Nixon stood at the microphone and folded his hands in front of him; he moved them rarely from that position during his forty-five-minute speech. He spoke without notes on world affairs, traversing the globe mentally while discussing policy challenges that would confront the next president. . . .
Nixon’s impromptu speech showcased his great political and historical acumen. When he finished his talk and sat in his chair, a tremendous ovation filled the room. He stood and acknowledged the applause, and then answered written questions read to him by the emcee. Here he shined: during his formal speech, Nixon appeared somewhat rigid and tense; during the Q&A, Nixon smiled, looked relaxed, and handled each question deftly.
Although some queries touched on foreign policy, most focused on the upcoming election. Nixon felt the two presumptive nominees (Republican George Bush and Democrat Michael Dukakis) would run a close race, with Bush winning by a whisker. He refused to suggest who might be the strongest running mate for Bush, and named a list of the most oft-mentioned possibilities. Then, with a smile, Nixon pointed to the battery of television cameras in the rear of the ballroom: “To my friends in the media,” Nixon quipped, “if I forgot to mention someone, would you please list their names in your newspaper columns for me!” Even the reporters joined in the laughter.
When I travel to America now, speaking to groups across the country, I’m often asked, “What do you love about America?” And for a long time, a pithy answer was not possible. Until one day, it dawned on me.
I love America because it is confident, competitive, courageous, faithful, idealistic, innovative, inspirational, charitable, and optimistic. It is everything as a nation that I wish to be as a person.
And then there’s the other question I get: “What makes America exceptional?”
I’ll tell you; American exceptionalism is simple.
It’s individualism, not collectivism. Patriotism, not relativism. Optimism, not pessimism. Limited government, not nanny state. God, not government. Faith, not secularism. Life, not death. Equality of opportunity, not equality of outcome.
Was Albert Einstein an atheist? Many celebrity atheist websites claim Einstein as their own, but what did the genius scientist really believe? In Einstein, God, and the Bible, international evangelist and best-selling author Ray Comfort explores the mysterious life of this great scientist. He uncovers information about Einstein’s home life, his rapid rise to superstardom in the science community, and the tension in his struggle to understand God and the universe. How did a German Jew rise almost overnight to international iconic status, at a time when the Western World considered every German to be the enemy? Why do so many atheists claim …more
“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” This was Solomon’s observation as the wisest of all kings. How does it apply here? Cheryl Chumley lays out clearly what is happening in this country now and the consequences are clear.
Though I do not believe there has ever been a country in the world’s history that has the individual liberties found in the United States today, there are other countries that went from individual liberties to being oppressed by increasingly totalitarian rulers. From the available information around us, Cheryl points out the usurpations of our freedoms which all sounds so very familiar to legitimate historians. . . . The coming signs of tyranny are all around us. Fortunately they can be stopped before it is too late if the American people will awaken.
—from the Foreword
Anita Dittman was just a little girl when the winds of Nazism and Hitler’s coming Holocaust began to blow through Germany. Raised by her Jewish mother, she came to believe that Jesus was her Messiah at eight years old. By the time she was ten, the war had begun.
Trapped in Hitler’s Hell is the true account of Holocaust horror but also of God’s miraculous mercy on a young girl who spent her teenage years desperately fighting for survival yet learning to trust in the One she had come to love.
The plane was going down fast, out of control. Dark green jungle was rushing up to meet them. He ordered Kelly to punch out. He heard the thick Plexi-glass canopy above his head explode, and braced his body against the hard blast of wind surging into the cockpit as his navigator shot into space. He yanked on his own ejection seat lever and felt the hard jolt that meant he, too, had made it out of the flaming aircraft.
Relieved, he saw that he had a good chute. Floating slowly down through the hot humid air, he watched Kelly’s billowing parachute disappear into the tropical trees. He saw his A-6 hit the top of a mountain several miles away and explode into huge pillars of thick black smoke.
He landed in a tall banyan tree, his parachute snagged on a forked limb. Dangling in the air underneath the torn white nylon panels, he could see small figures heading for the foot of the mountain. He knew he had to scramble down and find a place to conceal himself, fast. Groping, he inched his way, hand over hand, up the twisting risers of this chute, trying to grab hold of the trunk of the swaying tree. Hanging on to the rough rope with one hand, he leaned his weight toward the tree trunk and felt the limb holding his parachute peel away. He fell, headlong, fifty feet or so, hitting the ground so hard he could hear the bones in his back crack.
He struggled to get his survival radio out of the zippered pocket of his olive-drab flight suit, hoping to make some kind of contact with Kelly.
“Kelly, do you read? Over.”
The black radio crackled with static, but Kelly didn’t answer. He tried again, and then again. Nothing.
Forty-five minutes went by before he heard the planes. Then he saw them, “friendlies.” They know where I am, he thought, relieved. I’ll be out of here by morning.
“I’m on the ground okay,” he said into his now-damp radio, willing one of the aircraft circling overhead to hear him.
“Roger, Red. See you in the morning.”
The raspy voice was familiar. Nick Carpenter, from his own squadron.
It would be a long night. No sensation in his feet and legs, he began to drag himself around on his belly, trying to find Kelly. He told himself it was useless, that Kelly had landed on the opposite side of the mountain. But he knew he had to keep looking. Finally, exhausted, he made a halfhearted attempt to sleep, one ear listening through the darkness, straining to decipher the strange jungle noises. He could hear the distant thrashing sound that had to be machetes, hacking away at the tangled vines.
At dawn, he heard muffled voices coming up the side of the mountain. He was sure they were enemy soldiers, making their way to his hiding place. He searched the empty sky for the rescue planes, the helicopters from Thailand, the Jolly Greens. They’re usually pretty reliable, he said to himself. Where are they this morning?
The sun was almost directly overhead when the strange-looking little militiamen burst through the dense green underbrush, AK-47s at the ready. They chattered excitedly about their prize, a downed American pilot, an American “war criminal.”
While one of the militiamen trained an AK-47 on him, another one clumsily fashioned a blindfold from a piece of brown ragged burlap, and the tallest of the four men tied it roughly and firmly around his throbbing head, obscuring his vision. He struggled to get to his feet, but two of the soldiers grabbed him and held him while the third one bound his feet with heavy hemp rope, which cut into the flesh just above the ankles. They drew his hands up behind his shoulders until he thought his arms would leave their sockets and then pulled the rough ropes taut, leaving his hands dangling just below his shoulder blades. They dragged his aching body through the underbrush and threw him into the back of a rusty, dilapidated truck. An overpowering smell of gasoline made him nauseous and he thought he was going to pass out.
He was probably on his way to the infamous Hoa Lo Prison in Hanoi, which he guessed would be about fifty miles away. Pilots had dubbed the old French prison that already held many of their fellow aviators the “Hanoi Hilton.”