THE PITY OF WAR--AND THE HORROR

 Battlefield photography has a long history of recording man’s sanguinary nature.  Depending upon definitions, the earliest examples date from the Mexican-American War of 1847 plus the U.S. Civil War and Crimean War of the 1860s.  Probably the first moving picture footage came from Cuba in the Spanish-American War of 1898.

Today, XXI century combat photography provides starkly startling imagery from aerial drones and body cameras.  Just a few examples from Ukraine and Israel.

The Video War

Early videos were taken by Ukrainians engaged in some eerie firefights.  One almost appears subterranean inside a trench complex.  The shooting is nearly muzzle to muzzle with fractions of seconds literally deciding life and death.  In a brief segment, four Russians are shot down in less than a minute.  The Ukrainians exhibit unusual fire discipline, shooting semi- rather than full automatic.

Drones emerged early as valuable assets for reconnaissance and attack.  Ukraine is particularly adept at working drones together: one to strike the target while the other records the results.  

A drone’s camera looks down on a gray-brown landscape showing two Russian soldiers dragging a critically wounded comrade on a tarp.  Before long they abandon the effort, pulling the tarp away to leave the man behind.  In one of the most pitiful scenes ever recorded, he begins crawling after them across the ruined terrain.

The video shows the two men slump against a tree on different sides of the trunk.  Then the soldier on the left disappears in a blast of dirt and debris, victim of a drone’s grenade.

Remarkably, his friend arises and exits stage right.

There’s more.  Much more.

A previous drone shot was stationary over a crippled soldier—probably Russian but both sides wear similar uniforms with the same weapons.  The victim of unseen agony squirms for about 70 seconds, then places his rifle’s muzzle to his chin—and presses the trigger.

And a similar, more distant incident:

A Russian personnel carrier is destroyed by Ukraine gunfire.  Perhaps a dozen soldiers flee the wreckage and are caught in the open.  Most are killed by automatic weapons and indirect fire.  We see the bodies incinerated where they lay.

The survivor of a destroyed Russian armored vehicle scrambles around the wreckage, trying to avoid the drone that pursues him with demonic intelligence.  It’s a real-life Terminator: “It can't be killed, can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with.”

That knowledge had to peg The Terror Meter.  And finally the robot drops a grenade on the man’s helmet.

There’s a remarkable combined video of a Ukrainian soldier holding a trench line against what appears to be ten Russians, overlaid with their commanding officer’s exasperated comments recorded by the defenders.

Another drone drew down to the essential minimum: a Russian and Ukrainian on each side of a trench corner, probably within five feet of one another across the angle.  They attempt unsighted fire around the corner without success until the Ukrainian rolls the dice in an all-or-nothing gamble.  He extends himself enough to place his barrel within inches of his enemy—and wins the lethal prize: life.

Then…

A badly wounded Ukrainian rolls onto his back to apply a tourniquet to his severed right leg, then crawls to a Bradley fighting vehicle, leaving a red streak on the ramp to mark his passage.

Atrocities

Both sides have been caught in battlefield atrocities.   Russians shooting Ukrainian soldiers attempting to surrender a trench line.

And surveillance footage clearly shows two Russians shooting civilians in an office complex.

And a Ukrainian killing about ten prisoners as they lay on the ground.

The inevitable media phrase for such actions is “executions” but that is a reprehensible warping of the term.  By definition, a legitimate execution requires a judicial process.  Out-of-hand killings in situ are simply…

Murder.

There’s a lengthy, detailed Wikipedia entry describing mistreatment of prisoners on both sides:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treatment_of_prisoners_of_war_in_the_Russian_invasion_of_Ukraine

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Meanwhile, drones are spectacularly useful at sea.

On February 13-14, Ukrainian “suicide” naval drones rammed into a Russian landing ship off the Crimean coast, sinking it.  The video feed shows a drone racing inbound, then the screen goes blank on impact.

Meanwhile: a Russian video shows shipboard gunners trying to destroy the inbound drones with gunfire.  They fail, and the screen erupts in a garish orange-yellow splotch against the darkness.

Gaza

Following Hamas’ October attack out of Gaza against Israeli military and civilian targets, some appalling videos appeared online, captured from Palestinian cellphones.  The brutality was so extreme that originally internet sites refused to post the footage, relying on gruesome texts with photographs including blood-soaked baby cribs and teddy bears.

But inevitably, the videos appeared.  Mutilation of Israeli civilians’ bodies became widespread, with voice-overs chanting triumphant Muslim refrains.   

Israeli Intelligence combined Hamas and victim videos for an integrated view of the October 7 music festival massacre.

Then there is calculated atrocity.

An Israeli film of October 7 was released in four parts.  Blurred images of children and adult bodies and casually killing pets.  Hamas terrorists broke into homes, killed the occupants and mutilated bodies.

Other Hamas footage showed Israeli women forced into vehicles, their pants stained with blood and feces.  

Lest anyone naively assume that internet videos reveal a XXI century descent into anguish and depravity:

It has always been thus.  Technology simply pushes the facts into plain view.

REMEMBERING JOE

Twenty-one years ago this month America and the world lost an exceptional man.

During World War II, South Dakota farm boy Joseph J. Foss became an American icon.  He rose to national prominence for his combat heroism flying at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, engaging Japanese aircraft almost daily for three months.

I was privileged to call Joe a friend.  But so were legions of others.  I never knew anyone with so many devoted friends—not merely acquaintances or colleagues.

Joe grew up on a farm near Sioux Falls, inheriting the work ethic of his Norwegian emigrant family.  Hard work and independence formed the core of his character.  At seventeen he coped with the shock of losing his father in a freak accident, and continued pursuing his ambition.

Enamored with aviation from childhood, Joe paid off his family’s mortgage, put himself through college, and entered naval pilot training.  He won his wings of gold in 1941, opting for the Marine Corps “because I wanted in a fightin’ outfit.” By cleverly gaming “the system,” he avoided assignments in gliders and photo reconnaissance to gain his goal: flying Grumman F4F Wildcats.

Then-Captain Foss arrived at Guadalcanal with Marine Fighter Squadron 121 in October 1942.  With experience to match his talent, he shot his way to the top of America’s ace roster, becoming the first to match the World War I score of Captain Eddie Rickenbacker with 26 victories. 

Joes’ record was not easily achieved.  He was shot down or force landed four times but he kept coming back for more.  When he returned home in early 1943, he received the Medal of Honor from President Franklin D. Roosevelt only four months after leaving combat.

Life magazine’s cover of June 7, 1943, showed Joe wearing his medal over the title “America’s No. 1 Ace.”  Joe retained the title until Army Air Forces Captain Richard Bong reached 28 in the Pacific during April 1944.  In 1945 Bong ran his tally to forty, becoming America’s all-time ace of aces, but died in an accident that summer.

Six other American aces exceeded 26 victories during World War II, and Joe remains tied for seventh on the all-time list.

After tolerating “the dancing bear act” selling war bonds, Joe formed his own squadron and took VMF-115 to the Solomons in 1944.  But he contracted malaria and was waylaid for months in recovering at home.

At war’s end Joe remained the Marine Corps’ leading ace, although the service foolishly accepted the 28 unverified claims of Gregory “Pappy” Boyington.  All of Foss’ 26 victories were scored in Marine service.  Boyington’s total recognized by the American Fighter Aces Association is 24 including two (versus six claimed) with the Flying Tigers.  Eight decades later the Marines still have not corrected the record.
 
Returning to South Dakota, Joe formed a flying business and helped establish the South Dakota Air National Guard.  During the Korean War, Colonel Foss served in the Central Air Defense Command where he broke the boredom by practicing duck calls.  Frequently his expressive clucking and quacking reduced his colleagues to fits of laughter.

Eventually Joe rose to brigadier general in the Air Force Reserve, retiring in 1975.

Joe could not avoid public service.  He was elected to the state legislature and subsequently he won two terms as governor.
 
From thereon Joe was frequently in the public eye.  In 1959 he founded the American Football League, leading to the Super Bowl.  Along the way he was national chairman of Easter Seals, partly because a daughter suffered from polio.  Also, he was president of the National Rifle Association and the fighter aces association; was invited into the elite Golden Eagles naval aviation society; and was elected to the National Aviation Hall of Fame.

As governor of South Dakota, Joe had mentored a youngster named Tom Brokaw.  Decades later Brokaw included Joe in the best seller The Greatest Generation.  Joe shunned the notion: “We weren’t the greatest, we just did what we had to do.”  He insisted that the republic’s founders were The Greatest.  

He was right.

A Marine contemporary of Joe’s maintained “the old corps” ethic by dividing the human race into two categories: copers and non-copers.  Alternatively, grass eaters and meat eaters.

Joe was a coping carnivore.  The roller-coaster ride of his life threw repeated challenges in his path, from the crucible of combat and the heights of glory to the grief of losing friends of his youth plus two children and a marriage. 

At age fifty he nearly died from accidental poisoning, casually sucking on a sprayed corn stalk while hunting pheasant.  He often referred to himself in the third person, saying, “The Grim Reaper had Old Joe backed up to the one-yard line and was about to score.”  His recovery was an epiphany: from there on Joe was an evangelistic Christian.  Not the lapel-grabbing variety, but never reluctant to express his faith.

At dedication of the National World War II Museum’s Pacific wing in 2001 Joe said, “They told me not to mention God or guns so that’s what I’m gonna talk about.”  The audience laughed and applauded—except for the marine general sitting behind him.

Joe and his beloved Didi founded the Foss Institute that year, providing patriotic lesson plans and veterans as speakers to school classes.

In 2002 Joe made headlines when Phoenix airport security detained him en route to speak at West Point.  The guards worried that his Medal of Honor’s beveled edges “might hurt someone.”  Joe exclaimed, “Hurt someone? Why do you suppose they gave me the medal?”

That October Joe suffered a stroke and lapsed into a coma.  He remained comatose nearly three months, and it occurred to me that his final battle mirrored his Guadalcanal battles between October 1942 and January 1943.

Joe died in Scottsdale Arizona, January 1, 2003, age 87.

Joe’s friends and contemporaries accurately described him as “bigger than life” and “a man’s man.”  But mainly I remember how much fun it was to know Joe Foss, whether shooting together or enjoying his Christmas oyster soup.  

Joe Foss: an American original.

THE VIEW FROM 75

Recently my chronological odometer turned past the 75 mark, but I like to think that my factory warranty remains valid.  (No, I do not know the expiration date, but checking insurance actuarials, presumably I’m good for another 13 years.  That’s better than my ancestral DNA would indicate, a median of 80 years.)

But I digress.

I was born in 1948, a fourth-generation native Oregonian (and I shall spare you my rant about the factual and semantic problems inherent to the misnomer “Native Americans”). 

Though I’ve lived and worked in Phoenix and San Diego, my roots run deep.  It was a sentiment shared with my late friend Governor and General Joe Foss (and if you ask “Joe who?”, then you stumbled onto the wrong blog).  He said, “I was born a farmer and I’ll always be a farmer.”

I grew up in a Northeast Oregon town of about 900, attending a four-year high school with 120 students.  A great grandfather and grandfather were mayors; one got the streets paved.  I was on the city council as police, park, and library commissioner.  Maybe I’m the only police commissioner anywhere who loaded ammo for his “force.”

The ranch was a life lesson.  Aside from growing wheat, peas and cattle, we raised horses, mules, bison, and llamas.  My youngest brother considered camels but Dad’s response was predictable: he Just Said No.

Summer vacation?  What’s that?  Ten-hour days before, during and after wheat were typical.  I think the record was fourteen.  The routine was almost happily broken by runs with Dad’s tricked-out fire truck.  Previously he’d been chief of the rural fire department because he owned the truck.

Upon turning 75, I harkened back a quarter century to recall my 50th birthday.  (Sidebar: one of my valued friends was a Navy test pilot who said his 30th birthday was the biggest surprise of his life).  Like almost everybody who attains half a century, I pondered the fact that I was farther from The Beginning than The End.  

Somewhere in my archive is a list of Things I Learned In Fifty Years.  I wish I could find it because some of the entries remain even more valid now.  Particularly “The guilty will punish the innocent.”  You can make of that statement what you will, but from my perspective here in Arizona Territory, it’s applicable to the XXI Century.  Like totally.

So how to make best use of the remaining time?

Well, assuming 13 years is valid, that should be more than enough to write the four books I want to complete.  The subjects remain Beyond Top Secret lest one of the dozens of my blog readers usurp my originality.  One of the incomplete manuscripts has sulked in the back of my file cabinet since about 1980, victim of the inability of my coauthor to finish his portion before he up and died on me.

If my warranty expires prematurely, I will not be overly disappointed.  I was blessed with a mother who gave her sons the gift of curiosity, and a father who provided a strong example and good living off the land.  Recalling the family motto: Spes Alit Agricolum.  “Hope Flies With the Farmer.”

Like so many American families, mine has a record of long voyages and risk taking.  From Northern Europe to England in the 8th century, to America in the 17th (Mayflower and all that) ultimately to the shores of the Pacific.  And here we remain—there’s nowhere else to go even if we wanted to.

It’s been a long journey, often dangerous.  Both sides of my family were engaged in the Revolutionary War but my father’s side was split.  Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman was George Washington’s aide de camp who took news of the Yorktown victory to congress in 1781.  Tench’s father and brothers remained loyalists.

My mother joined the DAR on two ancestors who commanded the militias at Lexington and Concord: Captain John Parker and Colonel James Barrett, respectively.  She had a cousin named Parker Barrett. 

My maternal great-great grandparents trekked the Oregon Trail in 1852, and Martha Jane Nye left a journal that I transcribed about 120 years later.  I still think it would make a terrific book if my agent could convince a publisher.  Those people had soaring optimism—and heart.  They left behind everything they knew for an uncertain future in the Oregon Country.  It was a five-month race against nature, starting when the grass was high enough to sustain oxen pulling wagons, and ending before winter descended with chilling-to killing finality.

I wonder what the Founders generation would make of their posterity today.  We seem to be pushing away their principles with both hands.  The nation and its culture are bitterly divided, and whatever healing followed the debacle we call “Vietnam” has withered in a welter of political bitterness, open corruption, double standards, and frequent violence.

I’m reminded of the oft-cited ancient Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”

I’ve done almost everything I was capable of doing if not everything I wanted to do—particularly becoming a military aviator.  (I couldn’t catch a break: asthma, eyes, and flat feet.)  But I grew up restoring and flying historic aircraft, earning a decent living writing about them, now tallied at 50-some books and 800 articles worldwide.  Believe-you-me: that is not easy to do.

OK, I’m eligible for a Geezer card because my hearing impairment arose long before I reached “retirement” age.  A lifetime of shooting, dating from before ear protectors were perfected, and several hundred hours in open cockpits.  But I wouldn’t exchange that disability for anything.

My most memorable month: May ’65 when I soloed and made Eagle Scout.

My worst month: June, several years running when I lost life-lines including three writing colleagues and two of the closest friends I’ve ever had.  Two died violently: one flying a P-38; the other—a retired Marine general—was murdered in a home invasion.  For years I grew twitchy around the middle of May because experience proved I was not being superstitious.

I grew up with two accomplished younger brothers, both multi-talented and successful in business and academics. 

I won state and regional championships in high school as a percussionist and speaker-debater.

I’ve traveled to Canada, Mexico, Britain, and the Philippines.  I have hunted in Africa, and led a national championship shooting team.  

I have enjoyed—and deeply appreciate—the friendship of men and women who share two qualities: all are ethical and unusually intelligent—and most are accurate.

And late in life I found Her, The One, whom it would have been dreadfully easy to miss.  

Thank you, God.  For everything.