It's coming

I got up early yesterday on the Fourth and drove down to the Marine Corps Memorial as the sun was coming up.  The sky wasn't infused with colors as it sometimes is but the moon was still out and gave the valiant Marines and the Navy Corpsman something extraordinary to seem to be reaching for in their inspiring display of love, sacrifice and devotion for our country.

Our country is currently under dire threat from within, but it has faced prohibitive times before and prevailed, based upon the resilient American spirit exhibited so magnificently by these stalwart men permanently enshrined here.  The sun will break forth again following the dark night.

At Iwo Jima those seventy-three years ago, one of the most horrific battle in the annals of warfare, uncommon valor was a common virtue for these bold Americans.  Those young men, boys really, child-men, of the Third, Fourth and Fifth Marine Divisions never wavered in their commitment to our noble experiment nor shirked their duty to move forward inexorably despite the daunting odds stacked against them.

It might be hard to see now but a new dawn is coming.  Come November, you'll see, America will be great again.

A mother's glance

On this Veteran's Day, I want to acknowledge the service of my family members I know to have served.  My grandfather in the Navy in WWI (escort duty in the Atlantic) and my father and three uncles served in the Marines and the Army in WWII (Peleliu, Okinawa, China; several Pacific naval engagements; Philippines; Mediterranean Theatre).  My brother Jack served in the Marines during the Beirut deployment.

The Marines were handled roughly in Beirut, losing a couple of hundred men, most in one night to a suicide bomber who crashed his truck loaded with explosives into a Marines barracks and blew it up while the Marine sentry tried to load his duty rifle as the truck careened past him after approaching him because the stupid rules of engagement called for the sentry to be patrolling with an empty rifle because he might inadvertently harm a civilian.  He had full magazines in ammo pouches on his belt but that's not the same thing in a crisis in the dark as having a loaded rifle with a live round in the chamber a mere bolt-action away.

My brother, a squad leader for a machine gun unit on the Regimental Combat Team, had been rotated out of Beirut by then but after that devastation his unit went back in, taking a few casualties to snipers and explosive ordnance during the two details.  In the summer of 1982 I was visiting my parents when Newsweek magazine came out with a story on the Marines' deployment, accompanied by a picture of a Marine marching with an American flag, flanked by two Marines with shouldered rifles, one left-handed and one right-handed.

The Marine on the right in the picture with his M-16 on his left shoulder, rail thin with his face half-obscured by the shadow thrown by the brim of his campaign hat, cleft in his chin, looked awfully familiar.  "Is that Jack?" I asked my wife.

"No," she said with certainty.  I asked my father the same thing.  "No," was his answer after a long scrutiny of the photograph.

Then I showed the picture in the magazine to my mother.  She glanced at it and immediately said, "That's Jack."  She was right.

And The Last Shall Be First

Everyone on board ducked instinctively as the plane roared in at rooftop level, so close that the shipboard gunners could see the facial features of the Japanese pilot as he tried to maneuver his disintegrating, burning aircraft into the ship’s superstructure. The plane narrowly missed and cartwheeled into the sea on the other side of the light cruiser Vincennes, throwing up a terrific geyser of water.

Another Japanese plane hurtled towards the ship as Marine and Navy personnel brought their guns to bear on it, while behind it two more Japanese planes streaked in low off the horizon. In 1945 my Uncle Harry, the officer in command of the Vincennes’ Marine-manned anti-aircraft batteries, received the bronze star for his resolute actions on this day of hellish combat filled with swarming enemy encounters similar to this. (Right: Me and my Uncle Harry, on the right, in 2010.)

Admiral Halsey’s Fast Carrier Attack Group had just conducted a devastating carrier-based bombing raid against Japan, and Uncle Harry’s light cruiser and another one were left behind by the departing task force to defend a damaged aircraft carrier as it limped away from the Japanese mainland at a speed of only a few knots an hour. All the subsequent day the lonely trio of ships fended off numerous enemy attacks before the Americans got safely out of range of Japanese land-based planes.

Uncle Harry passed away last night at age 87, the last of the many World War II veterans that I used to know. His daughter, my cousin, and her family were with him at the end just before he joined the rest of his family and his brothers in arms, to live on forever in our memory.

Decoration Day

Happy Memorial Day to all veterans out there, and thanks for your service. Here's to the memory of my Grandfather Jack (Navy in WWI), Dad (Marines in WW2 on Peleliu and Okinawa), Uncle Bill (Army in WW2 in the Philippines) and Uncle Bob (Army Air Force in WW2 in North Africa). Here's thanks to my brother (Marines in Lebanon in 1981) and my Uncle Harry (shipboard Marine in WW2 at many battles, including the battles of the Philippine Sea and the Fast Carrier Strikes on Tokyo, bronze star recipient). I saw him in Durango this month and he's doing all right. See for yourself.

Synthesis

As I went by the Mall's World War II Memorial alongside L on my last training run as a coach for my club, I told L that carved into the wall over by the Atlantic column were two battles that the father of a close friend had fought at, the Bulge and the Rhineland. This old Patton warrior had passed on mere weeks ago, another American hero gone away. L, being a Navy veteran, was non-responsive in talk about a soldier.

Then I said that carved into the wall over by the Pacific column were two battles that my father had fought at, Peleliu and Okinawa. L suddenly became animated.

"Really?" he said, with respect in his voice. "My father was a Marine also, and was at Guam and elsewhere and fought at Iwo Jima."

"Really?" I said with respect in my voice. "Me and my brother, who was a combat Marine in Beirut when they blew up the barracks, had an argument once. I said Peleliu was the worst combat in World War II, perhaps in history, since the First Division had to dig entrenched Japanese soldiers out of fortified caves blasted into mutually-supporting steep coral ridges in 112 degree heat with no cover. But he said that Iwo was even tougher, and I had to admit that it probably was."

L is black. In World War II black Marines, who received the same training as white Marines, were kept in segregated outfits and used as supply service troops given the dangerous task of unloading ordnance and other supplies on the beaches while their white brethren fought on the front lines a few miles away. Such was the racism of America in the forties.

At a few desperate, terrible battles in the Pacific, including Peleliu and Iwo Jima, these black troops were called up into the front lines as combat replacements because the fighting was so horrific that there were no other troops available to restore the decimated units to a semblance of combat effectiveness. These Americans, who were fighting two enemies at once, the common enemy and society's prejudice, proved themselves to be worthy of the hero's mantle that cloaked all combat Marines in the Pacific.

L told me that his father is 93, well and living nearby in Maryland. He sees him daily. I asked L to pass my respects on to his father, and tell him that there are young men in our society who read books and know the terrific sacrifices that he and his friends went through. I lied about the young man part. L said that he would pass on my sentiments to his father, who would appreciate hearing them.

With our conversation finally charged, as we ran by the Pentagon near the end of our sojourn, L told me where he was on 9/11/01. He worked in the Pentagon then and lost friends there, but that morning he was on a detail at Bolling Air Force Base. He was out for a run when suddenly security at the base came alive and emergency vehicles started going everywhere. He went into the post and found out we were under attack. He said he wished then that he was at sea in a battle group, because they all would have gone to battle stations instantly and been ready to defend themselves within moments. On the base, however, there was no defense, only chaos. They could only stand by and wait to see what would materialize. It was awful, he said, we were totally unprepared for what hit us that day.

Our interesting conversation at an end, we ran up to our end point, Gotta Run, and the end of both the run and my coaching career. We had gone 8.6 miles in 1:21:59, a 9:32 pace. Mark my word, L is gonna rock his hoped-for 9:30s tomorrow at Army.

Five in the morning in San Diego.

I was out for a run at 5 a.m. in the harbor area of San Diego. Down around Petco Park, I heard some young men off in the distance, yelling out marching commands. I came across a building complex that looked like a convention center that had some killer stairs going up, which I climbed. From the top, I observed a band of fit, short haired young men in t-shirts and trunks come into view on the street below. They stopped, and I listened as their leader told them how they were going to "take" the stairs I had just run up. (Right: The waterfront in San Diego is a delight to run along.)

Up he went, then he turned on the landing below me and bellowed, "Come on!" The squad of six young men started up the stairs, arms and legs pumping furiously, yelling lustily. I turned and ran on, down the backside of the complex towards the harbor. (Left: A pretty nice set of stairs for a workout.)

A few minutes later this tiny band came running by me on ground level. As they swept by, I said, "Here comes the Army!"

"No sir!" barked the leader.

Instantly I realized my mistake. "I meant Marines," I said.

"Yes sir! The Army is still in bed asleep," said the leader as the band ran off into the darkness laughing. (Right: Soldiers or Marines? You make the call.)

The Three-Mile Club

A little wetness didn’t stop the Navy yesterday.

A friend in the Navy Reserves, a coach in the club programs I administer, called me last week to ask me to help him certify a small group of regular Navy personnel at their bi-annual physical fitness review. He was administering the test and needed a second CPR-certified person there due to Navy regs.

I owe him lots of favors from coaching, so I said yes. Besides, I’m a little afraid of him, because he does secret stuff for the Navy, stuff that if you find out about it, you’ll disappear.

So on Sunday morning I found myself standing in the rain on the track at Bolling AFB in the District. The Air Force has a nice facility out there along the Anacostia, and sometimes they let the Navy use a little bit of it.

The group had already completed the two-minute sit-up and push-up performance tests. The number of reps required depended upon each person's age and gender. A couple of fit young men did 100 reps of each.

All of these people were fit (no swelled bellies there!), but I enjoyed watching the nuances of how each person passed his or her test. It broke down to form, basically. For sit-ups, each person had to touch their thighs with their elbows each time they rose up, but very few persons fell back to the floor after each touch. The techniques ranged from a two-inch backwards rock before returning to touch the thighs again to a full-fledged return to the floor each time.

Everyone did at least 60. My stomach muscles still hurt from just watching them.

Push-ups were also a study in form. Starting in what would be termed the plank position in yoga, each person's push-up ranged from executing a two-inch crick in the elbow before returning to a straight arm position to much more ambitious descents halfway to the floor before a straggling, struggling return.

The Navy personnel joked that at least no Marines were around to show off their obsession with physical fitness.

As they all lined up for the 1.5 mile run, I thought back to my own Navy qualification run. Awhile ago I discovered that 10:30 (7:00) is the standard for middies at Annapolis in the 1.5 mile run. As a challenge, I scoured the Internet for a 1.5 mile race so that I too could "pass" the Navy standard.

I found that each spring my club runs a series of races that equal the length of each horse race in the Triple Crown (the Derby, Preakness and Belmont). The Belmont is 1.5 miles.

One year the winners received carrots or radishes for prizes, in keeping with the equestrian theme. My club banned this quaint practice after the racing director threw the unused produce into the club van after the races and left the locked van, with a copious amount of fermenting produce inside, parked in the Southern heat for a month.

I hit the tape two years ago at the Belmont 1.5 mile race in 10:30 flat. Mission accomplished.

Yesterday, the Navy personnel insisted that the track at the Air Force base in DC is long. (Why this would be so, I have no idea.) So instead of running six full laps to equal 1.5 miles, they ran five and three quarters laps.

I held the stop watch and called out the times. I noticed that there were a few seconds lag time between the G word and the starting of the watch.

Watching the Navy personnel circle the track made me antsy to run, to be moving among the group of men vying for the lead. The fastest man finished in 10:32 (7:01), and the slowest woman finished in 16:45 (11:10). She was obviously not a runner, but the entire Navy contingent fell in beside her on her last lap to bring her home. They called out Right-Left, Right-Left in encouragement at the end. I swear the theme song from Chariots of Fire was playing as she crossed the finish line.

She has to do a do-over though. Hers was not a passing time, so on account of the rain, her attempt wasn’t deemed official. She gets to try again in June, when it might be 88 degrees and humid instead of 52 degrees with light rain. Ugh.

At work today, a friend who is married to a Navy man laughingly told me about the Navy’s "Three Mile Club." Its members are those Navy persons who run exactly three miles each year, doing their two 1.5 mile qualification runs as best they can without bothering with any training runs. No wonder they wanted a second CPR-certified person standing by, just in case.

Boom, down. More Books.

I have a friend who can't believe the books I read. "What war book are you reading now," she'll ask. "Lots of people dying in them?"

I don't think she thinks it's a good thing I read histories and political tracts. "When was the last time you read a fiction book," she asked. I had to think awhile. October, it was. The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry. A great movie and a very good book. I'm currently reading another McMurtry book, Terms of Endearment, but I keep misplacing it. My 1100 page Korean War history, having so much more heft, is so much easier to keep track of.

I always list a classic American novel in my profile book section. Two years ago it was my favorite American book of them all, The Scarlet Letter, a book filled with gorgeous writing. Last year it was Moby Dick. Call me Ishmael. This year's favorite is The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald could certainly write. I love his Tender is the Night, too.

I pay homage to great biography too. Two years ago it was Russell Baker's Pulitzer Prize winning autobiography, Growing Up. Last year it was U.S. Grant's Personal Memoirs, the best war memoir ever written. This year I'm listing Goodbye, Darkness, William Manchester's memoir of the Pacific War. A Marine who was grievously wounded on Okinawa (a Japanese shell burst nearby and shrapnel and bone fragments from the man blown apart next to him were driven into his body), thirty years later he traveled back across those gory Marine battlefields, the Canal, Tarawa, Saipan, Guam, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, Okinawa. The range of emotions that passes through this journalist as he describes his younger self experiencing his first lay, his first drunk, his first death, his first kill, is incredible and unforgettable. My father was a Marine at Peleliu and Okinawa.

Replacing J.M. Coetzee's book Waiting for the Barbarians as just great literature is Tim O'Brien's novel In The Lake of the Woods. I first became enamored with O'Brien's writing when I read The Things They Carried, his Vietnam opus. O'Brien was there and walked the walk. He explained the grunts' war effort thusly:

They carried their reputations. They carried the soldier's greatest fear, which was the fear of blushing. Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to. It was what had brought them to the war in the first place, nothing positive, no dreams of glory or honor, just to avoid the blush of dishonor. They died so as not to die of embarrassment. They crawled into tunnels and walked point . . . . It was not courage, exactly; the object was not valor. Rather, they were too frightened to be cowards.

After reading this elegant book, I read In The Lake of the Woods. It is a terrific book, a puzzling, haunting mystery, a whodunit love story about relationships gone bad that has no resolution, only suggestions and suppositions, where events in the past blur into the present and may, or may not, point to the future. A brilliant work in my opinion.

What's done is done. Books.

As the second month of the new year rolls in, it's past time to change the favorite books section on my profile page. I actually look at the profiles of bloggers I read to try to discern things about them because, after all, I actually know very little about most of the bloggers "I know."

Books are important to me. Recently I started reading again after a desultory period where I wasn't reading much. I finished a 700 page book on the Korean War. (Does that sound like fun reading or what?)

It inspired me to begin an eleven hundred page book on the Korean War. It's exciting! The green U.S. forces have just gotten the bejeezuz kicked out of them by the North Korean army but the day of reckoning is coming for the overconfident Commies. But what is the saying about pride? Watch out, Mac!

I'm thinkin' that the U.S. doesn't "win" the war in this book either.

I always list a Shakespeare book in my profile as a favorite, and change it every year. Two years ago it was Othello, because it is my favorite Tragedy. I love the Moor's profound words about peace:

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
Good signior, you shall more command with years
Than with you weapons. I:ii

If only W had the wisdom to know that the threat of shock & awe is so much more efficacious than actually delivering it, because when delivered its future effect is dulled it through its use (attrition) and, having withstood its onslaught, the recipients realize that they survived it after all and they start looking for weaknesses in the deliverers. (As in the dolts in charge. "Bring 'em on!")

Last year I listed King Lear, my second favorite Tragedy. Anyone who knows my personal situation (3 estranged sons for whom I paid every cent of support, am furnishing full college tuition and fees for, and who don't deign to speak to me or any of my relatives) will see the irony and truthiness in this quote:

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child. I:iv

(Hey, Danny, please meet me at Elevation Burger in Falls Church at noon on your birthday later this month and I'll buy you, and whoever you bring [your brothers maybe] a burger and a malt.) (Mmm. Elevation burgers.)

Macbeth is my choice for this year. "What's done is done." III:ii

Furthermore, I always list a war book. Man's history seems like a miserable liturgy of wars. Two years ago it was Hell In A Very Small Place, the Siege of Dien Bien Phu by Bernard Fall, the best war book bar none. Last year it was Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden, the best small unit combat book bar none. This year it is Breakout The Chosin Reservoir Campaign Korea 1950 by Martin Russ.

Its jacket says the book is The riveting saga of one of the most heroic battles in American history. It is that indeed, and more. The book masterfully tells of the beleaguered First Marine Division's breakout from the clutches of practically the entire Chicom Army, as the divison travelled precariously over 90 miles of a solitary mountain roadway back to the safety of the U.S. Navy's Pacific fleet's guns at the port of Hungnam (North Korea) in sub-zero temperature. The Marines mauled seven elite Chinese divisions in the process. Thank you Oliver Smith (a Marine general). Boo on you Ned Almond (an Army general).

The Marines, in this epic battle, with their successful fighting withdrawal (they brought their casualties, and their dead, out) provided the one shining moment for American arms in the Great Bugout from North Korea that Johnnie Walker's Eighth Army engaged in when the Chinese entered the Korean War, stunning the overconfident Americans and routing our forces. This disaster greatly dimmed General Douglas MacArthur's (Army--Old Soldiers Never Die, They Just Fade Away) final legacy.

Dad, I hardly knew ye

Happy birthday, Dad. Winona born, Lawrenceville class of '42 (Raymond), WWII vet (Fifth Marines, Peleliu at age 19, Okinawa at age 20, post-war duty in China), Carleton grad, Yale Law School, husband for 43 years, father of six, ethical and activist lawyer. I have missed you ever since 1986 when I was a mere pup of 34 and you were only 61.

The Encounter

A week ago Saturday I took a trip to New York City to visit my brother and go to Coney Island. Specifically I went to ride the Cyclone (it alone was worth the trip) and to see a minor league baseball game on Coney Island. I am attempting to see a baseball game at every current major league stadium and now that I have reduced my "wish list" to six (there are thirty major league parks), I have been branching out to watch games at minor league stadiums.

The baseball game was a joy. The new ballpark has a nice ocean vista along with nice views of two nearby protected historic structures of yesteryear, the abandoned, towering Parachute Jump and the Cyclone. Like all minor league parks, once we were inside we roamed around at will. Players were even signing autographs.

The home team Brooklyn Cyclones (a Mets affiliate) won 8-6, coming back from a 5-0 deficit. Several balls flew out of the park. My brother actually caught a foul ball. That was thrilling. Being a Class A game, a few innings went on for a long time. Sorta like watching T-Ball. Anyone with kids knows what I mean. Interestingly, KeySpan Park has distance to deep center that is two feet further than at Shea Stadium.

The next morning I left my brother's and walked over to see Shea Stadium. To get from his house in Flushing (Queens) to the park you have to traverse a highway bridge over a vast wasteland of Belt Parkways, a turgid creek and auto repair shops. He thought I was taking my life in my hands to do this even in broad daylight.

But once at Willets Point, I walked around the brand new stadium being built for the Mets in the parking lot next door to Shea. It's an emerging steel skeleton right now, right across the street from a long row of muffler shops, auto glass places and body shops. It's like a shantytown devoted to auto repair out there. There aren't going to be any spectacular views from the new stadium like in, say, the new Pittsburgh baseball park.

My brother tells me the plan is to move all the auto shops out and gentrify the place with condos and shops. But there are rumors that there's a lot of chop-blocking going on out there, Mafia controlled, and those shops ain't moving. Shea is like certain other baseball parks which are set down in the middle of nowhere and where half an hour after a game, everyone is gone. Atlanta comes to mind.

Then I got aboard Greyhound and returned home for $68 round trip. At the bus terminal in DC, instead of walking the three quarters of a mile to the Metro stop at Union Station, I went a half mile the other direction on this Sunday afternoon to the Gallaudet University station. A friend I was telling this to later thought I was taking my life in my hands to do this even in broad daylight. It was an interesting walk down an absolutely deserted street bordered by vacant warehouses on one side and the raised train tracks on the other. As I walked along I counted the number of square patches of broken auto glass in the street next to the curb every eighteen feet, where a recent smash and grab operator had been at work on parked cars during the weekday. There were an even dozen.

There was life at the Metro station in the form of the station attendant in his booth at the fare gates downstairs, myself and one other patron who was a transient. No matter where I went on the platform, he followed me. A train came by and we both got on the same car. He sat down opposite me, staring at me before he spoke.

"What year'd cha do it in?"

I thought about his remark, and alighted upon the fact that I was wearing a Marine Corps Marathon ball cap.

"2002."

"I did it in 2003. I'm trying to get automatic entry."

I looked him over. Ragged clothes, pretty much toothless, carrying around two plastic bags full of stuff, a typical homeless guy. (Disgracefully, Washington our nation's capital is full of them.) Maybe he was a runner although it seemed doubtful.

"How many you need to run to get that?"

"Five."

"How many more you got to do?"

"Four. How many you done?"

"Only one Marine Corps. I don't run the same marathon twice, there are so many out there."

"Huh. You run others?"

"Yeah, you know. Baltimore. Columbus."

"The thing I like about the Marine Corps one is that extra bit they add at the end. It's all uphill, to the statue. It's just like the Marines, they always got to be better or longer or somethin'."

"I think they're all the same distance."

"No no, the Marines add that extra, what is it, three hunnerd yards? Marines gotta do that. What makes 'em special."

"Yeah. Those Marines. You ever in them?"

He had been, in the eighties, He happily told me all about it. It was very interesting to hear.

Thanks to you all

Memorial Day, a day set aside to honor our war dead, grew out of the aftermath of the carnage of the Civil War and traditionally was observed on May 30th. Ever since the National Holiday Act of 1971 (P.L. 90-363) it has been celebrated on the last Monday in May.

U.S. service deaths since the start of the Iraq war stand at 3,452. I saw several graphic reminders of the incalculable human cost of the conflict while running in the last Army Ten-Miler. Several soldiers were completing the race as part of their rehabilitation from gruesome battle injuries, unsteadily progressing down the road between military escorts, forcing their maimed bodies, often missing parts of multiple limbs, onwards towards the finish line.

Here is how the recently departed novelist Kurt Vonnegut, a WWII veteran who was captured during the Battle of the Bulge, described getting shot at in his autobiographical anti-war book, Slaughterhouse-Five:

"The third bullet was for [the protagonist Billy Pilgrim], who stopped dead center in the road when the lethal bee buzzed past his ear. Billy stood there politely, giving the marksman another chance. The next shot missed Billy's knees by inches, going end-on-end, from the sound of it. Roland Weary and the scouts were safe in a ditch, and Weary growled at Billy, 'Get out of the road, you dumb motherfucker.' It woke Billy up up and got him off the road."

My brother was a machine gunner in a Marine regimental combat team in 1982 when Ronald Reagan sent his unit ashore in Lebanon in an attempt to impress the Sryians, whose proxy the PLO was battling the Israelis there. When a suicide bomber blew up a Marine barracks a year later and killed 242 sleeping Marines, Reagan wisely withdrew the troops from an untenable situation. The Marines at the time were mere peacekeepers. My brother described getting shot at.

My brother was taking a sponge-bath one night, standing in the dark beside a well-used waterhole behind Marine lines. Looking up at the lights of the apartment buildings terracing away from him on the hillside opposite, he heard a shot. This in itself wasn't unusual in Lebanon. A split-second later he felt the pressure of airwaves passing close by his ear as a bullet whizzed past his head, a nearly-spent round at the end of its effective range. He quit bathing and spent the rest of the night hunkering down in his hole out of sight of the hillside beyond.

My father, a WWII marine, had a bathing story as well that he told me when I was a spellbound child asking him about his combat experiences. On Peleliu, he said, he went to the river alone one day intending to bathe. As he rounded the last turn to the river he spotted six Japanese soldiers in full combat gear standing on the bank. They spotted him at the same time. Startled, the two sides stared at each other. All my dad had with him besides his towel was a bar of soap.

At this point, my father paused in his account, obviously lost in a far-away reverie. "What happened?" I asked breathlessly. My father shook his head reproachfully at the memory. "They all got away." There was a twinkle in his eye that even a little boy could see.

I want to remember the following men whom I knew personally:

(The Price by Tom Lea, depicting the landings at Peleliu on September 15, 1944. Published in the June 11, 1945 issue of Life magazine.)

My father, a marine who fought on Peleliu and Okinawa.
Uncle Bill, an officer in the Army who suffered injuries requiring hospitalization while conducting operations against the Japanese in the Philippines.
Uncle Bob, in the Army Air Corps who flew a B-25 bomber in the Mediterranean Theater.
Billy, in the Coast Guard and present at D-Day.

I want to thank the following men whom I know personally:

Uncle Harry, a Marine officer who saw Naval combat from the Philippines to Japan.
Sy, in the Army and aboard a ship on D-Day, present at the Battle of the Bulge, injured on the last day of the war in Europe.

Running update: Yesterday, getting ready for this relay race in two weeks, I ran for the first time since Wednesday's "memorial run" on the Mall. I went ten miles out and back EB on the W&OD Trail in 1:26:26 (8:39). My left leg is sore again but I am capable, obviously, of running my assigned 9.6 mile first-leg of the relay.

Later this morning I am running in the Falls Church Memorial Day 3K Fun Run. It's a flat, free, self-timed race starting at 9 am from the Community Center with no winners and losers and a free T-shirt at the end, courtesy of former Lt. Governor Don Beyers. Except for the DC Race For The Cure next Saturday, it'll be my last race before the Lake Tahoe Relay on June 9th.