The Forgotten Soldier: "Surely the war must end soon."

The Forgotten Soldier, a memoir of World War II

In the middle of Guy Sajer's story of war on the Eastern Front in World War II, he writes of his one-and-only leave during four years of fighting. In the spring of 1943, he was given 14 days leave that does not start until the railway station at Posnan, 200 miles east of Berlin. That's important because his journey began in Kharkov, more than 1000 miles further east.

Before, during and after the leave. People around Sajer from Russia to Berlin say, "Surely the war must end soon." "Surely the war can't go on like this." Of course, the war does go on, and on, until finally Nazi Germany is crushed between two massive Allied armies.

Sajer spends his first months of war in a transport unit trying to bring supplies to Stalingrad. The city fell before the snowbound trucks of Sajer's unit could reach Stalingrad.  In the way of all armies since the Roman Empire and before, the front line troops blamed the supply troops for their defeat.

Sajer volunteers to be a front-line infantryman with an elite division. Part of the offer by the officers asking for volunteers is a fourteen-day leave.  Sajer volunteers and gets his leave.

His goal is to go home and visit his family in Alsace, France, 500 miles west of Berlin. The train he is on west of Berlin is stopped when the town ahead of them is bombed by the allies. Sajer and everyone else on the train helps to clear the tracks. When they get to the station, Sajer is told his destination is too far from his unit and he has to go back.

He decides to return to Berlin. He visits the family of his best friend who was killed on the road to Stalingrad. While he is waiting to see his friend's parents, he meets Paula and falls deeply in love with her. They spend every moment they can together during the rest of Sajer's leave.

The most intense moments they share are during bombing raids. In a night raid that hits the neighborhood they are in, they hide in a shelter, then help to care for the wounded when the all-clear sirens sound. In the shelter, terrified mothers say,
"Surely the war must end soon."

Later they are near Templehof Airport on a lovely spring day, when the airport itself is the target of a daylight bombing raid. There are no shelters nearby and they hide in a fold in the ground as Eighth Air Force bombers reduce Templehof to rubble.  As they help the wounded after they raid, they tell each other, "Surely the war must end soon."

It doesn't. The war drags on and on until crippled Berlin is fully destroyed and the Nazi army retreats all the way from Russia back to Germany. Sajer goes back to his unit. The lovers write to each other, but never see each other again.

Sajer records all of the deep emotion he feels, and the reaction when the older soldiers in his unit find out he fell in love on leave.  They needle him and tell him he has a thousand miles to travel back to the front lines and he can fall in love on the way. 

Sajer conveys very well the hope that wells up inside people who have suffered. "Surely we have suffered enough," They say. "Surely this will end." But it does not. The suffering of individual men and women and children is never a priority of the leaders who want victory.  A year later, after a victory in which they hold the advancing Soviet Armies, young soldiers like Sajer--he is then 19--start to talk about how the war must end soon and they will all go home.

I read all this book 42 years ago as a 24-year-old tank commander in Germany on the East-West Border. I did not remember the leave from forty years ago. I remembered much of the book, but not the leave.  This time reading, mid-tour leave was part of my experience, part of my year in Iraq.  It struck me how different it was to come home to a completely peaceful country.

The other deep irony of the leave was the way that Paula's parents and the people Sajer stayed with were worried the young couple was moving too quickly.  They were worried about the young couple doing the "right thing."

By the time of the leave in 1943, Nazi armies had already deported and slaughtered millions of Jews. They had killed millions more civilians in pitiless air raids on civilian targets and armored warfare.

It is painful for me to read how people could be concerned with moral questions while German soldiers and German policemen drafted into military service had already shot more than two million Jews and thrown them into pits and were sending others to death camps for slaughter on an industrial scale.

But tradition has always blinded people in this very way. So the Berliners could be concerned about what a Good German would do at the same time German soldiers were machine gunning children.

In America, the people who owned slaves went to Church and told their children to behave even while they, just like the Nazis, believed people who lived among them were less than human and could be tortured and denied freedom for their entire lives, and the lives of their children.  The American segregation in the Jim Crow South that followed the end of slavery was Hitler's model of making an underclass of Jews. Hitler started that segregation immediately, and quickly went past oppression to slavery and murder.

The Church in Germany, like the Church in America, was complicit in the terrible plans. The American Church twisted the Bible into saying Black people were less than human.  The German Church, Evangelical and Catholic, expelled Jewish convert pastors and then Jewish Church members within the first two years of Hitler taking power. The German Church, like the slavery Evangelical Church in the South, supported the racism of their governments.

This time re-reading Guy Sajer, the most painful passages are not about the war, but about what was happening "back home." 

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.

Soldiers Under Any Flag Can Be Great Warriors: The Forgotten Soldier

 A 17-Year-Old draftee 

on the Eastern Front

for the entire war. 

I just started re-reading "The Forgotten Soldier." First published in English in 1971, the book is a memoir by a 17-year-old French boy drafted into the German Army in 1942.  The book is 600 pages of wrenching details about the life of a German soldier on the Eastern Front for nearly the entire war.

Though he had no choice about serving, Guy Sajer was scorned when he tried to go home after the war.  He suffered cold and every sort of misery and finally defeat, then came home to rejection by family and friends.  At the end of World War II, Guy Sajer was just 21 years old and a veteran of nearly four years of continuous combat with a losing army. He was on his way to the front when news reached his convoy of the Russian victory over the German 6th Army at Stalingrad.

I read this book in 1977 when I was a 24-year-old tank commander in West Germany, waiting for a million-man Soviet Army to invade Western Europe starting in Fulda and leaving me and and everyone in 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division dead on the field just west of the Fulda Gap.

Reading this book helped me to understand how the southern men I served with could venerate soldiers who fought to keep other men enslaved.  It was clear from this memoir, that a soldier can be a hero in a bad cause.

In 2017 when I visited the German Military Cemetery at Normandy, I thought of Guy Sajer--a kid drafted into a losing cause who serves with honor and heroism until the end.  I honor him as a man while knowing the flag that he served under is a symbol of hatred.

After the war, Sajer became a comics artist, creating comics under his own name and pen names.  He is 94 years old and lives in Paris.

I will be writing more about specific parts of the book.  Anyone interested in the life of a soldier in combat, especially the life of a soldier in a losing cause, this book is a haunting reminder of how terrible war is.

“What happened next? I retain nothing from those terrible minutes except indistinct memories which flash into my mind with sudden brutality, like apparitions, among bursts and scenes and visions that are scarcely imaginable. It is difficult even to even to try to remember moments during which nothing is considered, foreseen, or understood, when there is nothing under a steel helmet but an astonishingly empty head and a pair of eyes which translate nothing more than would the eyes of an animal facing mortal danger. There is nothing but the rhythm of explosions, more or less distant, more or less violent, and the cries of madmen, to be classified later, according to the outcome of the battle, as the cries of heroes or of murderers. And there are the cries of the wounded, of the agonizingly dying, shrieking as they stare at a part of their body reduced to pulp, the cries of men touched by the shock of battle before everybody else, who run in any and every direction, howling like banshees. There are the tragic, unbelievable visions, which carry from one moment of nausea to another: guts splattered across the rubble and sprayed from one dying man to another; tightly riveted machines ripped like the belly of a cow which has just been sliced open, flaming and groaning; trees broken into tiny fragments; gaping windows pouring out torrents of billowing dust, dispersing into oblivion all that remains of a comfortable parlor...” 
― Guy Sajer, The Forgotten Soldier

And about how war can tear up our souls:

“Abandoned by a God in whom many of us believed, we lay prostrate and dazed in our demi-tomb. From time to time, one of us would look over the parapet to stare across the dusty plain into the east, from which death might bear down on us at any moment. We felt like lost souls, who had forgotten that men are made for something else, that time exists, and hope, and sentiments other than anguish; that friendship can be more than ephemeral, that love can sometimes occur, that the earth can be productive, and used for something other than burying the dead.”
― Guy Sajer, The Forgotten Soldier

Basic Training to Combat Deployment: Just 37 Years!

C-130 Hercules: I flew on one of these on my first military 

flight in 1972 and in Iraq 37 years later.

All my life I have been late doing things:

• Nine years after high school gradation, I went to college. 
• Many kids learn to swim shortly after learning to walk. I learned to swim when I was 59 years old.  
• Ten years ago today, February 1, 2009, I was flying to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, on my way to Iraq. It had not occurred to me before that I was leaving for my first combat deployment 37 years after I started basic training on February 1, 1972.  

I enlisted during the Vietnam War, but the war ended and I never went to that one.  In 1976, I went to West Germany and served on the border in the Cold War, but thankfully, that war never happened.  I left the Army in 1980 to go to college.

Then in 2007, I re-enlisted in the Army National Guard and ten years ago today was on my  way to Iraq.

I connected the two dates because basic training and the trip to Iraq both began with saying goodbye to my family and flying away.

The very first flight in my life was the flight from Boston to San Antonio for Basic Training.  That first flight gave me a love for flying that led me to travel every chance I could on military flights.  For $10 I could fly across the nation or across an ocean.

But it was funny to think that the gap between starting Basic Training and serving in a war was 37 years.  I went to Basic at 18 years old and to Iraq at 55.

Most people had long retired at the age where my career hit one of its big milestones.

By the time I went to Iraq, I had three college degrees, but learning to swim was still four years in my future.  And it's only in the past year that I started to meditate and practice Yoga.

Who knows what I'll learn or do this year?

Happy February 1! It's a big day for me.

Ten Years Ago I Was Writing My Name on My Underwear--and Everything Else

The faded laundry mark from January 2009 

after a few hundred machine washings.

Ten years ago there were piles of Army uniforms and clothes and gear of all kinds on my living room floor.  I was sitting on the floor with my wife and occasionally one of the kids.  I was writing my name on every piece of gear I was carrying in duffel bags to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and then to Camp Adder, Iraq.

Underwear is not easy to write on, even with a marker. It was a long process to put my last name or my laundry mark (Last Initial, Last four of the Social Security Number) on t-shirts, shorts, belts, pants, shirts, hats, ammo pouches, boots, gloves and backpacks.

But write I did. Because when there is only one laundry service and everyone has sand-colored underwear, the best way to keep your stuff is to mark it.

Marking my clothes made the deployment seem oddly real.  Although we knew the deployment was coming since November of 2007, and we had several two or three-week training sessions, marking my gear meant I was really leaving.  Although I had been in and out of the military since 1972, the last time I went overseas with the Army was in the mid 70s.

As I marked my clothes, it seemed more real than before that I was leaving for an entire year.

Right now, ten years later, it is still strange to think that Fort Sill and Camp Adder are in the list of places I have lived, not just visited.

War Between Science and Religion? The Real Enemy was Catholic Immigrants

Hating immigrants is nothing new in America

The anti-immigrant tradition in America is old and deep in America.  People accepted now as "white" people were hated and reviled more than 100 years ago, none more than Catholics.

In the 1870s two acclaimed American academics each published blockbuster books about the "War Between Science and Religion."  They were both brilliant men in their disciplines.  John William Draper was one of the first presidents of the American Chemical Society and was a pioneer in photographic chemistry. Andrew Dickinson White was the first president of Cornell University.

It is an old truism that being brilliant in your own area of expertise makes one libel to spout off with idiocy in an area where one has no training.

But fame and publishing best-selling books in the 19th Century turned to derision in the 20th Century.  Draper and White today are known today as the chief promoters of the discredited "Conflict Thesis" describing a two millenia war between science and religion.  The thesis is simply anti-immigrant bullshit.

Larry Principe, a professor of the history of science at Johns Hopkins University, teaches a course in which he uses Draper's book as an example of how not do history.  If you are interested in the field, Principe's lectures on "The Great Courses" are brilliant.

But the smell lingers.  Wretched writers like Dan Brown use the lies and half-truths in Draper and White to write trash thrillers like The "DaVinci Code."

So why did Draper and White trash the history of the Church?  Their target was not all religion, but the Catholic faith. Draper and White were rabidly anti-Catholic and were writing propaganda, not history.  In the 19th Century, anti-immigrant people tried to take control of the political system through secret groups.  The Whig Party fell apart in 1856 and was replaced by the Republicans in part because of internal divisions over slavery and immigrants.

Draper and White, for example, popularized the myth that the Church taught the earth was flat and Columbus proved otherwise.  That the earth is round and has a diameter of roughly 8,000 miles was known to every educated person since about 300 B.C. Anyone reading the Divine Comedy, written in the late 1,200s is quite aware of the earth as a sphere.

But like any propagandists, Draper and White began with a message and massaged all their facts to fit the message. So in order to prove the Catholic Church is anti-science they twisted facts to fit their message.

A secondary effect of their campaign against Catholics was to make add another layer of anti-intellectualism to a country already prone to making lunacy into policy.

Although they were both men intellectuals in their own fields, their real legacy in America putting stupidity in power.  The anti-vaxx movement, the John Birch Society, the Young Earth Creationists, the climate change deniers, birthers, and every kind of anti-immigrant movement can look back to Draper and White and see inspiration.

Last Child to College—Snow Problem!

The view for much of the 500-mile round trip

On Saturday, I rented a Nissan Rogue SUV to drive my youngest son to college in Johnstown, Pa. We filled the silver 4-wheel-drive with clothes and luggage and drove west, leaving at Noon. The forecast said snow from mid-afternoon to the following morning.  Right on time, the snow started about 30 minutes before we arrived in Johnstown.

My plan was to drop my son off, get him settled in the room, go to Pittsburgh, then return in the morning and check how things were going at school before I returned to Lancaster. 

By 4:30 pm, I was on the road to Pittsburgh in steady but light snow. I was immediately glad I was in an SUV and not our 2001 Toyota Prius. When I got to Pittsburgh, I planned to stay in the Liberty area and go again to the Tree of Life Synagogue, two miles away on top of one of the hills of Pittsburgh. I drove to the Squirrel Hill neighborhood and stopped near the Synagogue, walked around and remembered the victims. 

Then I drove down Wilkins Avenue from Tree of Life Synagogue. Google maps told me to turn right on South Negley Street.  I followed the map and climbed a short, steep grade to the crest at Fair Oaks Street.  I started downhill toward Fifth Avenue and was immediately feeling the brake pedal pulse back as the Nissan slid down the steep, icy grade. I was slowing, but not enough for me to stop at the red traffic light at the bottom of the hill. The curbs are low on Negley, so I slid the Nissan to the right so the right-side tires were rubbing the curb.

I stopped.  I went the last block to Fifth Avenue at about 3mph pumping the brake. On the far side of the intersection three cars had slid together.  I turned right and went to Liberty.  By now it was close to 9pm.  I got a call from home that my wife was not feeling well.  So instead of staying the night, I got back on the road.  I was wearing an Army workout jacket that was a great fashion choice.

Just as I was turning to the on-ramp for I-376, I saw flashing lights in my mirror. It turns out this fully automatic car turns on its own headlights, but not the taillights.  The officer told me I had no taillights. I told him it was a rental. I spun the turn-signal handle and the lights came on. He still checked my license.

When he came back, he asked my what kind of motorcycle I rode. I have a motorcycle endorsement on my license. We talked bikes and Army for a few minutes, and then I was on my way on a snowy 250-mile drive that would last until 2:30 a.m.

For the first hundred miles, the snow was steady. The turnpike was wet, clear and empty.  After the tunnels the temperature was colder and the road got icy. I slowed down, and then got a lot slower behind a wall of snowplows. After ten miles of 20 mph, I pulled off at I-81 and started on the route to Harrisburg.

Ten miles after leaving the Turnpike, I was behind another wall of plows on I-81. So I changed to Route 581. The roads got better on the east shore and I finally got home at 2:30 a.m.  I was exhausted, but also really happy. Driving can often be dull, but a night that causes a four-wheel-drive to slide made the drive a real challenge.

I called him at 9:30 a.m. and said I was already home. He said he was fine and glad to hear Mom was okay.

Instead of driving, I can take the Amtrak Pennsylvanian train from Lancaster to Johnstown. There are also cheap flights from Lancaster to Pittsburgh. If there is snow the next time I visit my son, I will take a train or a plane, no automobiles. 

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