What a man!

Dwight posts the obituary of Gen. John C. Bahnsen Jr. (USA - ret).  So who was Gen. Bahnsen?  Just a guy who was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, five Silver Stars, four Legions of Merit, three Distinguished Flying Crosses, four Bronze Stars (three with the V device), two Purple Hearts, and the Army Commendation Medal (with V device).

Holy cow.  Rest in peace, General.

Final salute

Stephen emails to point out this story of another hero's final muster:

Macpherson returned to England in September 1945 and was demobilised. He rejoined the TA and was attached to 21 SAS TA from 1947 to 1952. In 1956 he was staying at a hotel on Lake Bled, near the border between Yugoslavia and Italy, when he received a rather peremptory invitation from Marshal Tito to visit him at his summer residence.

In the aftermath of the war, Macpherson had played a part in foiling a plot to incorporate the Friuli-Venezia region of Italy into Yugoslavia and he had reservations about complying. “Ah, Macpherson,” said Tito as he was ushered in, “I have been looking forward to this meeting. We tried so hard to kill you.”

Sir Thomas Macpherson won three Military Crosses and three Croix de Guerre, among many other medals he received for his work in the commandos.  He was captured and escaped many times, in North Africa, Italy, and the Baltics, and parachuted repeatedly into occupied France to work with the Resistance. 

You can order his autobiography here.

Rest in Peace, Sir Tommy.

The most important thing you will see today

Old NFO has it.  Damn, that's amazing.

Another hero takes off on his final flight

Stephen emails to point out that another hero has mustered out:

Wing Commander Ken Rees, who has died aged 93, was the last surviving member of the digging team that constructed the tunnel used during the “Great Escape” from Stalag Luft III in March 1944.

...

A gregarious, high-spirited, and at times irreverent young man (he was 21 years old at the time of his capture), Rees was a restless and troublesome prisoner, always baiting his captors and he regularly found himself in the “cooler” — the punishment block. When Hollywood filmed the escape from Stalag Luft III many drew parallels between Rees and the character of Hilts, the “Cooler King” played by Steve McQueen.

How tough was he?  They cast Steve McQueen to play him.  Fair weather on your last flight, Wing Commander Rees.

A century ago, a whole generation was butchered and damned

Image via Der Wik

One hundred years ago, the Empire of Austria-Hungary declared war, which started Europe's slow suicide.  Four years and an hundred days later, the guns fell silent on the Western Front, after a whole generation was butchered and damned.

You are about to be bombarded with a maelstrom of history, which means Generals on horseback.  There's no worse way to learn what happened than from historians* - rather, you should listen to songs that sing the unwritten history that really matters.  As a public service, here is the Great War as a song cycle:

Act I: Man's essential humanity has not yet been suppressed:

The first is a song about the human feeling which had not yet been extinguished by the Powers That Be. December 1914 saw something unique in trench warfare: the Christmas of 1914 showed that the human heart still beat on the front lines:

All our lives, our family our friends told us it we were crazy.  Couldn't possibly have happened to us.  Then we heard your song on the radio and said "See? See? We were there."

 

That the ones that the ones who call the shots
won't be among the dead and lame,
and on each side of the rifle we are the same.

Act II.  Futility.

So many men died for so little gain that the ANZAC invasion day is a national holiday in Australia.  The invasion became a cliche of wasted effort and wasted lives, as this song captures in its full bitterness:

So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
and they sent me away to the war.

...

And in five minutes flat we were all blown to Hell.
Nearly blew us back to Australia

I see the old men marching, all tired stiff and sore.
The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war.

Act III.  Cynicism. 

What do you say to the dead?  Only the poets can answer.

But here in this graveyard it's still no man's land
the countless white crosses in mute witness stand
to Man's blind indifference to his fellow man
and a whole generation who was butchered and damned

 Act IV.  Wie sagst die auf Deutsche?

Just remember that "All Quiet On The Western Front" was written by a man with the nom de plume Erich Remarque.  His christian name was Erik Kramer.  He was a kraut, through and through.  Just remember, they bled the same color as we did.

Weit in der Champagne im Mittsommergrün
Dort wo zwischen Grabkreuzen Mohnblumen blüh'n
Da flüstern die Gräser und wiegen sich leicht
Im Wind, der sanft über das Gräberfeld streicht
Auf deinem Kreuz finde ich toter Soldat
Deinen Namen nicht, nur Ziffern und jemand hat
Die Zahl neunzehnhundertundsechzehn gemalt
Und du warst nicht einmal neunzehn Jahre alt

Ja, auch Dich haben sie schon genauso belogen
So wie sie es mit uns heute immer noch tun
Und du hast ihnen alles gegeben:
Deine Kraft, Deine Jugend, Dein Leben

Hast du, toter Soldat, mal ein Mädchen geliebt?
Sicher nicht, denn nur dort, wo es Frieden gibt
Können Zärtlichkeit und Vertrauen gedei'n
Warst Soldat, um zu sterben, nicht um jung zu sein
Vielleicht dachtest du Dir, ich falle schon bald
Nehme mir mein Vergnügen, wie es kommt, mit Gewalt
Dazu warst du entschlossen, hast dich aber dann
Vor dir selber geschämt und es doch nie getan

Ja, auch Dich haben sie schon genauso belogen
So wie sie es mit uns heute immer noch tun
Und du hast ihnen alles gegeben:
Deine Kraft, Deine Jugend, Dein Leben

Soldat, gingst du gläubig und gern in des Tod?
Oder hast zu verzweifelt, verbittert, verroht
Deinen wirklichen Feind nicht erkannt bis zum Schluß?
Ich hoffe, es traf dich ein sauberer Schuß?
Oder hat ein Geschoß Dir die Glieder zerfetzt
Hast du nach deiner Mutter geschrien bis zuletzt
Bist Du auf Deinen Beinstümpfen weitergerannt
Und dein Grab, birgt es mehr als ein Bein, eine Hand?

Ja, auch Dich haben sie schon genauso belogen
So wie sie es mit uns heute immer noch tun
Und du hast ihnen alles gegeben:
Deine Kraft, Deine Jugend, Dein Leben

Es blieb nur das Kreuz als die einzige Spur
Von deinem Leben, doch hör' meinen Schwur
Für den Frieden zu kämpfen und wachsam zu sein:
Fällt die Menschheit noch einmal auf Lügen herein
Dann kann es gescheh'n, daß bald niemand mehr lebt
Miemand, der die Milliarden von Toten begräbt
Doch finden sich mehr und mehr Menschen bereit
Diesen Krieg zu verhindern, es ist an der Zeit

Act V.  You have no idea.

Remember, they were young once.  Full of dreams and ambition.  And then the whistle blew, and it was over the top ...



And then it was over, with the armistice. And yet it wasn't.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda,
will you come a waltzing, Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the Billabong.
Will you come a waltzing, Matilda with me?

* That's a hard thing to write given that Dad was a historian, but he would be the first to agree with this post.  He had a different three songs, but those were from the Vietnam War, and the cycle of awareness that captured the American pubic from those artists. That was the inspiration for this post.  I think he would approve of this post.

This holiday weekend, remember that freedom has always bloomed when watered by the blood of patriots

Up until this very day:

Jackie Rozek fights back tears after she is presented with a flag by members of the Patriot Guard Rider to honor her boyfriend, U.S. Army Pfc. Aaron Toppen during a visitation at Parkview Christian Church on June 23, 2014. (Scott Olson/Getty Images)

The Atlantic has a solemn and quite respectful photo series about the final return flight of PFC Aaron Toppen.  It's worth a look, and the pondering that will come with the look.  It reminds me of an Independence Day holiday these three years ago, when I was flying to Dad's Memorial Service.  I found myself flying with a fallen hero:

This was the view from the window on my plane, last weekend:

Photo credit: Borepatch

I was not the only one on that plane who hung back from the typical deplaning rush, watching as a dance as old as Death played out before me, out on the tarmac.  This isn't a game, and these men deserve that our leaders treat it as reverently as the military - and we - do.

Enjoy the fireworks this weekend, enjoy the time with your families and friends.  But spare a thought for those whose blood watered the Tree of Liberty.  It's their due.

The pipes play "The Flowers Of The Forest"

As we anticipate the centenary of the War To End Wars, this is a modified version of last year's post about a whole generation who were butchered and damned.  Et lux perpetua eis, Domine.  Amen.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

98 years ago today, nineteen Allied divisions went over the top in an all out assault on the Somme.  By the time in the day that this post went up (0701 AM EDT, 1201 British Summer Time), probably 10,000 British soldiers were dead.

When the sun set at the end of the day, 20,000 men lay dead.  Another nearly 60,000 were wounded, many stranded in no-man's land.  Stretcher bearers dared the machine gun fire to bring the fallen back to safety and medical aid, earning two of the nine Victoria Crosses awarded that day.  Wounded were recovered for the next seven (!) days from this day's assault, and then found that there were only 10,000 hospital beds for the 60,000 wounded.

The 1st Newfoundland Regiment had to leave the safety of the trenches 200 yards behind their own front lines, because the closer trenches were choked with dead.  The German machine guns mowed them down: the Regiment suffered 90% casualties in minutes.  Newfoundland may never have recovered from the loss of so many of its sons.

It was said that day that Lions were led by Donkeys. The ghosts of those lions are seen in this astonishing video from the battle.  You see one soldier shot just as he goes over the top.  His body slides back into the trench.



Libertyman commented last year and identified the music to that video:

The haunting music is from Pie Jesu from Requiem by Sarah Brightman.

It's a prayer, as is this:

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

The Somme was perhaps the most stark example of the futility of the Great War.  By the end of the battle, a million men were dead or wounded.  For this cost, the Allies pushed the front lines six miles towards Germany, a cost of 31 men per foot gained.

This was the day that Europe committed suicide, 98 years ago today.  It's been a long, slow motion self-immolation, but that is now fair complete.  Sic transit Gloria Mundi.

Bootnote: You can visit young Willie McBride at his home in Authuile, France.

This was their finest hour

74 years after the "Miracle of Dunkirk", Sir Winston's words still inspire.

What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.

But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour.

Little Texas - What Might Have Been

Sometimes what would be over the top can fit a particular moment.  I would usually write about what the moment meant, but I just did.  The number of moments that might have been, but which were sacrificed, those bear thinking on.



What Might Have Been (Songwriters: Dwayne O'Brien, Porter Howell, Brady Seals)

Sure I think about you now and then
But it's been a long long time
I've got a good life now I've moved on
So when you cross my mind

I try not to think about
What might have been
'Cause that was then
And we have taken different roads
We can't go back again
There's no use giving in
And there's no way to know
What might have been

We could sit and talk about this all night long
And wonder why we didn't last
Yes they might be the best days
We will ever know
But we'll have to leave them in the past

So try not to think about
What might have been
'Cause that was then
And we have taken different roads
We can't go back again
There's no use giving in
And there's no way to know
What might have been

That same old look in your eyes
It's a beautiful night
I'm so tempted to stay
But too much time has gone by
We should just say goodbye
And turn and walk away

And try not to think about
What might have been
'Cause that was then
And we have taken different roads
We can't go back again
There's no use giving in
And there's no way to know
What might have been

No we'll never know
What might have been

Hitting the beach on D-Day meant that you hadn't drowned, your kit and weapons dragging you down under the rolling sea.  Surviving that meant that you had to only deal with German machine guns and mortars and artillery.  That day saw the death of not just thousands of lives, but thousands of dreams.  It's a sad statement on the degraded state of this Republic that it needs a schlocky Country music song to make us think on that.

Four years apart.  Think on that, what that meant to young lovers.   It doesn't sound so sentimental when you think on that.  If you're any damn good at all.

Try not to think about what might have been, if the dead had come home.  Or if they never would have had to go at all.

Come on, you sons of bitches, do you want to live forever?

Today is the 70th anniversary of D-Day.  Remember the men who waded ashore through machine gun fire to assault the Atlantic Wall.

Today is also the 72nd anniversary of Midway where the tide was turned in the war in the Pacific.  The torpedo bomber squadrons sacrificed themselves to a man, but that gave the dive bombers unmolested opportunity to rip the heart out of the Imperial Japanese carrier fleet.

It is also the 96th anniversary of the battle of Belleau Wood, one of the costliest days in Marine Corps history, but one where they blunted the German advance towards Paris.  Their spirit was captured precisely by Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daly, in the quote that makes this post's title.

A bloody day, one filled to overflowing with sacrifice and well worth our remembrance.  Hoist a beer to their memories sometime today.

The man who saved the Moon landing

And stared down Werner von Braun.

Lee Brice - I Drive Your Truck

Sgt First Class Jared Monti, 1975-2006

Memorial Day is when we stop to remember those who gave that full measure of devotion for this Republic and for their brothers in arms under fire. It has sadly turned from a solemn day of remembrance into a day for grilling and family celebrations, but even at its best it was just a single day.

Jared Monti's father doesn't need a day to remember his son.  He has every day for that.

Monti was awarded the Medal of Honor for his three attempts to retrieve a wounded comrade under intense fire in Afghanistan.  Twice machine gun fire drove him back, but he was unwilling to leave his fellow soldier.  An RPG got him on the third attempt.

That hole in our hearts where our loved ones used to be became all too real for Monti's father.  How do you keep a little part of the loved and lost with you?  How do you keep from forgetting, little by little, day by day, year by year?  Paul Monti did it by keeping his son's truck, and driving it, as a daily reminder.  His simple answer describing this, given on a radio interview, led to this song.



Memorial Day is not about the beginning of summer, or cookouts, or sales.  It's about keeping hold of a memory.  Don't let go of that.  Paul Monti doesn't.  Christian Golczynski doesn't, either.

I Drive Your Truck (Songwriters: Connie Harrington, Jessi Alexander, Jimmy Yeary)

Eighty-Nine Cents in the ash tray
Half empty bottle of Gatorade rolling in the floorboard
That dirty Braves cap on the dash
Dog tags hangin’ from the rear view
Old Skoal can, and cowboy boots and a Go Army Shirt
folded in the back
This thing burns gas like crazy, but that’s alright
People got their ways of coping
Oh, and I’ve got mine

I drive your truck
I roll every window down
And I burn up
Every back road in this town
I find a field, I tear it up
Til all the pain’s a cloud of dust
Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck

I leave that radio playing
That same ole country station where ya left it
Yeah, man I crank it up
And you’d probably punch my arm right now
If you saw this tear rollin’ down my on face
Hey, man I’m tryin’ to be tough
And momma asked me this morning
If I’d been by your grave
But that flag and stone ain’t where I feel you anyway

I drive your truck
I roll every window down
And I burn up
Every back road in this town
I find a field, I tear it up
Til all the pain’s a cloud of dust
Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck

I’ve cussed, I’ve prayed, I’ve said goodbye
Shook my fist and asked God why
These days when I’m missing you this much

I drive your truck
I roll every window down
And I burn up
Every back road in this town
I find a field, I tear it up
Til all the pain’s a cloud of dust
Yeah, sometimes, brother sometimes

I drive your truck
I drive your truck
I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind
I drive your truck

 Sgt First Class Jared Monti's Medal Of Honor citation reads:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.
Sergeant First Class Monti distinguished himself at the cost of his life while serving as a team leader with the Headquarters and Headquarters Troop, 3d Squadron, 71st Cavalry Regiment in Nuristan Province, Afghanistan on 21 June 2006. On that day, Sergeant First Class Monti was leading a mission to gather intelligence and to direct fires against the enemy in support of a squadron-size interdiction mission. While at an observation position on top of a mountain ridge, Sergeant First Class Monti’s sixteen-man patrol came under attack by a superior force consisting of as many as 50 enemy fighters. On the verge of being overrun, Sergeant First Class Monti directed his patrol to set up a hasty defensive position behind a collection of rocks. He then began to call for indirect fire from a nearby support base; accurately bringing the rounds upon the enemy who had closed to within 50 meters of his position. While still calling for fire, Sergeant First Class Monti personally engaged the enemy with his rifle and a grenade, successfully disrupting an attempt to flank the patrol. Sergeant First Class Monti then realized that one of his Soldiers was lying wounded and exposed in the open ground between the advancing enemy and the patrol’s position. With complete disregard for his own safety, Sergeant First Class Monti moved from behind the cover of the rocks into the face of withering enemy fire. After closing within meters of his wounded Soldier, the heavy volume of fire forced Sergeant First Class Monti to seek cover. Sergeant First Class Monti then gathered himself and rose again to maneuver through a barrage of enemy fire to save his wounded Soldier. Again, Sergeant First Class Monti was driven back by relentless enemy fire. Unwilling to leave his Soldier wounded and exposed, Sergeant First Class Monti made another attempt to move across open terrain and through the enemy fire to the aide of his wounded Soldier. On his third attempt, Sergeant First Class Monti was mortally wounded, sacrificing his own life in an effort to save his Soldier. Sergeant First Class Monti’s acts of heroism inspired the patrol to fight off the larger enemy force. Sergeant First Class Monti’s immeasurable courage and uncommon valor were in keeping with the highest traditions of military service and reflect great credit upon himself, 3d Squadron 71st Cavalry Regiment, the 3d Brigade Combat Team, the 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry), and the United States Army

When our blood stained the sand and the water

Today is ANZAC day, a holiday that recalls that day 98 years ago when the Tommies from the Australia and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) hit the beaches at Gallipoli.

Muscle, blood, and valor were matched against machine guns.  Nearly a century has passed since that terrible day, and all the veterans of the Great War ANZAC have mustered out of this mortal coil, but their courage reminds us that the first rule of war is that young men die.  If you have to do it, make sure it's worth it.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda,
will you come a'waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard
as they march by the billabong.
Will you come a'waltzing Matilda with me?

Battle of Britain Ace's decorations going to auction

Stephen emails to point out the upcoming auction of these:

The decorations of Air Commodore Ronald Berry.  Expected price, 120,000 UKP.

R.I.P Colonel Tresham Gregg, total badass

Wow:

Colonel Tresham Gregg, who has died aged 94, had an adventurous Army career as a leader of wartime Italian partisans, having already acquired a reputation as a serial escaper from PoW camps.

...

The following month Gregg was surprised by a German patrol near Derna, Libya, and taken prisoner. In an attempt to escape, he tried to sabotage the Germans’ reserve petrol supply with sugar but he was handed over to the Italians too quickly for the ploy to be effective.

As he was marched to the port in Benghazi, Gregg dived out of the column of PoWs and hid in a shop. After two hours he was spotted by two Italian soldiers who were looting the place. They refused to believe his story that he was a German soldier “taking a leak”.

...
Back in PG29 he was serving a third month in solitary confinement when, in September 1943, the Armistice was announced and he was released. He had relations in Switzerland and could have headed north; but he chose to stay with his closest friend, Captain “Donny” Mackenzie of the Cameron Highlanders, who was suffering from malaria.

...

In spring 1944 they were contacted by the partisans. Gregg and Mackenzie led a successful raid on a police station at Ferriere, then ambushed two truckloads of troops sent to flush them out.

...

The Prefect of Piacenza put a price on their heads; but they were in a natural stronghold, and when a Fascist Alpini battalion attacked over the mountains, Gregg not only forced its commander to give them all his heavy weapons as the price for freeing him, but also recruited many of his men.

Just, wow.  Read the whole thing, of which this is only a short excerpt.  The basassitude was strong in this man.  Rest in peace, Colonel.

Hat tip: Jeff via email, who writes:

This chap caught my eye at once, given his general resemblance to TE (of Arabia) Lawrence. I did not expect, when reading on, to find a story almost as astonishing as Lawrence's. You would hesitate to put it into a novel.

A late boss of mine did the same sort of work in Yugoslavia, Greece and finally China which Gregg, without training and preparation, did in Italy with his comrade Donald MacKenzie. Had Ian been alive to read this obit, he would have chuckled and shaken his head in admiration.

For the past three years, I have lived in Italy in terrain south of, but a little less rugged than that in which Gregg and his partisans worked. Before and after the Italian surrender/change of sides in 1943, it was complicated and dangerous to be an Italian. My village had been keenly fascist (Italian style: nothing like the Nazis) before the War, but that did not stop the Germans generating on the War Memorial a list of civilian casualties barely shorter than that of military column.

I may say that I can tell from the photograph of the funeral procession for Captain Mackenzie that every class of Italian is represented in this Resistance group: I am virtually certain that the gentleman in the tie and riding boots is the local Count.

These days the Germans are welcome in Italia as tourists, but residents have to work hard to be liked. It is a little easier for us Brits, and for Americans.

The Daily Telegraph is much reduced from its great days, but its devotion to the Obituary is admirable. Can you tell me, is there a US equivalent? Your WWII and Korea generation are passing on, and you are losing some remarkable men and women; and the Vietnam lads may be beginning to lose a member or two. It would be a shame not to have the chance to read up on them.

Local knowledge, right there.  The Telegraph was my daily read when we lived in Blighty - the Times was too grotesquely anti-American and the other offers were either tabloids (like the Sun: hello, page 3!) or leftie nutcases like the Guardian.  And the obits were a delight to read, written with a panache not seen in the Colonies.  Well, at least these Colonies.

The only place that I've seen the like is (I believe) The Atlantic, which used to run Mark Stein's obituary columns in each issue.  His obit of Profumo was a delight to read, but I believe that Stein got his start at the Telegraph, of all places.

And so alas, the obits on the western shores of the Pond are a pale imitation of those still found in her Britannic Majesty's scepter'd Isle.

Fair winds and following seas

Irving Mitchberg, survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto:

Irving Milchberg, who has died aged 86, was the wartime leader of the “cigarette sellers of Three Crosses Square”, a gaggle of Jewish youths who sold smokes to German officers in wartime Warsaw while covertly spiriting food into the city’s ghetto and smuggling arms to the resistance. 

...

The Ostbahn workers became a channel to resistance units within the ghetto. Using a network of contacts, including an uncle and a tram-conductor , Milchberg smuggled in small arms hidden in hollowed-out loaves (the only food allowed through the barricades). The weapons added to the cache used by the Jewish fighters in the Warsaw Uprising of April and May 1943.

To the other boys and girls he was a natural chief. “In their eyes he was grown-up and experienced,” wrote Ziemian. “Bull had authority.” Milchberg, however, took a practical view of his wartime bravery. “To tell you the truth, I never thought much,” he said last year. “If I had to do something, I did it. I didn’t have time to analyse it.”

 It's quite a remarkable story about a remarkable man.  RTWT.

This was brought to my attention by reader Jeff, who emails:

As the reference to the cobbler shows, Many Poles were far from anti-Semitic. For some years in the 1980s and later, I took subcontract work from a Polish accountant living and working in Edinburgh. George had been an infantry officer at the start of the War, and had escaped encirclement by the Jerries. He and his company moved east, towards the Ukrainian border.

Round a bend, they came to a village on fire. It had been attacked by Ukrainian bandits. George led his company in an immediate charge, and they wiped out most of the Ukrainians. The village Jews had been slaughtered before George arrived, so he put the remaining bandits up against a wall.

You will probably guess that the Soviets were coming west, and George had to lead his men south. Decent, presumably anti-Soviet Ukrainians helped them. Eventually they escaped to Britain, and after service with us in North Africa and Italy, invaded France.

George himself did not make it to Germany: a shell went off close to him and left a dent in his forehead which never came out. I think I am right in remembering he had the Polish equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Given that the standard Polish military condition is Insanely Brave, that is remarkable.

Another remarkable man.  We are surrounded, but tend not to notice.

Valhalla welcomes another hero

Stephen emails to point out that another warrior has joined the last muster:

He said: ‘My regiment had been given the order to fight to the last man and the last round and not to retire, and this painting shows our position after a long day's battle. I fought in that battle.

‘The regiment was almost wiped out - but by some miracle, I was the last man virtually, and I fired the last round. That round, which was at about six o'clock at night, hit a Mark IV tank.

'Then the man standing at the side of me was killed because a German tank had come up behind us and fired its machine gun, almost point blank. And I took a deep breath and waited for mine.

'For some reason the tank didn't fire and I survived and am still here. You feel guilty for having survived.

What happened next is incredible:

Mr Ellis was captured and taken to a prisoner of war camp, but launched a daring escape and found shelter with a sympathetic family.

He was shipped from Libya to the camp in Italy but escaped by marching out of the main gate as if on a work party and hid in the mountains for a year. A young girl discovered him and led him to the farming family who sheltered him.

Mr Ellis named one of his daughters, Nerina, after her, and has returned regularly to the hill village of Massa Fermana, near Ancona, to visit the family who kept him alive.

God speed.

Another hero musters out

Major General Logan Scott-Bowden:

Major-General Logan Scott-Bowden, who has died aged 93, carried out secret reconnaissance missions to the Normandy beaches which paved the way for the D-Day landings.

Scott-Bowden was a member of the Combined Operations Pilotage Parties (COPP), a small unit which specialised in the clandestine survey of potential sites for the Allied landings in Italy and later France. On the night of New Year’s Eve 1943, he and Sergeant Bruce Ogden-Smith, clad in rubber swimsuits, swam for 400 yards from a landing craft to the area west of Ver-Sur-Mer, later known as Gold Beach.

Each carried a Colt 45, a commando knife, wire cutters, wrist compass, emergency rations, waterproof torch and an earth auger for testing the bearing capacity of the beach. The objective of their mission was to determine whether the landing area would stand up to the weight of heavy vehicles disembarking in great numbers. If armour and supply vehicles became bogged down in a hitherto undetected substratum of clay or peat bog, it would put the whole operation in jeopardy.

...

As they moved along the beach, they had to flatten themselves on the ground every minute as the beam from the local lighthouse swept over them. Heavy rain arrived to provide some very welcome cover and, encouraged by the sounds of New Year celebrations, the pair spent several hours collecting samples in bandoliers.

Heavily laden by the time they attempted the return journey, they were thrown back many times by the rough sea before they managed to get through the surf.

And then he fought across France and into Germany.  Resquiet in pace.

Hat tip: Jeff, via email.

The most badass guy of World War II?

People will say it was Audie Murphy, but he was never asked to be the face of G. I. Joe.  Holy cow.

Aluminum airframes and Iron men

It is said that the old navies in the days of sail consisted of wooden ships and iron men.  The veterans of the Mighty Eighth air force have nothing to apologize for in the courage department.