Sundance

Sundance Idaho. September 1, 1967.
Two men perished when this bulldozer was trapped by the rapidly advancing Sundance Fire.

The job was a blast, it just couldn’t last, time to drag up and go,

  my future was cast, no money amassed, I’m just an out of work schmo.    

On a hot August day, I drew out my pay, said farewell to the rail-welding crew,

  had to be on my way, ‘cuz I couldn’t stay, farewell, adios, sayonara, adieu.

Loaded my car, stopped by the bar, finally headed for home,

  gotta’ go far, watch for radar, might need a shave and a comb.

Rolled into town, troubles to drown, for the Saloon I am bound,

  Jim’s got a frown, looks sorta’ down, says there’s no work around.

Idaho’s on fire, hands they require, there’s work for you and for me,

  situation is dire, maybe they’ll hire, first come, first serve is the key.

We came up with a plan, and loaded the van, then headed out to the west,

  our troubles we’ll ban, the Rockies we’ll span, we’ll show them all we’re the best.

At Bonner we stop, the ferry to hop, Trapper’s Peak is wholly ablaze,

  There’s no work to drop, we hit the blacktop, Sand Point is covered with haze.

A crown fire there rages, it’s one for the ages, they tag it Sundance,

  for one who engages, they’re paying good wages, could this be our chance?

But it’s getting dark, we sleep in the park, employment office by morn,

  our quest is no lark, as the time we mark, soon we are hired and sworn.

The Crew Boss just scoffs, at all the castoffs, he deserves better than us,

  the Wino just coughs, his bottle he quaffs, he sure is a ruddy old cuss.

The Kid looked too young, for the ID he brung, once he cried half of the day,

  the Preacher he sung, as verses he slung, keeping the Devil away.

Two from Dakota, one from Mendota, they’re tired of farming they say,

  a real-life Lakota, the Boss makes his quota, of fellers who’ve drifted astray.

A feller named Brady, was a little too shady, he showed off his prison tattoo,

  the office girl Sadie, was three times a lady, though she wasn’t part of our crew.

Bussed to the fire, in hard hat attire, a Pulaski is handed to each,

  it’s all we require, to put out the fire, there really ain’t much left to teach.

Just keep your head, two are already dead, watch for the fire to crown,

  there’s a lake ahead, if the fire should spread, just make sure you don’t drown.

Then up on the line, in the tall pine, we’re scraping out a small trench,

  the brush and the vine, on the incline, the fire’s a thirsty old wench.

Hungry and tired, we do what’s required, comes to the end of the day,

  the line is backfired, our work is admired, dinner’s a back woods buffet.

A meadow’s our camp, good it ain’t damp, sleep on the cold hard ground,

  no ashes to tamp, we sit ‘neath a lamp, still hear that crackling sound.

Hope the fire don’t grow, in the moonlight glow, tomorrow we’ll hit it again,

  next morning we’ll go, to fight with our foe, the war between fire and men.

Helicopter ride, above the divide, land by a hollow old crater,

   the burn field is wide, toward it we do stride, old Sundance can’t get much greater.

We toil and we sweat, our defenses are set, we watch the wind and the smoke,

  it’s a surefire bet, we’ll work ‘til sunset, meanwhile we’ll laugh and we’ll joke.

When the wind doesn’t blow, the fire will slow, maybe we goof off a bit,

  the Crew Boss don’t know, to sleep I go, or he’d be having a fit.

And away up high, slurry bombers fly, hoping to drown out the threat,

  the days whisk on by, then opens the sky, the rain so precious and wet.

Sundance is drowned, they don’t need us around, they pay us all for our time,

  for Sand Point we’re bound, in a bar we are found, trying to spend our last dime.

We weren’t all that brave, we just tried to save, the mountains, the bears and the woods,

  the two in the grave, with all that they gave, beat all of our coulds and our shoulds.

LDT July 17, ‘22

     This poem is dedicated to the memory of Luther Rodarte and Lee Collins who died on September 1, 1967 in the Sundance fire. High winds had propelled the fire 16 miles in a single day as it crowned through the tops of the dry timber.

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Carr Peak

The Reef at Carr Peak is a seasonal waterfall.
Dozens of people have fallen from it.

Carr Peak

I’m thinking tonight that I ought to roam,

  up on the mountain, away from my home.

Where the sky is clear, and the water is sweet,

  the motives are pure, and the sorrows retreat.

The eagle will soar, the cougar will roar,

  knowing the score, like never before.

The Aspens will quiver, the Aspens will quake,

  the mountains deliver, make no mistake.

The quartz has no gold, or so I am told,

  but just for the bold, the vistas unfold.

The trail can be rough, you gotta’ be tough,

  it may call your bluff, if y’er not up to snuff.

A waterfall cascades, o’er a rocky palisade,

  the drop can dissuade, but be not afraid.

A mountain so high, no clouds in the sky,

  no ills to decry, a treat for the eye.

A vista so grand, of such a great land,

  must have been planned, by a mighty hand.

LDT July 16, ‘22

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Battle of Flowers Battle

People flee an active shooter. Battle of Flowers Parade,
San Antonio, Texas March 27, 1979.

         In 1979 we were enjoying our second year living in the wonderful city of San Antonio. It’s ambiance, celebrations and cultural diversity were amazing to us. Then came the time for Fiesta with all its colorful parades and events. Of particular interest was the Battle of Flowers Parade, commemorating the those lost at the Alamo. Started in 1891, it has become one of the biggest parades in the big state of Texas. It was a school holiday and Karen was a bit miffed at me for not taking the day off to atend. Fortunately, her friend Jolie invited Karen and our eight-year-old daughter to join them at the parade.

         The parade starts on Broadway near Brackenridge Park and makes its way a couple miles southward to the downtown area. A few blocks from my office thousands of people lined Broadway anxiously waiting to watch the parade from their favorite spot. One of them was 64 year-old Ira Attebury who parked his RV at his customary spot at a local tire store at the corner of East Grayson and Broadway.

         I was having a quiet day at the office with half the staff gone for the parade. About 1:30 PM my secretary, Pat Muniz, came into my office with an anxious look on her face.

“Something is going on at the paraade. Can I turn the television on?”

         I accompanied her to a vacant classroom and set up the TV. I waited as it warmed up. The picture that appeared loked familiar. It was a live shot looking down Broadway, just a few blocks from the office. There had been some sort of a shooting. Then the picture zoomed in on a chaotic scene a block further down the street.

         Pat’s face paled.

         “My kids are there!” she shrieked as she watched in horror. Others trickled in to watch. Someone who had been outside said he had heard shots. We watched in stunned silence as the story began to unfold in real time. Gunshots, injuries, chaos. Pat wanted to run down to the parade route, but others disuaded her. I remember being only slightly worried about Karen and Angie. Surely, they were somewhere downtown and miles away from whatever was happening.

         The reports got worse and worse. Multiple victims, several cops down, ambulances everywhere. Parade cancelled. The shooting seemed to have come from an RV parked at a tire store. After 30 minutes it had finally stopped. The police were securing the area. The zoomed camera shot showed chairs, ice chests and umbrellas scattered in disaray. About an hour or so later, Pat got a call from a relative. The kids were scared, but OK. This tough little lady looked totally worn down by the combination of fear, anxiety and relief.

         After work, I found my usual route across Broadway to the Interstate blocked by officers and police tape. I don’t rememnber if Karen called me at work or if I had to wait until I got home to get her report. They had been much closer to the shooting than I had thought. They heard the shots (about 300) and saw people running in panic. Ambulances and police cars rushed to and fro carrying victims and reinforcements. Karen was frightened even as she consoled our crying daughter. Later they saw confused parade participants crying as they sought to find their way from the scene.

         The lone shooter was Ira Attebury. Two women were dead and fifty people were wounded. Six of the wounded were San Antonio Police Officers who were the first to be targeted. Attebury eventually took his own life. An autopsy revealed he was on a PCP amphetamine. The community was in shock. A pall would hang over the rest of the Fiesta celebration.

         A year later, I decided I needed to take my wife and child to the parade. We parked at my office, grabbed our lawn chairs and made our way to Broadway. We proceeded a couple blocks down the route before we found a good spot. After setting the chairs up, I looked across the street. There was the Burggraf Tire Co. where Attebury had parked his RV on that awful day staring back at me. A half dozen of San Antonio’s finest were working the parade route. I would later learn that some of them were the same officers who had been wounded there the year before. When the police vanguard came by to start the parade, the crowd errupted in cheers.

         As I sat back to enjoy the parade I remember thinking that April 27, 1979 was an anomaly, an abberation. It could never happen again.

         I was so wrong.

                                                      LDT July 7, ‘22

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Indian Racer

Woodsie Castonquay was a champion Indian motorcycle racer in the 1930’s.
My Dad somehow got ahold of a bike like Woodsies.

Rex could ride a bronc and Rex could ride a bull,

   but he found that Indian Scout to be big handful.

The Wreckin’ Crew once raced it all about the land,

   and all they knew was winnin’ for the Indian brand.

Woodsie won the title back in Thirty-Five,

  Harleys ate their dust when the Indians arrived.

Three gears on a stick, shifter on the tank,

  stripped clean for racin’, lookin’ mean and rank.

Rocker foot clutch pedal, they called it suicide,

  with the pedal to the metal, it was hard to ride.

You didn’t have to clean its stall or feed it any hay,

  but it lacked one simple part sure to ruin his day.

This bike was made to go, it wasn’t made to stop,

  who the hell needs brakes at the green flag drop?

The experts slow for turns by pitchin’ to the side,

  and if you can’t do that, you shouldn’t even ride.

Somehow that racer wound up on the northern plains,

  waitin’ for a cowboy who’d like to take the reins.

Now Rex had made some dough, at the Wolf Point Rodeo,

  he had to have that racer, ‘cuz it could really go.

Big ol’ V-Twin motor, it was devilishly fast.

  people turned their heads when Rex came roarin’ past.

He set out from Fort Peck, on Highway Twenty-Four,

  from Milk River Hill, he could see the valley floor.

No speedo to show, how fast it could go,

  the power line row, told Rex it wasn’t slow.

One more car he passed, time to slow at last,

  easin’ off the gas, he’s goin’ way too fast.

The engine sort of popped, from his throttle chop,

  it’s too damn late to stop, and it’s too damn big a’ drop.

Then his iron steed starts pickin’ up some speed,

  he thinks, “Yes, indeed, brakes are what I need.”

Slidin’ ‘round a curve, makin’ gravel fly,

  startin’ to swerve, guardrails flashin’ by.

Still a ways to go, he oughta’ holler, “Whoa!”

  reinin’’ in the bars, ain’t gittin’ it to slow.

Another turn ahead, as down the hill he sped,

  his racin’ thoroughbred, fills him full of dread.

There’s an irrigation ditch, at the bottom of the hill,

  the bike begins to twitch, givin’ Rex a thrill.

Hangin’ on real tight, his tires get no bite,

  he took on quite a fright, where would he alight?

Slidin’ off the road, he’s prob’ly gettin’ throwed,

   this steed will explode, and he’s fixin’ to unload,

Buckin’ up and down, sunfishin’ all around,

   will he bust his crown, when he hits the ground?

His pony he can’t straddle, bouncin’ off the saddle,

   up the crick without a paddle, he’s gonna’ lose this battle.     

He hit the ground real hard, scraped, bruised and scarred,

   his senses badly jarred, while his dignity was marred.

He wound up in the ditch, mud from head to toe,

  no more motorcycle itch, he’ll stick with rodeo.

He never more will ride, that iron Quarter Horse,

   and apart from his pride, he suffered no remorse. 

LDT June 18, ‘22

Later in life Rex got a Honda Trail 90. He called it his Japanese Quarter Horse. He trained our dog to ride on the luggage rack. One day, they went off the little bridge on the way to our place. The dog never got on it again.

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Midway Battle Commemoration

Dorene and COL (Ret) Tom Hardaway with
Midway survivor Edgar R. Fox, USMC
Julian Hodges served on the carrier Yorktown which was sunk at the Battle of Midway.
Before it sank, the Yorktown contributed significantly to the sinking of the first 3 Japanese carriers.

My Brother-in-Law Tom and Karen’s sister Dorene took the Texas Children’s Choir to Hawaii to commemorate and perform at the 80th anniversary of the pivital Battle of Midway. (4 Jun 1942).

Today, they performed at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific. After the commemoration, they met with two of the survivors of the battle, Edgar R. Fox USMC and Julian Hodges, USN. I was humbled that they present each with my Midway poem “Torpedo 8”.

Fox served as a Marine on Midway Island during the battle. He helped defend the island from the initial attack by Japanese carrier aircraft. He very likely witnessed the 6 Avengers of Torpedo Squadron 8 as they took off along with Army bombers for the opening attack on the Japanese fleet.

Hodges tended the boilers on the ill-fated carrier USS Yorktown. Yorktown had its own torpedo squadron that fared slightly better than Torpedo 8 in its later attack on the Japanese. Unfortunately, the Japanese carrier that survived that attack found and attacked Yorktown. The crew waged a valiant fight to keep her afloat, but a torpedo attack by a submarine ended its struggle. Hodges went on to have a long career in the ministry..

Wild Bill

Most of Bill’s service was in the Air Force.

We never knew the cause of his pain,

  and some of us were quick to complain.

His whole life was a pure hot mess,

  somethin’ to do with trauma and stress.

Never had no job, lived all alone,

   didn’t have much to call his own.

Sometimes he camped deep in the woods,

   or hung out in bad neighborhoods.

He loved children and Disney cartoons,

  cheap cigarettes and sad country tunes.

Holdin’ his coffee, his hands sorta’ shook,

  and what he did was not by the book.

He’d offer a hand if only he could,

  too stove up to be of much good.

Sometimes he seemed a little bit rattled,

  we never knew the demons he battled.

PTSD was the VA’s call,

  provin’ that Bill was plumb off the wall.

Gave him a pension, a hundred percent,

  enough to cover his bills and his rent.

Got a fine car, fit for the road,

  before too long the engine was blowed.

He ran up a tab at the local café,

  first of the month he’d always pay.

Then one day, Bill wasn’t there,

  fair to say, we didn’t much care.

Then we got to worryin’ some,

  got us feelin’ solemn and glum.

Bill was gone, and he left a big hole,

  no kith nor kin for us to console.

Some fought in the trenches,

  some stayed on the benches.

Some left out in boxes and bags,

  covered with American flags.

Some were hit by shell or shot,

  Bill had his psyche tied in a knot.

Always had that thousand-yard stare,

  somethin’ he picked up over there.

His wounds were hidden deep in his soul,

   and they exacted one hell of a toll.

LDT Memorial Day May 30, ‘22

Are Ukrainians Nazis?

I think not:

Modern Russian Nationalism has emerged as
something equally as sinister as Stalin’s Russia.

For me the most striking feature of the current struggle in Ukraine is that Ukraine has finally demonstrated that it is a unique and sovereign nation that can stand on its own feet. For centuries, going back to the days of the Tsars, Russia has sought to dominate Ukraine and repress Ukrainian nationalism. When they failed to accomplish this end, they twice turned to destroying the entire Ukrainian nation. Never forget Stalin’s effort to starve the population during the Holodomor. Stalin’s repression included Russifying the country by banning the Ukrainian language, rewriting its history, destroying its culture and replacing dead Ukrainians with Russian colonists. (The real Nazis did the same thing when they invaded in 1941.)

Much like Germany’s invasion of Poland in 1939, the current war was unprovoked. Putin, like Mussolini and Hitler before him, wants to restore the former grandeur of his failed state. Most Russian-speakers in Ukraine are appalled by what he is doing. Though it may be true that the Azov Battalion has extreme right-wing roots, it appears to have morphed into a cadre of Ukrainian Nationalist Freedom Fighters. The Russians probably killed about 20,000 of the Mariupol residents they claimed they were trying to save from these Ukrainian “Nazis”. They made it almost impossible for the beleaguered citizenry to escape. Perhaps a million Ukrainian refugees under Russian control have been forcibly relocated to Russia. Some to re-education camps, some to the Gulags and a lucky few to places where they were able to escape to the West. The stories of Russian atrocities and ill-treatment invoke images of the Russia’s extermination of the Polish elite at places like the Katyn Forest in WWII.

I believe that it is the ultimate of hypocrisy for Putin to call anyone else a Nazi. This former Communist KGB operative, has embraced a new form of totalitarianism. He is kept in power by a handful of elite Russian oligarchs in a classic host/Parasite arrangement. They have made him the richest man in Russia. They night as well be the Krupps of the Nazi Era. Like the Nazis, Putin has a history of invading and intimidating his neighbors on the pretext of protecting Russian nationals. This makes him a Right-wing nationalist, just like Hitler. He uses tactics straight out of Hitler’s playbook. He fakes incidents to make it look like his victims were the aggressors. Hitler annexed the Sudetenland under the pretext that ethnic Germans were being mistreated by the Czechoslovakians. Likewise, Putin claimed all Ukrainians were really Russians being dominated by a handful of extremists. When the overwhelming majority of Ukrainians proved him wrong, he resorted to terror and destruction.  In Ukraine, Syria and Chechnya he brutalized local populations whom he deemed unfriendly. Those who he can’t control are imprisoned or executed. Above all he believes in the racial supremacy of Russians at the expense of all other racial and ethnic minorities he encounters.

          Watching Ukraine regain its identity, in spite of Putin’s unproved aggression is something we all should celebrate. Ukraine has become far more unified than was the United States on the Eve of the American Revolution. So long as Ukraine stands, other Eastern European nations can, like the Baltic countries, Finland, Moldova and Poland, are safe from further Russian aggression.

Slava Ukrani!

LDT May 28, ‘22

Huntin’ Season

They’re huntin’ Blacks, Hispanics and Jews,

  you can read all about it in the news.

Little kids aren’t safe in their schools,

  shot to death by gun-totin’ fools.

Stay away from the Walmart store,

  it ain’t safe to go there no more.

Check the exits when you go in,

  or shelter behind the store’s manikin.

They want to infect us with their disdain,

  that them that differ should not remain.

“Jews will not replace us!” is their call,

  as congregants in the Synagogue fall.

Black folks are dead at the grocery store,

   and goin’ to church is like goin’ to war.

Gun show loophole, no background check,

   go duck and cover, go hit the deck!

They armed the killer for profit and fun,

  can’t sue the bastard who gave him the gun.

Congress won’t budge, they’re in on the take,

  they don’t care about all that’s at stake.

They only respond with thought and prayer,

   babblin’ on about how much they care.

Buy your kid a bulletproof pack,

  send him off with a pat on the back.

Could we try to end all the hate, 

  or have we waited until it’s too late?

LDT May 27, ‘22

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Torpedo 8

Midway, 4 June 1942

The Avenger on the right is the actual plane that got Earnest and Ferrier back to Midway.
It never flew again.

Fifteen from Hornet, six from Midway,

  Torpedo 8 would have a rough day.

In a showdown with the Rising Sun,

  the USN would never run.

Rochefort broke the code, JN-95,

  soon Nippon would at Midway arrive.

They ready the fleet, time to avenge,

  surely this time they’ll get their revenge.

Torpedo 8 would lead the charge,

  straight into Hell they would barge.

The six Avengers were shiny and new,

  missin’ the Hornet, to Midway they flew,

Fourteen TBD’s, old and slow,

  off Hornet’s deck, into the show.

Commander Waldron takes up the lead,

  lookin’ for carriers runnin’ flank speed.

Up from Midway flew the other six,

  itchin’ to fight, to get in their licks.

With six Avengers, no fighter support,

  five went down says the squadron report.

Earnest and Ferrier are shot all to Hell,

  rear gunner’s dead within his nacelle.

The Hornet’s TBD’s are the next to attack,

  they found the fleet, they ain’t turnin’ back.

Zeros with meatballs adorned on their wings,

  dive from the sky, the cannon fire sings.

The squadron lines up, goin’ in slow,

  there’s no place to hide and no place to go.

Soon enough, the ships get the range,

  stayin’ the course, Waldron won’t change.

One by one, they all go down,

  Ensign Gay, the only one found.

Back at Midway, Earnest crash lands,

  grippin’ the stick with his bloody hands.

You might say this tale’s not so nice,

  Torpedo 8 paid a hell of a price.

But Admiral Nagumo had to rearm,

  then he got hit by a dive bomber swarm.

Four big flattops to Davy Jones’s Locker,

  must have been one hell of a shocker.

The battle was won, but the cost was high,

  when Torpedo 8 was shot from the sky.

LDT 4 Jun ‘22

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     The heroism and sacrifice of Torpedo 8 at Midway is legendary. Of 46 men of the squadron who flew that day, only 3 survived. Their lives were not wasted. Up to the point of their attack, the Japanese were only expecting land-based bombers, which were a minimal threat. Earlier that day, Army B-17’s and B-26’s had harassed the fleet, but scored no hits from high altitude. Once Torpedo 8 attacked, Nagumo knew that he faced a far more lethal threat from carrier-based planes. He put off further land attacks on Midway and rearmed his aircraft with anti-ship bombs and torpedoes. In the middle of this operation, he was struck by American dive bombers. Caught with their pants down three Japanese carriers were sunk within minutes. The fourth was bagged a little later. With their offensive power blunted, the Japanese Navy spent the rest of the war losing battles and retreating.

     During the Battle of Midway, six other crews from Torpedo 8 remained in Hawaii getting their new airplanes. Ensign Gay was rescued from the water the day after the battle. The survivors, Ensigns George Gay and Bert Earnest, along with Radioman 2nd Class Harry Ferrier, went on a highly successful War Bond Tour after the battle. The Avenger that carried Earnest and Ferrier safely back to Midway was so shot up it never flew again. It was crated up and returned to the Grumman factory to show the workers how tough their plane was.

     Torpedo 8 was reformed around the six aircrews that had been left at Hawaii. Eventually they wound up at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal as part of the “Cactus Air Force”. Bert Earnest and Harry Ferrier rejoined the squadron there. The squadron acquitted itself well against Japanese transport shipping and ground targets.  

     Though I didn’t know it at the time, I once crossed paths with Harry Ferrier, by then a naval officer. He was serving as a Maintenance Officer on the Helicopter Assault Ship, USS Princeton (LPH-5). I was temporarily assigned to a Marine Battalion Landing Team (BLT 1/9) aboard his ship in waters off Vietnam during the winter of 1964-65.

     CDR Ferrier died in 2016, the last surviving member of Torpedo 8 from that fateful day.

     Fair seas and following winds.

More on Torpedo 8:

Mrs. Sternhagen

She checks the pencil cup, it’s empty again,

 her Walmart list she has to begin.

Kids need pencils with rubber erasers,

 and someone who’ll tie little shoe laces.

Papers to grade, lessons to write,

 she will be up half of the night.

The wall is covered with little Van Goghs,

 there’s enough Kleenex to wipe every nose.

She taught a lesson on Jim Crow and hate,

 CRT was no part of the debate.

David can’t spell, but time he can tell,

  soon it will jell, and he will do well.

Little Sally sure is a whiz, aced her math quiz,

 meanwhile Jack needs to stop a-botherin’ Liz.

Tommy looks all hungry and gaunt,

  her apple ends some of his want.

Carmalita led the Pledge today,

 from Guatemala she’s come a long way.

Sofiya’s English wasn’t so good,

 now she’s startin’ to be understood,

Trayvon’s big brother was shot last week,

  a magnificent scholar with a decency streak.

She held Sonia tightly ‘til the Case Worker came,

 and told her sweetly she wasn’t to blame.

Sometimes she cries, but she’s tougher than nails,

  she’s up to the job and all its travails.

She lines them up to wait for the bell,

 as they go home, she wishes them well.

Her day has been long, but she’ll do it again,

  she’ll get a break, but she don’t know when.

Her pencil cup’s empty, but her heart is so full,

  she loves her kids and her day’s never dull.

LDT May 21, ‘22

Without teachers we would all be ignorant, bigoted and poor.

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