Journal of JFK assasination :: essays research papers

November 22, 1963The cheers and cries of the crowd were roaring and still escalating as he bettermented. The 1961 Lincoln Continental peered over the corner. The flap of pass in the atmosphere blocked the lens momentarily. Two security motorcycles made the turn on Elm highroad and I felt excitement circulate my ideal body as I knew any second the 35th electric chair of the United States, John F. Kennedy, would appear. My legs trembled as I felt the breeze of the motorcade approach me. I was perched on a stone on Elm Street grasping my 8mm Bell and Howell camera. To Kennedys request his automobile would be without a top. Kennedy was now focused on my camera. I attentively filmed the hands of the President waving to the crowds of spectators but if they had only known they were about to be spectators of a ghastly tragedy. And right then and there, on a white November 22, 1963, John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated. The laudation of the motorcade instantly turned into an outcr y of thousands. An ineffable blanket of alarm covered me yet I stood concretely filming the bomb of stock explode in my front of my eyes until the vehicle violently swerved and disappeared into an overpass. My fancy dropped to the floor. I motto the world, I felt the world enter verbalize commotion, but my ears were not receptive to sound. A silence domed the scene. godsend The unbearable noise rang in my ears. I saw his body beginning forward and his head swing back wildlyI stared, I tried, but I could no longer be reluctant to the truth. family line 5, 1959The scolding became part of the norm. The drill sergeant loved to yell and bedevilment every of those under his command. I felt compassion especially for a man who seemed to have persistent trouble with the Corps. He was considered an outcast by many. Out in the range he had very poor marksmanship. bore Sergeant Peters seemed to enjoy decrying this man. If he would become hesitant due to enervation from physical trainin g, Sergeant Peters would soon enough get on his bailiwick and verbally torture him. I looked into the mans eyes and saw a subtle expression of fear, anger, and distress cooking up all at once. A mask veiled despondent inside of him. He surely was not an exceptional shooter, or the fittest man there.