John Delach

Little Richard passed in April of 2020 at 87. RIP: Richard Wayne Penniman.

In 1955, he exploded out of the Rhythm & Blues (R&B) backwaters of the deep South and crashed into the early days of rock and roll with his hit song: Tutti Frutti. Granted, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino and Bo Didley had previously crossed over from R&B to white rock, but Little Richard initiated a revolution and rightfully deserves to be called the Godfather of Rock and Roll!

As Tim Weiner explained in his New York Times obituary: “Little Richard, pounding the piano furiously and screaming as if for his very life, raised the energy level several notches and created something not quite like any music that had been heard before – something new, thrilling and more than a little dangerous.”  

Dangerous, indeed: Take my favorite Little Richard tune: Long Tall Sally. Most renditions muted the theme of the song that Uncle John was having an extra marital affair with Sally. The significant verse is:

Well, long tall Sally

She’s built for speed, she got

Everything that Uncle John need.

This verse was altered to:

Well long tall Sally’s

Kind of sweet, she got

Everything that Arkansas need.

Really! If it’s about Arkansas, then why did Uncle John have to duck back in the alley when he saw Aunt Mary coming?

But I digress. I was on my way home alone on a Friday afternoon at the end of another London business trip. (I made over a one hundred from 1976 to 2000.)

Seeking a hidden treasure, I stopped at the bookstore in the Heathrow’s Terminal Three. Luck was with me as I discovered a cassette featuring the mid-century R&B entertainers / song writers who became the roots of rock and roll.

Of course, Little Richard was one and the tape featured four of his songs: Good Golly Miss Molly, Lucille, Tutti Frutti and Long Tall Sally.

Pleased with my discovery, I made my way to the British Airways lounge to relax, have a bloody Mary and listen to my new tape as I waited for my flight to be called for boarding. When I saw it flashing on the departure board, I left the club and headed for my gate.

Back in the day, BA’s gates for flights to America were a long distance from the club. From repetition, I knew my gate’s location, so I strolled along the corridors listening to these great singers filling my headphones with songs like Long Tall Sally.

I was in the groove by the time I reached the gate. Cassette player off, I received my boarding pass. I thanked the agent and made my way on to the jetway. As I stepped onto the 747, I offered my boarding pass to the flight attendant at the door who examined it and directed me to my seat.

I began my usual drill to settle in for the long flight home. I removed the items I expected to use during this flight before I put my carry-on into the overhead.

Suddenly, I heard the following announcement: “Would John Delach please identify himself?”

I rang my call button identifying my location.

“Mister Delach, may I see your boarding pass?”

I handed it to the flight attendant. She examined it, then asked, “Where are you traveling to with us today?” (Got to love Brit-speak!)

“New York’s JFK”

“I see. The problem is the destination for this airplane is Boston. It seems that you boarded the flight at Gate 73. Our British Airways flight to JFK is at Gate 75.”

Fortunately, time was on my side, the correct gate was only one away and this crew had alerted the JFK crew that I was on my way.

“Long Tall Sally” had been my undoing but I wasn’t the only one asleep at the switch that Friday afternoon.     

My one and only Octoberfest experience took place in 1994 when the Munich Re Insurance Company hosted a meeting with our firm and our client Exxon. The meeting was planned for the first week in October, the same week that this annual beer festival began.

Curiously, on the Saturday morning, September 29^th, before I began my journey, my AM radio was tuned to WCBS-880, and this news station actually reported that Octoberfest was to begin tomorrow, Sunday, September 30th.

“Some coincidence,” I thought, “I’m about to make a trip to Munich with Exxon’s Treasurer, who doesn’t understand that insurance underwriters don‘t view Exxon the same way as their money managers does. Underwriters don’t worship having Exxon’s business. For them, you present the danger of loss whereas investors recognize Exxon as a safe place to put their money. Money managers didn’t have to deal with the Exxon Valdez!

“Oh well, this is what I am paid to do. Munich, here we come.”

I arrived in Munich early Sunday morning, gave the taxi driver the name of my hotel that turned out to be in downtown Munich along the route of the Octoberfest Parade. The driver had his radio on a station playing songs dedicated to today’s event. One song  grabbed my attention. It was a musical version of the beer commercial that I knew as:

My beer in Reingold, the dry beer. Think of Rheingold whenever you buy beer. It’s not bitter; not sweet; it’s the dry flavored treat. Won’t you try extra dry Rheingold beer.

I thought about this musical version of the Rheingold jingle and realized that this must be a classic piece that the beer company’s advertisers adopted for their brand.

This thought bounced around in my head until it eventually faded into my memory’s background.

The trip went well and the Octoberfest was a hoot. The fest takes place in a series of pre-fabricated structures packed with picnic tables that they call tents. We had twelve people in our group and our hosts did the ordering. Naturally, beer came first and our server brought us twelve steins of beer. My first reaction upon seeing my stein was, “Where’s my glass to pour this pitcher into?”

Finally, I realized that pitcher was my glass and the Octoberfest brew was outstanding.

 Supper was definitely German fare, pretzels for appetizers, various brats, and frankfurters for the main course with potato salads for sides.

The trip went well allowing me to establish a better relationship between my client and our team.

One German oddity about Octoberfest. The rest rooms are not free  and the user must buy a token from vendors to enter!  

Fast Forward

Far removed from 1994, earlier this November, Mary Ann and I were watching one of the last episodes from the series, Golden Girls, when the script led these stars to all sing, My beer is Rheingold, the dry beer, Think of Rheingold whenever you buy beer…both of usjoined the cast in singing the lyrics as well as we could.

It reminded me of my experience listening to the song in that cab, 29-years ago.

A simple hunt on the internet revealed that the music for this piece was written as a waltz by Emile Waldteufel: 1837-1915. His waltz was originally six- minutes long.

Can you imagine a six-minute beer commercial? Neither can I!

Finally, after sixty-three years of existence, the Texas Rangers won the World Series earlier this fall. Congratulations!

Over the years, I have attended several games at their home stadiums. Most of my memories are mundane, but there was one incident that my cousin, Bill and I witnessed that’s worth remembering.

I had flown from LaGuardia to DFW (Dallas-Fort Worth Airport) on a business trip visiting Exxon-Mobil’s home office in Las Calinas. Bill picked me up from my hotel after those meeting ended so I could stay at his home in Plano after we attended a Rangers game that night and returned to New York the next day.

We ate at the stadium’s buffet dining room before heading to our reserved seats in the upper deck behind home plate.

After the traditional playing of our National Anthem, the action on the field began while the crowd took their seats. Occupying several seats two rows below us was a home-town family of five Born-again Christians. I understood their message of devotion from their tee shirts that advertised Jesus, finding Jesus and/or being born again.

Ordinarily, this discovery would have been no more than a footnote

to my experience that night at the ballpark. But then, their daughter, a cute teenager about 16-years- old returned from the concession stand and announced to her father: ”Daddy, a man down below us told me that I have a pretty ass.”

“Well, darling, you do have pretty eyes.”

“No daddy, he said I have a pretty ass.”

“Can you point him out?”

She did and her daddy signaled to his oldest son who I guessed to be fifteen to join him. They made their way down to the perpetrator who met them standing, having a good time, clueless of his fate. Seconds later, Daddy, administered his daughter’s revenge as he punched her offender in the nose. Texas style justice had been administered.

Security arrived. Her daddy made his case. The perpetrator was removed from the ball park while daddy returned to his family.

Bill and I had taken in the drama from the safety of our seats. But, as daddy returned to his seat, I turned to Bill to ask him: “Bill, what do you say to $50? I’ll give you $50 if you tell her daddy that she does have a pretty ass?

He declined as I thought he would,   

When the order for the second torpedo attack was received, Admiral Sprague excused the destroyer escorts since they carried only three torpedoes. Never-the-less, the Samuel B. Roberts skipper, Lieutenant Commander R.W. Copeland, decided to follow the destroyers becoming the fourth ship in the attack column.

The Japanese concentrated on the three destroyers allowing the Roberts to remain undetected until it was less than 4,000 yards from the heavy cruisers. Roberts let loose her three torpedoes that ran, “hot straight and normal,” blowing the bow off of the heavy cruiser Chokai.”

The time was 0755.

By now the destroyer Heerman was dead in the water and sinking, but the two other destroyers, Hoel and the badly damaged Johnston along with the Roberts scurried back to form a screen around the carrier, Fanshaw Bay,  to make smoke and fire their five-inch guns at will. Their target, the cruiser, Tone, answered back with its main battery of eight-inch guns and around 0850, “Roberts took her first hit below the waterline followed by additional hits in rapid succession.”

At about 0900, Skipper Copeland reported that “…a tremendous explosion took place on his ship that he believed to have been caused by two or three 14-inch shells,” that only a battleship could fire. They tore a great, jagged hole 30 to 40 feet long and 7 to 10 high on the port side. The damage was so severe that all power was lost and the ship was reduced from stack to stern to ‘an inert mass of battered metal.”

Despite the complete loss of power, the crew of No. 2 gun managed to get off six salvos by hand. Unfortunately, a seventh attempt failed, killing the three members of the gun crew. Abandon Ship was ordered at 0910 but not completed until 0935 because the skipper insisted that the wounded be given first aid and placed on rafts.

Roberts lay over about 80 degrees then gave a twist and slowly sank by the stern at 1005.  

Copeland concluded his post action report by repeating what he informed the crew what they should expect over loudspeaker system:

“This will be a fight against overwhelming odds from which survival could not be expected, during which time we would do what damage we could.’ In the face of this knowledge, the men zealously manned their stations wherever they might be and fought and worked with such calmness, courage and efficiency that no higher honor could be conceived than to command such a group of men.”

Of the compliment of 215 men, 90 went down with the ship or succumbed to injuries received or exposure during the 50 hours spent on rafts or in the water before they were rescued.

The American Navy lost two escort carriers, Fanshaw Bay and St. Lo, two destroyers, Hoel and Johnston, and the destroyer escort, Samuel B. Roberts.  

Admiral Kurita was never quite sure if he was fighting a lowly squadron of jeep carriers and their screening ships or Halsey’s powerful Third Fleet, but the little escorts and the flyers of Taffy 3 did enough damage to send the Japanese force back to their home port in Java. Most of these ships never went to sea again.

The little ships and their aviators saved the day, and Halsey’s legacy would always be  questioned by his decision to desert supporting these little ships in favor of chasing the former decoy Japanese carriers.

As in any battle, once the engagement began, fate became the hunter.

In June of 2023, an international oceanic exploration group led by Victor Vescovo located the remains of the USS Samuel B. Roberts This destroyer escort came to rest 22,600 feet below where it sank during the naval battle of Leyte to free the Philippines and made the Roberts the deepest combat casualty ever located.

The Roberts was one of the smallest warships in size and armament to regularly serve as part of the Navy’s main fleets. Usually, these little ships were relegated to escorting larger warships, or hunting for enemy submarines.

On the morning of October 22, 1944, the crew of the USS Samuel B. Roberts entered into harm’s way to

endure a remarkable yet brief combat experience. Nicknamed, “The Sammy B.” the Roberts was sunk by multiple hits from large caliber shells fired from Japanese battleships, cruisers and other major warships. How did this welterweight of a warship find itself in the middle of a heavyweight fight?

The naval battle that accompanied the invasion of Leyte was, by far, the largest of the Pacific War. The Japanese chose to engage the US Fleet in a winner-take-all showdown. Since the Battle of Midway in 1942, their fleet had suffered losses they couldn’t replace to their aircraft carriers and aviators that they couldn’t replace while the size and strength of the American navy kept growing by leaps and bounds. Such losses were especially terrible at the Battle of the Philippine Sea that proceeded the battle for Leyte. History still calls that air battle  “The Marianas Turkey Shoot.” The American fleet lost 115 aircraft while the Japanese lost more than 600.

At Leyte, the Japanese High Command divided their assets into three fleets, the Central Fleet consisting of almost all of their heavily armored and armed surface warships, the Southern Fleet consisting of obsolete battleships and the Northern Fleet, made up of their remaining aircraft carriers, now reduced to floating targets acting as a diversionary ruse.

The Southern Fleet was wiped out in a single night. Their Central Fleet took several major casualties early on from attacks by US naval aircraft and submarines. Our intelligence reported that their Central Fleet had reverse course and retreated.

Admiral William (Bull) Halsey, CEO of the Third Fleet, the primary American war fleet was obsessed with the whereabouts of the enemy’s carrier fleet. When he was informed incorrectly that the Central Fleet had reversed course, he dispatched this powerful armada to destroy it. With Halsey’s departure, the sole American presence protecting the landing beaches off of the island of Samar was reduced to  four escort carriers, also called baby carriers or jeep carriers. The purpose of their Marine aircrews was to protect and support the Marines fighting on Leyte using pre-war  Wildcat fighters.

Each carrier group  was assigned an escort of three destroyers and four destroyer escorts.

On the morning of October 25, 1944, the three carrier groups had completed their nightly patrol duties and were re-deploying to begin their ground support flight operations. At 0645, strange things began to happen unexpected anti-aircraft fire, unidentified surface contacts and Japanese chatter. At 0658, the Japanese opened fire.

One minute later, colored splashes from the batteries of Japanese ships began rising astern of the ships of this small fleet. Admiral Kurita, the admiral in charge of the Japanese Central Fleet became equally shocked and confused to see American aircraft carriers ahead of his fleet. He didn’t realize they were only jeep carriers ordered “General Attack,” against what he thought was Admial Halsey’s main fleet. Chaos soon ensued. By 7:00 all aircraft from the three carrier groups had been launched, but the Japanese shell splashes progressed closer and closer to the escort carriers.

At 0716, Admiral Clifton Sprague, the local commander ordered his three destroyers to attack. Unbeknown to Sprague, Commander Ernest E. Evans, skipper of the USS Johnston had already ordered his crew to general quarters, lit all boilers and passed the word “prepare to attack a major portion of the Japanese fleet.” When Evans received orders from Sprague to deliver a torpedo attack with Hoel and Hermann, the other two destroyers. He closed the Johnston at 25 knots to within 10,000 yards of a heavy cruiser and fired her ten torpedoes, whipped around and retired behind her own smoke.

At about 7:30, three 14-inch shells slammed into the Johnston followed by three 6-inch shells thirty seconds later. “It was like a puppy being smacked by a truck.” But speed was maintained at 17 knots and all gun stations remained on line.

Next in was USS Hoel together with the USS Hermann that

commenced their duels with the enemy battleships and heavy cruisers. As they formed up for a second torpedo attack, Lieutenant R. W. Copeland, skipper of the Samuel B. Roberts, decided to tag along with the big boys contrary to his orders.

 (TO BE CONTINUED…)                    

“Call me Buster.”

 I am a seven-year-old mixed breed part Chow / part Border Collie with brown and black hair I have pointy ears that I can turn 180 degrees that would make me a lousy poker player as how I set my ears gives away my mood. Let me tell you about my first trip to Florida.

Before we left, I had my hair cut. This was not my idea as January was cold and wet. When they did this to me. I thought that Mary Ann and John, the people I live with, were trying to kill me, but the next day we set out in their truck on a road trip that would take us to a special place, called Florida, where the weather is nice and warm in January.

I didn’t always live with them. A girl named Jodie, who I adored, adopted me from the North Shore Animal’s League’s shelter. She took me home to Connecticut. Later, she married their son, Michael. It was not a bad life until they had this kid. Didn’t like him, but food became more plentiful once he arrived. Then he became mobile and interested in me. A couple of bites later, it was goodbye Fairfield, and hello Port Washington, Long Island.

My life in this new home would have been much better if they didn’t already have Maggie living with them too. She arrived a year before I did, in 1999, another reject.

 She was thrown out of her home because she was a crazy ten-month-old Golden Retriever. Now five, she’s still nuts, and she’s a pain in my ass. Stupid Golden Retrievers think they are so special and this one thinks she is “The Supreme Being.” The fools I live with, especially, John, treat her that way.

You don’t believe me? She uses toys as props, rubber footballs, a rubber ring, a rope and especially tennis balls. She obsesses over her toys and God forbid, I borrow one, the bitch takes it away. Now toys are not a big deal for me, but fair is fair.

She also hogs the window in the back seat. She stands there waiting for them to open it, so she can put her stupid head out. And when they do, God forbid, I go over to it. She growls and snarls at me. It can get so bad on this trip that I said the hell with it and found a spot in the back of the truck. Mary Ann was nice enough to find a mat for me to lie on while “her majesty” had the entire soft seat to herself.

Spending eight hours in a truck every day for three days is not as bad as you think. It isn’t as though I had other things to do and we stopped often enough to stretch and relieve ourselves. Sleeping in those little boxy rooms was another matter altogether. There are too many strangers, each one a potential assassin. I was ready to stay up all night and let them know I was on alert, but John stupidly closed the curtains.

When we arrived at the house in Florida, I had to learn a few things the hard way. Glass sliding doors are not always open and what happens when I walk across the plastic cover on top of the swimming pool. My only pleasure was watching her majesty do the same thing.

Each morning we hopped in the truck for a short ride to the beach. As soon as we began to move, Maggie began to act up. Her ears flailed back making her look like a bolting horse. Her eyes blinked rapidly as her tongue moved in and out of her mouth at the same speed. She whimpered and cried. When she saw the water, the Loony Tune’s barking and crying became so high-pitched that it went right through me. It was all I could do not to bite her so she’d shut up. This cacophony ended only after John let her out of the truck. And this happened every morning!

The beach was great. Not many people, a few new dogs to meet and greet. Most of the time we ran free and I had a grand time cataloging new and different smells, rolling on dead creatures and playing in the surf. On the other hand, “nutsy Fagin” had to have something to chase and carry in her big mouth. Each morning, John found a different coconut that he would throw into the water. Maggie mindlessly chased them.

Her nuttiness gave me the idea that if I chased them too, that might drive her off the deep end. After I grabbed the coconut first a couple of times, she freaked out and started ripping it out of my mouth. After that I decided to back off and let her have it.

 John threw the coconut like a football, but its weight and the wind made some throws fall short. It was my fondest hope that sooner or later one would hit her on the head and kill her. (Imagine John having to call his kids to tell them what happened.)

Don’t get in an uproar, it didn’t happen. Actually, it was an excellent vacation with no mishaps after the first day. Neither of us went swimming in the bayou behind the house because the bottom was too muddy, and our instincts sensed danger. Good thing too because we found out alligators liked to swim there.

 We also avoided fleas and I had to smile because last year Maggie acquired fleas on the trip I missed.

So, you can put me down to recommending Florida as a good place to go to leave winter behind, but it would be much better to go there as an Only Dog.

Mary Ann, Maggie and I travelled from Port Washington to Sanibel Island five times from 2000 to 2004. We  managed to convert our dog from a sickly and horrible car mate into a road buddy, Maggie added to our adventures. Back then the two Carolinas didn’t allow pets to stay in local motels. We avoided those states by  making our first stop in Emporia, Virginia, the last town before North Carolina and our second stop in Brunswick, Georgia, south of the Carolinas.

Both were dog friendly. On our last morning, fed, walked and ready to roll, Maggie would complain about these boxes we stayed in the past two nights and this rolling box we traveled in during the day. She’d verbalize her dissatisfaction with a combination of sighs and whines before settling down.

Although, our morning walks on the beach were perfect adventures for Maggie, I recognized  that I was breaking a local law by letting Maggie off the leash. True, but keeping my water-crazy Golden leashed on the beach would have been impossible. Taking our walks early in the morning and leaving the beach as soon as possible once we reached the public park was my game-plan to minimize confrontation with a non-dog lover or someone with an authoritative bent.

I thought this out, understanding that when somebody confronted me for Maggie being off leash, they would be correct to do so and I couldn’t challenge them on the facts. I considered different approaches until I found what I hoped would work if I could pull it off.

When this confrontation actually transpired, I was prepared for it. Maggie and I had just emerged from the woods onto the state park beach, when I caught sight of a couple walking toward us. We were still close to the surf and they were about half-way up the beach. Normally, I would have leashed Maggie at this point and headed inland, but an instinct told me to leash her, but stay near the surf.

Sure enough, the man walked away from the woman and headed in our direction on a diagonal path, despite her protestations not to do that.

 Oh shit, I said to myself, Here we go! Okay, you’ve got this down. Give him hell, John.

My protagonist quickly closed the gap between us so I chose to stop, tighten

Maggie’s collar to bring her close and wait for his assault. He didn’t disappoint. Instead of stopping far enough away to maintain respect for my space, he aggressively stepped forward occupying it.

Self-righteously, he proceeded to lecture me on my violations against the local laws for the proper handling of dogs on the beach. I let him lecture me until I could sense that he was running out of the energy to sustain his own self-serving indignation. Then I struck!

First off, as I began to attack him, I stepped toward him while lifting myself up to my full height. He gave way as I took a more aggressive step. I continued to close in on him making him uncomfortable. I lifted my right arm into the air and commanded: “You are correct, it seems I have violated a municipal ordinance, but this is nothing. What you should worry about are the laws of God!”

At this point, I took another step toward him, again, forcing him to give way: “Do you believe in your Lord, Jesus Christ? Are you ready to be saved? Have you repented? I ask you one last time, HAVE YOU REPENTED!”

One look told me that I had reduced him to nothing more than the jerk he was. With that, I turned Maggie away from him  and we walked away at a rapid pace leaving him behind. As we left the beach. I looked off to where his wife stood and it was obvious, she knew he had it coming.

As we walked off the beach, I told Maggie, “Another good day in paradise. We’ll do it again, tomorrow.”

Instinctively, she senses the water. Perched on the back seat of our SUV, Maggie extends her nose out through the partially opened window, her senses and  experience tells her that this is the way to the beach. Like a child, after a long automobile ride to a favorite seaside destination, she cannot contain herself as the Gulf of Mexico reveals itself.

Mary Ann lets us off before continuing on to her journey morning tennis  lession. Maggie and I will make our morning trek along the beach and back to our Sanibel rental. Maggie is a maniac, an ill-behaved Golden Retriever who luckily found her way to two of us, who can deal with her insanity.

Once on the ground, I hook my hand under her collar. Tugging, bucking, crying, she pulls me along until I secure my footing into the sand. I speak to her as I look up and down the beach. “It’s okay, Maggie, it’s okay.” The beach is clear; only a few early morning shellers, no unattended children and no other dogs. I take her collar in one hand and draw her close making her leash go slack. With my other hand, I open the clasp and let go.

Maggie crouches and pushes off with all her strength, kicking up sand as she bolts toward the water quickly closing the distance until she reaches the surf and plunges in. She swims through small breakers, turns, catches the next wave and body surfs back to shore.

 I jog toward the sun and Maggie darts ahead, establishing her own routine. She explores the beach, searching for sticks and coconuts to carry, sea gulls and osprey to scatter, or a decaying fish to sniff and, if its scent is acceptable, to roll upon.

 “Maggie, stop that.” I yell, but she ignores me until I have moved too far ahead for her to be comfortable. She stops and trots to catch up, overtakes me and veers back into the water, tail held high, to ride the surf again.

And so, our morning routine unfolds until we reach the public beach  populated with a few early arriving families ending my insane Golden Retriever’s daily morning activity to run freely and frolic in the surf.

She understands, I attach her to the leash as we begin our land journey back to the rental. I am proud of her. Yeah, she’s a half-baked poorly raised  rescue, but she’s ours and I am happy she loves swimming so much. When she came to us, she couldn’t travel in a car without her throwing up and dripping with uncontrollable sweat. Over time, she came around and we could include her on that three-day drive from Port Washington to Sanibel  without any of these issues.

We also taught her how to swim in Hempstead Harbor in Long Island Sound. We used tennis balls, another favorite, having her fetch them at the water’s edge. We threw them further and further until she had to accept floating and began to understand how to swim and reach them. Maggie quickly caught on to what being an aquatic retriever was all about.     

As we walk back to the house, she’d looks at me and whines. I’d look back at her and say: “Tomorrow is only a day away.”

(To be continued.)           

On the morning of Saturday, May 10, 1987, Ronald and Nancy Reagan attended the funeral Mass of CIA Director William Casey who had died the previous Wednesday. George de Lama reported for the Chicago Tribune that, “Casey died of pneumonia after being incapacitated since undergoing surgery for removal of two brain tumors last December. He resigned from his CIA post in February.”

“Security was tight in Roslyn, the Long Island town where St. Mary’s Church, the Casey’s local parish is located. The Reagans came directly there for the Requiem Mass with only invited guests allowed inside the church. Former president Richard Nixon sat next to Mrs. Reagan and the red-brick church was filled by…’virtually every senior member of the administration who came to honor and bury the crusty old spy who began his career by dropping Allied agents behind Nazi lines during World War II.”

Bishop John McGann, head of the Rockville Center (Long Island) diocese said the Mass and eulogized his old friend. This didn’t prevent McGann from criticizing Casey on his anti-communist views especially toward President Daniel Ortega and his Sandinista government. Neither the Reagans nor the Casey family ever publicly commented on McGann’s remarks.  

Casey was close to General William J. (Wild Bill) Donovan and served under him in several capacities in the newly formed OSS, Office of Strategic Services during the Second World War.   Casey joined other significant intelligence operators like Richard Helms and William Colby, both of whom later headed the CIA. In 1943, Donovan sent him to London where he took charge of inserting allied agents into German held territory. “Helms said years later that Casey had a feel for things clandestine. He also admired Casey’s ability to make hard decisions.”

Casey served during both the Nixon and Ford administrations. He only met Ronald Reagan in 1980, but soon after, Reagan invited Casey to become his campaign manager. Their campaign was a total success that swept Reagan into office. Reagan and Casey were sympatico when it came to implementing the “Reagan Doctrine” supporting anticommunist resistance movements.

One of their targets was Daniel Ortega, the revolutionary who led his Sandinista National Liberation Front to overthrow the US supported, long time, banana republic dictator, Anastasio Somoza one year earlier and condemn him to the dust pan of history.

“A Marxist-Leninist, Ortega pursued a program of nationalization, land reform, wealth redistribution…” that made him and his government a natural target for the Reagan Doctrine.    

Once empowered as head of the CIA Casey initiated military action to support the Contras, the most organized group actively at war with the Sandinistas.

Under Casey, CIA Operatives became involved in various black-ops like mining harbors and flying numerous missions supporting and supplying the Contras.

When Congress caught wind of what was going on, they introduced bills to curtail these activities. Essentially, Casey ignored these mandates whenever he could. Eventually, Congress cut off all funding that supported the Contras.

Undeterred, Casey and the President, agreed to fund them using creative yet illegal funding mechanism. Casey and the boys and girls at the CIA engineered a plan where Israel would sell US made anti-aircraft missiles to Iran and we would direct them to send the proceeds to the Contras. Even members of Reagan’s inner circle like George Shultz and Ed Meese opposed these actions.

Eventually, this led to a congressional investigation. As the circle began to close, it became apparent that Director Casey was at the center of these activities. It was about this time when Casey was about to be called before the committee that Casey was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Jeane J. Kirkpatrick, the former chief United States delegate to the United Nations defended Casey in her eulogy at his mass. “Supporting the Nicaraguan freedom fighters had a special priority for him, no question about it, but that had no more priority than law.” Dr. Kirkpatrick characterized Mr. Casey “as a bold, committed man in an age rent by controversy. He was not,’ she added, ‘afraid of the Devil.”

Casey’s wife, Sophia Kurz Casey, asked the mourners that in lieu of flowers or other contributions, “they make donations to the William J. Casy Fund for the Nicaraguan Freedom Fighters.”  

We can only speculate about President Reagan’s state of mind as he considered the turmoil that surrounded Bill Casey when he died. The Democrats had been closing in on initiating a congressional investigation to determine if the President’s administration had knowingly violated  Congress’ mandate not to supply the Contras with assistance.

The key was Bill Casey. Casey knew where all the bodies were buried. Like or hate Casey, you have to admit that he took what he knew to the grave. Without Casey, the chain of responsibility was broken.

Bill Daniel Ortega was peacefully voted out of office in 1990, but regained control in 2006. There he remains to this day. Now, 78, he has reverted to becoming just another Banana Republic dictator.                      

John Delach

Updated October 2023: Originally published in June 2014

A recent message sent to my blog prompted me to issue this encore edition.

A reader discovered my piece and chose to send me his recollection of living in a post-World War II Quonset Hut.

 This was M.K.’s comment: My mom and myself lived in 24-26 14^th Walk, Jackson Heights, NY. I was about five or six. I loved it there. I have very happy memories of running around on the grass, playing. Thank you for a wonderful story of those Quonset Huts. You made me so happy thinking of that time. Do you know, I have never forgotten that address.

One Sunday afternoon, when I was about seven years old, my mother took me on one of our many outings to Canarsie to spend the afternoon on the pier overlooking Jamacia Bay. That pier was one of our regular Sunday destinations, but this trip had a different twist. Leaving to go home, we walked under the Belt Parkway overpass, but Mom didn’t head for the bus stop on Rockaway Parkway. Instead, she led me toward the Quonset Huts lined up in rows and rows that were a fixture for as long as I could remember.

As we walked toward one of the huts, I realized that they were deserted. Mom made sure no one was around then pushed open the door at one the end of the hut. I followed her inside this curved structure where the walls and the roof were one. It was empty, no furniture, no rugs, no remnants or reminders of who had lived there. I don’t even remember seeing a sink or a toilet. We only saw one half as each hut was divided by a corrugated metal wall in the middle to form two homes. But I do remember what my mother said out loud as we left: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there.”

When next we visited the pier, the Quonset Huts were gone and soon construction began on a public housing project that became known as the Bayview Houses.

But the image of those cylindrical huts sheathed in corrugated steel lined up like an army of gigantic half-buried cans of soda or beer remained in my memory. There was another colony of Quonset Huts that I recall being located on vacant land in Maspeth, Queens, a short distance from where my Uncle Bill, Aunt Helen and my Christman cousins lived. This development was arranged on the slope of a hill that led up Elliot Ave. from 69^th Street to Mount Olivet Cemetery. Curiously, I can picture these tin cans vividly, but, like Canarsie, I can’t remember any images of the folks who lived there.

Quonset Hut housing: the why and how:

Our deliberate detonation of two Atom Bombs on Japan suddenly and dramatically ended the Second World War. Overnight, the incredible number of young American men who had been assembled for the most massive of any seaborne invasion ever envisioned; the assault on the Home Island of Honshu became superfluous.

Overnight, millions of GIs, swabies, leathernecks and coasties who were waiting to meet their fate when they invaded Japan were ordered to stand down. The war was over. Each expressed, the same emotional prayer of rejoicing: I’m free, free, thank God Almighty; I’m free at last!

And what does a young man want once he finally feels free enough to look himself in a mirror, smile and reflect, “Damn I’m not going die alone out here.” What does he want? “The girl back home!”

The official date for the birth of the first Baby Boomers was January 1, 1946. That’s reasonable. The boys in Europe who did the heaviest fighting had already been discharged in May. A good number had already married their sweethearts before going overseas that gave them an early staring point. Nature’s course was inevitable but, with the sudden end of the war in the Pacific, a new reality quickly hit; millions of newly discharged veterans and their wives had no place to live!

“The housing industry, still reeling from the Great Depression, had been further diminished by a wartime shortage of materials and labor…As a result; an estimated one million families were forced to double up. Before the end of 1946 that number would triple.”

Fortunately, our Nation remained on a war-footing and the right organizations existed on  local, state and national levels to implement emergency housing. They used what was available, military housing on bases made instantly surplus, other makeshift facilities and  used trailers. But, for the most part, they relied on a ubiquitous and readily available alternative, the Quonset Hut.

Conceived by the US Navy before we entered the war, the original huts were built on their new base at Quonset Point, RI to equip a remote post on Greenland. The design was based on a British expedient building, the Nissan Hut. But His Majesty’s government in its infinite wisdom had given the copyrights to Peter Norman Nissan, who designed this beauty when serving with the 29^th Company Royal Engineers during World War I in recognition of his service. Some legal eagle’s in the Pentagon saw the patent implications of deeming these structures to be Nissan Huts, so they became Quonset Huts.

The emergency housing units went up quickly once construction began and most opened in 1946. One of the largest developments was in Los Angeles, the Roger Young Village, built on a surplus aerodrome; it housed over 1,500 families. The press reported that eager husbands camped out two to three days before registration began.

Four hundred and thirteen were assembled in Canarsie, each hut accommodating two families. The New York Times reported on October 16, 1946 that the first 75 units in a development in Jackson Heights, Queens were accepted just ten days after construction  began. Ultimately, over 1,800 Quonset Huts went up on the former site of Holmes Airport.

By 1951 these humble dwelling had fulfilled their reason to exist, but it took another two years for their hosts including the City of New York to evict the slackers, schemers, grifters and deadwood forcing them to move on down the road. By then, most vets and their families had moved on to the new suburban developments like Levittown and the beat went on.

The huts were dis-assembled, their mission completed. Here today, gone tomorrow. The land was re-developed with permanent housing. I believe that my research revealed the answer to Mom’s lament: “I don’t know how a woman could make that her home and live there?”

“Ma, she didn’t have a choice.”