tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35086886838058189732024-02-19T09:12:15.032-08:00Ian MurrayIan Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-37647448397621558312017-07-12T18:35:00.003-07:002017-07-12T18:35:58.151-07:00Mrs. Finney<br /><div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 2.0pt 0in;">
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As we get older we cherish our memories, especially those
from our early childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, the
most prevalent are those associated with growing up in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Enfield</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place>
at the outset World War II.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can still
remember the bombing raids and the heightened sense of being that one experienced;
the overwhelming sadness and unbelievable joy, and most of all the incredible
importance of family and loved ones.</div>
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I spent the war years with my mother. My sisters were much
older than me and by 1943 had already left home to continue their
schooling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father stayed at his
office in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
during the week, working non-stop to keep the roadways and shipyards moving
smoothly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were few social
gatherings to attend in those days as the majority of men were stationed
far away, somewhere on the battlefields of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food was scarce and travel was dangerous, so
outings of any sort were quite rare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately for me, however, my aunts, Lil and Vera owned several shops
in the Seven Sisters area of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
and each week my mother and I would travel into the city to visit them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thursdays were half days for the shop owners,
and each Thursday afternoon Mum and I would make the journey across town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I behaved well, I would be rewarded at the
end of the day with a visit to the confectioner’s store next to Aunt Lil’s
green grocery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once there, I would gaze
longingly at the rows of penny candies and boiled sweets displayed under the
large glass domed case before eventually picking out the perfect piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The journey to Seven Sisters required two bus rides, but for
me the reward at the end of the day was well worth the quiet time spent gazing
out the window at the bustling streets of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would arrive at the intersection of Seven
Sisters and Portland Avenue at precisely one fifteen in the afternoon and begin
our walk through the quiet neighborhood of brick stone houses and giant
concrete blockades. The blockades were there to keep out enemy tanks and
protect the area residents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each week we
followed the same routine and each week we would pass the old stone house where
Mrs. Finney lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lillian Finney was a
kind old woman who lived alone, having lost her husband in the First World
War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t recall the street itself
very well, but I can still see Mrs. Finney leaning out her second story window
as clear as day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She always wore a
flowered apron over her dress and a string of pearls neatly around her neck,
matching her smooth white hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
would wave her handkerchief, as if in surrender, as we made our way down the
street toward her house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yoo hoo!” she
would beckon as we got closer, a gentle smile always adorning her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother and Mrs. Finney would exchange
niceties for several minutes and she would comment on what a handsome young man
I had become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In response I would peer awkwardly
at the ground, feeling rather silly about the whole affair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few minutes later mum would wish her well,
and we would be on our way, leaving Mrs. Finney with a warm smile.</div>
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One Thursday in September, my mother wasn’t feeling
particularly well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I’d probably
been a bit of a handful that morning and she just wasn’t up to making the usual
jog to Seven Sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That afternoon, as
I sat playing in the garden, I remember hearing a tremendous explosion in the
distance as the ground gently shook all around me. The V-2 had made a direct
hit on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Portland Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>,
more than ten miles from our house, but to Mum and I, it felt as if it had landed
just down the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would later learn
that it had leveled two square miles of buildings from the bus depot at Seven
Sisters to just before the shops on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Hermitage
Road</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
one in the family had been injured and there had been only minor damage to my
aunt’s shops. All in all, we’d been lucky – very lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The few windows and small amount of produce that
had been lost could be replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The following Thursday Mum and I were off once more to help
with the clean-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this time, as the
bus made its usual stop, I remember gazing out at the unfamiliar
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why are we stopping here,
mum? I innocently inquired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This isn’t
where we usually jump off?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother sat
in stunned silence and I watched as her eyes suddenly began to well with
tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d never seen her cry before and
it made my stomach feel uneasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked
back across the rubble and debris and could vaguely make out the shops on
Hermitage off in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was
no sign of the quiet brick stone neighborhood that had previously stood between
us and our destination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother took a
long, deep breath and gently reached down to take my hand “Come, dear, we will
make our way through somehow,” she had said, forcing a smile as we stepped from
the bus and stared at the devastation laying before us. Mum searched for a
pathway through the tons of bricks and mortar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could still make out the concrete blockades several blocks away and
we slowly headed toward them, attempting to find a clearing in what was left of
the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we stumbled through the
rubble, I remember seeing bits of furnishings, broken dishes, and remnants of
people’s lives that I just couldn’t process at such a young age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It seemed an eternity before we reached <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Hermitage Road</st1:address></st1:street> and as we approached I
noticed a small white handkerchief lying amidst a pile of rubble by the side of
the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picked it up to take a closer
look and carefully ran my tiny fingers over the intricate embroidery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked up at my mother and gave her a
questioning gaze. “Mum?” I asked, my eyes searching the area. “Where is Mrs.
Finney?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother gently reached down
and took the handkerchief from my hand and held it tightly to her chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stood for a moment gazing longingly up at
the afternoon sky as tears streamed down the sides of her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took another long, deep breath, took hold
of my arm and started down the path at a quickening pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed as though she was somehow cross at
me for having asked such a question, but after a few steps, she abruptly stopped
and knelt down next to me, “She’s with Mr. Finney, dear,” she explained, her
voice quivering. “They’re together now and they always will be,” she added
reassuringly, offering a faint smile as she continued to clutch the
handkerchief in her fist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We continued
our journey toward Hermitage Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hadn’t really understood what she meant back then, but years later as the
reality of the situation became clear, her words became a great comfort.</div>
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I have many memories of my mother during those years, but
this one in particular continues to keep me grounded and reminds me of how
lucky I am in so many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all the
memories we have, both good and bad, may we find a lesson in each of them and
take away something special and meaningful from every experience.</div>
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Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-40513178843531247302013-05-30T13:52:00.000-07:002017-07-12T18:37:42.171-07:00Doolittle Raiders<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3R-7g7M3TKIUrjTK0eZpgbrS9w8wrvqqlyxGTRJP08tHJmvtg_16lSK0lw-6N6dmBmrk6SR0kTF9j0bSZz482nFGOjuuJnhwPYK5aucsftJiMTDKS2idpQAvufRgaFo6DYJJ4Oyu2Ng/s1600/The+Final+Toast+for+the+Doolittle+Raiders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3R-7g7M3TKIUrjTK0eZpgbrS9w8wrvqqlyxGTRJP08tHJmvtg_16lSK0lw-6N6dmBmrk6SR0kTF9j0bSZz482nFGOjuuJnhwPYK5aucsftJiMTDKS2idpQAvufRgaFo6DYJJ4Oyu2Ng/s1600/The+Final+Toast+for+the+Doolittle+Raiders.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s the cup of brandy no one wants to drink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Recently, in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, the surviving
Doolittle Raiders gathered publicly for the last time. They were, and continue
to be, among the most universally admired and revered men in the United States.
There were 80 of the Raiders in April, 1942, when they carried out one of the
most courageous and heart-stirring military operations in this nation’s
history. The mere mention of their unit’s name, in those years, would bring
tears to the eyes of grateful Americans. Now only four survive.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, with the United States
reeling and wounded, something dramatic was needed to turn the war effort
around. Even though there were no friendly airfields close enough to Japan for the
U.S. to launch a retaliation, a daring plan was devised. Sixteen B-25’s were
modified so they could take off from the deck of an aircraft carrier. This had
never been tried before–sending big, heavy bombers from a carrier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The 16, five-man crews, under the command of Lt. Col. James
Doolittle, who himself flew the lead plan off the USS Hornet, knew they would
not be able to return to the carrier. They would have to hit Japan and then
hope to make it to China for a safe landing. But on the day of the raid, the
Japanese navy caught sight of the carrier. The raiders were told they would
have to take off from much farther out in the Pacific than they had counted on.
They were told that because of this they would not have enough fuel to make it
to safety. And those men went anyway.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They bombed Tokyo, and then flew as far as they could. Four
planes crash landed; 11 more crews bailed out, and three of the Raiders died.
Eight more were captured; three were executed. Another died of starvation in a
Japanese prison camp. One crew made it to Russia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Doolittle Raid sent a message from the United States to
its enemies, and to the rest of the world: We will fight. And no matter what it
takes, we will win.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of the original 80 Raiders, 62 survived the war. They were
celebrated as national heroes and models of bravery. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
produced a motion picture based on the raid, “Thirty Seconds over Tokyo,” a
patriotic and emotional box-office hit, and the phrase became part of a
national lexicon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Beginning in 1946, the surviving Raiders have held a reunion
each April to commemorate the mission. Every year, a wooden display case
bearing 80 silver goblets with each Raider’s name engraved on it is transported
to the reunion city. Each time a Raider passes away, his goblet is turned
upside down in the case at the next reunion, as his old friends bear solemn witness.
The case also holds a bottle of 1896 Hennessy cognac. The year is not happenstance:
1896 was when Jimmy Doolittle was born. There has always been a plan. When there
were only two surviving Raiders, they would open the bottle and toast their
comrades who preceded them in death.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As 2013 began, there were five living Raiders. Then, in
February, Tom Griffin passed away at age 96.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What a man he was. After bailing out of his plane over a mountainous
Chinese forest after the Tokyo raid, he became ill with malaria, and almost
died. When he recovered, he was sent to Europe to fly more combat missions. He
was shot down, captured, and spent 22 months in a German prisoner of war camp.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So now, out of the original 80, only four Raiders remain:
Dick Cole (Doolittle’s co-pilot on the Tokyo raid), Robert Hite, Edward Saylor
and David Thatcher. All are in there 90’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The men have decided that after this final public reunion
they will wait until a later date – sometime this year – to get together once
more, informally and in absolute privacy. That is when they will open the
bottle of brandy. The years are flowing by too swiftly now and they are not
going to wait until there are only two of them. Instead, they will fill the
four remaining goblets and raise them in a toast to those who are gone.*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">God Bless Doolittle’s Raiders, may we all pay homage to the
greatness of these men, and raise a glass to their incredible honor and bravery.</span> </div>
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">*The source of the original article is unknown<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></div>
Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-18789736331156545052012-07-10T05:20:00.000-07:002012-07-10T05:20:43.545-07:00WAR HERO<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are always certain events
in one’s life that stick in your mind, no matter what your age at the time they
occur. It’s true that our most memorable moments are those attached to
heightened emotion, whether positive or negative, and I’m sure those who look
back at the most impressionable events in their lives would agree. As for me, growing
up as a small child in World War II, such memories became all too commonplace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One such instance was the last
time I saw my cousin, Lesley Wright. A member of the RAF, Lesley had eagerly joined
in the war effort in 1941, much to the dismay of my mother’s sister, Edie. Having
been very close growing up, and having grown even closer after the loss of four
brothers in World War I, my mother and Edie shared everything—and as a result our
families had become like one. Lesley oftentimes looked to my mother for advice,
and whenever he had the opportunity he’d come over to visit his “Aunt Nina” and
spend time with me. He was really more of a big brother than a cousin, and in
my eyes he was larger than life, a true soldier who I looked up to like no
other. Even so, he was barely 19 the last time I saw him, and I was not quite 4.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember the morning well
because I had been awakened by the ring of the telephone. Even at my young age,
I was old enough to know that when the phone rang back then it was usually bad
news. I lay still for a moment waiting to hear my mother’s voice when suddenly I
realized it might be my father, who’d been away on assignment for several weeks.
I jumped out of bed and raced for the door, hoping for a chance to speak with
him. Instead I found my mother engaged in a rather terse conversation that
ended with, “you know darn well you never need an invitation,” before she
abruptly hung up the phone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stood silently in the doorway,
looking up at her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who was that Mum?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She gazed down at me, ignoring
my question. “Your breakfast is on the table, dear. Start to eat—I’ve work to
do.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew immediately that whoever
it had been had upset her, and this was further confirmed as I sat and ate my
breakfast toast and dripping, alone. I watched from the corner of my eye as my
mother pulled out the bucket and scrubbing brush and started to scrub the floor
on her hands and knees. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, definitely troubled
about something</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The only
time mum does that is when she’s mad at dad</i>. With my curiosity now piqued,
I asked once more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who was that on the phone, Mum?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Finish your breakfast, Ian. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lesley’s going to be here in a moment.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well that was all I needed to
hear! I scoffed my toast down and followed it up with a large swill of milky
tea, all the while being ever so careful not to spill on the table. No sooner
had I drained my cup when there was a knock at the front door. I leapt from my
chair and ran to answer it, jumping as high as I could in my attempt to reach
the door handle. Watching my gallant efforts, my mother pushed herself off her
knees, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over to pull open the door. Then,
without expression, she turned and went back to the kitchen to return to her
cleaning. I looked up to see my cousin Lesley standing in the doorway in full
uniform. He looked down and smiled as he came inside and closed the door behind
him. I immediately jumped on him, clinging to his legs as he attempted to step
forward. He bent down and picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and spun me
around his neck before turning me over and placing me back on the ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His smile gradually faded as he
looked toward the kitchen and called to my mother. “Aunt Nina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have only a few minutes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, I have to report back soon…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother slowly stood up, once
more wiping her hands on her apron before walking toward us, her pace
quickening as she got closer. She threw her arms around Lesley, burying her
head in his chest as tears began streaming down the sides of her face. Moments
later she stepped back, gently pushing him to arm’s length as she attempted to
speak to him between broken sobs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Lesley, I’ll have no more of this
nonsense talk. It’s not fair to me and it’s certainly not fair to your poor mother.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hands were trembling and her voice
quivered as she spoke. “You know what we’ve been through—our brothers taken
from us—no God would take our children too!” She dabbed at her eyes with her
apron and took a deep breath in an attempt to gain her composure. “Now, come. Sit
with me a moment and let’s have a cup of tea.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My stomach felt a bit queasy as I
watched them make their way to the dining room table where they fell into deep
conversation. My mother poured them both a cup of tea and Lesley called to me
as I stood waiting. “Be with you in a moment, Ian—now go in the back room and
play for a bit!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew Lesley was true to his
word, so I quickly went to my toy box and began lining up my soldiers in neat
little rows whilst I waited for him. When it came time for him to leave he
beckoned me to the hallway and bent down so we were face to face. He reached
into his pocket and brought out a shiny silver tin; then he opened it up
exposing a box of Chiclets and barley sugar candy neatly tucked inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He placed it in my hand. “I want you to have
this. It’s from my escape pack.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now standing beside us, my mother
snatched the tin from my hand and gave it directly back to him, her eyes once
again welling with tears. “Don’t Lesley, you know you might need this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Lesley would have none of
it. He gently but firmly took the tin back from her, and bending down on one
knee, handed it back to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is for you, Ian.” Lesley said,
placing a hand on my shoulder. “Now go and enjoy it and always remember this
day. I want you to live your life as if I’m with you at all times.” He paused
for a moment and glanced back at my mother, her trembling hand covering her
mouth as she fought back tears. He turned back to me, his grip tightening. “Do
these things for me and take care of your mum, okay?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I nodded in agreement, but didn’t
really know what to make of his words. He leaned down and kissed me on the
cheek. “I love you, little chap,” he said quietly, before turning and making
his way down the front steps. He stopped for a brief moment at the end of the
walkway to wave back at us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That was the last time I saw him.
Two days later Lesley was killed during one of the Pathfinder raids over Germany.
It was only years later that I learned he had come over to the house to say
good-bye. He was the navigator on a Pathfinder conducting bombing raids over
Germany, and although his crew had done more than the required number of runs,
they had all volunteered for what was explained to them as a suicide mission.
They had been instructed to say good-bye to their families and loved ones, all
knowing they would not return.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I yearn to know Lesley now, as
an adult—to talk to him man to man and to thank him for saving me, my family
and countless others from the ravages of war. I will continue to live life as
if he’s always with me, always giving me strength to go on no matter what the
adversity. Lesley Wright will always be a part of me, and he will always be my
true hero.</span></div>
<br />
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</v:imagedata></v:fill></span></v:shape></span></a><o:p></o:p></div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-71227542297484934782012-01-25T08:53:00.000-08:002012-01-25T08:53:26.184-08:00The Bombing Raid<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trent McStuart’s mind continued to wander, and he thought back to his early childhood and his family’s home in Enfield, England, a suburb just outside of London proper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a modest brick home with a large bay window overlooking a small neatly trimmed yard. There was a garden tucked out back where an apple, peach and pear tree grew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lily of the Valley surrounded the apple tree and Trent recalled the delightful smell of the blossoms at the onset of spring. During the summer months, his mother would open the French doors to the garden revealing a small stone patio that led out to a finely manicured lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trent would spend hours playing in the yard and he could remember the fresh feel of cool spring grass on his shoeless feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">As a toddler, Trent began many of his mornings with a soft-boiled egg sitting proudly in a shiny porcelain egg cup shaped like a cockerel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recalled his mother cutting perfectly shaped “bread fingers” for him to dip in the warm boiled egg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trent smiled to himself as he thought back on those days and he could almost smell the aroma of his mum’s shepherd’s pie on Saturday afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could picture the dining room set for Sunday dinner; the McStuart’s best English china and finest lace cloth draped over the large oval table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remembered how each Sunday after church his aunts and uncles would arrive to feast on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as they chatted away the afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What wonderful, carefree days they were.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Those carefree days were not to last, however, and Trent’s mind wandered back to the early days of World War II.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His most vivid memory was that of the blackouts and the Anderson shelter that was buried in his backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could distinctly recall how his parents and their neighbors would run about with flashlights, the lenses covered by their hands so the German bombers could not detect the light from the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would never forget the skeletal shape of their hands or the blood running through the veins of their fingers as the flashlight glowed beneath them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the blood, he could definitely remember the blood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trent’s father, Thomas “Tiggy” McStuart, had a great distaste for the Anderson bunker and was always reluctant to take shelter from the bombing raids–as if by doing so he in some way gave power to the Nazi forces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given that, on the rare occasions when his father was at home, Trent always slept in his own room on the second floor of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was one instance when his mother insisted they all sleep in the shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a rather heated debate, the McStuarts compromised. Trent would stay on the sofa downstairs in the living room and his parents would sleep in their bedroom upstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father had pulled the sofa away from the bay window, pushing it securely against the wall on the other side of the room to keep him from falling out. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The air raid was severe that night. Trent remembered being awakened by sirens and the constant sound of anti-aircraft fire. He wasn’t afraid, but instead recalled a feeling of excitement because he knew his father would soon come to pick him up out of his makeshift bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would take him to the master bedroom where Trent would climb into his parent’s giant feather bed and listen to his mother and father talk about the different types of aircraft and armaments they’d heard that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father could identify every aircraft as it flew overhead, and amazingly he could tell whether it was German or British simply by the sound of its engines. The whole experience was like that of a fantastic thunderstorm, frightening and awe-inspiring all at the same time. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">This particular night, German casualties had been high as the British night fighters chased the bombers off their targets, away from London’s East India docks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the Germans made their way back through the night sky, many half-filled with unused explosives due to the British interception, they were unable to identify additional targets as a result of the city-wide blackout. The German pilots could only see remnants of the anti-aircraft flashes from the ground below, and in their haste to unload, they let their bombs drop over the only targets they could distinguish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a result, the very anti-aircraft batteries that had been placed amongst the civilian population to protect them would on this night serve to do just the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Feeling uneasy about the thunderous blasts that seemed to be coming closer and closer, Trent was about to call to his father when the world suddenly came down around him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His ears popped as a deafening noise–a roaring sound, followed by the impact of a hundred freight trains–hit the house all at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt as if someone had jumped atop him in his bed. Trent tried to move his arms and legs to no avail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He eventually managed to steal a breath, but the smoke and debris that filled his lungs only made his desperate struggle for air more difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then in a moment, all was silent. Terrified, he lay in the dark, quiet stillness for what seemed an eternity before hearing the slight murmur of muffled voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The murmur quickly turned into chatter that soon erupted into frantic yelling and screaming. He could hear his mother cursing and the knot in his stomach grew larger as he listened to her uncharacteristic words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had never heard his mother use the Lord’s name in vain before, nor would he ever again after that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“God damn it, Tiggy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put something on your feet!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll never make it over to him!” Nina McStuart was frantically calling out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trent could hear the continual commotion, but had no idea what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Directly above his head he heard glass shattering and moments later he felt a hand touch his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ve found him Nina, I’ve found him!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father’s trembling voice called out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trent could feel the debris being cleared from his face and he was suddenly able to breathe again. He heard his mother whimper from above, “Is he all right Thomas?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He seems okay, Nina!” Tiggy half shouted, his adrenaline taking charge. “He appears to be just fine!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trent’s father carefully picked him up and in the darkness Trent could see a dim light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a man’s hand covering the top of a flashlight, the familiar red glow of the light running through his fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would become a vision that would be etched in his mind forever. The man holding the light was wearing dark blue overalls and a metal helmet with letters on it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Bring him back over here Tiggy so we can get a better look at him.” The warden did his best to appear calm, but Trent could see that his hands were visibly shaking. Tiggy followed the warden toward the hallway to the bottom of the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they passed by the front entryway, Trent could see the front door of the house was missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked to the right and saw the kitchen door was also gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing else– just a gaping hole through center of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He peered over at his makeshift sofa bed, now in shreds under a pile of glass and rubble. The entire bay window had blown across the room into the wall, burying him in its debris.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trent’s father and the warden gently placed Trent on one of the steps and when the flashlight shone on his little body his mother let out a gasp that frightened him more than the sight of his own shattered home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked to his father for strength, but heard only his quiet murmur. “Oh, dear God, he’s covered in blood.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The warden placed his hand on Tiggy McStuart’s shoulder. “Just take it easy, Tig.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Take it easy! Can’t you see he’s injured?” Tiggy yelled in frustration. “Get some water for God's sake!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The warden quickly made his way to the kitchen and filled a bowl with water, promptly bringing it back to where Tiggy waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears now streamed down the sides of Trent’s cheeks as his father kneeled down, gently wiping his face with a dampened cloth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s okay son, you’re going to be just fine.” He said, forcing a smile as he turned back to Trent’s mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t find a mark on him, Nina.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He commented, continually wiping away the blood and debris.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trent’s mother suddenly stepped back and placed her hand to her chest. “Dear Lord Tiggy...” She half whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Look at your hands…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trent’s father looked down at his bloodied hands, a puzzled look on his face as he turned them from side to side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hurriedly immersed his fingers in the basin, wincing in pain before quickly pulling them out again. Trent watched with horror as blood began rising from the many cuts and gashes on his father’s hands, wounds which he’d never felt at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nina McStuart slowly placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Darling,” she said, her voice now calm and controlled. “The blood is your own.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-19055086156019073782011-12-18T13:19:00.000-08:002011-12-18T13:19:52.912-08:00Deep Frying a Turkey<div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I asked my very good friend, Terry, for instructions on deep frying a turkey. Below is the response I received. Even though Thanksgiving has passed I thought I would share this, as it’s great for a laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You asked for the instructions to deep fry the turkey. Here ya go… <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Needed <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">5 gallons of peanut oil <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A turkey (No shit Sherlock!) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A turkey frying pot and related equipment<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Burn ointment <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cajun injecting sauce <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cajun seasoning rub <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A nice bottle of single malt scotch or other GOOD scotch <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A Padron cigar (substitutes allowed) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A short glass <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Ice – preferable crushed <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A match or two <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I hope you filled the propane tank by now!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Process<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Pour scotch into a short glass with crushed ice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Let it sit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Dry off turkey. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sample scotch, if okay, refill glass. If not, finish it and try again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Stand turkey upright. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Inject turkey with Cajun Butter/Garlic marinade (no fat) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Check scotch. Still cold? Good. Down it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Coat turkey with a lot of Cajun seasoning. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Take it outside where you will cook. Unless you are deep frying it inside in which case you are a moron. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Light burner. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Light cigar. SHIT you forgot the scotch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Go back in and refill glass. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sip scotch and smoke cigar while oil is heating to 375. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When oil is ready, finish off the scotch and SLOWLY lower turkey into oil.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You probably need the burn ointment now. Apply this liberally or drink the scotch faster. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cook the turkey for about 3.5 minutes per pound.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Continue with cigar and scotch until turkey is done. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Put the scotch and cigar down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Turn off burner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Slowly raise turkey from oil.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Let it drain over the oil. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Make sure cigar didn’t go out. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Finish the cigar, drink the scotch and take the turkey in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While turkey is cooling apologize to Robyn for getting shitfaced while cooking. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Bada bing bada boom. That’s all there is to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Enjoy. Happy Thanksgiving!</span></div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-65021186845203926662011-11-11T12:56:00.000-08:002011-11-11T12:56:44.564-08:00Poppy Day<div class="MsoNormal">For many people Veteran’s Day is just another day. For some it’s simply an inconvenience that banks are closed and mail service is interrupted. For me and many of my friends and colleagues around the world it is something extraordinary. It is a day we quietly remember our comrades, and even in some cases our enemies, who gave up something incredibly special to them, their friends, family and country…their life.</div><div class="MsoNormal">As a child in England I always remembered it as “Poppy Day.” Wives and relatives of deceased veterans would stand on street corners holding a can with a slot in it. You would place some loose change in the slot and they in turn would pin an imitation poppy on your lapel. You never saw a gentleman, a lady, or a worker of any profession not wearing a poppy on Veterans Day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember as a small boy asking my father what Poppy Day meant and he explained to me the story of the poppy fields of Flanders. At the time I really didn’t comprehend what it meant; it wasn’t until several years later that I really understood. My dad and I were driving across France and he turned to me and said, “Son, we’re going to be taking a slight deviation. There’s something I need you to see.” To this day I could not tell you what battle sight we came upon, but I knew it was significant to my father. We had arrived after travelling down a long country lane and even as a small lad I was taken aback by the sight. As far as my eyes could see there were white crosses - east, north, south and west. I watched my father approach a grave, then brush away a tear. It was then I suddenly understood Poppy Day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish everyone a meaningful Veteran’s Day. Keep our military in your prayers and pray for our veterans, especially those who did not return to their friends and family…God Bless.</div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-82137720218111976602011-10-10T18:26:00.000-07:002011-10-10T18:26:29.674-07:00Where’s the Discrimination?<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve watched with much interest as the Republican Party candidates vie for a position in next year’s presidential election. The one thing I can’t help but notice is the incredible diversity within this group.<span> </span>Considering Republicans, and certainly Tea Party members, have been labeled “racist” by some media sources, it seems odd to me that so many facets of the population are represented among these nine candidates.<span> </span>I thought perhaps the intolerance label was attributable to the baseline theory that individuals should be responsible for themselves and not look to the government to resolve their problems; as if somehow this was a brand new idea.<span> </span>In fact, this concept was heartily embraced by John F. Kennedy, one of our most beloved democratic presidents who said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”<span> </span>How is this any different from what the republican candidates are saying today?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I find this whole concept of discrimination very curious as I sit and watch the debates.<span> </span>The panel before me is made up of one woman, two Mormons, two men over the age of 65 (one over 75!), a black man; and yes, I said “black” – he’s a fellow American who happens to have darker skin than mine – that’s all.<span> </span>Hell, I was born in England, of Scottish decent, and no one refers to me as a British-American.<span> </span><span> </span>Lest I digress however, we also have among this group, three middle—aged white guys from very different backgrounds, each with very different ideas. <span> </span>Isn’t that what democracy is all about?<span> </span>And those are just the presidential candidates.<span> </span>If I look at the up and coming stars of the Republican Party, they include Senator Marco Rubio, a Latino whose parents escaped from Cuba’s dictatorship, Bobby Jindal, of East Indian heritage, who’s done an incredible job of rebuilding Louisiana.<span> </span>Then there’s Chris Christy, the gruff, slightly overweight bull dog from New Jersey who has rocked the house in Trenton and put that State back on its feet after hovering on the brink of bankruptcy.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">And for those on the “tax the rich” bandwagon, I won’t go into my thoughts on that ridiculous banter, however, I will point out that the majority of these candidates came from very modest beginnings before their tenacity and hard work paid off.<span> </span>I can also tell you that among them they’ve given tens of millions of dollars to the underprivileged.<span> </span>In fact, as a percentage republicans far outweigh democrats in charitable donations, even though democrats reportedly have greater incomes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So who exactly are the racist Republicans/Tea Party discriminating against?<span> </span>Well it’s certainly not women, minorities, religion, race, the poor, the obese or the elderly.<span> </span>So if someone can answer this question for me, I’m all ears…</div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3508688683805818973.post-51508057191963224352011-09-11T16:10:00.000-07:002011-09-11T16:10:21.724-07:00Looking Back at 9/11<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We all know exactly where we were on this fateful day ten years ago. I had flown from London to San Francisco just one day prior and was staying at my favorite hotel in beautiful northern California. It was just after 6:30 in the morning when the phone rang in my hotel room. It was my wife, Robyn and her uncharacteristically anxious voice came over the line, “turn on the TV.” What unfolded on the screen in the hours that followed was simply unfathomable. And yet out of all the horror and destruction that ensued came a sense of pride and heroism never before witnessed by a new generation. Never have I been so proud to be an American – a decision I made at the age of 27 when I took a vow to love and honor this country. As I continued to watch the incredible heroism of fire fighters, policemen and everyday people who put everything on the line for their fellow citizens, I wondered at how they were so selfless under such circumstances. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> It’s hard to imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For the three days following the attack, having no air traffic available, my colleague and I drove across this great country meeting kind and generous people at every turn - people who would do anything and everything they could to help us reach our loved ones on the east coast. It was a journey I will always remember and one which fills me with incredible pride as I reflect on the goodness of people and the vast beauty of our countryside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As a toddler in London during WWII, and in my service to both America and Great Britain, I have experienced many conflicts and I have worked and lived in many parts of the world; always with a curiosity about what causes such hatred and strife to exist. And now more than ever I ask myself how this current state of affairs all began. Where did these terrorist factions come from and what motivates a person or group to commit such crimes against humanity? I am aware of some of the answers to these questions as a result of my experiences in Southeast Asia, Africa, the Mid-East and Europe, where I spent much of my time as a young man. I have firsthand knowledge of world events and in some cases, the foundation on which this hatred is born. I have set forth some of these ideas in my latest book, <i>The Final Doctrine</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You see, I have found over the years that in order to understand where we’re heading, we must first understand where we’ve just been. Particularly in America, people must realize that not everyone thinks as we do. As much as our fellow citizens wish to be fair minded and reasonable when it comes to the acceptance of other cultures and ideas – other countries are not as accepting of our western way of life. One must remember that the idea of America itself is the single most powerful concept human kind has ever produced. As Americans we need not apologize for our prosperity, nor should we ever consider being brought down a notch to appease others. In addition, for those who feel the word “terrorist” and in particular “Islamist terrorist” isn’t appropriate terminology for this day and age – simply turn on your television today and listen as the names of 3,000 of our fallen heroes are read, in many cases by the children who will never have the opportunity to know them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Take a long moment today to cherish your loved ones and reflect on how fortunate you are to be an American. We live in the greatest place on earth, a country where freedom and liberty prevail - without restriction or dictatorship; a country where those who are unable to comprehend the power of our constitution and the resolve of the American p<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=3508688683805818973&postID=5150805719196322435" name="_GoBack"></a>eople, are free to pursue other shores.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ian Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02112281110210904081noreply@blogger.com0