A STEP AT A TIME…BIRTH AND DEATH IN WAR

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist



At precisely 6:30 PM on Friday the thirteenth, August, 1943, the cry of a newborn child shattered the hot and sluggish summer air of tiny Peebles, Ohio, USA, located just thirty miles north of the Ohio River. It was a girl-child, born in a farmhouse bedroom of her maternal grandparents, a place that sat atop a wooded knoll in the center of town. The firstborn child of her parents, she was delivered by “Old Doc Ellison,” the bent-shouldered and white-haired physician whom for many years had seen the family through much illness and strife. Wrapped in a new quilt that her grandmother had made for her, Doc Ellison placed the rosy-faced baby in her exhausted mother’s arms. “Have you decided on a name for this pretty little girl, Roma?”

                “Her name is Linda, because I read in a book that it means ‘beautiful.’ And her middle name is ‘Lee’ after her Daddy.”

                “How’s Lee doing? Is he still at the Great Lakes Navy Boot Camp?”

                “He’s having an awful time with his stomach, Doc. The food there keeps him sick most of the time.”

“That belly of his has given him fits since he was a little kid. I feel for him, Roma.”

Like every town in the USA, as was the case across nearly all of the civilized nations in those World War II days, Peebles was a place of women and children and their elders, the able-bodied men of fighting age having been drafted into the military, some of them serving actively, some of them home or in hospital seriously maimed, or already dead and buried in family cemeteries or lost on foreign soils, their remains never to be recovered. As it turned out, because of his problem with his stomach, my eighteen-year-old father was given an honorable medical discharge before completing boot camp training. It was a physical condition that plagued him all the 89 years of his life. However, if he had gone on to serve, there is every reason to assume he would have been a “swabby” on a ship or submarine reported to the Pacific Fleet, there to fight in hotspots of the pitiless water- and air-war against the Japanese.

I was nearing seven weeks of age by the time my dad first laid eyes on me. He had missed my birth, but was home in time to celebrate with my mother the joyful event of their first wedding anniversary. Other than concerns about my parent’s brothers, cousins, and friends on active duty, our little family led a peaceful existence through the balance of World War II, dad contributing to the war effort in various factories in Dayton, and Cincinnati, as well as in Columbus, Ohio, where we finally settled permanently, and is my home to this day.

However, my family’s elation over my birth surely would have been tempered had news come via the radio or newspaper of the sinking of the “USS Cisco,” a submarine on which my dad might very well have been a crewman, if not for his bad stomach. Having sailed on August 7, 1943 from Panama for Brisbane, Australia and arriving on September 1^st to assume local patrol duties, she docked at Darwin on September 18^th for two days. While at Darwin, Chief Radioman Howell B. Rice (USN ret.) was taken ill and sent ashore to the Navy hospital. “Cisco” then put out to sea on her first war patrol on September 20^th, the only submarine on duty in her field of operation. She was never seen again. Japanese records relate a grisly tale, one of an oil-leaking US submarine sighted and then sunk by bombs and depth charges by Imperial Japanese Navy carrier-based torpedo bombers and the Japanese riverboat “Karatsu.” The brutal irony is that the riverboat was originally the U.S. Navy gunboat “USS Luzon,” captured from the US by Japanese forces earlier in the war and put to work against its former owners. “Cisco” is thus presumed to have been lost in action on September 28, 1943, which was also the date of my parent’s wedding anniversary. The only survivor among the 77-member crew was Chief Radioman Howell B. Rice, left behind in a hospital bed in Darwin more than a week before that fateful day.

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Fundraiser for Wounded Warrior Project by Linda Lee Greene

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©A STEP AT A TIME…GERMANY LOSES THE ATLANTIC IN WORLD WAR II

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist, July 27, 2019

“…In a puffed-up display of military muscle with which the German High Command wanted to lodge terror in the hearts of the nations on its radar, in December, 1939 Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) journalist William L. Shirer was invited to view the German fleet on the agreement that he would use his radio microphone to tell what he had seen. A sizable contingent of the fleet was then at the River Elbe harbor at Hamburg on Germany’s Atlantic coast, as well as at the Baltic Sea coast harbor at Kiel. In his best-selling book titled BERLIN DIARY, published in 1941, Shirer stated that his tour guide was one angry ‘Oberleutnant X, a typical World War II type of officer, monocle and all.’[1] Through sheets of rain that had reminded Shirer of Liverpool, the officer had led Shirer through foot-deep puddles onto the Hamburg docks to the location of several warships. They had spent copious time going through the ‘Admiral Hipper,’ a new 10,000-ton cruiser. He had been shown the ‘Leipzig,’ a smaller cruiser. Men had been frantically at work on the new 35,000-ton ‘Bismarck.’ It, and its sister ship, had been top secret.

            In the late afternoon of the same day, the rain had turned to snow and the roads to ice as the Oberleutnant and Shirer had sped by car to Kiel. Shirer stated in his journal that he had been surprised to see that almost the entire German fleet had been concentrated at Kiel Harbor, among them the pocket-battleship ‘Deutschland,’ two cruisers of the ‘Cologne’ class, both 26,000-ton battleships, and about fifteen submarines. There had been another three submarines in dry-dock. He had mused to himself that if only the British knew about the mass of German warships there, and with the help of a near full moon, the British could destroy the entire German fleet in one bombing raid on that one night.

            Taking a page from Shirer’s journal, as well as Japan’s playbook at Pearl Harbor of over nineteen months before, in an attack code named ‘Operation Gomorrah’ in late July, 1943, Allied Forces bombed Hamburg’s shipyards, U-boat pens, and oil refineries. The raid included concentrated attacks on civilian and civic infrastructures, which virtually destroyed most of the city. An estimated 35,000 people were killed and 125,000 wounded. There had been no rain in Hamburg for quite some time prior to the attack, and the dry conditions exacerbated the effects of the bombings. ‘Fire and brimstone’ was an apt term for the firestorm that enveloped the city. A vortex and whirling updraft of super-heated air created a 460 meter (1,509 feet) high funnel of fire. There was no escape for the people or the Nazi nation-state. It was the inauguration of Germany’s loss of the Atlantic in World War II.

            In Berlin, Germany’s capital, citizen morale was already low stemming from the air attacks on their city four months before. Confidence in the ‘Luftwaffe,’ Germany’s aerial warfare forces, to protect them was slipping away. Berliners could kid themselves no more. Hitler’s bombast was receiving less play. Hamburg jolted Berliners to the terrible reality that Berlin was the center of the Allies’ bullseye. In an about face, even the therefore uncompromising Hermann Goebbels, the Nazi Reich Minister of Propaganda, admitted in a mood report to the people that the outlook for Berlin was dire. The report listed measures that he urged the people to take, which included the feeble safeguard of digging protective trenches.

            The response in Berlin was chaos. Orders were issued to women, children, elders, and other non-essential citizens to evacuate to places less vulnerable to attack. While over the rest of the summer and into autumn only nuisance strikes occurred, Berliners knew much worse was in store for them. Like rats jumping from a sinking ship, they jammed railroad cars, and purloined any other conveyance they could engage to flee Berlin, including setting out on foot. Bent over with heavy bundles on their backs, they struggled to salvage some vestige of their lives….”

**Author’s Note…the above is an excerpt of Linda Lee Greene’s World War II novel, which will be published in late 2019.

Books by Linda Lee Greene are available at Amazon.com.    

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[1] BERLIN DIARY, THE JOURNAL OF A FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT 1934 – 1941, William L. Shirer, TESS PRESS/Imprint of Black Dog & Leventhal Publishers, Inc. in association with A Common Reader, p 213 – 215.

©A STEP AT A TIME… In War and Peace

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist

When on May 13, 1943, the Axis forces in Tunisia fell to the Allied forces, ending the North Africa Campaign of World War II, Ohio-native soldier Bob Gaffin and his fellow US Second Armored Division warriors knew what was coming. The scuttlebutt was that Sicily was next. It made perfect sense. Knock out Sicily; punch through Italy; kill Hitler’s cohort, the fascist Italian dictator Mussolini, and you’ve destroyed Hitler’s southern flank. The Mediterranean oil secured—an army could run for a long time on that oil, straight north to Nazi-occupied Europe, to Hitler’s bunker, and then to jam his Tweedledee and Tweedledum, or his lonely Tweedledee according to rumor, down his throat for his breakfast. And that would be just an appetizer! Bob and his “Hell on Wheels” boys had trained for the offensive: they were tough; they were gritty; they were ready. The hitch in the overall itinerary was the actual fact of Sicily’s being the obvious next target. British Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself is reputed to have said, “Everyone but a bloody fool would know that it’s Sicily.” The Allies needed a con to deflect Hitler’s attention away from Sicily.

The elaborate deception operation, concocted and supervised by two members of British Intelligence, hinged on a dead Welsh tramp dressed up as a marooned officer of the Royal Marines carrying credible British correspondence indicating an Allied invasion on Greece and Sardinia rather than on Sicily in early July. Transported from Scotland to the southern coast of Spain by submarine, the body was released close to shore, where it was pulled out of the water the next morning by a Spanish fisherman. “Abwehr,” the German Intelligence organization, which maintained a strong presence in the area, an area chosen for the drop by the British for that very reason, examined the documents, and then transmitted the information to Hitler. He fell for the ruse and shifted his reinforcements to Greece and Sardinia, as a result. Sicily received none.

A violent summer storm kicked up huge waves in the sea and many of the Allied troops holed up on the landing crafts of the armada underway from North Africa to Sicily were green with seasickness and lost the contents of their stomachs over the sides. Commanders circulated among them, boosting morale, reassuring the men that the mission was secure. Actually, the storm worked to the Allies’ advantage, for the enemy let its guard down based on an assumption that no commander would brave such wind and rain. But brave it they did. While Hitler’s larger force dug in for the onslaught at Greece and Sardinia, before the sun broke the horizon on July 10, 1943 the combined air and sea landing, which was comprised of 150,000 Allied troops, 3,000 ships, 4,000 aircraft, and 600 tanks landed and commenced to crush the remaining enemy positions on Sicily. Bob Gaffin was a half-track driver in that armored brigade.

Ten days into the offensive, Mount Etna was merely an imprint on Bob’s internal eye as he and his comrades bypassed it in their aggressive drive toward Palermo. The bulletproof windshield of his half-track was thick with the volcano’s ever-present ash kicked up by the vehicle’s powerful tires and treads from the coast road. A hard day of fighting lay ahead, a battle in which several of the twelve men he carried in his half-track personnel carrier would lose their lives.

Twenty-six years from that very day, on July 20, 1969, as he and his wife and some of their children gathered around their television set in their home located in a little town in southern Ohio, USA and watched a fellow Ohioan place man’s first footprint on the moon, Bob recalled a footprint of his own in another landscape in an earlier time. It was a place as alien to him then as was the moon’s surface to astronaut Neil Armstrong, a footprint in the ashy soil someplace in Sicily when Bob hopped down from his seat behind the steering wheel of the half-track he drove to take a quick breather.     

By mid-August, the Allies conquered Sicily, and the heel of Italy loomed large in that unfolding theater of war. Meanwhile, Mussolini was soiling his underwear, and Hitler was scratching his Tweedledee, nervously, no doubt!

Books by Linda Lee Greene are available at Amazon.com.

Long-buried Secrets are Unearthed in Rhys Bowen's Fascinating Novel

The Tuscan Child by Rhys Bowen provided me with hours of pleasurable reading during a time I desperately needed to slow my pace and turn down the volume of the world around me. I am a sucker for World War II stories, and this one hit the mark for me on all counts: a clever plot, likeable characters, and engaging setting. Kudos to author Rhys Bowen. -Review by author Linda Lee Greene. 

 A father’s love letter sends a young woman on a journey in search of long-buried secrets.

Award-winning artist and author, blogger, editor, and interior designer Linda

Lee Greene is on social media at the following:

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Embryos of Peace by Linda Lee Greene

The following is a share of an essay I wrote for the Grove City (Ohio) Arts Council's Newsletter and Blog, a most appropriate article for this Memorial Day holiday week:

In my homespun family, the term ‘Memorial Day’ never quite caught on. The name assigned to it originally was ‘Decoration Day’, and is, to us and many others, the title most appropriate. Since its inception on the heels of the Civil War, this remembrance of our military personnel who lost their lives serving our country has been recognized and practiced broadly, although informally. This is because it wasn’t until 1971 that it was finally designated as an official national holiday to be observed on the last Sunday in May under the moniker of ‘Memorial Day’. World War II Medal of Honor recipient and U.S. Senator of Hawaii Daniel Inouye worked for many of his 49 years career in the senate to restore the original May 30^th date of the holiday. It was his contention that the official date obscures the sacred meaning of the holiday, competing as it does with the unofficial first weekend of summer when pent-up children and adults alike storm the unlocked gates of closed-for-the-season swimming pools and other open-air recreations in lieu of spending the day at cemeteries.

            By virtue of its nature, probably the major repository of a country’s heroes is its military, heroes in one way or another in its largest sense. A hero is defined as a person who can solve a problem or problems other people cannot solve. This left-brain, bare-bones, and pragmatic one-liner seems patently rationalistic to me, barren the full-bodied status a hero has earned and deserves. It has been suggested that an emotional and/or spiritual need for heroes is inborn in human beings. These necessary beings to whom we look up not only solve the seemingly unsolvable for us, but also provide us with inspiration to keep on keeping on during trying times, to demolish barriers in our journey to greater heights, and to overcome our antipathy toward others. In these ways, heroes satisfy a basic requirement found in the nature of human beings.

   

            When I look upon the gravestone of a military veteran, rather than perceiving it as a marker of something lifeless, I see within it a hero embodied as an embryo of peace. How can anyone walk among the more than 400,000 headstones of our military veterans at Arlington National Cemetery and fail to hear Heaven’s call for Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward all of Humankind? Oh yes, to me each one of those pristine rectangles of white stone enshrines an embryo of peace.

https://grovecityartscouncil.wordpress.com/2018/05/26/embryos-of-peace/ 

Award-winning artist and author, blogger, editor, and interior designer Linda Lee Greene is on social media at the following:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene

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Her books are available on Amazon and other booksellers.

A Review of Paulette Mahurin's THE SEVEN YEAR DRESS

September 23, 2017, Columbus, Ohio

Submitted by Linda Lee Greene

A Remarkable Literary Achievement

Paulette Mahurin

I have just added another name to my list of favorite writers of World War II stories. Her name is Paulette Mahurin, an award-winning and best-selling author of several superb books. Her recent novel “The Seven Year Dress” is a marvel. I am a student of World War II. I have a library of books and movies on the subject. This excellent work of historical fiction will hold a special place among them.

Under madman Adolf Hitler and his equally mad horde of followers, European Jews and other “undesirables” were persecuted, tortured, and far too many of them executed in ways unimaginable, often in gas chambers in concentration camps. This exceptional novel recounts the story of beautiful Jewish teenager Helen Stein, forced into hiding from the Nazi’s in a basement, but when discovered finally, is sent to Auschwitz. In that death camp, she endures unspeakable cruelty at the hands of the SS, but also compassion, kindness, and friendship among her fellow prisoners. Ultimately, in that darkness, the strength of the human spirit is a beacon in this remarkable literary achievement.

Best-selling author, award-winning artist, blogger, and interior designer Linda Lee Greene is on social media at the following:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene

Email: lindaleegreene.author.artist@gmail.com

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My Talking Heart - Chapter Six: I KNOW SOMETHING OF WAR

I know something of war. I’m convinced my awareness of it began in utero—in November, 1942 when my parents conceived me and America had been fighting in World War II for nearly one year. Bob, my mother’s beloved older brother was already in it—he was one of Patton’s warriors in Operation Torch, the November, 1942 British-United States invasion against Germany’s stronghold in French North Africa, my country’s first official military action in the European Theater of the war. By then, Bob had been in the Army for a year, stationed at various training facilities on the east coast of the United States. My father’s dear older brother Bill had enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan. Although at the time I was conceived Bill was still stateside, in California, actually, among my parent’s other male friends and relations of draft age, most were in military training camps or fighting overseas, or expected to be at any moment. “War” was at the front of everyone’s mind then, in their conversations, their dreams; it defined every facet of their lives. It was as much a part of my mother as her blood type, and through our interdependence was transferred to me. I’m sure of it.  

November, 1942 was momentous for my parents in another way since it was the month Dad turned eighteen, and therefore, became eligible for the draft. My parents had been married for two months almost to the day. And if my calculations are correct, considering the 280-day gestation period for humans, Mom’s egg and Dad’s sperm that united and made me blossomed a mere six days before Dad’s eighteenth birthday and 57 days after they had tied the knot. Needless to say, Mom’s anxiety went through the roof, and to elevate her disquiet still further, her seventeen-year-old brother Bussy, seriously ill since the age of ten with a respiratory ailment, took a turn for the worse and died on January 5, 1943. A sad sidebar to his death is that more than likely, penicillin would have saved him, but it occurred before the drug was available to the general public. My grandmother, my mother, and Bob never got over losing Bussy.

For an achingly long period of time after Bob’s deployment to Africa, letters between American servicemen abroad and their families back home were few and far between. This was a family of prolific letter writers. (I know without question the source of my writing gene.) Having grown accustomed to receiving a letter, and sometimes two letters per day from Bob, my grandparents and all who knew and also corresponded with him grew frantic with fear for him during the lengthy communication blackout. The worst of it for my grandparents was that they had no reliable means of informing Bob either of his brother’s failing health, or of his passing. Following my grandmother’s death in 2001, among hundreds of old letters, cards, newspaper clippings, photographs, and other print material spanning the years of the Great Depression and World War II, found in an old chest tucked at the back of a closet of her house, was the following letter. At the time of her passing, Dean, her youngest, was her only living offspring. She was eight months shy of her 100^th birthday and had outlived her husband and seven of her children, including Bob and my mother:

                                                                                                                          Peebles, Ohio   Jan. 10, 1943

Dear Son:

                It is with a sad and aching heart [but] I am going to write to you. I have studied and thought what is best to do. But this is the only way I can see. Son poor little Bussy left us on Jan. 5 at Cora’s house. [Cora was my grandmother’s sister who lived in town close to the doctor and hospital] I am so lonesome & nervous. I was constantly by his side for 3 weeks. He passed away just 3 weeks from the day he took bad. He & I was sitting at the table eating our dinner on Dec. 15, when I just happened to look at him & seen something was wrong with him. His face & head was jerking awful. I ran around to him & asked what was wrong. He coulden’t talk. It only lasted a short time. When he got over it he said, “Oh Mom. It is just this old disease getting the best of me.” We had the Dr. He [the doctor] said he could do nothing. He [Bussy] had 5 of those spells then took an awful headache. We took him to the hospital. They said there was a clot on his brain. It was on the right side but made his left arm & leg useless. He woulden’t stay in the hospital. I took him to Cora’s as they told me it would be allright since they could do nothing. Said all I could do was keep his head packed in Ice, rest & quiet. We were at Cora’s a week, and the last few days he seemed so much better. I thought he was going to get well, and could soon take him home [to their farm], as I wrote and told you. Don’t know if you ever got the letter or not. But the suffering I guess was to much for his heart & then you know what a condition he was in any way. Son he took it all so patient. Just prayed all the time almost. He wanted Herman [Tolle, the preacher]. He told him he was ready to go. Oh son how he prayed for all you boys. It would wring your heart. The last words I heard him say was,“Tell them all to meet me.” His mind was so on Sim [Workman, their friend who was also in the Army fighting in North Africa] somehow. Said “Mommy, I feel sorry for Sim. He diden’t have a Mother to tell him about Jesus like I have.” Although you know Sim has a good mother. He [Bussy] would put his arms around me and say “I love you Mommy.” I don’t know whether I can ever stand this or not, but Son put your trust in Jesus. Ask him every day to take care of you. Bussy would say “Mommy, don’t worry about Bob. He is coming back.” But the Lord can cut us all off any time. So don’t forget to pray if it is only to yourself. Poor little Bussy is in a better home but I miss him so. He was always here with me. I can never stay here alone anymore. Well Son I can’t write more but can only say put your trust in God and we will all be living on for happier days some where. Answer if you can. With so much love, Mother.

 

P.S.  This is Mon. morning. I forgot to say the rest of us is well. Son I hope you are well. Try and not to grieve to much only live to meet Bussy. I feel a little better this morn(ing). Some think I shoulden’t of let you know. But I coulden’t of lived a lie & write to you like everything was allright, and then probably some one else would of said something about it when they would write to you. All we can say is Gods will must be done. By by.  XOXOXO

Bussy’s heroic seventeen years of life is a centerpiece of GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS (http://goo.gl/imUwKO), my novel that is a blend of fact and fiction, populated by my great-grandparents, my grandparents, my parents and the people of their circles, as well as one main fictional character. It is set primarily during the years of the First World War, the Great Depression, and the beginning of America’s involvement in World War II. An additional key feature of the novel is the transcription of dozens of my family’s old letters, of the tenor of the one above. The letters chronicle, in exceedingly intense intimacy, the hearts and minds of a community of deep country people far removed from mainstream life at the time. While they were poor and unsophisticated, eking out a living from the soil, they fell in love, got married, and raised children; they endured illness, death, and every conceivable loss, and yet they celebrated life so profoundly as to warm your heart or break it. It was these people and their counterparts across the nation first called upon to put the lives of their boys on the line and to save the world during World War II. I gave Bussy life once again in my novella for young readers titled ROOSTER TALE (http://goo.gl/vNq32g).

                My father was drafted into the Navy in mid-1943. He was given a medical discharge while still in boot camp, however, a consequence of a severe problem with his stomach. It was a condition that plagued him all the 89 years of his life. He didn’t make it home in time to witness my birth, but arrived soon thereafter. Following my mother’s death on June 29, 1992, Dad was the one remaining constant of love and strength for my sisters and me until his death on March 29, 2014. Had she lived, the day my father died would have been my mother’s 91^st birthday.     

                From the instant of my conception to the present day, “War” has been my consistent reality, as it has been for everyone else, to one degree or another—far too many of us in the thick of it, and others like me, witnessing it via the media. Today it is quite possible we are in peril of yet another war—and if it comes to pass this time and under the present circumstances, it might be the final one for reasons too frightening to contemplate. If that is the case, where will future generations find reserves of old letters, CDs, computer hard drives, and flash drives among the carnage and charred remains of our planet to tell them about us? The elephant in the room is whether or not there would be future generations. GOD HELP US!

Best-selling author, blogger, award-winning artist and interior designer Linda Lee Greene is on social media at the following:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene

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.99 eBook Features the Evolution of Two American Families Over Time

Beginning Sunday, June 14, 2014, the true-life novel GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS by author Linda Lee Greene will be discounted to .99 eBook http://goo.gl/imUwKO 

 

In GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS, best-selling author Linda Lee Greene captures the evolution of two families over the early to late decades of the twentieth century. A warm and generous work of historical fiction, each character is intricately rendered, each one sculpted so precisely into the matrix of the families and their environment that we come away with a greater understanding of the mystifying ties of kinship, the everlasting call of home. Based on actual events, and featuring dozens of authentic personal letters written by the story’s principles, Greene delivers a seamless blend of fact and fiction in her multi-layered novel. “Reminiscent of ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ and ‘Angela’s Ashes,’ one only has to read those Pulitzer Prize winners to appreciate the level of care Greene took in her writing of her stunningly beautiful GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS,” says one reviewer. #twentiethcentury #love #family #siblings #marriage #farm #Ohio #GreatDepression #WWII #respiratorydisease 

 

Linda Lee Greene is also the co-author with Debra Shiveley Welch of the suspense novel JESUS GANDHI OMA MAE ADAMS http://amzn.to/VazHFG. Linda’s artwork is on view at www.gallery-llgreene.com. Linda’s Twitter handle is @LLGreeneAuthor. Her Amazon Author’s Page is at https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene, and follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/LindaLeeGreeneAuthor, as well as on her Goodreads page at http://www.goodreads.com/LindaLeeGreeneAuthor

 

 

When We Read, We Look for Ourselves in the Words

When we read, we look for ourselves in the words. If we are unable or uninspired to find ourselves there, the words remain meaningless to us. The stories they convey become “throwaway” experiences, never to revisit our minds, never to summon our memories. But if we “become” the old man in Hemingway’s sea; if we “are” Daisy to Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, then literature “is” who we are, or at least, points to whom we might have been, or can be—it is the indelible yardstick against which we measure ourselves. Author Francis Hamit’s “Shenandoah Spy,” a novel of historical fiction based on the true story of Belle Boyd, a legendary female spy for the Confederacy during America’s Civil War, was one of those stories that metamorphosed into a subjective experience for me, and to such an extent that it was surprising to me—surprising and satisfying. Let me tell you why.

                Although I often read and write about history, the Civil War of the United States is not high on my list of subjects; not because it isn’t fascinating in its own right, but rather that it holds less weight for me than other histories such as that of America’s native people, the Great Depression, and World War II. My interest in “Shenandoah Spy,” however was sparked by a social media interchange with its author, an informed and shrewd interchange on his part in response to a posting I submitted on Facebook on the 35^th anniversary of the Kent State Shootings in protest against the Vietnam War. I looked him up and discovered that he has an extensive background in military intelligence and espionage, a résumé I thought he might put to good use in the stories about which he writes. I ordered the book because of its “first-born” chronology in his body of work rather than its subject. But somewhere deep inside me, I also wanted to be “swayed” by a good Civil War story; I wanted to be brought into the fold. Hamit did not disappoint me on that point in “Shenandoah Spy.”

                How is it that in 2015, a reader in the senior years of her life (me) can be transported to a time a century-and-a-half ago and relate to a heroine of only seventeen-years-of-age (Belle Boyd)? The answer is found in Hamit’s presentation of Belle Boyd’s story. He makes room for the reader in the words. He writes with such intimacy and immediacy that it invites the reader to wonder how he/she would have behaved in Boyd’s stead. The reader suffers Boyd’s vulnerabilities; staggers in her exploits; quakes in her boots. And just as importantly for me, this author instilled in me a desire to pay closer attention to this era of my country’s history.   

                Despite my delight in “Shenandoah Spy,” conversely, an aspect of it niggles at my consciousness. Given that it takes place during, and in response to, the “slave-era” of America’s story, a supporting cast of African Americans is to be expected. There can be no such story absent that body of humanity. Hamit isn’t shy about offering a view of the Civil War as one less about “freeing the slaves” and more about other factors, though. The following conversation between characters Brodhead and Strother in the book illustrates this point: ‘“Not for freeing the slaves?” [asks Broadhead]. Strother had to think about it. “In time, on some abstract level, I might be, but this isn’t the way I’d choose to do it. Most people in the South don’t own slaves. They’ve been seduced into this thing by radical elements that wanted to break up the country, and seized upon the activities of the Abolitionists as an excuse.” “And those Abolitionists have stirred up the war fever on this side. Radicals on both sides have pushed this war into being. It could have been prevented.” Brodhead gestured with his hands as if to illustrate the futility of it all. Strother nodded. “The rich and privileged wanted a war and the rest of us will pay for it.”’

                In an excerpt further on in the story, Strother states. ‘“…Most Negroes [in the south] ain’t that displeased with their lot in life. ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ was a masterful load of horse manure when it came to representing the usual situation. You don’t abuse slaves, any more than you would a horse or a cow. It’s not good business and people frown on it. House servants especially have an easy life. They become a part of the family.”’ In that vein, Belle Boyd submits that the Yankees “…exaggerate the colored folks capacity and desire for freedom – those that want it find a way to buy themselves free.”’ Her personal slave Eliza is depicted as one such happy “servant.” Not only does Eliza aid and abet Boyd willingly in her daily life and her spying missions, she is depicted as a personal “friend” rather than as a slave of her mistress. Of course, Hamit puts forth the then self-serving point of view of southerners in his treatise. Following Solomon Northrup’s true story of cruelty suffered at the hands of a slave-owner in “Twelve Years a Slave” that found light in recent times, the portrayal of the master/slave relationship in “Shenandoah Spy” is difficult to reconcile. I suppose, as in any other human enterprise, the minutiae of America’s Civil War ranged every possibility available at the time. Many of those fine points are to be found in “Shenandoah Spy.” It is good reading.

***

Linda Lee Greene’s novel “Guardians and Other Angels” is at http://goo.gl/imUwKO. Her novel “Jesus Gandhi Oma Mae Adams,” co-authored with Debra Shiveley Welch, is at http://amzn.to/VazHFG. Her artwork is on view online at www.gallery-llgreene.com. Her Twitter handle is @LLGreeneAuthor.        

A Tale of Two Tales: Your Deeds Reflect in Your Children

The following are based on actual facts, but my friend Yatendra Singh has just added his own language and morale to them to make them more personal and interesting.

 

STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn’t famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed “Easy Eddie.” He was Capone’s lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good at his craft! In fact, Eddie’s skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time. To show his appreciation, Capone paid Eddie very well. Not only was the money big, but Eddie got special dividends, as well. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large it filled an entire Chicago city block. Eddie lived the high-life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocities that went on around him.

Eddie did have one soft-spot, however. He had a son whom he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And despite his own involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach his son right from wrong. Eddie wanted the boy to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all of his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn’t give his son; he couldn’t pass on a good name or a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. He wanted to rectify wrongs he had done. He decided to go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al “Scarface” Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and thereby offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew the cost would be great. But he testified anyway.

Within the year, Easy Eddie’s life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago street…But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he could offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped from a magazine. The poem read:

“The clock of life is wound but once, and no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour. Now is the only time you own. Live, love, toil with a will. Place no faith in time. For the clock may soon be still.”

STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O’Hare.

He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific. One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank. We would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mother ship, he saw something that turned his blood cold; a squadron of Japanese aircraft was speeding its way toward the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn’t reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet; nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger. There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet.

Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 calibers blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plan and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent.

Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible, rendering them unfit to fly. Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction. Deeply relieved, Butch O’Hare and his tattered fighter plane limped back to the carrier.

Upon arrival, Butch reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of his daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft.

This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy’s first Ace of World War II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Medal of Honor. A year later, Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29. His hometown would not allow the memory of this WWII hero to fade, and today, O’Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So, the next time you find yourself at O’Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch’s memorial displaying a statue of him and his Medal of Honor. It’s located between Terminals 1 and 2.

SO WHAT DO THESE TWO STORIES HAVE TO DO WITH EACH OTHER?

Butch O’Hare was “Easy Eddie’s” son.

Morale: You reap what you sow, and your deeds, whether good or bad, reflect in your children. It’s for you to decide…food for thought!

*****

 

Linda Lee Greene’s novel “Guardians and Other Angels” is at http://goo.gl/imUwKO

Linda’ Lee Greene's novel “Jesus Gandhi Oma Mae Adams,” co-authored with Debra Shiveley Welch is at http://amzn.to/VazHFG