OPERATION FREQUENT WIND

The plan to take the Afghan translators out of Afghanistan to a safe place via an airlift is for me an uneasy echo of what happened at the end of the Vietnam War, when a similar plan was in place to take South Vietnamese who had assisted the U.S. military to safety. Some people may recall a series of unfortunate decisions meant that the planned airlift never happened. I vividly recall watching the fall of Saigon on network television. It was a shock; the United States didn’t lose wars. Not like that.

 All of the remaining American staff were safely rescued. But thousands of South Vietnamese who were dependent on us were on the brink of being abandoned. Of course, I hope we do better this time, but we’ll have to wait and see. However, the Taliban is moving quickly to overrun the country. Here’s hoping history does not repeat itself.

 It wasn’t until decades later when I was researching the fall of Saigon for my book Man with No Yesterdays that I learned of the remarkable effort to rescue as many of our South Vietnamese friends as we possibly could.

 Vietnam was called “the helicopter war” for good reason. This remarkable aircraft ferried our fighting men to battles, extracted them from battlefields, dropped supplies to remote outposts, provided transportation of medical personnel and for the wounded to field hospitals. Many brave men died piloting the crafts. Many door gunners died. Helicopter pilots sometimes performed remarkably heroic feats.

 Thanks to the marvels of the internet, while researching this book I found news coverage from the CBC and so watched exactly what my character Jake Cameron saw. Since I had learned more about the importance of helicopters in the kind of warfare we encountered in Vietnam, seeing those scenes of the aircraft being ditched into the ocean I found even more disturbing and tragic. It became almost an analogy of the war itself: all the valiant fighting and loss of life ─ to what end?

 When searching for a photo to include in an addendum to the book I came across Dr. Bertram Zarins’ remarkable picture of a chopper dying in the South China Sea after ferrying refugees from Saigon to the waiting ships of Task Force 76. There was not room on the ships for the many helicopters that had been pressed into use for the escape of additional South Vietnamese.

 The original plan of an airlift by fixed wing aircraft, which would have rescued many more, was thwarted by the speed of the North Vietnamese Army’s march on Saigon. The use of helicopters, the last resort for attempting evacuation, became Operation Frequent Wind. The Marine helicopter pilots flew back and forth for almost twenty-four hours straight and ended up saving nearly 6,000 South Vietnamese.

 One more example of personal valor by our magnificent military. 

Photo courtesy of Dr. Bertram Zarins

INDEPENDENCE DAY 2021

 

We are presently living in troubled times, as has happened throughout the history of the United States. But today, July 4, 2021, may we take a moment to recall those men who served in the Second Continental Congress? Those ordinary men, those remarkable men, whose vision was so strong they dared to risk being executed for treason to bring a new nation into an old world. I believe it's acknowledged what they did was unparalleled in human history. 

Wherever we are today on this nation's journey, I choose to hold fast to their belief in the future.

From my author's note for the musical drama 1776, which I was privileged to direct for Pocono Lively Arts in 1989:

"They were men of human shortcomings, yet they were undoubtedly the most extraordinary group of men in all of history to have gathered together in one place and at one time. According to Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., in his book The Birth of the Nation, they were 'fearless, high-principled, deeply versed in ancient and modern political thought … convinced of man’s power to improve his condition through the use of intelligence, and unafraid of experiment. They were men of vision.'

“To this day the nation and the world are committed to the unending quest to unfold the ultimate meaning of those quiet phrases, written over two centuries ago by a young man in a small room in an unknown city on the margin of Western civilization: 'We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.'”

LET MUSIC LIVE

 In the late spring of 2019, I learned The Guardian was looking for essays for a series entitled “How I Fell in Love With …” and on a whim, sent an email to the editor who was running the series. It was fun to write and let her know about my newfound passion, writing books—“music-centric” books, after a full, rich, and happy life as a musician. Much to my amazement, she contacted me within a day or so and asked me to write the article. No deadline, roughly eight hundred words, just expand what I’d sent in my slightly breezy email.

 Needless to say, I set to work immediately and was even more amazed when a week or so later I received notice that the article would go online on Friday, May 24. Friday Sydney time, actually. I still was having a hard time processing this, but late Thursday night (PA time) I saw the article online. An article I wrote. In The Guardian.

 I shared it all over social media, and early the next morning contacted my sons, both of whom live locally, to share my good news.

 Instead, I learned of an awful tragedy. My oldest son runs his own business, providing soil treatment for playing fields, mostly golf courses, from parts of the greater New York City area into Connecticut and Long Island. One of his most valued employees, and a good friend to boot, had drowned in a freak fishing accident Thursday evening. Twenty-nine years old, sole provider for his family; two children, ages one and three. He was a very good friend of my younger son who also works for the company. My sons were heartbroken.

 It was one tragedy in the hundreds that happen every day. The pandemic that struck the world the following year, and which we are still experiencing, has caused many such valleys in so many lives. It’s often said, “None of us get out of here alive,” and that is a certainty, but the death of a vital young person is difficult for everyone to process. We go through our lives, aware we could be involved in such a tragedy, but certainly not anticipating it. To my mind, a good thing—we can’t live in constant fear of the bad thing that might be lurking around the next corner.

 I am grateful beyond words for the music in my life. My personal motto is “Music—the most powerful force in the universe.” Music can help us grieve, can help us heal, can inspire us, can elevate us as nothing else can. After my week of peaks and valleys, I attended a high school choral concert a few nights later and heard a wide variety of music sung by some great young people, who loved what they were doing and performed exceptionally well.

 The final selection on the concert was a powerful and deeply moving choral piece by Joseph Martin, “The Awakening,” which speaks of a world without music. How silent, how sad. The kind of world we’ve been living in for many months. The final part of the song is based on the composer’s personal experience of emotional healing through his music ("Let music never die in me, forever let my spirit sing.") It ends with a burst of brilliance: “Let music live.”

 Music is the constant in my life, as I wish it could be in everyone’s life. It’s our connection to heaven, wherever that may be. It’s a gift from our Creator, whatever we may call him. It helps us survive the valleys and delight in the peaks. It elevates and enhances our existence. It makes life worth living.

 Let Music Live.

 

VALENTINE'S DAY CONVERSATION WITH AUGUSTA MCKEE

 

Today is Valentine’s Day. I asked Augusta McKee what she gave Malcolm.

 “How would I know? You’ve never written a book that includes Valentine’s Day. In fact, I think only one of the six books that are out there has anything about winter in it at all.”

 “Yes, I know. I want to write a book with winter in it. I did take that last book up to Christmas, remember?”

 I decided to try a different approach. “Well, by now you know Malcolm pretty well, I would hope. If I should write a book with Valentine’s Day in it, what would you give him?”

“I’ve never given him anything other than a lot of headaches. Oh, and the dog. Fritz. Maybe more headaches? But he liked it. I mean he likes the dog. That was a good present.”

She thought about it. “Malcolm gave me some nice things. My engagement ring in the second book. A piece of jewelry for our wedding. And then when you sent us to Europe for our honeymoon, he gave me a bracelet that I seldom take off. A charm bracelet with one meaningful charm.”

 “You didn’t give him a wedding present?”

 “If I did, you neglected to write it into the book. We wrote our own vows. Does that count? I promised I’d always have his back and I would be his partner for life. And then I sang to him.”

 “Just imagine I plan to write the next book—well, not the one I’m writing now, because it takes place in the summer—but the one after that and it includes Valentine’s Day in the time frame. What would you give him?”

 “The only jewelry he wears is his wedding ring. I guess I gave him that. And his watch. Maybe I’d give him a Rolex. Would that make you happy?”

 “It’s not about me, it’s about you and him.”

 “Right. Of course it is. You have absolutely nothing to do with all this stuff.”

 “I only write what you guys tell me to write.”

 Augusta stared at me frostily. “We didn’t refer to a couple as ‘you guys’ in the 1960s.”

 “Oh, sorry, lost my head. What you and Malcolm tell me.”

 Augusta stared off into space for long moments. I hummed while I waited for her to respond, the song she sang for Malcolm at their wedding. “Yours Is My Heart Alone.”

 “Well…that Rolex sounds like a good idea. I believe he’d like a good watch. Cuff links, maybe? He sometimes wears shirts that have cuffs.”

 “Can’t you come up with something more original than that?”

 “Why do I need to? You’re the writer. You figure it out.”

 You see what we writers have to deal with?

The Day the Skies Grew Empty

On the second weekend September of 2001, a community theater organization I was part of, Pocono Lively Arts, held auditions for a planned November production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music. In a chapter in my book More Fog, Please: 31 Years Directing Community and High School Musicals I wrote the following:

 We had callbacks for the production on Monday night, September 10. I was on the phone the next morning talking to a voice teacher about Anastasia Dietze, a young woman we were seriously considering for Maria, when my phone call was interrupted. It was my friend Judy Lawler. “A plane just hit the World Trade Center,” she told me. I told her I would call her back. Then the nightmare unfolded.

My son Stephen, who had been my lighting director for a number of years, was living and working in Westchester County, New York. I had no reason to think he might have been in Manhattan but I was not able to reach him by phone for many hours. Hearing from him, finally, that night, was a huge relief. I could hear the stress and anguish in his voice; New York had become his city.

(NOTE: It was during that phone call that Steve called my attention to the empty skies. I live below a major flyway; walking out onto my deck, I looked upward and saw only stars.)

One cast member’s father worked in one of the Twin Towers. His dad was late leaving for work that morning because he had to take David Wertz’s little brother to school. When the first plane hit, if he had not been late, he would have been at his desk instead of on the George Washington Bridge headed into Manhattan. He was able to turn around and was home by six o’clock. The family hadn’t heard from him all day and didn’t know where he was, or if he was safe.

Another high school student, Meghan Lastra, had a cousin who had just begun work at the World Trade Center; in fact, it was his first day. He was missing during our rehearsal period. We learned he had been uneasy about working there. His remains were finally recovered. We grieved with her family. Many people in our community lost loved ones that dreadful day.

Stroudsburg is within commuting distance of the New York City area; many residents work in and near the city. Children were kept overnight at several schools in the county, thanks to the generosity and kindness of many people who provided bedding, food, and comfort. Some parents never returned home. It was a very sad, tense time.

PLA members wondered what we should do about the show. Should we continue? My director’s note for this production of The Sound of Music reflects the feelings we all experienced:

 On September 11, we were making final casting decisions for this production. We had just spent an inspiring weekend hearing some one hundred fifty adults and children who were willing to share their time and talent in order to help present this show to the community. Then that Tuesday morning, as so many did, we wondered if this undertaking was meaningful at all in the harsh new world in which we all found ourselves.

The answer, of course, is yes. Without beauty, without music and art, civilization would indeed be totally changed. That all of us want to continue to create and re-create reinforces our very reason for being. Over the past weeks, all of us involved with this production have found a renewed appreciation for this story of love and courage. The story of Captain von Trapp and his family seems especially timely today, and I think, particularly for the children in the cast, our participation has given us a truly worthwhile experience.

As always, we are very grateful to the small army of volunteers who make this production possible – the remarkable people who work backstage, the musicians in the orchestra, the people who usher and help with tickets. Thanks to all of them, we can offer you an afternoon or evening of reliving this lovely American tradition, musical theater, by two of the finest of its creators, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Community productions such as ours are a part of the very essence of this great country.

Many thanks to you, our loyal audience, for helping us to celebrate America in this special way.

Susan Jordan

September 11, 2001

  

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE ARE GOOD COPS

According to a September, 1957, article in Life magazine, many of the larger cities in America were dealing with major problems in their law enforcement agencies at that time: graft, kickbacks, racketeering of different kinds—the list goes on. In Miami, for instance, some members of a special squad assigned to investigate burglaries were suspended for—guess what? Committing burglaries.

Cincinnati, a city of slightly over a half million people in 1957, was a city with considerably less crime than many larger cities. Herbert Brean of Life profiled the Cincinnati Police Department in his lengthy, in-depth 1957 article entitled “A Really Good Police Force.” A major reason for the success of the CPD, and why it was considered possibly the best police force in the country, was its remarkable police chief, Stanley Schrotel, who served in that capacity from 1951-1967.

My “Augusta McKee Mystery Series” takes place in Cincinnati during the 1960s, a period during which I lived in that city. Not having any run-ins with the law, I knew very little about the Cincinnati Police Department until I began to write the books, at which time I came in contact with Lt. Stephen Kramer (ret.), who, when I started writing the series, was President of the Greater Cincinnati Police Historical Society and Museum. Thanks to him I have learned a lot in the past two and a half years, gaining a profound appreciation for Chief Schrotel, whose name comes up in many of my books in the series since one of my main characters is a homicide detective for the CPD.

In his Life article, Brean suggested that even some law enforcement officers don’t understand what the basic purpose of police work is: first, by constant surveillance to discourage misconduct by individuals, and second, to further discourage the potential wrongdoer with the knowledge that there will be swift and sure retaliation if he is apprehended.

Going one step further, the policeman’s job is to not simply “to help obtain a conviction, but to gather all facts, whether they incriminate or exonerate.” It is as much a cop’s duty to be sure that a suspect is not deprived of his rights as it is to obtain a conviction against him. “The policeman is the guardian of everybody’s rights, including the criminal.” This philosophy was successfully put into practice in Chief Schrotel’s Cincinnati. (Quotes from Brean’s article.)

It appears one reason this worked was because the community supported and cooperated with their police officers because they trusted them. It wasn’t unusual for an alert citizen to tip off the police about a crime in progress with the expected outcome the arrest of the perpetrators. It didn’t hurt that at that time in the city’s history, there was surprisingly little criminal activity. No organized crime, gambling, or houses of prostitution. (Note: all of that was available in Newport, Kentucky, just across the Ohio River, but that’s another story. You can read about that in my novels The Case of the Disappearing Director and The Case of the Purloined Professor.) As I remember Cincinnati, it was a place I never felt unsafe as both a college student and later, a young wife and mother. Remember, we’re talking decades ago.

One of Schrotel’s top priorities was described by Brean as “policing the citizen without arousing his antagonism.” According to the Life article, Schrotel was sensitive to any hint of police brutality, because he believed those most affected by it were the officers themselves. When a member of the CPD used force of any kind, he had to fill out a complete report, countersigned by his superior, as to the reasons for the incident. The perpetrator would also be taken to General Hospital for an examination if that was deemed appropriate, and photographs might be taken for use by a defense attorney. Schrotel wanted to avoid any sense of the “bully boy” authoritarian figure among his force. He himself was a quiet-spoken, erudite, and unfailingly polite man, addressing everyone as “sir” and “ma’am.”

Who was this remarkable “Top Cop,” anyway? A native Cincinnatian, he joined the force before he was twenty-one in 1934, during the Depression. He rose quickly through the ranks, eventually becoming a colonel, much to the consternation of the “old guard” members (Brean described them as “thick-necked, tobacco-chewing district captains and lieutenants who believed in toughness”), who viewed with suspicion the young man who set records with every exam he took. His grade on the Chief’s exam was 99.33. In 1951, at the age of 38 he became the youngest chief in CPD history.

Colonel Schrotel also proved himself capable in the field, solving a difficult murder and robbery case and later cleaning house in the department itself by putting an end to graft involving towing details. He suspended 45 police officers on his first day in office. He believed the effectiveness of a police force is dependent on the quality of its officers, not on heavy-handed tactics.

In addition, Chief Schrotel was known for his keen attention to detail, working tirelessly to improve procedures as much as possible in order to avoid wasted or duplicated effort.

A biography provided by Lt. Kramer has this to say about Chief Schrotel: “[He] wanted Cincinnati Police Officers to view themselves as the best in the nation.  Over a period of a few years, he did everything in his power to assure there was no better educated, trained, equipped, and dressed law enforcement agency in the country. 

“Furthermore, he treated individual officers as valuable assets. Once he met an officer, he would remember his name forever. Patrol personnel would often find him lurking, at any hour of the day or night, when they were responding to calls for service or initiating vehicle stops and the like. Sometimes he would watch from a block away and would call up the officer’s captain the next day with a report that the officer needed counseling or that he had done a good job.  He read every report and seemingly knew every detail about every incident, offense, or policeman.”

Over the years of his time as chief, many new practices were adopted, all to the betterment of the force. Chief Schrotel earned his law degree from Chase College of Law in Cincinnati in 1950, while he was working in the CPD. He was considered one of the finest police officers in the country, and a number of cities attempted to hire him. But Cincinnati was his home and he never left.

When he retired in 1967, after fifteen and a half years, one of his legacies was the importance of education for police officers. By 1978, over 60% of the force had some college, and 22% held master’s degrees.

This is my favorite story provided by Lt. Kramer about Colonel Schrotel, and what kind of police officer and man he was. Keep in mind, this was in the early 1950s-late 1960s.

“Colonel Schrotel altered the practice, or at least the tradition, of black officers being assigned to only black neighborhoods and expected to interact only with black violators. Lillian Grigsby, a black female hired as a Policewoman in 1947, was assigned to a black neighborhood one day and looking for truants and wayward children. She ventured into the downtown area and spotted three white Northern Kentucky boys coming from a movie theater and rounded them up. One of their fathers complained to the Chief and Colonel Schrotel asked him to come to his office. Before he arrived, he also asked Policewoman Grigsby to sit in on the meeting. Policewoman Grigsby feared that she would be made to apologize to the boy’s father—or worse. When the father arrived, registered his complaint, including that she was a female and black and should not be arresting his son, Colonel Schrotel looked at her and then at the man and simply told him that she was not a black officer, or a female officer. She was a Cincinnati police officer, trained as a Cincinnati officer, and paid to locate violators such as his son, regardless of the neighborhood or color of their skin. Thereafter, black officers were assigned to all neighborhoods. And, still later, he directed that districts deploy mixed race double-cars.”

There are good men and women out there, many of them already serving as police officers in this country. They need to be given the opportunity to “protect and serve” in the right way. They need our support and appreciation. And they need professional, respected leadership to guide them. The history of Chief Schrotel and the Cincinnati Police Department is proof that policing can be the vocation it should be.

Colonel Stanley Schrotel

Police Chief, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1951-1967

 

The Diva and the Detective

Augusta Iris McKee, former opera singer, professor of music on two college campuses in 1960s Cincinnati, sometime stage director, is a strong-minded, tender-hearted, savvy lady in midlife. She loves nice clothes and stilettos. Augusta has never married, and doesn’t expect to be.

That changes when she meets Homicide Detective Malcolm Mitchell on the campus of Cliffside College, following the murder of one of her voice students. He’s the best-looking man she’s ever laid eyes on. While that first meeting is confrontational (he’s at least as strong-willed as she is, and he’s a cop), something sparks between them. As they grow to know each other, Augusta discovers important information that leads to the arrest of the killer. The friendship becomes a romance.

Augusta is seven years older than Malcolm. She’s much more sensitive to that fact than he is; after all, they’re both mature adults. But it is the 1960s, and it’s not something that happens often. Augusta finds herself involved in Malcolm’s cases sometimes in ways she didn’t expect or intend. That can be a cause of friction.

In their most recent adventure, The Case of the Chrysanthemum Murders, once again Augusta has slightly overstepped while attempting to be helpful.

***

Augusta headed down the steps, purse in hand, to find Malcolm standing in the entrance hall, his arms folded across his chest, looking none too pleased.

“That phone call was from Jim Edmonds. He just had a discussion with the Boone County coroner’s office about a visitor they had this afternoon.”

He took a step toward her, fists at his waist. “It seems a very attractive older woman was there asking a lot of questions about Anton Portnov’s death. Would you know anything about that, Augusta?”

“He called me an older woman?”

“A very attractive older woman. Good Lord, Gus. What the hell were you doing over there? You promised me you wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Do you think of me as an older woman? I’m not that much older than you, Malcolm Mitchell.”

“Augusta!” He took her firmly by the shoulders and stared directly into her eyes. “This isn’t about you. You just interfered in an ongoing homicide investigation; do you realize that?”

“I tried to call you before I drove over there. I couldn’t imagine what harm it would do.”

“Let’s see.” Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest again and leaned against the door frame. “This woman told the clerk she was manager of the string quartet Portnov had been part of at one time.”

“Well, I just thought maybe I could play on their sympathy and they might let something slip. I’m sorry, Mal. I promise it won’t happen again.” Oh, dear. The last thing I wanted was to annoy him. “I tried to present myself as a sympathetic friend of the quartet and of Anton’s. I honestly thought it might be helpful.”

She saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth and relaxed.

“You’d do better to stick with fiery gypsies like Frasquita in Carmen.” He laughed and shook his head. “Come on, I want to get to the opera pavilion early.”

He extended an arm. “By the way, for a ‘not that much older woman’ you look great to this not that much younger guy. Love that dress.”

“Mal, I am sorry about driving over to the coroner’s office.” She slipped an arm through his. “I won’t do anything again without talking to you about it first.”

“Very well, Mrs. Mitchell.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll let you off this time with a warning. I’m too busy to visit you on Sundays anyway. You know that’s a punishable offense, though.”

“Let’s blame it on the Frasquita part of me. She tends to be impulsive.”

“She’s also irresistible.” He grinned again as they headed for Augusta’s car.

**

All of the “Augusta McKee Mystery Series” books are available on Amazon, paperback and Kindle. Book 5, The Case of the Chrysanthemum Murders, will be LIVE May 24-25! Watch for it! https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KBCWS24?ref_=dbs_r_series&storeType=ebooks

 Covers by Taylor van Kooten. Poster by Katy Schultz Burton