Old age and Treachery...*

A post on OldNFO's blog, a week or so ago, got me to chuckling, then to thinking (always dangerous).  Basically it was a "War Story" told by an old F-4 driver to his grandson.  As I read it, I realized there was a lot of truth in the story.  It's worth your time if you haven't read it yet.  You know the remainder of this post will still be here waiting when you get back.

Cool picture of an F-4 shamelessly stolen from HERE

The paragraph that captured my fancy was this one.

Computers changed the flying professional, but an evolution of slippery Phantom tactics continued to confound the sometimes embarrassed good pilots in modern machines. There was a lot of challenge. You were always up against supposedly better aircraft. Phantom crews shriek with delight, like the wide-eyed kid, when describing unobserved stern missile launches or tracking gunshots against a magic dream machine. Yet, satisfaction is rarely displayed in the presence of your opponent. The adversary must think that Phantoms gunning Hornets is fairly common, which it is, if you don’t keep exact score.

Anyhow, that was followed by a comment on my last post from Andrew who'd commented "Must have been interesting transitioning from the flying brick to the Eagle. I'm not saying the F-4 wasn't maneuverable or fast, but the difference (from the ground) seem almost unbelievable. (But then again, for years after the introduction of the A-10, the old guys in their A-7s kept winning the ground attack competitions.)"  

That comment got me to thinking about my transition from the F-4 "Double Ugly" through the AT-38 into the Eagle.  When I first got to the F-4 in '78, the F-15 had been around a few years, but wasn't fully deployed.  It's weapons and tactics were still being developed and so not fully tested and reliable. While undoubtedly a more capable machine that the Phantom, the Red Baron's adage was very valid. "It's not the crate, it's the man inside the crate."

Source

I didn't get to fight an Eagle until I was just about ready to leave Moody for Holloman.  We'd deployed to Tyndall for WSEP (Weapons System Evaluation Program) and DACT (Dissimilar Air Combat Training.  

WSEP meant we were going to fire live Air to Air missiles against drones to test both the missiles and the weapons system (AKA Sarge's area of expertise).  Unfortunately, when I got my chance to fire an AIM-7F, Sarge was still in Korea, and my Radar crapped out and couldn't be fixed.  

In any case, we've got the afternoon off, and are scheduled for a 2 v 2 against F-15s the following morning.  The four of us, two front seaters plus two back seaters are meticulously planning the following day's tactics at the Tyndall AFB DACT planning center.  This very nice planning center was sandwiched between the beach and the runway and had stunning views of each.  In fact, it had 18 different areas where one could focus on different aspects of the mission.  The planning center also allowed us to study the aerodynamics of dimpled spherical objects, which was immensely helpful to the development of our tactics.  As was the liquid refreshment.

We knew that charging at the Eagles in a two ship line abreast would result in our demise about 10 miles prior to the merge.  The plan then was to fly at them in fingertip formation, popping chaff at regular intervals.  At about 20 miles, #2 would roll inverted into a 60 degree dive, popping chaff all the way to the bottom of the area.  #1 would continue til 15 miles then do a max G break away from 2 for 180 degrees .  2 would lock on to one of the Eagles and fire, then continue on trying to see the other Eagle.  On hearing the Fox-1 call, 1 would turn back into the fight and try to enter.  

Worked like a champ.  Except, I was #2 as my radar wouldn't lock.  No matter, my WSO was able to track the Eagles without the lock and talk my eyes on to them.  A Belly Heat shot is a thing of beauty! Two is even better.

Later on, at Holloman, the IPs would occasionally get IP Proficiency flights, usually cross-country, but also DACT with the Eagles across the ramp.  Here, we were flying much smaller aircraft than the Eagles were used to flying against, so gaining a tally for them was challenging.  Since we had neither Radar nor Radar Warning in the AT-38, all fights required visual ID prior to taking a shot.  Evened the odds a bit.  

Another advantage we had was starting with mine, each class of IP Upgrade students included Eagle Drivers.  So, we could learn exactly when things were happening in the other cockpit and how to mess with their minds. Finally, these missions usually occurred because the Eagle's airspace, AKA White Sands Missile Range, could and would be closed on very short notice if one of the test missiles needed more time.  At that point, the Eagle Wing would call the AT-38 wing scheduler (AKA Me) and see if they couldn't work something out to use our airspace.

Since our airspace was subsonic, the Eagle was at a disadvantage, in that all that beautiful thrust had to be tempered so as not to boom Ruidoso or Roswell.  

All that having been said, the only mission I remember any details about was about 18000' above Ruidoso with an Eagle on my six.  I was jinking continuously for what seemed to be an hour and a half.  I was ever so patiently communicating with my former Eagle driver wingman to come and assist me in driving this pernicious vermin off my back.

Review of his gun camera video was reassuring as well as disconcerting.  He never got the pipper stabilized on my aircraft, but I never got out of his gun camera field of view.  The 360 degree per second AT-38 roll rate stood me in good stead.

So, by the time I actually got checked out in the Eagle, I had a pretty good perspective on what an adversary was likely to do in order to make the odds a little more even.

Because someone once said, the enemy gets a vote on your strategy.

I've been checked out, but because I've got virtually no experience in the Eagle, I'm relegated to being a wingman.  "Two", "Bingo" and "Lead, you're on fire" being my only allowed radio calls.   I get to fly on the wing of some of my students in the AT-38.  Ah, well, payback is a female dog!

One of the things that I noticed was that the Eagle Driver mindset was in full force.  "By golly, I fly the F-15 with a 100-0 kill ratio (or whatever it was prior to the Gulf War).  We're going to go to the merge in line abreast and kill everyone in front of us!"

Wall of Eagles

Hmmm!

So, being the taciturn and tactful guy I am, I would talk about the rumors that the North Koreans were receiving Mig-29s.  How would that effect our tactics?  Might we have to engage in some deceptions as to who we were, which formation we were flying, how many of us were there?  You know, add some "fog of war" to their decision matrix?

"By golly, I fly the F-15 with a 100-0 kill ratio (or whatever it was prior to the Gulf War).  We're going to go to the merge in line abreast and kill everyone in front of us!"

Then the Navy got the Hornet out on the Midway.  Not having any other 4th generation air to air fighter in theater, they sought us out to get really checked out in Air to Air.  (The three F-16 squadrons on the ROK were committed there and the squadrons out of Misawa were predominately air to ground also.)

I'm #2 in a 2V2 DACT against two Hornets who've deployed to Kadena for a couple of hops on Friday, a Friday night at the club then back to the ship.  A good deal all round.  They come over to the squadron and because they're the "trainees", they're briefing.

Their flight lead, I can tell, has "been there, done that".  His briefing is well done, objectives are clear and, interestingly, he hasn't placed any restrictions on us.  We're full up F-15s, the only restriction on either side is Positive ID required before shooting (i.e. we have to have proof that the target is an FA-18 before we can take a shot.  That is the minimum standard for the US, some restrictions are much more severe.)

My LT flight lead briefs the standard tactics, and we get our butts handed to us.  Back in the mass debrief, we look at tapes and all their kills were valid as called.  Score Hornets 4, Eagles 1.  (I did manage to launch a heart of the envelope Aim-9 shot with a couple of seconds left on the Hornet's Aim-7, mutual kill)

Back in our flight debrief, the LT is stunned and has nothing to say about how it happened and more importantly what to do about it in the future.  With that over, we went into the squadron bar, I bought a couple of beers and we sat down in a corner and talked.  Both of us gained a little from the discussion.

I've got a special affinity for THIS aircraft.
Found the picture on a highly unusual website for this type thing
Source

I knew that I was in line to be a flight commander, that I would have kids, like the LT, who had flown one jet, one way, and were very proficient at it.  I also knew that the world was changing and they would need to anticipate and change with it.  How was I going to implement that?

One of my favorite tactics was on BFM (Basic Fighter Maneuvers) rides.  Typically on a BFM ride, one aircraft would position itself about 6-9000' out about 30 degrees off the front aircraft's tail, just outside of weapons range.  Once the fight was started, both aircraft began maneuvering to gain or deny weapons parameters.

A lot of fun, and somewhat useful in learning how to maneuver as well as manage the aircraft's energy.  However, not very tactically oriented. (The chances of survival for the guy out front if an enemy arrives just outside of gun range and 30 degrees off your tail before you see him is negligible.)

I liked to start the engagement from a neutral position, in a head on pass.  Once we passed, I would have each aircraft continue on it's heading until we were separated by 10 miles.  At that point, I would call fight's on and we would turn towards each other.

My intent here was to simulate that we have come through a merge and our home base was at our six.  We had to turn around and locate very quickly any remaining threat and either kill them or escape back towards our "Home".  

BTW, 10 miles head on is "heart of the envelope" for both missiles.  A shot taken at that range has a very high probability of kill.

We generally had gas to do three of these type setups on any given mission.  My plan on the first two engagements was to light the burners as soon as we passed and get going as fast as I could in a very shallow climb to get well above the horizon.  Once we got to 10 miles, I would pull the aircraft into an immelman, reversing direction in the vertical.  I planned this maneuver so as to top out below the contrail level, but at least 20k' higher than when we passed. 

Yes, it's an E-model, but it's the only picture I could find of a vertical pitch up without runway. Sheesh
Source

20k exceeded the altitude covered by the radar at 10 mile range.

Also, since I didn't see my opponent pulling a contrail, I knew he was below me, making my radar as well as visual lookout much easier.  If I found the target on the radar, I would take a shot if in parameters and call it, but never as a kill.  I enjoyed that swoop down from above to see when he would first see me.

I would use the same tactic and parameters on the second engagement to see if he'd learned and then on the third engagement I would do the same except as a split s instead of an immelman, so I'd be looking up at him.  

This worked pretty well for a while, but then word got around and I'd find myself either nose to nose at 30K or 10K and we'd be neutral from there.  Which was ok, they were after all, on my side.

But that gave me an entre' into more complex tactics for larger formations.  Tucking people into close formations and then spitting them out at critical portions of the intercept to knock the other guys off their game and complicate their targeting.  The squadron, and wing, even the LTs became very, very good at their assigned mission.  And on my final mission, I got to return the favor to the Midway FA-18's.

*SJC  But....As I googled the source of the "Old Age and Treachery will beat Youth and Skill" quote, I found this story and a song.  Enjoy!

 A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful aged poodle named Cuddles, along for the company. 
One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long, Cuddles discovers that she's lost. Wandering about, she notices a young leopard heading rapidly in her direction with the intention of having lunch. 
The old poodle thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, she immediately settles down to chew on the bones with her back to the approaching cat. 
Just as the leopard is about to leap, the old poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard! I wonder if there are any more around here?" 
Hearing this, the young leopard halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew!", says the leopard, "That was close! That old poodle nearly had me!" 
Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. 
So off he goes, but the old poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. 
The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. 
The young leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!" 
Now, the old poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?", but instead of running, the dog sits down with her back to her attackers, pretending she hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old poodle says: "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" 

Se crate"

Two Years

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He was a heck of a guy.

Friend and mentor.

Two years ago today, Buck walked into the clearing at the end of the path.

I see his comments in my old posts and I have to stop and sigh. Yeah, I get a little teary-eyed, but then I have to chuckle, loved his wit, loved his insight. I guess I'll always have that.

And every time I put a comma in the wrong place, I move it.

Dear God but I miss him.

The pain lessens, it doesn't go away.

No doubt he'd tell me to suck it up and drive on. The end ain't the end as we perceive it.

I miss you Buck.

To the memory of my friend MSgt Norman "Buck" Pennington.

See you on the other side brother...

Winter Snapshots

The Olde Vermonter (left) and Your Humble Scribe. Back in the day.

Winter, for me, means Christmas, sledding, skiing, skating, shoveling (grrrrr), hot chocolate, traveling to see friends and family, church services by candlelight, and memories of my childhood.

At the age of 63, I don't do any sledding, skiing, or skating anymore. I try to avoid the shoveling as well. I feel that sharing the fruits (cash) of my labors with others for to make my driveway clean is the least I can do for the economy.

"Get a snowblower," my friends said, "it's so much easier than shoveling," they said. When I pointed out to them that arising in the morning to go to work, and seeing a new coating of the white stuff upon the ground (and my driveway) would still require me to clean the driveway first, snowblower or not, but having someone paid to do that would let me savor that morning coffee a bit longer, they sort of understood.

I don't believe walking behind a snowblower makes one more of a man, in that sense, I have paid my dues. Don't care to do that anymore. Cast aspersions if ye will, I care not.

Late winter / early spring back in the day at the sugar house.
From left to right, Yours Truly, The Olde Vermonter, my Grampa Ray, my Dad.
Cavorting to the right are my grandparents' dogs, Bimmie and Tippy (of whom only his tail and butt are visible).

Some folks are not big fans of winter in the northern states. Yes, it can be miserable, cold, wet, icy, and (dare I repeat myself) miserable. True, it can be all those things. It can also be deadly. Cars sliding on ice, bitter cold windchill, if one is not careful, one could wind up very dead. Frostbite is no picnic, don't ask me how I know.

However, I enjoy winter up here. I learned early how to dress for it (think layers) and when to stay inside. Knowing when not to go out is important. I remember a few winters ago when at work I looked outside to see that the snow was falling fast, thick, and furious. Lots of blowing snow was making visibility outside a pretty iffy proposition. I made the command decision to call it a day.

It took an hour to go the ten miles to get home, with very few other people on the road. Seems like the authorities were waiting for it to stop snowing before sending the plows out. Typical of a locale where excessive amounts of snow are a rarity. Little Rhody gets snow, sometimes lots of it, but not enough so that people get used to dealing with it.

Anyhoo, the next day when I returned to work I discovered that some company big shot had made the call to send everyone home about three hours after I left the building. That call was no doubt based on the cost to pay everyone for not working, and two hours overhead per warm body costs less than five. Bottom line is that many of those folks spent upwards of four hours trying to get home. Traffic was snarled, the snow was still falling and now the plows were out trying to clear the roads.

I watched it all from the comfort of Chez Sarge, I judged it five hours of PTO well spent.

I remember snippets of winter when I watch it snow (which it did again Saturday morning, though it turned to rain later), some good, some not so much. Here (after the photo) are a few.

17 December 2016, waiting for an oil change. No, I don't do that myself either.

- A cold winter's day, we'd been invited to a sledding party, I think I was in my early teens. The parents of the kid who had the party had pretty much blocked off an entire country road for us to go sledding on. As it was almost a private drive, the State didn't see a need to plow it, we had the whole thing to ourselves. It was an awesome day, even though it was bitter cold, but we were Vermonters, it's supposed to be cold in winter. At the end of the day, we all trudged back up the hill in the semi-dark where the kid's Mom had hot chocolate ready for us all. With little marshmallows, oh my word that hit the spot.

- Waking up one morning to hear a blizzard howling outside, being informed by our parents that school was canceled. Yay! Being informed by Dad that would we hurry up with breakfast as the driveway wasn't going to shovel itself. Boo! Then seeing that the driveway was invisible between the two six-foot banks that border it. We felt like we'd just been ordered to shovel Alaska. Yeah, yeah, Dad did most of the work, we kids had a snowball fight.

- Deciding to drive to northern Vermont from southern Vermont in a howling snowstorm, why is immaterial but I can assure it that it involved a girl and seemed important at the time. I think that was the day I learned what "futile" meant. My trusty Volkswagen Beetle tackled the road with no problems at all. I never could figure out why all of the cars with Massachusetts plates were in such a hurry and why they decided to park in the woods further down the road. The tow truck drivers made a lot of money that day.

- Driving to Colorado from San Antonio on April 1st, 1987. It was warm and sunny in San Antone. Less warm when I got to northern New Mexico and not sunny at all. In fact it was snowing like crazy. I stopped for gas in Raton, New Mexico and when I stepped out of my nice warm VW I nearly froze. Popped the trunk and put on nearly every piece of clothing I had with me, gassed up and got onto I-25 north. Had the great good fortune of following a New Mexico state plow up to the top of Raton Pass and then picked up a Colorado state plow heading down the pass. I-25 in Colorado all the way to the Springs was more hockey rink than road, but slow and steady got me home.

- Leaving my apartment building in Denver during the Great Blizzard of Christmas of '82 to check for any last minute mail. Bear in mind that it was Christmas Eve, most of the roads had been closed and it was still snowing and the wind was howling in from the Plains like nobody's business. When I got ten yards from my building I was confronted with a drift well over my head. Deciding to abort the mission I turned to return to my warm cozy apartment. 'Twas then that I noticed that I couldn't actually see the building, ten yards away. Good thing my prints weren't filled in yet. (Though if I had just walked straight I would have run right into the side of the building.)

Oh yeah, The Missus Herself was nine months pregnant with The Nuke. Later that night she said, "It's time." "Time for what..." I started, then realized that my better half was indicating that the miracle of birth was about to happen. Again, back into the snow, which had stopped falling, yielding to a clear, cold night. I managed to forge a path to the nearest plowed road from which the local news media had assured the populace that in the event of an emergency, call the city and they would dispatch a four wheel drive vehicle to collect you.

Arriving back at the warm and cozy apartment, shivering and wet, I discovered The Missus Herself and The Naviguessor watching television. "False alarm." said the love of my life. The Nuke came into the world a week later. The girl has ever since had a great sense of timing.

- Once again, at work in the wilds of Massachusetts during the Great Exile of 2010-12, reports of a looming blizzard were spreading at work. Authorization to work from the home on Thursday (this being Wednesday) was given. As "home" was a hotel and I normally went home Thursday afternoon anyway, I departed the area forthwith, checked out of my hotel and made the drive south in blowing snow. Very few other people were on the interstate and most of them seemed to know their business. Waking up next day to a foot of fresh snow was wondrous indeed, knowing that I was home safe and had nowhere I had to be.

Nice.

Winter can be stressful, deadly, and miserable, but if you know how to deal with it, it ain't all that bad. Besides which, when spring finally arrives, you have a much better appreciation for the warming air, the budding trees, and the passing of the snow into memory. Until next time...

Yes, I like the four seasons.

Dunkirk

British and French troops evacuated from Dunkirk arrive at Dover.

In September 1939, Poland was attacked from the West by Germany. As German aircraft pounded the Poles, destroying most of the Polish Air Force on the ground, and as German tanks drove on Warsaw, the Soviet Union invaded from the East. Poland, all hope lost, their only Allies, Britain and France, on the other side of Germany, sitting, watching, unsure of what to do, not knowing if they could do anything, surrendered.

In the west, Britain and France, especially the latter, expected a replay of the First World War. So they planned accordingly. When the time was ripe, the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) with French armies alongside, would advance into neutral Belgium to meet the Germans as far from France as possible.

Along the Franco-German border the Allies expected nothing to happen. The Germans could not penetrate the Maginot Line, a mighty string of fortifications stretching from around the area where France, Belgium, and Luxembourg meet, down to the Swiss border. Most of the Franco-Belgian border was weakly fortified, if at all. The war would be fought forward, in Belgium, whether the Belgians cared or not.

The original German plan was a virtual repeat of the WWI Schlieffen Plan. The German Army would sweep into neutral Belgium, also cutting across part of the neutral Netherlands, and sweep from the north into France and onto Paris. But this time the Germans had tanks, lots of tanks, concentrated into purpose-built armored divisions.

The British and French also had tanks, actually more tanks than the Germans, many of which were, in some ways, better than the German panzers. The British tanks were heavy, nearly impervious machines, designed to provide close support to the infantry. They weren't very fast, but they were tough. However, they weren't concentrated, they were, as some British armored experts moaned, spread in "penny packets" along the entire front.

The French had been operating the same way, but some in the French Army, perhaps remembering the massed heavy cavalry of Napoléon, were making noise enough that the French high command, preparing for a remake of Verdun and the Miracle of the Marne, grew tired of their carping and decided to let them build up one or two armored divisions, similar to what the Germans had. Bear in mind, the Germans, in the spring of 1940, had ten armored divisions. They also had learned from their experience in Poland how to use those divisions in cooperation with air and infantry.

A staff officer bearing the German Air Force's plans for supporting the attack into Belgium, in violation of standing orders, was flying across Belgium when his aircraft was forced down. Now the plans, which Hitler had disagreed with but as he was still unsure of himself, didn't oppose, had to be changed. General Erich von Manstein had been working on an alternate plan, he showed it to Hitler, it was immediately approved.

While the German Army would make it look like they were replaying WWI, in reality a large portion of their armored forces were held just east of the forested area stretching along the borders of Belgium, Germany, and Luxembourg. The Ardennes.

Everyone assumed that the forests, hills, and gullies of the Ardennes would prove too difficult for armored forces. So the area was weakly held. (Much like it was in December 1944.)

In May, the Germans launched their offensive. According to plan, the BEF and the French marched into Belgium, when they were too far forward and too heavily engaged, the panzers rolled into the Ardennes and overcame the light resistance there. Soon they had crossed the Meuse River. A panicked Hitler, worried that the armor was too thin and unsupported wanted to halt the tanks. He was convinced to let them drive on. A bulge was forming.

The German advance until noon, 16 May 1940.

Looks familiar doesn't it (looking back at yesterday's post). This time, there was no Patton riding to the rescue. There was no 101st and 82nd Airborne to hold the line. There was little between the panzer spearheads and the English channel. Disaster ensued.

Truth be told, the French were disorganized and demoralized practically as the first German grunt stepped across the German border onto foreign soil. They remembered all too well the blood bath of WWI. They were done.

As the Germans pushed towards the English Channel, nearly 400,000 British and French soldiers found themselves surrounded near the French coastal town of Dunkirk. What happened there was a miracle. Yes, it was a defeat but the entire BEF, essentially the only army Britain had in Europe, could have been trapped and completely destroyed.

France was falling, without the BEF, Britain would have been doomed. But the Germans hesitated, they halted the armor, Hitler turned to der Dicke*, Hermann Goering, the head of the Luftwaffe, who boasted that the Air Force alone could destroy the Allied troops trapped along the coast.

It was not to be.

This summer, there is a movie coming out covering the events at Dunkirk starring some of my favorite actors - Tom Hardy, Cillian Murphy, and Kenneth Branagh. I have to see this film. And I will.

Oh yes, it has Spitfires. This film looks accurate and excellent.

I can hardly wait...





* "The Fat Man" - Goering's nickname in some circles

Die Wacht am Rhein

Germany, looking towards Belgium, October 2009. Google Earth

Jack Kirby was miserable. Born and raised in Glendale, Arizona, Jack had never seen snow until he was drafted into the Army. Now here he was, in some God-forsaken part of Belgium, patches of snow here and there, up to his butt in mud in his foxhole, with his buddy Ted snoring next to him, on watch. For what he wasn't sure, the fog was so heavy he couldn't even see the nearest tree line, which was about 400 yards away. All he could see was the water dripping from his helmet visor. The constant light drizzle was starting to drive him crazy. And it felt like it was getting colder.

Horst Krebs was grumbling to himself as he was checking the tracks of "his" Panther, number 312. Norbert, the driver, had said that the controls had felt "sloppy" during the move up to their marshaling area. "Sure, having to drive all the way up here from the railhead at Bitburg with all the muck on the roads had nothing to do with it. Must be the tracks!" Horst thought to himself. It was night, it was cold, and the drizzle was starting to feel like sleet. The red filter on his small torch was less than useful, but the lieutenant would go nuts if he exposed any light. As if the Amis could see anything in this fog!

Horst climbed up the front of the tank, popped the radio position's hatch and slid into his seat. As he did so Norbert turned to him, "Etwas?"

Mopping the moisture off his face, Horst turned to Norbert, "Nein, nichts. The tracks look and feel fine."

"Ah, probably just the mud on the roads."

Horst was about to say something nasty to Norbert when the commander's hatch opened and the lieutenant dropped into his seat. "Get ready Norbert, when the artillery begins, start the engine."

At 0530 local time, well before sunrise, over 1,600 German artillery pieces opened fire all along the 80 mile front running from Monschau in Germany to Echternach in Belgium. The roar of the artillery masked the sound of over 2,400 tanks, assault guns, and other armored vehicles starting their engines and beginning their final movement towards the jump-off point for the attack.

Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein was beginning, the Germans were throwing two Panzerarmeen, the 5th under Manteuffel and the 6th under Dietrich, and the infantry-heavy 7th Army under Brandenberger, at the war-weary U.S. First Army under Courtney Hodges. The 7th would secure the southern flank while the 5th and 6th drove towards the Meuse River and then beyond to Antwerp. If all went well, Bradley's 12th Army Group would be separated from Montgomery's 21st Army Group, the supplies coming through Antwerp would be cut off and perhaps, just perhaps, the Americans and the British would make peace with Hitler. Then Germany could concentrate on driving back the Red Army which was nearing the borders of the Reich in the East. Hitler's plan would save Germany.

The weather was terrible. Rain and snow, low temperatures, low cloud, fog, the Allied air forces were grounded. The terrible devastation which had rained down on German ground forces since D-Day would be halted, the panzers would advance, the Allies defeated, Germany saved.

Seventy-two years ago today, the Nazis launched their last gasp in the West. The British and the Americans figured the war was over, the Germans had nothing left. Eisenhower and Montgomery had a standing bet that the war would be over by Christmas. "Ike", who earlier in the war bet "Monty" £5 that the Allies would be in Berlin by Christmas of 1944, lost his bet. Over 30,000 men (on both sides) would lose their lives. Upwards of 200,000 men would be killed, wounded or go missing. Approximately 3,000 civilians would die.

The war was nowhere close to being over in December of 1944. Thousands more would die, Germany would lie in ruins, the Russians would lose thousands of men in their assault on Berlin before Hitler shot himself and the Germans surrendered. The Battle of the Bulge may have actually shortened the war. The men and equipment lost in the snow and fog of the Ardennes were irreplaceable. If Hitler had not launched this gamble, this last throw of the dice, the war may have lasted well past May.

Who knows?

When I was stationed in Germany we lived not that far from where the battle took place. (Under that blue dot pointed to by the big red arrow on the map below.)

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While in Germany our Air Force dentist thought it would be a great opportunity for The WSO to get braces, all on Uncle Sam's dime. Only problem was that the orthodontist was in Bitburg, Which was roughly two hours away by car, and that's if you went through the Netherlands and Belgium. Which would take you right through the Ardennes. Re-entering Germany via the Schnee Eifel. Which I thought was pretty cool. Then and now. See the map below, we would follow the blue path from our little village of Waldfeucht.

Google Maps

The Ardennes is beautiful in the summer, the rolling hills, the forests, it can be quite breathtaking. The winter is beautiful as well, one winter there was a foot of fresh snow on the ground as we drove through the area around St. Vith. Snow still heavy on the evergreens, the fields and villages looked like a Christmas card. Of course, that was riding in a nice warm modern car with excellent handling capabilities in the snow.

Can't imagine doing that same route in a Jeep or a Kübelwagen. Oh, those vehicles could handle the snow, but a canvas top, no insulation and no doubt an indifferent heater? Kind of brutal I would think, especially with people shooting at you and things blowing up around you.

A couple of Air Force buddies and I went to the Ardennes on the 17th of December back in '98. We got an early start and hit as many highlights of the battle area as we could. Krinkelt-Rocherath, Baugnez (site of the Malmedy Massacre 54 years before the very day we got there, we just missed a memorial service for those who died in the Massacre, the Belgians don't forget), Stavelot, Stoumont, St. Vith, Spa, Houffalize, Bastogne, we really made it a full day! Coolest thing was when we crossed back into Germany, seeing the dragon's teeth of the Westwall (what is often, mistakenly, called the Siegfried Line) was quite a shock. Designed to delay a motorized enemy, they were minimally effective. But in many places, they're still there. Too expensive to dig up I reckon.

Dragon's Teeth (Source)

It's always fascinating to walk the ground where great events took place. Wanting to share the experience with The Naviguessor, I took him down there on a rainy, cold day in late-December. Poor kid, he was still exhausted from flying back to Germany from the States. It was his first time home since he left for college in August. While I reveled in the sights, he slept. Can't say I blame him.

But the weather that day was cold, wet, and foggy. Just like it had been those many years before...

Jack Kirby was miserable. Riding in the back of an open "Deuce and a Half" with his squad mates, he was freezing his butt off. During the early days of the Bulge, his outfit had been pushed back 20 miles. His buddy Ted was missing in action, though Jack was sure Ted had been killed when their position had been overrun. But the captain said, "No body, no KIA, he could be a prisoner, ya never know."

Now they were crossing the old battlefield, covered with a foot of snow now, chasing the retreating Germans. But my Lord was he cold. Damned Krauts, why don't they just quit? Ah well, Jack thought, this has to end soon, the Krauts are beat, they just don't know it. What old Jack has to do is keep his head down in the meantime. Mama Kirby didn't raise no fool.

The truck jerked to a stop, interrupting Jack's daydreaming. Looking around he saw guys dismounting from some of the other trucks, just as he thought about lighting a cigarette, the Sarge got down from the cab and yelled, "Alright you jokers, take five, take a leak, smoke 'em if ya got 'em. Stretch your legs while you can!"

As Jack wandered over into a small stand of trees to relieve himself, he saw something just past the trees. Looking around a bit, he was pretty sure that he wasn't too far from where he and Ted were dug in, back when the Bulge began.

Buttoning himself back up, he started to light his cigarette when he noticed that just over a little rise was a knocked out Kraut tank. He didn't recognize it as first as the turret had been blown completely off the hull. Damn, looks like a freaking Panther, those are some bad ass tanks. But not this one.

Wandering over, he brushed some snow off the side of the turret, "Hhmm, 312, I guess somebody fixed these bastards but good. Freaking Krauts!"

Jack rejoined his buddies, the convoy moved on. On the 12th of March, not far from Remagen, Corporal John "Jack" Kirby was killed in action by a direct hit on the vehicle he was driving. The vehicle was hit by an 88mm anti-tank gun firing from a bunker a half mile away. His body was never recovered.

Private First Class Theodore "Ted" Kasperek was liberated from a POW camp near Sagan, in what is now Poland. Ted died at the age of 87. He often thought of his old buddy Jack.

Now that the front was far away and the weather was easing off, the Graves Registration teams were collecting the dead. Near the town of Bütgenbach they found a wrecked Panther tank, only three of the five man crew were still with the vehicle. They were trucked off and buried in a common grave with other "unknowns."

In 1974, two hikers found human remains near a pile of rusted metal, the man thought they looked like links from a bulldozer track. The remains were reported to the authorities in Bütgenbach. The police came out, determined that the remains were from the war and from various artifacts nearby, they determined that the remains were German.

Unknown to those who visit the old war cemetery, Horst Krebs and Norbert Dietz lie buried together, after lying out in the elements for thirty years, not far from the tank they went into battle in. Precisely fifteen minutes after the opening barrage of Wacht am Rhein had ended, Panther 312 had rolled into the open and threw a track.

As Norbert was yelling at Horst, the lieutenant bellowed at them to shut up. Thus distracted, the lieutenant never saw the sole American anti-tank gun just fifty yards away. As the fog lifted for just a moment, the crew of that gun had just happened to have their piece pointed directly at the German tank rolling out of the mist.

Their first, and only round, 3-inch (76.2 mm) armor-piercing, struck the Panther right at the base of the turret. The round was deflected slightly and slammed straight into the Panther's ammunition stowage. The subsequent explosion blew the turret off the tank, throwing it 50 yards from the hull.

As the American crew reloaded, another Panther, 313, mowed them down with it's bow machine gun. Panther 313 was destroyed by a British Typhoon fighter bomber ten days later. On the day after Christmas.

(Source)

Glossary:
Etwas - anything
Nein - no
Nichts - nothing
Panzerarmeen - tank armies
Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein- Operation "Watch on the Rhine"
Panzer - literally "armor," what the Germans called their tanks. Oddly enough, it's also what the British called their tanks during Desert Storm.

I Need to Get Out More...

Music and Literature - William Michael Harnett

...intellectually that is.

For upon awakening on Wednesday morning, I rolled over to turn off the alarm on my cell phone (I used to have a very nice digital clock which at the ripe old age of 15 decided to cease functioning) and I noticed that the koobecaF "chat head" on my phone was active. That is, someone had sent me the equivalent of a text message. (If you have an Android phone and use Facebook Messaging you'll know what I mean. If you don't, well, it's not really critical to my story.)

I saw who it was and realized that whatever the topic, it would be interesting. This fellow (a friend and  reader of the blog from the Windy City) is never, ever boring. If he has sent me something, it's bound to be interesting. When I saw the following, and then read the accompanying text, I suddenly felt that my education was somewhat lacking...

The accompanying text was as follows -

My two cents' worth: what I love about F. Scott is that to truly understand this beautiful paragraph, one must understand not only the general history of France and England, but also Shiloh, which then presupposes an understanding of the American Civil War; it then references the Argonne, which presupposes an understanding of the Franco-Prussian War, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the Schlieffen Plan, the Rape of Belgium, the Battle of the Frontiers, Mons, the Marne, Ypres, Verdun, the Somme, Passchendaele, et al.

I.e., to understand America, you need to understand history.

Well, I have to say, I am educated enough to realize that "F. Scott" must be none other than the famous American novelist, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Seeing as how the photo comes from a book expounding upon Mr. Fitzgerald's work, I assumed that the quoted bits must be from The Great Gatsby. A quick Google search of the opening lines proved me wrong. The text is supposedly from The Crack-Up, a collection of essays by Mr. Fitzgerald about which Wikipedia has this to say -

It consists of previously unpublished letters, notes and also three essays originally written for and published first in the Esquire magazine during 1936. It was compiled and edited by Edmund Wilson shortly after Fitzgerald's death in 1940. (Source)

(I could not find that quote in an on-line version of The Crack Up. Take that for whatever it's worth.)

Doing a bit more digging, I found this related bit from one of Mr Fitzgerald's short stories, The Swimmers, which was published in the Saturday Evening Post on the 19th of October, 1929 -

"Watching the fading city, the fading shore, from the deck of the Majestic, he had a sense of overwhelming gratitude and of gladness that America was there, that under the ugly débris of industry the rich land still pushed up, incorrigibly lavish and fertile, and that in the heart of the leaderless people the old generosities and devotions fought on, breaking out sometimes in fanaticism and excess, but indomitable and undefeated. There was a lost generation in the saddle at the moment, but it seemed to him that the men coming on, the men of the war, were better; and all his old feeling that America was a bizarre accident, a sort of historical sport, had gone forever. The best of America was the best of the world." (Source)

Now all of this is rather heady stuff at any time of the day, at 0547 in the morning it was all rather mind boggling.

All that aside, my correspondent was interested in my thoughts on the subject as we are both rather rabid history fans. So after much pondering (and a bit of research) I have the following to offer. Before I do that however, I have sat for much of the day wondering why my high school did not expose me to F. Scott Fitzgerald but rather felt the need to inflict Silas Marner upon my classmates and me. ( I still shudder to hear the phrase "Eppie in de toal-hole!"* Which, fortunately, is seldom heard these days. I must admit though, I'd like to re-read that book to see if I didn't like it because I was required to read it or for other reasons. To be fair and all that.) So with the up front confession that I have never read any of Mr Fitzgerald's work, hence the title of the post, let's begin...

“France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.”

The first thing that struck me about this is that France, in my opinion, was the first modern state.

In France, Eric Hobsbawm argues, the French state preceded the formation of the French people. Hobsbawm considers that the state made the French nation, not French nationalism, which emerged at the end of the 19th century, the time of the Dreyfus Affair. At the time of the 1789 French Revolution, only half of the French people spoke some French, and 12-13% spoke it "correctly", according to Hobsbawm.**

As to England being a people, rather than a land, when it comes to the English yes, I'd agree. Though the Scots, the Irish, and the Welsh are rather annoyed at being lumped in with the "English." (Who are really descendants of the Angles and the Saxons from the European mainland, hence the term Anglo-Saxon being used for people from that group of islands. Again, the Celts and Britons would take umbrage at the term Anglo-Saxon. Mustn't forget the Norman invasion either, kind of a big deal really. )

But I see his point, America is different. The United States is a collection of people whose ancestors came from all four corners of the globe. Certainly it started in the original thirteen colonies with a heavy Anglo-Saxon influence, after all we did belong to Britain, er, the United Kingdom I suppose, at one time. Fought a bloody war to get out of that arrangement we did.

As more people were brought it, the complexion of the nation began to change. (No, I haven't forgotten about the African slaves in the South. I'm not there yet. As they had little say in how things were run, they could only impact the nation by their labors. Which were arduous.) Americans were no longer of primarily British descent.

Then the Great Slaughter of 1861-1865 happened. Those "graves at Shiloh" mentioned above (and a dozen plus other battlefields) colored the character of the country. The freeing of the slaves added another aspect to what America was all about. (And in many hearts and minds, the struggle for real equality continues, with not everyone agreeing what that really means.)

Now Mr. Fitzgerald didn't live to see World War II, the war which dwarfed the "Great War" in nearly every category. Those "country boys dying in the Argonne" would have recognized their counterparts dying at Pearl Harbor, Bataan, Corregidor, Wake, Midway, Normandy, Bastogne, the skies over Germany, the Chosin Reservoir, the Ia Drang Valley, Hué, the skies over North Vietnam, Fallujah, and Operation Anaconda. None as bloody as our own Civil War but all having a huge impact on the national psyche.

So I would agree that in order to understand America, you need to know her history. Without knowing what formed us, what is still shaping us in fact, you can't truly understand your own place in this country nor the nation's place in the world. But the same is true to understand any country.

To understand the United Kingdom is futile without knowing anything about Hastings, William the Conqueror, Henry VIII, the battles of Agincourt and Crécy, the Armada, Cromwell, the Glorious Revolution, Nelson, Wellington, the Somme, Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain, and hundreds of other events in the history of those isles.

You cannot understand modern France without knowing of the slaughter in the trenches of World War I, the events of 1940, DeGaulle, the Maquis, Dien Bien Phu, Algeria, and again, all of the events which make up a nation's history and shape the character of the citizens. (Go back further to Jean d'Arc, the Huguenots, Louis XIV, Napoléon, France has a rich history, soaked in blood!)

So David, two things really struck me about your message in the wee hours of the night:

• the impact of history on damned near everything and
• I need to read F. Scott Fitzgerald, I feel somewhat deprived at not having done so.

Like I said in my first reply, good stuff to think about, and I really did view it as a surprise Christmas present. I always like it when the readers give me material to read and write about. Education ceases when one assumes room temperature, if you're not still learning, why are you wasting oxygen?

One last thing, I have friends who don't like to read. To me that is incomprehensible. So to you all, read, read a lot, know your history, know the history of others, it might benefit you in the long run and hey, it's entertaining. Though, as always, YMMV.

Thanks David, I'm sure we've not heard the last of this topic, By the way, have you started reading August 1914 yet? Solzhenitsyn was a brilliant writer, starts slow but as you read of the lives of the characters in the early going, the author doesn't let you forget that the war clouds are gathering. The fin de siècle approaches, to understand Russia, understanding World War I from their point of view is critical. Tannenberg and all that still echoes in the Russian psyche.

My, but I do go on...





* Why I remember that particular phrase after all these years puzzles me greatly.
** Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780

Memories of Christmas Past

(Source)

This, being my 64th Christmas season, puts me in mind of all the Christmases I have experienced throughout the period of my existence on this Earth. Well, not "all" of my past Christmases mind you, the ones in the 1950s are but a hazy blur in my memory. Some of the dusty artifacts buried deep within my memory banks may, or may not, originate with that fine decade. Some may even be mislabeled as belonging to the '50s when in actuality they may actually belong to the 1960s. Which for me was an absolutely wonderful decade, for others, perhaps not so much. After all, the war in Vietnam was raging in the latter portions of that decade and then there was the unrest and civil disturbances in these here United States. But to a lad from Vermont that was all happening in the outside world and certainly did not intrude (near as I can remember) upon my family's Christmas celebrations.

For my first three Christmases I was an only child, The Olde Vermonter showed up in time for Christmas of 1956, The Musician followed in 1960, so I'm guessing that I was probably a spoiled brat for at least one of those Christmases. Of course, in '53 I was naught but a wee bairn and in '54 I was a toddler. So I would like to say that in '55 I got lots and lots of presents. But I doubt it. My parents were not wealthy and, as I recall, they were good parents who didn't believe in spoiling their progeny.

While certainly no rods* were spared in my upbringing, we were disciplined when necessary, actual thrashings were non-existent. My Dad having swatted me on the bare behind but once, and having seen the barely discernible red mark left by his hand immediately afterwards felt so bad that he never struck any of his children ever again. Mom never hit us, not that I can recall, instead she would give us the old "wait until your father gets home" admonishment when we were getting perhaps a bit too obstreperous. Much like having a "fleet in being" the threat of Dad coming home to wallop us was much more scary than the actual walloping which probably would not have occurred. (Thanks to me, yes I take credit for all of the stuff I went through so that my brothers would not have to. Generous to a fault I am. And humble as well.)

Anyhoo. So my memories of those 64 Christmas seasons are somewhat jumbled together and present a kaleidoscope of memories rather than a series of clear pictures of things that I can recall in great detail. Though to be honest, at my age recalling what I had for dinner a few days in the past is often beyond my ken. (By the way, I say "seasons" rather than "Christmases" because while I am approaching my 64th celebration of the birth of Christ, we ain't there yet, as I write this, and I am a big believer in not counting my chickens before they are hatched. No, we've never had chicken on Christmas Day to my knowledge, but I digress.)

With that being said...**

In the 18 odd years that I lived in my little town in Vermont with my parents, we lived in three places, oddly enough all three places were on streets whose names started with the letter "C," though in truth only two were streets, one was an avenue, but again, I digress. Commonwealth Avenue, Crescent Street, and (finally) Cooper Street, where the ancestral home still stands and is still owned and occupied by members of our far-flung clan. That would be The Olde Vermonter and his branch of the tribe.

As far as Christmases go, I think we only spent one (1953) Christmas at Comm Ave (as it's called in Bawstin). As I was only seven months old at the time, I don't remember any of it, though my parents told me that I was the perfect child - quiet, reserved, and always obedient. Now think the exact opposite. Then when I was still very small we moved to Crescent Street. We went from an apartment to essentially an entire house, though as I recall the landlady lived in what today we'd call an in-law suite. Maybe they called it that back then, I can't say.

One thing I remember about one Christmas on Crescent Street is that only the downstairs portion of the house was heated. Upstairs one wore parkas, mukluks, furs, large blankets, and lots and lots of underwear. Okay, maybe it wasn't that cold. But I distinctly remember one Christmas morning when I dashed downstairs more for the warmth that was there than the presents under the tree. I'm sure that once I stopped shivering I noticed the presents.

Now when we moved to Cooper Street the entire house was ours. (And there was heat throughout!) Alright, it wasn't a gigantic house, it was a split level with three bedrooms and one bath. Now picture that with two adults (the parental units) and three growing boys. I had my own bedroom, the younger siblings shared a room, which (when The Musician was a baby) I myself had shared with The Olde Vermonter. (One of my earliest memories is Dad yelling from downstairs, "You two shut up and go to sleep!" The Olde Vermonter was ever loquacious. I too could hold my own in conversation in those days.)

Now Christmas on Cooper Street was where some of my fondest memories of Christmas past were formed. We always had a real tree, which Dad had to always run twine all over the living room in order for it to stand straight, didn't look all that odd because Mom would hang Christmas cards from the twine. Lots of tinsel on the tree which we boys would "artistically" apply, think handfuls flung at the branches while Mom yelled in exasperation, "Don't put it on that way, watch. See? You drape it." We barbarians never got it right but we thought we did. For when we got up the morning after decorating the tree all the tinsel looked absolutely perfect. Little did we know that Mom would stay up half the night re-arranging all of the decorations and the tinsel. One constant, that my mother still has, and uses every year, was the star atop the tree -

Top of the tree in '15

Though the bracket to hold a light bulb is no longer functional (missing part of the bracket), it still holds its luster and its glory. (At least in my mind, of course, I look at it much the way I did when I was 10.)

Christmas morning was always the same, The Olde Vermonter was always up before anyone else and trying to sneak downstairs for a peek at the presents. I would, in the true spirit of the season, always threaten to crush his skull if he did so. If he told me what he saw, then I would do it slowly. Mom always told me not to talk to my brother that way. As I got older, I learned to say it more quietly, still she always managed to hear it.

Eventually Mom and Dad would give up on their quest to sleep past seven and grudgingly get up and "release the hounds." That is, let us boys head down to the living room to see what treasures lay under the tree. For The Olde Vermonter and I it was two players trying to get at the puck in a corner of the rink. (Hockey reference for you southerners. Oh wait, they play hockey in Florida now don't they?)

We boys would spend the next 30 seconds opening everything which had our name on it, leaving my mother to wonder why she stayed up half the night wrapping presents. Okay, it took longer than that, Mom would make us go slow, to savor and enjoy it. When everything was opened, the next hour or so... Well, I remember it as being a lot like this, before Ralphie opens his special gift at any rate.

One thing we always did was done for our cat. Before all of the wrapping paper was picked up and disposed of, Tommy got his catnip. One sheet of discarded wrapping paper, one 15-pound black cat, and perhaps a tablespoon of catnip and we'd nearly forget all about the gifts we had just opened. It was time to watch our cat get his Christmas buzz on.

He'd sniff at it, then sneeze, then sniff a little more, then plop right down in it. Imagine, if you will, the human equivalent, one sniffs the wine, then swirls it about the glass, then sniffs it again, then you pour it on the floor and roll about in it until you've got a good buzz.

Okay, wine doesn't work like that, but for some reason most members of the feline persuasion won't just sniff it, lick it, and eat it. No, they have to roll around in it, get it everywhere, for that (apparently) is the only way to get the full effect from catnip. Truth be told, not all cats enjoy catnip. My Mom's two cats get no kick from it at all. Barely pay any attention to it. Now our current members of the feline staff here at Chez Sarge do indeed enjoy catnip. Though in truth, Sasha is a bit of a mean drunk, she gets bombed and wants to pick a fight with her sister Anya, who just wants to snooze after a bit o' the nip.

But Tommy back in the day would get his buzz on then go sleep it off. At least until the turkey was ready.

After all was put away, and after we'd hauled all our gifts up to our rooms, it was time to get washed up and dressed for breakfast and the furthering of the day's activities. Though as boys we should have been content to stay unwashed and in our PJs all day, we consented to all this "getting ready" stuff because Act II of Christmas Day would come fairly quickly. For around noon the grandparents, all four of them, would show up bearing, you guessed it, more presents.

We were a bit more sedate when opening the presents from our grandparents. For one thing we were more awake and the initial rush of Christmas Morn was past. For another thing, our grandparents made a point of spoiling us the year round, so gifts from them, while always special, were more the norm than the exception. There was some youthful anticipation though because as the paternal and maternal grandparents lived in different towns in New Hampshire, and they almost never synchronized their watches to arrive on target at the same time, one set would show up first, more presents would go under the tree, then my brothers and I would bounce from window to window to see if the other set of grandparents were coming up the street yet. All to the tune of my Dad yelling at us to "Settle down!" If our paternal grandparents showed up first, Dad's "settle downs" would be accompanied by our Scottish grandmother saying, "It's alright Bobby, it's Christmas, they're a wee bit excited is all."

Eventually the other grandparents would show, there would be more presents and then food. Lots and lots of food. Food enough to feed a small army, food enough that even with everyone taking home leftovers, Mom wouldn't have to cook for a couple of days after Christmas.

And when all the grandparents went home, and as the sun settled below the snow covered hills, my brothers and I would set up a new game at the foot of my parents bed, where there was this really neat and old-fashioned woven rug. We would play the new game while dining on turkey sandwiches, pickles, olives, and stuffed celery. It was a blast. I remember it so well.

Playing a game Christmas Day? It's something we still do when we're with our kids at Christmas, they inherited the tradition. I have a number of stories about those games which I shall have to tell you. Especially the great Monopoly Controversy of '04 (I think it was). Let's just say this, The Nuke is fiercely competitive when it comes to Monopoly. (Well, in anything for that matter.) She and her uncle The Musician almost "had words" that year. My brother restrained himself, though he did mention to me privately that The Nuke had swindled him on a deal concerning Park Avenue.

Could be. The Nuke seldom takes prisoners...







*  Proverbs 13:24 Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them. (NIV)
** MSJC