The Ultimate Sacrifice

It has been ages since I have posted anything here. The 70th Anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, however, holds a special meaning to me and all Americans. It is the day we knew for sure that we could not sit back and watch from the sidelines as the European and Asiatic powers slugged it out.

Today I am proud to share the names of several men -- boys really -- who died in the great cause to save the world from bloodthirsty tyrants who would have everyone goosestepping to the same xenophobic tune.

John N. Wilson (Nebraska): Colonel Wilson was my grandfather's friend and commanding officer. He was strict, but loved the men under his command. After organizing the 219th Field Artillery in California, he commanded the unit until July 11, 1944. On that evening, he and a squad walked into a German machine gun emplacement in the dreaded hedgerows of Normandy. He is buried in the Normandy American Cemetery and Colleville-sur-mer, France.

Frank B. Van Gundy (Kansas): Sergeant Van Gundy was one of the original Kansas National Guardsmen folded into the 219th following Pearl Harbor. He was killed with John Wilson and is interred at Colleville-sur-mer.

PFC Harlan V. Safrit (North Carolina): Private Safrit tripped a landmine near St. Nicholas, France in the fall of 1944.

PFC Joseph Ruse (New Jersey), Second Lt. Pete Boese (Kansas), Second Lt. Benjamin Mills (Kansas), Sergeant Vaughn Parker (Kansas): These men, in addition to two others not identified in my grandfather's diary, died attempting to assist a wounded officer on February 9, 1944. The Army's official KIA date is February 24, 1945, but I tend to trust my grandfather's memory on this one. The only time I saw him cry was when he referred to this incident. Boese, Mills, and Parker had all served with my grandfather in the Kansas National Guard since 1939, and died just three months short of the end of the war in Europe. They and Pvt. Ruse are buried in the Netherlands American Cemetery in Margraten, Netherlands.

It is more than likely that anyone who knew these men personally is gone. They died so young, of course, that they forfeited many of the things we take for granted: marriage, children, careers, and even growing old. It is my hope that by naming them here, at least a hint of their memory will endure a little while longer.

More Credit to Grandpa

I have mentioned previously that I draw a great deal of my inspiration in portraying the life of a typical American soldier from my grandfather who served in WWII. I have spent hours reading his nearly daily letters to my grandmother as deep background research on what he was thinking and feeling.

The excerpt that follows is one of only two that I am using nearly verbatim. My character is writing to his mother and father. My grandfather, in the original version, was writing to his wife. It was in the middle of what became known as the Battle of the Bulge, in which Germany counterattacked in the middle of the winter, pushing allied forces from their border back into Belgium. Thousands were killed on both sides, either by the enemy or by the coldest winter anyone in the region could remember.

The scene depicted is that of the area just east of Bastogne, where a tiny band of US forces held out for over two weeks against the full force of the German Wehrmacht in the west. Grandpa had just driven through the ruined village, and walked up the hillside for a better view.

Belgium, January 4, 1945

Dear Mother and Father,

Have been doing nicely writing every day lately, haven’t I? During times when our activities do not permit me the opportunity to write often, I feel badly about it. I know how you must watch the mails for a letter from me, and the thought runs through my head that you will not receive a letter from me today, and I wish I’d had the time to write. During the fall when it rained so often, we positively could not write.

Now that I have started today’s letter to you, I do not know what to say. I would like to write a letter to you full of interest. It looks like I should be able to write you a lively letter, but I can’t.

I could describe the country to you as I saw it this morning. The ground was covered over with several inches of snow, a little wind and still snowing big heavy flakes. But who would like to write or read about the weather?

Perhaps I could write about a family and a warm fire, if nothing else but to ease my own freezing condition. But I’m too, too sentimental and feel foolish in the long run. I cannot put into words what is in my heart. But please hear what a simple fellow feels about this whole experience –

It is sometimes as if I am in a daze. I just can’t grasp what it is all about and I have been away from home for so long. I read your letters and the love and support you pour out to me hurts. I want to go home and sleep in my own bed and just walk downstairs in the morning to a sunny kitchen, laughter, and hearty breakfast.

I listen to beautiful music over our radio and memories swoop down on me.

I walk in the streets of a village, my rifle slung over my shoulder, and see the sweet faces of little children smiling up at me. I stand alone on a mountain slope and loneliness presses all about me. Below I recognize the beauty of the snow-covered slopes, the half-frozen little stream winding about at the bottom, the patches of evergreens, cold in appearance with the bows and branches laden with snow. The little village beyond in the distance with a church steeple rising among the red-tiled roofs, and I ask God why – why must it be – ?

And a voice speaks, “Look about you!”

And suddenly the beauty before me vanishes and instead I notice the rubble of the village – where cozy homes once stood there remains ghostly black stone walls and crumpled furnishings. The steeple of the church has a hole blasted in its side and I know the chimes of the bell which had always meant so much in the everyday lives of the villagers will never ring again. The slope of the mountain once was littered with American dead – victims of machine guns hidden in the patches of evergreens. Steel helmets and bits of clothing and equipment remain as silent markers where the brave men died.

Does a soldier change? Does seeing mass slaughter and hearing constantly the scream of a shell affect his mind? It has. I have scooped human guts up to my elbows. And ate and slept among wormy, stinking dead. But today I am only the stronger for it.

Take care of yourselves and I promise to do the same.

Your loving son,

Rollie

Courage and Honor and Other Things I Thought I Knew

I have written previously in this blog about the influence my grandfather has had on my story. Every once in a while, and interaction or conversation I had with him comes back to me, particularly when dealing with the internal struggles my character is having. On the topic of courage and honor, I remember sitting at grandpa's kitchen table talking about what my friends meant to me and of course I would be willing to lay down my life for them. I was so dramatic at that age.

He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. When you're in a war and getting shot at all the time you want to save yourself and that's about it."

I went away in a huff, thinking he had questioned my honor. Boy was I stupid.

D Day Plus 57 Years

Today marks the 57th Anniversary of D Day. There were many "D" days before, but none after that earned such and iconic name.

"D" actually marked the secret "date" for any planned military operation, and H stood for the "hour." There was a "D" day and and "H" hour for North Africa, Italy, etc., as well as for the beginning of significant military operations, including invasions, attacks, counterattacks, etc. These were used to mark not only the date and hour, but the planned objectives. For instance, in Operation Overlord, the British were to take a certain bridge at H hour plus 5 (H+5), or a certain town at D day plus 2 (D+2). (Under Montgomery, the British almost NEVER achieved their objectives on time.)

Their use also allowed military planners to set objectives and fill in the actual date and hour later.

Following Operation Overlord, the allied forces never regularly used "D Day" in reference to another significant event or battle. Overlord was so important and iconic that the name "D Day" actually eclipsed "Overlord" in the minds of the soldiers, sailors, and airmen who took part before, during, and after. It stuck with the American public as well.

In France, the term Embarkation Day is used. The destruction in Normandy and Brittany that resulted from the invasion was so significant that there remains a degree of heartbreak over the event.

Wrapping up one plot line

At close to 24,000 words, I am getting ready for a climax and resolution to one plot line, and will be turning my attention to the second one. I have felt stuck at about 25% complete for some time now, but the more I think about it, I cam closer to a third done with the first draft.

I have mentioned before that my grandfather provided inspiration for part of the book. There is only one of his letters that I am quoting nearly verbatim. It was written in Germany in 1944, about two weeks after four of his friends were killed by a shell blast:

. . .after reading your letters, I want to tell you that you are too, too tense about my safety here. Don’t worry – I’m pretty careful and anyway we are usually several miles behind the front lines where rifle, machine gun, & hand-to-hand combat is carried out. We are only subjected to shell, mortar fire, and now and then a plane flits over us and drops a bomb or two and strafes vehicles on the road. And if a guy’s pretty careful and not trying to take chances he has a darn good chance of never getting hurt at all.

Take a few days ago. We had our trucks on the road ready to convoy. A shell whistled over & I saw the burst of white phosphorus several hundred yards behind us but in line with us. So I says to the boys as long as we aren’t actually moving let’s just high-tail it down the cellar (we were standing by a house). So come of us do. Not 20 seconds later there was a scramble of fellows all trying to come in with ust at once. Shells were coming in & of course that is what I surmised and was safe. I cannot comment on casualties ever, Mother. It is better they are forgotten anyhow.

Excerpt from Angels of Chaos

I thought I would share a brief snippet:

After about 20 minutes of what seemed like endless strafing, the Germans inexplicably called off the attack. Rollie poked his head out of the hole to see trucks on fire all around him. Ammunition popped as the crates overheated. Men ran every which way shouting for help. The fighters had released two or three bombs in addition to shooting the hell out of the trucks. Rollie heard a concentrated commotion and climbed off of Ed and Art to run to where there were men gathered. Sergeant Prather lay dead on the ground. A bomb had exploded near his foxhole and buried him alive.

As they looked over his body in semi-disbelief, Ed asked, “Is there anyone else missing?” The men glanced about nervously.

“Ren high tailed it over to your truck, Rollie,” Tex finally said. He motioned to it and the men’s eyes followed.

Although it was one of the few trucks not burning, shrapnel had shredded its tires and cut clean through the rear axle. It listed like a grounded ship. Rollie walked over to it as the men followed. He rounded the front end, looking beneath the chasses for signs of Private Ren. The nearby truck fires provided plenty of light. He reached below and pulled out Ren: first one piece, then another, then another. The shrapnel that had destroyed the undercarriage of the truck had cut him to pieces as it randomly ricocheted. He arranged Ren more or less in proper order for the grave registrar. Someone started chuckling and, within moments, they were all laughing.

Never, NEVER fall asleep under the truck, Rollie thought as he joined in. “Looks like we’re going to need a new truck, Ed,” he said. The men laughed some more.

Tomorrow would be a long day, and the fires were almost out. Rollie walked over to the foxhole that he had shared with two other men. He collapsed with one of Jones’s blankets. In a few minutes he was asleep.

Shortly before daybreak, there was an explosion. He felt earth rain down on him, but he was so done in that he didn’t care to get up to see what happened. He rolled over and slept until the sun hit his eyes.

700 Words a Day

I have been exhausted lately, working on end of year school stuff. We've been rolling in around 8 or 9 pm every night, and I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to read a few pages, much less get any writing done. After work the other day, however, I wrote 700 words in one hour (mainly dialogue between two main characters). Looking back over it, it's not perfect, but it's not bad either.

I was reminded about comments attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald about his contemporary and fellow ex patriot, Earnest Hemingway. Even when he drank heavily, Hemingway could and would always write a few pages a day. Fitzgerald couldn't hold his liquor that well and, therefore, hated him for it.

If I could actually stick to 700 words a day, I would have a complete novel in 100 days. That's three novels per year, working only one hour per day.