Battle of the Tanks, Kursk, 1943: A Review

-->

In July of 1943, the German Army’s ability to attack the Soviet Army ended in smoking wrecks and twisted bodies.  The German attack on Kursk was supposed to turn the war around and put the Wehrmacht back on the offensive. A series of delays that gave the Soviets time to prepare massive defenses doomed the attack from the start—before the start.

In his book, Battle of the Tanks, Kursk, 1943, Lloyd Clark tells the story of Kursk beginning with the rise to power of both Hitler and Stalin. Clark makes the case that the strengths and weaknesses of these two men made the biggest tank battle in history inevitable.

Clark mixes eyewitness accounts of tank crews and other soldiers on both sides with the high-level view of Generals and the two Supreme Commanders.  He begins in the 1930s when both leaders consolidated power and traces decisions on both sides that led to what remains the largest tank battle in the history of the world. 

One of the key differences between Hitler and Stalin in the view of Lloyd is that while both retained the title of Supreme Commander, Stalin was willing to name Georgy Zhukov his deputy and ceded much power to him in deciding the conduct of the battle. 

Hitler trusted no one else. In the view of most of Hitler’s generals, the battle should have begun on schedule in April. In Kursk Hitler repeated his error of 1941 in delaying Operation Barbarossa until June 22.  Hitler held back his forces until the arrival of Panther and Tiger tanks.  But in the three months that the Germans delayed, the Russians added layers and depth to their defenses.   By July, the Russians were dug in and outnumbered the Germans nearly two to one.

In the grinding dozen days of battle total casualties far exceeded a million killed and wounded. The Russians lost more men by far than the Germans, but, as the Germans lamented, the Russian reserves seemed inexhaustible and the German reserves were exhausted. 

After Kursk, the German Army fell back for nearly two years until the Soviet Army captured Berlin.

Lloyd does a good job of telling the story of the battle as well as keeping the broader context. 

Animal Farm: George Orwell's Story of the Soviet Union and Revolution

The original title, Animal Farm: A Fairy Story

On July 3, I was talking to a friend who mistrusts politics of every kind. After thinking about what he said, I realized the George Orwell’s book Animal Farm agreed with him. I re-read Orwell’s tale, alternately laughing and cringing at this dark view of human nature. 

The original title was Animal Farm: A Fairy Story. Like many other tales in this genre, before Disney, this fairy tale ends sadly.

Animal Farm can be read as a very good re-telling of the history of the Soviet Union from the death of Lenin until the end of World War II.  For years after the death of Lenin, Stalin and Trotsky fought for control. Trotsky was a revolutionary idealist. Stalin was ruthless. Stalin won.  And over time, Stalin erased the memory of Trotsky and other heroes of the Revolution.

Orwell’s tale also describes the fate of nearly all revolutions except the American Revolution.  I will be writing later about Hannah Arendt’s book On Revolutions. She explains why America did not descend into the fate of France, Russia, and nearly every revolution of the last two centuries. 

In the revolt on the Manor Farm, the animals throw the farmer off his land and run the farm themselves.  The pigs are the cleverest creatures and take over management of the farm.  At first they set up a socialist utopia, but strife begins, especially between the two pigs vying for leadership: Napoleon (Stalin) and Snowball (Trotsky). Eventually Napoleon trains attack dogs and exiles Snowball.  He continues to consolidate pig power, until finally the pigs make friends with their human neighbors and oppress the rest of the animals as badly as the humans. 

After overthrowing the Tsar, the common people of Russia ended up with worse oppression in the form of the Soviet Union. By the end of Animal Farm the animals other than pigs were worse off than they were under the farmer. 

My friend’s view of politics is vindicated in Orwell.  Checks and balances are all that stands between any nation and its own Animal Farm. Orwell said his goal in writing was to promote Democratic Socialism. He wanted to ensure no ruler could consolidate absolute power, left or right. 

So I can read Orwell as a call to go and fight for democracy. My friend can read Orwell as a parable of why political involvement will lead nowhere good. 

We both agreed in our conversation, that the history of the Church taking power was simply bad.  Every government run in God’s ends with people saying they are doing God’s will when they crush others.

In Animal Farm the pigs set up a government based on Seven Commandments of how animals should behave. Over time the pigs violate, rewrite and finally erase all of the commandments and replace it with a new one: 

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

--> Every theocracy, every tyranny, every authoritarian government could use this motto.

Who Fights Our Wars: Sgt. 1st Class Thomas, Gospel Worship Leader, Tanker

In the 70s chaplains came to the Army with graduate degrees and credentials as Priests, Pastors, or Rabbis from their religions.  The chapel system tried to cover every spiritual need. But the chaplains also recognized their limits.  So in the Wiesbaden Military Community in the 1970s, the very proper Colonel in charge of the chaplains in the community authorized a Gospel service every Sunday night in the main chapel. 

The Pastor of the mostly Black congregation on Sunday night was Sergeant First Class Thomas (I can’t remember his first name). His Sunday night services were long, loud and a sharp contrast with the United Methodist morning services. 

The choir in the Gospel Service numbered more than fifty, singing, swaying, clapping and shimmering in blue robes. The service began and ended with music and prayers. In the middle was a sermon with deep lows, soaring highs and its own rhythm. 

In his office in battalion headquarters of 1st Battalion, 70th Armor, Thomas was the re-enlistment sergeant.  He enlisted in the early 60s, served two tours in the Vietnam War in infantry if I remember correctly. He switched to Armor later.

He filled out the endless paperwork required re-enlist. But the calm, detail-oriented man behind the retention desk was on fire in the pulpit.  He could deliver lines that were dire warnings in a way that would make me smile even while I felt the cold wind of condemnation blow in.

He would grab the pulpit with both hands.  He would hesitate, look directly at the congregation, then beginning in a low voice say, “Only your own faith will open the doors of Heaven. Sittin’ in a garage don’t make you a car, and sittin’ in this Church don’t make you a Christian! –at this point his volume was close to max – Only your own personal faith in Jesus will get you into Heaven.”

Another exhortation to personal faith delivered from low to crescendo ended with “We must be children of God. [Long Pause.] God don’t have any grandchildren.  Your grandma’s faith won’t get you to Heaven. And don’t you think you are foolin’ that faithful woman. She knows you need faith, and a whoopin’!”

After Wiesbaden, the next time I went to Black Church was in the summer of 2007.  I was in a neck and chest brace after a near-fatal bicycle accident. We went to an African Methodist Episcopal Church in the Lancaster City. My wife and I were two of the three white people among hundreds of people in the pews. It was a new and delightful experience for my wife. For me, it was just like the Wiesbaden Military Community.

A few months before our visit, I made the casual remark to my wife, quoting SFC Thomas, that 11 a.m. Sunday was the most segregated hour in America. Soon after, my wife started visiting Black and Latino and other Churches. They were very different the Presbyterian Church we attended. 

As was true in Wiesbaden, the Lancaster preacher illustrated his sermon with vivid metaphor. But the best and most memorable moment for us was when the minister called the children to the front of the Church to listen to a story.  He retold the story of the Good Samaritan as a man shot and left for dead in a side street right near the Church.  A preacher walked past the bleeding man, a star football player from the neighborhood walked past the man, and then there was a hush. The preacher told about a man who picked the wounded man up out of the gutter, took to the emergency room and paid his bill. 

Who was this man? 

The preacher boomed:  A man from Lititz! Yes, a man from Lititz saved him. The man from Lititz was truly a neighbor.

The kids clapped. The adults laughed. I thought I was going to re-break some of my cracked ribs I was laughing so hard.  Lititz is the whitest, richest suburb of the city of Lancaster.  A man from Lititz is the best replica of a Samaritan in that neighborhood.

When the adults calmed down the preacher asked the kids, “Who is this man’s neighbor?”

After a pause, a little girl said, “The football player.”

Now the preacher was laughing too.

I could imagine SFC Thomas loving that localized story of the Good Samaritan. 

Who Fights Our Wars? CSM Donald C. Cubbison, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division

In the fall of 1977, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division got a new Command Sergeant's Major.  Donald C. Cubbison, veteran of the Vietnam War with 23 years of service became the top enlisted man of the 4,000-soldier mechanized brigade where I was a tank commander.

Like most career soldiers, he hated journalists, especially Army journalists.  But he gave me the chance to be an Army journalist, then a civilian journalist.  More on that soon.

When Cubbison came to our base in Wiesbaden, West Germany, we had a weekly brigade run, sometimes more than two thousand soldiers formed up by company and battalion and ran the perimeter of the former airfield, now a parking lot for tanks and other tracked vehicles.

At the time I was 24 years old.  When we heard about this new hard-ass CSM coming to the base, everyone was saying he was 52 years old, even older than our Korean-War veteran First Sergeant, Robert V. Baker.  So we expected this ancient sergeant's major would just watch his troops run the airstrip.  We were wrong. First run he grabbed the brigade flag and led the formation.  Anyone who dropped out of that formation caught Hell.  "You can't keep up with a guy who's THAT old!!"

Clearly, Cubbison was not one of those people who everyone says looks young for their age.  A week ago, I found a brief article about Cubbison and an obituary.  He was 42 years old, not 52 when he became sergeant's major of 4th Brigade.

After he made clear that the fitness program would be continuing with him at the front, Cubbison had an NCO meeting in the base theater just before Christmas.  He told the nearly one thousand sergeants in the brigade his priorities.  The Tennessee native talked about leadership, readiness and other topics on the NCO to-do list.

Then at the end he said he wanted a Combat Arms sergeant to volunteer to get his brigade into the newspapers. He wanted us in Stars and Stripes, in the Air-Force run base newspaper, "and every place else that writes about soldiers." Then he repeated the volunteer has to be infantry, armor or artillery. "I don't want a raggedy-ass Army journalist that doesn't know one end of his rifle from the other."

With that he dismissed us.  I saw that he wrote with a blue marker pen on yellow pads.  I went straight to the PX, bought the pen and paper he preferred, then ran to the airstrip.  There was a German and an American squad practicing together to be the honor guard at a friendship event on Christmas Eve.

I wrote the story and went to Cubbison's office in Brigade Headquarters an hour after the NCO meeting ended.  The other sergeants who auditioned for the job showed up later in the day or the next day.

I got the job.  By the first week in January, I was re-assigned to Brigade and on my way to becoming a journalist.  I got 4th Brigade in the base newspaper almost every week and in the Stars and Stripes enough that Cubbison told me, quite proudly, that Col. John Riscassi, the brigade commander, got a call from Division HQ asking, "Why the Hell is it always 4th Brigade I'm seeing in the newspaper."

In 1979, Cubbison went on to be the top sergeant of 3rd Infantry Division, then the sergeant's major of a rapid reaction force formed within US Army Europe. He passed away in 2015 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

When Cubbison moved up, I moved out. I left active duty in 1979 and went to college. While I studied, I had a part-time job as a newswriter at the Elizabethtown (Pa.) Chronicle.  Cubbison made my new career possible.

AIM-9 Explodes on the Test Stand

-->

AIM-9 Sidewinder missile fired from an F/A-18C

My job in the Air Force was Aging and Surveillance Testing of missiles--everything from the AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missile all the way up to the Minuteman ICBM.

In my Air Force service between 1972 and 75, I never got closer to Viet Nam than the western desert of Utah, but test firing missiles can be dangerous.  My first brush with missile-induced death only caused minor, temporary hair loss.  The second was a lot worse, but more on that later.

On a warm, spring Friday in 1973, we were scheduled to fire 20 AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles in a test stand.  The missile test area was in the northwest corner of Hill Air Force Base, three miles from main base and the airfield. It was also out of the flight path of the two runways, since we could occasionally send up clouds of smoke from test firings that changed from burn to explosion.  Today was one of those days. 

Weeks before the test, we received a shipment of AIM-9s randomly selected by lot number.  We then froze the missiles in a large freezer. We shook them on a vibration table that was a huge 300,000-Watt speaker driver.  We simulated various stratospheric heights in the altitude chamber, then finally took the stressed missiles, bolted them to a test stand, attached accelerometers, and fired them.

On a good day we could fire one every ten minutes, allowing for burn time and time for the spent missile and for spinning the big screws that locked the missile into the test stand. By the time of this test, I had been on the fire crew of several batches of AIM-9s. 

The crew leader was Staff Sergeant John Pachuca.  He would retire the following year with 20 years of service. Hill was his only duty station in more than a decade. In the 60s, missile testing consolidated at Hill. Several other sergeants planned on retiring at Hill.  But this stable environment also meant that promotions were few and far between, so Big John Pachuca would retire a staff sergeant. Before he retired, my muscular Mexican-American crew chief would save my life.  

After each missile was fired, we counted to ten in a ditch several yards away from the concrete test stand. I waited in the trench till the noise stopped, and then vaulted the wall to switch the missile. Two of us ran to the stand and unscrewed the clamps while two more grabbed the next missile.  We used asbestos gloves to carry away the casing of the spent missile. 

The stand was covered with a shelter made from perforated steel planking or PSP. They were more the sheets were ten feet long, fifteen inches wide and weighed more 66 pounds. They were designed to be temporary runways during World War II, but were also great as temporary roadways or to make a cover that allowed smoke to blow through. PSP sheets are full of holes.

Since it was Friday, we all wanted to get done, so we sprinted to get the fired missile out of the stand and the next missile locked in.  When a missile fires, it roars for several seconds then the sound dies away. Each missile has a unique burn time and part of the test was recording that burn time.  Burn time was not my part of the test. The test went well in the morning, but after lunch a few glitches with electronic equipment slowed us down. We wanted to get done and have a weekend off, so we moved as fast as we could bolting the missiles to the stand, then removing the fired missile.  After three firings in the afternoon we had a rhythm again.  The fourth missile fired and burned, but the burn time was about two seconds too short.  I started to vault the wall then suddenly flipped backwards. I thought the top of my head was being torn off. 

I started yelling with pain and swinging wildly. I shut up when I saw the flash of the entire test pad blowing apart.  I looked up and saw a sheet of PSP fly over the ditch we were in. If I had been standing above the ditch, the ten-foot steel sheet would have cut me in half.  John Pachuca had grabbed my by the hair—which was three inches long and barely in Air Force regulations—and thrown me back in the ditch. He knew the burn was too short and heard the sputter before the missile exploded. 

Inside the missile, the propellant cracked during the freezing and shaking. The air gap caused the propellant to stop burning, but then heat in the casing caused the remaining propellant to heat and sizzle.

Then the AIM9 blew up on the pad.

I was lying on back in the ditch with the big sergeant in the white overalls on top of me.  My head hurt for days. Until sundown and much of the next day we cleaned up what we could of the mess. Engineering teams had to rebuild the test stand.  We continued the test the following week.  The test site had another pad because when missiles go high order they blow up everything around them.

The next time a missile test went wrong I wasn’t so lucky.