Sharon Snyder-Rafael: A Saipan miracle, in Philly
I was a tank commander ordered to locate and destroy any caves near Chat Chat Village. As I was about to give the order to my driver to head over toward some caves already set afire by other flame-throwing tanks; a man came running towards us. I remarked, “I think he is dressed like a priest!”

Cookie Vasquez, my machine gunner, wanted to “blast him,” but, with great reluctance obeyed my orders to hold his fire, drop out of the escape hatch and talk to the tattered, little man. He was a priest, Father Jose Tardio, and spoke only Spanish. Fortunately, Cookie was fluent in Spanish. Father Tardio stated he and five nuns had been hiding in a cave for eleven days without food or medicine, existing only on rainwater to survive while under constant bombardment.

Fearing the Ronson flame-throwers and beseeching me with his eyes, he grabbed my arm, pulling me up a hill toward “his cave.” His sincerity bested my suspicion. We took all of them including the dead Sister, Marie Therese, into the tank and back to the command post where a corpsman met us and attended to the survivors. We buried Sister Marie Therese. I saw Father Tardio twice more before leaving Saipan.

November 10, 1951: I drove a cab in Philadelphia. My last fare was the Catholic Bishop Baumgardener of Guam. In conversation I told him I’d been to Saipan as a Marine, what had happened, and gave him a detailed map to find the Sister’s remains. He’d known Father Tardio, now deceased. God works in amazing ways. Fate brought him to my cab. He said, “The nuns light candles for you every night and always will.”

Milton Dank: The Mojave Buzzard
In the summer of 1942, I was a glider pilot trainee at Twenty-Nine Palms, California in the Mojave Desert (Jackie Coogan was one of our instructors ). The Army Air Corps had requisitioned civilian soar planes – rich men’s toys – and we enjoyed for the first time the true joy of flying. I wish I could describe the feeling of floating in that azure cloudless sky with no sound but the soft whisper of the air flowing over the long slender wings. It is the closest that man comes to the flight of birds.

I was flying solo one day practicing steep turns when I looked to my right and there was a buzzard flying formation with me! It was a large grayish-brown bird with about an eight-foot wingspan and white circles on the wingtips. It had obviously come over to investigate this huge blue and orange stranger in the neighborhood. It flew a perfect formation, climbing when I climbed, turning when I turned.

Well, I was in a mischievous mood that morning so I rolled the glider over on its back and flew upside-down which you can do in a sport glider. They are designed for inverted flight, but a large bird is not. The bones in its wings will not allow it to fly upside-down.

After ten seconds on my back, I rolled the glider upright and looked over at the buzzard with a big grin of triumph on my lips. I was one up in the game of “Let’s see you do this.” That wicked red eye watched me for a moment, then suddenly the buzzard folded its wings, dropped like a rock 1200 feet to the desert floor, flashed open its wings at the last split-second and sat down lightly as if to say, “Let’s see you do that, BIG BIRD!”

That’s how I learned true humility- from a buzzard high above the Mojave!

Edward Shakespeare: Summer In Iraq, Winter In Saarland
August 2006. A room on the second floor of a Ramadi dwelling. No electricity, no plumbing. Water only from an outdoor well reached at great risk. Temperature, 117 degrees. Six American soldiers in sweat-soaked combat uniforms prepare anxiously for their third attempt to drive out insurgents.

(Summarized from newspaper reports) December 1944. Our battalion, down to half strength, has occupied the town of Lisdorf for three days, awaiting orders to cross the Saar River. Five of us are assigned to the ground floor of a small house near the river. Temperature is near freezing. Some of us wear ill-fitting overcoats, others field jackets. No electricity. At night we hide match flames when we light cigarettes. We eat cold food from C and K rations.

Water, deep in a well in the back yard, 60 feet away. There’s a problem: we have to prime the pump. Germans have zeroed in on the yard with mortars. Periodically the ground shakes from explosions of shells from an immense railroad gun firing from Ensdorf across the river. We wait for lulls in shelling. Then one of us, by lottery, runs to the pump with a pan of water and an empty pot, frantically primes the damned thing, and hopes to fill the pot before his flesh and bones are splattered against the nearby wall. We’ve been on the front lines eight weeks.

Our filthy clothes cling to us, damp and cold. Here our garbage and human waste stink in scrounged-up cans and pots. It’s dangerous, miserable, cold. But cold is endurable, and we know we’re winning the war.

Now I wonder how our brave young men and women fighting in Iraq can survive the stress of their terrifying, repeated, endless duty.

Marvin Tobin: Under fire in Leyte
I was a PFC in the 383rd Infantry Regiment, 96th Division. In September 1944, we boarded our ship, an LST (landing ship tank). On October 20, 1944, we invaded the Philippine island of Leyte. We made the initial landing, meeting with light opposition. However, our corridor of landing was in a swamp, and we had a horrendous time getting through it. In the ensuing days, we encountered stiff opposition and numerous banzai attacks at night.

October through December is the rainy season in the islands, and we used our ponchos constantly. In December, I came down with dengue fever (the natives called it “bone breaking fever”). I was sent to the 36th evacuation hospital, which was near the beach. I was there for 3 weeks. In March of 1945 the island was declared secured.

On April 1, 1945, Easter Sunday, we invaded the island of Okinawa, 300 miles from the mainland of Japan. The Japanese army had every inch of that island zeroed in with artillery and mortars. As we moved inland, the Japanese observers in the bunkers spotted us and opened fire with massive artillery and mortar fire and we suffered many casualties. They had made the island a total fortress. Thousands of pill boxes, bunkers, caves, and tunnels were constructed. Advances were measured in yards. Not until we received a battalion of flame-throwing tanks were we able to break the back of their resistance. It took four army divisions and two marine divisions to secure the island by the end of June of 1945.

The United States Army suffered dreadfully in this battle: I acted as a litter bearer on many occasions carrying down the wounded to an aid station. In August we heard of the dropping of the A-bombs and surrender of the Japanese. We celebrated that our nightmare was finally over. I didn’t get back to the United States until January 19, 1946.

Charles Wesley Dougherty: Unlikely compassion
This is the story of my father, Wesley E. Dougherty.

My father was captured at the Battle of the Bulge. He told us that he and another soldier were in their foxhole, when all of a sudden they were ordered to raise their hands. The German soldier aiming his rifle at them was about eighteen years old, blond hair and steel blue eyes. They obeyed the young soldier and were taken as pawns.

Dad was a prisoner for about three weeks. The prison camp that they were in had been ordered to move some of their prisoners to another camp. While on the march to the other camp, my father took out his Bible and was reading from it. I guess when they were given a break. One of the German guards noticed my Dad reading his Bible, and took note of it. The march started again. The guard who had seen my Dad reading his Bible, signaled to my Dad and the guy next to him to start falling behind. When the opportune time came, my Dad and another POW escaped into a forest. They were on the loose for about three weeks, until they were able to reach the allied forces.

My Dad very rarely told this story. In fact I had to piece it all together from a couple relatives.
When my brother and I were children, a popular show on the TV was Hogan’s Heroes. Our father would never watch the show. He sort of told us that there was nothing funny about a German prison camp. My Dad was and always will be my hero.

George H. Crane: The battles of the USS San Francisco
I will be most proud to tell you all about my serving in the Navy during the war years. I served aboard one of the most fighting ships in the naval fleet.

The USS San Francisco, CA-38. I went aboard at Pearl Harbor, September 1913, after serving my basic training at Faragut, Idaho, the newest naval training base. We soon got underway to take part in the battle of Midway Island. This was where the Japs were very fortified in their take over since December 7,1941. We in turn bombarded for several days, until our troops finally settled the island from the Japs.

We then returned back to Pearl for some rest and recreation. We soon left Pearl and the fleet went the next Jap battle at the Makin Islands, there we had to bombard for many days before the invasion of our forces could make their safe landings.

My ship, the famous USS San Francisco, was in over 17 battles through out the war, from Guadalcanan where the ship was most badly damaged. They lost the captain and the admiral, plus over 100 men in that battle, by the bombing of Jap planes. The ship limped back to the states where it received the first “presidential unit citation.”

Otherwise, we were attached to the other fleets to serve in 15 other battles for the rest of the war, serving with our fleets to destroy the Jap fleets and recapture all the islands including Iwo Jima, the worst invasion of the end of the war before the atomic bomb.