Red Baron Quotes

Here I am flying high over enemy lines in my Sopwith Camel searching for the Red Baron. Who's that behind me? It's the Red Baron! He has me in his sights! Give my regards to Broadway.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword,. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get u feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a like wench for my droit du seigneur--I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prestor John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be--instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

It is the custom on the stage: in all good, murderous melodramas: to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky, well-cured bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; and, in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger; drawing forth a dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and, just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard: and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle: where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually. Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on; which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

The English had hit upon a splendid joke. They intended to catch me or to bring me down.

Kresh kept silent beside me as Baron rehearsed his deadly plan. I listened with my eyes aimed at the horizon, witnessing the night consume a final red vein of daylight. It struck me that nightfall always drowned the sunset. Never did the sun resurface from where it sank, nor would it ever.

I never was good at learning things. I did just enough work to pass. In my opinion it would have been wrong to do more than was just sufficient, so I worked as little as possible.” – Manfred von Richthofen

In late 1915 there appeared on the Western Front a German flier named Manfred von Richthofen, known as the Red Baron, after his royal title and a penchant for painting his squadron’s Fokker triwing fighters red. He was a natural born killer who shot down more than eighty enemy aircraft before himself being fatally brought down by ground fire

Now, he thought, a satanic grin on his lips, I’ll show you an Immelmann. He threw the aircraft into a half loop and then snapped it over in a half roll, heading on a direct course toward the helicopter. “Write your will, sucker!” he shouted, his voice drowned out by the rush of wind and the roar of the engine’s exhaust. “Here comes the Red Baron.

It was as if there were but one woman in the world, laughing at him from behind a dozen masks.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist, and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur - I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and to eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be the way they had promised me it was going to be, instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is. I had had one chance - for ten minutes yesterday afternoon. Helen of Troy, whatever your true name may be - and I had known it and I had let it slip away. Maybe one chance is all you ever get.

He had done it all, from barnstorming to crop dusting, and had even flown a Davis Waco with the Baby Ruth Flying Circus. It was an advertising blitz unlike anything the country had ever seen. Billy would fly over county and state fairs, racetracks, and crowded beaches in his red and white plane, dropping hundreds of tiny rice paper parachutes—each one bearing a small Baby Ruth candy bar—on the crowds below.

He was held in great respect. Who remembered now that he was a forger, a perjurer, a murderer and something of a sorcerer? Who would have dared remind him of it? He was Monseigneur Robert, a giant beginning to grow old but still possessed of surprising strength and immense self-assurance, who, invariably dressed in red, was leading an English army into France. Nor did it matter to him that his soldiers were foreigners. Indeed, this was not the sort of thing to which any count, baron or knight gave a thought. Their campaigns were family matters; their battles quarrels over inheritance; the enemy was a cousin, the ally another. It was to the population who would be massacred, whose houses would be burnt, barns looted and women raped, that the word foreigner meant enemy; not to the princes who were defending their titles and asserting their rights.

Then I began writing. It was about a German aviator in World War I. Baron Von Himmlen. He flew a red Fokker. And he was not popular with his fellow fliers. He didn't talk to them. He drank alone and he flew alone. He didn't bother with women, although they all loved him. He was above that. He was too busy. He was busy shooting Allied plans out of the sky. Already he had shot down 110 and he war wasn't over. His red Fokker, which he referred to as the "October Bird of Death," was known everywhere. Even the enemy ground troops knew him as he often flew low over them, taking their gunfire and laughing, dropping bottles of champagne to them suspended from little parachutes. Baron Von Himmlen was never attacked by less than five Allied planes at a time. He was an ugly man with scars on his face, but he was beautiful if you looked long enough -- it was in the eyes, his style, his courage, his fierce aloneness.

Marx believed that as wealth becomes more concentrated, poverty will become more widespread and the plight of working people evermore desperate. According to his critics, this prediction has proven wrong. They point out that he wrote during a time of raw industrialism, an era of robber barons and the fourteen-hour work day. Through persistent struggle, the working class improved its life conditions from the mid-nineteenth to the mid-twentieth centuries. Today, mainstream spokespersons portray the United States as a prosperous middle-class society. Yet one might wonder. During the Reagan-Bush-Clinton era, from 1981 to 1996, the share of the national income that went to those who work for a living shrank by over 12 percent. The share that went to those who live off investments increased almost 35 percent. Less than 1 percent of the population owns almost 50 percent of the nation’s wealth. The richest families are hundreds of times wealthier than the average household in the lower 90 percent of the population. The gap between America’s rich and poor is greater than it has been in more than half a century and is getting ever-greater. Thus, between 1977 and 1989, the top 1 percent saw their earnings grow by over 100 percent, while the three lowest quintiles averaged a 3 to 10 percent drop in real income.

The baron had one hand pressed to the nape of his neck, and the chest of his shirt was speckled with drops of blood. 'Were you bitten?' 'Yes' His face was pale, his lips colorless, and from them poked a pair of bloody red fangs - Taki's throat had been torn open. 'And that awoke it in you, too?' D's ears caught a distant voice. *You were my only success.* Taki's voice came back to him. *Save me D.* D heard the blue voice. 'D - destroy me.' 'No one has hired me.' 'I'll be the client.' 'I see.' For an instant, two streaks of light adorned the transparent morn. The light from the baron skimmed by D as the Hunter bent back far, imbedding itself in the floor, while D's blade pinned the Nobleman's chest to the wall.

A movement caught his attention. A flash of white, a dash of color, dusty red against the gray-green of the leaves. Dragon lizards skittered into hiding behind the rocks as he stepped out of the trees into the clearing. A girl, hair dangling down her back in disarray, homespun skirt hitched up underneath a heavy leather apron, her brown feet bare, crouched beside a pool, hand outstretched to a pure white animal with large powerful hind legs and a long muscular tail. He'd read about these strange quadrupeds in the baron's notes. Kangaroos, the New Hollanders called them, and they were plentiful, reds and browns and grays, but white? And the girl like some Valkyrie. Hair the color of warm chestnut settling around her sculptured face.

from Testimony" Outside the night was cold, the snow was deep on sill and sidewalk; but in our kitchen it was bright and warm. I smelt the damp clothes as my mother lifted them from the basket, the pungent smell of melting wax as she rubbed it on the iron, and the good lasting smell of meat and potatoes in the black pot that simmered on the stove. The stove was so hot it was turning red. My mother lifted the lid of the pot to stir the roast with a long wooden spoon: Father would not be home for another hour. I tugged at her skirts. Tell me a story! Once upon a time (the best beginning!) there was a rich woman, a baroness, and a poor woman, a beggar. The poor woman came every day to beg and every day the rich woman gave her a loaf of bread until the rich woman was tired of it. I will put poison in the next loaf, she thought, to be rid of her. The beggar woman thanked the baroness for that loaf and went to her hut, but, as she was going through the fields, she met the rich woman's son coming out of the forest. "Hello, hello, beggar woman!" said the young baron, "I have been away for three days hunting and am very hungry. I know you are coming from my mother's and that she has given you a loaf of bread; let me have it--she will give you another." "Gladly, gladly," said the beggar woman, and, without knowing it was poisoned, gave him the loaf. But, as he went on, he thought, I am nearly home-- I will wait. You may be sure that his mother was glad to see him, and she told the maids to bring a cup of wine and make his supper--quickly quickly! "I met the beggar woman," he said, "And was so hungry I asked for the loaf you gave her." "Did you eat it, my son?" the baroness whispered. "No, I knew you had something better for me than this dry bread." She threw it right into the fire, and every day, after that, gave the beggar woman a loaf and never again tried to poison her. So, my son, if you try to harm others, you may only harm yourself. And, Mother, if you are a beggar, sooner or later, there is poison in your bread.

It doesn't take ten years of study, you don't need to go to the University, to find out that this is a damned good world gone wrong. Gone wrong, because it is being monkeyed with by people too greedy and mean and wrong-hearted altogether to do the right thing by our common world. They've grabbed it and they won't let go. They might lose their importance; they might lose their pull. Everywhere it's the same. Beware of the men you make your masters. Beware of the men you trust. We've only got to be clear-headed to sing the same song and play the same game all over the world, we common men. We don't want Power monkeyed with, we don't want Work and Goods monkeyed with, and, above all, we don't want Money monkeyed with. That's the elements of politics everywhere. When these things go wrong, we go wrong. That's how people begin to feel it and see it in America. That's how we feel it here -- when we look into our minds. That's what common people feel everywhere. That's what our brother whites -- "poor whites" they call them -- in those towns in South Carolina are fighting for now. Fighting our battle. Why aren't we with them? We speak the same language; we share the same blood. Who has been keeping us apart from them for a hundred and fifty-odd years? Ruling classes. Politicians. Dear old flag and all that stuff! Our school-books never tell us a word about the American common man; and his school-books never tell him a word about us. They flutter flags between us to keep us apart. Split us up for a century and a half because of some fuss about taxing tea. And what are our wonderful Labour and Socialist and Communist leaders doing to change that? What are they doing to unite us English-speaking common men together and give us our plain desire? Are they doing anything more for us than the land barons and the factory barons and the money barons? Not a bit of it! These labour leaders of to-day mean to be lords to-morrow. They are just a fresh set of dishonest trustees. Look at these twenty-odd platforms here! Mark their needless contradictions! Their marvellous differences on minor issues. 'Manoeuvres!' 'Intrigue.' 'Personalities.' 'Monkeying.' 'Don't trust him, trust me!' All of them at it. Mark how we common men are distracted, how we are set hunting first after one red herring and then after another, for the want of simple, honest interpretation...

Tis the middle of night by the castle clock" 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu—whit!—Tu—whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothèd knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest mistletoe: She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell.— On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek— There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky …

Another woman catches sight of Fischerle's hump on the ground and runs screaming into the street: 'Murder! Murder!' She takes the hump for a corpse. Further details - she knows none. The murderer is very thin, a poor sap, how he came to do it, you shouldn't have thought it of him. Shot may be, someone suggests. Of course, everyone heard the shot. Three streets off, the shot had been heard. Not a bit of it, that was a motor tyre. No, it was a shot! The crowd won't be done out of its shot. A threatening attitude is assumed towards the doubters. Don't let him go. An accessory. Trying to confuse the trail! Out of the building comes more news. The woman's statements are revised. The thin man has been murdered. And the corpse on the floor? It's alive. It's the murderer, he had hidden himself. He was tring to creep away between the corpse's legs when he was caught. The more recent information is more detailed. The little man is a dwarf. What do you expect, a cripple! The blow was actually struck by another. A redheaded man. Ah, those redheads. The dwarf put him up to it. Lynch him! The woman gave the alarm. Cheers for the woman! She screamed and screamed. A Woman! Doesn't know what fear is. The murderer had threatened her. The redhead. It's always the Reds. He tore her collar off. No shooting. Of course not. What did he say? Someone must have invented the shot. The dwarf. Where is he? Inside. Rush the doors! No one else can get in. It's full up. What a murder! The woman had a plateful. Thrashed her every day. Half dead, she was. What did she marry a dwarf for? I wouldn't marry a dwarf. And you with a big man to yourself. All she could find. Too few men, that's what it is. The war! Young people to-day...Quite young he was too. Not eighteen. And a dwarf already. Clever! He was born that way. I know that. I've seen him. Went in there. Couldn't stand it. Too much blood. That's why he's so thin. An hour ago he was a great, fat man. Loss of blood, horrible! I tell you corpses swell. That's drowned ones. What do you know about corpses? Took all the jewellery off the corpse he did. Did it for the jewellery. Just outside the jewellery department it was. A pearl necklace. A baroness. He was her footman. No, the baron. Ten thousand pounds. Twenty thousand! A peer of the realm! Handsome too. Why did she send him? Should he have let his wife? It's for her to let him. Ah, men. She's alive though. He's the corpse. Fancy dying like that! A peer of the realm too Serve him right. The unemployed are starving. What's he want with a pearl necklace. String 'em up I say! Mean it too. The whole lot of them. And the Theresianum too. Burn it! Make a nice blaze.

One might see red and green and yellow and purple, but sometimes buried within are other shades… Like gray. Life, much like color, doesn’t exist in a neat, orderly way, no matter how much easier it might be to categorize it. People are no different. You cannot neatly file them as sinners or saints. We are all simply people, flawed by our own rights…surviving in an uncertain world. ~ Bridget Hamilton (Chapter 8)

The Jes Grew crisis was becoming acute. Compounding it, Black Yellow and Red Mu'tafikah were looting the museums shipping the plunder back to where it came from. America, Europe's last hope, the protector of the archives of "mankind's" achievements had come down with a bad case of Jes Grew and Mu'tafikah too. Europe can no longer guard the "fetishes" of civilizations which were placed in the various Centers of Art Detention, located in New York City. Bootlegging Houses financed by Robber Barons, Copper Kings, Oil Magnets, Tycoons and Gentlemen Planters. Dungeons for the treasures from Africa, South America and Asia. The army devoted to guarding this booty is larger than those of most countries. Justifiably so, because if these treasures got into the "wrong hands" (the countries from which they were stolen) there would be renewed enthusiasms for the Ikons of the aesthetically victimized civilizations.

This is why tigers have ranges of hundreds of square kilometers," Vlad said. "Robber barons are not really very efficient.

a network that fans out in every direction, routes along which pilgrims and warriors, nomads and merchants have travelled, goods and produce have been bought and sold, and ideas exchanged, adapted and refined. They have carried not only prosperity, but also death and violence, disease and disaster. In the late nineteenth century, this sprawling web of connections was given a name by an eminent German geologist, Ferdinand von Richthofen (uncle of the First World War flying ace the “Red Baron”) that has stuck ever since: “Seidenstraßen”—the Silk Roads.

So Kansas was free. In vain did the sullen Senate in Washington fume and threaten and keep the young state knocking for admission; the game had been played and lost and Kansas was free. Free because the slave barons played for an imperial stake in defiance of modern humanity and economic development. Free because strong men had suffered and fought not against slavery but against slaves in Kansas. Above all, free because one man hated slavery and on a terrible night rode down with his sons among the shadows of the Swamp of the Swan—that long, low-winding and sombre stream "fringed everywhere with woods" ​and dark with bloody memory. Forty-eight hours they lingered there, and then of a pale May morning rode up to the world again. Behind them lay five twisted, red and mangled corpses. Behind them rose the stifled wailing of widows and little children. Behind them the fearful driver gazed and shuddered. But before them rode a man, tall, dark, grim-faced and awful. His hands were red and his name was John Brown. Such was the cost of freedom.

Red Light Therapy (RLT) is also a new alternative method of healing the body from protocol side effects and helps with external scarring. It is still in its infancy stage, yet deserves more delving into the research that is being done. It appears to be safe and unlike Ultraviolet light, may prove to be an option to help alleviate internal fibrotic tissue.

Alla memoria di Manfredo di Richthofen, capitano degli Ulani e delle Squadriglie Rosse, cavaliere leggendario della divina macchina di morte è dedicata la tenue fatica di questa traduzione, compiuta con ebrezza di cuori intrepidi ove ricordi di ali rosse ardono e splendono per sempre in soavità.

An exceptionally qualified high school graduate could procure an appointment to either the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs or the Naval Academy in Annapolis.* After four years of training and study, usually in an engineering or technical field, a graduate earned an accredited bachelor’s degree and was commissioned into the Navy, Air Force, or Marine Corps.

Take Red Baron’s classic crust pepperoni version. Not only does this frozen pie have at least fifty-two separate ingredients, but these include lots of things I don’t want to eat, like butylated hydroxytoluene, which is banned in England and the FDA has said (for years) “should” be investigated owing to the possibility of turning other ingredients toxic or cancer causing. It also has butylated hydroxyanisole, a petroleum derived additive that has been “pending” FDA review of a citizen petition for a quarter century. I

Ten days later, during lunch at the Wolf's Lair in East Prussia, Goering asked the young hero, "So you now have what, over a hundred conquests?" He meant enemy aircraft, but Jochen, sincere or not, replied, "Herr Reichsmarschall, do you mean aircraft or women?" Goering laughed so hard he nearly choked.

machine, kept right at back of me, ripping

He'd always lived off by himself in a hut, keeping a small garden and a hutch of rabbits. On some nights, his fellow pilots would see the red glow from a signal flare stuck in the ground, and Ball's dark silhouette as he played the violin in his pajamas. One of the reasons for his introspection was a woman. He'd fallen in love during his time off in England, but he refused to marry the girl until the war ended. It appears he didn't believe he'd survive; he once said to his father, Sir Albert Ball, that "no fighter pilot who fought seriously could hope to escape from the war alive.

It must be appreciated that Nazi Germany in 1939 was not the place to be a nonconformist. There was no freedom of speech, much music (including American jazz) was banned, and undesirable people often just disappeared. Marseille simply didn't care. He drank, which was a serious offense, and fast became one o f the most infamous womanizers in the Luftwaffe. He was in trouble so often that, according to one of his friends, "it was a noteworthy occasion when he was not on restriction."........... ......Restricted to his quarters, he didn't take that to include the town, so he borrowed (stole) his commander's car and went barhopping. Coming back drunk with two French girls certainly did not endear him to his new commander, Johannes Steinhoff. One could forgive his utter lack of military bearing and even his rebelliousness up to a point, but no his seeming disregard for his fellow pilots. But in studying the man, I don't think that was truly his attitude. He was a warrior and a loner. The cold fact was that he really didn't need anyone's help in the air and was better alone.

temerity

A skeptic of all sentimentality, she has a witty, rueful voice that gives a deadpan appraisal of the past and present. We see the patriotism of World War I turn to chalk as the telegrams begin arriving at home. During the red scares of the 1930s, we listen to the rumbles of labor strife while wealthy barons deride those downtown ruffians pretending to be unemployed. Atwood's crisp wit and steely realism are reminiscent of Edith Wharton - but don't forget that side order of comic-book science fiction. How goofy to repeatedly interrupt this haunting novel with episodes about the Lizard Men of Xenor. And yet, what great fun this is - and how brilliantly it works to flesh out the dime-novel culture of the 1930s and to emphasize the precarious position of women.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc’s egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist, and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur – I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, “The game’s afoot!” I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and to eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be the way they had promised me it was going to be, instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

Baron,” he whimpered, his face red, swollen, and blotchy with hysteria. “Thank God you’re here. Vaughn clearly needed a voice of reason.” Nice try, motherfucker. I crouched down, digging my heel into the fingers of his healthy hand and meeting his gaze. I heard them crack under my shiny loafers. As soon as he saw what was behind my eyes, his face turned from panicked to ashen. I wasn’t here to strike a deal or to relieve him of his destiny. I was here to collect a debt. Vengeance. My son’s pride. My son’s life. And it’s been long overdue.

And then you ended up in Chechnya, I understand" Sergei continued. "And what, exactly, did you do there?" Jack inquired. "Exactly? We would surround the villages, call out the village elders and give them our ultimatum: if you don't give up your arms, we'll raze your village to the ground. At night, all men, including boys, would go away in to the mountains on the request of the village elders. By the time we rolled in, there were no more weapons or rebels. Only the elderly, women and children. And nobody could leave." "Why not?" "Because we blocked off the main road, that's why," Fedor said as if he was losing patience with Jack. "On approaching any house, I'd fire inside. If anyone jumped out, woman or child, I mowed them down. The guys behind me would torch the bodies with the flamethrowers to get rid of the evidence. We moved through the village, house by house, firing, throwing grenades into the basements, burning. At one train station we hung ten high school kids, and then six more students that were hiding inside a school. On the outskirts we found about a hundred and thirty people, women, children, old men, anyone who didn't run away. We locked them in a grain elevator, chained the door and then torched it. What we left behind were not ruins, just flat ground." "Are you saying that the Russian soldiers killed everyone in some village and nobody has heard of it?" Jack asked him incredulously. It was inconceivable that such a barbaric event could take place in today's world without CNN and BBC dissecting it under a microscope. "Not everyone was killed. Some of the villagers, the ones who survived, were transported to a filtration camp." "What's a filtration camp?" "You really don't' know anything, do you? Or are you pretending?" "Try me," Jack said. "There is this filtration camp in Osinovka. Each room houses twenty to twenty five prisoners, who sleep on the concrete floor. The guards line them up against the wall and practice karate kicks in the head or in the groin. One of our guys liked to put electricity to the bodies, to see them fry. It takes a long time to get used to that smell. If a prisoner tried to untie their hands, the sergeant would cut them off at the wrists. If a prisoner tried to take off the black blindfold, the sergeant would put out his eyes with his thumbs. He was a piece of work from Archangelsk, our sergeant. During one helicopter ride, he dropped three prisoners because he was bored." "But how is it possible that the world news did not report any of this?" Jack persisted in knowing. Fedor raised his eyebrows in a manner that made Jack feel foolish for asking such a question. "Simple. For the next forty-eight hours we didn't allow anyone to enter Samashki, not even the Red Cross. That gave us plenty of time. Our armored vehicles flattened their bones so that the relatives could not identify them later. Exactly what news are you talking about? Are you from this world or not?" Fedor's wolf-like stare made Jack very nervous.

Alfred Dreyfus had been a scapegoat because he was at once a Jew and a vampire.

The Red Baron and his eighty combat victories in the sky pale in comparison to legendary U-boat captain Lothar von Arnauld de la Perière and his 194 sunken ships.

He beamed, his gaunt cheeks going red. “Splendid.” Papa stood. “But let me at least tell your mother that you put up a good deal more resistance than you did.

Fight on and fly on to the last drop of blood and the last drop of fuel, to the last beat of the heart” – The Red Baron.

For more than forty years the ZMC-2 languished in an abandoned hangar along the runway of a deserted naval air station near Key West, Florida. Then in 1988, the property was sold by the government to a financial conglomerate headed by a wealthy publisher, Raymond LeBaron, who intended to develop it as a resort. Shortly after arriving from his corporate headquarters in Chicago to inspect the newly purchased naval base, LeBaron stumbled onto the dusty and corroded remains of the ZMC-2 and became intrigued. Charging it off to promotion, he had the old lighter-than air craft reassembled and the engines rebuilt, calling her the Prosperteer after the business magazine that was the base of his financial empire, and emblazoning the name in huge red letters on the side of the envelope.

And you'll be able to tell whether or not this is an opal?" "According to the baron's instructions, it should have a transparent or white body tone, then we must look at the background color, a slight tinge of color, like a spark of fire." Stefan gave a satisfied grunt and held it up to the light. "It has a wonderful luster and a play of color." Della peered over his shoulder. "Where do they come from? How are they made?" "Mother Nature at her best. Unique conditions first. Heavy seasonal rains in parched desert regions where the ground is rich in silica." "What's sillyka?" "A colorless chemical compound, one of the most common elements on earth after oxygen." "Then what makes this so special? You'd think we trip over them all over the place. I ain't never seen one." "Because the conditions must be just right. Rainwater trickles down into the earth and carries silica-rich solutions into the cavities between the rocks. Then hot summers dry the earth, and as the water evaporates the silica stays in place, and over millions of years the opals form. The purity, intensity, and brilliance of color increases the deeper the rock is penetrated." "Before it just looked like a dirty white pebble." "You're right. The actual color is a pearl gray; sometimes you see a little pale-red or yellow tint, but with reflected light it presents all the colors of the rainbow.

The Reds’ Crimean victory of mid-November 1920 over the White army led by Baron Pyotr Wrangel marked the effective ending of the Civil War.

Baron Buttlär led his wife out to dance, but only after she resisted for a moment: "But Buttlär, aren't we the old folk?" Hilmar danced with Lolo, and Wedig, so red-faced and excited that it looked as if he were on the verge of tears, asked Doralice for a dance. Hair twirled there in the open space; red, gently trembling light penetrated through the trees and flooded over them. Behind the birches, though, something seemed to be burning, it was the sea glittering in the sunset.

Red General Jacqueminot Prince Camilla de Rohan, (darkest Rose of all). Jubilee. Baron Bonstetten. General Washington. John Hopper. Ulrich Brunner. Victor Verdier. [134] Pink Mrs. John Laing (constant bloomer). Anne de Diesbach. La France (blooms all summer). Magna Charta. Mme. Gabriel Luizet. Baroness Rothschild. Paul Neyron. White Margaret Dickson. Coquette des Alpes. White Maman Cochet (blooms continually). Madame Plantier (blooms continually). Coquette des Blanches. Mme. Alfred Carriere. Marchioness of Londonderry. Yellow I know but two hardy yellow Roses: The Persian Yellow. Soleil d’Or.

A handsome, cosmopolitan forty-three-year-old, Gebhardt had been a decorated World War I flying ace, serving in the squadron of Manfred von Richthofen, the legendary “Red Baron.” Following the war, he had earned his doctorate degree in political economy from Frankfurt University with a dissertation on “The International Trade in Machinery.” After a brief teaching stint, he had gone into business, earning a fortune in the automobile and locomotive industries before establishing a highly successful import-export firm that specialized in “exchanging German raw material for American commodities.” Charming, cultured, fluent in several languages, he also harbored political ambitions and had hopes of being named German ambassador to the United States—a fair expectation, given his close friendship with high Nazi officials, particularly Hermann Göring, a fellow Richthofen pilot during the Great War.9