Chris Gibbons: Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life
The stories of Philadelphia writer Chris Gibbons
Published at Broad & Liberty (broadandliberty.com)
Nov. 11, 2021, marked the 100-year anniversary of the first interment ceremonies at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and for Philadelphia’s Roman Catholic High School this centennial commemoration holds special significance. The link to the story of Roman’s Edward A. Duff from the Class of 1903: https://broadandliberty.com/2021/11/11/chris-gibbons-a-prayer-for-the-unknown-soldier/
Originally published in the January 15, 2012 Philadelphia Inquirer
“The size and age of the Cosmos are beyond ordinary human understanding. Lost somewhere between immensity and eternity is our tiny planetary home. In a cosmic perspective, most human concerns seem insignificant, even petty. And yet our species is young and curious and brave and shows much promise. I believe our future depends powerfully on how well we understand this Cosmos in which we float like a mote of dust in the morning sky.” (Carl Sagan)
The recent news of NASA’s incredible discovery streamed across the internet on December 20th, 2011: “The First Earth Sized Planets Found Beyond Our Solar System.” I have to admit that I wasn’t surprised because my former teacher predicted that discoveries like this would be commonplace someday, but I thought it was ironic that this announcement was made on the 15th anniversary of his death. That night I thought about him as I gazed up into the sky. The clouds had finally broken, and the stars shimmered like jewels in the clear, crisp winter air. They reminded me of a tapestry of Christmas lights adorning the velvety- black background of space. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and as I gazed up, I could still hear the familiar and distinct voice of my former teacher: “The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be.”
The simplicity and power of his words still rivet me, and it’s during moments of great scientific discovery that I especially miss him. Although he’s been gone now for 15 years, his impact on my life, as well as the lives of millions around the world, continues to resonate to this day.
Considering that I never met Carl Sagan or sat in one of his Cornell University classrooms, some people might find it odd that I refer to him as my former teacher. But when the groundbreaking PBS series Cosmos premiered in September of 1980, I became a student in a Sagan classroom that had dramatically expanded to encompass millions of American living rooms. Although he was a relatively well-known public figure prior to the series, primarily due to his books and frequent appearances on The Tonight Show, Sagan’s popularity soared through Cosmos.
The critically acclaimed 13-part series featured Sagan as both narrator and presenter of a diverse range of topics, such as philosophy, religion, history, astronomy, and physics. Sagan’s skills as a teacher were clearly evident as he helped the general public understand such complex scientific concepts as time dilation, quantum mechanics, and the theory of relativity. But the heart of the series was Sagan’s unique ability to effectively communicate why these various subjects were important to humanity’s understanding of, and future within, the Cosmos.
Inspired by Sagan and Cosmos, I finally enrolled at Drexel University, something I’d been putting off for over 2 years. I pored over the Cosmos companion book, acquired a telescope, and joined Sagan’s newly formed Planetary Society. Although my career path gravitated to financial services, I felt that I could still make a difference by becoming an outspoken advocate for space exploration. I wrote several Op-Ed articles which rigorously defended NASA and espoused the need to continue our exploration of space. After Sagan died, the Planetary Society posted a wall on their website where members could comment on the impact that Sagan had on their lives. I was amazed to find that there were hundreds of stories like mine, and as I read them, I couldn’t help but think of the Henry Adams quote: “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.”
Unfortunately, Sagan’s influence, while extensive, was limited, and lately it seems that other voices are growing louder. I’m hearing the familiar cries to curtail space exploration or prohibit the teaching of evolution in our schools. There are the loud rants of the religious fanatics who declare that God personally told them the date of the world’s end, and the shouts of the pseudo-scientists who claim that the Apollo moon landings were faked. When the voices of ignorance become too loud, I know what I have to do – I’ll gaze up at the Cosmos and listen for the voice of my former teacher rising above the din. The numerous stars will remind me that millions of my classmates continue to hear his voice as well, and we’re prepared to defend the ideals that Carl Sagan taught us.
AFTERWORD – I received numerous e-mails from teachers in response to this essay. Perhaps the most poignant was from an 8th grade Physical Science teacher who wrote the following: “What a fine tribute you penned for your educational muse. I am a middle school physical science teacher who tries desperately to channel the engaging narrative of Carl Sagan when I see my student’s eyes glaze over as I introduce the periodic chart. I do my best to explain the life cycle of stars and how essential supernovas were to arriving at our conscious state. Usually this engages a core group and they want to extrapolate on black holes, parallel universes, string theory, and the possibility of other life forms. I too worry about the influence of creationists and do my best to quietly inform the students that science and religion are not at odds but different intellectual disciplines.” I wrote back to all of them and let them know that I was heartened to find that many of my “fellow classmates” had become teachers who now pass along to future generations what all of us had been taught. Our teacher, Carl Sagan, would be proud.
More stories on the wonders of space exploration and its positive impact on society can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
When I arrived at Fernwood Cemetery in Lansdowne, Pennsylvania in the early afternoon of January 6th, 2021, it was colder than I had anticipated, with a biting wind, and, although I had a cemetery map with the specific Section and Grave number that I sought, I knew from previous searches of old gravesites that having this information didn’t always guarantee success.
Despite the cold, I was content to be there that day. Historic research has become a rewarding activity for me over the last several years, and I knew that the protests planned for that day in Washington D.C. would be another gloomy reminder of our sharp national divide, so I purposely chose that day to revive my dormant research interests in the hopes that it would not only serve as a welcome diversion, but also lift my spirits a bit. For the grave that I sought to find was my great-great grandfather’s, a former Philadelphia police officer. I’d just recently discovered that the New Jersey State Archives had mistaken him for a Marlboro, N.J. man with the same name buried in a New Jersey cemetery, and I was eager to photograph his gravestone.
Although a cemetery employee had confirmed the grave’s location over the phone prior to my visit, I didn’t have any success finding it. Unfortunately, the cemetery office was closed that day, so I decided to head back home, but vowed to return and resume my search with the help of the cemetery personnel.
____________________
As dawn broke on April 9th, 1865 at Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia, Major General George A. Custer maneuvered his 3rd Division troops on a ridge overlooking the Confederate positions and prepared to attack Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s once vaunted, but now badly battered, Army of Northern Virginia. Among the Cavalry units in Custer’s 1st Brigade was the 3rd New Jersey Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Alexander C. M. Pennington. Just the night before, the 3rd New Jersey, along with other cavalry units of the 1st Brigade, attacked the Confederate cavalry positioned in the woods a half-mile from Appomattox Station. In the fierce hand-to-hand fighting that followed, Custer’s victorious troops seized 24 cannon, 5 battle flags, 200 wagons, and taken 1,000 prisoners.
A murmur soon arose among the Union soldiers as a Confederate staff officer, Major Robert Sims, under escort by a Union officer, approached Custer while carrying a white towel on a pole. Sims told Custer that General Lee requested a suspension of hostilities. As chronicled in Custer by Jeffry D. Wert, Custer “replied that he was not commander on the field and could not halt the attack unless Lee announced an unconditional surrender. Turning to Chief of Staff Edward Whitaker, Custer directed the lieutenant colonel to return with Sims to the enemy lines and to wait for a response.”
A few hours later, at the home of Wilmer McLean, Lee surrendered his army to Union General Ulysses S. Grant. A poignant moment occurred as the terms of the surrender were being finalized. General Grant took the opportunity to introduce Lee to the Union officers in attendance. One of them was Lieutenant Colonel Ely S. Parker, a Seneca Indian who served as adjutant and secretary to Grant. As recollected by Lt. Col. Parker in The Life of General Ely S. Parker: Last Grand Sachem of the Iroquois and General Grant’s Military Secretary, by Arthur C. Parker, “Lee stared at me for a moment…he extended his hand and said, ‘I am glad to see one real American here.’ I shook his hand and said, ‘We are all Americans.’”
As word of the surrender spread among the Union troops, jubilant cries erupted along their lines. In the days following the surrender, New York Times war correspondent, E.A. Paul, reported that even the Virginia citizens in the very heart of the Confederacy were joyous: “As Custer’s cavalry column passed through the country…the people flocked to the roadside, waved handkerchiefs, and at several places actually clapped their hands to express their happiness. At the house where Gen. Custer made his headquarters last night, the people made a particular request that the band play the Star Spangled Banner – an unheard of event during the last four years.”
For the men of Custer’s 3rd New Jersey Cavalry, many of them from Philadelphia, this moment must have been bitter-sweet. Although 157 of their fellow soldiers had given their lives for the Union cause, they were likely heartened to see that their sacrifice was not in vain and America would now finally unite again.
_______________________
When I arrived home after my unsuccessful search at Fernwood Cemetery, the attack on the Capitol Building was well underway, and I was stunned by the violent images on my TV screen.
But there was one photo among the hundreds shown on the news programs that day that truly shook me. It was a photo of one of the rioters, and he was carrying something that now permanently marks that day as one that I’ll always remember for its sad and striking irony. For on the day that I tried to find the grave of my great-great grandfather, James H. Baird, a Union sergeant in Company B of the 3rd New Jersey Cavalry, and who was there at Appomattox when Lee surrendered to Grant, a rioter walked through the halls of our Capitol carrying a Confederate flag. If the man had been armed with a gun instead of that flag, he wouldn’t have been as deadly, for his brazen act symbolically slayed the remaining, feeble hopes for American unity.
And if those from the left side of the political spectrum proudly tout this photo as evidence of their greater allegiance to traditional American values, they need to be reminded that there are also photos from the 2020 summer riots of numerous monuments dedicated to Union soldiers and abolitionists that were defaced by leftist extremists.
Although the Civil War ended over 155 years ago, America is now once again adrift in a sea of dissention. I can’t help but think that if my great-great grandfather, in the early days of the post-Civil War era, had somehow been miraculously transported forward in time, and then viewed these same photos, that he would have wept.
As we mark the one-year anniversary of the attack on the U.S. Capitol, a time of unprecedented division in which we could be witnessing the initial stages of the dissolution of our union, remember the brave Union soldiers who fought, and died, to preserve it.
AFTERWORD – A few months after my initial visit to Fernwood Cemetery, with the help of the cemetery staff, I did find my great-great grandfather’s grave. Interestingly, nearby was the grave of another Civil War veteran, Thomas H.L. Payne, a Medal of Honor recipient.
More stories of the veterans of America’s wars can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
Excerpt from the book “Soldiers, Space and Stories of Life” by Chris Gibbons. Originally published in the December 7, 2011 Philadelphia Inquirer.
It was Sunday, December 7, 1941, just a few minutes before 8am, and a large formation of planes was traveling west in the clear, blue Hawaiian sky, towards the U.S. Naval Base at Pearl Harbor. Initially, Army Tech Sergeant Dave Coonahan of Philadelphia didn’t think there was anything unusual about the planes. He was riding in a truck with some fellow soldiers headed for Sunday Mass, and planes were always taking off or landing at Kaneohe Naval Air Station, so Dave assumed it was just normal flight traffic. But as the drone of the planes grew louder, Dave thought the situation was somewhat odd. He looked up and was puzzled not only by the large numbers of planes, but their strange shapes as well. Suddenly, a voice came over the truck radio: “This is not a drill…this is not a drill!” Then one of the men shouted, “They’re Japanese Zeros!”
The droning engines of the Zeros changed to a terrifying whine as they quickly dove down into attack formation. The truck stopped and the men scrambled out, but they were totally unprepared for what was happening. “We had our guns and rifles”, Dave said, “But no ammunition.” Although the men were a relatively safe distance away from Kaneohe when the attack started, they could see and hear the devastation that the Zeros were inflicting on the air station.
“An older sergeant finally retrieved some ammunition, but by the time he brought it back, the Japanese had already destroyed over 32 planes at Kaneohe,” Dave recalled. “Some of our planes got off the ground and got a few of the Zero’s, but they gave it to us pretty good that day.”
After neutralizing Kaneohe, the Japanese then focused their assault on their main objective – destroying the U.S. naval fleet at Pearl Harbor. When the infamous sneak attack was over, the U.S. fleet was in ruins with over 2,400 Americans killed and nearly 1,300 wounded. 20 Americans were killed at Kaneohe – 2 civilians and 18 sailors.
That night, Dave’s battalion was ordered back to the beach at Kaneohe to defend against a Japanese amphibious assault. Although the attack never came, the battalion remained on the island for months. “If they decided to attack after our preparations, we were ready,” Dave said.
Dave grew up in North Philadelphia and graduated from Northeast Catholic High School before he was drafted into the Army. Prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor, Dave’s 34th Combat Engineer Battalion helped with the construction of the Army fortifications on Oahu, and built the soldier’s barracks near Kaneohe. The men were initially quite pleased with their assignment in Hawaiian “paradise”, as they called it, and Dave thought the “luck of the Irish must be with me.” But his luck wouldn’t last as the dark clouds of war soon dimmed the army life he once knew.
Incredibly, Pearl Harbor wasn’t the worst of what Dave would experience. He fought throughout the Pacific for 47 months without receiving one furlough. His unit participated in the invasion of Saipan in June 1944, and he was part of the initial invasion of Okinawa in 1945. During my interview with him, Dave choked-up a few times as the bitter memories of Okinawa came flooding back. “It was awful there,” Dave said. “My worst memories of the war were at Okinawa.” When the Japanese finally surrendered in 1945, Dave’s unit was preparing to invade the Japanese islands of Kyushu and Honshu. “Thank God that never happened. It would have been a nightmare,” he told me.
When Dave finally returned to Philadelphia, the city buses were running hopelessly late, and he had to pick up his heavy barracks bag and walk home. I asked Dave if he thought the “luck of the Irish” had deserted him again that day, but he laughed and said, “Oh no, it was with me. I was home.”
Dave and his late wife, Mary, raised 4 children, and he worked for the Prudential Insurance Company for 33 years. He’s now 92 years old, and still resides in the same Oreland, Pa house where he raised his children.
On that fateful morning in December 1941, Dave never did make it to church. But when I asked him if he had anything special planned to mark the 70th anniversary of the attack, I wasn’t surprised by his response: “I’ll just go to church and pray for those who died that day.”
AFTERWORD
Dave Coonhan’s daughter, Kate, set up my interview with him at her home, and, like so many of the war veterans that I’ve interviewed over the years, Dave was humble, unassuming, and proud of his wartime service. I was unaware until the interview that Dave also fought in the Battle of Okinawa following the attack on Pearl Harbor. He kept his emotions in check when he spoke of Pearl Harbor, but the memories of Okinawa must have been his most haunting as Dave became visibly emotional when discussing them. The fact that he spent 47 straight days on the battle-lines is almost unimaginable. Dave was also a member of Sandy Run Country Club in Flourtown, Pa. for 69 years, and I was informed by a fellow member that shortly after my essay was published, it was framed and hung on a wall for all the members to see, as most knew nothing of Dave’s service during WW II. He died in January, 2016, and I sincerely hope that Dave’s story still hangs on that wall at Sandy Run.
More stories of World War II veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and the Korean War, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
It was December 20, 1943, just five days before Christmas, and the 21 year-old pilot of American B-17F bomber Ye Olde Pub, First Lieutenant Charles “Charlie” Brown, was desperately trying to keep his heavily damaged plane aloft in the skies over Germany.
As recently chronicled in the 2012 award winning book, “A Higher Call” by Adam Makos (with Larry Alexander), the Pub had just completed its bombing run of a Focke-Wulf airplane manufacturing plant in the German city of Bremen, but it was attacked by a swarm of Messerschmitt fighter planes, as well as ground based anti-aircraft guns. The crew fought back as best they could, and even shot down one of the German fighters, but they clearly absorbed the worst of the fight. The bomber’s nose, wings, and fuselage were riddled with gaping holes, and it was leaking oil and hydraulic fluid. Half of its rudder was missing, and one of its engines was out. When Brown asked for a damage report, one of the crew replied, “We’re chewed to pieces.”
Nearly half the members of the Pub’s crew were wounded, their blood splattered throughout the interior of the bomber. The ball turret gunner, Hugh “Ecky” Eckenrode, was dead, his body slumped over the machine gun. His dripping blood formed icicles in the freezing air that now rushed in through the shattered turret’s Plexiglas.
At one point, Brown told his crew that he was going to try to fly the damaged bomber back to England, but he gave them the option to bail out while they were still flying over land. They all decided to stay with their commander. Brown knew that their chances of making it back were slim, but he still had hope.
As the bomber limped towards the North Sea, a dark shape just off the right wing of the B-17 caught Brown’s attention. He looked through the cockpit window and was terrified by what he saw. It was a German Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighter plane, piloted by Luftwaffe ace Franz Stigler. The fighter plane was so close that Brown could clearly see Stigler’s face. The co-pilot of the B-17, Spencer ”Pinky” Luke, said, “My God, this is a nightmare.” Brown responded, “He’s going to destroy us.”
When Stigler initially encountered the B-17, he was prepared to fire. He was not only just one more air victory from qualifying for the prestigious Knight’s Cross, but Stigler also sought vengeance for his older brother August, who had been killed earlier in the war.
But as he closed on the stricken bomber and surveyed the damage, he couldn’t believe that it was still flying. Stigler could clearly see the dead tail gunner and his blood stained jacket. The holes in the fuselage were so large that he could even see the Pub’s crew caring for the wounded.
Stigler, a Catholic who once studied to be a priest, placed his hand on his jacket pocket and felt the rosary beads that were inside. His thoughts turned to his brother, and he also remembered the words of his former commander, legendary German Luftwaffe fighter ace Gustav Rodel, who once told him: “You follow the rules of war for you — not your enemy. You fight by rules to keep your humanity.” Stigler decided that he could not shoot and “would not have this on my conscience for the rest of my life.”
Stigler pulled up alongside the bomber and tried to get Brown’s attention. He was waving his hands and mouthing the word “Sweden” in an attempt to get the American pilot to land his severely damaged aircraft there, as Sweden was a neutral country and only 30 minutes away. But Brown and Luke couldn’t understand what Stigler was doing. They still thought that he was going to attack, and were determined to go down fighting. Brown ordered one his gunners to prepare to fire.
Finally realizing that the Americans would never understand, Stigler saluted Brown and said “Good luck, you’re in God’s hands.” Brown was puzzled, and the image of Stigler saluting him before he peeled away stayed with him for the rest of his life.
Fortunately, the crew of Ye Olde Pub made it back to England that day and survived the remainder of the war. Brown eventually married, raised two daughters, and worked for the State Department for many years before retiring to Florida. But that day in 1943 always haunted him. In the 1980’s, Brown started to have nightmares about the incident, and decided to try and find the German pilot. He diligently searched military records, attended pilot reunions, and placed an ad in a newsletter for former German WW II pilots with the story of what happened.
Stigler, who moved to Canada in 1953, saw the ad and sent Brown a letter in 1990, letting him know that he was the German pilot who spared his crew. As Brown read the letter, tears streamed down his cheeks. When the two finally met in a Florida hotel lobby, they embraced and wept.
Franz and Charlie became great friends, went on fishing trips together, attended military reunions together, and spoke at schools and other events. Charlie even organized a reunion of the crew of Ye Olde Pub that was featured in a CBS This Morning segment in which a video was played for Franz showing pictures of the children and grandchildren of the crew. The message to Franz was obvious, and he broke down in tears. “The war cost him everything,” Makos said. “Charlie Brown was the only good thing that came out of World War II for Franz. It was the one thing he could be proud of.”
Franz Sigler died in March 2008, and Charlie died just 8 months later. Franz once gave Charlie a book with a note he had written on the inside cover, and his words not only reveal his love for Charlie, but also serve as a reminder to all of us of the true meaning of Christmas:
In 1940, I lost my only brother as a night fighter. On the 20th of December, 4 days before Christmas, I had the chance to save a B-17 from her destruction, a plane so badly damaged it was a wonder that she was still flying. The pilot, Charlie Brown, is for me, as precious as my brother was. Thanks Charlie.
Your Brother,
Franz
AFTERWORD
A friend of mine, Pat Mundy, gave me the book, “A Higher Call”, and said “You must read this book. It’s an amazing story and right up your alley.” Pat was right. It truly is a fantastic book that chronicles one of the most incredible war stories I’ve ever come across. An e-mail I received from an Inquirer reader eloquently captured my feelings about the bond shared by Charlie and Franz, as well as my hopes for all of humanity: “Your essay reminds us of our immense capability for love and compassion, but also of our immense capability for savagery, a duality recognized by Abraham Lincoln in his first inaugural address: ‘We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.’ Here’s hoping the ‘better angels of our nature’ prevail for all in the coming year. Merry Christmas.”
More stories of World War II veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and the Korean War, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
(Edited version originally published in the November 27, 2016 Philadelphia Inquirer)
“The darkest night is often the bridge to the brightest tomorrow.” (Jonathan Lockwood Huie)
I was barely awake on that recent mid-summer morning as I started to read the text from Ed, one of my closest childhood friends. It had been sent hours before, while I slept. My heart raced faster as I read each word. “Oh my God!”, I uttered. My wife sat up in bed, alarmed by the pained expression on my face. “What?! What is it?!”, she asked. I was still trying to comprehend what I was reading and couldn’t respond. “It’s….it’s Ed’s little daughter, Julia. She was rushed to the hospital. She’s really sick. Something in her brain.” I immediately called Ed, completely forgetting that it was 5am in Los Angeles. As we spoke, for the first time in the 48 years that I’ve known him, I sensed fear in his voice.
In the days and weeks following that call, I couldn’t stop thinking about the terrible anxiety and heartache that Ed and his family were enduring, and how life, at times for all of us, can seem so difficult and unfair. I was occasionally overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness in knowing that my friend and his family were struggling and there was nothing that I could do.
It was also during this time that “The Bridge” seemed to be reaching out to me. Although I’ve driven over the bridge at Henry and Valley Avenues in Roxborough hundreds of times in the last 40 years, I hadn’t really given much thought to the teenage years that I’d spent there with Ed and the other guys from our “crew”. But now it seemed that each time I drove over it, something seemed to seep within my sub-conscience, a faint message tantalizingly close to clarity, yet elusive as the wind. Maybe it was just simple nostalgia, or perhaps little Julia’s struggle triggered in me that innate desire, shared by many of us, to return to a simpler time when there was no fear, a time when the pressures wrought by the complexities of life didn’t seem to exist, a time when Ed and I had yet to cross over the threshold from adolescence into adulthood. I cannot say. But something linked to the bridge seemed to be calling out to me with an indistinct message that lay just beyond the periphery of my understanding. I decided to go back to the bridge to see if I could find what that message may be.
As I walked towards the bridge on that hot summer day I wasn’t really sure of what I was looking for or what I’d find, but the memories of my days there suddenly flooded back. I remembered that people in the surrounding neighborhood thought that it was strange that my buddies and I “hung out” under a bridge, and called us “trolls”. We weren’t offended by the name, and actually reveled in the unique identity it created for us. The bridge had a 50 foot x 15 foot leveled, compacted-dirt ledge directly underneath its northern side with a 9 foot floor to ceiling headroom. It became our sanctuary that not only shielded us from the wind, rain, and snow, but also temporarily safeguarded our carefree teen spirit from the ever encroaching world of adulthood and responsibility.
I bounded down the old path that led underneath the bridge and my nostalgic visit to the past quickly became a sobering meeting with the present. It seemed darker and colder than I remembered. Spray-painted, bubble-letter graffiti, commonly found on old Philadelphia warehouse buildings, now adorned the walls. It also appeared that someone was living there as a chair was positioned in front of a still-smoldering fire-pit. There was an old coat, fast-food trash, jugs of water, and a large plastic container strewn around the dirt ledge. All remnants of our days there were gone, and my positive memories of the place where lifelong friendships had been forged were now tarnished by what it had become. It felt strange, yet oddly familiar, and as I looked at the empty chair, I couldn’t help but view it as an ominous warning of a life that may have been.
I walked up the path from underneath the bridge that day, convinced that there was no hidden message to be found there, but as I looked out onto Henry Avenue, I immediately noticed something very odd – there were no cars on the usually bustling roadway. In that silent, surreal moment, I looked across the empty bridge towards the other side, and realized for the first time just how sharply it curved around the bend. You couldn’t see what was on the other side of the bend, or where the road led – just like life.
It was then that I finally understood the elusive message: rather than being a sanctuary, the bridge was akin to a damp cellar in which we hid. It was only when we emerged from underneath it, and traveled on the road above it, did all of us finally reach the unique destinations that awaited us. Many of us were fortunate enough to bring new lives into this world, which brought great joy and meaning to our journeys. But Julia’s plight embodied the fear and heartache that can sometimes accompany us as we travel on the road of life. The key is to confront and overcome these obstacles, rather than try to escape from them.
Thankfully, the news from Julia’s doctors gradually improved with each passing day. It turns out that she has an AVM, a tangle of abnormal blood vessels connecting arteries and veins in her brain, but Julia’s case is highly treatable and she’s expected to make a full recovery. The last time that I spoke to Ed, the fear in his voice was gone and I was proud of the way he and his wife, Adrianna, bravely confronted what has to be every parent’s nightmare.
I drove over the bridge recently, and noticed thin wisps of smoke drifting up from below. It curled up and over the bridge, momentarily morphing into the ghostly apparitions of young boys and drifting far up into the sunlit sky until gradually fading away. I watched it disappear as I crossed the bridge, and rounded the bend, towards whatever destination awaited me on the other side.
AFTERWORD
As I write this in January, 2020, I’m happy to report that Julia has recovered quite well over these last 3 ½ years, and, now a vibrant, young teenager, is doing just fine. In regards to the Bridge, some of my friends thought that I was a bit too harsh in my assessment of it (ie:”… rather than being a sanctuary, the bridge was akin to a damp cellar in which we hid.”), as they have many fond recollections of our days and nights spent there. I have great memories of it as well, but metaphorically speaking, I still believe that the Bridge represented the path that we had to take in order to cross that sometimes scary gulf separating adolescence and adulthood. My friends and I temporarily stopped our journey, and went under the Bridge until we were ready to cross it. Looking back, perhaps I was a bit harsh – because we sure did have a lot of fun there before it was time to go!
More stories of growing up in Philadelphia, as well as the harrowing stories of America’s war veterans, and the triumphs of space exploration can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
(Edited version published in the December 16, 2004 Philadelphia Daily News)
The light snow fell steadily in the Ardennes Forest of southern Belgium during the early morning hours of December 16, 1944. The American soldiers stationed in the area slept soundly that night as the prevailing opinion among the Allies was that the German army was in complete disarray and couldn’t possibly regroup to mount an offensive of any significance. At 5:30am that morning, the stunned U.S. 1st Army division soon found out how badly they had miscalculated.
Eight German armored divisions and thirteen infantry divisions launched an all out attack. It was the beginning of what came to be known as The Battle of the Bulge, the largest land battle of World War II in which the United States participated. Hitler’s plan was to trap the Allied troops in Holland and Belgium, and push to the key Belgian port city of Antwerp. He believed that the alliance between the U.S. and Britain was already fragile, and that this new offensive would further split the relationship, thus buying him more time to develop his secret weapons and rebuild his depleted and exhausted army. Hitler’s plan was dependent upon speed and extended bad weather to keep the Allied air forces grounded. Hitler also believed he had history on his side as it was in the Ardennes that he launched his successful surprise attack against France only 4 years earlier.
The initial hours of the attack were wildly successful for the Germans. U.S. Army units were surrounded or destroyed by the fast moving Wermacht, and large numbers of G.I.’s were surrendering. Sergeant Ed Stewart of the 84th infantry recalled the initial chaos and fear among the Americans. “The screaming sound of 288s, which was a major artillery on the part of the Germans, is absolutely frightening, it’s a nightmare”, he said. It seemed that Hitler’s impossible gamble just might succeed.
However, on December 17 the Germans made a fatal mistake. On a road leading to the Belgian town of Malmedy, SS troops committed one of the worst atrocities of the war. Some 86 American POW’s were shot in a snow covered field. Those that tried to crawl away were shot as well. However, some did escape and as word spread of the massacre, the tide began to turn as determined and enraged American soldiers, some cut-off from their units and completely surrounded, began to take the initiative and refused to surrender.
82nd Airborne staff sergeant Ted Kerwood of New Jersey was one such soldier. His unit was quickly rushed in to the battle, and as they approached a bridge in the Belgian town of Bielsaim on Christmas Eve, they noticed a column of German tanks and infantry quickly closing to cross the bridge. A volunteer was needed to run down and set explosives to blow the bridge before the enemy crossed it. Ted said that he would do it. “We just had to go up there and take care of the situation”, Ted told me in a recent interview. “You’re not really scared until after it’s over. You just have a job to do, and you do it.” Kerwood was awarded the Silver Star for his actions that day. The fierce resistance of the U.S. 28th, 106th, and 101st divisions was also a key factor in delaying the German advance. But the most famous example of U.S. resolve occurred in the town of Bastogne, where the surrounded U.S. troops refused to yield to superior German forces. The stunned Germans were told to “go to hell” when they requested the Americans to surrender.
The tenacious defense across the battlefield by the American soldiers soon caused the German advance to slow, and ultimately signaled defeat for Hitler. As the German offensive ground to a halt, it was destroyed by superior Allied airpower when the weather cleared in late December.
This Christmas Eve, be thankful for the many blessings that we sometimes take for granted. Remember that 60 years ago on this date, in the freezing cold of the Ardennes Forest, a determined group of American soldiers helped to ensure the freedom we have today. They spent that Christmas Eve wondering whether it would be their last, and for many of them it was. During this holiday season, take a moment to remember the veterans of this battle, and those who gave their lives, and raise a glass in salute. Remember, that the likes of these men may never be seen again.
This article is dedicated to the memory of Battle of the Bulge veteran Lawrence W. Summers of Roxborough.
More stories of World War II veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and the Korean War, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
70 years ago this month, Philadelphia’s Ed Aversa was among the 1st Marine Division soldiers who were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded at Korea’s Chosin Reservoir. Their legendary fight for survival during a blizzard is now regarded as the Marine Corps’ ‘Finest Hour’. (Originally published in the November 26, 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer)
It was late November 1950, and the biting wind and snow relentlessly swirled around the 1st Division Marines at the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea as they desperately fought their way south towards the American held town of Hagaru. Marine Corporal Ed Aversa from the Roxborough section of Philadelphia, began to wonder if he’d make it out of Chosin alive. In the midst of an unprecedented Siberian cold front that gripped the Korean peninsula, as temperatures plummeted to minus 30 degrees, the Chinese had launched a massive, surprise assault against the U.N. forces in North Korea. One of their main objectives was to encircle, and then annihilate, the Marines at Chosin. Although Ed, still spry and feisty at 87 years old, thought that he might die at Chosin, he wasn’t going down without a fight. He smiled at me as he echoed the famous words of his heroic Division Commander, Oliver Smith: “We weren’t retreating, we were just fighting in a different direction.”
But when I pressed him for more details of the battle, his smile quickly faded, and his eyes glazed over as a haunting memory of what he witnessed during the worst of the fighting seeped back into mind. “When we first arrived at Chosin”, Ed recalled, “a truck backed up to the cargo plane we just got off of. It was loaded with dead Marines…naked….not a stitch of clothing on them. Frozen bodies in all different positions. They were so unprepared for the winter, for what happened, that they stripped them of their clothes so they could re-use them. One of our officers said ‘Gentlemen, we are here for one reason now – to survive’.”
In the chaotic days following the Chinese attack, with the army of U.N. forces commander Douglas MacArthur in full-scale retreat, the senior military leaders in Washington ineptly struggled to deal with the crisis. David Halberstam’s brilliant book on the Korean War, “The Coldest Winter” revealed that as MacArthur began to unravel, incoherently mumbling to his aides while refusing to heed the advice from Washington, the Joint Chiefs meekly sat “around waiting for someone else to do something”. But with American soldiers dying by the hundreds each day, there was one senior officer who was outraged by Washington’s impotence and “vacuum of leadership”: General Matthew B. Ridgway. Halberstam detailed a meeting that took place with the Joint Chiefs on December 3rd that very likely led to the eventual decision to replace MacArthur with Ridgway. It was “another long meeting where, in Ridgway’s mind, they were unable to issue an order…Finally, Ridgway asked for permission to speak and then – he wondered later whether he had been too blunt – said that they had all spent too much damn time on debate and it was time to take some action. They owed it to the men in the field, he said, ‘and to the God to whom we must answer for those men’s lives to stop talking and to act’. When he finished, no one spoke.” When the meeting concluded, Ridgway asked Air Force Chief of Staff, Hoyt Vandenberg, “Why don’t the Chiefs send orders to MacArthur and tell him what to do?” Vandenberg shook his head. “What good would that do? He wouldn’t obey the orders. What can we do?” Ridgway then exploded. “You can relieve any commander who won’t obey orders, can’t you?!”
The drama unfolding in Washington paled in comparison to the fierce fight being waged by the Marines at Chosin. Fortunately for them, a brilliant tactical decision made in the weeks prior to the Chinese surprise attack by 1st Marine Division commander, Oliver P. Smith, not only enabled the Marines to escape encirclement, but to also inflict heavy casualties on the marauding enemy soldiers. “Oliver Smith was a smart man, and a good general”, Ed said. In early November, Smith expressed concern with his orders to continue heading north towards the Chinese border because he believed that his Marines were walking into a carefully planned and deadly trap. His request to slow their advance was denied by MacArthur, but, unbeknownst to his superiors, Smith cleverly left supplies and established airfields along their route so that they could fight their way out if his instincts were right.
Ed recalled one particular night of intense combat during their withdrawal from Chosin. “An officer said, “anything moving – hit it. They (the Chinese troops) were 20 yards in front of us, and we didn’t know they were there. Then, all of a sudden, they started with the noise – bugles, whistles – anything to try and rattle us. They didn’t know that every Marine was wide awake waiting for them. When daylight came, their dead were everywhere…only 15 yards away…frozen.” As the fighting withdrawal continued, what initially appeared to be a disaster for the Marines, is now regarded as one of their greatest military moments. “When we got to Hagaru, (Marine 1st Regiment commander) Chesty Puller was standing there with his pipe in his mouth”, Ed recalled, “He said ‘A lot of boys went up that hill, but a lot of men coming down now’.” When the battle finally concluded in mid-December, the Chinese had succeeded in driving the Marines out of Chosin, but at a terrible cost. Although the Marines were outnumbered 8-1, and sustained over 11,000 casualties, U.N. estimates show that Chinese casualties were a staggering 40,000 to 80,000. Chinese General Song Shi-Lun offered his resignation. Unfortunately for Shi-Lun, Ed and his fellow Marines didn’t go down without a fight.
Today, Ed is extremely proud to count himself among the “Chosin Few”, those Marines who stunningly turned certain annihilation into one the most remarkable feats of courage and survival in the annals of military history. He told me that when he looks at how far South Korea has come since the war, he almost can’t believe it’s the same country he left in 1951. “When I first arrived, I thought, what is this place, and what the hell are we doing here? But I look at the country now, and I’m proud of what we did. And the Korean people and the Korean government have not forgotten us.”
In my short time with Ed, I learned that he does not seek recognition, and prefers to keep his emotions in check. Perhaps his most endearing quality is his sense of humor. Following my interview, I put on my coat and said, “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.” Ed shot me a sarcastic look and replied, “When someone says it’s getting cold, I just give ‘em a look and say, ‘Really?’”
More stories of Korean War veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and World War II, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
On September 26, 1918, the soldiers of the 28th Division, many of them from Philadelphia, nervously glanced at their watches as dawn approached. The massive artillery fire from their gunners which had begun hours before had finally ceased. H Hour was nearly upon them, and as the men in the trenches awaited the signal to “go over the top”, the macabre paradoxes of war found many shaken with fear, yet strengthened by courage while stalked by Death.
For 28th Division Lieutenant Daniel Lafferty of the 109th Infantry Regiment, and Sergeant Bernard Breen of the 108th Machine Gun Battalion, both alumni of Philadelphia’s Roman Catholic High School, the moment was all too familiar as they had already experienced heavy fighting during the summer. Indeed, Lafferty was slightly wounded just a few weeks before, but had returned to his regiment. It’s likely that their thoughts were for the men that they would soon lead into battle, as Lafferty and Breen were well-respected Army veterans, admired for their leadership qualities. Both had served on the Mexican border in 1915, and Lafferty had received his commission a few months prior to the battle, while Breen had just been recommended for his commission. They knew that the success of the attack, and the lives of their men, depended upon how well they would lead them into battle.
A rolling fog crept through the Argonne forest as the officers told their men to get ready. Helmet straps were tightened. Field packs, gas masks, rifles, and ammunition were checked. Fighting was expected to be at close quarters, and a final order was barked to the infantry: “Fix bayonets!”
_ _ _
On the morning of September 26, 1918, at 5:30am, following a 6 hour Allied artillery barrage from over 2,700 guns, the largest and deadliest battle ever fought by American soldiers began: The great Meuse-Argonne Offensive. Its primary objective was to capture the Sedan-Mezieres railroad hub, Germany’s main supply and communication link, which was located between the River Meuse and the Argonne Forest. The Allies believed that capturing this crucial railway hub would result in a German withdrawal from France and force them to capitulate. It would not be an easy task. Opposing the attacking Allied soldiers along this front just north of Verdun were 40 German Army divisions.
The bitterly-fought battle lasted 47 days, and ultimately resulted in the end of the Great War. It involved 1.2 million American soldiers, and by the time that it concluded, 26,277 U.S. troops lost their lives, with another 95,786 wounded – the highest number of casualties for any battle ever fought by American soldiers. Newspaper accounts of the great battle captivated an American public anxious for news from the front lines. Worried families of the soldiers agonized as they read these dispatches which not only provided horrific descriptions of the battle, but listed the mounting casualties as well.
Perhaps the most sobering revelation of my now 9-year search for the alumni of Roman Catholic High School who gave their lives in World War 1 has been the terrible suffering that was endured by Philadelphians, both the soldiers and their families, during the Battle of the Meuse-Argonne. Newspapers from that era, such as the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Philadelphia Public Ledger, and the Catholic Standard and Times, have been my most valuable resource in this search, and it was while poring over these newspapers from 1918 that I noticed a gradual, yet significant, change beginning with the early days of the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. The number of names on the daily published casualty lists, as well as the number of ominous stories from the front lines, slowly began to increase. In the Public Ledger, pictures of the dead and wounded soldiers, with their accompanying short biographies, sometimes covered a full page. The grim casualty lists which had previously been a half-column in length, gradually expanded to 3 columns.
There were also numerous heartbreaking stories of parents receiving news that two of their sons had been killed, or that a previous notification of a son’s death was incorrect. And due to the archaic communication flow of that era, there were also stories of parents receiving a letter from their son after already being notified that he had been killed in battle. My two sons are the same age as the soldiers I was reading about, and many times I had to stop reading the articles to gather myself.
My search for the names of the 32 Roman alumni who died in World War 1 has determined that many lost their lives during the Meuse–Argonne offensive. On November 1, 1918 the Philadelphia Public Ledger reported that Bernard Breen had been “killed in action during the fighting along the Meuse.” The article noted that his brother, Joseph, was an Army Captain, also serving in France.
The December 9, 1918 Philadelphia Inquirer revealed that Daniel Lafferty was “killed in action in the Argonne Forest.” Five days later, the Catholic Standard & Times reported that Lafferty was killed while “bravely leading his men in the early dawn in the advance before Petit Boureuilles, near the Argonne Forest, and edifying his men by his courage…” It also stated that a letter from a fellow soldier was sent to his widow, Mrs. Esther Lafferty, that “pays a glowing tribute to the deceased as an officer and a man.”
Information traveled slowly back then, and my subsequent research found that, although their families received official notifications of their deaths in late October and early December, both men had actually died on September 27 – just one day after the start of the great Offensive.
Sergeant Bernard Breen and Lieutenant Daniel Lafferty, alumni of Roman Catholic High School, who both served in the 28th Division and lost their lives on the same day, are buried in France at the Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery. Their graves are located in the same Plot, just 2 rows apart.
More stories of Great War veterans, as well as an entire chapter chronicling the author’s search for the Roman Catholic High School alumni who died in World War I, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:
My new book, Soldiers, Space and Stories of Life, is now available for purchase in Kindle format at Amazon (link below). It will be available in book/print format by mid-August at my publisher’s website, and then in book/print format at Amazon in early September.
