Captain George Gussman on Motivating Americans

1st Lieutenant George Gussman, US Army, 1943

My Dad, George Gussman, grew up in Boston. He was the fourth of six sons of a Russian Jewish couple who fled to America in 1900 to escape murder and oppression.  My grandparents quickly assimilated in their new country.  They named the first two boys Abraham and Immanuel. The next four were Ralph, George, Lewis and Harold.  

Dad enlisted just before World War II, almost too old to enlist at age 34. When the war broke out, he was sent to Officer Candidate School and commissioned.  His fist command was a Black company in the then-segregated Army.  He later commanded a Prisoner of War Camp for German Afrika Korps prisoners.

Whether running a warehouse, or an Army unit, Dad said the best way to motivate Americans was to tell them they could not do something.  "Tell 'em they can't and they will show you they can," Dad would say. "Tell a driver there's too much snow to get to a load New Hampshire and he'll be there ten minutes early and calling to bitch they haven't plowed the unloading dock."  

If Dad were alive today he would be 114 years old. But he is still right about Americans. Tell us we can't and we will.  

America kept the world from falling into tyranny by defeating Naziism and then defending the world against Soviet Communism.  I have been terribly worried about tomorrow's election, but right now I am thinking about the poll workers in 3,000 counties who are being told by Trump forces that they can't do a fair vote count and they can't protect their polls.

They've been told they can't. 

They will. 

They are Americans. 

r   

Boston Traffic: Rules Made Up on the Spot

My Home Town, Boston

Boston traffic is now the worst in the nation, maybe worst in the world according to a new survey.  It's not simply the volume of traffic. It's the roads: the diabolical design of the roads that makes chaos that sometimes can only be unravelled by making up rules on the spot.

My father was a truck driver and a warehouse worker. Born before World War I, he liked to say he began as a Teamster shoveling shit when Beantown still used horse-drawn wagons.  The cobblestone roads only slowly gave way to pavement, so by the time I was a kid in the late 50s and early 60s many key road junctions were still paved for horses.

My Dad worked at a grocery warehouse next to the former Hood Milk plant in what is now Bunker Hill Community College in Charlestown. To drive a truck north from the warehouse meant driving around the cobblestone rotary at Sullivan Square. To go south meant passing through cobbled City Square rotary then turning a tractor-trailer into an alley that was the only access to the bridge to the Southeast Expressway.

One Friday in the summer of 1961, my Dad had to take a refrigerated load south to Taunton.  His company had just upgraded from 32-foot to 40-foot refrigerated trailers.  I had gone to work with my Dad, so when he got the assignment, I got to ride in the cab.  Ahhh, the days before liability lawyers decided everything.

We rumbled around the cobblestone rotary at 5 mph.  When Dad turned into the alley, he misjudged the new trailer. It was his first time pulling a 40-footer.  He clipped the rear fender of a new Chevy Belair parked illegally right on the corner and pushed the shiny, blue sedan into an iron street lamp pole.  The car was crunched at both ends.

My Dad got down from the cab. A thousand horns honked at the brightly painted tractor trailer blocking the alley.  As my Dad wrote his information on a piece of paper, an enormous, red-faced Boston Cop strode through the stalled traffic yelling at my Dad to get moving.

My Dad started to protest that the car was illegally parked. I hung out the window wondering if my Dad would be arrested.  The Big Cop grabbed the paper and tore it up.  "Get moving. Get out of here," he yelled. "That drunk son-of-a-bitch parks there every Friday and fucks everything up. Fuck him. Get going."

My Dad thanked him, swung into the cab and with one more move, rumbled down the alley toward Taunton.

Whoever decided it was a good idea to funnel the major route from the north side of Boston through a cobblestone rotary and an alley is just one of the idiots who made driving in Boston such an adventure when I was a kid.

I have no doubt Boston traffic is currently the worst in the world. I wonder who else ever held the title.

The Painting in My Living Room by a Prisoner of War

 A Picture of Bavaria on My Living Room Wall

Painted by an Afrika Korps Prisoner of War

When I look up from reading on the couch at night when the house is quiet, I see this painting. It was painted by an enlisted man serving in the Afrika Korps who was a Prisoner of War of the American Army.

The POW camp he was a prisoner in for more than two years was in Reading, Pennsylvania. The site is now the Reading Airport.

The painting was a gift from the prisoner to the camp commandant, my father, Capt. George Gussman. When my father took command of the camp in 1944, most of the prisoners had been there for more than a year.

On the day he took command, my father lined up the officers to introduce himself and let them know what he expected from the prisoners. One of the officers whispered that my father was a Jew. Which is true. He was also a ranked middleweight boxer before he enlisted. He called the man out of formation and hit him hard enough to lay him out cold in front of the other officers.

Dad then sent his guards into the barracks for and inspection that led to confiscating hundreds of Hershey bars the prisoners had bought with the money they earned in work on local farms.  These candy bars became my mother's engagement present from Dad.  That story is here.

My Dad never went overseas in World War II. He enlisted before the war started at 34 years old. As a rule, the Army did not send soldiers that old into combat during World War II.

After the initial drama, Dad had no more trouble and got along well with the prisoners.  The prisoners were repatriated several months after the war ended, and few applied to stay in America and pursue citizenship.

The painting reminds of the ironies of war--that soldiers from the country that killed millions of Jews would be prisoners in a POW camp run by the son of Jewish immigrants.  I keep that token of respect and affection on my wall. It hung on the wall of the home I grew up in. I will pass it to the next generation.

The prisoners my father was in charge of were captured far from home in a war that was already going against Germany. Prisoners of War in any Army are brave men who faced the enemy and death and survived.

Courage and Fear: My Father on Fist Fights and Doctors

The ideal of the courageous person is one who can and will face any threat and pain in any situation with equal grace. That ideal person could go to war, find out they have cancer, or get a root canal with equal and undisturbed equanimity. Senator John Glenn and Major Richard Winters seem the closest to the ideal of hero who is brave in every circumstance.

But most real people don't work that way.

My father was a professional boxer.  Every time he stepped into the ring, he knew he was going to be hurt.  But he climbed between the ropes, raised his hands and got punched by another guy who could hit--hard.  The courage that got him in the ring led him to enlist in the Army and serve through and after World War II.

But he was afraid of doctors and hospitals.  His fear was partly inherited from his Russian-Jewish immigrant parents. For a Jew to enter a Russian hospital in the 19th Century meant they had the most dire illness.

Dad lost that fear of doctors in the last decade of his life when doctors and hospitals became a regular and familiar part of his world. He had a brain tumor removed when he was 66. During the next decade he had colon cancer and related problems, then the kidney cancer that finally took his life at 77. In that last decade of his life he faced surgery and recovery again and again.

On the other hand, there are certainly people who are afraid of nearly everything. Some people are hypochondriac, agoraphobic or so swallowed by fear that they can barely function.  The characters Woody Allen plays are close to the inverse of John Glenn and Dick Winters.

To re-cast a nerd joke:  Courage is non-linear, so is fear.

Great Dad, Ordinary Dad: So Different for Sons

My son Nigel and I walking to Church

Young boys learn how to be men by watching their fathers.

The son of a house painter who works for his Dad during the summers then joins the family business has comfortable relationship with who his father is and what his father does.  The son learns over years of apprenticeship that he can do the kind of work Dad does. Dad is not pushing him to do something "great."  Nor is the son striving to do something beyond his reach.

I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if I had not tried so hard to be my Dad. I simply did not have the physical ability to do the things my Dad did, so I spent 50 years striving to make up the deficit I felt.  

My Dad, as I have written elsewhere, was a middleweight boxer and a minor-league pitcher for the Reading Phillies.  I have no ability to play stick-and-ball sports, nor did I have any ability to box.  My biggest fight at age 17 was a school-yard fight that sent me to the hospital with several broken bones.  My Dad also dropped out of school at the end of the eighth grade and got a job to help his immigrant family.  When I was growing up, my Dad was a Teamster, a truck driver and warehouseman, who told stories about being a soldier, a boxer and playing ball.  

I knew boxer and ballplayer were hopeless goals for me, but Teamster and soldier were possible.  All through high school I barely passed classes not from lack of ability but because I want to hang with the kids who were not going to college.  My tenth-grade English teacher told me the only reason I passed her class was that she did not want to have me again the next year.  She told me I would never be able to write.  

During that summer, like every summer since I was 12, I swept floors at the warehouse where my father worked, 40 hours a week, Tuesday to Saturday.  During the breaks and lunch, I would sit on pallet and read.  That summer I read a half-dozen popular science books by Isaac Asimov about chemistry and physics and many chapters of Amateur Radio Relay League manual.  Because I was in the lowest level of English courses, it would be a decade before I learned of the magic in The Divine Comedy and 19th Century Russian novels. But if I had known, I would have been reading the Great Books out of love, not for grades.

Though my real interest was in science and literature, I made cars and work the center of my life, knowing that later I could be a soldier and a Teamster.  After high school I got a Teamsters warehouse job.  Six months later I enlisted in the waning years of the Vietnam War. For as long as I could remember, I was sure I was not the son my father wanted, but when I enlisted, a little of the burden lifted.  

When my Dad died 12 years later, I was in graduate school.  After seven years in the military, I got out, went to college, fell in love with Dante and the Russians and finally started the life I should have been pursuing since I was a kid.  Even with a successful career as a writer and a big family, I still felt the haunting feeling that I was not and would never be the man my father was.  I have met other men through my life who felt the same thing.  I know a guy who is a senior editor at the New York Times.  His Dad was leading surgeon, and wanted his son to be a surgeon.  My friend could feel that disappointment until the day his Dad died.  

We talked once about how we could keep from doing the same thing to our sons, and decided it was probably hopeless.  I was very proud of my Dad.  I loved the idea that I was the son of the toughest guy in a Teamsters warehouse with 300 drivers and dock workers.  But I never felt that he loved anything I was doing.

So for my sons, I am cheering when my older son boxes, cheering when my younger son sings and drums, and trying to help them figure out the best school for them to have a job and a life they will like. 

I did not get over thinking about being a disappointment to my Dad until I got home from Iraq.  Until then, I had doubted myself in many ways including personal courage.  But when I stepped off the plane that took us home to America, I decided I had nothing to prove on that score.  

In the 34 years since my Dad died, I have wanted him to meet his grandchildren.  I wanted to tell him about the 30 countries and five continents I visited.  I wanted to convince him I had done something he could be proud of.  But after Iraq, I just wanted to talk to him.  In his words, I wanted to "shoot the shit" about nothing in particular.  Finally, I felt as if my Dad and I could just talk.  And on this Father's Day, I will be thinking about how to make sure my own sons don't have to wait 56 years for that day.

At Home Dad: With Five Baby Mommas!!

On the Thursday before Easter in 2007, I called Sgt. 1st Class Kevin Askew, the recruiter for the 28th Combat Aviation Brigade, and started the process of re-enlisting in the Army.  That chapter of my life will end in just over a month.

Earlier this week, one of my Conservative friends asked me what I was going to do now that I was no longer working and was leaving the Army.  I told him I was going to be a stay-at-home Dad receiving a government check:  Social Security.

He quickly said I earned my government check from working and it's not like I had kids with five different women.

As soon as he said it I burst out, "Yes I do!!  My six kids have five Baby Mommas!"  In addition to my two biological daughters, I have a step daughter, an adopted daughter and two adopted sons. They are all legally my kids, but they all have different mothers.  My six kids really do have five Baby Mommas.

And that is my post-Army career.

Photos from My Father's 1st Command, Black Company World War 2

During the early months of World War 2, my father went to Officer Candidate School.  Since he was very old in Army year, 36, his first command was in Pennsylvania, a Black Company at Camp Shenango near Erie, Pa.

My son Jacari scanned one of the albums today.  Here are some of the photos from my Dad's scrapbook:

Dad's Last Fist Fight

This year I am the age my Dad was when he fought and won his last fist fight.  And on Friday of this week, my adopted son Jacari will follow in Dad's very large footsteps taking his first boxing lesson at Nye's Gym in Lancaster.

George Gussman was 62 years old on the summer day of his last fight.  He was a working foreman at the grocery warehouse for the Purity Supreme supermarket chain.  They had dozens of stores in New England in the 60s and 70s.  I am sure they have been bought and sold many times since.

On that day, I was also working in the warehouse.  I was 15 years old and had been working summers and Saturdays since I was 12, sweeping floors and cleaning garbage out from the truck and train loading docks.

On that afternoon I was on the west end of the warehouse cleaning out the area where the freight cars unloaded.  On the opposite end of the three-acre building in Charlestown, Massachusetts, near Sullivan Square, was the truck loading dock.  I had not cleaned the garbage there yet.  School just got out for summer, and cleaning dozens of truck and train docks of months of dropped groceries and produce was a job of many weeks--job security.

So I was a quarter mile away under a freight car when a 30-year-old driver from Texas walked up to the Receiver and said he had waited long enough and he was unloading next.  The big Texan, complete with a white cowboy hat shoved the Receiver.  One of the two hundred-plus warehouse workers ran and got my Dad.  The janitor I worked for could sense trouble and ran to get me.

Dad was a middleweight boxer when he was in his 20s and pitched for the Reading Phillies.  He was one of the toughest guys among those two hundred Teamsters.  I saw none of what happened next, but heard roughly similar accounts from at least a dozen guys.

Dad walked up to the angry Texan and said, "What's the problem here?" The Receiver was my Dad's age and had a heart condition.  At that time, a heart condition meant staying calm, or you die.

The Texan looked at my Dad and said, "What is this, a retirement home?  Look you old bastard, I'm unloading next or I'll kick both your asses."

Dad stepped closer.  The Texan took a swing.  He missed.  Dad hit him somewhere between five and 100 times (I think ten was the most agreed upon number) and knocked him flat on the loading platform.  The platforms were hinged and tilted down.  By all accounts Dad shoved the Texan with his foot and rolled him off the platform into the garbage I had not cleaned yet.

Dad stood over him, threw his hat down and said, "You'll wait your fucking turn.  Get back in line."  Then Dad turned and walked away.  I saw him walk back to work.  When he was out of sight, a dozen guys came up to me and said, "Did you see that?  Your Dad kicked his ass."

Now that I am the age my Dad was for his last fight, I remember how much I wanted to be as tough as him all the time I was growing up.  I wanted to be a soldier because Dad was a soldier.

Dad was tough to the end.  Three years later at 65 he started his last and longest fight.  Dad had brain tumor, probably from multiple concussions.  He had had his nose broken four times.  The operation that followed nearly killed him, but he recovered and lived another twelve years.

My Dad and I, by the Numbers on Veterans Day

If my father were alive on this Veterans Day in 2013 he would be 107 years old.  In a strange coincidence of numbers my father left the Army at age 54 after 19 years of service. He did not choose to leave but was forced out without a retirement by the age in grade law passed by the U.S. Congress.

George Gussman enlisted in 1939 for two years. He was 34 years old and just barely got in under the age limit for enlistment which is 34 years and 364 days. On your 35th birthday you are too old to join the Army. After two years of service as an enlisted man, he was going to get out in December 1941. But in December 1941 all discharges were put on hold and Dad stayed in the Army not only for the duration of World War 2, but a total of 19 years.

Although he had only an eighth grade education he had worked in warehouses and the Army needed officers so dad went to Officer Candidate School.   He was commissioned a second lieutenant in 1942. Dad's first command was a black company at Camp Shenango, Pennsylvania.

The Army was not going to send my father overseas because as I well know in Army years my dad was impossibly old in the 1940s. His next command was a prisoner of war camp in what is now the Reading, Pa., Airport.   He served there until the end of the war in charge of 600 Afrika Korps prisoners.

After the war he became a reserve officer and served weekends and summers expecting to retire when he reached 20 years of service. But the age and grade law forced Maj. Gussman out with 19 years and no retirement. He was 54 years old at the time. He left the Army in 1958 when I was five years old.

 I was in high school before I realized how deeply hurt my dad was by the age in grade law and what it meant to him. He was a career soldier he served during World War II and just before he would've got a retirement was rejected. If he blamed anyone he blamed John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Kennedy was a  congressman at the time and voted for this law.

Almost 50 years after my father discharged from the Army I reenlisted in the Army in August 2007 at age 54. At the time I reenlisted I had to sign an initial several pieces of paper said yes I understand I will not be able to retire. I was being allowed back in the Army because the enlistment age was temporarily raised 42 and I had 11 years of prior service so I could get back in with a waiver. But I could not stay in the military long enough to accumulate 20 years and retire. For those who don't know the military retirement requires 20 years of service. As my father showed at 19 years you get nothing.

So in 2015 I will leave the military a year or two short of retiring.

 I got out of the military in 1985 because I was 32 years old and assumed that before I could get 20 years of service I would end up fighting in a war in a desert. On top of that if I survived the desert war I thought was in my future I wouldn't collect any money until I was 60 years old because that's how reserves retirement works. If I had stayed in the Army reserve in the tank unit I was in I would've served during Desert Storm but it was over so quickly I would never have actually gone to Iraq.

And I would have started collecting my military pension this year. But as things turned out I went to my desert war anyway two decades later than I thought and I won't be getting the pension.  I can smile about this.  My Dad was bitter, but I hope wherever he is he can smile at the irony of this.

Reading Airport--Where my Dad Served In World War 2

After dropping off infantry soldiers at the Reading Armory, we flew to Reading Airport. This small municipal airport has very little passenger traffic. During World War 2, the place was bustling. The airport served as a transhipment point for P-47 and P-51 fighter aircraft and B-24 bombers going into combat.

According to the poster in the display case, the northeast corner of Reading Airport also served as a Prisoner of War camp. The last commandant of that camp during the war was 1st Lieutenant George Gussman. The POW camp housed 600 mostly Afrika Corps German prisoners captured in 1942 and 43.

Dad was the third commandant. In one of his many war stories about the camp, Dad said those prisoners had driven the last two commanders nuts with Geneva Convention complaints.

The previous commandants were young officers wounded and in charge of the camp while they recovered their health. Their heart was not in it and they got out of there as soon as they could. Dad came to command of the POW camp after commanding a black maintenance company. He was very old (almost 40!!!) so he was not goign to be sent overseas. He was Jewish, the son of Russian-Jewish immigrants who escaped the pogroms of late 19th century Russia.

He was a middleweight boxer before he joined the Army and not inclined to take crap from German prisoners.

At an early meeting with the prisoners, one of them made a remark about Dad being a Jew. Dad knew Yiddish and enough German to know understand the remark.

Dad laid him out and let them know this was his camp and would run by his rules. Elsewhere on this blog I have written about The Engagement Present--600 chocolate bars Dad confiscated from the prisoners and gave to his future bride--and my Mom.

I haven't been here for almost 30 years. There is not much evidence that the camp ever existed. But it was a big part of my Dad's life, and the subject of many stories I heard as a kid.

My Dad on Political Violence

My Dad's stories about World War 2 were a big part of my childhood.  They were not the stories I saw on Combat! on TV or read in comics like Sgt. Rock or Sgt. Nick fury and His Howling Commandos.  My Dad enlisted two years before World War 2 actually started and would have gotten out in December of 1941, but no one was discharged from the Army after December 7, 1941.  My father barely made the enlistment cut-off age of 35 at the time he enlisted.  Since he was so old (35 when the war started) and had experience working in a warehouse, the Army sent him to Officer's Candidate School.  My Dad was 15 years older than the average 2nd lieutenant, so he never went overseas.  His first assignment was as a platoon leader in a Black maintenance company in the segregated Army of World War.

Shortly after he was assigned to Camp Shenango in PA, he was the officer on duty on a weekend.  That weekend there was a race riot.  My Dad went out of the headquarters and found himself in front of an armed mob.  He said the young soldier in front had "a 30 Ought 6 aimed right at my belly button."  My father told the soldier with the rifle to "take it easy."  Then he heard someone in the back say "shoot the white . . . "  The words in the rest of the description got coarser as I got older.  I'll assume Motherf##cker was the used at some point.  

Hearing the cowards in the back egging the man in front on, my Dad spoke to the shaking young man in front with the rifle.  "If you pull that trigger the MPs are going to shoot you.  If they don't shoot you they'll hang you.  Nothing will happen to the son of a bitch in the back telling you what to do."  The soldier put down his rifle.  My Dad ordered the men back to their barracks and as far as I know never said anything further about the incident.  He commanded a black company before being reassigned to Fort Indiantown Gap and a German Prisoner of War Camp in Reading.  He kept in touch with some of his sergeants after the war.

Lately I have heard several people say that the Liberty Tree is watered with the blood of Patriots.  When someone on the radio says this to his audience, you can bet he means their blood, not his.  My Dad was a Massachusetts Republican as long as I can remember and would still be one if he were alive now (He would be 104).  But he was a man who never backed down from a fight and had no use for "rabble rousers" the kind of people who start trouble and let others take the risks. 

I must have heard that story 50 times growing up.  I don't know why, but I did not think of that particular story until a few days ago, but it does help me understand why I dislike the current Patriot movement.  Talk Radio hosts by definition "lead" from the back, not from the front.  I just returned from serving in Iraq with an aviation task force in which all of the seniors officers including the commander flew missions--they led from the cockpit, not just from their desks.