It’s been said, and I don’t know if it’s true, that when China executes someone — by firing squad — they then present a bill to the family for the expended ammunition.

Perhaps, with the introduction of their state-of-the-art execution technology, they will now present a bill to the family for the gasoline.

I like World War II movies. Based on real events or fictional, comedy or drama. A quick scan of my DVDs shows the following titles: HBO’s Band of Brothers; Ike: Countdown to D-Day; The Gathering Storm; Hart’s War; Das Boot; Casablanca; Jakob the Liar; Operation Petticoat; Saving Private Ryan; The Thin Red Line; Tora! Tora! Tora!

When the movies are based on real people in portrayals of events that really happened, I have a high expectation that the events will be depicted as honestly and as close to what actually happened as possible. In movies where fictional characters interact on a fictional mission, around real events, the expectations lower.

Tonight I sat down with high hopes to watch “The Great Raid”, a recent WWII movie about the liberation by Army Rangers and Filipino guerillas of American POWs, the survivors of the Bataan Death March.

Unmitigated steaming poop. And I’m being generous here. Forty minutes in, life is too fucking short. If they’d kept it truer to the events, it’d be better. If they got rid of the narration, it’d be better. If they’d burned the negatives, it’d be faaaar better.

The movie is based, in part, on “Ghost Soldiers” by Hampton Sides. My parents gave this to me a few years ago for my birthday. It’s a compelling story — following McArthur’s return to the Philipines, the Japanese begin withdrawing their prisoners to the home islands, to be used as slave labour. Those too sick to move are left in nearly empty prison camps, and the Japanese begin to make preparations to eliminate them, for fear that otherwise they might be returned to active duty and participate in the feared invasion of Japan. One hundred and thirty Army Rangers move ahead of the advancing US 6th Army, and, teaming with Filipino Guerillas, mount a rescue operation on the POW camp at Cabanatuan, still holding 500 American and British prisoners.

The front flap of the book portrays it as the story of “World War II’s Most Dramatic Mission.”

Er. Huh?

It’s certainly a dramatic story, but I don’t see how anyone can buy the claim of the war’s “most” dramatic. In fact, the operation goes off without a hitch — the Rangers’ surprise attack on the prison camp wipes out the Japanese guards with only a few Rangers dead. Meanwhile, the Filipino guerillas, spread out to cut-off Japanese reinforcements, find it ridiculously easy to do so — Jap infantry charge across a bridge, screaming “BONZAI!” into the carefully placed fire of the guerillas. On their retreat, the Rangers bump into the advancing 6th Army much sooner than expected. The camp survivors are returned to the United States.

Most dramatic? Writing that paragraph, I’m wondering if it’s dramatic at all. For the record, though, for such a bold claim, the fate of the war needs to rest on it or something. Not to be overly cruel, but what would have happened if those 500 prisoners and their Ranger and Filipino rescuers had all been killed? Machine gunned down?

Well, the US Army would’ve continued across the Philipine islands, the Navy would’ve continued across the oceans, the Marines would’ve continued to storm beaches, the Allies would continue to tighten their noose, and two Japanese cities would’ve been nuked in August of 1945, leading to a surrender signed on the deck of the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.

When you consider this, it’s hard to see how this could possibly be considered “the most dramatic mission” of the war.

I know what I think the most dramatic mission of the war was.

France had fallen. The United States was not yet in the war. Great Britain fought on, but her survival depended on the convoys sailing across the submarine infested waters of the North Atlantic. German planners believed that if 750,000 tons of shipping could be sunk in a single month, Britain would be forced to capitulate (in April ‘40, 700,000 tons was sunk). While the Royal Navy was doing a commendable job protecting their merchantmen from the U-Boats and surface raiders, a new threat had emerged: the battleship Bismarck, the biggest, baddest motherfucker ever to mount 15″ guns. Engaging two Royal Battlecruisers in the North Atlantic, HMS Hood was shredded, and Prince of Wales forced to retreat under smoke, heavily damaged. The Bismarck was more than a match for the destroyers acting as convoy escorts — it would literally be a turkey shoot. The convoys would be sunk. Britain would starve. And then Britiain would be forced to surrender.

The Admiralty sent out its orders: “Find Bismarck. Sink Bismarck.”

That’s a fucking dramatic mission! Nay. That’s the single most dramatic fucking mission of the War. Sink the Bismarck, or Nazi Germany rules the fucking world.

“I don’t yet know how to get out of here, but when I do…”

I’m quite certain, that were I to shave my head, my weight-loss goals would benefit.

And for those curious, on Tuesday I was holding steady at 222.5.

Late night snacks! Bad!