The Polish Troops in Verdun

I suppose the battalion of Polish troops working with NATO in the early 1950s in France were in limbo. There were others at that time, casually termed "DPs," meaning "displaced persons." I wonder now what sort of papers the Poles carried, whether they had passports.

As I recall some of the officers had wives and families with them. I remember my father saying that a few of the officers had held prestigious positions in pre-WW II Poland -- in the Army, in the Polish Military Academy, in the Polish government.

The troopers were less discussed, I suppose mostly because of the language barrier. I remember traveling with my father to an ammunition dump, the main gate of which was being guarded by a single soldier with a dog. It was a Sunday afternoon, and our family was simply sightseeing. My father got out of the car, walked to the gate, was admitted, and then he walked around the dump for a while. All during his informal visit, the dog lunged at the end of its leash and the trooper simply stood in place, following my father's movements with his eyes, stoic, no change of expression, no sign that he either welcomed or resented my father's intrustion. When the inspection was complete, the trooper opened the gate for my father without saying a word, and the dog kept barking and lunging until my father returned to the car.

"I think he was in the Underground too long," my father told my mother, "and the dog too."

While it was no oddity that the battalion had a canine unit, given that one of its duties was base security, I remember it strange that the dogs were as an assorted a bunch as might be found in any city pound. When we hear "K-9," we expect to see German Shepherds or Dobermans, but that unit had only one or two of those breeds. The remainder, as I recall, ranged from St. Bernards to Great Danes to large mutt-appearing animals.

I was fascinated by the Poles, perhaps because each time I was around them I felt welcomed, no doubt because so many of them were separated from their families. I never really knew how my father felt about his duty. He was the sort that accepted his assignments, kept his uniforms starched and iron, his brass shined, and reported in early every morning.

How the Poles felt about him would be another story. When his assignment was over, the battalion gave him the water-color seen here, painted by one of the enlisted men. My mother thought it captured him perfectly, but my father doubtless never read Robert Burns -- Oh wad some power the giftie gie us. To see oursel's as others see us!

But the painting graced the walls of their home until their deaths, my mother even taking it to be cleaned and reframed once. I suppose it says something that my father never asked her to take it down.

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Unpacking Memories

My father spent his Korean War service assigned to an infantry division in training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, after which he was promoted and assigned to a small US Army outpost in Verdun, France.

There for a good portion of his three years in Europe he was the US Army liaison officer assigned to a battalion of Polish soldiers. The Poles had escaped the Nazis, fought with the Allies, but could not return to their home because of the Russian occupation. Many had been in the pre-WW II Polish army. Others had served in the Polish government. And many had fought in the underground. Only a few had wives or families with them.

During the summers, I sometimes spent the day with my father, and the Poles were always welcoming. In fact, as a family, we often attended their holiday celebrations. All this came to mind when I found a bird carved from a single block of wood by one of the Polish troops. It had been packed away during our recent move. The soldier gave it to me one day when I was traveling with my father. I've kept the little bird for more than a half century now, and each time I see it, I wonder about those men from that far away place and time.

About fifteen years ago during a period when I was active as a ham radio operator, I communicated with a French ham radio operator who lived in Verdun. When I asked him if he remembered the NATO presence there in the 1950s, he said he did, and he also had a recollection of the Polish soldiers that were stationed there. He told me he thought most of them had either been granted French citizenship or had immigrated to the US or to Australia.

I suppose nearly all of them, like most veterans of WW II, have completed the long march through life, or if not are near the end. The memory of those soldiers in limbo has stuck with me for a half-century. It seems a melancholy victory, to have been driven from one's homeland by a vicious enemy, to fight and see that enemy brought to his knees, only to have the country placed under the boot of another tyrant.

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Mystery Writing Is Murder: Crime Caper Novelist Bob Sanchez Talks about Writing

Today I’d like to welcome Bob Sanchez to the blog. Bob, a retired technical writer, has published two novels, When Pigs Fly and Getting Lucky. 
 
Elizabeth asked me for a post on revising—not necessarily how to do it, but how I do it. Writing and revising aren’t separate processes, but are closely bound together. Revising is writing. Before my fingers first hit the keyboard, a debate begins in my head about where to start. That doesn’t last long, because finding the right beginning and ending aren’t essential yet. It’s really okay to begin anywhere.

The complete essay here at Mystery Writing Is Murder.

More about Bob -- His blog. Bob also is the webmaster and frequent reviewer for the Internet Review of Books.

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The Coen Brothers, Beer, and Other Things

I've read From Beer to Maternity to review for The Internet Review of Books, and I was able to secure an email interview with the book's author, Maggie Lamond Simone to be featured in conjunction with the review.

How can anyone interview a humor writer without discussing "What's funny?" With that the conversation turned to types of humor, which in turn led us to the Coen Brothers and their films, particularly Raising Arizona.

All this bubbled up again this morning when I heard a report from Mike Evans on our local radio station, KGBX that the Coens are remaking the classic western, True Grit.

That film is a favorite, based on the novel of the same name by Charles Portis. And therein is a line we use often around our house when someone seems a bit overambitious. 

I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man.

True Grit is one of those books, fiction it's true, that celebrates the western ethos in a way that makes a reader wish it had been so. Jeff Bridges is supposed to be the Coens' choice for the Rooster Cogburn (John Wayne) part, which makes the prospective production even more interesting.

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Publicizing a Book Is a Neverending Story

Gary Presley – Author Interview

by Cathy Stucker
What is your most recent book? Tell us a bit about it.

My memoir, Seven Wheelchairs: A Life beyond Polio, was recently published by The University of Iowa Press. I had had experience writing and publishing creative nonfiction essays, and I attempted a memoir only because fellow writers who had read my pieces about living with a disability in American society gave them insight into a different world. I have used a wheelchair since people with disabilities were considered “invalids” and “shut-ins” and denied access to education and employment through the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act, the most significant civil rights legislation for people with disabilities.

Read the complete interview here.

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Year of the Dog, VII: "I Wanna Be Cesar Milan!"

I've never been around a pack of dogs before. I've had one dog. I've had two. But with the arrival of Daisy the Boxer, we apparently are now an official pack.

There's a definite pack dynamic. Kitty the Boston is leader, unless she is approached by my wife or me. If so, she immediately exposes her belly, the classic submissive pose. Daisy has moved to second rank, and Doc the Boston boy has been demoted to third. Doc is resentful of his demotion, however. He has taken to marking the spots where Daisy displays her lack of complete housebreaking.

The dynamic is most visible when I feed the three. I feed Daisy in the kitchen. I feed Doc and Kitty in the bathroom. (I love tile floors.)  Daisy will leave her dish half-finished. She moves to drive Doc away from his food, unless I am there block the door. If I stop her, she will wait until I allow her into the bathroom to check Doc's dish before returning to finish her own food.

The food dynamic between Doc and Kitty is different yet. I cannot place their dishes too close together without sparks flying, but they otherwise they are content to eat in peace until Doc finishes his dish, which he invariably does first. At that time, he will stand as close as possible to Kitty's dish and stare at her. The result? Kitty's mothering eventually gene kicks in, and she allows him the last few bites.

Lately I've permitted Daisy access to the bathroom when Doc and Kitty are eating. I use my voice and a small stick to keep her away from Doc. (Note #1: Daisy will not attempt to drive Kitty from her food.) (Note #2: For PETA members, I do not hit or beat Daisy with the stick; I simply hold it in front of her, touch her lightly, and say "Back!")  

Daisy learned to sit at about 12 weeks; she learned "Wait" a few days later; now that other training is kicking it, I thought it time to attempt to shape pack dynamics the three apparently aren't able to sort out among themselves without tooth and fang.

An example of that relatively nonviolent process is displayed in how the three move through the door to the outdoors. Kitty goes first. Daisy stands back three or four feet until Kitty is outside. Doc sits and waits until Daisy exits, and then he ventures out.

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The Dangers of Stupidity

Kenny at The Traveling Wheelchair sent me a story that reminded me of two things.

1. People with disabilities are too often at the mercy of patronizing entities that fail in their responsibility to provide proper service.
2. That there is a difference in being stupid, and responsible for yourself, and in being subject to another person's stupidity.

The wheelchair restraint story reminded me of an ugly incident here in Missouri that occurred several years ago. Attendants assisting a paralyzed person in taking shower helped him into the shower, turned on the water, and left for reasons I cannot remember. What I can remember is that is that the attendants had misjudged the water temperature settings, and the man was scalded. He eventually died of the injury.

The wheelchair restraint story also reminded me that I rode around for years in my personal van without proper restraints. In fact, I may still be doing so. My first restraints were none. I simply braced myself behind the front seats. My second set consisted on a pair of recessed tracks cut into the van's floor, a series of bungee cords, and one of the van's seat belts across my lap. My present restraint "system" consists of two sets of the van's seat belts, one for the wheelchair itself, and the other for me (to keep me in the wheelchair). The clip ends are bolted onto the frame of my power chair; the open ends are the original bolt devices attached to the van frame. To visualize this imagine two of the van's center seats removed, and all those wonderful seat belt systems waiting to be re-employed.

Most modern, commercially made restraint systems consist of wheel lock-downs augmented by a bar system across the lap of the wheelchair. At least, that's the system I remember in the commercial van used to transport people around Graceland.

I can remember when seatbelts became common on vehicles, and one of the analogies for their use was the comparison of a pea in a can. This, of course, was predicated on the idea of "the can" not coming open and flinging the pea out.

If a person rides about in a 250-pound wheelchair, I suppose the analogy is more like a lead bullet in a can.

I may add another seatbelt to protect myself from my own stupidity. I wish I could do something to protect myself from other people's stupidities.

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