Posts tagged ‘history’
REUNION: A STORY FOR MEMORIAL DAY
This is my first published story. Published by Enigma in 2003, a Philadelphia small publisher no longer is existence.
REUNION
The June morning was brilliant and clear with just enough of a breeze to keep you cool despite the predicted eighty-degree day. At the age of eighty-two, for Christopher Johnson, getting up in the morning was not an easy chore and had lately not seemed worth the effort. He turned his head and looked at the pillow beside him. “I miss you so much honey,” he said quietly. His wife Peggy had died less than a year ago. One night they went to bed as usual. The last words he had said to her were the words he always said to her before falling asleep, “I love you.” When Chris awoke, Peggy was dead of a heart attack. A few days later he was looking into her grave knowing a large part of his life was now buried in the cold earth. After almost sixty years of marriage, the pain of her loss was intense, almost as intense as the love they had shared all those years.
With Peggy still on his mind, he sat up and began to stretch his arthritic limbs knowing the pain that would follow. Next, he stood up and took a few steps; those first steps were the worst of the day. He winced with every movement, but soon his joints and muscles settled down to the constant pain that accompanied him these days.
He had gotten up earlier than usual, for today, unlike most of his days, he had an appointment, something to do. He opened his closet door and, in the back, he found what he was looking for: his U.S. Army ranger dress uniform, the one he had worn on his return home after being wounded during World War II. With persistent pain, he maneuvered his body into the uniform that, after sixty years, still fit his slender frame. He looked in the mirror, and the toll of those sixty years stared back at him. The hair on his head and his mustache had gone gray years ago. His eyes, once admired by his fellow soldiers for their ability to spot enemy aircraft or fortifications before anyone else, now watered behind heavy bifocals. He inspected his image, looking over the uniform for signs of moth damage. The area of his uniform he examined first was his chest; there hung the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was proud to have served his country, proud of his awards but knew that in combat, a split second could mean the difference between a dead soldier and a hero. Satisfied that his uniform had survived another year, he returned it to the closet and dressed in his usual summer shirt and khakis.
While Chris hung up his uniform, his mind still held the Medal of Honor and the events that led to its award.
The day was D Day, early in the morning of June 6th. Chris was among a group of Army Rangers that would be the first to hit the beach. Their objective was to climb and secure the cliffs overlooking the landing sites. These cliffs held guns that could hazard the ships and soldiers, and the hazard needed to be removed. German soldiers were stationed on the cliffs, ready to rain death on unprotected soldiers landing on the beach below. Chris and his three buddies, Frank Grimes, Larry Schwartz and Duck Dupont were together in the landing craft, along with twenty other rangers heading toward the beach.
Chris had begun basic training knowing no one. Soon he gravitated to three other guys who seemed to be as lost and alone as he was. The four of them gradually became friends and survived the ordeal together. Of the three, he was closest to Duck Dupont. Duck’s real name was Willard; he gained his nickname Duck during a basic training class. The class was walking past the artillery area when a practice round went off. Most of the class flinched, but Duck was on the ground with his head covered by his hands. From then on he was known as Duck.
His thoughts returned to June 6th.
It was still dark and they landed unopposed. The men quickly and quietly disembarked and headed for the base of the two-hundred-foot cliff – it would be quite a climb. When everyone was in position, they fired ropes up the side of the cliff. This brought the response they expected; Germans began firing down the cliff and rangers began to collapse on the beach. Chris and his friends were to stay together and climb along with most of the rangers while the rest provided cover fire. Soon the German fire lessened then ceased as the rangers continued their climb.
The four friends were the first to reach the top of the cliff. What they saw sent a shiver through them all. Before them, set back about fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a series of three bunkers. The first light of dawn streamed through the trees beyond the enemy, and all seemed quiet and peaceful except for the machine guns projecting from behind sandbags. They knew they had to act fast, for if they didn’t, the rangers coming up the cliff would be cut down as soon as they reached the top. They split up into two groups; Chris and Duck went to the left – Frank and Larry to the right. The two flanking bunkers had to be eliminated before the middle position could be attacked. Each group approached the nearest bunker and tossed a grenade inside. The simultaneous explosions sent German soldiers into action. The rangers had missed one. Along with fire from the third remaining bunker, a fourth bunker opened up along with mortar fire from behind the bunker. The fourth bunker surprised the rangers and had a clear shot at them. Duck was literally cut in half by machine gun fire. Larry was attacking the third of the bunkers they had seen, having just pulled the pin from a grenade when he was shot. They never did find Frank. Chris entered the first bunker they had taken out, pushed aside the mangled German bodies and manned the machine gun. He quickly took out the bunker they had overlooked before, creeping up to the last remaining bunker; he destroyed it with grenades. The actions of the four men had saved the lives of the rangers now reaching the summit of the cliff and helped secure the landing site for the invasion.
In the early morning silence, after the heat of battle, Chris collapsed on the ground part from fatigue, part from pain, but mostly from grief – his friends were gone. Chris had shrapnel wounds in his left arm and hip. At some point his helmet had taken a hit and deflected the bullet but the impact gave him a nasty scalp wound. Blood now streamed down the side of his face and soaked his collar.
These are the memories that flooded into Chris’s mind as he put away his uniform and prepared to spend a weekend at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum as a guest of honor, something he had done for the last five years. This would be his first year without Peggy at his side. He knew it would not be the same without her, but he still looked forward to the event.
The museum had organized a weekend devoted to the history of World War II for the last ten years. It was a living history lesson with vintage aircraft flown in from all over the country, and encampments set up with hundreds of reenactors dressed in the World War II uniforms of the United States, England, France and Germany. The museum also invited veterans from the war who would give firsthand accounts of combat. But none of them told what the war was really like for their memories were selective, cleansed by time, and they all carried within them that area of memory they would never enter again.
World War II weekend started Friday morning and, although he wasn’t scheduled to give his presentation until Saturday, Chris always went Friday to wander the hanger and apron crammed with vintage World War II fighters, bombers, trainers and transports. He could remember when the skies were filled with their kind. Now there remained only a few of each. On those warm Friday afternoons, he enjoyed walking through the encampments. At one point he saw three men in ranger combat uniforms. He smiled to himself, glad to see his branch of the army represented. Chris loved strolling through the tents. In his mind, there was nothing like the smell of a real canvas tent; the open flaps were your windows, and the grass was your floor. He had seen the tents his grandchildren used when they camped, it was like camping in a nylon bag, no smell, no character. In one of those old canvass tents, he could stand, close his eyes, and the memories of his days in the army would flood into his brain.
Another reason he enjoyed Fridays was the veterans whose attendance was heavy. The old men and women enjoyed the smaller crowds and slower pace that Fridays afforded. He enjoyed conversations with his contemporaries, reliving the past and recalling the days they were once young and involved in the great adventure they shared.
Saturday morning arrived, the sky again clear and blue. He went through his morning routine, slowly struggling into his uniform and waited for his nine o’clock ride to the museum. Chris looked forward to the day. Although he had never made a big deal about his award, one day bathed in the admiration of people who appreciated the sacrifices made during World War II did not hurt him, not at all.
With his first lecture scheduled for 10:30, he was anxious to get to the museum. He found the tent for his lecture. There were about fifty folding chairs set up. He took a moment and stood there alone, letting his mind recall memories that he usually avoided, memories that he would touch slightly, just slightly today.
As he waited at the speaker’s platform, the tent began to fill up. At the back of the tent, he spied the three young men in ranger uniforms he had seen the day before, standing together apart from the crowd. Maybe today they would learn something about the uniforms they wore.
The chairs were full and people were standing in the back as Chris went into his presentation. He shared with them the events of that early morning on the French coast, sanitized, but with enough action to keep the crowd’s attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Halfway through the questions one of the men dressed as a ranger raised his hand and said, “Sir, I just want you to know we appreciate what you did for your country.”
That brought a smile to Chris’ face, “I appreciate that son,” he answered.
The presentation over, the tent was cleared, and it was time for a little lunch and a chance to watch the vintage aircraft flying. This was the part he most enjoyed. The drone of the B-17 accompanied the whine of the Merlin powered P-51s. He knew the planes were the big draw, not old men wearing old uniforms, but he was happy to be part of the show.
First to fly were the trainers, SNJs and T-28s. Then the observation aircraft would fly, the L-19s, followed by the transports, the C-47s and a C-54. Before the fighters and bombers took off, the reenactors took the field in front of the crowd. To the left were the men in German uniforms, to the right the U.S. Army.
The uniformed men fired blanks and mock mortars at each other. There were also smoke grenades thrown by both sides. All this action took place in a grassy area between the runway and aircraft taxiway. As usual, the fire department stood ready for the grass fires the smoke grenades always started, and this year was no exception. The grass fires were more of a nuisance than a danger, and they were always rapidly dealt with. In fact, the dense plumes were greater than any of the regular attendees of the show could remember, and the fire company quickly prepared to hose down the grass. Chris stood there with the rest of the crowd as the shroud of smoke drifted over them.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the rangers, “Sir, we need your help.”
“Sure son, what can I do for you?” came Chris’ reply.
“Could you join us sir?” the ranger questioned. The ranger started walking towards the smoke set off by the mock battle, flanked by the two other rangers Chris had noticed before, and bewildered, Chris followed.
Soon smoke enveloped the four men. The crowd, watching the firemen putting out the grass fire saw the three reenactors on the field but could not imagine why an old man in uniform was traipsing in after them. They saw the four enter the clouds of smoke and lost sight of them.
Chris walked, not knowing where the three young men were taking him. His arthritis bothered him as he entered the smoke, but a few steps into the haze his pain was reduced and then gone. He noticed something else; he no longer wore his dress uniform but wore the ranger combat uniform, same as the reenactors. All at once he was puzzled and amazed and had no idea what their destination could be.
The three reenactors slowed down and Chris easily caught up with them. “How in the hell are you, Chris?” asked Duck. Frank and Larry were slapping his back and pounding his shoulders, his young shoulders.
“We’re on a mission and need your help,” said Frank. “We need the squad together,” he continued.
“I’m your man,” said Chris taking off his helmet and running his hand through his thick dark hair. His mind still could not wrap itself around what was happening.
Some of the crowd there to watch the flying saw four figures begin to emerge from the smoke, the figures of four young men. The men entered another cloud of smoke before them and were gone.
Chris and his three buddies came out of the haze. They were on a dirt road surrounded by a forest. They were all holding rifles, but Chris could sense no danger. They were on patrol and Chris felt better than he had ever felt in his life. He was with his best friends, men he had missed all these years and men he loved. The sky was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The trees and grass were the greenest green he had ever seen. He set out with his three friends, easily matching their stride.
Suddenly, Chris’ eyes filled with tears. He did not know how, did not understand what was happening, but somehow, he knew his young and pretty Peggy was waiting.
AN OBSERVATION FOR MEMORIAL DAY
SCRAPPING HISTORY
Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life. However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.
Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”. The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name. On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”. It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.
We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams. On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies. If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble. Sometimes, when we were being extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.
There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria. So, what did he do? He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business. The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages. He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance. Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments. Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.
Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded. Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so. But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.
So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land. We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.
On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted. With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive. It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield. While driving one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively. My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car. I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch. There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was the Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
THE WRECK OF THE EDMOND FITZGERALD
THE WRECK OF THE EDMOND FITZGERALD
I have written, on occasion, book reviews in the past. Recently I finished reading the best nonfiction book I have read in quite a while, the title of the book, The Gales of November, by John U. Bacon, which made The New York Times Sunday book section’s bestseller list in the past. The title comes from the popular song by Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. More about that song later.
The Edmond Fitzgerald was launched on June 7, 1958. The Fitzgerald was built to last 100 years. It sank on November 10, 1975. At the time it was built it was the longest boat (vessels are called boats on the Great Lakes, ships on the oceans) sailing on the Great Lakes. The Fitzgerald sailed primarily on Lake Superior and Lake Huron. The book goes into great detail discussing the crew, their backgrounds and their families.
The Fitzgerald was 729 feet long and 75 feet wide. The construction of the boat is covered and points out a new method used in its construction, welds as opposed to rivets. New was also that it was built in modular sections. The use of welds saved weight but did have its drawbacks. The Fitzgerald’s primary mission was to transport taconite, a form of iron ore.
One fact mentioned in the book which I found amazing was that sailing on the Great Lakes was more dangerous than sailing on the ocean. The reason, salt. The ocean salt results in the formation of waves, due to the weight of the salt, which are different from the waves formed in fresh water. In freshwater, waves come more frequently. This results in the possibility that the long freighters on the lakes being suspended so that the bow is on the peak of one wave while the stern is on the peak of another wave resulting in no support for the middle of the boat. Another reason sailing in freshwater is more dangerous is spray during cold weather. Freshwater spray freezes immediately and can add a great amount of weight to the boat. In the ocean the freezing point of the spray decreases due to the salt making ice less of a problem.
The size of the boats sailing the Great Lakes can also be a problem. The Edmond Fitzgerald sailed in Lake Superior and then on to Lake Huron. Between the two lakes is a river, and to enable these huge boats to sail between the lakes locks were built. The dimensions of the locks determined limits for the size of the boats. The narrow width which the boats needed to use the locks made it possible for the boats to capsize.
Also described were possible reasons the boat sank. It turns out that there wasn’t one reason but multiple problems which accumulated and spelled disaster. Examination of the wreck yielded some of these. The location of the wreck was easily found by knowing the approximate location of the sinking and then finding an area where the magnetic properties changed.
Now for the popular song by Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. Lightfoot had the melody for the song but not the subject. He was familiar with the Great Lakes, and like anyone who was, was immediately affected by the boat’s sinking. He studied the articles published about the event and found lines in them which seemed appropriate for the song. And he felt strongly about the song which resulted, so even though it was completed, he never performed or recorded it. When he was finally persuaded to record the song, the band was playing it for the first time. They completed more takes and they all agreed after listening to the tries that the first take was the best and that’s the song that we know. Lightfoot also got to know the families of the crew and kept in touch with them.
Bottom line, if you have an interest in the demise of the Edmond Fitzgerald and why it happened along knowledge of the men lost with the boat’s sinking read this well written and thoroughly researched book.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in, and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died, and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip to French Creek State Park, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
TO BE CONTINUED
DOWNNECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE: A NEWARK MEMORY
ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
The section of Newark, New Jersey I called home was referred to as the ‘Down neck Section’ of Newark, why, I once read that it had something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passed the area where I lived. And on the Sunday afternoon, closest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of my street were treated to what had to have been the shortest St. Patrick’s Day in the area, perhaps the world.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, the steeple of which I could see from my parlor window. It had to be held on Sunday for between my house and the church, right across the street, stood Balentine Brewery. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of trucks quenching the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, the first harbinger of a gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. Around one-thirty the residents began to gather on the sidewalk with the crowd, at places, one deep. Since the brewery and Catholic school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to add to their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. There was always a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The part of the parade I witnessed was the length of my street and took about thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner on to Ferry Street and marched a short way further, melting into the Down neck neighborhood.
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: CONTINUED
NEW HAVEN, CONNETICUT
It was a wild night with a howling and frigid wind buffeting the windows of the senior faculty house on the Yale campus. Sheets of rain kept all the details of the world beyond the windows indefinite.
Four men, leaders in their fields, sat before a roaring fire, the flames reflecting off the dark wooden panels of the study walls. Each man held a brandy stiffer and appreciated the ambiance of the room and the moment. The men were in one of the faculty houses provided to senior members of Yale. The residence was that of Dr. Carl Gold, an evolutionary psychologist. Gold was in his mid-sixties, and with his trim build and gray mane of hair, would not be out of place in the boardroom of a major company or arguing on the floor of the senate. He was a leader in his field with a worldwide reputation.
Gold had invited three men he knew by reputation as giants in their own fields. He also knew them all personally, in varying degrees, and was confident that what was discussed this stormy night would not go beyond the walls of his study.
Across from Gold sat Fred Fielding. Tall and gaunt, Fielding had a permanent tan from his many field trips as physical anthropologist. Next to Fielding was John Sanders, a world-renowned human geneticist. Sanders published his work in all the major journals, but most of his work was now tied up in the debate over the use of human stem cells. Sanders, with his short thick build, was the opposite of Fielding. With his thick black hair and swarthy complexion, he was often mistaken for a maintenance man. The broken nose he earned during his collegiate boxing career added to the image.
The last of the three invited guests was Dr. Bill Mark, a fertility specialist and adjunct professor in Yale’s medical school. Tall, slim and blond, with his athletic build, he appeared to be in his mid-forties although he was well on the way to sixty. As each man introduced himself and discussed their specialties, Mark wondered if he had been summoned to this meeting by mistake. His discipline did not fit in with the others present. He was not a researcher. He was a physician.
Gold surveyed his colleagues and friends. “Gentlemen, the storm that rages beyond these walls will be dwarfed by the storm that may rage within these walls tonight. I’m sure you are all aware of the magnificent discovery made in the Swiss Alps. The body of a perfectly preserved Neanderthal, using carbon dating, is estimated to be thirty thousand years old. I have spent my life studying these creatures. From the time the first Neanderthal skull was found in 1848, this subset of man has remained a mystery. We are still trying to fathom the extent of their intelligence and how they fit into the human tree of development.
“There are many facts about these distant relatives of modern man that lead to fascinating conjecture. To begin with, their brains were ten percent larger than that of modern man, yet they are thought to be simple brutes. We now know that Neanderthals manufactured tools and produced art. The mask found on the banks of the Loire in France was an unexpected find. The fact that they produced art indicates they had an appreciation of life beyond their own existence. They apparently did lack one skill. They were not as adept at fashioning weapons as their fellow bipeds.
“Another intriguing discovery found in the Kabara Cave in Israel was a Neanderthal bone of extreme importance. The bone I refer to was a Neanderthal hyoid bone. This find dispels the theory that Neanderthals could do nothing but grunt. The presence of a hyoid bone indicates they were capable of speech. Taking into consideration other aspects of their skulls, it is thought that Neanderthals had a high, nasal voice.
“There are many questions to be answered, and now we have the means at our disposal to journey from conjecture to fact. I have obtained a sample of the newly discovered Neanderthal. The reason I have called you all together this evening is to formulate a plan, that my utilizing modern genetics and in vitro fertilization will produce a Neanderthal. We shall be able to answer all the questions that have plagued modern man about the Neanderthal enigma.”
Fred Fielding was the first to speak. “As a physical anthropologist, I look forward to examining the body of the recently discovered Neanderthal. But your point is clear. To see how the physical characteristics, whose meaning we assume to deduce, come into play in a living specimen would mean phenomenal advances in our knowledge of man’s distant relative.”
John Sanders, the geneticist, now spoke up. “With a specimen from this newly discovered Neanderthal, modern genetics could solve, once and for all, the debate of where Neanderthals reside in man’s family tree. However, what you propose is to produce a living individual. To do that would require cloning, a method too dangerous to try on a human – to say nothing about it being illegal.”
Gold said, “My dear Dr. Sanders, you would not be cloning a member of the Homo sapiens species. You would be cloning an example of Homo neanderhtalensis.”
A smile crept across Sanders’ face. This argument would be viable, until the law caught up with the science. “In that case, I am willing to isolate the DNA. What we would need next is a human egg and female willing to carry the Neanderthal to term.”
All eyes were now on Dr. Mark, the fertilization specialist. He said, “I now see where I fit in. I see how we all fit into this project. I will not mince words. I feel uncomfortable about this proposition. The mechanisms of the plan would be simple. I have a supply of donor eggs. We can remove the egg’s DNA and use cloning methods described in the literature, insert Neanderthal DNA and initiate mitosis. I also have a group of women we use in my practice who are willing to carry babies as surrogate mothers but refuse to see the baby after birth. They want no chance to form an attachment to the child.
“I think the experiment Dr. Gold proposes can be accomplished. My question is should it be done? By using the scientific name of the Neanderthal as a loophole, we feel we are free to create an individual who may possess human emotions, who may possess a soul. This is much different than cloning a sheep or a cat, no matter how much we choose to belittle the difference. I am not sure I can proceed with this endeavor.”
Gold said, “I picked you, Bill, because I knew you would not go easily with this plan. What we are planning to do is of profound importance, and also of profound scientific and moral complexity. Yet, for science to advance, sometimes risks must be taken. I appreciate your arguments. I know there are risks, but we have the capacity to venture into the unknown and bring light to a land of mystery. Through our expertise we can gain knowledge of the beginning of our humanity.”
The debate went on until dawn lit the study windows. Fielding and Sanders warmed up to their initial confidence. Mark persisted in his initial skepticism. But in the end, as a new day on Earth began, a new chapter in mankind’s knowledge was agreed upon.
THE CLONING
John Sanders received frozen tissue samples from Gold. As he gazed at the sample packed in dry ice, he could not believe he was peering into a box containing a tissue sample of a ‘man’ dead thirty thousand years. Sanders’ ego did not get the better of him. He knew he had been out of the lab for too long to attempt the important work that lay ahead. He employed a promising PhD candidate, Michael Rose, to do the actual work. He would tell Rose as little as possible about the nature of the experiment. The meeting at Gold’s study had left him with the feeling that he was involved in a conspiracy rather than an experiment, the fewer people that knew about the true purpose of the experiment, the better.
Sanders’ first meeting with Rose went well. “Michael, I would like you to help me in a special project.”
“Certainly Dr. Sanders. I’m a little desperate for a new project now that the study I’m working on is going nowhere.”
Sanders said, “It’s a cloning experiment.”
“Fantastic,” said Rose. “What will we be cloning?”
Sanders hesitated, and then answered, “A non-human primate.”
“Has that ever been done before Dr. Sanders?”
“Not to my knowledge. We would be making history.”
Rose could not believe his luck. He was going from a dead-end research project to an historic experiment.
“When do we begin?”
“Immediately,” Sanders said. “I already have a tissue sample from which you can extract the DNA for the cloning. I also have a list of references I want you to read and extract from them the method used to fertilize the egg and develop it into an embryo.”
* * *
Two weeks later Rose had the DNA extracted and the materials he would need for the union of the egg and extracted DNA to begin their journey to a living entity.
Sanders called Mark, “Bill, we’re ready to implant the DNA into the eggs.”
“I’ll ship them out by express mail,” said Mark. “Good luck!”
The eggs arrived in a container of liquid nitrogen. The paperwork indicated that there were ten eggs contained in the container. When all was ready, with Sanders at his side, Rose began the cloning experiment.
The eggs were rapidly thawed. Once thawed, Rose removed their DNA and inserted the ‘primate DNA’ he had prepared. Each egg was given its own petri dish of life sustaining fluids and put into an incubator.
Both Sanders and Rose periodically checked on the eggs. Initially, all ten began to divide. But soon four of the small balls of cells died. The remaining six progressed to a point where they could be slowly cooled, then frozen and stored in liquid nitrogen until they could be implanted into a uterus.
Rose was excited as he entered Sanders’ office. “Dr. Sanders, the embryos are frozen. I’m looking forward to seeing the results of the experiment.”
Sanders said, “I’ll let you know how things progress.”
“Do we have the monkeys that will carry the embryos to term here?”
“No Michael, the implantation will be done at another institution.”
After Rose left, Sanders sat at his desk and thought, You’ll be told the embryos all died after implantation. For you, this experiment is over.
Strangely, Sanders found himself feeling envy for Rose. His dreams had recently been haunted by what this adventure might produce.
TO BE CONTINUED
THE OLYMPICS AND AI
THE OLYMPICS AND AI
What is the definition of a sport?
I once had a friend who said for an event to be considered a sport there had to be either a score or time involved. I will include two more criteria, distance and accuracy. For distance consider the shotput or similar events. For accuracy consider archery and again similar events.
If only events which involved the above four criteria many Olympic events in both the summer and winter Olympics, true crowd pleasers, would have to be eliminated. Summer Olympics would not see any gymnastics. Winter Olympics would lack figure skating. In such events as these the winners are determined by opinion. But in those events where winners are determined by opinion AI could provide a remedy to make judging more valid.
To determine the merits of judging in the above events opinion could be replaced by concrete criteria if AI is involved. Here is my thinking.
To determine the winners of opinion-oriented events a committee of representatives from prominent countries which are usually present in the competition along with past winners of that competition. In this way there would be no politics involved, which has been a problem in the past.
A method could be developed where each member of the group can produce what they consider to be, in their mind, the perfect performance. All those results could then be fed into a computer to determine the ultimate performance for the event. When the event was to take place a series of cameras could be set up to record the athlete’s performance from various angles and this could be matched up to the ultimate performance determined by the panel.
It seems to me that this would eliminate any prejudice or inexperience of a judge and determine a winner beyond any shadow of a doubt.
What do you think?
This is my speculation on how AI could be used as a method of judging some Olympic events. I am sure a vast improvement can be made on the subject. This is merely an attempt to start the thought process going.
CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY
W** was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. A member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted plots with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, they were not all stories. W** carried demons of his own. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during the November writers’ meeting that the group leader, S**, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner. It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.” The approval of the group was unanimous.
Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived. It was a rainy evening when W** set out for the restaurant. The back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache. He was one of the last to arrive, greeted his fellow writers and took his seat next to S**.
The room was large with a single circular table at its center. A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling. It was domed with a most unsettling feature. From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.
As the meal was served, W** looked across the table to C** and G**, deep in conversation, discussing light matters. Suddenly, the conversation changed. To his disbelief, W** heard them plotting his murder. He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail. W** sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories. His friends asked if there was anything wrong, because he was visibly shaken. “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.
January arrived and it was time for another meeting. S** was the last to arrive. “I have terrible news. C** and G** have met with horrible accidents. They are both dead.”
The group sat there in shock. Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.
The year swiftly went by. It was a good year with many of the members being published. Once again, at the November meeting, S** announced the plans for a Christmas dinner. The site would be the same as last year.
W** once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow. He greeted his friends and took his place. Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room. And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T** and B** who made the fiendish plot. Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.
January found the group deep in sorrow once more. That was five years ago. And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.
Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only member remaining was W**. A creature of tradition, W** reserved the domed room for his private dinner. There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head.
He gazed around at the empty seats, and his ears perked up. There were voices plotting his murder. Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end. A fiendish smile crossed his lips. His work was not yet done.
The End
HISTORY DESTROYED: THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
HISTORY DESTROYED: THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
Time accomplished what the Japanese could not.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. During the 70’s, I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torches, destroyers and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship in particular, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, without a doubt the most famous aircraft carrier to participate in World War II. Now this historic vessel awaited the scraper’s torch. There this magnificent vessel sat, amongst her comrades in the great struggle of the war. I cannot imagine why a movement could not save this ship from destruction. With all the battles, all the victories and sorrows that formed the ship’s past, the Enterprise would have provided a floating history lesson for generations to come.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. After the deck was removed, you could look down on the complex of compartments, areas where brave men worked to defeat the Japanese navy and were some of them died. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was the Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
UKRAINE’S POSSIBLE FUTURE
UKRAINE’S POSSIBLE FUTURE
There is a window into what Ukraine’s future might become and it is not pleasant. Trump’s ‘peace deal’ is, to say the least, very suspicious. Some time ago I accidentally discovered a book which offers a glimpse of what the future might look like for Ukraine. A window into what Ukraine may experience if Russia succeeds in having its way with determining Ukraine’s future.
I am a fan of James A Mitchner’s books. If you are familiar with his books you know they are real doorstoppers, long works with infinite detail. But some of his early works were not so lengthy. One of his books which I read and enjoyed was The Bridges At Toko-Ri. I somehow obtained another of his books, The Bridge At Andau, and thought this was also a work of fiction which I would enjoy. The book is, in fact, a work of nonfiction recording the uprising in Hungary against the occupation of the country by the Soviet Union. What is described is a heart-wrenching story of Hungary’s bid to win back its freedom. Written in 1957, the book contains interviews with some of the freedom fighters and descriptions of what took place.
The bridge at Andau is actually a bridge between Hungary and Austria over which approximately 200,000 escaped the onslaught of the Soviet Union. I feel the book offers an idea of the future awaiting Ukraine if Russia has its way in the peace negotiations.
The Hungarian revolt began on October 23, 1956. The Soviet Union returned in force on November 4 to stop the revolt. Described are the reasons for the uprising. Before the occupation the Soviet Union described to the Hungarians the benefits of their occupation. They were all lies. Life in Hungary become dismal with every aspect under the control of the Soviet Union. Another source of the persecution endured by the Hungarians was the police force made up of their own people. So, you had Hungarian pitted against Hungarian. Hungarians were responsible for making their own people to live in a life of fear.
As with the occupation of Ukraine by the Russians, the then Soviet Union gave unfounded excuses for their occupation of Hungary. The Russians claiming that their actions were the result of Nazi influence in Ukraine which was unfounded. More lies spread by Russia the justify their starting the war.
Hungary thought the U.N. would come to their aid. It did not. And no help was provided by the United States.
I feel all that are against of providing aid to Ukraine, especially Congress, have on obligation of understanding what may be Ukraine’s future if assistance is not provided. And if possible, to read this book to understand what the impact of their decision to not help Ukraine means.
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