Not All Heroes Wear Capes: The 203 Year Saga of the 27th Amendment

Frustrated by the C grade he had received on a paper for a political science class, a University of Texas, Austin, student set out to change the Constitution. Here, Blaine Kaltman explains how Gregory Watson led the fight to ratify the 27th Amendment.

The United States’ Twenty-seventh Amendment. This is from the hand-written copy of the proposed Bill of Rights from 1789.

In the wake of ICE riots and controversial comments delivered by Billie Eilish and other celebrities, it is important to remember that policy in the United States is perpetuated through legislation. Congress writes the laws that dictate the nation’s future. Working to create, enact, or change such laws is almost always the most productive way to ensure lasting change. Much more productive than performative activism or violent confrontation.  

And yet Congress is failing in its most basic task. Case in point, for decades, members of Congress have been promising comprehensive immigration reform but have never delivered. Which is why many Americans question the wisdom of paying our Congressional representatives such high salaries. Especially when it is up to the members of Congress themselves to decide what that salary shall be; a power authorized by Article I, Section 6 of the U.S. Constitution.

Currently the average salary for members of the House and Senate is $174,000, but should they want to raise their salary, all they have to do is vote to do so. The good news is, at least they would not be eligible to receive that pay increase until after the next election cycle. In other words, they can vote to raise their salary, but they won’t get that raise unless their constituents reelect them. That clever check on our arguably overpaid, certainly unproductive Congress was an amendment to the Constitution drafted by James Madison. It reads: No law, varying the compensation for the services of the Senators and Representatives, shall take effect, until an election of representatives shall have intervened. On September 25, 1789, Congress approved this amendment and sent it along with the other amendments Madison had written to the states for ratification. Ten of the amendments were quickly ratified, the ones we refer to today as the Bill of Rights. But the amendment dealing with Congressional salaries languished in limbo until a college student decided to effect real and permanent change. He set about doing this, not by marching in the streets, damaging property, or profanely criticizing law-enforcement officers, but through an understanding of the Constitution and the hard work of letter writing.

Enter Gregory Watson, a 19-year-old college sophomore who in 1982 wrote a paper about Congressional salaries for a Political Science course he was taking at the University of Texas, Austin. In his paper Watson argued that the amendment Madison had proposed so long ago, intended to make members of Congress think twice before voting themselves a raise, was still "live" and could be ratified. He got a grade of C. But his paper wasn’t graded by the teacher, it was graded by the teacher’s assistant. Watson appealed the grade to the teacher who agreed with the teaching assistant and thus the grade stood. Apparently, the professor teaching the course thought that Watson’s contention that an amendment submitted to the states in 1789 could still be ratified was absurd. Watson disagreed. To prove his point and for the betterment of the country, he started a letter writing campaign to state legislatures asking them to ratify Madison’s Congressional Salaries Amendment. He used what he wrote in his paper as ammunition including a 1939 Supreme Court case, Coleman v Miller, in which the Court ruled it was up to Congress to determine if an amendment with no time limit for ratification was still viable.

It was. After much letter writing, lobbying, and even some states having to check historical records to determine if they had ratified the amendment 200 years earlier, in May 1992, Michigan became the 38th State to ratify the 27th Amendment, making it a part of our Constitution.  Which is why should members of Congress choose to increase their salary, they must answer to the voting public before they receive a raise.

In 2017 The University of Texas changed the grade on Watson’s paper to a clearly deserved A.  That same year protests in Washington, DC on Inauguration Day resulted in property damage and 214 felony riot indictments. No positive change came from that incident, or the many we have seen follow. Certainly not when compared to what Watson peacefully accomplished by literally changing the Supreme Law of the land. The Founding Fathers understood that the pen is often mightier than the sword. While they included the right to petition in the First Amendment, it was the words that were debated—without violence—and eventually agreed upon and written down which ensures that the right to petition will remain a pillar of American society in perpetuity. 

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, in his 1967 speech, “The Other America” famously said, “A riot is the language of the unheard.” But in America, as Gregory Watson demonstrated, we all have the opportunity to be heard and, moreover, to profoundly influence our collective future. Indeed, a disgruntled college student successfully added an amendment to the Constitution.  Which is far more significant than wearing a button at an awards ceremony or, worse, risking lives and damaging property. 

What differentiates those who criticize America from those who actually do something to improve its condition is how they exercise that vital right of petition guaranteed by the First Amendment. Done productively, and effectively, every American citizen can make impactful change.

Blaine’s new book is Perfecting the U.S. Constitution: 27 and Counting, The Amendments that Shaped America’s Future (Amazon US | Amazon UK).

New Zealander Second World War Hero: Charles Upham, Victoria Cross

Few soldiers in modern military history have embodied quiet courage and relentless determination as completely as Charles Upham. A modest farmer from rural New Zealand, Upham remains one of the very few combatants ever to be awarded the Victoria Cross twice, earning the distinction of a Bar to his original decoration during the Second World War. His dual awards were not the result of a single dramatic flourish, but of sustained, repeated acts of conspicuous gallantry under devastating fire, carried out with a composure that astonished his comrades and embarrassed the man himself, who consistently downplayed his heroism.

Terry Bailey explains.

Charles Upham in 1941.

Charles Hazlitt Upham was born in 1908 in Christchurch, New Zealand, and grew up in a rural environment that instilled in him endurance, physical toughness, and self-reliance. He was educated at Christ's College in Christchurch and later studied agriculture at Lincoln College, eventually becoming a sheep farmer. Those who knew him before the war described him as intelligent, reserved, and possessed of a dry wit, but there was little outward sign that he would become one of the most decorated soldiers of the war. When New Zealand committed forces to the Allied cause in 1939, Upham volunteered for service, joining the 20th Battalion of the 2nd New Zealand Division, a formation that would see extensive action in the Mediterranean theatre.

Upham's first Victoria Cross was earned during the desperate fighting on the island of Crete in May 1941. The German invasion of Crete, launched under Operation Mercury, marked the first large-scale airborne assault in history. German Fallschirmjäger descended by parachute and glider, seeking to overwhelm British, Australian, New Zealand, and Greek defenders before reinforcements could arrive. The campaign quickly became chaotic and brutal, with isolated Allied units fighting determined delaying actions against better-coordinated German attacks supported by air superiority.

During the fighting around Maleme and Galatas, Upham displayed extraordinary courage over several consecutive days. Acting as a platoon commander, he repeatedly exposed himself to enemy fire in order to lead attacks, rescue wounded men, and reorganize defensive positions. On one occasion he advanced alone to silence a German machine-gun post, killing the crew with grenades and rifle fire. On another, though wounded in the shoulder by mortar fragments and later shot through the foot, he refused evacuation and continued to move among his men, encouraging them and directing fire. He personally carried wounded soldiers to safety under intense fire and launched counterattacks at critical moments when German forces threatened to break through. His conduct was described as "outstanding bravery and leadership," and in 1941 he was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions during the Crete campaign. Although the Allies ultimately withdrew from the island, the stubborn resistance of units like Upham's delayed German consolidation and imposed significant casualties.

Upham's second Victoria Cross was earned the following year during the First Battle of El Alamein in Egypt in July 1942, one of the pivotal confrontations of the North African campaign. The desert war between Axis forces under Field Marshal Erwin Rommel and the British Eighth Army had see-sawed across Libya and Egypt, with both sides seeking control of the Suez Canal and the Middle Eastern oil routes. By mid-1942, Axis forces had pushed deep into Egypt, and the line near El Alamein became the last defensible position before Alexandria and Cairo.

Now a company commander, Upham again demonstrated conspicuous gallantry during fierce fighting against entrenched German and Italian forces. Over several days he led aggressive patrols and attacks against enemy strongpoints, often advancing across open desert under artillery and machine-gun fire. Despite being wounded multiple times, including by shell fragments and small-arms fire, he continued to lead from the front. In one action he crawled forward alone to destroy a truckload of German soldiers with grenades, and in another, he moved under direct fire to bring up ammunition and reposition anti-tank guns at a critical moment. Even after being severely wounded in the elbow, he refused medical treatment until he was physically incapable of continuing. Eventually, while attempting to break through encircling German forces, he was captured. For these actions, marked by sustained courage and disregard for his own safety, he was awarded a Bar to his Victoria Cross, making him one of only three men in history to receive the decoration twice.

His ordeal did not end with capture. As a prisoner of war, Upham proved as defiant as he had been in combat. He made repeated escape attempts from German camps, demonstrating ingenuity and sheer determination. His persistent efforts eventually led German authorities to classify him as particularly troublesome, and he was transferred to the notorious Colditz Castle, reserved for high-risk Allied prisoners. Even there, he continued to resist passivity, maintaining morale among fellow prisoners until the camp's liberation in 1945.

After the war, Upham returned to New Zealand and resumed farming in relative obscurity. He avoided publicity, declined opportunities for self-promotion, and rarely spoke of his wartime experiences. Those who met him in later life often remarked on his humility and discomfort with praise. He served on local boards and remained active in his community, embodying the same quiet sense of duty that had characterized his military service. When asked about his decorations, he consistently deflected attention toward the men who had served beside him, insisting that he had simply done his job.

Charles Upham died in 1994, but his legacy endures as a testament to steadfast courage under fire. His two Victoria Crosses were not the result of a single dramatic episode, but of repeated acts of leadership, endurance, and self-sacrifice in two of the most intense campaigns of the Second World War. In an era defined by mechanized slaughter and vast armies, Upham's story stands as a reminder that individual resolve and moral courage could still shape events on the battlefield. His life, from rural New Zealand farmer to double recipient of the Commonwealth's highest award for valor, remains one of the most compelling narratives of the war.

In assessing the life of Charles Upham, it becomes clear that his distinction lies not merely in the rarity of his two awards of the Victoria Cross, but in the character that underpinned them. The decoration itself is reserved for the most conspicuous bravery in the presence of the enemy; to receive it twice is almost without parallel. Yet Upham's greatness did not reside in medals, citations, or ceremony. It resided in an unwavering sense of responsibility to the men around him and in a refusal to accept limits imposed by fear, pain, or circumstance. Time and again, whether amid the chaos of airborne assault on Crete or the furnace-like conditions of the North African desert, he placed himself in harm's way not for glory, but because leadership demanded it.

What makes his story enduring is the consistency of that conduct. His gallantry was not an isolated flash of heroism under extraordinary pressure; it was sustained, deliberate, and repeated across campaigns separated by geography, time, and tactical conditions. Even in captivity, deprived of command and confined behind barbed wire, the same indomitable will manifested itself in escape attempts and quiet resistance. The qualities that defined him in battle—resilience, initiative, and moral courage—proved inseparable from the man himself.

Equally significant is the life he chose after 1945. In returning to farming and community life in New Zealand, he demonstrated that true courage requires no audience. He neither traded on his reputation nor sought to shape his own legend. Instead, he reaffirmed by example that service is an obligation fulfilled, not a platform for acclaim. In doing so, he reinforced the essential truth that heroism is often most authentic when it is least advertised.

Charles Upham's legacy therefore transcends military history. It speaks to the enduring value of integrity under pressure and humility in triumph. In a conflict that consumed millions and was fought on a scale previously unimaginable, his life reminds us that the course of events can still hinge upon the resolve of an individual. His story remains not only a chapter in the annals of the Second World War, but a benchmark by which courage itself may be measured.

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Notes:

A well-known anecdote surrounds Charles Upham and his second award of the Victoria Cross. When the recommendation for a Bar to his existing VC reached George VI, the King is said to have asked, with some astonishment, whether Upham truly deserved a second such decoration. An officer familiar with the actions and fighting reportedly replied that, if anything, the recommendation understated the case — and that if strict justice were applied, Upham's repeated acts of gallantry might well have merited several more.

A Brief History of Scotland’s Dry Towns

Prohibition is very often associated with the criminal activities of the infamous Al Capone, his nemesis Eliot Ness, and numerous illegal speakeasies from the USA between 1920 and 1933 made memorable from numerous  gangster films over the decades. Prohibition, after a fashion at least, was not just confined to North America. It did in fact reach Britain and established itself in a quieter way in some remote towns in Scotland. Kirkintilloch was one of those towns and famously stands out among many for having prohibition laws that continued late into the twentieth century.

Steve Prout explains.

"L'Alcool est un Poison" from Belgium, 1910. This depiction contrasts "those who live from it" (those selling alcohol) with "those who die from it" (showing alcoholic and his family).

Kirkintilloch can be found eight miles from central Glasgow. The town started life as a Roman fort and led a quiet and largely quiet life until the industrial revolution brought the benefit of the textile industry to its inhabitants. Further expansion followed with the building of Forth and Fyfe canal in 1773 and later in 1836 with the railways. The town became an important transport center for iron, coal, and other industrial needs.

Kirkintilloch would have remained just another industrial town, but the town earned its notoriety for  becoming what was known as a "dry town" which forbid the sale of alcohol on public premises from 1923 until 1967. Kirkintilloch was not alone and was one of many towns in Scotland that embraced prohibition. The ban on the sale of alcohol had long been demanded by both  the Liberal Party and the Temperance movement, both of which had a strong influence in Scottish local town politics in the early part of the 20th century. It was a combination of the Temperance movement and the outbreak of the First World War that created “dry towns” which lasted long into the twentieth century and the infamous prohibition period of the United States.

The Temperance Movement and the Origins of “Dry Towns”

The origin of Scotland’s former dry towns began with the Temperance movement, a movement that led a moral crusade against alcohol consumption in the USA in the early 1800s. Its ideas were soon in Britain. The movement did not find it difficult to find  supporters all over Britain but found strong and more lasting support in Scotland in the mid 1800s. The movement focused on the morally degrading effect that alcohol consumption had on society. One writer on the subject, Jack S Blocker, in his book Alcohol and Temperance in Modern History pays particular attention to the situation in Scotland. The book mentions a parliamentary report that contained alarming statistics concerning drink-related arrests between 1831 and 1851 in Scotland. It painted Glasow in a poor light. The report concluded that the situation was not helped by the ratio of drinking establishments per inhabitant. In Glasgow there was one licensed premises for every one-hundred and fifty inhabitants. As far as Temperance Movement was concerned this was all the proof needed to convince potential followers for assertive action.

The report boldly claimed that “Glasgow was three times more drunken than Edinburgh and five times more drunk than London.” He also noted that Scots “like the Irish and unlike the English and Welsh, ordinary people drank a great deal of whisky.”  We cannot confirm the accuracy of the data, which no doubt had it flaws, nor do the unhelpful and outdated stereotypes help to substantiate these claims. However, whether true, false, or exaggerated the report caused enough alarm for  the Temperance movement to fuel their crusade and so it grew and gathered momentum.

Kirkintilloch was not the only dry town in Scotland; others soon joined the moral cause after the passing of the later 1913 Temperance Act. At first the movement’s demands were limited to just banning the sale of “strong and ardent spirits” but soon those demands encapsulated the banning of all alcoholic drinks. Variants of the movement spread to other towns in Scotland such as Paisly, Kilsyth Wick, Lerwick, Greenock, Ayrshire, and Lanarkshire. In 1844 in Falkirk, the Scots Temperance League established itself in the community and promoted “the long pledge” of total abstinence from its members.

The Growth of Temperance

The first challenge the Temperance representatives had to overcome was encouraging the drinking population to surrender one of their few leisurely pastimes, especially those who grafted in the long hours and harsh working conditions of the time. It was no easy task, but the members found innovative ways. Various movements offered extremely attractive terms in return to leading a tee-total life and being part of the movement.

In return for a serious commitment to a clear oath or pledge, the member would receive support in various forms from this new community. In some variants of the movement, certain benefits were offered such as the entitlement to an early form of social welfare type insurance to draw on in times of need, representing an early example of a Co-operative or a micro social security system. This was certainly true of the Sons of the Temperance Society which formed in the 1850s. The oath was noticeably clear, and each faction had its own wording, but all had one clear and unified meaning. The Hope of Coatbridge Section of the Cadets of Temperance (1878-1925), for example, had their members recite the following vows:

“We the undersigned promise to abstain from all intoxicating drinks and discountenance the Causes -and practices of intemperance and to abstain from tobacco in all its forms.”

The risk of breaking these vows resulted in public condemnation, shaming, and exclusion.

In the towns where the Temperance ideas took hold the old-fashioned public house was replaced by other commercial ventures and for a time flourished. Alternative establishments such as Temperance hotels, coffee houses and tea rooms replaced these licensed premises. The social scene was changing in some areas. Over twenty such establishments replaced the public house is Glasgow in 1840 and the movement was gaining political approval.

Meanwhile these societies continued to lobby and win the approval of political influencers. One peer commented: “Without these societies we should be involved in such an ocean of intoxication, violence and sin as would make this country quite uninhabitable.” The lobbying proved to be fruitful, and the best example of the movement’s success came from their work with Forbes Mackenzie, a Conservative MP. MacKenzie also happened to be a temperance reformer himself, and he introduced a number of changes to support the movement. This became law within the Public Houses (Scotland) Bill in 1853. This act forced the closure of pubs in Scotland at 10pm on weekdays and forced closure on Sundays. Slowly but surely the consumption and supply of alcohol was being restricted, and, in some towns, further restriction was to come. Alcohol was not completely removed from people’s lives and momentum would be slow until the early part of the twentieth the century.

In 1906 the Liberal government passed legislation allowing communities to veto alcohol consumption and with that the Temperance Scotland Act was passed in 1913. Whether this alone would have been enough we will never know because the political and social landscape changed further as Britain entered World War One.

The Temperance movement was not wholly responsible for the creation of Scotland’s Dry Towns. The First World War and Government laws bought further tight restrictions on the sale of alcohol with the Defence of the Realm Act 1914. The purpose of these restrictions was to ensure a productive resourceful pool of industrial labor to service the war effort. Stricter controls on public house opening hours were enforced, the strength of beer brewed was diluted and additional taxes amounting to an extra penny were charged on each pint of beer. Naturally, this changed attitudes and habits. Helped by the patriotic fervor for the war effort, a lot of publicans chose to support the armaments industry and keep workers sober. They of course had little choice as their incentives from their trade had been curtailed. Examples of the landlord measures were to enforce the  ‘No Treating’ rule between 1916 and 1919 that forbid the buying of rounds of drinks. Slowly but surely alcohol availability was diminishing but the temperance movement had not gone away and was far from finished. They in fact seized upon these gains at the end of the war.

The Temperance Movement took advantage of the 1913 act to continue and expand their cause once the war ended. The result was vast numbers of voters in the  1920 local elections opted for the abolition of alcohol sales. Towns such a Kirkintilloch became one of those dry towns as a result. This was given further backing when supporter Edwin Scrymgeour was elected as a Scottish Prohibitionist Party MP for the Dundee constituency. He remained an MP until  1931.

Other Variants of Temperance

There were many variants of these Temperance societies, one founded in the USA in 1851 was the Independent Order of Good Templars (born from a previous organization called the Sons of Temperance). After reaching Scotland, this society became the first Scottish lodge, established  in Glasgow in 1869. One interesting facet about this variant was that it promoted equality of rights for women: an early forerunner of Universal Suffrage.

The movement demonstrated its sincerity by admitting women into their societies, thus placing them on an equal footing to men and encouraging them to be active board members. This was certainly the intention of Provost James Knox who was also the manager of Airdrie Savings Bank from 1848 to 1861 (he also held the position of Chief Templar in the early 1900s).

The End of the Dry Period

Dry towns soon and slowly relaxed their rules and departed away from the ways of Temperance.  Some chapters and their establishments lasted until late in the twentieth century. Moods had changed and the world. A number of factors had brought about change. By the time of the Second World War attitudes had changed and become more relaxed. The Temperance ways were now seen as outdated and irrelevant. Even the government did not impose the same alcohol restrictions on alcohol consumption between 1939-1945 as it had during the First World War. It may have been too much to impose such restrictions on the population a second time. With that being said, some areas of Scotland did maintain their discipline until well after the end of the war. Kirkintilloch, for instance, finally abandoned its dryness in 1967.

In some cases, the remnants of the Temperance acts held on tenaciously a little longer. It took until 1976 for parliament to dismantle the legislation set out by Mackenzie from 1853, with some parts of Scotland - such as Kilmacolm - taking longer to embrace the new liberties. Kilmacolm finally acquired its own pub as late as 1998 when an old waiting room at the train station was converted into The Pullman. It was a memorable event and well attended by a thirsty crowd at the establishment’s grand  opening after seventy dry years.

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Three Key Battles of the U.S. Civil War

The American Civil War was one of the defining conflicts fought in American history. Not only did it threaten to divide the nation, but it also challenged the very foundation of American institutions. It would go on to define the morals by which future generations would judge the United States of America. Between 1861 and 1865, the Union and Confederate states engaged in crucial battles that would determine the outcome of the Civil War. From the First Battle of Bull Run (1861) to the Battle of Antietam (1862) and the Battle of Gettysburg (1863), each would have its place in American history for shaping the Civil War's military, political, and moral course.

Caleb Brown explains.

Battle of Antietam by Thure de Thulstrup.

First Battle of Bull Run

On the morning of July 21, 1861, Union forces led by General McDowell would meet with Confederate troops led by Generals Johnston and Beauregard for what would be the first battle of the Civil War, the First Battle of Bull Run.[1] The Union, having high hopes for a quick victory, would see its hopes fade as Union soldiers, lacking proper military training, became weary and began to retreat.[2] Hoping to see a crushing win, many civilians who had come to spectate the battle were also caught up in the confusion as they, along with the Union soldiers, retreated toward Washington.[3] The Confederate victory at the First Battle of Bull Run would shatter the hopes for a short war and boost the morale of the South. As a result of the Northern defeat, General George B. McClellan would rise to command and would write in a letter to his wife, "I am here in a terrible place, the enemy have from 3 to 4 times my force the President is an idiot, the old General in his dotage they cannot or will not see the true state of affairs. Most of my troops are demoralized by the defeat at Bull Run, and some regiments are even mutinous. I have probably stopped that, but you see my position is not pleasant."[4] As a result of Bull Run, the Union now had to concede that the war would not be quick, and more preparation was needed.

Battle of Antietam

On September 17, 1862, America would lay witness to what would be the single bloodiest battle in American history. By day's end, 22,717 Northern and Southern troops would be dead, wounded, or missing as a result of the Battle of Antietam, which was fought in the Union territory of Maryland.[5] The Battle of Antietam would be a result of General Robert E. Lee's plan to invade the North for the first time in the war. Lee, however, would fall victim to the “Lost Dispatch,” which was a copy of Lee’s military plans that would fall into the hands of Union soldiers. The resulting battle would lead to the bloodiest single day in American history, a tactical draw between the North and the South; however, Lee would retreat, handing the Union a strategic victory. The battle would effectively stop the Confederates’ momentum in the eastern theater of the war and give President Abraham Lincoln the victory he needed to announce his plans for the Emancipation Proclamation. The Confederates would also lose the much-needed foreign recognition from Britain and France.[6] So, although the battle may have been a tactical draw, the South would suffer a significant defeat that it would not be able to overcome.

Battle of Gettysburg

The most famous battle of the American Civil War, at least in popular culture today, is the Battle of Gettysburg, which took place in Adams County, Pennsylvania, in July 1863, with Lee's army facing General George G. Meade.[7] The Battle of Gettysburg would be a turning point in the Civil War, and between July 1 and July 3, 50,000 casualties would lie dead, wounded, or missing as a result.[8] General Lee would continue north into Union territory in hopes of a victory that would force an end to the conflict. The battle would unfold over three fierce days of fighting, taking place on geographical terrain known as Little Round Top, Culp’s Hill, and the Cornfield. General George E. Pickett would lead what would become known to history as “Pickett’s Charge,” resulting in a failed attack and a 60% casualty rate for the Confederates.[9] This would be the final push for Lee at the Battle of Gettysburg. Facing staggering losses, Lee would retreat to Virginia, and the hopes of a Confederate States of America along with him. 

Conclusion

In conclusion, every battle fought throughout the Civil War has its place in history and contributed to shaping the war's outcome in one way or another. The First Battle of Bull Run would serve as a wake-up call for the North, and as a result of the defeat, the Union would make changes to its army going forward. Many more troops would be requested, and training would improve. The Battle of Antietam would provide a political victory rather than a military victory for the Union. As a result of the bloodiest day in American history, President Lincoln would have cause to reveal his plans for the Emancipation Proclamation. Finally, the Battle of Gettysburg, although not the final battle of the Civil War, would see Lee’s army of Northern Virginia suffer a massive defeat on the fields of Gettysburg, effectively dashing the hopes of a successful invasion of Northern territory. Seeing every battle for its military, political, and moral implications helps provide a broader picture of the American Civil War.

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Bibliography

The Battle of Antietam, May 28, 2019. https://www.proquest.com/docview/2230470087?pq-origsite=summon&accountid=12085&sourcetype=Newspapers.

“First Bull Run." American Heritage.” First bull run, 2011. https://go.gale.com/ps/i.do?p=BIC&u=vic_liberty&id=GALE%7CA271594560&v=2.1&it=r&sid=summon&aty=shibboleth.

“Gettysburg.” American Battlefield Trust. Accessed November 13, 2025. https://www.battlefields.org/learn/civil-war/battles/gettysburg.

Woodworth, Steven E. This great struggle: America’s Civil War. Lanham, Md: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2012.

[1] Steven E. Woodworth, This Great Struggle: America’s Civil War (Lanham, Md: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2012), 47.

[2] Ibid. 49.

[3] Ibid.

[4] “First Bull Run, American Heritage,” 2011, https://go.gale.com/ps/i.do?p=BIC&u=vic_liberty&id=GALE%7CA271594560&v=2.1&it=r&sid=summon&aty=shibboleth.

[5] “The Battle of Antietam,” May 28, 2019, https://www.proquest.com/docview/2230470087?pq-origsite=summon&accountid=12085&sourcetype=Newspapers.

[6] Ibid.

[7] “Gettysburg,” American Battlefield Trust, accessed November 13, 2025, https://www.battlefields.org/learn/civil-war/battles/gettysburg.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Ibid.

Korean War Hero: Corporal Tibor Rubin, Medal of Honor

Corporal Tibor Rubin stands as one of the most compelling figures of the Korean War, a man whose life traced a harrowing path from Nazi concentration camps to the frozen hills of Korea and, ultimately, to the highest decoration the United States can bestow for valor. His story is not merely one of battlefield gallantry. It is a narrative shaped by genocide, survival, gratitude, and a long-delayed reckoning with prejudice inside the very institution he served with unwavering devotion.

Terry Bailey explains.

Tibor Rubin.

Rubin was born in 1929 in Pásztó, Hungary, into a Jewish family during a period when Europe was sliding toward catastrophe. His childhood was cut short by the rise of fascism and the spread of antisemitic laws that increasingly isolated and endangered Hungarian Jews.

Following the German occupation of Hungary, Rubin was deported to the infamous Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria. Still a teenager, he endured starvation, forced labor, brutality, and the ever-present specter of death. Thousands perished in the camp's granite quarries and barracks; Rubin survived through a combination of resilience, resourcefulness, and sheer will. When American forces liberated Mauthausen in 1945, Rubin later recalled being profoundly moved by the sight of U.S. soldiers—healthy, confident, and free. One American serviceman, he said, treated him with kindness and humanity at a moment when such gestures seemed almost unimaginable. That encounter left an indelible mark. Rubin resolved that if he ever made it to the United States, he would repay the nation that had rescued him from annihilation.

In 1948, he fulfilled that ambition. Arriving in America as an immigrant with limited English and little money, Rubin settled in New York and embraced his adopted homeland with fervor. When war broke out in Korea in June 1950, he saw an opportunity to honor his promise. He enlisted in the U.S. Army that same year, determined to serve the country he regarded as his liberator.

The Korean War erupted on the 25th of June 1950, when North Korean forces stormed across the 38th parallel in a surprise invasion of South Korea. The United States, acting under a United Nations mandate, rushed troops to defend the South. Early engagements were chaotic and costly. American and allied forces were driven into a shrinking defensive enclave known as the Pusan Perimeter. Only after General Douglas MacArthur launched the daring amphibious landing at Inchon did the tide temporarily turn. Yet by late 1950, the war shifted again as Chinese forces entered the conflict in massive numbers, launching brutal offensives that sent UN troops reeling southward through mountainous terrain and bitter winter cold.

It was during these desperate months that Rubin distinguished himself. In July 1950, near the Pusan Perimeter, his regiment came under intense North Korean assault. According to eyewitness accounts later included in his Medal of Honor citation, Rubin single-handedly manned a machine-gun position on a hill for twenty-four hours. Wave after wave of enemy soldiers attacked, but Rubin held his ground, inflicting heavy casualties and slowing the advance long enough for his unit to regroup and withdraw. His stand was not a dramatic flourish; it was a grim, grinding act of endurance, reminiscent of the tenacity that had sustained him in the camps of Europe.

Later that year, as Chinese forces surged into the war, Rubin again volunteered for a perilous task. During a chaotic withdrawal, he remained behind to cover his unit's retreat, engaging the enemy alone and allowing fellow soldiers to escape encirclement. His actions exemplified a pattern: whenever danger intensified, Rubin stepped forward rather than back. In November 1950, during fierce fighting, Rubin was captured by Chinese troops. What followed was more than two and a half years of imprisonment under appalling conditions. Food was scarce, sanitation was almost nonexistent, and medical care was minimal, with diseases that spread rapidly. Prisoners endured relentless indoctrination efforts and the psychological strain of uncertainty. Many perished from malnutrition and exposure.

For Rubin, however, captivity was tragically familiar terrain. Drawing on the survival instincts forged in Nazi camps, he refused to surrender to despair. He slipped out of the prison compound at night, risking execution if caught, to scavenge for food. He stole rice and other provisions from enemy supplies and distributed them among weaker prisoners. He nursed the sick, carried the infirm, and offered comfort to those on the brink of death. Fellow prisoners later testified that his efforts saved numerous lives. To them, Rubin was not simply a comrade but a lifeline.

When the armistice was signed in 1953 and prisoners were exchanged, Rubin returned home, gaunt but unbroken. Many of his fellow soldiers believed he would soon receive the Medal of Honor. Recommendations had been submitted during the war for his extraordinary actions in combat. Yet the award never came. Over time, it emerged that antisemitism on the part of a superior noncommissioned officer had obstructed or failed to process the necessary paperwork. In the climate of the early 1950s, such discrimination could quietly derail recognition without scrutiny. Decades later, a congressionally mandated review examined cases in which Jewish and Hispanic service members might have been denied awards due to prejudice. Rubin's case resurfaced as one of the most striking examples. Investigators confirmed that his heroism had been documented and recommended, but administrative bias had prevented proper consideration.

In 2005, more than half a century after his acts of valor, Tibor Rubin finally stood in the White House as President George W. Bush placed the Medal of Honor around his neck. The ceremony was both a personal triumph and a national acknowledgment of past injustice. The citation recognized not only his single-handed stand in combat but also his selfless courage as a prisoner of war. Rubin accepted the medal with characteristic humility. He often insisted that he had simply kept a promise—to repay America for his liberation.

In interviews, he deflected praise toward his fellow soldiers and reflected on the freedoms he cherished as an immigrant citizen. For him, the medal symbolized gratitude rather than vindication. In his postwar life, Rubin settled in California, married, and raised a family. He remained active in veterans' circles and frequently addressed schools and community groups. He spoke about resilience, about the value of liberty, and about the responsibility of memory. Having witnessed both the depths of totalitarian cruelty and the capacity for democratic self-correction, he embodied a bridge between two defining conflicts of the twentieth century.

When Tibor Rubin died in 2015, he left behind more than a record of battlefield heroism. His life formed a moral arc that stretched from the barbed wire of a concentration camp to the ceremonial dignity of the Medal of Honor. It is a story that links the Holocaust to the Korean War, illustrating how individual courage can shine even amid institutional failure. His long-delayed recognition serves as a reminder that while injustice may obscure valor for decades, truth has a stubborn endurance of its own—and, in time, can prevail.

In conclusion, Corporal Tibor Rubin represents something larger than a single act of heroism on a distant battlefield. His life is a study in moral continuity. The same resolve that sustained him in the shadow of Mauthausen concentration camp sustained him on the hills of Korea; the same gratitude he felt toward the soldiers who liberated him shaped the courage with which he defended their flag. He did not compartmentalize his past and present. Instead, he fused them into a singular commitment: to stand firm when others faltered, to give when others could not, and to endure when surrender might have seemed understandable.

His story also illuminates the complex character of the nation he chose as his own. The United States that freed him from Nazi tyranny later failed, through prejudice and neglect, to honor him promptly. Yet it was also a nation capable of confronting that failure, reopening old records, and correcting an injustice decades later. In that arc—from liberation to oversight to eventual recognition—lies the proof not only to Rubin's perseverance but to the imperfect, evolving promise of American democracy itself.

The medal placed around his neck in 2005 did more than acknowledge battlefield gallantry. It affirmed the lives he saved in frozen foxholes and prison compounds. It validated the testimony of fellow prisoners who survived because he shared stolen rice, shouldered burdens not his own, and refused to let despair claim another man. And it restored to the historical record the full measure of a soldier whose faith in his adopted country never wavered, even when its institutions faltered.

Ultimately, Rubin's journey from persecuted Hungarian Jewish youth to American war hero binds together two of the twentieth century's defining struggles: the fight against genocidal totalitarianism and the defense of fragile democratic allies during the Cold War. His life reminds us that courage is not born in a single moment of crisis but forged through repeated trials. It is a reminder that gratitude can be a powerful engine of service, that character, once tempered by suffering, can become an enduring force for good.

Remembering Tibor Rubin, it compels the seeing beyond medals and citations. It highlights a man who transformed unimaginable trauma into steadfast loyalty, who answered cruelty with compassion, and who met injustice not with bitterness but with continued devotion. His legacy endures not only in military archives or presidential ceremonies, but in the example he leaves behind: that even in the harshest landscapes of history, individual courage and conscience can prevail—and, in time, be recognized for what they truly are.

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Albert Speer: The Nazi who Said Sorry – or an Evil Liar?

In the Afternoon on October 1st 1946 a man dressed in a smart civilian suit stood awaiting his verdict in the Palace of Justice in Nuremberg. What will my verdict be? Guilty or not guilty? Life imprisonment or death by hanging? He pondered.

Who is this man? His name is Albert Speer he was formally known during the Nazi regime as Hitler’s Architect and later he became the Minister of Armaments prior to his arrest by the Allies in 1945.

Though Speer has been known to history by a string of titles there is one that stands out amongst the rest. This title is one that Speer created for himself which was the Nazi who said sorry.

Sophie Riley explains.

Albert Speer at the Nuremberg Trials.

Upbringing and Education

Albert Speer was born into an upper middle-class family in Manheim, Germany. However, despite the immense wealth he was born into Speer’s early years were far from idyllic. His early childhood lacked the love, support, and warmth he yearned for and this would haunt him in his later years when he went searching for this in all the wrong places.

Speer was the youngest child of three brothers who used to bully and beat him because of his perceived shy and sensitive nature. This emotional trauma that he suffered would be later argued by Historian Gita Sereny as a justification for his susceptibility to Adolf Hitler’s charismatic nature.

Speer’s academic life however would provide the structure that his home life lacked.  His education prior to his architectural training was that of a classical nature. Speer would have a typical middle-class education that consisted of learning mathematics, science, Greek, Latin, conventional German literature, and sport. He would later describe this education as apolitical, traditional, and technical.  During his early education Speer was exceptionally gifted in mathematics which he later wanted to pursue as a career despite his family’s legacy lying in the architectural field. This passion however would be cut short by his father who pushed Speer into the family business.

Speer’s journey as an architect would begin during the years of the Great Depression. In 1923 he began his training at the University of Karlsruhe in Manheim, this allowed him to study under the familiar shadow of the family trade. He would later transfer to two different universities to deepen his skills. One of them was the Technical University of Munich and the other was the Technical University in Charlottenburg, Berlin. During his time in Berlin, Speer would study under Heinrich Tessenow. Speer found that Tessenow’s philosophy of simple but disciplined architecture resonated with his own opinion. He would eventually become Tessenow’s assistant in 1927 and begin to teach classes alongside his post graduate work.   

Rise to power

Speer was 25 years old when he first heard Hitler speak at a beer hall in Berlin. Though he was not initially drawn to the loud violent antisemitism he was swept up in the aesthetic of power. He would later describe that Hitler’s speech had a hypnotic quality to it that promised order in a chaotic Weimar Republic. This moment would push Speer to join the Nazi party in January 1931 where he became member number 474,481.

Speer’s breakout moment however would not occur until the Nuremberg rally in 1933. His talent would not be shown through a building but through setting a stage for the Fuhrer. When tasked with decorating for the rally Speer ignored the traditional route of using flags and instead, he used 130 anti-aircraft searchlights to create a Cathedral of Light much to the despair of Reich Marshal Hermann Goering.

This was the first time the Nazis used technology to create a spiritual experience. This moment proved to Hitler that Speer knew how to make the regime appear God like and untouchable.  Following on from his success Hitler would officially appoint him the Commissioner for the Artistic and Technical Presentation of Party Rallies in 1933.

By late 1934, Speer’s rise to power had accelerated by his close companionship with Adolf Hitler. He was able to gain the Fuhrers ear through their mutual interests in art, architecture, and history. By discussing the idea that buildings in the new Germany should be constructed to mirror the empires of Rome and Greece this helped Speer play into Hitler’s vanity and fantasy for his Third Reich. 

This close relationship and interconnecting dream led Speer to become the General Building Inspector for the Reich Capital. Within this new role he and Hitler planned to destroy large parts of Berlin and replace them with new structures for the future Germania. In addition to this new venture Speer was also given impossible deadlines by Hitler which included building the new Reich’s Chancellery in just nine months. Though Germania would never see the light of day the Reich’s chancellery was completed in time due to Speer employing thousands of workers to complete shifts around the clock.

The turning point for Speer came in February 1942 when the mister of armaments Fritz Todt died in a mysterious plane crash. In response to this Hitler quickly appointed Speer to this new position despite him having zero experience and knowledge in military logistics and mass production. This was the moment that Speer transitioned from Hitler’s architect to the man that would fuel the Nazi war machine.

However, this turning point from building monuments to managing a failing war machine began to cast a shadow on the once artistic harmony and friendship between Speer and Hitler. A growing friction that would lead to Speer’s fall from grace.

Fall from Grace

During Speer’s time as Armaments Minister, Germany’s production saw a massive but temporary rise due to his brutal exploitation of slave laborers from nearby concentration camps.  The use of slave laborers, Speer would later argue, was due to the shortage of German workers as women were not allowed to work in the factories.  Furthermore, Speer also cooperated closely with Fritz Sauckel to deploy millions of forced laborers, prisoners of war, and concentration camp inmates in his factories

In addition to this the rise was also due to Speer’s radical rationalization of the industry.  He did this by breaking down bureaucratic barriers by creating the Central Planning Board. This gave him control over raw materials, production, and transportation. He also reduced the variety of weaponry, such as reducing anti-tank weapon types from twelve to one, to improve efficiency. This radicalization of the war industry would be dubbed the armaments miracle and it hit its maximum output in 1944.

This graceful period ended on the 19th March, 1945 when Hitler issued his Nero Decree.  The Nero Decree, also known as the scorched earth policy, commanded the destruction of all German infrastructure—including transportation, communication, and industrial facilities—to prevent their use by Allied forces as the Nazi regime collapsed.  This decree felt like a personal attack on Speer and in response he deliberately sabotaged Hitler’s plan by ordering the General and Gauleiters that he controlled to stop destroying Germany’s infrastructure.  Though he knew the war was lost Speer wanted to preserves as much of Germany’s infrastructure for the post-war world.

Speer’s final conversation with Hitler would take place on the 23rd April 1945, when Speer visited the Fuhrer’s bunker for one last time. On approach Speer knew that he may not come out alive after he admitted to Hitler that he defied his Nero Decree.  Speer also entered the bunker with another intention that day and that was to kill Hitler by releasing poison gas into the ventilation system. However, this claim was only mentioned during his trail at Nuremberg and has never been proven.

After entering the bunker Speer headed straight for Hitler’s Office where they had one last talk. The visit marked the definitive end of their long-standing partnership. Shortly after this cold farewell, Speer fled Berlin, leaving behind the ruins of the "armaments miracle" and the regime he had helped sustain.

The collapse of the Third Reich transformed Speer from a high-ranking minister into a high-value captive. His subsequent arrest in Flensburg by Allied forces shifted the arena of his struggle from the industrial factories of Germany to the interrogation rooms of the victors in Glucksberg Castle. During his interrogation in May 1945, Speer curated his ‘Good Nazi’ by admitting to openly criticizing and defying the regime, attempting to kill Hitler and the German war machines efficiency. However, he was careful to avoid and deny knowing about the holocaust in any capacity. During these periods of intense questioning Speer would also begin to defer blame to his deputy Fritz Sauckerl especially when he was questioned about the use of forced laborers in his factories.

These interrogations would serve as the prelude to the Nuremberg Trials, where Speer would face international judgment not only for his administrative efficiency but for the human cost of the brutal exploitation that had fueled it.

Nuremberg Trial

On November 20th, 1945, Albert Speer was indicted on four charges alongside 21 other high ranking Nazi party members.  The following day he pleaded not guilty to all the counts against him.

Though he was indicted in November 1945, Speer would have to wait several more months before he could plead his case.  Speer’s trail officially began on the 20th June, 1946, and unlike many of his other defendants he would acknowledge both the regimes and his individual responsibilities during the Second World War and the Holocaust.

The following day he was cross-examined by American Prosecutor Robert Jackson. During this Speer admits to disobeying Hitler’s Nero Degree as well as his collective guilt of the Nazi regime alongside his role within obtaining slave laborers.   

Prior to his own trail Speer was able to watch his fellow colleagues arrogantly push the blame towards either Hitler or blamed their actions on just following orders. Speer was able to recognize what behavior would lead him straight to the hangman’s noose and he was determined to defy it at all costs. When he entered the dock on the 21st June, 1946, he had a game plan ready, he was prepared to escape death and, in its place, he created a new life and legacy for himself.

Speer would never fully admit to doing anything during his time as an architect or later as armaments minister, he was careful to admit to his personal responsibility and the collective responsibility of the Reich. When it came to topics such as the Holocaust, he would accept that it had happened and how harrowing it was to watch the camp footage; however he would never admit that he had direct knowledge about what was happening. In addition to the Holocaust, Speer would deny about his knowledge of the Auschwitz camp expansion though it was his ministry that approved the funds and materials to allow this.

Where he would deny involvement, he would also omit his presence from specific events such as the Posen speech in 1943. During the Posen speech Heinrich Himmler made it known that there was a genocide towards the Jews and how they were carrying it out. Though Speer would deny his attendance, during his trial a letter would later appear in 1971 that proved his presence. In addition to this Speer also denied his role in the forced resettlement of 75,000 Berlin Jews during his time as Hitler’s architect.

In contrast to his denials and omissions. Speer would admit enough information and apologize for his role to the point where the Allies would choose the punishment of jail time over a public hanging.  Though it should be noted that Speer never said I am sorry or I apologize during his time at Nuremberg.  What Speer did admit too, alongside his collective responsibility, was to using slave laborers from the camps - though he happily deferred the brutal recruitment of the laborers to his deputy Fritz Sauckerl.

In addition to this, Speer would claim that he attempted to kill Hitler in early 1945. According to Speer he had planned to assassinate the Fuhrer by introducing poison gas into the bunker’s ventilation system.  This moment is one of several that historians still debate on whether this was feasible or was it a ploy by Speer to gain acceptance from the Allies. Another favorable point from the Allies would come from Speer’s defiance of Hitler’s Nero Decree.  Speer admitted to sabotaging Hitler’s orders to preserve Germany's infrastructure for the post-war period.

Despite all this acceptance and denial, on 1st October, 1946, Albert Speer was sentenced to twenty years in Spandau prison, as the International Military Tribunal found him guilty on two out of four counts. He was found guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity. His twenty years in prison allowed Speer to cultivate an image of the good Nazi, an image, and a legacy that historians would debate during his lifetime and long after his death on the 1st September, 1981.

Good Nazi Legacy – or a myth?

With his 20 years in prison, the next two decades in Spandau were consumed with preserving the legacy he created during his trail at Nuremberg. Speer had 20 years to masterfully curate his public rehabilitation. His long-term isolation granted him time to reflect on his previous life in the Third Reich. He began to meticulously curate two books that would be published later after his release. These narratives would allow him to further himself from the regime, so when he was eventually released in 1966, it was as if they convicted the wrong man of war crimes and crimes against humanity.  Over 400 reporters would be waiting for him alongside Baldur Von Schirach, the West was besotted with Hitler’s former Architect now turned ‘good’.

Upon his release and until his untimely death in October 1946, Speer embarked on a new career as a reformed witness of the Nazi image. He was interviewed vigorously by the media for TV and radio segments, everyone wanted a piece of the man who took responsibility, showed sympathy, and maintained a remorseful persona both in his public and private life.  

However, despite the public being charmed, there were sceptics who did not buy into the new and improved Speer. Evidence starting in the early 70’s and that is still being found to this day. destroys Speer’s image and legacy as the ‘Good Nazi’.  In 2007 a letter written by Speer in 1971 to his friend Helene Jeanty included an admission that stated "There is no doubt—I was present as Himmler announced on October 6, 1943 that all Jews would be killed." This statement would signify for the majority that Speer had fabricated his life to escape the hangman’s noose.

In addition to this, historians and others have highlighted that as Armaments Minister it would have been impossible for Speer to be truly ignorant to what was happening in his factories whilst merely being a technocrat.  Furthermore, historiographers such as Matthias Schmidt found that Speer's close aide Rudolf Wolters deleted incriminating passages from Speer’s official diary after the war. Those accounts regarded the deportation of Jews from Berlin and other occupied zones in Europe. In addition to this Richard Evans would argue that Speer's account in Inside the Third Reich—claiming he confessed to Hitler that he was sabotaging the scorched-earth policy—as pure invention. This then begs the question - did anyone know the real Albert Speer?

Final Thoughts

To conclude, Speer was a manipulative and coercive individual who weaponized his past to build a new future for himself. He spent the early years of his life being a victim of neglect and bullying. However, this victim would turn into a victor at Nuremberg a man who would convince most of the Western world with his remorseful and repentant attitude.  In his later years he would draft memoirs that reflected his earlier buildings as an architect; they were full of botched truths that distracted many but not all from the misery that lay beneath.

However, as the dust settled, his façade as the good nazi began to crumble to nothing. Evidence would appear that would highlight at mass cover ups and private admissions by Speer himself.  The armaments miracle that he had boasted about earlier was created from mass bloodshed and despair. The products were made by thousands upon thousands of slave laborers who he ‘employed’ and later deported at whim.  Speer would escape the noose again as he died in London on September 1st 1981.  History’s final verdict on Speer would be that he was not a misguided architect or an apolitical technocrat - he is really a man who had immense talent for evil.  Ultimately, we must consider, did Speer truly spend his later life seeking redemption, or was he merely performing his final and greatest architectural feature —building a monument of lies to hide a graveyard?"

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Living Above the Flames: Life on the Upper Floors of a Roman Insula

In Ancient Rome, an insula was typically a type of apartment building that housed the lower and middle classes. It was often several stories high. They typically had shops on the ground floor and living spaces above. Here, William McGrath explains how a Roman insula night does not arrive gently on the upper floors.

Remains of the top floors of an insula near the Capitolium and the Insula dell'Ara Coeli in Rome. Source/credit: Chabe01, available here.

It creeps upward from the street, carrying the heat of the day and the noise that never fully fades. Below, Rome is still awake. Bakers work late, their ovens breathing out warmth and the sweet, heavy smell of bread. Butchers clean their blocks. Taverns spill laughter and argument into the street. Carts rattle over stone. Life presses on, loud and close.

Above it all, families settle for the night.

The rooms are small, their walls thin, the air slow to move. A mother smooths a blanket over a sleeping child, brushing hair from a warm forehead. A father sits nearby, listening to the sounds below, knowing them too well. Every shout, every sudden noise carries upward, amplified by fear learned over time.

They know the danger of living so high.

Fire always starts below, but it climbs. Smoke rises faster than flame, filling stairways long before anyone can see what burns. Families on the upper floors understand this better than anyone. They sleep lightly. They keep what little they own close. They teach their children where to go, what to do, how to shout for help. Love here is watchful. It never fully rests.

Rent is cheaper the higher you climb, and so they climb. Past the shops and workshops at street level, past the noise and smell and bustle that keeps Rome fed, they carry water upward step by step. They live close together, sharing space, sharing risk, sharing the quiet understanding that tonight must be endured.

A child turns in sleep. Someone coughs in the next room. From below comes the hiss of cooling ovens and the last voices of the day. The family lies still, listening for the sounds that matter most. The crackle that means fire. The shout that means run.

Why They Live So High

No one chooses the upper floors because they want to.

They choose them because they must.

Closer to the street, life is safer but costly. Stone walls hold longer. Water is nearer. Escape is possible. Those rooms belong to men with coin, to shopkeepers who live above their trade. For everyone else, the stairs decide their fate.

Each step upward lowers the rent and raises the risk.

Families climb because bread must be bought and children fed. They climb carrying what they own in baskets and bundles, breath shortening with every level. By the time they reach the top, the street feels far away, and help farther still.

Up here, heat gathers in summer and lingers beneath roofs baked all day by the sun. In winter, wind finds its way through cracks and loose boards. Cooking is done carefully, if at all. Fire is both necessity and threat, held at arm’s length but never trusted.

Parents lie awake thinking of stairways.

They picture smoke rising silently in the dark, filling the steps before anyone wakes. They teach their children not to panic, though panic lives close. They speak softly of neighbours who jumped and survived, and others who did not. These stories are not meant to frighten, but to prepare.

Still, there is life here.

Neighbours share water, food, and watchfulness. A cry in the night brings doors opening at once. In a place where danger is constant, community grows strong. Love extends beyond blood. It has to.

Living Ready

Preparation becomes habit long before it becomes fear.

There is no hearth built into the wall, no place for a steady flame. Meals come from below. Bread still warm from the baker. Lentils ladled from a steaming counter. Food carried up the stairs carefully, eaten quickly before the heat fades.

Inside the room, water waits.

A bucket sits near the door, always filled. Another rests beneath the window. It is there because the vigiles say it must be. Children are taught not to touch it. Parents check it before sleep, lifting it slightly, reassured by the slosh within.

Sand is kept too, gathered from the street and carried up in sacks. Fire feeds on air. Sand smothers. Everyone knows this.

They practice without calling it practice.

A mother shows her daughter how to lift the bucket without spilling. A father explains which cloth must never be left near a lamp. These lessons are given softly, folded into ordinary days, so fear does not take root too early.

They live ready, not in panic, but in awareness.

When the Smoke Comes First

Their greatest fear is realised when the fire does come.

Not with flame, but with a smell, thin and bitter, slipping into the room before anyone is fully awake. Smoke creeps along ceilings and stairwells. A cough breaks the night. Someone sits up too quickly, heart already racing.

The stairway is checked first. Always.

A hand presses against the door, feeling for warmth. Smoke seeps through the cracks. Below, something crackles. A shout rises from the street, sharp and urgent. The city is waking to danger.

Families move fast now. Buckets are lifted. Sand dragged closer. Children are pulled from sleep and wrapped tight.

From the street comes the sound of order.

The vigiles arrive with purpose. A pump is dragged into place, its handles working hard as water is forced upward. Buckets pass hand to hand, splashing onto stone and wood. Inside, heat grows uneven. A vinegar-soaked blanket is pressed against a doorway, the sharp smell burning the nose as it smothers flame.

Hooks bite into timber.

Walls are torn away not in anger, but necessity. Better to lose a room than a street. Wood cracks. A section gives way before fire can claim it.

People cling to walls, to ropes, to each other.

A child is passed down into waiting arms. A man lowers himself slowly, fingers scraping plaster, eyes squeezed shut against smoke. And then, slowly, the fire begins to lose.

Water hisses. Smoke thins. The crackle fades into wet ash. The night exhales.

When the Street Falls Quiet Again

What remains is coughing, crying, the sound of bodies touching ground again.

Water drips from walls and doorways. Smoke clings to clothes and hair. People stand in small groups, counting heads again and again.

Neighbours move toward one another. A blanket is offered. A cup of water passed hand to hand. Words feel unnecessary.

The vigiles remain apart.

Helmets dark with soot, tunics wet and heavy, they check walls for hidden heat. They do not accept thanks. People keep their distance. Respect mixes with fear. These are men who break doors and pull down walls if fire demands it.

Slowly, the street empties.

Families gather what they can and move away from the smoke. The vigiles turn and walk on, sandals leaving wet marks on stone that fade as the night dries.

Dawn Above the Roofs

Dawn reaches the upper floors first.

Light spills gently into rooms still smelling of smoke and damp stone. What burned is revealed clearly now. Families wake stiff and tired. Children ask questions that parents answer softly.

From above, the street looks unchanged.

Vendors return. Doors open. Rome resumes its rhythm as if nothing happened. The city is practiced at forgetting.

Those who live high do not forget so easily.

Buckets are refilled. Sand is gathered again. Lamps are checked. Life reshapes itself around risk and care. Somewhere below, the vigiles have already moved on.

Above the street, families hold their children a little closer as the sun climbs.

Rome survives on stone and order.

They survive on love.

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The Canadian World War 1 Hero: Leo Clarke, Victoria Cross

Leo Clarke's story occupies a unique and almost mythic place in Canada's First World War memory, not only for the astonishing audacity of his Victoria Cross action but for the brevity and intensity of his life at war. In little more than two years, Clarke passed from civilian obscurity to battlefield legend, before being cut down almost immediately after his greatest triumph. His career encapsulates both the heroic ideal and the brutal indifference of industrial warfare, where courage could win a battle in one moment and mean nothing the next.

Terry Bailey explains.

Leo Clarke - colorized. Available here.

Born on the 1st December 1892 in the small community of Waterdown, Ontario, Leo Clarke grew up far removed from the violence that would define his fate. Like many young Canadians of his generation, he was raised in a society still closely tied to Britain, imbued with a sense of imperial duty and adventure. In his early adulthood, Clarke moved west, settling in Edmonton, Alberta, where he worked as a clerk. There is little to suggest that he was extraordinary in a conventional sense; he was not a career soldier, nor a product of military academies. Yet, like thousands of others, the outbreak of the First World War in August 1914 transformed his life almost overnight.

Clarke enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force in 1915, joining the 2nd Battalion of the Canadian Infantry. By the time he reached the Western Front, the romantic notions of war had long since been obliterated by the realities of trench fighting. Mud, shellfire, and relentless casualties defined daily existence. Clarke quickly distinguished himself through aggressiveness and calm under fire, qualities that led to his promotion from the ranks to commissioned officer. By 1916, he held the rank of lieutenant, commanding men in one of the hardest-fought sectors of the front.

The summer and autumn of 1916 marked one of the bloodiest periods in Canadian military history. The Battle of the Somme, launched in July, had already claimed hundreds of thousands of casualties by the time Canadian units became deeply involved near Pozières and Courcelette. The battlefield was a shattered moonscape of shell holes, splintered trees, and pulverized trenches. Gains were measured in yards, often purchased at appalling cost. It was within this environment of attrition and exhaustion that Clarke performed the act for which he would be immortalized.

On the 9th of September 1916, near Pozières, Canadian troops were attempting to consolidate newly won ground when they were held up by a strongly defended German trench. The position posed a serious threat to the Canadian line, and delay meant exposure to counterattack. Rather than wait for orders or reinforcements, Clarke acted on his own initiative. Armed only with a revolver and a supply of grenades, he climbed out of his trench and leapt onto the parapet of the German position, fully exposed to enemy fire.

What followed was an act of battlefield shock that bordered on the unbelievable. From his exposed position, Clarke hurled grenades down into the trench while firing his revolver at point-blank range. His sudden appearance and ferocity produced the illusion that a major assault was underway. German soldiers, stunned by the violence and speed of the attack, broke under the pressure. Clarke moved along the parapet alone, continuing his assault with relentless momentum, killing enemy soldiers and forcing others to surrender as he advanced.

The official Victoria Cross citation later recorded that Clarke killed nineteen German soldiers and captured thirty-three more, all without assistance. Just as crucially, his action neutralized a dangerous enemy position at a decisive moment, allowing Canadian forces to advance and secure the line with far fewer casualties than might otherwise have been expected. It was a moment where individual initiative directly altered the tactical situation, a rare but celebrated phenomenon in the mechanized slaughter of the Somme.

The award of the Victoria Cross recognized not only Clarke's courage but the extraordinary independence of his action. At a time when battlefield success increasingly depended on artillery barrages and coordinated infantry advances, Clarke's lone assault seemed almost an anachronism, recalling earlier ideals of personal gallantry. Yet it was precisely this unpredictability that made his action effective. In a war of routine and repetition, shock and audacity could still break the deadlock, if only briefly.

Clarke's Victoria Cross was gazetted later in 1916, and his deed was widely reported in Canadian newspapers. He became a symbol of Canadian bravery at the front, proof that the young Dominion was producing soldiers equal to any in the British Empire. But the attention and honor came too late to alter his fate. The Somme continued to consume lives indiscriminately, and Clarke remained with his battalion in the line. On the 19th of October 1916, scarcely six weeks after his legendary assault, Clarke was killed in action near Desire Trench during ongoing operations on the Somme. While leading his men under heavy fire, he was struck by a sniper's bullet and died almost instantly. He was just twenty-three years old. There was no dramatic final stand, no heroic flourish to match his Victoria Cross action—only the abrupt, unceremonious end that claimed so many young officers of the Great War.

Clarke's death underscores the cruel paradox at the heart of First World War heroism. Acts of extraordinary bravery could win medals and momentary advantage, but they offered no immunity from the random violence of the battlefield. His life and death illustrate how thin the margin was between legend and loss, and how fleeting individual triumph could be amid the vast machinery of modern war. Today, Leo Clarke is remembered as one of Canada's youngest Victoria Cross recipients and as a figure emblematic of the nation's emergence on the world stage through sacrifice and courage. His grave lies far from home, but his story endures in regimental histories, memorials, and the broader narrative of Canada's First World War experience. In the shattered trenches of the Somme, for a few astonishing minutes, one man standing alone on a parapet changed the course of a fight—and in doing so, secured his place in history, even as history swiftly claimed his life.

Leo Clarke's legacy endures not because his life was long or his career carefully cultivated, but because it distilled, with uncommon clarity, the contradictions of the First World War and of heroism itself. His Victoria Cross action stands as one of the most startling examples of individual initiative in a conflict otherwise dominated by massed firepower and grinding attrition. For a brief moment on the Somme, courage, speed, and audacity triumphed over the machinery of war, reminding contemporaries and later generations that human agency still mattered, even in the most dehumanizing of battles.

Yet Clarke's story resists easy romanticization. The same war that elevated him to national prominence extinguished his life without ceremony only weeks later. His death strips away any lingering illusion that gallantry could shield a soldier from the randomness of industrial warfare. In this sense, Clarke is not merely a heroic outlier but a representative figure, embodying the fate of a generation of young men whose lives were compressed into a handful of violent years and often ended just as abruptly.

For Canada, Leo Clarke's service and sacrifice occupy a significant place in the broader narrative of national maturity forged through war. His actions reinforced the reputation of the Canadian Corps as a formidable fighting force and contributed to a growing sense of distinct national identity within the British Empire. At the same time, his youth and obscurity before the war underscore how profoundly the conflict reshaped ordinary lives, transforming clerks and laborers into symbols of courage at unimaginable cost.

Ultimately, Clarke's story endures because it captures both the extraordinary and the tragically ordinary elements of the Great War. His lone assault on a German trench remains a testament to the power of individual resolve, while his swift death serves as a sober reminder of the war's indifference to such resolve. Remembering Leo Clarke is therefore not only an act of honoring bravery, but also of acknowledging the human price of a conflict that defined a generation. In that balance between heroism and loss, his place in history remains secure, not as a figure of myth alone, but as a young man whose courage briefly altered events and whose fate reflected the unforgiving reality of his time.

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The Balloons That Went to War: Britain’s Electrical Offensive Against Nazi Germany

At the beginning of the Second World War, Britain looked for ways to strike back that went beyond symbolism. The aim was practical effect. Anything capable of unsettling German industry, slowing production, or forcing resources into repair rather than manufacture was worth exploring. Bombing raids dominated headlines and memory, but elsewhere a quieter idea was taking form, one that required neither aircraft nor crews crossing enemy airspace. The idea involved balloons.

Richard Clements explains.

Royal Air Force Balloon Command, 1939-1945. Bringing in a kite balloon near the coast.

These were not barrage balloons hovering over British cities. They were free-flying hydrogen balloons, released into favorable winds and left to drift eastward across the North Sea. Suspended beneath them were long metal wires or small incendiary devices, intended not to destroy cities but to interfere with systems. Power. Communications. Rail signaling. The infrastructure that kept a modern industrial state functioning.

The scheme became known as Operation Outward, and for a time it represented one of the most unusual offensive measures Britain employed against Nazi Germany.

An idea born from accident

The concept did not emerge from theory alone. Before the war, stray balloons had already demonstrated an inconvenient reality. When metal cables became tangled with overhead power lines, the consequences could be immediate. Short circuits. Tripped substations. Widespread outages. Engineers disliked it. Military planners paid attention.

By 1941, pressure was growing to respond to German attacks without exposing more bomber crews to unacceptable losses. Unorthodox ideas were welcomed, provided they were inexpensive, repeatable, and scalable. It was with this requirement that Operation Outward took shape. It was low-tech by design, almost dismissively simple, and that simplicity made it difficult to counter.

A hydrogen balloon could be manufactured quickly and launched without specialized aircraft. Released under the right conditions, it might travel hundreds of miles. If it failed, little was lost. If it succeeded, the consequences could extend far beyond the point of contact.

 How the balloons worked

Two main variants were used. One carried small incendiary devices, intended to ignite dry heathland, woodland, or agricultural areas. These fires were not expected to devastate cities, but even minor blazes demanded attention and manpower.

And a second variant carried a trailing wire. Often many tens of meters long, this cable was designed to snag high-voltage power lines. When it bridged conductors, it could short circuits and trip protective systems, taking sections of the network offline and sometimes damaging equipment. Repairs took time. In certain cases, specialized components were required, slowing recovery further.

Precision was never the goal. Those launching the balloons had no way of knowing where they would land. That uncertainty was built into the strategy. Success depended on volume rather than accuracy.

Launching from the edge of Britain

Launches took place from several points along Britain’s eastern coastline, selected for their exposure to prevailing winds. One of the best-documented sites lay near Felixstowe, Suffolk, close to Landguard Fort.

By the Second World War, Landguard was already centuries old, its defenses layered with earlier conflicts. During the 1940s, it was adapted once again. Balloons were prepared, filled, and released when conditions allowed, drifting away over the North Sea toward occupied Europe.

The process was methodical rather than dramatic. Crews watched weather charts closely. Timing mattered. Released too low, balloons would fall short. Released too high, they might drift harmlessly past their intended regions.

For those living nearby, there was little to explain what was happening. A balloon rose, then disappeared. No aircraft followed. No explosions were heard. Only the quiet sense that something had been sent eastward.

Scale rather than spectacle

Operation Outward operated mainly between 1942 and 1944. Over that period, tens of thousands of balloons were released. Estimates vary, but figures around 99,000 are commonly cited. This was not an experiment conducted once and abandoned. It was sustained.

The cost per balloon was low. Compared with the expense of a single bomber sortie, the contrast was stark. No crews were endangered. Losses were expected and accepted. German authorities could not intercept every drifting balloon, nor could they prevent the effects once one contacted infrastructure.

Responses were required. Power lines were inspected more often. Defensive measures were improvised. Resources were diverted. In that sense alone, the operation achieved its purpose.

Measuring success in shadows

The precise impact of Operation Outward is difficult to quantify. Records are incomplete, and German wartime documentation tended to focus on larger threats. Even so, evidence suggests that trailing-wire balloons caused repeated electrical disruptions, particularly in rural and industrial areas dependent on overhead lines.

Power failures affected railways, factories, and communications. Even short outages had secondary effects. Trains were delayed. Signals failed. Engineers were drawn away from other tasks.

Results from the incendiary balloons were uneven, shaped by weather and terrain. Some started fires. Others failed quietly. Again, the intent was not devastation but distraction.

There was also a psychological dimension. Damage arrived without warning, without aircraft, and without an obvious point of origin. The boundary between front line and home front became less certain.

An overlooked weapon

Operation Outward never captured public imagination in the way bombing campaigns or commando raids did, as there were no dramatic photographs, no returning crews, and no medals awarded for balloon launches. Wartime secrecy played a part, as did perception. Balloons felt faintly absurd compared to the machinery of modern war.

That misjudgment was also its strength. The operation targeted systems rather than structures. It favored disruption over destruction. Infrastructure, not buildings, became the point of vulnerability.

In this respect, the approach feels unexpectedly modern. Asymmetric rather than confrontational. Persistent rather than decisive.

Felixstowe’s quiet contribution

For Felixstowe, and for sites like Landguard Fort, Operation Outward represents a rarely acknowledged strand of wartime history. The town is more often associated with defense, ports, and coastal patrols. Its role as a launch point for a wind-driven offensive against German power networks is easily overlooked.

Yet it fits a familiar wartime pattern. Old sites adapted. Simple tools repurposed. Innovation shaped by necessity rather than abundance.

Standing at Landguard today, it is difficult to picture those launches. No trace remains on the ground. No markers or plaques. Only open sky.

A war fought in unexpected ways

Operation Outward serves as a reminder that the Second World War was not fought solely with tanks and aircraft. It was also fought with patience, improvisation, and ideas that seemed improbable until they were put into practice.

The balloons did not win the war. They were never meant to. What they did was impose cost, friction, and uncertainty. In an industrial conflict, even small disruptions mattered.

It may be fitting that the operation has faded into obscurity. It was never designed for recognition. Only for effect.

And sometimes, effect arrived quietly, carried on the wind.

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Further Reading

R. V. Jones, Most Secret War, Hamish Hamilton

Alfred Price, Instruments of Darkness: The History of Electronic Warfare, Greenhill Books

Imperial War Museums, research notes on British unconventional warfare

UK Ministry of Defence, declassified material on wartime balloon operations

Traces of War, “Landguard Fort, Felixstowe” wartime site overview

Josephine Butler: A Victorian Activist Ahead of Her Time

Josephine Butler was a British 19th century social reformer and feminist activist who was certainly ahead of her time. Here. Nancy Bernhard explains the impact that Josephine had across several social areas.

Josephine Butler, circa 1876.

In researching the 19th century New York sex trade for my historical novel The Double Standard Sporting House, I encountered two varieties of religious reformers who addressed the so-called “Social Evil.” In the aftermath of the Civil War, conservative and evangelical Christians turned their attention to “fallen” women, and tried to persuade them to repent, and to resist sexual temptation. These efforts hardly ever succeeded, because the reformers misunderstood the reasons why women did sex work. In a time when they were excluded from virtually all well-paid employment, it was a last-resort means of survival. It was also the only choice open to victims of rape and sexual assault, shamed and excluded for the behavior of their predators.

But not all reformers were so eager to blame the victims, and directed their redemptive efforts at the customers, procurers, and pimps of sex workers. Rather than shaming girls, this kind of activist offered them job training, housing, and work that paid a living wage as avenues out of the trade. These practical and compassionate reformers changed many women’s lives. In the US, the Female Moral Reform Society, originally constituted in the 1830s and revived in the late 1860s, even tried to criminalize the hiring of a prostitute in New York State. Given that the Tammany Hall political syndicate controlled New York’s politics top to bottom, that proposed legislation did not get very far. But these progressive reformers began to shift moral blame for the Social Evil off powerless girls and onto their exploiters.

Daring to Stoop

Perhaps the most inspiring and clear-eyed anti-prostitution reformer of the Victorian era came from the far north of England. A beautiful Englishwoman of good family and education, wife of a university don, Josephine Butler had always been a charitable Christian. But after the accidental death of one of her four children and her only daughter, she became an extraordinary activist. Resolving to help people whose pain was greater than her own, she sat with prisoners in the workhouse, and brought dozens of prostitutes, often dying from venereal disease, into her own home. She campaigned for women’s suffrage and against child trafficking, tirelessly mobilizing her faith and gentility on behalf of Britain’s most neglected and abused women. Clergyman and reformer Charles Kingsley said in 1853 that the in the cause of fallen women, “What is required is one real lady who would dare to stoop.” Butler soon became that lady. Florence Nightingale thought her “touched with genius.”

Understanding sex work to stem from evil economic conditions and the absurd subjugation of women, Butler wrote, “The prostitute sees herself as the only realist in a world deluded by moral hypocrisy.” She built a series of Industrial Homes where girls could learn trades that would support them. She campaigned for better work and educational opportunities for women, but also for better treatment in the workplace, as girls were often assaulted by their employers and then barred from employment. She also organized against couverture, the policy that saw women’s rights revert to their husbands upon marriage.

The Contagious Diseases Acts

Butler gained national fame when she fought the Contagious Diseases Acts, passed in stages by Parliament during the 1860s, allowing police to detain and physically examine any woman in the vicinity of a military installation. Many poor women were subject to internal examinations by fiat. Butler called this ‘steel rape.’ No men were ever harassed or even questioned for frequenting sex workers, as the law was designed to protect them but not women from disease. For pointing this out, Butler was often threatened, and she was badly beaten more than once. A building where she was speaking was set on fire.

While Butler persuaded many people of the one-sided injustice of the Contagious Diseases Acts during her years-long campaign, the Conservative government failed to repeal them. One observer quipped, “Hell knows no fury like the scorn of a man who has been humiliated in debate by a sexually attractive woman.” In one year, Butler gave 99 speeches. A Member of Parliament remarked: “We know how to manage any other opposition in the House or in the country, but this is very awkward for us—this revolt of the women. It is quite a new thing; what are we to do with such an opposition as this?” The Acts were not repealed until 1886.

Against Child Trafficking

In the 1880s, Butler also began a long and contentious campaign against child trafficking. She joined forces with crusading journalist William T. Stead and members of the Salvation Army to draw attention to the abduction and sale of English children to European brothels specializing in pedophilia, and to pass a law stalled in the House of Commons raising the age of consent from thirteen to sixteen.

Butler and Stead’s “Special and Secret Committee of Inquiry” made a plan to purchase children themselves, to show how easily it could be done. For ten days in London, Butler and her eldest son posed as a brothel keeper and a procurer, and bought time with children in elite brothels, paying a total of one hundred pounds for ten different girls. They passed their information to Scotland Yard, and arrests ensued.

Stead, through Butler protégé Rebecca Jarrett, contracted to buy the virginity of Eliza Armstrong, the thirteen year-old daughter of a destitute sex worker. The girl was instead removed from her precarious life and adopted by a Salvation Army-affiliated family in France. Stead published an eye-popping five-installment account of his purchase in the Pall Mall Gazette under the title “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon,” hearkening to the Minotaur’s sacrifice of virgins. The series became a wild sensation, provoking intense public debate and widespread demonstrations, news sellers storming the paper’s offices for more copies. Parliament rushed to raise the age of consent.

But despite outspoken support from religious leaders, Stead and several of his co-conspirators were indicted for the abduction and procurement of Eliza Armstrong. Her mother now claimed she thought she was sending her daughter into domestic service, and her father had not been consulted. Rival newspapers tried to discredit Stead and steal his thunder. He served three months in jail, and Rebecca Jarrett served six. Butler was questioned but not charged. Though messy and sensationalist, the Maiden Tribute brought child trafficking into wide public notice for the first time, and legislation against it began in earnest.

God and One Woman

After her husband’s death in 1890, Butler slowly withdrew from public life, and died in 1906 at the age of 78. In 2005, Durham University named a residential college for her.

Perhaps Josephine Butler’s greatest achievement was to lay bare the hypocrisies of Victorian society. Her poise and respectability lent credibility, and her faith lent clarity. She said, “I plead for the rights of the most virtuous and the most vicious equally.”

Over decades she attacked the sexual double standard, writing, “A moral lapse in a woman was spoken of as an immensely worse thing than in a man, there was no comparison to be formed between them. A pure woman, it was reiterated, should be absolutely ignorant of a certain class of evils in the world, albeit those evils bore with murderous cruelty on other women.” She began to shift public perception of a sex worker from a guilty, sinful temptress to a person who was victimized by a morally inexcusable society, and inspired a generation of activists in Europe and North America, including in New York, where some of the characters in my novel try to follow her example.

Her favorite phrase was, “God and one woman make a majority.”

Nancy Bernhard’s historical fiction debut, The Double Standard Sporting House, was recently released.

References

Helen Mathers, Patron Saint of Prostitutes: Josephine Butler and a Victorian Scandal, The History Press, 2014.

Glen Petrie, A singular Iniquity: The Campaigns of Josephine Butler, The Viking Press, 1971.

Carroll Smith-Rosenberg, Disorderly Conduct: Visions of Gender in Victorian America, Oxford University Press, 1985.