Ian Murray

The Bombing Raid

2012-01-25T08:53:00.000-08:00

Trent McStuart’s mind continued to wander, and he thought back to his early childhood and his family’s home in Enfield, England, a suburb just outside of London proper. It was a modest brick home with a large bay window overlooking a small neatly trimmed yard. There was a garden tucked out back where an apple, peach and pear tree grew. Lily of the Valley surrounded the apple tree and Trent recalled the delightful smell of the blossoms at the onset of spring. During the summer months, his mother would open the French doors to the garden revealing a small stone patio that led out to a finely manicured lawn. Trent would spend hours playing in the yard and he could remember the fresh feel of cool spring grass on his shoeless feet.

As a toddler, Trent began many of his mornings with a soft-boiled egg sitting proudly in a shiny porcelain egg cup shaped like a cockerel. He recalled his mother cutting perfectly shaped “bread fingers” for him to dip in the warm boiled egg. Trent smiled to himself as he thought back on those days and he could almost smell the aroma of his mum’s shepherd’s pie on Saturday afternoon. He could picture the dining room set for Sunday dinner; the McStuart’s best English china and finest lace cloth draped over the large oval table. He remembered how each Sunday after church his aunts and uncles would arrive to feast on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as they chatted away the afternoon. What wonderful, carefree days they were.

Those carefree days were not to last, however, and Trent’s mind wandered back to the early days of World War II. His most vivid memory was that of the blackouts and the Anderson shelter that was buried in his backyard. He could distinctly recall how his parents and their neighbors would run about with flashlights, the lenses covered by their hands so the German bombers could not detect the light from the sky. He would never forget the skeletal shape of their hands or the blood running through the veins of their fingers as the flashlight glowed beneath them. Yes, the blood, he could definitely remember the blood.

Trent’s father, Thomas “Tiggy” McStuart, had a great distaste for the Anderson bunker and was always reluctant to take shelter from the bombing raids–as if by doing so he in some way gave power to the Nazi forces. Given that, on the rare occasions when his father was at home, Trent always slept in his own room on the second floor of the house. But there was one instance when his mother insisted they all sleep in the shelter. After a rather heated debate, the McStuarts compromised. Trent would stay on the sofa downstairs in the living room and his parents would sleep in their bedroom upstairs. His father had pulled the sofa away from the bay window, pushing it securely against the wall on the other side of the room to keep him from falling out.

The air raid was severe that night. Trent remembered being awakened by sirens and the constant sound of anti-aircraft fire. He wasn’t afraid, but instead recalled a feeling of excitement because he knew his father would soon come to pick him up out of his makeshift bed. He would take him to the master bedroom where Trent would climb into his parent’s giant feather bed and listen to his mother and father talk about the different types of aircraft and armaments they’d heard that evening. His father could identify every aircraft as it flew overhead, and amazingly he could tell whether it was German or British simply by the sound of its engines. The whole experience was like that of a fantastic thunderstorm, frightening and awe-inspiring all at the same time.

This particular night, German casualties had been high as the British night fighters chased the bombers off their targets, away from London’s East India docks. As the Germans made their way back through the night sky, many half-filled with unused explosives due to the British interception, they were unable to identify additional targets as a result of the city-wide blackout. The German pilots could only see remnants of the anti-aircraft flashes from the ground below, and in their haste to unload, they let their bombs drop over the only targets they could distinguish. As a result, the very anti-aircraft batteries that had been placed amongst the civilian population to protect them would on this night serve to do just the opposite.

Feeling uneasy about the thunderous blasts that seemed to be coming closer and closer, Trent was about to call to his father when the world suddenly came down around him. His ears popped as a deafening noise–a roaring sound, followed by the impact of a hundred freight trains–hit the house all at once. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t breathe. It felt as if someone had jumped atop him in his bed. Trent tried to move his arms and legs to no avail. He eventually managed to steal a breath, but the smoke and debris that filled his lungs only made his desperate struggle for air more difficult. Then in a moment, all was silent. Terrified, he lay in the dark, quiet stillness for what seemed an eternity before hearing the slight murmur of muffled voices. The murmur quickly turned into chatter that soon erupted into frantic yelling and screaming. He could hear his mother cursing and the knot in his stomach grew larger as he listened to her uncharacteristic words. He had never heard his mother use the Lord’s name in vain before, nor would he ever again after that night.

“God damn it, Tiggy! Put something on your feet! You’ll never make it over to him!” Nina McStuart was frantically calling out.

Trent could hear the continual commotion, but had no idea what was happening. Directly above his head he heard glass shattering and moments later he felt a hand touch his face.

“I’ve found him Nina, I’ve found him!” His father’s trembling voice called out. Trent could feel the debris being cleared from his face and he was suddenly able to breathe again. He heard his mother whimper from above, “Is he all right Thomas?”

“He seems okay, Nina!” Tiggy half shouted, his adrenaline taking charge. “He appears to be just fine!” Trent’s father carefully picked him up and in the darkness Trent could see a dim light. It was a man’s hand covering the top of a flashlight, the familiar red glow of the light running through his fingers. It would become a vision that would be etched in his mind forever. The man holding the light was wearing dark blue overalls and a metal helmet with letters on it.

“Bring him back over here Tiggy so we can get a better look at him.” The warden did his best to appear calm, but Trent could see that his hands were visibly shaking. Tiggy followed the warden toward the hallway to the bottom of the stairs. As they passed by the front entryway, Trent could see the front door of the house was missing. He looked to the right and saw the kitchen door was also gone. There was nothing else– just a gaping hole through center of the house. He peered over at his makeshift sofa bed, now in shreds under a pile of glass and rubble. The entire bay window had blown across the room into the wall, burying him in its debris.

Trent’s father and the warden gently placed Trent on one of the steps and when the flashlight shone on his little body his mother let out a gasp that frightened him more than the sight of his own shattered home. He looked to his father for strength, but heard only his quiet murmur. “Oh, dear God, he’s covered in blood.”

The warden placed his hand on Tiggy McStuart’s shoulder. “Just take it easy, Tig.”

“Take it easy! Can’t you see he’s injured?” Tiggy yelled in frustration. “Get some water for God's sake!” The warden quickly made his way to the kitchen and filled a bowl with water, promptly bringing it back to where Tiggy waited. Tears now streamed down the sides of Trent’s cheeks as his father kneeled down, gently wiping his face with a dampened cloth.

“It’s okay son, you’re going to be just fine.” He said, forcing a smile as he turned back to Trent’s mother. “I can’t find a mark on him, Nina.” He commented, continually wiping away the blood and debris.

Trent’s mother suddenly stepped back and placed her hand to her chest. “Dear Lord Tiggy...” She half whispered. “Look at your hands…” Trent’s father looked down at his bloodied hands, a puzzled look on his face as he turned them from side to side. He hurriedly immersed his fingers in the basin, wincing in pain before quickly pulling them out again. Trent watched with horror as blood began rising from the many cuts and gashes on his father’s hands, wounds which he’d never felt at all. Nina McStuart slowly placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“Darling,” she said, her voice now calm and controlled. “The blood is your own.”

Deep Frying a Turkey

2011-12-18T13:19:00.000-08:00

I asked my very good friend, Terry, for instructions on deep frying a turkey. Below is the response I received. Even though Thanksgiving has passed I thought I would share this, as it’s great for a laugh.

You asked for the instructions to deep fry the turkey. Here ya go…

Needed

5 gallons of peanut oil

A turkey (No shit Sherlock!)

A turkey frying pot and related equipment

Burn ointment

Cajun injecting sauce

Cajun seasoning rub

A nice bottle of single malt scotch or other GOOD scotch

A Padron cigar (substitutes allowed)

A short glass

Ice – preferable crushed

A match or two

I hope you filled the propane tank by now!!!

Process

Pour scotch into a short glass with crushed ice.

Let it sit.

Dry off turkey.

Sample scotch, if okay, refill glass. If not, finish it and try again.

Stand turkey upright.

Inject turkey with Cajun Butter/Garlic marinade (no fat)

Check scotch. Still cold? Good. Down it.

Coat turkey with a lot of Cajun seasoning.

Take it outside where you will cook. Unless you are deep frying it inside in which case you are a moron.

Light burner.

Light cigar. SHIT you forgot the scotch.

Go back in and refill glass.

Sip scotch and smoke cigar while oil is heating to 375.

When oil is ready, finish off the scotch and SLOWLY lower turkey into oil.

You probably need the burn ointment now. Apply this liberally or drink the scotch faster.

Cook the turkey for about 3.5 minutes per pound.

Continue with cigar and scotch until turkey is done.

Put the scotch and cigar down.

Turn off burner.

Slowly raise turkey from oil.

Let it drain over the oil.

Make sure cigar didn’t go out.

Finish the cigar, drink the scotch and take the turkey in.

While turkey is cooling apologize to Robyn for getting shitfaced while cooking.

Bada bing bada boom. That’s all there is to it.

Enjoy. Happy Thanksgiving!

Poppy Day

2011-11-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

For many people Veteran’s Day is just another day. For some it’s simply an inconvenience that banks are closed and mail service is interrupted. For me and many of my friends and colleagues around the world it is something extraordinary. It is a day we quietly remember our comrades, and even in some cases our enemies, who gave up something incredibly special to them, their friends, family and country…their life.

As a child in England I always remembered it as “Poppy Day.” Wives and relatives of deceased veterans would stand on street corners holding a can with a slot in it. You would place some loose change in the slot and they in turn would pin an imitation poppy on your lapel. You never saw a gentleman, a lady, or a worker of any profession not wearing a poppy on Veterans Day.

I remember as a small boy asking my father what Poppy Day meant and he explained to me the story of the poppy fields of Flanders. At the time I really didn’t comprehend what it meant; it wasn’t until several years later that I really understood. My dad and I were driving across France and he turned to me and said, “Son, we’re going to be taking a slight deviation. There’s something I need you to see.” To this day I could not tell you what battle sight we came upon, but I knew it was significant to my father. We had arrived after travelling down a long country lane and even as a small lad I was taken aback by the sight. As far as my eyes could see there were white crosses - east, north, south and west. I watched my father approach a grave, then brush away a tear. It was then I suddenly understood Poppy Day.

I wish everyone a meaningful Veteran’s Day. Keep our military in your prayers and pray for our veterans, especially those who did not return to their friends and family…God Bless.

Where’s the Discrimination?

2011-10-10T18:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve watched with much interest as the Republican Party candidates vie for a position in next year’s presidential election. The one thing I can’t help but notice is the incredible diversity within this group. Considering Republicans, and certainly Tea Party members, have been labeled “racist” by some media sources, it seems odd to me that so many facets of the population are represented among these nine candidates. I thought perhaps the intolerance label was attributable to the baseline theory that individuals should be responsible for themselves and not look to the government to resolve their problems; as if somehow this was a brand new idea. In fact, this concept was heartily embraced by John F. Kennedy, one of our most beloved democratic presidents who said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” How is this any different from what the republican candidates are saying today?

I find this whole concept of discrimination very curious as I sit and watch the debates. The panel before me is made up of one woman, two Mormons, two men over the age of 65 (one over 75!), a black man; and yes, I said “black” – he’s a fellow American who happens to have darker skin than mine – that’s all. Hell, I was born in England, of Scottish decent, and no one refers to me as a British-American. Lest I digress however, we also have among this group, three middle—aged white guys from very different backgrounds, each with very different ideas. Isn’t that what democracy is all about? And those are just the presidential candidates. If I look at the up and coming stars of the Republican Party, they include Senator Marco Rubio, a Latino whose parents escaped from Cuba’s dictatorship, Bobby Jindal, of East Indian heritage, who’s done an incredible job of rebuilding Louisiana. Then there’s Chris Christy, the gruff, slightly overweight bull dog from New Jersey who has rocked the house in Trenton and put that State back on its feet after hovering on the brink of bankruptcy.

And for those on the “tax the rich” bandwagon, I won’t go into my thoughts on that ridiculous banter, however, I will point out that the majority of these candidates came from very modest beginnings before their tenacity and hard work paid off. I can also tell you that among them they’ve given tens of millions of dollars to the underprivileged. In fact, as a percentage republicans far outweigh democrats in charitable donations, even though democrats reportedly have greater incomes.

So who exactly are the racist Republicans/Tea Party discriminating against? Well it’s certainly not women, minorities, religion, race, the poor, the obese or the elderly. So if someone can answer this question for me, I’m all ears…

Looking Back at 9/11

2011-09-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

We all know exactly where we were on this fateful day ten years ago. I had flown from London to San Francisco just one day prior and was staying at my favorite hotel in beautiful northern California. It was just after 6:30 in the morning when the phone rang in my hotel room. It was my wife, Robyn and her uncharacteristically anxious voice came over the line, “turn on the TV.” What unfolded on the screen in the hours that followed was simply unfathomable. And yet out of all the horror and destruction that ensued came a sense of pride and heroism never before witnessed by a new generation. Never have I been so proud to be an American – a decision I made at the age of 27 when I took a vow to love and honor this country. As I continued to watch the incredible heroism of fire fighters, policemen and everyday people who put everything on the line for their fellow citizens, I wondered at how they were so selfless under such circumstances. It’s hard to imagine.

For the three days following the attack, having no air traffic available, my colleague and I drove across this great country meeting kind and generous people at every turn - people who would do anything and everything they could to help us reach our loved ones on the east coast. It was a journey I will always remember and one which fills me with incredible pride as I reflect on the goodness of people and the vast beauty of our countryside.

As a toddler in London during WWII, and in my service to both America and Great Britain, I have experienced many conflicts and I have worked and lived in many parts of the world; always with a curiosity about what causes such hatred and strife to exist. And now more than ever I ask myself how this current state of affairs all began. Where did these terrorist factions come from and what motivates a person or group to commit such crimes against humanity? I am aware of some of the answers to these questions as a result of my experiences in Southeast Asia, Africa, the Mid-East and Europe, where I spent much of my time as a young man. I have firsthand knowledge of world events and in some cases, the foundation on which this hatred is born. I have set forth some of these ideas in my latest book, The Final Doctrine.

You see, I have found over the years that in order to understand where we’re heading, we must first understand where we’ve just been. Particularly in America, people must realize that not everyone thinks as we do. As much as our fellow citizens wish to be fair minded and reasonable when it comes to the acceptance of other cultures and ideas – other countries are not as accepting of our western way of life. One must remember that the idea of America itself is the single most powerful concept human kind has ever produced. As Americans we need not apologize for our prosperity, nor should we ever consider being brought down a notch to appease others. In addition, for those who feel the word “terrorist” and in particular “Islamist terrorist” isn’t appropriate terminology for this day and age – simply turn on your television today and listen as the names of 3,000 of our fallen heroes are read, in many cases by the children who will never have the opportunity to know them.

Take a long moment today to cherish your loved ones and reflect on how fortunate you are to be an American. We live in the greatest place on earth, a country where freedom and liberty prevail - without restriction or dictatorship; a country where those who are unable to comprehend the power of our constitution and the resolve of the American people, are free to pursue other shores.