RE: Empires of the Sea
If
you enjoy Military History, I recommend Empires of the Sea by Robert Crowley
Great read about the wars of the Mediterranean Sea. Several huge battles
between muslim and Christian armies and fleets and the history leading up to
these battles. In 1521, Suleiman the Magnificent, Muslim ruler of the
Ottoman Empire, dispatched an invasion fleet to the Christian island of Rhodes.
This would prove to be the opening shot in an epic clash between rival empires
and faiths for control of the Mediterranean and the center of the world. A
thrilling account of this brutal decades-long battle between Christendom and
Islam for the soul of Europe, a fast-paced tale of spiraling intensity that ranges
from Istanbul to the Gates of Gibraltar, a tale of slavery and galley warfare,
desperate bravery and utter brutality. Empires of the Sea is a story of
extraordinary color and incident, and provides a crucial context for our
present day clash of civilizations. Scotty
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Shared before but always good:
From: Yahoo! Mail
Date: 9/17/2016 4:00:33 PM
Subject:
Aviators.....
From a collection by George H Martin.
Aviators
To those who understand the world of flying.
You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them
in the morning early, sometimes at night.
They come neatly uniformed and hatted, sleeves striped; wings over
their left pocket; They show up looking fresh.
There's a brisk, young-old look of efficiency about them. They
arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered briefcases,
bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data, filled with regulations,
rules.
They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is Rio; they
know but do not relish the intricate instrument approaches to various foreign
airports; they know the volcanoes all around Guatemala .
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk
to the gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the very narrow Berlin
Corridor, New Orleans' sparkling terminal, the milling crowds at Washington.
They know Butte , Boston , and Beirut . They appreciate Miami's perfect
weather; they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.
They understand short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: Complacency.
They marvel at the exquisite good taste of hot coffee in Anchorage
and a cold beer in Guam. They vaguely remember the workhorse efficiency of the
DC-3s, the reliability of the DC-4s and DC-6s, the trouble with the DC-7 and
the propellers on Boeing 377s. They discuss the beauty of an old gal named
Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust
of a DC-8 or 707 on a clearway takeoff from Haneda, and a Convair. The
remoteness of the 747 cockpit. The roominess of the DC-10 and the snug fit of a
737. They speak a language unknown to Webster
They discuss ALPA, EPRs, fans, mach and bogie swivels. And,
strangely, such things as bugs, thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are
inclined to change the subject when the uninitiated approaches.
They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and
occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing called
turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control, to discipline
one's senses.
They buy life insurance, but make no concession to the possibility
of complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what they
are doing.
They concede the glamour is gone from flying. They deny a pilot is
through at sixty. They know tomorrow, or the following night, something will
come along they have never met before; they know flying requires perseverance
and vigilance. They know they must practice, lest they retrograde.
They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after
year of monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror." As a group, they
defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual physical examinations with
trepidation. They are individualistic, yet bonded together. They are family
people. They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth
millions. And entrusted with lives, countless lives.
At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn
purple at dusk and the stark beauty of sunrise over Iceland at the end of a
polar crossing. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles at
night; they have seen snow on the Rockies .
They remember the vast unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the
twisting Silver road that is the father of waters, an ice cream cone called
Fujiyama; the hump of Africa. Who can forget Everest from 100 miles away, or
the ice fog in Fairbanks in January?
They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen the
clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force of the
heavens. They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night, spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have viewed
the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a bomber's moon,
horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.
Only an aviator experiences all these.
It is their
world. And once was mine
Forever missed.
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