In the predawn darkness of June 6, , thousands of American soldiers crawled down swaying cargo nets and thudded into steel landing craft bound for the Normandy coast. Their senses were soon choked with the smells of wet canvas gear, seawater and acrid clouds of powder from the huge naval guns firing just over their heads.
As the landing craft drew close to shore, the deafening roar stopped, quickly replaced by German artillery rounds crashing into the water all around them. They waited, like trapped mice, barely daring to breathe. A blanket of smoke hid the heavily defended bluffs above the strip of sand code-named Omaha Beach. Concentrated in concrete pill boxes, nearly 2, German defenders lay in wait. The landing ramps slapped down into the surf, and a catastrophic hail of gunfire erupted from the bluffs. The ensuing slaughter was merciless. But Allied troops kept landing, wave after wave, and by midday they had crossed the yards of sandy killing ground, scaled the bluffs and overpowered the German defenses.
By the end of the day, the beaches had been secured and the heaviest fighting had moved at least a mile inland. In June , Ernie Pyle, a year-old journalist from rural Indiana, was as ubiquitous in the everyday lives of millions of Americans as Walter Cronkite would be during the Vietnam War. Pyle was not a propagandist, but his columns seemed to offer the reader an unspoken agreement that they would not have to look too closely at the deaths, blood and corpses that are the reality of battle.
Later, Pyle was more stark and honest. For days after the landing, no one back home in the States had any real sense of what was happening, how the invasion was progressing or how many Americans were being killed.
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Nearly impossible to imagine today, there were no photographs flashed instantly to the news media. No more than 30 reporters were allowed to cover the initial assault.
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The few who landed with the troops were hampered by the danger and chaos of battle, and then by censorship and long delays in wire transmission. The first newspaper articles were all based on military news releases written by officers sitting in London.
Before World War II, Pyle spent five years crisscrossing the United States — and much of the Western Hemisphere — in trains, planes and a Dodge convertible coupe with his wife, Jerry, reporting on the ordinary people he met in his travels. He wrote daily, and his columns, enough to fill volumes, were syndicated for publication in local papers around the country. Pyle told stories about life on the road, little oddities and small, heart-lifting triumphs and the misery that afflicted the drought-stricken Dust Bowl regions of the Great Plains.
Pyle honed a sincere and colloquial style of writing that made readers feel as if they were listening to a good friend share an insight or something he noticed that day. When the United States entered World War II, Pyle took that same technique — familiar, open, attuned to the daily struggles of ordinary people — and applied it to covering battles and bombings. Venturing overseas with American forces in , Pyle reported the war through the eyes of the regular infantrymen on the front lines.
He wrote about the food, the weather and the despair of living in slit trenches during the rainy late winter of He asked the soldiers their names and their hometown addresses, which he routinely included in his articles. The call of "lights" would refer to burning lights, which had to actually be prepared, and then lit to function, and they would be irrelevant in modern times.
There is no evidence that a call of "camera" was ever used at all: the call from the camera operator would be "speed", indicating that the film in the camera had reached the correct speed for filming. Due to static interference during transmission Armstrong's message was misinterpreted and consequently has been misquoted.
Armstrong actually said, "That's one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.
The earliest reference to Gates saying something like this appeared in the not issue of InfoWorld magazine, and was regretful of the past rather than predictive of the future: "When we set the upper limit of PC-DOS at K, we thought nobody would ever need that much memory. The quote bears similarity to one by Bob Newhart : "Later, I moved up to the 64 KB model referring to the Commodore 64 personal computer and thought that was silly because it was more memory than I would ever possibly need.
Jigsaw's catchline is " I want to play a game.
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Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the Earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return. This may be the most famous aviation quote that is not verifiable. It is attributed everywhere including in some Smithsonian publications and the Washington Post to Leonardo da Vinci. There is a more detailed discussion of this on the Leonardo da Vinci "Talk" page.
It is a fact that Kelvin did not believe in heavier-than air flight  , but there is no reliable source that he or another physicist from 19th century said it was impossible from a scientific point of view. The oldest known source is the book from Chris Morgan Facts and fallacies: a book of definitive mistakes and misguided predictions Good Morning, Dave.
Rivers of Blood. Enoch Powell, the controversial British politician, in the s made a speech referring to the supposed dangers of immigration, which has always been known as the Rivers of Blood speech, but the actual words included "the River Tiber foaming with blood. Not only that, but this man is reliably reported to practice nepotism with his sister-in-law, he has a brother who is a known homo sapiens, and he has a sister who was once a thespian in wicked New York.
Worst of all, it is an established fact that Mr. Pepper, before his marriage, habitually practiced celibacy. Attributed to George Smathers. Smathers never made this speech, nor did he express any such sentiment. The speech, which uses wordplay that would dupe a poorly educated or passive listener into thinking Pepper was part of a family of sexual perverts, was already a sort of urban legend circulating by the time Time magazine first placed it in print in Don't let it end like this.
Tell them I said something. Supposedly the last words of Mexican Revolutionary military leader Pancho Villa following his assassination.
However, most accounts of that event say that he died instantly, without any time to say anything. That's where the money is. Willie Sutton regularly denied, for the rest of his life, having given this answer to a reporter's question about why he robbed banks, and it is believed to have been the reporter's invention. Those denials did not, however, deter Sutton from titling his autobiography Where the Money Was , which may have led people to believe he did say it. It got to the point where he "was hardly seen out in public. One reason for that was that I spent a lot of time indoors at strip clubs.
He had a palace in Vegas, too, but his true home was what Conrad called "the destructive element". Unconvinced that he had been fairly beaten, one of those opponents, Mitch Green, high on angel dust, starts taunting Tyson who beats him up again in the street. Bloodied — "I had crushed his eye socket, broken his nose, cracked some ribs" — but unbowed, Mitch comes back for another helping a few pages later when Mike is "on a date with some exotic hot Afrocentric chick named Egypt or Somalia or some other country like that".
She stops him carving Mitch up with a steak knife "I wasn't a vegan then" but being with Tyson or working for him could turn bad almost as quickly as fighting against him. One feels zero sympathy for Don King "a wretched, slimy reptilian motherfucker" or Frank Warren, both of whom get richly stomped, but spare a thought for the bodyguard who "actually began to think his name was 'Motherfucker' because all he'd hear was 'Motherfucker.
Get me this. As will be clear by now, Sloman brings Tyson's voice springing off the page with its often hilarious combo of street and shrink, pimp profanity and the "prisony pseudo-intellectual modern mack rap" of the autodidact. Training for the Lewis fight in Hawaii — "epicentre of some of the baddest weed in the world" — was not a great idea, boxing-wise, but just as all that "Maui Wowie made for some interesting press conferences" so his "stupid un-fucking-legible English" makes for some surprising prose.
There's a moment of flat-out brilliance when he gets the Maori tattoo on his face: "I hated my face and I literally wanted to deface myself. The later journey to sobriety sees him leaning harder on cliche — he's particularly fond of the idea that relapse is part of recovery — but the sense of threat, to himself and others, is constant. Which makes you wonder if one of the regrettable things about the years of substance abuse involved a drug he didn't take. A dealer called Chance, appropriately enough is ordered to get Tyson a Scarface quantity of coke even though "all he did was sissy drugs like ecstasy".
Would MDMA have got him all loved up a state and place he now longs to be or had the iron been forged too deeply in his soul? The commonly understood narrative — one with an undeniable chronological truth — is that Tyson only began to go off the rails after the death of goodly Cus D'Amato.
Cus had taken this kid from the ghetto under his wing and trained him to be a champion, dying before the ambition was realised.
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After that, Mike had no one to guide him. But D'Amato, who didn't have "a happy muscle in his face", didn't just want Tyson to be "totally ferocious" in the ring; he trained him to be fearsome outside it as well. D'Amato might have been able to restrain some of the later excesses, would have stopped him getting cheated, but he helped incubate the toxins that coursed freely through Tyson's system and world after he became champion. As for the boxing, Tyson was a great fighter who never fought any great fights.
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