Category Archives: Military Service

A Surreal Landscape

In a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds locals are gathered in a cafe eating and chatting. An attractive blonde is on the telephone explaining that children at the local school were dive-bombed by attacking crows. An elderly lady in a beret and smoking cigarettes lectures the other diners that crows don’t behave in such an aggressive manner and that there has to be another explanation. The woman identifies herself as an ornithologist and holds forth explaining crows and even seagulls do not do such things. Immediately after her expert testimony all hell breaks loose outside the cafe window, with masses of birds swooping down on passersby. The scene is chaotic and bloody leaving no doubt these attacking birds are in fact lethal. As the nightmare scene ebbs, the camera catches the bird expert, her head bowed in grief and bewilderment, stunned everything she knew and believed no longer applied to any bird in her understanding.

That woman resembles this lifetime American history educator. I’m a fairly decent generalist in subjects ranging from PreColumbian America through today, give or take minutia. But I too, am stunned by the surreal landscape of what I believed about democracy has been easily undone by a vulgar man-child and a compromised and opportunistic Republican Party.

It feels like all my understandings of my country no longer apply. The epic and fraught-filled struggle of forging the Constitution, the furnace of Civil War, the reforms of the Progressive Age, the promise of the New Deal, and Great Society are gone, rapidly destroyed by sinister design. A totalitarian despot has seduced a once noble political party rendering the valiant patriotism of those whom came before moot. Simply writing this lament is difficult, as all I once believed and explored is no longer valid.

An online troll explained it as “no one cares about that anymore.”

That means the principled determination of General Washington to serve our nation doesn’t matter. The misguided genocide of the Five Civilized Tribes upon the Trail of Tears doesn’t matter. With nearly 700,000 deaths, the crucible of Civil War no longer matters. Those brave GI’s on Omaha Beach, (including my own grandfather) and at the Battle of The Bulge no longer matters. Those brave students who occupied lunch counter stools in the face of racial violence did so for nothing. Those boys who perished in the Vietnam War are irrelevant. In point of fact no veteran matters anymore.

American history and all the sacrifice of our forefathers and mothers doesn’t count.

That 47 can fly in a foreign “gift” aircraft with a classified budget is a good thing to do with our tax money. That he remodels a room in the White House in a golden gilt is a good thing. Who really cares if former medicaid recipients suffer.

Suck it up buttercup, these are the new rules of Trump’s America.

That he has done away with investments in the Arts and Humanities is a positive. That he has placed incompetent sycophants from Fox News in high Federal positions is good. Forget he stole top secret intelligence documents. The country elected him anyway. That he has drastically shifted the tax burden onto the middle class and off of the super wealthy is how God wants it, just ask today’s Christians.

That old white men rape girls is a good thing. 

The GOP bows at his feet and gleefully ratifies every stab-wound of domestic legislation is now to be celebrated, so pop a cork. In fact destroying America for profit is now simply wholesome and righteous. 

America’s heroes, like Sergeant Alvin York in the Argonne Forest, or Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain at Gettysburg endured their generations difficulties so that Trump can plow up Mrs Kennedy’s rose garden for a putting green. Suffragette Alice Paul who went on a hunger strike and endured the torture of forced feeding did so that the current president can manipulate votes is just fine. The murders of JFK, Dr King, Harvey Milk, or the murder of Minnesota State Senator Melissa Hortman is merely a part of the 24/7 news cycle.

Indeed nothing of our past story matters because Mr 47 has disqualified all of it to make money, and more money because that’s all that matters today. Plus of course he is a convicted felon and is terrified of going to jail where he belongs.

So when you see this disoriented American History educator with her forehead in her hand, much like the bird expert in the movie, please understand the gravitational pull of her entire life’s work is today rendered null and void. 

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” co-writer of the screenplay, “Dancing On Air” based on those books. She has penned three stage plays on history topics, “Clay” on the life of Senator Henry Clay, “Wolf By The Ears” examining the beginnings of American slavery, and “Peer Review” where 47 is confronted by specters of four past presidents.

Peer Review One: A Play

Peer Review One

__________________________

10 Minute Play

By Gail Chumbley

SCENE 1

The stage lights rise. Two wingback chairs sit closely on the stage, and a table. Two men, both marines, stand on either side of the stage apron. The sounds of voices are heard off stage. The stage lights shift to blue as a man, The President, steps onstage. The Marines salute, and the president salutes impatiently. The guards disappear in darkness.

THE PRESIDENT
I can hear them. Tourists. Here to see where I, their President lives.

Three girls enter giggling and taking cell phone pictures. The president fusses with his hair.

THE PRESIDENT

And where are you girls from?

The girls move on without noticing him.
Wait! I’m here. Your president. I’m here.

A couple appear looking about, pointing toward “walls,” chatting quietly. The president straightens his tie, and again touches his hair.

THE PRESIDENT
Welcome to my White House. Wanna a picture with your President?

The couple murmurs quietly, indifferently looking around. They turn and stroll offstage. The president follows a few steps.

THE PRESIDENT

You people deaf? What is wrong with you? This is disgraceful. I’m President of the United States, for god’s sake.

A man appears on stage left. He wears a top hat, mustache, pince-nez spectacles and cutaway jacket with tails. He carries a cane. The man approaches the president from behind. He speaks in a patrician voice.

THE MAN

Am I to understand that you are a New Yorker?

The president startles.

THE PRESIDENT
Um, hello. Are you here with a tour group? Bet you want a picture with me, your president.

THE MAN
I ask a simple question, and you reply with a question. I understand you are a New Yorker. Are you or are you not?

The President attempts to walk to no avail. The man stands uncomfortably close.

THE PRESIDENT (Looking around)

I can’t move! My feet are frozen to the floor! Where is my security detail! Where are my marines?

THE MAN
We have all been watching you, and even Mr. Nixon is appalled. Once again, are you a New Yorker? Speak up when I’m addressing you.
THE PRESIDENT

Mr. Nixon? How did you get in here? Are you a re-enactor?

The muted sound of tourists continues off stage.

Yes. Yes. Everybody knows me. I made my fortune in New York real estate, if you must know. I’ve heard many people say I’m the best businessman ever . . .

The man begins to pace and speak at the same time.

THE MAN
From my understanding you are nothing beyond a scoundrel from the wealthy criminal class. I made a career of exposing popinjays like you.

THE PRESIDENT
Well, you’re a nasty piece of work. I am the President of the United States. I won the election by the biggest margin in American hist . . .

THE MAN
Poppycock! We have come to find that result came about due a mere tilt in the electoral count, and foreign interference. Russians, no less. After the revolutionary stirrings in 1905, I feared Russian unrest would spread to the United States. Conditions in mines, shops and factories here were inexcusable. Strikers shot down in the Pullman Rail Strike, vile conditions in Chicago’s meatpacking industry, sweatshops forcing 12 hour work days. Labor agitators pushed for reform, and I agreed. In Russia, Bolsheviks never did extend justice to the working class, only more oppression. They were not, and are not America’s friend, and intend only to destabilize this nation. Through your absence of character, and love of money they have succeeded.

THE PRESIDENT

You are wrong. That’s a lie. A lie.

THE MAN
You foolish pip. Inviting Russians into the West Wing? Unacceptable! Never should foreign adversaries be permitted to enter the inner sanctum, nor rioters in the Capitol. Mr. Lincoln will have more to say on that particular travesty.

The President appears shocked. He mouths “Lincoln.”
You have besmirched America before the world. I’d say you are a compromised pawn of foreign meddlers, and their graft. You give not one whit for America.

THE PRESIDENT
You can’t talk to me like that. My security will be back and you’ll be thrown out.

THE MAN

Sergey Witte.

THE PRESIDENT

What? Who? Just get out!

THE MAN

Hold your tongue! When you are in the presence of a gentlemen, behave accordingly. Witte was a Russian, so you will approve. The Japanese inflicted the most impressive defeats upon the Tsar’s navy in 1904-05. America then had no quarrel with Japan or Russia, however, I was asked to arbitrate peace negotiations. My view of the Russians changed with Witte. What a crude, unmannered man, unlike the thoroughly well- mannered Japanese delegation who comported themselves so gracefully! This so-called “diplomat” grew belligerent during peace talks insisting Russia be awarded more largess from the treaty. That villain stalled and argued for adding more claims, despite losing the war. I gave that knave a piece of my mind.

The man removes his top hat and sets it on a table, and checks his pocket watch.

Good I have time.

THE PRESIDENT
Time? Don’t stay on my account. I’m a busy man. Meetings, briefings.

THE MAN

Sit down this instant.

The president instantly sits. Looks alarmed.

Witte is the point! The Russians only look out for Russia, not you, the bankrupt fool who fell backward into the presidency.

THE PRESIDENT
I’m being pranked. Some a-hole is filming this. Where is the camera? I hate pranks. Meadows is going to hear about this.

The muffled sound of passersby continues. The president sits uncomfortably, and shuts his eyes.

I’m dreaming. That’s it, I’m asleep. When I open my eyes he’ll be gone.

To the man.

I’m opening my eyes now and you better not be here.

The man leans over the sitting president. He opens his eyes face to face with the man. The president startles again.

THE MAN

I am not finished.

The man again paces and speaks.
Bribery does not belong in foreign policy. And America still has a grand future on the world stage. We show strength through integrity–not by shaking down America’s allies for political favors.

THE PRESIDENT

Stop right there, that was a perfect phone call . . .

THE MAN
In foreign affairs we must make up our minds that we are a great people and must play a great part in the world. Nothing less.

The man turns toward an imaginary window. The president attempts to stand, but only succeeds in moving the chair a little. He utters a grunt.

THE PRESIDENT
I have great knowledge of foreign policy. And despite what some people say, I was always against the war in Iraq, and a lot of people weren’t.

The man shakes his head in disbelief. The President continues.
Look, Obama left a foreign policy of one disaster after another. We don’t win anymore. . .We’re going to win big now.

The man looks around the Blue Room.

THE MAN
Talleyrand, Napoleon’s minister once remarked that though President Jefferson loved France, he was still an American first. I do not believe you are first loyal to America, only to your feral, financial instincts.

THE PRESIDENT

TalleyWho? Everyone knows I am the greatest Americ. . .

The man sighs, and with a turn of his hand silences the President.

THE MAN
It appears you have no pets. Quite revealing that-regarding a man. We moved into this house with dogs, cats, and other pets, including a pony. How the boys loved their animals. Our pets were considered part of the family. They and the children’s presence made the White House feel like home.

The man returns his gaze to the president, and smiles.
I would play a bear, and my two youngest would hide under the bed. I pawed and growled, and they giggled and shrieked for joy.

The president is defensive. He speaks.

THE PRESIDENT
Kid’s. The hardest thing about raising kids is time. I know men who leave their businesses so they can spend more time with their children, and I say, ‘Gimme a break!’ My children couldn’t love me more if I spent fifteen times more time with them.

The man watches the president doubtfully.

THE MAN
No pets. Not even for your youngest. And it appears the boy and his mother live separate lives. Your adult children keep their distance, as well. You have squandered a man’s real treasure for an artificial image.

The president wiggle-walks his chair still stuck.

THE PRESIDENT
First of all, I would feel like a phony having a dog. I don’t like dogs. And, so you know, my children love me, and my wife, too. They are so proud of me, so proud. I’m President. And most Americans love me. Those liberals are the problem.

The man snaps, waving his cane.

THE MAN
Is that why thousands of migrant children were separated from their families? Caged? Liberals are not, as you say, the problem!

The man clears his throat, and quietly speaks.

President Grant requested I touch upon the subject of military service. My father did not serve in the War between the States, leaving me a confused boy. I could not understand why. For me soldiering is the highest service a patriot can perform.

THE PRESIDENT
And now you’re going to tell me how great the military is. I really don’t care. Look, Sean Hannity is calling my office.

THE MAN
His decision concerned my mother. Lovely woman, my mother, she hailed from Georgia, and her brothers were serving the Confederacy. You see, my father loved her–simply loved her. He hired a substitute in his place, and aided President Lincoln in other ways.

The man taps his cane and smiles.

Still. I idolized him. He believed so much in public service. He cared about children, orphans living on the streets. Father founded the Newsboys Lodge, the Children’s Aid Society, and the American Museum of Natural History. The last he did for me.

The man strokes his mustache lost in thought.

THE PRESIDENT

On Central Park West?

The man nods.
Been there. Your father had it built? Seems like a big waste of money to me. Bunch of bones and dead animals.

THE MAN
Serving others is our obligation to the less fortunate. To me bad trusts exploited the poor for profits. We regulated fair rail rates for farmers, passed the Meat Inspection Act, and the Pure Food and Drug Act, to make all Americans safer.

The president looks bewildered.

THE PRESIDENT

Why? There’s a lot of money in big pharma.

THE MAN

Not listening.
As president, I never made a decision without wondering what my father would think.

THE PRESIDENT

Yeah, me too.

The president chuckles. The man shakes his head.

THE PRESIDENT
Still, I don’t care. Times have changed. Gotta get what you can when you can.

The man whips around.

THE MAN

Which is why I am here.

The President’s smile disappears.

THE MAN
All four of my sons served in the Great War, and fulfilled their duty. We paid the ultimate cost-our youngest, Quentin, in an aerial fight over Germany. So difficult to lose such a dear, sweet boy.

The man draws close to the president.
And Quentin was neither a sucker nor a loser! He believed in America, they all believed. Quentin held fast to the tenets of our noble land and answered the call.

The man flashes disgust toward the President, then becomes thoughtful.
In 1898, I, too, served as soon as I could. President McKinley named me under-secretary in the Department of the Navy, until I resigned to join the war against Spain. That decision led me to assemble the Rough Riders and ship out to Cuba. Most exhilarating. My father would be proud, of that I’m certain.

THE PRESIDENT
I’d like to do my duty too. But the political establishment trying to stop us is the same swamp responsible for our disastrous foreign policies.

The man frowns, then and continues.

THE MAN
We were on foot in Cuba, a cavalry without horses. We lined up at the base of Kettle Hill, and charged. The moment jolted electric, and my crowded hour began. Lifting my carbine in the air, I rallied from the front, showing the men they had nothing to fear.

THE PRESIDENT
And see, that’s the problem. That is why the military is a chump’s game.

The man shakes his head.
And who needs soldiers? I can do foreign policy, it’s easy. I know because I have a very good brain. I am very rich, people admire me.

The man gives the President an incredulous glance.

THE MAN
Are you deranged? Tossing about words, making no sense? And as for rich, I understand your father earned the fortune, and you have frittered away much of it.

THE PRESIDENT

Wrong. Lies.

THE MAN
Nouveau riche, new money. Gaudy, vulgar, pretentious, and hungry for the validation and acceptance that you will never receive.

The president audibly snores. The man continues to speak over the noise.

When I held office I used my “bully pulpit” in the best sense of the term. Once I believed as you, that the natural world existed to enrich man. But that is false. In my administration Congress approved five new national parks, protected bird sanctuaries, and game preserves. The intrinsic value of our land cannot be found in stock indices or business transactions.

The president snorts
Nowhere else in any civilized country is there to be found such a tract of veritable wonderland made accessible to all visitors, not only the scenery, but wild creatures of the parks are scrupulously preserved.

THE PRESIDENT
Well mister tree hugger I have gutted much of your precious protection and opened land for logging, mining, and drilling. Say goodbye to the Grand Staircase in Utah, well, half of it, anyway. Roads are being cleared as we speak, and off-road vehicles are roaring in. And that goody two shoes, Barack Hussein Obama created the Bears Ears National Monument. I chopped it up for developers. Because that is profit. Profit is real.

THE MAN
You are nothing new, but the only plunderer to reach the presidency. New York City has produced a long line of blackguards such as yourself, criminals like Boss Tweed, and George Washington Plunkitt. Driven by greed and power these men fleeced the public.

The man walks around the chairs still looking about. He speaks.

For the benefit and enjoyment of the people.

THE PRESIDENT

I’d enjoy getting the hell out of here.

He snores louder

THE MAN
Quiet you insolent twit. Those words are inscribed on the arch at Yellowstone Park. Now you shall no longer interrupt.

The man gestures, watching the president who is now unable to speak.
I, too enjoyed a life of affluence. However, with that wealth came obligations to the less fortunate. Doors down from our home on 57th Street the poor struggled in wretched poverty. And much like my father I possessed a troubled conscience.

The man strolls with his cane, and continues.

As Commander in Chief, our charge is to work for the people. All the people. Withholding aid to states you did not carry is a dishonorable breach of that trust.

The man touches the president’s chest with his cane, then resumes his pacing.

My love of justice and fair play may sound naive to you. But your blatant cheating, while pretending you haven’t, is shameless.

The man strikes the president’s chair with his cane. The president sits straighter.
My administration was known as the “Square Deal,” and we, my cabinet and I, kept that promise.

The man taps his cane on the floor again.

My father once counseled me to look after my morals, my health, and my scholarship. And that, I did. And your father? Raised you to love money and value nothing. Had you not been desperate to become president, you might have continued to lead this predatory life of grift and debauchery.

The president fixes his eyes on the man. Angry.

Much like King Midas, or a Greek tragedy, this fatal flaw, your infinite vanity, will now cost you your liberty.

The president struggles, mutely hopping his chair a bit.
You should not have run for office, where dignity and tight scrutiny are the norm. Unable to resist the lure of power, you are the catalyst of your own downfall.

The man puts on his top hat, and gestures. The president bursts free from his chair.

It’s time for me to leave, the others will join you presently.

THE PRESIDENT

Others?

THE MAN
Most assuredly. And the name of that national park is pronounced Yo-sem-i-tee.

As the man stroll off in one direction, the President runs off the other. The stage goes dark.

The Dramatists Guild of America was established over 80 years ago, and is the only professional association which advances the interests of playwrights, composers and lyricists writing for the living stage. The Guild has over 6,000 members nationwide, from beginning writers to the most prominent authors represented on Broadway, Off-Broadway and in regional theaters. To learn more about the Dramatists Guild of America, please visit http://www.dramatistsguild.com

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both are available on Kindle. In addition Chumbley has written two full-length plays, “Clay,” and “Wolf By The Ears.”

Atomic Toothpaste

The recent news concerning Republican reluctance to fund Ukraine’s defense against Vladimir Putin is a stunning turn of policy. More disconcerting is that reluctance has come from the party of once hardline cold warriors, the GOP. When asked, Margery Taylor Greene remarked, “Under Republicans, not another penny will go to Ukraine,” and “President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, who is Jewish, has a “Nazi army.”

WWII ended in Europe in May, 1945. Almost at once America shifted from Hitler’s defeat, to curtailing the Soviet Union. Figures like General George Patton insisted the Communist threat required serious attention. General, turned President, Dwight Eisenhower had no love for Stalin, nor his ultimate successor, Nikita Khrushchev. 

During the war Soviet operatives in the United States had collected sensitive intelligence regarding the A-Bomb, and later the Hydrogen Bomb. Though the United States had allied with Stalin during the war, he trusted no one, least of all the Americans.

Thus began the second Red Scare. (Yes, there was a first.) 

Senator Joe McCarthy of Wisconsin made his name in Washington as a fearless Commie fighter. Senator McCarthy (along with counsel Roy Cohn) accused the US Army of harboring Communists until his alcohol driven antics destroyed his career. 

Another Republican hardliner, Richard Nixon of California, joined the House UnAmerican Activities Committee (HUAC) exposing other suspected Liberals. Nixon gained national exposure sniffing out academics, artists and federal employees. This California representative sent Alger Hiss, a left leaning aide of FDR’s to jail. The Hollywood Ten were a subpoenaed to testify before the Committee regarding their political activities. Many had their careers and lives ruined as most ended up on a black list of actors and writers.

Russian aggression solidified the backdrop of my childhood, as well. The Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962 (I remember studying my saddle shoes in a crouched position) through the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. Those were turbulent years of the Iron Curtain, the Berlin Airlift, and later the Soviet shooting down of the KAL Flight 007 over the northern Pacific. 

In 1991 the world celebrated the collapse of the Soviet regime hoping it would usher in a new era of amity, and peace. Republican Presidents Reagan and George HW Bush are credited with the downfall of Communist Russia.

The conflict unfortunately, had not ended.

The dangerous arms race that had pitted the United States and the Soviet Union still remained. Over the years of escalation has challenged our very existence. As stockpiles of nuclear arms increase in numbers and size the world is as vulnerable as ever. The atomic toothpaste is out of the tube. New terms have developed during the modern era, such as Mutually Assured Destruction, Nuclear Winter, Brinkmanship, and the chilling advent of the Doomsday Clock, all characterizing the uncertainty that still exists. 

And even now the arms race continues to intensify across the globe. 

A quick glance at the America’s arsenal looks to be somewhere around 4,000 warheads and bombs. In Russia the estimate is nearly 6,000. And remember these radioactive weapons are either stored or deployed, and that would be a catastrophe. The one-upmanship is clearly ongoing.

The stockpile is no longer limited to Russia and America. China, the UK, France, India, Pakistan, and North Korea all have or will have completed weapons of their own.

Proxy wars flamed up after World War Two, with large conflicts in Korea and Vietnam. Battling the Russians permeated American culture. Examples of this phenomena include bomb shelters, Dr Strangelove, duck and cover, James Bond films, and even Boris and Natasha. And there were spies, on both sides, the CIA’s Aldrich Ames, and Robert Hanssen of the FBI come to mind.

In my dad’s time the Korean War witnessed over 30,000 American deaths, and in Vietnam 58,000. Some of the best of my generation and before, stood up for America in freezing winters and insufferable jungles. The majority came home with physical and psychological disorders to serve us. We are obligated to remember and honor that sacrifice.   

So understand the rest of us who lived through these perilous years. Watching clips of an American president cozying up to a Russian strongman in Helsinki, and pronounced that autocrat did not hack our elections, based on Putin’s denial, or when he invited a group of Russian operatives into the Oval Office to show off, is jarring to say the least, a real gob smack.

So the warm fuzzies Republican President Trump extended to the Russian President are shocking betrayal. First, in Langley, he whined to CIA operatives in a speech regarding, what else, himself. Later the old boy absconded with a library of national security documents and refused to relinquish them to the National Archives. 

The greatest and most egregious failure of the GOP is kneeling to an immoral Trump, as he kneels to serial murderer Putin. Richard Nixon remarked, “The Cold War isn’t thawing; it is burning with a deadly heat. Communism isn’t sleeping; it is, as always, plotting, scheming, working, fighting.”

The Republicans have forgotten what they stand for, and have become the betrayers.

Gail Chumbley is the author of a two-part memoir “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Chumbley has also penned two stage plays, “Clay” regarding the life of Statesman Henry Clay, and “Wolf By The Ears,” regarding slavery and racism.

King of the Hill

General Washington had not yet been appointed commander of the Continental Army. Nonetheless, the conflict against Great Britain, though running hot after Lexington and Concord, remained an informal, isolated brushfire in the eyes of the Crown. Still, the very presence of soldiers grated Bostonians, enough that outraged patriots plotted retaliation.

June 16th, after dark, these Sons of Liberty acted, digging in on Breeds Hill located near Bunker Hill, north of the city in Charles Town. All that night these newly minted Minutemen stacked preloaded-muskets, entrenched, and waited for sunrise. At first light, the startled Redcoats scrambled to form lines and launch an offensive against the rebels. Though holding the line through three assaults, the Bostonians, low on gunpowder, were forced to melt away into the surrounding area. The shocked Brits decided to call the contest a victory.

But as one royal officer candidly admitted, “if we win anymore like this, we’ll lose this war.”

That is the lesson of Bunker Hill, hold the high ground, and draw the fight uphill to a well-defended position.

General George Washington arrived in Boston the next month, taking command of the motley Continental Army. Positioning his inexperienced troops on the heights surrounding the city, Washington bluffed his military strengths. When actual heavy guns finally reached Washington, the Redcoats had had enough, and on March 17, 1776, all the King’s men evacuated to Canada.

Two philosophers on warfare, China’s Sun Tzu, and Prussian, Carl von Clauswitz had committed to paper their respective views on the value of the high ground. Sun Tzu in the 6th Century, and Clausewitz in the early 19th Century argued its significance. Much like that game, “King of the Hill,” we played as kids, the advantage belongs to the person on top. That essentially defines both tacticians principles.

Yet, physically holding a hill doesn’t go far enough. Both philosophers argued that a moral high ground is equally essential, an armed force must be clad with a virtuous cause. 

A higher moral purpose fills the sails to victory.

In 1860, Republican candidate Abraham Lincoln won the presidency, becoming America’s 16th President. That moment weighed with foreboding, as Southern States, one by one, chose to secede from the United States. The new President viewed this idea as impossible–statehood was not a revolving door. In his inaugural address. Lincoln spoke plainly, “In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war.”

Then Lincoln, and the the rest of the nation watched and waited. On April 12, 1861 guns thundered from Charleston, South Carolina, smashing into Fort Sumter, a federal installation in the harbor.

Boom, done and done.

The Rebs drew first blood, and Lincoln, by default, seized the moral high ground. After a duration of four long, bloody years, the rebellion collapsed, and slavery ended.

Both the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, and the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001, elevated America’s retaliation as morally justified, drawing the nation into both World War Two, and the War on Terror.

Everyone around the world is watching the Ukrainian people standing tall against a mystifying invasion by Russia. Ukrainian President Zelensky has brilliantly executed the lessons of Sun Tzu and von Clausewitz. His articulate, moral leadership, and courage has more than won the moral high ground test. In contrast, Vladimir Putin has proven his lack of preparation, and barbarity, assuring the Russian President an international pariah.

These principles are timeless and universal, not only in America, but in past conflicts like Thermopylae in the 5th Century, and the Warsaw Ghetto uprising in 1940.

Whether the Ukrainian President, is aware or not, he has benefitted from the teachings of Sun Tzu and von Clausewitz, and this is Ukraine’s finest hour.

The possession of high ground may decide a battle, war or the fate of a nation.

Carl von Clausewitz

Gail Chumbley is a history educator, and writer.

gailchumbley@chumbleg

Riverside, 1973

Before the 1974 Expo in my hometown of Spokane, Washington, the city’s downtown area was divided by social class. Riverside Avenue ran east to west, crossed by an arterial called Division, that ran north to south. That intersection literally cut the area in half. West of Division the downtown looked like the shopping scene in “A Christmas Story.” Magical tableaus filled each department store window, creating an elegant still-life to allure shoppers. To the east of Division sat run down bars, a rescue mission, and adult-only theaters dotting the grim sidewalks of despair. Consumerism connected both worlds.

In my senior year of high school, I worked at an ice cream shop situated smack dab on the dividing line. Attempting to capture the “good old days” ragtime music looped endlessly in the shop, and we all wore white dresses, and plastic skimmer hats. The clientele largely represented the reality of Riverside. Affluent shoppers, and business owners rolled in for lunch during the day, and the dispossessed wandered in at night.

The lunch rush is where the shop made money, and all waitresses were on the floor. Each day I left my high school around 11:00am arriving about 30 minutes before the onslaught. By noon we rushed table to table, chatting with the regulars, and earning pretty healthy tips.

Weekends were different, unpredictable, and the Saturday night shift catered to a different world. After dark, homeless men asked for water, while others scrounged up change to buy a cup of soup. Heartbreaking.

A late spring night in particular, stands out in my memory.  Warm, with a light breeze, the shop felt like summer, leaving me restless, and anxious for graduation. The glass door facing Riverside opened, and a clutch of young women poured in, chatting and giggling like school girls. Sex workers all.

Preparing for their night, these girls crowded around the ice cream freezer, more like teenagers than high risk ladies of the night. The group was close, sharing a camaraderie that spoke of strong ties. 

In the middle of the party towered a long, bronze, African-American woman. God, she was gorgeous, honestly runway material. Fascinated I watched her among her peers, laughing with the rest, while she gracefully perused the glass covered ice cream selections. 

Honestly, this beauty could out Grace Jones, Grace Jones. 

The starkness of her night’s work vaguely crossed my mind, but I was in the moment. Oblivious, unapologetic, she and her friends had no shit’s to give.

Weeks later I graduated, and at the end of summer headed off to college. The memory of that  lithe beauty and her friends faded. The following summer, when I returned to Spokane, the face of downtown had been completely transformed. The railroad tracks, the bums, the skin flicks, and the girls had all vanished. The exciting facelift for Expo ‘74 displaced the rundown skid row of my childhood.

It’s now that I’m retired that that ice creamery, and the beautiful girl again live in my memory. I know now that I had choices, I had support, and a college education. But those residents of east Riverside, those belles of the street? It is impossible to know how life played out for them. Surely these people of the night were displaced, migrating where rail tracks, and sex workers could ply their trade, out of site, and away from the gentry. 

I hope life turned out better than it probably did for these marginalized folk. But that warm spring night still holds a magical quality; one of beauty and of bleakness. A grim reality of a life I never lead.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight. She has authored two plays, “Clay,” about the life of Senator Henry Clay, and “Wolf By The Ears,” a narrative of slavery in America.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

Anyway Anyhow Anywhere

The deal is, coming out victorious World War Two, the certainty of America’s omnipotence shaped foreign policy. The US armed forces proved they could expertly parachute behind enemy lines, storm contested beaches, and plant the flag of American freedom at the close of every engagement. US pride meant we only mobilized decent men, and armed them with top notch war materiel, and enough Hershey Bars to treat the world. 

Those lessons of the 1940’s mislead later military planners. The assumption that Americans could do no wrong, and intervening into other nations, an imperative. However, what worked in one moment wasn’t necessarily viable later. America’s entrance had saved the world, but that particular episode ended in September, 1945, and the US moved forward looking backward.

Five years later the Korean conflict exploded, and after three years of fighting, ended where it began, the 38th parallel. That stalemate ought to have signaled a reassessment of America’s role abroad, but the Sergeant Stryker school of war had engrained itself too deeply into foreign poIicy.

I am a child of the Vietnam era. In my head the kaleidoscope of Lucy’s eyes plays, and televised images of soldiers knee deep in rice paddies, flicker in black and white. Protesting students with raised fists, black armbands affixed, occupying college offices, all to the soundtrack of kick ass rock and roll. In fact, the most enduring feature of the Sixties, for this boomer, is that pulsating electric guitar played by the hands of masters.

From 1959 to 1975 Washington dispatched advisers, munitions, and finally by ’65 ground forces to Vietnam. The French had failed to hold their Indochinese possession against the Communists, as they had failed against the Germans in 1940. America would bail them out once again.

But our intervention was premised on dated strategies. Vietnam was not a stand and fight war.

What Vietnam taught policy makers, (for a millisecond) is that patience is a most powerful foe. The NVA and Vietcong played the waiting game with grit and timeless certainty. 

the Our nation was not the first on the scene in Saigon, but certainly the last western power. As for Afghanistan, the dynamic remains. Leaving 10 years ago, or 10 days ago, the outcome would have been the same. The post-911 Middle Eastern conflicts were truly good for the people of those nations, but not for the United States.

Just check with the Brits and Russians. They left too.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both titles are available on Kindle.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

The Bloody Shirt

Principled soldiers of conscience, the victorious army knew they had served well, defending the Constitution to the last full measure.

May of 1865 witnessed Washington’s Grand Review of the Union Army. Smartly uniformed soldiers filed past crowds, in a river of Union blue. The guns had silenced a mere month earlier at Appomattox, Virginia; the Republic preserved.

A brilliant sun glinted off polished bayonets, and the parade route decorated with miles of silk banners, tattered company colors and patriotic bunting. Rejoicing greeted the passing soldiers in shouts and fluttering handkerchiefs. Flower petals rained down in a fragrant carpet of gratitude. 

The bloody war finally, truly, had ended. 

One year later, near Springfield, Illinois, a group of veterans established a fraternal association, the Grand Army of the Republic. The idea caught fire nationally as other veterans founded their own local chapters; a place men could remember, share, and grieve for lost friends. Soon these war horses got busy extending their service to those they had defended.

First, survivors lent aid to disabled fellow veterans, assistance to widows and their dependents, and orphan homes. Soon preserving battle sites added to the group’s outreach. Before long members began seeking electoral office to further serve the nation.

A story has it General Benjamin Butler, now a Congressman, grew extremely agitated while speechifying, and produced a torn, and bloody shirt he claimed came from the battlefield. Soon the practice of “waving the bloody shirt,” invoking war credentials, became customary for candidates. The saying “vote the way you shot,” launched the careers of numerous politicians. 

Presidents from Ulysses Grant, (1868-1876) through William McKinley (1896-1901) had faced the rebels on the battlefield.*

War memorials and monuments mushroomed, funded with GAR donations. Reunions, benevolent societies, veterans homes, and hospitals kept local chapters busy. In fact, much of GAR efforts were eventually assumed by the Federal Government, particularly pensions for those who had served.

Over time survivors of the Civil War dwindled in number. However, the organization soldiered on until 1956 when it finally faded. Loosely related, though more a coincidence, our last five star general was serving as president when the GAR closed its doors. President Dwight David Eisenhower, who kept a farm in Gettysburg, happened to occupy the White House.

This brotherhood, this Grand Army of the Republic, rose to defend our democracy in the mid-19th Century. This model of valor, and sacrifice shaped the character of the military for years to come. 

But one truth is quite clear, no officer ever advocated for a coup, and there was not one sucker or loser in their ranks.

In 2021 we can do no less.

*Chester Arthur served in the New York Militia, Grover Cleveland did not serve.

Gail Chumbley is a history educator, author and playwright. Her two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” are both available on Kindle.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

That’s All

gailchumbley@gmail.com

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Colonel Clark used to bring his young son down to the dojo where my brothers took judo lessons. Judo had been my grandfather’s idea and he faithfully chauffeured the boys, and I sometimes came along too.

My Grandpa Ray always sat with Colonel Clark, if the old gent happened to be present. That meant I sat with Colonel Clark, too. The two old men would talk and talk, seated next to one another, though their eyes remained fixed on their boys training on the mats. They never seemed to look each other, but remained absorbed in their conversation.

My own distracted attention span only caught snippets of the murmuring discussion. “MacArthur, Wainwright, and Bataan,”  came up in their exchanges And despite my youth, I understood something grave, something momentous lay behind the back and forth of these two men.

My brother filled in the substance of what I reluctantly overheard.

Colonel Clark had been left on the Bataan Peninsula when General Douglas MacArthur evacuated the Philippines in 1942. Under the new command of General Jonathan Wainwright some 22,000 Americans surrendered to Japanese invaders, and among them young Clark. The Japanese summarily ordered this defeated army to march some sixty miles through the jungle. And cruelty became the purpose of the Bataan Death March; heat exhaustion, dehydration, and starvation felled many of these exposed suffering Americans. When a captive stumbled, or fainted, the penalty was an immediate beheading. Young Clark witnessed Hell, and he clearly never separated himself from the ordeal, fused forever into his character.

And that that same ordinary old gent who chatted quietly with my grandfather, had a young son was a miracle. In light of his wartime captivity, Clark should never have survived.

The valiant are everywhere. 

For example there was George, the high school janitor.

For many years this little old fellow pushed a mop down the litter-strewn halls where I taught American history. Equipped with two hearing aids, this diminutive man pushed an immense dust mop, wider than he was tall.

To a passing eye George appeared nearly invisible. Just a friendly, gentle, and harmless grandfather.

As I pontificated about D-Day, Tarawa, and the Bulge to sleepy Juniors, a foot or so of mop often slid and stopped by the classroom door.  Silent, George hid as I blathered on about the Second World War. A short time later I learned this quiet 80-something had once handled a M-1 Garand, shivering aboard one of those heaving and crashing Higgins boats, churning  toward Omaha Beach. George had been in that first wave in June, 1944. 

Humbled to learn our little janitor was a living, breathing hero, I became the student. “So George, what do you remember most about that morning?” 

The old warrior rasped in a high, faded voice, “It was awful early, and the water was awful cold.”

So understated.

Another veteran crossed my path by the name of Roy Cortes. His son, our school Resource Officer brought Roy by to visit with my students. Another narrative of a remarkable life unfolded.

As a teenager he got a job with the Civilian Conservation Corps. After Pearl Harbor, Roy headed straight to the recruiting office, and into the US Army.

Roy, too, had ferried over from Southampton the afternoon of that bloody day. “What do you remember most about the invasion, Sir?” a student asked.

The affable elder smiled slightly, then a cloud passed over his expression. “I lost everyone in my outfit. I was real scared. Soon I had orders to regroup with other survivors. You see, that was bad because I’m Mexican-American, and my first platoon got used to me, and stopped calling me Juan or Jose. Now I had to start all over with the badgering.

For days, as we moved inland, with these fellas giving me the business. One fella said, ‘Mexicans can’t shoot.’ I said that I could. So he said, ‘Ok Manuel. Show me you can shoot. See those birds on that tree branch up ahead? Shoot one of those birds.’ I lifted up my rifle and aimed at the branch and pulled the trigger.” At that Roy again begins chuckling.

“I missed the branch, the birds all flew away, and twelve Germans came out of the grove with their hands up.”

Astounded, no one spoke. Then a huge wave of warm laughter filled the classroom. Roy simply smiled and shrugged.

Colonel Clark, George the Janitor, and Roy Cortes. They were just kids who’s lives became defined in ways we civilians can never fathom. They were scared, and hot, and cold, and hungry, and suffering, and ultimately lucky enough to come home.

They married, raised families, and move on with life.

That’s All.

Gail Chumbley is the author of “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” a two-part memoir Also available on Kindle.

Much to Celebrate and Mourn

 

The following is an excerpt from River of January: Figure Eight

 

For three anxious days reports trickled in from the Pacific, dispatches that were spotty, vague, and inconclusive. When details emerged of this first-ever clash in the sky, the United States Navy found much to celebrate and, tragically, as much to mourn.

The particulars surfaced days after the attack, presenting a clearer picture of the Battle of Midway. At a morning briefing, base personnel learned firsthand the events surrounding this aerial showdown. “The Imperial Japanese Navy,” began an officer Chum recognized as Lieutenant Commander Kirby, “in an attempt to eliminate US forces on Midway Island, launched multiple airborne assaults. The number of enemy aircraft carriers present in the attack has convinced the Department of War that the Japanese military intended to occupy the island in order to menace US installations farther west in Hawaii.” Kirby paused, somberly measuring his words. “The Empire of Japan has utterly failed in their effort.” The lieutenant commander smiled faintly. “Of the six Japanese carriers under Admiral Yamamoto’s command, four now sit at the bottom of the central Pacific.” 

For a moment, the gathering seemed to hold its collective breath, pondering the lieutenant commander’s words. When the full significance sank in, the men jumped to life, roaring in satisfied approval. After the shouting and fraternal backslapping, the crowd finally stood together in a rousing standing ovation. 

Kirby couldn’t help but grin at the enthusiastic response, but quickly quelled the celebration with a brief “As you were.” When everyone was seated again, he continued. “Ahem. Yes, this is good news, good news.” Glancing down at his notes and taking a deep breath, he said, “Gentlemen, this great triumph has come at a grim price for the navy. Fellas, we have lost the USS Yorktown. An enemy sub took the old girl down. She was too disabled from the Coral Sea campaign to maneuver away. Our losses so far are sobering—over three hundred casualties at latest count.” 

Kirby’s eyes scanned the crowd. “Among the dead, five squadrons of Devastator torpedo bombers from both the USS Enterprise and the USS Hornet. These bombers were utterly blown from the sky while executing attacks on Japanese vessels. The Department of the Navy verified the few who survived the shelling were slaughtered in the water by the enemy rather than rescued. Initial reports from Honolulu indicate that Wildcat fighters, assigned to protect these torpedo bombers, lost all contact, leaving the Devastators hopelessly exposed to Japanese ordnance. Boys, we lost them all, all of our torpedo bombers and pilots—but one, a pilot from Texas.” 

The room fell silent, as if there had been no good news at all, no victory in the Pacific. Kirby concluded the briefing with, “Their brave sacrifice made it possible for the rest to find and sink those Japanese carriers.”

Seated among his fellow pilots, Chum shook his head sadly, reminded of a conversation nearly fifteen years before, when he was just a boy—a Seaman, First Class. After a morning of training—of war games—he and a buddy were perched on stools at the base canteen in Panama. Flying his torpedo bomber yards from service vessels had left him unsettled, and he said to his friend, “We approach in low formation, drop our payload and bank, while dangerously showing our undersides to the enemy. We’d be lucky to keep our asses dry, Win. Makes me wonder what desk genius dreamed up this idea. It’s a suicide mission.”

“A suicide mission,” he repeated, in a hopeless whisper, coming out of his reverie.

“Permission to speak, sir,” came a voice from the rear of the hall.

Kirby responded, “Permission granted.”

“How does a sailor go about transferring to the Pacific, sir? With all due respect to our mission here in New York, I want to whip those Japs bad.” Murmurs of agreement swept across the room.

“Fill out the proper paperwork, son.” The lieutenant commander sounded weary. “Complete with your commanding officer’s signature.”

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Available at http://www.river-of-january.com or on Kindle

gailchumbley@gmail.com

Go Get ‘Um

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The date was June 5, 1944, and General Dwight D Eisenhower had made the decision to begin the Allied invasion of France the next morning. Christened “Operation Overlord” the massive campaign required disruption inland from the Normandy coast to insure a solid beach-head. The task fell to soldiers of the US 82nd Airborne, the US 101st Airborne,  and members of the 6th British Airborne. The mission was to impair the Wehrmacht’s ability to move their Panzer units toward the five invasion points.

General Eisenhower met informally with soldiers of the 101st, chatting and encouraging, to build morale. He must have felt an enormous responsibility sending these young Americans on such a hazardous and vital mission. While he mingled with the men, Ike suddenly wondered, “Is anybody here from Kansas?” A voice replied from the crowd, “I’m from Kansas, sir.” Ike looked the boy in the eye and responded, “Go get ‘um, Kansas.”

That story always leaves me teary. I don’t cry in movies, poetry doesn’t move me, and books have to be awfully emotional to elicit a sob out of me. But that moment of raw, honest regard, with so much at stake, hits me in the heart.

Washington at Trenton, Grant at the Wilderness, Doughboys in the Argonne, GI’s at the Bulge, Marines at Hue: the devotion to duty chokes me up. Every time.

But today Americans seem somehow lessened, cheapened. There are no Eisenhowers, or Washingtons, or Lincoln’s to describe what we represent. The institutions that inspired countless young people to lay down their lives are now attacked by an ersatz strongman from within. How could this happen? How can citizens of good conscience condone this very real threat? Where is our collective honest regard for our past, present , and future?

Makes me want to cry.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both are available on Amazon.com