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David Hackworth, author of About Face. Harold Moore, were dropped into a small clearing in the Ia Drang Valley. They were immediately surrounded by 2, North Vietnamese soldiers. Three days later, only two and a half miles away, a sister battalion was brutally slaughtered. Together, these actions at the landing zones X-Ray and Albany constituted one of the most savage and significant battles of the Vietnam War. How these Americans persevered—sacrificing themselves for their comrades and never giving up—creates a vivid portrait of war at its most devastating and inspiring. Moore and Joseph L.
I don't mean to say that we were not acquainted with many English people. Living, as we perforce lived, in Europe, and being, as we perforce were, leisured Americans, which is as much as to say that we were un-American, we were thrown very much into the society of the nicer English.
Paris, you see, was our home. Somewhere between Nice and Bordighera provided yearly winter quarters for us, and Nauheim always received us from July to September.
You will gather from this statement that one of us had, as the saying is, a "heart", and, from the statement that my wife is dead, that she was the sufferer. Captain Ashburnham also had a heart. But, whereas a yearly month or so at Nauheim tuned him up to exactly the right pitch for the rest of the twelvemonth, the two months or so were only just enough to keep poor Florence alive from year to year.
The reason for his heart was, approximately, polo, or too much hard sportsmanship in his youth. The reason for poor Florence's broken years was a storm at sea upon our first crossing to Europe, and the immediate reasons for our imprisonment in that continent were doctor's orders.
They said that even the short Channel crossing might well kill the poor thing. When we all first met, Captain Ashburnham, home on sick leave from an India to which he was never to return, was thirty-three; Mrs Ashburnham Leonora—was thirty-one. I was thirty-six and poor Florence thirty. Thus today Florence would have been thirty-nine and Captain Ashburnham forty-two; whereas I am forty-five and Leonora forty. You will perceive, therefore, that our friendship has been a young-middle-aged affair, since we were all of us of quite quiet dispositions, the Ashburnhams being more particularly what in England it is the custom to call "quite good people".
Drawing on new scholarship, Clark offers a fresh look at World War I, focusing not on the Each of us struggles every day to define and defend our sense of purpose and integrity. Do we fight by a code?
What is the Warrior Ethos? How do we and how can we use it and be true to it in our internal and external lives? Slightly larger than her sibling, the Tirpitz was equally capable of destroying So feared were these lethal marksmen that the Viet Cong offered huge rewards for killing them. Now noted Vietnam author John J.
Culbertson, a former Landor carries to its height the love of freak which the English delight to indulge, as if to signalize their commanding freedom. He has a wonderful brain, despotic, violent, and inexhaustible, meant for a soldier, by what chance converted to letters, in which there is not a style nor a tint not known to him, yet with an English appetite for action and heroes. The thing done avails, and not what is said about it.
An original sentence, a step forward, is worth more than all the censures. Landor is strangely undervalued in England; usually ignored; and sometimes savagely attacked in the Reviews. The criticism may be right, or wrong, and is quickly forgotten; but year after year the scholar must still go back to Landor for a multitude of elegant sentences -- for wisdom, wit, and indignation that are unforgetable.
Coleridge, requesting leave to pay my respects to him. It was near noon.
Coleridge sent a verbal message, that he was in bed, but if I would call after one o'clock, he would see me. I returned at one, and he appeared, a short, thick old man, with bright blue eyes and fine clear complexion, leaning on his cane.
He took snuff freely, which presently soiled his cravat and neat black suit.
He spoke of Dr. It was an unspeakable misfortune that he should have turned out a Unitarian after all. On this, he burst into a declamation on the folly and ignorance of Unitarianism, -- its high unreasonableness; and taking up Bishop Waterland's book, which lay on the table, he read with vehemence two or three pages written by himself in the fly-leaves, -- passages, too, which, I believe, are printed in the "Aids to Reflection. He was very sorry that Dr. Channing, -- a man to whom he looked up, -- no, to say that he looked up to him would be to speak falsely; but a man whom he looked at with so much interest, -- should embrace such views.
When he saw Dr. Channing, he had hinted to him that he was afraid he loved Christianity for what was lovely and excellent, -- he loved the good in it, and not the true; and I tell you, sir, that I have known ten persons who loved the good, for one person who loved the true; but it is a far greater virtue to lovethe true for itself alone, than to love the good for itself alone. He Coleridge knew all about Unitarianism perfectly well, because he had once been a Unitarian, and knew what quackery it was.
He had been called "the rising star of Unitarianism. He replied, that it was really taken from a pamphlet in his possession, entitled "A Protest of one of the Independents," or something to that effect.