During World War I, on December 7, 1914, Pope Benedict XV suggested a temporary hiatus of the war for the celebration of Christmas. The warring countries refused to create any official cease-fire or truce, but in several places along the Western Front on Christmas, the sounds of rifles firing and shells exploding faded in favor of holiday celebrations in the trenches and gestures of goodwill between enemies.
Starting on Christmas Eve, many German and British troops sang Christmas carols to each other across the lines, and at certain points, the Allied soldiers even heard brass bands joining the Germans in their joyous singing.
At the first light of dawn on Christmas Day, some German soldiers emerged from their trenches and approached the Allied lines across no-man's-land, calling out "
Merry Christmas" in their enemies' native tongues. At first, the Allied soldiers feared it was a trick, but seeing the Germans unarmed, they climbed out of their trenches and shook hands with the enemy soldiers. The men exchanged presents of cigarettes and plum puddings and sang carols and songs. There was even a documented case of soldiers from opposing sides playing a good-natured game of soccer.
Some soldiers used this short-lived ceasefire for a more somber task: the retrieval of the bodies of fellow combatants who had fallen within the no-man's land between the lines.
The so-called Christmas Truce of 1914 came only five months after the outbreak of war in Europe and was one of the last examples of the outdated notion of chivalry between enemies in warfare. It was never repeated - future attempts at holiday ceasefires were quashed by officers' threats of disciplinary action - but it served as heartening proof, however brief, that beneath the brutal clash of weapons, the soldiers' essential humanity endured.
Following is a letter written by an English soldier named Tom writing about his experience that Christmas Day, 1914
My dear sister Janet,
It is 2:00 in the morning, and most of our men are asleep in their dugouts - yet I could not sleep myself before writing to you of the wonderful events of Christmas Eve. In truth, what happened seems almost like a fairy tale, and if I hadn't been through it myself, I would scarcely believe it. Just imagine: While you and the family sang carols before the fire there in London, I did the same with enemy soldiers here on the battlefields of France!
As I wrote before, there has been little serious fighting of late. The first battles of the war left so many dead that both sides have held back until replacements could come from home. So, we have mostly stayed in our trenches and waited.
But what a terrible waiting it has been! Knowing that any moment an artillery shell might land and explode beside us in the trench, killing or maiming several men. And in daylight not daring to lift our heads above ground, for fear of a sniper's bullet.
And the rain - it has fallen almost daily. Of course, it collects right in our trenches, where we must bail it out with pots and pans. And with the rain has come mud - a good foot or more deep. It splatters and cakes everything, and constantly sucks at our boots. One new recruit got his feet stuck in it, and then his hands too when he tried to get out - just like in that American story of the tar baby!
Through all this, we couldn't help feeling curious about the German soldiers across the way. After all, they faced the same dangers we did and slogged about in the same muck. What's more, their first trench was only fifty yards from ours. Between us lay No Man's Land, bordered on both sides by barbed wire - yet they were close enough we sometimes heard their voices.
Of course, we hated them when they killed our friends. But other times, we joked about them and almost felt we had something in common. And now it seems they felt the same.
Just yesterday morning - Christmas Eve Day - we had our first good freeze. Cold as we were, we welcomed it, because at least the mud froze solid. Everything was tinged white with frost, while a bright sun shone overall. Perfect Christmas weather.
During the day, there was little shelling or rifle fire from either side. And as darkness fell on our Christmas Eve, the shooting stopped entirely. Our first complete silence in months! We hoped it might promise a peaceful holiday, but we didn't count on it.
We'd been told the Germans might attack and try to catch us off guard.
I went to the dugout to rest and to lie on my cot; I must have drifted asleep. All at once, my friend John was shaking me awake, saying, "Come and see! See what the Germans are doing!" I grabbed my rifle, stumbled out into the trench, and stuck my head cautiously above the sandbags.
I never hope to see a stranger and a more lovely sight. Clusters of tiny lights were shining all along the German line, left and right as far as the eye could see.
"What is it?" I asked in bewilderment, and John answered, "Christmas trees!"
And so it was. The Germans had placed Christmas trees in front 
of their trenches, lit by candle or lantern like beacons of goodwill.
And then we heard their voices raised in song.
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.
This carol may not yet be familiar to us in Britain, but John knew it and translated: "Silent night, holy night. " I've never heard one lovelier - or more meaningful, in that quiet, clear night, its dark softened by a first-quarter moon.
When the song finished, the men in our trenches applauded. Yes, British soldiers applauding Germans! Then one of our own men started singing, and we all joined in.
The first Nowell, the angel did say . . .
In truth, we sounded not nearly as good as the Germans, with their fine harmonies. But they responded with enthusiastic applause of their own and then began another.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum . . .
Then we replied.
O come all ye faithful . . .
But this time they joined in, singing the words in Latin.
Adeste fideles . . .
British and German harmonizing across No Man's Land! I would have thought nothing could be more amazing - but what came next was more so.
"English, come over!" we heard one of them shout. "You no shoot, we no shoot."
There in the trenches, we looked at each other in bewilderment. Then one of us shouted jokingly, "You come over here." To our astonishment, we saw two figures rise from the trench, climb over their barbed wire, and advance unprotected across No Man's Land. One of them called, "Send officer to talk."
I saw one of our men lift his rifle to the ready, and no doubt others did the same - but our captain called out, 
"Hold your fire." Then he climbed out and went to meet the Germans halfway. We heard them talking, and a few minutes later, the captain came back with a German cigar in his mouth!
"We've agreed there will be no shooting before midnight tomorrow," he announced. "But sentries are to remain on duty, and the rest of you, stay alert."
Across the way, we could make out groups of two or three men starting out of trenches and coming toward us. Then some of us were climbing out too, and in minutes more, there we were in No Man's Land, over a hundred soldiers and officers of each side, shaking hands with men we'd been trying to kill just hours earlier!
Before long, a bonfire was built, and around it, we mingled - British khaki and German grey. I must say, the Germans were the better dressed, with fresh uniforms for the holiday.
Only a couple of our men knew German, but more of the Germans knew English. I asked one of them why that was. "Because many have worked in England!" he said. "Before all this, I was a waiter at the Hotel Cecil. Perhaps I waited on your table!"
"Perhaps you did!" I said, laughing.
He told me he had a girlfriend in London and that the war had interrupted their plans for marriage. I said, "Don't worry. We'll have you beat by Easter; then you can come back and marry the girl."
He laughed at that. Then he asked if I'd send her a postcard he'd give me later, and I promised I would.
Another German had been a porter at Victoria Station. He showed me a picture of his family back in Munich. His eldest sister was so lovely; I told him I should like to meet her someday. He beamed and said he would like that very much and gave me his family's address.
Even those who could not converse could still exchange gifts - our cigarettes for their cigars, our tea for their coffee, our corned beef for their sausage. Badges and buttons from uniforms changed owners, and one of our lads walked off with the infamous spiked helmet! I myself traded a jackknife for a leather equipment belt - a fine souvenir to show when I get home.
Newspapers too changed hands, and the Germans howled with laughter at ours. They assured us that France was finished and Russia was nearly beaten too. We told them that was nonsense, and one of them said, "Well, you believe your newspapers and we'll believe ours."
Clearly, they are lied to - yet after meeting these men, I wonder how truthful our own newspapers have been. These are not the "savage barbarians" we've read so much about. They are men with homes and families, hopes and fears, principles and, yes, love of country. In other words, men like ourselves. Why are we led to believe otherwise?
As it grew late, a few more songs were traded around the fire, and then all joined in for - I am not lying to you - "Auld Lang Syne." Then we parted with promises to meet again tomorrow and even some talk of a football match.
I was just starting back to the trenches when an older German clutched my arm. "My God," he said, "why cannot we have peace and all go home?" I told him gently, "That you must ask your emperor." He looked at me then, searchingly. "Perhaps, my friend. But also, we must ask our hearts."
And so, dear sister, tell me, has there ever been such a Christmas Eve in all history? And what does it all mean, this impossible befriending of enemies?
For the fighting here, of course, it means regrettably little. Decent fellows those soldiers maybe, but they follow orders, and we do the same. Besides, we are here to stop their army and send it home, and never could we shirk that duty.
Still, one cannot help imagine what would happen if the spirit shown here were caught by the nations of the world. Of course, disputes must always arise. But what if our leaders were to offer well wishes in place of warnings? Songs in place of slurs? Presents in place of reprisals? Would not all war end at once?
All nations say they want peace. Yet on this Christmas morning, I wonder if we want it quite enough.
Your loving brother,
Tom
Editor's Note: There are some historians who do not believe the "Christmas Truce" actually occurred, and if it did, there certainly was no soccer game. In preparing this holiday article, I checked Wikipedia and discovered a number of eyewitness documents that validate a truce along the frontlines that did, in fact, occur.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce
At the website below can be found a 44 minute documentary on the truce.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yX4i3BpJhuE
One of the film's most beloved actors, Jimmy Stewart, made more than 80 films in his lifetime. He was known for his everyman quality, which made him both appealing and accessible to audiences.
Stewart got his first taste of performing as a young man. At Princeton University, he was a member of the Triangle Club and acted in shows they produced. Stewart earned a degree in architecture in 1932, but he never practiced the trade. Instead, he joined the University Players in Falmouth, Massachusetts, the summer after he graduated. There Stewart met fellow actor Henry Fonda, who became a lifelong friend.
That same year, Stewart made his Broadway debut in "Carrie Nation." The show didn't fare well, but he soon found more stage roles. In 1935, Stewart landed a movie contract with MGM and headed out west.
In his early Hollywood days, Stewart shared an apartment with Henry Fonda. The tall, lanky actor worked a number of films before co-starring with Eleanor Powell in the 1936 popular musical comedy "Born to Dance." The movie featured the Cole Porter hit "Easy to Love." Another career breakthrough came with Frank Capra's "You Can't Take It with You" (1938). This comedy won an Academy Award for Best Picture and made Stewart a star.
Stewart also played the lead in Capra's "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" (1939). In this film, he portrayed a young, idealistic politician who takes on corruption. Stewart received his first Academy Award nomination for this film. The following year, he took home Oscar gold for "The Philadelphia Story." It was clear that Stewart was now a bona fide movie star.
As Stewart's meteoric rise in popularity was taking place in Hollywood, Europe was on the edge of war. Hitler had embarked on military aggression against tiny Austria in 1938, followed by Czechoslovakia and Poland in 1939. Britain and French were eventually were drawn into war with Germany. Americans, on the other hand, wanted to stay out of the war. Stewart, however, wanted the opportunity to serve his country - hopefully as a pilot in the U.S. Army Air Corps.
As a child in Indiana, his interest in aviation led him to take his first flight from one of the barnstorming pilots that used to travel the Midwest. 
As a successful actor in 1935, Jimmy was able to afford flying lessons. He received his civilian pilot's license in 1935 and bought his first airplane, a Stinson 105. In 1938 he obtained his commercial pilot's license. He often flew cross country to visit his parents in Pennsylvania, navigating by the railroad tracks.
Born on May 20, 1908, in Indiana, Pennsylvania, Stewart was the son of Elizabeth Ruth Jackson and Alexander Maitland Stewart, who owned a hardware store. His family on both sides had deep military roots with veterans of the American Revolution, the War of 1812 and the American Civil War in which both grandfathers had fought. His father had served during both the Spanish–American War and World War I. Stewart considered his father to be the biggest influence on his life, so it was not surprising that, when another war came, he too was eager to serve.
All but certain the United States would eventually be drawn into the war; President Franklin Roosevelt signed into law the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 requiring men between the ages of 21 and 36 to register with local draft boards. That was in September 1940. One month later, Stewart was drafted into the U.S. Army. His draft number was 310, but though he was 6-foot-3, he weighed only 138 pounds. When the Army turned him down as too skinny, he started eating spaghetti twice a day, supplemented with steaks and milkshakes. 
To get up to 143 pounds, he sought out the help of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's muscle man and trainer Don Loomis, who was noted for his ability to help people add or subtract pounds in his studio gymnasium. Stewart later attempted to enlist in the U.S. Army Air Corps, but still came in underweight. Determined to achieve his goal of becoming a military pilot, he successfully convinced the Army doctor into adding an ounce or two so he could enlist and on March 22, 1941, he was inducted as a private in the U.S. Army, becoming the first major American movie star to wear a military uniform prior to World War II. Other established actors followed, such as Clark Gable (U.S. Army Air Force), Henry Fonda (U.S. Navy), and Tyrone Powers (U.S. Marine Corps).
The night before he left for training, MGM threw a farewell party for its departing star. Most of the actresses present that evening kissed him goodbye, and Rosalind Russell wiped off the lipstick with her handkerchief and wrote each girl's name on it. Stewart kept the hanky for good luck.
He was sent to Fort MacArthur, Calif., where cameramen hounded him, following him even when he was issued his underwear. Witnessing all that unwanted attention, one old soldier remarked sympathetically, "You poor bastard." Stewart's salary dropped from $12,000 per week to $21 per month, but he dutifully sent a 10 percent cut ($2.10) to his agent each month.
Stewart underwent basic training at Moffett Field, Calif., where a crowd of girls waited just outside the gates, eager to get a glimpse of their idol. It got so bad that his commanding officer put up a sign requesting civilians to leave Stewart alone until after he finished his training. He was commissioned as a 2nd Lt. on January 18, 1942. Appearing in uniform at the Academy Awards the following month, he presented the Best Actor Oscar to Gary Cooper for "Sergeant York."
Though Stewart subsequently narrated two training films, "Fellow Americans" and "Winning Your Wings," and lent his star power to a few radio shows and war bond tours, in general, he 
resisted efforts to capitalize on his career. The military, however, fearful of losing a major celebrity in action, wanted to keep him safe and sound in the United States, but this was not enough for Stewart. Instead, he requested more flying time - and he soon got his wish. First, he became a flight instructor in Curtiss AT-9s at Mather Field, Calif. From there, he went to Kirkland Field, N.M., for six months of bombardier school. In December 1942, he requested a transfer to the four-engine school at Hobbs, N.M. Finally, he reported to the headquarters of the Second Air Force in Salt Lake City.
Still looking for more than desk duty, Stewart was sent to Gowen Field in Boise, Idaho, and the 29th Bombardment Group, where he became a flight instructor on B-17 Flying Fortresses. During that time, his roommate was killed in an accident, and three of his trainees were lost in another mishap. One student remembered, "Stewart was known for being one of the few officers who never left the airfield tower until every single plane had returned."
On one night flight with a student pilot, Stewart left the copilot's seat to check on equipment in the nose and let a new navigator sit in the right-hand seat. Suddenly the no. 1 engine exploded, sending pieces of shrapnel into the cockpit and knocking the pilot senseless. With the engine on fire and wind tearing through the windows, the navigator froze at the controls. Stewart had to pull him out of the seat, so he could take over, hit the fire extinguishers, and land on three engines.
In March 1943, 35-year-old Stewart was transferred to the 703rd Squadron, 445th Bomb Group, in Sioux City, Iowa, as the Operations Officer. As much as he wanted combat duty, he began to believe it was unreachable. However, a rumor that Stewart would be taken off flying status and assigned to making more training films or selling bonds called for immediate action. He appealed to his commander, 30-year-old Lt. Col. Walter E. Arnold Jr., who understood his situation and recommended Stewart to the commander of the 445th Bombardment Group, a B-24 Liberator unit that had just completed initial training at Gowen Field for deployment to Europe. He was promoted to Captain in the summer of 1943.
On November 11, 1943, Captain Stewart led his 24 B-24H Liberators to England by way of Florida, Brazil, Senegal, and Morocco. They became part of the 2nd Air Division, Eighth Air Force, stationed at RAF Tibenham, Norfolk, England.
Following a few shakedown flights, Stewart's first combat mission was to bomb the U-boat facilities at Kiel on December 13, 1943, flying a B-24 that had been named 'Nine Yanks and a Jerk' by a previous crew. As the flight got underway, Stewart's dream was finally realized - he was in combat. The biggest shock was the flak from anti-aircraft guns. Their bombers yawed left and right and pitched up and down as explosions went off all around them in the sky. None of Stewart's planes were shot down during the raid, but soon the bodies began to fall.
This was followed three days later by a mission to Bremen, the second largest port in Germany. During the raid, enemy fighters took down a bomber called 'Good Nuff.' Of the crew of ten, just three parachuted out. Now for the first time, Stewart had to write a letter to the parents of the dead airmen saying they were missing and presumed dead.
During his third mission, his group was ordered to hit V-1 launching sites at Bonaire's, France. Coming in low at 12,000 feet, 35 B-24s plastered the target near the coast, then returned to base without even being targeted by flak or fighters. If two of the Liberators hadn't collided on takeoff, it would have been a perfect mission.
The worst was one that Stewart did not actually fly on, but his squadron did. The raid on the city of Gotha, Germany, led to the loss of 13 planes, or 130 men all in one go.
For more than two hours, Nazi fighters "poured death and destruction" at Stewart's men from every direction. They used cables with bombs attached to 
them to bring their bombers down, fired rockets 'like the Fourth of July', and fired rockets at will.
Nazi pilots followed the planes as they went down to make sure there were no survivors.
Those who survived told horrific tales of bodies flying through the air and planes exploding in front of them. Stewart heard all this and knew that the next day he had to lead the next nearly identical mission. That night he did not sleep; miraculously, his flight was nowhere near as bad.
A mission over Mannheim ended in catastrophe when they lost two planes with 20 men inside. And as the weeks went on, this all began to weigh heavily on Stewart.
He was a perfectionist, and he was so hard on himself. Unable to sleep, he became more and more worn down by the demanding flights that became more and more bloody.
Following a mission to Ludwigshafen, Germany, on January 7, 1944, Stewart was promoted to Major. Stewart was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for actions as deputy commander of the 2nd Combat Bombardment Wing on February 20, 1944, the first day of a five-day operation intended to lure the Luftwaffe into a decisive battle by launching massive attacks on the German aircraft industry. He also flew two other missions during the operation known as "Big Week."
Perhaps the episode which disturbed Stewart the most was a raid that went terribly wrong. The 453rd was assigned to bomb a V-1 rocket facility in the northern French village of Siracourt. 
The instruments in Stewart's cockpit malfunctioned, and 12 bombers deployed their payloads on the city of Tonnerre instead. At least 30 tons of general-purpose bombs rained down, causing unknown numbers of civilian casualties.
Stewart's pilots tried to cover for him, but he took the blame himself, something which earned him their ultimate respect.
The actor-turned-commander was a successful, popular officer. His roommate at the time recalled: "I always got the feeling that he would never ask you to do something he wouldn't do himself. Everything that man did seemed to go like clockwork."
He also took care of his men. When Stewart found out the finance officer wouldn't have enough money for his crew for a few days, he threatened to have him transferred to the infantry unless they were paid immediately. And when one of his crews hid a keg of stolen beer in their barracks, he ambled in, threw off the covers and drew himself a glass, then announced that there was a keg of beer around there somewhere, it was a very serious matter, and it should be taken care of immediately if they ever found it. He then finished his beer and walked out.
On January 7, after bombing Ludwigshafen, Stewart noticed that the lead group, the 389th, was 30 degrees off course and slowly diverging from the protective fire of the rest of the formation on the way back to base. Knowing the bombers' new direction would take them directly over Luftwaffe airfields in northern France, he radioed the lead plane and explained they were off course. The leader replied curtly that no, they weren't - "and stay off the radio."
Stewart faced a difficult decision. He could stay with the rest of the formation on the correct course, or he could follow his errant lead squadron. A two-squadron formation would be much more vulnerable, but a single squadron didn't have much of a chance at all. He chose to stay with the 389th and add the defensive power of his own guns to theirs.
Sure enough, more than 60 Luftwaffe planes swarmed up from bases below. The commander of the 389th Bomb Group paid dearly for his mistake: His plane went down in flames. Seven other 389th B-24s were also shot down, but Stewart was lucky again; all the bombers in his squadron made it home. As a fellow officer would later point out, "There were a lot of lives saved that day because he knew what he was doing and when he had to do it."
Stewart experienced what was probably his closest brush with death on February 25, 1944, during a nine-hour mission to Furth, unescorted most of the way. On that flight for the first time, waist gunners on the lead planes hurled bundles of chaff overboard to try to fool the German radar-directed anti-aircraft guns. It only succeeded in attracting them. Whenever they threw a bundle out, the flak became more accurate. The Germans hit the bombers with everything they had on that mission, including anti-aircraft rockets.
The 445th hit its target, but on the way home, a flak shell burst in the belly of Stewart's Liberator, directly behind the nose wheel. Somehow the B-24 kept on flying - all the way back to base. But when the shrapnel-perforated bomber landed, its fuselage buckled. Just in front of the wing at the flight deck, the airplane cracked open like an egg. The crew climbed out, unhurt, and looked over their crippled aircraft. In his characteristically understated fashion, Stewart mused to a bystander, "Sergeant, somebody sure could get hurt in one of those damned things."
The war eventually got to everyone, even calm, mild-mannered Jimmy Stewart. Pilots who flew with him said that he became 'Flak Happy,' a term to describe what is now known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, which would later serve him well in movies in which he was to express desperation and anger.
In author Robert Matzen's "Mission: Jimmy Stewart And The Fight For Europe," published by Paladin Communications, he wrote, "The nightmares come every night. There was on oxygen at 20,000 feet with 190s zipping past, spraying lead and firing rockets, flak bursting about the cockpit. B-24s hit, burning, spinning out of formation. 'Bail out! Bail out! Do you see any chutes? How many chutes? Whose ship was it? Oh, God, not him? Not them!' Bodies, pieces of bodies smacking off the windshield."
Aside from an occasional trip to actor David Niven's house, a meeting with a dignitary or a quick sailing expedition, Stewart concentrated on the job at hand. "I prayed I wouldn't make a mistake," he recalled. "When you go up, you're responsible." Once a flight engineer went AWOL just before a mission, forcing his plane to fly without him. It didn't return. Stewart was required to discipline the man, but he wondered, "How do you punish someone for not getting killed?"
After 20 B-24 missions, in early 1945, Stewart was transferred to Old Buckenham, becoming the operations officer of the 453rd Bomb Group, which flew B-17s. When he arrived in a B-24, he reportedly buzzed the tower until the controllers fled.
The 453rd's lead Liberator, 'Paper Doll', had no permanently assigned copilot. That position was usually filled by one of the senior staff officers, often Stewart himself. Waist gunner Dan Brody recalled, "He exhibited himself as an excellent pilot, even under adverse conditions."
Like the men of the 445th, his new group found Stewart unfailingly friendly. On the way back up the runway, for example, when he saw a pedestrian, he'd stop his jeep and drawl, "Hey fella, lak a ride?"
The senior staff normally rotated, flying every fifth mission, but Stewart went out of his way to lead 11 more sorties. While he liked the B-17, he still had a soft spot for the Liberator. He later said of the B-24, "In combat, the airplane was no match for the B-17 as a formation bomber above 25,000 feet, but from 12,000 to 18,000 it did a fine job."
In April 1945, Stewart was promoted to Colonel and Chief of Staff of the 2nd Air Division. It was during this time, while he was sweating out the return of his planes from each mission, that his hair began to turn gray. Most of the men were amused to find they were being briefed by the famous actor. Extras often dropped in - among them radioman Walter Matthau, who thought he "was marvelous to watch."
At the beginning of June 1945, Stewart was the presiding officer of a court-martial of a pilot and navigator charged with dereliction of duty for having accidentally bombed the Swiss city of Zurich the previous March - the first instance of personnel being tried for the attack on a neutral country. The court acquitted the defendants.
Stewart finally returned Stateside in September 1945 aboard the liner Queen Elizabeth. Predictably, he waited at the gangplank until all of his men had disembarked before coming ashore. Asked about his service in Europe, he commented, "I had some close calls - the whole war was a close call." When he returned to Hollywood, he refused a lavish welcome home party, saying, "Thousands of men in uniform did far more meaningful things."
In all, Stewart had served four-and-a-half years during World War II and was awarded the Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters, Distinguished Flying Crosses with one oak leaf cluster, and the French Croix de Guerre.
He rose from private to colonel in four years and participated in 20 often-brutal World War II combat missions over Germany and France. In mere months the war took away his boyish looks as he faced near-death experiences and the loss of men under his command. The war finally won, he returned home with millions of other veterans to face an uncertain future, suffering what we now know as PTSD. Younger stars like Gregory Peck were now getting roles that might have been Stewart's, and he didn't know if he would ever work in Hollywood again. Then came "It's a Wonderful Life," his first film in five years.
Frank Capra paid RKO for the rights to the story and formed his own production company, Liberty Films. The female lead went to Donna Reed when Capra's perennial first choice, Jean Arthur, was unavailable, and after Ginger Rogers, Olivia de Havilland,
Ann Dvorak, and Martha Scott had all turned down the role. Stewart appeared as George Bailey, an upstanding small-town man who becomes increasingly frustrated by his ordinary existence and financial troubles. Driven to suicide on Christmas Eve, he is led to reassess his life by Clarence Odbody, an "angel, second class" played by Henry Travers. It was a disappointment at the box office, but it became a holiday favorite over the years. Stewart reportedly considered it to be one of his favorite films.
The movie also enabled him to be ferocious and to show raw emotions when his character George Bailey channels his anger and guilt in the scene where he rages at his family. It's almost certain that his extreme case of PTSD gave him a perspective and an emotional range that he did not have before the war. Some believed he would look for scripts where he could demonstrate that rage. Two such films that allowed him to explore his dark side were "Shenandoah" and "Winchester 73."
Stewart did not leave the military and continued to serve in the U.S. Air Force Reserves, where on July 23, 1959, he was promoted to brigadier general. During his active duty periods, he remained current as a pilot of Convair B-36 Peacemaker, Boeing B-47 Stratojet, and Boeing B-52 Stratofortress intercontinental bombers of the Strategic Air Command. On February 20, 1966, Brig. Gen. Stewart made one more combat flight - this time as an observer in a B-52 Stratofortress on an Arc Light bombing mission over North Vietnam. 
He refused the release of any publicity regarding his participation, as he did not want it treated as a stunt, but as part of his job as an officer in the Air Force Reserve. After 27 years of service, Stewart retired from the Air Force on May 31, 1968.
His stepson Marine 1st Lt. Ron McLean was killed in Vietnam on June 8, 1969, in Quang Tri Province.
Stewart became the recipient of numerous tributes during the 1980s for his substantial career. In 1984, Steward picked up an honorary Academy Award "for his high ideals both on and off the screen." By the 1990s, Stewart had largely stepped out of the public eye. He was deeply affected by the death of his wife Gloria in 1994. The couple had been married since 1949 and had twin daughters together. He also became a father to her two sons from a previous marriage. Jimmy and Gloria Stewart were one of Hollywood's most enduring couples, and his apparent love and commitment to her added to his reputation as an upstanding and honorable person.
During an interview late in life, the actor explained that WWII was "something I think about almost every day - one of the greatest experiences of my life." Asked whether it had been greater than being in films, he said simply, "Much greater."
Poor health plagued Stewart in his final years. He died in Beverly Hills, CA on July 2, 1997, at the age of 89. The cause of death was cardiac arrest and pulmonary embolism following respiratory problems.
While he may be gone, his movies have lived on and inspired countless other performers. Stewart's warmth, good humor, and easy charm have left a lasting impression on American pop culture.
On November 8, 1855, in front of the Parroquia Church in the town square of the Nicaraguan city of Granada, a line of riflemen shot Gen. Ponciano Corral, the senior general of the Conservative government. Strangely, the members of the firing squad hailed from the United States. So did the man who had ordered the execution.
His name was William Walker. Though later generations would largely forget him, in the 1850s, he obsessed the American public. To many, he was a swashbuckling champion of Manifest Destiny. To others, he loomed as an international criminal. In Walker's own mind, he was a conqueror destined to create a Central American empire. His bizarre career would leave a legacy that shadows the relationship between the United States and Central America to this day.
Walker was born in 1824 in Nashville, Tennessee, to James Walker and his wife, Mary Norvell. His father was the son of a Scottish immigrant. His mother was the daughter of Lipscomb Norvell, an American Revolutionary War officer from Virginia. Lipscomb was also the father of U.S. Senator John Norvell, one of the first senators of Michigan and founder of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Soon after his birth, Walker began to manifest unusual intelligence. A gifted student, he graduated summa cum laude from the University of Nashville at the early age of fourteen. He then traveled throughout Europe, studying medicine at the universities of Edinburgh and Heidelberg. At the age of 19, he received a medical degree from the University of Pennsylvania and practiced briefly in Philadelphia before moving to New Orleans to study law.
After a short stint as a lawyer, he became co-owner and editor of the New Orleans Crescent. In 1849 he moved to San Francisco, where the Gold Rush was in its early stages, attracting tens of thousands to California. The Forty-niners were an independent lot, willing to hazard the long, dangerous journey from the settled states. Duels, gunfights, and brawls erupted regularly. Walker himself fought three duels, in two of which he was wounded.
It was also here that his life turned in a radical new direction - a brilliant man obsessed with impractical, grandiose scheming.
Over the previous decade, the United States had expanded deep into Latin American territory, and not always through federal action. Americans in Texas had rebelled against Mexico, established their independence, and won annexation to the United States in 1845. The Mexican War broke out in 1846, leading to the absorption of a third of Mexico - with the assistance of American citizens in California, who staged their own revolt against Mexico.
Enthusiasm for geographical growth came to be known by the newspaper slogan of "manifest destiny," but it reflected mixed motives. Some Southerners hoped to extend the territory open to slavery. Others felt an evangelical fervor for exporting democracy and Protestantism to the military regimes of Catholic Latin America.
This aggressive expansionism gave rise to a strange phenomenon known as filibustering. Filibusters were independent adventurers who launched freelance invasions of foreign countries, usually aiming to annex them to the United States. The decade before the Civil War saw a great flowering of filibustering. In 1850 and 1851, for example, scores of Americans landed in Cuba in disastrous forays.
The restless Walker decided to become the greatest filibuster of them all. In 1853, he invaded Mexico with a handful of men, and barely escaped alive. The United States government tried him for violating the neutrality act, which prohibited private citizens from warring against foreign nations. But a jury in turbulent San Francisco swiftly exonerated him in eight minutes, turning his failure into a personal (if not military) triumph.
Meanwhile, in 1851, Cornelius Vanderbilt (a wealthy American business magnate and philanthropist known informally as "Commodore Vanderbilt" who had built his wealth in railroads and shipping) had established the Accessory Transit Company to span Nicaragua's Atlantic and Pacific coasts and connect to his steamships. Accessory Transit carried tens of thousands of passengers each year, making Nicaragua a strategic priority for the federal government. As President James Buchanan later said, "To the United States these routes are of incalculable importance as a means of communication between their Atlantic and Pacific possessions."
And so, in 1855, Walker found his next target: Nicaragua. But this time, his expedition would be conducted in cooperation with local forces. In its less than two decades of full independence, Nicaragua had suffered from repeated civil wars, waged by the leaders of its two main cities, Leon and Granada - capitals respectively of the Liberal and Conservative Parties. When the Liberals rose in yet another revolt, Byron Cole, a friend of Walker's, negotiated a contract for Walker to fight on their side.
On May 4, 1855, Walker slipped out of San Francisco Bay in the brig Vesta, along with fifty-seven followers (one of whom died at sea). Though he spoke little Spanish, he demanded an independent command when he arrived in Nicaragua. He promptly launched a blundering attack and was lucky to survive.
But luck was his foremost attribute. The Liberals' chief executive and commanding general both died soon after his arrival, making him the senior leader on his side. 
Then Walker carried out perhaps the only inspired maneuver of his career. He commandeered an Accessory Transit steamboat, landed his men in the rear of Granada, and captured the city. He then took hostage the families of the Conservative leaders, including Gen. Ponciano Corral, a senior general of the Conservative government.
Walker, seeking to consolidate his power in the small country, created a unity provisional government, with the weak Patricio Rivas as president, himself as commander of the army, and Corral as secretary of war. Shortly afterward, Walker put Corral on trial for treason and had him publicly executed on November 8, 1855. The freckle-faced filibuster had made himself into Nicaragua's strongman.
He would be hard-pressed to remain in power. The neighboring republics, alarmed by his success, prepared for war. And he could not rely on Nicaraguans to fight for him. As he later wrote, "Internal order, as well as freedom from foreign invasion, depended entirely on the rapid arrival of some hundreds of Americans." And that made him entirely dependent upon the Accessory Transit Company's steamships to transport these recruits.
Walker's luck continued to hold. Internal strife marked the Accessory Transit Company's operations both at home and abroad, as a power struggle ensued between Cornelius Vanderbilt and the men he had put in place to run the daily operations. Walker became involved in a plot to flip the transit grant from Vanderbilt to a group of these embattled men inside the company headed by one of Walker's best friends, Edmund Randolph (grandson of a Founding Father and a leading attorney in San Francisco). Walker would revoke Accessory Transit's Nicaraguan charter, and then seize the company's riverboats and domestic infrastructure, and give them to his new partners. The new line would carry filibuster recruits from the United States for free, accumulating credits toward the cost of the Transit property in Nicaragua. Vanderbilt attempted to prevent these activities by retaking the company's steamboats on the San Juan River but failed when the British (who opposed filibustering and claimed a protectorate over Nicaragua's Atlantic coast) Royal Navy declined to intervene.
In April 1856, Costa Rica launched an invasion of Nicaragua, occupying the city of Rivas. Walker launched a typical frontal assault and was soundly defeated. But his luck held: a cholera outbreak forced the Costa Ricans to retreat, even as Walker gained hundreds of recruits.
But Walker's arrogance alienated even his own puppet president, Patricio Rivas, who suddenly denounced him as a usurper and fled over the border. A northern alliance, consisting of Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala, marched into Nicaragua, occupying Leon on July 12. Walker responded by staging a rigged election that made him president. He declared English to be the official language and issued an edict legalizing slavery. Then the Costa Ricans invaded again from the south.
Walker knew he could survive only if he kept open the flow of reinforcements from the United States. So he decided to withdraw to forts along the San Juan River. He evacuated Granada, leaving a detachment with orders to burn the city to the ground. When the filibusters finished, they erected a sign that read, "Aqui fue Granada" - "Here was Granada."
Nearing the end of 1856, Walker felt reassured. "Walker, keeping his forces concentrated, can maintain himself in Rivas," an American naval officer reported. "If the external aids he has hitherto relied upon do not fail him, he will repel his enemies."
But Vanderbilt was not done, and Walker's luck was about to run out. By October of 1856, Vanderbilt negotiated an alliance with Costa Rica and dispatched a special agent named Sylvanus Spencer (a New Yorker who had worked on the San Juan River and had precious knowledge of the steamboat operations) to the Costa Rican capital of San Jose. Spencer arrived in San Jose with Vanderbilt's plan of attack and $40,000 in gold to pay Costa Rica's expenses. Costa Rican President Juan Rafael Mora put Spencer in charge of a commando force, which Spencer led through the rain forest to the San Juan River. There, they captured a filibuster strongpoint and a few steamboats. Then Spencer used his knowledge to bloodlessly seize the rest of the boats and forts - sailing up in a captured steamer, giving the right signals, then surprising the filibusters with soldiers who had been hiding on deck. Within days, Spencer controlled the river. Walker's confederates, unable to send passengers and reinforcements across Nicaragua, immediately withdrew their ships. Walker was isolated.
Walker withdrew into Rivas, where the Central American alliance besieged him for months. Finally, on May 1, 1857, he surrendered to an American naval officer, who conducted him and his men out of the country.
But the federal government proved ineffectual in either convicting Walker in court, or in preventing further expeditions. Wherever Walker went in the United States, he was greeted by throngs of admirers.
And so he tried again, and again. On November 25, 1857, he landed at Greytown with 270 followers; in a controversial move, the U.S. Navy forced his prompt surrender. Walker launched a final invasion in 1860. But now his luck finally ran out for good. The Royal Navy captured him, then handed him over to the nearest Hondurans authorities, who executed him on September 12, 1860. He is buried in the Cementerio Viejo in the coastal town of Trujillo. Walker was 36 years old.
Within a year, the United States plunged into the Civil War. Places with names like Antietam, Shiloh, Gettysburg, and the Wilderness soon obscured Granada, Rivas, and Greytown in the American imagination. 
Memories of the filibuster faded. But Walker himself had contributed to - or reflected - the nation's descent into war over the issue of slavery. He had emerged out of a rising tide of freelance violence, and he had appealed to Southern hopes for expanding slavery by reinstituting it in Nicaragua.
Though he has been largely forgotten in the United States, he is still remembered by Central Americans, who see him as a symbol of imperialism. The fight to eject Walker forms part of Nicaragua's national legend, a critical period in the formation of its national identity.
If nothing else, his military dictatorship, and his ruthless violence - particularly his wanton destruction of Grenada, one of the oldest cities in the western hemisphere - prove that he was one of the most dangerous international criminals of the nineteenth century, if not all our history.
Editor's Note: My wife's great grandfather on her mother's side was Harris Woolf Mallitz, who was Treasure of the Nicaraguan government for years. Born in Kovno, Lithuania, he and his parents came to San Francisco when he was 14 years old. In his late 20s, he departed for Peru, where he met and married Sarah Green and began a successful political life in Latin America. According to records, he fled the United States as a fugitive from justice following a September 28, 1877 document signed by President Rutherford B. Hayes authorizing two San Francisco detectives to take him into custody. Little is known as to the nature of his crime or why the warrant reached the office of the President of the United States.
He and his wife and children left Nicaragua in 1906 and settled in New Orleans. He died at the age of 80 in June 1933.
In June 1942, six months after the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor that drew the U.S. into World War II, the Japanese targeted the Aleutians, an American-owned chain of remote, sparsely inhabited, 
volcanic islands extending some 1,200 miles west of the Alaskan Peninsula. After reaching the Aleutians, the Japanese conducted airstrikes on Dutch Harbor, the site of two American military bases, on June 3 and June 4. The Japanese then made landfall at Kiska Island on June 6 and Attu Island, approximately 200 miles away, on June 7. Japanese troops quickly established military bases on both islands, which had belonged to the U.S. since it purchased Alaska from Russia in 1867.
Like the other volcanic islands in the Aleutians, Attu and Kiska appeared to have little military or strategic value because of their barren, mountainous terrain and harsh weather, infamous for its sudden dense fogs, high winds, rains, and frequent snow. Some historians believe Japan seized Attu and Kiska mainly to divert the U.S. Pacific Fleet during the Japanese attack on Midway Island (June 4 - 7, 1942) in the central Pacific. It's also possible the Japanese believed that holding the two islands could prevent the U.S. from any attempt to invade Japan's home islands by way of the Aleutian chain.
Americans were shocked that Japanese troops had taken over any U.S. soil, no matter how remote or barren. Some also feared that Japan's occupation of the two islands might be the first step toward an attack against mainland Alaska or even the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Despite nationwide anger, American war planners at first paid relatively little attention 
to the Japanese garrisons at Attu and Kiska, as they were still reeling from the attack on Pearl Harbor and in the process of building up forces in the South Pacific and preparing for war in Europe. In fact, in the initial months after Japan occupied the islands, the U.S. military conducted only occasional bombing raids from the nearby Aleutian Islands.
In the meantime, during the months following their occupation, Japanese soldiers learned to acclimate to the extreme conditions on Attu and Kiska, and the Japanese navy kept the soldiers well-supplied. But by January 1943, U.S. Army forces in the Alaska Command had grown to 94,000 soldiers, with several bases recently constructed on the other Aleutian Islands. On January 11, troops from the Alaska Command landed on Amchitka Island, only 50 miles from Kiska.
By March 1943, U.S. Navy Rear Admiral Thomas C. Kinkaid had set up a blockade of Attu and Kiska that restricted the flow of supplies to the Japanese occupiers. On March 26, 1943, Japanese ships in the Bering Sea attempted to deliver supplies and reinforcements to Attu; however, they were spotted by U.S. vessels patrolling the area, and the two sides soon engaged in what became known as the Battle of the Komandorski Islands. The Japanese fleet outnumbered the U.S. fleet and inflicted more serious damage on the Americans, but after several hours of fighting, the Japanese ships suddenly withdrew.
In addition to running low on fuel and ammunition, the Japanese reportedly feared the arrival of U.S. bombers. The Japanese were also unaware of the extent of the damage they'd caused to the U.S. fleet.
Following the battle, the Japanese soldiers on Attu and Kiska, now virtually isolated, were reduced to meager supplies sporadically delivered by submarine. Taking advantage of these conditions, the Americans prepared to land troops for ground combat against the Japanese garrisons.
American ships and planes bombed Attu and Kiska for several weeks before the U.S. military began Operation Landgrab on 
May 11, 1943, landing 11,000 troops on Attu. The Americans expected the operation to take no more than several days, but harsh weather and rugged, muddy terrain extended the combat for more than two weeks. The Japanese troops, greatly outnumbered, had withdrawn to the high ground rather than contest the initial landings.
U.S. soldiers, with uniforms and equipment ill-designed for the harsh weather conditions, suffered more casualties from frostbite, trench foot, gangrene, and other illnesses than from enemy fire. Food shortages added to their misery as they crisscrossed the barren island, fighting mostly small but fierce engagements while scouring the rocks and slopes for booby traps, snipers, and dug-in enemy troops. But the fate of the Japanese had been sealed when the Americans established air and naval supremacy over the island, cutting Japanese supply lines and making it unlikely that reinforcements would arrive.
By late May, the last remaining Japanese troops were starving and had insufficient ammunition when U.S. troops trapped them in a corner of the island. The Japanese commander, Colonel Yasuyo Yamasaki, decided to 
make a last-ditch frontal charge. Shortly before daybreak on May 29, he and his soldiers began one of the largest banzai charges of the war in the Pacific. Yamasaki's troops charged wildly into the American lines, sweeping through their combat outposts and penetrating all the way to shocked support troops in the rear of the American camp. But the gambit ultimately failed.
After a final attack on May 30, U.S. soldiers counted more than 2,000 Japanese dead, including Yamasaki. The Americans lost some 1,000 men in the retaking of Attu. Within two days, U.S. forces secured the island, and the Battle of Attu; the only land battle fought on American soil in World War II, was over.
Having learned bitter lessons at Attu, American commanders made certain that their soldiers had better equipment and proper clothing for the assault on Kiska, code-named Operation Cottage, where they expected to encounter several times as many Japanese troops as they'd faced on Attu.
However, when U.S. ships arrived at Kiska on August 15, 1943, the weather was strangely clear and the seas quiet, and the approximately 35,000 soldiers landed unopposed. Then,
after several days of scouring the island, they discovered that the Japanese had evacuated the entire garrison several weeks earlier, under cover of fog. On August 24, when U.S. troops declared Kiska Island secure, the Battle of the Aleutian Islands ended.
Following its defeat in the Aleutians, the Japanese navy reassigned some of its Pacific forces to defend Japan's northern flank against a possible American invasion from the Alaskan Peninsula. This decision removed a significant number of Japanese troops and resources that might otherwise have been committed to resisting U.S. forces in the South Pacific that were then island-hopping toward Japan. To fuel Japan's perception that it was threatened from the U.S. Northwest, American planes in the Aleutians conducted occasional bombing raids against Japan's Kuril Islands, which lie between Japan and Alaska.
Two years after the Battle of the Aleutian Islands, Japan formally surrendered to the Allies on September 2, 1945, effectively ending World War II.
These adolescents, aged between 12 and 17, hang around late in the evening with musical instruments and young females. Since this riff-raff is in large part outside the Hitler Youth and adopts a hostile attitude towards the organization, they represent a danger to other young people.
- Nazi Party Report, Dusseldorf, Germany, July 1943
From the time Adolf Hitler rose to power and prominence in his native Germany, his mission had been to indoctrinate the next generation of citizens to be fearless, cruel, and unwavering - all the qualities he needed to combat democracy. 
The Hitler Youth organization was developed to satisfy his goals. Enrollment was mandatory; members played sports and contributed to Nazi-approved artistic endeavors. Military training followed.
But not all of Germany's adolescents were willing to be subordinated to Hitler's cause. A small but subversive number of teenagers severed ties with state-approved groups and rebelled both culturally and politically, listening to American music, growing their hair long, and eventually graduating to sabotage. They were known as the Edelweiss Pirates, and their delinquency would grow to become a very sharp thorn in the side of the Reich.
Regardless of social class, boys and girls under the age of 14 were expected to affiliate themselves with the German Youth Group. From 14 to 18 - the age in which they became eligible for military service - teens were corralled into the Hitler Youth movement. Disinterest wasn't tolerated. If a child refused, Gestapo would threaten families with relocation to an orphanage.
Owing to either fear or loyalty, it's estimated that more than 90 percent of German children were enrolled in the groups. But by the end of the 1930s, a growing number of members began to feel the tug of teenage rebellion. 
With fathers off to war, parents killed for Communist activity, and bombing raids loosening adult supervision, kids began to resist the conformist status quo. They disliked being told how to think, what to wear, and where to go.
The Edelweiss Pirates, who named themselves after the edelweiss flower covertly pinned to their lapels as a sign of their affiliation, began as a loosely organized resistance in the working-class areas of towns like Cologne and Essen. Checkered shirts, white socks, and scarves distanced the boys (there were very few female members) from the sterile attire of Hitler Youth squads; they let their hair grow long and loose. Guitars and other instruments accompanied parodies of Hitler Youth songs that they sang while camping or hiking, away from the Gestapo constantly on the lookout.
Initially, the Pirates were meddlesome simply for leading by bad example: The SS was concerned their activities could influence youths that were already in line. Depending on the region, police waved them away as a nuisance. In other areas where officials were more concerned, the Pirates would be detained and beaten; their heads shaved to send a message.
The group met the increasingly violent response to their presence with an escalation of misbehavior. Hitler Youths spotted on the street were challenged to fights; anti-Nazi graffiti dotted buildings; 
leaflets air-dropped by Allied forces were gathered and stuffed into mailboxes. Word spread that army deserters or camp escapees could find a safe harbor in their homes. Eventually, the Pirates began organized raids on munitions factories. If a Nazi car was in sight, it was a likely target for sugar in the gas tank.
While the Pirates grew to express open hostility, another faction - the Swing Youth, or Jazz Youth - rebelled by embracing the banned music and culture of the American enemy. Big band sounds would echo through dance halls that attracted up to 6000 attendees performing the jitterbug or other salacious moves. In contrast to the Pirates, the swing cliques were generally made up of upper-middle-class teens who could afford contraband records, clothing styles, and audio equipment. When the Gestapo cracked down on public gatherings and violated curfews, they moved to private dances in their own homes.
According to a report filed with the Hitler Youth about a February 1940 dance in Hamburg: The dance music was all English and American. Only swing dancing and jitterbugging took place. The dancers made an appalling sight. None of the couples danced normally; sometimes two boys danced with one girl. When the band played a rumba, the dancers went into wild ecstasy. They all 'jitterbugged' on the stage like wild animals.
Notorious SS official Heinrich Himmler told officers that anyone caught listening to jazz should be "beaten." But after a long stretch of dealing with both the Pirates and the swing members, Himmler decided to send a more serious message to anyone thinking of joining their movement.
While captured Pirates being tortured and sent to "re-education camps" may have proved individually discouraging, Himmler felt the need to broadcast the Reich's distaste for free thinkers. In October 1944, he captured 13 agitators, including seven Pirates, and marched them to the gallows in the middle of Cologne. All prisoners were hanged in full view of the public.
Other Pirates had been sent to forced labor camps, where they maintained a ritual of singing songs in protest of the Nazi regime. Before the war ended in 1945, at least one rebel, Herbert Schemmel, was able to retrieve his stash of confiscated records.
The Pirates and the groups affiliated with them were labeled criminals by the courts of the era. In 2005, German officials officially relabeled them as resistance fighters and honored the surviving five members still in Cologne. The Edelweiss Pirates had fulfilled Hitler's desire for German youths to be fearless and unwavering in the face of adversity. He just hadn't anticipated it would be pointed in his direction.
In October 1971, I found myself on my first airplane ride to Chicago, where a bus would take me, along with 40 other young boys, to the Training Support Center Great Lakes. After a less than stellar first two years at VA Tech, I had enlisted in the Navy. With two years of Civil Engineering behind me, I was excited at the thoughts of serving in the SEABEES.
So I'd like to, as humbly as possible, tell you of my heroic deeds as a Navy SEABEE.
Except, I can't. Because although I was guaranteed a Class A School, instead of being assigned to the Naval Construction Battalion, I was sent to Data Processing School in San Diego. I was the only newbie in the class. Other members had 6 to 10 years of service and had re-upped just for Data Processing.
So the closest I came to Vietnam was San Diego. The closest I would come to a Purple Heart was keypunching injury reports while on temporary duty at the Bureau of Personnel, Washington, DC. The closest I would come to sea-duty was two nights aboard the L.Y. Spear, while docked in Norfolk, to implement a computer system. And the closest I would come to being a POW was welcoming our POWs back home as I stood on the tarmac at Norfolk Naval Air Station.
So I am not a military hero, and I'll never be one.
One of my favorite Contemporary Gospel songs is "I Can Only Imagine" by Mercy Me.
I can only imagine what it would be like to be Russ Gilley, a young man from my home town of Fries, VA, who found himself at the Battle of the Bulge. While facing an all-out assault by the Nazis on December 23, 1944, Gilley, without hesitation, threw his body over a critically wounded friend to protect the man from a mortar round that landed in their trench.
I can only imagine what it would be like to be Aaron Abercrombie; the first American pilot shot down in the Korean War. How would it feel to know I was going to die? Would my last act be to reach out and touch a photo of my wife and child, and to tell them I loved them?
I can only imagine what it would be like to be Raymond Harrell, one of my best friends growing up. I was the last friend to see him before he departed for Vietnam. Three weeks later, I was one of his first friends to greet his flag-draped coffin.
I can only imagine what it would be like to be Commander John McCain, as he bailed out of his plane while it was on fire following the USS Kitty Hawk explosion. Would I have volunteered to fly again, just to be shot down and taken prisoner? I can only imagine being held and tortured as a POW. Would I have refused to be released earlier than prisoners taken before me, just because my father was an Admiral, and it could be used for propaganda? I can only imagine the loyalty and patriotism of someone who would go through this, and still seek to serve his country as a Congressman for 30 years.
I can only imagine what it would be like to be Robert Hamilton, III, a wounded warrior I met in Newbern, NC, at Nicholas Sparks' world premiere of The Lucky One, which he attended as a guest of honor. I can only imagine having over 20 surgeries and know that I would never be able to walk, or sit, or eat normally again, or not be in pain for the rest of my life.
And I cannot imagine what it would be like to be Navy Seal leader Michael Murphy in Afghanistan. Would I have the courage, the dedication, to leave a protected position and leave myself exposed while I signaled our coordinates, so my fellow soldiers could be rescued? I can only imagine what it felt like to have dozens of shots biting into my body, to summon up that last ounce of fortitude to get the message sent. I can only imagine what it would be like to lay on a rocky ledge in Afghanistan as my body forces seeped from my body, knowing I had made myself a human sacrifice for my country.
No, I am not, and I will never be a military hero. But I can seek out those young men and women in uniform in the restaurant or at the airport. I can ask them if they have been deployed, and if so, buy them a coffee, and let them know they are in my prayers daily.
I can visit every function at the Southwest Virginia Veterans Cemetery in Dublin, VA. I can stand before each row of tombstones, read off their names, and give them a hand salute.
During the National Anthem, I can stand proudly, covered, and offer a hand salute.
And I can, and I will, stand steadfast and battle the maligning media and the liberal legislators that would seek to undermine, demean, and diminish the U.S. Military.
No, I am not a hero, but with my dying breath, I will praise God for our veterans, for ours is the land of the free, only because of the brave. God Bless the USA.
Jerry L. Haynes grew up in southwest Virginia. He served in the U.S. Navy from October 1971 until September 1975. After graduating from Great Lakes, a member of Color Company 371, he attended Data Processing School in San Diego. In April 1972, he graduated second in his class. He served 12 weeks of temporary duty at the Bureau of Personnel in Washington, DC. He then finished his enlistment at Data Processing Service Center, Atlantic Fleet. His two best memories of the Navy was his first legal drink bought for him at Fort Myers by a very lovely WAVE by the name of Billie Roe and serving as an escort for Rear Admiral "Amazing" Grace Hopper, the pioneer of the computer.
In World War II, there were many ways to die. But nothing offered more fatal choices than being inside a B-17 bomber above Nazi-occupied Europe. From the hellish storms of enemy flak and relentless strafing of Luftwaffe fighters to mid-air collisions, mechanical failure, and simple bad luck, it's a wonder any man would volunteer for such dangerous duty. But many did. Some paid the ultimate price. 
And some made it home. Among the survivors was author James Lee Hutchinson, who, with great skill, chronicles his teenage experience as a B-17 radio/gunner on twenty combat missions with the 490th Bomb Group (H) Eighth Air Force.
Based on his memories, diaries, and interviews of other veterans, the author compiled short stories on B-17 Flying Fortress crews flying deadly missions to destroy German and Italian military targets.
Most of the gunners were teenagers and the average age of officers was twenty-four. Each story gives amazing accounts of fighter attacks, flak damage and those who survived being shot down only to become Prisoners of War. These are the boys - turned pilots, bombardiers, navigators, and gunners of the B-17s.
What is exceptional about the book is the author's ability to hold the reader's attention. He goes beyond the familiar tales of aerial heroism, capturing the sights and sounds, the toil and fear, the adrenaline and the pain of the American airmen who faced death with every mission. In this sides, meticulously-researched work, Hutchinson uncovers the true nature of fighting - and dying - in the skies over World War II. Eighth Air Force losses were among the highest of any military unit. In nearly four years of warfare all over the globe, suffered over 120,000 casualties with over 40,000 killed.
The author also incorporated stories of infantry troops who slogged through the heat, rain, and snow living off C-rations in battle after battle to gain and hold ground as they literally walked across Europe. Battles covered were D-Day, Battle of the Bulge, The Ardennes Forest, and many others. He also described the tragedy of death camps and the horrific massacre at Oradour-Sur-Glane. In a matter of a few hours, over 700 villagers were shot or burned alive by Nazi SS troops. After the war, the French government left the ruins of Oradour-Sur-Glane as a reminder of the horrors of war.
I highly recommend this carefully researched book of eyewitness testimony of virtually every aspect of life, both on the ground and in the air, experienced by combat airmen and infantrymen during World War II. One walks away from this book in awe at what these men went through psychologically as they prepared for and returned from their often daily bombing missions or deadly advance across Europe.
Mission Alter
By T/Sgt. James Lee Hutchinson
Mission alert, we're scheduled to fly
A day of combat: perhaps to die.
Early to bed for a restless night
We get the call before dawn's light.
Breakfast, briefing and out to our place
We pray to survive combat again.
Loaded bombers soar into the sky
Airmen on both side area going to die.
Many decades have passed
Since I hear mission alert last
But I remember those B-17 boys;
The deadly missions; the terrible noise.
Flax filled skies - enemy fighters too
Waited for bombers in WWII
Victory was won at a terrible cost
I salute the 26,000 who were lost.
Veteran WWII airmen share my tears
Our ranks grow thing with passing years.
Generations must know of their days of glory
And so I write to tell our story.
Reader Reviews
I bought this for my dad, and he loves it. Mr. Hutchinson came from the area where he grew up, and it was a wonderful way to learn about some of the events of WWII. Thanks for the great read.
~Shelley Hillon
Thank you, James Lee Hutchinson, for writing about the 'B-17 Memories from Memphis Belle to Victory.' I really enjoyed reading and learning so much about the WWII generation and the war. I am a Vietnam combat veteran (infantry) and I now think that I had it easy compared to what the 'Greatest Generation' went through in WWII. I have a great appreciation for what all of you did and hope to never forget it. I hope these stories live forever. Unfortunately, I also worry about the current generation, not really knowing or caring about what was accomplished. I am not sure we could, as a Nation, do what was done then. My hat is off to all of you.
~George J. Miller
I admire Mr. Hutchinson for writing this book and helping to ensure that we never forget the courage and sacrifices of these brave men.
~Linda K.
About the Author
James Lee Hutchinson grew up in a small town in the hills of southern Indiana in the Great Depression. His boyhood was much the same as that of many sixteen million men and women who served in World War II.
Home from the war at age twenty, he attended Indiana University on the G.I. Bill. Degrees include 1949 B.S in History and Journalism; 1952 Masters in Elementary Education; and 1967 EdS School Administration. He spent 37 years in public schools as an elementary teacher, Principal, and Assistant Superintendent.
He is the author of four books and a DVD interview on memories of his service in the 8th Army Air Corps. At age 91, he continues telling stories by writing newspaper articles, speaking at schools and civic groups.
To view a 14-minute video interview of the author, along with combat footage, go to https://vimeo.com/5183252.