Warriors, Gods, and Cats

 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 1^st 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