Memorial Day Weekend

Text to come later...

I Need a Hero

"I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe
that the War is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it. I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers. I believe that this War, on which I entered as a war of defence and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest. I believe that the purpose for which I and my fellow soldiers entered upon this war should have been so clearly stated as to have made it impossible to change them, and that, had this been done, the objects which actuated us would nowbe attainable by negotiation. I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops,
and I can no longer be a party to prolong these sufferings for ends which I believe to be evil and unjust. I am not protesting against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors and insincerity's for which the fighting men are being sacrificed. On behalf of those who are suffering now I make this protest against the deception which is being practised on them; also I believe that I may help to destroy the callous complacency with which the majority of those at home regard the contrivance of agonies which they do not, and which they have not sufficient imagination to realize."

Sassoon, born 8 September 1886, was on the fast track to spending his life as a rich screw-off.
Born of a wealthy Jewish father and an Anglican mother, he attended university in Cambridge during 1905-07 but dropped out without a degree (Hey, That's me!).
He was, however, fully primed and loaded for a life of fox-hunting, sleeping 'till noon and writing mushy, "Moon in June" poetry.
That all changed in August of 1914 when he, along with many, many others enlisted in the first rush of patriotic fervor.
He had actually joined up, as a private, with the first rumors of war and was in the service, in the Sussex Yeomanry, at the time of the declaration of war on Aug. 4.
However, a riding accident kept out of the game through much of 1915 until his convalescence was complete and he joined the venerable Royal Welch Fusiliers as a commissioned officer.
Decorated for bravery, earning the Military Cross "for exceptional gallantry", he was an exemplary company commander in France, at one point, he single-handedly captured a German trench on the Hindenburg Line.
In between times he was active in night raids and bombing expeditions.
But, the stress of the danger, filth and horror surrounding him, produced a depression that manifested itself as a manic type of courage, leading his men to refer to him as "Mad Jack".
A slight wounding in 1917 sent him back to England where pacifist friends ("Pacifism is the privilege of the protected" Mad Ogre. What horseshit) encouraged him not to return to duty.
So, in July of 1917 he penned his "Soldier's Declaration" reproduced (complete with quaint Brit spelling and syntax) above.
This is where he becomes heroic to me. His Declaration was read out in Parliament by a sympathetic MP on July, 27 and thus his action became irreversible.
The Brits, needing cannon fodder desperately, were quite cruel to the "Conchies" (conscientious objectors) at this point, some being imprisoned in hole in the ground needing only a willingness to enlist to gain freedom - sort of.
Sassoon's friend and fellow poet, Robert Graves pulled some strings and had his buddy diagnosed with "neurasthenia", what was called in the day, "Shell Shock".

He never really copped to being mentally unfit even though he experienced repeated psychotic breaks. At one point he was having to step around rotting corpses in Piccadilly Circus. At night he saw dead members of his company crawling across the floor to him with accusation in their eyes.
Out of loyalty to his men, he ultimately returned to his company with his Declaration seemingly meaningless.
After the war he still carried the burden of what he'd seen and did and it colored the rest of his life.
So, this guy's my hero? Fuck yes.
What's this in aid of?
I've become disgusted with the tone of many of the "Bloggers" that I share the web with.
People dying in their thousands on the other side of the world are unimportant compared to the horrors of - wait for it - SUMMER VACATION WITH GAS AT $4 A GALLON.
So, yesterday, these feckless, callow Bozos found my inability to "get the joke" offensive to their well-developed sensibilities.
I guess I just don't find it funny.
Somebody (Not me!) elected our present, laughably incompetent "commander in chief" and we're now in the same place as Sassoon - having to watch treasure and young lives and limbs squandered on a venture that anyone with two neurons to rub together recognized as a bloody disaster waiting to happen from the beginning.
But remember, Fortress America remains threatened.
Legions of "Little Brown Border Jumpers" and "Islamofascists" (has anyone told these idiots what fascism is? No, of course not) await just a moment of weakness on our part before they rush in like Khan's hordes to deprive us our "Freedom" and our "Way of Life".
I think these morons need a new hobby.
Don't tell them to read history. They already do that - just silly history.
What makes it silly? They fully buy the PR (bullshit) surrounding such grandstanding, marginally competent dipshits like MacArthur and Patton.
Really, having them read at all is dangerous.
So, off my chest. To celebrate I'll salt in some appropriate photos.
To set the "proper tone", you know

Finally, offered as a digestif:
Sassoon's "For the Warmongers". This's for you, Ben - if you ever turn up here.
By the way, the bit accompanying Sassoon's pic is the final stanza from "Suicide in the Trenches ". It's my favorite bit of "Fuck You, Asshole" to throw up to... you know...callow,feckless bozos.

To the Warmongers

I’m back again from hell
With loathsome thoughts to sell;
Secrets of death to tell;
And horrors from the abyss.
Young faces bleared with blood,
Sucked down into the mud,
You shall hear things like this,
Till the tormented slain
Crawl round and once again,
With limbs that twist awry
Moan out their brutish pain,
As the fighters pass them by.
For you our battles shine
With triumph half-divine;
And the glory of the dead
Kindles in each proud eye.
But a curse is on my head,
That shall not be unsaid,
And the wounds in my heart are red,
For I have watched them die.

BLOGGERS!

I wrote this is something of an "agitated" state and decided to revisit it today see as how I'd waxed insulting in a few spots.
Insulting I was and insulting I'll stay.
Fuck these people and the four weiner dogs that followed them in.

Can't live with 'em. Can't shoot 'em. I guess you could shoot them, but there are so many and I've got shit to do.
Seriously, the bloggosphere is is fairly on fire these days what with the stinking corpse of Reagan conservatism sloooowly sinking, mercifully, beneath the waves.
This is actually,the first election where I really don't care who wins. I mean I haven't cared before, but then it was because all the candidates were shit.
I recall referring to the 1988 election as "Evil Incarnate vs Cream-of-Wheat". George's dad was evil. Something about eight entire years of Reagan (a man I voted for actually - twice.) while his vice pres had nothing to say about anything.
"I fully support the President's decision..." Repeat endlessly. Anyway the guy was spooky but a fucking saint compared to his idiot son.
Mondale = Cream of Wheat (boring, good stuff, but hard not to turn out lumpy).
Now, this election, I've got no major problem with any of the three. Even McCain has shaken out as the best of a sorry lot. His "hundred years in Iraq" projections? I think he may be pulling a George Wallace here and not really mean it. In any case I don't think the situation's any more fuck-up-able at this point. Guess we may never find out. Pity.
Anyway, bloggers. George, the Ogre. Both ends and the middle of a decent guy, I'm sure - and he's thrown a fair bit of business my way.
But, he's slipping. Check his tirade on coyotes in his May, 8 post;
"Coyotes are viscious cold hearted predators..." (sic - I know how to spell "vicious")
"Cold-hearted" aren't they mammals? I guess that mammals can have a cold heart. I've got one. But, vicious? That's a value judgment. I don't think wild canines (or domestic ones for that matter) have value systems. They're just animals making a living.
Vicious, cold-hearted predators indeed. Like ladybugs, dragonflies, dolphins... us. Well, we're omnivores but we can be pretty, damned vicious about it.
Really, concerning coyotes, the only real question is this: Do you pronounce the 'e'?
OED lists both pronunciations, but guess which one is first.
Two easy ways to spot the transplanted urbanite: They pronounce "coyote" with three syllables. And they call a pickup a "truck".
Avoid these common screw ups and the guys at the feed store won't make fun of you after you walk out. Maybe.
Mostly, I've been dropping by madogre.com regularly since I read that McCain is on the global warming bandwagon and I wanted to see/read some fireworks.
George has some problems with Mc, and has regularly assured his readers that global warming is the result of sunspots - along with a lot of other things.
I've mentioned to him more than once that, even if the warming thing is a complete hoax - being that we now have the highest levels of atmospheric, CO2 of the past 650,000 years - isn't it a tad irresponsible to not, at least, err on the side of caution?
Even if the earth is just a giant blob of oil with a crunchy coating, it's still finite. We will run out, and these nimrods with their, very American, Hummers, Excursions and Chevy Subdivisions don't seem to get that. Idiots.
Anyway, George hasn't risen to the bait and good on him for it.
He does obsess about cars and horsepower and I think that, particular boat has sailed, but who am I to say? Just a poor steel-beater.
The Ogre has a striker though. "American Warmonger" (isn't that redundant?).
Apparently this gent works with the Og. at the gun shop and,in spite of my anti-social tendencies, I find myself liking him.
Anyway, they in the gun store were recently cursed with an argumentative customer from, of all places, Canada.
Now we all know what horrible dicks these Canadians can be, what with their throwing their weight around on the world's stage, acting all superior and snooty. Oh wait. That's us.
No, Canadians are, unfailingly, some of the nicest, most boringly-polite people on the planet. A joke from my sister, a professor at the University of BC:
"What's Canada's national color?"
"Beige"
Anyway, the 'Monger proposed a contest where he and the Canuck (his word - a nationalist slur unless I miss my guess) would pair off, him with a Barrett (the Ford F350, Shortbox of rifles) while our neighbor to the North, a 22.
Speculation was that, in the event Herr Monger lost - ie was shot - he'd "...slap a band-aid on it and walk it off".
Now, I'd pay $100 for the opportunity to shoot this guy with a 22, Hell, make it a 22 short, just to see him "...slap a band-aid on it". I think the experience may be a little more "Wild Western" than he imagines.
Maybe this is my problem: The gun nut bloggers are so damned rabid about this that it's embarrassing. They all envision jack-booted thugs (Democrats) going door to door, confiscating guns.
Is this a real worry?
Fuck no!
Are you mental?
Even if it were, is it really that smart to be so damned vocal? Don't you think that may tip those Demothugs off as to where the folks wit' the guns is at?
One blogger who shall remain nameless, oh hell, we'll call her "The Ice Bitch", even felt compelled to post a running inventory of her gun collection - often complete with projected values.
Now, is this going to dissuade the young up-and-coming gangbanger from dropping by and doing some shopping?
Wait, she'll shoot him.
So, he'll come when she's not home.
See, none of these dimbulbs seem to realize that these "thugs" (Oleg Volk's word - Even though I disaggree, I like this guy - mostly because he has a modicum of humility.) are fully-formed humans such as themselves, just a fuck of a lot tougher, generally speaking.
Which leads us to the other thing that I just love, love, love about these folks: Their, seemingly complete, willingness to "smoke off" some bad guy with no thought to any long-term consequences.
No thought except "getting in trouble".

These paragons of courage have convictions that seem to begin and end with the Criminal Code - Just like Alberto Gonzales.
If it's legal, it must be okay.
Now, on the subject of dealing in death, I can count the number of dead bodies I've seen on the thumbs of both hands - and both of those people were in boxes. So, death and I don't have much of a relationship.
I have, however, known many, many people who've killed folks - and lots of them. My Dad for one. Other friends I've had, former Green Berets, Rangers, Marines and Seals and virtually none of them that I knew, carried a gun on a daily basis. Most didn't even own one. If they did, it was a rifle.
My impression was that these were folks who knew what happened when you shot someone.
Studies of combat stress have found that the number one fear facing troops, going into combat, is the fear of having to kill. This is followed by a fear of letting your folks down. A bare third is the fear of being killed or injured yourself.
Killing is antithetical to humanity.
Read "On Killing" by Lt. Col. Dave Grosman, a former Ranger and psychology professor at West Point.
I'm not going to give you a synopsis. Just read the fucking thing. It's cheap. You can get it for eight bucks. I've even given you a link.
Especially interesting, to me, was the "Dilemma of the Discarded Weapons" found on the battlefield at Gettysburg.
Out of 27,574 muskets recovered after the battle, 24,000 were still loaded. 12,000 of those were loaded more than once, and more than 6000 had from 3 to 10 rounds still on board. One had been loaded 23 times.
The point: - And Grosman elucidates it quite clearly - This wasn't incompetence or fear or confusion. It was an aversion to killing.
A First War Infantry Commander complained about "draftees who wouldn't fire".
One man actually had rationalized that if he didn't shoot at any Germans then they wouldn't shoot at him. Not saying that this is good thinking. Just an indication of the mindset of folk in the shit. People don't want to kill other people, unless they're sociopaths.
We in America have perverted our morality into such a spot that you can shoot someone for breaking into your house.
What would I have people do in the situation? I don't know.
The fear of physical harm, I believe, has to present for the shooting to be defensible.
Other than that, hell climb out the fucking window.
Advice from a late 19th century safe-cracker, cat burglar and "stick-up-man" Jack Black, author of "You Can't Win":

"And what madness for the householder to try to corner a burglar in the dark, prepared to resist capture but not to kill for loot. When he senses a burglar in his house, why can't he say in a loud voice, 'Is that you, Percy?' and give him a chance to fade away quietly? He'll do it. He knows there are plenty of other houses."

However, that didn't stop that shitbird a few months ago who shot the two, daylight burglars that were ripping off his neighbor.
Should he have done something? Hell, yes. Did it have to involve a shotgun? Maybe. Did he have to kill both of them? No.
What's more, he probably felt the same way, being that the Media described him sobbing with remorse in his house a few days later while the reporters circled.
Good impulse, the crying, but as many, many cops and judges have said "You should have thought of that before you..."
Damned straight.
Thinking. That's the bitch.
Now, Marko. This is the guy I've got the biggest crow to pick with. In reality, I would probably like him. I'd enjoy deflating most of his arguments in person, but, in person, that's less of a problem.
On his blog, lordy lordy. You've never seen so many leap to his defense. First of all, they all think he's some sort of genius. I don't think it's him with that delusion. I think he's probably a decent guy, even though he doesn't want to drink a beer with me. I suspect that he's a "designer beer" kind of guy anyway. I know the Ice Bitch is. Fond of IPA's she is. Does she know what IPA stands for and what it all means in a historical context? Maybe. Who cares?
Anyway, all come to Marko's defense and good for them. Pointless loyalty seems to have a serious spot carved in today's society.
They just tend to get incredibly insulting if you dare to disagree with the great man.
Anyway, like I said, The Wrangler himself isn't responsible for this egocentricity. He probably finds it as embarrassing as I would.
But, Marko penned this piece of tripe and the gun-nut world bowed and genuflected. They love it when articulate people restate their beliefs for them.
So, top illustration refers to the aforementioned, well-written but poorly thought-out treatise on "The Gun is Civilization".
News flash, Marko. And I say this as someone who could conceivably be your friend:
Anyone with brains and determination can and will get, from you, whatever they want.
Or maybe not.
But, are you willing to take that chance? Match your range skills against someone who's looking at prison if he loses?
I sure as fuck wouldn't be.
More recommended reading: "No Duty to Retreat" by Richard Maxwell Brown.
This was a professor of mine from way back in a portion of my college career, 1985 or so. Marko was just getting pubes then.
I'll close with some words of wisdom from a former tenant of mine, 56 years old and half of that spent "in the joint" (his crime; growing hooter in the woods - repeatedly):

"If you want to hurt somebody, it's the easiest thing in the world. Just meet them on a sidewalk. Don't stop, and when you're just even with them, punch them in the throat and keep walking. They won't be able to do a thing."

Back to the Mines

Ever wonder where Wiley Coyote got those big weights with the numbers printed on them?
This guy delivered them!
Or his US affiliate (SW Division) did.

Screwing the pooch...
I almost made it an entire month without touching base with my faithful readership.
Fact is: I've just come through a month of what can only be described as ennui Praise me, Kevin. That's French.
Anyway, I don't know what the hell happened. Just a denouements (another French one. Hold me back!) to one of the longest winters of my life.
Weird thing is that there was nothing wrong with this winter. Weather was odd but certainly livable - even nice by Willamette Valley standards.
It's probably due to the fact that I'm insane. I do take several different anti-ennui meds.
Anyway, enough of the pity-party. On to the matter, recently at hand.

"The Saga of the Shitcanned 'Wonder Machine'"
A farce in three acts;
Initially mining was far more low key. On the early mines in the Hill 60 area, the tunnels measured only three by four feet.
However, by this time (1916 and early '17) the routine had been established.
Dig down through the groundwater-soaked topsoil and into the impermeable blue clay beneath, shore the tunnel with timber and finally dispose of the spoil discreetly, very discreetly.
Considering the length and extent of these tunnels it's amazing that this little logistical feat alone came off at all. Somewhere I'm sure there are figures for the cubic yardage of the clay removed - all of it by sand bag - one at a time.
And it wasn't just getting it out of the hole either. The Germans were known to shell random piles of sandbags - just to see what they contained.
So, tons of Flanders' notorious blue-clay was carried sandbag by sandbag to ... wherever.

< significant stretch of time >

Back again on April 26, right on time. Anyway...
Act 1
This mining thing thing obviously works. How can we improve on it?
The Stanley Heading Machine Co, a supplier of coal-mining machinery was contracted to produce the wonder tunneler.
It was expensive, 6,000 pounds. I'd like to do that crossed "L" thing but... I use it so seldom.
It, the machine, was reported to have been specially designed for the notorious "blue clay" of the salient and, being a heavy item at 7 1/2 tons - broken into 24 crates that could be handled by the wagons on the narrow-gauge railway to the tunnel entrance - it must have been therefore, if only as a logistical expense, a costly endeavor.
Finally though, the thing was in position, all 7 1/2 tons of it, reassembled and ready to do battle with the blue clay.
The header itself was powered by compressed air supplied by a surface compressor.
The compressor was powered, inadequately, by several small generators. There was no problem with this arrangement initially.
They turned the machine on and it began chewing its way forward. Two feet an hour.
At the end of the shift, seven hours - and fourteen feet later, they shut down the machine and inspected their (its) handiwork.
A smooth, six-foot tube through the clay needing nothing but timber shoring. The machine worked.
Kind of. The next shift went to start it and found that, while the beast had ample power to eat through the clay while in motion. Upon stopping the clay would flow down over the cutting head and lock up all the machinery.
A full day's digging put the program back in operation and the tunnel sailed on.
The results remained the same - a smooth, six-foot tunnel better than one could ask for but...
The power supply system began to come up short.
The sporadic current from the multiple generators caused the generator's fuse wires to burn through regularly.
Each dead fuse equaled down time meaning: Each piss-ant fuse blowing meant another day's digging to get going again after the minor electrical problem was sorted out.
At one point someone at the raw edge of frustration, being out of fuse wire, wired the compressor with barbed wire and thus did still more damage.
Ultimately, impatience won out and the wonder tunneler was left where she was. The digging continued and the Stanley Header was abandoned under the Flanders clay. Eighty feet of clay at that.
So, there she sits. Somewhere along the main tunnel to the Petit Bois mines awaiting... oblivion.
Anyway, you metal detector types, get on out there. 15000 # ought to send out a healthy signal, even for the Salient. Get looking. You DON'T want Bob Ballard there first.

A Brief Word Regarding Attention Span...

The good Lord Kitchener's pithy words epitomize 'no bullshit'.
But, would they have had any effect on the generations that had "Be all that you can be", "Aim High", "Not Just a Job. It's an Adventure" and my favorite: "Army of one" pitched at them.
Would they have known what the hell he was talking about?

4/26
In response to Don, "The Many-Armed Schoolteacher"'s comment:

More on the Messines mines or..."Moron! The Mines Of Messiness!"

Preview of coming attractions:
A huge annoying graphic which I think may be largely self-explanatory, if tedious, can be found here.

I've been a while putting this together. It started as "the story of the chunk of abandoned machinery", then it was "the one unaccounted-for mine of the twenty-two (!) mines fired simultaneously (insofar as possible), to kick off the assault on the Messines Ridge at zero hour, 03:10, 7 June, 1917".
Then I came to the conclusion that this story is a big chunk so I'm just going to concentrate on one little bit.
Of course, when we say "mines" we're not talking about those wicked little pieces of evil that are killing and maiming farmers and livestock as we speak.
No, these are the real deal. Yet another resurrection of some bygone, war making concept. Back in the day - before gun-powder - when the stone curtain wall of a castle presented a serious obstacle, the siege weapon of least glamour but most efficacy was "mining". That is: Digging tunnels under the bad-guy's walls until they fall in. Until they were "undermined" if you catch my drift.
Above: On the left: A snippet of a map from "War Underground : The Tunnelers of the Great War" by Alexander Barrie showing an assortment of mines, nine in my excerpt, of the twenty-two planned for the morning. The full map can be seen here.
On the right please find; the latest (yesterday)from our old pals at Google maps (used without permission)of the spot in Belgium with which we're concerned.
That is specifically: the area about half-a-mile to the west of Wytschaete (Wijschate to the modern folk. "White Sheet" to the Tommies).
Anyway, I was at some small pains to orient these two graphics so one can see the location of these, presently remarkably deep, circular ponds and how they correspond to the plan laid out to the left.
The largest of the bunch, although you can't tell from the satellite photo is the one at lower left called, "Spanbroekmolen". Its diameter measured, I assume in 1917, 250' while its rim was 90' wide.It's easy to spot as it's the only one surrounded by brush. It's called "The Pool of Peace" and is maintained by Toc H.
In any case, I grow weary and, as I said, it's a long story so I'll bow out but leaving you with one less loose end.
The "Abandoned Machinery" I spoke of at the the beginning was a custom-built tunneling machine made by the Stanley Heading Machine Co. This was an expensive item and different from the others offered by the firm in that it was designed for the notorious "blue-clay" of the Ypres Salient. It was also to be powered electrically as opposed to the Stanley machine pictured.
Long story short, the beast died but, as I said, I grow weary. I'll fill in the blanks on the "Missing Stanley Heading Machine" later.
Hint: It's somewhere on the Brit side of the two Petit Bois mines.
That would be a hell of a thing. Drag all 7 1/2 tons of this ugly, blue-clay-smeared bit of "Great War memorabilia" into the "Antiques Roadshow". I can guarantee, you'd have the only one in the world and wouldn't it look nice in the living room?