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I bet you've never heard this story!

The best way to experience a museum is to listen to the stories that the objects are telling, to look beyond the "stuff", to hear the tales the curators want you to know. I've been to a lot of museums, but the Pima Air and Space Museum in Tucson, Arizona beats any of them as to sheer size. Covering 80 acres with over 300 aircraft stationed in hangars and on the environs of the desert, you'll find yourself wandering, looking, and loving the aircraft. More importantly, enjoying the stories.

F-105 Thunderchief
Recently, as I wandered through the hangars, suffering through the heat of July in a desert, I stumbled across one of the most bizarre moments from history. Here was a P-51D Mustang designed to replicate one of a WWII pilot, Lt. Colonel Louis Curdes. At the end of 1942 Curdes graduated from flight school, gained the rank of 2nd Lieutenant, and was sent to fly and fight over Italy and North Africa. Within a month he had shot down an Italian fighter and seven German Messerschmitts, making himself an Ace. He was a master piloting his P-38 Lightning, but his luck would not hold; he was shot down by a German pilot and imprisoned in Italy. Escaping, he was able to work himself back to Allied lines, and soon volunteered for the Pacific Theater.

In the Pacific he found himself behind the stick of a P-51D Mustang, and soon found his mark against a Japanese Zero. Curdes was in an elite club: he was one of only three Americans to shoot down Italian, German, and Japanese fighters. The markings on his Mustang sported the flags of those three countries, but he was soon to add another.

Original WWII flight patches
While circling a downed pilot just off the coast of the Philippines, Curdes spotted an American C-47 transport plane, probably lost, headed toward a landing on the Japanese-held island of Batan. If the transport landed in enemy territory, Curdes realized, it would mean certain death for captain, crew, and passengers - he had to stop the plane from landing on Batan. First, he attempted to radio the pilot - no luck. He then crossed to the front in an attempt to wave it off. Still no luck. In an act of desperation, he took the only - the last - option remaining. He flew his Mustang - Bad Angel - to the rear of the C-47, took careful aim, and with a quick burst of his machine gun shot out its starboard engine. Crippled, the transport turned away from its approach, toward the sea. Curdes then took out its port engine, forcing it to ditch into the Pacific near the pilot he had previously been observing. The transport pilot made a controlled landing and Curdes saw that all aboard were able to evacuate to life rafts.

P-51D Mustang, painted as that of Lt. Colonel Curdes
The next morning Curdes guided rescuers to the site, where his fellow fighter pilot and a dozen people from the transport awaited help. Curdes was later awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, though historians disagree as to whether he earned it for shooting down his own plane or for prior service in the Mediterranean.

But no one would disagree that Curdes had a bizarre sense of humor. Elevating himself above the other men with markings of kills from three countries, Curdes added a fourth to his Mustang: the Stars and Stripes of the United States. Thanks to the Pima Air and Space Museum for telling this great story. One more thing: he later married one of the nurses on board the C-47 he shot down. What a story.


Stuck in a rut? Ask for help!

A few weeks ago I went home to the family farm to help my dad check on cattle. Spring calves had started to arrive and we needed to match cows and calves. Matching is a simple process, determined by seeing which newborn calves are sucking on which cows. It’s important to know, something that couldn’t be put off.

As we started to leave for the farm, we realized that Dad’s truck had a flat tire. We needed to get to the cattle while it was still early, so, contrary to the thoughts of my father who still likes to drive on the farm, we hopped into my Xterra. It’s a good 4WD machine, and since I’ve been four-wheeling for decades my only worry was its worn tires. The farm is a quick five-minute drive from his house, so we arrived quickly.

Dad opened the gate and we drove in, splashing through a water-filled mud hole. It had recently rained and water was standing in places, a slight concern with my old tires. We needed to “salt” the cattle, pouring mineral salt into troughs, but the road to the troughs was through a hayfield. That dirt road, in the same location as it has been for the past 40 years, rises and falls on the gently rolling hills of the farm.

About a hundred yards into the hayfield I found myself trapped in a rut of the road, with a significant amount of water in front of me. I needed to either go forward, try to drive out the sides, or back up. My dad laughed, said he’d noticed my tires, and jubilantly asked me, “What are you going to do now?!” I told him that I figured I’d just drive on through, that I knew what I was doing.

I locked my truck into four-wheel drive, backed up a little so that I could get speed, and started in. Daddy joked and said he’d walk with me to get the tractor if I got stuck. Deal. I laughed, fishtailed a little, and made it through with no problem. He told me I got lucky, with my response that I had learned from the best. That made him happy, no doubt.

We repeated that a couple more times, the worst place being right before we got to the troughs. Daddy opined that he thought the ruts in the road were like life, that it’s important to take them on. Have the guts to drive forward when you should be able to make it, but don’t be embarrassed to stop and back up when that’s the obvious choice. When you get stuck - and we all get stuck - don’t be afraid to ask for help from the fellow that will walk with you to get the proverbial tractor.


My dad has never been a philosopher, but now on the cusp of 80 years old he’s beginning to sound a lot more like the man who gave me advice when I was 16. Back then he wanted to get me on the right track, now he wants to affirm that I am. I think I am. I know when to accelerate, when to back up, and how to rock a truck when I get mired. But if I do get stuck - and I’m certain that I will again - I’m not afraid to ask for help. We all get stuck in the ruts of life, though we’re usually able to work ourselves free. But when the problem’s bigger than you alone can handle, reach out. Don’t be silent and stuck. Ask for help.




Keep those resolutions!

Here we are in the first week of 2017, when the new year is pure and inviting and capable of anything. Our resolutions are fresh and unbroken. My friends have told me their resolutions, and they're the same as you would expect: lose weight, pay off bills, travel some, find that dream job, and so forth. I think most of us should add one more resolution. We need to resolve to keep our resolutions.

Battle of Crecy - 15th century depiction
There are at least three important things that are key to successful resolutions. The first is to set specific goals. Don't say you're going to lose weight, or travel more, or be a better person. Say to yourself: I want to lose 20 pounds, I want to go to a Broadway play in New York, I want to save $3,000 toward a new car, I want to take a photography class, I want to (fill in your own goal). Second, set no more than just a couple of goals - they must be realistic and attainable. Achieve those goals, then feel free to set more in midsummer. Third, approach your resolutions with real resolve. You must say to yourself, "This is something I want, and something I will work and fight for."

It's a lack of time that usually holds me back from my resolutions. At other times it's been as simple as not knowing where to start, a lack of true commitment, or maybe the unwillingness to take a risk.


The Battle of Crecy - the first major battle of the Hundred Years War (1346) - is famous for three things. First, the English used the longbow to tremendous effect; second, it was the first European battle with a practical use of cannon; third, the Black Prince earned his spurs, and his reputation. To me, though, the most intriguing story from the Battle of Crecy is that of King John of Bohemia.

Monument to King John of Bohemia
King John found himself on the battlefield of Crecy as one of the leaders of the French side. Edward III had placed his English army at the top of a slight hill, his archers on the flanks, waiting for the opportunity to unleash their arrows. The French knights and men at arms were exhausted, having marched for many hours to the battlefield; yet they were ordered to advance up the hill, which is never an advantage for cavalry. King John was 50 years old and had been blind for a decade, yet he insisted that he be a part of this battle. He had resolved that he would contribute to the cause, and he would not be denied. He inquired of his compatriots as to the whereabouts of his son, and was told that he - Charles of Bohemia - was fighting elsewhere.

The French were losing the battle, yet King John requested of his men that they help him to the front so that he could strike a blow against the English. In an act that, to me, defines what it meant to be a knight, they lashed their bridles together so that the king could come forward without losing their guidance. He requested, simply, that they ride forward with him to the point where the battle sounded loudest, and that they allow him to strike one blow with his sword against the English invaders.

I love that story, and it's long been an inspiration to me. The key to life isn't blowing out the candles on the cake and waiting for the wishes to come true. The key is to set that goal and tell yourself - if you really want it - that you'll work to get it. Steel yourself with resolve, grit, and the willingness to keep working for what you want. Failure is temporary - a learning experience - and is nothing to fear. Set those goals, make them realistic, and see what happens.

L'eglise Saint-Severin - Crecy
The morning after the Battle of Crecy, Blind King John of Bohemia and his trusted knights were all found dead where the front lines of the English had been. Their horses were still tied together, and evidence showed that King John had struck the blow - and more - that he so wanted to strike. His resolve had been tested, and he had firmly met it. I want to do the same. So do you. No time for excuses, no time to be afraid.




Do you really think you're stronger now?

There's an expression that's floated around a lot these days: What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. The quote is the corruption of a line by Fredrich Nietzsche from his book Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer. The line from the book is actually, "From life's school of war: what does not kill me makes me stronger." To an extent that's true - I get the point of the expression.

Fredrich Nietzsche
I think I would have loved the chance to spend a day with Nietzsche, because I'd certainly have learned a lot. I also know I would have disagreed with almost everything he believed, and especially that little maxim. Nietzsche was plagued with poor health most of his life, and certainly wasn't a poster boy for such a thought. At the very least he was not proof of concept. The reality is that while some people may benefit from a little stress and adversity, too much is usually harmful.

There's a military expression called "The Thousand Yard Stare." It describes a soldier who's had too much of that stress and adversity that Nietzsche thinks would have made him stronger. Thousands of soldiers have come home from war and dealt with the unimaginable. They've used a type of compartmentalization to separate themselves from what they've seen and done, so that they can deal with life moving forward. But they're never the same as they were before.

Marines Call it That 2,000 Yard Stare by Thomas Lea
Last week I was talking with a buddy who was dealing with a lot of personal things in his life, and the duties - for lack of a better word - of Christmas had just overwhelmed him. He had that Thousand Yard Stare, but I don't think he realized it. In fact, as I looked around during the week before Christmas, I saw that emotion - or lack of - in checkout lines, in parking lots, and in the little notes friends were writing on Facebook. More than ever I recognized frustration, despair, and loneliness in people who were trying to do everything, and to be everything. I even saw a couple articles suggesting people abandon social media for a few days, because it's easy to come under the impression that all our friends are living perfect lives - judging from their Facebook posts and Instagram pictures.

Don't put too much pressure on yourself, and don't think you can do it all. The perfect Christmas gift for the kids, that morning run with your buddy, the boss's artificial deadlines, the date for New Year's Eve, the perfectly spotless house for your friends, the Christmas card you needed to send, the call to your mom, that blog with no misspellings or improper use of adverbs. It can be too much, and too many of us suffer, striving for some impossible point of perfection. We're usually our own worst critic.

If it doesn't kill you it will make you stronger? Nope, not true at all. Just do your best, and be satisfied in that.








You should know the true value of time

When I turned 16 my grandmother gave me the pocket watch that had belonged to my grandfather - the man for whom I'm named. It was a gold watch, but didn't have a cover, and wasn't rare or particularly valuable. But it was the most important thing in the world to me, because it had been given to my grandfather by his parents as he turned 21, and he had wanted me to have it. When she gave it to me he was still a distinct memory, having passed just six years earlier. His initials were engraved on the case in the fanciest of scripts - JDH, for James Douglas Holleman - and the quiet but efficient ticking of the gears inside enamored me. I'd never held anything like it.

My grandmother explained that the watch must be kept wound, so that it stayed properly lubricated inside. Yet she also cautioned me on over-winding, and explained to me that the watch was somewhat like life - that there was a fine balance between too much and too little.

About seven years ago I was digging around in my safe, looking for some insurance papers that had disappeared, and was upset and frustrated in general. But in one of the back corners, underneath the kids' birth certificates and my old passport, was that watch. I hadn't wound it in years, but was excited at the opportunity, anticipating that perfect mechanical sound of wheels and gears in motion. Nothing happened. I smacked it gently, and still nothing. I hadn't kept it wound, and though it looked perfect from the outside, it needed help. I took it to a jeweler here in town and they were able to get it lubricated and back in running shape. Then I got that old passport renewed, realizing that I was becoming like that watch - OK on the outside, but lacking on the inside to some things that really mattered.

I count that watch as one of my most prized possessions, along with my first pocketknife and some carvings my grandfather gave me. As I look at it today I'm reminded of the true value of time, and that while time can be measured with a watch, it can also be measured in more important ways. More than ever I feel like that watch, with time ticking, and realizing that time is the most valuable thing I have. There are things in this world that I want to do - and accomplish - and now is the time.

This blog entry will post automatically for me, on a schedule, as they usually do. But this one is a little different. It will post at 1:00 PM on December 22, just as we begin funeral services for one of my favorite uncles. I'm honored to have been asked to serve as a pallbearer for his service, an honor that seems to come too often these days. Johnnie Turner passed yesterday at 90 years of age, and if anyone ever made good use of their years it was him. But I know it went fast for him, as it always seems to for me, and surely does for you. I know that now's the time to do the things I want to, because time is ever-fleeting. If there's anything more valuable to me than my grandfather's pocket watch, these days, it's time. If there's anything important that you're not doing because you "just don't have time", please do your best to find the time for that goal. Don't procrastinate on that trip, that book you're writing, that old friend, that thing that really matters to you. There's an expression that time sneaks up on us, and it's true. Make every minute count, because the true value of time can never be counted. Life is the watch that never stops ticking.


When Santa Claus met General Lee

First appearing in 1867 as part of "Mrs. Louise Clack's Christmas Gift To Her Little Southern Friends", this wartime exchange between General Robert E. Lee and three young girls became a Christmas tradition for Southerners.

Mrs. Clack's children's book contributed quite a bit to the post-war impression of Lee's character, going beyond his already well-known military genius and demeanor. The story was never intended for profit, and all the royalties went to the orphans of the South.

Is it a true story? I believe in Santa Claus and the Christmas Spirit, and I know that it is.

Merry Christmas!

James K. Turner
Franklin, Tennessee
_________________________________________________________________________________

                                                                   General Lee and Santa Claus
                                                                    by Louise Clack

When auntie finished the locomotive song, little Minnie jumped up and said: " Auntie, oh, auntie, I have thought of something we children can do before we give the book to Santa Claus. Let us write to General Lee, and ask him if Santa was our friend; and if he says yes, then we will give him the book, for the little Confederate children. So the auntie sat down and wrote the following funny little letter to General Lee, at the children's dictation:
Dear General Lee:

We think you are the goodest man that ever lived, and our auntie says you will go right straight to heaven when you die; so we want to ask you a question, for we want to know the truth about it, and we know that you always speak the truth.
Please tell us whether Santa Claus loves the little rebel children, for we think he don't; because he did not come to see us for four Christmas Eves. Auntie thinks you would not let him cross the lines, and we don't know how to find out unless we write and ask you. We all love you dearly, and we want to send you something; but we have not any thing nice enough; we lost all our toys in the war. Birdie wants to send you one of our white kittens - the one with black ears; but Auntie thinks maybe you don't like kittens. We say little prayers for you every night, dear General Lee, and ask God to make you ever so happy. Please let us know about Santa Claus as soon as you can; we want to know for something very, very, very particular; but we can't tell even you why until Christmas time, so please to excuse us.

Your little friends,

Lutie, Birdie, and Minnie 
___________________________

The above letter was sent the following day, and in about a week the answer was received:
My Dear Little Friends:

I was very glad to receive your kind letter, and to know by it that I have the good wishes and prayers of three innocent little girls, named Lutie, Birdie, and Minnie.
I am very glad that you wrote about Santa Claus for I am able to tell you all about him. I can assure you he is one of the best friends that the little Southern girls have. You will understand this when I explain to you the reason of his not coming to see you for four years.
The first Christmas Eve of the war I was walking up and down in the camp ground, when I thought I heard a singular noise above my head; and on looking to find out from whence it came, I saw the queerest, funniest-looking little old fellow riding along in a sleigh through the air. On closer inspection, he proved to be Santa Claus.
Halt! Halt!, I said; but at this the funny fellow laughed, and did not seem inclined to obey, so again I cried Halt!. And he drove down to my side with a sleigh full of toys. I was very sorry for him when I saw the disappointed expression of his face when I told him he could go no further South; and when he exclaimed, Oh, what will my little Southern children do! I felt more sorry, for I love little children to be happy, and especially at Christmas. But of one thing I was certain - I knew my little friends would prefer me to do my duty, rather than have all the toys in the world; so I said: Santa Claus, take every one of the toys you have back as far as Baltimore, sell them, and with the money you get buy medicines, bandages, ointments, and delicacies for our sick and wounded men; do it and do it quickly - it will be all right with the children.
Then Santa Claus sprang into his sleigh, and putting his hand to his hat in true military style, said: I obey orders, General, and away he went. Long before morning he came sweeping down into camp again, with not only every thing I had ordered, but with many other things that our poor soldiers needed. And every Christmas he took the toy money and did the same thing; and the soldiers and I blessed him, for he clothed and fed many a poor soul who otherwise would have been cold and hungry. Now, do you not consider him a good friend. I hold him in high respect, and trust you will always do the same.
I should be pleased to hear from you again, my dear little girls, and I want you ever to consider me,

Your true friend,

General Lee
_____________

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" cried all the children when their auntie finished the letter; " hurrah! "Santa Claus is a splendid old fellow. And was not General Lee good, to think to do all that for the brave soldiers? Let us call our book 'General Lee and Santa Claus,' and let us say, 'God bless both forever!!'"
       
                                                                                                                           The End

My subject is War, and the pity of War

War has always brought forth some of the most intriguing works of art, and I would argue that World War I gave us the most significant poetry. In Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey is a memorial to 16 Great War poets with the inscription, "My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the Pity."

Great War memorial - Ypres, Belgium
That inscription was taken from a poem by Wilfred Owen, probably the finest of the war's poets, and one of its last casualties. Known primarily for Dulce et Decorum est and Anthem for Doomed Youth, Owen was greatly influenced by Siegfried Sassoon, who is probably my favorite writer from this time - as regards his entire body of work. A quick read of How to Die and Counter-Attack evoke strong feelings even today. Both Owen and Sassoon displayed their bravery on the battlefield, but their works reflected a curve toward pacifism as the battles continued on the Western Front.

The famous names continue: Rupert Brooke, Robert Graves, Charles Sorley, Edward Thomas, et al. But the most famous Great War poem, at least to the general public, is likely In Flanders Fields. A personal favorite of mine, In Flanders Fields was written by Dr. John McRae, a Canadian physician.

Essex Farm Cemetery
In Flanders Fields was written just behind the lines of battle, a couple miles north of Ypres, Belgium. McRae originally threw the poem away, thinking it lacking. Thankfully it was picked up by a compatriot, and was eventually submitted to Punch magazine. Published on this date in 1915, the poem took hold among the British public, and eventually found fame across the world. Mourning the loss of a friend on the battlefield, McRae wrote of the tendency for poppies to spring up where the ground had been disturbed, and his opening stanza became one of the verses that schoolchildren would memorize for decades.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

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!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Battlefield poppies
McRae composed the poem at a spot called Essex Farm Cemetery, and today it's one of the most visited places on the Western Front. It's not uncommon to see double-decker buses lined up at the small cemetery, with school children traipsing down to see the spot where the poem was composed. They also visit the grave of Private Valentine Joe Strudwick, famous for joining the British army at 14 years of age and being killed in action a month before turning 16. So many come to see the grave of the boy their same age that artificial grass has been installed at that part of the cemetery. They pause for a moment, take a few pictures, then climb back on the bus for a quick drive back toward Ypres - perhaps to visit the In Flanders Field museum in the rebuilt cloth hall.

Cloth Hall - Ypres, Belgium
McRae's poem is still significant today, and just as poignant and lovely. But to balance it, lest war seem too glorious, I would suggest the last stanza from the Wilfred Owen classic.

"My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori."

(Translated from Latin - The old Lie: Sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country.)

There is nothing more that I can add. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the Pity.







Control your rage, control your life

I was driving home on Thanksgiving to spend the day with my parents and friends. My kids were with me, and as we exited the highway we pulled into one of those behemoth gas stations to fuel up and let our old Beagle stretch his legs.

I filled my gas tank and pulled over to the edge of the parking lot, where my daughter was finishing up her walk with our dog. On the street just in front of us horns started blaring, and I looked up to see a pickup attempting to exit a parking lot, and an RV – parking illegally on the street – somewhat blocking the truck’s access. The men in the vehicles were gesturing madly at each other, and obviously screaming, though thankfully my kids couldn’t hear what they were saying. After five seconds I realized, even though the RV was in the wrong here, that the pickup actually had plenty of room to go on. But it took him at least another 30 seconds to do so – he had to stare down the other driver.

Winstead Hill - Franklin, TN

As the pickup drove off, the man in the RV took one more opportunity to flail his arms in the air as an insult. My daughter asked me, “What was all that about?” So I used it as a teachable moment, and explained that the RV driver was in the wrong when he parked on the side of that particular road, but that the truck driver should have just gone on. And then, as we were able to leave the parking lot and drive away, we discussed road rage. Those hand gestures seemed to be just a step away from something that could have turned violent.
General Cleburne memorial


It was hard for me to comprehend and explain the rage that I saw in those men, and over something so insignificant. It made no sense. My guess is that they were both traveling for the holiday, and the pressures they were feeling just boiled over. I have several friends who hate Thanksgiving because of all the rushed visiting and cooking and entertaining. It can be overwhelming. Still, that madness baffles me.
Now it's a few days later, and as I write this it's the anniversary of the Battle of Franklin. On that day General John Bell Hood sent forward the Confederate Army of Tennessee into well defended works, and into almost certain annihilation. In an event that still defies explanation, the Union Army had loosed itself from the trap that Hood had set, and somehow made its way through Spring Hill and into Franklin. Hood was furious, and let his rage overwhelm him. His blind decision to deploy and advance cost thousands of casualties.   


Carter House - Franklin, TN
General Hood was a good strategist, and he had seen the results of such advances at Gettysburg and elsewhere. There was no way that his charge into the Union works would carry the day, but he gave the order, regardless. He didn't wait for his artillery to come forward, he didn't heed the advice of his subordinates to attempt a flank attack, and he didn't wait for the next day - choosing to advance just an hour before sundown.
The great military strategist Sun Tzu wrote, "There are roads which must not be followed, armies which must not be attacked, towns which must not be besieged, positions which must not be contested, and commands of the sovereign which must not be obeyed." Franklin is a prime example of that maxim, and is a lesson that we must be able to control the rage that sometimes hits us all.


McGavock Cemetery - Georgia section
The November 30 date is the one memorialized and remembered, but I think there should be equal attention paid to December 1. That's the day the sun rose on the devastation that had consumed the Army of Tennessee - the day Hood should have realized the true cost of his rage. That's the day that truly teaches us a lesson.



The Never Ending Battles of the Sioux

The protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline continued this week, with Native Americans making a stand in North Dakota, and several being arrested. Their protest stems from their dismay that the pipeline is being routed through lands that are sacred to them, and that it will destroy graves and native artifacts. Further, they are concerned with environmental issues, especially concerning water sources in the area. According to news reports, law enforcement has been using pepper spray, rubber bullets, and - incredibly - water cannons in freezing temperatures. A spokesman for the Standing Rock Sioux tribe calls this an escalation of violence that could seriously hurt someone. Reading the articles and watching the accompanying videos, I was reminded of the nearby battle of 150 years ago when the forefathers of these same Sioux stood against the United States government.

While the 1860s are more commonly associated with U.S. troops in the Confederate States, federal troops were also out west, subduing the native tribes in an effort to clear land for white settlers and keeping open trade routes. Undoubtedly, the Indians were not equipped to fight the U.S. troops. 

The largest expedition ever carried out against the Indians was the one in which Brigadier General Alfred Sully led U.S. Army troops against the Sioux in July 1864. This expedition included 4,000 troopers - well-armed with repeating rifles, pistols, and cannons - marching against warriors armed primarily with bow and arrow. Worse for the Indians, their group also included women and children. As you'd expect, things went terribly for the natives, and they were overrun and chased from their land at the Battle of Killdeer Mountain. With a terrible touch of vengeance the U.S. troops destroyed tipis and jerky needed for the winter, and then killed thousands of dogs. Worse, they allowed the killing of Sioux children by a rival tribe.

A couple years ago I took the opportunity to visit that battleground, which is as distant and remote as it is sad. From Bismarck it's about a two and a half hour drive to the northwest, and is situated among oil fields and farmland. The actual battle was a push toward Killdeer Mountain, with the Sioux abandoning the fight, and escaping to the badlands. My video is raw, but does give you an idea of the terrain, and of the hopelessness that they must have felt as they ran. Today there's an acre plot of land that officially recognizes the battlefield, a gift to North Dakota from a local farmer in the 1930s. That plot includes the graves of two soldiers killed during the battle. 

One of the saddest things regarding this expedition is that the U.S. Army was chasing and killing Sioux who had done nothing to them. They were after the wrong people. I'm not informed well enough to make a decision as to who's right in the pipeline fight that's happening today, but I admit that I hope some consideration will be given before this type of response to the Sioux continues to escalate. They deserve that much.




The Irony of Austerlitz

The 1805 Battle of Austerlitz was Napoleon's finest victory. His 70,000 troops fought and defeated 90,000 Russian and Austrians, led respectively by Tsar Alexander I and Holy Roman Emperor Francis II. Their battlefield maneuvers eventually encompassed several square miles, while casualties numbered in the thousands. Soldiers from both sides were buried in mass graves. The citizen population of the area was also affected, first by the battle and then by disease brought in with the troops. Then the armies and time marched on.


 A hundred years after the battle the locals decided that there should be a monument to those who fell there, and in the spirit of healing they would raise that monument as a peace memorial dedicated to the soldiers of France, Russia, and Austria, as well as the citizens of Moravia.


The monument was placed atop Pratzen Plateau, a significant location during the battle, and one that figured prominently in the battle plans of all three emperors. The view from atop Pratzen Plateau was the reason it was coveted by the men in 1805, and the monument could be seen from miles away when it was finally completed.
There was other important business. In the aftermath of the battle thousands of the dead had been hastily buried in mass graves, and there were 20 of those scattered around the countryside. The Moravians felt that those men were being forgotten, and that they deserved remembrance. So the peace monument was built with a chapel inside, and below that was an ossuary to hold the bones of those buried in the mass graves. But World War I came before the monument could be dedicated, and before the graves could be exhumed.



The interwar period was one of recovery, and the monument was finally dedicated in 1923. During World War II the area still held its military value, and the monument was damaged as retreating Germans attempted to use it as a shield during a firefight.



Today the battlefield exists much as it did in 1805, as a rural landscape with small villages dotted about. Inside the chapel there is a strange effect of the walls that virtually requires whispers when you speak. And there's an irony that whispers back. The memorial exists so that we will remember the death and destruction that war brings, yet its practical purpose was to serve as the final resting place of the men buried in those mass graves. Sadly, during WWII the file with the location and details of the 20 mass graves was lost or destroyed, with only 1 of 20 having been discovered as of today - and that being by accident. The ossuary was built to hold the bones of thousands of men as a reminder of the devastation of war. Instead, it holds just a few, perhaps as a more absolute reminder.