Darby Book Research

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Spent five weeks following Darby’s Rangers across the Mediterranean. Spoke to some old Italians about their parents and their memories, walked on their properties while analyzing the battles. Walked on trails that kicked my ass… Really great stuff and there are many people I have to thank and that will come later. The more I research, the more I learn, the more I hate wars… it’s a shit thing for most people although there are a few who love it… couple of pics from the beaches we hit….

Big Hooah to Roy Murray Jr and the Staff at US Army War College

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Just got back from a research trip and I cannot express enough thanks and gratitude for the exceptional people handling all my requests. You guys are awesome.

Huge HOOAH to Roy Murray Jr for sharing his hundreds upon hundreds of pages of material, maps, photos and some unforgettable stories about the 1st and 4th Ranger Battalions and his father legendary Ranger Roy Murray… great stuff - thanks for the dinner as well.

Two Dogs - a Short Story

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TWO DOGS

Barry Dikih sat in his black FJ Cruiser surveying the scene before him. Cops, forensic teams and a horde of press from legit old-school newspapers to the latest bloggers were jostling for position like maggots on a rotting corpse. The motel they surrounded had lost its former sheen, the paint long succumbing to the attacks of the sea and the ever-present sun. A place where society dumped its refuse, too selfish to deal with human misery unless it personally affected them. The Surfside Motel at San Diego’s Imperial Beach once promised California’s golden dream but turned into the nightmare that was the life of many. It was slated for demolition to be replaced by a new, beautiful, very expensive high-rise hotel. California Dreamin’ and all that.

Dikih looked into his rear-view mirror. Clean-shaven, a grey head of hair, premature for a man in his early-forties. Crow’s feet clung mercilessly to his pale-blue eyes, ready to devour what was left of his once care-free youth. His two big dogs, one white, the other black, sat motionless in the back, the AC humming. He straightened his tie, adjusted the silver tie clip in the shape of the armored angel Saint Michael, the protector of army paratroopers, and got out. He had left the military after his enlistment ended. He never spoke about war.

He put on his sport jacket, an earthy brown a few shades lighter than his slacks, feet clad in steel-toed combat half-boots in an even darker brown. His muted green shirt was offset by the tie, a grey with silver-blue diagonal stripes that matched his hair and eyes. He looked like a cop.

He was two weeks from retirement but was here officially as a courtesy to the new homicide detective replacing him, yet to arrive on scene. But he wanted to see this crime scene before moving with his dogs into the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, into his blockhouse near a stream, hidden within majestic ancient forests. Today was his last official duty day, the rest of the paperwork had already been handled, guns and other police property returned. He’d leave for good after this.

He made his way through the throng of people, nodding at a uniformed cop as he lifted the crime scene tape and marched towards the motel room. Homicide detective Barry Dikih was handed disposable shoe protectors before entering the room.

#

The stench of death hit him as he entered the room. It drifted slowly out the door dissipating into the already hot morning air. The odor was only physical. There was a far greater stink surrounding this. Dikih wasn’t ready to look at the dead body just yet. He’d save that for last.

From the doorway he could see into the bathroom. It was a bio-hazard. In front of the toilet were the tell-tale signs of a man missing the toilet more often than not, streaks of yellow piss mixed with feces brown that, like tentacles of an octopus, oozed from the bottom indicating a wax ring well past its prime. The body, mercifully, wasn’t in there.

He looked around the room, taking in the most minute of details. The room had been painted a vomit green, the laminated furniture chipped, never pretending to be anything other than what it was – cheap shit. The curtains were equally worn, their former bright sun-shine yellow barely perceptible in the dusty bone color they had become. The carpet was threadbare, a dirty dark grey where once it had been a shade of light tan.

A full-sized bed, two pillows drenched in the tell-tale signs of sweat leaned against the greenish wall awash in human grease from years of dirty hair pressed up against it. The wool blanket was a worn military one like he had in Basic Training, a sort of green-brown, carelessly strewn atop the unwashed bedsheet.

A small table, covered in stains, held an overflowing ash tray. A tech had opened the small fridge dual-serving as a night stand, a lamp without a shade on top, the bare bulb casting a harsh glare. The fridge was empty but for moldy food containers.

He heard the slow-moving ceiling fan, its gears fighting for life, the dust within determined to strangle the oiled machine to death. He looked up, its blades slowly rotating, barely disturbing the fetid air, yet slowly but surely spreading death into every corner and out the door. Dikih was mesmerized by the blades as they spun and spun and spun…

#

…The blades of the “shithook’ churned, powering a Chinook medium-sized helicopter through the heights of the snow-tipped mountains of Afghanistan. Dikih, his hair dark, his body lean in the prime of youth, exfilled the bird with his Ranger squad, moving away and ‘laying dog’ – waiting for normal sounds to return, listening for enemy troops who may have been alerted to the landing zone… The helicopter still burned visibly on a nearby mountainside, shot down after having inserted a six-man recon team, now missing. The helo’s flight crew dead, bodies already recovered by another Ranger squad. This rescue effort, at least, had a stack of death circling overhead, watching over them, ready to drop massive amounts of ordnance onto specific areas when needed. This was a rescue mission after all. A C-130 Spectre gunship, F-15 fighter planes, Warthog close-support aircraft – everything needed to level city blocks or hammer every square inch of the mountainside.

They finally moved out. Last they heard the missing SEALs had been engaged in combat, fighting for their lives. Lives filled with unchecked violence, even murder - it had finally caught up to them when they got ambushed.

They searched for days – one missing sailor had been found alive by another squad – but the others were still out there. Dikih’s squad was resupplied from the air, their effort now into weeks instead of hours, stinking like death itself, starving, sweating, shitting… searching. They finally found a ton of brass, enemy brass of the dozen or so men who had ambushed the Americans. There was very little NATO brass. It had been a one-sided fight. What Dikih found that day up a remote mountainside in Afghanistan had changed his life.

They located the dead men, their bodies spread across the harsh terrain. It was already brutal, but when Dikih saw the long angry white scar on the face of one of the dead… For a brief moment everything within shattered.  But on the desolate mountainside Saint Michael, accompanied by two dogs, one black, the other white, appeared to him. The angel spoke without speaking, sending a message. It soothed his soul. It gave him purpose.

#

Barry Dikih opened his eyes, the sounds of helicopter blades receding from memory. He was ready to look at the rapidly bloating corpse that had caused such pain. He already knew who it was. Everyone did. To him the man deserved to have died in a seedy room like this, though he knew better than to say so out loud. Dikih wanted to tell people the truth about this bloated corpse covered in shit and piss but no one would believe him. It stank – he stank – just like the dead man’s story.

The body was naked below the waist, urine and feces spread around the groin. A gun oil bottle had been knocked over, creating a small dark puddle on the worn carpet. Dikih drew a straight line from the toppled bottle to the body’s right hand, to the erect penis, both showing oily residue. The corpse was on the ground, legs extended, his torso upright. Dikih took in the nasty grey tank top, his eyes moving upward to where the chin rested on the chest. The body was soft and fat, obliterated by tattoos. The hair, grey. The corpse sat offensively on the ground in front of the closet, filled with second-hand military and civilian crap. The homicide detective easily identified the olive-drab 550 parachute cord, a thin nylon kernmantel rope with seven interwoven strands used for parachutes and a million other things. It was taut around the neck leading at an angle to the bent wooden dowel, holding several empty thin metal hangers, straining under the body’s weight. He knew 550 paracord needed 550 pounds force to rip. Someone would have to cut the rope to free the body.

Dikih walked around the room catching every angle of the deceased, burning the images into his mind. Techs gave him the space to do his thing though all knew he wasn’t going to be part of the investigation.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Dikih’s replacement as he entered the stench-filled room that was the culmination of the dead man’s life. He held his nose shut, hiding his retro ‘70s porn stache, and breathed through his mouth. Detective Bernie Nisbet went to the body and carefully lifted the head. “Holy shit. It’s him, ain’t it.”

Dikih nodded his head.

“Auto-erotic asphyxiation,” Nisbet grumbled, “maybe PTSD related, wouldn’t you think.” Nisbet never asked his questions, instead questions were declarative. He lowered the head and removed his latex gloves. He went outside. The odor overpowering his senses.

Dikih could smell cigarette smoke drifting into the room. After Afghanistan the stench of death never got to him. Instead it reminded him of his oath to his country and comrades, but mostly the promise to his angel. Once he had been hopeful and kind. But decades of realizing how truly shitty life was had embittered him. His cottage, his dogs, the streams, the trees… at heart he was a plant-eater living in a meat-eater’s world, a pacifist, though he had no problems killing people. It should be ironic that he had become a homicide dick but of course it wasn’t.

“Can you imagine,” Nisbet announced his return to the room. “Surviving that shit over there. Fighting until the bitter end as your buddies get killed. That’s some sad shit. From hero to zero. Never got a chance to thank him for his service.” Nisbet looked at the deceased again, trying to get accustomed to the odor.

Dikih observed the mint-scented petroleum jelly Nisbet had placed underneath his nose in a futile attempt to tackle the reek of decay. The stench was the Grim Reaper’s message.

He felt Nisbet punch him in the arm, looking at his tie-holder.

“You a combat vet – you’re all fucking heroes, you know. Bet you never thought this hero would end up like this. In a shit hole, masturbating to death. I mean, brother, this dude had money and women. I mean frog-hogs were attracted to him like flies on shit. He probably banged hundreds. Wow. Now look at him. What a waste.” Nisbet scratched his moustache. “What did he do with all his money. He must have made millions from his book and all those corporate speaking gigs.”

Dikih motioned his head to the door. The two dicks walked outside.

#

They stayed well within the police perimeter. Just outside of it they observed the department’s public affairs people answer questions from the growing throng of reporters, nearing half a century in number. Civilian helicopters circled above, drawn to the scene like sharks to their prey. News had spread like a wildfire. California had a lot of them, sharks and fires… and murders.

The crowd had grown in numbers too. Naval personnel from Coronado arrived in clumps. Civilians outnumbered them, many bringing flowers and stuffed seal plushies they placed at the nearest telephone pole. Some cried. Some live-streamed on their phones.

Society needed heroes to justify terrible wars. Younger generations, canon-fodder, needed to worship heroes. And they had found one willing to be worshipped – perhaps he was a victim too, forced by the pressures of a war-mongering society and politicians to become the cartoon they desired, they wanted, they created, like Frankenstein had created the monster. Perhaps the man had already paid the price for his actions that day, from “hero to zero.” Maybe he had been punished by his inner demons. Everything was smoke and mirrors. If only they knew the truth about their hero, about war. The only Navy SEAL survivor of the highly publicized disaster that killed his teammates. The survivor became an instant celebrity, a living legend making fistfuls of dollars, seen and heard on every network, read in every paper and blog. He was a genuine Grade A American Hero – God bless America. The fish grew bigger with each telling, and the media ate it up. But Dikih knew it was all a lie. It had taken years to discover the truth, aided by his law enforcement and forensic training, but mostly thanks to unofficial access to military after action reports and Predator drone video footage – things that were kept from the public, intentionally.

“I doubt they’ll say he died masturbating,” said Nisbet. “Shit always comes out though, right. I’ll wait to hear from the coroner but obvious enough it was accidental suicide.”

Dikih nodded in agreement.

“I’ll never get used to the smell.” Nisbet lit up a smoke and blew circles into the air reminding Dikih of the helicopter burning against the mountainside. People make mistakes. Shit happens in war. Best laid plans and all that.

Dikih wasn’t a killerman but the killerman’s son. He had done what had been asked of him. He had killed people – not many but enough to sour him and make him retreat from mankind. He had embraced war but didn’t worship at its altar like society did. He did not feed the bad dog within. He had been shaped by war, forged on the anvil of death and destruction. Wars created by old men sent young ones to their deaths, physically and spiritually. Vets were blind to the harsh realities of the deceit. Shit sucked.

He would have let it go were it not for T-man… the long angry white scar on his face. Dikih had observed the dead man’s pattern of life for years since arriving in southern California. The dead man was the sole reason Barry Dikih became a cop. The restrictions and life of a soldier would have been an obstacle unlike the freedom and power a police officer enjoyed. The detective had taken his time over the years. He was not a man who rushed into anything. Proper planning prevented piss poor performance and he had stuck to this mantra his entire life. He spent years on this defining moment in his own life all the while dealing with the wretched scum that was man, solving homicides. Keep your shit together. It’s almost over.

Dikih had been a good cop, an even better homicide detective, but he would miss nothing once he got into his Cruiser. He was looking forward to his dogs, driving for a few days up the coast… He felt good, no, he felt a weight lifting off his soul.

Dikih watched Nisbet flick his cigarette away and step back into the motel room. He leaned back out and yelled “Great talking with you.” He laughed at his own joke. “Have a good retirement, Bernie. Take care.” It was accompanied by a middle-finger, and with that his replacement disappeared into the stench of humanity hidden from the public eye within the confines of the room.

Retired homicide detective Barry Dikih looked at the sky, a few cotton-ball clouds shielding him from the rays of the sun. It had been a winter of discontent made glorious summer by the corpse in the motel. Southern California would always be in his heart – the place where he finally got justice for T-man. He rubbed his Saint Michael tie-clip and prayed silently.

He got into his Cruiser, looked back at his two big dogs, one black, the other white, that only he ever saw...

Dikih reached into his jacket’s pocket, fingered the wooden dowels on the ends of the 550 paracord he had used. For T-man, for his brother who got that scar across his face protecting Dikih from their abusive father, taken to a different foster home when they were still kids, lost to him until Dikih found him again in Afghanistan… dead on the mountain – riddled with NATO bullets in his back from the coward survivor who had fired wildly as he ran to save his own life.

He had fed his bad dog like Saint Michael had told him and he felt…

…angelic.

The End

Canadian Snipers at War in Afghanistan - podcast

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Snipers WO Cullen, SGT Nisbet et al wrote a book on what it takes to be a sniper intermixed with stories of real-world missions in Afghanistan. The book is with agent Alec Shane.

In the meanwhile Cullen and Nisbet are on a Canadian veterans podcast - you can find it here:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1rfeWdov9kkPWut0puUTY0

https://formerfrontline.buzzsprout.com/1888239/14519148

Campaign 400: The Second Punic War in Iberia 219–206 BC.

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Campaign 400: The Second Punic War in Iberia 219–206 BC. (https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-second-punic-war-in-iberia-219-206-bc-from-hannibal-at-saguntum-to-the-battle-of-ilipa-mir-bahmanyar/19994256?ean=9781472859754)

Yes, I am one of those people who has always been fascinated by Hannibal. Back in the day when I was very young the shopping center across from our home in Hamburg, Germany had an old game in one of the retail stores. It wasn’t so much a game in the traditional sense but more a of question and answer one, a test your knowledge kind of a thing. The question that has remained with me to this day was:  How many elephants did Hannibal have when he crossed the Alps?

Since then life has kept me busy but the fascination for the Punic Wars remained throughout eventually leading to a 200 plus book collection as well as hundreds if not thousands of scholarly articles. I have travelled to Italy, including Sicily, and Spain to which I will return this year for some additional trips to Phoenician/Carthaginian sites.

Campaign 400 The Second Punic War in Iberia 219–206 BC came out of several failed book proposals. Seemingly, the market did not want yet another book on Hannibal – what’s wrong with editors? Fortunately, I pitched my long time editor Nikolai Bogdanovic, who also had commissioned Campaign 299 on the battle of Zama, a smaller aspect of the incredible Punic Wars and he accepted the proposal. Spain it was and I was delighted.

The exciting thing for me was to trace the first Carthaginian encroachment before the Second Punic War in Spain. Phoenicians had been there of course, as had Carthaginians and many others. I was also excited about the non-Hannibal actors in the theater such as Hamilcar, the Hasdrubals, Mago and Numidian leaders who proved crucial for and against Carthage throughout the campaigns. And then, of course, there was Hannibal as a young commander having learned the art of war and winning his first battles in Iberia. Examining sieges, focusing on Saguntum mostly, it is easy to understand the challenges Hannibal would have had to have faced had he laid siege to Rome after his mass-slaughter victory over the Romans at Cannae years later in mainland Italy. The Second Punic War in Iberia 219–206 BC spends considerable time in the early years of the re-conquest of the peninsula by Carthage. It traces its slow but methodical expansion along the south-eastern seaboard and the founding of several bases including that of New Carthage. It details the competition with Greek colonies and alliances that led to Roman interference and eventual war.

Spain with its diverse cultures and tribes and with its varying environments from coasts to plains to  mountain ranges are fully featured in the Iberian campaigns. Who can forget Scipio’s audacious attack on New Carthage? Or Hannibal’s march through Spain to lay siege to several native cities east of modern Madrid or the battle he fought outnumbered four to one while returning to his base at New Carthage? The other fascinating events were the ever-shifting alliances for and against the Carthaginian and Roman invaders resulting in the assassinations of Hamilcar and Hasdrubal the Fair, and the abandonment, at times, of Roman forces leading to disastrous results. Two Scipios died in Spain. For Hannibal, Spain was the proving ground as a highly-skilled commander but the fight for the peninsula was by and large waged by his brothers Hasdrubal and Mago. 

The campaign in Spain was crucial to the overall conduct of the second of the Punic Wars, and Carthage, often accused of not supporting the war effort, did spend fortunes on reinforcements despite its naval inferiority to the Romans. Ultimately, Spain was conquered by the Romans, the logistical support for Hannibal in Italy was cut off, Numidian alliances shifted favoring Rome, finally leading to Carthage’s defeat in the Second Punic War. Often the Numidian and Iberian warriors are left with a poor image by many scholars. In this book I hope to demonstrate their value and contributions to the overall campaigns.

My last book featured the wonderful artwork of the great Peter Dennis who recently retired. I have seen the work of the Italian artist Marco Capparoni for the new book and I am rather pleased. Hopefully,  you too will enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed writing it – well, I actually had a blast. 

The Second Punic War in Iberia 219–206 BC is an excellent primer for anyone interested in general military history in this theater of war. Its release date is 23 April, 2024.

Shameful Behaviour by David Williams of The Descendants of WWII Rangers, Inc. UPDATED

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A long time ago this was the WWII Ranger Battalions Association, then it became the Sons & Daughters to todays version.

David Williams, the president, decided not to share Ranger research I requested last year as he sees this request a threat, a competitor to his work. Additionally, 2.5 months later, the “board” rejected my general membership application to join their FB [I stand corrected not FB but to join their members only section of the website - see below] page because “that would open the door to others.” But hey what’s this from their website?

If you are requesting General Membership:
A General Member (previously called Honorary Member) is defined in the By-Laws as being someone who is not related to a WWII Ranger as a spouse, son, daughter, niece, nephew or any descendant of these categories. If you are a General Member (meaning not Ranger family), when you send in your annual dues, please list on the back of this form, or on an additional sheet which follows for those joining on-line, your intended contributions ( non-monetary) to the Descendants of WWII Rangers, Inc., and explain how you might further the above purposes of the Descendants of WWII Rangers organization.

Okay - Gollum has his “precious” and David has his although it is extremely unprincipled to exclude a former member of the association, a fund raiser, and an associate historian of it. Very un-author like and certainly not in the spirit of the Ranger Brotherhood to aid, assist and preserve all things Ranger…

He signs off his emails with “honoring my uncle” - a former Darby Ranger officer. I am certain his uncle would not approve - David’s behaviour is disrespectful and dishonourable.

It is also a shame that previously I was looking for a home with them for all the Ranger research I have but now I’ll look elsewhere.

This is not unexpected because Darby Ranger Jim Altieri (former president of RBA) and Combat Camera Phil Stern had told me they did not like the people that replaced them. Oh well - if only they knew.

I am not the only one who has complaints about David (other descendants and researchers do as well) but hey, life goes on - Rangers lead the way or they stagger onwards…

From David with my responses as a matter of fairness and truth:

Mr. Bahmanyar:    To say that I was stunned when I learned of your slanderous remarks on your website about me, also implicating the Descendants of World War II Rangers, Inc., is an understatement:  www.mirbahmanyarya.com.  You have damaged my reputation as well as that of our organization, and I hope you will take down the Blog immediately.  Here are the facts.   

1.      You contacted me asking for my files on WW II Rangers, saying you needed them to complete a book that you have under contract to be published in 2025.  I responded by saying that I have written a book on the same subject and am not willing to turn over the files that I have collected over a 25 year period.  It is a matter of academic integrity that I keep these files at least until my book is published.  When and if it is in the public domain it can be shared.  As an author and researcher I would expect that you understand that. What a mean, damaging comment for you to call my behavior “shameful” - and  to do it in public.

[I did not ask for files that I needed to complete my book. This is what I sent: Hello David

I am writing a book on Darby’s Rangers to be published in 2025. Unfortunately, I do not have a lot of time to deliver the manuscript - end of summer latest.

Phil Stern and Jim Altieri were friends. Not sure if you had asked me about Stern’s photographs a long time ago?

Anyway, I am looking for any help I can get to craft a good book historically but importantly a personality driven one. The idea is to tell the story through the eyes of some 12-24 Rangers. Although I have a list I’d like to also write about men who were killed early on or Rangers who joined later. So personal details matter. I’ll also cover the First Special Service Force. 

I do have thousands of pages of material including most of Bob Black’s archives, the sealed court judgment on Shunstrom, 100+ Stern photos and so forth. I have been to Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland a couple of times and will revisit Sicily and Italy next year.  

I am an author and researcher and understand sharing material since it belongs to all (to be fair this holding onto material is something new to me) – it has always been about preserving and sharing Ranger history. Accumulating material as a member of an association that is supposed to preserve history and then not willing to share anything – not everything - because it might help a “competitor” is shameful or maybe just selfish. Additionally, David’s book is with a publisher so he is well ahead of me – so what’s the problem? Many others have supported this effort as it is intended to preserve some Ranger history for future generations. I have shared research, stories etc with numerous writers, researchers, associations, and a museum as well as Darby Rangers and it has always been supportive and for the greater good.]

2.      You sent $50.00 to the Descendants to join the organization,  hoping to gain access to the Descendants’ Members’ Only site where we keep Morning Reports and Records. In this case Members Only means voting members, which are defined in our Constitution as lineal descendants of WW II Rangers.  Perhaps our message on the web was unclear to you. Nevertheless, I sensed ill feelings on your part and therefore, to step aside, I took the matter to our nine member Board of Directors who voted that access to the Members Only site is for Voting Members only.  You then said that if you could not have access to the Members Only site, you wanted your $50 back, and it was returned to you. 

[Actually the intent was primarily to reach out to members to see if anyone had anything they’d be willing to share – I do have all of the Morning Reports and Rosters generously shared by Bob Black, Jim Altieri, the Donovan Technical Library, Carlisle Barracks etc. I never asked for the fee to be returned – I asked about the status of the membership application after 2 months. Instead of refunding the credit card I was sent a check.

Also note – you should probably remove this from your website: A General Member (previously called Honorary Member) is defined in the By-Laws as being someone who is not related to a WWII Ranger as a spouse, son, daughter, niece, nephew or any descendant of these categories. If you are a General Member (meaning not Ranger family), when you send in your annual dues, please list on the back of this form, or on an additional sheet which follows for those joining on-line, your intended contributions ( non-monetary) to the Descendants of WWII Rangers, Inc., and explain how you might further the above purposes of the Descendants of WWII Rangers organization.]

 

3.      Finally, you mention a Facebook page.  That group, which is named the World War II Rangers and Descendants, is independent of the Descendants of World War II Rangers, the formal group which is a non-profit foundation which I currently chair.  The Descendants has nothing to do with management or over-sight of the Facebook page.  The Descendants, the formal group which you slandered, has no involvement with the Facebook group except that a number of us belong as members. If you were turned down on Facebook, I had nothing to do with it and did not even know about it.  

[This is a legitimate point – I did not know this. I stand corrected. UPDATE - actually I was correct as originally both worked together.]

Against my better judgment, I answered your three slanderous complaints.  As a matter of fairness and truth, you should take down the post.  You do not know me! 

Punic War in Iberia off to the printer

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Two editors later and some last minute fixes the book is off to the printers and ready to be sold as of April 25, 2024. Below is an early composition used for the cover. I think this is the only book that covers the Carthaginian presence in Iberia after the First Punic War in a single volume. Lots of information is in it.