January 22, 1944: The Road to Rome

In honor of Staff Sergeant Lawrence J. Peet, a gentle man.


Near Salerno

In the winter of 1943, Allied forces were stalled in their advance by the successful German defense of the Gustav Line in the mountains straddling the Italian peninsula. On January 22, 1944 the VI Corps of the US Fifth Army, fresh from successful campaigns in North Africa, Sicily and initial landings near Salerno, made an amphibious landing near the small seaside resort town of Anzio, a few miles south of Rome.

The initial attack was met with light resistance, and certainly the landing was nothing like the horrors of Normandy Omaha beach landings later the same year. The horrors came later as the Germans swiftly counter-attacked and threw wave after wave at the defenders on the beach. They were pinned into a small pocket on the beach-head for the next four months. German artillery positions in the hills surrounding the town kept up a constant barrage of shelling during the lulls between battles. There were many bloody attacks and counter-attacks.

Like many survivors, my father didn’t talk much about his experiences. My uncle, a survivor of the WWII Pacific Campaign once told me that my father had survived hell on earth. One of the things he did share about the Anzio invasion was his memory of foxhole life. At night he would be playing cards by candle-light with his buddies, and periodically the concussion wave from nearby exploding shells would blow out the candle. Their reaction was mostly one of irritation at having to find some matches in order to re-light the candle.

Finally in May, Allied forces broke out and started to advance. Since the time of the Roman Empire the little town of Cisterna di Littoria, a few miles inland from Anzio, has been an important crossroads. In ancient times it was a stop on the famous Roman road Via Appia (Appian Way) known as the Three Taverns. The Apostle Paul (Acts 28:15) met friends there on his final journey to Rome. There had been an unsuccessful attempt to capture the town in February, but when the breakout occurred the 7th Regiment successfully attacked and took the town.

The Germans were surrendering in large groups and my father (upper left in the following photograph) was captured by a news photographer as he brought in a group of captured prisoners brandishing his unloaded rifle.

One American herds another group of German prisoners to the rear.

As part of the supply group, my father never fired his weapon during the entire war (except on the firing range). On the day in question, he was scouting for supplies as normal and a superior officer, looking around for someone (anyone) to take the prisoners, called my father over and ordered him to take the responsibility. He quickly un-shouldered his rifle, completely unaware that his photo was being taken for posterity.

The campaign continued through the liberation of Rome (June 1944), invasion of Southern France (August 1944) and the capture of Munich (April 1945). My father’s unit was near Salzburg at the end of combat operations in Europe after capturing Hitler’s headquarters in the Alps.

From left to right: Good Conduct Medal, American Defense Service Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal, Bronze Service Arrowhead and Distinguished Unit Badge.



Ongoing Battle

Eyes ever-present,
Every move noted and indexed.
Tentative feints and maneuvers, subtly disguised—
Just passing by, nothing to see here.

Into the kitchen,
Refilled coffee and back quickly.
She’s there, but quickly moves away—
Just passing by, nothing to see here.

A moment of carelessness,
Quickly up to adjust the fan and too late.
Curled up, unassailably cute and fuzzy—
I sit in the other chair.

No Pulitzer Prize for you

So, I've figured it out. The lack of silverware in my trophy case (Pulitzer Prizes, Tony Awards, Grammy Awards, OBE's, etc.) is not really an indication of mediocrity and lack of achievement, but a testament to my great humanity. I get started on something and a furry critter distracts me or demands my immediate and undivided attention, and the perfect formula for cold fusion (or the theme and exposition of the Great American Novel) is temporarily shelved. I shift my focus and fully commit to fulfilling the pressing needs of the said critter. When I get back to it I can't remember what I was doing, much less the solution to world hunger. I will just have to accept the fact that I will only ever be as wonderful as my critters think I am—and that's pretty wonderful.

Gotta go. There's an affection crisis lurking.

Perspective of age

A friend and I visited Fort St. George in Chennai (Madras) some months back. This was the first English foothold on the Indian continent, established in the early 1600's. I had been once before a few months earlier, but there were some additional photographs I wanted to capture, particularly of St. Mary's Church which is the oldest Anglican Church in Asia, completed around 1680.

During the previous visit I had only seen the museum and the church. You're not allowed to enter the Secretariat, since it serves as the main government building for Tamil Nadu State. Actually, the Prime Minister of India (Dr. Manmohan Singh) was in Chennai one weekend to inaugurate the new Secretariat building which is under construction across town, so I'm not sure if the Fort St. George location will be opened to the public at some time.

On this visit, we wandered further afield and explored the complex. The old barracks has been converted into a storage depot for the Indian army, and the balconies were piled high with cases of stuff. We also discovered the old battlements and gun emplacements that protected the fort. The moat on the west side has turned into marsh, and we saw kingfishers, herons and many other birds. I wasn't fast enough with the camera to get a decent picture of a kingfisher who briefly landed on a tree nearby.

Then this elderly Tamil man came by and stopped to talk with us. He spoke very good English, but was still a little difficult to understand since most his teeth were missing. He was thrilled to see us and thanked us profusely for visiting his country. He had been an army officer and spoke of the old days and his fondness for the British. He spoke of Robert Clive and we both had the impression at the time that he was saying that he knew Clive, which is scarcely creditable since later research revealed that Clive died in 1774. It was clear the the man admired the British and was concerned about the condition of self-governed India since independence. There was even a hint of regret that the British had left.

This was astonishing to me at first, but I realized that there was significant turmoil and pain during independence and partition. All of those who lived through those times, and especially those who had success within the British system saw their whole world turned upside down. This man saw Clive (who was largely responsible for establishing British military control over India) as a hero, although I suspect many of his fellow countrymen would have difficulty with that characterization. Personally, I'm thankful that India is free and independent, but history is rarely as clean and neat as we would like to believe.

I was reminded of my trip to China a few years back with a touring choir. We did one exchange concert with the faculty choir for a large university in Hangzhou. They were kind and welcoming and passionate about sharing their music with us. It was a very moving performance. Most of the faculty choir members were elderly and I realized as I watched that most of them were old enough to remember China before the revolution. These were folks who had seen their world completely changed several times over. They had survived (and perhaps even participated) in the Communist revolution. They had survived the Cultural Revolution, where being a professor was a dangerous profession. Now they are living through an upheaval as significant as the others, with the incredible economic and social changes that are occurring in China today.

The perspective of first hand experience somehow doesn't always translate to history once the original witnesses are gone. I'm very grateful for the witnesses to history that I have met, including my parents, and I hope I always take in the stories that describe the personal side of history.

Recycling

Chennai can be a dirty city. Every city produces dirt, grime and garbage, but with an "official" population of 8-10 million and an estimated population of perhaps double that, everything is more intense. One figure I saw had the population density at over 60,000 people per square mile. By contrast, the population density of Seattle is 7,000 per square mile and Bellingham's was under 3,000.

Today, I had lunch with the team from the office, and my mango ice-cream came in this cool container. The inside are leaves that are machine stitched together, and the outside is recycled newspaper. There is a tradition here of using leaves to serve food. If you ever get dhosa and idli with sambar and chutneys, it should be served on a banana leaf.



It's great that there are businesses willing to make a difference, even in this small way.

Significant kitty experiences

I love animals--cats, dogs, otters and even elephants. Since I've been away from my own cats, my encounters with animals takes on even more significance. My recent trip to Thailand introduced me to the following "significant" cats.

First of all there is the Siamese cat (in Siam). He greeted me on my arrival to the Akha village known as Elephant Valley.

Then there is the typical bookstore cat. This was down a side street in Chiang Mai, where there were 4 really good bookstores, although only one cat. In this store, I found a couple of Rumpole books I don't already have.

This cat was my buddy on my visit to a Hmong village on Doi Inthanon (the tallest mountain in Thailand). I stress that his stress is not due to me. One of the village dogs was nearby and the kitten was asserting his authority.

I found this kitty literally outside my hotel. [OK, so it was outside my hotel, a 20 minute taxi ride, a 15 walk through the zoo property and there he was--outside my hotel].

Mentors

Within the space of of a month, we have lost two great mentors of jazz. Hal Malcolm and John "Coach" Moawad were pioneers of vocal jazz education. Beyond that influence, they touched thousands of lives with their passion, humor and loving care. They were more than great musicians and teachers. They were great motivators of people.

For me personally they were mentors and friends. They reached out to me and gave me many opportunities and challenges to foster my growth as a musician and as a human being. I am a better person for them having been a part of my life and this is a better world for the great legacy they have left behind.

Rest in Peace.