This one is about my dad at Tarawa.I'll have to start out with a bit of background on my grandpa first.He was a Kentucky hillbilly,living in Galatin County,and things were always pretty tough there.As a young man,he saw action in the Spanish/American war.I wish I could say he rode up San Juan hill with Colonel Roosevelt,but that is'nt the case-but he did serve with the 6th infantry as a rifleman.After the war,he reurned to Kentucky,and was raising a family.Times were tough there-at the bet of times.Then WW1 came along,and he went back into the army,serving in France and leaving the army with the rank of corporal.I suspect he joined up as much for the money to feed his family as for any reasons of patriotic zeal.He then returned back home,and continued trying to eke out a living,and they were just barely getting by.

Then the depression came along.By the early 30s,it was pretty much hopeless,and he packed up the family and went to the relatively more prosperous southern Illinois and Kentucky line area.It was still a struggle to get by,but there was SOME work available,in the mines and on the railroad,so they made it.Then the depression WORSENED.I've talked to some old timers who said that 1940 and 1941 were the WORST years of that era.Well,my dad finally ended up leaving home,in the summer of '41,with the clothes on his back,and two cans of condensed milk,just so there'd be one less mouth to feed.He knocked around southern and central Illinois,getting what odd jobs he could find.He worked at a CCC camp for awhile,and then on the fateful day of Dec. 7,1941,as we know.we were attacked at Pearl Harbor.

He went down to a navy recruiting office in Illinois-and the guy there was'nt examining his birth certificate too closely.He ended up in the navy at the ripe old age of 15,and began to train as a medical corpsman.

Now,combat medics-of any branch,are angels,and heroes.Every platoon has the guy named "doc"-who we depend on to save us when we're wounded,and these guys have a set that clanks when they walk.Normally armed only with a pistol,they go into battle and face everything we do-AND try to save as many wounded guys as they can.Theres a special place in Fiddler's Green for combat medics(thats where,as Irish legend has it,that cavalrymen go to after they die,to have one last beer with their friends.I'm sure we can squeeze a few medics in at the bar)

November of 1943,as the campaign in the central pacific is going on,our forces were ready to hit Tarawa,a small,but incredibly well defended island in the Gilberts.The japanese admiral in command boasted that our forces could'nt take Tarawa in 100 years with a million men.Well,we took it in 4 days with 23,000 men,but it was THE bloodiest fighting of the entire war.It was defended by elite units of the Japanese Marines-and those boys were TOUGH!

Our forces began the assault,and a large number of the higgins boats,the landing craft used to ferry our troops to the beach,capsized,or were wrecked on the coral reefs on the approaches,with the resulting loss of most of the heavy weapons.the 1st Marine division waded through the surf,and assaulted the beach,with little more than their rifles.It was a bloodbath,Casualties were horrendous.

My dad,as a medic,sprang into action.Bear in mind,my dad had been starved during the lean years of the depression,with the result that his growth had been stunted.He was'nt a big guy at all.Maybe 130 pounds soaking wet.Well,he went in,and started hauling wounded marines to the relative safety of the beach.He had the first two of them evacked,when he got shot in the back.Twice.He kept going.He pulled out FOURTEEN more marines.

Finally,as he deposited the 14th man at the beach,two marines grabbed him,and pulled him behind cover,and began to treat HIS wounds.

He spent months in the hospital,and was 100% disabled from that time on.In a special ceremony,in Washington D.C.,in the summer of 1944,my dad,along with several others,recieved the silver star from Frank Knox,secretary of the navy.He was one of only 10 navy corpsman te recieve it at Tarawa.

Its quite a legacy to try to live up to.

People can be idiots.We've all seen that.But there are people that definitely go above and beyond plain garden variety stupid.The other night,I stopped at a gas station in Green Bay on the way home-in a neighborhood not exactly noted for anyone being too high on the food chain.The kind of place where you keep one hand on yer wallet and one on a tire iron.......

Anyway,I was inside paying for my gas,when a gal came in who'd make Janet Reno in a thong look sexy,and she went to the ATM machine.The machine had a sign on it,with the highly technical,and difficult to understand words written on it-"out of order-do not use"I can certainly see where she did'nt quite grasp the concept.Pretty difficult concept to understand.

Anyway,she REMOVED the sign,and attempted a withdrawal.Repeatedly.Was'nt having any luck.Go figure.....

Then she started cussing it out.Then started beating the shit out of it.Gee,still would'nt work......Then Marvin,the night clerk,who is a member in good standing of the Wisconsin chapter of the character tribe,had his fill."Lady,its fuckin' BROKEN".Marvin was much more patient than I'd have been......

The Tank that won WW2.a piece of shit,but we had LOTS of them.I hate to admit it,but I'm old enough to remember still seeing one in active service

PC Cat definitions
(author unknown)



The cat does not barf hairballs; he is a floor/rug redecorator.
The cat does not break things; she helps gravity do its job.

The cat does not fear dogs; they are merely sprint practice tools.

The cat does not gobble; she eats with alacrity.

The cat does not scratch; he is a furniture/rug/skin ventilator.

The cat does not yowl; he is singing off-key.

The cat is not a "shedding machine;" she is a hair relocation stylist.

The cat is not a "treat-seeking missile;" she enjoys the proximity of food.

The cat is not a bed hog; he is a mattress appreciator.

The cat is not a chatterbox; she is advising me on what to do next.

The cat is not a dope addict; she is catnip appreciative.

The cat is not a lap fungus; he is bed selective.

The cat is not a pest; she is attention deprived.

The cat is not a ruthless hunter; she is a wildlife control expert.

The cat is not evil; she is badness enhanced.

The cat is not fat; he is mass enhanced.

The cat is not lazy; he is motivationally challenged.

The cat is not underfoot; she is shepherding me to the next destination, the food dish.

yesterday,a buddy of mine sent me a clip of a video,showing a couple folks who went out to get signatures on a petition,to try to get a certain chemical substance banned.They did'nt tell any lies,they simply said what the substance was,and how it ends up in our food and envoirnment.People EAGERLY signed it.The substance?dyhydrogen monoxide.H20.Freakin' WATER people.Yet,they had the people they talked to utterly convinced it was part of some nefarious plot by evil white male republicans to POISON us,all in the name of profit,and the government was REFUSING to regulate it.

Now,I have nothing against petitions.They're a fine american tradition,to let the politicians know we feel strongly about something.But READ what it is-and if you don't understand it,ASK!I've certainly signed my fair share of them-in fact I EAGERLY signed our recall petition some years ago to get a recall election for our junior senator,when it became quite obvious that his views on infanticide,the right to bear arms,and actually keeping some of own money were not the same as ours.

This just shows how gullible people can be.