The final toast

Rico says his friend Kelley forwards this:

It's the cup of brandy no one wants to drink. On 11 June 2013, in Fort Walton Beach,
Florida, the surviving Doolittle Raiders gathered publicly for the last time. They once were among the most universally admired and revered men in the United States. There were eighty of the Raiders in April of 1942, when they carried out one of the most courageous and heart-stirring military operations in this nation's history. The mere mention of their unit's name, in those years, would bring tears to the eyes of grateful Americans.
Now only four survive.
After Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, with the United States reeling and wounded, something dramatic was needed to turn the war effort around. Even though there were no friendly airfields close enough to Japan for the United States to launch retaliation, a daring plan was devised: sixteen B-25s were modified so that they could take off from the deck of an aircraft carrier. It had never been tried: sending big, heavy bombers from a carrier.
The sixteen five-man crews, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle, who himself flew the lead plane off the USS Hornet, knew that they would not be able to return to the carrier. They would have to hit Japan, and then hope to make it to China for a safe landing.
But, on the day of the raid, the Japanese Navy caught sight of the carrier. The Raiders were told that they would have to take off from much farther out in the Pacific than they had counted on. They were told that, because of this, they would not have enough fuel to make it to safety.
And they went anyway.
They bombed Tokyo, and then flew as far as they could. Four planes crash-landed; eleven more crews bailed out, and three of the Raiders died. Eight more were captured; three were executed. Another died of starvation in a Japanese prison camp. One crew
made it to Russia.
The Doolittle Raid sent a message from the United States to its enemies, and to the rest of the world: We will fight.  And, no matter what it takes, we will win.
Of the eighty Raiders, sixty-two survived the war. They were celebrated as national heroes, models of bravery. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer produced a motion picture based on the raid, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, starring Spencer Tracy and Van Johnson. It was a
patriotic and emotional box-office hit, and the phrase became part of the national lexicon. In the movie-theater previews for the film, MGM proclaimed that it was presenting the story "with supreme pride".
Beginning in 1946, the surviving Raiders held a reunion each April, to commemorate the mission. The reunion was in a different city each year. In 1959, the city of Tucson, Arizona, as a gesture of respect and gratitude, presented the Doolittle Raiders
with a set of eighty silver goblets, each goblet engraved with the name
of a Raider.
Every year, a wooden display case bearing all eighty goblets is transported to the reunion city. Each time a Raider passes away, his goblet is turned upside down in the case at the next reunion, as his old friends bear solemn witness.
Also in the wooden case is a bottle of 1896 Hennessy Very Special cognac. The year is not happenstance: 1896 was when Jimmy Doolittle was born.
There has always been a plan: when there are only two surviving Raiders, they would open the bottle, drink from it, and toast their comrades who preceded them in death.
As 2013 began, there were five living Raiders; then, in February, Tom Griffin passed away at age 96. What a man he was. After bailing out of his plane over a mountainous Chinese
forest after the Tokyo raid, he became ill with malaria, and almost died. When he recovered, he was sent to Europe to fly more combat missions. He was shot down, captured, and spent 22 months in a German prisoner of war camp.
The selflessness of these men... There was a passage in the Cincinnati Enquirer obituary for Griffin that, on the surface, had nothing to do with the war, but that captures the
depth of his sense of duty and devotion:

"When his wife became ill and needed to go into a nursing home, he visited her every day. He walked from his house to the nursing home, fed his wife and, at the end of the day,
brought home her clothes. At night, he washed and ironed her clothes. Then he walked them up to her room the next morning. He did that for three years, until her death in 2005."

So now, out of the original eighty, only four Raiders remain: Dick Cole (Doolittle's co-pilot on the Tokyo raid), Robert Hite, Edward Saylor, and David Thatcher. All are in their nineties.
They have decided that there are too few of them for the public reunions
to continue. The events in Fort Walton Beach will mark the end. It has come full circle; Florida's nearby Eglin Field was where the Raiders trained in secrecy for the Tokyo mission. The town is planning to do all it can to honor the men: a six-day celebration of their valor, including luncheons, a dinner, and a parade.
Do the men ever wonder if those of us for whom they helped save the country have tended to it in a way that is worthy of their sacrifice? They don't talk about that, at least not around other people. But if you find yourself near Fort Walton Beach this week, and if you should encounter any of the Raiders, you might want to offer them a word of thanks. I can tell you from firsthand observation that they appreciate hearing that they are remembered.
The men have decided that after this final public reunion they will wait until a later date—sometime this year— to get together once more, informally and in absolute privacy.
That is when they will open the bottle of brandy.
The years are flowing by too swiftly now; they are not going to wait until there are only two of them. They will fill the four remaining upturned goblets and raise them in a toast to those who are gone.
We need to remember who America is and be proud! We are exceptional!

Rico says, on behalf of a grateful nation (and several ungrateful generations in between), thank you.