Monday, October 27, 2014

The Police are Still Out of Control

Written by Frank Serpico

n the opening scene of the 1973 movie “Serpico,” I am shot in the face—or to be more accurate, the character of Frank Serpico, played by Al Pacino, is shot in the face. Even today it’s very difficult for me to watch those scenes, which depict in a very realistic and terrifying way what actually happened to me on Feb. 3, 1971. I had recently been transferred to the Narcotics division of the New York City Police Department, and we were moving in on a drug dealer on the fourth floor of a walk-up tenement in a Hispanic section of Brooklyn. The police officer backing me up instructed me (since I spoke Spanish) to just get the apartment door open “and leave the rest to us.”
One officer was standing to my left on the landing no more than eight feet away, with his gun drawn; the other officer was to my right rear on the stairwell, also with his gun drawn. When the door opened, I pushed my way in and snapped the chain. The suspect slammed the door closed on me, wedging in my head and right shoulder and arm. I couldn’t move, but I aimed my snub-nose Smith & Wesson revolver at the perp (the movie version unfortunately goes a little Hollywood here, and has Pacino struggling and failing to raise a much-larger 9-millimeter automatic). From behind me no help came. At that moment my anger got the better of me. I made the almost fatal mistake of taking my eye off the perp and screaming to the officer on my left: “What the hell you waiting for? Give me a hand!” I turned back to face a gun blast in my face. I had cocked my weapon and fired back at him almost in the same instant, probably as reflex action, striking him. (He was later captured.)
When I regained consciousness, I was on my back in a pool of blood trying to assess the damage from the gunshot wound in my cheek. Was this a case of small entry, big exit, as often happens with bullets? Was the back of my head missing? I heard a voice saying, “Don’ worry, you be all right, you be all right,” and when I opened my eyes I saw an old Hispanic man looking down at me like Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan. My “backup” was nowhere in sight. They hadn’t even called for assistance—I never heard the famed “Code 1013,” meaning “Officer Down.” They didn’t call an ambulance either, I later learned; the old man did. One patrol car responded to investigate, and realizing I was a narcotics officer rushed me to a nearby hospital (one of the officers who drove me that night said, “If I knew it was him, I would have left him there to bleed to death,” I learned later).
The next time I saw my “back-up” officers was when one of them came to the hospital to bring me my watch. I said, “What the hell am I going to do with a watch? What I needed was a back-up. Where were you?” He said, “Fuck you,” and left. Both my “back-ups” were later awarded medals for saving my life.
I still don’t know exactly what happened on that day. There was never any real investigation. But years later, Patrick Murphy, who was police commissioner at the time, was giving a speech at one of my alma maters, the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and I confronted him. I said, “My name is Frank Serpico, and I’ve been carrying a bullet in my head for over 35 years, and you, Mr. Murphy, are the man I hold responsible. You were the man who was brought as commissioner to take up the cause that I began — rooting out corruption. You could have protected me; instead you put me in harm’s way. What have you got to say?” He hung his head, and had no answer.
Even now, I do not know for certain why I was left trapped in that door by my fellow police officers. But the Narcotics division was rotten to the core, with many guys taking money from the very drug dealers they were supposed to bust. I had refused to take bribes and had testified against my fellow officers. Police make up a peculiar subculture in society. More often than not they have their own moral code of behavior, an “us against them” attitude, enforced by a Blue Wall of Silence. It’s their version of the Mafia’s omerta. Speak out, and you’re no longer “one of us.” You’re one of “them.” And as James Fyfe,  a nationally recognized expert on the use of force, wrote in his 1993 book about this issue, Above The Law, officers who break the code sometimes won’t be helped in emergency situations, as I wasn’t.

On the left, Al Pacino plays Serpico in the 1973 movie. On the right, Frank Serpico leaves the Bronx County Courthouse after testifying on police corruption in 1973. | Getty Images
Forty-odd years on, my story probably seems like ancient history to most people, layered over with Hollywood legend. For me it’s not, since at the age of 78 I’m still deaf in one ear and I walk with a limp and I carry fragments of the bullet near my brain. I am also, all these years later, still persona non grata in the NYPD. Never mind that, thanks to Sidney Lumet’s direction and Al Pacino’s brilliant acting, “Serpico” ranks No. 40 on the American Film Institute’s list of all-time movie heroes, or that as I travel around the country and the world, police officers often tell me they were inspired to join the force after seeing the movie at an early age.
In the NYPD that means little next to my 40-year-old heresy, as they see it. I still get hate mail from active and retired police officers. A couple of years ago after the death of David Durk — the police officer who was one of my few allies inside the department in my efforts to expose graft —  the Internet message board “NYPD Rant” featured some choice messages directed at me. “Join your mentor, Rat scum!” said one. An ex-con recently related to me that a precinct captain had once said to him, “If it wasn’t for that fuckin’ Serpico, I coulda been a millionaire today.” My informer went on to say, “Frank, you don’t seem to understand, they had a well-oiled money making machine going and you came along and threw a handful of sand in the gears.”
In 1971 I was awarded the Medal of Honor, the NYPD’s highest award for bravery in action, but it wasn’t for taking on an army of corrupt cops. It was most likely due to the insistence of Police Chief Sid Cooper, a rare good guy who was well aware of the murky side of the NYPD that I’d try to expose. But they handed the medal to me like an afterthought, like tossing me a pack of cigarettes. After all this time, I’ve never been given a proper certificate with my medal. And although living Medal of Honor winners are typically invited to yearly award ceremonies, I’ve only been invited once — and it was by Bernard Kerick, who ironically was the only NYPD commissioner to later serve time in prison. A few years ago, after the New York Police Museum refused my guns and other memorabilia, I loaned them to the Italian-American museum right down street from police headquarters, and they invited me to their annual dinner. I didn’t know it was planned, but the chief of police from Rome, Italy, was there, and he gave me a plaque. The New York City police officers who were there wouldn’t even look at me.
Frank Serpico is a former New York City police detective.

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Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Artifacts of the Great War

Artifacts of the Great War

A collection of World War I objects, from the mundane to the extraordinary 

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This aluminum ammunition box belonged to the airship designated L.31, commanded by probably the best-known and most effective German airship raider, Kapitanleutnant Heinrich Mathy. He and his machine met their end in the early hours of October 1, 1916, northwest of London, when caught by 2nd Lieutenant Wulfstan Tempest of 39 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps. Boldly flying through anti-aircraft fire, Tempest made three sweeps along L.31, pumping in incendiary ammunition. “As I was firing,” he remembered, “I noticed her begin to go red inside like an enormous Chinese lantern.” L.31 and her crew plummeted to earth from almost 15,000 feet, the impact on hitting the ground visible in the way the ammunition box’s bullets perforated its soft skin. It was the fourth airship brought down in as many weeks; after months of attack, Londoners were no longer defenseless. As the burning airships lit up the night sky, thousands cheered. But at least one observer, Sybil Morrison, was more reflective. “I was appalled to see the kind, good-hearted British people dancing round in the streets at the sight of 60 people being burnt alive, clapping, singing and cheering. It was like a flash to me that this is what war did. It created this utter inhumanity in perfectly decent people.

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Emphasis is mind on the last part.  

Friday, August 08, 2014

Who’s Funding the Anti-Marijuana Movement?

Who’s Funding the Anti-Marijuana Movement? Private Prisons, Prison Guards, Police and Alcohol, Beer and Pharmaceutical Companies

Legalized marijuana may have taken root in Colorado and Washington, but that doesn’t mean it has to spread to other parts of the country, as far as a bevy of special interests are concerned.

Some of the most lucrative and powerful industries in America oppose marijuana decriminalization because it threatens their financial bottom-line or jobs for their workers. Five different interest groups form the backbone of the anti-pot campaign, according to, which tracks political spending.

First, there’s the spirits, wine and beer companies. Legalized marijuana represents a direct threat to this industry’s business model. The more people can legally smoke a bud, the less need they’ll have to buy a Bud. Four years ago, the California Beer and Beverage Distributors contributed $10,000 to help defeat California’s Proposition 19, which sought to legalize recreational marijuana in the state.

Law enforcement groups also want to maintain criminal penalties for pot possession. If the country stops waging its war on drugs, including marijuana, fewer government dollars will flow to police efforts to address this public policy issue. Municipalities will also receive less money from property seized in drug raids.

Others in the criminal justice world that want to keep the status quo of locking up marijuana offenders are private prison operators and prison guard unions. States that legalize marijuana use are likely to experience a decline in prison populations—and that will reduce the need for government to hire private prison companies and correctional officers.

The nation’s largest for-profit prison business, Corrections Corporation of America, once stated in a regulatory filing that: “[A]ny changes with respect to drugs and controlled substances or illegal immigration could affect the number of persons arrested, convicted, and sentenced, thereby potentially reducing demand for correctional facilities to house them,” according to

Another example is the Golden State’s mighty prison guards union, the California Correctional Peace Officers Association (CCPOA), a major player in state politics for decades. CCPOA contributed $1 million in 2008 to defeat Proposition 5, which sought more drug treatment and rehabilitation programs for inmates.

Finally, there’s the legal drug industry: Big Pharma. It opposes marijuana decriminalization because it could mean people spend less money on painkillers and anti-inflammatory remedies like ibuprofen. Its primary lobbying group, the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America (PhRMA), has loads of money to spend. Two years ago, it dropped nearly $22 million on congressional races, demonstrating how big a war chest it can muster.

-Noel Brinkerhoff

To Learn More:

Money, Not Morals, Drives Marijuana Prohibition Movement (by Kendall Bentsen,

There's Money in Marijuana (by Kendall Bentsen and Clare Gunton,

Only Conservative Republicans Still Oppose Legalizing Marijuana (by David Wallechinsky and Noel Brinkerhoff, AllGov)

DEA Tries to Strongarm Physicians Connected to Marijuana Dispensaries (by Steve Straehley, AllGov)

Wednesday, June 04, 2014

93-year-old WWII vet to parachute into Normandy -- again


93-year-old WWII vet to parachute into Normandy -- again


XENIA, Ohio -- On a winding road, past a stand of sycamores outside his Ohio home, CBS News found Jim Martin, 70 years after his first trip to France.
Jim was one of the first Americans in combat in Europe.
Jim Martin
"They called us the tip of the spear," he says.
Jim was a private in the 101st Airborne, one of the paratroopers dropped behind German lines in the hours before the D-Day landings.
"We wanted to get out of the plane quickly, because it was hitting the plane," he says. "Planes were blowing up, and we wanted to get the hell out of there."
They were inviting targets as they drifted toward the ground and the enemy.
Asked what was going through his mind as he slowly descended through the clouds into hostile territory, Jim says, "Fascination, because of all of this fire coming up towards us."
"It was absolutely fascinating to see all these various colored tracers coming up there," he says.
Their mission was to keep the Germans from reinforcing their troops on the dunes. Jim and his comrades landed right in the middle of those German reinforcements.
"That was a slaughter house," he recalls. "There was SS all over the place, and they just slaughtered us. My colonel was lost. My company commander was lost."
But what was supposed to be three days of fighting in Normandy went on for a month.
Jim Martin was one of the first Americans in combat in Europe.
"That's the way we were trained, we accepted that," Jim says. "And no matter how many people are there against you, what the odds are doesn't matter. We're going to win."
Jim went from Normandy to fight in Holland, where he was wounded; from Holland to the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium; and from Belgium to Berchtesgaden, Germany -- Adolf Hitler's retreat in the Bavarian Alps.
Jim says he thought he was going to die "every day."
"You just have to accept it," he says. "If you're going to worry about dying all the time, you can't fight."
Jim is 93 now, one of the few left who can talk firsthand of a time when he says right was right and wrong was wrong, and everyone knew the difference.
And here's the best part: This week, he's going back to Normandy, where he intends to parachute -- yes parachute -- onto the same soil he touched seven decades ago.
"I'm not usually looking for records or anything, but that would give me a great deal of satisfaction," he says.
Bon voyage, Jim.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

April 30, 1975


By dawn, communist forces move into Saigon, where they meet only sporadic resistance. The South Vietnamese forces had collapsed under the rapid advancement of the North Vietnamese. The most recent fighting had begun in December 1974, when the North Vietnamese had launched a major attack against the lightly defended province of Phuoc Long, located due north of Saigon along the Cambodian border, overrunning the provincial capital at Phuoc Binh on January 6, 1975. Despite previous presidential promises to provide aid in such a scenario, the United States did nothing. By this time, Nixon had resigned from office and his successor, Gerald Ford, was unable to convince a hostile Congress to make good on Nixon's earlier promises to rescue Saigon from communist takeover.

This situation emboldened the North Vietnamese, who launched a new campaign in March 1975. The South Vietnamese forces fell back in total disarray, and once again, the United States did nothing. The South Vietnamese abandoned Pleiku and Kontum in the Highlands with very little fighting. Then Quang Tri, Hue, and Da Nang fell to the communist onslaught. The North Vietnamese continued to attack south along the coast toward Saigon, defeating the South Vietnamese forces at each encounter.

The South Vietnamese 18th Division had fought a valiant battle at Xuan Loc, just to the east of Saigon, destroying three North Vietnamese divisions in the process. However, it proved to be the last battle in the defense of the Republic of South Vietnam. The South Vietnamese forces held out against the attackers until they ran out of tactical air support and weapons, finally abandoning Xuan Loc to the communists on April 21.

Having crushed the last major organized opposition before Saigon, the North Vietnamese got into position for the final assault. In Saigon, South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu resigned and transferred authority to Vice President Tran Van Huong before fleeing the city on April 25. By April 27, the North Vietnamese had completely encircled Saigon and began to maneuver for a complete takeover.

When they attacked at dawn on April 30, they met little resistance. North Vietnamese tanks crashed through the gates of the Presidential Palace and the war came to an end. North Vietnamese Col. Bui Tin accepted the surrender from Gen. Duong Van Minh, who had taken over after Tran Van Huong spent only one day in power. Tin explained to Minh, "You have nothing to fear. Between Vietnamese there are no victors and no vanquished. Only the Americans have been beaten. If you are patriots, consider this a moment of joy. The war for our country is over."

Friday, April 11, 2014

“I Wasn’t Controlling the Aircraft. The Storm Was.”

I just thought this was an interesting story.  Really good to see the humanity in the cockpit.
As a 21-year-old U.S. Army Air Forces Aviation Cadet in 1943, I was part of the testing of an accelerated bomber-pilot training program. At Brooks Field in San Antonio, Texas, we got our first up-close look at the airplane we would be flying—the Mitchell B-25. All of us were surprised by how easy the big airplane was to fly compared to the airplanes we had been flying, like the twin-engine Cessna AT-17.
During the next 10 weeks, I logged 80 hours in the B-25 and qualified as an Army Air Forces pilot with the rank of second lieutenant.
The brass decided I should fly the Martin medium bomber, the B-26 Marauder, which was bigger and faster than the B-25. After I logged 100 hours, I picked up a B-26 crew and started training them for combat.
Then, thanks to the war in the Pacific, I got a call to pick up a new crew for the Douglas A-26 Invader (“A” for attack), the last word in the Air Forces’ line of twin-engine bombers. Military strategists thought that ending the war might require an invasion of the Japanese mainland, and the A-26, with six to 14 forward-firing .50-caliber machine guns, could be used to attack the invasion sites so the Marines could land with fewer casualties.
The A-26 was lighter and faster and had more firepower than either the B-25 or -26. My crew consisted of the pilot, a navigator/bombardier, and one gunner. The A-26, like fighters, had only one set of flight controls—none for an instructor. The instructor gave the student an introduction to the A-26 ride, and from then on he would merely sit alongside the student. We did a lot of instrument flight training, as we did in the B-25 and -26. In three months I had logged about 100 hours of pilot time in the A-26 and was comfortable in it, especially if my navigator, Rex Whitney, was in the seat to my right. I never had to worry about where we were. He always knew.
On August 15, 1945, Japan surrendered. Within the week we got the news that we would be heading for Japan as part of the occupation forces.
The A-26 lacked the range to cross the Pacific nonstop. We would island-hop from Hawaii to Christmas Island, Canton, Tarawa, Enewetak, Guam, the Philippines, and then on to Japan. For the 1,350-mile trip to Christmas Island, our 12 airplanes cruised in a loose formation at 8,000 feet in sunny weather, seeing nothing but blue water and an occasional ship.
During the next two days, we flew to Canton and then to Tarawa. On the morning of August 29, we were warming up near the end of the runway on Tarawa in preparation for our flight to Enewetak. I told the squadron leader I had no oil pressure in my left engine. “Don’t move until the mechanical people find the problem,” he said. “When you get the oil pressure problem fixed, take off and join us at Enewetak.”
My navigator, gunner, and I studied the weather reports, which showed a tropical storm directly on our course. The squadron leader chose to avoid the weather by taking the other 11 airplanes on a course 200 miles to the east of the storm. My crew and I thought that we could save time by flying through it.
The mechanics spent a couple of hours getting an air bubble out of the oil pressure line. Navigator Whitney gave me a northwesterly heading to Enewetak—right through the middle of the storm. We took off at 11 a.m., climbed to 8,000 feet, trimmed the airplane to fly hands-off, and sat back to enjoy the flight.
At noon, I noticed tall cumulus clouds dead ahead. In short order we were in mild turbulence. Then the airplane was being tossed about like a leaf in a whirlwind. We were in dark clouds with no view of anything outside the cockpit, not even a horizon. Heavy rain pelted the airplane, lightning flashed continually, and the thunderclaps were deafening. Suddenly we were in a steep left bank followed by a dive. During my feeble attempt at keeping the airplane level, I noticed the rate-of-climb gauge said I was climbing at 4,000 feet per minute. The airplane was in a violent updraft. The altimeter read 17,000 feet, an altitude where oxygen starvation was a possibility. During flight training, I had experienced anoxia in a vacuum chamber—and at the equivalent of a much lower altitude. I had passed out, and came to with the help of an oxygen mask.
I lowered the nose and increased the throttle until I was doing 300 mph, hoping to stop or at least reduce the rate of climb. But I was still climbing at 2,000 feet per minute. I was not in control of the aircraft. The storm was.
Just as suddenly as we had been snatched by the updraft, we hit a downdraft and began losing altitude, more than 4,000 feet per minute. I wrestled the airplane to a nose-up attitude to counteract the rapid loss in altitude, all the while fighting turbulence. I feared that if the downdraft continued, we might end up in the ocean.
A short time later the rapid descent stopped, leaving us 2,000 feet above the Pacific. In less than 30 seconds we hit another updraft. Wash, rinse, repeat: lightning, thunder, rain, turbulence.
Then vertigo struck. The flight instruments indicated I was flying straight and level—as straight and level as could be expected under the circumstances—but my senses told me I was diving, climbing, in steep turns—even upside down. I had to fight off those signals and fly by the dictates of the flight instruments.
In all my flying, this was the most difficult thing I had ever been called on to do. I remembered how hard my instrument-flight instructors had been on me. “Fly the instruments—not your head!” My B-25 instrument-flight instructor kept telling me, “Relax, you’re too tense, you’re squeezing the life out of the throttles and the control column. You need sensitivity on the controls, especially when you’re flying on instruments, and when you’re tense, you lose it.” Once, when I got into a precarious situation, he hit the back of my throttle-squeezing hand really hard with his microphone. “I said RELAX!”
Whitney was sitting to my right. We didn’t exchange any words. I thought it best not to tell him I was battling vertigo. I was too busy just trying to keep us right side up. The gunner, Hugh Dunwoodie, was in his compartment behind the bomb bay, just in front of the tail section. I knew how rough our ride up front was: I can’t imagine what it was like for him back there.
The second updraft was more violent. My efforts to slow the rate of ascent had minimal effect. Once again, when we hit 17,000 feet, we leveled out. At that altitude, the turbulence wasn’t as bad, nor was the lightning and rain. I still feared anoxia, but there was nothing I could do about that.
It became increasingly clear that my efforts to fight the storm were useless. I gave up battling the up- and downdrafts and concentrated on keeping the airplane level, heading in approximately the direction of Enewetak. But the vertigo continued. Imagine hanging by your feet from a tree branch 10 feet off the ground, with someone standing in front of you telling you, “No, you’re not upside down, just ignore those sensations and go about your business.”
The downdraft continued sucking us down at 3,000 feet per minute. This time we leveled out at 5,000 feet. Then we hit a third updraft. I had a feeling the storm was becoming less intense. The airplane was becoming just a little bit easier to control.
Suddenly, at 8,000 feet, we were in sunshine. Upon seeing the blue sky, the water, and the horizon, my vertigo vanished. It was 1:30. Whitney got out his sextant, took a reading on the sun, did some calculations, and gave me a heading to Enewetak.
For two hours and 30 minutes, we flew that heading under perfect weather conditions. We saw no airplanes, no ships, no islands—just the beautiful blue Pacific.
I called Enewetak for landing instructions. The controller said that the other 11 airplanes of my squadron had landed earlier. They left Tarawa two hours before we did, and landed in Enewetak only 30 minutes before us. Our flight through the storm saved us 90 minutes. Now, at age 92, I’ve forgiven that 21-year-old for making such a dumb decision.
We taxied to where the other A-26s were parked. Everyone was in the airport lounge having a drink, celebrating their safe flight.
Whitney and I climbed down and stood alongside the A-26. Then Whitney took my right hand in his, gave a long, hard squeeze, and said, “Thanks.”
Dunwoodie opened the lower hatch below the gunners’ compartment, let himself down, and gave me a bear hug.
We went into the airport lounge to meet the rest of the squadron. They didn’t inquire about our flight—they assumed it was a ho-hum affair like theirs—so we left it right there and had a beer.

Friday, January 24, 2014

Japanese soldier from WWII, who hid in jungle for decades refusing to believe war was over, dies at 91

Interesting piece of news.  While I don't condone war, nor celebrate it, I cannot help but find compassion for the soldier that performs his duty.  

Thus ends another of the many sagas of WWII, one of the most harrowing times in the history of this world.

Japanese soldier from WWII, who hid in jungle for decades refusing to believe war was over, dies at 91

  • JapanOBIT.jpg
    FILE 1974: Hiroo Onoda, center, salutes after handing over his military sword on Lubang Island, Philippines, when he comes out of hiding in the jungle. (AP PHOTO/KYODO NEWS)
Hiroo Onoda, the last Japanese imperial soldier to emerge from hiding in a jungle in the Philippines and surrender, 29 years after the end of World War II, has died. He was 91.
Onoda died Thursday at a Tokyo hospital after a brief stay there. Chief government spokesman Yoshihide Suga on Friday expressed his condolences, praising Onoda for his strong will to live and indomitable spirit.
"After World War II, Mr. Onoda lived in the jungle for many years and when he returned to Japan, I felt that finally, the war was finished. That's how I felt," Suga said.
"I don't consider those 30 years a waste of time. Without that experience, I wouldn't have my life today."
- Hiroo Onoda told the AP in 1995
Onoda was an intelligence officer who came out of hiding, erect but emaciated, in fatigues patched many times over, on Lubang island in the Philippines in March 1974, on his 52nd birthday. He surrendered only when his former commander flew there to reverse his 1945 orders to stay behind and spy on American troops.
Onoda and another World War II holdout, Sgt. Shoichi Yokoi, who emerged from the jungle in 1972, received massive heroes' welcomes upon returning home.
Before and during the war, Japanese were taught absolute loyalty to the nation and the emperor. Soldiers in the Imperial Army observed a code that said death was preferable to surrender.
Onoda refused to give up, despite at least four searches during which family members appealed to him over loudspeakers and flights dropped leaflets urging him to surrender.
In his formal surrender to Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos, Onoda wore his 30-year-old imperial army uniform, cap and sword, all still in good condition.
After the initial sensation of his return home wore off, Onoda bought a ranch in Brazil. He later was head of a children's nature school in northern Japan.
"I don't consider those 30 years a waste of time," Onoda said in a 1995 interview with The Associated Press. "Without that experience, I wouldn't have my life today."
Still, he showed a great zeal for making up for years lost.
"I do everything twice as fast so I can make up for the 30 years," Onoda said. "I wish someone could eat and sleep for me so I can work 24 hours a day."
The son of a teacher, Onoda worked for a Japanese trading firm in Shanghai after finishing high school in 1939. Three years later, he was drafted and trained at a military academy.
In December 1944, he was sent to Lubang, about 90 miles southwest of Manila. Most other Japanese soldiers surrendered when U.S. troops landed on Lubang in February 1945, though hundreds remained missing for years after the war.
As he struggled to feed himself, Onoda's mission became one of survival. He stole rice and bananas from local people down the hill, and shot their cows to make dried beef, triggering occasional skirmishes.
The turning point came on Feb. 20, 1974, when he met a young globe-trotter, Norio Suzuki, who ventured to Lubang in pursuit of Onoda.
Suzuki quietly pitched camp in lonely jungle clearings and waited. "Oi," Onoda eventually called out, and eventually began speaking with him.
Suzuki returned to Japan and contacted the government, which located Onoda's superior — Maj. Yoshimi Taniguchi — and flew him to Lubang to deliver his surrender order in person.


Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Guess who said this...

Guess who said this...

"Power in defense of freedom is greater than power in behalf of tyranny and oppression, because power, real power, comes from our conviction which produces action, uncompromising action."