United States Submarine Operations in World War II, by Theodore Roscoe – 1949 (Lieut. Comdr. Fred Freeman) – II

(p. vi)

(Holocaust at Pearl Harbor – p. 1)

(The Fighting Defense – p. 47)

(All-Out Attrition – p. 189)

(Pacific Sweep – p. 301)

(Japanese Sunset – p. 437)

(Epilogue – p. 495)

HMS Ulysses, by Alistair MacLean – 1953 (Robert Schulz)

Cap in hand, Ralston sat down opposite the captain.
Vallery look at him for a long time in silence.
He wondered what to say, how best to say it.
He hated to have to do this.

Richard Vallery also hated war. 
He always had hated it,
and he cursed the day it had dragged him out of his comfortable retirement. 
At least “dragged” was how he put it;
only Tyndall knew that he had volunteered his services to the Admiralty
on September 1, 1939,
and had had them gladly accepted.

But he hated war. 
Not because it interfered with his lifelong passion for music and literature,
on both of which he was a considerable authority,
not even because it was a perpetual affront to his aestheticism,
to his sense of rightness and fitness. 
He hated it because he was a deeply religious man,
because it grieved him to see in mankind the wild beasts of the primeval jungle,
because he thought the cross of his life was already burden enough
without the gratuitous infliction of the mental and physical agony of war,
and, above all,
because he saw war all too clearly as the wild and insensate folly it was, –
as a madness of the mind that settled nothing, proved nothing –
except the old, old truth that God was on the side of the big battalions.

But some things he had to do,
and Vallery had clearly seen that this war was to be his also. 
And so he had come back to the service and had grown older
as the bitter years passed, older and frailer,
and more kindly and tolerant and understanding. 
Among naval captains – indeed, among men – he was unique. 
In his charity, in his humility, Captain Richard Vallery walked alone. 
It was a measure of the man’s greatness
that this thought never occurred to him.

 

United States Destroyer Operations in World War II, by Theodore Roscoe – 1953 (Lieut. Comdr. Fred Freeman) – III

(Winning the Mediterranean – p. 364) (Central Pacific Push – p. 384) (Western Pacific Push – p. 402) (Battle off Samar – p. 424) (U.S.S. Hoel – p. 427) (U.S.S. Ross – p. 437) (Typhoon – Manila Bay – p. 448) (Typhoon – Manila Bay – p. 459) (Okinawa Invasion – p. 485) (Small Boys Finish Big Job – p. 501)

United States Destroyer Operations in World War II, by Theodore Roscoe – 1953 (Lieut. Comdr. Fred Freeman) – II

(Destroyers to North Africa – p. 149)

(Central Solomons Sweep – p. 215)

(Aleutian Conclusion – p. 249)

(South Seas Mop-Up – p. 256)

(Coming of the Hunter-Killers – p. 273)

(Holding the Trans-Atlantic Line – p. 274)

(Destroyers to Europe – p. 315)

(Destroyers to Sicily – p. 316)

(Destroyers to Italy – p. 329)

(Destroyers to Normandy – p. 343)

United States Submarine Operations in World War II, by Theodore Roscoe – 1949 (Lieut. Comdr. Fred Freeman) – I

(Frontspiece)

(p. iv)

(p. viii)

(Preface – p. xiii)

(Holocaust at Pearl Harbor – p. 3)

(Central Pacific Front – p. 12)

(Philippines Invasion – p. 23)

(Thunder Down Under – p. 93)

(The Empire Blockade – p. 169)

(Japanese Anti-Submarine War – p. 209)

(Torpedo! – p. 250)

(Central Pacific Offensive – p. 279)

(Tokyo Approach – p. 439)

(Submarine Lifeguarding – p. 465)

United States Destroyer Operations in World War II, by Theodore Roscoe – 1953 (Lieut. Comdr. Fred Freeman) – I

(Frontspiece)

(Preface – p. xiii)

(Introduction – p. xvii)

(The Modern DD – p. 11) (Shield and Spearhead – p. 53)

(Destroying the Submarine – p. 67) (DesLant Into Battle (I) – p. 68)

(DesLant Into Battle (II) – p. 76) (Ordeal of DesRon 29 – p. 97)

(Ordeal of DesRon 29 – p. 110)

(Pacific Stand – p. 111) (Convoy Escorts Versus Wolfpacks – p. 137)

(Destroyers to North Africa – p. 138)

Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson – 1946 (Unknown Artist)

It will perhaps be somewhat difficult for the men and women of a later day
to understand Jesse Bentley. 
In the Last fifty years a vast change has taken place in the lives of our people. 
A revolution has in fact taken place. 
The coming of industrialism, attended by all the roar and rattle of affairs,
the shrill cries of millions of new voices that have come among us from over seas,
the going and coming of trains,
the growth of cities,
the building of the interurban car lines
that weave in and out of towns and past farmhouses,
and now in these later days the coming of the automobiles
has worked a tremendous change in the lives and the habits
of thought of our people of Mid-America. 

Books,
badly imagined and written though they may be in the hurry of our times,
are in every household,
magazines circulate by the millions of copies,
newspapers are everywhere. 
In our day a farmer standing by a stove in the store in his village
has his mind filled to overflowing with the words of other men. 
The newspapers and the magazines have pumped him full. 
Much of the old brutal ignorance that had in it also
a kind of beautiful childlike innocence is gone forever. 
The farmer by the stove is brother to the men of the cities,
and if you listen you will find him talking as glibly and senselessly
as the best city man of us all

 

Christ Stopped at Eboli, by Carlo Levi – 1948 (Jonas)

christ-stopped-at-eboli-carlo-levi-1948-jonas_edited-1The truth is that the internecine war among the gentry is the same in every village of Lucania. 

The upper classes have not the means to live with decorum and self-respect. 

The young men of promise, and even those barely able to make their way, leave the village. 

The most adventurous go off to America, as the peasants do, and the others to Naples or Rome; none return. 

Those who are left in the villages are the discarded, who have no talents, the physically deformed, the inept and the lazy; greed and boredom combine to dispose them to evil. 

Small parcels of farm land do not assure them a living and, in order to survive, these misfits must dominate the peasants and secure for themselves the well-paid posts of druggist, priest, marshal of the carabinieri, and so on. 

It is, therefore, a matter of life and death to have the rule in their own hands, to hoist themselves on their relatives and friends into top jobs. 

This is the root of the endless struggle to obtain power and to keep it from others, a struggle with the narrowness of their surroundings, enforced idleness, and a mixture of personal and political motives render continuous and savage. 

Every day anonymous letters from every village of Lucania arrived at the prefecture. 

And at the prefecture they were, apparently, far from dissatisfied with this state of affairs, even if they said the contrary.

__________

All that people say about the people of the South, things I once believed myself: the savage rigidity or their morals, their Oriental jealousy, the fierce sense of honor leading to crimes of passion and revenge, all these are but myths. 

Perhaps they existed a long time ago and something of them is left in the way of a stiff conventionality. 

But emigration has changed the picture. 

The men have gone and the women have taken over. 

Many a woman’s husband is in America. 

For a year, or even two, he writes to her, then he drops out of her ken, perhaps he forms other family ties; in any case he disappears and never comes back. 

The wife waits for him a year, or even two; then some opportunity arises and a baby is the result. 

A great part of the children are illegitimate, and the mother holds absolute sway.  Gagliano has twelve hundred inhabitants, and there are two thousand men from Gagliano in America. 

Grassano had five thousand inhabitants and almost the same number have emigrated. 

In the villages the women outnumber the men and the father’s identity is no longer so strictly important; honor is dissociated from paternity, because a matriarchal regime prevails.

Story of a Secret State, by Jan Karski – 1944 (Unknown Artist)

story-of-a-secret-state-jan-karski-1944We were in a part of Poland neither of us knew well.
We were in uniform, possessed no documents of any kind,
and had no idea of conditions about us.
We were hungry; weakened by the ordeals of the last few weeks;
and in the now heavy downpour had no protection but our threadbare garments.
In the circumstances, there was nothing to do but trust to luck.
Determining to knock at the door of the first dwelling we came upon,
we got up and walked through the wood
until we came to a narrow strip of grassless soil
that was obviously either a path or a road.

After about three hours of trudging through the rain,
we perceived the outlines of a village, and slackened our pace,
approaching it cautiously.  
Tiptoeing quietly up to the first cottage,
we found ourselves at a small, typical peasants’ dwelling.  
Hesitantly we stood before the door from under which a dim light issued.  
As I raised my hand to knock, I felt a tremor of nervousness and apprehension.  
I rapped on the door with brusque over-emphasis to allay my dread.

‘Who is it?’ The trembling voice of a peasant reassured me slightly.

‘Come out, please,’ I replied,
attempting to make my voice sound polite but authoritative,
‘it is very important.’
The door opened slowly,
disclosing a gray-headed old peasant with a grizzled beard.  
He stood there in his underwear, obviously frightened and cold.  
A wave of warm air from the interior made me feel almost faint
with the urge to enter and bask in it.

‘What do you want?’ he asked in a tone of mingled indignation and fear.

I ignored the question.  
I decided to try to play boldly on his feelings.
‘Are you or are you not a Pole?’  
I demanded sternly. ‘Answer me.’

‘I am a Polish patriot,’
he replied with greater composure and celerity than I had anticipated.

‘Do you love your country?’ I continued undismayed.

‘I do.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘Yes, I do.’

The old man evinced considerable impatience at my questions
but no longer seemed terrified – merely curious.
I proceeded to satisfy his curiosity.

‘We are Polish soldiers who have just escaped from the Germans.  
We are going to join the army and help them save Poland.  
We are not defeated yet.  You must help us and give us civilian clothes.
If you refuse and try to turn us over to the Germans, God will punish you.’

He gazed at me quizzically from under his thick eyebrows.  
I could not tell if he was amused, impressed, or alarmed.

‘Come inside,’ he said dryly, ‘out of this miserable rain.  
I will not turn you over to the Germans.’

 

That Hideous Strength, by Clive Staples Lewis (C.S. Lewis) – 1946, 1977 (Bernard Symancyk)

that-hideous-strength-cs-lewis-1946-1977“Why you fool, it’s the educated reader who can be gulled.
All our difficulty comes with the others.
When did you meet a workman who believes the papers?
He takes it for granted that they’re all propaganda and skips the leading articles.
He buys his paper for the football results and the little paragraphs
about girls falling out of windows and corpses found in Mayfair flats.
He is our problem.
We have to recondition him.

But the educated public,
the people who read the highbrow weeklies,
don’t need reconditioning.
They’re all right already.
They’ll believe anything.”“Why you fool, it’s the educated reader who can be gulled.

All our difficulty comes with the others.
When did you meet a workman who believes the papers?
He takes it for granted that they’re all propaganda and skips the leading articles.
He buys his paper for the football results and the little paragraphs
about girls falling out of windows and corpses found in Mayfair flats.

He is our problem.
We have to recondition him.

But the educated public,
the people who read the highbrow weeklies,
don’t need reconditioning.
They’re all right already.

They’ll believe anything.”

(See review and discussion at Chicago Boyz website…)