Lawrence of Arabia

Fraternizing with the Enemy

Fritz Kreisler, WWI, Austrian Army, 1915, front row, to left of man with beard

I don’t know why exactly, but the last two books I’ve read have been about soldiers on the front lines. I guess it makes sense in a way because 2020 marks the 75th anniversary of the  end of WWII. There was an article in National Geographic commemorating WWII.

The books I read didn’t have anything to do with WWII though. One was a memoir by George Orwell who volunteered and fought in the Spanish revolution. With the modern rise of nationalism, I thought the book might give me some insight into the dangers of nationalism progressing to fascism. Actually Orwell’s memoir was more about poverty and suffering, and the complicated politics in Spain during the 1930’s.

The other book I read was by Fritz Kreisler, the famous violinist. Getting ready to play one of his compositions, “Liebesleid,” I read that he had fought in WWI in the Austrian Army, and that he had also written a memoir about his experiences, “Four Weeks on the Front Lines,” so I ordered the book and read it on my Kindle while waiting for my car to be serviced this morning. It’s a nice little book, and quite an accomplishment. He apparently wrote it between concerts.

Anyway, one of the stories he told was about interacting with the Russian troops while both sides were dug in about 200 meters away from each other. He said that with binoculars they could see the Russians so well that after a couple of weeks, they felt like they knew each other. One day one of the Russians, a big burly fellow, began to wave his arms and shout. Then, after a while, he stood up, in plain view, and when no one shot at him, he stepped out of his trench. Then one of the Austrian troops from Kreisler's  side of the line stepped out in the open. No one shot at him either. Slowly, the two men walked toward each other until, finally, they were face to face. Neither was armed. Kreisler said he was thinking, "what are they going to do, have a fist fight?" Then the Russian reached into his pocket, pulled out a pouch of tobacco and handed it to the Austrian, who gave him a cigar in return. After exchanging gifts, the two men turned around and returned to their positions. 

And this wasn't the only remarkable incident. About a week later, a Russian colonel stepped out from behind the trench line waving a white flag. The Austrians let him approach and then blindfolded him to take back to the Austrian commander. Kreisler was called back to interpret because he spoke French and the Russian could speak a little French. Anyway, the colonel had come to ask for food. He said that his men had had no food for weeks and were dying of hunger. So the Austrians, who hadn't much food either, passed around a big sack, each man putting in what he could, out  of compassion for the Russians, who they realized, were in almost the same situation as they were. 

Actually, Orwell expressed a similar sentiment. He said that after talking with prisoners fighting for the fascists, he realized that they were just poor peasants like those fighting for the revolution. 

These stories took me back to Vietnam, where I spent a year of my life. I was stationed in the rear, so I can't relate to foxholes, gunfire and explosions, but I was acutely aware of the fighting going on. What struck me about the attitude those where I was, mainly officers, 

was their casual attitude. It was one of my jobs to attend the general's weekly briefing where I reported the cases of malaria, plague, hepatitis, food poisoning, and what we were doing about it, and so I also heard the reports about how the war was going, how many casualties there were on our side and how many on theirs. The atmosphere seemed to me like that of fans at a football game. They were keeping score! Not only that, there was an attitude of contempt for the Vietnamese. The North Vietnamese were like animals, with no concern for human life, and the South Vietnamese were cowards, with no loyalty to their government. 

At the same time, back at my office, one of my jobs was to interview the guys being sent home for some reason, a serious illness, or a family crisis. It had to be bad. The army was pretty strict about who they took in, but once you were there, it was really hard to get out. I had a young man with leukemia that I thought I'd never get home. Anyway, as I talked with the guys "on the line," so to speak, they showed a lot more respect for the Vietnamese than those in the rear. They realized that the Vietnamese were fighting with meager supplies, living in primitive conditions, and unlike our men, who could go home after a year's service, they couldn't go home unless they were badly injured or killed. 

So, like the soldiers Orwell and Kreisler wrote about, those actually doing the fighting respected and sympathized with their enemies, while the politicians, and to some extent, the officers in the rear, dehumanized the enemy and trivialized the suffering and death that was happening to both sides. 

Liebesleid

Grandmother and the Blue Jays

Thinking about birds reminded me of my grandmother, Victoria May Paul, my mother’s mother. She loved animals, especially birds. She lived in a big 2 story house on a lot that extended for ½ a  block, and there were 13 trees in her yard, big trees. I’ll put up a picture of her house as it looked when I was a kid to illustrate. The big pecan tree in the front yard was so big you could barely see the house. Anyway, it was a paradise for birds.

Grandmother would sit out on the porch swing, greet the people walking by on the sidewalk, and watch the birds. I remember her telling me that the blue jays would sit up in the tree and watch the squirrels crack the pecan shells. Then they would fly down and peck out the “goodie.”

Her pecan trees were “native,” which grow wild all through the Washita Valley, not the larger “soft shell” pecans they sell in the grocery store. I think the “native” pecans taste better, but you really have to work to get out the meat, or “goodie,” as we called the soft seed inside the shell. You can quickly ruin all your fingernails shelling pecans if you don’t know how to use a picking tool. I remember sitting around the dining room table with my grandmother, my mother Wenonah, and my aunts Oteka and Kaliteyo, talking, laughing, and shelling pecans.

Every fall, when the pecans fell, Grandmother would send us out to pick pecans up off the ground. Then she would bake a pecan pie. If you want a good pecan pie now, the best are still made in Pauls Valley at Fields. My mother said that when she was a girl she used to sell pecans at the “produce house” for a nickle to buy a ticket to the movies.

Back to the birds. In the 50’s there was a column in the Oklahoma City newspaper about birds, and one year the lady who wrote the column had a contest for people to write a story about their favorite bird. At age 81, Grandmother won 3^rd place with this paragraph about the blue jay.

"The blue jay is a wonderful watch dog. He sees every cat and sends out his warning to other birds. They all depend on him for their safety. I always know when a cat enters my yard and which side of the house he passes, because the jay sends out his warning, and keeps doing so as he follows the cat through the yard."

Daily Oklahoman, 11/16/58