Veterans Day

Veterans Day, honoring the Men and Women who celebrate their faith in our country!

What brighter light could burn, than that which has been nurtured by those who have understood and appreciated the gifts that endow any and all, who may venture within the boundaries of this country's great heart.

Pray for them; they are yours.

Hk / December, 2001

World War II

Expect, feel an emotional twinge, reserved for those with hearts large enough, to relive a moment in time, which changed the breath and shape of our country, and the world.

It was an era of endless tests, developed at the end of our country's worst crisis since the Civil War, and a depression of such penetrating scope, many thought we as a people would never recover, let alone survive. As Americans, we found ourselves unprotected from elements far beyond anything even Mother Nature may have deemed to be possible. Man's inhumanity to man was about to reach an apex far beyond reason. Japan, Germany, and Italy; No troika of evildoers known to man would carry forth the devastating carnage, promulgating a world suffering of such immeasurable magnitude.

Though it all began many years before, our official date was: December 7th, 1941. Not a single human being, friend or foe, would be exempt from some form of life-changing correspondence.

Yes, it was World War II. But it was an epic of never before reached Godless sanctity. It was:

Beyond All Boundaries

***

Under the auspices of Phil Hettema of The Hettema Group, Susan Beth Smith of Matilda Production Services, LLC contacted Kalmenson & Kalmenson, seeking our voice casting services on their project: “Beyond All Boundaries,” a documentary produced by executive producer Tom Hanks.

They were moving right along towards the completion of this World War II documentary, being created for the World War II Museum in New Orleans, LA.

It was the beginning of what Cathy and I would describe as a whirlwind of joy and excitement.

Occasionally, thank God, a project comes along, managing to cancel out any negative feelings one might have cultivated, questioning his or her reasoning for existing in the world of a subjective art form. This one came in a package containing all the merits you pray your life pursuits might someday uncover. Bringing with it a chance for our work to be recognized, understood, and perhaps even praised.

Mr. Tom Hanks is far more than merely a celebrity name. Unfortunately, we never got to meet the man. That’s not to say we didn’t feel his tremendously positive influence during our voice casting. Tom Hanks, as well as the entire production team, believed in what they were working on; the story of World War II, and a generation of Americans who sacrificed in order for future generations to prosper and to live in a country striving to practice what their Constitution preached.

Chris Ellis painstakingly scribed the real life utterances of men who faced up to inconceivable fear. Each of our actors dug deeply from within themselves to truthfully and simply state what few before them ever experienced. Nary a syllable or a word missed the darkness of each minute being desperately lived by boys, not yet men, but soon to be our fathers and grandfathers.

Quite often during the voice casting process, the depth and scope of the project is not recognized. This one was different from the very first moment we began. Our conference call with the production team, headed by Doug Yellin, kicked off a prideful spirit, which endured as we steadily moved towards completion.

On Friday morning, November 6th, Cathy and I boarded a plane to New Orleans to be part of the production team celebration of Tom Hank's “Beyond All Boundaries.” We didn’t figure it was going to be a life-changing experience.

New Orleans is a piece of work; all of us Angelinos fit like a hand in a glove. Once you get past the environment, which is probably as dominant as any place in the world, you’re ready for the happiest food experience ever. Any stay in New Orleans for more than a couple of hours will guarantee weight gain.

We stayed at a hotel a mere two blocks from the New Orleans World War II Museum. It helped to ease the burden of an 8:00 AM call time for a private showing of “Beyond All Boundaries.” That would make it 6:00 AM in Los Angeles. Our hotel wake up call came through right on time at 4:00 AM Los Angeles time. Oddly enough, neither of us was anything but all stoked up for the event. All this having been said, neither Cathy or I ever expected what we were about to experience.

The museum is a magnificent adaptation of a World War II setting. The photos on the walls of the most prominent Hollywood stars of the era, is in itself a stand-alone event. The duplication of the Stage Door Canteen and stage is authentic. And certainly the fighter planes hanging from the ceiling is what every kid would love to see. But, you know what? I’ve seen all of that stuff before. As a veteran, I’ve actually experienced many of the weapons first hand (no, not during the second World War).

What we got was almost overpowering. There, assembled in the same staging area, at 8:00 AM New Orleans time, was a family being introduced to each other for the first time. We were not a dysfunctional family. We were a creative group of people, at the top of our game, hand-picked because of our professional record of impeccability. Everyone belonged, each freely displaying an egoless degree of entitlement. Everybody was talking warmly with everybody else. We exchanged congratulations, one to another, all of us gaining in natural vitality, moment by moment. Royalty was everywhere, yet aristocracy was nonexistent. I’m sure I have never been photographed as many times in as short a period of time.

I believe it was Phil Hettema who called us to order, signaling show time. We entered the brand spanking new theater together as a group of colleagues and friends reaping our personal continuum of excitement. I swear to you, my feet never touched the ground.

Deep red upholstery covered the two hundred and fifty perfectly positioned seats, arranged in a concave grandstand configuration, allowing for an ideal site line from anywhere in the house. The technical amenities of the theater are far too numerous to offer in this narrative. Let me just say, it was sheer genius. The site, the sound, and the fourth dimension supported the marvelously scripted documentation chronicling what was hoped to be the war to end all wars.

The theater darkened as we sat back in anticipation. What caused the death of sixty-five million human beings was about to be more vividly exposed than most could have ever imagined.

No better voice could have narrated the story, “Beyond All Boundaries,” than Mr. Tom Hanks.

I sat there alone within myself. By that I mean, without pause I found myself deeply involved; in fact more deeply involved than I had bargained for.

Each of the familiar voices we had cast were now much more than the actors in a movie. I was listening to an ensemble of truth. I was being taken on a trip to a time period in our country when every family had been touched by the world wide human suffering, and merciless degradation touching and penetrating the thickest of skins. The dimension of sound became increasingly more real, emanating from every corner of the theater. Men marched across the stage; the audience murmured with the unanimous belief that the figures were part of a live action segment, when in actuality it was one of many ingenious effects. Scene after scene, we were engaged in World War II. I felt the chill of winter as the Battle of the Bulge was reenacted. Tanks rolled at us, the sounds of men screaming for help, the snow falling on us in the theater, commands being shouted. And then total silence followed by an instant move from Europe to Guadalcanal in the Pacific. Flame throwers and burning bodies, then suicide planes diving into our ships. And back again to a German prison camp and our men freeing the remaining tortured souls. Swiftly to our people back on the home front, working day and night, all helping to support our men on the front lines. And then blaring at us was the end of the war; the end and a beginning. Never before had the world experienced the likes of such a monumental demeaning of the human spirit, and simultaneously the universal exaltation of the human spirit rising up to a very new God-given stratosphere. And then it was quiet for a moment. The World War II soldiers and sailors marched across our screen, followed by an equal number of men and women who took their places in front of the older generation. The older generation saluted the new who returned the salutation. It was the greatest generation passing on the guard assignment to the next. Without warning it was over. The theater was dark for a moment or two. We gathered our emotions and wiped away the tears as we all applauded the work we had shared in creating!

Man, were we charged up! Outside the theater it was congratulations time once again. But this time it was just a little different. I found myself thanking people for their work on the film. People would come up and interrupt a conversation to say, "Thank you Cathy and Harvey for your work on the film." "Rewarding" would be the all time understatement. "Euphorically stimulated" would be putting it more aptly. But our day in the sun was still very young. The accolades and the celebration were about to move (would you believe) to new heights. It was time for brunch.

After a short stroll, no more than a block away from the theater we entered a two-story building and moved upstairs to a private room, which had been reserved by the Hettema Group. Phil Hettema was there to greet each of us individually, and to graciously request we enjoy our celebrity worthwhile repast.

So there we were, about one hundred and twenty folks genuinely enjoying each other. After about forty minutes or so, Phil Hettema came to our side of the room. He asked for our attention, and preceded to compliment every one of us for the work and creativity we brought to the production. Each of us was mentioned by our first and last name. Cathy and I were extremely taken by his overly generous evaluation of our importance to the project.

Early on Monday morning, November 9th, we answered our 4:00 AM wake-up call and were on our way back to Los Angeles.

All who toil in a world of subjective art must be allowed at least one day; a day in the sun.

Veterans Day Parade

My truth be told, from age nineteen on, I've never missed the observance of Veterans Day, nor inwardly enjoyed my pride over being one. It’s a big and special club. I became a member way back in my nineteenth year. What can you say about the inner workings of a nineteen-year-old boy… who was about to become a man?

Although it may have taken awhile for me, today I clearly understand. Becoming a man was what my newly joined club was all about. It was known as the United States Army.

Many today speak of patriotism and heroism, and just about every kind of “ism” known to man. However, most who speak the words have little to reflect upon. When I became an official club member, without knowing it, I was taking my first steps towards walking the walk. It’s a very private thing, requiring many years of cultivating. Today, admittedly my pride in having served this country of ours is a vital part of who I am.

Yes I was in the army, and yes I am proud to say I'm a veteran. As I write and reflect, capsules of my transition to manhood’s beginning moments return with an immediacy, which only the purest of truths could stimulate.

***

In the beginning we were referred to as recruits. And God were we an ugly-looking bunch of guys. The military set out on a goal of having us all look and act the same. Mainly it was the shaved heads, which was the most distressing. Except for the boots, none of us had anything that fit well. We were one hundred and twenty bedraggled what-is-its. Cold, wet, sick, and on the verge of hallucination due to sleep deprivation, another unpleasant ingredient was added to the mix: they began yelling at us. When I asked why I was being yelled (make that screamed) at, the man doing the screaming looked at me with more disdain than I could ever direct an actor to do, and without skipping a beat moved directly in front of me, his nose literally touching mine and shouted, "Give me ten!" I had no idea what in the name of hell he wanted; certainly I didn’t have that much money on my person. “Are you a deaf, 'cruit?” (short for recruit) he bellowed. I began to respond to him about my excellent hearing, when without warning he demanded, “Make that twenty.” Fortunately for me, one of my buddies in the back yelled out, "He wants push-ups." I complied. That was my erstwhile entrance to the infantry / combat engineers basic training indoctrination.

NOTE: I lived.

After four weeks we were a different group of guys. Our physical condition was superb. We were learning the real meaning of teamwork as taught by the military. As they repeated over and over again, “There is a right way, a wrong way, and the army way.”

***

Fort Lewis, Washington; it was a typical February day, chilly and wet. Our company of men had completed the first few weeks of basic training and had been assembled, along with four other companies, as part of our first battalion size (about twenty five hundred) parade. There we were, a group of mostly southern California guys; cold, wet, and experiencing being more miserable than any of us could have imagined. Without exception, all of us had colds.

Nothing mattered to them (our leaders). It was parade day, and we were going to parade regardless of the weather, or how sick we thought we were. Of course the premise was a simple one to understand: War knows no standstill. Sick or not, sleep deprived or well rested, hungry and thirsty, bone weary, lonely and missing your mom, your dad, girlfriend or wife and children, the war as presented by an enemy will go on as scheduled. It’s a show with performances continuing until, and when finally some form of fade comes to pass. Then and only then will the vigilant be permitted to rest, seeking recovery. For many, recovery will never be their option.

There we stood, waiting in a cold mist for the next earth-moving command to be given. Like so many before us, as American soldiers we always found ways to laugh and clown under the worst of circumstances. Most of the time it was nothing more than poking fun at each other. Someone grabbing a guy's rifle and passing it around from one soldier to another. As children we used to call it "keep away." It was nothing more than pure adolescence.

And then my moment of transition arrived; without warning, the unexpected.

The booming voice of our sergeant major brought our meaningless mass together in no more than an instant. We became a solid block. Twenty-five hundred men became an imposing figure. We were at attention. The battalion commander appeared and marched to the center of the parade grounds, standing at attention before the sergeant major, who still remained facing us.

The commander was himself an overpowering figure. He was taller than any of us, and carried himself the way his West Point credentials required. He was a full bird colonel. The emblems glittered on his shoulders as he viewed us as if inspecting the most powerful group of warriors ever seen on this planet. We were taken by our leader's presence.

Our sergeant turned a sharp about face and reported to the colonel, “All present and accounted for as ordered sir,” he bellowed and saluted simultaneously. The colonel returned his salute, and the sergeant moved to a side position, taking his place and becoming one of us. Again the colonel did his review. His eyes inspected all of us with an amazing display of pride, which I had never before experienced. At a seemingly precise moment the sergeant was once again in front of our body. He shouted, "Parade rest!" and as one unit we snapped into position. The sergeant again moved aside and our colonel took charge. The man’s presence was nothing short of inspiring. All was still as the colonel prepared to speak. Then it came: “Men, you are about to experience what only a very select group have ever had the privilege of experiencing.”

At that moment the battalion color guard appeared. To the beat of a single drum they marched into position on the parade grounds. If you can visualize the configuration of a football field; place the color guard at one end of the field. The colonel would be directly behind the guard. Next to enter was the Fort Lewis Army marching band. They took their position directly behind the color guard and in front of the colonel, and our twenty-five hundred man battalion. (What you had was a football field shape, taking up about five times the area.)

“Today you will be representing your country, the United States of America. Are you ready?"

As one we responded with, “Sir, yes sir!”

“Then give them hell, men!” he shouted.

The chills came in waves. What might seem cornball was anything but. The band struck up with John Philip Sousa's Washington Post March, and at the precise moment the colonel bellowed again, "Give them hell, men!" He turned and signaled as if he was conducting a cavalry charge. We marched as one.

And then the final emotional wave, which has remained with me all of my life. I caught sight of our American flag leading our way. To date my chest has never expanded as much as it did on that very chilly day. The chill was gone, along with the young boy. We had exchanged a variety of mild indifference into unabashed pride in one's self, and one's country.

An interesting thing happened on our way back to the barracks following our parade experience. We weren’t the same group of young boys messing around as we did before the parade. That’s not to say our sense of humor had left us. The very next day we all returned to kidding around and still playing our schoolboy tricks on one another. But as this day wore down there were conversations about some unexpected feelings. For me personally, I never totally shared up until now what a life changing experience it was.

For those of you who have visited with me on Sparks St. in Burbank, you will recall our flag flying proudly in front of our door. It’s there every day that I am there.

This coming Wednesday, November 11, we pay tribute to our veterans. I pray you share my pride.