December 1, 1826

Feta and Brie: Or A Chaud Time in the Old Town Tonight.

We start off the chilly month of December with a hot battle in the history of Athens, one of the world's oldest cities. After the Byzantine Empire fell to the Turks in the 15th Century, much of the old Eastern Roman Empire, including all of Greece, fell under Ottoman control. Three centuries of Islamic rule began in the ancient land, but not without obvious resentment from the native Greeks. While the Turks were enamored with the antiquated beauty of Athens, the city's population had less than cordial feelings toward their new rulers.

Despite the fact that Turkish forces were ordered to leave the ancient ruins of Athens in peace, most inhabitants had fled the city by the start of the 19th Century. In the coming years, constant conflict with the west meant many of the city's buildings, even on the famed Acropolis, were turned into fortresses, and the Turks went as far as burning most of the city to stop a Venetian attack in 1688. By 1814, a secret society of Greek patriots known as the Filiki Eteria, or "Society of Friends", felt it was time to restore the nation to its rightful owners.

For the most part, Europe was unsure of how to view the Greek nationalists. While any swipe at the Ottomans was seen as beneficial, western rulers were nervous that uprisings against an established empire could incite similar movements at home. Some Europeans, however, knew exactly where they stood. Enter our honorary over-zealous Frenchman of the day, Charles Nicolas Fabvier. As you might imagine, Fabvier had very different ideas about European involvement in Greece.






Charles Nicolas Fabvier, in traditional Greek dress.








A well-schooled engineer and expert in all types of cannon, he once served as an artillery major under the indomitable Michel Ney. After joining the army in 1804 Fabvier was wounded in several major engagements during the Napoleonic wars. He was the representative from France who signed the peace treaty after Bonaparte was exiled the first time, then reenlisted and followed his emperor to Waterloo. In 1823, Fabvier was under investigation by the French government for aiding Bonapartists when he decided to join the Greek Independence movement.

After rebuilding the coastal fortifications in Navarino Bay, on the western coast of Greece, Fabvier was given command of the newly formed Greek Army. His men made their way to Athens, which had briefly been held by the Greeks before being retaken by the Ottomans, to lay siege to the Turkish forces occupying the Acropolis. There, on December 1, 1826, Fabvier's men succeeded in breaking through enemy lines and seizing the ancient monument to Western Civilization.

Unfortunately for the Greeks, and for Fabvier's legacy, the capture of the Acropolis was not the end of the war. Two more years of fighting and more than three more years of negotiations still lay ahead for the troubled crossroads between east and west. Following his battle in Athens, Fabvier returned to France to drum up further support for Greek independence. He made his way back to Greece to participate in the final battles of the war in 1828.

Following the War of Independence, King Othon of Greece makes his way to the foot of the Parthenon on the Acropolis after entering Athens in 1833.

Perhaps because he was a foreigner, Fabvier does not get the same credit as other heroes of the Greek War of Independence, most notably Alexander Ypsilantis and Theodoros Kolokotronis. In spite of this, his contributions cannot be overlooked. A soldier through and through, Fabvier was eventually promoted to Lieutenant General by the French government and later served in parliament. In keeping with our goals at Lies Agreed Upon, we felt the tale of this fighting Frenchie was too good to pass up.

November 30, 1939

A Bad Dress Rehearsal: Or is the Enemy of My Enemy My Friend?

Today we start the new week and end the month of November with one of those small, sometimes forgotten dances that opened up the waltz of the Second World War. By 1945, Anglo-American troops had linked up with the Soviet Red Army, cutting Germany in half and linking the great Allies of east and west. History remembers these two forces combining to rid the world of the Third Reich, but some neglect that at the start of hostilities, the two sides almost became enemies.

Before the first German blitzkriegs were launched across Poland, Nazi and Soviet leaders had signed a mutual non-aggression pact that freed the two distrusting states of the immediate fear of a conflict with each other. This allowed both sides to pursue engagements elsewhere, even though each viewed the other as their main threat. While Hitler turned his eyes to the Western Allies that had shamed Germany after World War I, Stalin sought to reclaim Soviet territory lost to Finland during the Bolshevik Revolution a generation before.

His prime concern was with the city of Leningrad, in the extreme western reaches of the new communist empire. Stalin felt the namesake of his mentor could only be properly defended by reacquiring the lost territory. Also, while the Soviets and Finns had a non-aggression pact of their own, Stalin had noticed that almost none of the rapidly growing Finnish foreign commerce was coming across the border to the Soviet Union. Citing the potential conflict with Germany, he demanded that neutral Finland cede former Russian territory back to its rightful owner. The Finns flatly refused.

In late November, 1939, the Soviets claimed some of their troops had been shelled by Finnish forces near the border town of Mainila. When the Finns suggested the two countries investigate the incident, the Soviets feigned outrage and renounced the peace treaty between the two nations. On November 30, 1939, Red Army troops stormed across the border and Soviet planes bombed Helsinki, the Finnish capital. The short but ill-fated Winter War had begun.

Finnish ski troops man a trench during the brief but intense Winter War. While the Finns' clothing camouflaged them in the snow, many Red Army units began the war without cold weather gear.

Stalin, in all his paranoid wisdom, had quite successfully rid the Red Army of almost all its most experienced officers during the Great Purge the year before. Nevertheless, he felt his enormous army could easily beat back the outnumbered Finns and reclaim the territory he sought. The fact that Stalin was launching his invasion at the start of the Finnish winter and his men were attacking an enemy defending its homeland seemed lost on the dictator. As usual the lives of Red Army troops would foot the bill for Stalin's dreams of conquest.

The Soviets were woefully unprepared to fight such a campaign. With their best generals either dead or in Siberian gulags, the senior leadership in the Red Army was in shambles. Furthermore, the winter of 1939-40 was one of the coldest in Scandinavian records. All that, combined with the relentless determination of Finland's sons meant the easy war envisioned by the Red Army was far from the reality. By the end of the four month conflict, nearly 400,000 Russians had become casualties.

The West, for its part, was just as shocked at Stalin as it had been at Hitler earlier in the decade. This time, however, they planned to stop a hungry dictator before he took too healthy a serving for his plate. Aid poured in from many western nations, including Nazi Germany. Russia was booted from the League of Nations, and thousands of foreign volunteers made their way to Finland. The French and British, hoping to simultaneously cut Hitler's access to Scandinavian iron ore and to keep the fighting far from home soil, both planned to send troops to aid the smaller nation's cause.

The dogged Finnish defenders, however, could not hold back the Russian steamroller indefinitely. By the time spring had broken, the Red Army had secured the land Stalin felt was necessary to defend Leningrad. A fragile peace was arranged, but the Soviets could not escape the double indemnity of being viewed as both the aggressors and militarily incompetent. The Winter War would usher in more wholesale changes to the Red Army command structure, not all of which would be completed by the time the Germans invaded in 1941.

Broken Russian bodies and equipment litter Raate Road, the only line of escape for Red Army units trapped deep in Finnish territory during the Winter War.

Despite its brevity, the Winter War had lasting effects on the newly begun Second World War. Finland would not forget Russia's transgressions, and joined with Hitler once Operation Barbarossa was launched. Tensions between the west and the Soviet Union would remain until the Germans made them allies out of necessity. The Red Army would eventually regain its footing to throw back the Nazi invaders and emerge as the West's menace during the Cold War. Nevertheless, its first preparations for the rapidly approaching war nearly ended in disaster.

Shameless Napoleon Quote of the Week

November 29- December 5, 2009

God is on the side with the best artillery.

Napoleon Bonaparte

Dead General Quote of the Week

Bold Predictions

After leading the successful but costly invasion of Tarawa, General Holland M. "Howlin' Mad" Smith would find himself commanding at another bloody stop on the island hopping campaign. Waiting off the coast of Iwo Jima in February, 1945, Navy commanders asked Smith to appraise how his men would fare on the island:

This will be the bloodiest fight in Marine Corps history. We'll catch seven kinds of hell on the beaches, and that will be just the beginning. The fighting will be fierce, and the casualties will be awful, but my Marines will take the damned island.

November 27, 1095

God Wills It: Or the Start of Something Big.

The holiday week closes out here at Lies Agreed Upon with a topic we have left untouched during the short life of this blog. Toward the end of the 11th Century AD, Islam had spread throughout the Mid-East and over most of North Africa. Christians had begun the Reconquista of the Iberian Peninsula, but Islamic rulers were threatening Europe in modern day Turkey. In 1095, Envoys from Constantinople were sent by Byzantine Emperor Alexius I Comnenus, who plead to Pope Urban II to help defend Christendom in the east.

The Pope had a meeting with bishops and abbots scheduled for November, and Urban told many of them to bring the powerful lords from their respective regions. During the week-long Council of Clermont, Urban covered a wide range of topics, never mentioning the trouble brewing far to the east. Then, on November 27, 1095, the last full day of the meeting, Urban urged the clerics and the lords to send Christian fighters to reclaim the land of Christ from the advancing Muslim menace. This was their divine duty, for history remembers Urban famously proclaiming "Deus lo vult!" Medieval Latin for "God wills it."

In reality, no one is exactly sure what Urban said to the convened members at Clermont. There are several accounts of his speech, but each differs widely in both letter and spirit. Some claim that Urban asked Western Christians to defend their Eastern counterparts, but said nothing about recapturing the Holy Land. Others say Urban did claim it was God, not he, that was calling for this "Crusade" into the Holy Land. Either way, most agree that Urban put no limits on who could join, young or old, rich or poor, knight or peasant.




Pope Urban II addresses assembled clerics at the Council of Clermont, 1095 AD.













Regardless, nearly 35,000 men set off from Europe for Constantinople the next summer. What would become known as the First Crusade would successfully beat back Islamic forces from Turkey. In 1099, they laid siege to Jerusalem, eventually capturing the city. The holiest place in Christendom would remain under western rule for nearly a century, before eventually being recaptured by Islamic lords. In all there would be at least nine Crusades, launched over the course of three centuries.

Surely many would love to know what Pope Urban II said to the gathered clerics on that November day in 1095. Nearly three hundred years of savage warfare was launched at his behest, and there is no shortage of resentment between Muslims and the west to this day. No matter what he said during the Council of Clermont, Urban nevertheless added more to the endless tally of men killed by wars in the name of God.

Thanksgiving Day, 1967

875 Meters to Hell: Or Why There Will Always be Infantry.

The holiday we are enjoying today was surely no cause for celebration for the men of the US 173rd Airborne Brigade, fighting in the Central Highlands of Vietnam in the fall of 1967. American ground units had struggled for control of the region since first arriving in country two years earlier, and commanders speculated it was a staging area for People's Army of Vietnam troops arriving from the north. Throughout November, fighting had intensified around the hamlet of Dak To, and would culminate on a wooded hill on the Cambodian border.

Hill 875, designated by its height in meters, was found by the men of the 2nd Battalion of the 503rd Infantry. It's height and strategic position overlooking the Ho Chi Minh Trail made it a prime target for the paratroopers. On Sunday, November 19 they began to probe the slopes of the heavily forested hill. Almost immediately after reaching the top, they ran head long into a complex bunker line and were pinned down. It soon became clear to the paratroopers that this was no ordinary hill.

Paratroopers of the 173rd Airborne Brigade assault up the slopes of Hill 875, Central Highlands, Vietnam.

After units of Delta Company were halted in front of the bunkers, men from Alpha Company began working their way back down the hill to cut a landing zone for helicopter support. With fighting still raging near the crest, the chilling sound of bugles reached the ears of the men of Alpha. Bugles were often used by the PAVN to coordinate attacks, and at times were a normal sound in big engagements early in the war. These bugles, however, were coming from in front of Alpha, at the base of the hill. The battalion was surrounded.

Still in contact with the bunker line and cut off from any additional ground help, the battalion desperately tried to hack an LZ out of the jungle. But the close proximity of the enemy positions made landing a chopper nearly impossible. One ship made it in and evacuated some wounded. Ten others were disabled while trying to land. Not only could ammunition and water not be flown in, but the mounting number of wounded men would be forced to wait on the hill side for death or victory, whichever came first.

Aid was administered to the wounded wherever possible during the fight for Hill 875. Many took days to be evacuated and were killed or re-wounded while awaiting the helicopters.

The problems were exacerbated on Sunday evening, when the men of Delta Company called for close air support near their position. After the sorties, a lone fighter remained with a single 500lb bomb still to be dropped. It swept in low over the trees, and some soldiers noticed this strike came in on a north-south approach, along the crest of the ridge line and not across it as others had all day. It was the first sign that something was amiss.

The men who had been fighting all day below watched with a clear view as the plane descended and loosed its deadly payload smack into the middle of Delta's position. The slopes of the hill were silenced for a few moments as the paratroopers struggled to comprehend what had happened. Then came the screams. Delta's CO was badly wounded, and the battalion chaplain was killed. In all nearly 40 paratroopers were killed by the bomb with more than as many wounded. Among the dead were dozens of men who were already wounded and had been waiting for evacuation. It was the worst friendly fire incident of the Vietnam War.

The battle was far from over. For the next four days, the paratroopers tried to maintain their position, clear whatever bunkers they could, and stay alive. From as close as 25 meters, the heavy mortar and rocket fire of the PAVN kept helicopters, the lifeline of most American units in Vietnam, from landing anywhere. The line of wounded stretched down the hill, and makeshift aid stations became targets for the the enemy. By Wednesday, all the officers in the rifle companies were casualties, and 11 of the 13 medics in the battalion had been killed. A reporter who witnessed the fight later wrote that the only way to tell the living from the dead was to see who moved when the incoming mortar rounds landed.

A relief column was sent to take the pressure off the men of the 2nd Battalion, but brought no extra food, water, ammo, or medical supplies. Hill 875 had been the base camp for several PAVN regiments, and the paratroopers had blindly stumbled right into the thick of it. Further air strikes and artillery barrages had little effect on the well entrenched enemy regulars. By late Wednesday afternoon an LZ was finally cut, and the line of wounded men slowly made their way to the helicopters.

Revitalized by seeing their wounded comrades taken to safety and finally resupplied by the tenuous LZ, the men of the relief column swept the last of resistance from the hill on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, 1967. The paratroopers of the 2nd Battalion were not able to contribute much to the final assaults. Of the 570 men of the unit who went into action on Sunday, more than half were casualties by the middle of the week.

The fighting on Hill 875 and around Dak To in general was some of the savagest seen during the entire American involvement. The PAVN proved that by maintaining close contact with their Western enemies they could negate their overwhelming fire power and air support. The dense jungle and tangle of hills and ridges also proved how valuable the helicopter was to the American style of fighting. Without the aircraft to resupply them and evacuate the wounded, the paratroopers lost all their advantages over the North Vietnamese.

In the end, it would be the dogged determination of the American infantryman that won through. Facing an experienced and capable enemy, each bunker had to be cleared by hand grenades and small arms fire. No matter how many advantages in fire power and aircraft a nation has, the individual grunt will always be needed to physically clear the enemy away from the battlefield. Infantry is the backbone of any military, and no matter how far technology progresses, always will be. When they were finally pulled off the hill on Thursday afternoon, the men of the 173rd surely had a lot to be thankful for.

November 24, 1944

The End of an Era: Or How Do You Say Wild Blue Yonder in Chinese?
















Yesterday we covered the bloody invasion of Tarawa, the first stepping stone in the island hopping campaign aimed at the heart of Japan. As we discussed, the ultimate goal of creeping closer to Tokyo island by island was to secure airbases and jump off points close to the Japanese mainland. By late 1944, the Marines had finally captured airfields that brought the home islands into the range of the B-29 Superfortress, America's new heavy bomber. Soon after, relentless air attacks would hit Japan from over the ocean, dealing death on daily basis after racing down out of the rising sun.

Before that, however, the task of bombing Japan was the charge of the United States Twentieth Army Air Force, stationed at a far off series of airbases near Chengtu in central China. On the far side of the world, 10,000 miles from Washington, D.C., the Twentieth Air Force had been taking the war to the Japanese homeland since the start of 1944. Using four groups of B-29s, the Twentieth Air Force was personally commanded by General Henry H."Hap" Arnold, Chief of the Army Air Forces.


Kumming Air Base, China, in 1944. B-29s from the XX Bomber Command, Twentieth Air Force took off from this field and others like it before bases opened in the Marianas.

Supplies to the base had to be airlifted via "The Hump", the high altitude supply line from India over the Himalayas, and not all the equipment the Twentieth needed always arrived. With Arnold at the helm, the Twentieth developed a knack for resourcefulness, ingenuity and inventiveness. That, combined with the distance from home and the dangerous nature of their mission meant that a unique attitude developed on the airbases near Chengtu. Perhaps the farthest flung of all American troops across the globe, the airmen developed a cocky, colorful yet workmanlike demeanor.

On November 24, 1944, the first B-29s took off for Tokyo from the island of Guam in the central Pacific. For the Twentieth, still launching raids on Japan in Operation Matterhorn, it was the beginning of the end of the flyboy haven on the other side of the world. With island airfields large enough to handle the giant bombers, the daunting logistics that came with raiding the enemy's home were eased. The lifeline of a B-29 over Japan no longer had to stretch from China, over Everest, through India and across two oceans. With bases in the Marianas, planes, pilots and munitions could all be delivered by the United States Navy who now controlled the Pacific.

When most think of the bombings of Japan, familiar images include formations of B-29s taking off from airfields on the widespread islands of the Pacific. To be sure, most of the destruction suffered by Japanese cities was yet to come, hand delivered by American boys who had launched from places like Guam, Tinian and Saipan. The Twentieth Air Force itself would even transfer to the Marianas to continue their work for the rest of the war. But lost to the deathly efficiency of these raids is another story of men fighting on the far side of the world.

B-29s drop incendiary bombs on Japan, 1945.

Deep in the Asian mainland, with the entire Japanese war machine between themselves and their homes, they paved the way for the bombing campaign that would eventually bring the war to a close. All the while, they bred a unique environment, where skill and initiative and guts trumped dogma and spit and polish. True, they were far more effective later from the Marianas, and their huge requisitions dogged the overburdened airlift, but the story of the Twentieth Air Force in China is not to be forgotten.