Captain Parker, Colonel Barrett and Our National DNA

 Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year.

 

--Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1860.

 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
    Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
    And fired the shot heard round the world.

 

--Concord Hymn by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1837.

 

Today is the 250^th anniversary of the start of the American Revolution.  We learned Longfellow and Emerson’s poems in grade school in a previous century, and I wonder if they are still taught today.  I suspect not often.

 

In any case, the Battles of Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775, are significant to me.  My mother was huge on genealogy, and joined the Daughters of the American Revolution on two ancestors--militia commanders Captain John Parker and Colonel James Barrett.  One of her cousins was named Parker Barrett.

 

Like so many colonists, John Parker regarded himself as an American rather than a Briton.  He was elected head of his militia company based on his experience in the French and Indian War.  Though fatally consumptive, he managed the strength to take the field on Lexington Common at the head of his 80 men, 12 miles west of Boston at dawn on April 19.  Militia units had been alerted by Paul Revere’s famous midnight ride, though others also raised the alarm.

 

A British column comprised of companies from ten regiments and a marine battalion was ordered to seize civilian arms.  As the regulars approached, Parker walked the line, advising his company, “Stand your ground.  Do not fire unless fired upon.  But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.”

 

Someone—a nervous American or an ill-trained soldier—let off a round.  From there the 20^th century phrase took hold, “firing contagion.”  Vastly outnumbered, the militia retreated with Parker intending to regroup to the rear.

 

Eight patriots were killed, ages 25 to 63.  Honor their memories: John Brown, Samuel Hadley, Caleb Harrington, Jonathon Harrington, Robert Munroe, Isaac Muzzey, Asahel Porter, and Jonas Parker, Captain John’s cousin. Jonathon Harrington, fatally wounded, crawled home and died on his own doorstep.

 

Ten others were wounded.

 

From Lexington the 700-strong British marched six miles to Concord, focused on James Barrett’s farm.  The family was well established, having immigrated 137 years before.  Colonel Barrett’s rank was suitable to the strength of his command, some 400 minutemen and militia.  Anticipating the redcoats’ actions, arms and ammunition with two dismounted cannon were buried in his adjacent fields, largely escaping detection although supplies in town were discovered and destroyed.

 

 

This month’s American Rifleman has an excellent article by historian Joel Bohy.  He quotes 19-year-old Thaddeus Blood of Concord: “About 2 o’clock in the morning I was called out of bed by John Barritt a Sergt of the Militia Company which I belonged.  I joined the company under Capt. Nathan Barrett…at the old court house about 3 o’clock and was orerd to go into the court house to draw ammunition, after the company had all their amun we were paraded near the meeting house.”

 

With another militia unit, Barrett’s company set out for Lexington when the low sun gleamed off British bayonets, “making a noble appearance.”

 

Minuteman Amos Barrett, less literate than Thaddeus Blood, wrote, “Thair was in the town House a number of intrenchen tools with they carried out and Burnt them. At least they said it was better to Burn them in the house and set fire to then in the house, but our people Begd of them not to Burn the house, and put it out.  It wont long before it was set fire again but finally it warnt Burnt. Their was about 100 barrels of flower in Mr. Hubbards malt house, the rold that out an noked then to pieces and Rold some in the mill pond whitch was saved after they was goon.” 

 

The short battle was fought at relatively close range--across the Concord River the north bridge and approaches were only about 140 feet.  Typical of 18^th century warfare, the engagement was marked with the rattle of musketry and tang of black powder smoke obscuring much of the action.

 

But in the confused fighting in and around Concord, the British suffered from disjointed command, and withdrew, some in a panic, some captured inebriated.  

 

Thereafter the British retreat became a shooting gallery.  Hundreds of other Americans rushed to the scene, taking turns sniping at the redcoats on their long, dolorous retreat to Boston.

 

At day’s end 54 Americans were killed or missing with about 40 wounded.  The youngest killed was Edward Barber of Charlestown, just 14.

 

Of the 1,500 British engaged in the two battles and the withdrawal, 126 were killed or missing plus 174 known wounded for a total of 300.  The overall disparity was three to one in favor of the home team.

 

The most man in the fight was 78-year-old Samuel Whittemore, Jr.  A farmer, he saw the British relief column approaching (three regiments and a marine battalion) and resolved to do his part.  He ambushed a grenadier unit, shooting three soldiers with his musket and pistols.  Then, with his blood truly up, he drew a sword and charged.  His intended victims shot him in the face and bayonetted him repeatedly.  Left for dead, when found by other Americans he was trying to reload his musket.

 

Incredibly, Sam Whittemore died in 1793—ten years after America’s independence--at the exceptionally advanced age of 96.

 

Captain Parker died of tuberculosis that September at age 46.  Colonel Barrett died at 68 in 1779.  Paul Revere died in 1818.

 

Both poets died in 1882.  Longfellow took his last literary ride in March at age 75, and Emerson crossed the celestial bridge in April at 78, victim of TB as was John Parker.

 

Let it be noted:

The American Revolution leading to independence began with a government weapon confiscation scheme.  

 

That fact is embedded in our national DNA.  It should--but probably will not—raise cautionary hackles in some political circles.

 

IN PRAISE OF DRUMMERS

 Q: When does a rock and roll drummer wear a suit and tie?

A: When the judge says, “The defendant will rise.”

 

I grew up playing drums.  I even attended Ringo’s wedding, but I’ll save that for later.

 

The fact that Mr. Hanson, our grade school band instructor, saw no future for me with the clarinet prompted my path to percussion.  I played snare, bass and timpani (the Lawrence of Arabia theme was particularly fun), and transitioned to our American Legion post’s drum and bugle corps.  In the latter capacity I won two state championships: first and a third in tenor and a first in rudimental bass.  In that era there were 26 percussion rudimentary patterns, apparently now there are 40.

 

Quick primer for non-drummers: snares have wires across the bottom for a sharp, crisp sound.  Tenors do not; they’re tuned by tension on the head for a muted sound.  Same with bass drums, which of course are larger and carried vertically.  Timpanis (aka kettle drums) often have a pedal that adjusts the head tension.

 

Turns out there are four ways to hold drumsticks--the wooden, not the avian variety.  American, German, French grips.  Who knew?  All for the right hand, adaptable to the left, plus traditional for the left.  Rather than holding both sticks palm down—a “matched” grip--the traditional begins with the left (or non-dominant) hand palm up, stick between thumb and index finger with other fingers supporting.

 

The traditional grip has an historic advantage.  It avoids banging the left hand on the drum’s rim, especially while marching rather than playing with both hands palm down.

 

There are examples of drumming in history.  In my father’s line, George Washington’s aide de camp was Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman who took the news of the Yorktown victory to Congress in Philadelphia in 1781.  He was present when Lord Cornwallis’ minions began the process leading to surrender.

 

A fellow Pennsylvanian related to Tench the solitary British drummer who had appeared on Cornwallis’ principal strongpoint.  The drummer communicating a desire to parley played a recognized European cadence. The officer told Tench, “Had we not seen him in his red coat when he first mounted the parapet, he might have beat away till doomsday” because the firing drowned the sound of a single drum.   

 

The drummer’s 45-second passage with rests among energetic single- and double-sticking was known in three armies: British, American, and French. 

 

Tench’s source continued, “A British officer then came out in front of the defenses with a white hand kerchief so firing had ceased.  One of our men ran forward, bandaged the eyes of the man with ‘the flag’ and sent the drummer back to the horn work.  Then he led the fellow to a house behind our lines.”  

 

As far as Tench could tell, nobody recorded the name of the British officer, let alone the courageous percussionist standing exposed to allied bombardment. 

 

Both those players on history’s stage exited into anonymity.

 

In the Civil War 11-year-old Willie Johnston joined his father in a Vermont regiment as a drummer boy and served most of the war.  He received the Medal of Honor for his gallantry at age 12 when he brought his drum off the battle field while soldiers threw away their weapons and equipment to flee the rebels.

 

Kettle drums—first cousins of timpanis—featured in mounted bands of the 18^thcentury and later.  Drum horses were bred for size and strength, with a cultivated disposition around loud noises.

 

Many readers of my vintage recall the percussion dirge in President John F. Kennedy’s 1963 funeral procession.  Beat, beat, beat, roll; beat, beat, beat, roll; beat, beat, beat, roll; beat, beat, beat-beat.  I suspect the last pair were flams (quick doubles) rather than single beats.

 

From a longtime friend, a red-hot rockin’ drummer: “We will never know the name of the first drummer to accent the backbeat instead of the downbeat, but I speculate he was left-handed.

 

“Or the first drummer to syncopate, and hit the accent just before the downbeat.

 

“Between them, those two guys invented jazz.”

 

The drumeo.com website gave top drummer honors to Buddy Rich with Gene Krupa of Benny Goodman fame at sixteenth.  The site lauded Krupa as “the very first drum set soloist” complete with stick flips.

 

Buddy Rich defined big band percussion, famous for stints with half a dozen bands including Tommy Dorsey and Harry James.  With boundless energy and awesome speed, he became one of the most influential drummers ever.

 

Rolling Stone rated Gene Krupa seventh on its all-time list. The RS compilation paid tribute to Buddy Rich as influencing other drummers but omitted him from the rankings.

 

Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham was ranked first (third in Drumeo), and I admit I’d never heard of him because I avoid hard rock.  More like electronic noise than music to my tin ears.

 

However, I have to mention Wipe Out, the Surfaris’ 1963 smash instrumental featuring a driving, seemingly exhausting percussion by Ron Wilson.  

 

Nowthen: about Ringo.

 

In April 1981 I visited shirt-tail relatives in the RAF and spent some days venturing through London Town, trying to avoid gaping at the historic sights as if I’d just fallen off the turnip truck.  (Alright, we never raised turnips, just wheat and peas but the comparison applies.)

 

Down at the end of a side street was a large official-looking building with a big-to-huge crowd in front.  Wondering what was the occasion, I edged my way through the throng where I could see the cathedral-like doors and steps.

 

Then it was as if the clouds parted, and They emerged.

 

Ringo Starr Himself with Barbara Bach Herself.  She was glorious, radiant, stunning in a white dress offset by her Bond Girl tan and gleaming smile.  They’d married in a civil ceremony at the 60-year-old Marylebone Town Hall about a mile north of Buckingham Palace.

 

Wow.

 

Equally wow: that was forty-four years ago.  And they’re still married!

 

As for today, I hear of electronic drums—a disgusting permutation that I refuse to consider.




The past was better—we did things differently there.

AN IMMIGRANT SUCCESS STORY

Amid the current controversy attending immigration, I want to tell you about a cherished friend, a first-generation American whose family emigrated here.  Legally.

He is Sergei I. Sikorsky, who recently celebrated his 100th birthday.

 

Yes, that Sikorsky. 

 

The world knows Sergei’s father Igor as designer of the first single-rotor helicopter.  But before focusing on rotary-wing aircraft, Igor had two previous aviation careers.  A native Ukrainian, he designed and flew the world’s first multi-engine airplane in 1913.  After emigrating to America (legally) amid the Russian Revolution—he was threatened with execution—he set the standard for long-distance flying boats, partly due to Charles Lindbergh’s support.

 

Sergei was the first child of Igor and Elisabeth Sikorsky, born bin New York in 1925.  He was named for an uncle who perished with all hands on a Czarist cruiser early in World War One. 

 

Because of his father’s vast aviation network, Sergei grew up knowing everybody: Jimmy Doolittle, Eddie Rickenbacker, racer Roscoe Turner and others.  Among other activities, he had water fights with the Lindbergh kids.

 

Sergei was as smitten with aviation as his father, starting with models at age six.  Two years later he made his first flight sitting on Igor’s lap in an S-38 amphibian.  He soloed in a Piper Cub at 16, sometimes treating siblings to loops and wingovers.

 

A sidebar: I met Sergei at Mesa, Arizona’s Falcon Field probably in the early to mid 80s when a beautiful reproduction Sikorsky S-38 stopped for fuel.  I recognized it as the company’s early success, distinct with its high-mounted twin engines, tall rudders, and pronounced snout-like fuselage.  The type had been an instant hit in 1928, setting the company on the path to commercial success.

 

Glancing around the crowd of well-wishers, I thought, “My gosh, that looks like Sergei Sikorsky!”

 

And he was, having been notified of the 38’s arrival time.  The long drive from the Phoenix West Valley was entirely worthwhile.

 

Thus began one of the most valued friendships of my life—Sergei and Elena—who have afforded rare insight to 20^th century personalities.

 

Igor Sikorsky’s circle included expatriate Russian composer Sergei Rachmaninoff, who organized financial support for the nascent company.  

 

A quick story about Rachmaninoff.  He invited the Sikorskys to a back-stage concert soiree in New York where he introduced the 12-year-old Sergei to vodka and caviar.  The lad was precocious in all things and took to the combination.  Mrs. Sikorsky was…unenthusiastic.

 

About six months after Howard Hughes July 1938 round the world record flight in less than four days, he landed at the Sikorsky factory in Stratford, Connecticut.  He debarked from his Lockheed without his globe-spanning crew, but with a significant passenger.

 

Miss Ginger Rogers alit in a clinging white dress that left little to the imagination.  Sergei saw what he saw and concluded then and there: “Girls are different.”

 

Meanwhile, returning to the chronology:

 

Then came the war.

 

The U.S. military recognized the potential of helicopters and sent recruiters to cherry-pick Sikorsky talent. An Army colonel selected likely candidates while Commander Frank Erickson—“Mr. Coast Guard Helicopter”—had a slot for Seaman Recruit Sikorsky straight out of boot camp.

 

Thus Sergei became an aviation machinist mate, and you’ve probably seen him on documentaries.  He’s the 19-year-old guinea pig being hoisted into an R-4 (Navy version the HNS-1) with the experimental rescue collar.

 

Postwar, Sergei fetched himself to Italy where he had a really good time studying art and models.  His anatomical sketches so impressed some medical instructors that he was invited to consider pursuing a career in that field.  But he decided to return to America, still enamored with the lure of flight.

 

After a stint with an aviation magazine, Sergei joined United Aircraft in 1951, beginning a 24-year career selling helicopters. He was especially active in Europe where his linguistic talent commended him to marketing.  He had grown up speaking Russian at home but added Italian, French, and German.  He still speaks with a slight accent, pronouncing “bomber” as “bom-ber .“ In that time he variously held pilot licenses from the U.S., France, Italy, Germany, and Switzerland.  He also provided technical support in Japan—in many ways a citizen of the world.

 

Among the other world citizens was Edward VIII, who in 1936 famously declined the British crown in favor of “the woman I love,” the twice-divorced American Wallis Simpson.  In the early 50s Sergei had a mutual friend in Paris who invited him to dine with the couple, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.  Partway through the evening, the duke said that he wished to speak privately with Mr. Sikorsky.

 

Certainly, your grace.

 

In an anteroom, the tall, elegant Briton said that he yearned to discuss aviation with a knowledgeable person.  Sergei Sikorsky definitely checked that box.

 

Edward recalled a royal visit he and his brother (later King George VI) made to Chile in 1931.  They were flown on a specially purchased S-38 during their visit.  The Duke of Windsor made some flattering comments about the Sikorsky reputation both in airplanes and helicopters.

 

Edward died about 20 years later, age 77.

 

Sergei returned to the family business in 1975, having sold the heavy-lift CH-53 Super Stallion, still operational today.  Some authorities credited the German purchase with assuring Sikorsky Aircraft financially. 

 

Sergei retired as a corporate vice president in 1992 but remains a widely sought-after consultant and speaker.  His Dutch-born wife Elena van Mechelin says that for all his linguistic versatility, “Sergei just cannot say No.”  However, she manages his travel itinerary with aplomb, and they’re one of the best-matched couples you will ever meet.

 

Elena and I have waged a notably unsuccessful two-front campaign trying to convince Sergei to write—or at least narrate—his memoirs.  He stoutly resists the notion, which is a loss to history.  Aside from innumerable personal and professional insights, the Sikorsky family’s inspirational example as immigrants matter perhaps now more than ever.  

 

At 100, Sergei remains alert, engaged, and surprisingly active.  Still a citizen of the world—a patriotic American, a true renaissance man— and one of the most fascinating people you could hope to meet.