Jesus (Yeshua), Name of Wondrous Love": words by William W. Howe, 1823-1897, music to "Gott sei Dank," 1704. The midi melody above was evoked by an echo from deep within Eduardo's heart. Whether he had heard it somewhere before, he knows not. Sing it to a better tune from within your own heart or listen to the Gottseidank (God be thanked) version.

Oh, sing aloud his name, ye Messiahns! Sing it all ye who have used the blessed name as a curse, whatever your religion or no religion. You want respect.... Respect others and their faith.

Was the Messiah's mission performed among the Greeks? Was he a Greek? Did the apostle Peter say, "Thou art the Christ, the son of the living God"? Of course not! No way! He said, "Thou art the Messiah..." No one alive during the Messiah's ministry among the Jews—the only non-pagan people on earth back then—would have called him by Greek Xristos. No Israelite would employ Greek for this. How preposterous even to contemplate such an absurdity. He came as the Messiah and properly speaking his followers are Messiahns. Unimportant distinctions? No big deal? Keep in mind that we are supposed to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, strength and mind.

This is just one more example of the insidious anti-Semitism that pervades the world. Most present-day followers of the Messiah fail to understand that they are wild branches grafted into the olive tree. (See Romans 11:1-2,17 21) The scholars who first translated the New Testament to English and other European languages were proficient in Greek and Latin and their translations were from those languages. Did they realize how grossly offensive and mistaken they were? Was anti-Jewish prejudice consciously or unconsciously at work? Subsequent translations have perpetuated this perverse slight against the Savior's people.



Eduardo couldn't believe it. He had been so certain that his perception of "small" had to do with the appearance of the motor home. How could he have been so stupid! (Kein Problem. No problem.)

Cheese 'n crackers!

"Was gibt's? Was ist los?" (What's up? What's the matter?) Hearing that terrible epithet, Anneliese fears the worst.

"We can't stop now to change the looks of the motor home. A global positioning system device no doubt has been planted on it. Our location within a few yards is already known to somebody. Somebody and his henchpersons already know that we've taken off from the cabin and are headed this way. These hi-tech devices can be so small that it would take too long to find it. Even the antennas measure less than 2" x 2" x 1/2." All we can do is speed up and try to keep them at a distance.... Get in heavy traffic. The motor home is equipped with a device that's supposed to jam transmission of GPS signals to other vehicles and locations, but it would be safer not to count on that. I've already switched it on, however.

"Cheese 'n crackers!" Pérez moaned to himself. "I knew we should have built a garage for the motor home instead of leaving it out in the open. It seemed like such a great idea to use it as living accommodations while building the cabin. Also, having an RV allowed the cabin to be somewhat smaller and less expensive. A recreational vehicle with a queen-size bed and two sofa beds could accommodate up to six people, with generator, water tank, "black water" tank, stove, fridge, heat, air conditioning, hot water, TV, radio, toilet, inside and outside showers (for after swimming), an awning, and a rooftop sundeck on which to place lawn chairs and admire the scenery, etc.; etc.

Much better than a guest room.... Like having a small separate apartment. And the grandkids loved it. The best kind of playhouse in the world. Out in the open that way, though...."

Then, aloud: "My plan was to head right for the freeway after disguising the motor home. At first this still seemed the best way to keep them at a distance, but now I think we'd better head for the toolies. Here, take this Glock."

The perfect opportunity to explain the origin of the slang expression toolies. It's from the Tulare Indians of central California, derived from their word for the rushes common to their habitat which provided useful raw material for their huts, baskets, mats, etc.

Another interesting fact garnered from a meritorious digression: from Latin dis- (apart) and gredi (to go, step.) Cf. Spanish grada: step (of stairs). Pérez seldom moves (i.e., digresses) more than one step from a given subject, theme or line of talk. Occasionally he will do a two-step... having the nature of an aside. Just to the side. Never backward. He himself never knows when this might happen. That's up to Heisenberg Uncertainty. He is in a continual state of readiness, however, having taken to heart the motto of his outfit—the 411th Infantry Regiment—inscribed under a coiled rattlesnake: Paratus Ferire, "Ready to Strike."

"Out in the toolies" originally meant out in the tule (toolay) marshes. Now it basically just means out away from human habitation. As for Glock, everyone knows that it's the weapon of choice both for many law enforcement officers and for many thugs. You could check out items like the one below on the internet if you had time. Pérez will spare you the trouble and the www (world-wide wait).

Glocks were developed in Anneliese's homeland by the Austrian Army. An item from the internet, brought up by the keyword glock:

A little bit of information about the best pistol ever made

Glocks are some of the most extensively tested handguns in the world. Glocks have been frozen in ice, buried in mud, sand and dust, immersed in salt water, heated, dropped out of aircraft, run over by vehicles, fired unlubricated, fired underwater, thrown loaded against steel and concrete, and have been soaked in corrosive chemicals used in nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare. Glocks have been fired tens of thousands of times without malfunction. In all these cases the Glocks used did not rust, inadvertently discharge, or experience any major parts breakage. Because of its reliability in extreme conditions and under extreme abuse, the Glock has become one of the most popular pistols today.

With only one practice on the firing range in basic training with Colt 45s, Pérez and his buddies developed no skill with them at all. Before the war was over, however, they were pretty good shots with them. With Lugers, too. A number of these were "liberated" by Eduardo's platoon—especially near Landsberg, in Bavaria, west of Munich. The cadet school there had been deserted when they arrived so the guys helped themselves to weapons and stuff. Eisenhower had declared "No Looting!" "No Fraternization with the Germans!"

Do you think Eddy took even one of those terrific German officer caps? (It's been claimed that he did. If so, where the heck is it?) No, and not a Luger, either. He still had a subserviency streak in him almost equal to that of his servile little friend—the one with him in the music class. He has a clear conscience, though, which he figures is worth something, even at today's excessively discounted rates. Whenever they were behind the lines for even a very short interval, the guys would plug away with Colts and Lugers at bottles, empty K-ration boxes, scraps of debris or any convenient target.

Both Eduardo and Anneliese were top-rated experts with the Glock. So watch out, you baddies and perps out there! The good guys can outshoot you! There are many too many bad guys out there and it's a charity and a mercy to them to bring them up short in their destructiveness.... and stop their self-destruction. Always non-destructively, non-lethally, if at all possible.

At or near Landsberg proper, three forever memorable things happened: First, a Hungarian regiment surrendered to the 411 Infantry Regiment, having endured enough misery, suffering, and death in Hitler's war after he maneuvered them into an alliance with the Axis (Berlin-Rome-Tokyo). Pérez remembers well standing at attention with his company as the Hungarians marched past and formally laid down their arms at the feet of Colonel Donovan P. Yuell.

Second: Just by chance—Eduardo doesn't recall exactly how it came about—he and a number of others with knowledge of it had time to rush over to see it before their units moved on: The prison cell where Hitler wrote Mein Kampf (My Struggle). Just a plain unadorned downstairs cell, with a commemorative plaque, a cot, a wash stand with a water jar and a porcelain wash basin on it. A fairly large framed photo of der Führer on one wall. A small table with a potted plant on it. One chair. All very plain. And, of course, there was a first edition copy of Mein Kampf on another stand.


Third: Hard to believe, but no one had the slightest inkling of the existence of concentration camps. Pérez's infantry regiment liberated the one outside Landsberg. (Actually, there were six concentration camps ringing Landsberg, but Pérez and company didn't know that then.) The Gestapo officers and men in charge had fled, but the regiment compelled the citizens who had remained in the area to "neatly" lay out the corpses until they could be identified, if possible, and given proper burial.

Pérez and his company had to move on, but as they passed by, restrained tears burning in their eyes, their hearts filled with horror at the thought that such inhumanity was possible, they threw K rations to the survivors. (His platoon seldom received any of the more substantial, nutritious C-rations.) To their horror, they realized that most of the poor living skin and bone corpses able to crawl or stand were too far gone to ingest solid or even liquid food and had to be fed intravenously by the medics. Pérez wanted to stop to investigate—to the extent possible—just what it was that they were seeing. At the same time, he was glad to make tracks away from the awful, unspeakable horror of it.

So most of what Pérez knows about this is found in the official wartime history of his division: Report After Action, The Story of the 103rd Infantry Division. Just looking at the photos of the concentration camp within its pages still makes Eduardo sick to the stomach—more than that.... about to throw up.... about to heave up even his bowels of mercy toward the perpetrators.... and that without the stench that pervaded the actual site.

Nazi skinheads and others who claim that the Holocaust is just a fiction....! Those who were there and survived, those who liberated them, justly seethe with uncontained disgust and disbelief that such perfidy can exist. But there is a God. There is judgment and justice.

Everyone in the civilized world should have a look at pages 132-133 of this division history. Throwing up will do us good. Purify us. Of insouciance, of forgetting. It will fill us with a terrible determination that such things will never be permitted to happen again. Yes, you do not need to bring to Pérez's attention the fact that similar things are happening right now. But we must not despair. We must not give up the fight. We must non-violently fight our own politicians, if necessary.






The intensity of Eduardo's feelings was far surpassed by that of Lou Holtzman, Saul Saperstein and Marty Horowitz. The realization had struck them in the face that these corpses and living corpses were Jewish. The three were very best buddies of his in their squad of 10 men. Lou knew Yiddish. The word comes from German Jüdisch (Jewish). German <j> is pronounced like English <y>. It is basically a dialect of German with some Hebrew and other non-German words, but written with Hebrew characters, right to left.

Lou also knew Russian. Many Jews are so proficient in an amazing number of languages that it's astonishing. No doubt in part because they have been so mercilessly driven from their homes so many times. And because they love high culture, including serious study not only of languages but also the literature, music, art, theater, etc. of other lands. One of the greatest linguistic scholars of all time was Edward Sapir.... Jewish. Noam Chomsky.... Jewish—considered by many to be the most important specialist in linguistics today.... Best known—aside from his dissident political stance—as the theorist behind generative-transformational grammar.

Lu Hossiasson, member of the directorio (board of directors) of the Instituto Chileno-Norteamericano de Cultura, was born in Poland, lived in Hungary, escaped the Nazis by fleeing to Italy, then to Cuba, then to Chile. She was fluent in the languages spoken in these countries as well as in English, German and French. She was a prominent member of the Alliance-Française in Valparaíso.

A somewhat middle-aged but very attractive, youthful-looking blonde, she was viewed by Pérez as an ornament to the Instituto in every way, except for her tendency to try to run it. Her main hobby was benefits for orphans and handicapped children—always getting the Instituto involved, which was good for the Institute's image and for its soul. Eduardo assumed that she also knew Hebrew. In any case, a linguistic phenomenon. Her English was fluent. Fast. Very fast. With a delightful accent.

The presidente del directorio, don Julio Hirschmann, also Jewish, was vice-rector of the Universidad Técnica Federico Santa María. Known world-wide for his research in solar energy. Very fluent in several languages. Pérez just missed seeing him again in Mexico City when don Julio was guest speaker at a conference on solar energy and Eduardo was on an assignment related to something quite different.

The directorio was composed of six North Americans resident in Chile and six prominent Chilenos: an editor for El Mercurio (Alex Varela), two lawyers (Oscar Gompertz, J. R. Calvo), a Jesuit priest and professor (Reverendo Padre Raimundo Barros) and a prominent author (Gloria Montaldo), in addition to don Julio (ex-oficio member) and Lu. The North Americans included Lucius D. Hill, manager of Moore McCormick Lines, plus others active in promoting good relations with Chile.

So Pérez had three masters: the Board of Directors, the U.S. Embassy in Chile, and the U.S. Information Agency in Washington, D.C. Complications sometimes arose but Eduardo developed ways of dealing with them. The Department of State could be included peripherally as yet another master. The State Department sent art exhibits, prominent lecturers (historian Henry Steele Commager, among others), the American Ballet Theater, basketball teams, and other groups on tours. Pérez had to arrange for publicity, the sale of tickets, etc.

A big event in Ed's and Anneliese's lives was sitting at table with Louis Armstrong at a reception sponsored by the Embassy for him and his orquesta de jazz in Valparaíso. Satchmo was idolized by all.

At such events Ed often had to act as interpreter. His all-time big flop in that role: translating for the Grambling College basketball team. First—he apolgizes—he was totally unfamiliar with their deep south accent and could hardly understand what was said. Second, he had only played básquetbol in English at the English-speaking schools he attended.

He muffed the translations so embarrassingly at a básquetbol demonstration and clinic that he finally gave up and invited everyone to just closely observe what the coach and players were doing. He tried to wing it by hispanicizing terms like dribbling to drible, but felt too uncertain to continue. Later he learned that driblar and avanzar driblando (verb forms) are correct. Drible is not a noun, but Eduardo didn't bobble dribble completely.

The Grambling team was a sensation. One thing was their height. A second, their skin color. Most Chileans had never seen a Black before in the flesh. There are no Blacks in Chile. At that time, the Constitution of Chile excluded them from immigration. You should have seen the people gawk! "¿Qué mirás, mirón?" Eduardo had to restrain himself from saying.... Which más o menos (more or less) means, "What are you gawking at, you gawker?") Chilenos, as a rule, are extremely courteous. They meant nothing by it. They just couldn't help it.

We interrupt here to comment on Eduardo's feelings about race. Mexican-Americans and other Hispanics have not been free of discrimination in this land of the free. In some ways they have fared better than blacks, however. Back at basic training in Texas, Ed once boarded a bus which at the moment had only one passenger. Not wanting to seem unfriendly or anti-social, he went to the rear of the bus and sat next to him.

The driver began to gesture wildly to him—a strange thing beyond Ed's comprehension. Finally, the driver calmed down enough to signal that Ed was to come forward. Ed did so and it was explained to him that Whites could sit only in the front of the vehicle and Blacks in the back. Ed regrets that he did not defy the "law," but he felt rather stunned, dazed, and bewildered. He had grown up in a rural community in California where there were no Blacks and (not too unusual in some places) he knew little regarding their situation.

Once on maneuvers in basic training, Ed's platoon came upon a fenced-in area far removed from all else. Inside the fence, running an obstacle course, were African-American enlisted men supervised by White officers. Ed's eyes bulged out to see how athletic, vigorous and strong they were. "Wow!" he and others exclaimed, "I'm glad they're on our side." How sad, Ed felt, that "we" had not been whole-heartedly on "their" side.

How could this be? All Americans should have been—and ought to be now—like D'Artagnan and the Three Musketeers: "One for all and all for one." Later, through genealogical research, Ed discovered that a White slave owner who lived in Virginia is counted among his ancestors. He's not inclined to send a few thousand dollars in reparations to Jesse Jackson; nonetheless, he rejoices to note how Afro-Americans are succeeding in so many fields and will gladly assist their cause as best he can.

He particularly admires (among many others) Jessye Norman, Thomas Sowell, Colin Powell, Condoleeza Rice, Walter Williams, J. C. Watts, Star Parker, Carl Malone, and Rosa Parks, whom he regrets not having emulated with just a milligram, at least, of her courage, empathetically attempting to appreciate what the vile discrimination and injustice she suffered was like.

Mirás is an example of the Chilean voseo, which differs from that of Argentina. In everyday speech, the pronoun vos replaces standard tú. Archaic vos survives in some regions along with more modern second person plural vosotros and uses the verbs associated with it in modified form. Castilian vosotros sois (you are, plural) becomes vos soi (you are, singular), for example. To be expected, because Chileans "eat their esses." In Argentina, this becomes vos sos. In both countries the standard form, tú eres, is understood but used only exceptionally, in a formal way.

This created confusion for Paul (Pablo), the Pérez's oldest child and only son. On their arrival in Valparaíso, they managed to find an apartment at Alto Empart in twin city Viña del Mar. Lots of kids in the neighborhood. Pablo went right out to get acquainted and was confronted by new-kid-on-the-block challenges. One big kid, initially belligerent, snorted at Pablo, "¡Soi loco!" I'm crazy? Why would he say a peculiar thing like that in such a hostile manner?

Kids learn languages with amazing rapidity in new linguistic environments. Pablo quickly understood that this meant "You're crazy!" Standard first person singular is (yo) soy. The spellings soi and soy mean nothing; the pronunciation is identical. In standard Spanish, the cabro (kid) was saying "¡(Tú) eres loco!"

Interesting: In Chile kids are cabros and cabras. Literally little goats—masculine and feminine. Chileans tend to eat fricative voiced consonants, too, so Pablo comes out as Paulo (Powlo); Cabro, like Cowro, etc. [w] is bilabial and fricative is weakly bilabial, so you see where that comes from.

In the course of getting accepted, Pablo had to engage in many a tussle. Anneliese and Eduardo realized later that this may have been what started their son on his way to champion wrestler status in his weight.

Alto Empart was a large housing development composed of many identical two story buildings. Once Ed returned from the little Super Mercado (super market) across the street loaded down with bags of groceries. Unable to hit the doorbell with his elbow, he kicked the bottom of the door. To his astonishment a stranger appeared in the doorway, took one look at him, gently took him by the shoulders, turned him around, and pointed him in the direction of the next building, uphill. All without a word. Just an amused smile. Right door. Wrong building.

"Son esos mocosos yanquis," Ed overhead a lady say one day in passing. "It's those snot-nosed Yankees." Mocos (plural) has the same derivation as English mucous. La señora meant nothing pejorative by that. It's just a word for kids, runny-nosed or not. The point here is that everyone around knew who the Pérezes were and exhibited nothing but friendliness toward them.

Pérez later became friends with the secretary of the Communist Party for the province of Valparaíso and participated in a literacy campaign with him. Ordinarily comunistas would avoid any such collaboration like the plague, not wanting the capitalistas norteamericanos ever to be viewed in any favorable light whatsoever. This young man was so devoted to helping illiterates that he welcomed assistance.

Eduardo wonders what became of him when many communists and socialists were imprisoned or fled Chile after the coup that over threw Salvador Allende. Ed would have done everything in his power to defend and protect him, had he had any contact with him at the time.

The Alto Empart apartment was too small, so after the tourist season ended, the family moved to Las Brisas (The Breezes), on Avenida Perú on the shore of the Pacific. There were still many sunny days left, so the family had great fun at the beach. When the tourist season began again in November (the seasons are reversed, remember), Las Brisas was far too expensive—only barely affordable off-season—so they had to move inland to Quilpué to find an affordable place. Pérez didn't mind the commute. He got to see more of Chile and Chileans day to day, face to face, on trains and buses.

In the European Theater of Operations Lou Holtzman's linguistic ability was of special value to his comrades—especially in Alsace Lorraine, that unfortunate area bordering the Rhine which has passed back and forth so many times between Germany and France that the inhabitants must feel like pawns in the grip of forces beyond their control on squares coveted for their strategic importance and the immense value accrued from the inhabitants' talents and labor. They are bilingual in German and French and have great traditions and customs.

During a momentary break in the fighting as the front advanced, their squad came to a stop in a small village . Reconnoitering through the rubble-jumbled streets, they encountered a friendly looking blacksmith standing before his smithy. Lou struck up a conversation with him and found that the blacksmith's son, a soldier in the Wehrmacht, had just passed by in full retreat a few hours earlier.

The uncertain course of war—in this instance, the fortunes of war—brought them back to the village a few days later. They eagerly looked up their friend. By the blacksmith's side was a nervous young guy just their age who could have been one of them. In civilian clothes. Their orders were to turn all German deserters in for confinement in prisoner of war camps. No way could they do that!

One more of the many follow-up wishes that have nagged Eduardo long afterward. The wish to know what happened eventually to the young man. Did he find happiness? A wife, a home, children? Amidst so much destruction (his father's smithy escaped it), how did the people manage to rebuild? No doubt about one thing. Though they cherished Germanic aspects of their culture—very high culture indeed, in many fields—they undoubtedly were overjoyed to escape from Nazi Germany and become part of France again.

Shortly after war's end, Pérez was transferred to the 45th Infantry Division, once General George W. Patton's, which had been assigned to guard duty at Dachau, one of the most infamous concentration camps of all. By then the surviving inmates had been removed to hospitals and the high-walled camp was overcrowded with DPs from all over Europe, it seemed. Despite the efforts of the medics to organize the inmates and keep the place clean and sanitary, as Eduardo paced around the walls, his turn at guard duty, his M1 on his shoulder (Was anyone going to escape? Did anyone want to?), he was almost overwhelmed by the stench, and thought to himself, if it's this bad now, imagine how unbelievably horrible it was before!

Of course he could imagine it quite well, because he had passed so close by the concentration camp outside Landsberg, where the poor victims were kept in unspeakably filthy underground pits like potato cellars with only the low triangular roofs showing above ground. All was behind barbed wire. There were no walls. Every horrific sight outside the cellars was visible as they passed by. Just a few feet from the vicious looking barbs.

Pérez can hardly take up his writing again. All else seems so frivolous now. But there are other criminal injustices and prejudices out there—those confronting many of us much smaller by comparison, but nonetheless deserving, demanding, attention and action. In spite of everything, La vita e bella (Life is Beautiful), or can be, despite all that the devil and humanity can do.

If you haven't seen Roberto Benigni's fabulous film with this title, in which he has the leading role as well as being the co-writer and director—his real-life wife, Nicoletta Braschi in the starring role of Dora—don't fail to do so. Yes, roses can grow out of manure, but we must ever be mindful that there are extremely grave dangers out there to which everyone should be repeatedly alerted.

Pérez is filled with such anguish, sadness, and sorrow as he attempts to write on... In part from the realization that his life is far from being as large as he had dreamed and hoped. Perhaps this eye-witness Holocaust account, which has effected a rededication in him, will serve to force open cracks in comfortable lives to let in noble, valiant, enlarging impulses and urges to fight on and fend off evil to the end, supplanting it with love, harmony, justice and beauty. Dreams.... so insubstantial. As ephemeral as Scriabin's luminosity and flashing. But what is there?... What would there be without them? We must dream on.

Anneliese, as good wives must, had to remind Eduardo on occasion that dreams can't feed and clothe children. Their life together in Ann Arbor was so difficult, but so beautiful. Ed's educational benefits under the G.I. Bill of Rights for World War II veterans had ended. He had a scholarship for tuition but the cost of living was so high there (higher than anywhere except in Washington, D.C., it was reported) that to meet living expenses, Ed taught Beginning Spanish classes as a graduate assistant, worked at the University of Michigan Press as a typist and proofreader, did translations (most of them very instructive, on Game Theory, Information Theory, Musicology, etc.), worked at lawn care during the summer, and sold his blood every six weeks.

Their three children at the time, Paul, Lou Jean, and Lisa (Leessa), were kept in clothes by abuelita Pérez, an expert seamstress who helped her family survive during and after the Great Depression by working as such at a clothing store and doing free-lance work for ladies at home—along with other jobs.

Ed had always loved liver and onions. Hispanics enjoy cuts of meat that gringos, oddly, tend to despise. Apparently these cuts are mostly converted to pet food in the States. Have you had any tongue lately? Nothing could be more delicious, the way doña Josefina prepared it. How about menudo (tripe, called mondongo in Argentina)? Again, if mothers knew how to fix it like Ed's mother....

Ed's young American friends in Argentina had nicknamed him "Cast Iron." For his stomach. He would eat anything, rather than offend, when invited to oh, so hospitable Argentine homes. But he liked just about anything, from sheep's eyes to blood sausage. He loved pizza. Young Americans of today, with pizza parlors and taco places everywhere, don't realize that back in those days most Americans, if not living in Italian-American or Mexican-American communities, had never heard of these delicious dishes, let alone savored them. A high percentage of Argentina's population is of Italian origin, so Ed got to savor kilo after kilo of delicious stuff. His favorite was pizza with anchovies and capers. He can't find it as often as he'd like in the U.S.

It really bugged Eduardo that one of his exchange-student friends in Buenos Aires, Davy Schmidt, could get away with murder. Such a fun-loving, gregarious guy. He would sit at the piano and play away tempestuously, really hamming it up, while loudly imitating Carlos Gardel or Woody Guthrie. It was all pretend with the fingers. They scarcely touched the keys. He couldn't play at all. Everyone would laugh till their sides ached. When offered something that didn't appeal to him by a hospitable hostess, he would say, "¡No, no, no, no, no, señora, yo no como eso!" (No... ma'am, I'm not eating that!) and put on such a big show he could get away with it and not offend a soul.

Why liver and onions? Because it supposedly helped restore one's blood so fast. Seemed to. Ed could go back frequently and still had more blood than a turnip. You know, "You can't get blood from one." It was that hard to get blood from Ed. The nurses could never hit a vein. Each time he would get more punctured than a juicy flower by a hummingbird. In that same hit and miss vein, Ed formulated an inspirational story with a banner headline to tell his children later in life, hoping it would be a big hit with them:

STRUGGLING FATHER GIVES LIFE'S BLOOD FOR FAMILY

Ed, just now, had to have a look at the glass-covered case his wonderful daughter Lou Jean made to hold his World War II memorabilia, including his dog tags. He was quite sure, but wanted to confirm it. Yup, blood type B, along with his name and Army Serial number: 19153139. He would never have to check that out. So many times blurting out at inspections, "PFC Edward P'rez, Sir! 19153139!" (Private First Class.) See there? The G.I.s weren't just numbers. They had names, too. Type B seemed to be much in demand. If Ed remembers correctly, he got paid extra for it. Good life's blood. No drugs, no alcohol, no nicotine, no viruses, no ketchup. A little watery, perhaps, and smelling of liver and onions.


Our Father who art in Heaven. Definitely a time for prayer. Where in toolies was Pérez headed? From topographical maps in his possession he knew approximately where a deep ravine was located. But that was uncertain.... Heisenberg, you keep out of this!.... as was the identity of the pursuers. A very unsettling thought crossed Eduardo's mind. What if there weren't any?

But the fact that "Sam Snow" had claimed to have studied only a little high school Spanish clinched it for Ed. There no doubt was no Sentinel newspaper! It grieved Ed to have been caught in a fib. Not a grievous one but a useless one. And by a hostile. A gloating, snickering hostile. Which pursuers, though? From Vienna to Saltillo, there were a number of possibilities. Maybe a phonetic transcription would appear out of the blue to give him a clue. Couldn't count on it, though.

One of Ed's favorite books is Irving Stone's The Passions of the Mind. A biography of Sigmund Freud. Amazing how the mind works. The id, the libido, the ego, the super-ego and all that. Our subconscious.... Your "unconscious," as Anneliese jokingly refers to Eduardo's "normal" cerebral status. Ed figures that his phonetic transcriptions spring from subconscious states. They are oneiric, having a dream-like quality. Intriguing, hard to remember in any detail, they vanish too soon. They're difficult or impossible to interpret. Can't be evoked at will. Let 'em keep comin', though, says Ed.

This evokes in Dr. Pérez's mind the difficulties of computer programming. Often, when thoroughly stumped by something, he turns to something else. A totally different activity. Or, if the time is right, he goes right to bed. Oh, sleep, fantastic sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of computer code! It's a fact. His servo-slave, striving, little brain works it out all on its own during the night. In the morning Dr. Pérez awakes and says, "That's it."

The recurring, doctored quote from MacBeth indicates that Eduardo must know some Shakespeare. After the war ended in Europe, he sailed for home on His Majesty's Ship (HMS) Acquitania, outfitted as a troop ship. A huge vessel, totally crowded with troops at elbow-to-elbow distance, it almost seemed. There was more breathing room in the ship's library than anywhere else. There Ed found the complete works of Shakespeare, which kept him occupied the entire voyage of about five or six days. Naturally, he had read Shakespeare before then and has since. He must confess, though, that he knows Spanish, Spanish-American, French, and German literature better than English and American.

Before boarding the Acquitania, the troops knew for certain that they would soon leave the ETO (European Theater of Operations) and head for the PTO (Pacific Theater) to help put a swift end to the war there. They thought they had done their share already, but if that's where they were needed, that's where they would go. Another day, another dollar. Another day, another dollar. Another day, another dollar. Would it never end?

In contrast to the Acquitania's five or six days from Europe to New York, Pérez's zigzagging troop ship from New York to Europe took 15 days. Speedy, for their old tub. The convoy occasionally made abrupt changes of course to foil submarine attacks. A refitted freighter, the Santa Maria was the butt of the joke that it was Columbus's flag ship with sail power replaced by coal-stoked steam propulsion.

The troops had no idea where they were headed until suddenly a city of white-stuccoed houses appeared in the distance off to starboard. It had to be Casablanca. They were headed for mountainous Italy to face some of the stiffest fighting of the war! However, Marseille had just been taken in amphibious assaults by troops from Italy and that's where the Santa Maria docked. Very soon afterward, the troops were trucked rapidly up the spectacularly beautiful Rhône River Valley directly into combat.

A soldier was posted at the right-front corner of each truck, head and upper torso poked out above the canvas tarp to spot enemy planes or any other kind of hostile activity. When it was Ed's turn, the wind slapping him in the face—cold overcast weather—he sang his heart out with beloved hymns and songs in English and Spanish (English translations of the Spanish ones are listed here):

"Give me some men who are stout-hearted men," "Thanks be to God for love divine, for hopes that 'round my heart entwine," "Jesus, the very thought of thee with rapture fills my breast," "Onward Christian Soldiers," "Abide with Me," "How great thou art!" And many others, so beautiful, consoling, and fiber-firming. Firming up every fiber of one's soul. To a lesser extent, of one's body under extreme stress. As the Apostle James put it, We can control a horse with a bit and a ship with a rudder, but can't control our tongues.... Or some aspects of "biology."

How great is the Swedish hymn How Great Thou Art ! (O store Gud, by Carl G. Boberg, 1885.) If you don't know it, learn it now.

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder Consider all the works thy hand hath made, I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder, Thy pow'r throughout the universe displayed. Refrain: |: Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art! How great Thou art!:| When through the woods and forest glades I wander And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees; When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur And hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze; Refrain: And when I think that God, his Son not sparing, Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in That on the cross my burden gladly bearing He bled and died to take away my sin; Refrain: When Christ shall come, with shouts of acclamation, And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart! Then I shall bow in humble adoration And there proclaim, "My God, how great Thou art!" Refrain: