Masters of defence

New York

Sometimes I wonder about Americans in general and Noo Yawkers in particular. Especially while watching war films. In Saving Private Ryan, GIs seem as cool under fire as the Wehrmacht troops look cowardly and ready to throw their hands up. In reality, of course, the Germans fought gallantly against overwhelming odds in men and materials. Some SS units kept counter-attacking when at only 10 per cent of their original strength. Total air superiority did the trick for the good guys. And von Rundstedt’s genius did not help. More than one million German front-line troops died on the Western front because old Gerd knew how to run rings around the Allies while retreating. He, Model and Kesselring were masters of defence.

As irony would have it, I was watching that particular war film when a New York Yankee baseball player and his flying instructor flew their small plane into a building on 72nd Street. Both men died but miraculously no one else was killed. I live on 71st Street and heard the crash. In no time the smoke was everywhere and one could see the flames licking the side of the high rise. What was ridiculous was the reaction of the crowd. You’d think the world was coming to an end. ‘It’s 9/11 again,’ was the mantra. ‘We’re being attacked, oh my God…’

Two minutes before I had been watching these cool dudes running up and sticking socks full of dynamite against dumb Panzers, and then I go out into the street and full-grown men are whining and crying and acting like girls. I know it’s just a Hollywood movie, but still. Two nights later, at 2.30 a.m., another crisis. On 70th Street this time, 20 or so yards from me as the crow flies.