Honor

Off earning today. Here's a thought, though. Why, people ask, does the armed services have honor codes they live by? It's too complicated for me to answer but I might offer this. When all that we consider good and desirable in life is taken away: food, shelter, comfort, safety—the entire Maslovian Hierarchy in other words, life becomes precious. When all one has is the protection and support of the comrades nearby, it is honor that supplies the basic belief that that one will survive.

Everything that Donald Trump does or says is, and always has been, from a warm room on a full stomach as Alistair Cooke once said of H. L. Mencken. It is no wonder that honor is a foreign concept to the president of our United States. What is terrifying is that he is the commander-in-chief of our armed services, composed of brave and dedicated people he could never understand.

Honor

One morning about 0300, at the gate of a lonely outpost on Monkey Mountain near Da Nang, the radio crackled where I stood watch. It was transmitting among contacts from the main base below. A roving watch was stopped at the base of a tower where I had stood watch many times since I had been in-country, some at this very time morning. The patrol was receiving no response from the guard in the tower.

I listened to the exchange between the patrol and headquarters as a sailor carefully climbed the tower, expecting to find, no doubt, that the guard was asleep.

He was … forever. A knife still protruded from him as he sprawled against the very seat where I had sat so many times. I stood, chilled and shaking, thinking how it could be me there with my eyes staring, unseeing, at a starry sky.

The victim, a well-liked young sailor with only a few weeks left in country, would go home in a body bag like nearly 60,000 young American men. What was different about him? He would return home, NCIS determined, a victim of a fellow shipmate operating under an evil impulse.

The reasons for the murder have faded with time. Let’s just say the motive was evil, gross, and a blight upon the proud United States Navy. My point is this: not all those who serve or have served, in the military gain respect. The overwhelming majority do, a far greater percentage than the non-serving cohort.

But there are psychopaths and sociopaths who make their way into uniform. There are those who, when handed a firearm, turn toward dark impulses. I’ve seen men change, as Hemingway described them, gaining erections from the slap of pistol holster leather against their thigh. They’ve always been there. Soldiers returning from POW camps during and after WWII found their back pay stolen by paymasters. American veterans would tell of comrades picking off enemy combatants who were clearly marked as medics. When Robert E. Lee’s army marched into the north, he allowed his men to seize free African-Americans and send them south into slavery. General Pershing refused to stop fighting, as did all the other armies, on August 11, 1918, hours before the armistice, sending young men to kill and be killed for no reason other than bloodlust. General Almond, a MacArthur favorite, sent an entire Marine Division to destruction in Korea for personal aggrandizement.

Then there was Mai Lai.

My point? The military is like any great organization, or the human genome itself. There are mutations. Some benefit us, like those that produced an Audie Murphy. Some denigrate us and produce those who murder the innocent due to their personal demons.

What makes the military cohort produce such a low number of miscreants is a simple concept: honor. It produces greatness. It also allows the organization to self-police. Finding the aberrations and bringing them to justice completes the code of honor. It’s honor that sets them apart from ordinary people.

Until, that is, a president seeking to politicize the service and feed a base, many of whom have no concept of honor, intercedes for political gain.

Thus, is honor debased. The mighty infected by a common worm. 

Veterans Day Thoughts: November 11, 2017

I’ve known my share of veterans in my day, probably more than most people, I’d bet. I’ve never personally known a homeless one. I’m certainly not suggesting there aren’t any but, on this Veterans Day, I do pause to wonder.

It seems I can’t turn around without being confronted with the horrible claims that great hordes of “homeless vets” are filling our overpasses, alleys, and transit camps. At the same time, I wrack my brain and consider the brothers and sisters from my generation’s nasty little war. Almost without exception, they returned from military service and assumed a fruitful life as craftsmen, technicians, teachers, police officers, firefighters, physicians, attorneys, and, yes, even a few I’ve known enjoyed careers as urban planners.

I’ve known fewer veterans from other wars, but the ones I have known followed the same trajectory.

There was one person I’ve known who could be classified as a mentally disturbed vet. Less than two days spent in investigation, however, satisfied me that he was mentally disturbed long before he took our oath. And, sad to say, I’ve known a handful that gamed the system.

I find myself hoping then, that if the claimed numbers of purely homeless vets do exist, they will soon be recipients of the care we owe them. I repeat, soon. To heck with budget cuts.

On the other hand, if there are people who stand to benefit from careless documentation and lying eyes, I hope for the Christian concept of some very warm corners of Hell reserved for them. And, sometimes I do wonder.

One advocate did admit to me once that, within her substantial army of homeless vets, there were some individuals who simply “assumed the persona.” Evidently her organization also “assumed the claims,” for when I asked her if they bothered to demand a DD214 before “validating the persona,” she replied, with a blank stare, “What is a DD214?”

My response is omitted due to the fact that I try to keep this a family-oriented blog. Let’s just reveal, for the untutored, that the DD Form 214, “Certificate of Release or Discharge from Active Duty,” generally referred to as a "DD 214", is a document of the United States Department of Defense, issued upon a military service member's retirement, separation, or discharge from active duty in the Armed Forces of the United States.

It is, therefore, I would argue, something that should be required to produce proof that some imposter is not insulting the memory of any veteran who has ever donned the uniform of a United States military person.

There are many people in our country who would violate what should be a sacred contract between our country and its vets. Unfortunately, too many of the transgressors tend to wave The Flag or The Bible, or both, in one’s face as they go about their mendacity. None are more sickening, in my opinion, that those who would steal, or abet the stealing of, honor from “the few, the happy few.”

So, on this Veterans Day, my friends, be vigilant, very vigilant. That bedraggled man in the worn field jacket standing on the corner begging money and claiming to be a vet is, with almost perfect certainty, not one. On the other hand, that business person walking by, in all likelihood may be. If he or she is from the Baby Boomer generation, the odds will rise even higher.

Remember that respect and understanding will outweigh hollow “thanks” all year long, not just today.

The man seated in middle came home from WWII
wearing a Purple Heart and the coveted
Combat Infantry Badge. He then led an exemplary
life and produced a world class daughter.
I have documentation of this.

Sailing To Oblivium: August 26, 2017

In over 40 years, I’ve received very few requests to perform acts associated with my profession that “didn’t meet the smell test.” None reached the level of high crimes or unconstitutional acts, but I declined each. Thank goodness, I declined each.

One induced me to leave a high-paying job and drift at the periphery of my profession for a while. I returned with my reputation intact and never looked back. I started my own firm where I could set the standards of conduct.

With another, I left a good contractual situation in an act of solidarity with a falsely maligned colleague. They hadn’t come for me at the time, but I knew they would. I could have enjoyed the making of money in the interim, but what price shall we place upon our reputation and self-respect?

 The lessons of life are apparent, there is the (modified) warning of “First they came for people of color, but I wasn’t a person of color … .” I also remember the advice of a friend, and attorney, “First they ask to just to do something that doesn’t smell right, but it’s not illegal. Then ….”

Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm far from perfect. My faults are legion. I think, though, we can make it as an individual, or as a nation, as long as the center holds.

In short, honor, duty, and allegiance to the United States Constitution are heavy burdens to carry through life, but worth every effort. Avoiding that effort will surely help pry open the door to the abyss.

Sailing To Oblivium: August 2, 2017

The guys on the ship called him “Shorty” and that was no term of camaraderie in the United States Navy. I called him Danny and he liked that.

He had been a “Bubblehead,” i.e. a submarined sailor. Long before, though, he had washed out and been assigned to tender duty, a huge step down. See, he tended to “drink a bit.” I guess he stood about five-foot-four in his Navy boondockers. Sometimes, though, after one too many drinks while on liberty, he saw himself as tall and tough as Gary Cooper. He persisted in that notion, no matter how many times the Charleston, South Carolina police disabused him of it.

Unlike the 99 percent of police officers in our great county who are brave, dedicated, and respectful of rights, the ones in Charleston, at least back in the late 1960s, didn’t need a president of the United States to tell them to rough-up suspects. It was in their DNA, especially if the “suspect” wore a military uniform. Uniforms of the United States Navy, in particular, excited their “whip-ass” genes.

The last time I saw Danny wasn’t the first time I had seen him being escorted up the gangplank AWOL. It was the worst time, though. He had to be half-carried and I wouldn’t have recognized his face had not someone told me who he was. Even the front of his blue Navy blouse was covered in caked blood.

“He done been fightin’ them police again,” Seaman Richardson said. “I told him about that.” Seaman Richardson stood over six-feet tall, weighed over 200, and was a pretty rough customer from all accounts. He was a gentle giant, but some shipmates from his home town of Memphis swore he had once cleaned out an entire holding cell of men bent on violating his honor in ways he deemed improper. Nobody crossed Richardson, but even Richardson didn’t cross the Charleston police.

Anyway, that last trip up the gangplank with a bruised and battered face was enough for the Navy. They could make sailors like Danny disappear quickly, and they did.

We pretty much forgot about him, that is until a shipmate from his home town came back from leave one day. The Deck Force crew began to buzz. “Hey, did you hear about that guy Shorty … the one they shit-canned last winter? Well guess what?”

Yes, guess what. It seems that Danny and some friends were at a lake watching people swim when a young girl drifted out too far and fell from her inner tube. There were no lifeguards and the crowd froze as she screamed, all except Danny.

You can guess the rest. He got her back to her tube, but he couldn’t make it himself. His waterlogged clothes pulled him under. Our informant swore that, when they finally got his body ashore, he had grown six inches in height. We chose to believe him. After all, shipmates are shipmates, and many a man among us would be taller in death than in life.

To Shipmates: those who serve
 with a thin sheet of steel between
 them and the bottom of the sea.

Sailing To Oblivium: June 14, 2017

Nice day yesterday, but not the “feel good” day of the year. First, a flashback of one of the worst experiences of my life (see yesterday’s entry).

Then, the job I hate most at the farm: cleaning the gutters of the shop building. That means ten trips up and down a 12-foot ladder per side. Have I mentioned lately that I’m not young anymore?

Later, I listened to some Senate testimony on the way in to Little Rock. I surely envied the testifier’s ability to get away with “I don’t recall.” Back in my expert witnessing days, the lawyers in Arkansas wouldn’t let you get away with that. Their take was, “if you don’t have a memory, why are they paying you to testify?” Oh well, life goes on.

Next, I made my last meeting as a condo board member on a day someone must have filched all the Paxil and Metamucil from the building. Some of those folks could have straightened out the mess in the Middle East.

Speaking of which, I then escaped across the street to the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas Military History. We show documentary films there once a month—films about the military. This one was about Section 60 of Arlington Cemetery, where the fallen of Iraq and Afghanistan are interred. It is known by some as “The saddest acre in America.” One person disagreed and called it “The proudest acre in America.” So far, we are free to choose which we prefer. I guess, in the words of Lyndon Johnson, I could teach it both ways. The film certainly did.

It featured scenes, without commentary, of families and individuals grieving, each in their own way. One family was that Captain Humayun Khan, who was killed in 2004 in a suicide attack near Baqubah, Iraq. Yes, he’s the one whose honor and memory Donald Trump besmirched and defiled. Later, I recalled a post by someone expressing hope that there is a hell, and it’s just as Dante described it. Oh dear.

What do after such a trying day? Of course, relax with a Four Roses and three cubes and read a bit of "The Path to War" by Michael Neiberg. It documents a unique thesis of how events drew America into World War One, and is a highly recommended read. I kept thinking that no matter the causes of war, the end results are the same, the most tragic of which is the existence of places like Section 60.    

Went to bed with Faulkner ringing in my ears, “The past is never dead. It's not even past.”

Reconciliation: 24

Everyone makes decisions. Some are more horrific than others. This month, back in 1944, young men their 20s were facing dreadful choices. Last evening, that came to mind afresh. We watched Twelve O’clock High, the classic Gregory Peck film, and it brought to mind something told me by the late Hal Naylor, a precious friend and hero.

Leaving college during World War Two, Hal became pilot of a B-17 flying from England to Germany before his plane was shot down during, if I recall, something like his sixth mission.

He told me how the young pilots of the squadrons faced one faithful decision even before leaving. They could take off and fly in the opposite direction for some time in order to gain altitude before turning and heading toward the German anti-aircraft emplacements in France. This improved survival odds but expended precious fuel.

Alternatively, they could head straight across the English Channel into enemy fire before gaining relatively safe altitude, but be assured of enough fuel to return to base. In the Eighth Air Force alone, 26,000 did not. Their duty almost rose to the level of suicide missions. I have read where, though they selected volunteers who were small in stature for the job, the space allotted a ball-turret gunner didn’t allow room for a parachute. Hal told me the pilot and co-pilot spaces were so cramped that they tied parachutes to their legs in hopes they could don them if they had to exit.

Decisions. Sometimes I think of the young men and women and the decisions they had to make in those days when I read where modern college students must have “safe places” where they are protected from hearing thoughts and ideas that don’t coincided with their world view. That would probably amaze a nurse who had faced the horrors of medical triage after a battle.

An amazing fact is that, today, less than one-percent of Americans will ever serve in the military. They will never face decisions like having choose between attempting to land a crippled plane and save wounded comrades, or abandoning their craft over the English Channel.

Those who have faced the ultimate sacrifice, those “happy few” as Shakespeare called them, probably have a different view of life because of the experience. The awarding of trophies of excellence to every member of a children’s sports league must seem a little tedious to a “grunt” who had to write that blank check on his life, payable to us, in order to wear the coveted Combat Infantry Badge.

Further, the fact that so few serve, in my opinion, opens all Americans to the danger that we will be drawn into useless wars that will, at first, only affect the children of others. That such adventures may eventually affect us all seems to be lost on so many. If it doesn’t affect me, what do I care? It seems to be more important that I select the best cell phone plan. I read where most of us cannot locate, on a map, the place where the last American soldier died in combat.

Sacrifice? Has it become an obsolete concept? Today we will pay service of some sort to the fallen B-17 crews, along with the sailors, infantry soldiers, medical personnel, and desert fighters who paid the awful prize for serving our country. Will our main decision be what beer to bring to the picnic? A much better decision would be to choose to become aware of the issues facing our great land and to serve, in whatever capacity we can, to solve them.

It should be an honor to serve out country, but any death in a war is a tragedy.

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
- William Shakespeare

Buddies

His name was Troy and he was my cousin on my mother’s side. He died this year and I miss him every day. He went into the Army just at the end of World War Two and I guess we were buddies, as the photo indicates. When I received my military discharge years later, he was recovering from back surgery so we spent a lot of time together, just riding around and talking. Somehow, that never got boring. He introduced me to a man who helped me get my first real job after the Navy. It was the job that launched me into my professional career, but I’m not sure I ever thanked him enough.

He was the kind of person who, if you called him late at night and told him you had a flat tire and didn’t want to get your shirt dirty changing it, would come do it for you. He might tell about it for years, but he would come. Many country folks I’ve known in my life are like that. Goodness is more of a duty and a habit than a choice.

He was more like a son than a nephew to my daddy, who wouldn't ride in a fishing boat with anyone else. I'm not sure what that meant, but I am sure it meant something. He was also a person who would spend part of his "mustering-out" pay to buy a three-year old boy an army outfit during a period of history in which being a soldier was the grandest thing imaginable.

When his wife Charlene came down with Alzheimer’s way too early, he cared for her without complaint. He would dress and feed her then she would sit on the couch and stare into space, not saying a word. It was that way until she died.

I never went to see him enough. What dear friend can we ever name who we honestly think we went to see enough? I did stop to see him anytime I came to town to visit. Toward the end, he would sometimes tell my sister and me the same stories he had told the last time. We didn’t care. Many of them centered on how spoiled I was as a child and how perfect she was. But then, we were Army buddies so he put up with me.

The last time I saw him, he made me promise to be a pallbearer for him when the time came. Of course I said yes. At the time, he was a card-carrying member of the NRA, and I was a card-carrying member of the ACLU, but we never spoke about it. I suppose that’s what true friendship means.

All ready for Inspection.