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“Captain America: The First Avenger” is set in the latter half of World War II.  The action begins with a scrawny Steve Rogers (a digitally depreciated Chris Evans) doing everything he can to enlist in the U.S. Army.  Rogers has all kinds of heart, but he’s gaunt and is thus 4-F.  The plot turns when an impassioned speech to a friend (“There are men laying down their lives.  I have no right to do any less than them.”) catches the ear of Dr. Abraham Erskine (a very Stanley Tucci Stanley Tucci).  Erskine is a German scientist who is working with the U.S. Army to develop a Super Solider Serum–the ultimate performance enhancing drug–and is on the lookout for a test subject.  The serum amplifies what’s inside of you, so someone of Rogers’ size and character makes him the perfect candidate for this breakthrough procedure.  Erskine and engineer Howard Stark (father of Tony) put Rogers in what looks like a retro-50s refrigerator, crank up the dials until all the power in the building short-circuits, and out comes this guy:

So what does the Army do with the most-badass solider ever to exist on earth?  They use him as a propaganda tool, of course!  Rogers goes state to state shilling war bonds in elaborate stage productions as the character Captain America.  At first, Captain America is played for laughs; the stage shows are absurd and Rogers is no more than a jingo indoctrinating the public.  The show is an acid-trip of brightly colored American flags that are starkly contrasted with an otherwise dimly-lit movie.  Not content to profiteer for the war industry, Rogers ultimate breaks away and goes off to fight his future nemesis, Johann Schmidt, aka Red Skull (played with typically villainy awesomeness by Hugo Weaving).

There are a handful of legitimately patriotic moments that were a treat to watch.  One such scene is when the under-sized yet hopeful Rogers longingly watches a recruiting video with a perfect balance of pride and jealousy; the scene will make not a few of you want to enlist on the spot.  Another moment that should give conservative viewers the warm-and-fuzzies is when one character exclaims that the success of the procedure that turned a normal young man into a Super Solider is the “first step on the path to peace.”  Imagine if that was said every-time the real military developed a new type of bomb or unmanned drone?

But, predictably, these moments are offset by a smattering of mini-sucker punches.  Clichéd racist, sexist, and stupid American soldiers abound and are constantly being outsmarted or needing their asses saved by Captain America and his personal motley crew of multi-colored troops (including a French drunk guy) you’d think he plucked out of a United Colors of Benetton ad (joke hat tip: Mr. Breitbart).  When the War is won, we see a celebration scene in the streets of the United… Kingdom.  Rogers’ love interest is sexy-feminist (not an oxymoron after-all) Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell), who is an American in the comics but is British in the film.

A credits sequence that’s pure Americana leaves you with a good taste in your mouth, but I can’t help but wonder if the same one will appear in the cut of the film that is seen overseas.

The movie is typical of Hollywood in the 2011: What it lacks in deep, compelling storytelling, it makes up for with excellent production quality.  There were many appealing performances (along with a handful of caricatures), and the film has a nostalgic look that captures the era with just the right amount of modern flair.  Evans is solid as our hero; strong, charismatic, yet vulnerable, and I didn’t catch him Blue Steeling even once.  A scene where Captain America chases a car… by foot… is pure fun and the movie’s payoff sets up “The Avengers” (due out next summer) quite nicely.  Stick around until the very end for a teaser for “The Avengers,” and do take note of how Captain America’s suit has all of a sudden gone from the dull coloration that inspired our ire a few months ago to a brighter, more authentic blue.

Still, in the well-paced two hours, I can’t think of one bold decision when it comes to the plotting or the characters.

It’s also worth drawing attention to a bizarre story-line that Captain America isn’t fighting the Nazis as much as he’s fighting Schmidt/Red Skull’s extra-nasty fringe sect.  It seems unnecessary to have nuance when it comes to the Nazis in this case, considering the bad guys are supposed to be pure evil.  The Nazis were the ones that carried out the Holocaust and sought to dominate the world, and that’s who Captain America fought in the comics!  Lou Loumenick over at the New York Post thinks Paramount may have made this call so as not to piss off any German movie-goers.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t take the opportunity to complain about how patently distracting and unnecessary this 3D experiment has been.  (Social liberals like to argue that one day we’ll look back on this time and think we all supported same-sex marriage; I think we’ll look back on it and remember hating 3D movies.)

The line that best encapsulates “Captain America: The First Avenger” came early on in the film when Dr. Erskine asks Steve Rogers, “Do you want to kill Nazis?”  Rogers replies, “I don’t want to kill anyone.  I don’t like bullies.”  I hate bullies, and all of you on the Bigs Team know that we strive to fight them every chance we get, and it was good on Hollywood to give us a hero dedicated to standing up to them.  Yet, standing up to bullies is not specifically American (think the British who fought along side us in World War II or the Iraqis who fight with us now, just to name a couple), and I think Captain America would want to kill Nazis.  It’s a decent line, it’s a decent film, it just doesn’t soar in that magical way we all hope something called “Captain America” will when the lights go down in the theater.

The IMDB description of the film states that Captain America is “a superhero dedicated to defending America’s ideals.”  Dennis Prager is keen to note that American values are best summed up on your coin: e pluribis unum (“out of many, one”), in God we trust, and liberty.  None of these ideals are seriously touched upon in Joe “Jumanji” Johnston’s film.  This Captain America is a hero of unquestioned bravery, but he’s more interested in the general and unspecific “doing the right thing” and having his friends’ backs.  That’s all well and good and makes for a very likeable lead character, but it’s just not uniquely America, and you can bet that’s by design.

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.

Glory tells a piece of American history  that had been mostly neglected up to then by presenting the tale of the unit’s formation through bringing together various characters as part of the 1860s landscape.  The dilemma faced by the white officers  – who learn that they will be executed for inciting slave revolt if captured on the battlefield – is personified in Shaw’s best friend, the emotionally torn Maj. Cabot Forbes (Cary Ewles).  In contrast are the tales of the rank and file black soldiers themselves.  There is Slias Trip, the rebellious and angry runaway (played by Denzel Washington who won the Oscar for best supporting actor); Sgt.-Maj. John Rawlins (Morgan Freeman), the former grave-digger who becomes the modicum of soldierly poise; Thomas Searles (Andre Braugher), the erudite free black man who is a bit of a dandy, having never felt the lash himself; and Jupiter Sharts (Jihmi Kennedy), the stuttering, loveable, everyman ex-slave whose smile is as infectious as his dedication to the cause.

Glory’s appeal to me is that it is told through the perspective of Col. Shaw himself.  We are given snippets of the actual letters he wrote home about his experiences as a decidedly insulated white boy of privilege suddenly putting his own idealism to the test by taking on what was hardly a popular endeavor in the North at the time: arming and training blacks to fight in the US Army.

The film treats us to the usual battery of discrimination they faced, from being paid less than comparable white soldiers to having much-needed shoes deliberately withheld from them by racist elements within the supply department.  Through it all, young Shaw transforms from first feeling alienated from the men whose life experiences he cannot even remotely fathom, to bonding with them and eventually leading them as their trusted and beloved commander on the firing line.

But what is most moving about this film is the tragic ending, which portrays (albeit with some historical license) the 54^th leading the ill-fated charge against the impregnable ramparts of the rebel’s Fort Wagner in which over half of the regiment (and succeeding all-white commands) were casualties.   As the magnificent troops march over the dunes to the point of the assault in between two files of white units who just a few scenes before were mocking them, the cheers of “Give ‘em hell 54^th!” and “Huzzah!” with hats raised are the only comments they hear now.  No whites.  No blacks.  Just fellow soldiers in a common cause.  After a heart-shredding image of Shaw staring out to the sea, taking it all in for the last time before sending his horse galloping to the safety of the rear (darn it!  I’m crying again!), his men start their grim advance with shellfire and bullets ripping into their ranks.  And the rest is sad history.  Fort Wagner was never taken.

Col. Shaw was killed in this battle and was buried in a common grave along with the black troops he had the honor of commanding.  The Southerners thought they were treating him to the worst of ignominy.  Shaw’s father, however, was  proud to have his son laid to rest so.  What Glory demonstrates is an honest liberalism that has been lost by today’s vindictive far left.  It shows a young man (he was twenty-six) of means who literally gave his life to advance a narrative he believed in: that a black person was the equal of his own race.

As the movie Shaw says to a Harper’s Weekly reporter before the attack he knows is suicidal but will pave the way for black soldiers getting the respect they deserve from a skeptical white populace, “If I should fall, remember what you see here.”  We remember.  And one wonders how many of those who are so quick to point the finger of “racism” at anyone who doesn’t agree with their politics today would charge into the teeth of Fort Wagner’s guns to prove just how “post-racial” they really are.

[Post note: The mass burial is no longer there due to erosion which washed the bodies of Col. Shaw and his men out into the Atlantic.  I don't know why but there is something hauntingly sublime in that.]

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During the footage before and after the jump, Vaughn didn’t talk about his politics, didn’t offer a clue as to who he is or isn’t voting for this November, and gave no indication as to his opinion of government bailouts. Rather, he made sure he praised the soldiers who fight to keep this nation free.  And talking about putting your money where your mouth is: Vaughn not only spoke highly of the troops, he actually did a tandem jump with an Army Specialist which entailed nothing less than putting his life in that soldier’s hands.

Just before Vaughn boarded the plane that would take him to his jump, he was asked for his thoughts and calmly said “I feel like we’re in great hands.” Thereafter, the plane took off, Vaughn did his tandem jump, and after he had parachuted to the ground a reporter approached him and said: “You just jumped out of an airplane with the United States Army parachute team The Golden Knights.” Vaughn looked at the reporter and said:  “And it was the best. It was incredible.”

Vaughn then looked around at the other soldiers who had jumped with him and those in uniform already on the ground and said: “The Army’s the best…We had a blast. It was incredible, so thank you.”

The YouTube video of Vaughn’s jump ends with him looking into the camera and saying: “Hi. I’m Vince Vaughn, and now I know what ‘Army Strong’ is all about.”

Long before Vaughn talked about feeling Army Strong, he was standing up for this nation where many of Hollywood’s most notable fail to stand. For instance, on the cusp of the invasion of Iraq in 2003, he was in England, where he had to put up with Brits who loathed the United States. He said that when they would badmouth the U.S., his favorite comeback to them was: “[Why don’t you] think about the Marshall Plan a bit and get back to me?” In other words, instead of quietly listening as others insulted America, Vaughn reminded them of the post-WWII economic/infrastructure plan we put in place where we funded the reconstruction of Europe.

I applauded Vaughn for his common sense approach to demonstrating his love for this country’s name and this country’s honor. I also applaud him for standing up for our troops. And I wonder why voices like his are in the minority in Hollywood? Hopefully others will follow Vaughn’s lead and take time to shake a soldier’s hand or stand up for this country when an uppity European socialist insults it.

We’re not asking actors and actresses to tell us who they plan to vote for (or who they think we should vote for). Rather, we’re just asking them to love this country the way we do: the way Vaughn does.

To them, the American hinterland is part Deliverance, part Raising Arizona. Toothless gas-station attendants. Frumpy diner waitresses. Motor-home brothels hedging the highways. In the Heat of the Night racist police officers on the prowl, yee-haw! Ignorant picnicking churchgoers spewing toxic barbecue fumes into the pristine blue sky. Country-music lovin’ high school students destined to grow up into unwashed, uncouth, uneducated truckers.

Coast-bound libs fancy the South as kinda like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, but with Wal-Marts. Flyover country. A nightmare realm.

Well, back in the summer of 1977, flyover country was pissed. The nation they loved was being run into the ground by the jet-setters. Skyrocketing inflation. Rampant unemployment. Plummeting GDP. Crushing misery index. Multiple oil crises. Vanishing trade surpluses. A wretched President. Ordinary people were scared and angry, looking for — what’s the word? — oh yeah, “change.” Spare or otherwise.

So it was like manna from heaven when that May an ex-stuntman and his cadre of good-ole-boy pals offered audiences a silly, funny, blissfully outrageous movie, one that stuck a middle finger in the collective faces of the ruling culturati. Hot cars! Hot girls! Hot stunts! Cold beer! Even a hound dog! All of it rollicked across drive-in screens throughout this great land, in a story notable for its complete irreverence and utter lack of pretension. Nanny-state road safety? Eat our dust, you sumbitch! Humorless feminism? Soon as I get home, the first thing I’m gonna do is punch yo’ mama in da mouth! FDA-approved diet recommendations? Let me have a Diablo sammich and a Docta Peppa, and make it fast, I’m in a goddamn hurry! Global cooling? Stick the tailpipe of this flamin’ chicken, Starlight black, gold-pinstriped, snowflake-rimmed, T-topped special edition Trans Am in your mouth and smoke it!

By the end of the summer, the country had given the film a big 10-4 and made it a cultural phenomenon, and the big-city mandarins suddenly had a new sneering name for America’s blood-red hinterland: “CB country.” The critics viewed this orgy of laughin’, cussin’, and lovin’ with incredulous disdain, dismissing it as a piece of lowbrow cinematic fluff. But in CB country, Smokey and the Bandit (1977) had become one of the top box-office smashes of all-time and a veritable Robin Hood outlaw myth for an entire generation of disaffected Americans. Thirty-two years and a horde of mediocre pastiches later, the original’s raw appeal remains undimmed.

Keep your foot hard on the pedal.
Son, never mind them brakes.
Let it all hang out, ’cause we got a run to make.

The boys are thirsty in Atlanta
and there’s beer in Texarkana.
And we’ll bring it back, no matter what it takes!

The man who gave us the legend of the Bandit was Hal Needham, a guy perfectly suited to his role in our popular culture. Born in 1931 in Memphis, he spent his boyhood years raising hell in the backwoods of Missouri and Arkansas. Always rangy and athletic, in his late teens he spied an Uncle Sam poster featuring U.S. Army Paratroopers kicking butt in Korea. Promptly signing up with the 82nd airborne, he began the training that would ultimately lead him into the risky, high-wire world of professional Hollywood stuntmen. During one jump his primary chute failed, and he fell for thousands of feet trying to work his reserve chute free as comrades looked on in horror. Losing consciousness, he woke to learn from his buddies that he had freed the chute seconds before hitting the ground, slowing his fall just enough to survive. It was the first of thousands of stunts he would perform throughout his life.

After leaving the Army (when pressured to re-enlist, he told his Captain, “I gave a dog a can a C-rations the other day, and he went around for a week licking his back-end trying to get the taste out of his mouth”) he took a job lumberjacking. One day, at the very top of an enormous tree, he happily sawed through the trunk — only to realize with classic Road-Runner timing that he had just cut off the part he was securely strapped to. Another death-defying fall ensued, this time sans parachute and attached to a bone-crushing hunk of wood. But again, God was looking out for fools that day — Needham fell a hundred feet into a large pile of springy branches and leaves, escaping with only some scratches and bruises.

He eventually migrated West, met some stuntmen at his day job, and began hanging around film sets looking to do anything to impress. Some daring parachute and wing-walking work for The Spirit of St. Louis (1957) made his name among stunt coordinators, and soon he had his first regular gig as Richard Boone’s double on television’s Have Gun, Will Travel. Chuck Roberson, the longtime stunt double for John Wayne, became his mentor, and Needham worked for John Ford and John Wayne throughout the fifties and sixties, developing a reputation for skill, fearlessness, and a lack of BS. Like many other stuntmen in the Ford/Wayne stock company, Needham would get small acting roles in many of their films. Here he is with John Wayne in McLintock!, all stuntman cool in a minor role as Wayne’s ranchhand:

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Most of the stuntmen in those days suffered regular injuries jumping off buildings, doing horsefalls, and having various items smashed over their heads in fight scenes. But Needham took punishment to a new level and became a legend for the risks he took. He walked away from stunts with broken bones over fifty times, broke his back twice, punctured his lung, and lost some teeth, but none of it fazed him. “You’re not hurt until you have to go to the hospital,” he says about those years. “Broken arms and things . . . hell, that don’t count.”

Needham also separated himself from most other stuntmen as an innovator. By 1970 he had grown sick of the many outdated rules and regulations that came with membership in the industry’s Stuntman’s Association trade group, so with several others he broke away from that organization and formed Stunts Unlimited, a one-stop shop for all the stunts, equipment, and safety expertise a movie might need. He also opposed the no-minority/no women policy of the Stuntman’s Association, and black and female stunt experts found their first official home in Needham’s new company. “We thought we were pretty progressive at the time,” he says today.

Needham also won accolades throughout the industry for helping to invent the Shotmaker, a truck-borne rig that allowed a camera to swoop around a fast-moving car and get shots from any angle, a vast improvement over the static, old-fashioned way it used to be done. This LA Times commercial shows Needham and his invention at work:

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By the end of the 1960s Needham had become not just a stuntman but a stunt coordinator, and in the 1970s he also began second-unit directing, learning the ropes of camera placement and lighting.

Back in 1959, at the beginning of his career, he did some work on the TV series Riverboat, starring Darren McGavin of A Christmas Story fame, where he met a young unknown actor and sometime stuntman named Burt Reynolds. Both men shared a down-South, blue-collar sensibility, a love of athleticism and stunts. They also realized that they were both more ambitious than their friends. “It’s that good-old-boy country kind of people that we come from,” Needham would later explain. “We were both trying to get a foot in the door and be somebody when we first met.”

They each noticed how driven the other was, even while their friends only made halfhearted attempts to score their next gigs, so they began helping each other. Needham taught Reynolds the intricacies of stuntwork, and introduced him to his many friends in the field. Reynolds, for his part, made sure that whenever he needed somebody to double for him, Needham got the job. When Reynolds’ first marriage broke up in the mid-’60s, he stayed at Needham’s house until he could get back on his feet. When Needham’s own marriage fell apart a few years later Reynolds returned the favor, letting Needham stay in his guest house out back. Movie piled upon movie and the good times rolled on until, before he knew it, Needham had been living in Reynolds’ backyard for twelve years.

On one Reynolds shoot in Georgia, the Coors beer Needham had received from a friend kept disappearing from his fridge. Some sleuthing revealed that the maid was stealing it. When he confronted her, she explained sheepishly that Coors wasn’t distributed east of the Mississippi — it could only be had by bootlegging it across state lines — so it was a rare treat in Georgia, one that she couldn’t resist grabbing for her Coors-loving boyfriend. This was all news to Needham — living in California, he had all the Coors he wanted. But the essential ridiculousness of the tale amused him, and he thought: what a wonderful hook on which to hang the plot of a redneck movie!

For years, you see, as age and injuries took their toll, Needham had thought about attempting a segue into directing. Now, a chance encounter with a thieving maid had given him an idea. He began crafting a screenplay in the seclusion of Reynolds’ guest house, working by hand on yellow legal pads. Through the whole process he remained focused on exactly the kind of picture this was going to be, and the audience he intended to make it for. Screw Hollywood, he thought — this flick was going to be for his kind of people, “The South, the Midwest, the Northwest, all the flyover states.” He wrote each scene, and dreamed up each stunt, with the intention of making the film his first directing gig. He knew that the Buford T. Justices of the studio system would balk at his asking to direct, judging him to be just a dumb stuntman. So he wrote scenes that could be shot on a micro-budget, and convinced his friend, country music singer and sometime character actor Jerry Reed, to agree to star as the Bandit.

When reading the early drafts of the script, one is struck by how — for all of its action elements — the basic mood is one of reverence for the people who live in isolated clapboard houses in the deep South, struggling to get by day-by-day, far away from big-city life. Here’s the description of Snowman’s living room from the script:

Most of the furniture is old and what isn’t, is covered with plastic. No fancy carpets or objects d’art. On the coffee table is an open, colorfully illustrated Bible. A blonde wood television set sits in a corner of the room. There are a lot of toy trucks lying around and over the mantel is an oil painting of a fancy eighteen-wheeler with an epitaph under it reading: “I’d rather be a truck driver, than be a millionaire…”

There’s also a more fatalistic, Vanishing Point style ending, with the Bandit and the Snowman surrounded and captured by the police after they make it to the fairgrounds. As the police drive off into the sunset with their quarry, lights flashing but sirens eerily silent, “we pull further and further away, watching the whole event become history.” And then, as the screen fades to black, two lonely voices are heard over a CB channel:

VOICE ONE

Did ya hear they nailed the Bandit?

VOICE TWO

Yeah, I heard. But they won’t hold him for long. Anyway, he sure gave them sumbitches a run for their money.

Many of the hilarious shenanigans present in the final film aren’t to be found in Needham’s original script — they would be added on the fly during production, by a pair of comedians separated in age by a generation but destined to become a wonderful on-screen comedic duo. The enormous popularity of Smokey and the Bandit was the result of a number of fortuitous pieces falling into place for Hal Needham. The next of those pieces turned out to be the unwavering loyalty of his best friend.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we delve into the career of Burt Reynolds, and see how his respect for Hollywood’s old school and its traditions helped turn Smokey and the Bandit from a low-budget “hick flick” into a pop-culture phenomenon.

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

Here’s a cool video of Hal Needham that focuses on stunt driving, with a great scene showing Needham lassoing a moving car:

Read an early draft of the Smokey script here.

The Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Beverly Hills has a great oral interview transcript with Needham that runs many hundreds of pages. Conducted by Mae Woods in 2004-2005, it covers all aspects of his career in detail, and includes many great stories about working behind the scenes with John Wayne, John Ford, Burt Reynolds, and many others. If you live in Los Angeles (or are visiting) and have an interest in Needham, it’s well worth the trip to the Library to read.

And, of course, old movies.

By 1944 John Ford already sensed the onset of these creeping forces of forgetfulness, and so when the time came to make Expendable, he hatched a strange plan. First, he confronted Louis B. Mayer, the head of M-G-M, and demanded that he be paid $300,000 for helming the picture, more than any director had ever made for a single film. Appealing to Mayer’s patriotism, he said he wasn’t going to keep a single cent of it — it would be used in toto to establish a special place of military honor and memory, a shrine “for Pennick and the boys.” Mayer agreed, and after Expendable was finished Ford used the money to buy eight acres of land in the foothills north of Los Angeles, and to build upon it what became known as The Field Photo Farm.

By the time Ford’s funds were exhausted, the property sported stables with horses, a tennis court, a swimming pool, a baseball diamond, and a large parade ground — all of it reserved for the veterans of his OSS Field Photographic unit. A big clubhouse contained glass cases filled with the war medals of Field Photo’s heroic dead. A beautiful chapel was constructed on-site, with the names of the men lost under Ford’s command engraved therein. The list included Jack MacKenzie Jr., the young assistant who had narrowly avoided death alongside Ford at Midway and who had survived the rest of the war, only to be tragically killed in an August 1945 Jeep accident in Los Angeles. In 1947, They Were Expendable’s brilliant cinematographer Joe August collapsed on the set of his 277th picture, dead of a heart attack. Ford dutifully had his name added to the chapel’s grim roster.

A mission statement drawn up for the Farm reads:

The aim of the organization shall be to ever respect and hold before all men the shining example of our comrades who made the supreme sacrifice in order that we, as a nation, may continue to enjoy those freedoms that are the foundation of our country’s greatness and are the birthright of all peoples.

For the next twenty-five years, the Field Photo Farm served as a lovely place for Ford and his old war buddies to meet, drink, be merry, and celebrate holidays with their families. Elaborate Memorial Day services and Christmas parties were staged, which were equal parts festive get-togethers and morose eulogistic remembrances. “Wild Bill” Donovan, Ford’s old OSS superior, had a room permanently reserved for his exclusive use. Field Photo vets down on their luck were allowed to live at the Farm free of charge for as long as they wanted. As members of Ford’s inner circle began to die off, the chapel became the site for many funerals, most notably Ward Bond’s in 1960.

Only in 1969 — when the clubhouse was destroyed by fire, and most of his war buddies were dead and gone — would John Ford reluctantly disband the Farm. Even then, Ford didn’t keep the money: the proceeds from the sale of the property and all of its amenities were donated to the Motion Picture Television and Relief Fund, netting that organization nearly $300,000. As for the chapel, it was moved to the grounds of the Motion Picture Country House and Hospital, where it still stands today as “The John Ford Chapel.” Aside from his films, it is the last physical reminder of Ford’s quarter-century crusade to keep memory alive.

Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished. Joseph McBride notes glumly at the beginning of Searching for John Ford how ignorant Hollywood and its admirers have become concerning the career of America’s greatest director:

I was shocked a couple of years ago when I asked a film teacher at a leading California university what she thought of Ford, and found that she had never seen any of his movies. This was not an isolated instance. I often encountered blank looks when I mentioned Ford’s name to people outside the film business, and a story editor for a Hollywood film company asked me, “What are his films?”

Clearly, something is drastically wrong here. A director of Ford’s artistic stature, a filmmaker whose canvas of American life is so rich and ambitious, should be central to our culture, a household word. . . Has Ford become marginalized because of his concentration on a pioneer past that seems less and less meaningful to a nation entering a new millennium? And if that is so, what does that say about us?

What does it say, indeed. If we no longer make the kinds of films John Ford made — if we lose the capability even to imagine how such movies would look and feel today — what does that say about us and our society? What have we lost?

When in the last months of Ford’s life President Richard Nixon came to Los Angeles to give the dying director the Presidential Medal of Freedom, Jane Fonda decided to protest the event outside the auditorium with thousands of anti-war hippies and vermin. Whether she was raging against Nixon, Ford, or the war is irrelevant — her father owed much of his career and fame to Ford, which means she did, too, whether or not she had the sense to realize it. That supreme lack of class, and of respect for one’s elders, is as good a place as any to draw a line between Ford’s world and our own. To put the dichotomy into further relief: Donna Reed, who starred in Expendable, was also a Vietnam War opponent during those years, but she at least possessed a modicum of politesse. For instance, Reed never once saw fit to pose on an enemy gun battery — on the contrary, she was one of the actresses who had danced and mingled with servicemen at the Hollywood Canteen.

The citation for Ford’s Medal of Freedom reads in part: “As an interpreter of the Nation’s heritage, he left his personal stamp indelibly imprinted on the consciousness of whole generations both here and abroad. In his life and in his work, John Ford represents the best in American films and the best in America.” During his brief acceptance speech that night, a frail and cancer-ravaged Ford admitted to Nixon and the world that he had recently “blubbered and cried like a baby” while watching American POWs coming home from Vietnam on TV. Miss Fonda, for her part, famously called those same POWs “hypocrites and liars,” and laughed off their claims of being tortured.

Years later, an elderly Nixon penned a heartfelt letter to Ford biographer Joseph McBride, wherein he tried to express what John Ford meant to America and how modern Hollywood had broken faith with those ideals. I found it a profound, perceptive statement, but judge for yourself from this excerpt (italics mine):

[Ford] was appalled that the Mayor of New York had said, “Our best young men went to Canada.” What appalled him was not the fact that they fled to Canada in order to evade the draft. He understood why any young person would not want to go to Vietnam and get his butt shot off. What he objected to was their pretensions of higher morality — their looking down on those who did serve, the “dummies” who went to Vietnam and got their butts shot off. He believed as I did that our best young men went to Vietnam — even though they were not the best educated or the wealthiest or members of what would generally be described as the elite class, the brightest and the best in our society.

I don’t see many Hollywood motion pictures these days and I am sure that there are some good ones. But what concerns me as I believe it would have concerned John Ford, is the tendency for many Hollywood pictures to reflect life in Hollywood rather than life in the United States. Many movies are sick because those who write, produce, direct, and act in them are sick. It just isn’t considered fashionable to portray the old virtues that John Ford stood for. Even more important, it isn’t considered to be commercial. This new negativism pervades the elite classes not just in Hollywood but in New York, Washington, and the other great financial and corporate centers of the United States.

A goody-two-shoes portrayal would not be a true picture of America. But I would suggest that Hollywood moviemakers would be well advised to travel through America and see what it really is — the good, the bad, and the ugly, with the good prevailing over the bad and the ugly by a factor of ten to one.

John Ford in his life and in his motion pictures celebrated courage, loyalty, honor, strength, sacrifice, patriotism. He did it so well that people by the millions flocked to see his movies. What America and the world needs today are more John Fords who share his values and reflect them in their work.

John Ford died on August 31, 1973, and was buried on a gentle hillside at Holy Cross, the largest Catholic cemetery in the Los Angeles area. His wife, who died six years later, lies at his side. His older brother Francis rests a few plots away — Francis, who played a genial drunk in so many Ford movies, and who signed up with the Army in April, 1943 before being rejected during Basic once they discovered he was sixty-five years old. Ford’s younger brother Edward and his sister Josephine also are interred in the same section, a bit up the hill.

Having the luck of living only a few minutes away, I visit Ford’s grave often. Always I brush the cut grass and dirt off the small marker. Sometimes I fill the inset vase with flowers. If the illegals mowing the lawn aren’t looking my way, I might even fire off a clandestine salute, Jack Pennick-style. Small gestures to be sure, and pretty worthless in the greater scheme of things.

But what the hell. John Ford never forgot his men. Now that he needs a bit of looking after, I don’t intend on forgetting him.

This concludes our seven-part look at the war years of John Ford and the films The Battle of Midway (1942) and They Were Expendable (1945).

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

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

FURTHER READING AND VIEWING

You remember our pact, don’t you? The deal was: first we go through the history of a movie, we study the lives and dreams of its makers, we immerse ourselves in its time and place, and we examine its themes and subtext from a conservative perspective.

Then: we watch the film.

Watching the film is important, it’s the culmination of everything we’ve worked up to. At the end of the day, films aren’t meant to be dissected like so many cadavers at an autopsy — they are meant to be experienced as living, breathing entities. It’s the difference between a butterfly fluttering among sunbeams and flowers in the fullness of life, and one pinned into a scrapbook stinking of formaldehyde. It’s the difference between studying the sheet music of a symphony versus hearing it played by a full orchestra. Don’t think you’ve learned very much about John Ford if you’ve only followed along with these articles. You’ve only prepared yourself to learn, the way a traveler studies a map before heading off on a grand adventure. It’s in the film itself where the real magic happens.

Always remember: the more you bring to a film, the more it will give back to you. If you’ve stuck with me these past seven weeks, you now know a great deal about They Were Expendable. It’s time to put all that knowledge to use. You can Buy the DVD of Expendable for as low as $7.12 with free shipping. Alternately, you can add it to your Netflix queue. However you do it, get it in-house.

Then: make some popcorn, crack open a cold beer, put out the lights, pop in the DVD, and enjoy one of the great triumphs of classic American cinema. 

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we’ll turn to an all-new year and an all-new film. Hope to see you there.

By Michael Yon
25 September 2009

The surprise discontinuation of my embedment from the British Army left my schedule in a train wreck.  Until that decisive moment, I am told, that my embed with the British Army had lasted longer than anyone else’s; other than Ross Kemp’s.  I’ve also been told that I’ve spent more time with the British Army in Iraq than any correspondent.  So it’s fair to say, we have good history together.

In the last 12 months, I’ve embedded with the British Army in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, then over to the jungles of Brunei to attend a man-tracking school, and again back in Afghanistan.  During that time, I’ve also been with U.S. forces in Iraq, the Philippines, and Afghanistan.  I’ve accompanied the Lithuanians in Afghanistan and also been downrange for months without any troops or official assignment.

This dispatch, and many others, should have been about soldiers at war. But it’s not.  This dispatch is being written in downtown Kandahar City and I have not seen a soldier in days.  The Taliban is slowing winning this city.  There have been many bombings and shootings since I arrived in disguise.

In 2006, Iraq was melting down and I had just written twelve dispatches that clearly stated we were losing in Afghanistan.  Those dispatches caused a public uproar and the consequences were such that U.S. military refused to let me back into Iraq.  Because of the U.S. military censorship in Iraq, I published a dispatch in the Weekly Standard titled, Censoring Iraq.  General Petraeus emailed to me immediately, and if not for his intervention, there would have been Censoring Iraq II, III, IV, V….  Ultimately, dozens of dispatches about soldiers have been forever lost.

I returned to Iraq in 2006, and in 2007, I reported that the war had turned around and progress was clear.  In 2008, I wrote that we had won the Iraq war.  And although recent bombings have grabbed headlines, overall violence continues to decrease.

This brings us to Afghanistan, 2009.

My latest embed with British 2 Rifles, which began in July, was extended on at least two occasions.  The British Ministry of Defence (MoD) had recently agreed that I would spend roughly one more month with 2 Rifles.  My scheduled embeds with the United States Air Force and Marines were specifically arranged around the British schedule, and I was enjoying reporting on the excellent British troops.

However, on August 24th, with no warning, unseen faces of MoD discontinued my embed from 2 Rifles.  The message that I was no longer embedded was emailed to me by Media Ops, just as I returned from an interesting firefight in the Green Zone.  Luckily, none of our guys got hit, but I think the British soldiers may have killed some Taliban.

I do not know the reason for the embed termination.  My best guess is that it relates to my sustained criticism that the British government is not properly resourcing its soldiers.

Before going further, it is essential to underscore the importance of the “Media Ops” in the war. When Media Ops fails to help correspondents report from the front, the public misses necessary information to make informed decisions about the war. Many soldiers in the British Media Ops are true professionals who strive constantly to improve at their tasks and work very well with correspondents.  Their professionalism and understanding of the larger mission—ultimate victory—provide an invaluable service to the war effort.

But there are a few who should not be in uniform and it takes only one roach leg to spoil a perfect soup.

For example—without giving names so as not to tar and feather someone for his entire life when he still has a chance to change his behavior—the British Major running Media Ops at Camp Bastion has been particularly problematic.  Even before my embed started with 2 Rifles, his words raised red flags among the correspondents about his priorities.

I had a specific incident with this British Media Ops Major.

The Major and I were driving in Camp Bastion around midday when it was very hot.  A British soldier ran by wearing a rucksack. He was drenched in sweat under the blazing, dusty desert.  I smiled because it’s great to see so many soldiers who work and train hard. Yet the Major cut fun at the soldier, saying he was dumb to be running in that heat.  I nearly growled at the Major, but instead asked if he ever goes into combat.  The answer was no. And, in fact, the Major does not leave the safety of Camp Bastion.

That a military officer would share a foul word about a combat soldier who was prepping for battle was offensive.  Especially an officer who lives in an air-conditioned tent with a refrigerator stocked with chilled soft drinks.  Just outside his tent are nice hot and cold showers.  Five minutes away is a little Pizza Hut trailer, a coffee shop, stores, and a cookhouse.

This very Major had earned a foul reputation among his own kind for spending too much time on his Facebook page. I personally saw him being gratuitously rude to correspondents.  Some correspondents—all were British—complained to me that when they wanted to interview senior British officers, they were told by this Major to submit written questions.  The Major said they would receive videotaped answers that they could edit as if they were talking with the interviewee.  (Presumably, senior British officers are avoiding the tough questions, such as, “So, when do you plan to send enough helicopters?”)

When I asked a different Media Ops officer about meeting with a senior British General in Afghanistan, I was told that submitting a CV (curriculum vitae) would be helpful, to which I laughed.  A CV?  How about this:

Name: Michael Yon
Profession: Writer
Experience: Years
Notes: I will be in and affecting your battle space for years to come. (By the way, you are losing the war.  Hiding from correspondents does not change that fact.)

This war is moving fast and there is no time for games.  If a general does not want to tell his story, someone will tell it for him.  He will have failed by losing another winnable media battle.

On a sidebar, before this article was published I was invited to the Netherlands by the esteemed James “Maggie” Megallas to attend an incredible Dutch remembrance for our World War II veterans.

For those who don’t know him, James Megellas is a retired U.S. Army officer who commanded Company “H” of the 3rd Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR), 82nd Airborne Division during World War II.  Maggie is the most-decorated officer in the history of the 82nd Airborne Division, having received a Distinguished Service Cross, a Silver Star, and been nominated for the Medal of Honor.  Maggie at 92 and is an extraordinary man.  He can give an eloquent speech for an hour without a single written note.

He has spent a couple months in Afghanistan—in the worst places.  He’s a true leader and a wise man, known to General McChrystal and General Petraeus. General Petraeus told me last week that CENTCOM had okayed Maggie’s trip to Afghanistan.  Maggie is an American treasure.  Last week in the Netherlands, “Maggie” was spending time General Petraeus and with European royalty, including Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.  General Petraeus and World War II veterans stayed several days at the same hotel Maggie and I were in.

In Holland, folks were lining up to honor and pay tribute to our World War II veterans and General Petraeus.  I didn’t want to distract General Petraeus with any questions while he was so busy.  But on about the third day, there was a tap on my shoulder and I was told that General Petraeus had some time if I wanted to talk.

I asked the good General some tough questions on Afghanistan—the kind that would end discussions with timid people—yet, like normal, he fielded those questions with the candor that I so respect in him and have come to expect. The same has happened to me with the Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, and other top military leaders.  Gates and Petraeus will field challenging, difficult questions and will take what you throw at them.  Yet the British Media Ops in Afghanistan wants correspondents to submit written questions so they can provide tidy answers.  That’s a sad joke and there are many correspondents, including me, who are not laughing.

More on the trip to Netherlands will be forthcoming, but now back to Afghanistan:

At Camp Bastion there are two tents at Media Ops. One tent is for the Media Ops staff and the other is for the itinerant correspondents.  When ever the Internet died in the correspondents’ tent, the Major in question let the journalists use the Internet in the staff tent.  That was helpful and appreciated.  But he locked the door at night (the tent has a door) and kept it that way until the morning so that no correspondent would wake him with keyboard tapping.  Not helpful on transmitting information.

At a glance, that seems trivial stuff, really. But it’s not trivial when you know that these are the same Media Ops people—who do not leave their base or go on missions—who are spooling out “the message” to the media.  They are clueless about the state of the war in Afghanistan.  For instance, many of the Media Ops officers will insist that we have enough helicopters in Afghanistan. Those officers are either completely oblivious to the actuality of the situation or lying.

General Petraeus told me straight up that we don’t have enough and that we doubled our helicopters in the last four months and are in the process of fielding “two more fistfuls.”  (He did not give specific numbers.)  Those BS-filled officers who deny the obvious are, in fact, symptomatic to why we are losing the war.

When I deliver good news, out rolls the red carpet.  Bad news, and it’s time to fight again.  Only now it’s not Censoring Iraq, it’s Censoring Helmand.  And it’s not the U.S. doing it this time, but the British government.  The British people are demanding truth and they deserve accountability.  They aren’t getting it from Camp Bastion.

Some of the Media Ops guys in Afghanistan are good at something such as threatening future access if a correspondent shows “attitude” about being poorly treated.  My answer is go to hell. They can take their access and. . . .   I work for the soldiers, for the readers, and for the people in general.  If Media Ops chooses to be an obstacle, that is their choice.

After being summarily disembedded it took days—due to the helicopter shortage—to catch a helicopter from the Green Zone and head over to the posh Media Ops tent.  There I found the same Major still up to his old attitude with some of the correspondents.

Meanwhile, because of the abrupt embed, my scheduling problems were unfolding.  The U.S. Marines, of whom I have never seen treat anyone like the British Major treats correspondents, wanted to take me.  But the earliest I could embed with them was on 16 September.  This fell at the same time I needed to punch out and head to Eindhoven in The Netherlands for the World War II remembrance ceremonies which I had been invited to long ago.  The Royal Netherlands Air Force (RNAF) had made arrangements to fly me from Afghanistan to Eindhoven.  Disembedded or not, it should have been a simple matter for me to have a few days, even out of pure courtesy, where I could settle some business with the U. S. Air Force and U.S. Marines.  But the boss of Media Ops in Afghanistan, Lt Col Nick Richardson in Lashkar Gah, through the Major at Bastion, demanded that I leave the Regional Command South (RC-South) which is under British control.

I said in essence, hold on, partner, are you saying that you are knowingly interfering with my ability to arrange an embed with the U.S. Air Force and the U.S. Marines?  Especially after you abruptly released me as correspondent?  Because if that’s what Media Ops was saying, then we were going to have a Texas-sized fight.

The boss of Media Ops in Afghanistan Lt. Col. Richardson has tweaked other peoples’ BS sensors on the helicopter issue, including Daniel Bennett at the Frontline Club.  Richardson is doing more damage to the war effort than the Taliban media machine.  By perpetrating falsehoods that undermine our combat capacity, Richardson has helped the enemy.

Some of the smokescreens are less important but they are demonstrative of the pattern: On 20 August a, CH-47 helicopter was shot down by a Taliban RPG during a British Special Forces mission.  Richardson reported that the aircraft landed due to an engine fire.  Some hours later, while I was on a mission nearby, the Taliban were singing over the radios about shooting it down.  I heard the rumble when the helicopter was destroyed by airstrikes.  The Taliban knew they hit the helicopter.  So who is Richardson lying to?  Not the enemy…unless the enemy is the British public.

Stephen Grey and others have noted the censorship:

“Despite the risk of being blacklisted and refused access to report from the frontline, journalists are speaking out about what they say is the government’s attempt to control the news. It is “lamentable”, says one Fleet Street foreign editor; the Times correspondent Anthony Loyd describes it as “outrageous”; Christina Lamb of the Sunday Times calls it “indefensible”; it is “redolent of Comical Ali”, says the Sun’s defence editor, Tom Newton Dunn.

“Almost all journalists travelling with British forces are ordered to email their copy to the military’s press officers in Helmand before publication. Many fear that negative coverage could mean trips back to the frontline are cancelled or delayed.”

The Media Ops boys are treating this like a game.

Eventually I had a meeting at the same table with a U.S. Air Force officer, a U.S. Marine officer, and the British Major from Media Ops in an attempt to work out a solution that would get me with the Air Force or Marines.  The Major was docile in the presence of the two other officers.  The Marine and Air Force officers said that they were willing and happy to help.  Despite their goodwill, the scheduling train wreck had other moving issues stacking up, and the British Media Ops weren’t done with playing games.

In addition to the disembed, the British Media Ops were insisting that I leave RC-South at once. Let’s be clear – this was Afghanistan, not London where I can easily hail a cab or jump on The Tube.  By their demands, the Media Ops folks were ignoring the obvious truth that it takes time, planning, and much coordination to move anyone, soldiers or correspondents, around Afghanistan.

Also, Media Ops knew that I was waiting for two important packages to arrive at Camp Bastion – packages that took a great amount of time and expense to send for.  When I brought this up, the Major said he had checked into the packages and that because there was no FedEx in Camp Bastion, my packages must be in Kabul.

This was a flat out lie.  When soldiers hear something that is patently false, they call it “bullshit.” I looked at the Major and said, “Bullshit,” to which he stomped out. He later said I had cursed him, which, if by calling him on his lie he implied that I was cursing him, then so be it; he was right.  It was bullshit because there is a FedEx and a DHL in Camp Bastion.  Something you would think (and hope) a Media Ops guy would know about his own camp.

The Major said again that Lt. Col. Nick Richardson demanded that I leave RC-South, and that Media Ops would forward my satellite and night vision gear that was in transit.  Before the Major had stomped out, I said that I was not leaving Camp Bastion until those packages were in my hands.  I told him to call Lt. Col. Nick Richardson at Lashkar Gah—a nearby base—and say that if Richardson wants me gone, he’d need to call the Royal Military Police (RMP).  The satellite gear is crucial to the operation and the night vision gear is expensive.  I was not going to leave without the gear unless under arrest.  I had heard the Major arrogantly tell a correspondent how a soldier had punched another correspondent and “knocked him on his ass.”  Bullying apparently had been working for him; he was still doing it.

“Go ahead,” I said, “Call the RMPs right now.  Have them come down and flex cuff me and put me on an airplane out of here.”  I waited for the RMP’s to arrive and arrest me.  At least they would be professionals.

There is the maxim that a customer can judge the cleanliness of a restaurant’s kitchen by the restroom.  After much experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, I have discovered another: Soldiers always treat correspondents they way they treat the local people.  When soldiers treat correspondents badly, they treat local people even worse and are creating enemies.  Those troops who brag about how they mistreat or detest correspondents are abusing and resentful of the local population, and they cannot win this sort of war.  The people will kill them and the media will bash them and they will blame the people and the media.  When a soldier alienates sympathetic correspondents, he has no real chance against mortal enemies such as the Taliban and al Qaeda, and they will defeat him.  Yet there is subtlety: for “the people,” in the case of Media Ops, is you.

The Major doesn’t deal with Afghans.  Afghans are not his target and it is not correspondents who are being denied access.  YOU are being denied access. YOU are resented and deceived, and people like Minister of Defence, Bob Ainsworth, wish to separate realities from readers.

The reader is my boss, and my job is to observe, analyze where possible, and report back.  When Media Ops or others try to deceive my boss, I fight for my boss.  That’s my job and duty.

I told some U.S. Marine officers about issues with Media Ops. The Marines wanted to take me but there was a pesky twelve-day wait before I could start with them, and as mentioned I needed to get to The Netherlands.  Luckily, the Marines and Air Force helped me get the packages.

The problem with embedding with the U.S. Air Force, as with the U.S. Marines, was timing.  The U.S. Air Force rescue folks, the Pedros, were going home to America and were being replaced but there was a window of opportunity before that happened.  The bottom line: Air Force Pedros took me on three missions, but it could have been a lot more.

Meanwhile, the British Media Ops, who backed down from the arrest, made a Plan B.  The Major said I must leave the media tent because fourteen journalists were coming and needed space.  There were six bunks and two cots, meaning all fourteen spots would be filled.  I asked the Major who the journalists were and when they were coming.  The Major answered that he didn’t exactly know who was coming or when, but they were (or might be) coming, and they needed space.  The Major was easier to read than a five year-old, and too sad a specimen to be angry with.  I had been sleeping outside for weeks and would readily continue, but instead contacted the Pedro guys who let me stay with them.  Ironically, our Pedro teams happened to be staying with British 2 Rifles at Camp Bastion—and so 2 Rifles welcomed me back.

This was all bizarre.  Although the British Media Ops kicked me out, I was now staying in a tent with the U.S. Air Force who were also staying with British soldiers, so I was right back at home.

Word had somehow spread that I told Media Ops to have me arrested.  I had not mentioned the confrontation.  Word must have gotten out from Media Ops themselves and some journalists soon realized that a fight was on.  The correspondents I was talking with did not like Media Ops—not one bit—and support poured in.

An email came from a fellow correspondent with these words:

“During all of this time I was aware that your own predicament was also strained with the Pic [Media Ops]. Rumour reached me in […] that you had told the pic team in Bastion that if they wanted you out then they’d have to get the RMPs to arrest you, and that they were forced to back down!  (I don’t know if the story was true or not but it was a huge morale boost to all who heard it in [...].)”

The British soldiers from 2 Rifles were angry with Media Ops for ending the reporting and their families are forever deprived of the dispatches that would have been written.  Media Ops said they needed the space, but nobody replaced me in combat, and nobody is likely to.  Media Ops lied again.

Meanwhile, British citizens began demanding answers from their government.

A question was asked and Minister of Defence Bob Ainsworth made public his reply:

Ann Winterton (Congleton, Conservative)

To ask the Secretary of State for Defense for what reasons the journalist Michael Yon is no longer embedded with British armed forces in Afghanistan.

Hansard source (Citation: HC Deb, 14 September 2009, c2121W)

Bob Ainsworth (Secretary of State, Ministry of Defence; Coventry North East, Labour)

Opportunities to embed with Task Force Helmand are in high demand from across the media—national, regional, print, broadcast, specialist and new media. It is not possible to meet all requests and slots must be time-limited to ensure that the opportunities are shared as widely as possible. A normal embed for a national news organisation will last on average around two to three weeks, including time for travel.

Michael Yon had been embedded with British forces on a number of occasions before his recent visit—twice in Iraq in 2007, and once in Afghanistan in 2008. His latest embed had been scheduled to last for two weeks but it was extended to take account of delays to his arrival.

In all, his stay was extended twice and he was embedded for five weeks—much longer than is normally the case, and longer than had been agreed with him before he went. He was facilitated by British forces in a number of locations and given a high level of access both to the operations and to our personnel. At the end of this five-week period Task Force Helmand ended his embed as they were no longer able to support it given their other commitments, including other media visits.

That’s hogwash, Mr. Ainsworth. Pure hogwash!

The fact that the British Minister of Defence (MoD) would go on record with hogwash is again symptomatic of a much larger problem.  Mr. Ainsworth is lying to the British public about the helicopter issue in Afghanistan.  Mr. Ainsworth tells the British public that British soldiers have enough helicopters.  British troops are suffering—even dying—for those lies.  Mr. Ainsworth is, in effect, murdering British soldiers by not resourcing them.

If the British MoD is demanding that I be complicit in their lies to gain access to their soldiers, I decline.  I strongly believe that the embed was cancelled due to my criticism of the helicopter shortage.  Yet helicopters are just the most obvious issue that needs to be raised and addressed.

This story rings true:

From The Sunday Times
August 30, 2009

Bob Ainsworth in ‘cover-up’ over soldier’s death

Bob Ainsworth, the defense secretary, has been accused of a cover-up over the death of the first British soldier to be killed in action in the Nato operation in the Helmand province of Afghanistan, by smearing his commanding officer.

The story continues:

“This will prove Bob Ainsworth was trying to cover up the real reason for James’s death. He was trying to shift blame away from the lack of equipment for which the MoD was responsible and negligent,” Philippson said.

Bob Ainsworth is covered in British blood and painfully deceptive.  Henceforth, he will always be known as “Bullshit Bob” to me.

My relationship with the British military is not diminished and I would go into combat with their soldiers anytime.  My respect for British soldiers is immense and undying.  But I’m ready to throw down with Media Ops if they even glance in my direction.  I refuse to work with the crew at Camp Bastion.

It’s hard to forget the Major’s cutting insults at the soldier who was training in the heat as a commendable young man.  Any combat troop, whether they are pilots, PJs, sailors, special operations, or my favorite—the infantry—should never be the subject of jokes or derision from any military leader of any rank.  The infantry soldiers are out there living like animals, taking bullets and getting blown up and, all while the Major sits back in his comfortable tent, playing on Facebook and watching The Simpsons. Those combat troops, British and American, are my family. That Major and his ilk should not cut fun of them.

Bottom line for the bad apples: Nobody is asking for access.  This is not a game.  Stay out of the way.

[Note: Word arrived that the Media Ops crew has been replaced during a normal rotation.]

The war is intensifying month by month while support for this mission plummets. Your help is crucial to my staying in the war. 2010 will almost certainly prove to be the bloodiest even as coverage dries up. More troops are coming in. The fighting for those who are here is already as tough as any seen in Iraq. Do you trust the Government to tell the truth? Please donate today.

Yesterday, a helicopter crashed on base at Kandahar Airfield, killing sixteen.  Later that night we had a minor rocket attack which caused me to roll out of bed onto the floor, while this morning, I got up to the great pleasure of watching Neil Armstrong on the BBC, talking about this historic anniversary, when man first stepped on the moon.  I remember that launch as it roared so brightly into space.  It remains perhaps the most spectacular day in the history of man.   Every worthy endeavor comes with a cost.

Around the same time Mr. Armstrong was speaking this morning, roars from war jets rumbled through base as they rushed down the nearby runway.  A British Tornado lifted off but did not get far before it crashed and burned. The two crew members successfully escaped and are recovering from ejection trauma.  The cause of the Mi-26 crash last Tuesday that killed five is unclear, but a military source mentioned that the helicopter was shot down by an RPG.  At least six aircraft—two jets and four helicopters—have gone down this month.  Two Americans were lost in a jet crash.

My flight from Kandahar Airfield to Camp Bastion was less eventful, and shortly after landing, I was given a tour of the trauma facility that I had heard and read so much about.  I’m not a medical professional and so cannot make a professional assessment of the facility, but can say that it seemed like an A++ facility.  If I were a soldier, it would be very good to know that such a high-tech place is waiting, with plenty of extra beds, and a relatively massive staff including 43 British, 45 Americans, and 97 Danes.  The place is crawling with trauma expertise.  The Danes just took over operation of the hospital today at noon, and will run it for three months.  This writer is plenty upset with some countries for not devoting enough resources to this war, but at least with medical facilities they are primo.  (This is also true in Iraq.  Every U.S. soldier who got shot or blown up [who could still talk] would tell me that their treatment from the battle zone back to the United States was exemplary, but when they got back to Texas or wherever, their treatment was often terrible.)  In any case, as someone who might also get shot or blown up in Afghanistan, my grunt-level assessment of this facility at Camp Bastion is very positive.  On medical care, we can rest assured.  The biggest problem they have to treat are heat casualties, which can occur by the dozens.

The U.S. Marines are flooding in, and you might think that every Marine helicopter in our arsenal is here.  I’ll not give numbers and types other than to say the line of aircraft is long and formidable.

The U.S. Marines are a spectacle for the U.S. Army and also the British Army.  The Marines will come in and live like pure animals, and build a base around themselves, whereas the British and American Armies will tend to build at least part of the base before coming in.  One Marine commander told me that during the early part of this war, his men didn’t even shower for three months.  We talked for a couple of hours and he was proud that his Marines didn’t need a shower for three months, and that his Marines killed a lot of Taliban and managed to lose only one good man.  That’s the Marines.  They’ll show up in force with no warning, and their reputation with U.S. Army and Brits who have fought alongside them is stellar.  A NPR photographer who just spent more than three weeks with the Marines could not praise them enough, saying he’d been with them in Iraq, too, and that when Marines take casualties, their reaction is to continue to attack.  They try to stay in contact until they finish the enemy, no matter how long it takes.  Truly they are animals when it comes to the fight.  Other than that, great guys.  Tonight at dinner, a young Marine Lance Corporal sat in front of me at the crowded dining facility.  “Good evening, Sir,” he said.  I asked, “Are you living like animals out there?”  “Livin’ the dream, Sir!”  They are fantastic.

In any case, tomorrow I go back into combat with the British infantry soldiers of 2 Rifles.  The last mission I did with this excellent “Battle Group” (British for “Battalion”) was in Iraq, and they killed maybe 26-27 enemy during that mission.  The platoon I had accompanied fired about 4,000 rounds.  It had been a rather loud day.  The battle group is sustaining serious casualties here in Afghanistan, and I look forward to joining them right where we left off: in combat.

Please support this mission.  I cannot operate in the war without your support.  Please also consider signing up for Twitter updates at Michael_Yon (not Michael Yon), for the most timely snippets possible.

My father is the child in the back row with eyes closed. Next to him, right, is Miriam, my grandmother. Poland, 1921.

My father, Rabbi Abraham Avrech, reached his 90th year two weeks ago. Born in Poland, he came to America with his mother and older brother Chaim, when he was 4-years old. My grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Avrech was a shochet, ritual slaughterer and mohel, specialist in ritual circumcisions.

I come from countless generations of scholarly and pious Rabbis, thus my screenwriting career represents something of a rupture in a noble family tradition.

Sigh.

A member of the Greatest Generation, my father’s family was poor, but he quipped: “We didn’t know we were poor, everyone was poor.”

My father attended Yeshiva Chaim Berlin and then Yeshiva University where he was ordained as a Rabbi. He enlisted as a Chaplain in the U.S. Army, 42nd Division, and served during World War II and the Korean War.

42nd Infantry Division shoulder sleeve insignia.

“The Army is the best thing that ever happened to me,” my father said, “I was given the opportunity to experience the wider world and serve my country.”

Serving until mandatory retirement, my father was honorably discharged holding the rank of Colonel.

My mother Mina, and my father, 1943.

My mother was a radiant war bride. My parents got married in my grandfather’s living room, my grandfather performing the ceremony. Right after the wedding—I mean the very next day—my parents were gone to Texas where my father took up his duties as Army Chaplain.

Chaplain Avrech at play.

An amazing athlete, my father was one of those street urchins who, when he wasn’t studying Talmud, could be found in the streets of Brooklyn playing punchball, stickball and basketball. In the Army, my father realized that officers and enlisted men assumed that because he was a Chaplain and a Jew he would be, um, sports challenged. My father took great pleasure in winning a Division ping-pong championship. “I got lots of respect after that,” my father joked.

My father seeks warmth during the Korean War.

Growing up, my father was often absent during the High Holidays, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He was off, somewhere in the world, leading services for Jewish soldiers. For a while, I felt lonely, abandoned. All my friends sat with their fathers in shul, synagogue, and I was alone. At one point, near my Bar Mitzvah, my father explained that in life, duty frequently comes before personal desires. From then on, I took great pride in my father’s Chaplaincy.

My father touches home.

A fast and elegant short-stop, my father was so talented he was scouted by the majors. But because we are Orthodox—Sabbath Observant, Kosher food, etc.—my father declined an invitation to try out for a Triple-A farm team. This shot was taken in a Brooklyn park where Sunday baseball was a ritual. My father is scoring the winning run at the bottom of the 9th inning. It doesn’t get any better.

My father, airborne.

This photo is captioned: “42nd Division Helicopter Flying test run with Chaplain Avrech also of the 42nd Infantry Division. Photographer: Pvt. Joseph Deflora, 7 August ‘56.” As you can see by the coffin attached, this helicopter was designed to transport battlefield casualties.

My father, wearing tallis, prayer shawl, leads High Holiday services during the Korean War.

I once asked my father of what he was most proud during his service in the Army. He told me that he once led Protestant religious services because there was no Christian Chaplain available. “I did a real mitzvah,” he said.

All his life my father has served family, community and country with selfless devotion.

There is no greater role model.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

It is a testament to their courage that each of them has not only overcome these wounds, but has gone beyond what most people thought was possible. Many of them have dedicated themselves to showing fellow wounded warriors the way as mentors, some have gone back to active duty to continue serving our country. 

This week’s profile features a women who has participated in each of the R2R program events. She has come a long way in a short amount of time. Her unique story is told here. 

Smiling Patty on the way to finish of East Coast ride 

U..S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Patricia S. Collins was a remarkable soldier and athlete long before her life was changed forever.  Since that day, she has exceeded her own high standards. 

“Patty” is a distinguished paratrooper with hundreds of jumps to her credit.  She is also the mother of Gabe, an energetic three-year-old whose smile is the mirror of his mom’s.  An avid cyclist, swimmer and runner, she carries herself with the sure posture of a career military officer. 

She has also served her country well, including two special duty missions in Iraq.

 
First time we met…

Upon her return from her last Iraq tour, Patty was cycling with friends when she was struck by a car. Her left leg was severely damaged and later had to be amputated below her knee. 

An accident like that would knock down the faith and future of anyone, but Patty has soldiered on with even more dedication to serving her country, her family and her athletic pursuits. 

Patty was drawn to Road 2 Recovery because she had been down that road herself. Riding with R2R made her realize that “although I may not ride as strong as I used to, the same feelings and endorphins and camaraderie with fellow cyclists is the same as it ever was, and it’s really nice to have that back.  It gave me confidence to continue to dream of physical challenges again.”

 
Patty with her new cycling leg

A veteran of R2R’s epic San Francisco to Los Angeles ride in 2008, Patty is enthusiastic about the great people she’s met on the road and in the countless meetings that help the program expand to meet the needs of those who have given their nation so much.

“As a veteran, Road 2 Recovery has given me a sense of belonging and brotherhood with those who are experiencing or have experienced similar injuries/rehab struggles, etc., to show recovering people what positive things may lie ahead for them. If they can show themselves they can complete these rides, the sky is the limit.

Riding with Vietnam vet Jim Penseyres

“As a supporter of our troops, seeing the tenacity of what a service-members can overcome is an inspiration and showing them how supportive and patriotic Americans can be, is a refreshing experience of the goodness and humanity of my fellow men and women.”

If you want to meet Patty, she’s likely to show up on the local mountain bike trails, running paths, climbing walls or R2R ride.  She’s the one with the big smile.

For more info see: TheRoad2Recovery.org, and join us on Facebook