That Deadly Space, my new historical novel concerning the Civil War, is now available in paperback with this Amazon link. A Kindle version is also available with this link.

Below is a brief description of That Deadly Space:

The Civil War has begun in earnest. Conor Rafferty joins the Confederate army as a young infantry officer against the wishes of his father who, in his Irish anger, is adamantly opposed to a war with the North. Conor soon finds himself in many of the war’s most consequential battles, leading from the front and risking all inside that deadly space. He serves with distinction in General Robert E. Lee’s celebrated Army of Northern Virginia as it seeks the crowning victory that will end the war and stop the carnage. Along the way, Conor becomes a protégé of fellow Georgian John B. Gordon who eventually rises to command a Confederate army corps. At the conclusion of each chapter, the narrative transitions to the now aged Conor who answers the probing questions of his grandson Aaron, himself a captain in the U.S. Army and scheduled for duty in Europe during World War I. The grandfather and grandson thus spend a week together—a week of sharing, learning, and bonding. That Deadly Space is a compelling tale that portrays the drama, heroism, romance, and tragedy of the Civil War.

For the Civil War aficionados among you, you may recognize the Don Troiani cover. I was delighted to be able to use it with this novel.

For those of you who are intent upon purchasing That Deadly Space, I say thank you. And for those who have supported me in the past with my other novels, a heartfelt thank you, as well. As always, book reviews posted on Amazon are always appreciated by authors, this one included.

Good reading!



Excerpted from That Deadly Space. Conor is wounded and assisted by two soldiers on the second day of the Battle of the Wilderness.

Darkness was only minutes away, and the Confederate attack had succeeded as well as General Gordon could have wished. There was still gunfire coming from the right, but now it seemed more concentrated at a specific point than along the entirety of the battle line.

Two young soldiers from Conor’s regiment came running toward him. “We’re gonna get you to the rear, sir.”

Conor reached his arms around their shoulders as they lifted him several inches off the ground. They started slowly back into the thicket at the only pace the pesky undergrowth would permit. Twice the man on the right of Conor tripped and fell, causing the three of them to end up in a pile and prompting cursing tirades from both the young men on either side. As hard as they cursed one another, as vile as the names were they called each other, there was no anger involved. Conor was at least relieved that they weren’t intent upon killing one another and thus leaving him in the weeds.

“I haven’t heard some of those words in a long while. Where’d you boys learn to cuss like that?” Conor remarked after the second spill.

“From him, sir,” said the one on the right, motioning with his head toward the one on the left.

“From my ole granny, sir,” said the one on the left.

Dear God, I love my soldiers, Conor thought with as much amusement as his pain would allow. Amusement aside, he had truly come to love his soldiers with a deep, unbreakable, everlasting affection, a bond so intense and complex that he wondered if he would ever again experience anything like it. What he had seen them do in battle time after time had so often amazed him that he vowed never to take their valor for granted. When he had seen them exhausted and hungry and yet offering him some of the food or coffee they had scrounged, he had been humbled. When he saw them lying wounded or dead in the field or in the hospital, he would try not to dwell on it so he could continue to function, but he hurt for them. Mightily. Every single one of them.

Now that they were cursing one another for dropping him when they had been assigned to assist him, he loved them all the more.

It was dark when they finally reached the hospital tent. “We got Lieutenant Colonel Rafferty here,” one of the duo of bearers announced in a loud voice with a surge of newly discovered authority. “He’s gonna need some immediate attention, gentlemen.”


Excerpted from That Deadly Space. Just prior to the Battle of Chancellorsville, Conor happens upon one of the Confederacy’s most notorious commanders.

Conor rode Shannon to a slight rise to the north of the brigade position that overlooked the division encampment. She responded naturally and handled well as they galloped to the crest of the hill. Escaping Conor’s notice at first was another solitary rider positioned atop the rise, but when he drew closer he instantly recognized General Stonewall Jackson. General Jackson cut an impressive figure in his gray uniform, faded forage cap, white gloves, and black, knee-length boots. The sunlight caused him to squint, revealing the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. His field glasses were on one side, his sabre dangling at his other side as he sat on his horse and surveyed the throngs of tents and campfires of the Confederate forces arrayed to his front. He seemed fixed in deep concentration, sitting upright and perfectly still, and he barely noticed Conor when he approached.

“I’m sorry to intrude, General Jackson,” Conor said when the general finally turned and looked at him. “I’ll take my leave, sir. My apologies.”

Conor turned Shannon and started away.

“Have we met before, Major?” the general called.

“We have, sir, at First Manassas,” Conor answered, turning back. “I approached you and passed along a request to cover the withdrawals of Colonel Bartow and General Bee. I was on Colonel Bartow’s staff before I assumed command of B Company.”

The general nodded. “Brave men, honorable men.”

“That they were, sir. It was an honor to serve with Colonel Bartow.”

“So what have you done since that day, Major?”

“I was wounded at Seven Pines, General, and when I got back I commanded a company in the Maryland Campaign with General Gordon’s Sixth Alabama. After that I spent five months in a Richmond hospital after encountering what seemed like an endless number of Yankees at the sunken road at Sharpsburg.”

General Jackson smiled slightly. “There were enough Yankees to go around, yes indeed.”

“And I just joined General Gordon’s Brigade staff last night, sir.”

General Jackson stared at Conor for a brief moment, though it seemed much longer. His bright blue eyes seemed to penetrate all the way through Conor’s skull and out the other side. Conor said nothing, his only noise being the sound of a loud swallow. Stonewall Jackson finally nodded, patted his horse’s neck and said, “God be with you, sir,” before riding off. Conor sat atop Shannon and watched as the famous general slowly made his way back to the encampment.

Excerpted from That Deadly Space. In the aftermath of the Southern victory at First Manassas, Confederate Lieutenant Conor Rafferty, the novel’s main character, comes upon a wounded Union officer:          

The wounded were being moved to a makeshift regimental hospital behind the ridgeline. Many of the lesser wounded were walking or being assisted by others as they made their way to the tents for treatment. Ambulance wagons were collecting the more seriously injured.

Conor came upon a wounded Federal officer, lying on his back with his head propped against his dead horse. He was drifting in and out of awareness, his face as pale as a granite slab. He appeared to be in his late-thirties, dark-haired, bearded, and heavyset. His right arm just below the shoulder had been badly mangled by bullets and his left wrist had also been hit, partially severing his hand. He was among several dead Federal soldiers which Conor took to be troops of his own regiment.

“Can I offer you a drink of water, Colonel?”

“I’d be much obliged,” he said in a tired voice.

Conor pressed his own canteen to the man’s dry mouth and poured until he received an appreciative nod in return.

The colonel moaned slightly and shifted to his left, his acute pain apparent, his blood loss excessive and still seeping. He turned his head and spoke to his horse. “Sorry about this, Flatbush. Hell of a way to end the day, huh ole fella?”

“We’ll collect you up and any of your wounded and get you to our regimental surgeon soon,” Conor said after he had also taken a drink from the canteen. “It seems the rest of your army has skedaddled back to where they came from.”

The colonel let out a loud sigh. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

“You might want to keep that to yourself, sir. There are plenty of us here who have a different view.”

Conor noticed the finely crafted Colt Model 1860 pistol on the ground near the Union officer’s feet. He leaned forward and took hold of the pistol, giving it an admiring glance and wiping the dirt off the barrel. He then took the old, well-traveled Starr revolver he had bought from another lieutenant in camp, and shoved it inside his belt, in the back. “Apologies, sir, but this will have to go with me,” he said as he placed the Colt in his hip holster.

“It’ll go with you only because I can’t pick it up and shoot you in the damned forehead, Lieutenant.”

Conor noticed the two cigars in the colonel’s front uniform pocket, and when he leaned forward to claim them the Federal officer turned slightly to avoid his hand.

“Well since you’re unable to shoot me in the damned forehead, sir, these will also have to go with me,” Conor said, reaching around him and claiming the cigars.

Conor then eyed the colonel’s fine leather boots.

“You’re an officer, son. For crissakes start behaving like one,” the colonel said brusquely.

Conor stared at the man for a moment and then realized with chilling, absolute certainty that only minutes before this Yankee officer would have killed him without hesitation or remorse, and with the same pistol that was now in his own possession. Despite the colonel’s evident pain and the gray clamminess of his features, his face became stern, unblinking, like that of a schoolmaster eyeing an errant pupil.

“You’re quite right, sir,” Conor finally said, slipping one of the cigars back into the colonel’s pocket.


Once again it is the occasion of the U.S. Marine Corps’ birthday, and I often think about this officer when I consider the Corps’ rich heritage. His name was Michael P. Ryan. In 1973, I was about to complete my obligation to the Marines and would soon leave Okinawa to return home to my wife and two young sons in Atlanta. By chance, I happened to be in the Officers Club one night when Gen Ryan, the Commanding General of the 3rd Marine Amphibious Force, dropped by as a guest of our Battalion Commander. I introduced myself to Gen. Ryan and informed him that I would soon rotate home and separate from the Marine Corps.

Gen. Ryan graciously thanked me for my service. I noticed the Navy Cross medal he wore, the highest decoration the Naval Service can award for combat valor, second only to the Medal of Honor. In addition, I remembered from my study of Marine Corps history that he had served with great distinction at the bloody World War II battle of Tarawa in November 1943.

“General,” I asked, “what’s the one thing you remember most from Tarawa?”

Gen. Ryan replied without hesitation, “The salute.”

The battle of Tarawa was the first U.S. offensive in Central Pacific. To get to Japan, the Americans needed to take the Marianas; to take the Marianas, the U.S. needed to take the Marshalls; and to take the Marshalls, it was necessary to take Betio, on the western side of Tarawa Atoll in the Gilbert Islands.

Tarawa was the first U.S. invasion that was opposed at the landing beaches. Planners had expected a rising tide to provide a five-foot depth over the reef, but the depth was only three feet. The Higgins boats ferrying the Marines from ship to shore needed four feet of depth. Consequently, Marines had to wade ashore under murderous fire, greatly slowing their progress. “Situation in doubt” was communicated to the top U.S. commanders.

Casualties in first waves were shocking. It was a scene of utter chaos and destruction. Still, the young Marines kept advancing.

Then-Maj. Mike Ryan landed his company to the west of the main landing areas where he consolidated the stragglers from units that had been obliterated on the beaches. Suddenly, out of the smoke comes an old staff sergeant, dragging a wounded hip, who sought out Maj. Ryan and asked what he could do to assist. When Maj. Ryan explained the situation and suggested a leadership role for the sergeant, the man straightened, voiced a resolute “aye-aye, sir,” and gave a crisp Marine Corps salute.

The attack was a success and provided pressure on the enemy’s right flank, which eventually broke. The battle turned on Maj. Ryan’s audacious gallantry and inspiring leadership. The Japanese commander had said before the battle that it would take a million Marines a hundred years to take Tarawa. It took Maj. Mike Ryan, a shot-up old staff sergeant, and 5,000 other leathernecks 76 hours.

Mike Ryan never saw the old NCO after the battle, so he never knew whether the man had survived the battle or the war. He only knew that, of the tens of thousands of salutes he received in a long and distinguished military career, the sergeant’s salute at Tarawa was the one he cherished the most.

On this the 241st birthday of the Marine Corps, I salute the Marines of the past who made our Corps into the finest fighting organization in the world. And I salute the Marines of the present who have maintained those core values of honor, courage, and commitment.

Semper Fi.


denny crane

I herewith support the election of Denny Crane, Esq., for President of the United States. Consider the following:

Fact: Except for the Mad Cow, Denny is in overall good health.

Pro: Good health is a prerequisite for being president.

Con: Denny Crane may not always remember what he said. But c’mon, which is worse: not remembering or remembering what you just said is patently false?


Fact: Denny co-founded and is a named partner in the successful law firm of Crane, Poole & Schmidt.

Pro: He understands the private sector and the legal system.

Con: There are already too many lawyers (and law professors) in Washington. True, but c’mon, Denny’s an outsider. A real outsider.


Fact: Denny Crane has been married and divorced 9 times.

Pro: As is obvious, he strongly supports traditional marriage.

Con: He may be viewed as an unreliable partner. But c’mon, Denny’s a little impulsive, that’s all. Who among us???


Fact: Denny’s an unwavering advocate of the Second Amendment.

Pro: Denny Crane carries. He was a Marine sniper. Or was it a pilot? He can’t remember which.

Con: Guns kill people. But c’mon, that’s sort of the point, right? Climate change won’t kill the terrorists.


Fact: Denny’s a winner.

Pro:  His courtroom record where he was the first chair is 6,043- 0. He’s unbeaten.

Con: Incessant bragging about being a winner might not get a candidate any votes.


Fact: Denny Crane is viewed by some as being an aging buffoon.

Pro: How many aging buffoons are 6,043-0?

Con: None. Take a look around Washington and tell me what you see.


Fact: Denny enjoys a cigar and a drink.

Pro: See the above about Denny’s overall good health.

Con: It upsets the proponents of the Nanny State. What should he do then? Have a super-sized soda and chew some khat? Nope, not cool either. Well screw it, then. Pour, light, puff.


Alan Shore: “You ever wonder if you and I are la-la?”

Denny: “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re flamingos. And good ones.”


Denny Crane. I rest my case.


The GOP presidential candidates accuse one another of lying with nearly the same frequency as star pitcher Clayton Kershaw throws a curveball for a strike. One gets the impression that Dr. Ben Carson seems to be the only truthful person among the entire lot. One is also left to wonder if Dr. Carson’s lackluster performance could have been improved by telling a few whoppers along the way, perhaps claiming that it was he, not Al Gore, who really invented the internet; or that it was he, not Chuck Yeager, who broke the sound barrier in level flight. Oh, and just for the record, methinks it would be easier to accuse someone of lying than to hit a Clayton Kershaw breaking ball (or fastball or changeup or anything else).

Of course, on the Democrat side, referring to Hillary Clinton as a liar would be akin to pointing out that diving headlong into a two-foot pool from a ten-foot platform might be hazardous. Uh, duh. What else ya’ got? I can only guess that Hillary is a product of her environment. Her husband lied to the American public, to a grand jury, and to her, yet he was elected twice, same as the politician who told the country’s citizens that if you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor. Twice, those two were elected! I don’t believe my flabber has ever been so gasted as with those two events.

And now comes the Trump emergence. He seems neither a Conservative nor a Republican to me, yet his sizable slice of the electorate seems unaffected by some of his pronouncements that align more closely with Democrats. Proponents of smaller government, free markets, and individual freedom find some comfort with Trump, but only some. Many of his followers have shown their disdain of the stodgy Republican establishment by raising their middle fingers, and my sense is that many more are waiting for the right moment to do likewise. Trump didn’t start this movement, the Tea Party did, but he has accurately identified it and skillfully crafted his message to appeal to it, much like a businessperson exploiting an underdeveloped market (did you see how I did that with the businessperson thing?).

Peggy Noonan writes in the February 27, 2016 Wall Street Journal of the protected and the unprotected. The protected make policy, send their kids to private schools, and have power or access to it. They have money, influence, connections, and thus are insulated. The protected are protected from the world they have created. Donald Trump lives in that world.

And then there are the unprotected, who have little influence, modest means, and live in a rough world created in large measure by the protected. Their kids attend the (sometimes awful) public schools, serve in the military, and pay their bills as best they can. Now they are starting to push back against the establishment, against the protected. The political voice that seems to resonate the loudest with them? Yep, Donald Trump

Who knows what will happen. I certainly don’t. But, like you, I’ll be watching with interest.

And that, my friends, is the truth.


General Louis H. Wilson, Jr. , the 26th Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps and a recipient of the Medal of Honor from World War II, read this poem at the Marine Corps Birthday Ball, Camp Lejeune, N.C. on 10 November, 1978:


The wonderful love of a beautiful maid,

The love of a staunch, true man,

The love of a baby, unafraid,

Have existed since time began.

But the greatest of loves,

The quintessence of loves,

Even greater than that of a mother,

Is the tender, passionate, infinite love,

Of one drunken Marine for another.

On 10 November of every year, Marines across the globe celebrate the Marine Corps birthday. This year marks the 240th anniversary of the founding of the Corps, the original location of which was Tun Tavern in Philadelphia. Marines have always taken a special pride in tracing their historical origins to a recruiting station inside a tavern. Do you suppose a Leatherneck veteran of the Revolutionary War, sitting on a barstool in Tun Tavern in 1780 and enjoying a brew, would have any idea that nine generations later Marines would be fighting a War on Terror? “Terror?” he might ask. “Is that a place or an army?”

“It’s neither,” we might answer. “It’s an, uh, well, I suppose it’s sort of a thing.”

“Then how can you fight a thing?”

Good question. But I digress. Back to the birthday celebration.

There will be birthday balls at Marine posts all around the world. Marines will arrive decked out in dress blues, the ladies in gowns. There will be speeches, and a solemn moment of remembrance for those Marines who have given the ultimate sacrifice in defense of the nation. That number, by the way, is 44,500 Marine battlefield deaths, with another 220,000 wounded, from the Revolution to Afghanistan. The Tun Tavern Leatherneck might wince in astonishment at such numbers.

There will be elaborate cakes, often several layers high, ceremonially sliced with a sword. The traditional passing of cake from the oldest to the youngest Marine will demonstrate the passing of the honor, experience, and heart of the Corps to the next generation of Marines to carry on.

Then there will be toasts.

The stirring Marines’ Hymn will be played, bringing everyone in the house to their feet. “From the Halls of Montezuma . . . “

And more toasts.

The Marines know how to do a lot of things. They know how to fight and win (and yes, they’ve adapted to learn how to fight a “thing”). They know how to be innovative in tactics and equipment. They know how to maintain their rich traditions. And they certainly know how to throw an annual birthday bash. Nobody does it better. And I happen to know that for a fact.

Happy 240th, Marines!

And by the way, thanks to my Tun Tavern Leatherneck for not only helping to save our country, but for helping to start a Corps of Marines.

Semper Fi.




Today marks the 86th birthday of one of golf’s most iconic figures, the incomparable Arnold Palmer. Arnie is referred to as The King in golfing circles, largely because of his status as golf’s first superstar in the television age. With his humble beginnings in Latrobe, Pennsylvania and his tenacious, stouthearted play, Palmer transformed golf from the pastime of the upper classes to a sport accessible to middle and working class Americans. He won often, and often dramatically, and his legion of loud, loyal followers became known as Arnie’s Army.

Palmer recorded 95 professional wins, and included among his 7 major championships were four Masters victories. By 1967, he became the first golf professional to reach one-million dollars in career earnings on the PGA tour. He adorned the cover of most sports magazines during the Sixties, and he was frequently seen on commercials as one of the most popular and recognizable figures in all of sports.

Palmer found success away from the golfing world, as well. He became equally formidable as a businessman and spokesman, selling lots of golf shirts with the umbrella logo, pushing Pennzoil, Coca-Cola, and Hertz rental cars. He was also involved in the founding of the Golf Channel. Arnie even has a lemonade-flavored iced tea named after him. He flew his own jet to business meetings and golf tournaments, and he began Arnold Palmer Charities to assist with several causes dear to him. Golf course design also came into his family of businesses.

Arnie was married to Winnie Palmer for 45 years, and who passed away in 1999.

Palmer was the first golfer to be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom (2004), and the second golfer to receive the Congressional Gold Medal (2009), along with Byron Nelson.

For many years I have enjoyed seeing Arnie, Jack Nicklaus, and Gary Player become the honorary starters for the Masters Tournament. They were once fierce competitors and they are now fierce friends, still with the competitive spark that made them such compelling and admired figures for many years. Jack and Gary have likewise done much for the image of their sport, but none more than Arnie.

Arnold Palmer’s story is quintessentially American—he started modestly in life and through his own guile, determination, and tireless hard work, he became successful beyond his wildest dreams. He has been the friend and golfing partner of several American presidents. He is admired by the public and adored by the golfing community. He has set a standard for how a professional should behave toward not just his fellow competitors, but the general public as well.

Arnold Palmer is most assuredly an American treasure. He is indeed The King. Long live The King.

Happy birthday, Arnie!

In the August 10, 2015 issue of National Review, Republican presidential candidate Carly Fiorina offers this: “I am increasingly offended by the idea that only a politician can be president. Politicians are some of the most mendacious—not all of them, but a lot of them are some of the most mendacious, mediocre, self-serving people I’ve ever met. Really? This is the best we can do?”


While Ms. Fiorina may be a long-shot candidate to be elected President of the United States, she has described the entrenched American political class as astutely and unequivocally as anything I’ve seen in a long while. There is no longer a premium on truthfulness among much of the political leadership of this nation. Too, there is a breathtaking disregard for ethical and, increasingly, legal behavior among those same leaders and the agencies for which they are responsible. It is an ugly picture, at once discouraging and confounding. How did we get to this point? What has gone so awry for a nation where a majority of its citizens find the federal government no longer trustworthy? And, most importantly, what needs to happen to reverse this toxic, debilitating condition?

Of the 113 blog posts I’ve written, the second most popular piece is “What Does Integrity Mean to You?” The topic of integrity appears to have widespread interest and the concept of integrity shows no sign of being outdated. In all fairness, the popularity of one of my posts is hardly a scientific poll. However, it does reflect a level of interest that suggests the matter is important to many.

The objective of this post is not to advocate for any particular presidential candidate. Rather, the aim is to suggest that the cancer which is metastasizing throughout our entire political system can be cured only by electing men and women of integrity and then holding them accountable. The liars, dissemblers, and mediocre self-servers aptly described above by Ms. Fiorina will, if elected or re-elected, bring continued harm to this nation. There is a great deal of work needed to properly fix our system, but it has to start with electing honest men and women of integrity, in far larger numbers than currently exist. This seems like common sense, but it is in fact uncommon practice. Elected officials whose primary interest resides in enriching themselves and maintaining their hold on power, and who care little about the overall best interests of the nation, need to be excised as part of the cure.

The bitter partisan divide that exists won’t make the job easy. That’s why the next presidential election is so critical. That’s the place to start. It’s all about leadership, about having the courage to make the tough decisions, about deciding what is in the nation’s best interest, about unifying our people in the spirit of fairness and openness and common interests and concerns.

Oh, and did I mention integrity? Revolutionary, isn’t it?