Just to prove that veterans haven't forgotten their military crankiness...

 

... here's a short movie for Veterans Day.

Peter

Remember your introduction to military beds?

 

I can remember mine, particularly the inordinate care with which we had to make our beds each morning before inspection.  Sheets carefully folded and ironed, blankets taut, corners ironed with shaving cream, the whole "package" so tight that the instructor could bounce a coin off it.  The slightest imperfection and everything was ripped off and tossed on the floor.  "Idle!  Do it again - and do it right this time!"  In those early days of basic training, we might spend an hour or more at it every morning before the instructors were satisfied.

Despite it being officially forbidden, most of us developed the habit of making our beds as perfectly as possible - helping each other to do so - and then sleeping on the floor underneath our beds, so as not to disturb their pristine inspection-ready status.  One of us would keep watch for impromptu inspections during the small hours of the morning, which would always find us practicing drill or doing something militarily educational and/or useful rather than sleeping.  I'm sure our instructors knew what we were up to, but if we made them look good to their bosses, they turned a blind eye.

I don't miss those days . . . but I couldn't help smiling, remembering them, as I watched this Japanese bed-making competition.

I could have used their skills during military basic training, that's for sure!  I wonder how long it took them to get that good at it?  And did they have to suffer punishment PT (or the Japanese equivalent) if they got it wrong?

Peter

Military boots, then and now

 

I'm sure the modern canvas or suede-style military boot is a lot more comfortable than its older leather counterpart - it certainly looks to be easier on the feet, anyway.  Nevertheless, I'm sure many readers share my memories of the older variety . . . and how hard we had to work on them.

South African combat boots were covered in a knobbly finish - I don't know a better way to describe them.  To get the toes and heels shining like that, we first had to iron our new boots through a damp cloth to get rid of the knobbles.  It took a long time, and one had to be careful not to burn them, because that would never take a shine.  Once they were smooth, the long, arduous process of spit-shining them began.  It would take at least half-a-dozen sessions to get them shining as they were required to be, probably taking fifteen to twenty minutes each time.  Some swore by setting fire to the polish in the tin, so they could smear it on while liquid;  others applied a thick layer to the boot and set fire to it there;  still others (including yours truly) preferred to do it all by hand and by spit, for fear of the flames ruining the finish.

Equipment varied.  Apart from the iron to smooth out the leather, one needed a polishing cloth (a yellow duster worked fine).  Many of us (including yours truly) took an old pair of socks, rolled them into a tight ball, and covered them with several layers of women's nylon stockings, to help with the polishing process.  After the spit-shine was complete, the nylon ball would help keep the surface shining and clean.  It was quite funny to see a group of new recruits visiting the local store and demanding one pair of nylons apiece - "Never mind the size, just nylons!".  Some of the salesladies must have wondered . . .

Once the boots were at parade-ground standard, one had to be extraordinarily careful not to scratch or scuff them.  Mean-minded NCO's who were annoyed at you, for whatever reason, might tread heavily on them and spin the soles of their boots around on them, not only ruining the finish but also scarring the leather - and that meant a new pair of boots, at your expense, because you could never polish out that sort of damage.  If you went on operations, you didn't dare wear your highly polished boots, because they'd never recover from that wear and tear.  Most of us glumly paid out of our own pockets to buy a pair of "parade boots", and kept them as pristine as possible.  Unfortunately, if you were ordered to parade at short notice, you didn't always have time to swap boots, which led to unfortunate consequences.

In our early uniformed days in particular, our boots could get scuffed and marred simply by the training routine through which we suffered.  Not marching in proper step?  "You!  Troop!  See that bush up the hill there?  Go and get me a leaf from it!"

Puff, puff, pant, pant . . . "Here's your leaf, Sergeant."

"Wrong leaf!  Go back and get the right one!"

Ah, yes . . . seeing that meme brought back all sorts of unpleasant memories!  If you never had to go through that ritual, there are videos on YouTube showing how it's done.

Peter

That's a lot of wind beneath their wings...

 

A report at The War Zone brought back many military (and other) memories.

After an extraordinary career spanning more than 80 years of service, and plenty of operational missions, the South African Air Force (SAAF) is preparing to retire its last C-47 Dakotas. Remarkably, the SAAF is moving to discard its C-47s while, at the same time, elsewhere around the globe, turboprop versions of the venerable transport continue to win orders.

The story of the Dakota in SAAF service stretches all the way back to 1943 when the service was fighting in World War Two. Most extraordinary, perhaps, is that among the very last Dakotas operated by the SAAF, most had been delivered during that conflict, having started life as C-47s manufactured for the U.S. Army Air Forces (USAAF).

By June next year the South African Air Force will have been operating C-47 Dakotas continuously for 80 years, albeit much upgraded. Even more astounding is that some airframes still in active service have been there from the start, with the oldest (6825) delivered in Feb 1944.

The SAAF’s Dakota fleet, however, saw its most extensive combat service during the long-running conflict in South West Africa (now known as Namibia) and Angola, supporting South African Defence Force (SADF) units during the so-called Border War between 1966 and 1989. The SADF relied heavily on the Dakota for troop transport, resupply, medical evacuation, paratrooping, and other missions, its importance was heightened by the sanctions on Apartheid South Africa that complicated the procurement of alternative equipment.

By the 1980s, the SAAF operated the largest fleet of Dakotas anywhere in the world — close to 50 in total. However, the demise of minority rule in South Africa, and the end of the Border War, saw the Dakota — and the SAAF more generally — switch increasingly to peacetime missions, especially humanitarian work. At the same time, Dakota squadrons were rationalized, and the fleet was reduced in size.

There's more at the link.

The SAAF's C-47's flew in combat zones many times over the years.  They were the primary transport for secondary military air routes in South Africa and then-South West Africa (today Namibia), with C-130's and C-160's handling the busier routes.  During the Rhodesian War many SAAF C-47's and Alouette III helicopters were "loaned" to Rhodesia, supplementing that country's small Air Force for "Fireforce" anti-terrorist missions and cross-border operations into Zambia and Mozambique.  During South Africa's own Border War in the 1980's they were the shorter-range backbone of air transport operations, including one (shown below) that had an argument with a SA-7 Strela anti-aircraft missile and barely made it back to an airport in time to avoid crashing.

I flew many thousands of miles aboard SAAF C-47's, including one that was so old its logbook recorded it dropping paratroopers at Arnhem in 1944 as part of Operation Market Garden - the so-called "Bridge Too Far" airborne assault.  It was in remarkably good shape for an aircraft that had been "rode hard and put away wet" for almost 40 years by the time I flew in it.  That particular aircraft is still in service, having been converted to turboprop propulsion along with the SAAF's other surviving C-47's.  I also traveled aboard the civilian DC-3 transports of Air Cape, flying along the Garden Route to and from Cape Town.  Even in the 1980's, dirt and grass airfields were still in use at some of the small towns there, with no all-weather runways.  Things could get bouncy during takeoff and landing, and occasionally the pilot would have to make a couple of low passes to chase a cow or two off the runway before he could land!

The SAAF Museum still has a flying example of the C-47 as built, with its original Pratt & Whitney engines.  Here's its C-47 showing off at an air display.  It's not a very good video, but it's the best I could find on YouTube.

I wonder what the SAAF will buy to replace its C-47's?  There's no doubt that it needs a replacement, both for transport and for coastal maritime reconnaissance (both roles currently filled by the C-47), but the SAAF's aircraft fleet is in very parlous condition at present, with a minimal budget and very few skilled maintainers left to keep it flying.  The service is a pale shadow of what it was in the 1980's, when it was undoubtedly the premier air force in sub-Saharan Africa, with skills and operational experience on a par with most NATO air arms.

Despite its age and long overdue need for replacement, it'll be sad to see the last of the SAAF's C-47's take a final bow and retire into history.

Peter

A blast (and a giggle or two) from my past

 

Back in 1988, agreement was reached between the parties to the Tripartite Accord to grant independence to Namibia (previously administered by South Africa under the name South West Africa, under a disputed League of Nations mandate).  The United Nations Transition Assistance Group, or UNTAG, was dispatched to Namibia in 1989 to oversee and assist with the transition process.  It had a very rocky start, with hostilities flaring up as it was supposed to take over, but once they were suppressed, it began work.

UNTAG rapidly became a figure of fun to many South Africans and Namibians, because it wasn't the world's most militarily efficient force (anything but, in fact!), and many of its units and personnel were clearly not selected from elite fighting formations.  Despite its military issues and problems, UNTAG did a reasonably good job at overseeing elections, and Namibia became independent in 1990.  However, the military problems were fodder for cartoonists and comedians for many months.

Among them was Leon Schuster, a well-known South African filmmaker and comedian (and the diametric opposite of politically correct).  He rapidly produced a movie titled "Oh Schucks, Here Comes UNTAG", situated in the fictitious nation of "Nambabwe", which lampooned the UNTAG forces and prompted much sarcastic amusement among South African audiences.  It's not a great film (at best B-movie standard), and the jokes rely on slapstick rather than subtlety, but I nevertheless had a few good laughs when I saw it way back then.

It's been out of circulation for years, but to my pleasure, I discovered that someone recently uploaded it to YouTube.  If you want a military-oriented belly-laugh with an African flavor, you could do worse.

Yes, I giggled again at some of the scenes, particularly those dealing with ostriches and rhinoceros horn. Africans will understand.

Peter

(P.S.:  Don't believe the Wikipedia figures for the flare-up in hostilities as UNTAG took over, which were suppressed by swift and very vigorous South African military reaction.  Casualties numbered in the mid-thousands, not low hundreds, and almost all of them were SWAPO.)

To all my comrades who did not come home

 

I said it all back in 2010.  I referenced that in relation to more modern combat, and the US Navy SEALs, a couple of years later.

I still remember you.

Peter

Saturday Snippet: The return of a changed soldier, and a solemn reminder

 

Following last week's Kipling poem, several readers asked whether he'd written any other verse from the point of view of a veteran remembering his service.  Well, yes, he did:  and it's a rather good poem, too.  Here's "The Return".  It's the second-last in a sixteen-poem cycle titled "Service Songs", published in Kipling's collection "The Five Nations" in 1919.  It's set at the end of the Second Anglo-Boer War, and written from the perspective of a returning veteran who concludes England was worth his efforts.

(If you have difficulty understanding any of Kipling's terms, some of which he made up himself, the Kipling Society has some useful commentary on the poem.)

Peace is declared, an’ I return
  To ’Ackneystadt, but not the same;
Things ’ave transpired which made me learn
  The size and meanin’ of the game.
I did no more than others did,
  I don’t know where the change began.
I started as a average kid,
  I finished as a thinkin’ man.

If England was what England seems,
  An’ not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
  ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er! But she ain’t!

Before my gappin’ mouth could speak
  I ’eard it in my comrade’s tone;
I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek
  Before I felt it flush my own.
An’ last it come to me—not pride,
  Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole
(If such a term may be applied),
  The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer,
  Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
Mountains which never let you near,
  An’ stars to all eternity;
An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills
  The ’ollows of the wilderness,
When the wind worries through the ’ills—
  These may ’ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,
  An’ ten times left an’ burned at last;
An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look
  For owners when a column passed;
An’ quiet, ’omesick talks between Men,
  met by night, you never knew
Until—’is face—by shellfire seen—
  Once—an’ struck off. They taught me too.

The day’s lay-out—the mornin’ sun
  Beneath your ’at-brim as you sight;
The dinner-’ush from noon till one,
  An’ the full roar that lasts till night;
An’ the pore dead that look so old
  An’ was so young an hour ago,
An’ legs tied down before they’re cold—
  These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin’ into years—
  A thousand Places left be’ind—
An’ Men from both two ’emispheres
  Discussin’ things of every kind;
So much more near than I ’ad known,
  So much more great than I ’ad guessed—
An’ me, like all the rest, alone—
  But reachin’ out to all the rest!

So ’ath it come to me—not pride,
  Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.
But now, discharged, I fall away
  To do with little things again…
Gawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say,
  Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seems,
  An’ not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
  ’Ow quick we’d chuck ’er! But she ain’t!

I think many veterans of a long, hard war - of any nationality, in any war - will instinctively understand that poem.  It speaks to the roots of a man.

The sixteen poems of the "Service Songs" cycle conclude with Kipling's famous "Recessional", which he sub-titled "After Queen Victoria's Jubilee".  I'm sure many of you know it:  but it's always worth re-reading.  One of his masterpieces, IMHO.  (The Kipling Society has much valuable background information on this poem.)

God of our fathers, known of old,
  Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
  Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
  The Captains and the Kings depart;
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
  An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away;
  On dune and headland sinks the fire;
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
  Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
  Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
  Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
  In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
  And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

  Amen.

Peter

A blessed Veterans Day to my readers

 

My military service was in another uniform, serving another country, on another continent.  Nevertheless, I've gained many friends who served in the US armed forces, and who've shared their experiences of military life and combat with me.  Turns out most militaries are the same under the skin.  Whether it's a US Drill Instructor demanding "What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?", or a South African NCO sending me running up a hill to fetch a leaf from a designated bush as punishment for a parade-ground misdemeanor (only to hear him bellow, on my return, "Wrong leaf!  Go back and get the right one!"), we've all experienced much the same thing.

On this Veterans Day, may all of you who've served in any military force remember your service with nostalgia as pleasant as possible.  If it wasn't pleasant, then be happy you're no longer in uniform!  We can all hoist a glass in each other's honor today, and indulge our memories.

For me, today is also Remembrance Day and Armistice Day, both celebrated throughout the former British Empire.  I'll be remembering those who died alongside me.  There are more than a few of them.  (I wrote about Flynn's death ten years ago, if you're interested.  In a strange, roundabout sort of way, that memory later had a very profound effect on my marriage, as I related here.)

Peter

Oh, my itchy trigger finger . . .

Yesterday Miss D. and I went to the Guardians of Freedom Air Show at Sheppard Air Force Base near Wichita Falls.  It was a lot of fun, with a surprisingly good range of aircraft for a training base, including the F-22 and F-35 fifth-generation combat aircraft.  There was a decent-size crowd, too.

While we were walking from the parking lot to the entrance to the display area, our attention was caught by a silver dart-like aircraft zooming low over the runway, quite close to us. I don't know what I looked like to my wife, but I could feel the tension right away as I recognized it. I must have showed that somehow, because she stopped in her tracks and said, "What is it?"

I replied, through partly gritted teeth, "It's a MiG."  It was - a MiG-17, to be precise, operated by Fighterjets Inc.

She burst out laughing.  "Why do I think you're itching to get your hands on a ground-to-air missile right now?"

I was.  In fact, the last time I saw a MiG-17, in the 1980's, it was through the sights of a former Soviet ZPU 14.5mm anti-aircraft gun, a captured weapon that we were using for local air defense in the African bush.  (I missed.)

Seeing an old enemy flying the peaceful skies near my home, with nobody shooting at it . . . for a long moment, that was a truly weird sensation!

Peter

It's a bittersweet feeling . . .

Two Russian Tupolev Tu-160 strategic bombers are paying an official visit to South Africa at present.  They landed at Waterkloof Air Force Base near Pretoria yesterday.  Here's video of one of them on final approach, escorted by two South African Air Force Hawk trainer aircraft.  I know the area where the photographer was standing very well;  I've stood there myself more than once, watching aircraft arriving and departing.

It was a bittersweet sort of feeling for me to watch that video, for two reasons.

The first is that, back in the days of my active military service, any such Russian (i.e. Soviet) aircraft showing up within striking distance of South Africa would have been attacked with everything the South African Air Force had at its disposal.  I wonder how many ex-servicemen living in the vicinity of Waterkloof felt their fingers itching for a man-portable air defense missile as they watched that bomber fly overhead?  I did, even in Texas, thousands of miles away.

The second is that in my day, during the Border War, the South African Air Force was the most powerful in sub-Saharan Africa, by a very long way.  It had scores of supersonic fighters and strike aircraft, and a rich history of combat success.  Today . . . not so much.  It doesn't have enough pilots for its relatively few allegedly "operational" Saab Gripen fighters, and even if it did, it doesn't have enough technicians and mechanics to maintain them properly, and it can't afford the spare parts.  The visiting Russian bombers had to be escorted by training aircraft, because the SAAF couldn't muster even a couple of proper fighters for the job!  It's a terrible reflection of how the South African Defense Force in general, once the best in Africa, has become a pitiful shadow of its former self, and a sour, acid joke to those of us who knew it in its heyday.

Like I said . . . bittersweet.

Peter

A remarkable man

I recently came across a video interview of a British Army veteran who, at the age of 94, jumped into Normandy, France, as part of this year's 75th anniversary commemoration of the D-Day Landings in 1944.  It surprised me to see it, because I'd met him before, more than 30 years ago.

This interview with Mr. Hutton was filmed a few years earlier.

Little did the cameraman and reporter know that Jock Hutton was far more than just another D-Day veteran.  He was - and remains - a living legend in the Special Forces community.

Former Squadron Sergeant Major of the Rhodesian Special Air Service is quite a man, and a bit of a legend to say the least.  During World War Two, Jock attempted to join the British military but was too young initially. At 18, he joined the British paratroopers prior to D-Day and jumped in to Normandy. On that 6th of June in 1944, Jock saw action fighting the Nazis near the Orn river. He was injured a few weeks later and evacuated back to the UK, later returning to again fight the Germans in Ardennes. Jock was captured by the Nazis and then escaped, again jumping into combat in 1945 in Germany. The good Sergeant Major also has an impressive post-war resume, including operations in Palestine (45-48), Cyprus and Egypt (49-52), as well as Malaysia, Singapore, and Java (52-54).

In 1955, Jock participated in the first Selection course for the Rhodesian SAS. In 1957, Jock took the reins from another notable World War II veteran, Stan Standish, as the Squadron Sergeant Major of C-Squadron, Rhodesian SAS. He remained in Rhodesia until the conclusion of the Bush War, and joined South Africa’s 5 Recce in 1981.

I met Mr. Hutton in passing on a couple of occasions in northern Namibia during the mid-1980's.  We were never formally introduced, or anything like that;  but all those who pointed him out to me sounded as though they were in awe of him.  He had quite the reputation, thanks to his vast combat experience, and reportedly took no nonsense from anybody, no matter what their rank.  He must have had well over 40 years military experience by the time he eventually retired;  perhaps closer to 50 years.  That's something very few veterans can boast.

Frankly, I'm amazed he's still alive, but I'm very pleased to see him still so active.  He apparently wanted to jump solo for this year's D-Day celebrations, but the British organizers ruled he was too old;  so he had to tandem-jump with an instructor.  I can only assume they didn't know his military record very well.  If he'd had any trouble, I daresay he would have beaten the earth into submission with his feet while coming in to land!

Peter

Where was this guy when we needed him???

A link at SNAFU's place showed me a fast, ingenious way to fill sandbags.

When I think of the literally thousands of never-to-be-sufficiently-damned sandbags that I filled the hard way, bending over with an entrenching tool and scooping sand, earth, mud and rock into a bag that always flopped closed at the critical moment . . . I'm speechless with a combination of rage, envy and bitterness.  Why didn't we think of such an ingenious device when we needed it?  (On the other hand, if we had, I'm not sure our NCO's would have let us use it.  The old-fashioned way would probably have been considered "character-building", or something like that - and besides, there are no PVC drainage pipes on the average battlefield.)

Be that as it may, this method can be really handy for flood preparation.  I'm sure many of my readers have seen news reports, like the one below, showing armies of volunteers filling sandbags to protect buildings and vulnerable areas from flooding.

I hope civil defense authorities take note of this improvement in filling technique, and have a number of those devices standing by in case of future need.  They're so quick and easy to make, it would be stupid not to do so.

Nevertheless, my back is still aching with the memories of the old-fashioned way of doing things . . .

Peter

A feel-good story for Veterans Day

This report brought a smile to my face.

A 90-year-old World War II veteran, who described being a Marine as the “high point” of his life, has been reunited with his M1 Garand rifle after 73 years.

Resident Dick Cowell was 18 and the war was in full swing when he enlisted in the Marine Corps and was handed a uniform, the rifle and some bullets.

The firearm, his sergeant told him, was now his girlfriend, his wife and his friend. He had to take it everywhere with him, he was told. And he should never, ever call it a gun — unless he wanted to stand naked in front of his company. It was a mistake he only made once.

This Veterans Day, the old Marine is reconnecting with the dented, scratched rifle that became his third arm during the war. Today, it’s a historic relic that is bringing his family closer.

“It’s my baby,” Cowell said of the rifle. “I am very appreciative that Richard was able to find it after 73 years.”

. . .

Richard, who lives in Tequesta, spent six months hunting down the rifle after finding a white piece of paper with the word “Springfield” written in cursive followed by the serial number “3594593” in his father’s desk ... A New Jersey gun collector was selling it, and after Richard outbid a tough competitor, the firearm was his.

“The rifle spent two weeks in my room before I gave it to my father,” Richard said. “I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I couldn’t believe it was finally ours.”

In late October, Cowell’s 11-year-old grandson, Tommy, presented him with the rifle. Holding the dark-brown wooden firearm, which weighs nearly 11 pounds, Cowell was flooded with memories of his first day of target practice.

“When I first fired this weapon, I tell you, it was something else,” Cowell said with a grin.

. . .

“(Finding) this rifle opened up an entirely new life for this family,” Richard said, looking at his dad. “My father has remembered things from the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s that we’ve never heard before.”

There's more at the link, including several photographs that are worth seeing.  Mr. Cowell certainly collected an impressive number of marksmanship medals with that rifle!

Sadly, that sort of attachment to, and memories of, a personal weapon doesn't seem to apply in an age of "plastic fantastic" firearms.  I can remember the rifles I used in military service, but none of them held any particular attachment for me.  They were just modern assault rifles, stamped steel and pressed wood and plastic, with no "soul" to speak of.  My father's generation, on the other hand, regarded their Lee-Enfields and Garands and Mausers with real affection.  They were just as mass-produced as modern rifles, but somehow they had more individuality in the eyes of their users than their modern equivalents.  The same appears to be true of handguns.  Talk to an aficionado about his 1911 pistol or Single Action Army revolver, and one can almost see a mist of affection pass over their faces.  No-one speaks of a Glock or XD or M&P in that way.

I'm glad Mr. Cowell has been reunited with his rifle.  May it pass down through the generations of his descendants, to remind them that their ancestor was a fighting man.

Peter

"The last hot battle of the Cold War"

That's how one author referred to the 1987-88 battles between Cuban and South African forces (with support from, respectively, Angolan and UNITA troops).  I was there, and remember it well.

Fred Bridgland wrote a book shortly after the fighting, titled 'The War for Africa:  Twelve Months that Transformed a Continent'.

I bought it as soon as it was published, and enjoyed it very much.  He was accurate in his facts, incisive in his analysis, and brought together many threads (some of which, as in most wars, many of us 'on the ground' had been unaware) to produce a cohesive account of the fighting and its geopolitical and geostrategic implications.

I'm delighted that the book has now been republished in a new edition, with an updated introduction and the inclusion of some more threads of events that didn't make it into the first edition.  (Mr. Bridgland still doesn't know about some of the things that went on, in some of which I was involved - but since we were all sworn to secrecy, those stories may never be told.)  It's as good as I remember it to be, and it brought back many memories (some of which I'd rather not have, thank you very much) as I paged through it.

I recommend this book very highly to those interested in military history, in the Cold War, and in one of the lesser-known combat zones of that not-very-frigid-at-all conflict.  This was the climax of my war.  It shaped and formed the rest of my life.

Peter

Sobering memories from World War II

Here's a long talk (1 hour 25 minutes) from a survivor of the Bataan Death March in the Philippines in 1942, followed by over three years in Japanese captivity.  It's a sobering reminder of a period of history about which far too many are ignorant today.

There are very few survivors left among us from World War II.  We need to record their memories like this one, so that future generations won't forget.

Peter

Pearl Harbor, 1941 - one man's memories

Rather than commemorate today's anniversary in a general, historical-overview way, I thought I'd make it a bit more real.  Here are the reminiscences of Adolph Kuhn, who was there.

Makes it more up-close-and-personal, doesn't it?

Peter

Bullets, balloons and resistance

Here's a fun excerpt from a TV program showing how water, so much more dense than air, can slow down a bullet.

I used to think that the stories of divers attacking harbors, and swimming safely underneath a hail of bullets fired by sentries on shore, were just that - stories.  However, way back when, I saw some South African divers training at Walvis Bay prior to an operation in Angola. Part of the training was to show them that sufficient depth of water (about 3 meters, or 10 feet) would, indeed, protect them from AK-47 fire.  Sure enough, as they swam along next to the quay, their instructor fired an AK-47 at them, and the bullets were slowed to a crawl before they could reach the swimmers.  It was very educational.

(Note to readers:  DON'T try that at home - or anywhere else!)

Peter

A reminder from Captain Tightpants

My blogbuddy Captain Tightpants reminds us via a link that we need to welcome home our combat veterans and do all we can to help them fit into society again.  Please read the article at that link before continuing here.

I'd like to second the author's call from my own perspective.  When I came to the USA I was just about burned out after eighteen years of civil unrest, periodic (uniformed) war service, which had its own stresses and memories, and far too much experience of trying to help the victims of violence in South Africa.  I came here because I knew I needed to make a fresh start.  If I'd stayed in South Africa, I think I'd have become just another 'stress casualty' of the long conflict, as happened to far too many friends of mine (like Mike, for example).

I was fortunate enough to find a counselor who'd spent three tours of duty in Vietnam before changing career direction.  He understood my combat burnout and hyper-sensitive reflexes, because he'd 'been there and done that' himself.  We spent three years talking things through, and I suspect our conversations helped him as much as they helped me.  By the time we were done I had a better handle on the experiences that had helped to shape and form me into what I am today, and I was much better balanced all round.  (Thanks, Primo.  You did good, buddy.)

Later I had an epiphany while watching the SEAL movie 'Act of Valor', about which I wrote at some length (as did my wife).  The reality of combat as portrayed there lifted our relationship to a new level, because I was able to figure out - to my astonishment - that my wife really did understand some parts of my past, which I'd always believed would be a closed book to most if not all civilians.  In the USA the 'military brat' subculture is sometimes a real blessing in that regard.  I've since spoken to other combat veterans who've watched that movie, and we all agree;  it was a very good job, very well done, and portrays the realities of combat better than almost any other movie we can think of.

Thanks to that background and all I've learned about myself and others, I'd like to echo the original author's call to help returning veterans whenever possible.  Some of them have been forever changed by their experiences.  Don't mock them;  don't shy away from them as 'weird';  instead, understand that they've been standing between you and the darkness.  As George Orwell put it:

People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

That's what many veterans have done for us, and it's changed them forever.  Please be there for them, and help them adjust.  It's the least we can do.

Peter

Memories of a painful encounter

I was interested to see this footage of a helicopter using an underslung powered saw to trim tree branches near a power line.

It reminded me of a painful encounter with a nest of African wasps dislodged by a helicopter doing powerline clearance work in Southern Africa during the 1980's.  The chopper wasn't using anything as sophisticated as that powered saw, but rather dragging a sort of grapnel, if I recall correctly - I don't know precisely why.  Be that as it may, it hacked into a wasp nest, and the angry critters decided that anyone nearby must have had a hand in the desecration of their home.  We ran pretty darn fast that day . . . in Army boots with full kit and rifle, at that!




Peter

Writing about military service, war, and killing

I have a question (or a series of questions) for my readers, particularly those interested in military science fiction and other military fiction, but also to everyone interested in this topic in general.

Recently I wrote about the problems of character development, etc. in a guest post over at Sarah Hoyt's place.  In that article, I mentioned in passing:

I’ve been annoyed by a great many military SF books that are quite obviously written by people who have no military background themselves (or, if they have some military background, don’t have combat experience). It shows very clearly.

In a comment to that article, reader Smithgift asked:

Speaking as a civilian planning to write a book containing lots of WAR and VIOLENCE, what is the most important thing to do to avoid this? What is the most important thing NOT to do?

I've been thinking about this subject ever since, and I think it's best addressed by writing a few articles dealing with the difference between a military and a civilian mindset.  Much that seems instinctive or axiomatic to a military veteran is strange to a civilian, and needs to be explained in terms of the different way of life that military service involves.  In particular, I find that those who haven't seen combat - in particular, those who haven't killed or wounded an enemy 'up close and personal' - truly don't understand the reactions of the human psyche to the act of killing.  I've seen altogether too much of it for my peace of mind.  I'm well aware that individual reactions vary, depending on a whole host of factors.  It's a complex subject, but one that hasn't been well addressed in the context of writing fiction.

There are several books out there analyzing and embodying the military environment and mind-set, and the issue of killing, from micro- to macro levels.  They include (but are not limited to):

• 'On Killing' by Lt-Col. David Grossman (which I find interesting, but overrated, and I'm forced to disagree with some of what the author concludes on the basis of my own experience);
• 'On Combat' by Lt-Col. Grossman and others (a more rounded presentation, IMHO);
• Two books by Victor Davis Hanson, 'Carnage And Culture' and 'The Father Of Us All', looking at the broader issues of war as a reflection of society and culture (both excellent);
• Three books by Steven Pressfield:  two novels - 'Gates Of Fire' and 'The Virtues Of War' - and one non-fiction work - 'The Warrior Ethos' (all highly recommended);
• 'Martial Virtues' by Charles Hackney (oriented more towards the martial arts, but definitely applicable to some aspects of combat - useful background material);
• 'Facing Violence: Preparing for the Unexpected' by Rory Miller and Barry Eisler - a very good analysis of the experience of violence and how to prepare oneself for it in a defensive situation;
• 'Warrior Mindset: Mental Toughness Skills for a Nation's Peacekeepers' by multiple authors - an interesting perspective on preparing to enter a climate of violence.

None of these ten books get it all right, but they all get some of it right - at least, in terms of my experience.  I think they're all worth reading.  Recommended.

I'd like to avoid duplicating the work done by those authors - there's no sense in reinventing the wheel.  I think I can provide some useful input in terms of my own background and life experiences, and in terms of the literally hundreds of other servicemen in several different countries and armed forces with whom I've spoken about these issues.  I can also bring an 'up close and personal' experience of violence and death to bear on the subject.  I really don't want to go into detail about that, for obvious reasons, but nevertheless, those who've 'been there and done that' will understand me when I say it's a bit like sex.  You can read about sex all you like;  you can go through all the theoretical sex education in the world;  but only when you've actually experienced it will you truly understand it, grasp it, feel it as part of you.  Killing is very similar in that sense.  It changes you.  Forever.  That's one reason why those who've done so very seldom write about it in any detail.  It feels almost obscene to do so.

What I'd like to ask is this.  Will it serve a useful purpose to try to go into the experience of violence and death - the experience of killing - in greater depth?  I don't want to go into voyeuristic levels of detail.  I simply want to help aspiring writers to be more realistic in their work, and not to spout reams of pablum about something they don't fully understand.

Let me give a concrete example.  Readers may recall my review of 'Act Of Valor' in 2012, which I watched with my wife.  In it, I commented that one of the scenes of death in combat brought tears to my eyes because it reminded me so powerfully of the death of one of my own comrades in arms, about which I'd written a couple of years earlier.  The fictional film brought that reality back to life for me, far more powerfully and immediately than any 'ordinary' Hollywood production could have done.  Some time later I had the opportunity to discuss the movie with some active-duty Navy SEAL team members, who confirmed to me that the incident in question was based on the death in combat of Michael A. Monsoor.  I think all of us had a tear or two in our eyes as we discussed lost comrades in arms . . .  I'd like to be able to make that same level of reality more accessible to prospective writers of military fiction.  That's why I'm considering writing this series of articles.

So, what do you think?  Would such a series of articles be useful to current and prospective writers?  Of equal importance, should they be written, or would it be best not to have overly realistic detail - to the point of possible voyeurism - splashed all over the pages of more fiction?

Over to you, readers.  Please let us know your thoughts in Comments.

Peter