The sergeant, improbably, was still alive. He fell over and rolled around, and the men behind him, Grantham included, shouted for him to crawl back. He made it to a ditch in front of the house where the rest of his squad was hiding, and a corpsman went to work on him there. This went on for days. The moist air was thick with smoke and diesel fumes, and—because many of those killed on both sides remained unburied all over the city—the smell of rotting flesh.
You did not get used to it. On the day Grantham was wounded, all four of the other members of his machine-gun squad were hit by shrapnel. He was the only one unhurt. So Grantham did as he was told. He carried the gun out and then went back for Snow, whom he picked up and carried out to the others. Then someone down the street started yelling that they needed the machine gun. Grantham ran with it toward the house on the corner, which was set back farther from the street than the others.
He stopped behind the last house before that one, looked to his left, and saw an enemy soldier pointing a rifle at him. Grantham ducked into a back door just as rounds hit it behind him. He set up the gun in a rear window and started blasting toward the shooter. More enemy soldiers came running across the street toward the corner house and Grantham started shooting at them.
He ducked back out of the window just as return fire came through, waited for a few moments, and then peeked back out. It knocked him backward off his feet, and he landed on his back. He still had the machine gun in his hand when he hit the floor. Then he felt it—as if a hot poker had been stuck through his chest, just to the right of center. It burned all the way through him. He started to have trouble breathing. A Marine who had been in the room started to work on him.
His shirt was torn off. Grantham could see blood spurt out of the bullet hole when he exhaled and get sucked back inside when he tried to inhale. The Marine took the cellophane off a cigarette pack and placed it over the wound, then stuffed it into the bullet hole with a finger. Now he could breathe better, but the wound still burned.
Several of his ribs were shattered. The Marine kept slapping him, trying to keep him awake, trying to make him talk. Grantham felt an overpowering need to go to sleep. A corpsman came, fumbled with his arm, and started an I. There was a discussion about morphine. He was placed on a wooden door and four Marines carried him from the house and lifted him onto a tank with other wounded men.
When it started to move, the pain was excruciating. He drifted in and out of consciousness.
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At the second station, Grantham was removed from the tank and zipped immediately into a body bag. He was only semi-conscious. He could hear people yelling, screaming in pain, but there was not enough help for everyone. Grantham was sure he was dying. A whirl of thoughts went through his head: the people and things he would miss, his parents, his friend Freddie, a girl he liked. He had fallen ill when he was five years old. He had a rare enzyme disease, porphyria, which had affected his kidneys.
He was afraid of the hospital where his parents had taken him to stay, and where he was confined to his bed. So one day his father brought him the truck. It was a miniature tow truck made of metal, with real rubber tires. It had a hook on the back. You could change the tires and lower and raise the hook. The doors would open and close. He loved that truck.
They would order a dozen each, two large fries each, two big Cokes each, and two pieces of pie each.
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They took the food out to the car and sat there and feasted until it was time to go back to work. There were many people in the room, and there was a lot of noise, a lot of shouting. He was stripped naked and turned over on his side.go to site
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A nurse jabbed him with a needle. The doctor lifted one of his arms up over his head and started cutting. He was still conscious, and the blade stung like hell. When he next opened his eyes, he was on a hospital ship. He was in a tiny room with a number of other beds. The man in the bed next to him was screaming. The man had just awakened to discover that he had lost both of his legs.
A serviceman's poem describes a soldier's lonely night the evening before Christmas.
Grantham went immediately back to sleep. The next time he awoke he was being loaded onto a plane, a C, and he was told that he was being taken to the th Army Hospital, in Yokohama, Japan. As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see, no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand. On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land. With medals and badges, awards of all kind, a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
This was the home of a U. And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone, Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home. He seemed so gentle, his face so serene, Not how I pictured a U. His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan. I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night, owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight. Soon around the Nation, the children would play, And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day. They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year, because of Marines like this one lying here. Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye. I dropped to my knees and I started to cry. My life is my God, my country, my Corps. I watched him for hours, so silent and still. So I took off my jacket, the one made of red, and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold, with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold. And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride, and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.
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After leaving the Corps, Corporal Schmidt earned a law degree and now serves as an entertainment attorney in Los Angeles and is director of operations for a security consulting firm. Twas the night before Christmas, the ship was out steaming, Sailors stood watch while others were dreaming.
I had come down the stack with presents to give, And to see inside just who might perhaps live. No stockings were hung, shined boots close at hand, On the bulkhead hung pictures of a far distant land. For this place was different, so dark and so dreary, I had found the house of a Sailor, once I saw clearly.
I realized the families that I would visit this night, Owed their lives to these Sailors lay willing to fight. Soon round the world, the children would play, And grownups would celebrate on Christmas Day. They all enjoyed freedom each day of the year, Because of the Sailor, like the one lying here. We investigate as thoroughly and quickly as possible and relay what we learn. Then another question arrives, and the race starts again. We do this work every day at no cost to you, but it is far from free to produce, and we cannot afford to slow down.
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Among other issues, a troubling headline about "beating baby hearts" resulted in accusations of witness intimidation. Is it raining in the Amazon? Is the rainforest on fire? Sometimes viral photographs don't tell an accurate story. What did make a difference was a flood of Border Patrol agents, who began Operation Hold the Line in The fake story of two undocumented immigrants burglarizing a home and being killed by a little girl with a shotgun is more than a decade old.
Public Policy Polling found that a surprising percentage of voters advocated attacking a non-existent city from a Disney film. By most accounts, the protests held by "Extinction Rebellion" have been rather tidy affairs. Claim A U.
Kirschke, James J. 1941–
Rating True About this rating. Do you rely on Snopes reporting? Click here to support it. Leavenworth Lamp a few years later : I arrived in Korea in Jul 93 and was extremely impressed with the commitment of the soldiers I worked with and those that were prepared to give their lives to maintain the freedom of South Korea.