Carl Wells Books

Here are a few disjointed memories about my father’s participation in World War II. He didn’t talk a lot about his time in the war, but he had occasional stories, often of a humorous variety. The incidents recorded here come from my own memory, and that of my Aged Parent. We are both trying to be as accurate as possible, but a lot of years have passed for both of us. Don’t expect perfection in how we remember things.

My father had the nickname of the deacon. His clean-cut appearance and wire rim glasses may have inspired his fellow soldiers to name him such. It was not likely to have been in reference to his church attendance, of which there was probably not much. He was more likely to be found gambling than attending church, in those youthful days.

He was a very good gambler. He won a lot of money playing poker in the army. When he and his company (regiment? division?) went to France on about the fifth day of the invasion, the U.S. Army borrowed money from my father to pay for some local supplies, because he had a lot of money from his gambling winnings. They duly paid him back when they had enough cash on hand.

He was a very good gambler. On the trip back to the U.S., after the war was over, he won much of the gambling money on the ship. But there is always someone better, in every category of life. There were two better gamblers on the ship–they eventually ended up with the money my father had won. I remember my disappointment at hearing that he lost it all, or most of it. I was proud of him for being a successful gambler, and sad that he was cleaned out in the long run. (I inherited none of his gambling ability.) He didn’t try to hide the fact that he had been successful, but defeated by two guys better than him.

He was dating my mother before the war. But when he went into the army, he refused to marry her or even to get engaged. He didn’t want her to be saddled with him, if he came back maimed. They remained in close communication during the war. He sometimes sent her money home, which she banked in one account in both their names. She remembers the eventual total as being over $300.00. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but inflation has destroyed the value of our money to such an extent, that it is probable that it represented fairly serious money. My mother used to send him cigarettes (Camels) for $1.65 a carton. A pack of cigarettes today can be over $5.50, or call it $50.00 a carton. Extrapolating from that, my father saved quite a bit during the war–largely from gambling winnings, probably.

He joined the army with his friend Dugan Riley. Dugan, unlike my father, married his girlfriend–Edith Westbay–prior to his trip overseas. She became pregnant. Dugan Riley didn’t come home, however. He lost his life in the Battle of the Bulge (Dec. 16, 1944-Jan. 25, 1945). His daughter was Jeannie Riley; she grew up without her father being there.

Some of my fathers memories were of the English village in which or close to which he and his fellow soldiers were housed. One fellow soldier was the Old Bloke. I don’t know his real name. He seemed ancient to the young men around him–but the Old Bloke may have been no older than his 30s. My father was about 23 or 24 during that period–he went to France at age 24 and 4 months.

My father remembered that the English poulterers hung meat till it started to get a bit riper than Americans were used to–this was called hanging it high.

One holiday–Thanksgiving or Christmas–my father and a few of his friends somehow missed the holiday feast which the army cooked up for the troops. This turned out not to be a sad story–many of the soldiers ate the meal and got very sick. My father and his friends had drawn the lucky–well, providentially blessed–straw that day.

Not all of the soldiers serving in the U.S. army were sterling characters. You will be shocked to hear this, no doubt, but I won’t try to sugarcoat it for you. Some of them were in trouble constantly–drinking, carousing, not showing up where and when they were supposed to show up. One officer was heard, by my father, to say about these ne’er do wells, “You can’t chastise them–they’re only privates.” This phrasing tickled my father greatly. It would make a great title for a book.

The USO put on shows for the troops, with some name brand entertainers no doubt mixed in with talented lesser knowns. My father attended at least one. This may have been in France in the latter days of the war; I’m not sure. Anyway, Mickey Rooney–a name which may mean little or nothing to younger people, but a movie star to be reckoned with in the 1940s–was one of the performers at the show my father attended. At one point in the show, Mickey Rooney took a pie in the face, no doubt to the high hilarity of the assembled troops. Mickey Rooney began wiping his face, and gave his opinion that “That’s about enough of that s***.” No doubt that added to the hilarity even more. I’m guessing that Mickey Rooney voluntarily took countless pies in the face on his European tour, and always to the great appreciation of the troops.

My father’s memories of France included ordering red wine–“vin rose”–in French villages. My mother recalled that he also mentioned eating olives out of brown paper sacks.

When he came home from the war, he got on the bus to go from Gary to Hobart. He was wearing his uniform, and the bus driver told him there was no charge for soldiers. My father told him he was no longer an army man, and insisted upon paying for his fare. This bespoke his gladness to be out of the army.

What about shooting the enemy? This was of course the kind of thing a young boy wanted to know about. I got the impression that my father was fortunate in not having to do a lot of shooting. He was a gifted mechanic (another trait I did not inherit from him), and for a long time was part of the motor pool. However, he wanted to be a part of the shooting army, and eventually finagled a job carrying a rifle in the infantry. He told about one early morning, shooting at what may or may not have been the enemy, and seeking for his glasses while doing so. He wouldn’t have been seeing much without them. (This sort of eyesight I did inherit from him.) I should have questioned him more closely, as I got older. But I didn’t. He didn’t dramatize his experiences. His WWII must have been less horrific than those which many soldiers, living, dead, and maimed, experienced. His friend Dugan Riley did not come back, but my father did, and not horribly traumatized, unlike, say, someone like the brilliant writer J. D. Salinger, whose wartime experiences were physically and psychologically painful, to say the least.

My favorite memory from my father’s World War II, concerned the English village where he and his fellow soldiers were quartered. I wish I knew the name of the place. It turned out that the English people were not all that friendly. Well, how would you like to have several hundred or several thousand young soldiers camped on your doorstep? Some of them may even have had designs on your daughters. Anyway, the reception of the Americans was decidedly somewhere between cool to frosty. My father and his friends accepted that for a while, but pretty soon they struck back. I suspect my father was one of the ringleaders in this. My mother came to the same conclusion independently of me. We both knew his sense of humor, and we both knew his personality. He had an anarchist streak. What he and some of his friends did, was to greet the villagers in a friendly fashion. Then, when there was no response, the American soldiers would say something like, “Good! I’m glad to hear it. I’m doing fine too. Thank you for asking! How is Mrs. Harris? Over her cold, I hope. Well, good day to you, I have to be getting on now.” I am simply guessing at the kind of words they used, but whatever they said, that was sort of the spirit of the thing. The young American soldiers did this constantly–greeted the people in a friendly fashion and pretended that a polite response had come. The English villagers–no doubt well endowed with the famous English sense of humor–soon got the message. And they responded admirably. No doubt they could tell that there was nothing mean-spirited about the persiflage. The madcap Yanks were simply having a bit of fun. The villagers soon thawed, and were more friendly from then on. This is by far my favorite story from my father’s war. One can see it happening. It would film extremely well, I think. Somewhere in England there may be some people who remember this incident in their lives, almost seventy-five years after it happened. The adults would be dead now, of course, but maybe some of the older children might remember.

From the unpromising start, through the farcical greetings, eventually, my father became particularly friendly with one English family in the village. There’s a lesson in all this somewhere. Maybe sometimes we need not to get angry, but instead not be afraid to have a giggle. A sense of humor can come in handy.

Those are a few stories from my father’s World War II. By the blood of Jesus Christ, may he rest in peace.

There is a difference between being able to accept failure as something that really happened, and admitting that the failure was our fault.

For example, I have no problem at all admitting that my books are a failure in their sales. I have sold very few copies, and I couldn’t have published my books unless I had self-published them. But do I believe that the books have failed because they are bad works not worth buying and reading? That is a bridge too far, for me. I think the books are pretty good. The books have failed because people have not appreciated them appropriately. That is my narrative, at least. I can’t picture myself being able to desert that narrative while I’m living. The only way I will admit that the failure of my books was a failure to write good books, is if higher authorities point that out to me in the afterlife, with cogent reasons for their opinion. Even then it will be very hard for me to accept. They will probably have a very hard time convincing me. To admit that my failure was deserved will be extremely difficult. For now, I continue to believe that the books are good, and that their failure to sell is not because they are bad books, but for other reasons. Only God and/or His associates are going to be able to convince me different–and they will have their work cut out for them.

What is true for me is true for everyone, or almost everyone. We all have a narrative. We are the heroes of our narratives, and our failure is almost never our fault.

For example, Hillary Clinton is the heroine of her own narrative. She recognizes that she failed to win the election for president in 2016. But she is unable to accept the fact that the failure might have been her own fault. One article counted sixteen reasons Mrs. Clinton has come up with, at various times, for why she was not elected. It was not her fault, according to her. That she is a horrible person not worthy of political office, has never occurred to her, and never will. She, like me, will have to wait for the afterlife to be taught why she failed. I suspect she will be as difficult to persuade as I will be about the worthlessness of my books.

Here is another example. Yesterday as I was planning this blog post, providentially I came across the following quote from distinguished black economist Walter E. Williams. In an article entitled “Blind to Real Problems,” he pointed out the difficulty black people have in accepting the reasons for their failure. In the paragraph below he quotes from another prominent black scholar, Shelby Steele.

‘For several decades, a few black scholars have been suggesting that the vision held by many black Americans is entirely wrong. Dr. Shelby Steele, a scholar at Stanford University’s Hoover Institution, said: “Instead of admitting that racism has declined, we (blacks) argue all the harder that it is still alive and more insidious than ever. We hold race up to shield us from what we do not want to see in ourselves.”‘

So most or many black people have a narrative as to why they have failed to prosper as they would like. The failure is not their fault. Their problems are the result of the racism of honkies. Blaming themselves and their culture is a bridge way too far. Far preferable, for many of them, to blame someone else.

Go to any church in the land. You will see people who are not really participating in the worship service. They are there because they feel they need to be, but their narrative does not include a need humbly to worship Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I attended a church where quite a few of the young people were not really participating. They were of an age in which they were quite able to read and sing. They sat quietly, but they didn’t make an effort to sing. They were there because they were dragged there by their parents. (Good for their parents.) But their parents, wise enough to see their need to be at church with their children, were not wise enough to see that their children had not yet seen their need to repent and worship the God of the Bible. Their narrative was that their children were doing fine, and better than most other children in the land. I even heard one elder say how good it was to see the young people participating. He must have been in some sort of parallel universe to mine. The parents so far have not faced the fact that they are failing with getting their children on a true biblical path. Granted, some of the children possibly were doing well. But many obviously were not participating in the service, which indicates they and their parents were clueless. Were the parents able to face their failure squarely? Of course not. What was going on at that church was going on at almost every church in the United States. The narrative was king–but the narrative was false.

Failure tempts us to a false narrative. But success can trick us also. If we are successful at one thing, we begin to suspect that we deserve to be successful at everything. If we are successful at something important, how could we possibly be failures in other important things? Mrs. Clinton has been confused by success. She held high public office, was highly praised by many people, and secured the nomination for president of the United States, of one of the two most powerful political parties in the nation. She even won 65,844,954 votes for president (more than Donald Trump by over 2.8 million votes; thank heaven for the Electoral College!). She had reason to be confused about her deserts. Success had tricked her into believing that she had a right to be president, and that those of us who disagreed were deplorable.

Admitting that we have deserved to fail is extremely difficult to do. We can’t really do it well at all. In fact, it is too much to ask of us. What we can do, however, is work to become as honest and objective as possible under the circumstances. Whatever crumbs of honesty we grab onto, it won’t be enough–but even a little bit of honesty is better than none.

Failure and success ultimately will be determined by God. Jeremiah, who often wept at his failure, probably was in the eyes of God a success. All of us will have to wait for God’s evaluation to be sure whether or not we have failed or succeeded. Maybe we have failed at some things, but succeeded at others–and maybe not in the categories we expected. We won’t know for sure until God evaluates us.

Gwendoline Keats (pen name Zack), had something cogent to say about success/failure. In her story “The Busted Blue Doll,” she wrote about Termater Bill’s funeral oratory for Battista, who had failed to find gold and had died young. The parts in brackets are footnotes given by Zack.

‘Termater Bill cleared his throat and spat into the open grave. “Life,” he said, “was a jumpt-up quare thing: there wa’ they who bottomed payable dirt [Bottom payable dirt–find sufficient gold to pay working expenses.] fust go off, an’ thar wa’ they who–didn’t.” He was silent for a moment, and rubbed his face with his sleeve. “But,” he continued, “maybe out thar,” and he pointed vaguely towards a patch of sunset sky, “across the Divide, they finds colour.” [Find colour–find gold.] He ceased speaking, and the men puffed away at their their pipes in silence: at last some one suggested that it was time for the corpse to “turn in.”‘ (Life is Life, p. 155)

Zack herself, like Battista, might be a good topic for success/failure. She bottomed payable dirt early in her life, that is, she was published at an early age, and her books were respected and in some cases highly admired early on. Eventually and quickly she was almost completely forgotten. But maybe beyond the Divide, she has found colour. Maybe God judged her work to be valuable–or maybe He didn’t. Since I love her books, I am guessing and hoping that she found colour.

We can admit failure, but it is almost impossible for us to admit that our failure was deserved or that it is final. The best we can hope for is to strive for as much objectivity and honesty as possible. It won’t be enough, but it will be better than no honesty at all.

If you’ve never entered a Dollar Tree, you might want to check it out. Especially if you are a bit of a tightwad, as I am. (By the way, I don’t own stock in Dollar Tree–but [full disclosure] I hope to buy some in the near future.)

Dollar Tree, like many companies, grew up gradually over time. Its origin seems to have been in the 1950s, under other names. Now, in 2018, it has over 14,600 stores in the contiguous 48 states, and another 200 plus in Canada. It continues to add more stores.

You will not be shocked to learn that Dollar Tree sells everything for a dollar. Actually, some items are less than a dollar. I buy my poster board (used at my place of employment) at Dollar Tree for $.69. But most items are a dollar–and nothing is more than a dollar.

Wikipedia says that Dollar Tree’s business strategy goes something like this: “Its prices are primarily designed to attract those with financial difficulties, but it has also become popular with more affluent customers.” I don’t really have financial difficulties, but I am certainly not wealthy. I doubt if anyone would call me affluent. But it is difficult for me to understand how anybody of any financial rank could resist Dollar Tree.

Dollar Tree offers a pretty large variety of items. A few are toiletries, gloves, socks, detergent, office supplies. Some incredible bargains are available. There were some light thermal boot socks which were so good that I bought a lifetime supply. In fact I bought so many that I’m pretty sure the boot socks will outlast my life by a wide margin. But sometimes a great item might appear at Dollar Tree for a while, then disappear–so I bought the socks while I knew they were available. I have no regrets.

The laundry detergent I buy for a $1.00 says it is good for 32 loads. I have kept track and it really is good for that many loads–plus maybe a few more. It gets my clothes clean, even though I always do my laundry in cold water only. Good quality stuff.

I comparison shop. Aldi is a fantastic grocery store. Dollar Tree beats Aldi on some items. However, Aldi is better on some things. I bought hard taco shells for a dollar at Dollar Tree–but can get the same number of taco shells for $.89 at Aldi. I grieve, then I learn and move on. Salted crackers, olives, and fruit juice, to name a few things, are cheaper at Dollar Tree. As is true of anything, “attention must be paid,” as a friend of mine has noted about his business doings.

Some of the best items available at Dollar Tree are their selection of pens. I like pens. I just like pens, in general. Dollar Tree offers a wide variety of pens, and some of them are superb. Recently I bought some packages of gel pens, eight for . . . you guessed it, a dollar. They have a dark, medium thick line. Perfect for some things. Mostly blue and black were available, but I also found pens offering a mixture of unusual colors, of the same type as the black and blue. I was able to purchase the last packet; other customers had scarfed up the rest. I haven’t seen the colored pens since, and may never see them again. If I do I will pounce.

The best pen item in Dollar Tree is SKU:110015. These are Jot gel pens, three for a dollar. One type of package offers three black pens, another type of package offers 1 black, 1 blue, and 1 red. The ink line is thinner, very useful for situations where you want to preserve space. These are fantastic pens. I am not usually a fan of blue pens, but the color of blue is bright and attractive. The Dollar Tree website had fifteen reviews of these pens–all fifteen gave them five out of five stars. I didn’t vote, but I agree completely. That mankind can buy three pens of this quality for $1.00 plus tax is a hint that civilization is not dead yet. Thank God for the free market.

The plot thickens, however. This is an item that doesn’t always show up in our local Dollar Tree. So I did some research. At the worst, I can order, from the Dollar Tree website, a full box of SKU:110015–48 packages, and pick them up at my local Dollar Tree for $48.00 plus tax. I really may have to make that purchase. I am running out of the pens, and I really don’t want to face life without them. If that means there are a large number of pens still unused when I die, well, my heirs and assigns finally got something good out of me. Meanwhile, the lady at the local Dollar Tree is trying to help me get the pens without having to purchase 48 packages.

As far as I can remember, I have only been in two Dollar Trees in my life. The Internet businessinsider website reported that the store the author entered somewhere on the east coast was “appalling” in its chaos. Pictures accompanying the article showed that she was not fibbing. Our local store here in Brownstown, in southern Indiana, is incredibly neat and inviting. But even if I had to go to a Dollar Tree which was appalling in its organization, I am sure I would gladly do so. There are too many superb items at an excellent price, for me to be chased away by a little chaos.

Seventy-four years after D-Day, June 6, 1944, when the Allies attacked the Normandy beaches of France, one has to wonder . . . how did we get to the world we have now? Was D-Day worth it? Did we win? Did we lose? Did both sides lose?

Taki Theodoracopulos, Greek (and largely American) journalist, bon vivant, and they-broke-the-mold rascal, is still writing and publishing at age 81. Recently he wrote a piece entitled “What Price Normandy?”, which is readily available on the Internet, including at “Taki’s Magazine.” He wonders if the sacrifices made at D-Day were worth it. A quote from that article:

“Our stifling culture of PC now makes the sacrifices of those young men who fell in Normandy seem, well, not in vain, but hardly worth it. The material and spiritual degradation of the postmodern West—the porn, the violence, and the greed—are not worth the life of a single Green Jacket, GI, or Panzergrenadier. Call me a cynic if you like, but after visiting the graves of the young American, British, Canadian, and German soldiers, grief was replaced by rage at what we’ve done with our precious victory. We are now all prisoners of a stifling cultural uniformity that punishes those who trespass as quickly and as mercilessly as any Gestapo visit ever did. Qualities such as virtue and civility are now seen as irrational and harmful, and PC humbug reigns supreme.”

Political correctness, porn, violence, and greed are not the only problems have to worry about, in regard to our current culture. Think about it. The political “elite” in Europe has insisted upon voluntarily permitting the invasion of Muslim hordes into their countries. Seventy-four years after the invasion which began on June 6, 1944–while at least a few of the soldiers who participated are not yet in their graves–the complete disappearance of much of Christian Europe seems to be just a matter of time. The men who died on the Normandy beaches, and those who fought and lived as well, have been betrayed. Rage is a very appropriate feeling.

My late father was in England on D-Day. He did not go to France on that day. (Or I might not be writing this.) My Aged Parent tells me that my father went to join the invasion on the fifth day. That sounds about right. My father never tried to stretch or exaggerate his own contributions to the war. He had stories about the war, and many of his stories were humorous. I wonder, what would he think of the world we have now, less than three-quarters of a century after the “victory” which began with the D-Day invasion? Knowing him as long as I did (my whole life up until his death at age 72) I am sure he would be disgusted and contemptuous of what our nation has become.

There were about 10,000 Allied casualties on D-Day, of whom 4,414 were confirmed dead. The German casualties were somewhere between 4,000 and 9,000. That is a lot of death and suffering, even though it was only one day and the suffering of the war as a whole was of course vastly greater. Was it worth it?

World War II (1939-1945) was a continuation of World War I (1914-1918). As I tried to show in my blog posts for April 5 and 12 of this year, World War I was first of all a symptom of the dying out of Christianity in Christian Europe and Christian America. World War II was more of the same, deja vu all over again.

We have to face reality. Yes, the vicious sociopaths who run Europe and the U.S. are, well, vicious sociopaths. They are evil beyond our ability fully to process. They are traitors to the human race, and traitors to the people of their individual countries. They are arrogant, ignorant, and anti-Christian. They are worthy of our rage and our hate.

But it’s not just them. It’s us. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. (Jeremiah 13:23) He can’t change his spots. He is what he is. Our sociopaths can’t and won’t change. Barring regeneration and conversion, our sociopaths will remain sociopaths, and if a handful of them are converted, dozens more are ready to step in to replace them. We don’t blame the leopard for acting like a leopard.

By now we Christians should have figured all this out. We have to accept responsibility for ourselves. We elect the sociopaths. We accept their morality. We allow them to poison us with anti-Christian ideas. Our brand of Christianity is pietist and antinomian. By pietist I mean that we reduce our Christianity down to tiny little portions of life, whereas biblical Christianity applies to all of life. By antinomian I mean that we ignore the biblical teaching about how God’s laws apply to everyday life.

Our brand of Christianity was not Christian enough. Christianity was dying out in our hearts long before August 1914 began the war from which we never have recovered. Of our Christianity, we might say, borrowing from Gertrude Stein on the topic of Oakland, “There’s no there there.”

It’s us. We don’t have to be ruled by sociopaths, but unless we are willing to accept responsibility for what we have allowed to happen, and are willing to change the way we think and act, we will continue to be ruled by them. They will continue to bring us theft, murder, disaster. It’s what they do. They are good at it. They are the challenge God has set us. If we refuse to accept that challenge, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We don’t blame a burning house for killing us, if we insist upon staying in a burning house for no good reason. If we stayed in the burning house, we committed suicide. If we continue to live like practical non-Christians, instead of like the Christians we claim to be, we too are committing suicide. We are destroying our entire civilization, destroying not only ourselves but also our friends and neighbors. We harm even our enemies, who might have been helped had we lived a biblical brand of Christianity.

Taki said he felt rage at what our culture has become, seventy-four years after D-Day. Rage seems appropriate. Maybe I feel it just because I am a grumpy old man who no longer appreciates what the soldiers did on June 6, 1944. I don’t think that is my problem here. I respect the courage of all those who fought and died–on both sides. But I have to feel they were–again, on both sides–conned into killing each other for reasons which were not sensible. They died to keep sociopaths enjoying life.

Some of the soldiers who fought on June 6, 1944, are still living. The winners thought they were accomplishing something great. In 2018, I have my doubts that they really won. They were, at best, betrayed. Our sociopaths betrayed them, but if we are honest, we will have to admit that we ordinary garden variety Christians were the ultimate betrayers.

Call me a tired-out unpatriotic and bad-tempered old man, but what I feel about D-Day in 2018 is chiefly rage.