I know this because it's been on the news but I have this family friend who's son was a crossdresser and prostitute or whatever. It's a real sad story the shit he use to do. Anyways this gang killed him though and described how he killed him in court that his father had a heart attack and died in court. The gangbanger said that he shot him in the balls and he was crying for his mom which has been part of my family for decades before he shot him in the head.
I don't mean to derail the thread but...
This just reminded me something. I visited a WWII museum where one of the exhibits told a story about a dying soldier and how he was crying for his mother as he was dying. It seems that dying men crying for their mothers is not that unusual
Where soldiers cried for morphine, their mothers - Morning Call
Where soldiers cried for morphine, their mothers
Robert E. Serafin on his porch in Lehigh Township, near Walnutport, in May… (Frank Wiese/Morning Call…)
May 27, 2002|An interview by David Venditta | Of The Morning Call
Robert E. Serafin guarded German prisoners of war in Colorado and Wyoming until the late summer of 1944, when the Army reassigned him as a hospital orderly.
The corporal from Plains, just north of Wilkes-Barre, landed in France in February 1945. Assigned to a mobile field hospital, he followed the U.S. 1st Army deep into Germany as the Nazi regime broke apart.
Serafin, who now lives in Lehigh Township, would become a career soldier and serve as a criminal investigator in South Vietnam and Thailand during the Vietnam War.
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We crossed the channel from England and landed at Le Havre in France, where they sent us to a camp. From there we went to Belgium, then into Germany.
My unit, the 84th Field Hospital, was a mobile Army surgical hospital, just like on the TV show "M*A*S*H." The first-aid stations were at the front, where the battlefield medics would do as much as they could to help the wounded.
Then came us, a few miles behind. We had the operating facilities to handle one or two hundred patients. These were the people who were severely injured. After we stabilized them, we'd fly them back to a general hospital. We were always looking to set up by a landing strip so we could evacuate them faster.
I was an orderly with the job of carrying bedpans, moving patients from their cots to the operating table and back again, putting up tents and taking them down, packing the equipment into trucks. The ward tents would hold 50 to 75 patients, mostly all young fellas who had grown up fast.
It was hectic, especially when we got a mass of casualties in. They were brought from the front in ambulances. We had to get these guys into the hospital as fast as we could. That's when time flew.
Thank God we had nurses. They calmed down the injured guys as only women can, with the soothing way about them. They took terrific care of the wounded, the amputees, trying to make them as comfortable as they could.
A lot of the guys were sedated. But the sedation would wear off and they'd groan, "Oh, give me morphine. Morphine, morphine."
There was one guy in a complete body cast from the neck down. He must have had a back injury and was in awful pain, and he was crying for his mother. I guess it was the thought of never seeing her again. I was standing near him, helpless. A nurse said, "He wants more morphine. Other than that there's nothing we can do for him."
I found out in Vietnam, too, that as soon as a guy would be in bad shape, he'd always ask for his mother. Whenever I heard that, it killed me inside.
We moved forward and forward, through Aachen, Cologne, Giessen, Gotha, Weimar, Jena. We heard artillery all the time, day and night, volleys of boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! And we'd see the flashes in the sky.
It was hell to live with, because you didn't know what to expect. I was only 22 years old, and scared.
When we were driving on the autobahn, we had to evacuate the trucks when a German plane strafed us and dig our noses in the ground. There weren't many enemy fighters around, because Americans controlled the air, but some were still up there.
Once I was walking in a farm field, and a guy called out: "Don't move!" I said, "What?"
"You're in a mine field."
I froze. I didn't know what to do. We had a lot of instances where German farmers would be plowing a field, and pow!
"Turn around," the guy told me. "Go on the same steps that you took."
Oh man, I was so scared, shaking like a leaf. It got awfully quiet. The guy who called to me didn't want to say too much to get me more excited. There were other people around, watching me.
I followed my footprints in the plowed earth, looking for these little probes that stick out of the ground. They were from Bouncing Bettys. You step on them and they have a trigger assembly and go up a few feet, explode and get you in the midsection.
Nothing happened. I had been 20 yards out in the mine field and made it back. But I shook for an hour after that.
Everybody at the hospital was busy -- orderlies, medics, technicians, pharmacists, surgical and medical nurses, surgeons, medical doctors. When we weren't working, we got something to eat, and slept. They used to keep our mess hall open all the time, because you ate when you could. There was always hot coffee and a hot meal.
I wrote home to my wife, Elaine, practically every day. She had graduated from Plains High School two years after me, in 1942, and we got married at the end of October that year, soon before I was drafted.
Even though I was in Europe for only six or seven months, the war left a lot of scars on my mind. One of them was Buchenwald, the concentration camp outside Weimar.
Buchenwald had been liberated, and Gen. Dwight Eisenhower, then supreme Allied commander, wanted as many GIs as possible to see it because there it was: why we were fighting.