Short Wwii Quotes

Yesterday the paper had a "short" summary of the places where Jews are not allowed! I can better mention where they are still aloud: "in their houses and in the streets!" God, punish those who are persecuting the people you chose and to whom Jesus also belonged. -From the diary of Diet Eman

It was difficult to find information because Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was called shell shock during W.W.II, and when Vietnam Vets were found to suffer from the same symptoms after exposure to traumatic war scenes, a study was embarked upon that ended with the new, more appropriate name in 1980. Thomas was diagnosed with P.T.S.D. shortly afterwards, before the term P.T.S.D. was common.

The inescapable truth... is that, within a miraculously short period of five years, your Government reduced this country from a position of world supremacy and absolute security to one of mortal peril. It took the Roman Empire a hundred years of the most enjoyable decadence to achieve the same result.

The occupying Russians, when they discovered that we were Americans, embraced us and congratulated us on the complete desolation our planes had wrought. We accepted their congratulations with good grace and proper modesty, but I felt then as I feel now, that I would have given my life to save Dresden for the World's generations to come. That is how everyone should feel about every city on Earth.

I am a dash man and not a miler, and it is probable that I will never write a novel. So far the novels of this war have had too much of the strength, maturity and craftsmanship critics are looking for, and too little of the glorious imperfections which teeter and fall off the best minds. The men who have been in this war deserve some sort of trembling melody rendered without embarrassment or regret. I’ll watch for that book.

Becca, his short legged, long bodied cow dog crept out from under the porch and grinned at him. Her long pink tongue lolled from one side of her mouth. Theo crouched and tugged one of the dog’s oversized triangular ears. “You should be in the barn, helping Dad and the rest of the crew with the cows.” Becca stared at him, her thoughts clear in her mismatched eyes. If he wasn’t working, neither was she.

When World War One broke out in 1914, planes were initially used for intelligence gathering. The machines, which moved faster than any man made device had ever, flew at approximately 80 miles per hour. No plane in WWI flew faster than 145mph, and that was at the very end of the war.               Of course, neither side wanted the other to spy on its troop movements, so within a very short period of time, pilots were trying to bring each other down. Initially, the first dogfights, strange as it may seem, were fought with grappling hooks hanging below the plane, grenades, and ramming. This was both highly inefficient and highly dangerous (for everyone involved). The first plane-to-plane combat was on the Eastern Front where a Russian pilot, who probably meant to graze his enemy, crashed his plane into an Austro-Hungarian machine. He and the two man crew of the Austrian plane were killed.               Soon, pilots began shooting at each other with pistols and the single shot rifles of the time. You can guess how effective this was.

After a long night and countless stops we finally arrived in Überlingen. By now the compartment was almost empty again and the cool air off the lake had replaced the body heat and overwhelming stench of the crowds. It was late afternoon and I was grateful that this awful journey was at long last behind me. After descending from the train, I struggled to get my belongings up the steep steps, where I found and commandeered a luggage cart. Now with my two heavy suitcases loaded onto the cart, I pulled it right down the main street to the nearest hotel. From there I telephoned the farm and fortunately it was Brigitte who answered. “Mama, I’m so glad that you returned safely. Before you left I promised that I would lock our door at night. Today Herr Weber said that he would punish me if I locked it again and I don’t know what to do?” “Do as I told you, and lock it! I have just arrived in Überlingen and will take a short cut back to the farm by coming up through the forest. Tell that nasty man, that Mama is on her way!

Paranoid Systems of History (PSH), a short-lived periodical of the 1920s whose plates have all mysteriously vanished, natch, has even suggested, in more than one editorial, that the whole German Inflation was created deliberately, simply to drive young enthusiasts of the Cybernetic Tradition into Control work: after all, an economy inflating, upward bound as a balloon, its own definition of Earth's surface drifting upward in value, uncontrolled, drifting with the days, the feedback system expected to maintain the value of the mark constant having, humiliatingly, failed. . . . Unity gain around the loop, unity gain, zero change, and hush, that way, forever, these were the secret rhymes of the childhood of the Discipline of Control—secret and terrible, as the scarlet histories say. Diverging oscillations of any kind were nearly the Worst Threat. You could not pump the swings of these playgrounds higher than a certain angle from the vertical.

The Big Show was over. The public had been satisfied. The programme had been rather heavy, the actors not too bad, and the lions had eaten the trainer. It would be discussed for a day or two more round the family table. And even when it was all forgotten—the band, the fireworks, the resplendent uniforms—there would still remain on the village green the holes of the tent pegs and a circle of sawdust. The rain and the shortness of man’s memory would soon wipe out even those.

Learn it right, and you will do it right the rest of your life. Learn it wrong, and you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to get it right… and in battle, you meatheads that get it wrong—the rest of your life will be very short.” —Sgt. Steve Prazenka, WWII veteran, 28th (Bloody Bucket) Division

now and had a merry smile on his face. ‘Well, goddammit, boys! If I ain’t just remembered! There’s a whorehouse open all night long just outside Pens’cola! You’re sure you won’t come with me?’ We were sure. He dropped us at the main gate of the station with cheery shouts of farewell and drove off about 1.30 in the morning to ‘round off his evening’. We were soon to learn that certain ‘Southern gentlemen’ dropped in to the local brothel with the easy nonchalance Englishmen pop into their local pub—but without their wives, of course! Generally speaking, it was rare for us to leave the station other than at weekends. Our working hours were long and our leisure hours short; so we had to find our entertainment within the station. However, almost every day we found time to swim in the lagoon which separates the mainland from Santa Rosa Island, where the big flying-boats taxied in and out, the deep rumble of their Pratt and Whitneys music to our ears. We became expert with surf-boards—rectangles of wood about the size of a large tea-tray with a pair of rope reins, towed behind a fast motor-boat. Was it the fore-runner of water-skis? The technique seems to have been virtually the same. But, whatever one’s leisure activities, life

On the fourth note the toe began to tap, and the dog rose to his hind legs and began to dance. The tune had a lilting rhythm, and in perfect time he pirouetted in a circle, forepaws held out and head held high. The music changed in tempo, slower now, and at the end of each phrase the dog nodded his head so that the silvery bells accompanied each last three notes of the repeated phrase. Now he brought the forepaws into action, one at a time, each cluster of bells set in a different pitch to the nodding head. It was the performance of a virtuoso. The strangest thing was that there seemed nothing preposterous, only an inherent grace and precision. The little dog danced as though he lived for it, as though he would will his audience to listen to his bells and live for it too. Not far away, guns rumbled a reminder. Three-quarters of the western world lay reeling in the bonds of occupation, the wake of smoldering destruction left by these gray-green uniforms. A few short miles would soon end the agony of France, and then all Europe would be overrun — yet for this moment, in this one place, there was nothing but a silvery tinkling and a lilting tune and an audience who had become children again, spellbound before a dog who danced on a sunlit road to the bidding of the flute.