The Unsung ...

THE UNSUNG

By D Musgrave

There are heroes who are forgotten every day. How many of us remember that the first marathon is run because of Greek soldier? How many remember his name? Or that he was a messenger who ran 26 miles from the Battle of Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated? This is the premise for my guest blog post.

I think it's safe to say that most people in the world are somewhat familiar with the D-day invasion that took place during World War II. Many of us, if not most, have seen Saving Private Ryan, Band of Brothers, The Longest Day, or any number of other movies and documentaries about what could be argued was the turning point of the war in Europe.
The list of heroes from the invasion is long and would take many pages to list. Sadly, many of the names of those who were heroes have faded from people's memories. Even the memories of notable names such as Theodore Roosevelt JR, who as a Brigadier General landed with the first wave on Utah Beach, Normandy with the U.S. 4th Infantry Division, have become lost in the 66 years since the invasion.

Not only were there many heroes directly involved in the invasion, there was just as many behind the scenes who were vital to the success of offensive. One such man was Andrew J. Higgins. He never saw combat during the war, nor was he even in uniform. Nonetheless, his contribution to the war effort was just as important as any one private citizen.

If you watched Saving Private Ryan, you likely remember the opening scene where the combat troops were packed into amphibious crafts splashing through the surf toward the shores of Normandy. Those Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel (LCVP) were nicknamed Higgins Boats.



Andrew Higgins with the resources of his boat building company in New Orleans, LA was the inventor of that vital piece of military equipment. The success of the D-day invasion would not have been possible without Mr. Higgins creation. Praise for his invention came from everyone, including the enemy. Dwight Eisenhower commented that "Andrew Higgins ... is the man who won the war for us. ... If Higgins had not designed and built those LCVPs, we never could have landed over an open beach. The whole strategy of the war would have been different." It's even been purported that Adolph Hitler called Higgins the "New Noah."





Like Higgins, there are heroes who are forgotten by history every day. Most go unsung. Just like William Beauregard from my upcoming release Jamais Vu: A Love Forgotten. William Beauregard returns from WWII, only to find the visions of the death and destruction haunting him still. He can't shake them and it's pushed him away from his wife, Sheila. To rid himself of the ghosts, he must take a huge risk, one that could lose his wife to him for ever.

Jamais Vu: A Love Forgotten

by D Musgrave

Chapter One
Circa: August, 21st, 1945

Catching sight of the old house, it was as if a vise gripped his chest. Spanish moss hung from the huge oak trees lining the path leading to the front steps. It reminded him of carefree days before the war. Days he and Sheila would spend under the canopy, lounging on a blanket, making plans for their future. Gazing past the trees to the two-story brick house, he remembered the first time he laid eyes on it. It'd been in bad shape and needed lots of work, but even at first sight he knew it was home. Convincing Sheila to take a chance on the "money-pit" had been easy. Maybe she saw its potential as well.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to concentrate on the familiar smells of the moisture-laden bayou air. Not long ago he thought he'd never see the house or his wife again. Suddenly, the throat-tightening scent of war flooded his mind. The stench of mud, blood, and death overtook the sweet scent of the bayou.

Shaking his head, he pushed it away, but it persisted, forcing itself on him. He squeezed his eyes shut and the visions rushed into the darkness. He heard the wretched screams of dying men over the roar of battle. The smell of death seemed to be permanently burned into his mind, along with tortured screams. Many times in the last few days, he'd wondered whether he'd ever be free of those gripping fears.

The thick, rolling accent of the Creole taxi driver wrenched him from his reverie. "Hey, mister. Y'all gonna be paying fer tha ride?"

"Sorry," William Beauregard replied. Dropping his Army-issue duffel bag, he paid the fare.
The taxi cab rolled away, and William turned back to look at the old house. It had been a plantation, and before that, there were rumors of it being the home of a notorious pirate. There were also stories of hauntings and ghosts, but he'd never seen anything like that in his time there.

Bending down, he grabbed the duffel bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. He began the walk up the long path to the front door. He knew Sheila wasn't expecting him. He'd managed to talk his way onto a cargo plane from Fiji before a troop transport could be arranged for the rest of his unit. His service to the country had been completed and all he owed the Army was to turn in his weapons, which he did in San Diego.

The walk to the house seemed longer than he remembered, but he figured that was because part of him was nervous about seeing Sheila again. He knew he wasn't the same man who'd left her three years earlier. It was easy to hide how the war had affected him in letters. He hadn't wanted to cause her any additional worry, so in his letters he made it seem as if his part in the war was more of a clean up effort instead of the slow, trudging, bloody job of leading men onto the shores and through jungle swamps to retake the islands from the Japanese.

Suddenly, he heard a scream behind him. He turned, but no one was there. The scream echoed again, this time to his right and closer. It was the same heart-stopping war cry he'd heard when the Japanese guerillas attacked his platoon. Their battle cries were a mixture of rage and total abandon, as if they wanted their enemies to know they were about to die.

He spun on his heels, ready to defend himself, but nothing was there. A cold chill wrapped him in its clammy embrace. He'd felt that chill once before—in the back of the cargo plane, alone, trying to sleep on the metal floor behind a stack of ammo crates.

A voice whispered coldly in his ears, "Save me," then all was silent. His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to run for cover, but couldn't make his legs move. Another scream rang in his ears. It seemed to come from the house. This one was different. It wasn't the blood-chilling yell he'd heard before. It was a shriek of surprise.

Spinning, he saw someone running toward him from the darkness of the jungle. He dropped to one knee and reached for his duffel bag. His service revolver was in there and he prayed it was on top. Ripping the zipper open, he glanced up and a chill gripped his heart. The jungle had disappeared to be replaced by the safety of his front yard. The person running toward him wasn't a Japanese soldier; it wasn't even a man, it was his wife, Sheila.

Visit www.dmusgrave.com to find out more

Sorry - you're dead! So no prize for you.

When I was trying to come up with topics for us to post about, I kept thinking about something that has been bugging me for a long while now. The Nobel Prize. Specifically some of their regulations ...

The Nobel Prize cannot be awarded posthumously.

So some of the best scientists in the world, some of the people who lay the groundwork for others, but die suddenly, and often tragically, are left out of history’s records in this most important of ways.

The one that stands out to me the most is a Ph.D. from Cambridge, a woman who died at the young age of 37. Rosalind Franklin.

Her research was conducted during a time of great discovery in science – the 1950’s. Many of the college students I go to school with have the view of the world in an almost static sense, they see what is now, and it must have been what was as well. They can’t comprehend a world where many of the sciences we study now didn’t exist, or were in their infancy. Yet just fifty years ago, something that we take for granted now was just being truly discovered, the details ironed out, laying the foundation for greater understanding.

I am talking about DNA.

We hear the buzz words – gene slicing, genetically engineered food, cloning, DNA evidence at crime scenes. It’s in the movies; from the crime dramas to the futuristic sci-fi where it allows for super-humans, to the thrilling dinosaur tales of Michael Crichton. But in the 1950’s, while they knew such a thing existed, they had no clue as to exactly what it was.

Rosalind Franklin was one of the pioneers working in the field, and using her own ingenious methods, managed to discover important basic facts about its structure.

Her work was shared, without her knowledge, with those who history does remember – James Watson and Francis Crick. All throughout school, it was always either Watson and Crick’s DNA discoveries, or sometimes a third name, Maurice Wilkins was added in. It wasn’t until an offhanded mention by a professor that is as bothered as I am by the way the Nobel Prize neglects the discovery and such of the deceased, that I finally had a fourth name – Rosalind Franklin.

(For questions about the Nobel Prize, see their FAQ - http://nobelprize.org/contact/faq/index.html)

If she hadn’t have discovered what she did, if her work hadn’t have been shared with Watson and Crick, I wonder where their research would have led them, and how long it would have taken them to play catch-up. She never managed the key element of understanding DNA, the knowledge of how the base pairs inside line up, but she cleared off a lot of the false leads, including the possibility that DNA was actually three stranded, and that the sugar-phosphate backbone lies on the inside, not the outside.


Certainly they acknowledged her contribution, but over time, it has become Watson and Crick, and Wilkins most of the time, that are taught to our children, leaving Rosalind Franklin to slowly fade to the background.

And why?

From the Nobel Prize website ... this says it all.

"Is it possible to nominate someone for a posthumous Nobel Prize?

No, it is not. Previously, a person could be awarded a prize posthumously if he/she had already been nominated (before February 1 of the same year), which was true of Erik Axel Karlfeldt (Nobel Prize in Literature 1931) and Dag Hammarskjöld (Nobel Peace Prize, 1961). Effective from 1974, the prize may only go to a deceased person to whom it was already awarded (usually in October) but who had died before he/she could receive the Prize on December 10 (William Vickrey, 1996 Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel)." http://nobelprize.org/contact/faq/index.html

Rosalind Franklin would have had to have been nominated before her death to qualify. But once she died, it didn't matter than her research provided the founation for Watson and Crick's discoveries, it didn't matter that they gave her credit!

They will be remembered by history, and she has been religated to a footnote, if that, in DNA's legacy.

(The picture to the right is one that she took - one of the earliest images of DNA. Something we take for granted in today's society. Isn't it pretty?")

How many others have we forgotten in science?

The Renaissance Man

I thought long and hard about his week's topic since I first read about it, to no avail. Most unsung historical figures I could come up with were...well...sung. So I decided to go with an archteype of a person long admired and held up in high regard...a mysterious, nebulous figure still heard about today: The Renaissance Man.

In writing, the author considers character traits for their heroes, and I would imagine that most of the time, the Renaissance Man is wistfully debated, then discarded. Too perfect, and it wouldn't do to have a hero without fault or good at, well, everything. I've read those stories, where the author has given in and created a hero that is literally too good to be true.

The ideal came from the Renaissance period and put forth the standard to be sought as a "man of the world", educated and accomplished in a variety of disciplines: multiple languages, without a doubt; sciences; music; debate; history; social graces. Moreover, having a expertise in one, if not many, of these areas would give one a "universal" appeal, so to speak. And where did the young gentleman (and yes, this is for men only...you've never heard the term Renaissance Dame, have you?) go to acquire knowledge in all these diverse areas?  Why, University, of course.

Of course, the prototypical example of The Renaissance Man is Leonardo da Vinci, with his lasting and profound impact in the fields of art and science. However, could the Renaissance Man really exist these days? To become proficient to the point of having a lasting effect in even one dicipline in modern times is rare, much less being well-rounded. One example whom consider to fit the definition is Howard Hughes, and we all know how well he was able to cope with his tangents.

I love the Dos Equis campaign with The Most Interesting Man In The World, a caricature of our Renaissance Man. So from either fiction or reality, in modern times, who are some Renaissance Men these days? Or can he even exist?

To Edward Lowe, with Gratitude

By Lisabet Sarai



Michelle's proposed topic for this week is “History's Forgotten”. She challenged us to talk about some individual whose name may not be a household word but whose influence was far-reaching.

My first reaction was, “Duh?” I mean, if the person's forgotten, how am I supposed to produce the content for this blog post? I started racking my brain for important milestones in human history or contributions to human culture where the person responsible might be obscure. (I obviously couldn't search my memory for the people themselves—if I could remember them, they wouldn't fit Michelle's prescription.)

I considered sliced bread (you know, people are always saying that such-and-such is “the best thing since sliced bread”) but had no luck discovering who invented slicing. Fire has the same problem. The origins are lost in antiquity. I recently was reading an article about Japanese erotic bondage, which mentioned that the Edo period afficionado Ito Seiu is considered the “father” of this art. Was he sufficiently obscure? On the other hand, he didn't invent it. In any case, shibari is likely to be viewed as a mere footnote to history by many readers.

Then I had a brainstorm. I'd talk about Edward Lowe. Of course I didn't remember his name at the time—I had to look it up—but I knew that he was a worthy subject, someone who had an enduring impact on society but who has been largely forgotten. Why? Because in 1947, in the small town of Cassopolis, Edward Lowe invented kitty litter.

Those of you who do not have cats are likely sniggering. Kitty litter a significant contribution to civilization? Those of you who are fortunate enough to share your lives with creatures of the feline persuasion, though, will know that I'm right. Clay-based cat box filler is not quite a gift from the gods, but it's close.

My husband tells me that when he was growing up, kitty litter didn't exist. His family were staunch ailurophiles, and they used sand or shredded newspaper. Both became heavy and acquired a serious stench after only a few deposits. Clay litter, in contrast, absorbs liquids and neutralizes smells to a much greater extent than alternatives. Furthermore, cats really seem to enjoy digging among the lightweight clay granules.

Most of DH's childhood cats lived partially outdoors, so the problem was only serious in the winter. In contrast, our cats for the past twenty five years have been indoor only. Without kitty litter our lives would have been unpleasant indeed!

In the eighties we spent two years working in Thailand. We brought our two cats from the U.S. to live with us in our apartment. Although pet cats were not that common, one supermarket that catered to expats did sell kitty litter. We used to buy it in bulk, half a dozen ten pound bags at a time.

Halfway through our stay, however, we experienced a crisis. The supply of cat litter dried up. We tried every source we could think of—there was not a single bag in the entire city of Bangkok. We experimented with various substitutes: newspapers, sand, aquarium gravel. The cats made it clear that they were not amused. They preferred the floor (fortunately ceramic tile) to their box. We had a full time maid (ah, those were the days!) but nevertheless the situation was distressing for all involved.

Finally, in desperation, we decided to take a weekend trip to Singapore. Although the city state is only a few hours from Thailand, it was an international destination and thus we were each permitted twenty kilos (more than forty pounds) of luggage. We packed our clothes in one small backpack. When we arrived, we bought two big suitcases with wheels. Then we visited the supermarket near our hotel and bought every bag of litter they had.

We were very nervous coming through customs on our return. We were not carrying any contraband; there were no laws against importing cat litter. However, if the officials decided to check our bags, would they really believe our story? Eighty pounds of cat litter? We had visions of them slicing open the bags to check for drugs or other illegal items. We had nothing to hide, but we terrified we'd lose the litter we had spent so much time and money acquiring.

Of course, the cat litter drought ended soon after we returned. We didn't mind. We had a three month supply of litter and a good story.

Edward Lowe epitomizes the American entrepreneurial spirit. He was working at his father's company, which sold industrial absorbents, when a neighbor came by asking for sand to put in her cat box. Edward offered her some clay granules instead. She came back the next day, raving about how much her cat liked the non-traditional filler, how it reduced the odors and how the cat didn't track it around the house like the ash she had been using.

Edward saw an opportunity. He packed the clay granules into brown paper bags and sold them at the local market—65 cents for five pounds. Actually, he began by giving them away. Before long, though, the demand for his cat litter far outstripped his ability to supply it. The product was so superior to the options it replaced that it practically sold itself.

Ed started visiting cat shows, where he cleaned hundreds of cat boxes each day in exchange for a booth to display his new product. Crossing the country and visiting pet shops, Ed continued to sell Kitty Litter Brand from the back of his 1943 Chevy Coupe. Cat owners all over America soon fell in love with the product's odor control and absorbency. He founded the Tidy Cat company, which for years was the largest supplier of cat box filler in the world, with over $200 million in annual sales.

Yes, history may have forgotten Edward Lowe, but he has made his mark. Whenever Blackness or Mr. Toes start scraping in their box, I'm going to remember Ed, and give thanks for his ingenuity.