Gen. Vassili Chuikov

He was the Soviet commander during the battle of Stalingrad. That battle’s always fascinated me; hell, he’s always fascinated me.

Chuikov was probably under more pressure than any other human being ever during that battle. He suffered nervous eczema and his hands bled so badly at that time that he had to keep them continuously bandaged. I’ve seen photos of him at his desk (usually in some bombed out building or hole in the ground) with his hands wrapped in seeping pustulent wrappings. When told by Zhukov of the unhappy fate of the previous commander and that Stalin had chosen him to lead the defense of that besieged city he replied “we will defend the city or die here.” And they held. With often nothing more than few rationed bullets and their balls, the Russians under Chuikov held the line. They harassed, bogged down, stalemated and eventually set the stage for the defeat of Hitler’s Sixth Army when Zhukov led a counterattack across the frozen Volga later that winter.

That battle was the lynchpin, the very fulcrum, of World War II. The Russians smashed Von Paulus’ vaunted Sixth Army and even took him captive. Though there was still plenty fight left in the Wehrmacht, the Battle of Stalingrad irrevocably changed the course of the war and placed the Germans, who had previously run rampant across great swaths of Europe and Africa, permanently on the defensive. And it was mostly due to the incredibly tenacious resistance offered by Chuikov’s men in that hell on earth called Stalingrad. Stalin (who was many things but not a fool) rewarded this most able and resourceful commander by allowing his men to be the first into Berlin, thus bringing the curtain down on the war.

God, what a man. What fucking stamina and courage it must have taken to see him through those dark days, squatting in cold basements barking orders into the radio, imploring his men to hold. Hold! even though they were cold and short of food and ammo. Hold! even though the Germans had them pinned against the west bank of the river and were throwing everything they had at him in a murderous fury. Hold! even though he knew that Zhukov was purposely keeping his supply and reinforcements at a trickle to keep the Germans from discovering his own forces massing on the Volga’s east bank.

How did he do it? How did he not sink into depression and neurosis under that incredible stress? God, what steel he had in him. I don’t know how he died but I hope he was given a hero’s burial because he earned it . . . in spades.

I wonder if in his rare quiet moments Chuikov ever wondered at the fate that had swept him away from whatever life a peacetime Red Army officer had into the terrible maelstrom of Stalingrad. I wonder how often he pined for quiet moments with his wife and children during the brief lulls in battle.

There is nothing in my life that I have ever gone through, or ever will go through, that can begin to remotely compare to Stalingrad. But, in a way, the comparison does apply.

My dad was down earlier yesteday and met with me and my other salesmen. We discussed the market and its limitations. We discussed how San Antonio is a poorer city than Austin and that it's tougher to make money here as we don't have so damned many Dell employees with six figures in their 401k's to fight over. Dad's response was to talk about military leaders which I suppose he knows is the best way to get through to me. His favorite leaders to use as examples are Confederate commanders Stonewall Jackson and Nathan Bedford Forrest. Stern commanders whose men would follow them into the fires of hell, not becaiuse they offered them comfort or ease but because they could offer them victory.

Rainy Tuesday

Don't have a hell of a lot to write about today. Again, I'll just bang a stream of consciousness on the keyboard and see if what emerges is coherent or not.

Courtney had her first practice of the season for soccer last night. She was excited to begin again and couldn't wait even for practice to start again. That's my girl! She was moaning about it when we got home - her feet and legs hurt - but I reminded her how her legs hurt when she first started last fall too.

I am trying to kick myself in the butt and get the ball rolling again on the investing. I have let this collect too much dust and a lot of people are bugging me to start again. I heard from Mitch the other day about a house we're working on together and he told me that the mortgager is finally talking to him. That's good. Robbie's also chomping at the bit to get into it himself so I need to do this to be an example to him. Plus, hey, I need the money.

Well, dad was supposed to be here this morning but he called me early this morning and told me that he was having kidney pain so he couldn't come. I want him to be here tomorrow though. I want him to see my Toastmaster club.

Rainy as hell today and 2 of my 3 appointments have already cancelled. I guess I'll work on these houses I'm looking at for investments or go buy a few boxes of Krispy Kremes and go cold-calling. No, I won't eat any of them.

I'm still working out and dieting. People are now starting to comment how loose my clothes are on me, too. And though I didn't weigh myself this past Saturday (we were coming home from Billy's funeral) I would imagine that I've lost about 20 lbs or so.

Sunday thoughts

I don't have a clear about what I'm going to write about so I'm just going to bang on the keys and see what comes out.

First of all, Erica and I went to my Uncle Billy's funeral yesterday in Houston. I hate funerals - hell, who doesn't? - but this one was beautiful. I didn't really know Billy all that well; he and Aunt Joyce were married for 10 years and though I love Aunt Joyce (my mom's big sister) I only see her about twice a year. Nevertheless, I liked Billy. He was the kind of guy who always had a warm smile and handshake for anyone who crossed his path. I think it was Will Rogers who said "I never met a man I didn't like" and Billy was the same way. Everybody liked him, even people who didn't really know him all that well. He was just that kind of guy.

The funeral was beautiful. Billy was loved by a great many people and they all showed up to pay their respects. The preacher at the church (a small Methodist church in Humble) was either very gifted or inspired by the occasion. Billy's fellow Masons even did their own poignant ritual that I enjoyed. A very emotional and proper sendoff for a great guy. May God bless my Aunt Joyce, all of Billy's family and all else who knew and loved him.

We rented and watched a really cool movie last night. At least, I thought it was cool, Erica hated it. The movie was Lost in Translation by Sofia Coppola. I'm not a movie critic so I'll just say what I liked about it. First of all, having Bill Murray play a sad and doleful version of himself was a masterstroke. Secondly, I've never heard of Scarlet Johannson before but I expect that we'll will be seeing more of her in the future because her performance in this movie was wonderful.

I liked what the movie does with silences, the meaningful glances that are - and are not - exchanged between the two. I liked how the movie pivoted as much on what was NOT said or done as what was. For instance, Johannson is very beautiful, with full lips and sloe-gin eyes. Bill Murray of course isn't, however as a much older man, one would almost expect a romantic liason to develop between the two. After all, they're both adrift in a foreign city (Tokyo) that they hate and have no one else to turn to for company except each other.

The sexual attraction between the two is like a low current that permeates and runs through the movie like static electricity on a winter day. It doesn't really charge the movie but it's always there. But - and this is why I liked the movie - they didn't do anything about it. Their attraction or love for each other was never consummated. It was left hanging there unresolved and the movie was better for it. I also liked the pitch perfect ending with Bill Murray whispering something (we're not allowed to hear) in Johannson's ear as he bids her goodbye. I liked it. I liked it a lot. It made me think and inspired me to write.

I think one thing Coppolla is saying with Lost in Translation is that there are more important things, and better things, than fucking. Having both end up romping in the sheets would have been easy for her as it's an ending that we've all seen before. I was half expecting and dreading that possibility. But . . . it would have also been a betrayal, both of the characters and the movie itself. A very good, hell possibly a great movie.

We all went to La Posada for dinner earlier this evening. "We all" means me, Erica, Courtney, Megan and Meg's friend Clifton. Now, it's 8:00 pm and everyone, plus Megan's friend Kayla now, are giggling in the kitchen. I love it when she stays in and brings friends over. She's a teenager and I of course can't insist that she do every night - her social life would die - but I like it when it just happens. She is such a good kid.

I am loving this Yahoo DSL. I love this feature where you can listen to internet radio stations too. With the DSL connections, the feed doesn't buffer nearly as much as a dial up radio connection. Right now, I'm listening to "Hits of 25 years ago" and the song that's on is "Promises" by Eric Clapton. 70's ubercrooner Gino Vanelli's "I Just Wanna Stop" just, well, stopped. What a great song. There's like 100 other stations that I can listen to when I inevitably tire of songs from 1979. But first, "Fire" by the Pointer Sisters . . .