Finland Calls Soviet Bluff

For nearly a month, direct negotiations had persisted.  Back-and-forth communications?…more than 18 months.  The Soviet Union had, since April of 1938, been interested in territory that belonged to Finland, its neighbor to the west.  And Finland had (more or less) politely refused.

The Nazi-Soviet Pact came and went.  The combined German-Soviet removal of Poland from the map came and went.  And still the Soviets negotiated with Finland.  Not as far as he could kick him did Soviet dictator Jospeh Stalin trust his counterpart in Berlin.  Yes, half of Poland gave Stalin a sizeable space-cushion between himself and the National Socialism he despised.  But he was still afraid that Adolf Hitler would use his military might, vastly superior to any of the Scandanavian countries, to take over Finland, whose borders were just a stone’s throw from the Communist “Mecca” of Leningrad.

So, Stalin’s representatives asked that Finland give up 20 miles of territory on the Karelian Isthmus (the strip of land between the Gulf of Finland and Lake Ladoga).  They also desired that Finland cede several islands in the Gulf of Finland and the northernmost tip of Finland (the Rybachi Peninsula).  Finally, they asked that Finland allow them to lease the port of Hanko (on the the southernmost tip of Finland) and build a base there.  Essentially Stalin was creating additional buffer space on all approaches to Leningrad.

For its part, Finland reiterated that it was a decidedly neutral nation, and any incursion (including one from Germany) would be viewed as hostile.  So there was no need to give the Soviets a buffer zone…Finland would provide it for free.  What’s more, giving up territory in the Karelian Isthmus meant destroying much of the Mannerheim Line, a fairly stout series of fortifications, tank traps, and pillboxes.  Finland would essentially be defenseless, which wasn’t necessarily terrible…if that’s all that Stalin wanted.  If.  IF.

But Joseph Stalin was a man who had spent most of the last several years slaughtering thousands and thousands of officers, including a goodly number of Finnish-born officers.  If his own men could not trust him, how much less a target country with almost no military power?  If Finland ceded the territory, there was no way it could defend itself against subsequent aggression.

Carl Gustav Mannerheim, Finland’s leading military man, did not hold to the Finnish convention.  He strongly believed Finland should give the Soviets what they wanted.  He said that if the Soviets wanted the territory badly enough, they would simply take it by force, and Finland could do nothing anyway.  So while Foreign Minister Eljas Erkko was convinced Stalin was bluffing, Mannerheim was not.

And so the Soviet-Finnish meetings continued.  Having begun in earnest on October 12, 1939, they had lasted throughout the month.  The Finnish delegation (shown above) gave some ground, offering to give up a bit of Karelian territory and some of islands, but the Mannerheim Line and the port of Hanko were simply non-negotiable.

It was on this day, November 9, 1939, that the negotiators met for the last time, where the Finnish delegation reminded Stalin of their compromises…and their unwillingness to go any further.  Stalin was somewhat surprised by the intransigence he witnessed.  After an hour, the meeting concluded (despite the heavy discussions) on an upbeat note. Vyacheslav Molotov, the Soviet Foreign Minister smiled and waved.  Stalin wish the Finns the best and then departed…

…to meet with his generals and begin making plans to subdue a stubborn little pip-squeak country on its western border.

Recommended Reading:  A Frozen Hell – A friend (and fellow reader of Today’s History Lesson) recommended this book to me.  I’m reading it now, and it’s really good.

French Fleet Burned Badly by Torch

As General Mark Clark was preparing to depart from his secret rendevous in North Africa, Vichy commander General Charles Mast quietly said to him, “The French navy is not with us.  The army and the air force are.”  So in the early morning hours of November 8, 1942, as Allied forces made ready to disembark, there was a little hope among that the French captains manning the wheelhouses in Casablanca had changed their minds in the previous weeks.

They hadn’t.

At just after 7:00am, the main coastal batteries at El Hank let loose on the fleet arrayed before them, straddling the battleship USS Massachusetts.  The French battleship Jean Bart then opened up as well.  Jean Bart (shown above) was France’s most modern battleship, but she was unfinished and unable to leave port, having but one of her two main turrets installed.  But the one functioning had four rifles, each capable of launching a 15-inch shell that could seriously damage (or sink) any ship on the other side.

As U.S. navy spotters saw the flashes of guns firing at them, they excitedly yelled “Batter up!” into their radios.  Hearing the coded reply of “Play ball!”, the fleet responded in kind, unfurling the guns and filling the skies with high-speed metal projectiles.  Jean Bart, immobile at her moorings, was a sitting duck.  The Massachusetts pelted her with 15″ shot, destroying the one active turret and adding holes in at least three different places.  The not-completed French slugger settled where she sat in shallow water.

Shellfire chopped up the docks, the mooring areas, French submarines docked there, and ten merchantmen that could do nothing but absorb incoming fire and sink.  Admiral Gervais de Lafond, commander the 2nd Light Squadron, quickly put his 16-ship force (destroyers and a cruiser) to sea to avoid disaster.  He actually got himself in a reasonable position to do heavy damage to Allied transports as his enemy battled with Jean Bart and the coastal batteries.

But the shells were coming fast, U.S. carrier aircraft were screaming in with guns blazing, and Lafond’s battle force was badly outgunned.  This engagement would not go well for the French as, one by one, Lafond’s destroyers (and eventually the cruiser) were sunk in shallow waters or beached as burning hulks.  Only the destroyer Alcyon was undamaged.  In all, the French lost 16 ships and 8 submarines.  An injured Admiral Lafond watched helplessly as the U.S. fleet (minus the destroyer USS Ludlow, which had taken significant damage and fled the action) continued on.

The Vichy-controlled French fleet in Casablanca could have decided not to fight against a much larger foe.  But, despite the gallantry of the men, the decision to do otherwise was little more than an irritant in the day’s activities.

The Great Gate of Kiev

When Operation Citadel was abandoned by Adolf Hitler in July of 1943, it left in its wake the scattered bit of destroyed aircraft, the hulks of thousands of tanks, the burned out remains of more artillery pieces, and the still, quiet corpses of even more Russian and German soldiers.

While not marking the eastern-most advance of Germany’s territorial conquests (those honors go to places like Stalingrad and Moscow), it certainly was the last best chance the vaunted Wehrmacht had to push eastward.  When Citadel ended near the city of Kursk, the Germans would, for the next two years, steadily drifting to the west.  The city of Kharkov (south of Kursk) was wrested from German hands six weeks later (toward the end of August), and the Russian advance picked up some momentum.

Somewhat more than 200 miles to the west of Kursk lies Kiev, the Ukranian capital and, at the time, the 3rd-largest city in the Soviet Union.  Two months after retaking Kharkov, the Russians armies were on the cusp of again taking ownership of Kiev.

To the south, Soviet forces were struggling with difficult terrain and well-deployed German defensive positions, and it was believed that a stronger push to the north (around Kiev) might either draw off German guns from the south or allowed those forces to be encircled.

On November 1st, the Soviet 38th Army attacked Kiev (part of the 1st Ukranian Front, comprising nearly three-quarters of a million men), which was occupied by the 4th Panzer Army.  On the 3rd, a massive artillery bombardment (partially using pieces quietly moved from the south) rained down on the Germans, and the Soviet 60th Army entered the fray, supported by heavy firepower from the air.

The Germans were simply overwhelmed and, with their heavy casualties and equipment losses, could do little to stop the onslaught.  It was time to get out of town.  But, as is so often the case in war, the exiting army took time to destroy whatever valuables they could find.

So when the Soviets retook Kiev on November 6, 1943, the city was a smouldering wreck and most of the city’s vast collection of antiquities were nothing more than shattered and burned memories.

Recommended Reading: The Eastern Front – Day By Day, 1941-45

British Begin Westward Push in North Africa

The last two months had been particularly unkind to the Afrika Korps.  Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s gamble at Alma el Halfa had not paid off, and early advances merely gave way to a retreat that, ten days later, found them back where they started…with a smaller force.  And that was the good news.  Two weeks later, Rommel was on his way to Germany, as the constant wear-and-tear of war and his relentless drive across North Africa left him sick and exhausted.

The British were in much the same position, bone-weary but grateful to have at least checked their enemy’s eastward advance.  There is little doubt that the narrow “fighting corridors” around El Alamein had helped General Montgomery, who had replaced Claude Auchinleck in mid-August.  Furthermore, British supply lines were much shorter and the Mediterranean Sea was becoming more “pro-British”.  So supplies destined for Rommel’s forces not only had much, much further to travel, they first had to make their way across an increasingly hostile body of water.

It was against this backdrop that General Montgomery, in early October of 1942, laid the groundwork for what would become the Second Battle of El Alamein.  It commenced on October 23rd with a massive artillery barrage by the British that, apparently, Field Marshal Rommel heard from his convalescent home in Germany.  Two days later, he was back in the theater.

But things would go very differently for the Desert Fox this time.  The vaunted Afrika Korps had been whittled down and, good as it was, the lack of consistent supply meant they simply didn’t have the firepower.  Ever the “man of attack”, Rommel tried a feeble counter-offensive, but there would be no breakthrough this time.  By November 2nd, the men under the Swastika had but 32 tanks intact.  Erwin Rommel had returned from illness to crushing defeat.

He sent word to Hitler, requesting a withdrawal.  The next day, Hitler returned a long eloquent reply that, summarized to just 3 words, said, “Stand and die.”.  On November 4th, Rommel began moving westward anyway, taking with him the 12 (12!!) tanks he had left.

And on November 5, 1942, as a massive invasion fleet closed in on the North African coasts from the west, General Montgomery began his counterattack from the east.  They immediately began capturing thousands of Germans, either too injured to escape or too exhausted to care any longer.  The westward drift would continue for both Axis and Ally until it met with the Allies coming from the west.

There would be many hard-fought battles to come, but the North African dominance of the Desert Fox ended here.

Recommended Reading:  Pendulum of War

The Spruce Goose: 30 Seconds Over…Long Beach

On November 2, 1947, the largest flying boat ever constructed lifted off on its maiden flight near Long Beach, California.  Officially called the H-4 Hercules, it was built by billionaire aircraft designer (and noted eccentric) Howard Hughes, and it was immense.  The contract for three prototypes, which was awarded to Hughes in 1942 with the help of famous shipbuilder Henry Kaiser, came during wartime, when aircraft metals were scarce and mostly spoken for.  The size of the plane dictated that more abundant materials be used, so it was made almost entirely of birch wood.

The time required to design and build the prototype (partially due to Hughes’ fanatical attention to detail) meant that it was finished too late to serve in the Second World War, but it was still a very impressive aircraft.  It’s 320-foot wingspan was (and still is and probably will be in the future) the largest ever.  It’s also one of the tallest, with it’s rear stabilizer reaching nearly 80 feet skyward.

It was powered by eight 3000-horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines, the same engines powering the brand-new Convair B-36 Peacemaker.  Those engines (with a bit of jet assistance) would keep B-36’s aloft for more than a decade.

But for the H-4, just 30 seconds over the water would suffice, because that’s all the longer the flight lasted…and Howard Hughes’ labor of love would never fly again.  The public, in an attempt to ridicule this “one-flight-wonder”, called the plane the “Spruce Goose”.  Hughes loathed the name, and not just because the public got the type of wood wrong.  But it was the name that stuck.

Recommended Activity:  Visit the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum – The Spr…the H-4 Hercules is there, along with a bunch of other cool stuff.

“…The Best of Blessings on this House…”

“The immense house was still unfinished.  It reeked of wet plaster and wet paint.  Fires had to be kept blazing in every fireplace on the main floor to speed up the drying process.  Only a twisting back stair had been built between floors.  Closet doors were missing.  There were no bells to ring for service.  And though the furniture had arrived from Philadelphia, it looked lost in such enormous rooms.  Just one painting had been hung, a full-length portrait of Washington in his black velvet suit, by Gilbert Stuart, which had also been sent from Philadelphia.

The house stood in a weedy, wagon-rutted field with piles of stone and rubble about.  It all looked very raw and unkempt.”

I don’t usually borrow large chunks of text from books I read, but this seemed so appropriate.  Taken from David McCullough’s masterful John Adams, it shatters the stereotypical minds-eye view that we usually have when the White House is mentioned in conversation.  We see cherry trees in blossom, the impeccably manicured South Lawn, and the flower gardens.  Maybe we think of that big fence were people with a point to make (and signs to prove it) will often gather.  Possibly, we hear the “whump, whump” of Marine One as it prepares to touch down, pick up the President, and whisk him to Air Force One and more high-level meetings across the globe.

Whatever our image, it bears little resemblence to what McCullough described, and what President John Adams saw when arrived by unescorted stage to his new home shortly after 1pm on November 1, 1800.  But that’s what greeted Adams…a big house pretty much in the middle of nowhere.  One imagines that it was a lonely site for the 2nd President, which likely added to his own feelings of melancholy.

Adams had been largely marginalized by his own Federalist Party, trivialized by the opposition Anti-Federalist Party, and just weeks before, villianized by fellow Federalist Alexander Hamilton, who in a fit of I-don’t-know-what (rage, vengeance, jealousy, ??) published a 50+ page pamphlet that called the President everything but a deranged lunatic.  Even Anti-Federalists (to say nothing of the Federalists) were aghast at Hamilton’s stunning move, which was nothing short of political suicide.

What little chance Adams had against his opponent, the scheming Thomas Jefferson, in the upcoming election largely vaporized.  News of a peace treaty with France might have swayed the vote, but there was still no word, and the election was right around the corner.

McCullough’s thought continues…“Yet the great white-washed stone building, the largest house in America – as large as the half of the capital that had been erected – was truly a grand edifice, noble even in its present state.”

The words speak of better things to come, and apparently our country’s 2nd President largely saw that hope through the clouds of his own political despair.  The next morning, he would write to his wife back home those famous words:  “I pray heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit.  May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.”

The Executive Mansion has been lived in, burned down, rebuilt, lived in, completely rennovated, and lived in some more.  But Adams’ words remain our desire, constant more than 200 years later.

Recommended Reading: John Adams

British Capture Shark in the Mediterranean

We rarely visit the movie theater.  Occasionally, we’ll go and watch a movie, but even “occasionally” is too strong a word.  The last time I occupied a theater seat was in December of 2006, when I took my wife to a show as part of a Christmas present.  I don’t remember when I went before that, but I remember the movie I saw…U-571.

U-571 is another of those movies that’s “based on a true story“…which can mean just about anything in Hollywood parlance.  It stars Matthew McConaughey and is about a U.S. submarine crew that, in 1942, chases down a crippled German submarine (U-571) to capture it and remove the code machine and cipher keys.  It’s a decent movie that’s pretty exciting,which you would expect.  It’s also not that all that historically accurate, which you would also expect.

So let’s use the platform of Today’s History Lesson the clarify things.  The real U-571 was sunk in 1944, but the movie’s story more closely matches that of U-559.

U-559 was a modestly successful German submarine.  Her first few patrols were in the Atlantic, but she spent the remainder of her time patrolling the Mediterranean Sea in obscurity, putting holes in a handful of freighters and a frigate.  It wasn’t until the day of her sinking that she attained notoriety.

In the early morning hours of October 30, 1942, the sub was spotted in the eastern Mediterranean by a patrol plane, who radioed the destroyer HMS Hero.  She, along with four other destroyers, spent the rest of the day chasing and depth-charging U-559.

As night fell, the now-damaged sub was forced to surface.  Surrounded by destroyers and thinking his vessel was sinking, the captain decided to abandon it and sink it with explosives.  The crew, in its panic to get off the sub, opened the sea valves, but failed to destroy the Enigma machine and its code books.

The German crew was quickly taken into custody and below decks, at which point 3 British sailors volunteered to board the sinking sub and see what they could find.  Lt. Tony Fasson knew the sub carried the Enigma, and probably figured it was destroyed.  But still, it never hurt to take a peek.  He, along with Able Seaman Colin Grazier and Canteen Assistant Tommy Brown boarded the dying sub…

…and found a bonanza.  The Enigma machine was quickly removed, along with the code books, cipher keys, and various maps.  With Brown waiting outside, Grazier and Fasson re-entered the sub again, looking for more documents.  And then the sub gave up its fight with gravity’s pull, and sank in about 200′ of water.  Brown could do nothing but swim free, knowing his two mates were now dead.

But those two deaths prevented hundreds, and maybe thousands, of other deaths.  For not only had they captured an intact Enigma machine, they also had in their hands the keys for German Navy’s SHARK and TRITON code systems.  For the codebreakers at Bletchley Park, this was like winning the lottery…twice.

The British worked very hard keeping their discovery a secret, to the point of not awarding the Victoria Cross (Britain’s highest award) to the three men, fearing it might tip off the Germans.

Like I said, U-571 was a pretty exciting movie.  But the story on which it is based would have been just as good a movie.  One wonders why Hollywood can’t simply tell the real story.  I suppose if that were the case, guys like me would have take up decoupage or something…

Recommended Reading:  uboat.net – Need to find information on a German submarine?  Look no further.  I’ve linked you to U-559’s page.  Need to cross-reference?  Maybe uboatwaffe.net can help.

Bob Ross: 30 Minutes of Awesome

It’s a special day at Today’s History Lesson.  I’m just brimming with stuff to talk about, though I have but one subject.

For those of you that grew up watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, you know how relaxing…and calming…and soothing…and gentle that program was.  Rambunctious children like you, by the millions, exorcised their “energy” demons with this magic 30-minute elixir provided by the Friends of Public Television (and RKO General…whatever that was).

But then you grew up to be a teenager (and beyond), and Mr. Rogers, great as he was, was a little too young for you.  Awesome for the kids, a little embarrassing to sit with your buddies as a teen.  And let’s face it…college life was hectic.  Always on the go, not eating right, not sleeping nearly enough, the constant studying.  Sometimes a person just needed a break…another of those 30-minute wind-downs.

If you’re like me (and I know I am), you again turned to Public Television.  This time for The Joy of Painting…with Bob Ross.

Bob Ross was a genius with oils and The Joy of Painting (which ran for anywhere from 25 to 100 years) was a masterpiece.  Like Fred Rogers, he never raised his voice, he was never rushed, and he never stopped smiling.  And he could do things with a brush that were just awesome.  I’ve heard tell that others artists didn’t care for Bob’s techniques, because he made it look so easy.  It was as though he took the “mystery” of painting and made it “mundane”.

But Bob thought everyone should be able to paint, so he worked out ways to make complicated procedures easy.  Making mountains involved cutting off a little roll of paint from 2 or 3 mixed colors laid out flat.  His 2-inch brush could create “the illusion of mist” or “happy little clouds” instantly.  Reflections on water?…pull the brush down, then lightly sweep back and forth.  Beauty.  Snow on the mountains…no problem.  Big trees?…piece of cake.

Every episode showed Bob using the same techniques, and he used the same phrases every time, so it was an art instruction class without the silly homework and nerve-wracking exams.  I told people that, even though I was the farthest thing from an artist, I could paint just by remembering the words Bob repeated over and over.

But Bob was also quirky, and it was those quirks that I think made him so lovable.  I’m a bunch of words into this and haven’t mentioned them.  Bob had the biggest hair ever seen on a guy not living in the 1970’s.  And those little things he sprinkled throughout each episode.  Let’s make a (partial) list:

• Of course, the always goofy opening intro sequence.
• There was the “18 by 24 double-primed pre-stretched canvas” he used for nearly every painting.
• The “little roll of paint” he cut with the knife.
• “We don’t make mistakes, we have happy accidents.”
• Nearly every show had, at some point, “your bravery test”, and it usually involved putting big trees over something you just painted (“because you know me, I love big trees”).
• And of course, “every tree should have a friend.”
• Those times when Bob said, “Let’s get crazy!!”…”crazy” in Bob’s world usually involved a waterfall with some big rocks or maybe a wave crashing on the shore.
• The constant reminders that, “in your world, you can do anything you want.”
• The occasional visits from his squirrel friends.
• (Possibly my favorite) The highly-anticipated cleaning of the brush.  Bob would dip the brush in odorless, colorless paint thinner, stir it around, take it out, flick it twice, then rap it against the easel leg, look at the camera, give a snicker, and say “and then we beat the devil out of it.”  Absolutely classic (and I’ll bet you did it along with him like I did).
• The colors that ran across the bottom of the screen at the show’s beginning…Van Dyke Brown, Alizarin Crimson, Pthalo Blue (did I spell that right?…who cares…if not, it’s just a happy accident anyways), Yellow Ochre, and Midnight Black.  Did you try (like me) to name them before they appeared?
• His collection of brushes…the fan brush, the round brush, the philbert brush, the 2″ brush, the knife.

Everything about The Joy of Painting was just a bit off-beat, and it was wonderfully addictive.  In college, “the Dan’s” and I would gather at 2:30 on Saturday afternoons with religious regularity, drink a soda, and relax to the sounds of the world’s smoothest painter.  And then the 30 minutes would be done, and Bob would look at us and say, “And from all of us here, I’d like to wish you happy painting…”, give that little wave of the barely-raised right hand, “…and God bless my friend.”

Bob Ross was born on October 29, 1942 and died of lymphoma way too young at just 52 years of age.  But he touched a generation of viewers and turned more than a few into artists themselves.  The Joy of Painting still brightens Public Television’s screens from time to time, and is an absolute must-see.

Can we buy the various series on DVD anywhere?

Happy Birthday, Bob Ross!!

Benito Mussolini: Allied MVP

Italian dictator Benito Mussolini clearly had a flair for ineptitude.  He may have made the trains run on time in Rome and he may have made the grapes more delicious in Tuscany.  He might have even single-handedly kept Venice from sinking deeper into the Adriatic.

But on military matters…well…most people wanted him fighting for “the other guy”.

As a member of the Axis, Italy’s part (militarily speaking) was often to sit by and watch Germany and Japan pretty much do what they wanted.  And that didn’t sit well with Mussolini, who became jealous of their “easy” conquests.  Oh sure, there had been some gains in Africa (Abyssinia, British Somaliland, Eritrea).  And don’t forget the “conquering” of Albania.  But they paled when compared with Poland and China and Norway and France.

Mussolini needed a big feather in war-time cap.

Romania had, in the middle of October of 1940, accepted German protection for its massive oil fields at Ploesti, which bothered Benito badly.  He had long considered Romania to be in the Italian sphere of influence, and believed Germany was overstepping its bounds a little.  So he turned at Greece, sending an ultimatum demanding they allow Italy to occupy their territory.

Greece and Italy had a history of troubled relations.  Italy’s conquest (I use that term lightly) of Albania put them right on Greece’s border, and Prime Minister Metaxas was showing a preference for Britain.  For his part, Metaxas did what he could to maintain neutrality, going so far as to cover up the origins of the sinking of the Elli in Tinos Harbor in August…clearly an Italian operation and a topic worthy of discussion at some point.

But there was no way the Prime Minister of Greece was going to allow an Italian occupation.  He refused on October 28, 1940…and was attacked by Italy on October 28, 1940.  Italian Generals launched their attacks while simultaneously trying to recall the men they had sent home just weeks before to help with the harvests.

Within two weeks, Greece’s military had stopped the Italian advance.  A stalemate, which would last six months, began.  Hitler was, once again, angry with the Italian leader for going off and beginning an operation he couldn’t finish.  Evenutally (in the spring of 1941), Germany would have to delay Operation Barbarossa and commit his own forces to finally subdue Greece.

Recommended Reading: Crete 1941 – This is a somewhat dry book dealing mostly with British naval operations around Crete, but it provides good background information on Greece as well.  It should go quickly for you.

Hamilton, Madison, and Jay: Ministers of Defense

As we saw a few months back, the ratification of the U.S. Constitution caused no end of debate among the Colonists.  The new charter called for a stronger central government than the Articles it replaced, albeit a 3-sided government designed to hold itself in check.

But its passage, in September of 1787, had the effect of dividing the Colonies along political lines.  Hyperbole, foolish rhetoric, and exaggeration certainly aren’t exclusive to our day, and they were rampant as the second half of 1787’s September turned to October.  Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton is immensely quotable, and his characterization of the time is most telling.

“The rancor ushered in a golden age of literary assassination in American politics. No etiquette had yet evolved to define the legitimate boundaries of dissent.  Poison-pen artists on both sides wrote vitriolic essays that were overtly partisan, often paid scant heed to accuracy, and sought a visceral impact.”

It was against this backdrop that Alexander Hamilton, already busy with the duties of an attorney, threw himself into a project of his own creation…defending the U.S. Constitution.  Hamilton possessed a brilliant mind, and was smart enough to know that he couldn’t handle all aspects of a proper defense.  So he put together a “dream team”.

John Jay, with his sharp intellect and strong integrity, was the first choice.  The two of them then selected three additional supporting writers.  James Madison and Gouverneur Morris were natural choices, as both had been at the Constitutional Convention and would clearly understand the Framers’ intents.  The fifth was William Duer, with whom we are also familiar.

Morris really wanted to contribute, but was too busy.  Duer began a couple papers, but they weren’t finished and didn’t make the completed set.  That left Jay, Madison, and Hamilton.  Jay, with his expertise in foreign affairs (he had helped negotiate the Treaty of Paris in 1783), handled that arena.  Madison covered issues relating to the Republic itself.  Hamilton took the executive and judiciary sections, taxes, and the military.

In the end, John Jay’s rheumatism limited him to a mere 5 essays, so the Constitution’s defense became largely a two-man show.  James Madison wrote 29 essays, and Hamilton contributed the remaining 51.

The first of the essays, from Hamilton, appeared in The Independent Journal on October 27, 1787.  Over the next seven months, these writings, penned by the anonymous “Publius”, would lay the groundwork of “Constitutional” understanding to the public.

More than 200 years later, those same essays, published as The Federalist Papers, continue to give us insight into the hearts and minds of the creators of one of the most exceptional documents in written history.

Recommended Reading: The Federalist Papers – Every American citizen should read at least two works…the U.S. Constitution and The Federalist Papers.  I’ve read the first, but sadly, only a couple of essays from the second.  That will change.  I’m making The Federalist the first book on my 2010 reading schedule.  I challenge you to do the same.

Japan Wins Big and Loses Bigger at Santa Cruz

For the Imperial Japanese Navy, the Battle of Santa Cruz was one of those battles that was looked back on with downcast eyes, heavy sighs, and lots of phrases that began with “If only we…” and “It almost…” and “We just about…”.  Fought to the northest of the Santa Cruz Islands (several hundred miles east of the Solomon Islands and Guadalcanal), it was a one-day encounter (with postscripts on the preceding and subsequent days) in which they spanked their U.S. Navy counterparts in all areas except one…the one that mattered most.

For the U.S. Navy, that same battle, fought mostly on October 26, 1942, was probably one of those battles that was looked back on with pretty much one single thought…“We dodged a bullet.”  And indeed they had.

To the west on Guadalcanal, the Japanese 17th Army was just finishing up being pounded to a bloody pulp in its attempt to retake Henderson Field.  But reports sent back to Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto were far more positive than reality made them, leading the Navy to believe that Henderson had actually been captured.  So the fleet was sent south to assist the Army in mopping up.  Of course, when aircraft from Henderson harassed the Japanese fleet (actually sinking a cruiser), it didn’t take long for Yamamoto to become suspicious of the reports.

On the U.S. Navy side, Admiral William Halsey (known simply as “Bull”) had just replaced Ghormley as commander and, as usual, Halsey was ready to fight right away.  But his force of 2 carriers, 1 battleship (the South Dakota), and a handful of cruisers and destroyers left him at a tremendous disadvantage when compared with Admiral Kondo’s array of 4 carriers, 4 battleships, and many cruisers and destroyers.  The carriers were the biggest problem as they carried 200 aircraft.

And as I mentioned, the battle on the 26th went almost completely Japan’s way.  The carrier USS Hornet was plastered (and eventually scuttled the next day by Japan).  And the USS Enterprise (shown above) was heavily damaged and forced to retreat.  The Japanese suffered heavy damage to the carriers Zuiho and Shokaku and the cruiser Chikuma.

At this point, Admiral Kondo and the Japanese were presented a golden opportunity.  The U.S. Navy was down to one (one!) carrier in the entire South Pacific…the damaged Enterprise.  Here was the chance to continue south with the force’s 2 remaining carriers and wreak havoc on the U.S. Navy.  And that’s precisely what Kondo intended to do…

…until the carrier planes began not returning.  The one area where Japan could not afford heavy losses was the one in which they were hit the hardest.  Half their carrier aircraft were lost in this one-day action, and there simply weren’t enough to mount any kind of solid attack.  The U.S. Navy had actually lost a higher percentage of their planes, but only 26 aircrews.  With both carriers out of action, they had no ability to do anything but retreat.  The Japanese Navy had been presented with a decisive victory on a silver platter, and couldn’t take it.  But it gets worse…

The Battle of Santa Cruz cost the Japanese nearly 150 aircrews, including nearly every squadron or flight leader that took to the air.  More than half of the Japanese pilots that had flown over Pearl Harbor were now dead, and Japan had no way to quickly replace them.  By the time they were replaced (months later), American naval assets were being produced in numbers that simply overwhelmed the Japanese.

In a couple of weeks, the naval engagement off Guadalcanal would wrest from the Japanese any solid hope of hanging on to the Solomon Islands.  The Battle of Santa Cruz and its losses in aircraft cost the Japanese the best shot at that “decisive all-in battle” they so desperately wanted with the U.S. Navy.

Recommended Reading: Guadalcanal: The Carrier Battles – If you can find a copy, get it.

St. Lo Laid Low by Yukio

The Battle of Leyte Gulf needs no serious introduction to regular readers of Today’s History Lesson, as we spent several days looking at it a year ago.  If you’d like a refresher, here are the three articles from last year, which should give you an above-and-below-water overview of what is considered to be the largest fleet action in naval history:

USS Dace Serves Up Filet-o-Ship with Darter Sauce
David vs. Goliath: Navy-Style
The Japanese Navy Meets her Waterloo

Into the middle of Leyte Gulf comes the discussion about the kamikaze squadrons that we started the other day.  So let’s link them up.

As Admiral Kurita’s Center Force came down the San Bernardino Strait on October 25, 1944, it ran into Admiral Clifton Sprague’s Taffy 3.  Comprised of small escort carriers and destroyers, Taffy 3 was outfitted to support MacArthur’s invasion of the Philippines, not fight against heavy cruisers and battleships.

At the same time  (7:25am), Lt. Yukio Seki was lifting off from East Airfield with 22 other pilots.  Their mission was to not return to base, but instead to find a large American ship (preferably a carrier) and simply fly into it.

For two and a half hours, they flew south and east, arriving in the area of the Straits just about the time Taffy 3 had miraculously chased off the Japanese Center Force.  They were likely surprised (and a little disappointed) to find no American capital ships in the area, but they pressed their attacks anyways.

The escort carrier St. Lo was in the process of refueling and rearming aircraft when the kamikazes arrived, and Lt. Yukio Seki singled her out and bored in.  Keep in mind that American gunners were accustomed to Japanese pilots flying in, dropping bombs, and making their escapes.  Flying in and…flying into a ship…well sure, it happened on very rare occasions, but a pre-planned suicide attack was completely new.

At 10:50am, Seki’s plane with its bomb planted itself in the St. Lo’s flight deck.  The plane disintegrated, but the bomb penetrated and exploded in the hangar deck, igniting the fuel and bombs there.  A gasoline explosion was followed by a half dozen more, tearing the light carrier apart.  Thirty minutes later, the St. Lo became the war’s first kamikaze victim as she slipped below the waves of the Strait.

Every other carrier in Taffy 3 (except Fanshaw Bay) was damaged (or further damaged) by Seki’s charges.  All in all, the “proof of concept” mission flown by the squadron from Mabalacat was largely successful…and would become painfully unfortunate for the U.S. Navy over the next 10 months.

The Blue Flame: Sun, Salt, and Speed

This was a somewhat bizarre and puzzling piece to put together, and I’ll explain why in a couple minutes.  But first…

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time looking at a paperback copy of the Guiness Book of World Records.  It was a blue paperback (as I recall), and I believe it was the 1976 edition and in it, there were all kinds of fascinating things to discover.

There were the two heaviest brothers in the world.  They were shown on motorcycles and each weighed about 1,000 pounds. There was the guy with the super-long mustache, the snake with fangs more than 2″ long, and a thousand other biggest, widest, deepest, tallest points of interest throughout the book.

But the one that’s on my mind today has to do with Gary Gabelich and the Blue Flame.  The Blue Flame was built with one thing in mind…speed, and lots of it.  It was a 37-foot aluminum tube with a cockpit and was propelled by a rocket engine capable of generating 22,000 pounds of thrust.

The 1960’s were all about speed records, and the name most synonymous with speed was, without question, Craig Breedlove.  Behind the wheel of the Spirit of America, he had set numerous speed records, topping out at a touch over 600 mph.

He was the natural choice to pilot the Blue Flame, but fame had made him too expensive to hire.  So the builders turned to Gary Gabelich, another speed merchant with a lot of experience in jet-powered cars, though he lacked Breedlove’s name recognition.

Like most contests of straight-line speed, the Bonneville Salt Flats would provide the venue.  But first, a couple of rule clarifications.  Land speed records are “two-way” records, meaning the runs have to be made in opposite directions (to cancel out wind assistance).  The speed of the vehicle is measured over a flying mile, and the vehicle has to complete both runs within an hour.

So, the Blue Flame would attempt to accelerate to more than 600 mph, get measured through the mile, slow down and stop, get turned around, and do it all again…in about an hour.  Got that?…it’s like LensCrafters, only at about the speed of sound.

It took a few days to get two runs completed, but the magic all happened on October 23, 1970, when Gabelich drove one direction at 617 mph and then returned at better than 627 mph, averaging 622 mph.  He had solidly bested Breedlove’s record and, what’s more, Gabelich’s record would stand until the 1980’s.

To give you some sense of scope, the other day I alluded to Usain Bolt’s staggering 100-meter dash, completed in something like 9.6 seconds.  The Blue Flame took 5.75 seconds…to cover a mile.

Now the mystery…

Researching this event is somewhat difficult, as some sources claim the record was set on October 23rd, while others indicate the 28th.  In fact, many of the same articles use both dates, making this a maddening exercise in trying to decipher when this really happened…it shouldn’t be this hard.  Furthermore, there are discrepancies in the reported top speed that Gary reached in the Blue Flame.  Again, even in the 70’s, precise measurements were possible, so an correct top speed should be attainable.

In the end, I used the date from The History Channel’s website as the official date, and used the speed that was most referenced from the 3 or 4 different sources I used.  So there you go…a history lesson that’s probably open for debate.

Clark Takes Secret Trip, Returns with Extra Baggage

It was October 21, 1942.  In Virginia, the mid-afternoon sun shone down on an invasion fleet.  To date, it was largest of its kind ever assembled.  It’s destination?…the coasts of North Africa where Operation Torch would be unleashed.

An ocean away, off the coast of North Africa, it was also October 21, 1942.  But the sun had ceased shining hours before, giving way to a sliver of moon.  Had anyone been in the right place at the right time (near the small fishing port of Cherchel in Algeria), they may have seen another invasion fleet silhouetted against the Mediterranean waters…albeit a much smaller fleet.

In fact, this “pre-invasion” invasion consisted of just one vessel…the submarine HMS Seraph.  And its mission was not to shell or torpedo or blow up anything.  It’s mission was to, as quietly as possible, drop off General Mark Clark (shown on the left).

The biggest question with the upcoming Allied landings was whether or not the armed forces of Vichy France would fight.  Since France had been overrun more than 2 years before, a Nazi-puppet government, overseen by Phillippe Pétain and centered in Vichy, had been in control.  But many generals and officers were still anti-German and looking for a way to turn and fight.  Operation Torch provided that avenue in North Africa.

But those leaders wanted a couple things.  First, they wanted to meet with a high-ranking American officer.  Second, they wanted a Frenchman in command of any invasion force, so French forces wouldn’t be seen again as “surrendering to an enemy”.  And that’s why General Clark was on a submarine, off the coast of Africa, hoping not to get caught.

Over the next 24 hours, he would meet with military leaders on a small farm, narrowly escaping capture by local police forces who were told of suspicious activity at the farm.  In addition, he and the men with him were successful in spiriting General Henri Giraud (shown on the right) back to the Seraph and out of North Africa.

Giraud had been designated to lead all Free French Forces that landed in Operation Torch…which inevitably led to the next problem.  The French General was under the (self-created) impression that he would be in overall command of all the Allied landing forces, which would have been a problem even had that position been available.  It was already taken…by General Dwight Eisenhower, who was certainly not interested in either giving up or sharing his position with a French officer who, while anti-Nazi, was also pro-Vichy and pro-Pétain.

And so, with just a couple days until U.S. forces left their berths in Virginia, and little more than two weeks until those men would land on African soil, the Allied high command already had a difficult diplomatic task ahead of itself.

Recommended Reading: An Army at Dawn

A Divine Wind Stirs the Balacat Trees

Today, East Airfield is just a field.  Every year, a crop of sugar cane is grown there.  When the time is right (like it is at some point every year), the sugar cane is harvested and turned into whatever sweet things it becomes.  And it’s then, when the sugar cane is removed, that the field presents the evidence of its prior occupation.  The outline of a runway.

This airfield, which only peeks out at harvest-time, sits at Mabalacat, with which some of you avid Today’s History Lesson readers are familiar, even if you don’t know it.  Mabalacat is a city in the northern region of the Pampanga Province, on the island of Luzon in the Philippines.  Right here.  If you move just a little to the south, you’ll discover Manila Bay.  Once you’ve hit water, if you move slightly west, you strike land again.  That’s the Bataan province, and now it’s starting to make sense to you.  Moving south down the Bataan Province, you’ll run into water again, and you’ll see a little island right there in the middle of Manila Bay’s mouth.  That’s Corregidor.  See, you kind of knew where it was.

Named for the large number of balacat trees (Ma-balacat in the native tongue means “full of balacats”), the area was, in 1944, also full of Japanese soldiers.  Having taken over the Philippines in the aftermath of their major offensive in late 1941, the Japanese military had been in control of the Philippines since very early 1942.  But things were about to change.  Luzon was about to be invaded again.

By American forces.  The U.S. Army was preparing to land on Luzon, and the Navy was gathering around Leyte Gulf to support the Army.

Which brings us back to East Airfield in Mabalacat.  The Japanese Navy’s 1st Air Fleet (based down in Manila) had been tasked with supporting the attacks on the U.S. Navy in Leyte Gulf.  The problem was that the 1st Air Fleet had just 40 aircraft left.  So on October 19, 1944, Vice Admiral Takajiro Onishi met with his officers at East Airfield and came up with the idea of suicide squadrons.  He believed that a single plane carrying a bomb could do tremendous damage to any ship, even a battleship, if the pilot would hit the ship with both bomb and plane.  In this manner, a few planes could become a formidable force.

And as General MacArthur stepped onto Philippine soil on October 20, 1944, the Kamikaze squadrons were born.  There had been individual suicide attacks before, but this was the first time the “kamikaze” concept was organized into purpose-built units.  Comprised of 23 pilots (all volunteers), the Shimpu Special Attack Corps (as it was called) was divided into four units and was led by the talented Lieutenant Yukio Seki.

It would take a few days to get things organized and prepared, but then these one-way attackers would take to the skies, and their first missions would end in dramatic fashion.  Stay tuned…we’ll discuss it shortly.

Black Monday: Stock Market Crash and Burn

It seems like October is “stock market” month.  In the years since 1791, when the Bank of the United States first issued stock, millionaires by the thousands have been made and destroyed through the vicissitudes of the market (ah, there’s that cool word again…remember it?) as it has navigated through this particular 31-day cycle.

A year ago, we touched on the wild swings in the market that were taking place as a lead-in to a brief discussion of the 1929 Crash.  October 2008 was highlighted by a rise of nearly 900 points in a single day, which had been preceded by a steep one-day drop of nearly 800 points.  In subsequent months, we watched the market drop nearly 4,000 points, delving to the mid-6000 point range.

The Dow Jones Industrial Average has now recovered about half of its losses since those roller-coaster days.  While the markets continue to be soft, the economy softer still, and consumer confidence somewhat low, it appears that the worst (for now) is over.

But since it’s a Monday, let’s talk for a minute about the Monday from 22 years ago.  October 19, 1987 saw me walking back and forth across the Iowa State University campus going from class to class.  It was my first semester as a college student and, after two months, I was getting used to the routine.

I was over at the Depot (the vending machine haven) getting something to eat, when I ran into my older brother.  He told me that the Stock Market was crashing big-time and was already down something like 300 points.  I remember being shocked.

It was the 80’s, so cell phones were unknown to us.  Laptops?…a handful of people owned them, but they were the size of a suitcase and weighed about 500 pounds.  And those that carried them had never heard of such a thing called “the Internet”.  Online brokers were still about 10 years from being a serious force, so anyone wanting to place an order that day needed to find a phone.  It’s like we were cavemen…

Anyways, the bloodbath continued throughout the day that came to be known as “Black Monday”, and the Dow finished down over 500 points.  The Dow began the day around 2200, so a drop of this size meant stocks lost more than 22% of their value…a staggering loss, in fact, the largest single-day percentage loss in stock market history.

A Mexican Jumping Beamon

Over the years, the Olympics have provided us with some really memorable moments.  Of the various Games I’ve seen, there are some I recall with varying degrees of clarity.

There was Bruce Jenner’s improbable Gold Medal in the decathlon.  Nadia Comaneci, the young Romanian whose perfect 10 stunned the gymnastics world.  Remember the diminutive Mary Lou Retton screaming down the runway and launching herself off the vault?  Or maybe you’re a speed person, and your mind’s eye paints Carl Lewis, working to match Jesse Owens’ 4 track-and-field Gold Medals.  Or maybe it’s the Miracle on Ice…the U.S. Hockey Team’s stunning defeat of the Soviet Union in 1980.

Younger folks might focus more on Michael Phelps’ 8 Golds…a staggering achievement.  Or how about Usain Bolt, the world’s fastest man?  Just wait until he really turns it loose.

There are dozens of other moments…those are a few that really stand out to me.  Moments that I actually remember seeing.

But Today’s History Lesson will look at one that I haven’t seen except in replays.  And when it occurred, it rocked the track and field world.

The 1968 Olympic Games were held in Mexico City, and many world records were broken throughout the event.  But more than 40 years later, there’s really only one event that’s remembered:  the long jump.  And to say Bob Beamon won the Gold is to completely miss what took place on October 18, 1968.

At the Olympic level, the caliber of athletic ability is so high and the competitors are so evenly matched that records are generally bested by inches or by tenths (or even hundredths) of a second.

But when the 22-year old Beamon took the 19 steps of his approach and launched himself, it appeared that he had achieved low-Earth orbit.  Reaching a height of 6 feet, he sailed almost to the end of the long-jump pit.  Bouncing out of the pit, he rabbit-hopped a bit and made his way back up the track.  When the distance was announced, 8.90 meters, he didn’t immediately react.  But when a teammate did the metric conversion for him, he collapsed to the ground.  8.90 meters translates to 29′ 2.5″.

Beamon was not only the first man to jump more than 29 feet, he was the first man to jump more than 28 feet.  The previous record, 27′ 4.75″, had not been bested.  It had been shattered…by nearly 2 feet.  In the 6 seconds required to start and complete his record-breaking jump, Bob Beamon had gone from world-class long-jumper to Olympic legend.

Of course, there were detractors quick to point out how Beamon was aided.  Mexico City sits at nearly 7500 feet above sea level, which means there’s a lot less atmosphere when compared with other locations, and he made his run with a significant tailwind.

But in his defense, all the athletes competed in the same conditions and were assisted equally…it was Beamon who set the record.  And his record would stand for 23 years, only to be broken by Mike Powell (by about 2 inches) in 1991.

Bob Beamon would never match his 29-foot effort again.  In fact, he would never even reach 27 feet again.  But on this day, Beamon soared into the record books in incredible fashion.  His jump and reaction to learning he had broken 29′ are one of the great moments in Olympic history.

Recommended Viewing:  Bob Beamon’s incredible leap.

Goering Escapes the Frying Pan…

Here I am, trapped behind these bars.  If there was any way to escape, I’d do it.  Many of my subordinates did get away, and are probably halfway to Argentina by now.  Hitler was right…those stupid Generals cost us the war and then a bunch of them got away.

My Luftwaffe did everything possible, but Speer’s directives made it impossible for me to put together the air power we needed!  Speer, Speer, SPEER!!!  Always the humble one, so sorry, SO contrite!!  The apple of the court’s eye…he’ll probably be sentenced to live in Carinhall…figures…

I wonder how dear Emmy is doing?

I wonder what’s happened with Carinhall?  Is it still standing?  Ah, those were the good times!  The music, the artwork, the statues, the fancy rugs, those fancy parties…I miss it!  All those Jews that made Carinhall possible…and the place in Berchtesgaden.  I wondered what happened to all of those Jews…I probably know, but then again, I don’t…

Hehehe…I convinced that jury that I wasn’t anti-semitic…well, I almost did.  That letter to Heydrich just before Wannsee was the dagger in my defense.  How was that not destroyed?!?

Why didn’t Bormann just leave me alone?!?  I wasn’t trying to take over.  I thought Hitler was incapacitated, and I was the next in command.  I had the letter from Hitler from way back…’41, maybe ‘42.  It was in the safe!  Didn’t we all just want the fighting to end?

Couldn’t we have worked together for just once?!?  Negotiate the peace, then make for the Alps?  If Bormann hadn’t gotten all power-hungry and had me arrested…ME!!!…we probably would all be safely out of harm’s way.  I made Martin Bormann!!  He was a nobody…and he wasn’t captured, so he’s probably living it up south of the equator as well.

Well, they’re going to hang me tomorrow.  I should be shot…actually, they should be shot and I should living it up with Emmy and the little darling someplace not in Europe.  Hehehe…at least I’ll cheat the hangman with my bit of insurance.  Bit…more like a “bite” of insurance.

Oop…wave at the guard and give a half smile.  Yeah buddy, you think I’m gonna swing tomorrow.  You won’t be back for at least 10 minutes.

Well, I guess this worked for Hitler…and Frau Goebbels said she set it aside for the kids.  Just bite and wait, eh?  I suppose I’d rather the last sound I hear be glass breaking than my neck.  Goodbye world, goodbye Emmy, goodbye guard…a little wave even though you can’t see me…goodbye October 15, 1946…

I wonder who’ll get fired when they find me…ok, little pill, one chomp and I’ll be gone…forever…to nothing…here goes…yeow, glass hurts no matter how sma…

 

 

huh…I didn’t think I’d still be awake…this is weird.  Least it’s warm.  I wonder wher…what’s th…uh oh…

Recommended Reading:  Angels of Death: Goering’s Luftwaffe

U-47 Threads the Needle and Fells the Mighty Oak

As October 13, 1939 ended, the HMS Royal Oak was sitting in the relative quiet of Scapa Flow.  Located within the Orkney Islands off the northern tip of Scotland, Scapa Flow was a natural harbor surrounded by islands (right about here).  Its beauty as a harbor had been recognized as far back as ships had been in the area…at least to the time of the Vikings.

The British had fortified it, adding some “water hazards” in the form of ships, sunk at strategic locations, scattered around the entrances.  Floating booms operated by tugboats were installed and underwater cables were also run.  Scapa Flow was deemed secure from sea (particularly submarine) attack.

With the “formal” outbreak of hostilities between Germany and Britain in September of 1939, Scapa Flow became important again…to both sides of the conflict.  The Germans saw it as a big threat to their North Atlantic raiding missions and the British saw it as, well, a big threat to the German North Atlantic raiding missions.  Early on, Karl Donitz (at that time the main submarine guy) wanted to get into Scapa Flow and put the hurt on the large British fleet there.

His man for the job was Gunther Prien, a daring and skilled sub commander.  And so, as October 13, 1939 ended, Prien’s submarine (the U-47) was also in the relative quiet of Scapa Flow.  Having carefully threaded the harbor’s defenses, he was looking for targets…but the fleet was gone.  I mentioned earlier that the British believed Scapa Flow to be safe from sea attack.  But recent overflights by German reconaissance aircraft had the British a little bit nervous about air attacks.  And so most of the fleet had been dispersed.

The HMS Royal Oak had not.

This WWI-era battleship was no longer a front-line ship.  Her recent foray into the North Atlantic in pursuit of the Gneisenau (a German battleship) had solidified the fact that the Mighty Oak (as she was called) could no longer keep up with the more modern ships and no longer had the matching firepower or armor.  And what’s more, the worsening weather had left the old battlewagon bruised, battered, and in need of repair.  So she remained in Scapa Flow as a floating anti-aircraft platform…

…and a target for U-47.  As October 14, 1939 began, Captain Prien had spotted Royal Oak and fire a spread of torpedoes.  Only one hit the ship’s bow, causing the seaman onboard to believe something had exploded in the front of the ship, but no serious alarm was raised.  U-47 turned around and fired another spread, and all three hit with devastating effect.  The Royal Oak quickly listed, then rolled, then sank 13 minutes later.  Despite being just half a mile from the shore, 833 men died in the attack.

And U-47 disappeared into the morning darkness and returned to a hero’s welcome in Germany.  Donitz, his boss, was promoted to Admiral, and every member of the crew received a medal.  War had come to the British Navy.

Recommended Reading:  The Royal Oak website – A bunch of great information.

Corporal Andrusko: 1 Bullet, 3 Wounds, 1 Miracle

Vicissitudes.

I love that word.  The way it rolls off the tongue…it’s smooth.  Vicissitudes.  The first time I heard that word was, somewhat surprisingly, during an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.  Mike and the Bots were making fun of the short A Date with Your Family, which preceded the movie Invasion USA (which happens to be the very first episode I recorded).  During their most “pleasant” conversation, Gypsy mentions “the vicissitudes of sport”.  I had no idea what it meant, so I looked it up.  According to the dictionary, “vicissitude” means “a favorable or unfavorable event or situation that occurs by chance.”

I suppose life is full of favorable and unfavorable events.  Yesterday, we looked at a most unfavorable one in the death of Andy Haldane on the island of Peleliu.  Today, let’s look at the exact opposite situation, also from Peleliu.

Corporal Eddy Lee Andrusko was a member of I/3/7 Marines, and October 13, 1944 was a day he would likely never forget.  One day after Haldane’s death rocked K/3/5, Andrusko was ordered with the rest of his men to take a hill.  As they did, the Corporal narrowly escaped death when three Japanese soldiers jumped from a hiding place right behind them and charged with bayonets into the Marines.  Two were immediately dispatched, but the third took seven bullets from Andrusko’s rifle before falling just inches in front of the stunned soldier.  One of his buddies referred to the now-dead enemy as “Super-Jap”.  The vicissitudes of battle…and Andrusko’s day wasn’t nearly over.

Taking the hill without further struggle, the men dug in.  Awaiting an attack, they instead received supplies and mail.  The Marine Corporal sat down behind a large rock, took off his helmet, and began leafing through his letters.  The first letter was from the draft board, warning him to get signed up…that was pretty funny.  The second was from his girlfriend, who told him she was marrying another man…that was not funny.  The vicissitudes of life.

As he opened the third letter, a sniper’s bullet shot across his right forearm, hit the rosary cross around his neck (denting it), hit his left forearm, then bounced off the rock behind him, and hit him in the back, before falling into his helmet.  Eddy Lee Andrusko had been hit 3 times with the same bullet and suffered only very minor injuries…the vicissitudes of battle.  None of the injuries was bad enough to get him evacuated out.  But they would become so…

…over the next few days, Andrusko’s modest wounds festered in the bug-ridden, heat-soaked Peleliu environment, and soon he was threatened with gangrene and near death with blood poisoning.  But again, he would survive.

Accounts of warfare are studded with the kinds of stories we’ve seen the last two days.  Incredible, tragic loss and miraculous escape.  “Vicissitude” is a word that suddenly becomes us…