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The Only Truth... | Part One

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7531

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January 8, 1945

A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.

You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.

Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.

You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”

Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.

“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.

“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.

“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.

“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.

“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.

“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.

“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.

The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.

At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.

You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.

“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.

The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.

You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,

“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”

“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”

The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.

“Go.”

And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.

A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”

Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.

“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.

A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.

“Go, schwester.”

You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”

The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.

What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.

“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”

Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.

It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.

“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.

Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.

“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.

“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.

“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.

“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”

He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.

“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.

He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.

“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.

“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.

“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.

“You’d have done the same.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.

“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.

After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”

The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.

As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.

There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.

“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”

Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.

“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”

Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.

“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”

Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”

Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.

Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.

“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.

“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.

“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”

Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”

The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.

Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.

“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.

You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.

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April 11, 1945

Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.

As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.

It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.

“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.

“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.

By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.

It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.

“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.

As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.

“Get him to the hospital immediately.”

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.

“Put him right there please.”

Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.

The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.

“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.

“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.

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Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.

“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.

“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.

“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.

Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.

“What do we have here, Nurse?”

You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.

Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.

It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.

“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”

“No, sir.” You shook your head.

“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.

As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.

Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.

Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.

“At ease, Nurse.”

He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.

“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”

“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.

“Where have they put you?”

“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”

“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.

Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.

You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.

“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.

He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.

It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.

His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.

You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”

He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.

“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.

“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”

He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.

“I’m here to help with that, Major.”

“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”

You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”

He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”

You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.

“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.

It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.

He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.

“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.

This one might make it.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747

#john egan x reader #major john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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gunsandspaceships · 1 month ago

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MCU Timeline: Captain America: The First Avenger

March 10, 1917 - James Buchanan Barnes is born.

August 15, 1917 - Howard Anthony Stark is born.

July 4, 1918 - Steven Grant Rogers is born.

April 9, 1919 - Margaret "Peggy" Carter is born.

Why 1919 (deleted scene from The Avengers) and not 1921 (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), as stated in Wikipedia: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is not canon for the MCU (events of the show take place in another universe, where Peggy was born in a different year and had a different background).

1934-1936 - young Peggy serves as a nurse in the British Air Force.

1936-1940 - Peggy serves in the Special Air Service.

1940:

Peggy joins the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

Howard founds Stark Industries and becomes its CEO.

May 1941 - Steven Rogers attends a Dodgers vs The Phillies baseball game at Ebbets Field, Brooklyn.

March 1942 - Red Skull invades Norway and extracts the Tesseract.

1942/1943 - The Allies receive a gift from Wakanda: Vibranium. It is given to the SSR's Head Engineer - Howard Stark.

1943:

June 14:

13:50 - Steve gets his last 4F.

And his last beating in the alley a couple of hours later.

Evening - he and Bucky go to the "World Exposition of Tomorrow", where Howard demonstrates his (almost) flying car. Steve meets Dr. Erskine and gets a (falsified) 1A.

June 15:

Sergeant James Barnes heads to Europe with the 107th Infantry Regiment.

Candidate Rogers begins his trial week for Project Rebirth at Camp Lehigh in NJ.

June 21 - Dr. Erskine makes his choice and informs Rogers. They talk about it, about the serum and HYDRA.

June 22, morning - Steve becomes a super soldier. Erskine is killed. The last vial of serum is destroyed.

June 23:

Rogers is offered a position in the USO theater (to help sell war bonds) and receives a (fake) rank of captain.

Night - SSR (including Peggy and Howard) is being retasked to fight HYDRA and goes to London, UK.

July-October - Captain America's US tour (over 200 performances).

November 3rd:

Captain America show in Italy.

Night - Steve goes behind the lines to a HYDRA camp in Austria to rescue Bucky with the help of Peggy and Howard.

November 5th - he returns with 400 (CATFA) or 163 (CATWS) liberated soldiers.

A couple of days later - SSR in London. Based on the locations of HYDRA bases remembered by Rogers, they develop a plan to combat HYDRA. Steve puts together a team.

Marvel Studios' mistake: the medals and badges Steve wears don't make any sense at this particular moment. He simply had neither the time nor the opportunity to earn the Combat Infantry Badge, or the Presidential Unit Citation Badge, nor could he receive the American Defense Service Medal.

Next day, 8 am- Steve meets with Howard and receives his vibranium shield.

1944:

November 1943 - November 1944 - Howling Commandos destroy HYDRA weapons factories.

December 1944 - January 1945 - attack on the train with Dr. Zola. Bucky falls from the train from a great height and is declared killed in action. Zola is captured.

1945:

Soon after, early January - the Valkyrie is finished and ready to attack major US cities. SSR receives information about the location of HYDRA's main base in the Alps and heads there.

Next day - SSR attacks HYDRA's main base. Red Skull teleports to Vormir. The Tesseract is lost in the Arctic Ocean. Crash of the Valkyrie. Steve goes into suspended animation.

After January 1945 - Howard Stark leads expeditions to find Rogers. He finds the Tesseract, but not Captain.

March 23, 1945 - Case №17 is opened. James Barnes "joined" the HYDRA branch in the USSR.

May 8, 1945 - VE-Day.

Spring-Summer 1945 - Howard is involved in the Manhattan Project.

1946:

December 1945/January 1946 - Peggy is assigned to the SSR office in New York.

March 1946 - events of "Agent Carter" one-shot.

2012:

Early 2012 - 67 years later, Steve Rogers is found frozen but alive.

April 2012 - Rogers wakes up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. recovery room in New York City.

Iron Man (2008) Timeline

The Incredible Hulk (2008) Timeline

Iron Man 2 (2010) Timeline

Thor (2011) Timeline

The Avengers (2012) Timeline

#marvel #mcu #steve rogers #captain america #bucky barnes #james barnes #mcu timeline #captain america the first avenger #captain america the winter soldier #agent carter #peggy carter #howard stark

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workingclasshistory · 1 year ago

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On this day, 28 July 1932, the US government sent in the army to attack World War I veterans and their families with tanks, fixed bayonets, teargas and sabres, killing three, when vets marched demanding the wartime bonuses they were promised. The bonus payments were due to be paid in 1945 but when the great depression hit, leaving many veterans destitute, they decided to demand earlier payments. Up to 25,000 vets, Black and white, formed a "Bonus Army" and set up camp in Washington DC. Major Patton, whose life had been saved by one of the protesters, advised his troops to stab protesters with bayonets, and kill a large number of veterans as "an object lesson". General MacArthur and Dwight Eisenhower were the other officers in charge of the operation which killed two veterans and an 11-week-old baby, partially blinded an 8-year-old boy, and injured a thousand others. Read this and hundreds of other stories in our book, Working Class History: Everyday Acts of Resistance & Rebellion, available here with global shipping: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/products/working-class-history-everyday-acts-resistance-rebellion-book https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=668683575304861&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

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shelyue99 · 12 days ago

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Lewis Nixon's Eulogy by Dick Winters

From the USAHEC archive (emphasis are mine):

I first met Lewis Nixon at Officer Candidate School, Fort Benning, Georgia, in April, 1942.

We both volunteered for the parachute troops in August, 1942 and we were both assigned to Co. E, 2nd Bn., 506th Parachute Infantry at Camp Toombs, Toccoa, Georgia.

We were together for the rest of World War II.

I have many memories of Lewis in combat.

1) 0n D-day I was involved in a fight to take over a battery of 105mm. cannon, firing on Utah Beach. During the battle Lewis went down Causeway #2 to the beachhead and brought back the first two tanks to come ashore at Utah Beach. He brought them to me to help finish off the battle.

From that point on, it seemed that every time I was committed to a fight, I found Nixon walking beside me.

2) In Holland, on September 17th, 1944, Operation Market Garden, right after the jump, Lewis was by my side as we approached the bridge at Son. The Germans blew the bridge and rocks and pieces of timber fell all around us.

3) 0n September 22, 191m, Company E was sent out as an advance party to secure Uden, a small town along Hell’s Highway.

I had only 80 men. We were cut off and surrounded. Nixon was with me.

Together, we went up a church tower for better observation of the battle. As we huddled behind the parapet, under the big church bell, a German evidently spotted us and sent a bullet to ring the bell over our heads. We literally jumped down the stairs in about two strides.

4) 0n September 25, 1944, the Germans cut Hell’s Highway again, this time south of Veghel. Nixon was again beside me as we crossed a big field to relieve the roadblock. In the middle of the field we came under machine gun fire from German Royal Tiger tanks and troops from the 6th German Parachute Regt.

As we hit the dirt, Nixon had a bullet hit the front of his helmet at such an angle that it just grazed his forehead, never breaking the skin, leaving only a brown mark on his forehead, before exiting through the side of his helmet.

l happened to look his way as he took off his helmet, looked at it and smiled. He refused to keep that helmet as a souvenir.

5) 0n October 5, 1944, in Holland, after a particularly hard fight, again, it was Nixon checking up on me to see how I was doing. It was Nixon who gave me his canteen when I asked for a drink of water - yes, the canteen was full of water - not Vat 69!

6) At Bastogne he had his name drawn out of the hat in a lottery that would have given him a 30 day leave in the States.

He refused the offer, saying he wanted to stay with the outfit on the line. How do you explain that kind of dedication? That kind of dedication is never talked about by the men, but it is never forgotten. At that time we were very short on men and officers, especially good , proven officers.

7) Nixon was moved from the 2nd Bn staff 'to the 506th Regimental staff as S-3, Plans and Training Officer. He was a key man in keeping the regiment together during the biggest battle of World War II at Bastogne.

8) 0n March 24, 1945, in Operation Varsity, the 17th Airborne jumped across the Rhine as the big push started to cross the Rhine River and go for Berlin. Lewis made that jump as an advisor. The plane he was in was shot down. As jumpmaster, he and three other men made it out before the plane crashed.

9) We were together every step of the way from D—Day to Berchtesgaden, May 8th, V-E Day.

Lewis Nixon was the best combat officer that I had the opportunity to work with under fire. He never at any time showed fear, and during the toughest times he could always think under fire. Very few men can think while under fire; very few men can remain poised under an artillery concentration.

Lewis always trusted me. While we were in training, before combat, Lewis hid his entire inventory of Vat 69 in my footlocker, under the tray holding my socks, beneath my underwear and sweaters. What greater trust, what greater honor could I ask for than to be trusted with his precious inventory of Vat 69?

While sharing all those days and experiences in training and in combat, we also shared our memories of our families, our school days, of our growing up, of our friends at home.

I felt as though I knew his mother, his father, his sister. I knew all about his grandparents on both sides of the family. He had a excellent heritage from both sides. He had been sent to excellent schools, and an Ivy League College. He had great wealth, was good-looking, had an excellent vocabulary, was very well-spoken; he was very well—read, smart, and had a good sense of humor. He had all the ingredients one could ask for to make a happy life - except one factor - LOVE!

Until Lewis met and married Grace he had never found or experienced true love.

It was only after his marriage to Grace that he found true happiness, peace within himself.

Together they travelled to just about every corner of the world; they shared many wonderful experiences together.

Grace demonstrated her love over these past years through her care for Lewis. Without the love and care-of Grace, Lewis would have died many, many years ago.

Whenever Grace would talk to me on the telephone, or write me a letter or a Christmas card, the message was always the same.

"Lewis is so brave; he never complains, he always has a smile for me whenever I come into his room — and that just makes it all worthwhile." I am sure those words are familiar to all of you here today.

I am also sure that all of you will agree with me when I say that with that smile Lewis gave Grace each day, it was his way of saying:

Thank you, Grace, for your care.

Thank you, Grace, for your patience in these trying times..

Thank you, Grace, for being faithful and understanding.

Thank you, Grace, for your love.

#just transcribe to text for archiving purposes #reread it and it made me sentimental again #dick winters #lewis nixon #ok so Nix brought the tanks for you not for the army #I get it #euology #listen to the soundtrack isn’t helping

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pagesofthesea · 8 months ago

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V-E Day, 79 years ago

"I say that in the long years to come not only will the people of this island but of the world, wherever the bird of freedom chirps in human hearts, look back to what we’ve done and they will say “do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straightforward and die if need be-unconquered.'"

PM Winston Churchill, May 8, 1945

"Let us not forget, my fellow Americans, the sorrow and the heartache which today abide in the homes of so many of our neighbors—neighbors whose most priceless possession has been rendered as a sacrifice to redeem our liberty."

President Harry S. Truman, May 8, 1945

"Célébrons votre victoire : victoire de Mai, victoire radieuse de printemps qui redonne à la France la Jeunesse, la force et l’Espoir."

General de Lattre de Tassigny, Commander of the Free French Army, May 9, 1945

#wwii #V-E Day #victory in Europe #history #band of brothers #v e day #please no negativity on this post my friends #it's for honoring those who fought #and the victory over fascism

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bargainoriley · 4 months ago

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Here’s something I’ve been translating on and off for the past week or so! I was looking at old German youth magazines in order to find interesting articles about classic rock bands (specifically Pink Floyd) and came across this in the 01/1978 issue of BRAVO magazine (One of the most famous teen/young adult magazines in Germany that’s been there since 1958 and is still going strong today!) A lot of youth magazines back in the day had articles and posters about rock bands because, well, that’s the people who were celebrities at that time! This page includes both short descriptions of the band members and a short history of the band up until that point when the issue came out! Enjoy ;)

Here’s the original picture

And here is the translation! (Italized text are context comments added by me to add to the understanding of this text!)

Warning: Some of the information here is obviously incorrect!

Pink Floyd: Their profiles

Nick Mason:

Born on the 27th of January 1945 in London, plays drums, has black hair, brown eyes, is 1,72 m tall (for non metric peeps it’s approximately 5 foot 8), is married to Lindy, has two daughters, owns a vineyard and collects old cars (old timers in German means old/vintage cars)

Rick Wright:

Born on the 28th of July 1945 in London, plays the organ/keyboard, piano, cello, and Moog-synthesizer; has blonde hair, blue eyes, is 1, 74 m tall (approximately 5 foot 9), is married to Juliette, has a son named Jamie, and a daughter named Gaia, loves football (or soccer for American peeps)

Roger Waters:

Born on the 6th of September 1944 in Great Bookham near Cambridge, plays bass, Moog-synthesizer, and sings as well; has blonde hair, grey eyes, is 1,83 m tall (approximately 6 feet), is married to Caroline, and has a 15 month old son named Harry.

David Gilmour:

Born on the 6th of March 1946 in Cambridge, plays lead guitar and sings; has brown hair, blue eyes, is 1,78 m tall (approximately 5 foot 10), is married to Ginger, and has a 2 year old daughter named Alice.

The diary/summary of their career; All their albums

1965

The three architecture students Roger Waters, Rick Wright, and Nick Mason meet and get to know each other, establishing the band Sigma 6.

1966

February: Sigma 6 gets their first fee for a performance in the London Marquee Club and mostly cover popular rock and blues songs. During this time they meet art student Syd Barrett. He writes songs and joins the band as a guitarist and singer. Under his influence Sigma 6 evolve into their own music style: The group does electronic experiments and uses spotlights, reversal film, and recorded footage as part of their stage shows. Thus psychedelic music is born. Syd Barrett is as well (psychedelic), who now comes up with new names for the band almost every month — they call themselves “T-Set,“ “Abdabs” — and in this group a girl sings as well from time to time: Juliette Gale. She later marries keyboardist Rick Wright.

June: The group could pay for a band bus for approximately 200 Mark (the German currency at the time of this article), but decide to separate for the time instead. No one is interested in performing, since the boys want to enjoy the semester holidays as well as after them improve and work harder on their studies; music is fun but a real job is more important. Syd Barrett then has a new idea for a band name: The Pink Floyd Sound. He comes up with his idea through combining the names of two American blues singers: Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. The owner of an artist agency, Peter Jenner, sees a performance from The Pink Floyd Sound in the Marquee, and then from there on decides to manage the band, not knowing the band wanted to break up.

July: Peter Jenner gets the band gigs, and thus Pink Floyd stays together.

October: Pink Floyd are now the stars of the London Underground. They perform in the Roundhouse to 2000 fans, with even Paul McCartney being there to see them.

December: On the 23rd of December the UFO club opens, with Pink Floyd performing there daily henceforth.

1967

January: The English music magazine “Melody Maker” write an article about Pink Floyd, which makes record companies curious about the band. The band accepts the best offer, and as they sign the record label contract, they cash in an advance payment of 40 000 Mark.

February: The first single “Arnold Layne” gets recorded.

March: Arnold Layne goes to the English hit charts.

April: The single is on number 20 in the charts and then falls off. But this beginning success gives them the push they needed to record their first album “The Pipers at the Gates of Dawn.“ Norman “Hurricane” Smith serves as producer for this album, and began his career as a recording engineer for the Beatles. While Pink Floyd work on their album in studio 3 of Abbey Road studios, the Beatles work on their album “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” at the same time in studio 2; two decade defining groups working next door.

June: Pink Floyd join as a supporting act along with Jimi Hendrix and the Move (runner up band to Electric Light Orchestra) for an England tour, but only get to play 17 minutes.

July: The second single “See Emily Play,“ becomes part of the English hit charts, coming in at number 6, and the first album “The Pipers at the Gates of Dawn” releases.

September: See Emily Play also goes into the German hit charts and reaches number 28. Syd Barrett at this time also creates a speaker system which is still useful today, where the speaker boxes are placed all around the room.

1968

At this time, it is practically impossible for Pink Floyd to continue performing with Syd Barrett. He is more and more off in his own world and mind, often not knowing where he is. Out of necessity, the band thus searches for a second guitarist who could join the band.

February: David Gilmour joins Pink Floyd. Syd is still part of the band, but during concerts his amps are often not even turned on, so that the audience doesn’t know any better about his mistakes.

April: On the 6th of April Syd definitively leaves the band, with manager Peter Jenner going with him. Pink Floyd begin working on their second album “A Saucerful of Secrets.“

June: At a free open air concert on the 29th in the London Hyde Park the band officially announces and debuts David Gilmour as their new lead (and only) guitarist. On the same day the new album releases as well.

1969

July: The soundtrack album Pink Floyd worked on for the film “More,” releases.

October: Pink Floyd have their first concert in Germany on the 11th of October at the Pop and Blues Festival in the Essen Grugahalle venue. On this day, Deep Purple celebrate their first concert in Germany as well.

November: The double album “Ummagumma” releases and makes the group successful worldwide for the first time.

1970

March: The soundtrack album Pink Floyd worked on for the film “Zabriskie Point” releases.

June: Pink Floyd perform the title track of their upcoming new album “Atom Heart Mother” worldwide at open air festivals with recorded footage, dry ice fog, and light bombs as part of their special effects on stage.

October: The album “Atom Heart Mother” releases and leads the album charts in England and America.

1971

The album “Meddle” comes out. This year Pink Floyd is particularly busy; they go from one concert to the next and have multiple tours worldwide.

1972

The soundtrack album Pink Floyd worked on for the film “La Vallée” releases under the title “Obscured by Clouds” as their new album. The rest of the year the band spends inside the studio.

1973

March: The album “Dark Side of the Moon” releases and is on the English and American album charts for over two years, and also goes gold in Germany. It is to this day the band’s most sold album.

October: Pink Floyd perform their last German concert for a long time on the 12th of October at the Olympiahalle in Munich, and it becomes the sensation of the year. Pink Floyd also make their way into the English and German single charts again with the single “Money.”

1974

Pink Floyd are tired of success and go back to their private family lives, with rumors appearing that the group will break up. In autumn, the double album “A nice pair” comes out, which is a rerelease of their first two albums.

1975

September: The album “Wish You Were Here” releases.

1976

This year, Pink Floyd doesn’t appear publicly that much as well, except for some performances at festivals.

1977

January: In Dortmund Pink Floyd start their first German tour since 3 years ago on the 23rd. They have 2 concerts each for Dortmund, Frankfurt, and Berlin, with Munich having 3. All concerts were sold out 2 months before the tour started. Simultaneously the 11th album of the band, “Animals” releases. Even before the album released, “Animals” goes gold, with 250 000 records being preordered. This German tour is also the starting point of a months long worldwide tour — the most comprehensive one that Pink Floyd have undertaken yet.

Written originally by: K. E. Siegfried

Translated from German to English by: me! (Vik)

(Btw my source to where I found this is the Internet archive, love that place!)

also here are some pictures that were included in the magazine of the band!

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girlflapper · 4 months ago

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Bedtime Stories, November, 1935

Hugh Joseph Ward (March 8, 1909 – February 7, 1945) was an American illustrator known for his cover art for pulp magazines. He is noted especially for his paintings for Spicy Mystery, Spicy Detective, and other titles published by Harry Donenfeld in the "spicy" genre.

#Hugh Joseph Ward #magazine #1930s #art

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cataclysmiceuphemism · 8 days ago

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Monkees Crash Course Part 1

@longing4yesterday was interested in getting some Monkees info SOOO I'm making a lore dump post. This is really just focused on their OG run as a foursome, so 1966-1969ish, stopping when Peter quit the band. I'll be posting a part 2 as well, Tumblr was getting pissed and won't post it altogether.

The Important Players

Davy Jones

December 30, 1945 – February 29, 2012

Personal History: Davy was born in Manchester. Initially he had dreams of becoming a jockey, but was encouraged to go into acting and eventually ended up in the role of the Artful Dodger in Oliver! This is ultimately what led him to moving to the USA and getting noticed for a role in The Monkees.

Role in The Monkees: There are effectively 2 lead singers of The Monkees. Davy is one, best known for singing 'Daydream Believer'. He's also the 'cute one', and was the one primarily marketed as being a heartthrob of the group. With his history in Broadway, he sings most of the songs that put focus on belting/projecting. Although Davy isn't particularly known for any instruments (in the show he's relegated to the maracas more or less) he is also an adept musician and could play the guitar and drums.

Personality: Davy has a bit of a duality to him. A health nut who smoked cigarettes. Sweet but scrappy. Kind but mean. Has the most noticeable ego about him: He was performing in Oliver! as the Artful Dodger on Ed Sullivan the same night as The Beatles. He watched them perform from the wings and later told Mike that he 'might like to do' what they did. Oodles and oodles of confidence! Witty and charismatic. He's probably all told the one who's the most critical of the other Monkees, though he also clearly has love for them. Some of this is obvious and sincere bitterness and some of this is having a biting, stereotypical 'British' sense of humor; there is insult even in quite a few of his lighthearted/joking comments about the other guys (i.e. calling Micky 'Skilletface' because he has a flat nose/looks like he's been smacked in the face with a skillet).

Davy fact: Davy continued his love of horses despite giving up on his jockey dreams, and in 1996 won his first race, on Digpast, in the one-mile Ontario Amateur Riders Handicap at Lingfield in Surrey.

Micky Dolenz

March 8, 1945 -

Personal History: Micky was a child actor on the TV show Circus Boy in the 50s. During that time he was a bit of a celebrity and would go to fairs to play guitar and sing Purple People Eater. Definitely had some social struggles as a result, as he was tutored/home schooled during this time, then skipped grades, then ended up repeating a year in high school when his psychiatrist told his mom he needed to work on connecting with kids his age. He was beginning to go to trade school to become an architect when he auditioned for The Monkees.

Role in The Monkees: Micky is the second lead singer/voice of The Monkees, best known for singing 'I'm a Believer'. Was effectively volunteered into being the drummer because no one else wanted to do it. However Micky is a very energetic showman, and Mike later reported that he offered to take up the drums himself so that Micky could 'get out there'. Due having Perthes disease as a child that left him with chronic hip pain, his drum setup is different so that he plays 'right handed' but 'left footed' to play the kick drum. Marketed as the 'funny/crazy' one.

Personality: Micky is bouncy, puppy-dog friendly, overly energetic and extroverted in public, but quieter and more thoughtful/interested in chemistry and building things in his downtime. Goofy/slapstick sense of humor. He's generally very positive/loving towards all of the other Monkees, and MUCH better at the PR of being diplomatic about the things that obviously left him bitter about the other guys than any of the other Monkees are. Very expressive and emotional. Definitely the one with the best social reputation of all the other Monkees, and has continued friendships/working relationships with a lot of the people he knew 'back in the day'.

Micky fact: Micky is part Chickasaw and in the late 60s he got a letter asking for help because 3 Native Americans had been arrested for fishing a lake that they had always used. He paid their bail (iirc something like $3000?) and received a painting in thanks.

Mike Nesmith

December 30, 1942- December 10, 2021

Personal History: Mike grew up in Texas. He was aimless for a while and joined the Air Force, but pretty quickly realized he'd made a mistake in joining and was fortunate enough to be able to get discharged. He worked as a hootmaster at the Troubadour and was struggling with a new family to support when he ended up getting cast on The Monkees.

Role in The Monkees: Guitar player. Song writer. Singer (when it came to country tunes) Within the TV show, Mike was effectively the leader of The Monkees, and this wound up being true in real life when he went to bat for their musical integrity.

Personality: During the run of The Monkees, Mike was often called 'The Smart Monkee', though this was never really meant positively. Surrealistic, dry sense of humor. Within the TV versions of themselves, Mike was often placed as a de facto leader of sorts. This is something that wound up carrying over into the real life world of The Monkees. Mike is the Monkee that definitely gets the most hate for reasons that are justified and reasons that aren't really. Mike was very strong willed and contrary and funny, and also very insecure. His insecurity led to him shooting himself (and the other Monkees) in the foot when it came to their public image pretty often, as well as tearing apart his relationships the same way.

Mike fact: Mike got super into World of Warcraft. He ended up reassessing after he had to go to work for a few days and came back online to messages wondering if he died.

Peter Tork

February 13, 1942- February 21, 2019

Personal History: Peter was born in Washington but moved to New York and was a part of the folk music scene in Greenwich Village. He was working as a dishwasher at the time he landed a role on The Monkees. After Stephen Stills was declined due to his crooked teeth, he recommended Peter for a role on The Monkees. Reportedly Mike also recommended Peter for a role due to his musical talent, as he was working as a dishwasher at the Golden Bear in Huntington Beach and was known around the local nightclub circuit.

Role in The Monkees: Within the show, Peter was classed as 'the dummy', but this wasn't true in real life. Outside of the show, Peter was the one who was able to play the most instruments. He was designated to the bass guitar since the others couldn't play it, and most often played piano or organ on the other songs (though the other Monkees did play piano on some of the tunes). He also taught Micky how to play the drums.

Personality: Peter was the one who got most into the 'hippie movement' in the 60s. Free loving, pot smoking, all that jazz. He was known as the 'orgy organizer' and often a nudist who had people floating in and out of his house at all hours of the day. He gave his money/items freely to a fault and was taken advantage of in this regard during The Monkees first run. He also ended up losing quite a bit of money due to breaking his contract to quit The Monkees-- all in all he was the most against capitalism but also likely the most negatively affected by it within the band due to his strong opinions and his willingness to give to others. Though The Monkees were all on the same page to varying degrees politically speaking, Peter was the most vocal about the political process and talked politics often. Peter was diagnosed quite late in his life as having autism.

Peter fact: Peter briefly worked as a teacher in the 70s teaching English, social studies and music at two private schools in the Los Angeles area.

Bert Schneider and Bob Rafelson

The guys behind The Monkees, created Raybert productions and produced some awesome shows an movies. Personally I don't have too much to say about these guys, though I think most Monkees fans hate their asses lol. The opinions on them as people are relatively mixed in general and from The Monkees themselves-- a mix of heated comments (both on personality and because of The Monkees being fucked over contractually) and gratitude. A lot of it depends on the decade you find the quote from. I do think they cared a lot more about money than any of The Monkees as people while pretending to care more than they did because they wanted to use The Monkees' own interests to cater to the crowd they were selling to.

Donnie Kirshner

Don Kirshner is 'The Villain' in The Monkees story. He was 'The Man With the Golden Ear' and was in charge of hiring songwriters and determining what songs got pumped out. The Monkees ended up booting Donnie and gaining more creative control.

Quote from The Wrecking Crew Facebook page:

"In the early 1960s, Kirshner was a successful music publisher as head of his own company, Aldon Music, which later was sold to Screen Gems-Columbia Music. . He later became president of COLGEMS, a subsidiary of the COLPIX label, in 1966.

Kirshner was hired by the producers of The Monkees to provide songs to accompany the television program. Kirshner used songwriting talent from his Brill Building stable of writers and musicians.

The formula worked phenomenally well – the singles "Last Train to Clarksville", written by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart, and "I'm a Believer" written by Neil Diamond and the first two Monkees albums were produced and released in time to catch the initial wave of the television program's popularity.

After a year, the Monkees wanted a chance to play their own instruments on the records. They also wanted more control over which songs would be released as singles. The matter reached a breaking point over a disagreement regarding the Neil Diamond-penned "A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You" in early 1967. The song's release by Kirshner as a single without Columbia Pictures' consent, led to his dismissal."

Kirshner planning/releasing songs without The Monkees involvement led to a very explosive fight, most notably between Kirshner and Mike. This fight was documented in Micky's autobiography like this:

Cut To:

Int. Kirshner’s Bungalow — Night

The four Monkees, Donnie Kirshner, and Herb Moelis (a Screen Gems lawyer) are in attendance. The boys have just arrived and pleasantries have been exchanged. The atmosphere is tense. Everyone knows what’s coming, and no one is looking forward to it.

Micky is lounging in a chair, dreading the inevitable. Peter is standing against a wall with his arms folded. Davy is doing his nails. This time it’s Mike who’s pacing like a caged tiger.

Donnie has four Gold records stacked up on a table. He picks them up and hands them to the guys. He grins a big toothy grin.

DONNIE

So, here they are guys. Your sparkling new Gold records! Congratulations!

MICKY

(feinged enthusiasm)

Great!

DAVY

(feinged enthusiasm)

Great!

PETER

(no enthusiasm)

Hummph!

MIKE

(ominously)

When is the next release scheduled?

DON

Well… we think it should be in late February… or so.

PETER

(sarcastically)

Well, guys. I guess we better get into the studio and start recording some new tunes. Our tunes.

Donnie’s big toothy grin starts to fade. All you can see now are the tips of his fangs.

DONNIE

No, no. Don’t bother, We’ve already recorded some great new tracks in New York. There’s this one unbelievable tune by Neil Diamond… You remember him, he wrote “I’m a Bel…”

MIKE

(exploding)

What! You recorded new tracks in New York? Why the hell didn’t you talk to us first? It’s our names going on those records!

Whatever was left of the big toothy smile is gone and lost forever. It has been replaced by a thin, grim smirk.

DONNIE

Take it easy, kid. Why don’t you just be happy with this Gold record and…

MIKE

Look! Either we get total and complete control of all the recording and the releases or I’m quitting!

Donnie is taken aback; the grim grin is frozen on his face. Even the other three guys are stunned. No one thought it would come to this. And no one thinks Mike is bluffing. Mike doesn’t bluff. Suddenly, Herb Moelis, the lawyer, speaks up.

MOELIS

(arrogantly)

You’d better take a look at your contract, son. You can’t quit unless we tell you you can quit.

Big mistake! This is not something you tell Mike Nesmith, even as a joke, on a good day. Mike spins around to confront the squirmy legal beagle. There is fire in his eyes and a fury in his heart. His fists are clenched. The veins are popping out of his neck. He looks like he is about to explode all over this little litigator. Somehow he manages to maintain his self control..

He turns to the nearby wall, cocks back his fist, and plunges it into the thirty-year-old lath and plaster.

MIKE

THAT COULD HAVE BEEN YOUR FACE, MOTHERFUCKER!

With that he storms out of the seething room and into the cool LA night.

Fade out

To say the least, The Monkees didn't like Kirshner much.

Quotes from Don Kirshner on The Monkees:

Don Kirshner on The Monkees…

ON MIKE NESMITH: Though people say that Mike doesn’t talk much, he is actually very articulate. My wife Sheila and I spent a long evening in a quiet Hollywood restaurant having dinner with Mike and his wife Phyllis when I first met them. I noticed that he had a particular passion for salads. He told me about one salad that he makes with nuts in it. I had never had that, and I tried it later and it was quite good. Mike is very witty, and he told us a funny story about the time he literally jumped over a general’s airplane when he was in the Air Corps. He has the kind of humor that Andy Griffith has, but his style is unique and his very own. Phyllis is one of the sweetest girls Sheila and I have ever met. She is very friendly, very much a wife – and she adores Mike.

ON PETER TORK: I would say that Peter is the deepest of the boys. He is very literate – and he is concerned about motivation and justification. He likes to have serious conversations about music and other things. He always goes beneath the surface. Oddly, in contrast to his seriousness, he is one of the funniest young men I have ever met. He is also one of the finest guitar players I have heard around in a long, long time. Basically, he has a lot of warmth and sincerity, and he is very dedicated in all that he does.

ON MICKY DOLENZ: Micky is one of the most completely amusing and charming boys I’ve ever met. His great sense of humor surrounds him with a kind of aura of joy. Being with Mick makes you feel happy inside. He’s one of the most versatile singers I’ve heard. He has lots of drive, and his anxiety about putting out a perfect record pushes him to peaks of excellence. There just isn’t enough time for Micky to do everything he wants to do. He is always jumping around. I call him perpetual motion. He loves action and he picks up on everythings [sic] very fast.

ON DAVID JONES: I have known David for a long time and have had the rewarding pleasure of watching his career grow over the past several years. I have also been able to watch him grow as a person, and I am very pleased with the way David is maturing and developing, both as a performer and as a human being. David spent last Thanksgiving at our house and I realized how very family-conscious he is. He talks about his folks a lot and takes great care of his dad and family. He and David Pearl are close friends and it is a pleasure to be in their company. They are both very fine young men. David Jones knows where he is going. He is precise and he is very experienced for his age – in all areas. He is a loyal friend, and I know that no matter what rewards he may reap, his first concern will always be doing things for others. I consider David a close friend.

I'm including these because I think it gives a good idea of Don Kirshner's view. Even the compliments largely aren't complimentary and are rather condescending, backhanded compliments like 'literate' or 'articulate' that are more negative than they might be taken on their face.

The TV Show

As a quote from Stephen Stills: The casting ad for “The Monkees," The Hollywood Reporter, September 8, 1965. "I was just starting out as a songwriter and I had about 8 or 10 songs and they were so simple I thought they would be perfect. I just wanted to sell my songs. When I got in there I told Bob Rafelson and Bert Schneider that I knew a guy who would be perfect. His name was Peter Torkelson."

Initially it seemed like the show wasn't going to be picked up. At its first pitch it was more formulaic to the time: There was a 'fatherly' role which ended up being cut, and was closer in tune with Leave it to Beaver type sensibilities. It was repackaged by Bert and Bob to be more improvised and more about the 4 boys on their own struggling to make it as a band without 'adult' authority.

The show lasted 2 seasons on NBC. It was an episodic show with no overarching plot beyond the idea that there's a band that's struggling to make the rent. The characters all share the names of the real life Monkees, so Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, and Peter Tork are the Monkees both in real life and on the show. Unique in that the four were taught improv techniques and were encouraged to improvise lines. Also unique in that there were 'Monkee Romps' which were in their way music videos where it was just the boys playing or running around while one of their songs played.

Monkees Screen Tests - About 20 mins of the boys as they try to land the role :)

Google Drive with all the episodes

Google Drive with all eps + DVD commentary tracks by the Monkees

TV show/music controversy:

So because The Monkees were a TV show band that became a real band, there was push-back that they weren't singing their own songs, that they weren't playing their own instruments, that they weren't actually a real band. They had hired song-writers like Boyce and Hart, they had guys like Don Kirshner who was specifically trying to make them marketable, they had The Wrecking Crew, pictured below, who were studio musicians-- so a lot of what was being done on their part was singing the vocals.

But at its core this is something that's a bit odd. The Wrecking Crew played on records of 'real' musicians. The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, and many, many others, all utilized The Wrecking Crew to play on their albums. Even early on Mike was contributing to song-writing. And The Monkees played live almost immediately. Though their first stint was in promotion for the show and was a flop-- they played The Last Train to Clarksville on a moving train and as a result they and their instruments were being thrown all over-- they were very quickly able to functionally play as a band live. By their tour in 1967, they actually pretty largely got good reviews published in the paper; the 'bad' reviews were often more in the line of 'they can't be heard over the screaming children'. But if you go through newspapers at the time in the places they played, there's plenty of positive comments even outside of their audience--that is, middle aged men versus teen girls-- saying they were actually pretty good. So what's the deal?

Honestly a lot of it is probably The Monkees themselves, especially Mike himself. One member of the band the Association told The Wrecking Crew that the musicians' names wouldn't be on the record because "We don't want kids to know we didn't play on the record.". While there was some hiding of the fact it wasn't The Monkees playing, it didn't take long before The Monkees themselves were commenting on this. And Mike was the big dissenter on it.

Here's one comment from Micky in Minnesota in 1967:

Well interesting for me. As most of you have undoubtedly heard, it has been-- there's been a lot of hassle and everything about the Monkees playing our own music and, uh...Which took us quite by surprise. Since we we do and we did, and uh...The first the first records the first songs the first album anything we were just jamming together with a whole lot of people, trying to just put together anything, music whatever and then they came out and then everybody started criticizing us for not playing all the violins and not all the saxophones and not the 85 other instruments involved in making a big track or making big tracks or whatever, you know and rather than like learn how to play the French horn. We would call him a very expert French horn player. Like Vince Groza, for instance, who's like about the best, and have him do it but the wrath of Hell went down upon The Monkees and we all got together we all meaning just us four and just said and decided that for our own peace of mind and especially because people just didn't seem to understand we would transgress which means go backwards which is what we did in fact and pick up three guitars and a set of drums and say well if this is what you want, okay, we can do a lot of groovier things with other instruments, but whatever. It wasn't quite that deep or anything. Or that heavy.

But when we ended up having a lot of fun doing it. And the record that I'm gonna play now good bad or indifferent, you can judge yourself, is the first record the first really complete song that is just us four. We were really mad. We didn't even have an engineer in the booth or a producer. Nobody. We recorded it on a little Sony transistor tape recorder in a bathroom to get a groovy sound because we figured well if that's what they want to hear and they really are uptight about us not really doing it. We all sat down and concentrated on our energies and trying to come up with a foursome sound just out of our own thing and now we're back into you know, like doing things with electronic instruments. I have a electronic instrument set up, you know doing those kind of things and we're using, you know groovy guitar players and groovy horn players and groovy this players and groovy that players to get all kinds of different sounds and uh...But this is like in case none of you knew the first, you know, honest to goodness kind of Monkees song and it's really bad. I mean compared to other foursome sounds I think you know because we had like I think three or four hours a night for about a week to do it. Which is not a very long time at all, especially after you finished working on the set and we'd all run to the studio, just thrashed and wiped out and but determined to put out a record I really know just a song, you know our first song.

youtube

This is the song he is referring to.

Apparently the bathroom got good acoustics cuz it's not the only song they recorded in the bathroom for

Anyway....Micky's comment is, while hurt and emotional and marginally self-deprecating, relatively diplomatic: The Monkees are getting a lot of hate for not playing their own instruments. And yeah, they do hire outside musicians, because they're working 12-16 hour days shooting the show, and going on tour, and doing their own recording for the music with the vocals if nothing else, so if they did it all it's going to be rushed and it's not going to be as good as they could do it with 50 hired musicians. But they had a lot of fun recording their own music for Headquarters (the first album that was 'theirs' in terms of recording the sound/song choice/etc) and hopefully it still is a song their fans like.

Mike by contrast, also in Minnesota, told the newspaper that The Monkees weren't anything good and that they were pretty much just a stepping stone for the kids to get into real, adult music. Even when they were actively working on putting out their own music, Mike was putting out statements that was effectively that they were little kiddie music for babies.

This isn't to say it was all Mike's fault. (Probably). Songs like So You Want to Be a Rock and Roll Star by The Byrds were supposedly a swipe at The Monkees. Was this true, especially considering The Byrds, like I said, also used The Wrecking Crew? Including to the point that they largely didn't contribute to the music themselves on their first hit, Tambourine Man? Who knows. Peter at least told Rolling Stone that he'd never heard that:

No. Nobody ever said anything like that to me. I took it at face value. Maybe they thought about the Monkees, but “Get a guitar and learn how to play…” Michael and I had been playing…I’d been playing music of one sort or another from the time I was nine years old, when I began to take piano lessons. So that was for 14 years. Michael had been playing continuously for several years before that; he was a folki e. Micky played folk guitar, fireside guitar — you gave him a guitar, and he could play anything. Davy, who didn’t play any instruments, had been on Broadway. He was the American original Artful Dodger in Oliver, and that’s not nothing as a musical ability. Davy, too, when we said, “We need a bass player for this,” he said, “How do I play bass?” We said, “You put your finger here, and you pluck this string here at this moment,” and he was onstage with us playing bass in five minutes. He knew. Davy is one of the most fabulously musically adept minds I have ever met. You just don’t…that’s not nothing.

and they were also getting thanks on the albums of 'real' musicians like Buffalo Springfield:

So I don't know. While there was criticism in this regard, frankly a lot of it from the press was also eye rolling at the fact that the demographic for The Monkees was young girls and 'long-haired' people. There were also criticisms of drug references, what have you. The demographic plus the fact that The Monkees were primarily actors first, plus the fact they were 'hippies', plus the fact that Mike ESPECIALLY would run his mouth about these things really did nothing for The Monkees' public persona. This was also exacerbated that they got a bit of a 'diva' rep especially early on because Bob and Bert didn't want them to answer hard-hitting interview questions so that they wouldn't lose their mainstream appeal by getting political. There are articles of The Monkees 'refusing' to talk to the press; at the same time there are articles talking The Monkees up because they go out of their way to interact with their fans in ways that big names (including The Beatles) didn't. And there's quite a bit of positive press that they actually play well, that they shine when they're doing their solo and give a show worth the price of admission, etc.

While the reflection of what the press thought about The Monkees is often boiled down to digs about them not playing their own music, it was actually much more of a mixed bag at the time. And it was often exacerbated by The Monkees themselves, especially Mike running his mouth about it. Later on The Monkees by and large settled into seeing themselves as a 'fake band', that is, a 'television band', or maybe a 'band of actors', but in a way that is more positive than how they broached it in the 60s. The holdout on this stance was pretty much Peter, who seemed more in the vein of if they are capable musicians then the music is real, regardless of if they were only playing it because they were hired 'actors'. I personally tend to agree more with Peter's perspective of seeing them as both actors and a 'real' band than the other perspective of being actors who were hired to play music (despite the technical truth of the latter).

#The monkees #micky dolenz #mike nesmith #peter tork #davy jones #monkees

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