London, Part II: Character Underground

What is the right mix of ego, character, courage, and integrity to make a great leader? When do circumstances create the leader, and when does it arise from within? What befalls a country when circumstances are dire, and the leader is inadequate to the task? As authoritarians jockey for power in 2025, we may find out, but fortunately for Britain, in 1940 Winston Churchill was in command. As Hitler’s squadrons battered the country with aerial bombing raids, the Prime Minister, military strategists, and civilian staff - 500 people - worked in shifts round the clock from the basement war rooms beneath a building in Whitehall to defend their island home. Before our trip to London, when we asked friends what we should see, without exception, Churchill’s War Rooms topped the list. 

Having already scoped out the location, Dave and I arrived, as suggested, 15 minutes ahead of our allotted time. The line was long, but an employee informed us that most were there for the prior time slot, so we had plenty of time to chat with those waiting with us. While traveling, even waiting in line is an opportunity, an open door to lives beyond our own.

The bearded, ruddy-faced man behind us was a discouraged writer in need of inspiration. Here, in the city of Charles Dickens, he had visited the author’s house and visited his grave in Westminster Abbey. As the line to the door of the museum inched forward, we told him about our favorite holiday movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas, which portrays Dickens’s grim childhood and his frustration following three commercial flops. Despite that fallow time, he went on to write his most enduring novel, A Christmas Carol. Our companion’s eyes brightened, and he said he’d watch the movie that very night. I wonder if he did, and if it was the nudge he needed. 

Eventually, we were waved forward into the museum that precedes the actual War Rooms. 

Of Churchill, it must be said that as much as the man had the ego and character for greatness, he was a character as well. Known for his cigars, bow ties, bizarre work habits, breakfast cocktails, and taste for champagne, Churchill once said, “We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm.” In the decades since his death, actors from Richard Burton to Gary Oldman have sought to project that mix of imperious growl and eccentric glow. 

The museum’s exhibits covered the span of Churchill’s life, career, and impact with videos, posters, memorabilia, and vintage photographs as well as his uniforms, personal items, and a collection of hats. A flip board allowed visitors to mix and match photographs of Churchill’s face with different hats. Fun!

Less fun was imagining the claustrophobic quarters and tension in the War Rooms in the years up to Japan’s surrender on August 16, 1945. Relatively protected while encased within reinforced concrete walls, behind steel doors, and below a 5’ thick concrete slab, personnel labored knowing that above ground, bombs were pummeling neighborhoods and scattering loved ones to whatever shelter they could find. Life as they’d known it before their descent into the basement was being obliterated by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. 

As if the danger above and the importance of the work in these rooms was happening even now, there was a hush of held breath as Dave and I snaked down narrow hallways with other visitors. We peered through glass partitions at lifelike mannequins perusing maps, pondering troop movements, or bent to typewriters and phones. Audio recordings played through our individual headsets supplying details about life and the strict security during those years spent largely underground.

I imagined the nagging weight of responsibility in knowing the importance of the work at hand, and the fearful uncertainty for self, loved ones, country, and future. While bombs are not falling in America 2025, I feel something akin to that worry myself lately. How did they bear up under those pressures? 

When the basement lights were turned off in 1945, and the last person closed the door, the rooms went largely untouched until they were turned into a museum. Vestiges of the tactics employed to ease frayed nerves and maintain mental and physical health remained in place. Smoking was a comfort, its risks unknown, and the butt of one of Churchill’s cigars still rests in an ashtray. Commander John Heagerty had a sweet tooth, and three sugar cubes were discovered in his desk drawer, one with an edge shaved off suggesting he was rationing this rare treat. During the war, those in these basement rooms were sustained by simple pleasures, the company of their colleagues, and the knowledge that the nature of the future, our present, depended on them.   

                                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

Centuries of Service

In top hat and great coat, the tour guide swung his lantern to illuminate the stone façade of the building before him. A cluster of tourists crowded closer, eager to hear a ghostly tale. From my perch in the upper window of our room across the road, I could sense their disappointment in slumped shoulders and shuffling feet as the guide spoke of history, not spirits. 

Newport’s Clarke Street is lined with clapboard eighteenth and nineteenth century homes painted the dark colors of that era. The glow of streetlamps is just bright enough to light the way, and the past seems to coexist with the present. I must have made a movement that caught the attention of one of the tourists, and my face, suddenly glimpsed through the misted glass pane, seemed the eerie vision they’d hoped to see. There was a ripple of startled exclamations as heads turned and tipped, then a hesitant flutter of hands returning my wave. 

Because of that gathering in the street below, I keyed into the 1838 Artillery Company Museum, and the next morning, Dave and I went to visit. 

The stone building houses an extraordinary collection of military memorabilia and is home to the Artillery Company of Newport, chartered in 1741 by King George II of Britain. The company is now a ceremonial unit of the Rhode Island militia and the Council of Historic Military Commands.

We were greeted by men in navy blue polo shirts bearing the Artillery Company’s insignia. I could imagine each of the three volunteers, whether bearded, craggy, or clean shaven, in the  uniform of the Union or Confederate armies. In fact, this company fought in the French and Indian Wars, the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Spanish-American War. Members of the Company have served in the country’s  20^th and 21^st century engagements as well. Memorabilia from each are preserved in the museum.

A faded American flag with a unique circular configuration of  37 stars spans most of a side wall, its tattered condition attesting to years of service to the company. Uniforms, still gold-buttoned and dignified in bearing, surround the room. Once worn by such illustrious individuals as Prince Philip of England, U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell, Egyptian president Anwar Sedat, and Colonel Katherine Towle, first Director of  Women – U.S. Marine Corps, they stand guard now over four bronze cannons cast by Paul Revere in 1798. In glass cases, spent shells and bullets from the World Wars and the Battle of Gettysburg rest beside letters, medals, weapons, caps, and vintage photographs.

Near hidden in the shadows in the back of the museum is an ambulance jeep, the poles and canvas stretchers that once carried the wounded mounted on each side. I thought of Dave’s Uncle Jack, who was assigned to a medical unit in Africa as an ambulance driver during World War II. His brothers, Dave’s dad and Uncle Phil, served in the Air Force and Navy in Italy and the Pacific, respectively. All three boys were first generation Americans born of Italian immigrants.

Jack was a gentle guy, not cut out to carry a weapon that might harm someone else, but he saw, up close, the brutal aftermath of battle. 

Whatever wounds he tended, whatever fears he tried to soothe, whatever carnage he witnessed, came home with him after the war, pain as real to him as the suffering of the men he’d transported on stretchers. While he was always funny and dear to Dave and Steve, his little nephews, Jack was never the same.

Now, the tactics employed by the Fascists in the 30’s are back in play: dehumanization of vulnerable populations, exaltation of a cult leader, violent rhetoric, and disinformation. Those who support them or remain silent dishonor the uncles, aunts, parents, and grandparents who endured grievous harm in striving to defeat such forces. 

We Americans have a critical choice before us. Now, all together, Vote as if Democracy depends on it… because it does.

 

A Veteran's Take

The bumper stickers on the car in front of mine in the Shop Rite parking lot stoked an uneasy feeling that no amount of broccoli, lemons, and pistachio ice cream could assuage. A drooping American flag was affixed to the car’s roof above a collage of angry messages: “Bidenflation – the price of your vote,” “Go Brandon,” and “Dumb and Dumber” next to pictures of the President and Vice President. There was no way the puny flag atop the car could put a patriotic spin on that vitriol. As the Republican party moves closer to crowning a candidate with authoritarian designs, I can almost hear Colombo’s shocked intake of breath.  

As a sophomore at Joel Barlow High School in the fall of 2000, our daughter’s history assignment was to interview a veteran and invite him or her to a breakfast panel at school later in the year. Very few students were able to find World War II vets to interview; even then, there weren’t many left. Casey was fortunate her grandfather, Colombo, was alive and eager to tell his stories.   

In the war against Fascism under dictators Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito, Colombo had been aboard a B-24 Liberator that bombed the Brenner Pass through the Alps between Italy and Austria. When Dave and I backpacked through Europe in the ‘70’s, Colombo directed us, “Check out the pass; I expect it’s still smoldering.” But, beyond that, his war stories had been tucked away - linen-wrapped in the bundle of letters in his sister’s closet, packed with his flight jacket and mementos in storage. 

            

As a first generation Italian born of immigrant parents who’d arrived only two decades before, Colombo and his three siblings were staunchly American. They wanted little to do with the country their parents had left behind, although Nanny’s homemade pasta and fresh garden vegetables always lured them home for meals. Like so many young men of the time, the three boys responded to the Nazi threat and enlisted as soon as they were old enough: Phil shipped out to the Pacific, Jack to North Africa, and Colombo to Italy.What must the crawl of days and nights have been like for the parents, worrying about all three of their sons?  

 

When Casey and Colombo settled into wicker chairs on the porch in Rhode Island for the interview, the soothing calls of gulls on salt-scented air were a far cry from the echoes of war. Yet, those years reeled closer as Colombo sifted through memories, and his granddaughter jotted notes.

 

With practised precision, Colombo recited his rank, base, duties and missions: “Army Aircorp Staff Sargeant, Cheringnol, Italy.” He recalled an ill-fated flight from Bangor, Maine to the continent, with Louie Prima, barely audible over the plane’s rumble, crooning “That Old Black Magic” on the radio. Engine troubles plagued the journey, necessitating layovers in Iceland and England. Snorting in disgust, Colombo shook his head, “That plane was a brand new B-24 Liberator. Turned out it was a lemon, scrapped once we reached Italy. Never even saw duty.”

  

And in 1945, he was with the crew that flew into Rome with the “Stars and Stripes” newspaper staff that covered Mussolini’s death and the fury of the mob that strung him up. 

 

In December of 2000, Colombo came to Easton to participate in the veterans panel at Barlow. Of those WW II vets attending, Colombo was the hardy exception: strong, healthy, and in great spirits. Beyond sharing his experiences, he brought a satchel of fishing line, morphine and a reflecting mirror: the emergency survival kit he’d been issued for use had that lemon of a Liberator gone down.  

            

On the morning of the panel discussion, Colombo left an inscription in our guest book:  “12/7/2000 – Pearl Harbor Day – How well I remember it! I was sixteen years old and had just finished a sand-lot football game in the snow at Lake Park, Worcester. We won the Park’s league. Little did I know that two years later I’d be in the Air Corps, finishing off the Nazis in May of 1945. On this day, my granddaughter and her class of the year 2000 will be commemorating the fifty-ninth year of Pearl Harbor. I am happy to share this day with her and her classmates.”  

 

So much has changed since that day. 

 

What would those who fought Fascism in the ‘40’s have thought of the bumper sticker bile on that car in the parking lot in 2024? Of the American flag wielded as a weapon in an assault on the Capitol to prevent the peaceful transfer of power? Of the virulence that divides America, and the forces that support an aspiring authoritarian?     

                                                

While interviewing Colombo, Casey had asked what he fought for. His response was immediate, “For the freedom of the United States and all the countries involved.” 

 

To her final question, “What message would you pass on to the people of today?” Colombo said, “Have respect for the soldiers and servicemen, and respect for the American flag.”

Colombo, center

 

 

 

Summer Reflections Part I - Ripples

Sunlight glinted on choppy wavelets tinted neon blue through my sunglasses.  My fingers were curled tightly around a strap across my seat.  Soul light, I leaned close to Joanne as we zipped, jolting and smacking, across the water.  Over the buzz of the Jetski’s engine, I yelled, “Look at us!  You and me and our four fake boobs!”

With her long white hair twisted into a loose knot on her head, joy emanating from her face, she grinned back over her shoulder and called back, “Survivors!”

 

It had been years since Dave and I spent time with Charlie and Joanne.  We’d met in 1988 when our sons Tucker and Jake became friends.  Back then, Joanne wrote a column for the Greenwich Time and was re-decorating her house.  I was into quilting, crafts, and animal rights.  Our husbands loved playing guitars together, two aging hippies strumming Rolling Stones and Beatles songs.  Hm.  I say “aging,” yet we were still in our thirties.  Ah well. 

A lot has happened in the intervening years.

Dave and I moved to Easton.  Terrorism took out the Twin Towers.  Joanne got breast cancer.  Charlie had a heart attack.  Our kids grew up and moved on to their own lives.  I got breast cancer.  Joanne and Charlie moved to New Hampshire.  And finally, over the 4^th of July, we were able to accept their invitation to visit them in their now not-so-new home.

One afternoon during our stay, I sat on the dock with Jake.  His cousin Lauren was eager to rent a stand-up paddleboard.  “You better try it early on,” he said, “before the boats and Jetskis make it too rough.”

I scanned the crests and troughs of  water circled by pine-fringed shores and the mountains beyond.  A few boats dotted the lake, but surely not enough to stir the surface to this degree.  “But those boats are so far away…” I said.

“Yes.  But you know how it is when you drop a pebble in still water,” Jake said.  “The ripples just keep on going.”

Ripples.  I have always loved the possibilities, literal or not: a line in a book that resonates and leads to a new direction.  A random observation that sparks an idea and generates invention.  Small acts of kindness or valor that change lives or a world.  My friend Joanne, struck with cancer, coming through it, and helping me make it through my own…and now the two of us, jubilant together, sending ripples cascading in our Jetski’s wake.

On the morning of the 4^th of July parade, along with Charlie and Joanne, their kids, their kids’ spouses, their adorable granddaughter Abbey, and assorted siblings and cousins, we staked out spots with blankets and chairs under a spreading maple on the lawn of an antique colonial.  Nearby, an old retriever, the coppery fur of her muzzle gone to white, panted in the scant shade cast by her human companion’s beach chair.  

Vintage cars, fire engines, farmers on John Deere tractors, a troop of little girls in gauzy skirts and fairy wings, and, on roller skates, an aging majorette in spangled attire, glided past, some tossing candy to the small children who scampered to the road with hands outstretched.  

A skinny scrap of a guy in a straw boater and patriotic vest stood among his fellow WW II vets on a float draped in red, white and blue bunting, and lip-synced Jimmy Durante songs.  With the cock and shake of his head and a distinctive fake nose, he had Jimmy nailed. 

A convoy of vintage WW II vehicles rolled by followed by a float bearing the old men who’d once driven them.  I thought of Uncle Jack who, during his service in North Africa, drove an ambulance much like the one cruising past.  Dave’s father, Colombo, served in Italy in that war, and the third brother, Uncle Phil, was posted in the Pacific.  Miraculously, they all came home, but Cam, their sister, said of Jack, “He was too sensitive for war.  He never spoke about it when he returned, and he was never the same.”

“Always remember the soldiers,” Colombo once said to my daughter Casey.

With pride and a tug in my heart, I ran to the roadside to take pictures knowing the three brothers would have gotten a kick out of this day, and out of the role they played in giving us this opportunity to celebrate; extraordinary ripples from the sacrifices of brave old men - once brave young servicemen – waving as their floats drove by.