Lomax on Bridge Over the River Kwai and McArthur on Japanese Swords

A few years ago, I read Eric Lomax’s memoir, Railway Man. Mr. Lomax had been an officer in the Royal Army during WWII who had the extraordinary bad luck to be stationed in Singapore in February of 1942. Because of that ill-fated deployment, he spent three and a half years as a Japanese POW. I found his book to be extremely harrowing to read. Lomax’ title is a reference to the death highway the Japanese army forced POW’s to build from Thailand to Burma. About a third of all POW’s in Japanese hands died. The average man lost 61 pounds of body weight. The payoff to all this is in the ironic postscript to Lomax’ narrative: in the memoir, Lomax describes his feelings, years after the war, of watching the film Bridge over the River Kwai. I know that many people in the Armed Forces dislike some of the films that Hollywood makes, but for Lomax, it was incredibly galling to see William Holden et al. playing POW’s: actors who looked like they hadn’t missed a meal in years portraying prisoners who were living on the brink of starvation. It’s only today, with CGI, that you could have anything remotely approaching realism in a film about those Japanese POW camps.

PostScript: I recall an article in an English language newspaper in Japan about two Japanese officers in Nanking in December in 1937. You know what these young fellows were doing? They were having a contest to see which one could cut off the most heads with their samurai swords. They wanted to see who could get to100 first, but they lost track of each other over the ensuing months. One got to 105 and the other got to 106. Later they had a do-over and they decided to see who could get to 150 first. The happy postscript to this episode was that both men were captured as war criminals and hanged.

Postscript to the postscript: In a stroke of brilliant and entirely appropriate (but not uncontroversial) military insight, McArthur required all Japanese officers to surrender their swords.

Stalin's Quip at Potsdam

As someone who takes the study of history quite seriously, it seriously ticks me off when I hear revisionist historians blaming FDR and Truman for the outbreak of the Cold War. I have no patience for that position; I think people who espouse it are dangerously naive about the nature of Joseph Stalin’s regime. Stalin was a man given to pithy, ironic comments. At the Potsdam conference on the outskirts of Berlin in July of 1945, a diplomat asked Stalin if he was happy now that Russian troops had occupied Berlin, after all, just three and a half years earlier, you could hear the sound of German artillery fire inside the Kremlin and at one point, German troops were only seven miles away.

Stalin smiled and said, “Czar Alexander made it to Paris.”



Anyone who thinks Stalin would’ve been satisfied with making it to Paris are, well . . . did I mention dangerously naive?

Baby Bryant, All Grown Up and Wise Beyond His Years

I have upon occasion had the experience of seeing daughters of friends of mine—who I first met when they were just rambunctious little munchkin—grow up to be young women, but until recently I never had the experience of seeing someone (a young lad) who I had seen as an infant grow up to be considerably bigger than I am. Since I’m a smidgeon under 6’3” and weigh over 200 pounds, it hasn’t happened very often. One of my fondest memories is a visit I made in March of 1990 to some friends of mine who live in a suburb of San Diego. I distinctly remember my friend Barbara picking up her not yet four- month-old son Bryant and tucking him into his stroller, all while his six year old sister was commenting indignantly, “You’re keeping us waiting, Bryant Edward Wheatley.” I thought to myself, “That’s a pretty savvy six year old. She knows she can’t yell at her Mom, but she’ll yell at her infant brother!”

Twenty years later, I got to make another trip to San Diego and boy-oh-boy has Bryant grown up. I’d seen him a number of times in the interim, and I’d know that from Kindergarten through high school, he’d always been the biggest in his class. His mother is 6 feet tall barefoot, and I tease her that its no wonder she married the man she did, she must like standing on tip toe when she kisses him. I also kid her that on the first day of school she would need to make sure that her son carried a copy of his birth certificate to school: otherwise his teacher might think some college kid was sneaking into her middle school class. And then she’d better get busy baking several dozen cookies because I imagined that all the new kids in school would take one look at that *ginormous* young fellow and stand in line to make friends with him. I mean, if you’re friends with the biggest kid in the school, who’s going to mess with you, right?

I hadn’t seen Bryant for several years and I was amazed at how much that kid has grown. He now towers over not only me but his father as well, and upon shaking hands with him I couldn’t help but notice that he has spent a whole lot of time in a weight room, so I’m not going to challenge him to an arm wrestling match. People might start calling me leftie. I’m happy to report that Bryant is a very pleasant, amiable, and well-mannered young gentleman, and I’m very glad of that. The thought occurred to me that if he had a long memory and a nasty sense of humor he just might pick me up, toss me in the air, bounce me on his knee a couple of times, and then start pinching my cheeks, saying “You’re such a cute middle-aged guy! Yes you are! Yes you are!” Considering what positively, preternaturally powerful paws that kid has, I would probably develop jowls that would make me look like a basset hound.

During my visit, I heard something from Bryant’s mom that made me do a double take. She and I went on a pizza run (a tip to old folks who want to make a hit with the younger set, be a provider of large quantities of pizza. That usually goes over quite well.) Barbara commented to me that her son used to be friends with some of the kids who worked at the pizza parlor (which incidentally produces the largest pizzas I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I thought 21 inches was big. This place makes pizzas close to a yard across. That managed to hold Bryant and his two sisters for a while, although the next day I didn’t see a single leftover slice).

Anyhow, on our way back to the house, Bryant’s mom commented to me that he had once been friends with some of the kids at the pizza place, but since they had gotten into drugs, he decided that he wanted to have absolutely nothing to do with them. I considered asking Barbara if I could borrow her son for a couple of days and take him back to Columbus, as I know several hundred teenagers who need to follow his good example. I’m delighted to report that Bryant is not just a physical giant, but he is a moral and intellectual giant as well.
So how do you get a kid that good? It helps when he has really outstanding parents.

The (Other) Waco Kid

For anyone of my generation, one of the greatest comedies Mel Brooks every made was the 1974 film Blazing Saddles. Cleavon Little and Gene Wilder made a great comic team as Sherriff Bart and his side kick the Waco Kid. While it is a great film, I think it would have been even better had Mel Brooks managed to cast his first choice for the role of the Waco kid (drum roll please. . .). Originally, Mel Brooks wanted John Wayne for the part.

I read in Aissa Wayne’s book, John Wayne: My Father, that when the Duke received the script he laughed uncontrollably but told Brooks that while he was going to be the first one in line to see the movie, he figured it might hurt his image if he was in it. The mind boggles at the thought of the Duke doing the Waco Kid’s soliloquy:

I musta’ killed more men than Cecil B. DeMille. Then one day I heard a voice behind me, “Reach for it mister!” So I whirled around and it was a six year old kid…. Well, I threw down my gun and I walked away…. And then the little bastard shot me in the ass. So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle and I've been there ever since.”

Leo Durocher Finishes Where!?

I recently learned from an English correspondent that Leo Durocher’s most famous quote, “Nice guys finish last,” has made it across the Atlantic.

I know the full story of that quote, and it’s pretty interesting. Before WWII, Durocher was managing the Brooklyn Dodgers and when famed radio sports announcer Red Barber commented about Durocher’s abrasive personality, Durocher pointed across the field to the dugout of the Dodger’s rivals, the New York Giants. He commented about his opposite number Mel Ott, “Has anybody ever seen a nicer guy than Mel Ott? But look at where they are, in 7th place. That’s where nice guys wind up, in 7th place.” Since the American League only had eight teams, they were very close to last place, so that’s how Durocher’s comment was remembered.

Leo Durocher cultivated a reputation as being a complete SOB, an evaluation with which opposing teams, just about every big league umpire (Leo "the Lip" Durocher managed to get thrown out of the game on 95 different occasions, which still places him in the top ten all time) and of course all three of Durocher’s ex-wives would emphatically agree. However, Durocher also deserves to be remembered for his words as Dodger manager. In 1946 when Jackie Robinson joined the team, he informed his players, “I don’t care if that guy is white, black, purple, or has stripes like a zebra. If he can play, he’s on the team.” Soon thereafter, Durocher was fired by the Dodgers and took the same position with his erstwhile rivals the New York Giants. In later years, Jackie Robinson commented that while he and Durocher had traded insults on any number of occasions, Durocher never made a single racial comment (not even one).

Durocher’s axiom of nice guys finish last ultimately came back to bite him in the derriere in a way that he never would have suspected. Towards the end of his career, Durocher did a stint managing the Chicago Cubs and, to his chagrin, the Cubbies wound up in last place, whereupon all kinds of people enjoyed taunting him with “Hey Leo! Way to show what a nice guy you are!”

Stephen Foster Goes Way Down

I first met Steven Foster while he was serving a stretch in an Ohio prison. He’d been there before and he’s been there since. He is one of the few inmates I’ve ever known who I think could have real potential for success in Hollywood. It’s not that he’s trained as an actor, it’s just that seeing as how Steve is about 6’7” and weighs somewhere around 300 pounds with a shaven head, I think he could make a good living playing heavies in prison movies as an enforcer for the Aryan Brotherhood. Despite his far-from-sterling record, I will say in Stevie’s defense that despite his menacing appearance, as far as I know, he has never done any physical harm to anyone. What harm he’s done to himself and his family due to his predilection for illegal substances, I can’t say.

Several years ago, he was seriously injured while serving time in the Delaware County Jail. I don’t know all of the circumstances but I do know that here in America, even guys doing life on the installment plan are entitled to the protection of the law, and Steve managed to win a judgment against the County for, I believe, $150,000. This was a source of great delight to the lawyer who represented Mr. Foster on a contingency fee basis. Stevie certainly enjoyed his big payday. I’ve heard it took him an entire month to go through it. (I do not want to know what he spent it on. ) I was once at a sentencing conference representing Steven when the visiting judge commented, “Steven Foster? He should’ve stayed in his Old Kentucky Home.” I replied, “I’ve got you beat, your Honor, I say he should’ve stayed Way Down Upon the Sewanee River.”

A Fracas on the Sixth Floor

This past Wednesday, I was on the sixth floor having a case heard before Judge Yarborough. This was a custody matter that has gotten extremely unpleasant.

I should preface this story by stating that I frequently tell people to not use the expression “now I’ve seen everything” while in the courthouse, it is very bad luck. I won’t say I’ve now seen everything, but I will say that I saw something I’ve never seen before in the 22 years since I passed the Ohio bar. When my client’s aunt learned from the Franklin County Children’s Services case worker that my client was going to get to have overnight visits from her daughter, the aunt pitched a conniption fit and after calling the case worker every thing but a Precious Child of God, she had the gall to walk in to the conference room where my client was sitting with two witnesses, and to start shouting at her. I saw this and very rapidly stood between my client and her out-of-control aunt. I told the aunt in very clear language to leave the conference room. The aunt declined and proceeded to shout her low opinion of both my client and me. I again told her to leave the conference room and again she emphatically declined. At this point I started to push the door to the conference room shut to force her to leave. That psycho lard ass had the temerity to shove the door back at me, and I then demonstrated that I was not going to lose a door shoving contest with her. From the other side of the door she proceeded to bellow that if I broke her foot, she was going to break my nose. I was stunned, and actually said, “What?” At which point she repeated her threat word for word. Perhaps my response was not optimal. I told her “Don’t write a check with your mouth that your ass can’t cash.” and I called her a bitch.

Apparently this offended her tender sensibilities and she demanded to know what I had just called her. I replied “Bitch… B….I….T….C…..H” (In retrospect, I thought that was quite helpful of me to spell it for her, but maybe it was a futile gesture. I doubt she knows the alphabet past “C.”) Shortly thereafter, a couple of Franklin County Sherriff’s Deputies showed up and peace was restored. A few seconds later it hit me exactly how bad that situation could have become if that lard ass skank had actually hit me. It is possible I might have retaliated in kind and she might have suffered a massive coronary on the spot, in which case I would be looking at a manslaughter charge. I quickly composed myself and informed Judge Yarborough in chambers exactly what had happened. I even owned up to having referred to that dual-x-chromosomed person as a bitch. I didn’t find out until later that Judge Yarborough had already received one report on what had happened, and perhaps he thought there had been a second incident. In any event, the rest of the day definitely went my way.

Judge Yarborough summoned Franklin County Sherriff’s deputy Clark. Deputy Clark is a black gentleman with a shaved head who is of only average height but is positively huge across the shoulders. I have at times kidded him in a good natured way that he looks like the Sherriff’s Department’s version of Marvin Haggler. Deputy Clark would be an imposing presence even if he weren’t carrying a Smith and Wesson 9 millimeter on his hip. Judge Yarborough asked me to step out into the hall and indentify my client’s aunt, which I did. Judge Yarborough ordered her out of the building. She tried to put on a s**t eating grin and said “I’ll admit I was a bad girl.” Judge Yarborough directed Deputy Clark to escort the bad girl out of the court house. At that point the bad girl’s boy friend thought it was appropriate to demur, and I heard Judge Yarborough say “One more word out of either of you and you’re going to get 30 days in jail for contempt.”

That brought all discussions to a *complete* halt. Judge Yarborough later told me in exactly so many words that he did not think I had done anything wrong and he went on the record to describe what had happened. From my point of view, though, it’s a case of horseshoes and hand grenades; things could have gotten very very bad.

After careful reflection, however, I do think I should make an apology:

Jean and Jerry, I apologize to Sadie.

Mark and Barbara, I apologize to Skyla and Karma.

Sand and Mac I apologize to Bum-Bum.

Vikki and Kirk, I apologize to Pookie.

Comparing any of your wonderful pets to that psycho lard ass Bad Girl was completely uncalled for.