How cool, I thought, to have this badge. Pat and I followed the public affairs representatives to the designated media area. A persistent breeze whipped the plastic identification card over my shoulder, ensuring that a losing battle was fought trying to keep the lanyard from wrapping around my neck.
We were front and center, separated from the bank of microphones and VIPs by nothing more than a rope. Media personnel filed in, cramming the space with gear that spanned a technological spectrum ranging from notebooks and pencils to digital voice recorders and satellite-linked television cameras.
The talent represented as broad a gamut as the gear. I struck up a conversation with a gentleman doing a story for his town's local paper. Another man was covering the event for his own personal blog. To my left, I overheard professional reporters dropping such identifiers as NBC and Fox.
I took a moment to scan the crowd. Aside from the copse of reporters, a literal forest of onlookers stretched beyond my field of vision. Men, women, and children of all ages had all journeyed to the National Museum of the United States Air Force that Saturday in November to take part in this once-in-a-lifetime event.
Right on time, the dignitaries arrived. Cameras rolled and shutters snapped as the three Doolittle Raiders made their entrance. Bagpipes piped, and smartly dressed military personnel escorted the men. I watched, transfixed. I had grown up reading stories about the very people that now stood before me.
There were speeches by Air Force and museum personnel, but the remarks made by Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole truly stood out. Cole, at age 98, stood proudly and solemnly at the microphone. With utter clarity and flawless articulation, he scanned the crowd and thanked the nation, and her people, for their support. Not once did he talk about himself, or boast of the extraordinary feat he and his colleagues accomplished more than 70 years ago. Rather, as Cole stood in the Memorial Park in front of the Doolittle monument, he iterated that the memorial be not a tribute to him, or the others, but rather serve as a token of gratitude from the men, to the country.
As Cole sat down, the crowd erupted into a long, drawn-out, and exceedingly appropriate applause. I found the speech incredible. It contained humility, profound gratitude, and not a single touch of narcissism. I defy you to find any contemporary mainstream celebrity that speaks in such a way.
A flyover of B-25 aircraft concluded the memorial ceremonies. En masse the throng of people craned their necks to catch the first glimpse.
We heard them before we saw them. A deep, throaty rumble grew in intensity as the crowd collectively gasped in anticipation. Small black dots appeared on the horizon, just above the trees. The dots grew in size with proportion to an increase in sound. Within seconds they were overhead, the B-25s unmistakable with their twin engines, single tail boom, and twin vertical stabilizers.
What a sound - the vintage radial engines roared as they flew directly overhead. There is absolutely nothing in the world that sounds quite like that; it's a timbre that bestows absolute confidence. It's a rumble that seems to come from within, grabs you by the sternum, and quells the air. I felt the hair on my neck stand up, and again the crowd erupted in raucous cheer.
We joined a trail of reporters to another designated area. It was here that we were able to meet, and interview the Raiders.
Time was exceedingly limited, but I only had one question I wanted to ask the three men. I introduced myself. As I opened my mouth to speak, I felt a twinge of sadness. The youngest men and women who served during World War II are now in their 80s. Before long, we will look at the Greatest Generation much like we view the American Civil War - a long expired event devoid of the human connection of those who lived it.
Of the original 80 men who took part in the Doolittle Raid, only four remain. Three survivors were in attendance that day; one could not make it due to health concerns. To me, the three men looked tired. As it was my turn to speak, they looked directly at me. Their eyes seemed weary, as though they had told their story so many times, endured a lifetime of praise and adulation, and now just wanted a break from it all. I do not know if that was the case; it was merely a fleeting observation on my part.
"Knowing what you know now, given the risks and rewards of the mission, would you do it all over again?"
To a man, they unhesitatingly remarked, "Yes." Only Richard Cole thought more of the question. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he smiled:
"Well, I probably wouldn't have volunteered for the mission, but if my country needed me, then yes. I'd do it again."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
We were front and center, separated from the bank of microphones and VIPs by nothing more than a rope. Media personnel filed in, cramming the space with gear that spanned a technological spectrum ranging from notebooks and pencils to digital voice recorders and satellite-linked television cameras.
The talent represented as broad a gamut as the gear. I struck up a conversation with a gentleman doing a story for his town's local paper. Another man was covering the event for his own personal blog. To my left, I overheard professional reporters dropping such identifiers as NBC and Fox.
I took a moment to scan the crowd. Aside from the copse of reporters, a literal forest of onlookers stretched beyond my field of vision. Men, women, and children of all ages had all journeyed to the National Museum of the United States Air Force that Saturday in November to take part in this once-in-a-lifetime event.
Right on time, the dignitaries arrived. Cameras rolled and shutters snapped as the three Doolittle Raiders made their entrance. Bagpipes piped, and smartly dressed military personnel escorted the men. I watched, transfixed. I had grown up reading stories about the very people that now stood before me.
There were speeches by Air Force and museum personnel, but the remarks made by Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole truly stood out. Cole, at age 98, stood proudly and solemnly at the microphone. With utter clarity and flawless articulation, he scanned the crowd and thanked the nation, and her people, for their support. Not once did he talk about himself, or boast of the extraordinary feat he and his colleagues accomplished more than 70 years ago. Rather, as Cole stood in the Memorial Park in front of the Doolittle monument, he iterated that the memorial be not a tribute to him, or the others, but rather serve as a token of gratitude from the men, to the country.
As Cole sat down, the crowd erupted into a long, drawn-out, and exceedingly appropriate applause. I found the speech incredible. It contained humility, profound gratitude, and not a single touch of narcissism. I defy you to find any contemporary mainstream celebrity that speaks in such a way.
A flyover of B-25 aircraft concluded the memorial ceremonies. En masse the throng of people craned their necks to catch the first glimpse.
We heard them before we saw them. A deep, throaty rumble grew in intensity as the crowd collectively gasped in anticipation. Small black dots appeared on the horizon, just above the trees. The dots grew in size with proportion to an increase in sound. Within seconds they were overhead, the B-25s unmistakable with their twin engines, single tail boom, and twin vertical stabilizers.
What a sound - the vintage radial engines roared as they flew directly overhead. There is absolutely nothing in the world that sounds quite like that; it's a timbre that bestows absolute confidence. It's a rumble that seems to come from within, grabs you by the sternum, and quells the air. I felt the hair on my neck stand up, and again the crowd erupted in raucous cheer.
We joined a trail of reporters to another designated area. It was here that we were able to meet, and interview the Raiders.
Time was exceedingly limited, but I only had one question I wanted to ask the three men. I introduced myself. As I opened my mouth to speak, I felt a twinge of sadness. The youngest men and women who served during World War II are now in their 80s. Before long, we will look at the Greatest Generation much like we view the American Civil War - a long expired event devoid of the human connection of those who lived it.
Of the original 80 men who took part in the Doolittle Raid, only four remain. Three survivors were in attendance that day; one could not make it due to health concerns. To me, the three men looked tired. As it was my turn to speak, they looked directly at me. Their eyes seemed weary, as though they had told their story so many times, endured a lifetime of praise and adulation, and now just wanted a break from it all. I do not know if that was the case; it was merely a fleeting observation on my part.
"Knowing what you know now, given the risks and rewards of the mission, would you do it all over again?"
To a man, they unhesitatingly remarked, "Yes." Only Richard Cole thought more of the question. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he smiled:
"Well, I probably wouldn't have volunteered for the mission, but if my country needed me, then yes. I'd do it again."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
