Ok, I'll list the ones that came back.

My father was in the 20th Air Force in WW II, repairing radio and radar systems in B-29s on Guam, Saipan and Tinian. When the war ended they gave all the airmen the choice of flying back to the States or sailing back with a troopship. Everyone wanted to fly as the ship would take three weeks or more to make the trip. But then someone asked, "If we fly, do we have to fly in these planes (the B-29s on the base)?" The answer came back, "Yes, of course." Having been working on these planes during months of combat conditions, Dad and all the other techs then chose the troopship.

A Great Uncle was a Merchant Marine Captain whose ship was part of the infamous PQ17 convoy. His ship was bombed and sunk shortly after the 'convoy scatter' order went out. He was pulled out of the water by a patrol boat but not before his feet had frozen. When they got into port, he refused to allow the sawbones to amputate and lucked out. They then put him on a British steamer back to the UK but three days out of Murmansk it was bombed and sunk too. He got pulled out again and had the same argument with the doctors about his feet. But he kept them. For the rest of his life they gave him hell every time a rain front approached, but as he said, "I have plenty of medicine for that."

My Uncle was a B-24 co-pilot in the Navy in the Southwest Pacific. On their first bombing mission as a crew over Rabaul, five minutes before they reached final target the bombardier started screaming in fear and ran to the back of the plane. They had to fly over the entire target defense area with a full bomb load and no way to maneuver or get rid of it. They were lucky and got through and were able to get another crewman to go and release over the sea. When they got back to base the bombardier was taken away for investigation. Two weeks later they found out he was only 17 and had lied about his age to join. Uncle Jimmy said that was the biggest 17-year old he had ever seen.

My Uncle Frank was also a Merchant Marine Captain. He was torpedoed twice in the war, and both times the vessel was lost. First time was in December, 1942, 100 miles east of Iceland. The ship went down in less than ten minutes (fully laden) and they didn't have time to launch life boats. They were pulled out of the sea by a Canadian rescue vessel within 20 minutes though. Which saved them all from certain death in that water. No crew losses on that one. My Aunt would always say that those Canadians were the bravest men on the Ocean. My Uncle would then say, "Well, honey..." but would agree they were exceptionally brave.

The second torpedoing was off the coast of Cuba. Now pay attention here... in those days the Merchant Marine sailors all got full combat pay as soon as they passed port clearance. Anywhere in the world other than the Great Lakes. And as long as they were out, they kept getting paid the Big Money. When they were torpedoed, they all (except the three from the engine department that went down with the ship) had time to launch the lifeboats. So they rowed for the Cuban coast and upon landing immediately made themselves real scarce. Remember, they're still on the clock for the combat pay.

It became my Uncle's job to get a car and driver and drive down to the coast and find these men. This is the part of the story where my Aunt would get up and say, "Ok, kids, let's go outside and play now." Later, when I was old enough, I got the rest of the story. All of the crew were hiding in the local brothels in all of these small fishing villages, living like kings. My Uncle would have to go to the Estados Policia and have them dragged out and taken to the Quarantine Hospital in Santiago. When I asked how long all of this took, my Uncle would only laugh and say, "Too damned long but don't tell your Aunt that." For years, whenever you just said the word, "Cuba" to my Aunt, she would get hot as a two dollar pistol just thinking about Frank and all those "damned tramps". War is hell.