Rob

Married American-Stand for the flag, kneel for the cross- Lover of veterans who gave so much- Military history- Conservative independent-Libtards are dangerous

[Rob @Firemanob]

@FloraLuzz_ 10000000000%

[Rob @Firemanob]

@FoxNews He fucking killed someone.. man just because he is black smh

[Rob @Firemanob]

@BernieSanders Didnt you retire yet? You starting to be a bit senile. Cant tell the difference between republican nazis and one you support

[Rob @Firemanob]

@CollinRugg You arent owed shit.. just another way to put your hand out.

[Rob @Firemanob]

@RepJasmine Just because your black doesnt give you the right to kill someone. Your a disgusting racist that promotes hate. Then when it comes back at you you cry like a little bitch.. just like you walking out of the testimony because you cant stand to hear anything but your lies

[Rob @Firemanob]

@EndWokeness

[Rob @Firemanob]

@GSHolman @kershaw_alex @WWIIMemorial

[Mario Nawfal @MarioNawfal]

🇺🇸 You only see shirts like this in America 😂

[Buraq @Buraq515]

People who naturally possess status, power, and favorable conditions often have giant hearts. Praiseworthy and admirable.🎊

However, we cannot accept the disrespect shown by some disadvantaged individuals who look down on brothers and sisters in the same circumstances.💕🎀💯

[Mila Joy @Milajoy]

Truth.

[𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕝𝕝𝟞𝟛 ⚞🇺🇸⚟ MAGA ⚞🇺🇸⚟ @Markell1963]

✩░▒▓▆▅▃▂▁𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 ▁▂▃▅▆▓▒░✩

[Old Salty Marine @BamaSaltyMarine]

Islam has a problem with Gays, Jews, Sikhs, Christians, Buddhist, Hindus, Women, Non-Muslims, Atheists, beer, wine, bacon, and dogs

But if I have a problem with Islam, I'm the bigot and Islamophobic? Can you see how ridiculous it is?

[Mike Netter @nettermike]

Called the "Grey Ghost" by the Germans because of his seemingly supernatural ability to repeatedly return to the battlefield after they thought they'd killed him...

Wounded seven times and refused evacuation on multiple occasions, even checking himself out of a hospital in England and hitchhiking back to the front lines in France to fight again with his men.

This is New York WWII legend, Matt Louis Urban.

Some acts of courage are so extraordinary that they almost defy belief.
In June 1944, as American forces fought their way through the hedgerows of Normandy, Captain Matt Urban's company was being torn apart by enemy tank fire. Men were falling. The attack was stalling.

Urban picked up a bazooka.

Accompanied by a single ammunition carrier, he crawled through the hedgerows under relentless fire until he was close enough to engage the tanks. Then, standing in full view of the enemy, he destroyed both of them.

His company surged forward.

Hours later, a 37mm tank round shattered his leg. He refused evacuation and continued leading the attack. The next morning, wounded and bleeding, he led another assault before being hit again.

Eventually evacuated to England, Urban learned that his battalion was suffering terrible losses in France.
He didn't wait to recover.

Still limping from his wounds, he left the hospital and hitchhiked his way back to his unit near Saint-Lo, France.

When he arrived, he found them pinned down by fierce enemy resistance. Two supporting tanks had already been destroyed. Another sat motionless, its commander and gunner gone.

Urban sprinted through a storm of enemy fire, climbed onto the tank, and exposed himself completely to enemy bullets. As rounds ricocheted around him, he manned the machine gun and personally led the attack forward.
The battalion followed.

Over the next weeks he was wounded again.
And again.
And again.

Each time he refused evacuation.
By August after his commander was killed, he was leading an entire battalion.

Then, on September 3, 1944, while personally leading an attack across open ground toward a heavily defended German strongpoint near the Meuse River, he was struck by a devastating neck wound that left him barely able to speak above a whisper.

Still he refused to leave the battlefield.

Only after the enemy position had been destroyed and the crossing secured would he allow himself to be evacuated.

Matt Urban would become one of the most decorated soldiers in American history.

His lengthy Medal Of Honor citation positively sings of what was aptly described as 'limitless bravery'.

When you read it, you're left with a simple conclusion:

There are brave men.
And then there are men of seemingly supernatural courage like Matt Urban.

[Denise 🇺🇸 @NoDMsPerfavore]

Donald Trump is the first racist in history to have...

...dated a black woman

....deported an ex-Nazi

...upgraded MLK's birthplace to a national historic park

...posthumously pardoned legendary boxer Jack Johnson

...kissed the Western Wall

...loves his Jewish grandchildren

...established an Opportunity & Revitalization Council to restore black neighborhoods

...signed a major criminal reform bill

…granted Alice Johnson clemency

…loaned his personal jet to Nelson Mandela

...declared Jerusalem the capital of Israel

...moved the US Embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem

...overseen the lowest black unemployment in history

...denounced David Duke over 20 years ago

...been given a lifetime achievement award after paving a way for blacks to enter corporate America...

Worst. Racist. Ever.

[🇺🇸 Edward T. Winslow @EdwardTWinz]

🚨 A JOURNALIST JUST FILMED INSIDE THE NEWARK ICE PROTEST CAMP. READ THAT AGAIN:

Nick Sortor went in with a hidden camera. What he found wasn't a spontaneous protest.

It was a fully operational logistics base.

– Tens of THOUSANDS of dollars in equipment already on site

– Riot gear. Not signs. Not banners. RIOT EQUIPMENT.

– Hot food delivered every single hour, on schedule

– Medical sections, expensive tents, organized supply chains

– This is outside Delaney Hall ICE detention center in Newark, NJ

– Protests have been running for over a week — round the clock

– Andy Ngo documented week-long violence by Antifa at the same facility

– State police had to intervene just to restore basic order

– Nobody is asking who is paying for hourly catered deliveries to a protest camp

– Nobody is asking who sourced the riot equipment

– Nobody is asking who coordinates the resupply logistics for a week-long operation

This is not a group of angry citizens who showed up with signs.

This is a funded, staffed, continuously resupplied operation with riot capability.

Someone is writing checks for this. Someone is organizing the deliveries. Someone made sure the equipment arrived.

The protesters didn't just open a door that CANNOT be closed.

The funders did. And nobody is looking for them.

Follow and turn on notifications before it's too late.

[I Meme Therefore I Am 🇺🇸 @ImMeme0]

Meet Rosalyn Holt, a business office manager at Helena Square Assisted Living in Port Royal, South Carolina. Holt made a video while on the clock mocking and laughing about Pam Bondi being diagnosed with thyroid cancer.

You know what to do.

[Valerie Anne Smith @ValerieAnne1970]

Dr. Ben Carson urges, "Do NOT allow what was done during COVID to be 'swept under the rug'."

"Dr. Fauci admitted there was no science behind ANY of what he was saying."

"We know the side effects from COVID vaccinations far exceed anything else in the last 30 years combined."

[The Husky @Mr_Husky1]

When Navy seaman Douglas Hegdahl fell overboard into the Gulf of Tonkin in 1967, North Vietnamese forces pulled him out of the water and dragged him to the most feared prison of the Vietnam War — the Hanoi Hilton.
He was young. He was low-ranking. And the moment he arrived, he made a decision his captors never saw coming.
He would become the dumbest man in the room.
Hegdahl shuffled around the prison yard with a blank expression and a dopey grin, tripping over things, asking confused questions, acting like a man who couldn't tie his own shoelaces. His guards laughed at him. They gave him a nickname — "The Incredibly Stupid One" — and, crucially, they gave him something no other prisoner had: the freedom to wander.
They thought he was harmless.
He was anything but.
While his captors looked away, Hegdahl quietly dropped dirt and stones into enemy truck fuel tanks, sabotaging their operations one engine at a time. But that wasn't his real mission. His real mission was invisible.
Every day, Hegdahl watched. He listened. He memorized — the name of every American prisoner held in that camp, their capture date, the conditions they endured, the torture they suffered. Information the North Vietnamese deliberately hid from the outside world. Information that hundreds of families back home were desperate for.
And he found a way to make sure he'd never forget a single detail.
He set every name, every date, every fact — to the tune of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." He sang it silently in his head, day after day, in a prison cell, surrounded by men who had no idea what the young fool was quietly carrying.
In 1969, the North Vietnamese released him early as a propaganda gesture. They wanted to show the world their generosity. They thought they were setting a harmless simpleton free.
Instead, they handed the United States one of the most valuable intelligence assets of the entire war.
The moment Hegdahl reached American soil, he delivered everything — name after name after name. Over 250 prisoners accounted for. Families who had waited years in agonizing silence finally learned their sons, husbands, and fathers were alive.
Senior military officers later said his information was so detailed, so precise, that it fundamentally changed how America understood the POW situation in Vietnam.
Douglas Hegdahl never fired a weapon. He never led a charge. He won his battle by making the enemy believe he was nothing — and quietly becoming everything.
The most dangerous person in the room isn't always the loudest. Sometimes, it's the one they forgot to watch.

[Crazy Vibes @CrazyVibes_1]

The Japanese guards thought the young American medic was stealing medicine for himself.
Years later, survivors learned he had been giving away his own blood to dying prisoners one hidden syringe at a time.

They called him Doc Holloway.

The camp commandant called him the useless one.

Private First Class Daniel Holloway was 24 years old when the Japanese captured him on Bataan in April 1942.

Before the war, Danny had been studying medicine at the University of Missouri. Small-town boy. Church pianist. The kind of young man who apologized too much and carried extra pencils in his pockets because someone else might need one.

When Pearl Harbor happened, he enlisted as an Army medic before finishing school.

He thought he would spend the war saving lives.

He never imagined he would spend most of it watching men disappear.

By spring 1942, American and Filipino forces in the Philippines were starving. Supplies gone. Malaria everywhere. Dysentery spreading through exhausted troops living on scraps of rice.

Then came surrender.

Nearly 75,000 prisoners were forced onto what history would call the Bataan Death March.

The heat killed first.

Then dehydration.

Then the guards.

Men who stumbled were beaten, bayoneted, or simply left beside the road to die beneath the sun. Prisoners drank from muddy ditches despite knowing the water carried disease because thirst hurt worse than fear.

Danny tried treating wounded men while marching.

A guard smashed a rifle butt across his face for stopping too long beside a dying corporal.

After that, he treated people while walking.

Tearing strips from uniforms for bandages.

Holding collapsing soldiers upright so guards wouldn’t notice weakness.

Whispering to delirious men about home.

Kansas wheat fields.

Chicago winters.

Baseball games.

Anything except the road.

One prisoner later remembered:

“He made dying men feel like human beings again for five minutes.”

Thousands never reached the camps.

Danny did.

Camp O’Donnell first.

Then Cabanatuan.

Places built less for imprisonment than slow destruction.

Disease spread constantly. Beriberi. Malaria. Cholera. Starvation so severe men fought quietly over banana peels in garbage pits after dark.

Medical supplies barely existed.

Japanese guards considered medicine wasted on prisoners expected to die anyway.

But Danny still called himself a medic.

Even after his uniform rotted into rags.

Even after his weight dropped below one hundred pounds.

Every morning, he walked barracks checking pulses and fevers with fingers so thin they looked skeletal.

He shared his own food constantly.

Half a spoon of rice.

A sip of broth.

Anything.

The prisoners begged him to stop.

“You’ll kill yourself.”

Danny always answered the same way:

“They’re sicker than me.”

Then came the malaria outbreak of 1944.

Hundreds collapsed.

Men burned with fever so intense they hallucinated snow falling inside jungle barracks.

The Japanese released tiny amounts of quinine only for prisoners strong enough to keep working.

The weak were left untreated.

Danny began stealing medicine.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

One vial at a time.

A sympathetic Filipino laborer working near the supply hut smuggled tiny amounts toward the prisoners. Danny hid the medicine inside bamboo supports beneath the floorboards.

At night, he crawled barrack to barrack treating dying men in darkness while guards slept.

But malaria medicine alone wasn’t enough.

Many prisoners were too weak from starvation to survive blood loss from disease and beatings.

Then Danny noticed something.

Despite starvation, he remained strangely healthy compared to others.

Universal donor blood type.

O-negative.

And an idea so dangerous it bordered on madness began forming.

Using scavenged tubing, stolen syringes, and improvised needles boiled over hidden fires, Danny started secretly giving his own blood directly to dying prisoners.

No records.

No equipment.

No safety.

Just one starving man lying beside another inside bamboo barracks while jungle rain hammered the roof overhead.

Again and again.

Until Danny himself could barely stand afterward.

One former prisoner remembered waking from fever to see Danny pale as paper beside him.

“I thought he was dying too,” the man said later.

“Then I realized his blood was running into my arm.”

The guards eventually noticed something strange.

Prisoners expected to die kept surviving.

Not many.

But enough.

A Japanese officer accused Danny directly during interrogation.

“You steal medicine for yourself.”

Danny looked at his own skeletal body and laughed weakly.

“If I was stealing for myself,” he whispered, “I’d look better than this.”

The officer beat him unconscious anyway.

By late 1944, American bombing intensified around the Philippines.

The Japanese began evacuating prisoners onto “hell ships” — cargo vessels packed with POWs and sent toward Japan under horrific conditions.

No markings identified them as prisoner transports.

American submarines attacked many accidentally.

Danny was loaded onto one in December.

The hold below deck was darkness, vomit, sweat, blood, and screaming packed so tightly prisoners couldn’t sit down fully.

Men suffocated standing upright.

Others went insane from thirst.

Danny spent the voyage moving through the darkness touching foreheads, checking breathing, giving away water he desperately needed himself.

One Marine later said:

“He walked around that ship like a ghost carrying mercy.”

Near Formosa, the ship was struck during an American air attack.

Chaos exploded instantly.

Steam.

Fire.

Flooding compartments.

Japanese guards sealed lower hatches to stop prisoners escaping.

Hundreds drowned screaming beneath the decks.

Danny and several others managed to break through a side hatch after an explosion warped the metal.

Prisoners fell burning into the sea around them.

Oil covered the water.

Danny couldn’t swim well.

But witnesses later said he kept pushing weaker men toward floating wreckage instead of saving himself.

One survivor remembered Danny supporting a blinded prisoner in the water for nearly an hour.

The rescue boats reached them at dusk.

Only then did the blinded man realize Danny had disappeared beneath the waves sometime during the final minutes.

Still holding him up.

His body was never recovered.

After the war, survivors searched desperately for information about “Doc Holloway.”

Many knew almost nothing about him.

Only fragments.

Missouri.

Medical student.

Played piano.

Gave away food.

Shared blood.

In 1948, former POWs pooled money to find Danny’s mother, Eleanor Holloway, living alone outside St. Louis.

They arrived carrying letters.

Dozens of them.

Stories from men who had survived because of her son.

One former prisoner handed her a small rusted syringe wrapped carefully in cloth.

“He used this on me,” the man said quietly.

“She kept the syringe beside her bed until she died.”

Years later, military historians investigating POW survival rates found something astonishing.

Men housed in Danny Holloway’s barracks survived malaria outbreaks at significantly higher rates than nearby camps despite identical conditions.

Nobody could fully explain why until survivors compared memories decades later.

Then the stories aligned.

The stolen quinine.

The nighttime treatments.

The blood transfusions performed by a starving medic using almost nothing except courage and refusal.

In 1997, surviving former prisoners gathered at the National World War II Memorial construction ceremony.

Most were old men by then.

Walking slowly.

Hands trembling.

One carried a faded photograph of a smiling young medic in uniform holding medical textbooks under one arm.

Daniel Holloway.

Age 24 forever.

Before the ceremony ended, several survivors quietly placed small glass bottles near the memorial site.

Empty blood vials.

No speeches explained them.

None were needed.

Because somewhere beneath the history of war and strategy and nations fighting across oceans lives the story of one exhausted American medic who entered a prison camp with nothing left to give —

and somehow kept giving pieces of himself away anyway.

Literally.

One drop at a time.