Gunther

Emerging from the fog just outside Chaumont-devant-Damvillers, my combat spread platoon halts, as Chambers (on point) signals movement ahead.

A staccato series of shots ring out from their position, flying high above our heads.

Even though the shots are high, muscle memory drops the platoon in one, seemingly, coordinated move.

No one wants to be the last to die in this war.

Turning my head toward the fire, I can make out the faint shapes of stahlhelm (German helmets) in a crater by the side of the road.

“Their warning us” Powell says, shifting his rifle under his body to his left side so he can clear his line of sight to the enemy.

I look back at Powell, my Sergeant now.

We used to be pals and equals.

His eyes lock with mine.

He probably knows what I’m thinking right now.

Reaching his right arm toward me, he gently says “It’s not worth it, not now.”

I turn my head from him, toward the enemy machine gun.

If I could get that before the end, I’d make things right.

Rising as I pull my bayoneted rifle up from the frost-covered mud, I feel Powell’s hand on my right thigh.

“STOP” He tries to grab my rifle as he yells.

Far enough away, so he can’t get a grip on me or my weapon, I slip out of Powell’s reach as I break into a run.

We’re so close.

I can redeem myself before it’s all over!

DAMN IT, GUNTHER, I SAID HALT! Sgt. Powell screams at me as I get within 25 meters of the enemy.

Other men of the 313th, Baltimore’s Own, yell for me to stop as well.

“It’s almost over!”, “Don’t do it Gunther!”, “They’re not worth it!”

I can capture them.

I can show how American I am.

Just aware of my approach, the gun crew waves at me.

Within 20 meters I can see through the fog the expression on their faces change.

They know I’m not stopping!

“Go. . ., Go Back!” they yell, attempting to wave me away.

One holds a watch up on his right arm, while showing two fingers with left hand.

“Almost 11, GO BACK!” another yells.

I can’t go back, there’s no going back!

Within 10 meters the German who seems to be in charge screams, “NO TIME. . ., STOP. . ., OVER!”

I’m not stopping till I make things right.

At 5 meters I scream “SURRENDER!” at the top of my lungs as I race forward, firing a round to emphasize my point.

The man behind the machine gun shifts its barrel to aim directly at me.

They won’t.

Within 2 meters I can see the soldier behind the gun looking at the one who screamed for me to stop.

He then looks down, before pulling the chain which is attached to the trigger of the gun.

I’m American!

Private Henry Gunther was the last American to be killed in World War I when he was shot through the head at 10:59 am on November 11, 1918. Gunther, who until recently had been a Sergeant, was demoted when a letter he wrote advising a friend to avoid the war because of the horrible conditions at the front was caught by Army censors and delivered to his commanding officer. A Baltimore boy of German parents, Gunther may have felt compelled to prove how American he was, rather than ending the war in disgrace. The next day Private Gunther was recognized by General Pershing, the American Expeditionary Force commander, as the last American to die in the war. He was restored as a Sergeant, awarded the Divisional Citation for Gallantry in Action and the Distinguished Service Cross, and is honored to this day with a plaque in France recognizing him as the last allied soldier to die in the war. Before the war Henry Gunther was a bookkeeper at the National Bank of Baltimore and had a girlfriend, Olga Gruebl, who he intended to marry. He is buried at Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery in Baltimore.

Investigations about the last day of the war reveal possibly 11,000 allied soldiers were killed or wounded between the time the armistice was signed at 5 am and the cessation of hostilities at 11 am. The reason for this was French commander-in-chief Marshal Foch refused to allow a cease-fire. The news of the armistice was spread instantly to units across the front on both sides, but the officers in charge of Allied units mostly maintained the attack, despite the fact all German units would surrender their positions at 11 am. To put this number of deaths in context, it was very high for a single day in World War I, even though it only captures about five hours of active combat, and it is greater than the number of soldiers who lost their lives on D-Day, June 6, 1944 when the allies stormed the beaches of Normandy to begin the liberation of Western Europe from the NAZIs. Gunther may have been striving for redemption that day. What of the other 10,999, of which more than 3,000 were American?

Notice

Crashing into the chair, the disheveled President of The Russian Federation turns toward the speaker-phone centered on the small table before his wobbly body.

“Yes, Mr. President, one missile.” Defense Minister Grachev’s voice calls out from the phone.

“Why would they only launch one missile?” a slowly speaking, half-asleep or drunk President Yeltsin asks out-loud.

Is he expecting an answer?

I don’t know enough to answer that, yet.

I hope General Grachev can.

“It may be a first strike, Mr. President.” Grachev’s voice returns to the room.

Looking over President Yeltsin’s rounded shoulder, I can see the black nuclear-command suitcase, it’s lethal to millions or more contents open on the desk.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to Katerina or the kids this morning.

“What do you recommend, General?” The President asks the Defense Minister.

A commanding silence fills the room.

Could we go to nuclear war now?

Stalin didn’t attack when we developed the bomb.

We made it through the 60’s with Cuba and Turkey without ending the world.

We survived the 80’s with Reagan’s insanity before the ABM, Nuclear Test Ban and START treaties brought him around.

Now that we’re at our weakest, could NATO be attacking us with one missile?

. . .

Why would anyone attack with one missile?

“We need to prepare a second strike right away, Mr. President” General Grachev replies.

A second strike?

If we launch a second strike it will be Armageddon. For one missile?

“We have two minutes, Mr. President” Grachev offers, as if issuing an order.

“Could it be a test, Sir?” I almost shout, not even realizing I was thinking such a thing.

President Yeltsin turns around slowly, holding the desk for support.

Behind me I can feel the others backing away.

I didn’t step forward, but I’m standing alone now.

A test, what kind of test could it be?

A nuclear missile test?

An anti-satellite test?

A test of our defenses?

I’m going to have to give him some kind of explanation.

His bloodshot eyes now staring directly at me, President Yeltsin is awaiting my explanation.

Grachev, on-the-speaker phone, jumps in before I can say anything.

“It could be a test, Mr. President.”

“Yes”, I say, “It could be a test of a rocket, a satellite launch, a weather probe. It could be any of those things, Mr. President.”

“IS THIS A TEST?” he demands.

“We don’t know, Sir.” I retort without thinking.

I don’t know.

“It does not match any of our launch scenarios” Grachev chimes in from the phone “But, that does not mean it’s not an attack we have not yet considered.”

May it not be an attack.

May it be a test.

How could we know if it’s a test or an attack?

Banishov, from the Defense Ministry chimes in “If it were a test, they would have told us beforehand. Our Early Warning Radar Operators had no forewarning of a test.”

President Yeltsin turns to him, but ask the room in general “No one told us they were going to test?”

“One minute-thirty seconds, Mr. President” Grachev announces.

“Tell me, anyone, were we told someone would launch a rocket?” Yeltsin demands.

Would anyone here announce they received an advisory, now?

In the face of nuclear annihilation, would anyone be brave enough to say they received notice, but didn’t tell anyone else?

Would I admit my mistake?

Some shuffling is taking place between Foreign Minister Kozyrev and some of his deputies. One of them runs out of the room.

President Yeltsin turns torward Kozyrev, “Do you have something you wish to share?”

Please have something.

Please tell us you received notice of a test.

“I’ve asked my deputies to look into all of the notices we’ve received” Kozyrev responds.

“One minute, Mr. President” Grachev chimes in. “We need to prepare the Second Strike option, NOW, Mr. President.”

President Yeltsin, his tired eyes darting back to the phone faster than his shaky head can turn, almost topples in his chair.

“Yes, yes, be ready with a strike, but do not issue any orders yet. The last thing we need right now is for more confusion.”

“No one answered my question, did we receive notice of a test?” President Yeltsin demands.

“We’re looking into it” Kozyrev replies.

“Anyone else?” President Yeltsin turns to Victor Chernomyrdin, the Head of the Government, who is conferring with Kozyrev and his deputies.

They are debating something, which I cannot hear.

Chernomyrdin then turns to the President, “There may be something, we are checking.”

Let there be something, an overlooked notice, a news report, something.

A young man, I’m not sure from what ministry, rushes in while announcing “Norwegian Scientists gave notice of a rocket launch to study the atmosphere. This could be the . . .

“Thirty Seconds, Mr. President” Grachev jumps in.

. . . missile.” The young man finishes.

A research rocket!

Please let it be a research rocket!

“This could be a ploy, Mr. President” Grachev’s voice comes across the speakerphone.

“It could also be true, Mr. President.” Kozyrev counters.

“What do you think Victor?” the President asks Chernomyrdin.

“A one-missle strike makes no sense, and there is evidence this is a science rocket. There is no evidence it is an attack, Mr. President.” Chernomyrdin says.

“Stand-Down Pavel, No Second Strike.” President Yeltsin speaks clearly into the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President” Grachev’s heavy voice slowly replies, a little forlorn.

WE’RE NOT GOING TO END THE WORLD!

MAY THE AMERICANS NOT BE ATTACKING!

Just then, the deputy to Kozyrev returns flustered, saying something to his boss.

Chernomyrdin turns to Kozyrev “What is it Andrei?”

“We did received notice of a rocket launch by Norwegian and American scientists today.”

IT’S NOT AN ATTACK!

The President chose correctly!

President Yeltsin turns to Chernomyrdin, who gives him a nod, before looking back at the phone on which Grachev’s line is currently silent.

“Pavel, it looks legitimate.” The President announces.

“Then why wasn’t the Defense Ministry notified?” Grachev demands.

Yeltsin looks at Chernomyrdin, who turns to Kozyrev, who then directs his visage at one of his deputy’s.

Even when it comes to the possible end of the world, shit always rolls down hill.

On January 25, 1994 the world came the closest it has ever been to nuclear annihilation. The Cold War was over. There was hope and promise across much of the world about the triumph of Western Liberalism and democracy. Yet, when Norwegian and American scientists launched a Black Brant XII sounding rocket from the Arctic Circle island of Andoya to study the aurora Borealis, it almost caused the end of humanity and most life on our planet. The scientists had issued warnings to 30 countries around the Arctic Circle, including Russia. Unfortunately, with all of the confusion of the day, the Russian early warning radar operators were not notified. They alerted Moscow of an incoming first-strike, forcing someone to wake and offer President Yeltsin his black nuclear-command suitcase. Yeltsin hurriedly phoned his Defense Minister and huddled with others to decide what action to take. This was the first time either a Soviet or Russian leader had used the nuclear briefcase in response to an actual alert. Yeltsin decided it could not be a first strike and did not retaliate.

This decision turned out to be the correct one, although Yeltsin did not know that at the time. It wasn’t revealed until later that the Russians had been notified, but the information had not been shared with the Defense Ministry.

Nuclear weapons have been around since 1945, with many close calls of their use being narrowly avoided at the last minute. Somehow, humanity has, so far, not destroyed itself with these potentially all-life-ending weapons. We’ve become comfortable with the (As Dan Carlin offers in metaphor: Growing up with a Gun to our heads) of these weapons ready to be used at any time because it’s an abstract idea very few humans in history have witnessed. Nuclear weapons are very real, their stockpiles are increasing, and threats of their use have become far more commonplace in the past five years.

I’ve walked the nuclear test-sites in the Nevada desert and can vouch for the destructive power of small versions of these weapons.

We are simply measuring time until their next use, as they will be used again. What misunderstanding, mistake, or mis-deed will cause that use. The bigger question is: What will become of life on the planet once we’ve broken that taboo?

Carrier Commando

Putrid darkness surrounds me.

Where is the exit?

How long until we’re out?

Rather than dwelling on these questions, I move on.

Nao, pushing forth from behind me, does not seem to be phased by the stench of human excrement combined with restaurant waste and who knows what else in the blackness of this Saigon Sewer.

How is he not sick too?

My stomach wretches as I push forward.

This ends soon.

Keep pushing through.

The weight of more than 25kg of explosives on my back helps keep my stomach in check.

Crawling my way through the blackened liquid in the dark on this humid May night, I can make out a change in the shade of darkness ahead.

Pausing for a moment to let my eyes adjust, I feel Nao push my foot from behind.

Maybe that’s it!

He pushes again.

I start toward to deep gray circle ahead.

Yes, an end to the sewer!

We will be able to breath again!

Turning my head around, I whisper “I see the exit” just loud enough for Nao to hear me.

He taps my foot twice as I turn again to keep going forward.

Slipping down the end of the sewer pipe, into Saigon Harbor, my eyes need time to adjust.

Nao slips down behind me, the heavy pack on his back brushing me as he quietly half-submerges his body in the harbor waters.

Just meters ahead I can see our target, the aircraft carrier the Americans audaciously docked here to deliver aircraft to the puppet regime.

This harbor air smells and tastes so good!

Without acknowledging the change in air intake, Nao puts on his snorkel just before diving under the water toward the carrier.

Pulling my snorkel out of my pack, I put it on just in time to follow him by just a meter.

This water feels so good as compared to whatever was in that sewer.

Oily, filled with debris and algae, this water surrounds me with a fresh clean feeling of liberation.

Near the aft of the ship, Nao dives deeper.

I take a deep breadth before following him down.

No sense being seen this close to getting the job done.

He swims another fifteen meters alongside the curving hull of the ship, staying below the water line.

I follow him, making sure not to get too close while not losing him in the wet dark shadow of this massive metal monster.

Nao stops swimming, rising to surface under the bilge outlet flow.

I rise next to him, pointing to the hole out of which the bilge is being pumped.

We should place a bomb there.

He nods his head in silence, assenting to my idea.

Aligning my body with the curve of the hull, I put out my arms so Nao can mount my shoulders.

He deftly ascends the side of the ship, using me as a base from which to leverage his body against its hull, rising arm over arm until he’s in-line with the bilge outlet.

Once next to it, he places three American made plastic explosive charges securely against the metal skin of the ship in a triangle formation.

That should make a pretty big hole.

Connecting wires to each explosive, he pulls the lines down as he descends his body toward the water.

When Nao is back in the water, I take the other three explosives out of my pack.

He turns to look at me, at the explosives, then at the hull of the ship.

When he turns back I see a smile on his face.

Handing him the explosives, he turns again toward the ship.

He places them in a second triangle, just above the water-line, directly below the first set.

While he’s placing them, I get the wires and timer out of my pack.

He turns toward me again, pulling the lines from my hands without a word.

I smile.

This will make a huge hole! We’re going to sink this beast!

Nao connects the wires from both triangles of explosives to the timer, before diving under the water.

What’s he doing down there?

He comes back up, holding a handful of slimy mud from the bottom of the harbor.

Packing it with his hands, he then places it on the back of the timer, before attaching the timer to the hull of the ship.

Ingenious!

An empty pack on my back, a settled stomach, and a mission set-up, I turn to go back under the water and return to the putrid stench of the sewer.

Nao puts his hand on my shoulder, pushing to turn me back around again.

What did I miss?

As I turn toward him, I see him pointing to the timer, it’s not set.

Oh!

I look him in the eyes, smile, and move toward the timer.

Of course, what would the point of any of this be if we did not set the timer?

Placing both hands on the device, I turn the electrostatic nob halfway, which should give us ten minutes to get back into the sewer, and far enough way to escape the blast and any search party sent to find us.

Nao’s hand pulls on my shoulder again.

I turn to see him already heading back under the water toward the sewer.

I’m not staying here!

Diving silently into the water, I follow Nao to the sewer entrance.

May this drive the Americans to make a different choice than the French.

Get out!

On the night of May 2, 1964 two members of the National Liberation Front (NLF, aslo known as Viet Cong by Americans stationed in Vietnam) crawled out of a sewer in Saigon harbor near the United States Naval Ship (USNS) Card, an escort carrier from World War II which had been used for three years to transport aircraft and trained crews to South Vietnam. The NLF fighters planted American made explosives on the USNS Card before slipping back into the sewer from which they had entered the harbor. A few minutes later the explosives ripped a giant hole in the hull of the carrier, sending it to the bottom of Saigon harbor. This attack disabled the ship for less than 20 days, at which point it was repaired enough to be sent to facilities in the Philippines and Japan where it was rebuilt. The attack was not reported widely in the United States, but was a propaganda coup for the NLF, showing they could strike at a massive piece of American military equipment. This kind of attack was replicated in 2000 when the U.S.S. Cole was attacked in Aden harbor with explosives by Al Qaeda. At least in that attack, the explosives themselves were not of American origin. In war, bribery and corruption of your own, or allied personnel, may leave you vulnerable to your own weapons. Especially, when you’re not supposed to be there in the first place.