and
asked if he had served in Vietnam. He smiled and said yes. I shook and
held his hand. The grown man began to well up. I walked away as fast as I
could and at that very moment, I was emotionally rocked. This was a
profound moment in my life. I knew something had to change in my life. It
was time for me to learn how to be a good citizen. It was time for me to
give back.

You see, America is not a place on the map, it isn't a physical location. It is an ideal, a concept. And if you are an American, you must understand the concept, you must buy into this concept, and most importantly, you have
to fight and defend this concept. This is about Freedom and not free stuff.
And that is why I am standing up here.

Brothers and sisters, to be a real American, the very least you must do is
to learn English and understand it well. In my humble opinion. you cannot
be a faithful patriotic citizen if you can't speak the language of the country you live in. Take this document of 46 pages - last I looked on the internet,there wasn't a Vietnamese translation of the US Constitution. It took me a long time to get to the point of being able to converse and until this day, I still struggle to come up with the right words. It's not easy. but if it's too easy, it's not worth doing.

Before I knew this 46 page document, I learned of the 500,000 Americans
who fought for this little boy. I learned of the 58,000 names inscribed on the black wall at the Vietnam Memorial. You are my heroes. You are my
founders.

At this time, I would like to ask all the Vietnam veterans to please stand. I thank you for my life. I thank you for your sacrifices, and I thank you for giving me the freedom and liberty I have today. I now ask all veterans,
firefighters, and police officers, to please stand. On behalf of all first
generation immigrants, I thank you for your services and may God bless
you all.

Actress Ann Margaret

This is a good counter-balance story to the Jane Fonda Vietnam Woman of the Year story.

Richard, (my husband), never really talked a lot about his time in Viet Nam, other than he had been shot by a sniper. However, he had a rather grainy, 8 x 10 black and white photo he had taken at a USO show of Ann Margret with Bob Hope in the background that was one of his treasures.

A few years ago, actress Ann Margret was doing a book signing at a local bookstore. Richard wanted to see if he could get her to sign the treasured photo so he arrived at the bookstore at 12 o'clock for the 7:30 signing.

When I got there after work, the line went all the way around the bookstore, circled the parking lot, and disappeared behind a parking garage. Before her appearance, bookstore employees announced that she would sign only her book and no memorabilia would be permitted. Richard was disappointed, but wanted to show her the photo and let her know how much those shows meant to lonely GI's so far from home. Ann Margret came out looking as beautiful as ever and, as second in line, it was soon Richard's turn.

He presented the book for her signature and then took out the photo. When he did, there were many shouts from the employees that she would not sign it. Richard said, 'I understand. 1 just wanted her to see it.'

She took one look at the photo, tears welled up in her eyes and she said, 'This is one of my gentlemen from Viet Nam and 1 most certainly will sign his photo. 1 know what these men did for their country and 1 always have time for my gentlemen."

With that, she pulled Richard across the table and planted a big kiss on him. She then made quite a to-do about the bravery of the young men she met over the years, how much she admired them, and how much she appreciated them. There weren't too many dry eyes among those close enough to hear. She then posed for pictures and acted as if he were the only one there.

Later at dinner, Richard was very quiet. When I asked if he'd like to talk about it, my big, strong husband broke down in tears. 'That's the first time anyone ever thanked me for my time in the Army,' he said.

That night was a turning point for him. He walked a little straighter and, for the first time in years, was proud to have been a Vet. I'll never forget Ann Margret for her graciousness and how much that small act of kindness meant to my husband.

I now make it a point to say 'Thank you' to every person I come across who served in our Armed Forces. Freedom does not come cheap and I am grateful for all those who have served their country.

Uncle Bill's Heritage of Kindness

UNCLE BILL – INTRODUCTION


This is the story of David Blackie, a twelve year old, his brother Ron, age eleven and his sister Iris, age nine. They were Cockney evacuees from their home in London, England in 1944 during the German blitz bombing of London. They were sent to a small village named Ashprington, a country township near Totnes, Devon, England.

David, far from home, met an American soldier he called "Uncle Bill." He made such a difference in a child's life with his kindness, the memory of which would stay with David forever.

David has been searching for this soldier over 50 years. He only knew him by the name "Uncle Bill" and as a soldier in the 707th MP Battalion. His story and a great poem, as well as a description of Uncle Bill, follows.

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UNCLE BILL’S HERITAGE OF KINDNESS

The American GI in World War II set a standard of courage, stamina, ability, sacrifice, resourcefulness and heroism that will live forever. Often overlooked in the clash of mighty armies, is the humanity and kindness of those men and women towards children.

Far from home, one American soldier with his kindness, made such a difference in a child's life, the memory of which would stay with him forever. That American GI's kindness left such a deep and lasting impression in that child's mind, he would carry and cherish it all his life; and indeed, perhaps that is really the greatest legacy the W.W.II GI left to the thousands of misplaced deprived children in England, during what was known in the early 1940's as the "American occupation of Britain". It was the biggest build-up of military manpower and equipment ever known; and was of course, the precursor to the mightiest Military Operation ever to take place, gloriously blazoned in history as D-Day!

England late in 1940 was a nation besieged, still reeling from the shock and disaster of "Dunkirk", and the realization that the ever ¬victorious German Army was now poised just a few miles across that protective stretch of water, the "English Channel".

The civilian population, children, the elderly, and the sick, were taking a terrible and horrendous nightly battering, from wave after wave of German bombers pouring down a deadly hail of high explosives and incendiary bombs; on several occasions setting the whole of the East end of London and the adjacent dockyards aflame. The fury of the Nazi blitz compelled the government of the day to put into operation a massive evacuation scheme from all the major cities, of children and mothers with babies; relocating them to places of comparative safety into various parts of the English countryside.

David a nine year old Londoner, along with his younger brother Ron and still younger sister Iris, who at the time was just five years old, are sent to the west of England county of Devon; a remote village named "Blackawton" approximately three miles in from the South Devon coastline known as "Slapton Sands" became their new home.

For these three London evacuees life was to prove less than easy for quite some time to come. They were uninvited to a part of England that was considered to be thirty years or so behind the times, amongst people who viewed any outsiders with extreme suspicion almost to the point of animosity. The village itself had no street lighting of any kind, no electricity or running water, oil lamps and water pumped from underground wells were the norm.

Their first foster home, located about one mile from the village itself, was an old farmhouse of mud walls, thatched roof, and dirt floors. It was the middle of the night and pitch-black darkness when they were taken to their new home. It is not surprising that the three little evacuees were terrified. After a three or four hour cattle-like selective auction in the village hall, with most children sobbing and crying for their mothers, towards midnight they were marched off with a male and female adult (their new foster parents to be) to walk in total darkness to the mud farmhouse. Because of David's stubborn refusal to agree to any split up of himself and his siblings, as drummed into him by his mother before departing London, they were the last to be allocated.

Unable to understand anything that was said to them, the thick west of England dialect sounded like a foreign language to their "Cockney" ears, the journey to the farmhouse was frightening. The hooting of owls and the mournful low mooing of unseen cattle, along with strange rustlings and never before heard sounds from the adjacent hedgerows terrified our three evacuees. Finally arriving at their, to them, odd looking foster home and even stranger looking bedroom, all three, scared and frightened, huddled into one another and cried themselves to sleep, David trying all the while between his own tears to comfort his brother and sister.

Their stay at the farmhouse was terminated some six weeks later by the intervention of the billeting officer, a London man Mr. Brabyn, charged with the responsibility of integrating the evacuees into their new community, and at the same time watching out for the welfare of all the London children in the new environment.
The removal of David, Ronald, and their baby sister Iris was brought about by a sharp eyed temporary London lady teacher, who had noticed that the children ate dry bread and tomato sauce sandwiches for school lunch day after day, and who upon questioning David, learned that this was and had been their total diet for the six weeks they had been at the ancient farmhouse, breakfast, school lunch, and evening meal. Horrified and concerned, she wasted no time informing Mr. Brabyn who arrived promptly at four o'clock in the afternoon, school leaving time, in his pre war Austin 8 motor car.

Having not the slightest inkling of what was about to transpire, the three clambered excitedly into the old car for their first ever ride in such a magnificent, in their eyes, motorcar. On arrival at the farmhouse Mr. Brabyn proceeded to give Mrs. S..... a very severe talking to regarding her lack of care and inadequate feeding of the three children. During this time David began to fear for themselves (David remembers wetting his pants) after Mr. Brabyn would leave, but much to their surprise, and David's immense relief, the billeting officer instructed them to pack their few belongings and gas masks and get back into the car. Mr. Brabyn then drove them back to the village, putting them up in his small cottage, provided by the authorities, where for the first time in six weeks they had a decent meal.

After being re-billeted with new foster families life went on as normal as life could be expected to in the prevailing wartime situation. Grim times and bad news was the order of the day. Along with severe food rationing, sweets and chocolate were hardly ever seen. On the rare occasions a limited supply arrived in the tiny village shop, the news went around like a wildfire: the result being that all the kids would crowd outside the shop shouting and yelling excitedly, waving their sweet ration coupons, clamoring pushing and shoving to gain entry and get served before the limited supply ran out.

The contest between the local kids and the evicts from London, and some who had arrived later from the West Country city of Bristol, invariably finished up with bloodied noses, tears and fat lips and much disappointment.

Late in 1943 the wartime government issued a directive that everybody living in the coastal area for a considerable length of the coastline itself, an area known as the "South Hams" district, were to be moved out within a matter of a few short weeks. Farmers, shop owners, trades people, every person without exception.
All livestock, pets, everything and everybody, all goods and chattels were to be taken. Some three thousand people, including the remaining evacs from London (many by this time had been taken back by their mothers) who were of course being relocated for the second time. The ones old enough to realize the irony, and who had received less than decent treatment, secretly enjoyed the fact that now their previous hosts were going to experience the very same discomfort. In the event it was to bring about a spell of happiness to our three Londoners, namely Cornwall, Devon, Somerset and Wiltshire.

As a consequence, David, Ron and Iris found themselves transferred to another small village named "Ashprington" a mile outside the perimeter of the training area, quite close to the country township of "Totnes".

Between the town and the village, a very old English country home known as "Bowden House" and its surrounding grounds had been taken over as an American Army base, the house acting as the various encamped units HQ's, with officer and mess accommodation.

Sheltered beneath the trees in the wooded areas, for camouflage purposes, large numbers of bell shaped six or eight man tents were located on both sides of the small narrow roadway that ran through the estate; these camps were referred to as sausage camps.

By this time David was twelve years old, brother Ron would be eleven next birthday and sister Iris was almost nine. Unbeknown to them life was about to take on a brighter outlook for the three young misplaced cockneys.
The arrival of thousands of American servicemen to their part of England was to bring happier days for all kids. The generosity and easygoing friendly attitude of the GI's won the hearts of kids all over Britain. Christmas parties, parties for sick children in hospital, cash collections to help bombing victims; to their everlasting credit, all were commonplace GI activities. Our three cockney evacuees were no exception; the highlight of the day for David and Ron was the pre-bedtime hours.

The early evening arrival into the village of varying numbers of GI's, who would walk from the base at "Bowden House" to the village pub for a few beers, and to socialize with any locals that were out and about. Being a very small country pub it was nowhere near large enough to accommodate the usually several dozen GI’s, it was the practice of many of them to sit outside on the low stone walls, or the village green, on which stood the stone memorial cross to the fallen of World War 1.
That spring and summer of 1944, certainly at least from the early summer months, blessed the English countryside with lovely sunny days and pleasant warm evenings, of which the children took full advantage, by happily mixing and playing with the gum chewing soldiers from across the sea.

In retrospect, this writer with the wisdom of years, realizes that in almost all cases, the GI's were as happy to welcome the kids into their company to talk and pass the time, no doubt missing their own younger brothers and sisters back home; or in the case of the older servicemen their children. It was at this time the young Blackies fortunes changed for the better.

Without realizing it at first, David was drawn to one particular GI who always seemed to seek out David and brother Ron, treating them in a special manner. He never failed to bring them gifts of one kind of another; "Hershey" chocolate bars, chewing gum, candies, "Jack Frost" sugar cubes in paper wrappers, and as David remembers so vividly the first orange he ever recalled having.
"Uncle Bill" as he said to call him, represented everything they missed in their own father, whom they had not seen in three and half years as he was away helping fight a war; he would play tag with them, tug of war and other games, and tell them stories of America.

The most marvelous happening of all occurred, when one evening, David noticed a mark high on "Uncle Bills" chest, where his shirtfront parted at the second button down; and in the way that children will keep asking, what's that Uncle Bill what's that? At the same time pointing towards Uncle Bills throat. In his good ¬natured fashion, a twinkle in his eye, Uncle Bill in hushed tones declared it to be a secret weapon that only he had to beat the was the practice of many of them to sit outside on the low stone walls, or the village green, on which stood the stone memorial cross to the fallen of World War 1.

That spring and summer of 1944, certainly at least from the early summer months, blessed the English countryside with lovely sunny days and pleasant warm evenings, of which the children took full advantage by happily mixing and playing with the gum chewing soldiers from across the sea.

In retrospect, this writer with the wisdom of years, realizes that in almost all cases, the GI's were as happy to welcome the kids into their company to talk and pass the time, no doubt missing their own younger brothers and sisters back home; or in the case of the older servicemen their children. It was at this time the young Blackies fortunes changed for the better.

Without realizing at first, David was drawn to one particular GI who always seemed to seek out David and brother Ron, treating them in a special manner. He never failed to bring them gifts of one kind of another; "Hershey" chocolate bars, chewing gum, candies, "Jack Frost" sugar cubes in paper wrappers, and as David remembers so vividly the first orange he ever recalled having.

"Uncle Bill" as he said to call him, represented everything they missed in their own father, whom they had not seen in three and half years as he was away helping fight a war; he would play tag with them, tug of war and other games, and tell them stories of America.

The most marvelous happening of all occurred, when one evening, David noticed a mark high on "Uncle Bills" chest, where his shirtfront parted at the second button down; and in the way that children will keep asking, what's that Uncle Bill what's that? At the same time pointing towards Uncle Bills throat. In his good ¬natured fashion a twinkle in his eye, Uncle Bill in hushed tones declared it to be a secret weapon that only he had to beat the Germans, and was known only to him.

After some further teasing he agreed to show them if they promised not to tell anyone else, "we won’t tell Uncle Bill, we won’t tell" said David "we know loose lips sinks ships", whereupon Uncle Bill opened his shirtfront to display the most magnificent American Bald Eagle, tattooed in full glorious colour across his chest, and, by the act of flexing his pectoral muscles, he was able to cause the wings of the eagle to move up and down as though the eagle was flying, WOW! THE BROTHERS WERE BOTH DUMBSTRUCK.

After this mind-blowing revelation he was like a god sent from above, and in David's mind, Uncle Bill was going to beat the whole German Army single-handed. Every time after that, David, upon seeing Uncle Bill would point to his chest and say "make it fly Uncle Bill make it fly".

The affection David developed for this stocky, thickset, powerful looking soldier man, with the deep hearty laughter, warm smiling eyes and such a fun attitude, would remain with him forever. In what was probably all too short a space of time, this un-known soldier with the strange accent brought a big ray of sunshine and happiness into the lives of two displaced young cockney kids. But, more importantly, through his love, affection and kindness, he gave them fresh hope that sometimes at least life could be kind and happy; he would say "David one day this war will all be over, your Dad will come home and then you, Ron and Iris your Mum and Dad will all be together again" I like to think that because Uncle Bill said he would, our Dad did come home safely from the war.

Then, one dark day, David's world collapsed around his ears, Uncle Bill and all the other GI's just disappeared, they left as they had come suddenly and unannounced. Bill's unit, whatever it was, no doubt was restricted to base before joining the thousands of brave courageous soldier men storming the beaches of ''Normandy''; there were no goodbyes, and operational security prevented such emotional luxuries. Consequently David and brother Ron have never seen Uncle Bill again, another sadness in a world in a world full of sadness.

David thought when peace finally came he would come back, he is sure he would have; but David, Ron and Iris were gone, back to London. The war was over and their own father had made it home as Uncle Bill constantly told David he would.
Uncle Bill and countless thousands like him righted the world and quietly went home, many maimed physically and scarred mentally, leaving behind thousands of fallen buddies buried in the soils of France, Belgium, the Netherlands and all across Europe.

The GI’s knew what they had accomplished on the battlefields of Europe would be recorded in history, but they could not know what was being recorded in the heart of a London evacuee, (and thousands like him) in a small out of the way country village, nestling among the gentle rolling hills of the rich fertile red earth of the South Devon coastline.

David finally accepted Uncle Bill was not coming back to England, but he and his brother Ron could not forget the happy-go-lucky GI who had taken the time to show he cared, which was the greatest gift of all during those dark threatening days of World War II.

After David, his brother and sister returned to London, to what was now a totally alien way of life in the huge city, he could not get Uncle Bill from his mind. He began to realize and worry that Uncle Bill may be a maimed veteran, or even did not make it back to America.

The service at St. Paul's Cathedral, in the heart of the bombed ruins of London, to honour the American fallen brought home to him why those strangers had come in their midst. So how do you find one in the multitudes, knowing only he was Uncle Bill, with an American Bald Eagle tattooed on his chest. A young boy doesn't think to ask for an address, or even a last name.

So for forty five years David has searched for Bill, whose smiling face and booming hearty laughter has remained firmly planted in his mind, hoping and praying that the soldier he idolized, with that mighty Eagle on his chest, made it home to his loved ones, or does he rest in the soil of the lands he helped to liberate?

As a young man in 1964 David emigrated to Australia and got on with his own life; still the memory of Uncle Bill haunted him, and the need to find him, and thank him for the joy and kindness he gave to a little boy has become a burning passion.
David, in his older years, has spent countless hours and thousands of dollars conducting a search for Uncle Bill; friends thought him mad and advised him to forget it, telling him time and time again it was hopeless.

In spite of everything he continued, using military archives and government departments in America and Britain, making telephone calls from Australia to numerous World War II veterans in America, men whose names appeared in all the books he could lay his hands on that dealt with the invasion of "Normandy".

That type of determination and tenacity is what carried the Brits through what was described by their inspired wartime leader Mr. Winston Churchill, as "Their Darkest Hour", being the very trait so admired by the vast numbers of G.I’s when training in that battered war torn country, preparing for the day that went down in history as the greatest military operation of all time.

David Blackie Sydney Australia March 1992.


Should any person reading this have access to a computer, I suggest they go online and enter ""Exercise Tiger'" in any good search engine, such as "Web Ferret" or "Google" to bring up accounts of the most tragic training event in American Military History. This tragedy took place off the beach at "Slapton Sands" during the period David was evacuated there. I strongly recommend all American citizens read of this sad controversial event.

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"UNCLE BILL" - POEM

Is it really fifty years ago
I met a soldier, a GI Joe,
A carefree smile upon his face,
Like me a stranger in this place?

A mighty war caused us to meet
In a Devon village with just one street;
Along with thousands of his mates,
He'd come from somewhere called the "States"

There was no joy for us back then,
Until we met those brave young men;
From every State in the USA
They came in time to save the day.

Who was this man we grew to love
Maybe sent by God above,
His name was Bill that's all we know
But kindness plus to us did show.

A mighty Eagle on his chest
Caused him to stand out from the rest,
Uncle Bill please make it fly,
Flexing his pecs; the Eagle soared up to the sky.

Chewing gum and Hershey bars
Jack frost cubes and things in jars,
Our Uncle Bill with his heart of gold
He never left us in the cold.

Tag with us he would play
Laughing and joking all the way,
I have often wondered if he knew
I realized he was lonely too.

Often strange things he would bring
Such treasures made our small hearts sing,
An orange I remember well
The first I'd had the truth to tell

No goodbyes were ever said
'Twas all to sudden, no tears were shed
They left so quietly in the night
A deadly battle ahead to fight.

It was so cruel you had to go
Uncle Bill I've missed you so,
When you departed in the dark
A dog, I'm sure I heard him bark.

There is of course a dreadful chance
Bill’s resting in the soil of France,
With all those laughing brave young boys
Whose guns, not long before, were toys?

Such fine young men, so brave and proud
So many soon to wear a shroud,
Their sightless eyes towards the sky
Oh Lord! Why did they have to die?

Mothers, Sisters, and Fathers too
So many would weep before this was through,
We Brits we knew what was to come,
That together, we'd march to the ghostly drum.

So many battles lay ahead
Fields and hedgerows strewn with dead,
But ever onwards fighting hard
Dying for every bloody yard.

No more those pure young men we knew
Now tough and hard, a motley crew,
Their fears, their blood, their sweat and tears
Would stain the soil of France for years.

The roar of guns on the way to hell,
Spewing bullets death and shell,
Terror reigning all around,
As fine young men fell to the ground.

At sixty-two I still do find
Bill's smiling face within my mind,
That hearty laugh I still can hear
It makes me sad, and I shed a tear.

Another year has just passed by
Without success but still I try
I'm sure I'll find him in the end
Uncle Bill my long lost friend.

America, land of the brave home of the free,
Your sons you sent across the sea,
Shout their praises long and loud
Indeed, they really did you proud.

All aged men by now they are
So many gone; and now a star,
For each in heavens bright
God, please bless them all, as I say goodnight.

Can someone help me please to find
That soldier boy who was so kind,
With soaring Eagle on his chest
I need to know if he's at rest,
I loved that man, who took the time
To show he cared, for me and mine.

Written to honour the memory of "Uncle Bill", a WWII GI who befriended two wartime London evacuee brothers. He gave them hope, he showed them wonderful love and kindness, but above all else, whilst on his way to war he took the time to stop and care. Thank you "Uncle Bill" wherever you are, God bless you.
Also dedicated to every WW II American GI, who served his country, and the world; and in so doing, restored peace and sanity to a world gone mad.

David Blackie
Sydney, Australia. August 1993

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PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN TO FIND THE FOLLOWING WW II GI

The following is a description and limited profile of a World War II American GI who was stationed near the country town of Totnes, in the County of South Devon, England during the months leading up to D-Day June 6, 1944. Totnes sits astride the upper reaches of the river "Dart", at the mouth of which is located the naval seaport/township of Dartmouth, one of the main embarkation points for the American invasion forces.

DETAILS OF THE SOLDIER BEING SOUGHT:

STATION BOWDEN HOUSE, AN ENGLISH COUNTRY MANSION
LOCALITY BETWEEN THE COUNTRY TOWN OF TOTNES AND THE
VILLAGE OF ASHPRINGTON, ON WHAT WAS KNOWN AS THE TOTNES ROAD

TlME PERIOD ANY TIME BETWEEN FEBRUARY AND AUGUST 1944. THE MOST LIKELY MONTHS WOULD BE APRIL, MAY, JUNE, JULY, AND POSSIBLY AUGUST.

SURNAME UNKNOWN

BRANCH OF SERVICE UNITED STATES ARMY

UNIT UNCERTAIN, POSSIBLY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING:

102nd PORT MARINE MAINTENANCE CO.

C Co, 707th MILITARY POLICE BATALLION

29th INFANTRY REGIMENT (NOT DIVISION)
LESS 2ND AND 3RD BATTALIONS

HQ’RS Co 46TH ARMOURED INF. BATTALION

47TH ARMOURED INFANTRY BATTALION

E Co 156TH INFANTRY REGIMENT

445th ANTI AIRCRAFT BATTALION Co's A.B.C.D.

502nd LIGHT PONTON COMPANY

25/37 ORDINANCE MEDIUM AUTO MAINTENANCE CO.


PERSONAL DESCRIPTION:

A POWERFULLY BUILT MAN, BROAD SHOULDERED, THICK SET, NOT THE TYPE ONE WOULD CHOOSE TO ARGUE WITH, BUT WAS VERY EASY GOING WITH A CHEERFUL PERSONALITY, HAPPY-GO-LUCKY ATTITUDE WITH A STRONG LIKING FOR KIDS AND HAD A DEEP HEARTY BOOMING LAUGH.

HEIGHT 5'-10” APPROXIMATE
WEIGHT 175 TO 185 POUNDS (EST.)
BUILD SOLID THICK-SET
COMPLEXION MEDIUM
HAIR COLOUR LIGHT TO MEDIUM
EYE COLOUR UNKNOWN
NOSE BROADISH (NOT FLAT OR BROKEN)
NECK THICK, MUSCULAR

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE:

A MAGNIFICENT AMERICAN BALD EAGLE TATTOO IN FULL COLOUR ON HIS CHEST, HE WAS ABLE TO FLEX HIS PECTORAL (CHEST) MUSCLES, CAUSING THE WINGS TO MOVE UP AND DOWN AS THOUGH IT WAS FLYING. HE SAID TO CALL HIM UNCLE BILL, I WAS TWELVE YEARS OF AGE, AND MY BROTHER RON AND I LOVED HIM.

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EDITOR'S NOTE: In December, 2009 David Blackie called me from Australia, where he now lives. He "accidentally" found this blog on the internet. He informed me that he located Uncle Bill but, unfortunately, he had died three years ago.
Robby Campbell

Let's All Give Thanks

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's Bar. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.

I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace. An old woman got out so slow. I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.

Kevin would lock the 'IN' gate and if I could hurry the old lady along, we might make it to Smokey's in time.

I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in Marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.

'Ma'am ,may I assist you in any way?' She took long enough to answer. 'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.'

'My pleasure, ma'am.' Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.

She looked again. 'Marine, where were you stationed?' 'Vietnam, ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'

She looked at me closer. 'Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can.' I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'

She smiled and winked at me. 'Son, I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time.'

She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flowers out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.

She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.

She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.

She paused for a second. 'Two more, son, and we'll be done' I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes, ma'am. Take your time.'

She looked confused. 'Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.' I pointed with my chin. 'That way, ma'am.' 'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son, me and old age ain't too friendly.'

She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out.

'OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home. 'Yes, ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'

She paused. 'Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle, Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all marines.'

She stopped. Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.

I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car. 'Get to the 'Out' gate quick. I have something I've got to do.'

Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.

'Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across the drive to the other post.

When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: 'TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!'

I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.

She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice. I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Instead of 'The End,' just think of 'Taps.'

As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer: 'Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us.'

Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts and prayers. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy today.


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ROBBY K. CAMPBELL, 6421 Riveredge Dr., Plano, TX 75024, E-Mail hfcamp@sbcglobal.net
Phones: 469-384-9236 Res., 214-533-3066 Cell, 469-384-9238 Fax
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WWII – Wisdom and Experience of Old Gray Heads. Blog address: robby-campbell.blogspot.com. Type blog address at top of your screen like a web site, not as an e-mail address or click on the link.
This blog is for all WWII vets and family members to tell their war stories and to give their opinion, good or bad, about what is happening in the United States of America. We would also like stories from vets of other wars – Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Send your short story to e-mail address hfcamp@sbcglobal.net and we will consider putting it on this blog.
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ACTION DALLAS PAC, a Political Action Committee registered with the Texas Ethics Commission.
Purpose: To promote and support moral, social and conservative values and contribute money to political candidates who share these values. (Same address as above.)

Burial at Sea by Lt. Col. George Goodson, USMC

Subject: “Burial at Sea” by Lt Col George Goodson, USMC (Retired)
____________________________________________

In my 76th year, the events of my life appear to me, from time to time, as a series of vignettes. Some were significant; most were trivial.

War is the seminal event in the life of everyone that has endured it. Though I fought in Korea and the Dominican Republic and was wounded there, Vietnam was my war. Now 37 years have passed and, thankfully, I rarely think of those days in Cambodia, Lao s, and the panhandle of North Vietnam where small teams of Americans and Montangards fought much larger elements of the North Vietnamese Army.

Instead I see vignettes: Some exotic, some mundane:

*The smell of Nuc Mam.
*The heat, dust, and humidity.
*The blue exhaust of cycles clogging the streets.
*Elephants moving silently through the tall grass.
*Hard eyes behind the servile smiles of the villagers.
*Standing on a mountain in Laos and hearing a tiger roar.
*A young girl squeezing my hand as my medic delivered her baby.
*The flowing Ao Dais of the young women biking down Tran Hung Dao.
*My two years as Casualty Notification Officer in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland.....

It was late 1967. I had just returned after 18 months in Vietnam. Casualties were increasing. I moved my family from Indianapolis to Norfolk, rented a house, enrolled my children in their fifth or sixth new school, and bought a second car.

A week later, I put on my uniform and drove 10 miles to Little Creek, Virginia. I hesitated before entering my new office. Appearance is important to career Marines. I was no longer, if ever, a poster Marine. I had returned from my third tour in Vietnam only 30 days before. At 5'9", I now weighed 128 pounds - 37 pounds below my normal weight. My uniforms fit ludicrously, my skin was yellow from malaria medication, and I think I had a twitch or two.

I straightened my shoulders, walked into the office, looked at the nameplate on a Staff Sergeant's desk and said, "Sergeant Jolly, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Goodson. Here are my orders and my Qualification Jacket."

Sergeant Jolly stood, looked carefully at me, took my orders, stuck out his hand; we shook and he asked, "How long were you there, Colonel?" I replied "18 months this time."

Jolly breathed, "Jesus, you must be a slow learner Colonel." I smiled.


Jolly said, "Colonel, I'll show you to your office and bring in the Sergeant Major. I said, "No, let's just go straight to his office." Jolly nodded, hesitated, and lowered his voice, "Colonel, the Sergeant Major. He's been in this ____ job two years. He's packed pretty tight. I'm worried about him." I nodded. Jolly escorted me into the Sergeant Major's office. "Sergeant Major, this is Colonel Goodson, the new Commanding Officer. The Sergeant Major stood, extended his hand and said, "Good to see you again, Colonel."

I responded, "Hello Walt, how are you?"

Jolly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, walked out, and closed the door.

I sat down with the Sergeant Major. We had the obligatory cup of coffee and talked about mutual acquaintances. Walt's stress was palpable. Finally, I said, "Walt, what's the h-ll's wrong?" He turned his chair, looked out the window and said, "George, you're going to wish you were back in Nam before you leave here. I've been in the Marine Corps since 1939. I was in the Pacific 36 months, Korea for 14 months, and Vietnam for 12 months. Now I come here to bury these kids. I'm putting my letter in. I can't take it anymore."

I said, "OK Walt. If that's what you want, I'll endorse your request for retirement and do what I can to push it through Headquarters Marine Corps."

Sergeant Major Walt _______ retired 12 weeks later. He had been a good Marine for 28 years, but he had seen too much death and too much suffering. He was used up.

Over the next 16 months, I made 28 death notifications, conducted 28 military funerals, and made 30 notifications to the families of Marines that were severely wounded or missing in action. Most of the details of those casualty notifications have now, thankfully, faded from memory. Four, however, remain.

MY FIRST NOTIFICATION

My third or fourth day in Norfolk , I was notified of the death of a 19 year old Marine. This notification came by telephone from Headquarters Marine Corps. The information detailed:

*Name, rank, and serial number.
*Name, address, and phone number of next of kin.
*Date of and limited details about the Marine's death.
*Approximate date the body would arrive at the Norfolk Naval Air Station.
*A strong recommendation on whether the casket should be opened or closed.

The boy's family lived over the border in North Carolina , about 60 miles away. I drove there in a Marine Corps staff car. Crossing the state line into North Carolina , I stopped at a small country store / service station / Post Office. I went in to ask directions.


Three people were in the store. A man and woman approached the small Post Office window. The man held a package. The Storeowner walked up and addressed them by name, "Hello John. Good morning Mrs. Cooper."

I was stunned. My casualty's next-of-kin's name was John Cooper!

I hesitated, then stepped forward and said, "I beg your pardon. Are you Mr. and Mrs. John Copper of (address.)

The father looked at me-I was in uniform - and then, shaking, bent at the waist, he vomited. His wife looked horrified at him and then at me. Understanding came into her eyes and she collapsed in slow motion. I think I caught her before she hit the floor.

The owner took a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and handed it to Mr. Cooper who drank. I answered their questions for a few minutes. Then I drove them home in my staff car. The store owner locked the store and followed in their truck. We stayed an hour or so until the family began arriving.

I returned the storeowner to his business. He thanked me and said, "Mister, I wouldn't have your job for a million dollars." I shook his hand and said; "Neither would I."

I vaguely remember the drive back to Norfolk . Violating about five Marine Corps regulations, I drove the staff car straight to my house. I sat with my family while they ate dinner, went into the den, closed the door, and sat there all night, alone.

My Marines steered clear of me for days. I had made my first death notification.

THE FUNERALS

Weeks passed with more notifications and more funerals. I borrowed Marines from the local Marine Corps Reserve and taught them to conduct a military funeral: how to carry a casket, how to fire the volleys and how to fold the flag.

When I presented the flag to the mother, wife, or father, I always said, "All Marines share in your grief." I had been instructed to say, "On behalf of a grateful nation." I didn't think the nation was grateful, so I didn't say that.

Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn't speak. When that happened, I just handed them the flag and touched a shoulder. They would look at me and nod. Once a mother said to me, "I'm so sorry you have this terrible job." My eyes filled with tears and I leaned over and kissed her.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION

Six weeks after my first notification, I had another. This was a young PFC. I drove to his mother's house. As always, I was in uniform and driving a Marine Corps staff car. I parked in front of the house, took a deep breath, and walked towards the house. Suddenly the door flew open, a middle-aged woman rushed out. She looked at me and ran across the yard, screaming "NO! NO! NO! NO!"

I hesitated. Neighbors came out. I ran to her, grabbed her, and whispered stupid things to reassure her. She collapsed. I picked her up and carried her into the house. Eight or nine neighbors followed. Ten or fifteen later, the father came in followed by ambulance personnel. I have no recollection of leaving.

The funeral took place about two weeks later. We went through the drill. The mother never looked at me. The father looked at me once and shook his head sadly.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION

One morning, as I walked in the office, the phone was ringing. Sergeant Jolly held the phone up and said, "You've got another one, Colonel." I nodded, walked into my office, picked up the phone, took notes, thanked the officer making the call, I have no idea why, and hung up. Jolly, who had listened, came in with a special Telephone Directory that translates telephone numbers into the person's address and place of employment.

The father of this casualty was a Longshoreman. He lived a mile from my office. I called the Longshoreman's Union Office and asked for the Business Manager. He answered the phone, I told him who I was, and asked for the father's schedule.

The Business Manager asked, "Is it his son?" I said nothing. After a moment, he said, in a low voice, "Tom is at home today." I said, "Don't call him. I'll take care of that." The Business Manager said, "Aye, Aye Sir," and then explained, "Tom and I were Marines in WWII."

I got in my staff car and drove to the house. I was in uniform. I knocked and a woman in her early forties answered the door. I saw instantly that she was clueless. I asked, "Is Mr. Smith home?" She smiled pleasantly and responded, "Yes, but he's eating breakfast now. Can you come back later?" I said, "I'm sorry. It's important; I need to see him now."

She nodded, stepped back into the beach house and said, "Tom, it's for you."

A moment later, a ruddy man in his late forties, appeared at the door. He looked at me, turned absolutely pale, steadied himself, and said, "Jesus Christ man, he's only been there three weeks!"

Months passed. More notifications and more funerals. Then one day while I was running, Sergeant Jolly stepped outside the building and gave a loud whistle, two fingers in his mouth.... I never could do that... and held an imaginary phone to his ear.

Another call from Headquarters Marine Corps. I took notes, said, "Got it." and hung up. I had stopped saying "Thank You" long ago.

Jolly, "Where?"

Me, "Eastern Shore of Maryland . The father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. His brother will accompany the body back from Vietnam ."

Jolly shook his head slowly, straightened, and then said, "This time of day, it'll take three hours to get there and back. I'll call the Naval Air Station and borrow a helicopter. And I'll have Captain Tolliver get one of his men to meet you and drive you to the Chief's home."

He did, and 40 minutes later, I was knocking on the father's door. He opened the door, looked at me, then looked at the Marine standing at parade rest beside the car, and asked, "Which one of my boys was it, Colonel?"

I stayed a couple of hours, gave him all the information, my office and home phone number and told him to call me, anytime.

He called me that evening about 2 300 (11:00 PM). "I've gone through my boy's papers and found his will. He asked to be buried at sea. Can you make that happen?" I said, "Yes I can, Chief. I can and I will."

My wife who had been listening said, "Can you do that?" I told her, "I have no idea. But I'm going to try."

I called Lieutenant General Alpha Bowser, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic, at home about 2330, explained the situation, and asked, "General, can you get me a quick appointment with the Admiral at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters?" General Bowser said," George, you be there tomorrow at 0900. He will see you.

I was and the Admiral did. He said coldly, "How can the Navy help the Marine Corps, Colonel." I told him the story. He turned to his Chief of Staff and said, "Which is the sharpest destroyer in port?" The Chief of Staff responded with a name.

The Admiral called the ship, "Captain, you're going to do a burial at sea. You'll report to a Marine Lieutenant Colonel Goodson until this mission is completed."

He hung up, looked at me, and said, "The next time you need a ship, Colonel, call me. You don't have to sic Al Bowser on me." I responded, "Aye Aye, Sir" and got the h-ll out of his office.

I went to the ship and met with the Captain, Executive Officer, and the Senior Chief. Sergeant Jolly and I trained the ship's crew for four days. Then Jolly raised a question none of us had thought of. He said, "These government caskets are air tight. How do we keep it from floating?"

All the high priced help including me sat there looking dumb. Then the Senior Chief stood and said, "Come on Jolly. I know a bar where the retired guys from World War II hang out."

They returned a couple of hours later, slightly the worst for wear, and said, "It's simple; we cut four 12" holes in the outer shell of the casket on each side and insert 300 lbs of lead in the foot end of the casket. We can handle that, no sweat."

The day arrived. The ship and the sailors looked razor sharp. General Bowser, the Admiral, a US Senator, and a Navy Band were on board. The sealed casket was brought aboard and taken below for modification. The ship got underway to the 12-fathom depth.

The sun was hot. The ocean flat. The casket was brought aft and placed on a catafalque. The Chaplin spoke. The volleys were fired. The flag was removed, folded, and I gave it to the father. The band played "Eternal Father Strong to Save." The casket was raised slightly at the head and it slid into the sea.

The heavy casket plunged straight down about six feet. The incoming water collided with the air pockets in the outer shell. The casket stopped abruptly, rose straight out of the water about three feet, stopped, and slowly slipped back into the sea. The air bubbles rising from the sinking casket sparkled in the in the sunlight as the casket disappeared from sight forever.

The next morning I called a personal friend, Lieutenant General Oscar Peatross, at Headquarters Marine Corps and said, "General, get me out of here. I can't take this anymore." I was transferred two weeks later.

I was a good Marine but, after 17 years, I had seen too much death and too much suffering. I was used up.

Vacating the house, my family and I drove to the office in a two-car convoy. I said my goodbyes. Sergeant Jolly walked out with me. He waved at my family, looked at me with tears in his eyes, came to attention, saluted, and said, "Well Done, Colonel. Well Done."

I felt as if I had received the Medal of Honor!

Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
Caveats: NONE
__._,_.___

Darrell "Shifty" Powers

This story came to me from veteran Luke's sister via e-mail. Also, General Chuck Yeager, the aviator who broke the sound barrier, told a little of "Shifty's" story on network TV.


For those who love history and remember his brothers in arms, “The Band of Brothers”.

We're hearing a lot today about big splashy memorial services. I want a nationwide memorial service for Darrell "Shifty" Powers. Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Infantry. If you've seen "Band of Brothers" on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them.

I met Shifty in the Philadelphia airport several years ago. I didn't know who he was at the time. I just saw an elderly gentleman having trouble reading his ticket. I offered to help, assured him that he was at the right gate, and noticed the "Screaming Eagle", the symbol of the 101st Airborne, onhis hat. Making conversation, I asked him if he'd been in the 101st Airborne or if his son was serving. He said quietly that he had been in the 101st. I thanked him for his service, then asked him when he served, and how many jumpshe made. Quietly and humbly, he said "Well, I guess I signed up in 1941 or so, and was in until sometime in 1945 . . . " at which point my heart skipped. At that point, again, very humbly, he said "I made the 5 training jumps at Toccoa, and then jumped into Normandy . . . do you know where Normandy is?" At this point my heart stopped. I told him yes, I knew exactly where Normandy was, and I knew what D-Day was. At that point he said " I also made a second jump into Holland, into Arnhem." I was standing with a genuine war hero . . . . and then I realized that it was June, just after the anniversary of D-Day. I asked Shifty if he was on his way back from France, and he said "Yes. And it's real sad because these days so few of the guys are left, and those that are, lots of them can't make the trip." My heart was in my throat and I didn't know what to say.

I helped Shifty get onto the plane and then realized he was back in Coach, while I was in First Class. I sent the flight attendant back to get him and said that I wanted to switch seats. When Shifty came forward, I got up out of the seat and told him I wanted him to have it, that I'd take his in coach. He said "No, son, you enjoy that seat. Just knowing that there are still some who remember what we did and still care is enough to make an old man very happy." His eyes were filling up as he said it. And mine are brimming upnow as I write this.

Shifty died on June 17 after fighting cancer. There was no parade. No big event in Staples Center. No wall to wall back to back 24x7 news coverage. No weeping fans on television. And that's not right. Let's give Shifty his own Memorial Service, online, in our own quiet way. Please forward this email to everyone you know. Especially to the veterans. Rest in peace, Shifty.

"A nation without heroes is nothing." Roberto Clemente

Welcome Home, Mr. President

WELCOME HOME, MR. PRESIDENT

When you believe in a good cause, you act on behalf of that cause. To me, President Bush is a worthy cause to stand up for. He has received the most unfair treatment of any of the recent presidents on television, radio and the printed word. Politicians of both parties have expressed vitriol of the worst kind. I disagree with this character assignation of President Bush. To me, President Bush is an honest, fair, good man and a great American patriot who did his very best for our country. He has the same DNA that his mother and father gave him, whom I also admire very much. I have never shaken the hand of President Bush, nor have I ever been in the same room with him, but I would consider it an honor to do both.

His administration made mistakes (he admits this.) His administration did many good things including keeping us safe for over seven years. I take no pleasure in saying that I do not believe the new administration will keep us safe. If I understand the constitution, this is the president’s number one job. I believe history will prove the Iraq war was the right thing to do. “No child left behind” and many other accomplishments will be a part of his legacy. If you have honestly listened and read about his eight years as our president, you will agree. If you only listen and read the pundits in the liberal media, you will disagree.

I very much disagree with people who say President Bush is dumb. You do not earn a degree from Yale University and an MBA from Harvard Business School if you are dumb. You do not train as a fighter pilot if you are dumb. One of my brothers was in the Army Air Force in World War II. I was a seaman 1/c in World War II and served on a ship AVP 40 (sea plane tender.) We had six sea planes to service, so I know a little bit about pilots. Back then, and I would think now also, over one/half of the men who wanted to be pilots washed out. Dumb people do not become fighter pilots.

Why would anyone say or write vicious, hateful, ugly, cruel things about someone they disagree with politically. Why not do a little common sense review? I do not know the answer to this question. I doubt that anyone can give a clear defining answer that all of us would accept. I will try to answer this question. First, may I say how much I disagree with anyone saying or writing hate toward another person, government or organization. Truly, I believe it tells you more about the perpetrator than the one who receives this hate.

The question is why can’t we disagree with someone in a respectful and civil way. I can only try to answer this question with my 82 years of experience. I grew up in a small town in East Texas, served in World War II, went to college, was a teacher and coach for 30 years and for the last 30 years a small business man. Here are some of the jobs I have worked in my youth: hoed and picked cotton, dug potatoes, cleared land, bailed hay, built fences, worked cattle, worked at a gas station (gas was 15 cents per gallon), worked on oil field pipelines, worked for Western Union. I repaired telegraph lines in Kansas, Missouri and Colorado at 16 and 17 years of age, and packed fish in ice barrels in Houston while attending college. With this kind of work ethic, you have to learn to work with and respect other people. I grew up with a mother and father who taught me manners and respect for others. Also, with three older brothers and three older sisters (all bigger than me), you learn a lot of manners and respect. I went to church all my early years and still attend church. My school system had teachers who demanded that you do your lessons and show respect for them. Yes, I was paddled a few times at home and at school. I think it made me a better person. Today I feel no ill effects from being paddled. It did not traumatize me or cause brain damage. All of the above taught me manners and respect for others.

Now how does this apply to people who have hate and vitriol toward others? I know not everyone has had the same life experiences that I had, but I believe everyone has many of these experiences in their journey through life. As you journey through life, you will have the ups and downs that most people have. Then you have choices in the way you handle these ups and downs –with anger or with respect and understanding. What follows will be a person who responds with control and understanding or a person out of control with hate and vitriol. I believe that everyone (except the mentally ill) has the choice to control their own destiny. You can just blow this off or you can be a person with strength and character. With true strength of character, these words can move from paper to action in our all-important personal behavior.
It seems many people have a very negative attitude about almost everything they write and say. I think it hurts this great country. So many people relish and enjoy the negative. This analogy pretty well sums it up. In every sermon, a preacher preached hell and damnation to his congregation. Everything was negative, so the church members decided to get a new preacher. They brought in a new pastor and his sermons were also “hell and damnation” and very negative. A visitor asked the people in the congregation why they chose the new preacher because he was doing the same thing the former preacher did. The answer was that the former pastor was preaching damnation and all of the people were going to hell, and he seemed glad of it. When I see some of our news media, they are just about negative on almost everything. They always see the bad side of most events. This is true of MSNBC television and Radio America when they give the news. This negativity hurts this great nation. Many of the newscasters (you decide who they are) have the ugliest, sour look in their facial expression. Sometime I wonder if they hate this country. What they say and how they look might cause someone to think this could be true. Let’s hope not.

When you research and study what is happening in this world at this time, the good and the bad, we all wonder what to think and what to do. My suggestion would be to see all the good about this world and the people therein. (Hope for the best and cope with the rest.) We need to face head-on with faith that we can handle whatever life places in our path. For me personally, I believe that Almighty God created us to live in His image with love and respect for each other.
Today we face some of the same issues we faced in 1941, with some differences. May I use the language of my day? The Japanese Fascists and the German Nazis were out to destroy this great nation. (I have no animosity toward them today.) The fact is today there are people who want to destroy the greatest people and the greatest nation on earth. There are times when we must have the courage and will to stand up, not stand down, and the time is NOW.
When I read the writings of someone, I like to know their background. Here is mine: High school teacher and coach thirty years, business man thirty years. My three brothers and I served in WW II. My oldest brother was single and in his late 20’s when he was drafted into the Army and served one year training as a combat engineer prior to WW II . He returned home and was in the reserves. When Pearl Harbor happened, he was sent to England and went in on D-Day. Fought across Europe and was wounded while building a bridge across the Rhine River in Germany. His total time in the military was four years. Brother #2 mostly served in the occupation Army. Brother #3 was a junior at SMU when he went into the Air Force for three years. He ferried B-24’s, B-17’s, and B-29’s to the war fronts. I am the youngest and served in the Navy less than two years. The war was over so I was discharged and returned home. I was on Okinawa when the war ended. Our military records can be found in the Mt. Vernon (Franklin County), Texas courthouse or our military branch. My brothers were Phil, John and Zack Campbell.

My oldest brother was a war hero as well as a personal hero to me. We grew up together, worked together and hunted together for many years. That means when you are together that much, you get to know that person pretty well. With these many years together, I never heard him say bad things about anyone or complain about anything he had to deal with. He certainly had reason many times to complain. He served four years in WW II but he never talked about the war. He died with cancer in his early 60’s with German shell fragments still in his body. This is the kind of person I think anyone can respect and admire.