"Dearest Lib"

Faced with death, they wanted above all else one last communication with a home they had reluctantly left, to fight a war they did not understand. Hurriedly, sometimes awkwardly and unconsciously sententious, always with compelling urgency, they scribbled: "Dearest Mother . . . Dear Dad . . . Dearest Lib . . ."

They were bewildered by the feverish surge of events which had snatched them up: "I didn't want the war in the first place ... I wish there was some way that war could be avoided and that peace would be everlasting in the world . . ."

Mostly they thought of the life they had left behind them: "I go over each time we were with each other . . . the never-to-be-forgotten weekend spent at Caroline's . . . the walks in the woods, enjoying the fresh air and the smell of growing things. . . ."

Their concern showed only in a pathetic anxiousness to plan for the future of those at home: "My insurance policy is in my bag that was in the small tent at Columbia. . . . Any personal property that I have at home I will give to you. ..."

Of their own future they were confident in spite of everything: "Just remember that God will make everything right and that I will see you all again in the hereafter. . . . My faith in God is complete. . . ."

Then they signed the letters with their cold, official signatures: Lieut. Dean E. Hallmark, Lieut. William G. Farrow, Sergeant Harold A. Spatz. They were the Doolittle flyers who had bombed Tokyo in the first spring of war and had been taken prisoner. Soon after, they were executed by the Japanese.

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