Warriors, Gods, and Cats
We always think we'll have all the time in the world to do everything we want to do when we finally retire. What we don't factor in are all the unpleasant things we'll have to do. I’m not referring here to the annual drudgery
of reluctantly taking a required minimum distribution from our retirement funds
or the nagging need to keep everything around us, including ourselves,
functioning. Short of Maria Elena’s
dogged persistence, I especially try to avoid the unpleasantness of doctor visits. Guys  |
Ouch, A Major Overhaul |
being guys (here, permit me to use a
broad brush), we generally don’t want to spend a minute of our time on doctor
visits when there is golf, camping, travel, doing nothing all day, you name it, to timeshare. There are times, however, when parts simply wear
out. Take, for instance, going in for a
tune-up (annual physical), or short of preventive maintenance, getting towed in
for some vehicle breakdown (ambulance ride).
Not surprisingly, our bodies follow the same pattern, though at times
spare parts are hard to come by. Yes, there are
warning signs. Sticking to my car
analogy a bit longer, mufflers get louder, brakes squeal, and at times water may
appear on the engine oil dipstick. As
for me, I’ve had this ‘unibody chassis’ of mine, popularly mass-produced after
the Second World War, for a long time now. As of yet, there is no chance of a trade-in
judging from the lingering existence of actuarial life expectancy tables. More than out of alignment, the structural
support of my load-bearing frame has been giving me trouble since I fell on my
tailbone playing high school basketball. Since then, as frequently as once a year, I am
usually down for about a week, in bed with a back issue. I still vividly recall those doctor
hypodermic needle visits to our home in Calitri, black bag and all. They saved the day.
True to my nature, I went down once again. Hopefully, the last time was in
April ’22. Unwise of me, I proved I couldn’t do it all, like lifting a mattress. In dashboard warning light fashion, this light
just wouldn’t go out, even given three months of rest and relaxation in Italy. In Casino Royale,
 |
Villa Balbianello at Lago di Como |
James Bond
of “Shaken, not Stirred” fame recuperated at Villa del Balbianello jutting
into Lake Como. Of course, forget that I couldn’t
afford it but still, why not me? My
L4-L5 vertebrae, including the shock absorber in between, had
called it quits. Persistent pain and the
inability to walk very far made our stay unpleasant, to say the least. But for a few escapes from the medieval life
of the Borgo, we stayed close to Calitri that trip. Short of a tow, I needed a fix (not that kind)
ASAP on return, even without Maria Elena’s encouragement. That happened when I limped into the hospital and six hours later cautiously hobbled out, rebuilt
and shiny like a ‘newified’ but used car.
With all the downtime, well before life gets in the way again,
it got me thinking. Like running a computer scan, what better time for taking inventory of one’s
life than when you have given up control, put yourself in someone else’s hands,
closed your eyes, and surrendered to surgery?
And it just so happened to be in November – the month of the dead. Clearly, it’s a busy month, packed full of lighthearted
and solemn celebrations for remembering the departed, and short of that, those who
have
risked death for a greater cause. ‘All
Hallows Eve,’ what we call Halloween, is a tradition that originated with the
ancient Celtic festival of Samhain. It was a spirit night when the souls of the
dead were expected to return to their family homes, and people wore costumes to
ward off ghosts. By the eighth century,
Pope Gregory III incorporated some of its traditions when he established All Saints Day as a time to remember the dead, including saints,
martyrs, … and the faithful departed.
Later
in the month, we celebrate Veterans Day, initially conceived as Armistice Day in memory of the living and
departed American military veterans who perished in World War I. That war ended in
1918 at the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. We now celebrate it annually, always on the
11th, as Veterans Day in honor of all veterans, living and dead, from all of
America’s wars, in memory of their patriotism and willingness to serve and
sacrifice for the nation’s good.
Not surprisingly, the cumulative effects of Halloween, followed by All Souls Day, my
surgery, and Veterans Day, all tempered by the scourge of COVID, have seen my
thoughts easily turn toward mortality. But also in November, is the redeeming arrival of Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving first took place when a small group
of colonists rejoiced over a bountiful harvest following their near extinction
from a brutal winter. This time of
celebration offers an opportunity, in the company of family and friends, to
give thanks and reflect on our lives. Like a cat with nine lives, who seem immune to damage and remarkably able to
survive, this whole experience has given me pause to think back and weigh my
mortality. I too have been fortunate to
land on my feet more than once.
I continue
to be amazed at the medical advancements of our day and the resilience of our bodies. Yet with advancements being
made daily, 20 or 30 years hence will history look back at us, appalled at our ‘primitive’
medical practices? Still, my systolic blood
pressure wasn’t at 135 mmHg for nothing when I was processed into the hospital. No matter how far medicine has come, a far,
far cry from the barbarism of bloodletting and leeches, I was still
nervous. After all, I was ‘going under’
as they say. Could something go wrong,
would I wake up? Had I become overly conditioned to those TV ads for pharmaceuticals we’re bombarded with daily? While we are encouraged to ask our doctors
about them following the advertisement's happy faces and upbeat claims, many conclude with a list of dire side effects, including death. Thinking it over, me thinks I was rightfully
nervous enough to have pushed the pressure monitor to at least 165 mmHg! Telling from the forms that needed signing,
they were wary too.
Cats, nine lives … to be so
fortunate. During the Vietnam War, my
crewmate was grounded for a few days.
His malady: different blood pressure from one arm to the next. The Air Force had acronyms for everything; He
was placed in Duty Not Including Flying (DNIF) status. Regardless of blood pressure, we relieved the stress by taunting fellow aviators with gibes like: "If you don’t make it back today, can I have that stereo amp you just bought?” Fueled by testosterone, our bluster served to offset the life-threatening
seriousness of the missions at hand.
We’d signed those forms years earlier.
Following that mission to Hanoi, I
scrawled a poem (located at the bottom of this blog) to exhaust the anxiety and capture the emotion of that day’s
sortie. Like a cat, I’d ‘landed’ on my
feet.
Clearly, our battle
bravado was a far more
secular cry than those uttered by Carthaginian warriors and Roman legionnaires to their
gods before the Battle of Cannae. They
were certainly not fated by horoscopes but were instead weighted by the sway of
their gods. Rather, far more likely, they spoke of Elysian fields
where heroic souls were conveyed by the gods after their deaths. I’ve mentioned Cannae in the
past. This major battle took place
 |
The Fields of the Battle of Cannae Today.
For Thousands, It Was Their Entrance to
the Elysian Fields |
approximately five miles from Canosa di Puglia on the right bank of the ancient
Aufidus River. It was at Cannae that one of history’s greatest generals, the Carthaginian Hannibal Barca defeated Rome in 216 B.C. Unlike my close encounter, their
battle hadn’t been fought with throttle nudges and the flip of switches from 30,000
feet, amidst the explosion of missiles so close that the nav team
questioned the cause of the intense flashes.
At Cannae, combat was hand-to-hand.
Carthaginian troops manning the center of the line were instructed to give way to a far greater Roman force pressing in on them so
that Hannibal’s heavily armed foot soldiers and flanking cavalry might envelop the Romans and annihilate them.
This maneuver remains part of the curriculum studied at military
academies the world over. In contrast, our lack of maneuver,
equally worthy of study, was literally straightforward — straight and level until
we broke left post target.
Not too many years
ago, we visited our friend Pietro
in Canosa di Puglia. Canosa is located
at the eastern end of the A16 Autostrada that extends across Italy from Naples
to just about 12
|
Fallen Carthaginian Warrior? |
miles short of the still undiscovered crystal waters of the
Adriatic Sea. Thoughtfully, Pietro had
arranged a tour of the historical sites around and even some under his hometown with
Renato, a guide with the historical society.
Theirs is a wealth of history, but after all, this is Italy which helped
explain the hoop full of history represented by each key Renato carried, which opened every historic site in town. How
he knew one from the other is yet a mystery.
One of these archaeological stops was at Il Battistero di San Giovanni. As we walked along a narrow-elevated catwalk, we came upon an
exposed grave. The grave contained the skeletal remains of two corpses. One appeared
much taller than the other. Close
examination has determined that the taller male was unlikely Italian, known in
those days to have been shorter in stature. Due to his height, he was positioned somewhat askew,
somewhat diagonally within the confines of the grave. He lay there on his back with his hands
clasped at the waist, his head propped up on a sort of stone pillow, legs
splayed wide. One leg lay straight, the
other bent bow-legged as a cavalryman might develop.
He is believed to have been injured in the nearby battle and evacuated to Canosa only
to eventually
succumb to his wounds. The prestigious
location of his grave suggests that he may have been a Carthaginian soldier
of significant rank. Like the American Tomb
of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington, Virginia, here rested the remains of a
soldier struck down in battle, unknown and separated from his name for over
2200 years. Unlike the USA's Arlington
National Cemetery, there is no perpetual guard here, only a catwalk where
occasional visitors like us can hesitate and hover over this warrior’s final
resting place to wonder. The American
 |
Cadet Mike Blassie
Class of 1970 |
memorial honors a fallen hero from WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The Vietnam Unknown’s headstone reads, "Here
rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God." For 14
years, the identity of this unknown did indeed remain known only to God.[1]
In his farewell words to this Unknown, President
Reagan said:
“Today,
we pause to embrace him and all who served so well in a war whose end offered
no parades, no flags, and so little thanks. We write no last chapters. We close
no books. We put away no final memories. Thank you, dear son, and may God
cradle you in his loving arms.” [2]
The books
had remained open for events in 1984 led to DNA fingerprinting that
positively identified the unknown’s remains as those of Air Force 1st
Lt Michael Blassie, who in 1972 had been shot down near An Loc, South
Vietnam. Graduating in 1970, he’d been a
year behind me at the Academy. On the
confirmation of his identity, his body was exhumed for burial elsewhere. It was then decided that the crypt, meant to
contain the remains of a Vietnam unknown, would henceforth remain vacant
(cenotaph).
Alongside the unknown Canosa warrior lay the weapon paraphernalia
of a soldier. His rank may help explain why he’d been interned
beneath a temple thought to have occupied this site before its transformation
into a Catholic church. Had he been
surprised by the events that overtook him?
He undoubtedly survived the earlier battles at Trebia (near modern-day Piacenza) and Lake Trasimene (south of Cortona). In the process, had he gone beyond his limit of cat
lives? In the end,
something caught up with him, though hopefully not before he’d beseeched the Punic god Melqart.[4] According to ancient sources, Hannibal swore an oath to Melqart in 237 B.C. at age nine, stating that
he would forever be the enemy of Rome.[3] Unquestionably,
he’d kept his word. His fallen comrade
had apparently died trying.
Together they had obliterated four reinforced Roman legions.
News, even then, traveled
fast. As they say: “If it bleeds, it leads.” Word of the defeat, fueled by word of mouth
and even faster horses, raced to Rome 300 miles away well before Hannibal’s
envoy, arrived seeking their surrender. Gripped
in panic, the city was in chaos. The
unprecedented demise of the empire’s finest young men, 50,000 to 60,000,
touched
 |
Delphic Sibyl with Scroll by
Michelangelo |
just about every Roman family. The Senate itself,
short members due to those killed at Cannae, resorted to extraordinary measures. Rome became so desperate that they once again
turned to human sacrifice, a practice they’d long since abandoned. History reports that twice they buried two
people alive at the Roman Forum in sacrifice to their gods.[5] Other measures included dispatching a
delegation to consult the Delphic oracle in Greece. In addition, there was the rare act of
consulting the Sibylline Scrolls, closely guarded in the Forum. They hoped this collection of oracular
utterances, composed by prophetic priestesses (the Sibyls), might provide them
with guidance.[5] Unfortunately,
they resisted the peace terms, and the Second Punic War
continued unabated.
Cannae concentrated on high ground, terrain,
and the location of natural obstructions like rivers. The new battle arena, the modern aerospace high
ground, comes with its own prophets,
 |
X-1 Beneath its B-29 Carrier (Note the
frost from the liquid oxygen fuel tank) |
advocates, and heroes. My list includes visionaries like
Billy Mitchel, Werner Von Braun, John Glenn, and industrial mogul Elon Musk. In particular, there is one
standout warrior, Chuck Yeager. Unlike
the biblical story of Ezekiel, who in a vision described a fiery airborne
wheel, Yeager flew one. Wounded in 1944,
this 21-year-old P-51 fighter pilot was harbored by the French underground
after being shot down following eight combat missions. While saving the life of a companion, he barely survived his escape across the Pyrenees to Spain. Apparently, the ‘gods’ had more for him to
accomplish, including many more scrapes with death. Some call it luck, but luck changes. In 1947 this iconic pilot,
now a WW II Ace with 13 kills (five in one day), cracked two ribs days before he ‘flew’ from a galloping horse on a moonless night.[6] I
guess crew rest wasn’t a big deal back then out in the Mojave Desert (today’s
Edwards AFB). Following this injury, he didn't go DNIF; there was more to break that day. Concealing
 |
Are Heroes Born or Made? |
his injury, he gingerly
positioned himself in the rocket plane’s cockpit after closing the hatch to
Glamorous Glennis with the aid of a ten-inch piece of broomstick. The Bell Aircraft X-1 rocket plane cradled
beneath its B-29 mothership was nicknamed for his wife. Minutes later, as he passed through the previously
impenetrable sound barrier, the applause of the gods produced a thunderous clap never before heard
on this earth. He had broken through a barrier, the sound barrier, believed impenetrable. Many also believed it would prove deadly to the
pilot as well, but the only barrier proved to be in
our knowledge, not his courage. Here was a person whose scrapes with death in
war and peace far exceeded the number of lives any cat would ever consider
parlaying. In Calitri, word that someone has lost their battle travels by phone and
text messages just as you’d expect. Yet there
are remnants of the past that still endure. Before the marvels of modern technology, news traveled
word-of-mouth much like it had from nearby Cannae to Rome. Through the centuries and the many wars that have plagued
 |
The Praeco of the TV Series "Rome" |
Italy, people gathered in squares to listen to announcements,
specifically news of campaign events, call-ups, and the names of those who had
perished. We might call these purveyors of information Town Criers, but even that sounds too colonial, if not medieval. In ancient Rome, well before Town Criers came
into vogue, the ‘news anchor’ who verbally presented the latest news, proclamations,
enacted laws, and even upcoming games, were called a praeco (messenger).[7] Throughout
Calitri today, small billboards substitute for the praeco of old. I refer to them as death boards. Absent a town newspaper, these billboards at
various locations serve to notify the townsfolk of recent
deaths. Residents  |
Calitri Death
Announcements |
gather about them to
inspect the latest postings. Likely a
funeral service gathers the information, has them printed, and then like a wall paperer with an oversized brush, pastes them over
earlier announcements. Included are the
particulars about an upcoming funeral service, often a picture, some family
information, and memorial messages of remembrance. I’ve watched this unfold practically daily. This sneaker net may be slow, but it was and remains
effective. Clearly, I’ve been
retrospective about one of my close calls. Regardless
of who I may prefer watching over me, be it muse, God(s), guardian angel, or some
Delphic pronouncement, gladly under the benevolent favor of something more than fate or a roll
of the dice, there is strength in believing you are not alone. On my fateful brush with history, I still
recall a priest standing in a jeep slowly moving down the flightline passing
each bomber revetment while sprinkling holy water. I imagined both sides praying for deliverance
that day. Many, in fact, on both sides,
no doubt to the same God. But had anyone
stopped to think whose side God was on?
But then, God forgive me, I’d be ascribing human traits to a deity. With the wonderment of a statement like “Did I do That?” and
instances of cat-like close calls, I need all
the guidance and godly intervention available.
We all approach life-threatening events differently. In the Vietnam experience I related, the routine of training influenced my survival. Only later, heading home, the adrenaline
evaporated and the sobering realization of the callous nakedness of battle settled in. Like my surgery, my life had been in other’s
hands, both those of my crew and my enemy. A few feet here or there or possibly a different missile approach angle and the outcome may have been entirely different. Maybe it’s easier just being a cat
who always seems to survive dangerous situations. That night, forget cats, Topaz 3 (my
call sign) landed on tiger pawns.
To All Warriors Here and Remembered ― Happy
Veterans Day
From That Rogue Tourist
Paolo
[1] Michael Blaisse, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Blassie
[2] The Secret of File X-26: How Lt. Michael
Blassie’s Remains Were Rescued from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier,
https://veteransbreakfastclub.org/the-secret-of-file-x-26-how-lt-
[3] Battle of Cannae,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Cannae
[4] Melqart, https://www.worldhistory.org/Melqart/
[5] Battle of Cannae, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Cannae#Aftermath
[6] Yeager, An Autobiography, by General Chuck
Yeager & Leo Janos, Bantam Books,1985
[7] Roman
Town Crier, https://imperiumromanum.pl/en/curiosities/roman-town-crier/
Scenario on Day One
18 Dec
1972, Guam
It was a
time like none before
Not yet
seen nor wanting revisit
It had a
smell its own, a sound its own, a sight its own
Plane after
plane, wave after wave, silver sword and black stilettos
One after
another, hour after hour, as the earth shook - black flag waving in a sextant
port
Who would
have thought it just days before
The crews
tempers stiffened as they heard the word to go - a mission like no other, day
one of a new war
And on they
flew, the air tepid with the thickness of oily fumes not knowing what lie ahead
Surmising,
speculating in bar-room jargon, inflated high spirits, shear guts and scattered
fears
Some not to
return - many to follow
And by the
by what would be said of them
Icarus for
a day, young, bold but always pressing on
What matter
... "Topaz 3, Takeoff Roll"
1st Lt
Paul Monico
Crew
E13
42nd Bomb Wing, 69th Bomb
Sq Heavy
Loring AFB, ME
