These matters having to do with the American military come to mind largely as a result of our ill conceived, pre-emptive invasion of Iraq. The holding of prisoners at Guantanamo for more than two years is also a significant consideration.
The American Army has now held prisoners from Afghanistan and from Iraq for a substantial period of time. Lawyers have been urging the American courts to finally permit trials. Grudgingly, the court system agrees that prisoners at Guantanamo should have a day in court, no matter how flawed it may be.
And now in the last year, a scandal has arisen over the American operated prison at Abu Ghraib. Bush’s legal counsel in the White House, Alberto Gonzales, says that the Geneva Convention rules are “archaic” and may be ignored. Bush himself says that the gross mistreatment of Iraqi detainees is the work of a few soldiers (“Bad apples”) at the end of the chain of command and may be ignored. So far, a few cases of these low level soldiers have been brought to trial and military legal proceedings now seems to be under way. One of the soldiers to be court-martialed is Lynndie England, a 21 year old female PFC who is now in the eighth month of her pregnancy.
All of this talk about courts martial has caused me to recall an incident from late 1944 or the beginning of 1945. In recounting my involvement in a court martial proceeding, my reaction is heavily influenced by the title that has been given this essay. But we will hold those reactions until later in this essay. In the meantime, permit me to tell the reader about my role in a U.S. court martial proceeding.
The developments described here took place about 60 years ago. The events took place at a large air base a few miles outside the city of Accra. In those days, England held large pieces of territory in Africa as possessions. One of their possessions, only five degrees above the equator, was called The Gold Coast. Accra was the capital of the Gold Coast. In March, 1957, a patriot named Kwame Nkrumah succeeded in ending British rule. The new country is called Ghana and its capital is still in Accra. It has a population of nearly one million.
When the U.S. entered World War II, Great Britain permitted us to share the air base at Accra. As time went on, the base became predominately a U.S. installation. My fairly educated guess is that the U.S. had perhaps 4,000 men assigned to that Accra Air Base.
My assignment largely had to do with being an Aerial Engineer on planes flying through Africa and sometimes into Yemen and India and what is now called Pakistan. At one point, Captain Bell, who commanded flight line operations, asked me to take over the midnight shift as the line chief. The nights at Accra were generally pleasant year round, which avoided the higher temperatures of work on the day shift. The shift started at 11PM and ended between 7:30AM and 8AM. As the line chief, my responsibility included the work of as many as three other GI’s and perhaps five or six native workers. We were responsible for finishing work on airplanes, which the evening shift did not have time to do, and most importantly, certifying the air worthiness of planes set to depart that day. Finally, we were to deliver the aircraft to the departure terminal starting at around 4:30AM or 5AM.
Sleeping in the daytime was not an easy thing to do. There was Mobo, the male housekeeper, who liked to sweep and make beds up before noon. When lunch time came, the other GI’s would come back to our barracks. There was no way anyone could sleep when the other men were killing a few moments in the barracks before heading back to the flight line. And finally, Barracks G17 was located within a few yards of the mess hall. The native workers liked to sing as they prepared the next meal. My makeup is such that choral singing must be given a large degree of attention – which was done. The long and the short of it was that it was difficult to sleep while being assigned to the midnight line chief’s job.
All of my travails about sleeping are recited here for a reason. About every six or eight weeks, a movie film would arrive and it would be shown to GI’s sitting on wooden benches, with no backs, outside in a dusty field some distance from our barracks. In the G17 barracks, it seems to me that the only soldier to pass up the movie was this young GI. Movies have never been a priority for me. If there was a choice, my vote would go to watching a dull cricket match or to watching a crossword puzzle being worked over almost any movie. But that is my lonely opinion. This movie must have been a blockbuster as every other GI in my end of G17 went to the movie. Given my sleeping circumstances, it seemed to me that this was an excellent time to get some sleep before reporting to work at 11PM.
In all my years in the Army, there was only one GI who slept in pajamas. The rest of us slept in our underwear. He turned out to be a spy for higher authorities, reporting on our conduct, while we attended Embry-Riddle School of Aeronautics in Coral Gables, Florida. When his spying efforts were disclosed, his life became unbearable because of the disdain of other GI’s who were his classmates. So it is safe to say that the rest of us slept in our underwear. We had no PJ’s.
For its spying work, the Army authorities chose a former bus driver from Sheboygan, Wisconsin. It was a terrible choice. From that time on, we all suspected anyone who used pajamas as potential spies, but we never saw such a person.
Somewhere around 8PM or 8:30PM, when my efforts to sleep were being rewarded, there was one hell of a clatter accompanied by curses and the sound of someone being struck with something other than an open hand. That was the end of my sleeping for this evening. It was an abrupt awakening.
At about the same time my feet were hitting the floor alongside my bunk, there was the sound of the screen door on our porch being opened so violently that it seemed to come off its hinges. After taking a few steps, the cause of the commotion came into view. It was a GI who seemed to be drunk and bloody. He was running from a native policemen. When he gasped that he was looking for a hiding place, it was make clear to the drunk GI that this barracks was not going to be the place for him to hide.
All of this happened in a matter of seconds, it must be supposed. When he heard the policeman enter our barracks, he ran to the space between Werner Freidli’s and Steve Thorin’s bunks and hurled himself at the screened window which gave way. He then continued his flight from the policeman.
The barracks we lived in had no glass windows. Every few feet, there was an opening perhaps three feet wide and six feet high covered by screening. In very inclement weather, there were outdoor wooden shutters that could be pulled shut. But the drunken GI had no time for discussion of these arrangements. He threw himself violently at the screen and it permitted his escape. Werner Freidli and Steve Thorin had no screen that night when they returned from the movie.
The G17 barracks was the last building on the road to the beach. The beach was a seldom used place because it required protection against mosquito bites that carry malaria. The beach was probably a mile from our barracks and offered no amenities. There were no life guards. It was simply a place where the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Guinea met the shores of the Gold Coast. In my time at Accra, there was never any reason for me to visit the beach. The same was true for nearly all of my barracks mates.
With the drunken and bloody GI gone, my next concern was for the native policeman whose head was covered by cuts and blood. His uniform was torn and he was at the edge of exhaustion. He was led a few feet towards my bunk where he was asked to please sit on my foot locker. He still carried his baton which he had used on the GI.
It was absolutely clear that he needed immediate medical attention. There were no telephones in any of the barracks. My entire attire consisted of the newly issued olive green boxer shorts. And quickly as could be done, my work clothes were put on. They were one piece garments entered first by the legs with the chest covering following. Old timers would have called them “union suits,” but they were called “coveralls.”
Residents of the Gold Coast – Ghana, speak as many as eight different languages. There is Ga, Twi, Fante, Dagbani, Ewe, Housa, Akan and English. The best that could be ascertained at this moment was that the policeman was a Ga speaker. In English and broken Ga, it was explained that it would be necessary for me to borrow a Jeep to take him to the hospital. To make certain that he stayed on my foot locker while a Jeep was being sought, he was asked to give me his baton. A policeman without a baton amounts to next to nothing. One way or another, he seemed to trust me, and gave me his baton.
In this case, the office housing the administrative functions of my squadron were located only about 500 yards away. Why it is called a “day” room escapes me now as it did then. In any case, there were a couple of Jeeps assigned to the squadron with the keys being inside the day room. Fortunately, there was a soldier on duty who had not gone to the movie. He gave me the Jeep keys and so our make-shift ambulance with the canvas top was ready to go back to the barracks.
As soon as he saw me enter the barracks, the policeman asked for his baton which was given to him without delay. Getting the policeman into the Jeep was not as difficult as it could have been as he was able to walk after a fashion. However, in escorting him to the Jeep, his blood stained several places on my coveralls. When we arrived at the hospital, there was an officious nurse who said that the hospital was for U.S. soldiers only. That angered me and my voice and actions showed it. Soon a doctor showed up to see what the commotion was about. He agreed to treat the policeman and sent the officious nurse to find the necessary tools and bandages so that our native constable could be sewn up. The policeman hugged me – holding on to his baton. And so it was now time for me to head for the flight line.
Apparently the hospital notified the American military police or the Provost Marshal’s office. The next morning when it was my hope that finally there would be sleep in the offing, a Captain walked into the barracks as my coveralls were about to hit the floor. He came from the legal arm of the Army called the Judge Advocate General Corps. Sleep suddenly became a distant possibility as he asked me to come to his office. Curiously, he asked me to wear the same clothes as when the policeman had been taken to the hospital. Looking at the blood on my coveralls, he seemed to flirt with the idea that the policeman’s attacker had been me. Regardless of the difference in rank, that suspicion angered me and he knew it. He backed off and asked me to tell him what could be said for the GI who broke the screens. Among other things, the JAG (Judge Advocate General) Captain was told that the man was clearly drunk and boisterous and his clothing was covered by blood.
By the end of the interview, the JAG Captain and the flight line Sergeant had become fairly friendly. He seemed now to want to identify the assailant and he seemed quite interested in his bloody clothes. He said he was going to order the laundry to inspect every piece of clothes turned in for washing looking for evidence of blood. He made it clear that my coveralls would be excluded, after my protests.
Ordering the laundry to inspect every piece of clothing for signs of blood seemed to me to be a shot in the dark. Most men would burn that clothing or give it to one of the natives.
This may be hard to believe, but the assailant sent all of his clothing to be washed at the base laundry. So much for my shot in the dark. He was on the hook, as it were. The Army maintains a clothing record for each GI. If a man says he needs new shirts, for example, the clerk will say, “What did you do with the last one?” If it turns out that clothing is being sold or used in a way for which it was unintended, there can be repercussions. But in any case, the assailant sent his clothes to the base laundry and was soon confronted with the thought that he had committed a crime.
Things are now going to get vague, not only because of the passage of 60 years, but the legal proceedings in the Army are not publicized. From all the information coming my way, the assailant became aware that the policeman would testify against him. He knew about me. The unknown had to do with whether any of his beer drinking pals on the Accra beach would also join with the prosecution. It must be assumed that he wanted to cut his losses so he pleaded guilty. So there was a court martial set to determine his sentence.
On the appointed day, the policeman and the witness who was awakened from his sleep were in rooms near the base stockade. Care was taken so that the policeman and this witness did not see each other. The judge was a Major who listened to my testimony. There was no such thing as a jury. The Major decided everything. My testimony was given in response to the questions asked by the Captain who had come to my barracks and who wanted to know why there was blood on my coveralls. There may have been a note taker, but my memory is not clear on that point. And finally, there was the defendant. There was no attorney, in my memory, for the defendant. He had pled guilty and the only question was his sentence.
After my testimony which was given after working the midnight flight line shift, the Captain escorted me outside and thanked me for coming forward. It seemed to me to be a small thing to do to bring some sort of justice to the policeman.
At this point, it is my unhappy duty to tell you that no one ever informed me of the outcome of the case involving the policeman. The Army simply shut up and as an enlisted man, there was absolutely no avenue for me to pursue the outcome. Any attempt by me to find out about the outcome, could well be interpreted as unwarranted interference. So for 60 years now, no one seems to know what the sentence was – if there was a sentence. That, my friends, is the way the United States Army does things.
On the other hand, there are a few facts we know. In the first place, there was a regular meeting of beer drinking GI’s who met on the beach after dark. This was contrary to all regulations and common sense.
Secondly, the beer in the Gold Coast – Ghana – comes in large sturdy bottles. At the time of this incident, beer was served in heavy duty bottles at least as big as a wine bottle that you may have on your rack. These bottles were substantially bigger than the bottles we have in this country that bring us Budweiser or Coors. The bottles were formidable weapons.
On the day we are speaking about, when the policeman tried to break up the group, at least one took a beer bottle and swung it at the policeman’s head. The policeman fought back with his baton, but he was badly outnumbered.
From what we could learn, the now court-martialed GI fought with the policeman for about a mile from the beach to the G17 barracks. A beer bottle, which had probably been in the possession of the court-martialed GI, was found outside the barracks.
So we do not know how the court martial turned out, but it was pleasing to me to know that the policeman came by my barracks to thank me. Finding me at work, he spoke to Mobo, our Ga speaking man in charge of making the barracks sparkle. Old Mobo was as pleased as this witness was with what the policeman had to say.
While there is much we do not know, there are two things that everyone in the world ought to know. In 1944 or thereabouts, the Army began issuing sleeveless undershirts and boxer shorts in olive drab colors. The apparent reason was that if in a combat zone, the GI was to do a laundry, he might put his underclothes on a line or spread out on bushes to dry. The German’s would then have a target for their bombers and for their artillery. The fact of the matter is that in combat zones, laundry is a seldom performed operation.
One last fact having to do with the Jeep which was borrowed to take the policeman to the hospital. The Army called them “General purpose vehicles.” So the first letters from words were borrowed and they were called “Jeeps.” In addition, there was a long running comic strip called “Bring Up Father.” It had a ghost like creature called a “Jeep.” So the name Jeep was given to one of the dependable work horses of the Army. Jeeps were great machines.
Sometime after the Army discharged me, a book was published called, “Military Music is to Music as Military Justice is to Justice.” For the past 50 years of more, that book has stuck in my mind because it represents the truth about at least, the U. S. Army.
The music played by Army bands could be lived with, but justice is another matter. Simply put, the Army proceeds from the viewpoint that every defendant is guilty. There is no such foolishness as innocent until proved guilty. In the case cited in this essay, the defendant had no counsel. His only source of help was the Judge Advocate General Corps which was responsible for prosecuting the case. At best, there may have been a long hand note taker, also under the supervision of the court. There was no jury. In short, the record of the proceeding was whatever the Army said it to be.
This case discussed here was disposed of before noon. Of course, the man pleaded guilty, but there was no one apparent to me who could advise him of his rights – if any.
Readers of these essays have probably long since concluded that the Army arouses my deep seated skepticism. That feeling is magnified when politicians use the Army to further their own ends. Today in Iraq, attempts are being made to tell us that by and large, Iraq is a peaceful place. No one can believe such falsehoods. My thoughts about cynicism, skepticism and complete disbelief are, in my opinion, well founded.
Now as to precision bombing. There is some suspicion that some of us know a little bit about precision bombing. When my enlistment started, several units of U.S. Army Air Corps – later the Air Force – claimed that they could drop bombs into a rain barrel. People who believed the rain barrel braggadocio would now be in line to tell you that Iraq is not only peaceful but as pretty as it was in the days of Babylon.
When the military says that a house in Fallujah is holding a meeting of insurgents, and that they can bomb it into extinction without harming the rest of the neighborhood – DON’T BELIEVE IT. When such a “precision” bombing occurs, why is it the Iraqis find wounded and killed children coming from that house rather than insurgents with sunglasses and headscarves?
And so to every reader of these writings, it must be said that when you hear of military music or military justice or precision bombing, apply a substantial bit of skepticism and cynicism as well as a full measure of disbelief.
And more than anything else, don’t join the Army, unless you feel it terribly important to see the tranquility and peacefulness of Baghdad.
E. E. CARR
September 29, 2004
~~~
So here’s what has me nervous. We’re just one day into the Trump administration and already the press secretary is explicitly lying in official press conferences. The lie this time was about the size of Trump’s inauguration crowd, which was significantly smaller than Obama’s in 09, among other things. However, Sean Spicer, the new press secretary, claimed that “[Trump’s] was the largest audience ever to witness an inauguration, period, both in person and around the globe.” This is demonstrably not the case.
When questioned about this practice the next day, Kellyanne Conway, called these lies “alternative facts.”
Here’s some context for future readers: http://www.cnn.com/2017/01/22/politics/kellyanne-conway-alternative-facts/
More: http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2017/01/22/kellyanne_conway_trump_spokesman_didn_t_lie_he_gave_alternative_facts.html
More: http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2017/01/kellyanne-conway-alternative-facts
I guarantee that Pop would have written an essay about “alternative facts.” He would have found it fascinating both from a “the new press secretary is telling bold-face lies, right out the gate” perspective, but also a linguistic one. Perhaps he would have discussed what an “alternative diet” could look like, which might consist of eating 30 bacon cheeseburgers a day. Maybe “alternative exercise” will take off, where participants sit on their couches and think about running. After that, adherents could go to “alternative work,” which of course would actually be the local McDonalds so that they could keep up with said alternative diet.
The real issue here is that when it comes to crowd size, the public could objectively verify the truth of the claims. The fact that the Trump administration is willing to lie in the face of widespread, publicly-available evidence really sets the tone for the next four years. In effect they’ve done us a favor by telling us on day one, in plain terms: “We will lie to you about any issue that we please, no matter how trivial, in order to fit our narrative.”
But what about the issues which Pop was discussing above? In the years ahead there will be an incredible volume of governmental claims that the public cannot verify themselves. They NEED the government to tell them the truth about military or overseas issues where the public has no way to know what really transpired. But if we know that Trump’s team will lie to our faces about crowd size, what hope do we have of getting an accurate idea of anything else?
And all the while, the effort goes on to defame and discredit the only other channel that the public has to the truth, which is the media. The media is constantly under attack by the administration, and that relationship continues to become increasingly adversarial. The catch, though, is that in many ways, the media can be shut out from governmental affairs just like the public can be. At that point, the only source of information will be the administration itself, which clearly is more concerned with “alternative facts” than the genuine articles.