At 10:30 a.m. on April 7th, 1943, First Lieutenant James Sweat saw 150 Japanese aircraft approaching Guadal Canal. He was 22 years old with 197 flight hours in the F4F Wildcat. This was his first combat mission. The formation included 67 Val dive bombers escorted by 110 fighters, the largest Japanese air raid since the Battle of Midway 9 months earlier.

Marine Fighter Squadron VMF221 had arrived at Guadal Canal just 63 days before. Sweat had flown only routine patrols since February. No enemy contact, no action. On April 7th, he’d already completed two uneventful morning patrols. When the scramble order came at 10:20 a.m., he expected another false alarm.

Intelligence reported increased Japanese radio traffic, but false alarms happened daily. The pattern was predictable. Radio chatter increased. Radar picked up phantom contacts. Fighters scrambled. Found nothing. But this time was different. His division commander was Captain Joseph Foss, already an ace with 26 confirmed kills. Foss led four Wildcats off Henderson Field into a climbing turn northwest.

They had 15 minutes before the bombers reached the Allied fleet anchored off Tulagi. At 8,000 ft, sweat saw them. The sky filled with aircraft. He counted 15 Val bombers in tight formation. More formations stretched behind them toward the horizon. Zero escorts flew high cover 3,000 ft above the bombers. The odds were staggering.

37 Japanese aircraft for every American fighter in the air. Four Wildcats against 150 enemy planes. The Grumman F4F4 Wildcat couldn’t match the Zero’s performance. Maximum speed was 318 mph at 19,000 ft. The Zero reached 350 mph and outclimbed the Wildcat by 1500 ft per minute. But the Wildcat was built like a tank. It could absorb tremendous punishment and keep flying.

Its 650 caliber Browning machine guns delivered devastating firepower at close range. Each gun carried 240 rounds, 1440 rounds total, enough for 24 seconds of continuous fire if he held the trigger down. Sweat checked his instruments. Oil pressure normal, fuel sufficient for 1 hour. He flipped the gunsite power switch. The illuminated Pipper appeared in the reflector glass, centered perfectly.

He moved the master armament switch to the armed position. The gun charging handles were already pulled back. Six chambers loaded and ready. He’d never fired these guns in combat. Never seen an enemy aircraft except in photographs during training. Foss positioned the division for a head-on attack against the lead bomber formation.

The valves were already rolling into their dives toward the transport ships anchored in Tulagi Harbor. Sweat followed Foss down through 8,000 ft. At 400 yd, FS opened fire. His tracers arked toward the lead val. The bomber’s engine exploded in a ball of orange flame. It nosed over sharply and plunged into the water below. Sweat selected the second val in the formation. Range 350 yd, closing fast.

He centered the pipper on the cockpit and squeezed the trigger. The Wildcat shuddered violently as all six guns fired simultaneously. Spent brass casings ejected from the wing ports. The val’s canopy shattered. The bomber rolled inverted and dropped away, trailing smoke, his first kill. Would this rookie pilot survive what happened next? Please hit the like button.

It helps these stories reach more people. And subscribe. Back to Sweat’s cockpit. He shifted aim to another Val and fired again. A 3se secondond burst. The bomber’s left wing separated cleanly at the route. Two kills in 40 seconds. He pulled hard right to avoid a zero diving from above. The enemy fighter flashed past, missing him by less than 10 ft.

Sweat rolled right into a tight climbing turn. His division had scattered in the chaos of the initial attack. He was alone now. Below him, the remaining valves continued their bombing runs toward the ships. Sweat pushed the stick forward and dove after them. His airspeed climbed rapidly past 400 mph. The Wildcat’s control surfaces stiffened with the increased air flow. He aimed at the nearest val and fired a short burst.

The bomber exploded. Three kills in less than 6 minutes. Sweat pulled out of the dive at 2,000 ft and scanned the sky for more targets. His heart pounded, but his hands remained steady on the stick. The training had worked. Hundreds of hours in the cockpit had prepared him for this moment. Above him, another group of 15 valves was forming up for their bombing run.

They flew in three tight V formations of five aircraft each. They hadn’t spotted him yet. Their attention was focused on the ships below. The lead group rolled into their dive toward the destroyer USS Aaron Ward. Sweat climbed back to 6,000 ft and positioned himself above and behind the trailing Val in the first group.

He dove from directly above. The sun was behind him, the attacking pilot’s advantage. At 200 yd, he opened fire. a 4-se secondond burst, 296 rounds. The Val’s tail section disintegrated under the concentration of 50 caliber rounds. The bomber entered an uncontrolled spin and crashed into the ocean, trailing smoke and debris. Four kills.

His ammunition counter showed he’d expended roughly 600 rounds, half his total load. 840 rounds remaining, enough for 14 more seconds of firing. He immediately swung left toward the second group of valves. His excess speed from the dive carried him through their formation. He selected the nearest target and centered the Pipper. He fired. The val exploded in midair. A direct hit on the bomb it was carrying.

The detonation was massive. Pieces of the aircraft scattered across the sky. Five kills in 9 minutes. The remaining valves in that group broke formation immediately. Some jettisoned their bombs early to gain speed and turned north toward Rabul. Others pressed their attacks despite Sweat’s presence.

Individual courage or orders? Sweat couldn’t know which. He stayed on them. His sixth kill came 30 seconds later. A Val attempting to escape at low altitude toward the Florida Islands. Sweat dove after it and fired from directly behind at 150 yards, the optimal firing position. His tracers walked up the fuselage into the fuel tank. The bomber erupted in orange flame and cartw wheeled into the water. Six kills.

His ammunition was running low now. Maybe 400 rounds left. 6 or 7 seconds of firing time maximum. Sweat pulled up hard and searched for more targets. His wingmen were nowhere in sight. The radio was chaos, overlapping transmissions from multiple pilots calling out positions and threats simultaneously.

Below him, anti-aircraft fire from the Allied ships created a deadly umbrella of exploding shells. 5-in guns fired proximity fused rounds that detonated near their targets. 40 mm bofers quad mounts tracked bombers across the sky. 20 mm Erlicans added streams of tracers. Black bursts of flack filled the air around him. Then he spotted another valve beginning its dive toward the cargo ships anchored near Gavutu.

sweat rolled inverted and pulled through into a split S maneuver. The negative G force was brutal as he pulled through the maneuver. His vision grayed at the edges. Blood rushed to his head. His helmet pressed against the canopy. He tracked the valve through his gun site as both aircraft plummeted toward Tulagi Harbor. The altimeter unwound rapidly.

5,000 ft. 4,000 3,000. The Val’s rear gunner opened fire. Sweat saw the muzzle flashes. Tracer streaked past his canopy. At 1,00 f feet, sweat fired, a two-c burst, maybe 130 rounds. The Val’s engine caught fire immediately. Black smoke poured from the cowling.

The bomber crashed into the harbor near Gavutu Island, creating a massive splash. Seven kills in 12 minutes. Sweat pulled out of his dive at 300 ft above the water. His altimeter barely registered. The needle hovered just above zero. The transport ships were directly below him now. He was inside their defensive fire zone, the most dangerous airspace in the entire battle area. Every gun on every ship was firing at maximum rate.

The gunners couldn’t distinguish American fighters from Japanese bombers at this altitude and speed. He was just another target. Above him, he spotted one more Val beginning its attack dive, his eighth potential kill. He had ammunition remaining, maybe 250 rounds, 3 or 4 seconds of firing time. He climbed after the bomber, but something felt wrong. The Wildcat wasn’t responding correctly.

The controls felt sluggish. He checked his instruments. Everything showed normal. Then something slammed into his left wing. The impact was violent and immediate. The aircraft lurched hard left. Sweat fought the controls with both hands, applying full right aileron and rudder. He looked out at his wing.

A massive hole gaped in the structure, easily two feet across. Metal skin peeled back around the edges. A 40mm bow for shell from one of the Allied ships had punched straight through. Friendly fire. The ships he was protecting had just hit him. Fuel streamed from the ruptured tank, leaving a white vapor trail behind him.

The Wildcat still flew, but barely. The damaged wing created tremendous drag. His airspeed bled off rapidly. He couldn’t maintain altitude. The val he’d been chasing pulled away easily. Sweat fired anyway. A long, desperate burst that emptied most of his remaining ammunition. His tracers fell short by 50 yards. The Val escaped into the clouds to the north. His guns clicked empty. No ammunition left.

He’d fired all 1440 rounds in less than 15 minutes. Then his instrument panel lit up with warning lights. Oil pressure dropping, coolant temperature rising into the red zone. He looked down at his engine cowling. The paint was blistering. Something else was wrong. He hadn’t noticed it during the fight, but the enemy rear gunner must have scored hits during that last attack. His oil cooler was damaged.

Black smoke began pouring from the engine compartment. Not the white smoke of vaporizing coolant. Thick black smoke from burning oil. The engine temperature gauge climbed past maximum operating range. 210° C 220 230. At 240° the engine seized. The propeller stopped rotating instantly.

The sudden silence was shocking after 15 minutes of combat noise. No engine roar, no wind howl, just the whistle of air over the damaged wing. Sweat was 3 m from Henderson Field with a dead engine, a damaged wing, and fuel streaming from his tank. The Wildcat began losing altitude immediately, 500 ft per minute, then 700.

The aircraft was too heavy to glide effectively with the asymmetric drag from the damaged wing. Sweat had two options. try to reach Henderson Field 3 mi away or ditch in the water. At his current rate of descent, he’d cover maybe one mile before hitting the ocean. Henderson Field was impossible. He scanned the water below for a suitable landing area. The harbor was filled with ships and debris from the battle. Too dangerous.

He needed open water. He spotted a clear area north of Gavutu Island, relatively calm, away from the ship traffic. He turned toward it, using his remaining altitude to position for the water landing. The Wildcat descended through 1,000 ft. 800 600. Sweat ran through the ditching checklist from memory. Canopy open already done.

Seat and shoulder harness tight. Check. Radio. He transmitted his position one final time. No response. The radio was probably damaged. He loosened his oxygen mask but kept it attached. At 400 ft, he realized he’d made a critical error. He’d forgotten to jettison his canopy. The open canopy would catch water during the ditching and flip the aircraft inverted.

He reached up and released the canopy locks. The plexiglass canopy tore away in the slipstream and tumbled behind him. At 200 ft, he prepared for impact. The water approached rapidly. He held the nose slightly high to keep the tail down. The tail struck first, exactly as trained. The impact was tremendous despite his preparation.

The deceleration threw him forward against his shoulder harness. His face smashed into the instrument panel. His nose broke instantly. Blood poured down his face, filling his oxygen mask. The wildat bounced once on the water, then settled. Water rushed into the cockpit immediately. The aircraft was sinking fast. Sweat released his shoulder harness and tried to stand. He couldn’t move. Something held him down.

His parachute. The shroud lines had deployed somehow during the ditching. The lines wrapped around his legs and the control stick. He was tangled. The water rose past his knees, past his waist, past his chest. He pulled desperately at the lines, but they only tightened.

The Wildcat’s nose tilted forward as water filled the engine compartment. The aircraft was going under. The water reached his neck. He took one final deep breath as the water covered his head. Underwater, everything was dark and chaotic. The parachute canopy had partially deployed and wrapped around him like a shroud. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

His lungs began to burn. He fumbled for his survival knife. Standard issue on his belt. His fingers found the handle. He pulled it free and began cutting the shroud lines. One line. Two lines. Three. The lines were thick nylon. The knife was sharp, but cutting underwater was difficult. His lungs screamed for air. Four lines. Five.

He was running out of time. His vision began to narrow. The edges went dark. Six lines. Seven. Suddenly, he was free. He kicked hard toward the surface. His May West life fest was still deflated. He hadn’t had time to inflate it before going under. He kicked again. The surface seemed impossibly far away. His boots were full of water, dragging him down.

His flight suit was soaked in heavy. He kicked one more time. His head broke the surface. He gasped for air. Blood and sea water filled his mouth. He coughed violently, treading water with his arms. His nose throbbed with pain. He could barely breathe through it. He reached for the CO2 inflation toggles on his May West. Nothing happened.

He pulled again. Still nothing. The inflation mechanism had failed. He was treading water in his full flight gear with no flotation device. The nearest land was Gavu Island, maybe half a mile away. Sweat’s flight boots were designed for walking on carrier decks, not swimming. Each boot held gallons of water. His leather jacket was soaked and heavy. His flight suit clung to his body like a lead weight.

He tried to remove the boots but couldn’t reach the laces while treading water. Every few seconds, a wave washed over his head. He swallowed sea water and coughed. His broken nose made breathing difficult. He could only breathe through his mouth. Blood continued streaming from his nostrils, mixing with the salt water.

Then he remembered his one-man life raft. Standard equipment attached to his parachute harness. He reached behind his back and found the raft pack still secured to the harness. He pulled the inflation lanyard. Nothing happened. He pulled again harder. Still nothing. The CO2 cartridge had either been damaged during the ditching or had corroded from months in the tropical humidity.

The raft was useless. He was alone in the water with no flotation and no raft. His arms were already tiring from treading water. His legs felt like concrete. He looked around for rescue. The battle was still raging overhead. Wildcats chased the remaining vals north toward Rabul. Anti-aircraft fire continued from the ships. Nobody was looking for downed pilots yet.

The priority was stopping the remaining bombers. He was on his own. Gavutu Island was his only option. Half a mile of open ocean. He began swimming using a modified side stroke to conserve energy. Every third stroke he had to stop and tread water to catch his breath. His broken nose made each breath painful and inadequate.

After 5 minutes of swimming, he’d covered maybe 100 yards, a quarter of the distance. His arms burned with fatigue, his legs cramped. The leather jacket was drowning him. He stopped swimming and struggled out of the jacket. It sank immediately. His flight suit was next. He couldn’t remove it completely, but he managed to strip it down to his waist. That helped slightly. He resumed swimming.

Another h 100red yard. He stopped to rest. His breathing was ragged and desperate. Blood from his nose continued flowing, attracting attention he didn’t want. The first shark appeared from below, a dark shape rising through the blue water. Sweat saw it clearly, maybe 8 ft long. A reef shark, probably.

It circled once at 15 ft depth and then descended back into the darkness. Sweat forced himself to remain calm. Panic would only attract more sharks. He resumed swimming with slow, steady strokes. No splashing, no erratic movements, just smooth, controlled motion toward the island. The shark returned 2 minutes later with two others.

They circled beneath him, their movements lazy and curious, not attacking, not yet, just investigating. Sweat was 200 yd from Gavutu when exhaustion overwhelmed him. His arms wouldn’t respond anymore. His legs had stopped kicking. He was simply floating, held barely above water by the air trapped in what remained of his flight suit. The shark circled closer now, 10 ft below instead of 15. He tried to kick them away, but had no strength left.

His vision began to narrow again. The edges went dark. He was going to drown within sight of land, or the sharks would finish him first. Then he heard an engine, a boat engine. He tried to turn his head toward the sound but couldn’t. His neck muscles had given up. A voice shouted something. American.

He tried to respond but only managed a weak cough. Strong hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him from the water. Coast Guard. A rescue boat from one of the patrol stations. They had been watching for downed pilots. They dragged him over the gunnel and laid him flat on the deck.

Sweat lay there gasping like a landed fish. Blood and seaater poured from his nose and mouth. One of the Coast Guardsmen examined him quickly. The Coast Guardsman’s assessment was quick and professional. Broken nose, multiple contusions, possible concussion. Severe exhaustion and near drowning, but alive. Sweat tried to sit up, but the guardsman pushed him back down. Stay still. The boat turned toward Tulagi and opened the throttle.

The ride took 8 minutes. They pulled alongside a dock where a Navy medical corman waited with a stretcher. Sweat refused the stretcher. He stood on his own, though his legs barely supported him. The corman led him to a medical tent. Inside the tent, the corman cleaned the blood from Sweat’s face and examined his nose.

Definitely broken. Probably happened when his face hit the instrument panel during the ditching. The corman packed Sweat’s nostrils with gauze and wrapped his head with bandages. Sweat looked like a mummy. The corman offered morphine for the pain. Sweat refused. He wanted to stay alert. The battle might not be over. The corman shrugged and moved on to other casualties.

The tent was filling with wounded sailors from the ships hit during the raid. Sweat walked outside and found a jeep heading back to Henderson Field. The driver was a Marine supply sergeant who’d watched the battle from the ground. The sergeant asked Sweat if he’d seen the pilot who shot down all those vals. Sweat said nothing.

The jeep ride took 20 minutes over rough coral roads. They arrived at Henderson Field at 11:45 a.m. 75 minutes after Sweat had taken off. It felt like 75 hours. Captain Foss was waiting on the flight line. His wildcat sat on the hard stand with its guns empty and engine still ticking as it cooled. Foss had landed 10 minutes earlier. He saw Sweat climb out of the jeep and walked over immediately.

Foss looked at Sweat’s bandaged head and asked if he was okay. Sweat nodded. Foss asked how many valves Sweat had shot down. Sweat said seven, maybe eight. He wasn’t certain about the last one. Foss stared at him for several seconds without speaking. Then Foss called over the squadron intelligence officer. The intelligence officer was a first lieutenant named Morrison.

He carried a clipboard and a detailed map of Tulogi Harbor. Morrison interviewed Sweat for 30 minutes asking for specific details about each kill. Time, location, aircraft type, attack angle, observed results. Sweat described each engagement as accurately as possible. Morrison marked each location on his map. The geography matched witness reports from the ships and from other pilots.

Morrison counted the marks on his map. Seven confirmed kills, all within 15 minutes. All on Sweat’s first combat mission. Morrison looked up from his clipboard and asked Sweat his age. “2,” Sweat replied. Morrison wrote that down. He asked how many combat missions Sweat had flown before today.

“Zero,” Sweat said. This was his first. Morrison stopped writing and looked at Sweat again. “First mission,” Sweat confirmed. “First combat mission.” Morrison shook his head slowly. He’d been an intelligence officer for VMF221 since its formation. He’d debriefed hundreds of combat missions. He’d never heard of anyone becoming an ace on their first mission.

Never heard of Seven Kills in 15 minutes. Never heard of anything like this. The news spread through Henderson Field within an hour. Seven kills. First mission. Shot down by friendly fire. Ditched in sharkinfested water. Nearly drowned. Rescued at the last moment. Other pilots came to see Sweat. Some congratulated him.

Others just wanted to verify the story was real. By evening, every pilot on Guadal Canal knew the name James Sweat. Within a week, every naval aviator in the Pacific would know it, too. But the recognition was just beginning. Admiral William Hollyy heard the report 3 days later. Admiral William Hollyy commanded all allied forces in the South Pacific. He’d seen thousands of combat reports.

Pilot claims were often inflated. Adrenaline and confusion made accurate counting difficult. But Sweat’s seven kills were confirmed by multiple sources. Ship observers with binoculars, other pilots. Gun camera footage would have been ideal, but the F4F4 didn’t carry cameras. The physical evidence was undeniable. Seven Japanese Val bombers crashed within visual range of the fleet, all within the 15-minute window of Sweat’s engagement, all matching his described attack patterns and locations. Hollyy recognized exceptional performance when he saw it. On April 10th, just 3 days

after the battle, he personally recommended sweat for the Medal of Honor. The citation would note seven confirmed kills in a single mission, shot down by friendly fire while defending the fleet, successfully ditched and survived. The recommendation went up the chain of command through Sinkpack to the Secretary of the Navy. The Medal of Honor required presidential approval.

President Roosevelt signed the authorization on September 24th, 1943. Sweat received the medal from Holly on October 10th at a ceremony on a Spiritu Santo. The medal ceremony attracted attention from war correspondents. Sweat’s story embodied everything the American public wanted to hear in 1943. Young Marine pilot, first combat mission, seven enemy aircraft destroyed, survived impossible odds.

The story appeared in newspapers across the United States. Life magazine ran a feature article with photographs. Sweat became a symbol of American fighting spirit. Other naval aviators began using his name as a benchmark. To do a Jimmy sweat meant to achieve a status in a single mission. It became the ultimate goal for every fighter pilot in training. But Sweat didn’t stop flying combat missions.

He returned to VMF221 and continued flying from Henderson Field and later from other bases as the war moved north. By August 1943, he’d accumulated 15 and a half confirmed kills. The halfkill came from sharing credit with another pilot on a bomber they both attacked. He was shot down two more times.

Once over Lavella in the Solomon Islands, the second time over Rabba. Both times he survived. The second shootown resulted in a three-day ordeal in the jungle before friendly natives found him and paddled him back to Allied lines in a dugout canoe. Sweat rotated back to the United States in late 1943 for instructor duty.

He trained new fighter pilots at Naval Air Station Jacksonville in Florida. He taught them everything he learned. Attack from above and behind when possible. Short bursts conserve ammunition. Never follow a damaged enemy all the way to the water. You become vulnerable. Watch for friendly fire when operating near ships. Always know your fuel state and the location of the nearest friendly airfield. Most importantly, stay calm.

Panic kills more pilots than enemy fire. After the war ended in August 1945, Sweat remained in the Marine Corps Reserve. He flew F4U Corsairs during the Korean War, though he saw no combat. He retired from the Marine Corps Reserve as a colonel in 1970. By then, he’d logged over 5,000 flight hours in military aircraft.

He settled in Northern California and rarely spoke about his Medal of Honor or his April 7th mission. When asked about that day, he typically said he’d been lucky. Right place, right time, good training, nothing more. James Sweat died on January 15th, 2009 at age 88. He was buried with full military honors at Quantico National Cemetery in Virginia.

His funeral was attended by hundreds of Marines, naval aviators, and family members. Many of the attendees were pilots who trained under him or studied his tactics. The Medal of Honor citation was read aloud during the service. It described his actions on April 7th, 1943 in precise detail. Seven enemy aircraft destroyed. Continued fighting despite damage to his aircraft. Successfully ditched and survived.

The citation concluded with a phrase that defined Sweat’s entire military career, extraordinary heroism and disregard for his own safety. The April 7th raid on Tulagi was the last major Japanese air offensive in the Solomon Islands campaign. The Japanese lost 42 aircraft that day. American losses were seven fighters.

Sweat personally accounted for 16th of all Japanese losses. His performance that day influenced tactical doctrine for the rest of the war. Flight instructors used his engagement as a case study in effective fighter tactics. Attack decisively. Conserve ammunition. Maintain situational awareness. Accept calculated risks, but don’t be reckless.

These principles became standard training for all Marine fighter pilots. The impact of Sweat’s mission extended beyond tactics. It proved that proper training could overcome lack of experience. Sweat had 197 flight hours when he engaged 150 Japanese aircraft. He had never fired his guns in combat. Yet his training was so thorough that he performed flawlessly under extreme pressure.

This realization changed how the Navy and Marine Corps approached fighter pilot training. More emphasis on gunnery, more focus on tactical decision-making under stress, more realistic combat scenarios during training flights. Today, Sweat’s F4F Wildcat is long gone. Somewhere at the bottom of Tulagi Harbor, but his legacy remains.

The Marine Corps University at Quantico includes his April 7th mission in its curriculum on air combat tactics. The National Museum of the Marine Corps displays his Medal of Honor and flight gear. Aviation historians consider his seven kills in 15 minutes one of the most remarkable achievements in aerial combat history. Not just because of the numbers, but because of the circumstances.

First mission, overwhelming odds, friendly fire damage, near-death experience, survival against all probability. Sweat’s story answers a fundamental question about combat. Can training overcome inexperience? Can preparation substitute for proven ability? His April 7th mission proved the answer is yes. Given proper training, even a pilot on his first combat sorty could achieve extraordinary results. This wasn’t luck.

Sweat made dozens of tactical decisions during that 15-minute engagement. Every decision was correct. attack angle, target selection, ammunition conservation, escape maneuvers, ditching procedure. Each decision reflected his training and his ability to apply that training under maximum stress.

The phrase to do a Jimmy Sweat gradually faded from common usage as World War II veterans aged and retired. But within the Marine Corps aviation community, the phrase survived. New pilots still learn about First Lieutenant James Sweat and his seven kills on April 7th, 1943. They learn about his calm under fire, his tactical precision, his survival instincts, his refusal to give up, even when his aircraft was burning and sinking.

These qualities defined not just one mission, but an entire military career that spanned three wars and five decades. Seven bombers fell from the sky above Tulagi in 15 minutes. A 22-year-old Marine pilot on his first combat mission put them there. That’s not just a story about one day in 1943. It’s a story about what humans can achieve when training, courage, and determination aligned perfectly.

James Sweat proved that on April 7th, 1943, and his legacy continues to inspire every Marine pilot who climbs into a fighter cockpit today. If this story moved you, please hit the like button. It truly helps us bring more of these forgotten stories to light. Subscribe and turn on the notification bell so you never miss another tale of extraordinary courage from World War II.

Drop a comment below and let us know where you’re watching from and whether your family has any military history to share. We’re honored to have you as part of this community that keeps the memory of heroes like James Sweat alive. Thank you for spending these 30 minutes with us. And until the next story, remember the brave.