I just received the following this morning. It was written by a graduating from high school classmate. Our class of 1950 has just re-joined each other 52 years after we graduated. This classmate went on to become a physician. This is what he wrote:
The year was 1959. In the grey mist, the USS
> Mann approached the Navy pier in Seattle, Washington. The water was
> placcid. The seagulls piercing shrills permeated the dense fog. As was
> the custom, all US Army personnel were to go down the gangplank in
> ascending order of rank. While crossing the nineteen day journey from
> Inchon, Korea, to Yokohama, Japan, then around the Alaskan route using
> the Japanese Current, the tailor quartermaster in the bowels of the ship
> had made new uniforms for all the soldiers. It was just as well; all the
> old combat gear had been piece-meal discarded into the Pacific. As the
> ranking officer in the Army contingent, I had treated all the soldiers
> with the intestinal parasite medication. The pills and the sea-sickness
> had long disappeared with the resultant diarrhea. Young men, who had
> been used to military rations, had rediscovered voracious appetites. The
> cold lockers of the transport had been raided of their steaks, lobsters,
> ice cream, and fried chicken.
> About 7:30 A. M. when all the soldiers had left the ship, I saluted
> the ship's captain, I turned to the stern and saluted the flag, and I
> walked down the gangplank with my dufflebag over my shoulder. No bands
> were playing; no crowds were present. The ship had slipped in to port
> under military silence. All the soldiers had been cleared. They each
> had massive leave time before reporting to their next duty station. Like
> a covey of quail they had disbursed.
> The walk down the gangplank had filled my every emotion. I knew for
> the three previous wars American servicemen had felt the same emotion as
> they made their way down the swingway, to put their first step on
> American soil. My mind was racing.
> Over against the side of the Navy warehouse, I saw a wire newspaper
> rack. Whoa! I had not seen a today's newspaper in eons of time.
> Shifting the weight of the dufflebag to the pavement, I dropped the
> required coins in the newspaper slot. The date was 19 November 1959. In
> four inch letters across the Seattle newspaper was printed only one word.
>
> CRANBERRIES ??
>
> I read the sole story on the front page. Because of a pesticide on
> the New Jersey cranberry boggs, there was concern as to whether we would
> be able to eat cranberry sauce with our turkey that Thanksgiving. A flow
> of nausea swept over my being. I had just left Korea. I had survived.
> At six feet tall, my weight had dwindled down to 142 pounds. I had just
> left 60,000 American combat troops on the Korean peninsula. Had my
> country forgotten those men? Was the primary concern ... cranberry
> sauce? I had repaired a mangled hand of a leper. I had survived a
> typhoid epidemic. I had witnessed the damage of a land mine on a
> soldier's abdomen. Tuberculosis was eight per cent of the Korean
> population. Was cranberry sauce all that important?
> Each Thanksgiving when I bow my head, the same thought is indelible
> in my mind. As I say my prayers, God has given me a very special
> blessing, a very personal memory, an experience that is especially
> meaningful.
> Now 43 years later, I wanted to share it with you. When you sit
> down at the Thanksgiving meal, cast your eye over to the cranberry sauce,
> smile, and know that God, the Creator of us all ... provides.
