Raven’S Flight to Freedom: Odyssey from Wartime Lithuania to Land’S End America: a Story of Survival Dedicated to Those Who Retained Their Humanity Amidst Great Evil. Righteousness Ultimately Prevails over Despotic Forces, but Not by Much.

By Dr. Algirdas V. Kanauka

This is the story of my survival, adventures, experiences, and insights about geopolitics and changing worldviews from before World War II Lithuania to Soviet occupation and my escape and evasion through wartime Germany till the end of WWII. It also talks about my life as a refugee in displaced-persons camp for four years and my immigration to the United States of America in 1949. Five years later, having graduated from the Citadel Military College, I was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the US Air Force and participated in the Cold War as a combat crew member of Strategic Air Commands Bombers B-52 and B-58. Then I had a stint with research and development of F-111 weapons systems at Wright Air Development Center and about a year in Southeast Asian war (Vietnam) with an F-111 fighter-bomber detachment. Then I went back to Europe on an US AF project. Finally, after twenty-two years, I retired from the Air Force to Southern California and worked in the aerospace industry and had new experiences and insights about mens venture into the cosmos. However, after the dissolution of Soviet Union, the old country of Lithuania became free, and I went there to help rebuild the country and pay my debt to it by consulting the general staff and teaching at the military academy there. There are more insights and adventures. Finally, I retire to cool my heels in the warm waters of the Pacific Rim in Southern Californias Rancho Palos Verdes as a freelance writer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543430899

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Copyright © 2017 by Dr. Algirdas V. Kanauka.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017909646

ISBN:                  Hardcover                       978-1-5434-3087-5

                            Softcover                         978-1-5434-3088-2

                            eBook                              978-1-5434-3089-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 11/29/2017

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AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT

THIS BOOK IS A memoir, not a documentary. It is a collection of memories and perceptions as I remember and interpret them. I also included some stories related to me by my friends and family members that harmonize with my basic theme of the book: survival or demise, depending on the humanity of those who retained it, while evil powers were on rampage during more than half of a century. My views described are my own and do not represent those of any government entities, except by accidental coincidence. Often, I do not precisely state the real names of some people, organizations, as well as exact places and events involved, which I can no longer recall in detail and might be mistaken if coincidences appeared. However, by sticking to the interaction of principle and spirit involved, as revealed in the interplay of events, and writing as seen by me in my mind’s eye. I was driven by desire to share experiences of journeying on this planet with my fellow travelers. Sometimes I had to resort to imagination to facilitate the readers’ understanding of the connections among events described when some data was not available. Therefore, I deeply regret if I might have offended some and will be happy to apologize if they step forward. Reconciliation with the past is more my aim than further controversy.

I would like to thank the people who inspired me, advised me, and contributed their stories and opinions as well as critiques regarding my writ. They are colleagues from Palos Verdes Writer’s Workshop: Joan Shriver, Tom Mooney, Jeff Guenther, Laura Hines-Jurgens, Dolores Davis, Dwight Kelsey, and many others; members of my family: retired U.S. Army Chief Warrant Officer 4 Fernando and Diane Kanauka, Irina K. Taylor, Anna-Maria Kanauka, and Harrison S. Taylor; friends: Dr. Carol Faulkner Swim, Annetraut Pellant (fmrn Gallin), Regina Gasparonis (frmn Nezibatauskaite), USAF retired Lt. Col. Donatas Skucas, USAF retired Col. James Tonge, USN retired Rear Adm. William and Allet Rodriguez, and USAF retired Maj. Gen. Guy L. Hecker.

Algirdas V. Kanauka

CONTENTS

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1 — Life in Lithuania before World War II

Our Family Values

Chapter 2 — Russian and German Occupations

Life among the Germans

Chapter 3 — Leaving Lithuania

Across the German Border

Not Every German was a Nazi

Saved by a Convent of Nuns

Our Family Reunites

Chapter 4 — Surviving in Wartime Germany

Fleeing toward the Americans

My Special Fortress

There Must Be Order Somewhere

Chapter 5 — Not All Survived

Chapter 6 — Life in the Displaced Persons Camp

Scouting for a Better World

What Becomes of Displaced Persons?

Chapter 7 — Off to America

It’s Different in Dixie

Educating My American Friends

Chapter 8 — Cadet at The Citadel

A Military School with a Sense of Humor

Citadel Reflections

Chapter 9 — Service in Cold and Hot Wars

My Guardian Angel in Hawaii

To the Land of the Rising Sun

Navigation and Electronic Warfare

Survival Training in 1959

Conquering a Prison Camp

World’s Greatest Nuclear Combat Force

Strange Encounters

A Mach-2 Bomber and a Family on the Move

The B-58 Flight Crew

A Growing Family and Other Responsibilities

Life at Wright-Patterson AFB

Shooting Holes in the F-111

Field-Testing the F-111 in Vietnam War

Death and Surprise

Pilots and Pythons

War Lessons from My Son

Duty in Germany

Chapter 10 — From the Air Force to Aerospace

The Aerospace Corp. 1980–1990

Chapter 11 — Paying My Debt to the Old Country

Back to America and Lithuania Again

Consulting the Lithuanian Military

A Lithuanian Think Tank

Thoughts on 9/11 and War

Chapter 12 — New Ideas from Old Memories

Poland

Russia

Latvia

Belarus

Relations with the New Germany

Nazi Tentacles in Lithuania

The Fate of Lithuanian Jews

The Baltic States Today

The Political Dimension

The Military Dimension

The Economic Dimension

The Moral Dimension

What If We Abandon the Baltic States?

Epilogue

About The Author

Suggestions For Further Reading

FOREWORD

WHY AM I WRITING this?

It’s from some inner urge to preserve my memories of events that shaped the course of my life rather than let them fade into the mist of the past, thus giving some permanence to my personal perceptions of events and interpretations of them. I owe this to my family, friends, and contemporaries, maybe even to those in Lithuania, Germany, as well as America, that is, if they would ever care to read it.

Why would they want to? They might because my memories expressed in this memoir may modify what people know from reading about happenings in Europe before, during, and after World War II. I am someone who lived in the middle of those events as a nonparticipant and virtually a bystander. I was one who almost did not give a damn who would win that horrible war because my country then, Lithuania, declared itself neutral and had no stake in the convoluted issues of that worldwide conflict.

Therefore, my views and perceptions of events were less filtered by Russian, German, or even Allied propaganda machines during and after the war and may provide alternative insights of what happened. I had to live and prevail amid bullets, bombs, hunger, and uncertainties of life or death, which took some doing.

I survived protected by good luck and the sheer humanity of people I encountered in the crossroads of war. In my mind’s eye, the most prominent presence was a guardian angel, who was revealed to me by my old Lithuanian nanny named Barbora. During weekdays, she used to put me in a stroller and take me to a private kindergarten that was quite popular in our city of Kaunas. The kindergarten was owned by the family of an artist whose last name was Varnas (meaning Raven in English). His wife, Varniene, ran the place. I mention this because ravens were symbols that had a remarkable presence in my life, and you, my dear reader, will meet them again in this magnum opus.

Barbora taught me a magical mantra or prayer that always seemed to protect me. It went like this: Guardian Angel, protect me in the morning and in the evening, during the day and the night. Don’t desert me but guide me to the eternal bliss. Amen. In Lithuanian (using only English alphabet), it runs as follows: Angele Sarge, sergek mane ryta, vakara, diena ir nakti. Neapleisk manes bet nuvesk mane i amzina laime. Amen."

Before World War II, Hitler’s speeches were broadcast all over Europe. Barbora saw me listening to one on the radio as if I was mesmerized by it. She did not understand a single word of German, but she knew people. She told me, Do not listen to this. That is the devil speaking! Barbora had great intuitive perception.

I went through the final stages of destruction of Germany without a scratch, physical or emotional. Therefore, my views are different from many Americans and Western Europeans. I was born in Lithuania and remember the beginning of the rising storm of WWII. I lived through it to its end and beyond until finally, in 1949, I fortunately wound up immigrating to America.

I survived the Cold War, the Vietnam War, and many dangerous situations. Once I was in the United States, I eventually moved as far west as possible on the American continent, to the Palos Verdes Peninsula in Southern California, which I know as the Land’s End of America.

In writing this book, I am instinctively and intuitively searching for some magic link to connect my life to the forward march of humanity and its history as well as the cosmos with an aim to transcend the material phenomenon into its more numinous side, the nonmaterial aspect of our life beyond the five senses, what the more sentimental folks would call the realm of the heart, the intuitive cognition of meaning.

Some of what I encountered in my life cannot be told for the sake of my safety, the safety of others, and military security classifications of the organizations I worked in. Therefore, in this story of my life, where necessary, I will avoid mentioning certain names, places, dates, and organizational entities, but will remain true to the spirit of events and of the times I lived in. My views, perceptions, interpretations, and conclusions are strictly mine alone and do not represent those of other individuals or organizations. Any similarity is strictly coincidental.

My perceptions are, naturally, a subjective interpretations of events. These events are interpreted subjectively most of the time, even though I sometimes question whether past events can be evaluated objectively at all. At least I will shed some light and an alternative viewpoint into the melee of conflicting information about the Baltic states and Lithuania in particular. Let the reader be the judge of what he considers valid or not because there are different interpretations of the events that appear in my narrative, depending on the political outlook and worldviews of the observers at that critical period when Lithuania regained its independence.

Eventually, perceptions, objective or subjective, settle into a pattern that is accepted as valid by historians and society in general. Maybe the reader can discover a connection between past history and current events, which are full of armed conflict, terrorism, refugees, and political propaganda. History repeats itself though not exactly. It is up to us to find the critical connections between the past and the present that will give us clues about what can be done to make future history evolve more in our favor.

Dr. Algirdas V. Kanauka (USAF Major, retired)

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Author in contemplation about whether to write

a book or forget it all and avoid a sea of drudgery.

INTRODUCTION

HERE I AM, SOAKING my heels in the ocean from the Pacific Rim of Southern California near my home in Rancho Palos Verdes situated at the most Western end of American landmass. I am sitting on a rock, my bare feet dangling in the salty water of the Pacific, while my brain is contemplating why I am here and what comes next. In front of me lies the vastness of the wine-colored ocean at sunset, above me the warm blue sky that Californians think they deserve so truly, and behind me the colorful outline of Palos Verdes Hills with the graceful Wayfarers Chapel perched among them, created by the genius of Lloyd Wright, son of the world-famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright, renowned for his blending of structures of steel and glass with the silent music of nature. The scene reminds me of the Mediterranean coastline somewhere in Europe like the French Rivera, Nice, or Costa Brava.

Life is great for a retired warrior, which I am. I sort of see myself as a guy whose trail of war extends from the amber shores of wartime Lithuania through Western Europe, the Americas, the Far East, and finally, the Pacific coast of California. During my life so far, I went through numerous dangerous adventures and have seen great misfortunes happen to others, with great injury bypassing me. Although my behavior in retrospect appears to me as if I asked for trouble, my guardian angel shielded me with the spread of his wing, and I came through my ordeals like Odysseus on the way home to Ithaca, undefeated and never despairing. Maybe my angel was saving me for something in the distant future, but so far, no complaints.

My story spans almost a century, and you may find it quite different from what most Americans and Europeans perceive today. You may even think I’m an alien from space. (I have been told so, several times, jokingly by friends.)

One day I watched a short film on TV about a nuclear blast on a big city that was presented as a forecast of things to come. I saw another film, a long one, about refugees who came to the West from their native lands far away. Blending these films in my consciousness bothered me with seemingly ominous significance. I thought the world might be approaching a threshold, where something was going to give, a crisis, things reaching a turning point after which, if downward trends were not reversed, disaster loomed ahead.

The night before, I had a dream of a mushroom-shaped cloud over Los Angeles. I was with a group of military veterans racing in a fast motorboat to rescue survivors. Then I had another dream of Hitler and Ben Gurion, who appeared dressed in medical white coats, pruning trees in a garden. I asked them, How come you are working together so amicably after being such enemies before?

The answer was Death is a great equalizer. It ends all that was before in space and time. The past is made up only of thought fragments in our consciousness. Life is only a different path for every living thing, and it all ends in death, which is a level for a new beginning.

There were more dreams, but more about those later. Films, thoughts, dreams, and life in general compel me to tell my story as though some inner force is pulling my memories out like Ariadne’s string in the story of Theseus and the Minotaur. Maybe completing this book will lead me out of a labyrinth of contradictory impressions and reveal some kind of message that is meaningful.

My past is haunting me to the point that the present is only a brief time line through which the future becomes the past. So within these pages, the past will live again, which is a good thing. If we do not know the past, then we cannot rationally think about the future. Bear with me, dear reader. Although my story may be brash, politically incorrect, and even contradict some things that you think the Founding Fathers meant, it is my true recollection and summation of a fate-filled life.

The past tells me how I became the entity I am today. I contemplate life and wonder whether it is part of some great continuum lead by Providence to a teleological, determined future or just a random string of events, totally irrelevant.

So here I am, still sitting on the rock near a lonely pine tree, which is my favorite tree at this Land’s End of America. I come here often to contemplate the universe and wonder how much a part of it I am.

Reality has a way of manifesting itself in unexpected ways. As I sat submerged into my cosmic contemplations, suddenly, a sharp smell from my left turned my head around. It was a baby skunk with black-and-white spots sitting right beside me. As soon as it felt me turn toward it, it released a squirt and ran away. I wondered why this little animal had been sitting beside me. Was it looking for friends? Was it not afraid? Supposedly, since I was still and motionless in an almost meditative posture, it felt safe but then ran away when I moved. Maybe the little skunk felt some kinship with another living being, a connection of consciousness, which I interrupted by moving.

Strange things happen at America’s Land’s End. One day I was walking south along the path, close to the rim along a fifty-foot cliff running west, toward the sea. I noticed a black raven that cried out loud as if signaling some ravenian war cry. Then it landed about thirty feet away. I continued to walk, and another raven appeared, flew over me, and landed ahead and to the left, crying loud and hopping around as if dancing. More ravens appeared, all crying loud and flying ahead of me in swarms.

What did this mean? In some Nordic myths, ravens are the scouts and messengers of the gods or even angels. Suddenly, behind me, I heard a rush as if a gust of wind was chasing me. It got stronger and stronger. A raven was flaring behind my head. Then I felt a soft blow as if a pillow struck the back of my head. It was a large raven hitting me with his chest. Was he trying to tell me something?

I sensed that the ravens did not want me to go further. Why? In the distance, down the cliff, I saw some nests. Aha, they were defending their loved ones, just like people do in times of danger or war. It was time to alter course. I turned to the left sharply and walked away from the cliff. The ravens flew away with one still following me, perhaps to verify my departure.

Ravens have a special significance to me. They are universal symbols as messengers and reconnoiter for the Nordic gods. For example, they appear in Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelung and in various mythologies of other cultures.

On the more secular side, the term is often used in the U.S. Air Force when referring to the electronic warfare officers, who are members of bomber or reconnaissance aircraft crews. They defend the aircraft with electronic weapons or collect electronic information about enemy’s radar and other electronic devices. Nowadays, they are often called guys in the back seat, who fire off missiles at enemy aircraft or missile sites.

Their work was new during WWII and not well known. When it was known, it often seemed spooky to the rest of the aircraft crews. I was a raven and flew missions in Vietnam and other places. It was an interesting experience to say the least. Imagine that a bomber approaches a target that is heavily defended by antiaircraft weapons. The raven on board sees and hears their signals on his electronic screens and earphones. (Electromagnetic emissions from enemy’s devices are sensed in the approaching aircraft and converted by means of various high-tech gizmos to visual and audio signals so they can be seen and heard by the raven.)

Thus, the raven becomes similar to an orchestra conductor; he sees and hears all the players and their instruments. It is like flying over a city that is full of skyscrapers and church steeples that ring bells and toot siren sounds. He can even record those audible sounds that he deems interesting so he can show them to whoever may want to see such things when he returns home. He can also turn on his aircraft’s electronic devices that are louder and so effervescent and luminous that they confuse and blind the hostile equipment so that the bomber becomes indistinguishable to the enemy from all the noise they get on their screens and monitor on the ground. Thus, the bomber flies to the target and drops bombs on it while remaining unharmed.

What has all this to do with the epic story of my life as warrior or soldier of fortune? This is a good time to start from the very beginning with some early memories of my life in the far land of Lithuania. I will try to make sense out of it for you so that you can perceive the interconnectedness of seemingly random events or see how new friends became soul mates with similar survival experiences and how I managed to live through the worst of times and eventually prosper, retiring in a place that many see as a paradise, all because of the goodness and humaneness in others.

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Decision made! Yes, I Can Do Mach Two!

CHAPTER 1

Life in Lithuania before World War II

IN SOUTHERN LITHUANIA, MY grandfather Motiejus Kanauka lived at a place called Dzukija or Dainava, somewhat meaning the land of songs. His small estate was surrounded by fertile wheat fields and forests with his manor flanked by a row of oaks that formed a majestic visual background, symbolic of my grandpa’s character. I remember seeing him for the first time when my parents brought me down from Kaunas to Butrimiskiai, a locality near the town of Alytus. We arrived as he and some guests were returning from raiding the woods for mushrooms and berries, which they carried in small baskets.

They were chanting little happy ditties as a welcome to us as was a custom in those days for festive occasions. My grandfather was of middle height with a ruddy face and a handlebar mustache. He stood straight in a soldiery manner and exuded a commanding presence. He was wearing a white tunic and hunting cap with a visor and black pants tucked into black leather riding boots.

As my mother presented me to him, he gently pinched my cheek, squeezed it a little, and said to my mom, This boy’s cheeks are a little pale and hollow. You must not be feeding him enough good country bacon, which you probably don’t have in the city.

Mother smiled and said, Oh, he is just a little awed by your presence sir, for normally, he is not that kind of boy who would starve, even in a boarding house. When we roast a goose or duck, he gets caught chewing on a wing or leg before it is even ready.

I giggled and clicked my heels a little and bowed forward. It is my pleasure to meet you, Grandfather, sir, I announced, just as mother coached me to do before the meeting.

As everyone went inside to prepare a dinner feast, I had a chance to run around the garden, the yard, the stables, the barns, and the cellars, inspecting strange things a city boy did not see very often. I was especially intrigued by the fine horses in the stables and began to spin visions of the day I would get to ride them.

The sonorous dinner bell rang, announcing the evening meal. I drifted into the house and into seklycia, the guest dining room, which always was the most distinguished room in the house. It was furnished with beautiful country-style furniture, and the long table was loaded with a vast assortment of victuals I had never seen. The guests came into the room, we all sat, and toasts began and went on into the night.

The toasts, similar to the welcome we received, were accompanied with little chants and songs like May you live long years, happy years and so on. Lithuanians liked to sing all kinds of songs, including folk songs and country songs that have a touch of melancholy that gets interrupted with sudden happier ditties like One, two, three, our beautiful Lithuania that always blooms like a flower. There were martial songs too with lyrics such as Let’s saddle our stallions and sharpen our swords and battle-axes so we could treat the sinister, uninvited guests who come through forests and fields to ransack our villages and ravage our harvests.

I and my sister, Aldona, and cousin Nijole took seats at the long table, trying to locate ourselves strategically among other guests to more easily reach our favorite morsels of duck, rabbit, shellfish, and sweets. We also tried to sneak into our glasses generous drops of the more potent stuff the grown-ups liked to reserve for themselves. We always succeeded, and it was great fun.

Finally, my grandpa made a traditional speech, wishing us good fortune in years to come, despite the gathering social storms rumbling far away in Western Europe.

After I had my fill of food and sweets, I felt inspired to run outside to look over the garden, the stables, and the flocks of poultry meandering around behind fenced-in areas. It was my first exposure to country life in original location of our tribe. I knew that there were farms of my relatives in other places not too far away, but this place made me feel my roots.

That line of oak trees looked like majestic guardians representing the idea of my home is my castle. Then I heard the voice of my dad, who had left the guest dining room to look for me.

Algirdas, do you want me to let you ride a horse?

I would be delighted! I screamed.

We went into the stable and picked a white handsome horse. Dad put a bit and bridle on the horse and put me on his bare back without a saddle. Holding the bridle, he guided the horse so that I could get accustomed to the basic feel of the ride.

It was a great experience. Barely seven years old, I felt like a medieval knight whom I read about in history tales. I sat high up and saw the forest in the distance and a town further away. The sky was beautiful at sunset, and the buildings reflected the purple rays of the twilight sun. As we proceeded toward the forest, my father once in a while handed the reins to me and let me control the horse.

I felt like the king of the world, a knight in shining armor, although it was only a white linen shirt. Still, it left an impression on me, that first ride on a horse. It was to stay with me all my life as one of the finest moments with my father. When we returned to the party, I was very excited.

Later that evening, clouds gathered in the sky, and there was some thunder. Wotan or Odin, or Perkūnas, the Lithuanian version of the pagan array of gods, was trying to tell us something. I was tired, excited, and sleepy. Actually, I was too excited and wetted my bed.

My grandfather often told us stories about our Kanauka tribe from the distant past, stories that would be told and retold around fireplaces and family gatherings, like the one from the year 1812 when Napoleon Bonaparte marched through Lithuania on the way to Moscow, the Russian capital. His army tried to live off the land they passed through, his dragoons spreading some thirty miles from the line of march and robbing the countryside of food, fuel, and anything else they could put their hands on.

My great-great-grandfather, who lived at the same estate my grandpa occupied now, told a story that sounded something like this:

The word reached us, spread by retreating populations away from the path of Napoleon’s Grand Army. The dragoons are coming. Hide your food and valuables because they grab everything they can carry but leave them something, or they will beat you fiercely. Hide your women and children. We heeded the warning and hid what we could in dugouts and secret cellars but left hams, chickens, bread, eggs, and pickled goods as well as homemade brew for them to find without much trouble.

As the story went, most of the family retreated to the nearby woods, but my great-great-grandfather and his wife stayed to face the raiders. They just refused to leave. Soon, the dragoons showed up, a fierce bevy of men on horseback in red, white, and blue uniforms, bearing swords, lances, and pistols. They brought along a translator, a Jewish lad from Alytus town, who was fluent in French, Russian, and Lithuanian. The dragoons knew that their French would not do them much good with feisty Lithuanian countryfolk.

The translator was smart enough somehow to modulate the fears of the inhabitants of the house as well as the behavior of the dragoons. He flattered my ancestors with clichés about the grandeur of Napoleon and France and the liberation of Lithuania from the Russian czarist yoke, thus causing them to exude some sort of minimum politeness. My great-great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother calmed down and sounded off with laments that French troops had been there the day before and taken dozens of hams, slabs of salted bacon, large loaves of bread, potatoes, pitchers of milk, and cans of sauerkraut.

The dragoons laughed at that and continued to peruse the premises. They went to the attic and found sausages and hams hanging peacefully from beams. They also found a barrel of beer in the cellar and a whole bunch of vegetables. The dragoons took the bait; my family had left in the open enough to satisfy the dragoons. They stored the rest in the hidden cellars, dugouts, and bushes where the dragoons could not find them. The Frenchmen threw what they could on a light horse-drawn cart and strapped the rest on their mounts. With links of sausages around their necks, they drank some of the beer, which they poured from the barrel into pots and pitchers while shouting Vive l’empereur and chanting Le Marseillaise.

Then following a command from their lieutenant, they mounted their horses and rode away singing Frère Jacques.

And that’s the end of this story. Remember that as an echo from our tribe’s past and be sure to pass it on, my grandpa used to say after every story like that one.

Tell me more, Grandpa! I insisted, and he continued after sipping a glass of gira, (pronounced geera) a refreshing native drink made from rye bread, raisins, yeast, and other ingredients. Everyone kept listening as he continued regardless of whether they heard it before.

It came to pass in the year 1864, Grandpa said, during the great rebellion by Lithuanians and Poles against the rule of Russian czar, because they wanted to reestablish their independence, which they lost to Russia, Prussia, and Austria in 1795 when those three countries partitioned the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth among themselves because it became ungovernable. The individual members of parliaments of Lithuania and Poland had the veto power on anything the parliaments wanted to do, that is, any decision had to have 100 percent support, which made it almost impossible to get anything done.

There was some truth in this I learned much later. The commonwealth fell because of too much democracy within its parliament.

And so Grandpa said, "The rebellion failed because we had bad luck in some battles. Let me tell you about the power of luck. While the rebellion was going on, our family members who were too young for war and the women decided to stay right here in the same house. One day around dinnertime, a rebel rider appeared on the road by our house. He stopped, dismounted, knocked on the door, and was asked to come in. His rebel uniform and his soldiery air gave him command presence instantly. The family was favorably and patriotically disposed toward him but did not ask his name, for in those times, there was a custom not to ask for names of strangers who seemed to be fleeing and needed shelter or food or were injured. The stranger suddenly said that he was hungry and was asked to sit at a table and offered to have dinner with his hosts. A servant was sent to give oats and water to his horse. The rebel ate with gusto and seemed to enjoy the soup. Suddenly, he dropped his spoon; it fell to the floor. He smiled and picked it up saying, ‘Oh, that’s bad luck.’

"He whipped it off with a serviette and continued eating. When he was served the main course, he continued with the great appetite. However, he dropped his fork. ‘Oh, bad luck again,’ our rebel rider remarked, showing some light embarrassment. Then dessert was served, some compote of sweet fruit. He relaxed and slowed down and seemed to enjoy