A Tribute to Those Who Fought in Normandy

I have been watching war movies almost my entire 70-plus years, one of the earliest I remember being a Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis romp called “At War with the Army,” set in 1944 in a stateside training camp. A sergeant, Martin is chafing at the bit to see real action overseas. As I recall it, by the end of the film he gets his wish and is part of the D-Day invasion. Being a comedy, “At War with the Army” does not relate the fate of Martin’s character. 

The beaches of Normandy, code named Utah and Omaha (for American assault), Sword, Gold and Juno (for Allied forces) are hardly sources for humor, as Gilda and I observed during our recent trip to the battlefields. On D-Day, June 6, 1944, and the ensuing campaign through August 30 to rid Normandy of German forces, more than 53,000 Allied soldiers, sailors, and airmen died in the largest amphibian-based attack in history.

Britain and America treated their dead differently. Britain buried casualties in the soil on which they perished. 

Next of kin of U.S. dead had three options: burial of a deceased where they died, internment in Arlington Cemetery, or burial in a plot back home chosen by the family. Three times the choices were provided the next of kin. After the third time, if the remains were buried overseas, moving them would be at the expense of the next of kin. 

Today’s U.S. military treats the fallen differently. All bodies are returned to America. As Arlington is running out of room, the privilege of burial there is restricted to those awarded military honors.

More than 9,380 gravesites in rows upon rows of white crosses sprinkled with the occasional Jewish star is a solemn, beautiful sight at the Normandy American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer. A cross or Jewish star were the only religious options. As the saying goes, “There are no atheists in a fox hole.” Nor in American military cemeteries. Nor, apparently, were there any Muslims. If dog tags were not found on a fallen serviceman the grave was marked with a cross. 

Only about 150 white Jewish stars break up the uniform look of white crosses. As many Jewish servicemen removed their dog tags prior to entering combat, it is suspected casualties among them were buried under crosses. A rabbi is painstakingly researching Jewish sounding names on crosses to determine if a change in grave marker is warranted.

The only serviceman buried in the NAC who died without service in the Normandy campaign received presidential dispensation to be laid to rest next to his brother. Quentin Roosevelt, the youngest son of President Theodore Roosevelt, died during World War I, on July 14, 1918. He was a pilot in the Army Air Service shot down in an aerial dogfight. His body was relocated in 1955 to a grave next to his oldest brother, Ted, a brigadier general who died of a heart attack July 12, 1944, weeks after leading the first wave of troops ashore at Utah Beach.  

Last week’s crash in Connecticut of a B-17 Flying Fortress World War II bomber coincided with my viewing a worthy HBO documentary, “The Cold Blue,” aired last D-Day. The film uses outtake footage taken by director William Wyler in 1943 for a morale-building promotional film about the Memphis Belle B-17 and its crew that flew 25 missions. 

Released last year, “The Cold Blue” was directed by Erik Nelson. It intersperses the reminiscences of flight crews (not from the Memphis Belle), now in their 90s, with film shot during missions over Germany and occupied Europe. 

Do the math—more than 70 years ago, the now elderly men were in their low 20s, or younger, when they took to the skies in planes that were not pressurized or heated. At 25,000 feet, with gunports open to the wind, temperature inside was said to be equivalent to the top of Mount Everest, in the minus 20 to minus 60 degrees Fahrenheit range. Frostbite could occur within 10 minutes.

At the beginning of the war, according to the documentary, America had but a few hundred B-17s. By 1945 our wartime arsenal had manufactured 12,731. Close to 5,000 planes were lost in combat over Europe. 

The Flying Fortress was known as a durable aircraft which makes last week’s tragedy all the more sad.

Military Units: As noted at the beginning of this blog, I’ve spent many an hour watching war flicks. But I never quite understood how many soldiers comprised each unit size until Rob Dalessandro, deputy secretary of the American Battle Monuments Commission and a retired colonel in the U.S. Army, provided an overview during our recent Smithsonian Journeys trip to Normandy. So, here goes:

Squad. 12 men. Led by a sergeant.

Platoon. 50 men. Led by a lieutenant.

Company. 184 men. Led by a captain.

Battalion. 900 men. Led by a major.

Regiment. 3,200 men. Led by a colonel.

Division. 15,000 men. Led by major general.

Corps. 75,000 men. Led by lieutenant general.

Field Army. 300,000 men. Led by general.

Army Group. 600,00+ men. Led by general.

Of Castles, Kings, Churches and Wizards

I don’t go to church regularly. I am, after all, Jewish. But I find myself in churches, mostly Catholic ones built half a millennia or more ago, whenever I travel through Europe.  

Last week in Normandy, France, Gilda and I entered some remarkable spiritual edifices. Given their size and majesty, and the sheer engineering accomplishment of their construction, it is understandable how Medieval men and women were transfixed into believing miracles could indeed happen. A religion that started in a manger and matriculated into magnificent stone cathedrals could not be anything but authentic to illiterate serfs and even noblemen.

Consider the abbey atop Mount Saint Michel. Situated on an island with fewer than 50 current residents, the abbey took hundreds of years to build. It is not beautiful, as the Cathedral Notre Dame in nearby Bayeux is. Rather, it is an engineering marvel, rising as it does above a rocky fortress. The Bayeux Cathedral, as well, was a labor of hundreds of years, but it aligns more with the architecture and look of numerous Norman-Romanesque churches in towns and cities one can see throughout the countryside.

The Bayeux Cathedral would be worth a visit in its own right. But for years it garnered fame from a cherished historical artifact, the Bayeux Tapestry. In truth, the nearly 70 yard long creation is an embroidery, but let’s not quibble over semantics. The tapestry tells the story of the Norman invasion of England in 1066.

Did you ever wonder why William the Conqueror invaded England? Was it merely to seize control of another country? Actually, according to the way the Normans tell it, it was to claim his rightful inheritance. You see, on his deathbed Edward the Confessor, king of England, having no sons, bequeathed his kingdom to a distant cousin, the Duke of Normandy, known then as William the Bastard for he truly was illegitimately born. William was a descendant of Rollo, a Viking warrior chief familiar, by name at least, to fans of the cable series Vikings. Rollo had become part of the French ruling class.

William believed he obtained agreement for his kingship from Harold, an English earl of Anglo-Saxon heritage. But upon Edward’s death Harold assumed the crown. To avenge the double-cross and take what he thought was rightfully his, William invaded England. Harold might well have beaten him at Hastings had he not just hurried down from killing off another invading pretender to the throne, Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, at Stamford Bridge, several hundred miles to the north of Hastings. The weary Harold and his forces were routed, Harold dying from ordinary wounds or, as legend has it, from an arrow piercing an eye as depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry.

Subsequently, William was known as the conqueror. His Norman descendants ruled for hundreds of years, much to the displeasure and misfortune of the Anglo-Saxon populace, we have been told for years (thus the Robin Hood myth. Indeed, King Richard the Lionheart, a great, great grandson of William the Conqueror, spent just a few weeks in England as king, preferring his French lands).

As churches go, the structure in the town square of Sainte-Mere-Eglise has nothing to distinguish it. Except for its dramatic part in the D-Day invasion. The Allies deemed it important to seal off the town as it was located on an important road the Nazis could have used to reinforce their defensive positions. Paratroopers descended on the town in the early morning hours of June 6, 1944.

One of them, John Steele, landed on a church spire. He could not free his parachute so he wound up observing the ensuring battle for several hours, all the while pretending to be dead. He eventually was captured by the Germans, from whom he later escaped and rejoined his division. For those who have seen the movie The Longest Day, Steele was portrayed by Red Buttons.

To convey his personal story, and commemorate what the town believes is its place in history as the first community liberated in France, a parachute with a dummy dressed as a soldier is suspended from a church spire facing the town square. It’s a kitschy touch. But it is historical fiction as Steele’s parachute got caught on a spire facing a side street. That would not have made for good cinema so The Longest Day, ahem, took liberties with reality. As do the good citizens of Sainte-Mere-Eglise.

The Longest Day was not the only Hollywood reference during Gilda’s and my trip. Before Normandy we spent a week in northern England and southern Scotland. Scone Palace near Perth, Scotland, is the historic location where 38 kings of Scotland were crowned sitting on a high-backed wooden chair atop the Stone of Scone (pronounced “Scoon”). It has also been used for centuries by British royalty, the last time being for Queen Elizabeth II’s investiture in 1953.

For more than 400 years Scone Palace has been the ancestral home of the Murray family, successive Earls of Mansfield since 1776. The first Earl of Mansfield, William Murray, was Lord Chief Justice of England who in 1783 issued a ruling that began the process that led to the end of slavery in Britain.

As important as that action was, Hollywood found the life of his niece, Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay, more appealing. It filmed her life story, with liberties, in Belle, released in 2013 (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belle_(2013_film)#Plot). Dido was the daughter of an enslaved African woman in the West Indies and Captain Sir John Lindsay, a Royal Navy officer. Lindsay entrusts her to Murray and his wife to raise, as they were doing with another great-niece, Lady Elizabeth Murray. When the two cousins matured they sat for an oil portrait by David Martin. The painting is displayed at Scone Palace. 

Finally (only because this posting is already long), we visited Hogwarts Castle. Or more precisely, Alnwick Castle in Northumberland, England, where the 12th Duke of Northumberland and his family live from November through April, after which tourists invade en masse for the castle, first built after the Norman conquest, is more than just the manifestation of what a castle should look like. Alnwick Castle’s alter ego is that of Hogwarts, the wizardry school attended by Harry Potter.

During our visit a group of enterprising and clearly Potter-struck fans were astride broomsticks attempting to fly into a game of quidditch. Tours of the interior and exterior of the castle were fascinating. I will leave you with one amusing tidbit: The kitchen in olden times was far removed from the main dining hall. They were connected by tunnel. Servants were required to whistle the whole time they transported the food. Guess why?

It had nothing to do with safety. Rather, it was to insure none of the duke’s food was lifted off the platters and eaten along the way. Try whistling with your mouth full. Can’t be done.

A Visit to Normandy's Past and Present

Allianz haunted me on Gilda’s and my recent trip to Normandy. Just two doors down from our headquarters hotel, the Mercure, in the picturesque seaport of Honfleur, an Allianz office sign greeted our week’s comings and goings. 

Long time readers may recall Allianz, a German financial services company, had sought to procure naming rights to the Meadowlands stadium the New York Giants and Jets were about to open in September 2008.  It was only after my letter to The New York Times pulled back the curtain on the company’s historic profile as an insurer of Nazi extermination camps, slave labor plants and concentration camps, plus its reluctance to honor life insurance policies absent a death certificate, that public outrage forced the teams to quickly abandon the $25 million proposal. Instead, the Giants and Jets play their games in MetLife Stadium (https://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/01/chain-of-one-person-events.html).

Haunting aside, our stay in Honfleur was idyllic. Cobblestoned streets in the quaint downtown, difficult to navigate, at times made one look to the ground and away from centuries old structures. Some of the buildings have outcroppings on the second and third floors, a successful Middle Ages attempt to add square footage to residences that were taxed based on their ground level frontage. 

Escaping bombardment during World War II, Honfleur boasts France’s largest wooden church with a separate bell tower. Built in the 15th and 16th centuries, St. Catherine Church is beautiful inside and out with a spire that dominates the skyline. 

A tourist attraction for natives and foreigners, Honfleur restaurants specialize in seafood. Streets are lined with small shops which curiously did not stay open late as they would in American tourist venues. Perhaps mid-September is beyond the shopkeepers’ expectations for tourists willing to splurge on delectable chocolates or chic scarves and tops, or just plain kitschy souvenirs. 

As in most any French community, fresh—really fresh—baguettes and pastries attract passersby. To walk clutching a two foot long baguette makes one look instantly like a local. 

From the window of our room in the Mercure we could see the graceful Normandy Bridge, at one time the longest suspension bridge in Europe. Though rain was forecast for the full week after we departed Sunday, Gilda and I reveled in the sunny 60-70 degree temperatures with soft breezes that greeted us every day, making our explorations of the Normandy coast, including D-Day beaches, and nightly promenades exhilarating. 

We had come to Honfleur on a Smithsonian Journeys tour program with 25 others from across the States. Informed by local experts and Rob Dalessandro, deputy secretary of the American Battle Monuments Commission, we learned the history of the region that spawned William the Conqueror, who prior to his invasion of England was known as William the Bastard because he was born out of wedlock. We marveled at the magnificent Bayeux Cathedral and the Bayeux tapestry (really an embroidery), some 70 yards in length that depicts the story behind William’s invasion. We traced and climbed the unimaginable construction feat of Mount Saint Michel; we learned how the area’s signature Camembert cheese and apple cider are made, and enjoyed tastings of the products. From a descendant of a member of the Resistance we heard of life under the Nazi occupation. We somberly reflected on the bravery and sacrifice of American and Allied servicemen, along with the logistical feat of D-Day during visits to Utah and Omaha beaches, the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc and the symmetrical, egalitarian gravesites of more than 9,000 Americans who lost their lives on the shores of Normandy June 6, 1944, and the subsequent fighting in the region for the next 90 days 75 years ago. 

It's Not Too Late to Roll Up Britain's Red Carpet

If the Brits had any balls they would immediately cancel Donald Trump’s state visit to the United Kingdom. Yes, I know The Donald and his family entourage are about to board Air Force One to wing across the pond. 

Why would the Queen and outgoing Prime Minister Theresa May allow a blowhard like Trump to violate the norms of diplomacy on their territory? Keep in mind that several times Trump has injected himself into British politics, a diplomatic no-no for any leader of a foreign country. 

Trump backed Brexit. He has criticized May’s stewardship. He has expressed a choice for her successor. He has pressured Britain to abandon Huawei, the Chinese chip maker. He offended royal protocol during his initial trip to England by walking in front of Queen Elizabeth. He dissed Meghan (Markle), the Duchess of Sussex, by calling her “nasty.” Trump is now claiming he never called her nasty, but the quote came from The Sun, a British tabloid owned by his buddy Rupert Murdoch, and has been broadcast on television. 

Why would the British roll out the welcome mat to him? It is almost a certainty he will overstep normal bounds during his time with them, as he did a week ago in Japan when he sided with North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un over his host, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, on the danger of recent North Korean missile tests. 

Yes, he is in Great Britain as part of the 75th anniversary commemoration of D-Day.  But that does not entitle him to the trappings of a respected visitor. 

As a country the United States believed it was important to stand up to dictators. Under Trump we now believe dictators like Kim and Vladimir Putin are more credible than our own state department and intelligence community. 

Some would argue Britain owes its continued existence to the aid we extended before we entered World War II and the military might we brought to bear against Germany after we engaged in the conflict. True. But it could also be argued that Britain’s valiant fight 1939 through 1941 benefitted America. Moreover, had Britain succumbed, many military analysts believe the United States would not have been able to defeat the Axis Powers.  

For sure Trump would explode if his ego were damaged by a late disinvite. He would lash out verbally and perhaps economically against the British. But somebody has to start demanding that America and its president behave not just in their own best interests but also in those of the Free World. As too many countries slip under the iron fist of autocrats it is imperative that Trumpism not be allowed to fester and plant roots in democratic countries. 

Seventy-five years ago America led the D-Day invasion to save the world for democracy. This year Britain can stand proud once again if it rolls up the red carpet before Donald Trump soils it with his dirty shoes. 

Remembering a D-Day Hero

Herb Bilus passed away 10 months before the commemoration of the 70th anniversary of D-Day, a defining moment for all who, like Herb, served their country, indeed all of humanity, in freeing Europe from the tyranny of Nazi Germany and its Axis allies.

I've previously written about Herb's service on D-Day as an ensign on an LCI (landing craft infantry). I've included it at the bottom of this post under the headline D-Day Heroes.

Herb returned to Normandy for the 50th anniversary. He shared his thoughts with his family and with their permission here it is:

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON D-DAY + 50 YEARS
Herb Bilus June 6, 1994

​"this operation will be carried to completion without regard to losses."

​This sentence from "OPERATION OVERLORD" stands out in my mind as we read over the final phase of the battle plans.

​We had to ferret out our mission in this huge endeavor. My ship, LCI 96 (Landing Craft Infantry) with a crew of 4 officers and 21 men was just one vessel out of thousands. We had already embarked a company (200 men) of the 4th Division fully battle equipped, in Plymouth England.
​
​Now, we had to find out to what beach and at what time they were to land and commence their fight across Normandy and ultimately to Berlin. Fate, luck of the draw, or whatever you want to call it, takes over. The men had been aboard 2 days (D-Day was originally set for June 4th).  After a rough 12 hour crossing, during which half of the soldiers were seasick, we landed them on Omaha beach at H + 4. Three of our ships were lost on the beach. One hit a mine but was salvaged. We then performed such duties as unloading the big attack transports, which couldn't get closer than 2 miles offshore and other movements as ordered by naval command off both beaches (Utah and Omaha).

​Three nights later, enroute back to Britain in a small convoy we were dive bombed by a lone Luftwaffe plane from out of nowhere. Luckily, he missed.

​We subsequently made 22 cross channel trips with reinforcements until we were relieved in August to prepare our vessels to cross the Atlantic (during which we encountered a devastating hurricane), refit the ships, train new crews and set off for the Pacific and the proposed invasion of Japan. Hiroshima changed those plans and the world forever.

​The trip back to Normandy and D-Day plus 50 years was most poignant. To realize one had been part of the greatest invasion force the world will have ever seen is awesome.

​As I walked slowly through the Normandy American Cemetery, I reflected on the words President Clinton had spoken just two hours ago. His message to the effect that the children and grandchildren and all of humanity are the direct beneficiaries of those buried here and across the cemeteries of Europe who fought and gave their lives in the name of freedom. His message struck the most hardened of the 3,000 veterans (even the most anti-Clinton die-hards) and emotions spilled out unashamedly.

​Anyone who has ever put on a uniform in the war-time service of his country, could, by the stroke of the pen, could have killed and buried here.

​We're just the lucky ones.


D-DAY HEROES

Surrounded by two of his three daughters and their husbands, three of his six grandchildren, two great grandchildren, a grandson-in-law and a couple of friends of the family, Herb Bilus had steak for dinner Sunday evening. Sixty-six years ago to the day, June 6, 1944, Herb enjoyed another steak off the shores of Normandy after his Landing Craft Infantry (LCI) #96 delivered its first load of soldiers to Utah Beach as part of the greatest invasion in history.

Hard to believe Ensign Bilus and his cohorts would stop for a hearty meal while the fighting raged, but his commander had promised steak for all officers if they came through their first mission successfully, and so the officers, perhaps even the total crew of 22 Coast Guard sailors, celebrated their good fortune before going back to secure another load of 120 4th Army infantrymen bound for the beaches of France. Herb’s LCI was part of Flotilla 4, a group of 24 LCI ships. They made their initial drop during the sixth wave, roughly six hours after D-Day landings began. By the end of the day, four of their ships were lost off Omaha Beach.

It was off Omaha Beach Herb witnessed true courage, and fear, under fire. It was the task of each LCI to deliver its precious cargo of fighting men as close to the beach as possible, close enough so they could wade ashore without being sucked under by the weight of their packs. Anyone who has seen the first 30 minutes of Saving Private Ryan may remember scenes of GI’s dropped off too soon. As they hit the too-deep water, they sunk to the bottom, drowned before firing a shot. Saving Private Ryan was closer to D-Day reality than any other movie, says Herb.

On one of their runs at Omaha Beach, under heavy incoming fire, a high ranking Navy officer ordered Herb’s ship commander, a Coast Guard lieutenant, to lower his ramps to drop off troops. The lieutenant disobeyed the direct order, arguing the water was too deep. While the Navy man dropped off his load to a watery death, Herb’s skipper steered his ship closer to the beach, giving his soldiers a chance to get to shore “safely,” if such a term can be used to describe any landing that day.

The lieutenant, Marshall was his first name (Herb recalls his last name but I’m going to leave it out for what will be evident shortly), was unusual for a couple of reasons. Jewish by birth, Marshall refused to use his last name. It was too ethnic. Even when a telegram came for him under his full name, he would not acknowledge it.

Herb also suspects Marshall was gay. He was a real dandy, going off by himself during shore leave, wearing felt gloves and carrying a swagger stick. An artist, Marshall painted a mural about Flotilla 4 in the English estate house provided to them in Dartmouth by the author Agatha Christie.

The lived in close quarters aboard LCI #96. Herb has trouble reconciling current opposition to lifting the ban on allowing homosexuals to serve openly in the armed forces.

In a few weeks, Herb will be 89. He’s considered a youngster at his independent living residence in downtown White Plains. They don’t start counting your years until you’ve completed nine decades. Herb’s full of life and stories. Those interested in reading more about Herb’s exploits can do so by linking to an oral history he provided Rutgers University: http://oralhistory.rutgers.edu/Interviews/bilus_herbert.html.

 For those who don’t know, Herb’s daughters are Jane Gould, Pat Lager and Fran Bilus Feldman.

Transitions From Legos to Purses, From Minimum Wages To Yankees and a Remembrance

This time I really do have a pretty legitimate reason for going dark over the last 10 days. For most of that period Finley and Dagny, along with their parents Dan and Allison, came down from Massachusetts to spend a stay-cation week with us. They enjoyed a trip to the Bronx Zoo, Coney Island (the boardwalk, kiddie rides, the beach and lunch at Nathan’s), Muscoot Park and LegoLand. 

But what might be considered the highlight of the visit, at least for Finley and Dan, was the retrieval from the attic of hundreds, if not thousands, of Lego pieces Gilda and I thoughtfully stored for our grandchildren some 25 years ago. I’m not sure who was more enthralled by this reclamation, Dan or Finley. Our grandson was genuinely excited by the battery-operated train, and the helicopter and police wagon with flashing lights and sirens. As much as the resurrected Legos brought back memories of Dan constructing a whole village on most of his bedroom floor during his childhood, Dan was clearly the most captivated. When all the grownups had stopped watching a movie to go to bed Thursday night, Dan stayed up another half hour, rebuilding planes, aided by the schematic instructions we had carefully saved.   

Friday morning Dan and Finley were back into the Legos. In case you’re wondering, we did not ship the Legos home with Dan and Finley. As if they needed a further incentive to visit, Finley and Dan (and when she’s older, Dagny) have another reason to venture south.

Anyone who believes racism, overt or subtle, does not exist, not just in our society but worldwide as well, was treated to another dose of reality this past week when Oprah Winfrey was steered away from looking at a $38,000 purse to a less expensive handbag in a Swiss boutique. Though the store claims it was just a misunderstanding, there’s little doubt the salesperson assumed a person of color could not afford a $38,000 purse, so why bother wasting time. 

Beyond the black humor (pun intended) of perhaps the richest woman in the world (white or black) not being treated royally, here’s my question—who really needs a $38,000 piece of stitched leather? The excesses of the outrageously wealthy over the last two decades have been grotesque, with too many buying automobiles for sums greater than many people pay for homes. Oprah is a symbol to many who struggle every day. Why would she so blatantly flaunt values that do not correlate with her core audience?

When I was young, our relatives and family friends would put a dollar inside any new wallet my brother, sister or I received. Lee double-dipped when she received a new purse. It was always a nice surprise to find the cash inside our new wallets and purses. I wonder, how much does Stedman have to put inside Oprah’s new pocketbooks? Anything less than a cool grand would seem rather cheap, don’t you think?

Speaking of cheap, I’m pretty supportive of fast food workers seeking a more livable wage. One of my first big stories in trade journalism for my former company dealt with efforts to raise the minimum wage back in 1977. The restaurant industry railed against it, claiming any increase would shove operators over the brink, forcing them to close down, resulting in fewer foodservice employers and employees. My publisher wanted me to write a story supporting those assertions, but the facts, as I researched them, showed otherwise. That story wound up winning a corporate prize as the best news article of the year.

You might have heard Fox Business News anchor Neil Cavuto last week rant that too many people disdain working for fast food eateries. “It’s like jobs aren’t enough these days,” he opined. “They damn well better pay well or folks just really aren’t going to apply for them at all. Did I ever tell you that when I was a kid, you’d be grateful for any job you could find. Now a lot of kids are just the opposite, turning up their nose at fast food jobs that go begging at 11 bucks an hour. It’s true!”

The 54-year-old commentator said that when he was 16 he eagerly took a minimum wage job at $2 an hour at Arthur Treacher’s in Danbury, Conn., the first rung on his ladder of success. But as Mother Jones pointed out, Cavuto has a problem with math, which kinda kills his credibility as a financial expert. His $2 an hour in 1974 adjusted for inflation would be about $9.47 today; “Cavuto made the equivalent of $1.22 per hour more than the current minimum wage in Connecticut today and $2.22 per hour more than the current federal minimum wage (of $7.25).”

Mother Jones noted “Cavuto's riff also misses the larger point, which is that the living-wage fight isn't about 16-year-olds with no kids whose parents cover their basic living expenses. The median fast food worker is 28 years old, and the median female fast food worker is 32. Their wages have dropped an average of 36 cents since 2010. And they're making less than Neil Cavuto ever did.”

On another fast food point, I stopped in McDonald’s a few times recently. The Golden Arches might still be considered fast food, but I can vouch that service is definitely NOT fast. With its extensive and growing menu McD’s has a real systems problem from the time an order is placed until food is delivered to the customer. 

It’s hard to watch the NY Yankees these days, even when they win, which they don’t do often enough. Forget about the A-Rod mania. No one will come out ahead in that fiasco. Friday night’s and Sunday’s games versus the Detroit Tigers showed how fragile the Yankee season is. Mariano Rivera blew two saves (three in a row going back to last Wednesday in Chicago against the White Sox, the first time Mo has done that in his illustrious career). In 54 previous innings against the Tigers he had yielded just two home runs. He gave up three in two appearances this weekend. 

If Yankee fans can’t count on Mariano to nail down victories, who can they rely on? For the moment, it seems to be Brett Gardner, both in the field and at bat. He made a game-saving catch Sunday against Torii Hunter and then belted a game-winning home run in the bottom of the ninth. This after getting the game-winning hit Friday night after Mo blew the save. 

Gardner’s heroics would have been appreciated, and Rivera’s travails lovingly tolerated, by Herb Bilus who passed away August 1, a week after his 92nd birthday. Herb loved the Yankees, the NY Football Giants, politics, current events, poker and other card games, his community of Bloomfield, NJ, and, most of all, his family.   

Even to funerals I rarely wear ties these days. Yet it would have seemed disrespectful not to wear one to pay my last respects to Herb. So there I was in tie and suit, at the service and then internment in a cemetery with a picturesque view of the New York skyline. Herb was one of the Tom Brokaw-coined “greatest generation,” a Coast Guard veteran of the D-Day landings. As the last of the vanguard who made our world safe for democracy die off, taps reverberates through the grassy knolls of their final resting places. Often it can be a recording. For Herb, a solitary live trumpeter played the soulful notes as an honor guard saluted and then rolled up an American flag that draped his coffin.

I knew Herb for just 25 or so years. He was the father, father-in-law and grandfather of some of our family’s closest friends. Here’s a reprise of what I wrote about Herb on the 66th anniversary of D-Day:

Surrounded by two of his three daughters and their husbands, three of his six grandchildren, two great grandchildren, a grandson-in-law and a couple of friends of the family, Herb Bilus had steak for dinner Sunday evening. Sixty-six years ago to the day, June 6, 1944, Herb enjoyed another steak off the shores of Normandy after his Landing Craft Infantry (LCI) #96 delivered its first load of soldiers to Utah Beach as part of the greatest invasion in history.

Hard to believe Ensign Bilus and his cohorts would stop for a hearty meal while the fighting raged, but his commander had promised steak for all officers if they came through their first mission successfully, and so the officers, perhaps even the total crew of 22 Coast Guard sailors, celebrated their good fortune before going back to secure another load of 120 4th Army infantrymen bound for the beaches of France. Herb’s LCI was part of Flotilla 4, a group of 24 LCI ships. They made their initial drop during the sixth wave, roughly six hours after D-Day landings began. By the end of the day, four of their ships were lost off Omaha Beach.

It was off Omaha Beach Herb witnessed true courage, and fear, under fire. It was the task of each LCI to deliver its precious cargo of fighting men as close to the beach as possible, close enough so they could wade ashore without being sucked under by the weight of their packs. Anyone who has seen the first 30 minutes of Saving Private Ryan may remember scenes of GI’s dropped off too soon. As they hit the too-deep water, they sunk to the bottom, drowned before firing a shot. Saving Private Ryan was closer to D-Day reality than any other movie, says Herb.

On one of their runs at Omaha Beach, under heavy incoming fire, a high ranking Navy officer ordered Herb’s ship commander, a Coast Guard lieutenant, to lower his ramps to drop off troops. The lieutenant disobeyed the direct order, arguing the water was too deep. While the Navy man dropped off his load to a watery death, Herb’s skipper steered his ship closer to the beach, giving his soldiers a chance to get to shore “safely,” if such a term can be used to describe any landing that day.

The lieutenant, Marshall was his first name (Herb recalls his last name but I’m going to leave it out for what will be evident shortly), was unusual for a couple of reasons. Jewish by birth, Marshall refused to use his last name. It was too ethnic. Even when a telegram came for him under his full name, he would not acknowledge it.

Herb also suspects Marshall was gay. He was a real dandy, going off by himself during shore leave, wearing felt gloves and carrying a swagger stick. An artist, Marshall painted a mural about Flotilla 4 in the English estate house provided to them in Dartmouth by the author Agatha Christie.

They lived in close quarters aboard LCI #96. Herb has trouble reconciling current opposition to lifting the ban on allowing homosexuals to serve openly in the armed forces.

In a few weeks, Herb will be 89. He’s considered a youngster at his independent living residence in downtown White Plains. They don’t start counting your years until you’ve completed nine decades. Herb’s full of life and stories. Those interested in reading more about Herb’s exploits can do so by linking to an oral history he provided Rutgers University: http://oralhistory.rutgers.edu/alphabetical-index/31-interviewees/804-bilus-herbert.

For those who don’t know, Herb’s daughters are Jane Gould, Pat Lager and Fran Bilus Feldman.

  

The Great Patriotic War

Here’s a short pop quiz: What was the turning point of World War II In Europe?

I’d wager many of you answered D-Day, June 6, 1944, when the Allies landed on the beaches of Normandy.

The more correct answer, according to most historians and to all Russians, would be the Battle of Stalingrad. Fought between July 17, 1942 and February 2, 1943, the battle for Stalingrad, now known as Volgograd, gateway to the oil fields of the Caucasus region, was among the bloodiest ever fought. Close to two million casualties from both sides. Though they defeated Germany’s Sixth Army, the Russians paid a dear price—they claim losses of 478,741 dead Russian soldiers, 650,878 wounded. More than 40,000 civilians died. The city was left in ruins. The soil wouldn’t produce crops for three years.

To the northwest, the siege of Leningrad (St. Petersburg) lasted for nearly 900 days. Some 1.5 million Russians died.

Overall, Russia says it lost 20 million soldiers during WWII, or what they call the Second Great Patriotic War (the first being the defense of the motherland from Napoleon’s invasion). Another eight million civilians died. Twenty-eight million out of a population of about 170 million. One out of every six citizens (16.5%). Hardly a family did not have a relative killed during the war.

By contrast, the U.S. lost 408,000 from a population of 131 million (0.3%). Aside from the attack on Pearl Harbor, random coastal shellings and combat on some islands of the archipelago of Alaska, American soil was not breached. No civilian population centers were terrorized or captured. Life went on, albeit under rationed goods. But vigilance on the home front couldn’t compare to the deprivations and brutality of living in conquered or embattled Russian territory.

Is it any wonder Stalin vehemently argued for the opening of a second front against Germany? He complained to FDR and Churchill the Soviet Union was bearing all the burden in fighting the Nazis, both in terms of the loss of life and the destruction of its territory.

I’m no expert on WWII, though I’ve seen my share of war movies, read some history and historic novels, so I have a pretty good idea what went on. A visit to Moscow’s Military Museum brings the conflict to life from a whole different perspective. I’d always thought America had supplied vast amounts of war materiel to Russia through the Lend Lease program beginning in the summer of 1941, before we entered the war but after Hitler tore up the non aggression pact and attacked Russia. To be sure, we did send in much needed supplies and equipment. But the Russians, themselves, produced the vast majority of their weaponry, developing numerous tank and airplane models. They developed the Katyusha multiple rocket launcher during the war. One of the best, if not the best, assault rifle, was also developed during WWII by Mikhail Kalashinkov.

Don’t take this commentary as any defense of Russia’s behavior before, during or after the war. But knowing what the Russians endured places their actions in context. Indeed, one of the major themes to emerge from Gilda’s and my two weeks in Russia was a greater appreciation of the hardships the people of this vast land have suffered through for centuries. Not decades. Centuries. They suffered through despots. The masses were slaves—serfs bound to their master’s land with no right to move—until 1861. Even their religion at times offered little comfort. In the Middle Ages, deadly violence rippled through the church’s competing factions. After the Bolsheviks took over, churches were closed, priests and nuns executed. The Soviet Union failed to provide a softer, more fulfilling life. After perestroika, their economy, meager as it was, collapsed.

The people, however, retained their sense of humor. They measured governments and leaders by the quality of the jokes about them. They revealed a resiliency forged through years of deprivation and suffering.

Russia is not a workers’ paradise. It is not a capitalist bastion. It’s a little like the Wild West. It’s not a full democracy, but is better than it ever was.


This concludes Russia Week at No Socks Needed Anymore. There’s much more I could tell, but I probably overtaxed your interest already, so I’ll go back to “normal” blogging next week.

Flora, Fauna and Betty White

Gilda and I went on an after-dinner stroll last Friday night. About a block from home, an Eastern coyote crossed the street some 50 yards ahead. Gilda wasn’t sure it was a coyote, but the next day our neighborhood association left a flyer in the mailbox warning about “recent coyote sightings,” describing the Eastern coyote as looking “like a medium-sized German shepherd dog, with long thick fur. The tail is full and bushy, usually carried pointed down. Ears are erect and pointed. Coyotes are usually 4 to 5 feet in length (including tail) and weigh 35 to 45 pounds.”

That sure fit what I saw meandering through our subdivision. With Saxon Woods Park just a block away, it doesn’t surprise me we’re prime stomping grounds for the scavenging critters. It’s not uncommon for us to see deer and wild turkeys on our property (and a few years ago I swear I saw a bear walking in the park in early spring).

Coyotes on the prowl could explain a few other occurrences, or non-occurrences. First, the latter—Gilda says her garden is doing better than in years’ past. Her explanation: fewer rabbits, which usually made a cozy home on our homestead. Fewer rabbits means her plants aren’t being eaten. My explanation: the rabbits have been turned into food themselves by wily coyote. Score one for the coyote.

I’ve also noticed feathers on our lawn and patio near the bird feeding stations. We’ve still got a sizable bird population flocking in, but I have no doubt the number has been culled by a few, shall we say, less fortunate flyers. Coyotes are attracted to bird feeding areas, so I might have to cut back on the goodies, at least until the predator stops lurking in the shadows. Subtract one from the coyote’s score.

One thing I haven’t noticed this spring are hummingbirds. I’ve tried two different hummingbird feeders with no luck seeing any of the long distance aviators, though one portion of their liquid diet did get consumed a few weeks ago, without any sightings. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a hummingbird blight in the Northeast, much like the inexplicable loss of millions of bees and bats. I stopped by the local Wild Birds Unlimited store and found out the hummingbirds took off from South America for northern climes two weeks late and our trees bloomed two weeks early, making for a very disappointing showing. Perhaps they’ll be more visible on their way back to the southern hemisphere. They should be back in White Plains mid-August.


Trifolium repens: One blight I am sure has befallen almost every landowner is an infestation of Trifolium repens, otherwise known as white clover. It’s a white flowered, creeping perennial weed with stems that root at nodes. It is said to be relatively easy to control, but my gardeners, and apparently everyone else’s as well, seem to be powerless to plow under the creeping tide.

White clover is better than yellow dandelions, but not by much. Plus, white clover is said to attract bees, which in my no socks mode is not an incentive to go prancing about the lawn.


I Should Live So Long: One or two sprigs are visible on the nine-foot stump-of-a-tree left by our “friendly” neighbor just off our common property line (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/fear-of-falling.html).

I’m figuring the tree will reach out with meaningful branches some time in the next 20 years. I’m 61. You do the math. Not that I’m planning any early exit, but I do hope I will be able to enjoy, physically and mentally, some of the beauty this tree previously provided.

Of course, the initial sprigs are facing the tree Gilda and I planted a few weeks ago, so if our neighbor’s tree limbs encroach on our baby, I just might have to fire up the old chain saw. Oops, forgot I gave that away years ago. I’ll just have to prune it back manually (for those who can’t figure out what that means, that’s code for I’ll pay someone).


Betty Not So White: Seemingly no one can say a bad word about Betty White, the 88-year-old actress/comedienne who recently did a star turn hosting Saturday Night Live and who also is co-starring in a new TV Land situation comedy debuting Wednesday night. Called Hot in Cleveland, the show also features Valerie Bertinelli, Jane Leeves and Wendie Malick as three Los Angelinos who wind up renting a house in Cleveland from Betty White. It’s a retro Sex and the City/Golden Girls combo.

So I’m watching Jon Stewart interview Betty during Monday night’s Daily Show and he’s all gaga over her, lauding her for “drawing the line” on some offensive material. “I won’t do drug jokes,” said White. “Every once in a while they write something like, ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if the old ladies all smoked pot, or they did something like this.’ I just don’t think drugs are funny and I don’t like to make jokes about them.” (She also draws the line at “any unkindness to animals.”)

I was feeling pretty good about her code of ethics when Stewart cut away for a commercial, a promo for Hot in Cleveland featuring the following dialogue:

Jane Leeves character: Does anyone else smell pot?
Betty White character: What are you, a cop?
JL: No.
BW: Then what’s it to you?

Either Betty White doesn’t know pot is a drug and still illegal in most jurisdictions or she has established her own drug culture rules.


D-Day Hero Update: Commemorating D-Day’s 66th anniversary prompted Herb Bilus to try to reconnect with the skipper of his Landing Craft Infantry #96 (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/06/d-day-heroes.html). He googled Marshall, only to sadly discover this hero of D-Day died April 12.

Once before, in 1984, Herb actually reached Marshall on the 40th anniversary of D-Day. But Marshall put off seeing him then as he was preparing to travel for business to Japan the following day for two weeks.

Herb asked that he call when he returned, so they could “go out and have a drink together. That was '84. Okay, I'm still waiting for that drink. I don't know if he is still alive. He never called. But anyhow, I guess he wasn't interested in seeing anybody, which is okay,” Herb related in an oral history he gave to Rutgers University, his alma mater (http://oralhistory.rutgers.edu/Interviews/bilus_herbert.html).

D-Day Heroes

Surrounded by two of his three daughters and their husbands, three of his six grandchildren, two great grandchildren, a grandson-in-law and a couple of friends of the family, Herb Bilus had steak for dinner Sunday evening. Sixty-six years ago to the day, June 6, 1944, Herb enjoyed another steak off the shores of Normandy after his Landing Craft Infantry (LCI) #96 delivered its first load of soldiers to Utah Beach as part of the greatest invasion in history.

Hard to believe Ensign Bilus and his cohorts would stop for a hearty meal while the fighting raged, but his commander had promised steak for all officers if they came through their first mission successfully, and so the officers, perhaps even the total crew of 22 Coast Guard sailors, celebrated their good fortune before going back to secure another load of 120 4th Army infantrymen bound for the beaches of France. Herb’s LCI was part of Flotilla 4, a group of 24 LCI ships. They made their initial drop during the sixth wave, roughly six hours after D-Day landings began. By the end of the day, four of their ships were lost off Omaha Beach.

It was off Omaha Beach Herb witnessed true courage, and fear, under fire. It was the task of each LCI to deliver its precious cargo of fighting men as close to the beach as possible, close enough so they could wade ashore without being sucked under by the weight of their packs. Anyone who has seen the first 30 minutes of Saving Private Ryan may remember scenes of GI’s dropped off too soon. As they hit the too-deep water, they sunk to the bottom, drowned before firing a shot. Saving Private Ryan was closer to D-Day reality than any other movie, says Herb.

On one of their runs at Omaha Beach, under heavy incoming fire, a high ranking Navy officer ordered Herb’s ship commander, a Coast Guard lieutenant, to lower his ramps to drop off troops. The lieutenant disobeyed the direct order, arguing the water was too deep. While the Navy man dropped off his load to a watery death, Herb’s skipper steered his ship closer to the beach, giving his soldiers a chance to get to shore “safely,” if such a term can be used to describe any landing that day.

The lieutenant, Marshall was his first name (Herb recalls his last name but I’m going to leave it out for what will be evident shortly), was unusual for a couple of reasons. Jewish by birth, Marshall refused to use his last name. It was too ethnic. Even when a telegram came for him under his full name, he would not acknowledge it.

Herb also suspects Marshall was gay. He was a real dandy, going off by himself during shore leave, wearing felt gloves and carrying a swagger stick. An artist, Marshall painted a mural about Flotilla 4 in the English estate house provided to them in Dartmouth by the author Agatha Christie.

The lived in close quarters aboard LCI #96. Herb has trouble reconciling current opposition to lifting the ban on allowing homosexuals to serve openly in the armed forces.

In a few weeks, Herb will be 89. He’s considered a youngster at his independent living residence in downtown White Plains. They don’t start counting your years until you’ve completed nine decades. Herb’s full of life and stories. Those interested in reading more about Herb’s exploits can do so by linking to an oral history he provided Rutgers University: http://oralhistory.rutgers.edu/Interviews/bilus_herbert.html.

For those who don’t know, Herb’s daughters are Jane Gould, Pat Lager and Fran Bilus Feldman.