Word: blast
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Glistening with Blood. Every window in the embassy burst inward. Jagged glass bits blasted like a blizzard of razor blades through every office. The ground floor was turned into a knee-deep mass of rubble. Parked cars spun into the air and landed in twisted heaps. A crowded Chinese restaurant across the street collapsed in smoke and flames, its floor strewn with still bodies and flopping forms of the wounded. Dozens of pedestrians in a nearby shopping district were flattened by the blast. Where the car had been, there was only a smoking pit, two feet deep. Three charred bodies...
Deputy Ambassador Johnson had been in his fifth-floor office. Immediately after the blast, he appeared at the shattered entryway, calmly directing first-aid operations and bringing the first order out of chaos. His face was cut and blood dripped on his shirt. A Navy enlisted man lay on a stretcher while a medic held his hand over a gaping wound in the sailor's throat. A man rushed down the street cradling the corpse of a little boy in his arms. Many of the wounded who could walk left bloody footprints on the pavement...
Significantly, the Communist capitals were silent until they noticed the fuss that was being raised elsewhere. Only then did Peking weigh in with a blast against America's "fascist cannibals." Hanoi, which must have been aware for months that gas was being used, belatedly picked up the cue from Britain and deplored the "barbarity...
Shams & Realities. Mikoyan's aloofness was understandable; his ears must still have been burning from the violent 7,000-word blast that China had directed at Russia, attacking last month's Moscow meeting of 19 pro-Soviet Communist parties. Lavishly embroidered with typical pseudo-philosophic chinoiserie, the Peking assault accused the Kremlin of engaging in "three shams and three realities: sham antiimperialism but real capitulation [to the U.S.], sham revolution but real betrayal, sham unity but real splitism." As the price for an end to polemics, Peking demanded unconditional surrender from Russia-nothing less than complete renunciation...
Louis Armstrong, 64, took his golden trumpet-blew-and the Wall didn't come tumbling down. Never mind. It was a mighty blast anyway. Cheering throngs of East Berliners, from the youthful hip to the Party drip, shelled out a capitalistic 15 to 25 marks ($3.75 to $6.25) apiece just to soak up all that jazz. Playing to packed houses on his four-week trip behind the Iron Curtain, Satchmo neatly muted the inevitable questions on race and politics ("Some of my best friends are Southern whites," he grinned) and gave the Volk encores and encores of Blueberry Hill...