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August 10, 1914: "It is as if all France is holding it's breath...."

8/10/2014

An American Woman, Living in France, Observes the Outbreak Of World War I (Part One)

Mildred Aldrich
Image is from her book, The Edge of the War Zone.

Mildred Aldrich, an elderly American expatriate in France, arose each morning at dawn during the summer of 1914, wrapped herself in a cloak, and went to her lawn to gaze over the French countryside. Each morning the sun illuminated the same lovely valley: “miles and miles of laughing country, little white towns just smiling in the early light, a thin strip of river here and there, dimpling and dancing, stretches of fields of all colors.”

For years Aldrich had lived in Paris as a theater critic for the New York Times. But age and declining health had changed her. She moved to the country to find “a quiet refuge” and “the simple life.” In retirement Aldrich liked to look over the countryside as she worked in her garden. Winding through the fields and villages, the Marne River made a “wonderful loop” to within a mile of her hilltop house. Aldrich’s American friends chided her for abandoning her native land, but even while cherishing the French countryside, she had not forgotten the United States. She reported: “I turn my eyes to the west often with a queer sort of amazed pride.” The United States was, however, a country for “the young, the energetic, and the ambitious.” Aldrich had once been all of those, but now she cherished the calm life of rural France.

"La Creste" -- Mildred Aldrich's House Overlooking the Marne River
Image from The Edge of the War Zone

From her dreamlike setting, the world itself seemed a kind of dream. One morning a paper arrived with the news that the crown prince of Austria had been assassinated in Sarajevo, Serbia -- then called "Servia." Considering the event from her hilltop, Aldrich reasoned that “Austria will not grieve much” because Archduke Franz Ferdinand was “none too popular” with his people.

If Mildred Aldrich had been an active political reporter rather than a retired drama critic, she might have sensed that the assassination in Sarajevo would not be so easily forgotten. Within a few weeks there were a series of threats, first by Austria against Serbia, then by Russia against Austria, then by the other major powers of Europe, including England and France, against each other. These threats, once acted upon, would drive Europe into World War I. And the first great battle of that war would soon take place along the Marne River, in the very countryside that Mildred Aldrich viewed with such serenity from her front yard.

“It will be the bloodiest affair the world has ever seen...."

A few weeks after her first mention of Sarajevo, Aldrich was writing home, “It is a nasty outlook. We are simply holding our breaths here.” On July 30, 1914, she envisioned the looming combat: “It will be the bloodiest affair the world has ever seen—a war in the air, a war under the sea as well as on it, and carried out with the most effective manslaughtering machines ever used in battle.”

A few days later a man walked up and down the road near her farmhouse beating a drum. He posted an announcement on a door at a neighbor's farm, and the village women along with Mildred Aldrich ran to read it. A "cold chill" ran down her spine when she saw that it was an order for mobilization. War had not yet been declared, but with armies mobilizing all across Europe she reasoned correctly that there would be no turning back.

On August 3, 1914, she wrote: "Well—war is declared. I passed a rather restless night. I fancy every one in France did. All night I heard a murmur of voices, such an unusual thing here. It simply meant that the town was awake and, the night being warm, every one was out of doors."

Marne River near Mildred Aldrich's "Hilltop"
Photo by Bill Youngs, 1986

Day after day airplanes flew over La Creste across the Marne River on their way to spy out German troop movements. At the beginning of the way, less than a decade into the age of flight, primitive planes were used mainly to gather information rather than to drop bombs or fire guns. Every day "groups of stern, silent men, accompanied by their women, and leading the children by the hand" walked on the little lane past her gate. "It has been so thrilling," she wrote, "that I find myself forgetting that it is tragic."

Mildred Aldrich was old enough to remember having seen men marching through the streets of Boston on their way to the Civil War about a half century before. Back then, "crowds of stay-at- homes, throngs of women and children lined the sidewalks, shouting deliriously, and waving handkerchiefs, inspired by the marching soldiers." Somehow things were different in France in 1914: " no marching soldiers, no flying flags, no bands of music. It is the rising up of a Nation as one man—all classes shoulder to shoulder, with but one idea—'Lift up your hearts, and long live France.'" Aldrich was deeply stirred by the site of men going to war, and of the women and children they left behind....

After their men left: "The women took the children by the hand, and quietly climbed the hill."

Day after day I have watched the men and their families pass silently, and an hour later have seen the women come back leading the children. One day I went to Couilly to see if it was yet possible for me to get to Paris. I happened to be in the station when a train was going out. Nothing goes over the line yet but men joining their regiments. They were packed in like sardines. There were no uniforms— just a crowd of men—men in blouses, men in patched jackets, well-dressed men—no distinction of class; and on the platform the women and children they were leaving.... As the crowded train began to move, bare heads were thrust out of windows, hats were waved, and a great shout of "Vive la France" was answered by piping children's voices, and the choked voices of women—"Vive l'Armee"; and when the train was out of sight the women took the children by the hand, and quietly climbed the hill.

Ever since the 4th of August all our crossroads have been guarded, all our railway gates closed, and also guarded—guarded by men whose only sign of being soldiers is a cap and a gun, men in blouses with a mobilization badge on their left arms, often in patched trousers and sabots, with stern faces and determined eyes, and one thought—"The country is in danger."

"Papa, you know, he died on the battlefield."

The men that Mildred Aldrich knew in her tiny village went off to war with a mixture of patriotism and resignation. One came by her house before leaving and told her:

"Well, if I have the luck to come back—so much the better. If I don't, that will be all right. You can put a placque down below in the cemetery with 'Godot, Georges: Died for the country '; and when my boys grow up they can say to their comrades, 'Papa, you know, he died on the battlefield.' It will be a sort of distinction I am not likely to earn for them any other way."

A few weeks from now this blogger will travel to France to be in the Marne region on the one hundredth anniversary of the great battle that stopped the German advance toward Paris. In the mean time, I am planning to read and reread Mildred Aldrich's vivid a account of the opening of the war as experienced on her "hilltop on the Marne."

Click here to view more entries on the American Realities blog...
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If you enjoyed this article on World War I, you might also enjoy these entries:
• "Over There": World War I Veterans Sing Songs of the Great War, 67 Years Later
• Memories of the Lafayette Escadrille at the American Cathedral in Paris
• The Outbreak of the Great War, My Grandfather's Diary, and an Elephant Ride

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The Outbreak of the Great War, My Grandfather's Diary, and an Elephant Ride

7/28/2014

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The Outbreak of World War I as Viewed by an American Missionary in Rural India

New York Times headline for July 28, 1914

One hundred years ago today on July 28, 2014, Austria-Hungary invaded Serbia, beginning World War I. Other war declarations would follow soon afterwards as partners in alliances made good their promises to fight together. The precipitating cause was the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in Sarajevo exactly one month before. But long before that event European nations had been forming alliances and plotting strategy for a war that had already seemed not only inevitable, but even desirable.

As Barbara Tuchman shows in Guns of August, her classic account of the beginnings of the war, military strategists in Germany, France, England, and elsewhere were preparing for war with as much relish as international sports teams preparing for a game-- and with seemingly little concern for the inevitable loss of life.

My father was about four years old in July of 1914. He was living in India, near Bilaspur, where his father was a missionary and director of a leper asylum. Grandfather Herman Suckau wrote twenty volumes of diaries between 1910 and 1930, his years in India. The entries during the years leading up to the war portray a region of the country that was primitive by any standard. He travelled from place to place on unpaved roads, bringing along a large tent for lodging, and seeking food from villagers along the way. Sometimes to hunt and to meditate he wandered into the jungle on simple trails. The Indians who knew him referred to him as "The Man Who Walks in the Jungle and is Not Eaten by Tigers."

Reviewing his diaries this summer with the help of a research assistant, Cory Carpenter, I was especially interested in his perspective on the outbreak of a war that would consume millions of lives around the globe. How quickly would the news of major events in Europe reach his remote corner of India, and to what extent would they capture the attention of a young missionary deeply engaged in his profession as preacher and doctor?

He made no mention of the assassination in Sarajevo and the ultimatums that followed in its wake. For him the major event of July, 1914, was local, the torrential rains that dropped several feet of water in that part of India, swelling the rivers, and making travel all-but-impossible. On July 15 he and a fellow missionary, "Brother Penner," travelled by elephant from Korba to Barpali. He wrote this description:

A very heavy rain all night (4 1/2 inches) and rainy weather all morning detained us in Korba. At 1 o'clock started for Barpali. Had heavy rain all the way. Went astray and came back to Bisrampur. From there we took a guide to Bhelai. The Domnari [River] was so full that with difficulty the elephant got thru. It faced the current and walked thru side-ways. Always feeling the places before moving with its trunk. We marveled at the absolute safety of the animal. The water was so high that sitting on the beast Brother Penner's shoes got filled with water.

Photo of a photocopy of a page from Herman Suckau's diary
Note the ravages of bookworms on the original diary over the decades.

It's a long way from an elephant ride in India to the outbreak of World War I. But that is my point. From the start, news of "The Great War" reached the far corners of the globe. On the diary page for July 28, 1914, Grandfather wrote, "(War was declared by Austria upon Serbia.)" I suspect that the parentheses indicates that he made that entry a few days after the declaration. But on August 1, he began reporting war news in the present tense. On that Sunday, he noted first that he "Preached on 'Salvation' from Titus 3: 3-6." Then he added, "War has broken out between Austria-Hungary and Serbia." The next day he wrote, "Germany has sent an ultimatum to Russia and France. It seems as [if] the whole Europe will be involved in the war."

(It turns out that Grandfather Suckau was getting his news from The Statesman, an English-Language newspaper that began publishing in India in 1875 and is still publishing to this day.)

During the next four years the war would take more than 30 million lives. My own family in India was never in peril, but their lives were somewhat complicated by being second-generation German-Americans living in an India that was then governed by Britain. I'm planning to review the diaries during the centennial of the war itself, learning more about my own father's story during those years. Hopefully, I'll find other diary entries worth sharing.

In the mean time, I'll remember July of 1914 for the beginning of the Great War -- and for the story of that resourceful elephant crossing a swollen river in India, using his trunk to find his footing.

Note: the country we call "Serbia" today was known in Grandfather's diary and in the New York Times as "Servia."

Click here to view more entries on the American Realities blog...
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If you enjoyed this article on World War I, you might also enjoy these entries:
"Over There": World War I Veterans Sing Songs of the Great War, 67 Years Later
•Memories of the Lafayette Escadrille at the American Cathedral in Paris

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U-Haul History Lessons: Minnesota's Kensington Runestone

6/29/2014

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An "Enigma" in Minnesota—and Real-Life Vikings in Greenland

Recently I rented a U-Haul truck that came with a history lesson about ancient Vikings in Minnesota. Beside the picture of a Norse ship was the image of a purportedly ancient text carved into a stone in the Midwest long before Columbus arrived in America. The accompanying lesson on the truck read: "Did You Know: A stone tablet tells of North American exploration more than a century before believed. Did explorers leave clues that could rewrite history, and etch the proof in Stone?"

The Kensington Runestone, as it is known, telling the story of Norse exploration in North America during the fourteenth century, was "discovered" on a farmer's land in Minnesota in 1898. Here are some closer views of the Vikings and the Runestone as they appear on the U-Haul Truck:

Did Vikings actually reach Minnesota in 1362 as the Kensington Runestone claims? Almost certainly not. Forgeries as well as facts are often "etched in stone." Linguists have studied the stone and found words and phrases that belong to the nineteenth century, not the fourteenth. It is as if someone "discovered" a letter today supposedly written by George Washington in which our first president referred to the Battle of Yorktown as "humongous" and the American victory there over the British as "cool"!

But what the Kensington Runestone lacks in authenticity it possesses in the power to generate interest in Norse history. The Runestone Museum in Alexandria, Minnesota features the actual 200-pound stone along with a replica of a viking ship and other exhibits relating to local history. While not claiming conclusive evidence for the authenticity of the stone, the museum web page makes the sustainable claim that it has stimulated debate: "For more than 100 years, scientists, geologists, and linguists have studied the stone in an effort to offer a conclusive answer to the question of the Kensington Runestone’s authenticity. Our research library is packed with books and articles exploring the story of the stone."

U-Haul deserves credit for featuring the runestone and other historical themes so prominently on its trucks. The Viking image was rolled out on more than 2,000 trucks in 2011. The Kensington Runestone pictures, along with the thousands of other historical images on U-Haul trucks are undoubtedly the most numerous rolling history lessons in the United States. In the case of the runestone, this story will prompt some viewers to look deeper into the history of the early Norse explorers and settlers in the New World.

While the famous runestone is most likely an artifact of the imagination carved by a clever practical joker, other episodes in Norse history are authenticated by stone, skeletons, and documents. As for norse settlers, they came to the New World in the thousands, and stayed for more almost five centuries. In making this statement, I am including Greenland, where the Norse established towns on the southwestern coast. From there they planted a settlement in Newfoundland and they often visited the coast of Labrador to trade with the native peoples and to gather timbers for their settlements.

A few years ago, I wrote an essay on the Norsemen in Greenland for the first edition of American Realities, the book after which this web site is named. In the article I summarized current information about those ancient pioneers and attempted to "reconstruct" various elements of their lives based of research into current literature on the settlements.
Artist Cecily Moon created this image to accompany the essay.

Norse Farmstead in Greenland, Drawing by Cecily Moon

In my article I summarized current information about those ancient pioneers and attempted to "reconstruct" various elements of their lives based on research into current literature on the settlements. Here is a description from the essay of the way the Norse settlers fought the elements in one of the coldest places in the world:

First we have the houses. Faced with winter temperatures of 40 degrees below zero, even on the seacoast, and with strong winds common, the settlers had to build dwellings that would be warm and solid. The early houses were chiefly great halls or main rooms, which served for living, eating, and sleeping. They were made with thick earthen walls and roofs of timbers, sod, and rocks. A central ﬁrepit provided warmth, light, and cooking.

These early halls resembled the dwellings of Iceland and Norway, but over the years a new pattern was formed. The large halls, probably too cold and drafty, came to be divided into smaller rooms. At ﬁrst the great hall was split into two or three rooms. Late in the thirteenth century the “centralized farm” became common. These were large complexes encompassing from ﬁfteen hundred to six thousand square feet and sometimes included rooms for animals. The precious cattle were placed at the very center of the structures.

Heat was provided by thick walls and furs and by modest ﬁres. Probably the settlers spent most of the coldest days wrapped in robes, huddled together, ﬁngers too chilled to spin wool or carve soapstone implements. The driftwood that was almost their only fuel can hardly have been plentiful enough to allow large ﬁres every day. In especially cold times they must have been driven to cut scrub brush growing nearby, though it was needed to keep the winds from ripping away the pastureland. At times, winter isolation might be broken by a visit of neighbors, and in celebration a large ﬁre and huge meal would be prepared. It was around such ﬁres that tales were told that matured into the great Norse sagas. Then the guests would leave, and the family would be left alone in the wind and cold through the long dark winter.

Clothing, too, was influenced by the Greenland environment. Norse graveyards show us that the people sometimes dressed in the hooded, ankle-length woolen gowns worn in Norway. We know the settlements lasted well into the 1400s, because skeletons have been found clad in hooded capes and caps that were worn in Paris and Burgundy late in the ﬁfteenth century. But one wonders if the Norse farmer wore a costume like that to tend the cows or his wife spun and cooked in her woolen gown. The day—to—day costume was more often made from the skins of deer, seals, or cattle. Sealskin trousers and heavy double fur coats were popular.

During many centuries trade was common between Europe and the far-flung settlements in Greenland. The Catholic Church posted priests and bishops on the remote island, and church tax revenues from Greenland helped build St. Peter's in Rome. Some of the bravest men and women in the world were those who experienced the icy waters of the North Atlantic in the open boats known as Knarrs. Among the "treasures" of the New World carried back to the Old were polar bears for European display. (The crest of modern-day Danish monarchy still includes the image of a polar bear.)

I've posted the Norse essay on this site at this location: "The First Euro-Americans: Norsemen in the New World."

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Reenacting the Battle of the Wilderness in Deep Creek, Washington

5/28/2014

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A Civil War Encounter on Memorial Day, 2014

All photos and the films on this post by Bill Youngs

On Memorial Day Weekend, 2014, about 500 Civil War reenactors and their families -- all in period costume -- converged on Deep Creek, Washington, to relive the camp life and battle field encounters of 1864. They came from Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana to travel across time by 150 years. The press kit for the event announced:

Feel the thunder and boom of the artillery. Strain under the weight of the rifles and packs the soldiers carried. Meet the fine ladies in their hoop-skirt dresses. Watch as battles are reenacted, walk through period-correct camps, and have fun with hands-on activities and demos for the whole family.

“We are here to help people appreciate hardships that everyday Americans endured during the Civil War, and to bring history from textbooks to life.” says Caleb Grove, a reenactor since 2009. “There is nothing better than seeing kids’ eyes light up when you dress them in the gear of a soldier, or watching as adults realize just how defining this brief period of history was for our nation.”

Men and women have been reenacting historical events for centuries. Tournaments during the Middle Ages recalled scenes from ancient Rome, Wild West shows in the early twentieth century reenacted frontier life. Groups in the United States today reenact the French and Indian War, the Revolutionary War, the Black Hawk War, World War II, as well as the Renaissance, Colonial life, and fur trappers.

I found the doings at Deep Creek, Washington, last weekend so engaging that I went twice. I was drawn in equally by the quiet domestic scenes and the loud battle reenactment. Two girls beside a brook seemed to have appeared magically from 1864:

And a young woman with a violin was working to preserve a sense of tranquility in the midst of an actual war.

Other women were cooking a tasty-looking chicken dinner in a dutch oven over charcoal:

In the open fields near the camp, soldiers were drilling. Cannoneers fired off practice rounds with a crash that thundered through the camp, and horsemen were showing off their mounts.

A few years back when Ken Burns brought to prominence hundreds of photos of Civil War soldiers, at least one commenter asked where all of those "great faces" had gone. The soldiers of yore made modern Americans look like an assembly of pigmies. On Memorial Day weekend the great faces were everywhere to be seen in Deep Creek. Here are a few:

As time grew near for the actual battle reenactment, several hundred spectators lined up on the "sidelines" and took in the spectacle. The battle commenced. Confederates and Yankees fired volleys at one another, without too many casualties. (What reenactor wants to spend months preparing for an encampment and then watch the battle while lying in the grass?!) Eventually two Federal calvary officers were felled, and their horse availed themselves of the opportunity to browse nonchalantly on the grass. Other horses road across and around the field of combat. I wondered: how had they been trained to pay so little attention to the gunfire?

The Yankees were driven from the field, but then their cannon fire took effect, mowing down a dozen or so Confederates, who were willing to play dead, now that the battle was almost over. Then in a moving tribute to Civil War soldiers, real and reenacted, a bugler sounded tap as men across the field came back to life. My three-year-old niece, fascinated by the spectacle, noted with interest and approval that the recumbent soldiers were "not dead." Only then, as the soldiers came back to life, and we applauded loud and long, did we return to the twenty-first century.

Here is what the battle looked like, complete with movement and sound...

Click here to view more entries on the American Realities blog...
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Here are some other blog posts on the general subject of historical memory:
-- Connecting with World War II Correspondent Ernie Pyle in Dana, Indiana
-- "Over There": World War I Veterans Sing Songs of the Great War, 67 Years Later
-- "Oh Beautiful for Spacious Skies"-- Reflecting on a National Anthem
-- "Curse You, Patrick Henry" -- Memorizing the "Liberty or Death" Speech

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Connecting with World War II Correspondent Ernie Pyle in Dana, Indiana

3/1/2014

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A Memorable Encounter in a Small Indiana Town

The memory of this "encounter" is fresh and nurturing now, eighteen months later. I was traveling through Indiana in my RV, hauling a motor cycle. I had just spent a week at a campground near Bloomington, where I had grown up more than half a century before. As I was driving along I was thinking of my father and especially of a man named Ernie Pyle whom he introduced to me and my brother. Pyle was an Indiana University graduate and the greatest journalist of the Second World War. He had died in the war before we learned about him, but in my father's memory his reports from the front still lived.

Driving through forests and fields and small towns along Route 36, in the late afternoon. I particularly remembered Dad reading Ernie Pyle's immortal account of "The Death of Captain Waskow." Pyle wrote the article "At The Front Lines in Italy" on January 10, 1944. Here are passages from Pyle's report:

In this war I have known a lot of officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But never have I crossed the trail of any man as beloved as Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas.
Capt. Waskow was a company commander in the 36th Division. He had led his company since long before it left the States. He was very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guided by him.
"After my own father, he came next," a sergeant told me.
"He always looked after us," a soldier said. "He’d go to bat for us every time."
"I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair," another one said.
I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow’s body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in the moonlight as they walked.

Pyle goes on to describe the parade of mules that came down the trail with the bodies of dead soldiers. Then the body of the beloved Capt. Waskow was laid on the ground. One-by-one men came forward and paid their respects. "God damn it," said one. "I sure am sorry, Sir," said another. The most eloquent tribute came from a soldier who said nothing at all:

[He] squatted down, and he reached down and took the dead hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face, and he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there.
And finally he put the hand down, and then reached up and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. And then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.

I remember the emotion welling up in my father's voice as he told the story of Capt. Waskow, especially the account of the soldier holding the dead captain's hand. He wanted his children to be fully aware of just how powerful Ernie Pyle's account was. "Just imagine being loved that much," Dad said.

All color photos in this posting are by Bill Youngs.

Ernie Pyle and Capt. Waskow and my father were in my mind as I was driving through Indiana corn fields when I saw in the distance a solitary gas station. I was slowing down to fill up when I spotted an electronic sign in front of the station.

Now I have a theory that we historians have our own Greek god, Clio, who still appears once in a while to enrich our lives and profit our work. I sensed that force a few years ago in New York City when I felt the presence of the newsboys who gathered on the street outside the elder Theodore Roosevelt's home on the night that he died of cancer; and I felt it again last Spring while attending a slavery conference in Barbados when school children sang a wonderful new song about their ancestors coming from Africa. In my very limited experience, Clio appears in those moments when (1) we are deeply engaged in a project, and (2) we may need some information or insight that is not immediately evident. Clio may have been on duty that afternoon outside the town of Dana, Indiana, where it turns out, Ernie Pyle was born. At any rate, here was a sign, beckoning me.

What was an "Ernie Pyle Festival" I wondered, and so after gassing up I followed Indiana 71 a short distance off the main road to the little town of Dana. From what I could tell everyone had gathered at the town center for a street fair.

There must be thousands of these town festivals across the country in any year complete with corn dogs and amusement rides. Dana offered these attractions, and much more: the main event turned out to be an auction to raise funds for the local Ernie Pyle World War II Museum:

I joined the crowd.

I was impressed by the community spirit: the affection in the audience for Ernie PYLE was palpable. I decided to make a contribution to the museum -- and to my own collection of historical artifacts by bidding on a first-day envelop with an Ernie Pyle image and stamps.

Evening was coming on, and I needed to get back to my RV and seek a camp ground. But on the way out of town, I paused at the Ernie Pyle house and museum. They were closed because, presumably, anyone connected with the displays was at the street fair and auction. Here is the house with the museum in a Quonset House in the background.

Outside the museum was a plaque with another of Ernie Pyle's famous statements about the soldiers in the war. A few months later I was at West Point giving a talk on "The Army and the National Parks" and visiting with a friend, Major Ryan Shaw, a Military Academy instructor and veteran of the Iraq War. I wanted to mention the Ernie Pyle memorial, and I asked Maj. Shaw to read the lines that follow for use in my talk. I like the recording so much that I am including it here, confident that Ernie Pyle would have been pleased. Click below for the reading by Ryan Shaw. The image follows.

A few minutes later I was on the road again, driving west on Route 36, deeply moved and profoundly inspired by the little festival in the little town celebrating the life of the great man.

• For the full text of Ernie Pyle's article on Capt. Waskow, click here.
• To visit the web site for the Ernie Pyle World War II Museum, click here.
• Indiana University hosts a wonderful web site on Ernie Pyle including a a selection of his articles in print version and also as readings by Owen Johnson. Click here.

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Do Fence Me In -- Reflections on Iconic Fences in Jackson Hole

1/3/2014

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A Photo Essay on Split Rail Fences in Buffalo Valley near Moran, Wyoming, and the Grand Tetons

Photos by Bill Youngs

"Don't Fence Me In" -- these words went through my mind a couple days during an evening walk beside Buffalo Creek and along Route 287 toward Moran, Wyoming, and the Grand Tetons. Few songs evoke the spirit of the Old West as effectively as "Don't Fence Me In," and yet here I was in a quintessential western setting that was intersected by one fence after another, all blending in nicely with the scenery.

Admittedly there was a time when local "wars" were actually waged over proponents of open range for cattle and fenced farm yards for chickens, pigs, and crops. And in fact, the most famous movie filmed against the backdrop of the Grand Tetons, Shane, is a story built around just such a conflict.

The best-known version of "Don't Fence Me In" was written by Cole Porter in 1934 for the film, Adios Argentina, and wasfeatured subsequently in many other movies -- and sung around countless campfires ever since. Wikipedia offers a good little history of the song, including information about the original lyrics on which Porter built and the place of the film in popular culture. Here are the familiar lyrics:

Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above
Don't fence me in
Let me ride through the wide open country that I love
Don't fence me in

Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever, but I ask you please
Don't fence me in

Just turn me loose
Let me straddle my old saddle
Underneath the Western skies

On my Cayuse
Let me wander over yonder
Till I see the mountains rise

I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences
And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses
And I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in

I like the song with it's "starry skies," "evening' breeze," and that "murmur of the cotton wood trees." And I love Jackson Hole, Wyoming, as one of those places "where the West commences." But on my walk on New Year's Day, 2014, I also liked the poetry of these fences.

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A Winter Walk alongside the Grand Tetons

12/27/2013

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Rock, Snow, Clouds, Trees, and Very Few Words

I took a walk yesterday with friends in Grand Teton National Park. Along the way I composed a blog post with some historical notes about this, one of the grandest mountain-scapes in the entire world. Then I began editing my photos for this post, and I find myself speechless. And so I will let these images speak for themselves, allowing myself only this short phrase from Henry David Thoreau: "In wildness is the preservation of the world."

Photos by Bill Youngs

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Eleanor Roosevelt and a Poignant Christmas

12/23/2013

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Eleanor Roosevelt's Last Christmas with her Father

Eleanor Roosevelt and her Father Elliott Roosevelt, 1889
During the next five years Elliott and Eleanor's mother, Anna, would both die.
Source: Wikipedia Commons

Later in life, when Eleanor Roosevelt was the most famous and influential woman in the world, she cherished the memory of her last Christmas with her father. Elliott Roosevelt was a troubled man who had failed in business, taken to drink, and -- in the wake of breaking his ankle -- become addicted to pain-killing drugs. This passage from Eleanor Roosevelt: A Personal and Public Life, describes the heartbreak at the center of Eleanor's childhood and that of her mother, Anna Hall Roosevelt:

Elliott spent much of the summer in bed and found solace in medicines more poisonous than the hurt ankle: morphine and laudanum. These drugs, prescribed freely in Victorian America, carried Elliott into a pleasant oblivion where neither the pain of the ankle nor the mortification of his personal failures could touch him. During the summer and fall of 1889 his ankle slowly healed, but his drug dependence increased. Anna begged him to give up narcotics. He refused, and in December he abruptly left the family and went south, ostensibly to seek a rest cure.

Anna, left at home with Eleanor and baby Ellie, was disconsolate. She hoped Elliott would return one afternoon shortly after Christmas, and when he did not she went to her room, lay on the bed, and sobbed. In the evening she wrote Elliott beseeching him to come home and be well. Sentence by sentence she drew a picture of a bereaved household. She and Eleanor had opened Christmas presents alone. She had gone by herself to a holiday party, but was so "wretched" she came home after a few minutes.

Whenever the postman came Eleanor rushed down the stairs hoping for word of her father. Anna told Elliott, "I do nothing but think of you and pray you will come back. . . . I am so terribly lonely without you." "Dearest," she wrote, "Throw your horrid cocktails away and don't touch anything hard .... Remember that your little wife and children love you so tenderly and will try to help you in every possible way they can to conquer in the hard hard fight." The "hard fight" - self-discipline was what Elliott needed. "Nell," she said, "it must be an entire conquest, a partial one is no good. "

There, she had done her wifely duty; she had preached the doctrine of self-control. But she could not end on such an austere note; she was a wife, not a schoolmistress, and she needed him. "Don't leave us again," she implored, "We can't do without you."

Elliott's abuse of drugs and alcohol continued, however, and to make matters worse he had an affair with one of the Roosevelt servants, Katie Mann. At the insistence of his brother, Theodore Roosevelt, Eliott was sent off to a kind of exile in Abington, Virgina, where he was expected to conquer his addictions and recover his fortune. While in Abington he made friends easily among the adults and the local children, perhaps in compensation for the absence of his beloved daughter, As described in Eleanor Roosevelt:

The adults of Abington could hardly object to their children's devotion to Elliott, for they too were captivated by him. He drank apple cider at their firesides, read them his favorite poems, and invited them to his rooms to sing songs around the piano. During the winters when snow lay deep on the hillsides around Abington, Elliott organized sledding parties for the whole town. He joined the local Episcopal Church, sang in its choir, and was soon made a member of its vestry. Like his father, "Greatheart," Elliott became known for his charities. He distributed old clothes and Christmas turkeys to the poor and persuaded his brother-in-law to support missions in the coal-mining camps on his lands. One of Elliott's many admirers was so taken by him that in 1900 she urged her friends to vote for the Republican ticket simply because Teddy Roosevelt, the Vice-Presidential candidate, was Elliott's brother.

Elliott Roosevelt was probably never more respected and loved than during his stay in Abingdon. But he was privately tormented by the absence of his wife and children. Surely he had shown himself worthy to be forgiven. If only he might return some day to his apartment and find Anna waiting for him, her beautiful face glowing with love and understanding, her arms ready to enclose him in an embrace of reconciliation.

But that moment never came. Anna contracted diphtheria in New York and died. Elliott was devastated. But Eleanor loved and missed him all the more. Then came the Christmas that she would remember for the rest of her life:

After her mother's death Eleanor and the boys went to live with their Grandmother Hall on 37th Street. Elliott wanted the children with him in Virginia, but in her will Anna requested that they be raised by Mary Hall, and none of their relatives would encourage Elliott to assume custody. He returned alone to Abingdon after the funeral, but Mary, moved by compassion, invited him to spend Christmas with the children.

The house on 37th Street, which had been filled with roses and lilies nine years before for Anna and Elliott's wedding, now held a beautifully decorated Christmas tree illuminated by candles. In the late afternoon on the day before Christmas Eleanor and her father, along with her brothers, aunts, uncles, and grandmother sat down to their dinner of roast turkey. In the evening they sang carols. Anna's sister Pussie played the piano while Elliott led the singing with his good strong voice. Eleanor particularly remembered,

"Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright..."

That night two stockings hung at the foot of Eleanor's bed, one from Grandmother Hall and one from her father. The next morning she found grandmother's stocking full of "utilitarian gifts" a toothbrush, soap, a washcloth, pencils, and a pencil sharpener. In the other stocking her father had "put in little things a girl could wear - a pair of white gloves, a pretty handkerchief, several hair ribbons, and a little gold pin." Beneath the Christmas tree was another present, a fox terrier puppy bred by her father in Virginia. He gave it, she believed, "because he knew I would love to have something to care for and call my own." She, in turn, had made her father a handkerchief case and a tobacco pouch.

After breakfast the servants came into the living room and received their presents. Then the family went to a Christmas service at Calvary Church, where Elliott and Anna had been married. Eleanor nestled beside her father, and he held his prayer book so that she could read it with him. Anna had stood with Elliott long ago at the front of this church; now she was gone, but their daughter was with him....

The promise of that moment was short-lived; Elliott continued drinking and alcohol led to his death. But that wonderful Christmas remained with Eleanor throughout her life as a powerful talisman. Christmas was an important part of Eleanor Roosevelt's adult life. She even kept a "Christmas closet" in which she stored presents throughout each year, carefully selecting each gift for each member of her family and friends. Many years later, when she was on the path to being America's foremost First Lady and a key person in drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, she remembered all of these details of that long-ago Christmas: white gloves, little ribbons, a puppy, her beloved father, and the Christmas hint, elusive but heartfelt, of the possibility of reconciliation....

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If you liked this post on Eleanor Roosevelt, you may also enjoy these other ER posts:
-- Eleanor Roosevelt Tours the South Pacific During World War II
-- Eleanor Roosevelt, Lorena Hickok, a Buick Roadster, and a Trip to Quebec
-- Happy Birthday to Eleanor Roosevelt -- October 11, 2013
-- Eleanor Roosevelt and Advertisements -- Tacky or Thoughtful

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When Washington Wept -- or Did He?!

12/12/2013

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Exploring George Washington's Response to the Fall of Fort Washington, 1776

1776, the "Year of Independence," was already a time of disasters for George Washington; then came the fall of Fort Washington. The leader of the newly-minted Continental Army, he had failed to protect New York City from British occupation. He had been chased from Brooklyn to White Plains then across the Hudson to New Jersey, losing battle after battle. Accepting ill-advised advice from his subordinate Nathanial Green, he had left behind almost three thousand Continentals to hold Fort Washington, the last American outpost in Manhattan. Here's a brief description from "The Continental Army in the Year of Independence."

Fort Washington, the last American stronghold on Manhattan, was on a high cliff over the Hudson, surrounded on all but the river side by the British. Washington believed that the position was indefensible but was persuaded by his subordinate, Nathanael Greene, that it could be held. On November 16 he watched in despair from the opposite shore as his fears were realized. The outerworks of the fort were too extensive to be held by the 2,800 men left in Manhattan. They were easily overwhelmed, and the defenders retreated into the fort itself. But it was small and impossibly crowded, and at the day’s end the situation was hopeless, and the garrison surrendered. It was the worst defeat of Washington’s career. In addition to losing almost three thousand men, he lost guns, cannon, munitions, and supplies.

"A View of the Attack against Fort Washington" 1776
Source: Wikipedia Commons, New York Public Library

Now comes an interesting and important question. Did George Washington actually weep when he learned of the surrender of his namesake fort? The jury is out on this, with two Pulitzer-Prize historians on opposite sides of the question.

David Hackett Fischer in Washington's Crossing says of the general, "As the full weight of the disaster fell upon him, he turned away from his lieutenants and began to weep 'with the tenderness of a child.'"

David McCullough in his book 1776 concurs that the fall of Fort Washington was a bitter blow: "In a disastrous campaign for New York" the fort's surrender was "the most devastating blow of all, an utter catastrophe." But he doubts the general's tears: "Washington is said to have wept," McCullough writes, "as he watched the tragedy unfold from across the river, and though this seems unlikely given his well-documented imperturbability, he surely wept within his soul."

In comparison to the great problems in American history, such as measuring the social impact of the American revolution, the question of whether Washington wept at this defeat is hardly fundamental. And yet this is no trivial subject, for it leads to deeper understanding of Washington's personality, and by extension it provides insights into the way a leader's emotional make-up contributes to the character of his leadership. Additionally, examining the question provides an interesting exercise in historical inquiry. I'll begin with the answer, and then provide the evidence.

The answer: George Washington did weep, both inwardly and outwardly, at the fall of Fort Washington.

I base this conclusion on two kinds of evidence: (1) other information we have on George Washington's personality, and (2) further information about the actual circumstances that brought the general to tears.

Washington's Emotional Personality

Washington was famed, as McCullough notes, for his "imperturbability." He could exude confidence when others despaired. As he became more successful in war, his fame for coolheadedness grew. But along the way his emotions were often in evidence, whether in disappointment, triumph, anger, or empathy. A few weeks before the fall of Fort Washington, the general watched his army melt away in a pell-mell retreat before a British attack at Kip's Bay on Manhattan. Was he Imperturbable in this moment? Hardly! Here is a description of that moment from "The Continental Army in the Year of Independence":

Again and again Washington tried to rally the troops who surged past him. Finally he came upon two brigades, less terrified than the others, and stationed them behind a stone wall to oppose a British advance. But as soon as a handful of the enemy appeared, these also fled. Now Washington completely lost control of himself. Throwing his hat on the ground and lashing out with his riding crop at men and officers, he cursed and exclaimed: “Are these the men with whom I am to defend America? Good God! Have I got such troops as these?” But the men continued to run, and Washington slumped in his saddle, exhausted from anger and despair. His aides stayed by their chief, watching anxiously as the last of the soldiers made their escape. Across the field, some fifty British soldiers came toward the paralyzed leader. Washington was too hurt to care what happened. Finally, the aides, realizing that they must act, took his bridle and led their dazed commander to safety.

In that moment the Commander-in-Chief was dazed and confused, rather than imperturbable. And his emotional state was palpable. He wrote his cousin, Lund Washington, "In confidence I tell you that I was never in such an unhappy, divided state since I was born." But during other moments George Washington's emotional condition was palpably joyous rather than sorrowful. And at the successful Battle of Princeton, on January 2, 1777, his ebullience was as dangerous to his well-being as his despair had been at Kip's Bay. In his enthusiasm he rode within 30 yards of the enemy position. Then he watched the British retreat with childlike enthusiasm. Sitting astride his horse, he waved his sword and shouted, “It’s a fine fox chase, my boys."

Years later when Washington had won the war, and the time came to give up his command of the army at an ceremony before the Continental Congress at Annapolis, he revealed again his capacity for deep emotion. Here is how Robert Middlekauff describes that event in The Glorious Cause, his epic account of the American Revolution:

Washington rose, bowed to Congress, who uncovered but did not bow. He then read his speech in a manner that, according to contemporary observers, brought tears to many eyes. Washington himself felt deep emotion—his hand holding the speech trembled throughout, and when he spoke of his aides, those dear members of his military "family," he gripped the paper with both hands. His deepest feeling, however, was reserved for an even finer moment—when, commending "the Interests of our dearest Country to the protection of Almighty God, and those who have the superintendence of them, to his holy keeping," he faltered and was almost unable to continue.

Washington's emotional makeup was evident in these big-picture moments, winning or losing a battle, addressing congress. It was also apparent in his constant solicitude for his men. At a bridge over Assunpink Creek, defended by the Americans at the Second Battle of Trenton, Washington made a point of standing close to his soldiers. Private John Howland recalled:

The noble horse of Gen. Washington stood with his breast pressed close against the end of the west rail of the bridge, and the firm, composed, and majestic countenance of the General inspired confidence and assurance in a moment so important and critical. In this passage across the bridge it was my fortune to be next the west rail, and arriving at the end of the bridge rail, I was pressed against the shoulder of the general's horse and in contact with the general's boot. The horse stood as firm as the rider, and seemed to understand he was not to quit his post and station.
(Quoted in Fischer, Washington's Crossing)

Howland's little anecdote illustrates the sense of intimacy Washington could convey to his troops. Similarly, the greatest autobiography by a common soldier in the war - Joseph Plumb Martin's Narrative of a Revolutionary War Soldier - tell's his story of a chance encounter with General Washington at the Battle of Yorktown. Martin was a "miner" working with a party of men digging trenches for the attack on General Cornwallis. The night was dark, the British were nearby. Martin writes:

There came a man alone to us having on a surtout [long overcoat], as we conjectured (it being exceeding dark), and inquired for the engineers. We now began to be a little jealous for our safety, being alone and without arms, and within 40 rods of the British trenches. The stranger inquired what troops we were, talked familiarly with us a few minutes, when being informed which way the officers had gone, he went off in the same direction, after strictly charging us, in case we should be taken prisoners, not to discover to the enemy what troops we were. We were obliged to him for his kind advice, but we considered ourselves as standing in no great need of it; for we knew as well as he did that Sappers and Miners were allowed no quarters, at least are entitled to none by the laws of warfare, and of course should take care, if taken and the enemy did not find us out, not to betray our own secret.
In a short time the engineers returned and the afore-mentioned stranger with them. They discoursed together some time when, by the officers often calling him "Your Excellency," we discovered that it was General Washington.
(Quotation is from James Kirby Martin's edition of the diary, Ordinary Courage.)

That little touch of Washington in the night speaks volumes about Washington's empathy for the troops. He "talked familiarly" with the soldiers, and aware of their danger if captured and found out as miners, he took the time to warn them to conceal their role in the siege, lest they be summarily executed.

The Commander-in-Chief's Objective Circumstances Fort Washington

All of these markers of George Washington's personality, show a man who felt deeply about the course of the war and cared deeply, personally about the men who served under him. But what of the circumstances of Fort Washington? What might have increased the likelihood that he shed tears as the fort surrendered?

We know that Washington had been beaten repeatedly during the past few weeks. We know that the fall of the fort that bore his name was a bitter blow to the Revolution. But what else? The battle he watched was in the distance. None of the soldiers at Fort Washington rubbed against the general's boot as they crossed a bridge; none spoke with him in the trenches in the night; none was as close as those thirty yards that separated the general from the British at Princeton.

In other words, all that fighting in the distance might well remained something of an abstraction for this man who was most engaged in events were intimate, where suffering or triumph or simple fortitude was close and personal.

Well, perhaps so, except for one little detail that brings all of the others into focus -- so to speak.

As Fort Washington fell, George Washington was watching the battle through a telescope.

And so he saw in agonizing detail individual soldiers felled by bayonet and bullet. The scene was so proximate that he was almost there among them -- and yet, he could do nothing for them.

And so, my friends, in his despair George Washington did indeed turn away from that heart-rending scene and weep -- "with the tenderness of a child."

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"Over There": World War I Veterans Sing Songs of the Great War, 67 Years Later

11/22/2013

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Listen as Two WWI Veterans in their 90s Sing Songs from the Great War

Sheet Music for "Over There"

One of my favorite research projects by a history student at Eastern Washington University was an interview Ted Kisebach did in 1985 with Weldon and Walter Armfield, Spokane brothers who fought together in World War I. In an article based on his research, Kisebach wrote:

"Locating a surviving veteran of World War I is an increasingly difficult task today, nearly seven decades after the "doughboys" first set foot in France. A veteran of the American Expeditionary Force, in good health and sound memory, is a valuable historical asset. So it was exciting to find 93 year-old Weldon 'AImy' Armfield living at the V. A. Hospital in Spokane, Washington. When complimented on his remarkable recollection of the past, Weldon replied that his brother, also a veteran living in Spokane, had an even better memory. He added that Walter, 95, was his older brother!"

At the time I edited a periodical called The Pacific Northwest Forum at Eastern Washington University. Kisebach was enrolled in a class called "Historical Writing and Editing" in which students learned digital publishing by working together on various theme issues. In this case, our theme was "Pacific Northwesterners in World War I," and Ted contributed a wonderful article titled, "Weldon and Walter Armfield: Two Spokane Veterans and a Diary." (Click title to see full text.)

Recently with the help of research assistants Lacey Sipos and Gave Rose I have been finding and digitizing photos and tape recordings I made years ago. One is a photograph of the Weldon and Walter:

Weldon and Walter Armfield, Spokane, 1985
Photo by Bill Youngs

I also found and digitized a recording I made when I joined Ted Kisebach one afternoon to interview the Armfields. The high point of the meeting came when Weldon and Walter, both accomplished singers, sang from memory songs that they had first learned during the war.

They told us that they had first heard the famous World War I song, "Over There," while attending a concert at the Hippidrome, a huge theater iin New York City, during their basic training in 1917. In this sound clip they sing "Over There." Notice that they also discuss whether to sing in unison or to harmonize, and they recall that when they heard the song at the Hippodrome, a model troop ship was pulled onto the stage.

The Hippodrome in New York City:
Weldon and Walter first heard "Over There" performed on this stage in 1917.

Ted Kiseback's article continues with this passage describing the Armfield brothers' embarkation for France -- and a song they learned along the way from black soldiers on board the vessel.

After December 9 there is a break in the diary, which was packed away for the sea voyage. The Armfields remembered the journey that began when they left Camp Mills. At Hoboken, New Jersey they boarded the USS Lincoln, a troop ship that was converted from a captured German cruiser, the Prince Eitel-Frederick.

Their convoy left New York harbor with the cruiser USS (10) Carolina as escort. They zigzagged to avoid V-boats, and soon reached the gulf stream. It had been bitter cold in New York, but now the men could sunbathe on deck. Though it was December, no lights were permitted after dark; so supper was served at 3 p.m. You didn't get hungry till later, recalled Weldon. Luckily he was assigned to KP duty during the entire voyage, and swiped food to share with his pals on deck after dark.

The trip took two weeks, and to pass the time the troops would visit with other soldiers from around the country who were also on board. The Spokane boys met a black troop from Alabama who were going over to be stevedores in Brest harbor. These men sang wonderfully well, especially this catchy tune:

I don't bother work, work don't bother me, That's why I'm as happy as a bum can be.

I eat when I can get it, I sleep most anywhere, As long as I can see the sun, I don't care ...

The troops of Company I liked "I Don't bother Work" so well that they made it their theme, singing it as they travelled France. The Armfields could sing the song from memory 68 years later.

The Lincoln arrived in Brest December 27, but the ship was too large to dock. The men waited on board until December 31, when a smaller vessel could pick them up. The captain of this lighter was British, and he told them, "Awfully nice of you fellows to come over here, but you're too late. It's over, we're beaten." Walter was the 76,671st of an eventual two million American soldiers to arrive in France. Looking back from today, the Englishman's pessimism seems unfounded.

Almost seven decades years later the brothers remembered the words and lyrics to "I Don't Bother Work." Notice that they begin their rendition by discussing whether to sing in unison or with one singing tenor and the other the melody.

In France Armfield brothers were stationed near the front and endured many artillery barrages including one that sent a shell through the roof of their hut without drawing blood. Neither was injured in the fighting, but naturally they were glad to hear of the Armistice ending the war on November 11, 1918. Ted Kisebach writes: Weldon Armfield's diary "shows us the unglamorous part of war normally ignored by larger scale history: endless drilling and details, long train rides in box cars, and ubiquitous rumors that are spread around to pass the time. The sad part was counting up the fallen comrades who never made it back. But to be part of great events is surely memorable, and it was gratifying to watch the Armfield brothers' faces light up as they recalled their war experiences."

You can read more about the Armfields by clicking here to go to Kisebach's article, "Two Pacific Northwesterners in World War I." But first listen as the brothers sing a famous World War I song of longing for the return home: "Keep the Home Fires Burning."