Buh posted:

Wanna provide an article that spells out why this is so obvious?

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

People do realize that the Lindberg baby was killed by his uncle, right? Because drat there are a lot of people who seem to think it's still some grand unsolved mystery from the past.

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

People do realize that the Lindberg baby was killed by his uncle, right? Because drat there are a lot of people who seem to think it's still some grand unsolved mystery from the past.

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

Now that I look back on it, I don't think the animals they ate were alive (at least not all of them), but rather were just freshly killed. And as far as social conditioning is concerned, Charles Domery in particular appears to have expressed regret about killing and eating a cat, and indicated that he was empathetic to a significant degree toward their plight and suffering. Don't know how much that can be said for Tarrare, but at the very least, it seems like both men had some form of functioning moral conscience.

What confounds me is how either man could've eaten the things that they ate while suffering relatively few outwardly-apparent negative side effects from doing so, and how either man was able to adequately digest it all. Domery in particular hardly ever vomited up any of the things he ate unless it included huge quantities of meat. Domery also doesn't appear to have undergone too many major hygienic effects from eating as much as he did; compare this to Tarrare, who stank to high holy heaven on a constant basis, and whose reakage was so rear end-heinous that his body may have given off visible, cartoon-like stink vapors (then again, he was also French, sooo... ).

Unfortunately, since historical records about Domery are scarce and we don't have any record of his autopsy, and since there aren't any other well-documented cases of anybody else with similar symptoms, we don't have much info to help us say exactly what could've caused either man's condition. Both men's wiki pages offer some physical descriptions that might be useful from a pathological perspective, though. From Tarrare's page:


There's also this, from Tarrare's autopsy:

Mak0rz posted:

I hate to sound here but I can't help but think it's a textbook case of being able to literally get away with murder if you're white/rich enough.

effervescible posted:

Hauptmann was guilty, but he likely didn't act alone. So some people probably did got off scot free on that one.

Mr. Flunchy posted:

Uh, the Lindbergh baby was almost certainly killed by Richard Hauptman.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Hauptmann

The evidence against him is pretty stacked.

stickyfngrdboy posted:

There is a documentary on Netflix called Nova: Who Killed Lindbergh's Baby. It seems pretty obvious who did it.

AlbieQuirky posted:

But the other people were almost certainly fellow down-on-their-luck German expatriates, like the guy Hauptmann originally said had given him the money. Not Elizabeth or Dwight Morrow.

HonorableTB posted:

I thought it was generally understood that Jon Benet's parents killed her? Kind of like how everyone knows OJ killed those white folks so while he's technically/legally not guilty, he definitely did it. Maddy McCann is a bit different - I think it was just gross negligence on the part of her parents that allowed her to kidnapped. She's certainly dead now though but I don't think her parents are guilty of anything except extremely poor judgement and child negligence.

Kimmalah posted:

No people kind of jumped to the conclusion during the media craze because of the old "it's always the parents" thing, but there really wasn't a whole lot of proof to support that. Most people who actually investigate the case seem to conclude the evidence points to an intruder.

HonorableTB posted:

Maddy McCann is a bit different - I think it was just gross negligence on the part of her parents that allowed her to kidnapped. She's certainly dead now though but I don't think her parents are guilty of anything except extremely poor judgement and child negligence.

Kimmalah posted:

I'm pretty laid back when it comes to stuff like that and I still can't imagine anyone with half a brain thinking it's a good idea to leave a 3 year old alone anywhere really.

PresidentBeard posted:

I don't think it has ever been safe or normal to do that.

quote:

...After the war, an entrepreneur by the name of Glenn Odekirk saw a new future for the roomy Catalinas as extreme luxury flying yachts. They were to be the epitome of glamorous travel that he called Landseaire.

“It seemed like no one was getting real utility out of a private airplane”, Odekirk was quoted in a Flight magazine article in 1953. “Normally, it’s just a means of transportation in which you ride from here to there with varying degrees of comfort. So, I decided to build an aerial luxury yacht in which you can land and live almost anywhere in the world with all the comforts of home.”

He invited some fellow executives from the Southern California Aircraft Corp., family members and two attractive blonde aspiring actresses to lure the interest of the LIFE magazine camera lens. The day spent sightseeing along San Diego’s coast was meant to generate publicity for Oderkirk, who was hoping to sell his planes to wealthy American industrialists.

"Noise is kept to a remarkably low level by a 4in-thick lining of Fiberglass. A Landseaire costs a lot of money—$265,000 is the basic price— something not far short of £100,000. This, coupled with heavy operating costs, virtually lifts the craft beyond the reach even of most millionaires. ...Sleeping accommodation is provided for eight persons in three double beds and two singles. Near each bed are an individual light, radio switch and speaker, curtains, vents for air conditioning system, and a telephone. Occupants may contact the shore by means of a marine ship-to-shore telephone. In addition to this item of ‘electrickery’, the converted aircraft are fitted with no fewer than seven communications receivers, two transmitters, a broadcast receiver, FM-AM radio and a built-in television set!

Overall carpeting adds further to the comfort. A shower bath, in waterproof plastic, runs hot and cold water. The w.c. is electrically flushed when on water; in the air a chemical toilet is used. The galley, in white porcelain and stainless steel, rivals the equipment of the most modern kitchen. A three-plate cooking range, oven, large refrigerator and frozen-food unit are installed."

A wealthy Californian industrialist, Thomas W. Kendall, who had been inspired by Oderkirk’s flying yachts and wanted to keep busy during his retirement, decided to purchase a dozen PBY WWII Catalinas to convert to luxury amphibious flying machines.

In 1959, along with his wife and children, he decided to test one of his creations on a year-long world-wide tour. In Egypt, they were joined by another LIFE photographer, David Lees, and carried on down to the Strait of Tirana, between Egypt’s Sinai and Saudi Arabia.

It was here that their dream voyage would turn into a living nightmare when the family and their guests were suddenly ambushed on the beach by armed Bedouin tribesmen serving in the Saudi Arabian army. Despite Kendall’s claims that they had hoisted their American flag above the pilot’s compartment that morning, the Bedouin soldiers allegedly suspected the Kendalls were Israeli commandos in disguise.

The harrowing ambush is described in this gripping account written for LIFE magazine by Thomas Kendall himself:

"After a late lunch I went up on the wing to check the left engine. Bob was in the water checking some equipment in the nose. Stephen and Paul were wading in the shallows about 60 feet away, playing with our bright blue rubber life raft. Everyone else was in the plane. When I finally buttoned up the engine, I stood up and glanced around. Except for the boys, I saw nothing but rocks, low hills and empty sand. I looked at my watch. It was 4:32 exactly. Then I heard what sounded like distant firecrackers. My first thought was that some local Bedouins were celebrating the Muslim holiday of Ramadan, which was then in progress. In Luxor, Egypt, our last stop, they had celebrated by firing off a cannon. Suddenly, I noticed little splashes in the water beside the rubber raft. Somebody was shooting at the children …

As I ran I shouted for everyone to lie down on the floor because we were under fire. Mrs. Shearer ran with me to the tail and we watched our small sons dog-paddling very slowly toward the hatch, just their heads above water, towing the raft for cover between themselves and the bullets…

By now machine-gun and automatic-weapons fire was hitting the plane, I don’t know how long we stood there screaming at the children to hurry—it felt like eons…

The ambush lasted 30 to 40 minutes, and only the cowardice of our attackers saved our lives. If they had come closer instead of hiding behind a knoll three quarters of a mile away, I am certain we would all have been killed.

After a while we saw the upholstery was smoldering from a tracer bullet. I knew gas must be leaking everywhere. I could either stand up to start the engines and maybe get shot, or I could stay on the floor and maybe get us all burned alive. When I got up to go to the pilot’s compartment to throw some switches so we could get out of there, there was another burst of fire and I felt a blow in the right side. The bullet entered just below my ribs and it spun me around and threw me about six feet. I fell down backward. When Mrs. Shearer heard me grunt that I’d been hit, she raised her head to look at me. Just then a bullet hit her right arm, exactly where her head had been. She clawed a big chunk of metal out with her fingernails but there were two more pieces she couldn’t reach. I was dazed for a moment but she gave me a towel and then, somehow, lying on her back, she lifted the seat up so I could reach under and connect the batteries. Then I went forward to the cockpit to throw the switches."

The Saudi Arabian government never accepted responsibility for the ambush, for the Kendall’s injuries, or for the property lost.

More than 50 years on, the ambushed flying yacht (what is left of it) is still where the Kendalls were forced to abandon it.

Wasabi the J posted:

I worked hotel/casino security and unattended minor calls are depressingly frequent.

Nckdictator posted:

What happens when someone decides to convert WW2 surplus planes into flying yachts?

http://www.messynessychic.com/2014/04/24/all-aboard-the-flying-yacht-circa-1950/

Nckdictator posted:

What happens when someone decides to convert WW2 surplus planes into flying yachts?

http://www.messynessychic.com/2014/04/24/all-aboard-the-flying-yacht-circa-1950/

Mak0rz posted:

What a fascinating story. How the gently caress did they all (?) manage to get out of that alive

quote:

"I ordered everybody out through the pilot’s hatch and they made for the shore 100 yards away. The water was only five feet deep. There was oil and gasoline all around us. We had 900 gallons of fuel and it was pouring out of the perforated tanks and splashing off the wings like a heavy rain off a roof. I still don’t know why we didn’t go up in flames. David Lees helped me wade ashore. Stephen kept saying, ‘I love you, Mother’, and Mrs. Shearer kept saying, ‘I love you, Steve.’

When I reached the beach I lay down, lightheaded and really feeling the pain. Everyone was standing around barefooted, dripping wet, and smeared with oil and blood from the mirror cuts and our wounds. We were all in bathing suits except my wife and Susan and Mrs. Shearer, who had on shorts and blouses. Stephen and I had shirts. Paul was clutching the big American flag which he grabbed when we abandoned ship. He didn’t once let it out of his sight until we got back to civilization.

Bob went back to the plane to get some first-aid supplies. After a while the others heard him in the cockpit babbling and laughing and acting strangely. When Susan and David Lees went after him, they found him giddy and half-asphyxiated from the gasoline fumes. They couldn’t make him come out. At last my wife waded and swam back to the plane. ‘Bob,’ she called, ‘I need you. It’s your mother.’ That got him to stick his head out so David could grab him and haul him ashore.

We saw our attackers for the first time when three trucks carrying 60 to 80 men came bouncing over a hill a mile away. The men were screaming barbarically and firing wildly in our direction. We all stood up and put our hands in the air. Paul waved a white T-shirt and his flag. As they approached I decided to walk forward and meet them. David Lees tried to come with me, but I told him to stay back with the group and if I got shot to see that they take cover as best they could.

Those soldiers were the fiercest looking men I have ever seen. They were Bedouin tribesmen serving in the Saudi Arabian army. Many had long matted hair and their teeth were filed. Most wore a scarecrow combination of tribal dress and khaki uniform. They were all wild-eyed and highly excited, showing their guns. A man running toward me alongside the first truck was screaming and pulling the pin on a phosphorous grenade. Two other men jumped off the first truck and all three shoved their rifles into me while the rest continued on to where my family was waiting. I was in considerable pain and could barely hold my hands up, and I had nothing but bloody bathing trunks and a sports shirt, but they frisked me. Then they stepped back apace and all three pointed their rifles at my chest. I watched their fingers, which were literally twitching on the triggers. I said, ‘American, American.’ Finally, one of them repeated the word so I knew he understood. He was about 50, bald, with crossed bandoliers on his chest and a red, checkered Bedouin skirt tied over his pants. The youngest man, about 20, had a red and white sweat rag around his forehead and a bandolier around his waist. The one with the grenade wore a G.I. uniform and a steel helmet. He had the pin out of the grenade, so he had to hold down the grenade trigger with one hand and handle his rifle with the other. I just stood there wondering which one was going to go off first.

A wild desert ride

When the trucks got to the others, Paul showed our flag and someone gave them our American passports, but this had no effect. Later we learned that most Bedouin troops are illiterate and that even the general who had ordered the attack could neither read nor write.

In 5 minutes the soldiers had used their keffiyeh headdresses to blindfold all of us except the 3 youngest children. Then they shoved us into two of the trucks and started off across the desert. We were lying on the floor under some filthy camel blankets, bouncing over the rough, rocky desert.

I was in extreme pain and felt myself going into shock. One minute I was in a rosy, relaxed glow and the next moment, I started shaking with uncontrollable chills. Miriam and Kathy were lying next to me, trying to warm me. Under Bob’s direction, 11-year old Stephen tore his shirt and used half of it to make a pad for my wound. He tied the other half around his mother’s arm, which stopped the bleeding somewhat.

I didn’t want to frighten the children, so whenever I felt a bad time coming on I said to them in a normal voice, ‘Now I am going to put on a big act to see if I can scare these fellows into taking us to a hospital right away. So when I start making a lot of noise and moaning and shaking, don’t you worry about it.’ Then I’d relax and let myself go a bit, and that helped.

After two hours’ ride we stopped at their camp, and the soldiers took everybody but me out of the trucks. They apparently figured I wasn’t worth unloading because I was going to die anyway. Finally I slipped off my blindfold and got out of the truck myself. I fainted at least five times in the process, the last time as I jumped to the ground. It then took me five minutes just to get up on my feet. The Arabs just watched to see if I was going to make it.

I walked toward the only building in the cluster of tents. No one tried to stop me. Inside, I found my family and they helped me lie down. The children put some blankets over me. We were under guard in a bare 12-by-12-foot adobe room with a dirt floor. There was a single kerosene lamp, and a chest which our guard sat on.

Men kept milling in and out to look at us, and one of them brought us a handful of small tomatoes to eat. Much later, we were fed some sickly sweet tea and rice. One Arab gave Paul a huge white floppy robe, and he stood in the corner looking like a shmoo, still holding on to his American flag. Mrs. Shearer was the only one of us who smoked, and an old Arab kept offering her cigarettes, holding them so she had to stretch her hand way out to get them. He was watching the rings on her finger.

For a time we played word games to keep the children from thinking about what the rest of us were thinking about. It was cold and windy and after a while we all huddled together on the floor and tried to stay warm.

About 1 o’clock they got us up to load us back in the trucks. They tried to take the women first, one at a time. I got in the way and protested that we would all stay together. I didn’t have to put it into words—I just looked them straight in the eye and they got the idea.

I think by this time it had occurred to them that they might have pulled a colossal blooper. When they took us back to the trucks, we feared they would drive us out into the desert, shoot us and pretend we never existed. As we were climbing aboard the trucks a man pulled Mrs. Shearer’s wedding ring off her hand.

A mile from camp we stopped at a tent where we met a man who could speak a little English. He told us we were being taken to a hospital. Half an hour later the trucks suddenly turned back to camp and we were dumped back in our adobe room. The man who spoke English told us a wireless message had come through saying that in the morning the ‘Big King’ was coming to see us.

I was in great pain during the bitter cold night. My abdomen became so swollen that twice I almost stopped breathing. At daybreak they gave us some English canned pineapple and more tea and again spoke about the ‘Big King’ who was coming. The soldiers got all dolled up in clean uniforms. Peeking through the cracks in our boarded-up window we could see a welcoming party assembled, wearing long blue robes with gold braid.

About mid-morning I was lying on the floor with my head propped against the wall, still without bandages or first aid of any kind, when the guard brought us in a soft mattress and put it on the wooden trunk. It was not for me. The ‘Big King’ came in and sat down on it. He was Prince Khalid ibn Saud, one of King Saud’s sons. He wore flowing white robes. He was tall, courteous and very quiet. With him was a Saudi Arabian Air Force officer who interrogated us in English and translated for the prince.

It became clear at once that the ambush, the attack and the treatment we had suffered were all due to the Arab’s fanatic fear of Israel. They had somehow convinced themselves that all of us, including my wife and children were Israeli commandos in disguise. Their first question was: what had happened to the jet fighters that had escorted us onto the area? Next they asked us about the battleship that had sailed in behind us, and about the Israeli troops that were massing to support our invasion.

We said we had seen no other men, planes or ships and were simply a family of American tourists. They asked why we had returned their fire if we were not Israelis, and why we had thrown our guns overboard and why we had refused to surrender.

Despite our protestations they continued asking variations of the same outlandish questions. We found out later that the interpreter was not translating correctly. He was not giving Prince Khalid the real story because he did not want the Saudi army to be shown up as cowards and drat fools. I asked for a doctor and lifted my shirt so the air force officer who was interpreting could see my wound, but when they left I realized he had not told the prince anything about it. The prince was sitting on the other side and could not see for himself.

Prince Khalid and his retinue went off to inspect our airplane. After he left ,he had a soldier bring us a canteen of his private water. It was delicately scented with rosemary.

That afternoon, soldiers blindfolded us again, put us back in the trucks and hauled us two hours across the desert, right back to where the airplane was.

The prince had set up camp near the plane and we were taken to a tent of our own that looked like a stage prop from The Desert Song. It was striped in brilliant colors and it had padding and oriental carpets on the floor. During the afternoon, the soldiers brought up a few of our clothes which they had salvaged from the plane and spread them on the ground to dry.

We couldn’t believe our eyes when an American stuck his head in our tent and said, ‘Hi.’ He told us he was a Saudi Arabian Airlines pilot who had flown the prince down. This American pilot had been trying to get a chance to speak to us all day. He told us that the king was embarrassed and wanted to hush up the whole incident.

Soon the soldiers found the pilot talking to us and insisted he leave our tent. He gave us some vitamin C tablets which was all the help he could offer. Later we heard him arguing with the prince, trying to get permission to fly us out right away.

In the evening they turned on electric lights powered by a portable generator and fed us one great bowl of lamb and rice which we ate Bedouin style with our fingers. After nightfall there was a good deal of activity because during Ramadan the Moslems fast all day and then have a big feast after dark.

Our American friend had advised us to leave the lights burning in our tent, and all night long Bedouins came wandering in and out and peered at us through slits in the canvas. One of the officials who had visited us with the prince that morning said to me, ‘How come you got hurt? You weren’t hurt this morning.’

The prince slept most of Friday and we didn’t see him until the afternoon. In mid-morning a soldier brought us the first-aid kit from the airplane, but the bandages were soaked with sea water. The only thing usable was some weak antiseptic which we used to wipe off our wounds.

In mid-afternoon a plane arrived from Tabuk with an Egyptian doctor, and anaesthetist and complete field operating equipment. They had come prepared to do an abdominal operation in a Bedouin tent with sand blowing all over everything.

But after giving me a cursory examination the doctor said that since I was still alive, it was unlikely that I had a bullet in me. He painted my side with Merthiolate, slapped a bandage on, gave me a shot of penicillin and told me I was ready to travel.

With the American pilot’s assistance I hobbled down to the prince’s tent, with some reluctance, to thank him for his hospitality. I shook his hand with my left hand as I normally do, because my right hand was injured in an accident years ago. Afterward the pilot told me I had given the prince a terrible insult because Arabs use their left hand only for toilet purposes.

At 7:30 we landed at Jiddah. Two limousines pulled right up to the airport ramp and whisked us away to the Kandara Palace Hotel nearby. We were held in seclusion at the hotel for five more hours of interrogation. All during that time we were denied the opportunity to make any telephone calls. The major interrogating us threatened to hold us there incommunicado ‘until such time as you have given us all the information we want.’ I finally got so furious that I refused to say another word.

Things were at a stalemate when suddenly, about midnight, U.S. Ambassador Donald Heath, his wife and several members of the embassy staff walked into our room accompanied by a high official of the Saudi Arabian Foreign Ministry, Sayyis Omar Sakkaf. Ambassador Heath routed his excellency out of a big end-of-Ramadan ball in order to force his way in to see us.

In the ambassador’s presence we told the full story of what happened to us. Then Mrs. Shearer and I were taken to the hospital for x-rays. The doctor’s report on me was a masterpiece of evasion: ‘One opaque F.B. [Foreign Body] of metallic density is seen in the abdomen at the lower pole of the right kidney at the level of the upper margin of the third lumbar vertebrae. Its shape resembles a bullet.’

We remained in Jiddah at the hotel for three weeks, recuperating from our experience, giving details of our story to the American officials and presenting our claims to the Saudi government. While we were there we were told that the officer in charge of the troops which ambushed us had already been court-martialled and beheaded, and that the soldiers who had stolen jewelry, furs and other valuables from the plane would have their hands cut off.

I don’t know about all that. All I know is that when Ambassador Heath fired off a strong protest to the Saudi Arabian government he got back a fast answer: the government refused to accept any responsibility for the ambush, for our injuries, or for the property we lost. As far as Saudi Arabia was concerned, the incident was at an end."

Phyzzle posted:

Also, I remember people were unnerved by how the parents acted afterwards. A bit too much smiling and waving at the cameras? I think the same effect happened with Amanda Knox, whose behavior didn't seem quite right to the Italian cops after she was informed her roommate was murdered. Probably because she was rolling on Ecstasy. In that case, they more or less convicted her on a hunch.

Nckdictator posted:

Pharnakes posted:

Great ad for the whole thing really, it was stuffed full of fuel, riddled with bullets then left to rot on beach for 60 years. And it's all still there pretty much. Wonder how long an F35 would survive those conditions?

Son of Thunderbeast posted:

Never mind the F-35, the Navy's Littoral Combat Ship would have probably disintegrated within a decade or two

Wasabi the J posted:

It was littorally disintegrating at the docks where it was built.

quote:

In 1798, soon after landing in Egypt, Napoleon Bonaparte issued a remarkable document in Arabic in which he informed the Egyptians that he hard arrived to "restore your rights from the hand of the [Muslim ruling] oppressors" and called on them to remain neutral in the contest ahead, threatening them with dire punishment should they disobey his orders.1

In an unlikely and obscure echo of Napoleon's famed appeal, President Franklin Roosevelt in October 1942 issued a similar proclamation in the Arabic language, this one ostensibly addressed to the entire Muslim world, but to North Africans in particular.2 October 1942 was the moment when British forces stopped Hitler's Afrika Korps at El Alamein; for the first time in two years, the Allies felt confident that they would keep the Germans out of the Middle East, and they sought to take advantage of this change in fortune to win Muslim favor. Roosevelt's appeal was part of this effort.

" Praise be unto the only God. In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful. O ye Moslems. O ye beloved sons of the Maghreb. May the blessing of God be upon you.

This is a great day for you and us, for all the sons of Adam who love freedom. Our numbers are as the leaves on the forest tress and as the grains of sand in the sea.

Behold. We the American Holy Warriors have arrived. We have come here to fight the great Jihad of Freedom.

We have come to set you free. We have sailed across the great sea in many ships, on many beaches we are landing, and our fighters swarm across the sands and into the city streets, and into the wide country sides, and along the highways.

Light fires on the hilltops; shout from your housetops, and from the high places, and say the sound of the drum be heard in the land, and the ululation of the women, and the voices even of small children.

Assemble along the highways to welcome your brothers.

We have come to set you free.

Speak with our fighting men and you will find them pleasing to the eye and gladdening to the heart. We are not as some other Christians whom ye have known, and who trample you under foot. Our soldiers consider you as their brothers, for we have been reared in the way of free men. Our soldiers have been told about your country and about their Moslem brothers and they will treat you with respect and with a friendly spirit in the eyes of God.

Look in their eyes and smiling faces, for they are Holy Warriors happy in their holy work. Greet us therefore as brothers as we will greet you, and help us.

If we are thirsty, show us the way to water. If we lose our way, lead us back to our camping places. Show us the paths over the mountains if need be, and if you see our enemies, the Germans or Italians, making trouble for us, kill them with knives or with stones or with any other weapon that you may have set your hands upon.

Help us as we have come to help you, and rich will be the reward unto us all who love justice and righteousness and freedom.

Pray for our success in battle, and help us, and God will help us both.

Lo, the day of freedom hath come.

May God grant his blessing upon you and upon us.

- Roosevelt"

If the text of the appeal sounds more like the Qur'an than FDR's fireside chats ("Our numbers are as the leaves on the forest trees," "say the sound of the drum be heard in the land"), this is no accident. The text was written at the president's request by two Americans in Morocco attached to the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), Gordon H. Brown and Carleton Coon (the famed anthropologist), then it underwent an unexpected permutation. After Brown and Coon had written the order in English, they gave it to one of their spies, an Arab code-named Pinkeye, and he began to read it aloud in the manner of a holy man reading the Koran. Struck by the lyricism that crept into the text as he declaimed it, the agents decided to use not their own text, but a revision based on Pinkeye's rendition.