Refillable popcorn securely in lap, we settled into those cushy rocking-chair seats at Branson's IMAX theater to absorb the true life war film I've anticipated for weeks.
Mel Gibson's Hacksaw Ridge is the story of an astounding "GodNod." It shows how Army medic Desmond Doss of Virginia single-handedly rescued over 75 of our wounded soldiers from the bloody killing fields atop a 400-foot bluff on Okinawa during World War II.
In the early days of May 1945, while exhausted and continually asking the Lord to allow him to save "just one more" soldier's life, this conscientious objector corporal who refused to handle a rifle carved his name forever into the legends of combat heroes who've earned the Medal of Honor.
While the movie was realistically savage and turn-your-head gory, I was interested in learning more about the crucial battle for Okinawa, having spent two years as a child on that narrow 60-mile-long island.
It was in 1955, just 10 years after the invasion when dad was assigned to command troops stationed at the military hospital on Okinawa. The island at that time (and until 1972) was under U.S. occupation.
My mother, younger brother and I boarded a troop ship for the week-long Pacific crossing where I was to spend my fourth- and fifth-grade years. Our sister would be born on Okinawa in 1956, not long before we returned to the states. The island was still recovering from the ravages of war. That also made it a truly fascinating place for curious elementary-aged boys.
It became a great adventure for us to pack peanut butter sandwiches and a canteen of water and hike alone back into the hills behind the military housing. With hardly a decade having passed since Doss achieved his fame beneath the blazing chatter of machine guns and explosions from mortars, artillery and grenades, many remnants remained of the struggle that transpired across the hills.
Had our sweet and oblivious mother only realized what was happening with her sons on those summer days, our grand adventures would have abruptly ended.
On peaceful, barren stretches overgrown with weeds, we'd crawl into shell-pocked pillboxes and caves still blackened by flame throwers, grenades and satchel packs. Inside we'd often discover shell casings, ammo boxes, signs of medical treatment and occasionally even human bones. The Army had issued warnings to Americans and Okinawans not to handle any unexploded munitions. Still, every month of so, we'd sadly hear of another person, usually Okinawans, who'd died after handing an active explosive.
I recall finding at least three hand grenades partially buried in soft, overgrown soil. We knew to give those a wide berth, along with a couple of undetonated mortar shells also buried partially. The passage of a decade hadn't come close to clearing hard evidence of the 82-day battle that claimed an estimated 12,500 Americans.
Over months of these treasure hunts, we collected enough paraphernalia from the former battlefields in the hills to create our very own museum of sorts on the screened-in back porch. That was until the parents closed our enterprise down after learning our collection wasn't coming from lots of friends in the neighborhood. One afternoon, I remember looking outside into the neighbor's yard to see the bomb-disposal squad gingerly prodding and digging to unearth a large finned bomb that had plunged just beneath the surface without exploding.
I read that one civilian survivor named Higa Tomiko, who was 7 during the invasion, called the constant rain of bombs, shrapnel and bullets "a scene straight out of hell." At least 82,000 on both sides died as a direct result of the battle (not counting some 70,000 civilians).
Little wonder thousands of potentially dangerous artifacts remained spread across the island as reminders of the horrors that had unfolded there.
I left the theater with an adult's fullest appreciation for what Doss had achieved on the hallowed ground we'd so innocently explored when life was filled with fascination and wonder, along with a renewed respect for the thousands of young Americans who'd sacrificed so much on that slender island off the Japanese coast.
Disturbing arrest
I'll be interested to learn the fate of that civilian investigator with the Arkansas State Police Crimes Against Children Division arrested the other day, accused of falsifying official reports in Washington and Benton counties.
Court documents say 49-year-old Whitney Loren Adams claimed to have conducted face-to-face interviews with several alleged victims but never actually visited in person.
That matters a lot since she was hired in September 2014 for the express purpose of investigating the maltreatment of children, according to a news account by reporter Tracy Neal. An audit raised questions about the 149 cases Adams had been assigned. It didn't take long for problems and questions to arise over how she'd handled those inquiries.
Strikes me that whoever is hired into such an intensely responsible position on behalf of children should have a sense of integrity beyond reproach.
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Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.
Editorial on 11/19/2016