YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE

 

I can't prove who the two fishermen pulled out of the high tide off tiny Pilsey Island (above) on 9 June, 1957.  When they hefted the corpse into the boat, the head fell off and was lost in the mud flats. The hands were already gone, whether by accident or design. So no finger prints were available.

 Margaret Player could not identify what was found at Pilsey Island, off the southern tip of the larger Thornsey Island (above, center) as her being ex-husband,  Commander Lionel “Buster” Crabb,  and neither could his current girlfriend, Patricia Rose. At the inquest a diving partner, William McLanachan, identified a scar on the left knee as Lionel’s, but later recanted.

DNA technology was still a half century in the future, but still...The diving suit matched the two piece type Lionel had been wearing. And there weren't many of those in use in 1957. The stature of the torso matched Lionel's.  The body hair matched. The clothing Lionel had been wearing under his wet suit matched the clothes on the corpse. Even the “hammer toes” of the corpse matched photographs of Lionel Crabb’s feet. 

The coroner ruled that it was Lionel Crabb and that he had been dead for several days.  But if it were Lionel Crabb he had actually been dead and under water for over a year.  So the mystery begins right there, in the tidal flats off  Pilsey Island,, 17 miles to the east of Plymouth Harbor, England, where Lionel Crabb went missing.  But what if the man who was the inspiration for the fictional hero James Bond, had pulled off yet another misdirection and double cross, all in the name of queen and country? Or money.  

Lionel Crabb (above) did not look like the movie version of James Bond, but his personality was a dead ringer for the Bond from the books. He hated to exercise. He was a chain smoker, and an aficionado of “boilermakers” (whisky with a beer chaser). He distrusted academics and experts (he would have punched Q after five minutes). And Lionel couldn’t swim three lengths of a swimming pool without collapsing out of breath. Still, a friend described him as having, “…a singular ability to endure discomfort…His lack of fear was unquestioned….(a) curmudgeonly but kindly bantam cock,…a most pleasant and lively individual. (However) His penchant for alcohol remained un-diminished.”

Lionel Crabb (above) started his adventures as a Merchant seaman. And when World War Two began he was already thirty years old, and thanks to his consumption of alcohol and cigarettes. already past his physical prime. 

He joined the Royal Navy in 1940 and eventually ended up as a bomb safety officer based on Gibraltar (above), a job requiring calm dedication to detail and not for a dare devil. But that is where the legend of Commander “Buster” Crabb really begins.  

Across the straights from Gibraltar (above), in Spanish Morocco, was a force of Italian divers who were skillfully planting limpet mines on British transports and warships in the anchorage of Gibraltar Bay,  at the southern tip of supposedly neutral Spain. Lionel became part of the team assigned to protect those ships.  

He learned to dive in the war zone, wearing the bulky “Sladen Suits” (above), often referred to as “Clammy Death.".  What are now the ubiquitous scuba gear were twenty years in the future. On his missions, Lionel also learned tp use the ancestor of the aqualung, "re-breathers" invented by the American, Doctor Lambersten.  

The British team didn’t even have swim fins, until two Italian divers were machine gunned by a sentry one night and Lionel retrieved the fins and, out of curiosity,  started using them.

Working often in the black of night,  Lionel slipped beneath the oily water of Gibraltar Bay,  to inspect warship's hulls for any sign of explosives, and if discovered to carefully remove them, bringing them to the surface and disarming them, which was the only part of the job he had actually been trained for.

In 1944 Lionel (above) was awarded the St. George Medal.  By that time he was commanding the entire unit in Gibraltar. Lionel was a pioneer in diving, even teaching himself to disarm the new German magnetic mines while underwater. After the war, in August of 1945, he was assigned to disarm mines placed by Zionists on shipping in the port of Haifa. He received another medal for his role in disarming mines and explosives in Europe left over from World War II.

And in 1949 Lionel managed to produce underwater photographs of a British cruiser’s spinning propellers while the big ship plowed through the sea at full speed within feet of him. He explored a British submarine lost in the Thames estuary (above), and helped build the outflow system for a top secret nuclear weapons factory. Lionel had become the “go-to guy” on anything involving underwater espionage, and was famous for it, not because he was a genius at it but because he was the only person doing it.

Lionel retired from active service in 1953,  but remained in the reserves. And in October of 1955, when the new Soviet cruiser Sverdlov paid a “good will” visited to Portsmouth, Lionel Crabb and a friend, Sydney Knowles, made nighttime dives, examining and measuring the hull, in an attempt to explain the ship’s powerful maneuvering abilities.  If they learned anything it remains a state secret.

So both men seemed obvious picks to repeat that dive in April of 1956 when the new Soviet Cruiser Ordzhonikidze (above) paid similar call to Portsmouth. 

The big Soviet warship, with two destroyer escorts, was carrying Communist Premier Nikolai Bulganin and Communist Party Leader, and future premier, Nikita Khrushchev, on a state visit.  

Commander Crabb's dive this time might never have become public knowledge except,  after the visit of the Ordzhonikidze (above)  the Soviets filed an official protest, claiming a British diver was seen close to the Soviet cruiser on the night of 19 April.  

Lionel’s war record had made him the most famous diver in Britain, and the day after the Soviet protest was filed, a reporter spotted Lionel Crabb's name in the register of the Sally Port Hotel in Old Portsmouth (above). for the date of 18 April  

And, the day after his name had been spotted, other reporters returned (above) to confirm, They found the page for 18 April  had been ripped out of the book,  and was now missing.  What added fuel to the story was that Commander Lionel Crabb was also missing, and no one seemed to know what had become of him.

Because of the missing page in the guest book and the the missing Commander, the story would not die. Eventually the Royal Navy claimed that Lionel Crabb had been testing new diving equipment in the Solent,  off the Isle of Wight (above) to the west of Portsmouth, when he had disappeared and was presumed to have drowned. But that story seemed so absurd it just produced even more speculation.

Many in the press now began to suggest the new British Prime Minister, Anthony Eden (above),  who had hopes of reaching a rapprochement with the Soviet leadership, and had forbidden Lionel from making this second dive inside Portsmouth harbor, was covering up something big.  Press reports claimed  the CIA had encouraged Lionel to make the attempt even without official British endorsement. 

What we do know as fact, is that after press speculation about Lionel's death continued, Prime Minister Anthony Eden issued a public statement on 14 May saying   “It would not be in the public interest to disclose the circumstances in which Commander Crabb is presumed to have met his death. I think it necessary, in the special circumstances of this case, to make it clear that what was done,  was done without the authority or the knowledge of Her Majesty’s Ministers. Appropriate disciplinary steps are being taken.” Shortly thereafter the head of MI6, Britain's super secret intelligence agency, was relieved. In that short denial, Eden had managed to confirm everything.

But from this point the stories and myths only multiply. In 2007 Eduard Koltsov claimed he had been a Soviet diver aboard the Cruiser Ordzhonikidze when, while on underwater patrol under the Soviet Ship in Portsmouth harbor, he spotted Lionel fixing a mine,  and had cut the spy's throat. The suggestion the British, or even the CIA, would have mined a Soviet warship while in a British port, is just absurd.

Lionel’s fiancee,  Patricia Rose. née Phoebe Pauline Bethell (above),  claimed in 1974 that Lionel had defected and was still alive, training Soviet frogmen in the Black Sea. Another version says Lionel suffered a heart attack while under water, had been rescued by Soviet divers,  but had later died under torture, and that the Soviets had dumped his body overboard after leaving the English port.  But really, none of those stories seems to make a lot of sense.

What we know for certain, thanks to confirmed information from several sources,  is that on 17 April, 1956, as the cold war was heating up,  Lionel and another unknown man checked into the Sally Port Hotel, in Portsmouth. Then, on the evening of the 18 April, Lionel entered the water from The King’s Stairs Jetty (above)...

....about 80 yards from where the three Soviet warships  were berthed (above). Lionel returned to the surface just 20 minutes later, having gotten confused in the dark among the pier’s pilings. The decision was made to try again in daylight.

Lionel returned to the jetty just after 7:00am on 19 April, and re-entered the waters of Portsmouth harbor (above). He came back up 20 minutes later complaining of a problem with his re-breathing equipment. Repairs were made, and within a few minutes Lionel went down for the third time.

But this time he did not resurface, at least not until fourteen months later when somebody's body was  pulled from the shallow tidal inlet some seventeen miles further east, up the coast off Pilsey Island (right side yellow dot). But was that really the body of Commander Lionel Crabb, or some other unknown man? We still don’t know for certain, and won’t until at least 2057, when the British government has promised to tell all they know.

Of course they had originally promised to do that in 1987, but then at the last minute they changed their minds. They could do that again.  All the curious can do is hope. As Ian Fleming said about his fiction hero based on the little bantam cock Lionel Crabb (above), You Only Live Twice. 

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CARPE DIEM, CARPE RODENT

 

I begin by asking why is this day different than all other days. That question,  in Jewish families, is the beginning of the Passover Seder. But if you have Celtic markers on your genomes, it is the beginning of Imm'ulk, the second quarter of the year in a pagan calendar. 

The way the ancient Celts marked time, and Imm'ulk was the season the female sheep start to drip milk from their teats. And, no, that is not why a female sheep is called a 'Yew”.

Lactating sheep may seem like a rotten reason to have a holiday, unless you are heavily invested in lamb futures, or, if sheep or goat milk makes up a large part of your children's protein intake. The word Imm'ulk in old Irish means “in the belly”, as in baby lambs, or goat kids. And that brings up the Celtic lady of fertility, Bree-id.  

The people of the pre-Christian British Isles, and particularly the center of the Bree-id cult around Kikdare, Ireland, felt the need to invoke a goddess because every year without fail the sheep milk drip seemed to always begin about halfway between the Winter Solstice (22 December) and the Spring Equinox (21 March).  And a thousand years ago that was a magical and mystical event.  

Today we know its just a little nut of coincidence, the product of the Earth's 365 and ¼ day elliptical orbit around the sun and its 23 degree angle of tilt and a hundred million years of precedent. Change any of those numbers and you get a different coincidence, and different holidays.

On her facebook page - if she had one - Bree-id would have listed her interests as biology, poetry and heavy metal. Believe it or not, that made her a pacifist among the otherwise violent and argumentative Celtic gods, thus her association with fertility and motherhood. When the Romans arrived they recorded her name as Brighid – which seems to be where the English word “bride” comes from - again fertility. 

It was easy for the Irish to convert to Christianity. They just made Brigid a saint.  The Christians faced a harder problem converting the Celts of Scotland, in part because they still had snakes. Their fertility spirit was Cailleach,  a shape shifter, AKA a hag. An ancient Scottish proverb says, “The serpent will come from the hole, On the brown Day of Bride, Though there should be three feet of snow, On the flat surface of the ground.” The Scots would not scan a good poet until Robert Burns in the 18^th century.

The Scots told their children that on the first day of Imm'ulk the hag would go out to gather firewood for the rest of the winter. And since she also controlled the weather, if Caileach made the sun shine that day, it meant she was trying to gather lots of wood, which meant winter was going to last another month and a half or so. But if it was cloudy on the first day of Imm'ulk, then Caileach was planning on an early spring and she would not need extra sunlight for her search. In other words, if the old hag saw her shadow, it would be six more weeks of winter. And if that sounds familiar to you, its because that is the straight line, the set up to a joke retold year after year. Allow me to explain:

The Christians later co-opted the Irish goddess as Saint Brighid, spinning the story that she was the mother of St. Patrick, who drove the snakes out of Ireland. They just made that up of course, and later dropped her as a saint, but then they also made up the part about the snakes and Saint Patrick too. 

But because the Romans recruited both Irish and Scottish Celt's as soldiers and used them on the Rhine River frontier (above), the blended legends of Brigid and Caileach became embedded in Germany. 

And because the descendants of those Roman/Germans  became coal miners, and because the German miners' descendants  later moved to America (above), drawn by jobs in the coal mines of Pennsylvania, where, for some reason, the Germans were called “Dutchmen”, that is how Irish ewes dripping milk from their teats, and an ugly old Scottish woman scrounging for firewood, combined to produce a Pennsylvanian German immigrant festival celebrating the largest rodent in North America – Ground Hog Day.

See, a ground hog is a rodent, but its not a rat. They are much closer to a squirrel in need of weight watchers. And, without the expressive tails. This 4 to 9 pound animal, is actually a marmot. There are marmots living among the rocks and mountains of South Africa, and the Middle East, and central Europe, and along the foothills of the Himalayas. The ones living in North America are actually some of the smallest marmots anywhere, in part because living on flat ground, they are surrounded by foxes, wolves, coyotes, bears and hawks and eagles – all of whom find groundhogs very tasty. On the treeless great plains, they evolved into prairie dogs. And back east, they became groundhogs – grass eaters all. Look at it this way; if God were a rodent, cows would look more like ground hogs.

This plump, furry, generally irritated little beast is known by a number of nom-de-rodents. They sequel when injured and whistle to warn their mates (Ground hogs and Whistle-pigs), and the native Americans called them “wuchak” (woodchucks). They hibernate over winter below the frost line, emerging from their extensive Chateau marmots only in the spring. And since they don't have calendars, they respond to changing temperatures. When their dens warm up, they wake up and go looking for something green to eat. 

Any brief respite in winter like, say, around the end of January or early February, might draw some of the hungrier ground hogs out to look for some take out.  If it is an early spring, they get a jump on their fellows at early mating. If not, if its a normal or late spring, they become fuel, keeping hungry predators alive until real spring finally shows up - thus proving that individuality is an adaptation for the survival of your species, just not necessarily you.

As far back as 1841 a local storekeeper in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania named James Morris had noted in his diary, “Last Tuesday, the 2^nd... The day on which , according to the Germans, the Groundhog peeps out of his winter quarters and if he sees his shadow he pops back for another six weeks nap, but if the day be cloudy he remains out, as weather is to be moderate.” Again, that's the set up. The guy who delivered the punch line was a local funny boy, a bachelor with a quick wit and the good German name of Clymer H. Freas. Clymer had been raised by his older brother, and after graduating from a local collage, he got a job working at the Punxsutawney Spirit, the only newspaper the town of Punxsutawney has ever had.

Sitting halfway between the Allegheny and Susquehanna rivers Punxsutawney had for decades been the local center of the first great American pastime – guns, beer and shooting things. In this case the “things” were ground hogs, and the beer was referred to as “ground hog punch”. And after shooting the whistle pigs, the celebrants then barbecued and ate them. Surprisingly, spending a cold morning killing a large rodent did not catch on with the Pennsylvania womenfolk.  

But after the Buffalo, Rochester and Pittsburgh Railroad began regular service into town in 1883, lots of wealthy men from Pittsburgh began to journey the ninety miles to tramp through the woods around Punxsutawney, blasting away at the large non-aquatic beavers, while getting blasted themselves. The town, evidently, needed the attraction, since in the language of the Delaware Indians, Puixsutawney actually means “Town of mosquitoes”.

Young Clymer evidently did not at first participate in these festivities, because in February of 1886, he first mentioned Ground hog Day in the “Spirit” by merely noting, “up to the time of going to press the beast has not seen his shadow."   However, next year the 22 year old Clymer was invited to his first ground hog soiree at the “hunting lodge” up on Gobbler's Knob, about a mile southeast of town. Clymer had so much fun that two years later he was one of the founding fathers of the Groundhog Club, elected Secretary and poet laureate.

As poet he waxed lyrical about the 1907 GHD; “Promptly at 12:22 O'Clock...a rift was riven in the overhanging clouds and B're Groundhog sallied forth, casting a shadow which shot through a shimmering sheen and sent a shaft of effervescent and effulgent rays...”. Clymer went into more depth describing the speeches given later at the barbecue as “eulogizing the flesh of the only Simon-pure vegetarian on this planet, and each, under the subtle influence of partaken woodchuck and assimilated punch, grew eloquent and combed the earth sea and sky with metaphor and simile, couched in the most beautiful phraseology.” That particular celebration continued past one in the morning. Not a bad punchline.

However the ladies and children must have complained, because in 1909, they held what Clymer described as a “Circumgyratory Pageant of the Astrologers, Horocopists, Magicians, Soothsayers and meteorological Attaches”, also known as a parade. It had floats representing the four seasons and because you would have be drunk to stand outside in the dead of winter, they held it in August, and called it “Old Home Week”. But because there was a lot less drinking, and no groundhogs to justify the thing, the parade never caught on and was soon dropped.

By now Clymer was editor of the paper, and the groundhog day celebrations and his joke had begun filling hotel rooms and restaurants. It was now a serious matter, and as editor Clymer was expected to be a civic booster. It was around now that the groundhog became the town's official symbol, and Clymer named him “Punxsutawney Phil,  Seer of Seers,  Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinaire.” They stopped shooting the rodents (officially), and concentrated on the ridicules legend. But they would have to continue without their poet. In the teens, Bachelor Clymer married Miss Moss Rose Wall. And after that, as a man with responsibilities, he decided to put his skills for hyperbole to a job with more financial remuneration than that offered to a newspaperman and poet laureate. He abandoned Puxsutawney and its mid-winter freezing rodent festival, and moved to balmy Florida where he switched to selling swampland around Tampa. He died there in 1942.

But his work was done. The punch line for the joke had been written down, the dirty words removed, the telling civilized so as to render the joke acceptable to women and children. It didn't happen overnight, of course. In 1920, the first year of prohibition, Phil supposedly threatened not to offer another prediction for 60 weeks, unless he was given a drink. He was not, but he went right on predicting. A mere 37% accuracy rate (not much better than sheer chance) has so far failed to kill the joke, but it  now barely elicits a chuckle, but that will not kill it either. Besides, how much chuckle would a woodchuck chuckle, if a woodchuck could chuckle a chuck? That doesn't seem to matter, either.

The little town never had more than 10,000 residents, and after the mines closed, today it has barely 6,000. Still it is held together by this rodent. In the gift shop down at 102 West Mahoning Street, they sell “Gobbler's Knob Hot Chocolate Mix”, which you can drink from your “Amazink Shadow Mug”, featuring a “Punxsy Phil” and his shadow, which disappears when hot water fills the mug You can also buy Punxsy Phil Mardi Gras beads, and "Punxsutawney Phil in a Can." (above). Pull the pop top and a little plush Phil pops out, holding one of two signs predicting 6 more weeks of winter or not. You can even buy a bag of Ground Hog Poop - actually its malted milk balls, but the kids love it.

You can head south on Highway 36, turn right on Woodlawn Avenue for about a mile to the crest of the hill, to Gobblers Knob. 

If you go there any day of the year other than Groundhog day you will likely find it abandoned, a empty stage set. 

The star resides year round downtown, in Barlay Square, at the memorial library, in his newly labeled Phil's Burrow, complete with below ground level window viewing. For the humans. The rodent of unusual size finds humans rather unentertaining.  

Human beings travel thousands of miles just  to see a marmot sleep -that is the real joke. And that is funny. Everybody should laugh at themselves, even PETA. And everybody should do it at least once in your life, like going to Mecca or Jerusalem, or to see the World's Largest Ball of Sting.

Do Ground hogs laugh, I wonder?  I doubt it. Otherwise, they would be getting a much larger share of this largess, than they are.  Just remember. They are cute. But they bite. They always bite. And they have never been noted for their intelligence.  Which is sort of the point of Groundhog Day, since neither have humans.

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