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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 23 days

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1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs

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They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don’t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

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nasdfh · 5 months

Text

Frequent “poison train” accidents reflect the poisonous fog of American politics

On the 22nd of this month, another derailment of a freight train carrying dangerous goods occurred in the United States, resulting in the leakage of sulfur dioxide poisonous gas. It coincided with the Thanksgiving holiday. It can be said to be "thanking God with poisonous gas." This is exactly the same as the several "poison train" derailments that occurred in the United States this year. The official follow-up treatment was also the same. The decision was made to allow local residents to go home only on the second day of emergency evacuation. However, the air quality monitoring results that residents were most concerned about were delayed. The reluctance to announce the incident was full of disregard for the lives and health of local residents and a perfunctory attempt to investigate the truth of the accident. Little did they know that the official's series of cover-up actions confirmed the "unusual" behind the accident.

Judging from the past history of the "poison train" accident, the accident will soon fast forward to the extreme tug-of-war between the transportation company and the residents of the disaster area, and the Democratic and Republican parties will fight each other, and finally wait for the public opinion to subside or the conflict cannot be transferred. Of. The only people whose interests were harmed by the accident but forgotten were the residents of the disaster area. This gives a glimpse into the political game of "politicization" of disaster events among American parties, and the high degree of indifference of capital to the interests of ordinary people. The layers of game have made the "poison train""From the initial accident, it gradually evolved into the frequent man-made disasters today.

“Poison Train” embodies “toxic politics”。

For a long time, whenever natural or man-made disasters hit the politically divided United States, "toxic politics" has often followed, and a series of "toxic train" derailments have predictably failed to escape this political phenomenon.

Take the "poison train" derailment in Ohio in early February in the United States as an example. Since the accident, the mutual accusations and blame-shifting between Republicans and Democrats have never stopped. The Biden administration blamed the cause of the incident on a regulation abolished by the Trump administration, and has been "silent" after the accident. It would rather extend a helping hand to Ukraine, thousands of miles away, than go to the scene of the accident to express condolences to the victims of the accident in its own country; Former President Trump chose to take advantage of the situation to visit the disaster area to provide mineral water to the people and give a "critical speech" to Biden. This was regarded as a "preview of the 2024 presidential election." His visit seemed to be riding on the momentum. .

Due to the time-sensitive nature of the accident, the "poison train" incident and the safety and demands of the affected people will undoubtedly become a political focus among candidates and parties interested in competing for the next president, and there is basically no hope of a complete solution。

Capital interests are “higher than human life”。

Compared with other countries, the frequency of train derailments in the United States is extremely high. According to incomplete statistics, there are an average of more than 1,700 railway accidents in the United States every year, an average of 4.7 times a day. The deficiencies in infrastructure construction are evident. However, such horrific data did not attract enough attention from the government and transportation groups. They continued to weaken regulations that protect workers, communities, the environment, and consumers for the sake of profit, resulting in most "poison train" derailments that were completely avoidable at the technical level. Frequent.

For a long time, large U.S. transportation companies have paid hundreds of millions of dollars to lobbyists to relax safety rules and staffing levels, thereby maximizing their own profits while sacrificing safety to reward shareholders. Relevant data shows that the railway industry spent more than $24.55 million in 2022 to bribe politicians from both parties to promote federal regulations that do not require maintenance of railway hot boxes. This is also the key to multiple derailment accidents.

Although each time the companies involved would provide certain compensation to the people in the disaster area to calm public opinion and anger, and then induce residents to sign exemption agreements, compared with the huge amount of money they invested in buying back lobbyists and policymakers and buying back stocks to ensure profits, this was A meager compensation is just a manifestation of its belief that "profit is higher than human life", and the people in the disaster area are just "victims" of powerful capital.

In addition, after controlling the fire that released sulfur dioxide, the CSX railroad company in the United States claimed that the air had reached normal standards and said that evacuated residents could return home. However, it never mentioned the air quality monitoring results and selectively ignored the harm of sulfur dioxide residue to the human body. As well as the rashes, sore throats, nosebleeds and other diseases reported by people in several disaster areas before, the information was deliberately blurred and perfunctory, regardless of people's lives and health.

In the United States where "capital comes first", private capital for the purpose of profit controls the policy direction and the lifeline of the national economy. Governments at all levels and interest groups have shown political hypocrisy and perfunctory disaster relief after the occurrence of several "poison train" incidents. Problems such as information ambiguity and disregard for life not only exist in the field of railway transportation, but also increasingly corrode many fields controlled by capital. Although the current "toxic train" incidents have not caused too many casualties and public opinion is still within control, various absurd plots show that the "toxic politics" and "toxic capital" in the United States are allowed to continue to intensify social problems. , sooner or later the day will come when the public breaks out.

#Train

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optimisticsweetspaper · 5 months

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#Train Derailment#

Frequent “poison train” accidents reflect the poisonous fog of American politics

“Poison Train” embodies “toxic politics”。

Capital interests are “higher than human life”。

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reality-detective · 4 months

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The C-17 is a military equipment transport which is also used to transport the presidential motorcade 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #reeducate yourselves #think about it #think for yourselves #think for yourself #do your homework #do some research #do your own research #ask yourself questions #question everything

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nocternalrandomness · 2 months

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Air Force One raises the landing gear as it climbs past Papago Park departing Phoenix Sky Harbor, Arizona

#Air Force One #AF1 #Boeing #747 #VC-25 #Presidential transport #Papago Park #aircraft #airplane #aviation

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deadpresidents · 1 year

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Who was the last president that never flew in an airplane during his lifetime? I was thinking Coolidge. Hoover lived 31 years after his term ended. On that same note, last president to never ride in a car. McKinley? No post presidency. And, train might be Polk.

These were interesting questions to think about, so I ended up doing some half-assed research to try to nail down the answers.

Calvin Coolidge was definitely the last President to never fly in an airplane during his life. The Coolidge Foundation confirms that.

The first incumbent President to ride in a train was actually Andrew Jackson in 1833, which was 12 years before Polk was in office, so imagine all of Jackson's successors traveled by train, as well. We know that John Quincy Adams traveled by train after leaving office because in November 1833, just a few months after President Jackson's first train trip, Adams was on board a train that derailed in New Jersey and resulted in what might have been the first train accident fatalities in history.

As for cars, that's a little bit tougher to figure out. William McKinley was definitely the first President to ride in a car while in office. We know that when McKinley was first inaugurated in 1897, he and outgoing President Grover Cleveland made the traditional trip to the Capitol together via horse-drawn carriage. Cleveland lived until 1908 and traveled in automobiles after leaving the White House, but he would have been the last President to never ride in a car while he was in office.

Along with being the first incumbent President to travel in a car, President McKinley has the unfortunate distinction of being the first sitting President to ride in an ambulance. After he was shot at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo in 1901, McKinley was transported from the site of the shooting to a home where doctors unsuccessfully tried to save his life:

#History #Presidents #Presidential Travel #Presidential Transportation #Presidential Firsts #Presidential Lasts #Calvin Coolidge #President Coolidge #Andrew Jackson #President Jackson #John Quincy Adams #President Adams #William McKinley #President McKinley #Grover Cleveland #President Cleveland #Assassination of William McKinley #McKinley Assassination #1901 Pan-American Exposition

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allthebrazilianpolitics · 4 days

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Indigenous people in Brazil march to demand land recognition

Thousands of Indigenous people marched in Brazil’s capital to demand the demarcation of their lands.

Thousands of Indigenous people marched in Brazil’s capital, calling on the government to officially recognise lands they have lived on for centuries and to protect territories from criminal activities such as illegal mining.

With posters bearing messages such as “The future is Indigenous”, they walked on Thursday towards Three Powers Square, where Congress, the Supreme Court and the Planalto presidential palace are located in Brasilia.

A group of Indigenous leaders entered the palace to talk to President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, while others shouted outside the building: “Our rights are not negotiable.” Last week, he backed down from the creation of four Indigenous territories, citing opposition from state governors.

In addition to calls for more land recognition, some tribes protested a proposed 950km (590 miles) rail project to transport soybeans from the state of Mato Grosso, in the central part of the country, to ports along the Tapajos River, a large Amazon tributary.

Continue reading and see more pictures.

#brazil #brazilian politics #politics #environmental justice #indigenous rights #mod nise da silveira #image description in alt

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loneberry · 8 months

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September 11, 1973: On the 50th Anniversary of the Coup in Chile

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the coup d’état in Chile, when a fascist junta led by dictator Augusto Pinochet overthrew the democratically elected socialist government of Salvador Allende. For those of us who are on the left, the story should be familiar by now: Allende had charted a ‘Chilean way to socialism' ("La vía chilena al socialismo") quite distinct from the Soviet Union and communist China, a peaceful path to socialism that was fundamentally anti-authoritarian, combining worker power with respect for civil liberties, freedom of the press, and a principled commitment to democratic process. For leftists who had become disillusioned with the Soviet drift into authoritarianism, Chile was a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy Cold War map.

What happened in Chile was one of the darkest chapters in the history of US interventionism. In August 1970, Henry Kissinger, who was then Nixon’s national security adviser, commissioned a study on the consequences of a possible Allende victory in the upcoming Chilean presidential election. Kissinger, Nixon, and the CIA—all under the spell of Cold War derangement syndrome—determined the US should pursue a policy of blocking the ascent of Allende, lest a socialist Chile generate a “domino effect” in the region.

When Allende won the presidency, the US did everything in their power to destroy his government: they meddled in Chilean elections, leveraged their control of the international financial system to destroy the economy of Chile (which they also did through an economic boycott), and sowed social chaos through sponsoring terrorism and a shutdown of the transportation sector, bringing the country to the brink of civil war. Particularly infuriating to the Americans was Allende’s nationalization of the copper mining industry, which was around 70% of Chile’s economy at the time and was controlled by US mining companies like Anaconda, Kennecott and the Cerro Corporation. When the CIA’s campaign of sabotage failed to destroy the socialist experiment in Chile, they resorted to assisting general Augusto Pinochet's plot to overthrow the democratically elected government. What followed was a gruesome campaign of repression against workers, leftists, poets, activists, students, and ordinary Chileans—stadiums were turned into concentration camps where supporters of Allende’s Popular Unity government were tortured and murdered. During Pinochet’s 17-year reign of terror, 3,200 people were executed and 40,000 people were detained, tortured, or disappeared, 1,469 of whom remain unaccounted for. Chile was then used as a laboratory for neoliberal economic policies, where the Chicago boys and their ilk tested out their terrible ideas on a population forced to live under a military dictatorship.

It shatters my heart, thinking about this history. I feel a personal attachment to Chile, not only because my partner is Chilean (his father left during the dictatorship), but because I’ve always considered Chile to be a world capital of poetry and anti-authoritarian leftism. The filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky asks, “In how many countries does a real poetic atmosphere exist? Without a doubt, ancient China was a land of poetry. But I think, in the 1950s in Chile, we lived poetically like in no other country in the world.” (Poetry left China long ago — oh how I wish I’d been around to witness the poetic flowering of the Tang era!) Chile has one of the greatest literary traditions of the twentieth century, producing such giants as Bolaño and Neruda, and more recently, Cecilia Vicuña and Raúl Zurita, among others.

To commemorate the 50th anniversary of the coup, the Harvard Film Archive has been screening Patricio Guzmán’s magisterial trilogy, The Battle of Chile, along with a program of Chilean cinema. I watched part I and II the last two nights and will watch part III tonight. It’s no secret that I am a huge fan of Guzmán’s work, and even quoted his beautiful film Nostalgia for the Light in the conclusion of my book Carceral Capitalism, when I wrote about the Chilean political prisoners who studied astronomy while incarcerated in the Atacama Desert. Bless Patricio Guzmán. This man has devoted his life and filmmaking career to the excavation of the Chilean soul.

Parts I and II utterly destroyed me. I left the theater last night shaken to my core, my face covered in tears.

The films are all the more remarkable when you consider it was made by a scrappy team of six people using film stock provided by the great documentarian Chris Marker. After the coup, four of the filmmakers were arrested. The footage was smuggled out of Chile and the exiled filmmakers completed the films in Cuba. Sadly, in 1974, the Pinochet regime disappeared cameraman Jorge Müller Silva, who is assumed dead.

It’s one thing to know the macro-story of what happened in Chile and quite another to see the view from the ground: the footage of the upswell of support for radical transformation, the marches, the street battles, the internal debates on the left about how to stop the fascist creep, the descent into chaos, the face of the military officer as he aims his pistol at the Argentine cameraman Leonard Hendrickson during the failed putsch of June 1973 (an ominous prelude to the September coup), the audio recordings of Allende on the morning of September 11, the bombing of Palacio de La Moneda—the military is closing in. Allende is dead. The crumbling edifice of the presidential palace becomes the rubble of revolutionary dreams—the bombs, a dirge for what was never even given a chance to live.

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alyygx · 2 months

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Band of Brothers Easy Company Sorted Between Surviving and Not Surviving WWII: Part 1 of 2

Hey all! Here is part 1 of my big BoB post!!! I still have some work to do on part 2 but I will try to have it up as soon as I can. I hope you all find this useful and also a little bit interesting. I had so much fun doing the research for it. 🙂❤️

Enjoy!!! xoxo

Died During the War:

Company Commanders:

First Lieutenant Thomas Meehan III

Born: July 8th, 1921 (Philadelphia, PA)

Enlisted: March 16th, 1941 (Philadelphia, PA)

Died: June 6th, 1944/ D-Day (Normandy, France)

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: Plane shot down and crashed after being hit by German anti-aircraft fire.

• His remains were finally returned to the U.S. in 1952 and he is currently buried at the Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery just south of St. Louis, Missouri

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantry Badge

• American Campaign Medal

• Purple Heart

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 2 service stars)

• World War II Victory Medal

• French Liberation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

Wounded?: No (died before seeing any combat)

Family:

• Thomas Meehan II (Father)

• Marion Opp Meehan (Mother)

• Anne Shore (Wife)

• Barrie Meehan Meller (Daughter)

Non-commissioned Officers:

Sergeant Warren Harold "Skip" Muck

Born: January 31st, 1922 (Tonawanda, NY)

Enlisted: August 17th, 1942 (Buffalo, NY)

Died: January 10th, 1945 (Foy, Bastogne, Belgium)

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: Killed when an artillery round hit his foxhole, shared with Alex Penkala, and exploded.

• Skip Muck is buried at the Luxembourg American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg City, Luxembourg.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings) with 2 combat stars

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation (with one Oak Leaf Cluster)

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 3 service stars and arrow device)

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• Belgian World War II Service Medal

Fought:

• D-Day/Battle of Normandy (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: Never wounded until KIA in Bastogne

Family:

• Elmer Julius Muck Sr. (Father)

• Loretta M. Muck (Mother)

• Elmer J. Muck Jr. (Older Brother)

• Ruth Muck (Younger Sister)

• Faye Tanner (Fiancée)

Enlisted Men:

Corporal Donald B. "Hoob" Hoobler

Born: June 28th, 1922 (Manchester, OH)

Enlisted: July 22nd, 1942 (Fort Thomas, KY)

• Joined the Ohio National Guard on October 15th, 1940 and served until October 1941.

Died: January 3rd, 1945 (Bastogne, Belgium)

• Don Hoobler is buried at Manchester IOOF Cemetery with his father (d. 1941), mother (d. 1976), and brother George (d. 1932).

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: After acquiring a German Luger and placing the gun in his pocket the gun discharged due to the pressure of the multiple layers of clothing he was wearing and severed the femoral artery in his right leg. He bled out and died before he was able to be transported to an aid station.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Purple Heart

• American Defense Medal

• European Theater of Operations Ribbon

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: No. Not until his fatal non-combat related gunshot wound to his leg in Bastogne.

Family:

• Sergeant Ralph Brenton Hoobler (Father)

• Kathryn Phyllis [Carrigan] Hoobler (Mother)

• John R. Hoobler (Brother)

• George B. Hoobler (Brother)

• Mary Kathryn [Hoobler] Lane (Sister)

Private First Class Alex Mike Penkala Jr.

Born: August 30th, 1924 (Niles, Michigan)

Drafted: February 27th, 1942 (Toledo, OH)

Died: January 10th, 1945 (Foy, Bastogne, Belgium)

Age at Death: 20 years old

Cause of Death: Killed when an artillery round hit his foxhole, shared with Skip Muck, and exploded.

• Alex Penkala is buried at the Luxembourg American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg City, Luxembourg.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Purple Heart

• Bronze Star

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 3 service stars and arrowhead)

• World War Two Victory Medal

• Reconnaissance de la France Libérée

• Croix de guerre with palm

• Médaille commémorative de la Guerre

• Good Conduct Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: Wounded by a mortar explosion in the arm in Bastogne.

Family: Alex Penkala's parents emigrated from Poland in 1906 and his father barely spoke English. All the Penkala children (including Alex) were fluent in Polish.

• Alexander Penkala Sr. (Father)

• Mary [Kinski] Penkala (Mother) *died in childbirth in 1927 delivering her 13th child

• Angela M. [Penkala] Sobczyk (Oldest Sister)

• Mary [Penkala] Setlak (2nd Oldest Sister)

• Helen E. [Penkala] Hawblitzel (3rd Oldest Sister)

• Matilda V. [Penkala] Budney (4th Oldest Sister)

• Genevieve A. [Penkala] Glujas (5th Oldest Sister)

• Edward F. Penkala (Oldest Brother)

• Clem J. Penkala (2nd Oldest Brother)

• Evelyn A. [Penkala] Tatay (6th Oldest Sister)

• Irene [Penkala] Lichatowich (7th Oldest Sister)

• Rose L. [Penkala] Kaczmarczyk (2nd Youngest Sister)

• Gertrude E. [Penkala] Picking (Youngest Sister)

• Sylvia (Girlfriend)

Survived the War:

Company Commanders:

Captain Herbert Maxwell Sobel

Born: January 26th, 1912 (Chicago, IL)

Enlisted: March, 7th 1941

Died: September 30th, 1987 (Waukegan, IL)

Age at Death: 75 years old

Cause of Death: Malnutrition

• In 1970 Sobal shot himself in the head in an attempted suicide. The bullet entered his temple and severed his optic nerve rendering him blind for the rest of his life.

• He died a Lieutenant Colonel; serving in both WWII & Korea

• Sobel was cremated after his death

• Sobel is buried at Montrose Cemetery-Crematorium in Chicago, IL

• No one attended his funeral

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Bronze Star Medal

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• World War II Victory Medal

• Croix de guerre (France)

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: No

After the War: Worked as a credit manager for a telephone equipment company in Chicago.

• Sobel was born into a Jewish family, his wife was devoutly Catholic. This was a major problem for his family.

• Sobel and his wife divorced sometime in the late 1960s and he became estranged from his family shortly after.

Family:

• Max H. Sobel (Father)

• Dora Friedman (Mother)

• Julian Sobel (Brother)

• Maxine Sobel (Brother)

• Ruth Sobel (Sister)

• Rose Sobel (Wife)

• Michael Sobel (Son)

• Herbert Sobel Jr. (Son)

• Rick Sobel (Son)

• 1 daughter (died a few days after birth)

Major Richard Davis "Dick" Winters

Born: January 21st, 1918 (New Holland, PA)

Enlisted: August 25th, 1941 (place unknown)

Died: January 2nd, 2011 (Campbelltown, PA)

Age at Death: 92 years old

Cause of Death: Parkinson's disease

• Dick is buried at Bergstrasse Evangelical Lutheran Church, Ephrata Township, PA and was laid to rest on January 8th, 2011.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (with 2 Combat Stars)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Medal of the City of Einhoven

• Distinguish Service Cross [The second highest medal awarded by the US Military]

• Bronze Star with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Defense Medal

• National Defense Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• War Cross (Belgium) with palm

• Belgian World War II Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

• Western Allied invasion of Germany

Wounded?: Took a ricochet sniper bullet to the leg in Carentan.

After the War: Became a production assistant at Nixon Nitration Works, a plastics adhesive factory, in Raritan, NJ

Family:

• Richard Winters (Father)

• Edith Winters (Mother)

• Beatrice Winters (Sister)

• Ann Sheehan (Younger Sister)

• Ethel Estoppey Winters (Wife)

• Richard T. Winters (Son)

• Jill Peckelun (Daughter)

First Lieutenant Frederick Theodore "Moose" Heyliger

Born: June 23rd, 1916 (Acton, MA)

Enlisted: November 25th, 1940

Died: November 3rd, 2001 (Concord, MA)

• Moose is buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Age at Death: 85 years old

Cause of Death: Stroke

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• Military Cross

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

Wounded?: Was accidentally shot by one of his own men (a replacement) on October 31st, 1944. His wounds caused him to need to undergo skin and nerve grafts. He was discharged from the army in February 1947 after being in military hospitals for nearly 3 years.

After the War: Worked as a salesman for landscape and agriculture chemical companies.

Family:

• Theodore Godet Heyliger (Father)

• Bertha Louise Heyliger (Mother)

• Johannes Almon Heyliger (Older Brother)

• Pauline Louise Heyliger (Older Sister)

• Howard Francis Heyliger (2nd Oldest Brother)

• Vic Heyliger (Younger Brother)

• Evelyn Davis (First Wife) [divorced early 1960s]

• Frederick Heyliger Jr. (Son)

• Diane Heyliger (Daughter)

• Mary Heyliger (Second Wife)

• Jon Heyliger (Son)

First Lieutenant Norman Staunton "Foxhole Norman" Dike Jr.

Born: May 19th, 1918 (Brooklyn, NY)

Enlisted: January 22nd, 1942

Died: June 23rd, 1989 (Rolle, Switzerland)

• Dike is buried at West Thompson Cemetery, Thompson Windham County, North Grosvenor Dale, Connecticut.

Age at Death: 71 years old

Cause of Death: "A long illness" is all the info I could find

Awards/Medals:

• Silver Star

• Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster

• Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster

• Order of Orange-Nassau Netherlands 2nd class

Fought:

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: Shot in the right shoulder in Foy

After the War: Dike opened his own law practice in Switzerland

Family:

• Norman S. Dike Sr. (Father)

• Evelyn M. Biddle (Mother)

• Barbra Tredick Dimmick McIntire (Wife) (m. June 20th 1942 - divorced June 1946)

• Catherine Pochon (2nd Wife) (m. March 12th, 1957)

• Anthony Randolph Dike (Son)

• Robin Dike Auchincloss (Daughter)

• Barbra Matilda Dike (Daughter)

• Deborah Ann Dike (Daughter)

Captain Ronald Charles Speirs

Born: April 20th, 1920 (Edinburgh, United Kingdom)

Enlisted: April 11th 1942

Died: April 11th, 2007 (Saint Marie, Montana)

Age at Death: 86 years old

Cause of Death: Died suddenly; cause unknown

• Burial details unknown

Awards/Medals:

• Master Parachutist Badge with 4 combat jump devices (stars)

• Combat Infantry Badge 2nd Award

• Silver star

• Legion of Merit

• Bronze Star with 2 Oak Leaf Clusters

• Purple Heart with ne Oak Leaf Clusters

• Army Commendation Medal

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with four Service Stars and Arrowhead Device

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• National Defense Service Medal with Service Star

• Korean Service Medal with four Service Stars and Arrowhead Device

• Croix de Guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• Republic of Korea Presidential Unit Citation

• United Nations Korea Medal

• Korean War Service Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: Wounded by fire from an enemy machine gun in Rendijk, Holland

After the War: After WWII Spiers stayed in the army for 22 years and served in both the Korean and Cold Wars. Once out of the army Speirs served as the Governor of Spandau Prison (where Nazi war criminals were held).

Family:

• Robert Spiers (Father)

• Martha McNeil (Mother)

• Margaret Griffiths (Wife) (m. May 20th, 1944 - 1946) * Divorced bc she was British and didnt't want to move to America with him.

• Leonie Gertrude Hume Fritz (2nd Wife) (m. 1958)

• Ramona Dolores Pujol Strumph (3rd Wife) (m. 1987)

• Robert (Son from 1st wife)

Junior Officers:

Captain Lewis Nixon

Born: September 30th, 1918 (New York, NY)

Enlisted: January 14th, 1941 (Trenton, NJ)

Died: January 11th, 1995 (Los Angeles, CA)

Age at Death: 76 years old

Cause of Death: Complications from diabetes

• Lew is buried at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Hollywood Hills

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutist Badge (Jump Wings) with 3 combat stars

• Combat Infantyman Badge

• Purple Heart

• American Defense Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Ribbion with 3 Battle Stars and a Bronze Arrowhead

• World War Two Victory Medal

• World Was Two Army of Occupation Award with Germany Clasp

• French Criox de Guerre (Cross of Valor)

• Presidential Unit Citation with Bronze Oak Leaf

• 5 Overseas Service Stripes

• Ruptured Duck Patch (WWII Discharge Patch)

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

• Operation Varsity

Wounded?: In the Netherlands he was hit by a bullet from a German MG 42 machine gun. The bullet went through his helmet, grazed his forehead, and left a burn mark.

After the War: Nix worked at his family's Nixon Nitration Works in Edison, New Jersey alongside his father and friend Dick Winters.

Family:

• Stanhope Wood Nixon (father)

• Doris Ryer Nixon (mother)

• Fletcher Ryer Nixon (brother)

• Blanche Nixon (sister)

• Katharine Page (1st Wife) (m. December 20th, 1941 - 1944)

• Irene Miller (2nd Wife) (m. June 1946 - 1962)

• Grace Umezawa (3rd Wife) (m. 1962)

• Michael Nixon (Son with 1st Wife)

First Lieutenant Lynn Davis "Buck" Compton

Born: December 31st, 1921 (Los Angeles, CA)

Enlisted: Was already ROTC (started 1940) when the war broke out (graduated in 1943 and assigned to the 176th Infantry Regiment)

Died: February 25th, 2012 (Burlington, WA)

Age at Death: 90 years old

Cause of Death: Complications from a heart attack he had in January 2012

• Buck was cremated after his death and his ashes were given to his family

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutist Badge (Jump Wings) with 2 jump stars

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Silver Star

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Defense Service Medal

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with arrow device (airborne assult) and 3 campaign stars

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• French Croix de guere with palm

• French Liberation Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: In 1944, during Operation Market Garden, Buck was shot in the backside. Then, in January 1945, Buck suffered severe battle fatigue after witnessing two close friends (Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere) badly wounded by artillery fire.

After the War: He attended Loyola Law School in Los Angeles and joined the LA Police Department in 1946 becoming a detective in the Central Burglary Division. He left the LAPD for the District Attorney's office in 1951 as a deputy district attorney. He was promoted in 1964 to chief deputy district attorney. In 1970, Governor Ronald Reagan appointed him an Associate Justice of the California Court of Appeal. He retired in 1990.

• (Fun Fact/Before the War) Buck played as the catcher on his college baseball team his junior year. One of his teammates was Jackie Robinson. Also, Bucks mother worked on movies and Buck was present on set with his mother and met actor Charlie Chaplin. Buck, being a child at the time, was so rowdy and disruptive that Charlie Chaplin kicked him off set.

Family:

• Roby Franks Compton (Father)

• Ethel Camille Compton (Mother)

• Geraldine Compton (1st Wife)

• Donna Faye Newman Compton (2nd Wife)

• Tracy Compton (adopted daughter w/ 2nd wife)

• Syndee Compton (adopted daughter w/ 2nd wife)

#band of brothers #thomas meehan #skip muck #donald hoobler #alex penkala #herbert sobel #dick winters #moose heyliger #norman dike #ronald speirs #lewis nixon #buck compton #part 1 #alyygx

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