Word: logs
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Force Base (Neb.), mid-continent headquarters of the U.S. Air Force's Strategic Air Command, an operations control officer made a routine notation in his log. Another night's work was done, another major U.S. city had been theoretically demolished by the U.S.'s mightiest atom-bomb carrier. More important, another weary plane crew had flown through much the same kind of weather over precisely the same number of mile it would have taken to deliver the bomb to the industrial heart of Russia...
Often enough, in his furious haste to get things down on paper and his weakness for pyrotechnics, Faulkner trips over his own inventiveness. His tales of violence then become preposterous and cheap; his livid rhetoric creates a verbal log jam, with prepositions flying wild, clauses drifting crazily and parentheses multiplying like rabbits. But when he is really in command of his story (about half the time), Faulkner makes his rhetoric work for him, even when it is full of echoes of Ciceronian oratory and of overripe Elizabethan poetry...
...hard to prevent the Reds from crossing the Naktong as to stop rats from boarding a moored ship. In some places, the sluggish green water was shallow enough to wade across. At night, free from Allied air attack, the North Koreans put tanks across on barges and hastily built log and stone causeways, whose top surfaces were a foot under water and hard to see from the air. Once, in full daylight, under U.S. artillery fire, they put armor across on a pontoon bridge. Time & again, U.S. counterattacks whittled down or obliterated the Communists' east-bank footholds, but they...
Then, "one sweltering hot evening in late May ... he hears a mighty storm raging ten miles away in the hills and knows the rains have broken." A wall of brown, log-choked water bears down on him. "He staggers and falls, but the groan he gives is drowned by peals of thunder," and his carcass is smashed to bits as the flood hurtles it along. The reason elephant remains are seldom found: porcupines gnaw away the tusks to get at the nerve pulp, other scavengers destroy whatever else remains...
Every year about this time, the lamentable Legend of Sydney Pumpton '47 rises to the minds of Seniors like a half-saturated log that has been stirred loose from the bottom of a pond. The tale is passed gingerly from mouth to mouth at breakfast and dinner tables. And Seniors are sore afraid...