MAN: Yeah!
NARRATOR: On July 15, 1945,
the USS Indianapolis,
her repairs now complete and ready to go back to war,
received orders to pick up special cargo
at Hunters Point, California.
MAURICE BELL: 'Course, we had no idea what the cargo was.
Well, there was all kind of rumors went on
aboard ship, uh, what we was delivering.
There was one rumor that's very outstanding in my mind,
and this rumor just flew all over the ship
was that we was delivering scented toilet paper
to General MacArthur.
And they picked certain men on the ship
to load and unload this,
and they picked me.
So I helped load it.
¶ ¶
(music ends)
NARRATOR: On July 26,
the Indianapolis delivered its mysterious cargo
to the B-29 base on Tinian.
¶ ¶
Then she set out for the Philippines.
Four days later, in the middle of the night,
disaster struck.
BELL: A few minutes after midnight,
there was a loud explosion on there.
It knocked me out of my bunk.
and the first thing that passed... went through my mind
was that a... a boiler had blown up.
(explosion)
NARRATOR: A Japanese submarine
had sent two torpedoes
hissing into the hull of the Indianapolis.
They cut it nearly in half.
1,196 men were aboard.
Within the first few minutes,
some 300 of them were blown apart
or burned to death.
The captain ordered the rest--
nearly 900 men-- to abandon ship.
BELL: I estimated I was about 25 to 30 feet up in the air
when I jumped.
I put my foot against the side of the ship and pushed
and started swimming, because I was told that, uh,
the best thing to do is to get away from a ship--
as it went under, it would create, uh, tremendous suction.
So as I pushed with my foot and started swimming,
when I did, the ship just shot away from me
as it was going under.
NARRATOR: Within 12 minutes,
the Indianapolis sank from sight.
The men were alone now,
scattered across miles of dark, empty sea.
Many men were badly wounded.
Some had broken limbs.
Able-bodied survivors did what they could in the dark
to fashion floats for them,
tying together life rafts as floating beds.
Morning brought worse horrors.
BELL: When daylight came, you look around,
all you could see was just the group that I was in.
There was probably over a hundred men
in that group to start with.
Just shortly after daylight, somebody yelled...
yelled out real loud, "Sharks!"
And sure enough, there were sharks swimming all around us.
And, uh, those sharks would swim around us,
and then, uh, all of a sudden, they would dive in on us
and start attacking guys.
And, uh...
you'd see them attack somebody
over just a short... just a few feet from you,
and, of course, they'd grab them,
and down they'd go, and you'd never see that... man again.
All you would see then
would be the water turning red around them.
They attacked us every day,
several times a day.
Some of the sharks swimming three or four feet of me,
but none ever touch me.
NARRATOR: No one came to rescue them.
Distress signals from the sinking ship
had been dismissed as Japanese trickery.
BELL: I stayed in the water for four days and five nights--
a little over a hundred hours, altogether--
with nothing to eat or no fresh water to drink.
Some of the guys just went completely out of their head.
Didn't even know where they was at.
They would feel that fr... cold water down at their feet,
and they'd dive down there and drink it,
thinking they was back aboard ship.
And they'd come back up and describe...
that, uh, "Come on down below."
They thought they was on the ship.
"Come on down-- at the officer's quarters,
there's water fountains up there with ice water all the time."
NARRATOR: When the Navy finally did come upon them on August 2,
only 321 men remained alive.
Some 880 crewmen died.
BELL: Some of the things
that I actually went through out there,
it just seems more like a dream... sometimes.
I wonder how I made it through.
I tell everybody now
that I was too sour for the sharks to eat.
NARRATOR: On August 5,
three days after the rescue of the Indianapolis survivors,
the unknown object they had delivered to Tinian
was placed aboard a B-29
named for the mother of its pilot--
the Enola Gay.
It was an atomic bomb.
It had originally been intended for use against the Germans,
who had been feverishly working to make a bomb of their own,
but it had not been ready for delivery
before they surrendered.
The American bomb had been developed
under such strict secrecy that the new president
had never heard of the project before he assumed office.
But once he was told about it,
Truman approved the bomb's use as soon as it was ready.
At 8:15 in the morning on August 6, 1945,
the bomb tumbled through the bomb-bay doors
of the Enola Gay.
43 seconds later,
six miles below
but still high above the city of Hiroshima,
it detonated, changing the world forever.
(explosion)
(rumbling continues)
(rumbling fading out slowly)
With a single bomb, 40,000 men, women and children
were obliterated in an instant.
100,000 more would die within days
of burns and radiation.
Another hundred thousand would succumb
to radiation poisoning over the next five years.
¶ ¶
More than half a century later,
citizens of Hiroshima would still be dying
from the bomb's long-delayed side effects.
Despite the devastation,
the Japanese still would not accept
the Allied surrender terms.
Then on August 8,
the Soviet Union declared war on Japan.
The islands now faced invasion on two fronts.
At 11:02 the following morning,
an American plane dropped a second atomic bomb
on the city of Nagasaki.
Some 40,000 more civilians died instantly.
The Americans had no more such bombs
and would be unable to produce another for several months.
But the Japanese had no way of knowing that.
In Tokyo, the Supreme Council for the Direction of the War
remained split between those still determined to fight on
and those willing, finally, to give up.
That evening, all six members of the council
called upon the emperor,
who broke the deadlock.
Japan would surrender.
KATHARINE PHILLIPS: Everything was set
for the landings in Japan.
So when the atomic bomb was dropped
and it ended it so quickly, we were stunned
but rejoiced.
Our boys would come home!
There wouldn't be any more of them killed.
You can never convince anyone of my generation
that the atomic bomb was not the greatest thing
(laughs): that they ever came up with,
because we'll defy you.
It was just finally the end of that horrible war.
RAY LEOPOLD: I had very mixed feelings about it.
That the atom bomb...
could be blasted on fellow humans
whose blood is as red as mine,
whose skin blisters as readily as mine does...
was something I had hoped could be avoided.
Of course, there is the mathematical odds
that by killing some...
quarter million... Japanese,
we may have saved half a million American lives.
Mathematically, that's a good thing.
But it's hard to give up someone else's life.
NARRATOR: After Japan gave up, the guards at Glenn Frazier's prison camp
had simply walked away.
He and his comrades wandered out
among a dazed civilian population...
and took the train to Tokyo and freedom.
EUGENE SLEDGE (dramatized): "We thought the Japanese would never surrender.
"Many refused to believe it.
"Sitting in stunned silence, we remembered our dead.
"So many dead.
"Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,
"the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent,
trying to comprehend a world without war."
Eugene Sledge.
("Every Tub" playing)
(cheering)
¶ ¶
EARL BURKE: V-J Day-- I was in San Francisco
and it just blew up!
People come out of everywhere:
out of every window, out of every door.
They came out of the sewer.
You could cop a feel going down the street
and nobody would say a word.
KATHARINE PHILLIPS: Well, my dad was so excited that he ran in the room
and he got his pistol from World War I and he filled it
and we went out of the front door,
and if you go dig around that azalea bush,
I know the bullets are still in the azalea bush.
He fired six rounds into the azalea bush,
brought the pistol back in the house
and said to my brother and I, "Come on, gang,"
and "We're going downtown."
And he threw mother in the car
and we drove down to Admiral Semmes' statue.
And daddy circled it three or four times honking his horn.
So by the time we left downtown,
people were climbing up Admiral Semmes' statue
and the celebration had begun.
But I've always said
my daddy started the celebration for V-J day.
NARRATOR: In Waterbury, Connecticut,
newsboys peddling a special "War's Over" edition
of the Waterbury American were on the street
within 60 seconds of the president's formal announcement.
Every firehouse siren
and factory whistle in town began to blow.
ANNE DeVICO: We didn't even know the people.
We didn't know who they were and they didn't know who we were.
It was just a joyous time.
It was a happy, happy time 'cause we're thinking,
"Well, now all our boys are going to come home."
(bell tolls)
NARRATOR: That evening, special services were held
at every Waterbury church and synagogue.
As a sign of profound gratitude for the good news,
some Italian-American women climbed the hill
to Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church on their knees.
OLGA CIARLO: It was a happy time for a lot of people.
It was a happy time for us, too, to know that the war was over
for other boys, too, that were there.
But it wasn't so happy for us
because we knew my brother wasn't coming home.
NARRATOR: Private Babe Ciarlo of Waterbury had been killed in Italy
during the Anzio break-out in late May of 1944.
His mother had refused to believe it,
poring over newspaper photographs
in hopes of glimpsing him,
insisting the Army had made an error,
that somehow her son would still be coming home to her.
Eventually, long after the war, he did.
OLGA: I think the worst day was when they brought his body back.
And we went down to the railroad station
and when they took his body off the train and we were all there,
we all went to the cemetery,
when they handed my mother the flag...
¶ ¶
FRAZIER: We sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge
and into San Francisco Bay...
and as we approached the pier,
there-- I get a little choked up--
there was the American flag
flying high in the breeze over American soil,
and it was the most gratifying thing
'cause we never dreamed we would ever get back.
And there was a bunch of prisoners of war on there.
couldn't even see anything-- with tears in our eyes.
And as we docked, I was one of the...
I was the second one to get off.
And I get down on the ground, I kissed the ground.
And every one of the prisoners of war that was on that ship
got off the gangplank and kissed the ground.
was just clapping their hands every time
and welcomed us home.
And it was the greatest feeling in the world.
NARRATOR: Glenn Frazier's family back in Fort Deposit, Alabama,
had officially been informed that he had died
in the Philippines.
(phone ringing)
FRAZIER: We were told we could make a phone call home
at the expense of the government.
So I made my phone call to my home.
And the phone was answered by my mother.
And I told her who it was,
and now I didn't know anything about all these,
the... the letters
and the guy coming there, you know,
telling them I was dead.
So she answered the phone
and then she fainted, and the phone went dead.
And then her sister, who was there visiting,
and she fainted when I told her who it was.
And then my oldest sister came to the phone and she fainted.
So then there was a long pause and my daddy answered the phone.
He said, "Who in the world is this?"
And so I told him
and I used my middle name at home.
It was Dowling.
And he said, "Well," he said, "I knew you weren't dead."
But he said, "Look like I've got a bunch of dead women here."
He said, "I've got to get them up off the floor."
So he said, "Now, you hold on. Don't... don't go away now.
I'll be back in a minute."
So he goes and gets a pitcher of water
and he's pouring some water in their face.
Come back to the phone and he said,
"I think they're waking up. Their eyes are moving.
He said, "They'll be able to talk to you in a little bit."
And that's when they knew I was in San Francisco.
NARRATOR: By the fall of 1945, 750,000 service personnel
were returning to civilian life every month.
("It's Been a Long, Long Time" playing)
BING CROSBY: ¶ Kiss me once, then kiss me twice ¶
¶ Then kiss me once again ¶
¶ It's been a long, long time ¶
¶ Haven't felt like this, my dear ¶
¶ Since I can't remember when ¶
¶ It's been a long, long time ¶
¶ You'll never know how many dreams ¶
¶ I dreamed about you ¶
¶ Or just how empty they all seemed without you ¶
¶ So kiss me once, then kiss me twice ¶
¶ Then kiss me once again ¶
¶ It's been a long, long time... ¶
¶ Long, long time. ¶
TOM GALLOWAY: Certainly when you come home, it, uh, it's an occasion.
I didn't know how to really react to it because...
you'd seen a lot of things that,
that, uh, you didn't ever think you'd see.
But in any event, it, other than, uh,
I'll never forget my mother wanted to see.
For instance, I was just sitting there with my shoes on.
And she wanted to see that I had all my limbs and everything.
(laughs)
That I still had my feet.
And, uh, yeah, she stayed with me a good while
till I showed her that I had... had all my parts on me.
LEOPOLD: No matter how great, no matter how small,
no matter how indifferent, no matter how stupendous,
regardless of the facts, home has a unique quality
that just cannot be exceeded.
Home is the ultimate value that humans venerate.
NARRATOR: The war had rescued Waterbury, Connecticut,
and the industries that had provided
its nickname: "Brass City."
And at first, its workers returned
to making the screws and washers and buttons,
showerheads and alarm clocks,
toy airplanes and lipstick holders
and cocktail shakers they'd been making before Pearl Harbor.
But as the years went by, the brass industry declined.
So did Brass City.
Ray Leopold came home for a time, then moved away,
went into business
and eventually became a fund-raiser for charity.
LEOPOLD: I ran into a young man who was the brother of a young man
I had known reasonably well.
He said, "What outfit were you with, Ray?"
And I told him that I was with the 28th Infantry.
He said, "My brother was with that outfit."
And I said, "Where is your brother?"
He said, "Oh, he didn't make it.
"He's dead.
He was killed in action."
And then he turned, he says,
"You were with the 28th, too, and you are home and he isn't."
He couldn't get over the idea
that someone so dear to him as his brother couldn't make it...
and someone who is more or less
an indifferent third person made it.
AANENSON: There are casualties in war
that... they never show up as casualties.
They're internal casualties.
We all changed.
We went out as a bunch of kids.
Wars are fought by kids.
And we came back--
looked maybe the same, but inside we were so different.
They thought we were just odd, I guess.
"What's happened to Quent?
And I was wondering, "Nobody knows, nobody understands,"
and I am not good enough with words
to be able to tell 'em.
NARRATOR: Quentin and Jackie Aanenson did not return
to his father's farm south of Luverne.
He went to Louisiana State University instead
and eventually entered the insurance business.
AL McINTOSH (dramatized): "Luverne, Minnesota.
"October 25, 1945.
"A lad who was one of the 'living dead'
"has returned to his home-- very much alive
"and bubbling over with high spirits.
"To look at Sergeant Frank Lane with his 160 pounds,
"you'd never realize now
"that he was one of those emaciated, tortured souls
"who survived by some miracle,
"the horror of that 'Death March' at Bataan.
"And in some ways, returning to the States and to Luverne
"is like rising again from the dead
"because he has to acquaint himself with so many things
that have happened in this changing world."
"He has a lot of brushing up to do
because nearly four whole years have gone out of his life..."
"Four years in which he descended
"into a black hole of silence,
"knowing nothing about what was going on in the world
"except that it was a terrible struggle
to just barely survive."
Al McIntosh, Rock County Star-Herald.
NARRATOR: More than 1,000 citizens of Rock County, Minnesota,
served in uniform during the war.
32 of them lost their lives.
The names of all those who served were carefully painted
on a wooden roll of honor in front of city hall in Luverne.
As the years passed, Minnesota winters wore away the names.
One year, the monument was taken down
to be repainted and repaired.
Somehow, it was lost.
SASCHA WEINZHEIMER: Our hope was we were going to have a new life,
and I remember driving up on the day
that we drove through to the ranch.
And it was like being in Alice in Wonderland.
It was absolutely amazing.
NARRATOR: Sascha Weinzheimer and her family,
who had nearly starved to death as prisoners of the Japanese
in Manila, settled on their late grandfather's farm
in the Sacramento Valley.
WEINZHEIMER: It was some sort of, um, cultural shock coming back,
because your body's here, but your mind isn't.
And to have to put up with the stupidity
of some of the Americans that have been living here.
They'd walk into a room
and say, "Oh, tell us about your experience."
And then immediately they'd say,
"Um, we had these coupons
"that had to be, you know, uh, rationed,
and then we couldn't go here because of the gasoline."
And so we just sort of avoided everything.
And when people were talking to us about our experience,
because it... they didn't want to hear it, anyway.
NARRATOR: Sacramento's wartime transformation
from small-town state capital to big city would prove permanent.
State government grew, too.
So did the military bases on Sacramento's outskirts
as the world war was eventually supplanted by the cold war.
Among the Sacramentans returning home
were thousands of Japanese-Americans
newly freed from the inland camps
in which they had been imprisoned
for no other reason than their ancestry.
They struggled to recover their property
and rebuild their lives.
The men of the 100th 442nd Combat Team came home, too.
Robert Kashiwagi, wounded four times in Italy and France,
got a job with the California Highway Department.
KASHIWAGI: When I showed up in the shop,
this one fellow from the floor went to his foreman,
"Look, if that Jap is gonna work here," he says, "I'm quitting."
And this foreman told me that.
And I says, "Well, you know, I passed my test
"and I served overseas and I think I did
"what I was supposed to do, so I'm going to hold my position
and I'm going to remain here, you know?"
And so, as I remained there, why, he quit.
And then everything turned a little bit better
as time went on, and it got easier and easier for me.
And so I was able to serve 32 years and retire.
EUGENE SLEDGE (dramatized): "The train trip home was a nostalgic one for me.
"I was a proud American, of course,
but I was also a terribly homesick Southerner."
"A porter came through our car
"calling, 'Next stop, Mobile! Next stop, Mobile!'
"My buddies shouted, 'That's you, Sledgehammer.'
"A thrill ran through me.
"There were countless times it looked as though
"I would never live to see the next moment,
"much less live to make it.
"And now, here we were, rolling into the L & N Station.
KATHARINE PHILLIPS: When Eugene came back from the war,
he came directly here to see us.
I remember him well,
coming in with his uniform and all of his ribbons and all.
And I thought, my, you certainly are handsome!
I do remember thinking that, how he had grown up.
He was no longer that little young friend
of my young brother Sidney.
I suddenly had these two men in my presence,
and I had that feeling about both of 'em.
Uh, it was written on their faces.
Their faces changed.
They just no longer looked like boys.
They looked like men, which they were.
NARRATOR: The war had made Mobile into a boomtown.
But by the time Eugene Sledge came home,
some 40,000 defense jobs had already disappeared.
Some workers left the city for the small towns
where they'd been living when the war began.
Others moved north and west to bigger cities in search of work.
Returning black veterans, who had fought for freedom overseas,
found themselves facing the same segregation
they had left behind.
JOHN GRAY: It would be a matter of disgust and distaste with you
when you found out
that the fruits of victory were not yours.
I never did appreciate going to work at night.
And the police officer would stop you at night and say,
"Hey, boy, where you going?"
And you come up to, uh, to answer him.
"You got your hat on.
Take your hat off when you talk to a white man."
And that kind of stuff, uh...
And I'd worked all night, just about, at the railroad.
And didn't have a car, so I had to walk home.
I cried all the way home.
It was, it was hurt.
NARRATOR: John Gray eventually went on to college, became a teacher
and then a beloved school principal and community leader
for 50 years in Mobile.
Katharine Phillips briefly became an airline stewardess
and married a former Navy pilot.
Her younger brother Sid,
who had encountered terrible suffering
while serving with the First Marine Division
and vowed to find a way to do something about it,
went on to medical school and became a doctor.
But there was one person for whom he could do nothing.
SID PHILLIPS: My friend Eugene was probably as good a friend
as I've ever had in my whole life,
but, uh, he could not throw off the war.
He could not forget it.
It seemed to, uh, uh, to haunt him.
SLEDGE (dramatized): "As I strolled the streets of Mobile,
"civilian life seemed so strange.
"People rushed around in a hurry
"about seemingly insignificant things.
"Few seemed to realize how blessed they were to be free
and untouched by the horrors of war."
"To them, a veteran was a veteran; all were the same,
"whether one man had survived the deadliest combat
or another had pounded a typewriter while in uniform."
NARRATOR: Eugene Sledge had been an enthusiastic hunter
before the war.
Now he found he no longer had the heart for it.
In combat, he had felt the same terror his targets felt
when he fired at them, he said,
and he couldn't bear it that they could not shoot back.
Nightmares plagued him.
He earned a business degree under the G.I. Bill,
tried the insurance business and abandoned it,
eventually became a biologist and teacher.
"Science was my salvation," he remembered.
"It helped keep at bay the flashbacks
from Peleliu and Okinawa."
"Close, constant study of nature," his wife said,
"kept him from going mad."
But the war remained with him nonetheless.
He still had the tiny sheets of paper
on which he'd kept a journal in the Pacific,
and finally, at his wife's urging,
he turned it into a combat memoir called
With the Old Breed.
Describing the horrors he had endured
eventually allowed him to begin to put them behind him.
Eugene Sledge died in 2001.
SLEDGE (dramatized): "Until the millennium arrives
"and countries cease to enslave others, it will be necessary
"to accept one's responsibility to,
to make sacrifices for, one's country as my comrades did."
"War is brutish, inglorious and a terrible waste.
"Combat leaves an indelible mark
"on those who are forced to endure it.
"The only redeeming factors were my comrades' incredible bravery
and their devotion to each other."
Eugene Sledge.
FRAZIER: My hometown just gave me a hero's welcome.
Couldn't ask for anybody to be any nicer to you.
But, uh, little did you know what was ahead.
And, uh, I didn't until it started happening to me.
NARRATOR: Glenn Frazier and his brother O'Vaughn, who had served
with the Army in North Africa and Italy,
happened to arrive home in Fort Deposit, Alabama, the same day.
Their mother, Frazier recalled, seemed "dazed"
to have both her boys back, but she remembered
to give each of them the little pile of Christmas packages
she'd bought and wrapped
but had been unable to send them during the war.
When the boys stepped out into the street,
they were mobbed by friends and neighbors
happy to have them home.
Before Frazier joined the Army in 1941,
he had confessed to a high-school classmate
that he loved her.
She had waited patiently for him for over three years,
until the Army formally told his family Glenn was dead.
Frazier now eagerly asked after her.
Hope that he and she would one day marry
had helped sustain him in captivity.
"I hate to tell you this," a friend told him,
"but she's getting married this coming Sunday."
That night, the nightmares began.
FRAZIER: It was just like real life again.
It was just so real.
It sort of kept me from sleeping.
I got to the point where I didn't even want to go to sleep.
My nerves were bothering me.
You couldn't tell anybody.
In those days, if you were seeing a psychiatrist,
it didn't make any difference whether it was military or what,
nobody'd give you a job.
NARRATOR: Psychiatrists working for the Veterans Administration
were of little help.
"Just act normal and you'll feel normal," they told him.
Frazier eventually married, had two children,
ran his own trucking business.
But the war would not go away.
FRAZIER: I hated the Japanese as hard as anybody,
I believe, could ever hate for so long.
And mine was as deep.
I think I was justified in the hate that I had.
But it come a time when it wasn't,
it wasn't affecting them.
They didn't even know I existed.
They were over there and having their fun
and getting their things, their country straightened out.
And here I am over here, I'm hating and hating and hating
and having the nightmares and so forth.
And it, it... I had to get rid of it.
I had to throw it off
because it was just completely destroying me.
And I prayed and... and with the preacher's help,
I got to the point to where I woke up one morning
and I felt a little bit of... more rested.
But my war lasted actually another 30 years.
PAUL FUSSELL: To forget the war would be, not just impossible,
it would be immoral.
It doesn't get to me very often
except when I talk about it like this
and I seldom do that, actually.
It's just something, it never goes away.
It's something you have to endure
the way you endured the war itself.
There's no alternative.
You can't wipe out these memories.
You can't wipe out what you felt at that time
It's just part of, it's part of your whole possession of life.
And I suppose it does some good.
NARRATOR: For all those Americans
who lived through the terrible conflict,
for those whose fathers and sons
and brothers were lost or maimed,
as well as for those whose only contact with combat
was listening to the radio and reading the local paper,
it remains to this day, simply, "The War."
KATHARINE PHILLIPS: The young men that came home from the war were my neighbors
when I was a young married woman, and they lived the war.
They married, they established homes.
We all lived in a wonderful little neighborhood
where the homes were built for the G.I.'s.
And every night after we would get the children to bed,
we would all gather and the boys would exchange stories.
That was the great way of entertaining ourselves.
The boy next door to me
had ridden with Patton across Europe.
The boy across the street went in on D-Day plus four,
hanging on to a machine gun on a half-track,
and he said he was four miles inland
before he could pry his hands off the half-track.
He was scared out of his wits.
The boy catty-cornered had been a medic
and had survived battles in Europe.
And we would just sit and listen, we wives.
We learned more about our husbands and what they did
by listening to them exchange stories.
But I realize, as I've gotten older,
this was a healing for them.
AANENSON: The dynamics of war are so absolutely intense,
the drama of war is so absolutely,
emotionally spellbinding,
that it's hard for you to go on with a normal life
without feeling something is missing.
Now, I have had a wonderful life.
I have a family that just is ideal,
and, uh, I've enjoyed my life.
But I find there are times
when I am pulled back into the whirlpool.
I find that the intensity of that experience
was so overwhelming
and almost intimidating,
that you can't quite let go of it.
AL McINTOSH (dramatized): "Luverne, Minnesota.
"All week long, with 'Silent Night'
"running through my head,
I've been groping for a Christmas story."
"Somehow, the story always eluded me."
"A lot of servicemen have been in.
"They told us where they spent last Christmas overseas.
But you didn't need to write a story about them."
"The story of their happiness about being home
was written all over their faces for the world to see."
"And now comes the time when it comes our turn
"to extend our Christmas greetings
to each and every one of you."
"May the joy of Christmas, and a big share of its peace
"and beauty, be with you all,
every single day of the new year to come."
Al McIntosh, Rock County Star-Herald.
NORAH JONES: ¶ For those who think they have nothing to share ¶
¶ Who fear in their hearts there is no hero there ¶
¶ Know each quiet act of dignity ¶
¶ Is that which fortifies ¶
¶ The soul of a nation ¶
¶ That will never die ¶
¶ Let them say of me ¶
¶ I was one who believed ¶
¶ In sharing the blessings ¶
¶ I received ¶
¶ Let me know in my heart ¶
¶ When my days are through ¶
¶ America, America ¶
¶ I gave my best to you... ¶
¶ America... ¶
¶ I gave my best to you. ¶
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