The Great Depression began when Henry Lincoln Johnson met up with the badasses.

[Thorae]

Henry Lincoln Johnson, died in July 1929 and met up with the badasses on October 29, 1929. World War II began when their fight is at a high point. His story goes like this:

So Johnson and Needham were just out there minding their own business when all of a sudden an entire platoon of German Infantry (between twenty-five and thirty men) came running out of nowhere and started kicking the crap out of the two Americans. Johnson was hit with a grenade and shot in the chest with a motherfucking shotgun, while Roberts was shot twice with a pistol and knocked to the floor like a sack of potatoes that had just been shot twice at close range with a **** handgun. The Germans rushed in, gave Johnson the finger, grabbed Roberts, and hauled him off as a prisoner.

Well Henry Lincoln Johnson wasn't about to sit around and let that **** fly. As the Germans headed back to their secret lair deep below the Earth's crust, Johnson managed to somehow stagger back to his feet and start firing his rifle like a madman. The Germans continued to make their escape however, so Johson harnessed his immense powers of Getting Super **** Pissed and started charging after them, gun blazing. When his weapon jammed, he started chucking grenades at them. When he finally caught the poor bastards, he started wailing on them with his rifle butt. When he broke his rifle over some jerk's head he reached over and whipped out his bolo knife.

Now try and picture this for a minute. You've got one dude who's already been shot twenty-one motherfucking times with everything from shotguns to rifles, armed only with a **** machete, in the midst of about twenty German soldiers and he's going off like Miyamoto Musashi, hacking these bastards to pieces while they stand around like Black Ninjas from a bad 70's Kung Fu flick. Despite massive injuries, Johnson samurai-slashed, weaved and hacked at anything that moved. He killed four men, wounded an additional twenty-four, strode over the a huge steaming pile of dismembered corpses and dragged Pvt. Roberts back to his foxhole. The next morning when reinforcements arrived they found the two wounded men sitting together singing some sweet-*** jazz songs around a raging campfire.