Word: raiding
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...evening's first raid was on the Plymouth pub, the Tom Elliott. The Rev. Wilfred H. Mildon, a mild-appearing man, went in alone by the four-ale door (to the public bar) to establish a bridgehead. When he reappeared and gave the thumbs-up sign, all six parsons trooped in, 30-year-old Pastor Arthur Bird's black & white accordion braying deafeningly...
Last week, gathering manpower for his campaign, he staged a staff raid on the Examiner. Hearstlings Edward W. McQuade, city editor; Alvin Hyman, top rewrite man, and Richard V. Hyer, legman specializing in crime reporting, walked out to go to work for Paul Smith's Chronicle. The rattled Examiner hastily scattered pay raises to keep the rest of its staff. But Smith boasted that his new recruits had not changed sides for money. "They simply are going to work for an honest newspaper," he cracked, "so they can live with themselves and their children...
...dozen stories in Ivy Gripped the Steps are stories of England and Ireland during the war. There is no gunfire or other military matter in them, not even the sound of an air-raid alarm, though Miss Bowen herself served during the war as an air-raid warden, and saw what bombs could do to her own London home. A spare, poised, shy but sociable woman, Elizabeth Bowen in private life is Mrs. Alan Cameron, the wife of an educator and ex-BBC official...
General Arnold treats this subject in more detail. If supplied from the first with atomic bombs, he believes, the B-29s of the Twentieth Air Force could have accomplished all they did in Japan in a single day's raid. The cost, for bombs a measly $200,000,000. "Destruction by air power," says General Arnold, "has become too cheap and easy. . . . The existence of civilization [is] subject to the good will and good sense of the men who control air power...
...That was the period when, whether you liked it or not, you came into your full inheritance. . . . You were all alone and rather proud of it. . . . There was . . . the big raid of December 29th, when the City burned . . . and as I walked home at 7 in the morning, the windows in the West End were red with reflected fire, and the raindrops were like blood on the panes. That was the Christmas you sang carols in the shelters, and you were living a life, not an apology. . . . And it was then that I learned the meaning of that great word...