Heroes

Dear Friends and Followers:

This morning I resumed my study of the history of America. I discovered that, beginning on December 16, 1944, during World War II, the German Army launched the offensive that led to the “Battle of the Bulge.” At this time of year, the battle was raging furiously in deep snows and record low temperatures. Big Dope says his father-in-law could tell you stories about the cold that would make you shiver on the hottest summer day.

I am particularly impressed with the life of one soldier who took part in that battle.

Richard D. "Dick" Winters (January 21, 1918 – January 2, 2011) commanded Company "E", 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division.

His unit parachuted into France before D-day and took part in some of the fiercest fighting of the invasion. Later, the unit took part in “Operation Market Garden,” a failed Allied attempt to break through German lines at Arnhem across the river Rhine in the occupied Netherlands during World War II in September 1944.

Isn't this a much better person to
respect and emulate than the reality
show actor? - C.W.

He survived the encirclement of Bastogne, (remind me on another day to discuss the famous answer to the surrender offer) and toward the end of the war, his unit joined in the capture of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest at Berchtesgaden, Germany.

The exploits of his unit were chronicled in the Stephan Ambrose book “Band of Brothers,” and later in a TV miniseries of the same name.

As a visitor to your planet, I must say I am deeply touched by the story of this man. A true hero, he never had to prove his manhood. A Quaker by faith, arrogance and bluster seemed as foreign to him as any love of violence. It seems that he was educated, articulated, and modest.  After the war, he settled near Hersey Pennsylvania and never harmed another living thing.

My question, as an observer of your species, concerns heroes. When, I ask, did so my of you quit honoring men like Dick Winters and replace them with people like those awful stars of your so-called “TV reality shows?”

- Your friend C.W.

151. Memories

It is usually C.W. at his most annoying. Of course I mean his assuming the shape of a question-a-second pre-teenager. This time, though, I decided it might be a learning experience.

He showed up in his shorts, flip-flops, and tee-shirt ready, as he said, “To party-hearty and enjoy the Memorial Day fireworks.”

I waited until he had finished his litany of expected festivities. “Do you think that is what Memorial Day is for?”

“Well yeah,” he said. Then he cocked his head. “Ain’t it?”

“No,” I said. “It should be a day of somber reflection.”

“A what?”

“A day that we remember those who died after they answered their country’s call for military service during times of war.”

“Oh, gross,” he said.

“Go change clothes,” I said. “We’re taking a trip.”

An hour later we were at our city’s military cemetery on the east side of town. It was quiet. Most folks were attending a large festival nearby. A few solitary souls were wandering the grounds. Some stood quietly in front of one of the white tombstones. A small group was placing flags on each one. It was a peaceful, lonely place.

“Lookit,” C.W. said, pointing to a man who was kneeling before one of the graves. Before I could stop him, he had raced over and stood beside the man, a well-dressed figure appearing to be well into his eighties.

Miraculously, C.W. took this opportunity to show both restraint and respect. He stood silently until the man looked up in greeting.

“Is this someone you knew?”

The man nodded. “We served together on the old Nevada.”

“What’s an Old Nevada?”

“It was a battleship.”

“He died?”

“In 1941.”

“How old was he?”

“He had just turned eighteen. We both had.”

“How did it happen?”

“The ship came under attack and we were on our way to our battle stations when a bomb hit near us.”

“He died there?”

“No, he was the only one that wasn’t hurt.”

C.W. looked confused.

“He carried the rest of us to a safe location, one by one.”

“And then?”

“After he saw that I was safe, he checked the group and saw that one of us was still missing.”

“And?”

“When he went back that time, he never returned.” The man lowered his head and sobbed.

I was watching, proud of C.W. who waited until the man had regained his composure.

“I’m so sorry,” C.W. said. “It must have been hard on you to lose a shipmate.”

The man looked up at him through reddened eyes. “A shipmate?”

“Yes sir. A shipmate.”

“A shipmate yes. A hero, yes. But more. He was my sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, a gentle breeze across my cheek on a tropical evening, and the beauty of the ocean’s roll on a following sea. I have missed him every day for over 71 years. I would have gladly given all those years for one more touch of his soft hand.” He began to cry again.

“Gee,” C.W. said. “Did he win a medal?”

Seems to me that war is crappy enough
without getting the bigots involved. - C.W.

“No,” the man said quietly. “Before the attack, we were both scheduled to be cashiered from the navy. His name was hardly ever mentioned afterwards. They wouldn’t have buried him here except that his family had some influence.”

“That don’t hardly seem fair.”

“The world is not fair, my son,” the man said as he stood. “And war even less so. Now if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch.” He walked away on unsteady legs to where a taxi waited.

As C.W.came to where I stood, I couldn’t help asking, “Did you learn anything?”

“Shut up,” he said, and I swear he had tears in his eyes.

114. Beliefs

C.W. had warned me that he was seeking a new vocation. He was going to become rich as a writer. So it was no surprise when I found a completed manuscript on my kitchen table for review.

 

It was entitled, “A Real History of the United States - By the Conservative Youth Movement.” Since he had not arrived by the agreed upon time, I took the opportunity to scan a few sections. Here is one.

As our brave forefathers settled this great country, they sought business alliances with the Native Americans who claimed to own the land. They paid 15 percent above appraised value for all lands acquired, hoping that the recipients would use the proceeds to establish themselves in a legitimate business. What did our “Redskin Brothers” do with the money instead? Why, they spent it instead upon liquor, cheap cosmetics, and weapons of mass destruction, causing great burdens to the white minority.

Another:

Our wise forefathers foresaw a shortage of labor in the New World, so they sent ships to the Continent of Africa, offering good wages, free transportation, and food and lodging to unemployed warriors. Upon arriving, however, these ingrates squandered their wages on music and refused to get an education. Our forefathers, then, were required to house and keep them for over 200 years

Still another:

In 1861, the northern states, without provocation, sent troops into the southern states to strip property owners of their land and belongings. A terrible war ensued.

And this:

As Great Britain and Russia lay defeated by Hitler’s forces, the United States was forced to take over World War Two and defeat Nazism single handedly. Three infantry divisions, led by John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, and Clint Eastwood respectively, stormed ashore on the Normandy Coast and proceeded  to fight their way across France, into Germany, and finally into Berlin itself.

My mouth dropped open at the exact moment he entered the room. He appeared as a freshly scrubbed youth in a brown uniform, complete with leather attachments, short pants, and highly polished shoes. A logo featuring the letters CYM covered the front of his shirt.

“Big Dope,” he said. “Greetings.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Are you serious about this?” I waved the manuscript at him.

“Of course,” he said. “I just received word from Wal-Mart that a half-million copies have been pre-sold. With the stockholder-gifts, the Hagee Ministry pre-sells, and the Texas schoolbook orders, we are already into our third printing before the first publication.”  He paused. “Conservative books are very popular.”

“But,” I asked. “Does anyone actually read them?”

“Who cares?

I was beginning to feel weak. I must have grimaced.

The Conservative Youth deserve an
accurate hisory of our country, - C.W.

“What?” he said.

“But these are all lies,” I said, shaking the manuscript again.

“That may be true,” he said. “But it is also irrelevant.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “There is something you must understand about lies.” He took the manuscript from me and held it in front of me.

“They,” he said slowly. “Are the stuff that dreams are made of.”

107. Respect

C.W. and I were resting in a park across the street from where we live. We sat on a bench watching cars speed by in an exercise he calls “random observation.” He had assumed the form of a World War Two navy enlisted man. He was drawing more than a few stares as Americans are no longer used to seeing military personnel in dress uniforms.

I had, however, forbidden him from wearing most of the medals he had proposed, particularly a copy of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

“But your supreme court has ruled that my right to claim that honor, whether I received it or not, is a free speech right protected under Amendment One of the Constitution.” He was continuing the argument.

“One,” I said. “I don’t care what the Supreme Court said. Two, some amendments are more important to us than others.”

“You mean the first amendment is not as respected as the second, for example.”

“Not by a long shot,” I said, smiling at my weak pun. “The first is under attack because it protects us from religion, not a proper protection in the view of some.”

“That doesn’t make sense …” he began, but I interrupted.

“And three, the Constitutional provisions don’t always apply to aliens.”

“Well I’ll be keelhauled,” he said.

Two teenaged boys walking along the sidewalk stopped and stared at him.

“Man,” one said. “You sure dressed up. Who are you?”

“I’m a Bosun’s Mate, Third Class, United States Navy,” C.W. replied.

“For real?” the other youth said. “You in the Navy?”

“For real,” he said.”

“So why ain’t you on no ship?”

“I’m on leave,” he said. “I took some time to visit this museum,” he motioned to the historic building in the background. “It is featuring an exhibit on the Vietnam War.”

“The what?” one said.

“What do it pay to be in the Navy?” the other interrupted.

“I earn $78.00 per month,” C.W. said.

“Sheeeit,” the youth said. “F**k dat. I made twenty bucks this mornin’ in fifteen minutes just standin’ on the corner watchin’ for the police.”

With that, they moved on down the street. I turned to C.W.

“It’s actually a lot more than $78.00 a month now,” I said.

“You know,” he said, reverting to his character. “I remember standing on the foc'sle of our ship as it came through the Golden Gate in San Francisco after the war in the Pacific ended.”

“I imagine that was a welcome sight,” I said.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” he said. “The folks in Marin County had taken huge boulders, painted them white, and placed them on the hill on the port side so they spelled out the words ‘Welcome Home Boys.’”

We thought about this for a moment.

“They didn’t do anything like that for you fellers when you came back,” did they?”


Here's one of my favorite passages from
Matthew Arnold for you. - C.W.

I, on men’s impious uproar hurled,
Think often, as I hear them rave,
The peace has left the upper world,
And now keeps only in the grave.



I thought back. “No, about 30 minutes before our plane landed, they gave us a briefing on how to avoid confrontation with the war protesters at the gate of the airport.”

“Tell me something,” he said, effecting one of his classic changes of the subject.



“What?” I said.



“Why does your state honor the birthday of a man who murdered so many people in an attempt to keep the peculiar institution of slavery alive in your country?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They say it has something to do with honor.”

“Sheeeit,” he said.

45. The Oscars

C.W. was giddy. He showed up at my door as Frank Capra and I knew he was excited about the Oscars.

“Turn on the movie channel,” he barked as he barged in.

“You forget one thing,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Think,” I suggested.

“Uh, no TV?”

“Not here. You’ll have to wait for the weekend when we go to the farm. We have satellite there.”

“No problem,” he said. “I just have some questions about veracity in the films your species makes. I love them but stuff bothers me.”

“Like when automatic pistols keep clicking after the last bullet is spent?”

“Well, that’s small stuff.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“I’ve watched over a hundred great films over the last couple of weeks, you know.”

“Well you should be an expert.”

“Oh, I am. But I just don’t understand some of them.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay, there’s this one, see: ‘Saving Private Ryan.’”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“So this squad makes it through the landing at Normandy and they are all sent to rescue one Private.”

“I think that was the plot.”

“Well when they find him, he refuses an order to come along from a Captain of the Army Rangers and ends up getting just about the whole squad killed.”

“Well, yeah.”

“But he’s a hero at the end.”

“Uh, I guess one could be confused.”

“Then there is this ‘On the Waterfront.’”

“Yes, a truly great one.”

“Well, the hero was supposed to be good enough at fighting to be a boxing champ, right?”

“Right.”

“So why does he have such a hard time when he fights an old fat man who hasn’t done anything but smoke cigars for the last 20 years?”

“Uh, good question.”

“And have you ever met anyone who could follow the plot of ‘The Big Sleep?’”

“Not without copious notes.”

“And wasn’t the Sheriff in ‘High Noon’ a little old to be doing all that fighting and whatever else he intended to do with his young wife when they got to the next town?”

“Well, maybe.”

“I mean, that was way before you had Viagra, wasn’t it?”

“Way before. But if they puzzle you so much, why do you watch them?”

“Well,” he paused. “I guess for the same reason you keep watching the female of your species even though they puzzle you.”

Before I could respond, he blurted out, “But none of those is the weirdest, for me anyway.”

“Oh,” I said. “So what is?”

“Ever see a movie called ‘From Here to Eternity?’”

“Oh yes, dozens of times.”

“Well, I had to go enphase myself directly into a scene to try this one out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Having sex on the beach.”

I was speechless.

“I mean,” he continued. “Have you ever had sand on your …”

Were the hands the only thing that pointed up for this old feller? - C.W.

“That’s quite enough,” I said. “Someone may be listening.”

“Well, let’s just agree then,” he said. “That such an experience would be far greater in the abstract than in the reality.”

“C.W.,” I said. “You are a born movie critic.”

38. Guns

C.W. called Monday morning and inquired if the wife was there. When I said no, he asked if he could come over. This was strange on two counts. First, I had never heard him sound so grave. Second, it was totally unlike him to ask permission. Usually he just barges in. I said come on.

When he arrived, he was in the shape of a World War Two army officer, complete with bloused trousers indicating paratrooper status.

“Request permission to enter,” he said. He was as solemn as I had ever seen him.

“Permission granted,” I said. I still wasn’t sure whether or not he was carrying out some joke.

He walked in, removed his hat, and eased into a chair while maintaining a perfectly straight posture.

“Coffee?” I said.

“Nothing, thank you.” He took a long time gathering his thoughts. Finally he said, “I suppose you heard about Dick Winters … Major Dick Winters.”

“Yes,” I said. “He died a couple of days ago.” As most folks know, Richard Winters was the real soldier who inspired the creation of the lead character of the TV mini-series, “Band of Brothers.” He was a member, and ultimate commander, of Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. He and his comrades make the jump behind German lines as part of the Normandy Invasion. His unit also survived the encirclement of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge.

“Damned shame,” he said. “Good officer. Should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

“Yes,” I said. “But why the interest and get-up?” I immediately regretted saying it. This was a C.W. I had not known before and the hurt in his eyes seemed real.

“Know what he said when the war was over?” he said.

“What?”

“That he wanted to find a quiet peaceful place to spend the rest of his life. He also said he would never harm another living creature.” He paused and thought for a moment. “They say he stuck to the promise.”

I sat in my chair and didn’t say anything.

“I guess you heard about the shooting out in Arizona as well?”

I had. A mentally disturbed man had opened fire at a meeting held by a politician. He had killed six people and wounded a number of others, including the politician.

“What’s with your country and the use of handguns?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“This, this …” he struggled for words. “This obsession isn’t showing up in other countries, from my studies and those of my colleagues in other sectors.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“Dick, he was a first rate warrior when he had to be.”

“Yes.”

“Afterwards, he didn’t seem to have a lot of use for violent hobbies.”

“No,” I said. “And that seems to be true of many who faced war and survived.”

“This weapon used in Arizona,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It has no other practical appeal than to inflict damage on a victim?”

Richard Winters

“As far as I know.”

“No sports application?”

“No.”

“Just a desire to inflict harm?”

“I’m afraid you are right.”

“What then? What causes this uncommon fondness for firearms?”

“There are those who correlate it with the relative size of a male’s penis.” I tried to lighten the conversation a little.

But he took me seriously. “That wouldn’t explain women like this Sarah Palin," he said. He thought about it for a few seconds and then added, “Of course there is this supposed female motivator called ‘penis envy.’”

“Don’t tell anyone that I said that,” I said.