These were filmed in 2006 and 2007 with young high school history teachers and combat veterans who served respectively in Belgium (Battle of the Bulge) and in France (D-Day, Normandy Invasion).

This new “career” that started at age eighty-one and has been ongoing for five years, is for the purpose of fulfilling my mission to reach young students with the message of the importance of freedom and the consequences of losing one’s freedom.

I am now seeking funding to distribute these films at no cost, which are in DVD format, primarily into the high schools in California where I live.

Now, a third documentary is planned. It is a film about the Eighth Air Force operations from England on daring daylight raids on German targets. Twenty-six thousand men were killed, more than the Marines in the Pacific.

Stories from survivors of the “Mighty Eighth,” as they were known, will be told. It will also relate experiences from relatives of perished crew-members who were hosted by a Frenchman who did arduous research of crash sites in France. The families visited these sites of loved ones who were killed when they crashed in France.

American Airlines is a participant, but additional funding is needed for a “bare bones budget.” Bare bones because I do not do these films for profit.

***

Recently a film has been made and was screened on National Geographic Channel called Caught by the SS: The Wereth Eleven. It tells the story of eleven black Americans who were brutalized and murdered** during WWII as a consequence of the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium on December 17, 1945.  It is a very worthwhile film, but it was claimed in this film that “their story has never been told.” This is untrue.

The following sets the record straight:

In July 2006, while filming Let Freedom Ring: The Lesson Is Priceless, we told the story of “The Wereth Eleven” as a part of our documentary, I believe for the first time on film. Wereth is a tiny hamlet in Eastern Belgium near the German border. The Wereth Eleven refers to the eleven black American soldiers who were separated from their 333rd Field Artillery unit when overrun by the Germans and fled on foot in freezing cold weather finally taking refuge, at the willingness of the Langer family, in a tiny hamlet farm house sheltering them from the cold and feeding them.

Trina Langer, who was one of ten children, and lived in the home at the time of the capture and brutalized killing of these eleven soldiers, told the entire story to us during filming.  She told to us in the living room of the same home where the soldiers briefly took shelter before being captured and killed by a Nazi SS patrol.

Additionally, Adda Rittkin, who was the president of an organization that raised funds to build a monument in memory of these men, told us how and why this was done. Standing in front of the monument, she was very emotional, recalling the sacrifices of these young black American soldiers. (Adda Rittken passed away in January 2010.)

I bring this to your attention because of the fact that the film states that, “their story has never been told.”

Not only did we tell their story before National Georgraphic, but the parties involved told it without rehearsal or prompting of any kind.

***

**Those bodies of the eleven soldiers were recovered by our company and buried in the temporary Henri Chapelle cemetery in Belgium. After the war, seven of them were reburied in the permanent Henri Chapelle cemetery several hundred yards from the temporary one and four were repatriated back to their families in the U.S.

Bodies of the many American soldiers who were massacred in the Malmedy, Belgium slaughter, after being taken prisoner around the same time as the Wereth Eleven, were also recovered by us and buried in the Henri Chapelle Cemetery in Belgium.

One such movie, “Saving Private Ryan,” is as priceless as it is ageless. And to me, the most valuable part of this great movie lies in the opening scenes, where Allied Forces land at Normandy under heavy German machine-gun fire, and succeed in their mission against seeming insurmountable odds.

In real life, the D-Day landing at Normandy (June 6, 1944) cost America roughly 2400 lives. That’s right, 2400 combat deaths in one day, at one location. The Americans who poured onto that beach, determined to break through the German forces, were scared and strained by the certainty that an enemy bullet or artillery shell could end their earthly lives at any second. Yet they did their duty, and in addition to the 2400 Killed in Action (KIA) there were untold thousands more wounded in action, and others lost to POW status and MIA (missing in action) status.

Like no other war movie I’ve seen, “Saving Private Ryan” puts the horror of all this before the viewer’s eyes by presenting battle scenes in a way that show the harsh realities of war.

From the depiction of how short life became for so many of our troops when the doors on the PT boats opened and exposed them to the relentless barrage of German bullets, to the dazed and confused look in the eyes of those who made it to beach alive, only to see their best friends and fellow soldiers pay the ultimate price on Normandy’s sands, the opening scenes grip the viewer and remind everyone that there are heroes among us.

I watch Saving Private Ryan every year on November 11th. And after doing so, I contact veterans I’m fortunate to know and I thank them for their service.

Today, maybe each of you will watch “Saving Private Ryan” if you get the chance. But no matter what you watch, I hope you’ll find a veteran and thank him or her for paying the price for our freedom. The Private Ryan’s of our world deserve every  ounce of gratitude we can heap upon them.

History serving “a social aim,” rather than chronicling the past in a detached manner, is what readers get in A People’s History of the United States. With any luck, “The People Speak,” the History Channel documentary based on the book that premieres this Sunday, will be, like so many Hollywood productions, unfaithful to the original. Given A People’s History of the United States’ infidelity to facts, this might be the only chance viewers have of seeing anything resembling an accurate retelling of history.

Through Zinn’s looking-glass, Maoist China, site of history’s bloodiest state-sponsored killings, transforms into “the closest thing, in the long history of that ancient country, to a people’s government, independent of outside control.” The authoritarian Nicaraguan Sandinistas were “welcomed” by their own people, while the opposition Contras, who backed the candidate that triumphed when free elections were finally held, were a “terrorist group” that “seemed to have no popular support inside Nicaragua.” Admitting some human rights abuses, Zinn writes that Castro’s Cuba “had no bloody record of suppression.”

Readers of A People’s History of the United States learn very little about history. They learn quite a bit about Howard Zinn. In fact, the book is perhaps best thought of as a massive Rorschach Test, with the author’s familiar reaction to every major event in American history proving that his is a captive mind long closed by ideology.

If you’ve read Karl Marx, there’s no reason to read Howard Zinn. In fact, reading the most important line of The Communist Manifesto makes a study of A People’s History of the United States a colossal waste of time. The single-bullet theory of history offered by Marx–“The history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggle”–is relied upon by Zinn to explain all of American history. Economics determines everything. Why study history when theory has all the answers?

Thumb through A People’s History of the United States and one finds greed motivating every major event. According to Zinn, the separation from Great Britain, the Civil War, and both world wars—to name but a few examples—all stem from base motives involving rich men seeking to get richer at the expense of other men.

Zinn’s projection of Marxist theory upon historical reality begins with Columbus. According to Zinn, those following the seafaring Italian to the New World did so for one reason: profit. “Behind the English invasion of North America, behind their massacre of Indians, their deception, their brutality, was that special powerful drive born in civilizations based on private property,” maintains the octogenarian scribe.

A materialist interpretation continues with the Founding. “Around 1776,” A People’s History informs, “certain important people in the English colonies made a discovery that would prove enormously useful for the next two hundred years. They found that by creating a nation, a symbol, a legal unity called the United States, they could take over land, profits, and political power from the favorites of the British Empire. In the process, they could hold back a number of potential rebellions and create a consensus of popular support for the rule of a new, privileged leadership.”

Zinn sarcastically adds, “When we look at the American Revolution this way, it was a work of genius, and the Founding Fathers deserve the awed tribute they have received over the centuries. They created the most effective system of national control devised in modern times, and showed future generations of leaders the advantages of combining paternalism with command.” Rather than the spark that lit the fire of freedom and self-government throughout much of the world, he portrays the American Founding as a diabolically creative way to ensure oppression. If the Founders wanted a society they could direct, why didn’t they put forth a dictatorship or a monarchy resembling most other governments at the time? Why go through the trouble of devising a constitution guaranteeing rights, political participation, jury trials, and checks on power? Zinn doesn’t explain, contending that these freedoms and rights are merely a facade designed to prevent class revolution.

Zinn paints antebellum America as a uniquely cruel slaveholding society subjugating man for profit. Curiously, the war that ultimately results in slavery’s demise is portrayed as a conflict of oppression too. Zinn writes, “it is money and profit, not the movement against slavery, that was uppermost in the priorities of the men who ran the country.” Rather than welcoming emancipation, as one might expect, Zinn casts a cynical eye towards it. “Class consciousness was overwhelmed during the Civil War,” the author laments, placing a decidedly negative spin on the central event in American history. America is in a lose/lose situation. The same thing, according to Zinn, caused both slavery and emancipation: greed. Whether the U.S. tolerates or eradicates slavery, its nefarious motives remain the same. Zinn’s jaundiced eye fails to see the real issues surrounding the Civil War. Instead, he envisions the chief significance of the grisly conflict as how it allegedly served as a distraction from the impending socialist revolution.

By the time the reader reaches World War I, Zinn begins to sound like a broken record. “American capitalism needed international rivalry—and periodic war—to create an artificial community of interest between rich and poor,” the Boston University emeritus professor of history writes of the Great War, “supplanting the genuine community of interest among the poor that showed itself in sporadic movements.” Yet another diversion to delay the revolution!

“A People’s War?” is Zinn’s chapter on the war in which he served his country. Zinn suggests that America, not Japan, was to blame for Pearl Harbor by provoking the Empire of the Sun. The fight against fascism was all an illusion. While Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan may have been America’s enemies, Uncle Sam’s real goal was empire. Regarding America’s neutrality in the Spanish Civil War, Zinn asks:  “[W]as it the logical policy of a government whose main interest was not stopping Fascism but advancing the imperial interests of the United States? For those interests, in the thirties, an anti-Soviet policy seemed best. Later, when Japan and Germany threatened U.S. world interests, a pro-Soviet, anti-Nazi policy became preferable.” Reality is inverted. It’s not the Soviet Union that went from being anti-Nazi to pro-Nazi to anti-Nazi. Zinn projects the Soviet Union’s schizophrenic policies upon the United States. While Zinn awkwardly excuses the Hitler-Stalin Pact, he all but proclaims a Hitler-Roosevelt Pact.

The reader learns that the Second World War was really about—surprise!—money. “Quietly, behind the headlines in battles and bombings,” Zinn writes, “American diplomats and businessmen worked hard to make sure that when the war ended, American economic power would be second to none in the world. United States business would penetrate areas that up to this time had been dominated by England. The Open Door Policy of equal access would be extended from Asia to Europe, meaning that the United States intended to push England aside and move in.” Yet, this didn’t happen. The English Empire expired, but no American Empire took its place. Despite defeating Japan and helping to vanquish Germany, America rebuilt these countries. They are now America’s chief economic rivals, not its colonies.

The profit motive certainly is central to numerous major events in American history. The discovery of gold at Sutter’s Fort in 1848, for example, undeniably stands as the primary reason—alongside the favorable outcome of the Mexican War—for the subsequent population explosion in California. The Gold Rush is one of several historical occurrences that conform to Zinn’s overall thesis. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. For every major figure or event whose catalyst was economic interests, scores were sparked by some unrelated concern.

To question Zinn’s method of analyses is not to say that economics does not influence events. It is to say that one-size-fits-all explanations of history are bound to be wrong more than they are right. History is too complicated to find a perfect fit within any theory. For the true believer, this inconvenience can be overcome. When fact and theory clash, ideologues choose theory. To the true believer, ideology is truth. Time and again, A People’s History of the United States opts to mold the facts to fit theory, leaving the reader to wonder what “people” he is referring to in the book’s title. Dishonest people? Left-wing people? Delusional people?

“Unemployment grew in the Reagan years,” Zinn claims. Statistics show otherwise. Reagan inherited an unemployment rate of 7.5 percent. By his last month in office, the rate had declined to 5.4 percent. Had the Reagan presidency ended in 1982 when unemployment rates exceeded 10 percent, Zinn would have a point. But for the remainder of Reagan’s presidency, unemployment declined precipitously. While Zinn teaches history and not mathematics, one needn’t be a math whiz to figure out that 5.4 percent is less than 7.5 percent. Despite unleashing an economy that created nearly 20 million new jobs during his tenure, Reagan continues to be smeared by historians—and it’s not hard to figure out why. Reagan’s free market polices were anathema to Marxists like Zinn. Upset at the pleasant way things turned out—Reagan’s policies unleashed an economy that continuously grew from late 1982 until mid 1990—historians prefer to rewrite history.

These are but a few of Zinn’s errors, which curiously seem to always bolster the left-of-center position. No error goes against the grain of the author’s general thesis. Every author makes mistakes. Zinn, it seems, would make less of them if he used his mind rather than his ideology to do his thinking.

By now one might be thinking: On what evidence does Zinn base his varied proclamations? One can only guess. Despite its scholarly pretensions, the book contains not a single source citation. While a student in Professor Zinn’s classes at Boston University or Spelman College might have received an “F” for turning in a paper without documentation, Zinn’s footnote-free book is standard reading in scores of college courses.

More striking than Zinn’s inaccuracies—intentional and otherwise—is what he leaves out.

Washington’s Farewell Address, Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, and Reagan’s “tear down the wall” speech at the Brandenburg Gate all fail to merit a mention. Nowhere do we learn that Americans were first in flight, first to fly solo across the Atlantic, and first to walk on the moon. Alexander Graham Bell, Jonas Salk, and the Wright Brothers are entirely absent. Instead, the reader is treated to the exploits of Speckled Snake, Joan Baez, and the Berrigan brothers. While Zinn highlights immigrants that went into professions such as ditch-digging and prostitution, he excludes success stories like Alexander Hamilton, John Jacob Astor, and Louis B. Mayer. Valley Forge rates a single fleeting reference, while D-Day’s Normandy invasion, Gettysburg, and other important military battles are left out. In their place, we get several pages on the My Lai massacre and colorful descriptions of U.S. bombs falling on hotels, air-raid shelters, and markets during 1991’s Gulf War.

How do readers learn about U.S. history with all these omissions? They don’t.

Daniel J. Flynn is the author of A Conservative History of the American Left (Crown Forum, 2008) and Intellectual Morons: How Ideology Makes Smart People Fall for Stupid Ideas (Crown Forum, 2004), from which this essay is adapted. Copyright © 2004 by Daniel J. Flynn.

Back in the states he enlisted in the U.S. Navy Reserve, and over the next three years served in many capacities before finding his way to the Pacific theater, where he met John Bulkeley and became his executive officer. Montgomery commanded a PT boat in many battles, and eventually headed up to Normandy as an operations officer for a destroyer squadron. While preparing for D-Day, he remembered later, “I saw Bulkeley on his PT Boat and waved to him. There was another man on the bridge with him. I had no idea then it was Jack Ford.”

Soon after D-Day, Montgomery was felled by a serious bout of tropical fever and was sent back stateside. In four years of war he had earned, among other decorations, the Bronze Star and a Chevalier ranking in the French Legion of Honor. All in all, Ford’s kind of guy. When it came time to cast the Bulkeley part in Expendable, the choice was obvious.

Montgomery arrived in Florida not having acted in four years, and the prospect of stepping in front of the camera again terrified him and triggered debilitating panic attacks. But Ford — capable of immense kindness when least expected — treated his problems with understanding, and over a period of several days gently coaxed him back into the acting groove. Ultimately, They Were Expendable would become one of the actor’s best performances, quietly understated but richly nuanced. Montgomery later said that

Ford had a great crew; they all knew him and they were all fiercely loyal. They’d have defended him to the death. They gave me as good . . .

So little of what I did in Hollywood gives me any pride of achievement. Three or four pictures out of sixty-odd. It’s not very much. Ford was the best I’d ever worked with: the only one I’d call creative. After Expendable I’d cheerfully have signed a contract to work with him exclusively. I don’t know that the idea would have appealed to him, of course. But I’d have been happy. He was a genius.

The respect was mutual. Near the end of filming, Ford took a nasty fall off of a studio scaffold and fractured his leg (“Jesus Christ, you clumsy bastard!” Wayne yelled when he and Montgomery found Ford writhing on the ground). When M-G-M called him frantically in the hospital, wondering who could possibly step in on short notice to finish the picture, Ford christened Bob Montgomery as the man who would direct the few remaining scenes.

After Expendable, Montgomery went on to a fruitful later career, first as a director of several well-regarded noir films, then as a popular television personality. His then-twelve-year-old daughter Elizabeth would later grow up to be a star, too — most famous for playing the madcap enchantress Samantha in the 1964 television series Bewitched.

Donna Reed (1921–1986), was just coming into her own as a young actress in 1944, and like so many others before her she was putty in Ford’s hand. In the beginning Ford deliberately didn’t speak to her for weeks, and his rudeness served to build up the hardened exterior she would need for playing her opening scenes in the hospital, stoically assisting meatball surgeons. Later on in the production, however, the wily director changed tactics.

Right before the scene where she is treated by Wayne and his unit to a charmingly improvised candlelight dinner, Ford suddenly softened her up with a string of lovely pearls, ostentatiously presenting them to her in front of the whole crew as a sort of tribute to the nurses of Bataan. This gift from the fearsome, crotchety director was so unexpected that her face lit up with a radiant glow which carried over into the scene, lending genuine conviction to her reactions throughout the dinner, the serenade, and all the way up to her tearful final line, “They’re just such nice guys!”

Film critic Bosley Crowther, the Roger Ebert of his era and no fan of stridently patriotic movies, would write in the New York Times that, “Donna Reed is extraordinarily touching in the role of an Army nurse who figures into the story in a brief romance which is most tastefully and credibly handled.” This was the start of Reed’s career as a true star, and the very next year she would appear in her most immortal film role, that of Jimmy Stewart’s devoted wife in It’s a Wonderful Life.

Incredibly, after They Were Expendable was released, the real-life counterparts of the Wayne and Reed characters both sued for damages, claiming that — even though the names in the movie are all fictitious — the film insinuates that they had a romantic relationship in real life. How anyone could complain about being portrayed by the likes of John Wayne and Donna Reed is beyond me, but in the end they both won damages in court (a few thousand for the man, several hundred thousand for the woman). And so it was this film that prompted the widespread use of the disclaimer we have seen on countless movies ever since, about all characters being fictitious and any resemblance to real people “living or dead” being coincidental.

Throughout the decades in which he worked, John Ford collected about himself a motley assortment of character actors, stuntmen, ex-soldiers, and personal friends, people he particularly enjoyed working with. Together they became informally known as the John Ford Stock Company, and over the course of thirty years they matured into an experienced acting troupe much greater than the sum of their parts, to the point where you can usually judge the merit of a Ford film based on how many members of his Stock Company are listed in the credits. Astoundingly versatile, they were by turns raucously hilarious or deeply affecting, depending on Ford’s whims. For fans of the director’s films, the sight of one of their weathered, well-loved faces on screen is always a cause for rejoicing.

Along with John Wayne, the Company’s most prominent member was Ward Bond (1903–1960). Both Wayne and Bond came to Ford in the late 1920s as a pair of frat-boy college football players from USC looking for summer studio work as grips, stuntmen, whatever they could get. A hardworking character actor, Bond had a different kind of appeal than the Duke, but one no less important to Ford’s films.

Bond was a human bulldog — pug-nosed, round-bellied, big-assed. He looked like someone’s father or brother, eminently blue-collar and dependable, with no guile in his face whatsoever. This allowed him to stand in front of a camera and bring lines to life that in other mouths would have sounded shamelessly corny:

“It means service — tough and good.”

No fancy wordplay, no flowery prose. Just honest sentiments, presented with all the simplicity you would expect from a rugged sailor searching for a manly way to express himself to his buddies. In Ford’s oeuvre, Bond continually grounds scenes in reality that might otherwise become too saccharine, as when in They Were Expendable he serenades Donna Reed (a scene that both Bond and Reed would repeat the very next year in Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life, with Bond playing Bert the Cop).

Like Wayne, Bond also didn’t serve during the war — rejected due to his epilepsy — and so instead became an air-raid warden in Los Angeles. In July 1944, he suffered a horrible accident while riding his motorcycle on Hollywood Boulevard. According to fellow John Ford Stock Company member Harry Carey Jr.:

He was hit by a car, and his left leg was torn to shreds. The story is that one doctor wanted to amputate it because it was evidently hanging by a thread of flesh, but Duke Wayne threatened to annihilate the doc if he did that. Somehow, after months and months of treatment and skin grafts, the leg was saved. Ward wore a huge brace on it much of the time, but covered it so well you could hardly tell. One part of his leg never did heal. He always had to wear some kind of dressing on it.

With Expendable filming at the end of that year, Bond was in no condition to play such a physically demanding role. Yet like with Robert Montgomery’s panic attacks, Ford reacted to the news with kindness. He kept his friend in the cast and worked around the injury, blocking his scenes so he wouldn’t have to walk more than a step or two in any one shot, and later having his character injured in the script so he could hobble around on a crutch.

It was a good choice — Bond is one of the highlights of They Were Expendable, providing generous helpings of pathos and comic relief in equal measure. One indication of the respect Ford had for his abilities is that Bond was paid more than any other actor on the picture aside from Montgomery and Wayne — $37,000 all told, compared to Montgomery’s $170,000 and Wayne’s $80,000. (For the record, Jack Holt made $30,000, many of the other second-tier actors brought in $15,000 or so, and Donna Reed got $5000 for her few days of studio work.)

In addition to Wayne and Bond, the two giants of the Stock Company, They Were Expendable relies on the talents of other longtime members. Russell Simpson (1880–1959) is “Dad” Knowland, the aged mechanic who refuses to abandon his forty-year home in the Philippines, and is last seen sitting laconically on his doorstep, totally alone in the jungle, cradling his shotgun and a jug of whiskey, waiting for death at the hands of the soon-to-arrive Japanese vanguard. And Harry Tenbrook (1887–1960) portrays the lovable lug “Squarehead” Larsen, the unit’s cook, who ever pines for “the Arizona to come steaming up the bay with her fourteen-inch guns blazing, and the best cook stoves in the Navy.” Neither of these actors were household names, but Ford gave them small, key moments to hold up in the picture, and as always they shine.

(Stuntman Frank McGrath (1903–1967) — a Ford favorite who over a decade later would become a star in the hit television show Wagon Train with Ward Bond — can also be spied as an unnamed sailor in a late scene. He’s the one who tells John Wayne “Glad to see ya back, Mr. Ryan” after Wayne’s character finds Brickley and his men once again.)

Special mention must be made, however, of Stock Company regular Ronald J. “Jack” Pennick (1895–1964). In They Were Expendable he plays Doc, the old weeping sailor being put out to pasture in the clip we saw earlier, but who ultimately stays behind to fight alongside the doomed Army on Bataan. His is a name few people remember today, but anyone who professes admiration for the movies of John Ford needs to know it. Jack Pennick meant a great deal to the director, so much in fact that he holds the honor of appearing in more Ford pictures than any other actor.

Pennick was a two-bit Hollywood trouper when he first met Ford in the late silent era, and he appeared in several of the then-youthful director’s pictures in the late 1920s and early 1930s. A particularly kind and gentle man under his rough, hangdog exterior, it impressed Ford greatly to later discover that Pennick was also a lifelong soldier — a tough-as-nails former Marine drillmaster who had fought in both World War I and the “Banana Wars” of the 1920s. As if that wasn’t enough, over the years he also educated himself into becoming one of the foremost experts on soldiery and military history that Ford or anyone else had ever met.

The two men got on famously, and soon Ford adopted Pennick as his all-around, ever-present aide-de-camp. He did virtually everything for the director, from waking him up each morning on location and hand-delivering his first cup of coffee, to tucking him into bed unconscious after a long night of drinking and poker. The man Ford affectionately called “the big six-foot-four-and-a-half mick” also served with him during World War II, devotedly following him around the world and supposedly (according to professional bullshitter Ford, so take it with a huge grain of salt) even winning the Silver Star. “Wild Bill” Donovan, the founder of the OSS, once reverently said of Pennick, “There is the most perfect soldier I have ever met.” To the end of his days, whenever John Ford would exit a car or enter a room, Jack Pennick would jump up and snap off a perfect salute to his benefactor.

All of this appealed greatly to Ford’s boundless sense of drama and history and duty, and he reciprocated Pennick’s loyalty many times over in the post-war years. In all the director’s greatest movies you can see the winningly ugly ex-soldier appear in some minor role, usually as a sergeant or barman. He was much more useful behind the scenes, mercilessly drilling pampered actors and teaching them how to comport themselves as real servicemen. Anyone wondering how it must have felt for John Wayne and the rest of the John Ford Stock Company to be worked over by ol’ Jack Pennick need only check out this little clip from Ford’s Fort Apache (1948), which has a funny scene of him whipping some green cavalry troops into shape:

My guess is that, given his druthers and some recalcitrant recruits, he could have given R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket a run for his money.

Pennick was also kept on hand to ensure that all the military costumes and lingo were as accurate as possible. It was he who famously walked into West Point during Ford’s filming of The Long Grey Line (1955), took one glance at an old coat-of-arms on the wall, and nonchalantly proclaimed it inaccurate — the swords hanging in the display, he assured the docents, were upside down. When they checked their manuals they discovered to their astonishment that he was right — the display had been hanging wrong for decades until Pennick tipped them off.

When today’s filmmakers, flush with the power of CGI and modern camera techniques, declare their gloomy anti-war films more realistic and thus superior to the hokey military movies of yore, I can only think of guys like Jack Pennick, men who infused old movies with their patriotism, optimism, loyalty, and expertise. One of John Ford’s greatest gifts to posterity is his immortalization of such people on screen, reminding future generations of their caliber.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we conclude our coverage of They Were Expendable with a look at John Ford’s postwar legacy, and his place in film history as a champion of the American spirit.

Previous posts in the series “John Ford, John Wayne, and They Were Expendable”:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

FURTHER READING AND VIEWING

Company of Heroes: My Life as An Actor in the John Ford Stock Company by Harry Carey, Jr. For those wishing to learn more about the group of Fordian actors mentioned above, there is no better source than this volume of delightful stories by Mr. Carey (who as of this writing is 88 years old and still hale and hearty). There are many laugh-out-loud (and some cringe-worthy) moments featuring John Ford, John Wayne, Ward Bond, Jack Pennick, and all the rest. A must read if you watch the films of John Ford — it will add layers of meaning to each picture, and make them that much more satisfying.

The Earl of Hollywood: a nice website dedicated to the life and career of Robert Montgomery. Lots of rare pictures, including ones of Montgomery as an ambulance driver in France, and in uniform on the cover of various magazines. Well worth perusing.

MOVIE TRIVIA ANSWER: Looks like no one came close to getting the answer to our trivia question last week. Future film director Blake Edwards, in his early acting days, played an unnamed sailor in They Were Expendable, appearing in two main scenes. First, he shows up as a wet-behind-the-ears seaman in the bar during Doc’s farewell party (he’s the one who gets a “very small beer” from actor and former wrestler Sammy Stein).

Much later his character is seen again, this time as a bearded, now-veteran member of John Wayne’s dejected crew, attending an impromptu funeral for two comrades and then listening gravely as the radio in the bar heralds the fall of Bataan.

If you think about it, Ford here creates a shattered mirror image of the first bar scene. Some of the same kids who cheerfully toasted Doc’s health with beer, sarsaparilla, and ginger ale are now at a much different tavern, this time drinking hard liquor, having in the interim become seasoned, war-hardened sailors fully aware of the meaning of “service — tough and good.”

All of these scenes were shot on Hollywood sound stages as opposed to on location in Key Biscayne, Florida, which explains why Edwards doesn’t appear in any outdoor shots.

Other movies the young Blake Edwards can be seen in include The Best Years of Our Lives (1946), where he plays a corporal at the ATC (Air Transport Command) counter in the beginning of the film (“Guess I’m goin’ to Cleveland,” he tells Andrews). He also played the lead in several schlocky B films, including the immortal Strangler of the Swamp (also 1946).

“That bold buckaroo with the cold green eyes.”

– General Douglas MacArthur, describing his savior John Bulkeley –

In March 1942, facing imminent capture by the Japanese, America’s commander in the Far East was ordered to slip away to safety in Australia. The Empire of the Sun controlled both air and sea, and only a precious few Allied planes and ships remained in-theater, skulking through the night fog like pirates to avoid capture and running on little more than spit and baling wire. “Overhauling those motors without any replacement parts was a terrible job,” one of the few to escape that nightmare later remembered. “For instance. Any tank-town garage which overhauls a flivver back in the States always replaces the gaskets with new ones. Only we didn’t have any. Or any sealing compound. So those old gaskets had to be carefully removed, handled as gently as though they were precious lace, and laid back in place when the motors were reassembled.”

When MacArthur arrived at the dock with his family and key commanders, he found waiting for him a trio of tiny, dilapidated motor torpedo boats crewed by dirty, emaciated men with long, unkempt beards and wild eyes. Their skipper was a thirty-year-old U.S. Navy Lieutenant named John Bulkeley, who for months had held his disintegrating squadron together by scrounging like a rat among the islands for gasoline, torpedoes, and other basic supplies. His boats were little more than plywood matchboxes, but Bulkeley had kept them active long after the rest of America’s Navy and Air Force had been destroyed or driven off. He made sneak assaults against transports, cruisers, destroyers, airplanes, landing parties — anything to frustrate the pace of the overwhelming Japanese invasion. Every time he attacked it was a fearsome David-versus-Goliath mismatch, but Bulkeley had done so time and again, sinking many enemy vessels.

Now he faced his most important task yet: use his last sputtering, wheezing boats to ferret precious human cargo across enemy-infested waters to the southern island of Mindanao, where MacArthur and his contingent could then be safely flown to Melbourne. To do this, he rocketed his boats across hundreds of miles under cover of night, navigating in the impenetrable darkness by instinct alone while deftly avoiding Japanese patrols. It was a spectacular feat of derring-do. As MacArthur told him when he disembarked several days later, waterlogged and exhausted but safe to fight another day: “You have taken me out of the jaws of death. I shall never forget it.”

For all of this, Bulkeley was promoted to Lieutenant Commander and received the Medal of Honor. His citation reads:

For extraordinary heroism, distinguished service, and conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty as commander of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3, in Philippine waters during the period 7 December 1941 to 10 April 1942. The remarkable achievement of LCDR Bulkeley’s command in damaging or destroying a notable number of Japanese enemy planes, surface combatant and merchant ships, and in dispersing landing parties and land-based enemy forces during the 4 months and 8 days of operation without benefit of repairs, overhaul, or maintenance facilities for his squadron, is believed to be without precedent in this type of warfare. His dynamic forcefulness and daring in offensive action, his brilliantly planned and skillfully executed attacks, supplemented by a unique resourcefulness and ingenuity, characterize him as an outstanding leader of men and a gallant and intrepid seaman. These qualities coupled with a complete disregard for his own personal safety reflect great credit upon him and the Naval Service.

These exploits provided the basis for W. L. White’s 1942 bestseller They Were Expendable. It is a story of heroism, but a particularly grim one. Bulkeley remembered later that he “was very bitter about the thing. We went over there with 111 men and only 9 men came back alive. . . the war plan was totally, utterly hopeless. . . But we had to put up a fight.” An Admiral in John Ford’s 1945 film version of the story explains the brutal rationale for allowing so many Americans to be defeated and captured: “Pearl Harbor was a disaster, like the Spanish Armada. Listen, son — you and I are professionals. If the manager says, ‘Sacrifice,’ we lay down a bunt, and let somebody else hit the home runs.”

The book itself is still a fine read, filled with hard-nosed, first-person reportage and telling anecdotes. Some choice quotes:

“They were burying the dead — which consisted of collecting heads and arms and legs and putting them into the nearest bomb crater and shoveling debris over it. The smell was terrible. The Filipino yard workers didn’t have much stomach for the job, but it had to be done and done quick because of disease. To make them work, they filled the Filipinos up with grain alcohol. . . those staggering Filipinos, maybe dragging a trunk toward a crater, pulling it by its one remaining leg, or else maybe rolling a head along like on a putting green. The Japs must have killed at least a thousand. . . .”

“It seemed to be a Jap reconnaissance patrol. . . one group stopped and ate chow on the road bank opposite us; we were scared stiff they would come over and find us. It was hard for the wounded to lie quiet. Our tank driver had a rivet stuck in his throat — every time he took a drink, the water would come leaking out. . . .”

“Here in Newport maybe you wouldn’t think it was much of a party. But it was a swell night, with a big moon hanging over Manila Bay — peaceful — and best of all, all the girls had broken out with their civilian dresses. That doesn’t sound like much, but one look at them after seeing nothing but uniforms for months was like a trip back home. Make-up too — they looked so goddamned nice you could eat them with a spoon. . . .”

“How slow everybody learns in a war. Nobody knows anything about a war until it begins. Just two years before, the Polish air force had been blown to hell on the ground. The French caught it the following spring. In spite of that, the same things happened to our planes at Pearl Harbor. And yet two days later, in spite of all of it, the Japs catch our air corps on Luzon with its pants down. Only that wasn’t the end. Months later, on my way out through Australia, I pass a big American field, and there they are, bombers and fighters parked in orderly rows, wing tip to wing tip. ‘Hell,’ they told me, ‘The Japs are hundreds of miles away.’ Except that’s where they’re always supposed to be when they catch you with your pants down, and I thought to myself, Jesus Christ, won’t these guys ever learn?”

“The whole crowd started pulling money out of their pockets and piling it on the table. They’d had no pay since the start of the war, but since they’d been down here in Mindanao, they’d had shore leave and a chance to play poker with the army. The government could cut the cost of the war by just paying the army and then giving the sailors a chance to play poker with them.”

“But here were all these brave people on Bataan and the Rock, Peggy among them, realizing more clearly every day that they would never get out. Doomed, but bracing themselves to look fate in the face as it drew nearer, knowing that they were expendable like ammunition, and that it was part of the war plan that they should sell themselves as dearly as possible before they were killed or captured by the Japs. . .”

You would think that John Ford would have jumped at the chance to make a movie about Bulkeley, but it took several years of cajoling to get him to agree to direct Expendable. Unlike many, he was actually enjoying the war in a perverse way: globetrotting around the world, feeling the exhilaration of being shot at and having bombs dropped on you, and getting rigorous exercise at fifty years of age. He relished being a part of the armed services he had admired for so long, and heading back home to make a movie would take him away from it all, perhaps forever. It could also be the case that Ford needed time to think about the movie, to dwell on how important it was to get right, and to plan exactly what he wanted to focus on.

Bulkeley had already lived through the harrowing events depicted in Expendable — and been one of the lucky few to escape — when between missions he went to Ford’s Washington DC hotel room to say hello. As Bulkeley later admitted to Ford biographer Joseph McBride, his first encounter with his country’s greatest film director was memorable, to say the least:

I went to see him and he was bare-tail, absolutely naked in that damn bed. He loved to do that for shock effect, he had men in there and he had women in there, hangers-on trying to get a job or something, he had a big plate of food, eating with his fingers like a Roman emperor.

The opening statement [from Ford] was, “See that closet?” “Yup.” “Open it up.” I opened it up and there was a captain’s uniform with four stripes. He said, “You see that? I’m a captain.” I said [sarcastically], “Yes. What are you captain of?” He picked up that big plate of food and threw it at me, and I just ran out the door! He didn’t even bother getting out of bed, he just reared up and whammo!

It was a match made in heaven. They eventually bonded during some shared days aboard ship during the D-Day invasion, and in October 1944, with the war heavily in our favor and civilian life staring him in the face once again, John Ford changed his status to inactive and went to film the movie while his war experiences (and his impressions of Bulkeley) were all still fresh in his mind.

As for Bulkeley himself, he continued serving in the Navy in various capacities for the rest of his life, eventually rising to the rank of Vice Admiral. Among his chestful of awards were the Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, two Distinguished Service Crosses, two Distinguished Service Medals, and two Legion of Merit Awards.

On April 6, 1996, John Duncan Bulkeley died at the age of 84, and was buried with full military honors at Arlington. All told, the “bold buckaroo with the cold green eyes” had served his country faithfully for some fifty-five years. In June of 2000, a new Navy destroyer was christened USS Bulkeley. May that ship bring as much honor to the name Bulkeley as Bulkeley brought to his country.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers: a look at They Were Expendable’s luminous cinematography and graceful direction.

Previous posts in the series “John Ford, John Wayne, and They Were Expendable“:

Part 1 | Part 2

FURTHER READING AND VIEWING

An interesting article reprinted from a postwar issue of Mechanix Illustrated, which focuses on how Bulkeley’s beloved PT Boats were made to roar off the assembly line in unprecedented numbers.

A nice piece describing the real-life tale behind the events of They Were Expendable.

Buy the book They Were Expendable at Amazon. Over sixty-five years later, it is still in print and still a valuable, exciting read. Better yet, hunt down an old used copy from the 1940s, where you can see the advertisements for war bonds on the back cover.

Read a little post-Expendable nugget about how Beulah Greenwalt, the real-life nurse brought to fictional life by Donna Reed in the movie, used her noggin and her nerve to protect and preserve the regimental flag of her unit.

“[John Ford] was the only one of the Hollywood directors who fought who did not forget his men.”

– Captain Mark Armistead, USN –

Thus quotes Joseph McBride in his masterful biography Searching for John Ford, at the head of the chapter dealing with the director’s wartime activities. It is usually seen as lamentable when a genius is pulled from the practice of his art for any extended period, but here we must make a special allowance. As filmmaker Lindsay Anderson (1923-1994) explains in his essential critical volume About John Ford (which, like the McBride book, should be sitting proudly and dog-eared on the bookshelf of every conservative film fan): “War service took Ford away from the making of films for some three years when his powers were at their height. One would regret this interruption more had it not led directly to the making of a masterpiece.”

The masterpiece of which he speaks is a 1945 war film called They Were Expendable, and if you are a conservative who has never seen it, then you have denied yourself one of the most moving and achingly poetic expressions of your worldview ever put to celluloid.

They Were Expendable was made in the Fall of 1944, while most of the people portrayed in the story were still rotting in Japanese POW camps, if indeed they weren’t already dead. Just like our modern foes, the Japanese mocked the Geneva Conventions throughout World War II, and by the end some 40% of the POWs in their care had been executed, starved, or died of disease in their camps. This is compared to Europe, where only 1% of American POWs in German camps died. The events the film depicts took place in early 1942 when, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, tens of thousands of Americans found themselves trapped in the Philippines and facing a fearsome Japanese invasion. The enemy bombed them with impunity, destroying their bases and leaving them with only four planes and an assortment of tiny boats. Supplies and morale dwindled into oblivion as, rather than be evacuated, they were ordered to hold their positions as long as possible against — and eventually be killed or captured by — an overwhelming enemy who was infamous for torturing and murdering prisoners.

How these Americans (and Filipinos) comported themselves as they were gobbled up by the Japanese war machine, buying time with their lives so that General MacArthur could escape the clutches of the enemy and prepare a counter-assault, is the focus of the film. And yet it is like no other war film ever made. Its long running time (two hours, sixteen minutes) allows us to linger on scene after scene of doomed men and women slowly losing their grip on their homes, their jobs, their culture, and each other. Under Ford’s direction, the movie rises above mere plot — battles, strategies — to become something much greater: the cinematic ennobling of an entire people, their way of life, their code of honor, and their selfless sacrifice. Lindsay Anderson would later declare it his single favorite film from his single favorite director, noting the presence of “image after image of conscious dignity” depicting a “love of brotherhood, loyalty,” and “the spirit of endurance that can wring victory from defeat.”

What prompts someone to make a movie like this? To throw away all of the Hollywood clichés, to indeed ignore the enemy entirely (the Japanese are only seen from afar via their planes and ships) and instead reach for something more vital: the very bedrock of our connection with country and culture? It’s so personal a picture that any essay has to be as much about the life and times of its maker as about the film itself — the two are intertwined too deeply to ignore. We thus turn away from They Were Expendable for a spell, and drift backward in time to the life of the director many call the greatest in motion picture history.

For John Ford (1894–1973), serving with the Navy during World War II was much more than boilerplate Hollywood patriotism. He was no green recruit, hastily enlisting in the wake of Pearl Harbor to toss on a uniform for the very first time. Growing up on the coast of Maine where he met many sailors, from an early age he was entranced by the discipline, hard ways, and exaltation of duty inherent in military life. During High School he applied to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, and was devastated when he failed the entrance exam. In 1918, as a twenty-three-year-old fledgling director in Hollywood, he again tried to serve, this time volunteering as an aerial combat photographer. Bad eyesight ensured he flunked the physical, and numerous attempts to circumvent that ruling came to naught.

Despite these failures, he never gave up, making many military films throughout the ’20s and ’30s and taking every opportunity to schmooze with the Navy brass brought on as technical advisers. Finally, as a forty-year-old in 1934, and despite bad eyes once again causing him to fail the physical, enough strings were pulled by his Navy buddies to get him into the U.S. Naval Reserve. Given the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he was charged with creating “a course in naval photography; its uses, tactical, historical, and propaganda,” studying “infra-red and other super-sensitive films and complimentary filters as to their efficacy on sea and in the air, particularly in tropical waters” and “working intensely in an effort to collect photographic and camouflage information likely to be of value to the Navy.”

He also began spying for the Navy on a semi-formal basis during frequent trips of drunken carousing down the western coast of Mexico on his yacht, the Araner. With friends like John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and Ward Bond in tow, Ford made observations of the coastline and filed detailed reports on Japanese ships and suspicious “sailors” in the area. These made their way to Navy intelligence, netting him several citations.

In 1940, with friends in the military telling him that America’s eventual entry into the war was all but assured, Ford attempted to establish an official Naval photographic unit that could not only use their skills to directly aid the front-line troops in the fight ahead (in the form of reconnaissance, mapping terrain, et cetera) but also help fight the nasty propaganda war that was already brewing between patriotic Americans and growing cells of anti-American Leftists who were becoming increasingly vocal in the media and Hollywood. The proposal he sent to his superiors reads today as if it was clipped from Big Hollywood’s own mission statement:

Radio, newspapers, motion pictures blast contrary ideas back and forth. . . A series of films which show factually the power of the American Navy is bound to give a psychological lift to the whole nation. Let them see the rigors of training; the skill of execution in maneuvers. . . our morale purpose is to show that a Democracy can and must create a greater fighting machine, in spirit and being, than a dictator power.

Unfortunately, Ford was pressing up against a lumbering, asleep-at-the-wheel Navy, the same one that would allow the Japanese to surprise its fleet at Pearl the very next year. With numerous agencies like the Signal Corps protecting their film-making/photographic turf against the interloper, Ford watched his proposals vanish into the gaping maws of military bureaucracy. The sense that namby-pamby Hollywood civilians would have little to contribute to an honest war effort might have played a part as well. As much as Ford liked being a Navy man, the endless red tape and politics were sources of constant aggravation, and he often lashed out at his superiors to a degree that would have landed anyone else in the brig. An oft-told story has it that, when asked by an officer what Hollywood landlubbers liked to do for amusement after making a movie, Ford cheerfully replied, “We all get on a bus and go down to San Diego and f*** Navy wives.”

Undeterred by being ignored, Ford decided to proceed unofficially, confident that someday soon the talent of Hollywood would be called upon, and that he would be ready. He began enlisting men from the rank-and-file of Hollywood film crews — cinematographers, grips, editors. He borrowed prop guns and uniforms from the Fox costume department, and set up impromptu military film classes on unused soundstages. There his Hollywood recruits learned from experts like the Oscar-winning cinematographer Gregg Toland (The Grapes of Wrath, Citizen Kane, et al.) about cameras they would use during a war, how to shoot in all lighting conditions, and how to develop film in the field if need be. They also were drilled in the basics of military life by Jack Pennick, a member of Ford’s regular acting troupe who happened to be an expert on military history and rules.

The rest of Tinseltown, and the skeptical Navy brass, began jokingly referring to this motley crew as “John Ford’s Navy.” And yet, by the time he was through, over a hundred of his Hollywood trainees had joined the active service or reserves, ready for a war they knew was coming.

After Pearl Harbor, with the Navy in shock and disarray, Ford finally found his long-sought benefactor. William “Wild Bill” Donovan was in the process of setting up the OSS — the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to today’s CIA — and Ford’s moxie, skills, and penchant for skirting the bureaucracy was just what he was looking for. Soon the director had brought his Hollywood gang under the official auspices of the OSS as “The Field Photographic Branch,” and it wasn’t long before they were filming reconnaissance, troop movements, and full-on battles all over the world.

At forty-seven years of age, after three decades of trying, John Ford was finally a soldier.

Ford served without pay, traveling across the globe and dodging enemy bombers and U-Boats to fulfill his duties as head of Field Photo. Iceland… Panama… North Africa… West Africa… Cuba… Australia… Ceylon… China… India…. Burma…. Saudi Arabia… Brazil… France. Ford filmed potential base locations, assessed the security of existing sites, captured now-historic battles on film, often in color, and coordinated the movements and missions of his men, thirteen of whom were killed in action. For these efforts, he was promoted to Captain on April 3, 1944. In later years he would state that — although he was the recipient of many of the highest awards in the film industry, including several Oscars — he was most proud of having earned his Small Arms Expert’s medal in the Navy.

John Ford had a knack for showing up in interesting places. He was on the deck of the USS Hornet, deep in enemy waters, when the famous Doolittle raid lifted off for Japan, his camera recording the historic moment for posterity. He was at Normandy on June 6, 1944, capturing rare footage of D-Day as it unfolded. He first (and last!) parachute jump occurred behind enemy lines in Burma on a secret OSS mission, with Ford terrified and murmuring Hail Marys all the way down because, a mere few days before, he had filmed a cargo drop and watched as chute after chute failed to open and the boxes smashed into the unforgiving earth.

Someone else who was scared was Ford’s wife, Mary, who only saw her husband on several brief occasions during the years he was off to war. She was from a Navy family herself and understood the sacrifices involved, but that didn’t make it any easier. One extant letter has Ford gently chiding her, “Ma, you can’t call up long distance just when you’re blue and lonesome. It’s just too damned expensive. We’ve really got to adjust — not financially necessarily, but mentally.” Lonely and bored, she wrote back to her husband that she felt guilty for not doing anything herself for the war effort while he was away fighting. One stateside friend wrote to Ford that his wife was, “pretty miserable just sitting on a hilltop worrying about you and waiting for you to come home.”

Eventually, Mary found some solace in volunteering her time at the now-legendary Hollywood Canteen, the star-studded entertainment hangout for servicemen passing through Los Angeles, where GIs could be served dinner by movie stars and dance the night away with popular starlets to the tunes of world-famous big bands. Mary threw herself into kitchen work there, and quickly became Vice President of the Canteen’s board. Her letters during this time reveal that she helped stars like Bob Hope and Bette Davis fight off a coven of Hollywood Commies, who were trying to get the military MPs (charged with keeping order in the Canteen) booted out, so they could then begin using the venue for staging and promoting leftist propaganda unimpeded.

Ford’s relationship with his wife wasn’t perfect — he was a notorious alcoholic, and one who had flirted with his share of Hollywood actresses during the early years, most notably Katharine Hepburn. But his wife had closed her ears to the gossip and never wavered from his side, vowing to remain “Mrs. John Ford until I die.” They had been married almost twenty-five years, raised two kids, and had overcome problems that would have doomed a lesser marriage. “I pray to God it will soon be over,” he wrote to her in another letter, “so we can live our life together with our children and grandchildren. . . God bless and love you Mary darling — I’m tough to live with — heaven knows & Hollywood didn’t help — Irish & genius don’t mix well but you know you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

By the end of John Ford’s life, he had been married for fifty-three years.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we continue our look at John Ford’s war years, and address his Oscar-winning WWII documentary The Battle of Midway (1942).

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

Searching for John Ford: A Life by Joseph McBride: Without question the bible for John Ford fans. Ford is lucky in that most of the biographies written about him have been pretty good. But McBride’s masterwork — the culmination of three decades of intense research — towers above them all. Heavily drawn upon whenever I write or think about Ford, it is a must-read for all conservative film fans.

John Ford’s Sex Hygiene (1940): A footnote to Ford’s war career, mentioned here solely for the benefit of the morbidly curious. Only for the strong of stomach (and not safe for work). Actor Charles Trowbridge (later to play Admiral Blackwell in They Were Expendable) narrates and stars in this still-ghastly training film, which fully accomplished its goal of scaring the hell out of millions of randy enlisted men. In graphic, venereal diseased detail, young recruits are shown the perils of fooling around with ’dem dirty wemmins in their off-hours. At one point during the production of this little documentary Daryl Zanuck, the head of Twentieth-Century Fox, burst in on Ford interviewing a guy glistening with disgusting sores and declared, “He don’t scare me — send him to makeup!” When asked to comment on the film years later, Ford quipped, “I looked at it and threw up.”

Sex Hygiene Part I at YouTube | Sex Hygiene Part II at YouTube (again, it’s thoroughly gross, and there’s lots of medical full-frontal male nudity — you have been warned.)

The Hollywood Canteen is an idea that could and should be resurrected today, but do you dare take a peek at the modern incarnation of The Hollywood Canteen? One featuring not patriotic movie stars serving our troops, but pampered, puerile celebrities like Paris Hilton and Marilyn Manson being feted by armies of vapid Hollywood wannabes? Steel yourself against massive disappointment and check it out.

The Duke, still ranked Americans’ all-time favorite film star, whose popularity only increases with time, was an “extremely close friend” of Ronald Reagan, said their close mutual friend, longtime Paramount Executive, A.C. Lyles.

Both “Duke” and “Ronnie” shared a clear moral vision concerning America’s greatness-only using force to liberate not conquer, as President Reagan characterized it five years, almost to the day, after Duke’s death, in his poignant tribute to the “Boys of Pointe du Hoc” on June 6, 1984, commemorating D-Day, in which, Lyles said, “he just spoke from the heart.”

“Here, in Normandy,” said Reagan, “… the Allies stood and fought against tyranny, in a giant undertaking unparalleled in human history.” 

“When people saw (Duke) on the screen” in movies like The Longest Day, about the Normandy Invasion, Lyles said, “they always wanted to be on his side because they knew that under (his) leadership… they were going to be on the winning team. He was Americana.”  Like Reagan, “he made us all proud to be Americans.”

Sadly, Duke Wayne, who stumped on the campaign trail for his friend, helping him reach the pinnacle of American politics, left the stage before Reagan assumed the presidency.

There Reagan would effect in the present what Duke re-enacted in motion pictures.

But, he didn’t do it alone.

Reagan soon became friends with someone who cut an even larger figure on the world stage with whom he shared the same simple, yet large values, based on safeguarding the dignity and rights of man, which Fascism and then Communism had brutally undercut.

His friend-none other than Pope John Paul II-became, according to Nancy Reagan, his closest friend, sharing with him the same vision of defeating Communism without firing a shot.  Indeed, as Martin and Annelise Anderson reveal in their new book, Reagan’s Secret War, his ultimate goal was to rid the world of the nuclear threat, which is now more relevant than ever.

While Duke’s artistry brought to life hard-fought victories over Fascism, Reagan and the Pope engaged in this epic battle against Communism as history was unfolding.

Amazingly, Reagan-having helped liberate oppressed peoples behind the Iron Curtain-died almost 25 years to the day after Duke passed away.

Both represented a continuum of values evoked by Reagan’s words, speaking of the “Boys at Pointe du Hoc,” many in the audience, that “It was faith and belief, it was loyalty and love” impelling them to scale those Normandy cliffs.

“All of you loved liberty,” continued Reagan, and “God was an ally in this great cause.”

They were willing to die to “protect and defend democracy” knowing “God would grant them mercy on this beachhead, or on the next.”

“Do not bow your heads,” Reagan said, repeating Colonel Wolverton’s plea to his parachute troops the night before the historic Invasion, “but look up so you can see God and ask His blessing in what we’re about to do.”

Now that America confronts an enemy every bit as daunting as that President Reagan faced, the question is, which Republican-and there can only be one-will look up and provide that continuum of morally clear, strong leadership today and in 2012?

Who, indeed, will speak from the heart?

Mary Claire Kendall, writer and commentator, has extensive political experience, including a stint as one of Lee Atwater’s “30 nerds.”  She served as a Reagan political appointee at the U.S. Department of Education, 1987-88.