Back in August of  2010 I posted an article on Big Hollywood discussing the release of my World War II novel, “Hummel’s Cross.”  It is a fictional account, as told from the introspective first person narrative of an old man, of the events in the life Erich Hummel, a German youth who ends up flying fighter planes for the Luftwaffe during the war and is so skilled as to be decorated by Hitler himself.

And yet he will eventually turn traitor to the Nazi regime by first helping to hide and then eventually spirit a family of German Jews out of the country during the height of the air war over Western Europe.

What made the book’s release an interesting story in and of itself is that I decided to forgo—perhaps ‘bypass’ is a better word—the traditional route of many submissions to literary agents and then, should I be lucky enough to land representation, eventual publication under an existing publishing house. Instead I took a chance and published the book myself, through my own company that I formed called OCM Paperbacks (a division of my money management firm Occam Capital). There were several reasons for going down this road.

Why Did I Self-Publish?

First of all, it is very difficult for even the finest of fiction pieces to find an agent, let alone get published.  This is a sign of the times, and I do not fault the houses for this.  Like all businesses, they have limited resources and must, in the end, make a profit more than a literary statement.  If given the choice between an unknown author offering up a fiction title or either the next batch of Stephen King manuscripts or a renowned (or infamous) figure in the news coming out with a tell-all memoir, of course they must go for the sure thing.  So the odds are my manuscript, like the vast majority of  submissions, would have died in the “reject” pile. (more…)

Why does Hollywood seem to despise Roman Catholicism?

Granted, the industry’s antipathy towards religion as a whole, and Christianity in particular, is pretty much a given. But it appears that within this circle, no religion to them is more anathema than Roman Catholicism.

The latest swipe at the world’s largest Christian population, all 1.1 billion of us (plus another 240 million Eastern Orthodox) comes from, surprise surprise, uber-leftist Susan Sarandon. It is interesting that she should accuse Pope Benedict XVI  of being a “Nazi” at this time because I was trying to figure a way to discuss all the good that Roman Catholics have done through incredible acts of bravery and self-sacrifice over the years.

To call the Pope a Nazi because, like all German youths, he was conscripted into the Hitler Youth during the Fuehrer’s reign of absolute power may provide Ms. Sarandon with a shot of self-righteous hauteur she so desperately craves. It also shows a lack of historical understanding that seems to be a requirement if one wishes to join the coterie of far-left fantasy-performer/activists.

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Commemorating the 150th anniversary of the opening hostilities of the Civil War, the History Channel is offering up a bevy of programming which kicked off Sunday with the two-hour documentary Gettysburg. Executive produced by brothers Ridely and Tony Scott, it offers a very personal account of the war taken from the perspective of the “boots on the ground” so to speak who fought (and died) during those terrible first three days in July 1863.  As an unapologetic Civil War “buff” I was looking forward to this episode.  I was especially psyched as the Gettysburg campaign is my focus of study and I’ve walked  the battlefield many times.  I was not disappointed with the Scotts’ program…and yet I was at the same time.

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First of all, about the show itself:  Gettysburg takes us through the three-day battle starting us at around 9:00am on July 1, 1863 and then focuses on several key moments throughout the see-saw fighting that would ravage the town and the surrounding countryside, leaving 55,000 casualties in its wake.  It follows several men on the front lines, from foot soldiers to generals.  Some live, some die.  Each has a story to tell and we see the raw terror mixed with unimaginable bravery that such battles summoned.  It also shows the ghastly wounds that were a horrible consequence of modern weapons meeting outdated line tactics of the day. The program is also quite effective at showing this to be a savage affair (including a graphic depiction of a Union soldier splitting a rebel’s skull with his rifle butt that had me cringing.)  If Gettysburg’s purpose was, as the History Channel’s website announces, to “strip away the romanticized veneer of the Civil War to present the pivotal Battle of Gettysburg in a new light—a visceral, terrifying and deeply personal experience” then it does the job.

There were, however, disappointments that I really didn’t expect.  First is the heavy reliance on re-enactors despite the liberating aspect of modern CGI.  (Perhaps budgetary constraints were in play here).  Re-enactors are great for replaying tiny segments of the battle, and the consultants must have paid particular attention to the grime and filth, even the tattered uniforms, so prevalent among un-bathed Civil War soldiers in the field.  But like the Turner feature film of the same name almost two decades earlier, the numerical limits of available play-actors means that these depictions are hopelessly under-populated.  According to the June 30 rolls, a combined 185,000 soldiers (105,000 Union, 80,000 Confederate) were in the area.  This means that massive infantry formations and rows of artillery lined hub-to-hub were engaged.  For example, the Confederate line of battle that assaulted the Union position on Herr’s Ridge at the very beginning of the still-developing fight was almost a mile wide.  (And that was just two brigades.  Three to five brigades made up a Confederate division, three divisions a corps, three corps made up the Army of Northern Virginia).  Indeed, Gettysburg was one of the few open field battles where entire mass formations were in plain view at once creating what one Alabama soldier described as “a grand panorama with the sounds of conflict added.”

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As Peter Dennis Blansford Townshend’s mother would tell the story, on May 19, 1945 Air Marshall Tedder, searching for Pete’s dad, called out to a gathering of RAF personnel and announced: “It’s a boy.”  Twenty-three years later a budding music legend Pete Townshend announced to another generation the birth of his deaf, dumb and blind incarnation, Tommy Walker, “It’s a boy.”  And so was born the rock opera as the artistic expression of one of rock music’s most powerful intellects and boundless creative forces.  It is said that a man possesses talent, but genius possesses a man.  Entering his 66th year, Pete Townshend, The Who’s principal songwriter and wind milling guitarist, as well as successful solo artist, is a man possessed.

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To encapsulate such a wonderful, creative, chaotic, influential career is an impossible task.  Perhaps the best way  is to let Townshend’s repertoire speak for itself.  Starting with his first chart buster in 1964, I Can’t Explain , he’s written such classic rock songs as My Generation, I Can See For Miles,  Substitute, Magic Bus, has crafted several full Who albums loaded with classics including Tommy, Who’s Next, Quadrophenia, Who By Numbers, Who Are You, Face Dances, It’s Hard, and also offered compelling solo projects such as Who Came First, Empty Glass, All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes, White City, Iron Man, Psychoderelict.  In all, Townshend has composed well over 100 songs, many of which have become anthems of a generation.

This generation was born into the shell-shock of post-WWII England where beneath the malaise dwelled an undercurrent of explosive energy among disaffected youths searching for a vehicle through which to unleash their angst.  Rock music provided just such a force and no country took to this sound that was the offspring of Black America’s blues artists as did England in the 1960s. Townshend, the son of musicians, left his dreams of becoming a graphic artist behind to hit the rock scene with a vengeance.  He followed his old school chum, bassist John Entwistle, who had joined The Detours, fronted by another schoolmate, guitarist/vocalist Roger Daltrey.  With the addition of a new drummer, Keith Moon, the R&B band called first The Who, then The High Numbers then back to The Who again soon made its mark.  The Who became known for raucous sets in which Townshend would ritualistically destroy his guitar while Moon kicked over his drums.

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It’s hard to believe that it’s been four decades since William Peter Blatty’s best-selling horror classic, The Exorcist hit the bookshelves. Having just re-read it for the first time since I was in middle school I was able to discern a theme from the magnum opus that escaped a younger mind more interested in the frightening aspect of demonic possession than the image it presented regarding the Catholic Church. For those who either have never read the book, or may have seen the film a long time ago, both are worthwhile investments of your time. What you may find refreshing is that Blatty’s story is far more than a good scare. It is an intelligent work, and one that presents that rarest of memes in Hollywood: a positive take on the Catholic Church.

The Exorcist is a frightening story. A twelve-year-old girl, Regan McNeil, suddenly shows signs of demonic possession, whose violence and vulgarity increase over time. Meanwhile her mother, movie star Chris McNeil, follows one medical dead end after another in an exasperating effort to find a cure. In utter desperation, Chris (an atheist) turns to a local priest and clinical psychiatrist, Father Damien Karras, to perform an exorcism. Karras is suffering a loss of faith from the death of his mother and is at first adamant that Regan’s condition must be psychological. But after examining the deteriorating Regan and recording eerie conversations with the demonic persona in an intellectual boxing match replete with animal sounds and Biblical references, he agrees to perform the ritual. The Bishops, however, bring in an expert: Father Lankester Merrin. He and the demon are old enemies destined for a final showdown. But Merrin’s frail heart gives out early in the physically exhausting ceremony. Then an enraged Karras, his belief in God firmly restored, challenges the demon to enter into him and leave the innocent Regan. When it does, Karras, now at peace with his renewed faith, wins the ultimate victory by throwing himself out a window to his death, forever freeing Regan and saving her life. (more…)

Like a lot of middle-aged family men who sometimes pine for their days of care-free bachelorhood, I find myself drawn to the HBO series Entourage as a vehicle through which I can vicariously channel my long-gone youth – this time with a bankroll to do it in style. Since its 2004 debut, I’ve enjoyed following the exploits of fictional A-list movie star Vincent Chase (Adrian Grenier) and his band of pilot fish from the hood who’ve hitched their cabooses to his train to live the high life of money, women, and the perks of fame that Hollywood can offer to those so young.

Entourage is one of the few offerings of the entertainment elites that actually turns the cameras back on themselves in an attempt to show the rest of us — stuck out on the sidewalk, pressed up against the velvet ropes of our mundaneness — what life inside Hollywood is like.  I’m not sure what exactly is the purpose of the show beyond just comedy, but I know there is one. Is it to give us a glimpse of the privileged class? Is it to lampoon themselves?  Or just to rub our faces in the fact that their lifestyle is so much cooler than ours?

The show does offer plenty of entertainment with a cast of enjoyable characters: from Jeremy Piven’s AAA-personality uber-agent Ari Gold and his loveable homosexual side-kick Lloyd (Rex Lee), to the affable loser Johnny “Drama” Chase (Kevin Dillon), the pot-smoking leech of leeches Turtle (Jerry Ferrara), and Vince’s relationship-confused if competent and dedicated manager/best friend, Eric “E” Murphy (Kevin Connolly).

There’s no denying that I do enjoy the series. But underneath it all—the babes, the impromptu jaunts to exotic places, the glad-handing with the jet-set, the mansion in which the boys spend most of their days getting high and playing Xbox waiting for Ari to refill Vince’s coffers and thus sustain their permanent adolescence—I’ve found myself shaking my head at the messages it offers.

If Entourage is indeed what Hollywood is all about, then count me out. Would it be great to make millions, get high by a pool all day and buy your friends Ferraris? I guess…for a while. But behind the glamorous façade is really just a bunch of whiney, spoiled punks living empty lives in a fog of pot smoke, material excess and mechanical sex, while bouncing through a false reality that could end at any moment. I find the characters of Drama and Turtle to be especially pathetic. The aging Johnny in his perpetual quest for tail. Turtle, whose depth can be summed up in his racing all over town to fork over $20,000 for a pair of sneakers … cash courtesy of Vince naturally. One wonders how many homeless he passed along the way.

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News of the death of legendary composer John Barry got me perusing through his astoundingly prolific repertoire of classic film scores. Although he is most famous for scoring the many James Bond films (even if his role in penning the original “Dr. No” theme song itself remains in dispute), my personal favorite movie theme by Barry is his overture for the 1964 film Zulu featuring Welsh actor Stanley Baker and a young up-and-coming English actor in his first starring role, Michael Caine.  Barry’s powerful opening score is just one of the many reasons I love this flick.  In fact, I believe that Zulu is one of the great underrated war movies of all time. 

Zulu was directed by blacklisted American screen-writer Cy Enfield who also co-wrote the script with historical writer John Preeble.  The film was produced by Enfield and lead actor Baker through the latter’s newly-formed production company, Diamond Films.  Zulu was a pet project of Baker’s who worked tirelessly to bring his vision of an article penned by Preeble to the screen. 

The film harkens back to the year 1879 during the opening of the Zulu War where lonely British army outpost called Rorke’s Drift sits nestled in the dry and rugged terrain of Natal, South Africa.  The little company of mostly Welsh soldiers left to guard the way station and hospital thinks they’re on quiet rear echelon duty when news arrives that their entire regiment of 1,200 men has been ambushed and massacred at the Battle of Isandlwana by the army of Zulu king Cetewayo (played in the film by the real Zulu chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi).  To make matters worse, 4,000 of them are now headed their way, hell bent on destroying the tiny garrison of just over 100 men. 

Tension builds within the command structure as the infantry company c.o. Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead (Caine) must relinquish control to the visiting Royal Engineers Lt. John Chard (Baker) who, though it’s not his unit, has seniority nonetheless.   Ordered to hold their ground, Chard applies his engineer’s eye to the problem and orders the garrison to construct a concentric series of defense lines from overturned wagons, crates and mealie bags…with a final redoubt at its core.  While the preparations for the attack are underway, the post is visited by a variety of characters. 

Natal native contingent militiaman Ardendorff (Gert Van den Bergh) has just escaped from Isandlwana.  The Boer—who ironically will soon be waging bitter war against the British himself—agrees to stay and act as military consultant.  (more…)

For many Americans outside the Country Music fan base, Keith Urban was not a household name when he married actress and fellow Aussie Nicole Kidman in June 2006.  When just four months after their celebrated in nuptials, Urban, a recovering substance abuser by his own admission, suffered another relapse and after an intervention of friends and family checked himself into Betty Ford, his future as an artist and that of his marriage to the already once-bitten Kidman (she was married to actor Tom Cruise for eleven years before their sudden and still detail-murky divorce) seemed to hang in the balance.  But he recovered with dignity, has thrived in both his personal and professional life, and cut two LPs since, the latest being Get Closer.

As a long-time fan, it pains me to open this article talking about Urban’s demons and but for their impact on his musical direction it would be none of my business.  It is also too bad that it was under this cloud that his name became more recognized outside his original fan base, for this is a man who has struggled harder, suffered more setbacks, and yet all along possessed more raw talent and musical virtuosity than most artists in any musical genre, let alone country music.  That he was a transplanted Aussie trying for years to break into the parochial Nashville scene beyond doing session work (for which he was renowned), and all the rejection and frustration this implies, makes his ultimate achievement of music super-stardom that much more worthy of praise.  It also explains his tortured past where drugs and alcohol were often all he could turn to during the lean, lonely years. The contrast of his years of clawing his way to the top of the music scene vis-à-vis the coronation of twenty-something American Idol insta-stars needs no comment.  I mean no disrespect to Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood among others, for they deserve their accolades.  But Keith’s success has come through the old-fashioned dues-paying route and so garners more respect in my book.

One can follow his personal journey of ups and downs through his many albums, starting in 1999 with his eponymous first solo release that contains such soul-searching tunes as Out on My Own and his first hit But for the Grace Of God.  His work is, in fact, a mirror held up to himself.  He even tackles his own battle with addiction in the haunting You’re Not My God (from his second LP, Golden Road).  Urban’s anthology also offers us happier glimpses of the bubbling optimism that exudes from his persona in Live to Love Another Day, Better Life and the wonderful God’s Been Good to Me (my favorite tune from my personal favorite 2004 album, Be Here). (more…)

Okay.  First of all let me start off  by saying that I have been a musician (piano and more recently guitar – and the spoons) since I was a youngster.  And very few bands influenced me more than the Fab Four.  And of said mop-tops from Liverpool,  Paul was my favorite but I always thought John Lennon was a little cooler in his edginess and willingness to explore musically…sometimes brilliantly (“She Said, She Said”) other times embarrassingly (“number 9?…number 9?…number 9?)

It was with great sadness this thirteen year old heard the news from Howard Cosell, thirty years ago today in fact, on Monday Night Football, that he’d been murdered by that scumbag Mark David Chapman.  Actually, if I may borrow from Dennis Miller, I take that back for that would be an insult to bags of scum.  

Fact: John Lennon changed the music scene for the better and enriched rock-and-roll and all off-shoots from the Sixties onward in a profound way that only a truly gifted artist could.  Still, like his partner Paul, John’s music was never quite so there after the Beatles broke up, showing that a unique synergy did exist, even if by the end they were writing by themselves and for themselves.

That last observation is just a hint of honesty that I think is necessary to remember him properly.  To eulogize Lennon the man rather than just the music takes some frank talk.  And no Lennon song so instills in me the urge to have an adult discussion with the legions of fans who see not just a musician but rather a  mystically enlightened figure than his anthem of the hippy pacifist culture:  “Imagine.”  It is a beautiful piece, elegant in its simplicity of melody.  But the lyrics, quite frankly, irk me.

“Imagine no possessions.  I wonder if you can.”   What I wonder more is whether those who sing this modern-day kumbaya, an homage to an equalitarian society that Orwell would scoff at, are aware that the man who penned these words was worth an estimated $150 million when he died – much if it in real estate, including five apartments claimed in the Dakota co-op on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Three units just for storage—for all those possessions he couldn’t imagine … I guess.  It sort of deflates the message, does it not?  At least it reveals that, for all his talent, Lennon was at his core a textbook limousine liberal who bounced from four-star hotels, to luxury private jets, to castles in the country and posh penthouses in the glitziest of cities to pontificate his world without class, borders, countries, God or, of course, possessions.  (more…)

The official Christmas season begins this month and along with celebrating the birth of my Lord by trampling each other to save 20% on an Xbox at Wal-Mart while supplies last, it also means  the airing of Frank Capra’s iconic 1946 holiday film It’s A Wonderful Life.

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For years I watched this movie and like many Americans would come away with that warm fuzzy feeling.  But one character in this film always bothered me. In fact, I believe that the more appropriate title of Capra’s project should have been It’s A Wonderful Life – If You’re Harry Bailey! Think about it.  George Bailey’s kid brother makes out like a bandit in this flick.  And why is that?  Because Harry (Todd Karns) throughout this film is a steam-roller of selfishness. I will even go so far as to say that Harry Bailey (who was never intended to be a bad guy) is one of the most despicable characters in movies. In scriptwriting it’s formulaic that two villains be created to inject multiple layers of conflict.  Obviously Mr. Potter (Lionel Barrymore) is the uber-villain.  But who’s the other antagonist?  That would be Harry Bailey, who plays his older brother for a sucker throughout the film.  In fact, Harry is either directly or indirectly the root cause of all of George’s miseries.

From a young age Harry seems to conspire to keep George (Jimmy Stewart) pinned down in Bedford Falls, freeing him to fulfill his own dreams while leaving his older brother’s aspirations in a broken heap.  As a child he falls through the ice compelling George to jump into the freezing water to save him and lose hearing in one ear for his heroics. (more…)

“It is time for stronger remedies to be applied,” said abolitionist Wendell Phillips of the Union’s effort during the Civil War, “in the form of hot lead and cold steel duly administered by 100,000 black doctors.”  His vision became a reality as over 180,000 African-Americans (free men and escaped slaves) joined the Union Army to fight against the slave-holding Confederacy.

The story of the first such “colored” regiment to be formed, the 54^th Massachusetts, is beautifully retold in director Edward Zwick’s 1989 film Glory.  That this film didn’t even garner an Oscar nomination for best picture – in a year where Driving Miss Daisy took the prize – is puzzling to me.  Glory features a first-rate script, wonderful imagery, and a stellar cast led by Matthew Broderick who plays Col. Robert Gould Shaw, the real-life idealistic white officer chosen to lead the regiment. The film is also a feast for the ears as the majestic chorus of the Harlem Boys’ Choir permeates the score. (more…)

I am well able to separate artists from their art.  In the entertainment world you have to, otherwise you’d deny yourself some quality product pumped out of the liberal asylum.  And so I must exercise this discipline with one of my favorite television shows.  Although I’m not sure exactly what’s going on with Louis C.K. and his vile statements about Sarah Palin via Twitter (assuming they are indeed his), I nonetheless have been a big fan of his stand-up comedy for many years (with one complaint:  an obsession with the “f-bomb” diminishes his act).  As such, I was disappointed back in 2006 when HBO cancelled his sitcom Lucky Louie after airing only twelve episodes. Now the irreverent comedian is back, this time on the FX channel, starring in the eponymous Louie.  

The last time C.K. was on the air his life was decidedly different as reflected by both the premise and format of the short-lived Lucky Louie.  His first show centered around Louie as a late-thirties, solidly middle-class husband and father of a little girl, whose wife was the primary breadwinner. HBO presented a classic three-camera sitcom in the style of Norman Lear and MTM, complete with a studio audience, and tried to take the format to more daring levels in content and subject matter. But it still tackled that oft-lampooned place in most marriages where the day-to-day hassles of life and familial responsibility have tempered the bliss of love and promise once shared at the altar; yet there still remains a partnership of soul-mates who grapple with issues together. Lucky Louie, for all its cable-liberating blue language, bluntly realistic portrayal of married life, and sometimes seedy topics, was nevertheless generally upbeat.

Since 2006, much has changed in Louis C.K.’s personal life and this spills into his new show simply called Louie ( no“Lucky” this time around). The comedian is now a recently divorced father of two with whom he shares joint custody with his ex-wife. Louie in turn follows the rather glum life of a recently divorced middle-aged (he is 42) father trying to pick up the pieces and live on his own again in a hostile and gritty New York City.  He’s alone in a town of millions. But fear not as this show is not a downer.  Interspersed are snippets of his outstanding comedy routines which often break up the moroseness of his day-to-day life through which the camera follows him around like a voyeur.  It is, in fact, difficult to tell where the character of “Louie” ends, and the real man who created him begins… if there is a dividing line at all. (more…)

People have asked me my opinion of the Rev. Terry Jones’ threat to burn the Quran this past weekend. Personally I think the best thing to do with this story is to not give this insignificant media-hound with all of fifty parishioners a voice. But it’s way too late for that now. So, of course I find the action in poor taste – I would never burn any religion’s sacred parchment. That is just wrong and disrespectful to millions trying to practice their faith and go about their daily lives in peace.

But (there’s always a “but” in such testy cases), when I juxtapose this one twisted symbolic gesture against the disregard—and I would argue contempt—being shown by so-called “moderate” practitioners of Islam who insist on building their mosque almost on top of the ashes of 9/11 victims against the wishes of so many Americans, I can understand the frustration that creates a Jones and his ilk. And the fact is, as Mayor Bloomberg offered up, if there is freedom of speech for the fanatical Muslim goose, it must also be for the crackpot Christian gander.

Still, as a matter of common decency I hope this guy tables forever his plans—and there are no copycats. And as a practical matter, I agree with General Petraeus in that the last thing our men and women in the field need is another faux propaganda storm putting them in greater harm’s way… although I do believe that fear of retaliation should not be a reason to quell free speech but rather to fight harder for it. (Easy for me to say as I am not humping a pack in Kandahar I freely admit!)

However, something did occur to me this weekend. Jones is going about this all wrong. If he really wants to burn the Islamic holy book, I know a way that he could do it while at the same time have every left wing pundit and mainstream news outlet not decry his act but rather defend and even celebrate it. He should burn it on the steps of the Museum Of Modern Art up here in New York. And instead of calling it a protest, or a statement, he should just call his Quran torching “art.” In the interest of consistency, artistic integrity and fairness, maybe he can even do it in the building, right on the same spot where in 1989 the infamous “Piss Christ” photo was proudly exhibited. You remember that? The piece of “art” that showed a crucifix submerged in urine? As artist Andres Serrano explained his artistic vision in an open letter to the National Endowment for the Arts: (more…)

What would I want in the perfect action film?

Let’s see.  There has to be first and foremost a seriously bad-ass villain who seems to hold all the cards.  Bigger, stronger, heavily armed, inimically cunning, and totally remorseless.

Then toss into the mix the unlikely hero who against all odds must somehow find a way to defeat the afore mentioned baddie.  My ideal hero is a scrapper.  A street-smart yet vulnerable guy who knows that his task is impossible but will try like hell to get ‘er done anyway—even if it costs him his life.

As I am a biped (actually a ‘triped’) I would also ask that an attractive heroine be thrown in…but not just any eye-candy floozy.  She looks good in jeans but can also fire a weapon, toss a grenade, laugh, cry, and ultimately serve as the hero’s well-spring from whom he draws one last ounce of inner strength when his own will falters.  And she must have room to grow as the true protagonist of the story. (more…)

Chapter 49
Air Combat From The German Cockpit

We dipped our noses and started to make our run towards the bomber formation.  They grew in size at an exponential rate.  I zeroed in on the lead plane.  I switched on my gun-sight and lined him up.  We were in perfect position for a head-on attack.

It was always intimidating to new blood how quickly these encounters happened.  At such high speeds it took less than fifteen seconds to close from two miles out.  One instant you’re flying towards what looks like nothing more than a dot on your windshield.  Then the dot grows to a smudge.  Then you make out the thin shape, like a ball with two lines sticking out on either side.  Then the shape grows to a cockpit and wings.  Then a plane.  Then a very big plane.  Then a four-engined monster bearing down on you with hundreds behind it!  Suddenly you’re firing all your weapons.  The guns on its turrets blinking like Christmas lights firing back at you.  Tracers whizzing.  A POP! if you’re hit.  Then your own Thump! Thump! of cannons.  Your plane shuddering. The white flashes as your rounds strike home near the cockpit.  The screech of engines in your ear.  Slam the stick forward.  More rattling of machine guns and wailing of engines.  More shapes flit past you.  Tracer rounds criss-crossing as you slice through the bomber formation.  That last buffet as you bounce though their prop wash.  And then you’re below the stream and behind it.  And now all is eerily quiet again but for the humming of your engine and the chatter on the radio.  It all takes but a few seconds.  You pull up and gently climb and maybe perform a chandelle to get a look at what mayhem you’ve just caused.

I leveled off at a ninety degree angle to the bomber stream and scanned across the open sky to see several trails of smoke spewing from a few bombers in the pack.  One I saw spinning out of control to the ground.  My gut told me that one was mine, although I’d have to wait to see what verdict my gun cameras returned.  (more…)

“In Dachau we were forced to look at the so-called gassing installations. They really put on a great show for us there…They showed us normal shower installations that were supposed gassing installations. They showed us two ovens used for 6,000 people who were supposedly gassed.  But there were enough people in prison who knew Dachau intimately.  Who told us that this was all a big show intended to generate a conspiracy of hatred towards Germany.  In Dachau people worked.  In Dachau no one was gassed.  The two ovens were there to burn those who had died naturally.  There were several thousands in the camps and it did happen sometimes.  The whole business was laughable to us and proved to us it was just a show going on.

“In any case, it was never intended to kill the Jews.  This was a development which came when the war was at its peak–which cannot be justified and God help us, it made many enemies for us after the war.  The result?  Hardly anyone nowadays thinks of the positive accomplishments brought to Germany and Europe by Hitler.” –Anonymous Munich citizen, 1974 

“I would say that if we were not all guilty of crimes, then we were at least accomplices.” –Ostheer Soldier Roland Kiemig, 1991 

“We cannot and should not be allowed to win this war.” –Oberstleutnant Helmuth Groscurth in  letter to wife after execution of 90 orphaned Jewish children, 1941    (more…)

My new novel, “Hummel’s Cross,” is the story of a German fighter pilot who risks everything to help a family of Jews escape the Nazis during the height of the air war over Europe. It just went up for sale on Amazon, in hardcopy and Kindle (electronic) formats, and is already selling nicely. As riveting as the book is, another interesting tale is the manner in which “Hummel’s Cross” was published.

Democracy comes to publishing

Amazon recently announced that for every 100 hardcopy books they sell, they now sell 180 via download for their Kindle reader. This is a telling example of how yet another traditional media industry, in this case print publishing, is being turned on its head by the democratization of information that technology and the Internet have unleashed.

Catalyzed by the Kindle, the old model of getting a book published – an author submitting it to literary and publishing houses, and then collecting rejection letters – is becoming obsolete.  Any author with a story worth telling can publish their work on Amazon electronically, practically for free, and let the marketplace decide.  (more…)

Friday, June 25th, marked the sixtieth anniversary of the start of the Korean War. Coming just five years after the end of World War II, the fighting would last three years and cost the lives of 34,000 Americans, 17,000 soldiers from other UN nations, and several million Koreans and Chinese — both military and civilian.

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You would think with such serious statistics and the pain, suffering, sacrifice and drama they imply, that Hollywood would have been drawn to the Korean War as a setting for a bevy of war movies. But sadly there are only a few films that tackle the subject. Still, some notables do stand out.  So if you are looking for a way to honor the veterans of what has been called “the forgotten war” (apparently by Hollywood, as well), I hope you’ll look back at the previous chapters of this series in which I humbly presented my five favorite Korean War films, starting with the most recent one produced.

My thoughts on the war and its meaning (especially since my dad fought there) can be found at Big Government. Here at BH my interest was in Hollywood’s treatment of the subject matter as expressed through the motion picture medium.  (more…)

Pork Chop Hill (1959): Unlike other films where Korea was used merely as a backdrop against which other issues are explored, Pork Chop Hill is a true Korean War movie. Based on historian General S.L.A. Marshall’s  eponymous book Pork Chop Hill: The American Fighting Man in Action, Spring 1953, the movie depicts the bitter struggle for the rocky hill that raged just three months before the end of hostilities on the peninsula.

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The film follows a company of the American 7th Infantry Division led by Lt. Joe Clemmons, played convincingly by Gregory Peck, who are to recapture military prominence from the Chinese and then hold it, though they are depleted in strength and low on ammunition.  The battle scenes are smart and riveting. But while the Americans desperately hold the line, they sense their impending doom in the face of overwhelming numbers brought against them by the Red Chinese if they remain unsupported.

Meanwhile in Panmunjom, the agonizingly slow armistice talks drag on with the Communist negotiators showing indifference to the fact that each day they argue over trivial matters more men die.  It finally dawns on the frustrated American envoys that Pork Chop Hill’s true value is paradoxically its very worthlessness. That the Communists see the battle as a symbol of who has the stronger resolve. They are perfectly willing take heavy casualties to take a position of no military value. (more…)

The Manchurian Candidate (1962): Director John Frankenheimer’s chilling film-noir Cold War thriller was remade in 2004 and updated with a Gulf War theme but the original, which opens in 1952 Korea, is the masterpiece. It has a complex plot but the gist of it is that an American platoon was captured and sent to Manchuria where they were subsequently brainwashed before being released back to their units under a phony story and unaware of their ordeal. After the war it is gradually revealed that Staff Sgt. Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey) has been trained to be an unwitting assassin – to be activated by his own domineering mother (Angela Lansbury) who is also a communist agent.

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Shaw’s bombastic stepfather, Senator John Iselin (James Gregory), is a politician on the rise – and also a communist agent – who is a part of a plot that will take him all the way to the White House. At a crucial moment Shaw is to be activated by his mother to kill her husband’s rival, thereby initiating a series of chaotic events that will ultimately install the “Manchurian Candidate” into power.

But all along another former platoon member, Maj. Bennett Marco (Frank Sinatra), suffers recurring flashbacks and dreams about the time they all spent as prisoners in Manchuria and comes to suspect that he and the others were in fact brainwashed. Eventually he uncovers the plot, finds Shaw, and discovers just how far it goes. Shaw, clueless throughout, is a tragic figure as he comes to realize his condition and moves to act accordingly. (more…)