Archives For Gerald Gillis

Marine Corps Birthday, Vince Dooley, A Celebration

November 10, 2022 — Leave a comment

Today, November 10, 2022, is the 247th birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps. All across the globe, active-duty Marines will take time to pay homage to their Corps, to its extraordinarily rich heritage, and to all of those who have gone before them, remembering especially those who have been wounded or killed in battle defending this nation. At most Marine posts, there will be a cake, a toast or two, and a reminder that the Marine Corps is an organization committed to excellence, to unselfish service, and, most importantly, to winning.  

This Marine Corps Birthday, I’d like to celebrate the life of Vince Dooley, the longtime football coach and athletics director at the University of Georgia, who died on October 28, 2022. Coach Dooley had been a Marine Corps officer in the mid-1950s, and his pride in his service in the Marines was evident to all who knew him. Dooley’s Georgia Bulldogs football teams were known for their toughness and their ability to battle and overcome—traits that reflected the character of their former-Marine leader. During his 25-year tenure as head coach, Dooley’s teams won 201 games, including six Southeastern Conference championships and one national championship. At the time of his retirement from coaching in 1988, only Alabama’s Bear Bryant exceeded Dooley in wins among SEC coaches.

In a small sampling of his many honors, Dooley was elected to the College Football Hall of Fame as well as the Marine Corps Sports Hall of Fame. From becoming a head coach at UGA in 1964 at the age of 31, until his death last month at age 90, Dooley became a revered figure at UGA and across the State of Georgia, not solely for his gridiron success, but also for his kindness, his integrity, and his loyalty. He will long be remembered as a focused, intelligent, highly successful man of many accomplishments, but who always remained approachable and gracious.

I had some history with Coach Dooley. He became a role model for me when I was seventeen years old. I admired him from afar for the immediate success he had in turning around what had become a moribund football program at Georgia. When soon thereafter I became a student at UGA, I could judge by the esteem he held among his football players that he was indeed the real deal. After I graduated from college and became an officer in the Marine Corps, Coach Dooley and I exchanged letters, a habit we would keep up intermittently for the rest of his life. Every time one of the four novels I have written was released, I would always make sure Coach got a copy hot off the press. He was always pleased to receive the book and generous with his comments.

He was also generous with his time. My wife and I had a chance to meet with him when he was consulting with Kennesaw State University over their ambition to start a football program. We met in a private office near the university and talked about football, the Marine Corps, and gardening which had a special attraction to him given the world-class garden he maintained at his Athens residence. I signed my latest book and gave him a copy. He signed a picture for me. We took a photograph together. He was in no hurry to conclude our session, but then again, I realized he was being paid for his time as a consultant, so I thanked him for all he had meant to me and so many others he had touched with his extraordinary accomplishments.

This Marine Corps Birthday I will think of Coach Dooley. One of the highest compliments I was paid during my business career was when a colleague referred to me as our company’s version of Vince Dooley—always calm and collected but always well prepared to take on and beat the competition. I’ll always cherish that compliment, even though I clearly knew that I could hardly compare to such a giant of a figure. Still, I was grateful that my colleague compared me to Coach Dooley rather than, say, Dog the Bounty Hunter, or some such. That would have been far less pleasing (and highly unlikely to have found its way in this or any other post).

Much like the Marine Corps he served with such pride, Vince Dooley knew how to lead, and especially how to win. He sought excellence in everything he did. He served his Bulldog football players with great loyalty and devotion, teaching them life lessons along the way that benefited so many. He donated his time to many charitable organizations, using his considerable celebrity in service to others. And he was an inspiration to countless individuals like myself who will be forever thankful for the example he provided. His was a life exceedingly well lived.

Thank you, Coach Dooley. And Semper Fi.

Happy Birthday, Marines.

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TOP DAWGS!

January 13, 2022 — Leave a comment

(Full disclosure: I am a University of Georgia graduate and a supporter of Georgia football since, well, since my teen years in the Sixties.)

On Monday night, January 10, 2022, at Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis, Indiana, the University of Georgia Bulldogs defeated the University of Alabama Crimson Tide by the score of 33-18, and thus were crowned the National Champions for the 2021 season. It marked the first such championship for the Bulldogs since the 1980 season when Georgia defeated Notre Dame in the Sugar Bowl in a 17-10 thriller. Behind the coaching of future Hall of Famer Vince Dooley and the on-field heroics of freshman-sensation Herschel Walker, the Bulldogs were victorious over the legendary Fighting Irish.

This year, on their way to the postseason, the top-ranked and unbeaten Bulldogs of Coach Kirby Smart lost to Alabama in the SEC Championship game on December 4, 2021, by the humbling score of 41-24. Despite the loss, Georgia was selected for the playoffs and paired with the University of Michigan Wolverines, champions of the Big Ten Conference. It was a classic matchup between two traditional powers from the South and Midwest. The game was played in Miami’s Orange Bowl on December 31, 2021, with a hard-charging Georgia thrashing the Wolverines 34-11.

And then came the much-awaited rematch this past Monday night with mighty Alabama. Georgia had not beaten Bama in football since 2007, after which followed seven consecutive losses, including an agonizing overtime loss in the 2017 National Championship game. Georgia followers were understandably wary of Alabama, with some cynically concluding that our only chance of defeating them would be in a post-Coach Nick Saban world wherein he’s left Alabama and now runs the entire country as President Saban (some might say we could do worse).

 Alabama is extraordinarily difficult to beat, and Saban’s charges know well how to win a football game. If the score is close near the end, Saban is adept at finding a way to win. Not every time, however. Bama’s not unbeatable, but it happens so infrequently that, for those who do manage to defeat them, it’s a bit akin to winning a war or walking on the moon or stunning the Russians in Olympic hockey. It’s a big thing, an emotional thing, certainly a memorable thing.

And it was big and emotional and memorable Monday night when the Dawgs took down the Crimson Tide. Our Bulldog Nation reacted accordingly, some in disbelief, some hysterical, all watching something magical unfold that grabbed at their hearts and constricted their throats and made more than a few shed some tears. We had done it, finally! Forty-one years had passed, having come so close on occasion only to let the crown slip from our grasp. But now it was ours.

It’s just another football game, you might say. Well, to a Southern football fan and more specifically to a UGA fan, that’s just wrong. It’s like claiming that a map of New Orleans’ French Quarter is the same as the actual French Quarter itself; or that pushing an old lady into the path of an oncoming bus as opposed to pushing her out of the path of that oncoming bus can all be explained away as an act of pushing an old lady around. Sorry, but again, that’s just wrong. It’s not just another football game when it comes to the Bulldogs.

By way of review, it was our first national championship since beating Notre Dame, the most heralded program in college football history and the fourth winningest program of all time.

The Bulldogs then defeated Michigan, the overall winningest program in college football history.

The Bulldogs then defeated Alabama, the second winningest program in college football history. And if that’s not enough, Alabama is the undisputed gold standard for football programs in America (at the moment, that is).

The Georgia Bulldogs are now the reigning National Champions. A nice ring to it, I think. Our splendid Coach Kirby Smart no longer has the “can’t beat Alabama” monkey on his back. Our quarterback, Stetson Bennett IV, is a former walk-on who this time outdueled the Heisman Trophy winner. Fame is quickly attaching itself to Stetson; fortune will likely follow.

The aforementioned Vince Dooley, now at age eighty-nine, was able to attend the game and witness the champion Dogs win it all. I am grateful that Coach lived long enough to experience it once again, especially since he is the most consequential figure in UGA athletics history.

Just another football game? Nah. It’s a love affair with all the inherent ups and downs. It’s a way of life that would be possible to live without, but wholly unthinkable. It’s a source of pride in ever so many ways.

And after forty-one years, it turns out to have been worth the wait.

Thanks, Bulldogs. And congratulations. You’ve made history. Let’s do it again, but a bit sooner this time!

GO DAWGS!         

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Memorial Day, 2020

May 22, 2020 — Leave a comment

Like much else about our society in these challenging days of Covid-19, the Memorial Day, 2020 observances will no doubt be a departure from the norm. There will be no Indy 500 with the solemn pre-race playing of taps honoring our American war dead. Some cemeteries may be decorated with American flags over the graves of veterans, but hardly to the extent of years past. Churches and other institutions who choose to pay homage to those who gave the last full measure will likely do so via videoconference. Social media will have its Memorial Day moment, no doubt, most of it well-intentioned and heartfelt, some of it as vapid and irrelevant as those posting it. Such is the nature of our society in the digital age.     

In any event, who could have foreseen that during the spring of 2020, more Americans would be claimed by the coronavirus in these few short weeks than were killed in action in Vietnam over more than a decade? It’s a distressing situation, this vicious disease, fraught with uncertainty and fear and, for some, utter despair. It’s a challenge that will demand our best—from the patience and resolve of our citizens to the leadership at all levels of government. The creativity and flexibility of our free-enterprise system will likewise be critical in the coming months, much as it was during World War II. And I should mention a word of praise for our medical professionals, the true heroes of this time. Thank God for these selfless friends and neighbors, serving on the front lines.

It’s not a cliché to say that our current situation is another in a long line of crises this nation has faced. Because it is. Progress may be slower and less linear than we’d prefer, and the price in lives will continue, but we’ll get through it somehow. We always do.

So, is there a connection between our war dead and the current crisis?

Yes, most assuredly.  

More than one-million members of the U.S. military have been killed in action in this nation’s wars. They are buried all across the USA and in foreign cemeteries, most especially Europe. They were from small towns and big cities. Some had wealth and privilege while many others had very little. Some had worked on farms or in factories or had been public school students or teachers. Some were married and raising families while others had barely begun to shave. Some were experienced military pros while others were upset over the Boston Massacre or Fort Sumter or Pearl Harbor or 9/11, and volunteered to strike a blow in reprisal. Most, however, were intent upon just doing their bit in uniform as best they could, and then going home.

These are different times, even beyond the Covid-19 pandemic. Fewer than one percent of the American population is serving in the military. Thus, most American families have little or no connection to the armed forces. Many of those family members have never had so much as a friendship with someone who is serving, or has served in uniform. Therein lies a disconnect that creates a social divide as military men and women serve and sometimes die, while the nation at large hardly notices. The burden falls on precious few, and it’s an increasingly heavy burden. Thank God, as well, for these warriors on the front lines.

Back to the connection between our war dead and the current crisis. What is it, then?

Well, it’s in the fact that so many of us feel we’re facing real life-and-death circumstances, perhaps some for the first time in their lives. And it’s not pleasant. Our war dead also faced those feelings, albeit far more intensively, in the dangerous existence they encountered. They didn’t want to die any more than we do. So, in that, we are connected.

It’s in the feeling of the temporary loss of personal freedom, whether by edict or by an inclination toward self-preservation, or both. And few of us like it, temporary or otherwise. It’s given us a chance to reflect upon freedom, and its importance to us. On a broader level, the idea of freedom was important to our war dead, as well, such that they were willing to die to ensure its survival. Truth be told, over a million did. In that, we are likewise connected.

And it’s in knowing that, in the end, as so aptly described in James 4:14, “You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.” Our war dead understood perhaps more deeply than anyone just how fragile and fleeting human life is. And just how small (and sometimes powerless) we really are in the workings of this extraordinarily large and complex world, especially one at war or in a global pandemic crisis. In that, too, we are connected.

So, think of them this Memorial Day weekend, our American war dead. We are connected whether we realize it or not–as fellow citizens, as fellow human beings. They deserve a place in our collective memory. They deserve our respect and admiration. Their loss is our loss.

Mostly, though, they deserve our eternal gratitude.

May God rest their souls.

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I Miss Baseball!

April 16, 2020 — Leave a comment

I’m missing a lot of things these days, and baseball is near the top of the list.

So, permit me to tell a baseball story.

The 1967 St. Louis Cardinals were the champions of baseball, winning 101 games, the National League pennant, and a World Series victory over the Boston Red Sox in seven games. Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson was the World Series MVP, adding a second trophy to his Series MVP in 1964. There were other Cardinals stars such as Orlando Cepeda, Lou Brock, Roger Maris and Curt Flood.   

Three members of the Cardinals’ 1967 World Champions—Tim McCarver, Mike Shannon, and Phil Gagliano—were also on the roster of the 1962 St. Louis affiliate Atlanta Crackers of the International League (AAA). It was there in Atlanta in the early summer of ’62, at the Crackers’ home playing field at Ponce de Leon Park, that our paths crossed.

My grandmother lived with her youngest son in an apartment directly across from Poncey, as the park was called. In deep center field and up a slight rise was a magnolia tree, and any ball hit there was in play. Babe Ruth hit a ball that stuck in the tree in an exhibition game. Unlike old Poncey, the magnolia tree still stands, the lone reminder of a bygone era of Atlanta’s baseball history.

I would visit my grandmother during the summer months with every intention of seeing the Crackers play as often as I could. She would give me fifty cents for a hot dog and a Coke, and I would bring my uncle’s glove so that I might have a chance at a foul ball. I was fourteen at the time, and an older gatekeeper on the third base side would wave me through for free as long as there were no other fans entering. I always held my hand out like I was presenting him with my ticket, at which time he would make a motion as if tearing the ticket in half and handing me the other half.

Early one evening I meandered down the steps toward the Cracker’s dugout, my bubble gum and my glove in good working order. I was hoping one of the players would toss me a ball, but when an older player named Joe Morgan asked if I wanted to shag balls in the outfield, I was on the field in a flash. The team was taking batting practice, and Joe cautioned me to stay in the outfield for my own safety. With my heart racing and my eyes wide, I was soon chasing baseballs being hit by a twenty-year-old catcher named Tim McCarver. And soon thereafter another twenty-year-old infielder named Phil Gagliano was hitting fly balls in my direction. Those guys hit the ball hard, really hard, but I was making catches and feeling pretty heady.

I couldn’t believe my good luck! I also wondered how many of my friends would believe the story that I was already itching to tell them.

One of the Crackers’ outfielders, Mike Shannon, called over to me and asked to see my “crow hop”—the progression of fielding and then throwing the ball in a fluid, two-step motion. Mike wasn’t impressed by my effort, so he motioned me over to provide a lesson on how to do it properly. I stood slightly behind and to his right, and when he released the ball, I could actually hear it leaving his fingers. I fielded another couple of ground balls and made the throws as instructed, finally getting a “Yeah, that’s it!” from Mike. I didn’t ask if he could hear the ball leaving my fingers; somehow, I sorta knew the answer to that one.  

I was a college student when the Cards won the ’67 World Series, and I remember telling my roommates that I had actually played ball with several of the players on the team. It gave me a chance to recount the story of the closest I ever came to playing professional baseball. Tim McCarver would go on to a long post-playing career as a television commentator, and Mike Shannon would likewise open a restaurant in St. Louis and also provide radio commentary for the Cardinals.

While I love my hometown Braves, I’ve always been partial to the St. Louis Cardinals. When I visited St. Louis on a business trip in the mid-1980s, I took in a Cardinals game at Busch Stadium. I had an extra ticket, and when I spotted a boy standing alone outside the gate, I asked if he needed a ticket. He nodded, but said he didn’t have much money. I handed him my extra ticket and said, “This is a gift from Joe Morgan.” That kid couldn’t thank me enough.

Thank you, Joe Morgan, wherever you are, for letting me have a grand moment on a baseball field with those future champions. And thanks to that old gatekeeper, too.  

Those were indeed simpler times.

Man, I miss baseball!

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Strange Times

March 31, 2020 — Leave a comment

Strange times, these are.

It feels like it would be best to turn off the fan because everything seems to be hitting it at once. I recently lost a friend to the coronavirus, so this thing has become very real to me. We Boomers are deemed “at risk,” a rather sobering categorization, but hardly erroneous.

This nasty pandemic lingers like the insufferable, unwanted houseguest that, given a choice, one would rather prep for a colonoscopy for a full week rather than hear that doorbell ring. You get up every morning hoping this will be the last day, but instead it goes on and on, seemingly without end. Just when will it finally go away and enable a return to what used to be “normalcy”? Who knows what’s ahead. Speaking of strange times . . .

And there are more questions still:  Will I contract the coronavirus? Will I survive it if I do? Will my family be okay? Are my savings about to vaporize as the market slides off into the devil’s nether regions? Are we headed toward an economic depression? I remember the old saw that “numbers don’t lie,” but the numbers are all over the board. The health models and the economic models each range from modest outcomes to catastrophic. Truth is, nobody really knows. We elect our officials at the local, state, and federal level to deal with the mostly normal and the sometimes abnormal, but they’re human beings, just like us. Try as they might, and I do applaud their efforts, they simply can’t know which way this crisis will turn. The numbers may not lie, but whose numbers are the most right?

Speaking of lying, the Chinese communist regime is of a gold-medal, world-class preeminence, no doubt. I do not trust anything I read about what this regime is claiming with regard to cases or deaths. Their lame attempt to blame the whole affair on the U.S. military would be laughable if not for the rot it exposes in the Party itself, along with the death and disruption this virus is causing around the globe. These ruthless Party apparatchiks are not our friends. They’ve threatened to withhold critical medicines and supplies. We have to coexist with them, of course, and we should trade with them when the conditions are fair. I can only hope that U.S. pharmaceutical manufacturers will assess the need to change this picture and get our medicines far away from there. Critical military suppliers should also take heed. I can’t help but think that the good people of China deserve better.

I’m plenty old enough to understand that life is neither fair nor unfair—it’s just life. It’s difficult but not impossible. We’ll survive this crisis, as we have many others over the course of not just my lifetime, but over the span of our nation’s history. Americans have always been superb at recovering from hard blows. As Winston Churchill reminded us during a dark time, “We have not journeyed all this way across the centuries, across the oceans, across the mountains, across the prairies, because we are made of sugar candy.”

In the meantime, our healthcare providers and our first responders are owed a grand applause as they remain on the job and treat those affected by the coronavirus, at great risk to themselves. I’m heartened by the way the private sector is responding. They’re making ventilators, personal protective equipment, and trying to serve their customers as best they can—from take-out to home delivery. Our military is providing hospital ships to areas of great need, all while still protecting us in their primary role. Even the wealthy among us, from sports stars to business execs to regular private citizens, are donating significant sums for food, transportation, and supplies.

I’m thankful for this Nation and the extraordinary generosity of its people. We’ll get through these strange times, hopefully soon. And we’ll learn from it.

Finally, this from Isaiah 41:10: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Hang in there, and may God bless.

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Cheers, and Thank You, Ricky Gervais

January 24, 2020 — Leave a comment

“So, if you do win an award tonight, don’t use it as a platform to make a political speech. You’re in no position to lecture the public about anything. You know nothing of the real world. You spent less time in school than Greta Thunberg. So, if you win, come up, accept your little award, thank your agent and your god, and (bleep) off, okay?” – Ricky Gervais

I have to confess I haven’t watched an awards show involving the Hollywood illuminati since the 1970s. It was about then that they took to hectoring the public about the abject stupidity, absurdity, and derangement that, to their utter disgust, existed in the world through no fault of their own. Thus, it became standard fare for people in the entertainment industry to use an awards show as a platform for political speech with a distinctly leftward tilt. They somehow thought it sensible to share their wisdom with us—the great unwashed—so that we might come to see the pressing issues more clearly. Or better yet, so that we might come to see their next picture. Sadly, I’ve probably missed a near lifetime of opportunities to learn and grow from their musings. And if so, if I have missed out, I have no one to blame but myself. Alas, I must be strong and carry on.

But I digress.

While I didn’t watch the Golden Globe Awards of 2020 in real time, I did learn of host Ricky Gervais’ verbal broadside into the coiffed, perfumed Hollywood elites in full feather, gathered once again to celebrate their eminence. When I saw the monologue on YouTube a day or so later, I became an instant Ricky Gervais fan. As the camera panned the audience, there sat the vulgar De Niro whose Use By date expired long ago; the uber talented Tom Hanks whose strained expression mirrored that of someone discovering a rat’s tooth in his steak tartare; and, but of course, the lovely Brad Pitt.

There was also Ellen and Jen and Leo and Meryl. Tim Cook from Apple was there. I didn’t see Jane Fonda among the chosen, however. Perhaps she was vacationing abroad. Hanoi, perhaps? And I didn’t notice Michael Moore, who’s about as easy to miss as a Serengeti rhino. The key difference between the African rhino and Michael Moore is that the rhino isn’t likely a single jelly donut away from a cardiac event. Neither did I see Harvey Weinstein, who was such a looming presence in that culture for far too long.

When I did see the Ricky Gervais monologue, I was stunned at first, much like those in the audience. A moment later, I was gleeful, much unlike those in the audience. It was a bit reminiscent of the glee I felt when the amateurs from the USA beat the pros from the USSR in Olympic hockey; or when the ferocious but unassuming Evander Holyfield stopped the bullying Mike Tyson on a TKO; or when the intrepid Harry Truman fired the imperious Douglas MacArthur over the latter’s insubordination. In each case, the exalted were, for however briefly, made to seem less so. And when the hot puffy windbags of Tinseltown were punctured and left lying limp, they seemed so ordinary, so meager. Forgive me, but it was a moment to be savored. And remembered. Just like the other ones mentioned above.

As if that wasn’t enough, Ricky even took a sip of the beer he had brought to the podium. A sort of victory sip, I gathered.  

Well then, it’s likewise only fitting to raise a glass and proclaim, “Here’s to you, Ricky Gervais. Cheers, mate. And thank you.”  

Heck, I might start watching the awards shows again.

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USMC Lt. John Bobo, Medal of Honor

November 7, 2019 — Leave a comment

When I was a new U.S. Marine Corps Second Lieutenant attending the Basic School at Quantico, Virginia, I was drawn to a room in which a wall of black-and-white photos depicted Marine lieutenants who had been awarded the nation’s highest decoration, the Medal of Honor. At least two of the pictured officers were by then instructors at the Basic School, viewed as they were in nothing short of awe. Most of those pictured, however, had been awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. All of those men seemed larger than life, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only fledgling lieutenant who wondered how good I would be at following in their very large shadows.

One officer in particular caught my eye. He was a posthumous Medal of Honor awardee, First Lieutenant John P. Bobo from Niagara Falls, New York. He graduated from Niagara University and was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the Marine Corps in December, 1965. After completing Basic School, Lt. Bobo was ordered to Vietnam in June, 1966. Once there, he assumed command of a platoon of Marines.

In March, 1967, a large force of North Vietnamese Army soldiers attacked his company’s night position, and during the desperate fight Lt. Bobo was killed in action. His Medal of Honor citation reads thusly:

“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as Weapons Platoon Commander, Company I, 3rd Battalion, 9th Marines, 3rd Marine Division in Quang Tri Province, Republic of Vietnam, on 30 March 1967. Company I was establishing night ambush sites when the command group was attacked by a reinforced North Vietnamese company supported by automatic weapons and mortar fire. Lieutenant BOBO immediately organized a hasty defense and moved from position to position encouraging the outnumbered Marines despite the murderous enemy fire. Recovering a rocket launcher from among the friendly casualties, he organized a new launcher team and directed its fire into the enemy machine gun position. When an exploding enemy mortar round severed Lieutenant Bobo’s right leg below the knee, he refused to be evacuated and insisted upon being placed in a firing position to cover the movement of the command group to a better location. With a web belt around his leg serving as tourniquet and with his leg jammed into the dirt to curtail the bleeding, he remained in this position and delivered devastating fire into the ranks of the enemy attempting to overrun the Marines. Lieutenant BOBO was mortally wounded while firing his weapon into the main point of the enemy attack but his valiant spirit inspired his men to heroic efforts, and his tenacious stand enabled the command group to gain a protective position where it repulsed the enemy onslaught. Lieutenant BOBO’s superb leadership, dauntless courage, and bold initiative reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.”

Lt. John Bobo still seems larger than life to me. It is fitting to recognize this extraordinary Marine on the 244th Birthday of the Corps.

You were an inspiration to me when I first saw your picture and learned of your story. And you still are.  

RIP and Semper Fi, sir.

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Presentation to the Atlanta Vietnam Veterans Business Association on April 2, 2019

April 6, 2019 — Leave a comment
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95eGQ-1-9pk

Follow the above link to see the presentation to the Atlanta Vietnam Veterans Business Association.

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A Shenandoah Case Against Partial Victory

August 31, 2018 — Leave a comment

The third (and last) excerpt from my Civil War novel That Deadly Space.

On Tuesday, October 18, the Confederates broke camp and moved out after dark. They followed a narrow path between the Shenandoah River and the northern tip of Massanutten Mountain. They could move only in a single-file formation for long stretches, and thus could take no artillery with them. They met up with Masterson’s other divisions in the heavy fog and attacked the Federals in their campsite, achieving total surprise. Conor’s regiment led the attack from General Gordon’s Division, and they found many of the Yankee soldiers still half-dressed when they came out to meet their attackers. The Federal troops made a fighting withdrawal, but the Rebels won the field.

By 10:00 am, the Southerners had once again achieved what appeared to be a stunning victory.

The hungry troops stopped only briefly to pillage the Union supplies for all they could find. They had collected 1,300 prisoners and 24 cannons, but inexplicably the order to halt came just as they were readying to press the final assault. Conor immediately thought of the first day at Gettysburg where the order to halt had cost them dearly, and when he saw General Gordon ride into his position he, too, seemed perplexed.

“Why are we halting, sir?”

“Orders from General Masterson. I’m on my way to see him to discuss the matter. I want you to have your regiment ready to resume the attack, but in the meantime you are to halt in place. Do you understand?”

“Understood. We are halted, General.”

First Sergeant Tanneyhill came forward and handed Conor a biscuit and some bacon. “It’s still warm,” he said as he licked his fingers from his own unexpected but nonetheless much appreciated Yankee-style breakfast.

“We’re halting again at exactly the wrong time,” Conor said in disgust. “Courtesy of General Masterson.”

“Can General Gordon change his mind?”

“I doubt it. Just between us, General Masterson’s nothing but a hollow uniform. If you tapped him on the shoulder you’d probably hear an echo. And arguing with him is like picking up a dog with bowel complaint. It’s usually best just to leave it be.”

Tanneyhill laughed. “Why do you suppose General Masterson’s like that?”

Conor sighed. “That’s just who he is. The reason a skunk’s a skunk is because he has no sense of refinement. In the general’s case, he has no sense of battlefield refinement, so he panics and orders us to stop. It’s become a habit he can’t seem to break. Whenever he sees us about to become victorious, he slams the door shut and halts us in place. It’s like he’s satisfied with partial victory. I’m going to start referring to him as General Partial Victory Masterson. How do you like that, First Sergeant? Ole P.V. Masterson has halted us again. What a surprise.”

“You might want to lower your voice, sir.”

“Yessir, ole P.V.’s gonna get us in position to partially win this damn war. And then he can go back to his partial home with his partial family and find some partial job and live the good partial life. And when he grows old he’ll probably figure out a way to partially die.”

“Sir, my advice to you is to lower your voice.”

“Okay, I’ll split the difference with you and partially lower my voice. Besides, what’s ole P.V. gonna do about it if he hears me? Order me to pack my gear and send my insubordinate ass to the Shenandoah as punishment? Well guess what? It appears he’s already done that.”

Conor then turned his attention to the food and consumed it in two large bites. When a lieutenant courier showed up on horseback and told him to halt his regiment in place, per General Masterson’s orders, Conor began gesturing and cursing so vehemently with a mouth so overstuffed that white bits of biscuit were sent flying.

The lieutenant could see Conor’s red-faced agitation but could understand nothing that was being said.

“He’s aware of that order, sir,” Tanneyhill calmly told the courier who immediately turned about and galloped away, but not without looking back.

“What’s the matter with finishing what we started?” Conor said to no one in particular. “Have we lost our nerve in partial victory as well as defeat?”

Tanneyhill stepped beside Conor, put his hand on his shoulder, and said in a calm, measured tone, “Easy does it, sir. This regiment doesn’t need you serving time in a military brig for insubordination. It needs you out here in command. You’ve made your point, so let it be. Please, sir, no more.”

Conor took in a deep breath and let the matter pass. After a few minutes he was greatly ashamed at his lack of maturity, and he thanked Tanneyhill for the abundance of his.

The Confederates pressed forward, but only after several hours had passed. The Federals resisted stiffly and the Rebels withdrew without much of a determined attack. The main Federal counterattack came at about 4:00 pm, with Sheridan’s cavalry attacking the Confederate flanks and his divisions pressing against the Reb center. For an hour, both armies battled furiously north of Middletown, but then Masterson’s left flank began to crumble and Union cavalry suddenly appeared in the rear of the Confederates. More of the gray army collapsed when the men realized that the Federal cavalry might block their path to Cedar Creek, their only avenue of escape. Rebel artillery delayed the Union advance, but only for a short interval. To make matters worse, a small bridge on the Valley Pike collapsed and made it impossible for the Confederates to cross a creek south of Strasburg with their wagons, including the captured artillery. Thus, they had no choice but to abandon the guns and the wagons.

As the retreat was underway, Conor noticed a Confederate major on horseback, from General Masterson’s staff, frantically waving his sabre at a group of Conor’s soldiers. The officer was threatening to slash a frightened private when Conor rushed to confront the major.

“Put that sabre away, you damned fool,” Conor shouted. “If you can’t use it on the Yankees, then give it to someone who will.”

“These men are cowards,” the major shouted in return. “They should be punished. General Masterson will be interested to know how your troops behaved in battle today, sir.”

“Then go back and tell General Masterson to punish all of us since it’s his entire army being routed from the field. What does that tell you about his leadership?”

“It’s not his leadership, sir. It’s a failure of execution on your part. What would that tell him about you?”

“General Masterson and his entire staff, including you, you dandy pompous ass, should be relieved of duty twice—once for incompetence and another for being too damn dense to know it.”

“You are very badly mistaken, sir.”

“No, sadly, I am not mistaken. And let me add one other thing: You threaten another of my men on this or any other battlefield and I will personally blow a very large hole in that thick but otherwise empty skull of yours. Now get the hell out of my sight. Go!”

The officer stared at Conor, but made no move. Conor quickly drew and cocked his pistol and then took aim. The wide-eyed major spurred his horse and sped away. First Sergeant Tanneyhill, who had observed the entire scene, shook his head but remained silent.

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Confrontation in a Confederate Hospital Ward

August 6, 2018 — Leave a comment

Excerpted from That Deadly Space depicting wounded patient Conor Rafferty’s confrontation with a fellow patient in Richmond’s Chimborazo Hospital. 

After his daily session of walking around the hospital grounds for nearly an hour to build his endurance, Conor heard the sudden piercing scream of a nurse as he came back to his ward. There, a truculent young patient from another ward was holding a surgeon’s scalpel to the throat of a doctor who had been attending to an amputee. The startled nurse stood nearby, her hands over her mouth, fighting back tears of fright and panic.

“They’re trying to kill me, so I’ll kill them instead,” the wild-eyed, gaunt, shaggy bearded man shouted.

The middle-aged doctor tried to remain calm, but the prospect of having his throat slit was making it difficult.

“They don’t think I know what they’re planning for me. The voices tell me. The voices tell me everything. They want to kill me, to get rid of me. And I won’t let them.”

The other patients in the ward watched but said nothing.

“Put the scalpel down, sir,” Conor called forcefully, approaching to within fifteen feet. “Let the doctor go and put the scalpel on the ground.”

“Who the hell are you?” the man said, his expression hard and threatening. “And try to take another step toward me and this here doctor will be dead before your foot hits the ground.”

Conor stopped, noticing the additional pressure applied to the doctor’s throat.

“Are you a soldier? Where did you serve? Were you in the battle at Manassas like I was?”  Conor asked, softening his tone.

“Ain’t none of your business. I’m here to get even with these doctors.”

“Forget the doctor. Tell me about where you served. Were you there at Manassas like I was? Now that was one hell of a fight, wasn’t it? I’ll bet you were there. Am I correct?”

After a long pause, the man eased his grip slightly. “I was there. C Company, Second South Carolina. Captain Dan Remington was my commanding officer. Who were you with?”

“B Company, Seventh Georgia,” Conor answered. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Grimes. Private Eric Grimes. This doctor here knows all about me. And he and his fellow butchers are trying to kill me. But today they’ll lose and I’ll win. It’s a war with them. It’s nothing but a damn war.”

“Put down the scalpel, Eric. These doctors are not here to hurt you or kill you. They are trained to heal, not harm. And besides that, they’re on our side.”

“How the hell do you know that? Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m Captain Rafferty. We fought together at Manassas, you and I, on the same field. And you and I helped win a great victory that day. Put down the scalpel, Eric. You’re a soldier. You don’t hurt innocent people. That is your duty. This doctor is helping lots of soldiers here. That is his duty. You hurt him and we’ll lose someone who is helping us, who is helping our fellow soldiers, and who won’t be around to help those who will be coming here after us. Now put down the scalpel.”

Two sergeants from a security detail, their pistols drawn and cocked, suddenly entered the ward, walking slowly and deliberately toward the scene.

“Tell those people to stay put, Captain, or I’ll kill the doctor. Tell ‘em I’ll do it.”

Conor turned and caught the attention of the two men. “Don’t come any closer,” he said in a calm, steady voice.  “This is Captain Rafferty, and I’m ordering you to stay where you are and hold your fire.”

“We’ve been ordered to stop this man and take him into custody, Captain.”

“I’ve just put a hold on those orders for now. Stay where you are.”

Conor then turned to Grimes. “There, Eric. They’ve stopped. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I’m coming over there and I want you to hand me the scalpel.”

The doctor’s eyes bulged. Grimes stared at Conor but said nothing.

“You and I fought together, Eric. You’re a soldier in a hospital, and I’m asking you as a fellow soldier to release the doctor, let him go home to his family tonight. If your mom were here, she would be saying the same thing. She would be telling you not to hurt anyone. Captain Remington would tell you the exact same thing. He would never want to hear about one of his C Company soldiers hurting an innocent man. Now give me the scalpel.”

Conor took a step toward Grimes, then another.

“That’s far enough, Captain,” Grimes said as he released his hold on the doctor and shoved him away. “Go on, doc. Go on home to your family.”

Grimes then plopped down on the floor and burst into tears, the scalpel still in his hand. The two soldiers promptly rushed Grimes, their pistols aimed at Grimes’ head.

“No, don’t shoot him,” Conor called loudly.

“He’s a crazy man,” said one of the sergeants. “He’s a danger to everyone here.”

“He’s a soldier, not a mad dog,” Conor countered. “I’m ordering you, do not shoot him.”

Conor calmly walked to Grimes’ side and took the scalpel from his trembling hand, then patted him softly on the shoulder. Grimes looked up, his eyes wet with tears, a pleading expression on his face.

“I want to go home, Captain. Please tell them to just let me go home.”

More soldiers from the security detail arrived. They brought Grimes to his feet, tied his hands behind him, and quickly whisked him from the ward.

The still-shaken doctor returned soon thereafter and thanked Conor.

Nothing further was ever heard about Eric Grimes.

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