U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
· 18 May, 2024

Today is National Armed Forces Day. It is a day to recognize the tens of thousands of American servicemen and women who risk their lives and sacrifice time with family and friends to protect our Nation.

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/presidential-actions/2024/05/17/a-proclamation-on-armed-forces-day-2024/#:~:text=NOW%2C%20THEREFORE%2C%20I%2C%20JOSEPH,May%20as%20Armed%20Forces%20Day.

#USASOAC #ArmedForcesDay

Uzbek and Turkmen
Though their exact number is uncertain and as with other communities are contested, previous estimates have suggested that Uzbeks (9 per cent) and Turkmen (3 per cent) make up a total of around 12 per cent of the population, Both Uzbeks and Turkmen live in the northern part of Afghanistan. In origin, Turkmen, also called Turcoman, Turkman or Turkomen, come from the Turkic-speaking tribes that emerged from Oghuz Khan, back in the seventh and eight centuries. Turkmen are Sunni Muslim of Hanafi tradition and are closely related to the people of modern Türkiye to the west, and identical to the majority Muslim population of their Central Asian kin state across the border to the north. Originally a purely tribal society, they have, in the more recent years adopted a semi-nomadic lifestyle.

Uzbeks are also a Turkic-speaking ethnic group. They are believed to have emerged in Central Asia in the third century BCE, and some claim to be possible descendants of Genghis Khan. They indicate Turkic ancestry and are, in the vast majority, Sunni Muslims of the Hanafi tradition, which reflects a primarily cultural rather than religious identity. Their language is Uzbek and although it is their own Turkish dialect, it is closely related to the one spoken by the Uyghur Muslim minority of Xinjiang, China.

Uzbeks and Turkmen have tribal identities that still largely define the structures within their respective societies, and this is reflected both in their social as well as political life. Both groups have had an influence on Afghan culture mainly through sport and music.

Economic status

Turkmen and Uzbeks occupy the greatest share of Afghanistan’s arable land in the north, and are mostly farmers by occupation, growing grain and vegetables. In addition, they produce crafts and animal by-products that bring considerable supplementary income to their communities. Cotton production has also added significantly to the wealth of these two groups. However, a very important part of their economy and fame is based on the making of carpets, which is mainly considered women’s work. Because of their relative prosperity, Uzbeks and Turkmen have not been dependent on the central government and have not made a concerted effort to garner political influence in the past. However, the economy of northern Afghanistan was badly damaged by the Taliban conquest of 1998. The consequences of this were not only subjugation and repression, but importantly also resulted in the closure of the border with Uzbekistan by the Uzbek government resulting in significant loss of trade, and thereby reduction in the socio-economic independence of the groups.

Historical context

The Turkmen of Afghanistan originate from amongst the Turkic tribes of Central Asia who arrived in Afghanistan as refugees in the 1920s and 1930s along with many thousands of Uzbeks, to escape repression by the Soviet Union because of their participation in the unsuccessful Basmachi Revolt. Generally, the population in the region is not a product of recent immigration but of the way borders were drawn between the Republics during the early Soviet period.

In order to quell Pashtun dominance, the Soviets, during their occupation of Afghanistan adopted a divide and rule policy, especially in the northern areas where Uzbeks had a significant presence. This was relatively effective in stemming the influence of Pashtuns, who were the main resistance against them in Kabul. In keeping with their policy, Uzbeks and to a lesser extent Turkmen were given a degree of autonomy and trained to fight against the Mujahidin in case of attack. For the first time in the history of Afghanistan, except during periods of anarchy and rebellion, Uzbeks along with Tajiks and Hazaras exercised full administrative and political autonomy.

Kuchi

Kuchi means ‘nomad’ in the Dari (Persian) language. Kuchis are Pashtuns from southern and eastern Afghanistan. They are a social rather than ethnic grouping, although they also have some of the characteristics of a distinct ethnic group. Though traditionally nomadic, many have been settled in northwestern Afghanistan, in an area that was traditionally occupied by Uzbeks and Tajiks, after strong encouragement by the Taliban government. Nowadays only a few thousands still follow their traditional livelihood of nomadic herding. Others have become farmers, settled in cities or emigrated. The largest population of Kuchis is probably in Registan, the desert in southern Afghanistan.

Tribes are formed among the Kuchis along patrilineal lines. A clan is composed of a core family, their offspring and their families. The leader of the tribe, the Khan, is responsible for the general well-being of the community, for governing the group and for representing it to visitors. Tribes live communally, and on becoming too large separate in order to facilitate more efficient management. Typically, there are three types of Kuchis: pure nomads, semi-sedentary and nomadic traders. The majority are semi-sedentary, living in the same winter area year after year. The purely nomadic Kuchis have no fixed abode and are dependent on animals for their livelihood; their movements are determined by the weather and the availability of good pasturage. Traders constitute the smallest percentage of Kuchis; their main activity being the transport of goods. The semi-pastoral Kuchis are gradually tending towards a more sedentary way of life. The majority do so because they can no longer support themselves from their livestock.

The Kuchis constitute an important part of Afghanistan’s cultural heritage. For centuries, they have migrated across the country in a search of seasonal pastures and milder weather. They were the main traders in Afghanistan, connecting South Asia with the Middle East. The livestock owned by the Kuchis made an important contribution in the national economy. They owned about 30 per cent of all the sheep and goats and most of the camels. Traditionally they exchanged tea, sugar, matches etc. for wheat and vegetables with settled communities. They also acted as moneylenders and offered services in transportation along with additional labour at harvest time. Kuchis have been greatly affected by conflict, drought and demographic shifts. Therefore, it is only a small number of Kuchis who still follow their traditional livelihood of nomadic herding. Despite their history and their traditional resources, the chronic state of instability in Afghanistan has left them among the poorest groups in the country.

Historical context

With the development of the road system in Afghanistan in the 1950s and 1960s and the formation of road transportation companies with fleets of trucks, the traditional Kuchi camel caravan gradually became obsolete, greatly impacting the income and lifestyle of the community. The situation for the Kuchis became even more tenuous during the prolonged periods of armed conflict and during the droughts of 1971-1972 and 1998-2002. These droughts are estimated to have caused the deaths of 75 per cent of Kuchi livestock. Furthermore, the combination of the intensive bombing campaigns by the US-led coalition as well as the spread of landmines during the 23 years of conflict decimated Kuchi herds, taking away their major source of income. Fighting and control by different warlords also often blocked their migratory routes.

Happy Mother's Day!

Today we celebrate our incredible Mothers and those filling the role of Mom.

Thank you for all you do in raising and loving us!

Link to the Presidential Proclamation: https://go.usa.gov/xufx8

#MothersDay2024

We get work done well, on time and under cost (compared to everyone else). We are Veteran friendly and understand that Clarksville deserve the best craftsmanship.

#USA #Freedom #liberty

via: Nine Line Apparel
·
On this day in 1987, the Army Special Forces Basic Branch was established. Special forces had been in operation long before the 1980s, dating back to 1952 when the 10th SFG was activated at Fort Bragg. One group became 18 in the 1960s before becoming an official branch.

Happy Birthday!

Image: Green Berets in Vietnam (Getty Images)

#ninelineapparel #specialforces #greenberets #vietnamwar #usarmy #usarmyhistory #onthisday #thisdayinhistory #ushistory

Traces of Texas
·
The Texas Quote of the Day, written by Herman Lehmann, is one of the most interesting I've read in years. Y'all may remember that, in 1870 when he was ten years old, Herman was captured by Apaches just outside of Fredericksburg. He was with the Indians for nine years, six with the Apaches, one on his own, and two with the Comanches (long story there).

Over time he lost his old life and language and became a full Indian, such that he participated in raids against Anglo settlements, battles with soldiers and Texas rangers etc. He spent a great deal of time with Quanah Parker. He was later discovered by American soldiers and returned to his mother and siblings, though he resisted this. It took a long time for him to adjust back to life among white folks, but he eventually did. In 1927, when he was nearly 70, he wrote "Nine Years Among the Indians 1870-1879." The Texas Quote of the Day comes from that:

“I am an old man now. I will soon reach the total of three score and ten years allotted to man, if death does not claim me —- seventy years of wonderful experience. I have seen many changes since I came into the world. The ox-cart gave way to the horse-drawn vehicle, and the automobile has surpassed that mode of travel. Speeding railway trains, flying machines, radios, and many other wonders have come to pass. We are living in a fast age. I am glad God has spared my life and permitted me to live to see these wonderful changes. I gave reverence to Him in the only way I knew how when I was an Indian; I worship Him now after the manner of an enlightened white man.

When I look upon these changes I marvel and wonder how it can be so. Of many of these things I am yet in ignorance; I cannot understand how the human voice can be wafted over the radio thousands of miles without the aid of wires, but it is done, for I have heard it. It is as much a mystery to me as the first telegraph line I ever saw. A party of Indians were coming down into the settlements on a raid when, at a point in the vicinity of Fort Concho [San Angelo], we came upon a newly constructed telegraph line. We stopped and considered it, and wondered what it meant. Each Indian had his own notion about what it was intended for, but we were all wrong.
The chief said he believed it was to be a fence to be made so high that the Indians could not get through, and so we proceeded to cut it down. Coming on down into the settlement we stole some horses and went back away with the drove, and we found the line had been rebuilt and the wire was in place again.

And the puffing locomotive and railway train was also an object of wonder when I came back to civilization and beheld them. The first train I ever saw was while I was with the Indians, and of course we did not know what it was, and in consequence got a scare that almost drove us frantic. We had come far down into the settlements on a raid, it may have been near Austin, and one night while we were waiting in a secluded spot in a little ravine, for the moon to come up, a train suddenly came around a curve from behind a mountain and was right on us before we had time to mount our horses. That hideous monster, belching smoke and hissing steam, and with glaring lights bore down upon us at terrific speed, and we ran, scrambling over rocks and through the brush, to get away from it. It followed us for a little ways, but we thought it lost our trail, as it went rushing on away from us. We were somewhat scattered when things became quiet, and I was uneasy for fear the awful thing had caught three of our comrades. But when we gave our agreed assembly signal the Indians came forth from their hiding places and we held a consultation. We decided to leave that region at once and not attempt to steal horses there, for that monster might return and catch us. It was generally agreed among us that it was the Evil Spirit that was abroad, and was seeking to devour all mankind, the white folks included. When we went back to camp and told what we had seen the Indians were greatly alarmed, and the medicine men warned us to stay out of that region.”

----- Herman Lehmann, "Nine Years Among the Indians: 1870-1879," published in 1927. Shown here: Herman Lehmann around the time he wrote this book.

via: Combat Control Foundation
· 12 April, 2024

We are grateful for our Armed Forces deployed around the world, carrying out their duties while away from their families and loved ones. Today is #Friday and on #RedFriday, we wear #RED & #RememberEveryoneDeployed. Invest in our mission as we are First There for Combat Controllers.

Donate today to support our mission: https://www.combatcontrolfoundation.org/?form=CCF-web

#FirstThere #AFSPECWAR #AFSW #STS #CCT #CombatControl #CombatControlTeam #SpecialWarfare #Airmen #SpecialOperations #CombatController #SpecialTacticsAirmen #USAF #AFSOC

via: Battlesight Zero
·
On October 14, 2018, Technical Sergeant Cody Smith protected his Special Operations team with air power, despite being shot and blasted by mortars and RPGs.

The team was moving back to base when nearly 600 Taliban fighters opened up their ambush. As he returned fire with his rifle, Smith guided in Apache helicopters for strafing runs on enemy positions and F-16s to drop their bombs. For several hours, the team fought on through the ambush. Intercepted Taliban radio traffic revealed that they had identified Smith as the team's JTAC and were specifically targeting him to end the American air strikes. At one point, a mortar round landed only 2 meters away from Smith. It knocked him down and left him with a Traumatic Brain Injury. An enemy bullet targeting Smith hit home. Luckily, the round was stopped by his chest plate. He was hit a 3rd time when an RPG exploded on his vehicle. Through all of it, Smith refused medical treatment to continue his critical role. The Taliban began closing in on the convoy. Smith drove them back with 500 lb bombs and strafing runs as close as 50 meters away.

The journey back to base took 12 hours. Smith remained with his team the whole time, despite his injuries. During the battle, Smith called in 11 danger-close strikes, 9 bombing runs, and numerous strafing runs. He is credited with 195 enemy fighters killed and 18 enemy positions destroyed. Smith was one of two Americans sustaining TBI, and several others were wounded by bullets or shrapnel. His actions helped ensure no one was killed and the team could not be overrun. For his critical role in the battle, Smith was awarded the Silver Star. He was also named the 2019 Airman of the Year.

#battlesightzero #bzo #history #military #militaryhistory #veteran #veterans #america #airforce #usairforce #afsoc #silverstar #cct

via: The Giant Killer
·
U.S. Army Ranger Captain Kris Kristofferson:

Country music legend and Army vet Kris Kristofferson has a list of accomplishments so long, it might be faster to list off things he hasn't done.

He was an Army brat and brother to a naval aviator, so it was only natural that Kristofferson would find himself in the military. But his life both before and after the military has been more than interesting -- it's downright legendary.

In his younger years, Kristofferson was an accomplished athlete, skilled at rugby and American football. He also was a Golden Gloves amateur boxer. Pretty much anything that required giving or taking a beating, he was up to it.

For anyone who might be thinking he was a dumb young jock-turned country star, think again. Kristofferson studied literature at California's Pomona College, where he became a Rhodes Scholar. He carried on his literature studies at Oxford's Merton College, where he continued boxing. Upon graduating from college, he joined the U.S. Army.

Joining the Army in 1960, Kristofferson earned his Ranger tab before becoming a helicopter pilot, which was critical in getting his country music career off the ground (more on that later). He would reach the rank of captain during his service. In the meantime, he was making music and formed his own band while stationed in Germany.

Kristofferson was offered the prestigious position of teaching literature at West Point in 1965, but turned it down and left the Army. It was a move that caused his family, full of veterans, to disown him. His first wife divorced him four years later, which is some prime country music songwriting fodder.

It was finally time for Kristofferson to focus on music. He moved to Nashville, where he worked as a janitor and flew helicopters for oil rigs. He also worked in construction and fought forest fires in Alaska, anything he could do to keep focused on the music. It also was good experience from which to draw country music inspiration.

As he turned 30 years old, he was still moonlighting as a janitor in Nashville recording studios, strategically dropping demo tapes onto desks and hoping they would get into the hands of some of the biggest names in country music. ... also at Johnny Cash's house.

By now, we know Kristofferson learned to fly helicopters in the Army and ran into financial trouble while trying to make it in country music. In a big gamble, he stole a helicopter, flew to Cash's house and landed on the Man in Black's front lawn.

In retrospect, Kristofferson admits he's lucky Cash didn't try to shoot him down with a shotgun. Instead, the icon listened to his demo for "Sunday Morning Coming Down." Cash liked it so much, he recorded it, and Kristofferson took the first step toward becoming a country music legend.
Now "lifted from obscurity" (as Kristofferson puts it), he wrote some of his biggest hits, including "Vietnam Blues," "Help Me Make It Through the Night" and "Me and Bobby McGee." Later, he would form The Highwaymen, a country music supergroup comprised of himself, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash.

There are few country music stars that Kristofferson hasn't worked with or influenced during his career, even to this day. His music fame led him to the silver screen, where he appeared in 119 roles, including the "Blade" trilogy, the third remake of "A Star Is Born" and the History Channel miniseries "Texas Rising."

Kristofferson was inducted into the songwriter's Hall of Fame in 1985 and has earned more than 48 different BMI Country and Pop awards. In 2004, he was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame and received the Veteran of the Year Award at the American Veteran Awards in 2011, with fellow country legend and vet Willie Nelson presenting the honor.

#usarmy #Militarylife #kriskristofferson #countrymusic #Army #Military

via: U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
· 9 April, 2024
National Former Prisoner of War Recognition Day is observed annually on April 9. On this day, we renew our strong and abiding commitment to America's former POWs and honor the tremendous debt of gratitude we owe to them for their courageous service and incredible sacrifices.
#nationalformerpowday #USASOAC

There is a man, the one who weeps for the Grunts.

He is shrouded in dust and mud and hate and blood. He carries a thousand souls in his pocket and a hundred lives in his heart. He checks the trucks and makes them ready; he smokes the cigarettes, grips his hands until his knuckles are loose, and grinds his teeth to keep his hands steady and his knees from shaking. He keeps silent most of the time…the shadow of the Infantry…close at hand yet always apart.

He walks into danger and never backs down. He never asks why and he never second-guesses his mission. Yet he dreads the call…the scream of a familiar voice that rises above the din of battle because he knows it’s that scream that will make his job necessary.

So he dreads it…and he welcomes it...his purpose and his curse.

He listens as it starts; Hoping it doesn’t happen and praying he is fast enough when it does…

and then the silence…
and now the rage…
and above it all…

“MEEEEDDDDIIIIIICCCCC”

“DOC!”

Dynamite goes off in his veins and everything becomes a blur. He is at the side of a man he calls Brother and he’s doing everything he can to keep him alive…

”Stay alive…look at me…you’re going to be alright…it’s nothing…”

But his brain is screaming as hands delve into the open wounds…

”Grab this...”
“Pinch that”…
”Call for nine-line NOW!”
Jesus…let’s get him moved!”
…everything’s is a blur
…no emotion yet
…just the job…keep low...wait for Dust Off...

*crack*... *snap*... "not today..."
..."stay with me...angels inbound"...

Hours later, after the rush wears off, you can find him at the CSH holding hands with the man while they work on him.

“Doc, it’s time to go”
...no answer
...don’t expect one... Doc don't leave his boys.

Who is this man? What makes him so?

He is God’s Savage Angel and he reaps the battlefield and robs the enemy of their victory!

This, this man, the MEDIC, the Corpsman is St. Michael’s own chosen - the only understanding soul a Grunt really has.

If the Infantry is Death,
Then the Medic is a thief
- stealing life from the blood-thirsty devil and giving it back to his beloved Grunts.

The Savage Angel and Death’s own Specter…

Together on the battlefield...

Brothers...

Never to be parted.
- Preacher, Admin from Gruntworks

I was a Soldier or I Am A Veteran
- By Colonel Daniel K. Cedusky, USA, Retired

I was a Soldier or I am a Veteran: That’s the way it is, that’s what we were... ARE.

We put it, simply, without any swagger, without any brag, in those four plain words.
We speak them softly, just to ourselves. Others may have forgotten.

They are a manifesto to mankind; speak those four words anywhere in the world — yes, anywhere — and many who hear will recognize their meaning.

They are a pledge. A pledge that stems from a document which said: “I solemnly Swear”, “to protect and defend” and goes on from there, and from a Flag called “Old Glory”.

Listen, and you can hear the voices echoing through them, words that sprang white-hot from bloody lips, shouts of “medic", whispers of “Oh God!”, forceful words of “Follow Me”. If you can’t hear them, you weren’t, if you can you are.

“Don’t give up the ship! Fight her till she dies. Damn the torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead! Do you want to live forever? Don’t cheer, boys; the poor devils are dying.”
Laughing words, and words cold as January ice, words that when spoken, were meant, “Wait till you see the whites of their eyes”.

The echo’s of I was a Soldier. Say what you mean, mean what you say!

You can hear the slow cadences at Gettysburg, or Arlington honoring not a man, but a Soldier, perhaps forgotten by his nation, his family.

Oh! Those Broken Promises, VA claims, Homelessness, Divorces.

You can hear those echoes as you have a beer at the “Post”, walk in a parade, go to The Wall, visit a VA hospital, hear the mournful sounds of Taps, or gaze upon the white crosses, or tall white stones, row upon row.

But they aren’t just words; they’re a way of life, a pattern of living, or a way of dying.

They made the evening, with another day’s work done; supper with the wife and kids. A Beer with friends; and no Gestapo snooping at the door and threatening to kick your teeth in.

They gave you the right to choose who shall run our government for us, the right to a secret vote that counts just as much as the next fellow’s in the final tally; and the obligation to use that right, and guard it and keep it clean.

They prove the right to hope, to dream, to pray, and the obligation to serve.

These are some of the meanings of those four words, meanings we don’t often stop to tally up or even list.

Only in the stillness of a moonless night, or in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon, or in the thin dawn of a new day, when our world is close about us, do they rise up in our memories and stir in our sentient hearts.

And we are remembering family & buddies, who were at Iwo Jima, Wake Island, and Bataan, Inchon, and Chu Lai, Knox and Benning, Great Lakes and Paris Island, Travis and Chanute, Bagdad, Kabul, Kuwait City, and many other places long forgotten by our civilian friends.

They are plain words, those four. Simple words.

You could carve them on stone; you could carve them on the mountain ranges. You could sing them, to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

But you needn’t. You needn’t do any of those things, for those words are graven in the hearts of Veterans, they are familiar to 24,000,000 tongues, every sound, and every syllable.

If you must write them, put them on my Stone.

But when you speak them, speak them softly, proudly, I will hear you, for I too, I was a Soldier, I AM A VETERAN."

NSDQ!

U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
· `25 March, 2024
On this #MedalofHonorDay, we remember those who have received the highest award for valor in action against enemy forces. We are forever grateful for their service and will never forget their sacrifice.

Link to ARSOF Medal Of Honor Recipients: https://arsof-history.org/medal_of_honor/index.html

#USASOAC #SoldierStory #NationalMedalOfHonorDay

I was a Soldier or I Am A Veteran
- By Colonel Daniel K. Cedusky, USA, Retired

I was a Soldier or I am a Veteran: That’s the way it is, that’s what we were... ARE.

We put it, simply, without any swagger, without any brag, in those four plain words.

We speak them softly, just to ourselves. Others may have forgotten.

They are a manifesto to mankind; speak those four words anywhere in the world — yes, anywhere — and many who hear will recognize their meaning.

They are a pledge. A pledge that stems from a document which said: “I solemnly Swear”, “to protect and defend” and goes on from there, and from a Flag called “Old Glory”.

Listen, and you can hear the voices echoing through them, words that sprang white-hot from bloody lips, shouts of “medic", whispers of “Oh God!”, forceful words of “Follow Me”. If you can’t hear them, you weren’t, if you can you are.
“Don’t give up the ship! Fight her till she dies. Damn the torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead! Do you want to live forever? Don’t cheer, boys; the poor devils are dying.”

Laughing words, and words cold as January ice, words that when spoken, were meant, “Wait till you see the whites of their eyes”. The echo’s of I was a Soldier. Say what you mean, mean what you say!

You can hear the slow cadences at Gettysburg, or Arlington honoring not a man, but a Soldier, perhaps forgotten by his nation, his family.

Oh! Those Broken Promises, VA claims, Homelessness, Divorces.

You can hear those echoes as you have a beer at the “Post”, walk in a parade, go to The Wall, visit a VA hospital, hear the mournful sounds of Taps, or gaze upon the white crosses, or tall white stones, row upon row.

But they aren’t just words; they’re a way of life, a pattern of living, or a way of dying.

They made the evening, with another day’s work done; supper with the wife and kids. A Beer with friends; and no Gestapo snooping at the door and threatening to kick your teeth in.

They gave you the right to choose who shall run our government for us, the right to a secret vote that counts just as much as the next fellow’s in the final tally; and the obligation to use that right, and guard it and keep it clean. They prove the right to hope, to dream, to pray, and the obligation to serve.

These are some of the meanings of those four words, meanings we don’t often stop to tally up or even list.

Only in the stillness of a moonless night, or in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon, or in the thin dawn of a new day, when our world is close about us, do they rise up in our memories and stir in our sentient hearts.

And we are remembering family & buddies, who were at Iwo Jima, Wake Island, and Bataan, Inchon, and Chu Lai, Knox and Benning,
Great Lakes and Paris Island, Travis and Chanute, Bagdad, Kabul, Kuwait City, and many other places long forgotten by our civilian friends.

They are plain words, those four. Simple words.
You could carve them on stone; you could carve them on the mountain ranges. You could sing them, to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

But you needn’t. You needn’t do any of those things, for those words are graven in the hearts of Veterans, they are familiar to 24,000,000 tongues, every sound, and every syllable.

If you must write them, put them on my Stone.

But when you speak them, speak them softly, proudly, I will hear you, for I too, I was a Soldier, I AM A VETERAN."

NSDQ!

COL (R) Ernest Wayne Underwood- Call his healing into His Kingdom.

Let us pray in the name of Jesus. ***My Dad is dealing with complications from COVID. I need Warriors. I'm asking God to receive your prayers, and I'm lifting you up in prayer, that your swords can reach the heart of the demon. Please, speak a miracle into this world by the power Christ. Call out Ernest Wayne Underwood. Allow this prayer to move the Holy Spirit through his Lungs, and destroy this infection. Speak into his life, that the sin and disease be gone by the power of the Almighty, in the name of Jesus Christ. When the Father's Will be done, if it is not my Father that is healed, I know that your voices will cause the ground, under the Devil's feet, to shake and send a shiver into his cold, dark heart. We will manifest God's kingdom through this powerful calling- somewhere in the world. A miracle will manifest. I pray all eyes witness this miracle, and it moves thousands closer to the glory God wants for the world, and his children. Sincerely, Clint (Your grateful and broken Brother in Christ) Amen.

Super Tuesday Shenanigans? - Hhhmmm...

https://www.reuters.com/technology/metas-facebook-instagram-down-thousands-downdetector-shows-2024-03-05/

Fall In America standing strong from this AOR.

NSDQ!

via: USAF Special Warfare Recruiting
·
This Sunday’s Hero Story…

The President of the United States of America takes pride in presenting the Medal of Honor (Posthumously) to (then) Technical Sergeant John A. Chapman, United States Air Force, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty.

Technical Sergeant Chapman distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism as an Air Force Special Tactics Combat Controller of the 24th Special Tactics Squadron, attached to a Navy Sea, Air, and Land (SEAL) Team conducting reconnaissance operations in Takur Ghar, Afghanistan, on 4 March 2002.

During insertion, the team’s helicopter was ambushed causing a teammate to fall into an entrenched group of enemy combatants below.

Sergeant Chapman and the team voluntarily reinserted onto the snow-capped mountain, into the heart of a known enemy stronghold to rescue one of their own.

Without regard for his own safety, Sergeant Chapman immediately engaged, moving in the direction of the closest enemy position despite coming under heavy fire from multiple directions.

He fearlessly charged an enemy bunker, up a steep incline in thigh-deep snow and into hostile fire, directly engaging the enemy.

Upon reaching the bunker, Sergeant Chapman assaulted and cleared the position, killing all enemy occupants.

With complete disregard for his own life, Sergeant Chapman deliberately moved from cover only 12 meters from the enemy, and exposed himself once again to attack a second bunker, from which an emplaced machine gun was firing on his team.

During this assault from an exposed position directly in the line of intense fire, Sergeant Chapman was struck and injured by enemy fire.

Despite severe, mortal wounds, he continued to fight relentlessly, sustaining a violent engagement with multiple enemy personnel before making the ultimate sacrifice.

By his heroic actions and extraordinary valor, sacrificing his life for the lives of his teammates, Technical Sergeant Chapman upheld the highest traditions of military service and reflected great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.

#medalofhonor #moh #neverforgotten #honor #courage #bravery #airforce #cct #combatcontroller #firstthere

Air Force Special Operations Command
Air Force Special Tactics

via: Combat Control Foundation
·
John Chapman, known to his friends as ‘Chappy’ joined the Air Force in 1985 and was trained as an Information Systems Operator. Chappy later retrained as an Air Force Special Tactics Combat Controller in 1990.

On March 4, 2002, Combat Controller Tech Sergeant John Chapman was involved in a grueling 17-hour firefight during the Battle of Takur Ghar supporting Operation Anaconda.

The heroic actions Chappy decided to make that day, would end his life but would save the lives of 23 team members.

John was posthumously awarded the Air Force Cross for his extraordinary heroism, superb airmanship, aggressiveness in the face of the enemy, and dedication to the service of his country.

In March 2018, Chapman's family was notified that his Air Force Cross was to be upgraded to the Medal of Honor.

He was posthumously promoted to the rank of Master Sergeant and his name was added to the Medal of Honor wall at the Air Force Memorial.

He is the first Airman to receive the Medal of Honor since the Vietnam War, and the only combat controller to receive the award.

Learn more about MSgt John A. Chapman: https://buff.ly/3Tl9BDC

#FirstThere #AFSPECWAR #AFSW #STS #CCT #CombatControl #CombatControlTeam #SpecialWarfare #Airmen #SpecialOperations #CombatController #SpecialTacticsAirmen #USAF #AFSOC #MedalofHonor #HeroicActions #Chapman

via: USAF Special Warfare Recruiting
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This Sunday’s Hero Story…

The President of the United States of America awarded the Air Force Cross to Captain Barry F. Crawford, Jr., United States Air Force, for extraordinary heroism in military operations against an armed enemy of the United States as Special Tactics Officer of the 21st Special Tactics Squadron, in action near Laghman Province, Afghanistan, on 4 May 2010.

On that date, while attached to Army Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha and their Afghan partner force, Captain Crawford conducted a helicopter assault into Hendor Village. Upon landing, Captain Crawford received reports that multiple groups of armed enemy were maneuvering into prepared fighting positions in the high ground around the village. As the assault force initiated clearance operations, they began to receive a high volume of accurate machine gun and sniper fire from an enemy force well over 100 fighters. As the assault force was attacked, Captain Crawford took decisive action to save the lives of three wounded Afghan soldiers and evacuate two Afghan soldiers killed in action. Recognizing that the wounded Afghan soldiers would die without evacuation to definitive care, Captain Crawford took decisive action and ran out into the open in an effort to guide the helicopter to the landing zone. Once the pilot had eyes on his position, Captain Crawford remained exposed, despite having one of his radio antennas shot off mere inches from his face, while he vectored in the aircraft. Acting without hesitation, Captain Crawford then bounded across open terrain, engaged enemy positions with his assault rifle and called in AH-64 strafe attacks to defeat the ambush allowing the aid-and-litter teams to move toward the casualties. While the casualties were being moved the team's exposed position once again came under attack from two enemy trucks that had moved into the area and were threatening the medical evacuation landing zone. As one of the aid-and-litter teams was pinned down by enemy fire, and the medical evacuation helicopter took direct hits from small arms fire, it departed with only four casualties leaving one wounded Afghan soldier on the ground. Captain Crawford developed, coordinated, and executed a plan to suppress the enemy, enabling the helicopter to return to the hot landing zone to retrieve the last casualty. While Captain Crawford's element exfiltrated the village, the assault force conducted a two-kilometer movement over steep terrain with little to no cover. During this movement the ground force commander and Captain Crawford's element were ambushed and pinned down in the open from multiple enemy fighting positions, some as close as 150 meters away. Without regard for his own life, Captain Crawford moved alone across open terrain in the kill zone to locate and engage enemy positions with his assault rifle while directing AH-64 30-mm. strafe attacks. Continuing to move the team further over 1.5 kilometers of steep terrain with minimal cover, Captain Crawford again engaged the enemy with his assault rifle while integrating AH-64s and F-15E's in a coordinated air-to-ground attack plan that included strafing runs along with 500 and 2,0000-pound bomb and Hellfire missile strikes. Throughout the course of the ten-hour firefight, Captain Crawford braved effective enemy fire and consciously placed himself at grave risk on four occasions while controlling over 33 aircraft and more than 40 air strikes on a well-trained and well-prepared enemy force. His selfless actions and expert airpower employment neutralized a numerically superior enemy force and enabled friendly elements to exfiltrate the area without massive casualties. Through his extraordinary heroism, superb airmanship, and aggressiveness in the face of the enemy, Captain Crawford has reflected great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.

via: USAF Special Warfare Recruiting
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This Sunday’s Hero Story…

The President of the United States of America takes pride in presenting the Medal of Honor (Posthumously) to (then) Technical Sergeant John A. Chapman, United States Air Force, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty. Technical Sergeant Chapman distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism as an Air Force Special Tactics Combat Controller of the 24th Special Tactics Squadron, attached to a Navy Sea, Air, and Land (SEAL) Team conducting reconnaissance operations in Takur Ghar, Afghanistan, on 4 March 2002. During insertion, the team’s helicopter was ambushed causing a teammate to fall into an entrenched group of enemy combatants below. Sergeant Chapman and the team voluntarily reinserted onto the snow-capped mountain, into the heart of a known enemy stronghold to rescue one of their own. Without regard for his own safety, Sergeant Chapman immediately engaged, moving in the direction of the closest enemy position despite coming under heavy fire from multiple directions. He fearlessly charged an enemy bunker, up a steep incline in thigh-deep snow and into hostile fire, directly engaging the enemy. Upon reaching the bunker, Sergeant Chapman assaulted and cleared the position, killing all enemy occupants. With complete disregard for his own life, Sergeant Chapman deliberately moved from cover only 12 meters from the enemy, and exposed himself once again to attack a second bunker, from which an emplaced machine gun was firing on his team. During this assault from an exposed position directly in the line of intense fire, Sergeant Chapman was struck and injured by enemy fire. Despite severe, mortal wounds, he continued to fight relentlessly, sustaining a violent engagement with multiple enemy personnel before making the ultimate sacrifice. By his heroic actions and extraordinary valor, sacrificing his life for the lives of his teammates, Technical Sergeant Chapman upheld the highest traditions of military service and reflected great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.

#medalofhonor #moh #neverforgotten #honor #courage #bravery #airforce #cct #combatcontroller #firstthere

Air Force Special Operations Command
Air Force Special Tactics

The Enduring Solitude Of Combat Vets:

Retired Army Special Forces Sgt. Maj. Alan Farrell is one of the more interesting people in this country nowadays, a decorated veteran of the Vietnam War who teaches French at VMI, reviews films and writes poetry. Just your typical sergeant major/brigadier general with a Ph.D. in French and a fistful of other degrees.

This is a speech that he gave to Vets at the Harvard Business School last Veterans' Day. I know it is long but well worth the read:
--------
"Ladies and Gentlemens:

Kurt Vonnegut -- Corporal Vonnegut -- famously told an assembly like this one that his wife had begged him to "bring light into their tunnels" that night. "Can't do that," said Vonnegut, since, according to him, the audience would at once sense his duplicity, his mendacity, his insincerity... and have yet another reason for despair. I'll not likely have much light to bring into any tunnels this night, either.

The remarks I'm about to make to you I've made before... in essence at least. I dare to make them again because other Veterans seem to approve. I speak mostly to Veterans. I don't have much to say to them, the others, civilians, real people. These remarks, I offer you for the reaction I got from one of them, though, a prison shrink. I speak in prisons a lot. Because some of our buddies wind up in there. Because their service was a Golden Moment in a life gone sour. Because... because no one else will.

In the event, I've just got done saying what I'm about to say to you, when the prison psychologist sidles up to me to announce quietly: "You've got it." The "it," of course, is Post Stress Traumatic Traumatic Post Stress Disorder Stress... Post. Can never seem to get the malady nor the abbreviation straight. He's worried about me... that I'm wandering around loose... that I'm talking to his cons. So worried, but so sincere, that I let him make me an appointment at the V.A. for "diagnosis." Sincerity is a rare pearl.

So I sulk in the stuffy anteroom of the V.A. shrink's office for the requisite two hours (maybe you have), finally get admitted. He's a nice guy. Asks me about my war, scans my 201 File, and, after what I take to be clinical scrutiny, announces without preamble: "You've got it." He can snag me, he says, 30 percent disability. Reimbursement, he says, from Uncle Sam, now till the end of my days. Oh, and by the way, he says, there's a cure. I'm not so sure that I want a cure for 30 percent every month. This inspires him to explain. He takes out a piece of paper and a Magic Marker™. Now: Anybody who takes out a frickin' Magic Marker™ to explain something to you thinks you're a bonehead and by that very gesture says so to God and everybody.

Anyhow. He draws two big circles on a sheet of paper, then twelve small circles. Apples and grapes, you might say. In fact, he does say. The "grapes," he asserts, stand for the range of emotional response open to a healthy civilian, a normal person: titillation, for instance, then amusement, then pleasure, then joy, then delight and so on across the spectrum through mild distress on through angst -- whatever that is -- to black depression. The apples? That's what you got, traumatized veteran: Ecstasy and Despair. But we can fix that for you. We can make you normal.

So here's my question: Why on earth would anybody want to be normal?

And here's what triggered that curious episode:

The words of the prophet Jeremiah:

My bowels. My bowels. I am pained at my very heart; my heart maketh a noise in me... [T]hou hast heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war. Destruction upon destruction is cried; for the whole land is spoilt and my curtains... How long shall I see the standard and hear the sound of the trumpet?

I dunno about Jeremiah's bowels... or his curtains, but I've seen the standard and heard the sound of the trumpet. Again. Civilians mooing about that "Thin Red Line of 'eroes" between them and the Darkness. Again. ‘Course it's not red any more. Used to be olive drab. Then treetop camouflage. Then woodland. Then chocolate chip. Now pixelated, random computer-generated. Multi-cam next, is it? Progress. The kids are in the soup. Again. Me? I can't see the front sights of me piece any more. And if I can still lug my rucksack five miles, I need these days to be defibrillated when I get there. Nope. I got something like six Honorable Discharges from Pharaoh's Army. Your Mom's gonna be wearing Kevlar before I do. Nope. This one's on the kids, I'm afraid, the next generation.

I can't help them. Not those who make the sacrifice in the desert nor those in the cesspool cities of a land that if two troopers from the One Oh One or two Lance Corporals could find on a map a few years ago, I'll be surprised. Nobody can help... except by trying to build a society Back Here that deserves such a sacrifice.

We gonna win the war? I dunno. They tell me I lost mine. I know I didn't start it. Soldiers don't start wars. Civilians do. And civilians say when they're over. I'm just satisfied right now that these kids, for better or worse, did their duty as God gave them the light to see it. But I want them back. And I worry not about the fight, but about the after: after the war, after the victory, after... God forbid... the defeat, if it come to that. It's after that things get tricky. After that a Soldier needs the real grit and wit. And after that a Soldier needs to believe. Anybody can believe before. During? A Soldier has company in the fight, in Kandahar or Kabul, Basra or Baghdad. It's enough to believe in the others during. But after... and I can tell you this having come home from a war: After ...a Soldier is alone. A batch of them, maybe... but still alone.

Years ago, maybe... when I was still in the Army, my A Team got the mission to support an Air Force escape and evasion exercise. Throw a bunch of downed pilots into the wilderness, let local guerrillas (us) feed them into a clandestine escape net and spirit them out by train just like in The Great Escape to... Baltimore, of all places. So we set up an elaborate underground network: farmhouses, caves, barns, pickup trucks, loads of hay where a guy can hide, fifty-five gallon drums to smuggle the evadees through checkpoints in. We've even cozened the Norfolk and Western Railroad out of a boxcar.

Sooooo... come midnight, with our escapees safely stowed in that car, we wait for a special train to make a detour, back onto the siding, hook it up, and freight the pilots off to Maree-land. Pretty realistic, seems to us.

Now, for safety's sake the Railroad requires a Line Administrator on site to supervise any special stop. Sure enough, just before midnight two suit-and-ties show up toting a red lantern. Civilians. We sniff at them disdainfully. One of them wigwags to the train. With a clank she couples the boxcar and chugs out into the night. The other guy -- frumpy Babbit from the front office -- shuffles off down the track and out onto a trestle bridge over the gorge. He stands there with his hands behind his back, peering up at the cloud-strewn summertime sky, a thousand bucks worth of Burberry overcoat riffling in the night breeze. I edge over respectfully behind him. Wait. He notices me after a while, looks back. "You know," he says, "Was on a night like this 40 years ago that I jumped into Normandy."

Who'da thought?

Who'da thought? Then I thought... back to right after my return from Vietnam. I'm working nights at a convenience store just down the road from this very spot. Lousy job. Whores, bums, burnouts, lowlifes. That's your clientele after midnight in a convenience store. One particular guy I remember drifts in every morning about 0400. Night work. Janitor, maybe. Not much to distinguish him from the rest of the early morning crowd of shadows shuffling around the place. Fingers and teeth yellowed from cigarette smoke. A weathered, leathered face that just dissolves into the colorless crowd of nobodies.

Never says a word. Buys his margarine and macaroni and Miller's. Plunks down his cash. Hooks a grubby hand around his bag and threads his way out of the place and down the street. Lost in another world. Like the rest of the derelicts. One night, he's fumbling for his keys, drops them on the floor, sets his wallet on the counter -- brown leather, I still remember -- and the wallet flops open. Pinned to the inside of it, worn shiny and smooth, with its gold star gleaming out of the center: combat jump badge from that great World War II... Normandy maybe, just like the suit-and-tie.

Who'da thought?

Two guys scarred Out There. Not sure just where or how even. You can lose your life without dying. But the guy who made it to the top and the guy shambling along the bottom are what James Joyce calls in another context "secret messengers." Citizens among the rest, who look like the rest, talk like the rest, act like the rest... but who know prodigious secrets, wherever they wash up and whatever use they make of them. Who know somber despair but inexplicable laughter, the ache of duty but distrust of inaction. Who know risk and exaltation... and that awful drop though empty air we call failure... and solitude! They know solitude.

Because solitude is what waits for the one who shall have borne the battle. Out There in it together... back here alone.

Alone to make way in a scrappy, greedy, civilian world "filching lucre and gulping warm beer," as Conrad had it. Alone to learn the skills a self-absorbed, hustling, modern society values. Alone to unlearn the deadly skills of the former -- and bloody -- business. Alone to find a companion -- maybe -- and alone -- maybe -- even with that companion over a lifetime... for who can make someone else who hasn't seen it understand horror, blackness, filth Incommunicado. Voiceless. Alone.

My Railroad president wandered off by himself to face his memories; my Store 24 regular was clearly a man alone with his.

For my two guys, it was the after the battle that they endured, and far longer than the moment of terror in the battle. Did my Railroad exec learn in the dark of war to elbow other men aside, to view all other men as the enemy, to "fight" his way up the corporate ladder just as he fought his way out of the bocages of Normandy? Did he find he could never get close to a wife or children again and turn his energy, perhaps his anger toward some other and solitary goal Did the Store/24 guy never get out of his parachute harness and shiver in an endless night patrolled by demons he couldn't get shut of? Did he haul out that tattered wallet and shove his jump badge under the nose of those he'd done wrong to, disappointed, embarrassed? Did he find fewer and fewer citizens Back Here who even knew what it was? Did he keep it because he knew what it was? From what I've seen -- from a distance, of course -- of success, I'd say it's not necessarily sweeter than failure -- which I have seen close up.

Well, that's what I said that woke up the prison shrink.
And I say again to you that silence is the reward we reserve for you and your buddies, for my Cadets. Silence is the sound of Honor, which speaks no word and lays no tread. And Nothing is the glory of the one who's done Right. And Alone is the society of those who do it the Hard Way, alone even when they have comrades like themselves in the fight. I've gotta hope as a teacher that my Cadets, as a citizen that you and your buddies will have the inner resources, the stuff of inner life, the values in short, to abide the brute loneliness of after, to find the courage to continue the march, to do Right, to live with what they've done, you've done in our name, to endure that dark hour of frustration, humiliation, failure maybe... or victory, for one or the other is surely waiting Back Here. Unless you opt for those grapes...

My two guys started at the same place and wound up at the far ends of the spectrum. As we measure their distance from that starting point, they seem to return to it: the one guy in the darkness drawn back to a Golden Moment in his life from a lofty vantage point; t'other guy lugging through God knows what gauntlet of shame and frustration that symbol of his Golden Moment. Today we celebrate your Golden Moment. While a whole generation went ganging after its own indulgence, vanity, appetite, you clung to a foolish commitment, to foolish old traditions; as Soldiers, Sailors, Pilots, Marines you honored pointless ritual, suffered the endless, sluggish monotony of duty, raised that flag not just once, or again, or -- as has become fashionable now -- in time of peril, but every single morning. You stuck it out. You may have had -- as we like to say -- the camaraderie of brothers or sisters to buck each other up or the dubious support (as we like to say... and say more than do, by the way) of the folks back home, us... but in the end you persevered alone. Just as alone you made that long walk from Out There with a duffle bag fulla pixelated, random computer-generated dirty laundry -- along with your bruised dreams, your ecstasy and your despair -- Back Here at tour's end.

And you will be alone, for all the good intentions and solicitude of them, the other, the civilians. Alone. But...together. Your generation, whom us dumbo civilians couldn't keep out of war, will bear the burden of a soldier's return... alone. And a fresh duty: to complete the lives of your buddies who didn't make it back, to confect for them a living monument to their memory.

Your comfort, such as it is, will come from the knowledge that others of that tiny fraction of the population that fought for us are alone but grappling with the same dilemmas -- often small and immediate, often undignified or humiliating, now and then immense and overwhelming -- by your persistence courting the risk, by your obstinacy clinging to that Hard Way. Some of you will be stronger than others, but even the strong ones will have their darker moments. Where we can join each other if not relieve each other, we secret messengers, is right here in places like this and on occasions like this -- one lousy day of the year, your day, my day, our day, -- in the company of each other and of the flag we served. Not much cheer in that kerugma. But there's the by-God glory.

"I know..." says the prophet Isaiah:

... I know that thou art obstinate, and thy neck is an iron sinew, and thy brow brass...I have shewed thee new things, even hidden things. Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have [refined] thee...in the furnace of affliction...

Well, all right, then. Why on earth would anybody want to be normal? Thanks for Listening and Lord love the lot of youse."

via: The Giant Killer
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Pictured are the eight U.S. Marines of the suicide mission "Doom Patrol" to recover the body of a dead Marine, Charlie Company, 7th Marine in Quảng Nam Province, 1968.

In February 1968, eight Marines volunteered for a suicide mission. After 32 US casualties were incurred during the first 30 hours of Operation Pursuit. The operation was initiated in mid-February 1968 by the 1st Marine Division to search for enemy rocket caches in the mountains west of Da Nang.

Operation Pursuit began at 11 a.m. on Feb. 14 as Charlie Company crossed the western end of Hill 10 while Delta Company departed from Hill 41, about 2 miles to the southeast. Accompanying them were 1st Division combat correspondent Sgt. Robert Bayer and photographer Cpl. R.J. Del Vecchio.

The two companies linked up on the approach to Hills 270 and 310. The dense jungle growth at the base of Hill 270 channeled the Marines into a single-file column during the slow, exhausting climb that forced the men to hack out a trail with machetes. By 6:30 p.m., Delta Company had secured Objective 1, the saddle between Hills 270 and 310. Charlie Company had secured Objective 2, the top of Hill 270.

Pfc. Michael J. Kelly, a member of the point squad who had been with the company for only two months, was hit by an enemy bullet that struck a grenade on his cartridge belt. The detonation killed Kelly, severing a leg in the process.

Lt. Col. Bill Davis ordered Charlie and Delta companies of the 1st Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, to get off Hills 270 and 310 and return to their base camps in the flatlands to the east.

A little later the morning of Feb. 16, the acting commander of Charlie Company, 1st Lt. Dana F. MacCormack, whose men were descending from Hill 270, radioed Davis: “Here come the NVA, Colonel! I’ve got one more KIA that the last helo did not have room for. We are having a hell of a time carrying this body, and the bones are cutting up the body bag.”

Davis, on Hill 310 with the battalion command group, told MacCormack to get Charlie Company off the mountain immediately to avoid any more casualties. And that meant leaving the body behind.

Thousands of North Vietnamese Army troops had trekked down the Ho Chi Minh Trail in eastern Laos and moved through South Vietnam’s A Shau Valley before making their way to high ground, including Hills 270 and 310, overlooking an area known as Happy Valley and the Marine positions to the east.

In early afternoon, out of food and water and low on ammunition, the weary, battle-shocked Marines of Charlie Company arrived at Hill 10 and were met by the actual company commander, Capt. Karl Ripplemeyer, who had been on leave and just returned. Delta Company, meanwhile, had reached its base camp on Hill 41.

Davis radioed the regimental commander, Col. Ross R. Miner, and told him that the Marines were back at the command posts, but added that a dead Marine had to be left behind. A few hours later, Miner told Davis that a B-52 bombing mission was scheduled to strike Hills 270 and 310 and ordered him to send a team to recover Kelly’s body before the bombing started. Davis, however, did not want to risk any more lives in those mountains before the bombing runs were completed and argued against an immediate recovery mission, but Miner wouldn’t rescind his order.

Davis discussed Miner’s order with Ripplemeyer, as well as the battalion operations officer and the officer who coordinated air support for the battalion. Davis decided to use Charlie Company volunteers for the recovery since they knew the location of Kelly’s body.

“It was 100% a suicide mission,” Whittier, the 2nd Platoon lieutenant, would write to his wife on Feb. 17. “This is a point I can’t too heavily emphasize.”

“Suicide mission” was an unintentionally appropriate term, given Charlie Company’s longstanding nickname: “Suicide Charley.” The unit had earned its nickname during the October 1942 Japanese assault on Guadalcanal, when 1st Battalion was led by Lt. Col. Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller, who later became the Corps’ most decorated Marine and finished his career as a lieutenant general. During that battle, Charlie Company held its line against a far larger Japanese force despite suffering heavy losses. The day after the fight, a white flag of parachute cloth with a picture of a skull and crossbones rose over the company’s position. Emblazoned on the flag was “Suicide Charley.”

The patrol to recover Kelly’s body had only a few hours to prepare for its departure. A runner was sent to Charlie Company seeking the volunteers, including an experienced squad leader. John D. McCreless, then a 20-year-old sergeant, recalled: “When the decision came down to use a squad of volunteers, I got crazy and raised my hand and said I’d lead it.”

Lance Cpl. Stephen B. McCashin responded similarly: “When I heard they were asking for volunteers, I said anyone who would go back into those mountains again would have to be crazy. I thought it was a suicide mission, but since I’m on my second tour here, I must be crazy, so I decided to go.”

Pfc. Joseph A. Hamrick signed up because, he said, “I was the only one of the volunteers who knew exactly where the body was, so even though I had only been in the ‘Nam’ for a month and had never walked point, I figured I could go right to it.”

The other Marines on the eight-man patrol were Pfc. Thomas M. Adamson, Lance Cpl. Tyree Albert Chamberlain, Pfc. Alfred P. Granados, Cpl. Billy R. Ranes and Pfc. Pedro A. Rodriguez. Someone—no one can remember exactly who—dubbed the volunteers the “Doom Patrol.”

Granados, the radio operator, remembers their preparations. “Our equipment was light for a short recon patrol—no helmets, flak jackets or cartridge belts, and all but one of the men of the Doom Patrol asked to trade their M16s for the more reliable M14, and permission was granted,” he said. “We were to make no enemy contact, travel by stealth in the dark, get the body and return. If we ran into a superior enemy force, we were to abort, split up and get back any way we could.”

Before the men departed, a senior staff sergeant told McCreless: “None of you will probably return alive, but to increase your chances, if things get hairy you can just bring back the leg.” The eight Marines weren’t totally on their own for the mission. The battalion air officer had arranged for continuous air support for the patrol.

At 2 a.m. on Feb. 17, McCreless’ squad left Hill 10. A little more than an hour later, near the abandoned village of Phuoc Ninh —military maps distinguished villages with the same name by numbering them—the Marines spotted NVA soldiers moving toward their position. Chamberlain opened fire and killed one of them, but the patrol was now compromised. McCreless faced a difficult decision: abort the mission or stay the course. He spoke to the battalion command center and was told to proceed. No one wanted an empty casket sent to Kelly’s family, and the men on the mission knew the odds when they volunteered.

On the move again toward the base of Hill 270, the Marines observed another enemy patrol, and McCreless stopped for an hour near another abandoned village, Phuoc Ninh, a precautionary pause in the dark to make sure there was no other NVA activity in the area before continuing their journey.

By sunrise, around 5 a.m., the patrol had cleared the open rice paddy areas and started into the dense jungle on the side of the mountain—with a long march still ahead, which meant they would have to conduct their “stealth” mission in broad daylight. Three hours later, the men were in a flat area above the bomb crater where Kelly’s body lay, covered with a poncho. There they waited while pilots in O1-Bird Dog propeller-driven planes called in airstrikes.

One of the pilots radioed McCreless to tell him that napalm drops by F-4 Phantom II fighter-bombers would land just forward of the bomb crater. He instructed the patrol members to take cover, take three deep breaths, exhale and hold their next breath. The napalm struck about a 100 yards in front of the patrol.
Granados still remembers the intense heat and dust being sucked past his face into the inferno. The shock waves from the blast seemed to raise him off the ground.

After the napalm flames diminished, Granados saw NVA soldiers emerging from bunkers and spider holes.
McCreless, worried that the enemy troops were about to move against his seriously outnumbered men, yelled: “Get the leg, and let’s get the hell out!”

Moments later, Ranes and Adamson dashed to the crater. They grabbed the severed leg and quickly strapped it to a backpack that Chamberlain carried. The eight Marines then ran back down the trail, amid the still-smoldering napalm and the enemy fire tearing into trees and brush around them. A final strafing run by F-4 Phantoms silenced the firing.

After reaching the flatlands, the patrol came upon Charlie Company’s 1st Platoon, sent to assist the squad if any of the men had been wounded or killed. The platoon escorted McCreless’ squad to base camp, and by 2 p.m. all the Marines were back on Hill 10.

Amid great rejoicing, Davis summoned the men to his quarters and handed them cigars and cold beer to celebrate their incredible accomplishment. (He wasn’t aware at that time that the full body had not been recovered.) As recounted in his autobiography Tet Marine, Davis told the Doom Patrol that he had been a fan of Suicide Charley since the Chosin Reservoir battle during the Korean War. “I’ve been proud of them during all these years, because they did great things at the Reservoir,” he said. “But never did they do anything greater than YOU did, as volunteers, last night and today.”

McCreless said: “The only reason I can think of why we were able to pull it off is that the NVA just couldn’t believe that we were stupid enough to go in there and do what we did. They must have thought we were bait for some kind of trap.”

After the celebration, Davis typed a letter to the commander of the 7th Marine Regiment:

“Dear Colonel Miner, I’ve never been prouder to be a Marine than at this moment! This magnificent squad [from Suicide Charley] went on what appeared to be a suicide mission. I wish you could have heard this young Marine [Pfc. Joseph Hamrick] describe why he volunteered. He just couldn’t imagine that an empty casket would go to a Marine’s parents. He knew they had to do the job, and while he was scared all the way out, and all the way back, he knew that they just had to succeed. I’ve just lived through an experience that I’ll always hold dear to me. Semper Fi.”

Within 10 hours of the patrol’s return, the B-52s from Andersen Air Force Base on Guam devastated the high ground on Hills 270 and 310. But the NVA would return to Hill 310, and many more Marines were wounded or killed there the following month during Operation Worth and in August during Operation Mameluke Thrust.

On March 8, Whittier and McCreless were wounded. Later that day, at the Navy hospital in Da Nang, Whittier died from his wounds. A few days later, McCreless was medevaced to Japan for additional surgery. During fighting on May 30, Doom Patrol volunteer Rodriguez was killed.

Men from E Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines, found Kelly’s body on March 25 during Operation Worth. A medevac helicopter picked up the remains and took them to the mortuary in Da Nang. A funeral with a casket containing Kelly’s leg was held in his hometown of Findlay, Ohio, in March 1968. A second funeral, with the rest of his remains, was held in April 1968.

Story by Jack Wells
— Jack Wells served in Vietnam during 1968-69 as an artillery forward observer with Alpha and Bravo companies, 1st Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, and later as executive officer of H Battery, 3rd Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division.

SALUTE!

Most people won't take the time to read this all the way to the end. I hope that you will.

17 INCHES" - you will not regret reading this

An excellent article to read from beginning to end.

Twenty years ago, in Nashville, Tennessee, during the first week of January, 1996, more than 4,000 baseball coaches descended upon the Opryland Hotel for the 52nd annual ABCA's convention.

While I waited in line to register with the hotel staff, I heard other more veteran coaches rumbling about the lineup of speakers scheduled to present during the weekend. One name kept resurfacing, always with the same sentiment — “John Scolinos is here? Oh, man, worth every penny of my airfare.”

Who is John Scolinos, I wondered. No matter; I was just happy to be there.

In 1996, Coach Scolinos was 78 years old and five years retired from a college coaching career that began in 1948. He shuffled to the stage to an impressive standing ovation, wearing dark polyester pants, a light blue shirt, and a string around his neck from which home plate hung — a full-sized, stark-white home plate.

Seriously, I wondered, who is this guy?

After speaking for twenty-five minutes, not once mentioning the prop hanging around his neck, Coach Scolinos appeared to notice the snickering among some of the coaches. Even those who knew Coach Scolinos had to wonder exactly where he was going with this, or if he had simply forgotten about home plate since he’d gotten on stage.

Then, finally …

“You’re probably all wondering why I’m wearing home plate around my neck,” he said, his voice growing irascible. I laughed along with the others, acknowledging the possibility. “I may be old, but I’m not crazy. The reason I stand before you today is to share with you baseball people what I’ve learned in my life, what I’ve learned about home plate in my 78 years.”

Several hands went up when Scolinos asked how many Little League coaches were in the room.

“Do you know how wide home plate is in Little League?” After a pause, someone offered, “Seventeen inches?”, more of a question than an answer.

“That’s right,” he said. “How about in Babe Ruth’s day? Any Babe Ruth coaches in the house?”

Another long pause.

“Seventeen inches?” a guess from another reluctant coach.

“That’s right,” said Scolinos.

“Now, how many high school coaches do we have in the room?”
Hundreds of hands shot up, as the pattern began to appear.

“How wide is home plate in high school baseball?”

“Seventeen inches,” they said, sounding more confident.

“You’re right!” Scolinos barked. “And you college coaches, how wide is home plate in college?”

“Seventeen inches!” we said, in unison.

“Any Minor League coaches here? How wide is home plate in pro ball?”............“Seventeen inches!”
“RIGHT! And in the Major Leagues, how wide home plate is in the Major Leagues?

“Seventeen inches!”

“SEV-EN-TEEN INCHES!” he confirmed, his voice bellowing off the walls. “And what do they do with a Big League pitcher who can’t throw the ball over seventeen inches?”

Pause. “They send him to Pocatello!” he hollered, drawing raucous laughter. “What they don’t do is this: they don’t say, ‘Ah, that’s okay, Jimmy. If you can’t hit a seventeen-inch target? We’ll make it eighteen inches or nineteen inches. We’ll make it twenty inches so you have a better chance of hitting it. If you can’t hit that, let us know so we can make it wider still, say twenty-five inches.'”

Pause.

“Coaches… what do we do when your best player shows up late to practice? or when our team rules forbid facial hair and a guy shows up unshaven? What if he gets caught drinking? Do we hold him accountable? Or do we change the rules to fit him? Do we widen home plate? "

The chuckles gradually faded as four thousand coaches grew quiet, the fog lifting as the old coach’s message began to unfold.

He turned the plate toward himself and, using a Sharpie, began to draw something. When he turned it toward the crowd, point up, a house was revealed, complete with a freshly drawn door and two windows.

“This is the problem in our homes today. With our marriages, with the way we parent our kids. With our discipline.

We don’t teach accountability to our kids, and there is no consequence for failing to meet standards. We just widen the plate!”

Pause.

Then, to the point at the top of the house he added a small American flag.
“This is the problem in our schools today. The quality of our education is going downhill fast and teachers have been stripped of the tools they need to be successful, and to educate and discipline our young people.
We are allowing others to widen home plate! Where is that getting us?”

Silence.

He replaced the flag with a Cross. “And this is the problem in the Church, where powerful people in positions of authority have taken advantage of young children, only to have such an atrocity swept under the rug for years. Our church leaders are widening home plate for themselves! And we allow it.”

“And the same is true with our government. Our so-called representatives make rules for us that don’t apply to themselves. They take bribes from lobbyists and foreign countries. They no longer serve us. And we allow them to widen home plate! We see our country falling into a dark abyss while we just watch.”

I was amazed. At a baseball convention where I expected to learn something about curve balls and bunting and how to run better practices, I had learned something far more valuable.

From an old man with home plate strung around his neck, I had learned something about life, about myself, about my own weaknesses and about my responsibilities as a leader. I had to hold myself and others accountable to that which I knew to be right, lest our families, our faith, and our society continue down an undesirable path.

“If I am lucky,” Coach Scolinos concluded, “you will remember one thing from this old coach today. It is this: "If we fail to hold ourselves to a higher standard, a standard of what we know to be right; if we fail to hold our spouses and our children to the same standards, if we are unwilling or unable to provide a consequence when they do not meet the standard; and if our schools & churches & our government fail to hold themselves accountable to those they serve, there is but one thing to look forward to…”

With that, he held home plate in front of his chest, turned it around, and revealed its dark black backside, "We have dark days ahead!.”

Note: Coach Scolinos died in 2009 at the age of 91, but not before touching the lives of hundreds of players and coaches, including mine. Meeting him at my first ABCA convention kept me returning year after year, looking for similar wisdom and inspiration from other coaches. He is the best clinic speaker the ABCA has ever known because he was so much more than a baseball coach.

His message was clear: “Coaches, keep your players—no matter how good they are—your own children, your churches, your government, and most of all, keep yourself at seventeen inches."
And this my friends is what our country has become and what is wrong with it today, and now go out there and fix it!

"Don't widen the plate."

USAF Special Warfare Recruiting
·
Todays Hero Story:

The President of the United States of America takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star to Master Sergeant Timothy A. Stamey, United States Air Force, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action while serving with the 18th Air Support Operations Group in Afghanistan, from 8 November 2001 to 5 January 2002.

During this period, Sergeant Stamey served as Operational Detachment Alpha Tactical Air Control Party Sergeant in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. While assisting host nation forces, he courageously operated in enemy territory in advance of the forward line of troops, frequently negotiating minefields under continuous fire and threat of attack, with no immediate support.

Sergeant Stamey provided positive terminal attack control on over eighty sorties of fighters and bombers destroying over seventy-five tanks, mobile anti-aircraft systems, and vehicles, four ammo-dumps, numerous command and control facilities and bunkers, inflicting 2,139 enemy casualties. As a result, Northern Alliance forces were able to push forward cities of Taloqan, Khanabad and Konduz.

From 13 to 15 November 2001, enemy forces initiated a counter-attack. Accordingly, the team received continuous small arms, direct heavy weapons and indirect and direct tank fire. Sergeant Stamey called in strikes against the attackers until they withdrew.

On 23 November 2001, as allied forces were preparing for a final attack toward Khanabad and Konduz, Sergeant Stamey and the team members received sniper and heavy machine gun fire from enemy positions on three sides. He contacted a B-52, declared an emergency situation, and briefed the pilot.

Sergeant Stamey then assisted in suppressing the enemy with small arms fire. With his team running low on ammunition, he passed his remaining ammunition out to the team members. Without regard for his personal safety and under intense fire, Sergeant Stamey crawled to their ammunition storage point, returned to resupply the team, and then resumed accurate sniper fire while awaiting additional close air support. When the aircraft arrived, he resumed terminal attack control and destroyed the advancing enemy.

Sergeant Stamey's efforts directly contributed to the team's mission success. By his gallantry and devotion to duty, Sergeant Stamey has reflected great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.

#silverstar #honor #courage #bravery #airforce #specialwarfare #tacp #jtac #thestrongshallstand
TACP Association | TACP Foundation

via: Susan Kee - Honoring Korean War Veterans
·
"When you're young, you take more risks, and you are more brave. Maybe, this is why they send young men to war..."
- Korean War veteran

This photo of a young American Soldier serving in the Korean War, is a reminder to us of how young they were and also how brave they were. Most of them were about 18 years old and in many cases, they were only 16 or 17 years old.

Many Korean War Veterans say, "when you're young, you take more risks, you are more brave. Maybe, this is why they send young men to war..."

Many of these young men admit they did not even know where Korea was when they were sent there.
Little did they know that the fate of a Nation and its People rested on their shoulders. It is because of their great courage and sacrifices that South Korea and its People were saved from the grips of North Korea's communist regime and South Korea prospers and flourishes in Freedom today.

Over 70 years later, our Korean War Veterans are now nearing or over 90 years of age. Everyday, there are increasing number of Korean War Veterans passing away and leaving us. Over the last few years I have attended more funerals of Korean War Veterans than ever before. Sadly, I have lost count of how many funerals of Korean War Veterans I have attended in the past 10 years. My heart breaks with the passing of each Korean War hero.

Time is running out and I feel there is a great urgency to capture and document their stories. Their experiences and stories are important pieces of our history that we all should know and pass on to future generations.

The fact that South Korea is a thriving Free Nation today is only possible because of all who fought and saved her from communist tyranny during the Korean War. This incredible legacy of these young men who fought with great courage and gave their lives to save a nation from communist oppression, should never be forgotten.

Over 36,000 Americans sacrificed their lives and over 8,000 became Missing in Action with thousands others from other United Nations countries who laid down their lives to save South Korea and its People.
I am among the millions of Koreans who live in Freedom today because of their tremendous sacrifices. We, Koreans can never Thank them enough and we will never be able to repay all that was sacrificed for us.

I believe the best way we can thank and honor them is to learn their stories and make them known. Many Korean War Veterans say to me, "the Korean War is forgotten, no one knows anything about it." So, I challenge every Korean War Veteran to do something to change that. The way that our Korean War Veterans can make sure that the Korean War is not forgotten, is to share their stories and teach the rest of us, of what happened.

70 years later, I thank God that I, a Korean American woman, can meet these very heroes who saved my family, and my birth country and learn their amazing stories. Since 2012, I have interviewed hundreds of Korean War Veterans and everything I share with you on this Facebook page is a result of what I have learned from them. Our Korean War Veterans have been my greatest teachers of Korean War history. Our Korean War Veterans will continue to be my inspiration and I will continue to share their incredible stories with you, as my way of Honoring and Thanking them.

I encourage all of you who have a Korean War Veteran as a family member or friend, to please seek the Veteran and ask him if he would share anything of his Korean War experiences. Their stories are important history that should be remembered.

This post is dedicated with utmost gratitude to all the young men from the US and United Nations countries, who risked their lives and gave their lives in the Korean War.

May these Heroes, their stories and their legacies, never be forgotten. With everlasting Love, Gratitude and Respect to my greatest heroes, Susan Kee - Honoring Korean War Veterans

PHOTO CAPTION:
"American Soldier scans the area in front of his Observation Post on the front line somewhere in Korea. July 29th, 1950." (Photo Credit: U.S. Army)

#koreanwar #koreanwarveterans #koreanwarheroes #freedom #freedomisnotfree #neverforgotten

via: Rebel History
February 19, 2022

80 years ago today in 1942, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. This executive order led to the mass internment of Japanese-American citizens in ten camps spread out across the American countryside west of the Mississippi River, most infamously the Manzanar and Tule Lake camps in California.

This executive order was passed in the wake of the Pearl Harbor attack of December 1941 and allowed for the removal of any and all Japanese-American citizens from their homes and their property confiscated. The text of the order itself did not actually single out Japanese-American citizens specifically, but instead delegated the authority to do so to the Secretary of War. Who did indeed single out the entire West Coast as a military zone and subsequently had 110,000 Japanese-American citizens forcibly removed from their homes and businesses and shipped to these ten camps: Manzanar, Tule Lake, Minidonka, Heart Mountain, Topaz, Gila River, Poston, Granada, Jerome and Rohwer.

This internment proved later to be a massive violation of the rights of a group of American citizens based on war hysteria. Aside from the removal of these citizens from their homes, civil rights violations within the camps were rampant. In addition to stories of occasional abuse from military personnel, there were also major riots at times. The most famous of these was the Manzanar Riot of December 1942, when the leader of the Kitchen Workers’ Union was arrested for exposing the creation of artificial shortages of meat and sugar by camp administrators, who had been stealing these food rations and selling them on the black market. Several thousand internees marched in protest of his arrest, and were attacked as a result by military police with tear gas. Two marchers were also fatally shot in the confrontation.

In December of 1944, Major General Henry C. Pratt issued Public Proclamation No. 21, which stated that all internees were free to return to their former lives, which in most cases either no longer existed or would never be the same as of January of 1945. Only ten U.S citizens were arrested as Japanese informants throughout all of World War Two, and not a single one was Japanese. Eventually, an investigation by the Carter administration concluded that the internment of these citizens was unwarranted, and Ronald Reagan signed the Civil Rights Act of 1988, which paid twenty thousand US dollars to each surviving internee and issued a public apology from the federal government.

[Online References]
(https://www.history.com/.../roosevelt-signs-executive...)
(https://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php?flash=false&doc=74 )
(http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/5154 )
Authored by DK

Happy Presidents' Day from USASOAC and the 160th SOAR(A).

This national holiday, originally known as Washington's Birthday, is a holiday in the United States celebrated on the third Monday of February.

President's Day (Washington's Birthday) has been celebrated since 1879.

#GoArmySOF #SpecialOperationsAviation #ArmyAviation #NSDQ

The Enduring Solitude Of Combat Vets:

Retired Army Special Forces Sgt. Maj. Alan Farrell is one of the more interesting people in this country nowadays, a decorated veteran of the Vietnam War who teaches French at VMI, reviews films and writes poetry. Just your typical sergeant major/brigadier general with a Ph.D. in French and a fistful of other degrees.
This is a speech that he gave to Vets at the Harvard Business School last Veterans' Day. I know it is long but well worth the read:
--------
"Ladies and Gentlemens:
Kurt Vonnegut -- Corporal Vonnegut -- famously told an assembly like this one that his wife had begged him to "bring light into their tunnels" that night. "Can't do that," said Vonnegut, since, according to him, the audience would at once sense his duplicity, his mendacity, his insincerity... and have yet another reason for despair. I'll not likely have much light to bring into any tunnels this night, either.

The remarks I'm about to make to you I've made before... in essence at least. I dare to make them again because other Veterans seem to approve. I speak mostly to Veterans. I don't have much to say to them, the others, civilians, real people. These remarks, I offer you for the reaction I got from one of them, though, a prison shrink. I speak in prisons a lot. Because some of our buddies wind up in there. Because their service was a Golden Moment in a life gone sour. Because... because no one else will.

In the event, I've just got done saying what I'm about to say to you, when the prison psychologist sidles up to me to announce quietly: "You've got it." The "it," of course, is Post Stress Traumatic Traumatic Post Stress Disorder Stress... Post. Can never seem to get the malady nor the abbreviation straight. He's worried about me... that I'm wandering around loose... that I'm talking to his cons. So worried, but so sincere, that I let him make me an appointment at the V.A. for "diagnosis." Sincerity is a rare pearl.

So I sulk in the stuffy anteroom of the V.A. shrink's office for the requisite two hours (maybe you have), finally get admitted. He's a nice guy. Asks me about my war, scans my 201 File, and, after what I take to be clinical scrutiny, announces without preamble: "You've got it." He can snag me, he says, 30 percent disability. Reimbursement, he says, from Uncle Sam, now till the end of my days. Oh, and by the way, he says, there's a cure. I'm not so sure that I want a cure for 30 percent every month. This inspires him to explain. He takes out a piece of paper and a Magic Marker™. Now: Anybody who takes out a frickin' Magic Marker™ to explain something to you thinks you're a bonehead and by that very gesture says so to God and everybody.

Anyhow. He draws two big circles on a sheet of paper, then twelve small circles. Apples and grapes, you might say. In fact, he does say. The "grapes," he asserts, stand for the range of emotional response open to a healthy civilian, a normal person: titillation, for instance, then amusement, then pleasure, then joy, then delight and so on across the spectrum through mild distress on through angst -- whatever that is -- to black depression. The apples? That's what you got, traumatized veteran: Ecstasy and Despair. But we can fix that for you. We can make you normal.

So here's my question: Why on earth would anybody want to be normal?

And here's what triggered that curious episode:
The words of the prophet Jeremiah:

"My bowels. My bowels. I am pained at my very heart; my heart maketh a noise in me... [T]hou hast heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war. Destruction upon destruction is cried; for the whole land is spoilt and my curtains... How long shall I see the standard and hear the sound of the trumpet?"

I dunno about Jeremiah's bowels... or his curtains, but I've seen the standard and heard the sound of the trumpet.

Again. Civilians mooing about that "Thin Red Line of 'eroes" between them and the Darkness.

Again. ‘Course it's not red any more. Used to be olive drab. Then treetop camouflage. Then woodland. Then chocolate chip. Now pixelated, random computer-generated. Multi-cam next, is it? Progress. The kids are in the soup.

Again. Me? I can't see the front sights of me piece any more. And if I can still lug my rucksack five miles, I need these days to be defibrillated when I get there. Nope. I got something like six Honorable Discharges from Pharaoh's Army. Your Mom's gonna be wearing Kevlar before I do. Nope. This one's on the kids, I'm afraid, the next generation.

I can't help them. Not those who make the sacrifice in the desert nor those in the cesspool cities of a land that if two troopers from the One Oh One or two Lance Corporals could find on a map a few years ago, I'll be surprised. Nobody can help... except by trying to build a society Back Here that deserves such a sacrifice.

We gonna win the war? I dunno. They tell me I lost mine. I know I didn't start it. Soldiers don't start wars. Civilians do. And civilians say when they're over. I'm just satisfied right now that these kids, for better or worse, did their duty as God gave them the light to see it. But I want them back. And I worry not about the fight, but about the after: after the war, after the victory, after... God forbid... the defeat, if it come to that. It's after that things get tricky. After that a Soldier needs the real grit and wit. And after that a Soldier needs to believe.

Anybody can believe before. During? A Soldier has company in the fight, in Kandahar or Kabul, Basra or Baghdad. It's enough to believe in the others during. But after... and I can tell you this having come home from a war: After ...a Soldier is alone. A batch of them, maybe... but still alone.

Years ago, maybe... when I was still in the Army, my A Team got the mission to support an Air Force escape and evasion exercise. Throw a bunch of downed pilots into the wilderness, let local guerrillas (us) feed them into a clandestine escape net and spirit them out by train just like in The Great Escape to... Baltimore, of all places. So we set up an elaborate underground network: farmhouses, caves, barns, pickup trucks, loads of hay where a guy can hide, fifty-five gallon drums to smuggle the evadees through checkpoints in. We've even cozened the Norfolk and Western Railroad out of a boxcar.

Sooooo... come midnight, with our escapees safely stowed in that car, we wait for a special train to make a detour, back onto the siding, hook it up, and freight the pilots off to Maree-land. Pretty realistic, seems to us.

Now, for safety's sake the Railroad requires a Line Administrator on site to supervise any special stop. Sure enough, just before midnight two suit-and-ties show up toting a red lantern. Civilians. We sniff at them disdainfully. One of them wigwags to the train. With a clank she couples the boxcar and chugs out into the night. The other guy -- frumpy Babbit from the front office -- shuffles off down the track and out onto a trestle bridge over the gorge. He stands there with his hands behind his back, peering up at the cloud-strewn summertime sky, a thousand bucks worth of Burberry overcoat riffling in the night breeze. I edge over respectfully behind him. Wait. He notices me after a while, looks back. "You know," he says, "Was on a night like this 40 years ago that I jumped into Normandy."

Who'da thought?

Who'da thought? Then I thought... back to right after my return from Vietnam. I'm working nights at a convenience store just down the road from this very spot. Lousy job. Whores, bums, burnouts, lowlifes. That's your clientele after midnight in a convenience store. One particular guy I remember drifts in every morning about 0400. Night work. Janitor, maybe. Not much to distinguish him from the rest of the early morning crowd of shadows shuffling around the place. Fingers and teeth yellowed from cigarette smoke. A weathered, leathered face that just dissolves into the colorless crowd of nobodies.

Never says a word. Buys his margarine and macaroni and Miller's. Plunks down his cash. Hooks a grubby hand around his bag and threads his way out of the place and down the street. Lost in another world. Like the rest of the derelicts. One night, he's fumbling for his keys, drops them on the floor, sets his wallet on the counter -- brown leather, I still remember -- and the wallet flops open. Pinned to the inside of it, worn shiny and smooth, with its gold star gleaming out of the center: combat jump badge from that great World War II... Normandy maybe, just like the suit-and-tie.

Who'da thought?

Two guys scarred Out There. Not sure just where or how even. You can lose your life without dying. But the guy who made it to the top and the guy shambling along the bottom are what James Joyce calls in another context "secret messengers." Citizens among the rest, who look like the rest, talk like the rest, act like the rest... but who know prodigious secrets, wherever they wash up and whatever use they make of them. Who know somber despair but inexplicable laughter, the ache of duty but distrust of inaction. Who know risk and exaltation... and that awful drop though empty air we call failure... and solitude!

They know solitude.
Because solitude is what waits for the one who shall have borne the battle. Out There in it together... back here alone.

Alone to make way in a scrappy, greedy, civilian world "filching lucre and gulping warm beer," as Conrad had it. Alone to learn the skills a self-absorbed, hustling, modern society values. Alone to unlearn the deadly skills of the former -- and bloody -- business. Alone to find a companion -- maybe -- and alone -- maybe -- even with that companion over a lifetime... for who can make someone else who hasn't seen it understand horror, blackness, filth Incommunicado. Voiceless. Alone.

My Railroad president wandered off by himself to face his memories; my Store 24 regular was clearly a man alone with his.

For my two guys, it was the after the battle that they endured, and far longer than the moment of terror in the battle. Did my Railroad exec learn in the dark of war to elbow other men aside, to view all other men as the enemy, to "fight" his way up the corporate ladder just as he fought his way out of the bocages of Normandy?

Did he find he could never get close to a wife or children again and turn his energy, perhaps his anger toward some other and solitary goal Did the Store/24 guy never get out of his parachute harness and shiver in an endless night patrolled by demons he couldn't get shut of? Did he haul out that tattered wallet and shove his jump badge under the nose of those he'd done wrong to, disappointed, embarrassed? Did he find fewer and fewer citizens Back Here who even knew what it was? Did he keep it because he knew what it was? From what I've seen -- from a distance, of course -- of success, I'd say it's not necessarily sweeter than failure -- which I have seen close up.

Well, that's what I said that woke up the prison shrink.

And I say again to you that silence is the reward we reserve for you and your buddies, for my Cadets. Silence is the sound of Honor, which speaks no word and lays no tread. And Nothing is the glory of the one who's done Right. And Alone is the society of those who do it the Hard Way, alone even when they have comrades like themselves in the fight. I've gotta hope as a teacher that my Cadets, as a citizen that you and your buddies will have the inner resources, the stuff of inner life, the values in short, to abide the brute loneliness of after, to find the courage to continue the march, to do Right, to live with what they've done, you've done in our name, to endure that dark hour of frustration, humiliation, failure maybe... or victory, for one or the other is surely waiting Back Here. Unless you opt for those grapes...

My two guys started at the same place and wound up at the far ends of the spectrum. As we measure their distance from that starting point, they seem to return to it: the one guy in the darkness drawn back to a Golden Moment in his life from a lofty vantage point; t'other guy lugging through God knows what gauntlet of shame and frustration that symbol of his Golden Moment. Today we celebrate your Golden Moment. While a whole generation went ganging after its own indulgence, vanity, appetite, you clung to a foolish commitment, to foolish old traditions; as Soldiers, Sailors, Pilots, Marines you honored pointless ritual, suffered the endless, sluggish monotony of duty, raised that flag not just once, or again, or -- as has become fashionable now -- in time of peril, but every single morning. You stuck it out. You may have had -- as we like to say -- the camaraderie of brothers or sisters to buck each other up or the dubious support (as we like to say... and say more than do, by the way) of the folks back home, us... but in the end you persevered alone. Just as alone you made that long walk from Out There with a duffle bag fulla pixelated, random computer-generated dirty laundry -- along with your bruised dreams, your ecstasy and your despair -- Back Here at tour's end.

And you will be alone, for all the good intentions and solicitude of them, the other, the civilians. Alone. But...together. Your generation, whom us dumbo civilians couldn't keep out of war, will bear the burden of a soldier's return... alone. And a fresh duty: to complete the lives of your buddies who didn't make it back, to confect for them a living monument to their memory.

Your comfort, such as it is, will come from the knowledge that others of that tiny fraction of the population that fought for us are alone but grappling with the same dilemmas -- often small and immediate, often undignified or humiliating, now and then immense and overwhelming -- by your persistence courting the risk, by your obstinacy clinging to that Hard Way. Some of you will be stronger than others, but even the strong ones will have their darker moments. Where we can join each other if not relieve each other, we secret messengers, is right here in places like this and on occasions like this -- one lousy day of the year, your day, my day, our day, -- in the company of each other and of the flag we served. Not much cheer in that kerugma.

But there's the by-God glory.

"I know..." says the prophet Isaiah:
... I know that thou art obstinate, and thy neck is an iron sinew, and thy brow brass...I have shewed thee new things, even hidden things. Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have [refined] thee...in the furnace of affliction...

Well, all right, then.

Why on earth would anybody want to be normal?

Thanks for Listening and Lord love the lot of youse."

LESSONS IN LEADERSHIP: From a Janitor
By Colonel James E. Moschgat, Commander of the 12th Operations Group, 12th Flying Training Wing, Randolph Air Force Base, Texas

William “Bill” Crawford certainly was an unimpressive figure, one you could easily overlook during a hectic day at the U.S. Air Force Academy. Mr. Crawford, as most of us referred to him back in the late 1970s, was our squadron janitor.

While we cadets busied ourselves preparing for academic exams, athletic events, Saturday morning parades and room inspections, or never-ending leadership classes, Bill quietly moved about the squadron mopping and buffing floors, emptying trash cans, cleaning toilets, or just tidying up the mess 100 college-age kids can leave in a dormitory. Sadly, and for many years, few of us gave him much notice, rendering little more than a passing nod or throwing a curt, “G’morning!” in his direction as we hurried off to our daily duties.

Why? Perhaps it was because of the way he did his job-he always kept the squadron area spotlessly clean, even the toilets and showers gleamed. Frankly, he did his job so well, none of us had to notice or get involved.

After all, cleaning toilets was his job, not ours. Maybe it was is physical appearance that made him disappear into the background. Bill didn’t move very quickly and, in fact, you could say he even shuffled a bit, as if he suffered from some sort of injury. His gray hair and wrinkled face made him appear ancient to a group of young cadets. And his crooked smile, well, it looked a little funny. Face it, Bill was an old man working in a young person’s world. What did he have to offer us on a personal level?

Finally, maybe it was Mr. Crawford’s personality that rendered him almost invisible to the young people around him. Bill was shy, almost painfully so. He seldom spoke to a cadet unless they addressed him first, and that didn’t happen very often. Our janitor always buried himself in his work, moving about with stooped shoulders, a quiet gait, and an averted gaze. If he noticed the hustle and bustle of cadet life around him, it was hard to tell. So, for whatever reason, Bill blended into the woodwork and became just another fixture around the squadron. The Academy, one of our nation’s premier leadership laboratories, kept us busy from dawn till dusk. And Mr. Crawford...well, he was just a janitor.

That changed one fall Saturday afternoon in 1976. I was reading a book about World War II and the tough Allied ground campaign in Italy, when I stumbled across an incredible story. On September 13, 1943, a Private William Crawford from Colorado, assigned to the 36th Infantry Division, had been involved in some bloody fighting on Hill 424 near Altavilla, Italy. The words on the page leapt out at me: “in the face of intense and overwhelming hostile fire... with no regard for personal safety... on his own initiative, Private Crawford single-handedly attacked fortified enemy positions.” It continued, “for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty, the President of the United States...”

“Holy cow,” I said to my roommate, “you’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor is a Medal of Honor winner.” We all knew Mr. Crawford was a WWII Army vet, but that didn’t keep my friend from looking at me as if I was some sort of alien being. Nonetheless, we couldn’t wait to ask Bill about the story on Monday. We met Mr. Crawford bright and early Monday and showed him the page in question from the book, anticipation and doubt in our faces. He starred at it for a few silent moments and then quietly uttered something like, “Yep, that’s me.”

Mouths agape, my roommate and I looked at one another, then at the book, and quickly back at our janitor.

Almost at once we both stuttered, “Why didn’t you ever tell us about it?” He slowly replied after some thought,

“That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.”

I guess we were all at a loss for words after that. We had to hurry off to class and Bill, well, he had chores to attend to. However, after that brief exchange, things were never again the same around our squadron. Word spread like wildfire among the cadets that we had a hero in our midst-Mr. Crawford, our janitor, had won the Medal! Cadets who had once passed by Bill with hardly a glance, now greeted him with a smile and a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Crawford.”

Those who had before left a mess for the “janitor” to clean up started taking it upon themselves to put things in order. Most cadets routinely stopped to talk to Bill throughout the day and we even began inviting him to our formal squadron functions. He’d show up dressed in a conservative dark suit and quietly talk to those who approached him, the only sign of his heroics being a simple blue, star-spangled lapel pin.

Almost overnight, Bill went from being a simple fixture in our squadron to one of our teammates. Mr. Crawford changed too, but you had to look closely to notice the difference. After that fall day in 1976, he seemed to move with more purpose, his shoulders didn’t seem to be as stooped, he met our greetings with a direct gaze and a stronger “good morning” in return, and he flashed his crooked smile more often. The squadron gleamed as always, but everyone now seemed to notice it more. Bill even got to know most of us by our first names, something that didn’t happen often at the Academy. While no one ever formally acknowledged the change, I think we became Bill’s cadets and his squadron.

As often happens in life, events sweep us away from those in our past. The last time I saw Bill was on graduation day in June 1977. As I walked out of the squadron for the last time, he shook my hand and simply said, “Good luck, young man.” With that, I embarked on a career that has been truly lucky and blessed. Mr. Crawford continued to work at the Academy and eventually retired in his native Colorado where he resides today, one of four Medal of Honor winners living in a small town.

A wise person once said, “It’s not life that’s important, but those you meet along the way that make the difference.” Bill was one who made a difference for me. While I haven’t seen Mr. Crawford in over twenty years, he’d probably be surprised to know I think of him often. Bill Crawford, our janitor, taught me many valuable, unforgettable leadership lessons. Here are ten I’d like to share with you.

1. Be Cautious of Labels. Labels you place on people may define your relationship to them and bound their potential. Sadly, and for a long time, we labeled Bill as just a janitor, but he was so much more. Therefore, be cautious of a leader who callously says, “Hey, he’s just an Airman.” Likewise, don’t tolerate the O-1, who says, “I can’t do that, I’m just a lieutenant.”

2. Everyone Deserves Respect. Because we hung the “janitor” label on Mr. Crawford, we often wrongly treated him with less respect than others around us. He deserved much more, and not just because he was a Medal of Honor winner. Bill deserved respect because he was a janitor, walked among us, and was a part of our team.

3. Courtesy Makes a Difference. Be courteous to all around you, regardless of rank or position. Military customs, as well as common courtesies, help bond a team. When our daily words to Mr. Crawford turned from perfunctory “hellos” to heartfelt greetings, his demeanor and personality outwardly changed. It made a difference for all of us.

4. Take Time to Know Your People. Life in the military is hectic, but that’s no excuse for not knowing the people you work for and with. For years a hero walked among us at the Academy and we never knew it. Who are the heroes that walk in your midst?

5. Anyone Can Be a Hero. Mr. Crawford certainly didn’t fit anyone’s standard definition of a hero. Moreover, he was just a private on the day he won his Medal. Don’t sell your people short, for any one of them may be the hero who rises to the occasion when duty calls. On the other hand, it’s easy to turn to your proven performers when the chips are down, but don’t ignore the rest of the team. Today’s rookie could and should be tomorrow’s superstar.

6. Leaders Should Be Humble. Most modern day heroes and some leaders are anything but humble, especially if you calibrate your “hero meter” on today’s athletic fields. End zone celebrations and self-aggrandizement are what we’ve come to expect from sports greats. Not Mr. Crawford-he was too busy working to celebrate his past heroics. Leaders would be well-served to do the same.

7. Life Won’t Always Hand You What You Think You Deserve. We in the military work hard and, dang it, we deserve recognition, right? However, sometimes you just have to persevere, even when accolades don’t come your way. Perhaps you weren’t nominated for junior officer or airman of the quarter as you thought you should - don’t let that stop you.

8. Don’t pursue glory; pursue excellence. Private Bill Crawford didn’t pursue glory; he did his duty and then swept floors for a living. No job is beneath a Leader. If Bill Crawford, a Medal of Honor winner, could clean latrines and smile, is there a job beneath your dignity? Think about it.

9. Pursue Excellence. No matter what task life hands you, do it well. Dr. Martin Luther King said, “If life makes you a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper you can be.” Mr. Crawford modeled that philosophy and helped make our dormitory area a home.

10. Life is a Leadership Laboratory. All too often we look to some school or PME class to teach us about leadership when, in fact, life is a leadership laboratory. Those you meet everyday will teach you enduring lessons if you just take time to stop, look and listen. I spent four years at the Air Force Academy, took dozens of classes, read hundreds of books, and met thousands of great people. I gleaned leadership skills from all of them, but one of the people I remember most is Mr. Bill Crawford and the lessons he unknowingly taught. Don’t miss your opportunity to learn.

Bill Crawford was a janitor. However, he was also a teacher, friend, role model and one great American hero. Thanks, Mr. Crawford, for some valuable leadership lessons.

Dale Pyeatt, Executive Director of the National Guard Association of Texas, comments: And now, for the “rest of the story”: Pvt William John Crawford was a platoon scout for 3rd Platoon of Company L 1 42nd Regiment 36th Division (Texas National Guard) and won the Medal Of Honor for his actions on Hill 424, just 4 days after the invasion at Salerno.

On Hill 424, Pvt Crawford took out 3 enemy machine guns before darkness fell, halting the platoon’s advance.
Pvt Crawford could not be found and was assumed dead. The request for his MOH was quickly approved.

Major General Terry Allen presented the posthumous MOH to Bill Crawford’s father, George, on 11 May 1944 in Camp (now Fort) Carson, near Pueblo. Nearly two months after that, it was learned that Pvt Crawford was alive in a POW camp in Germany. During his captivity, a German guard clubbed him with his rifle. Bill overpowered him, took the rifle away, and beat the guard unconscious. A German doctor’s testimony saved him from severe punishment, perhaps death. To stay ahead of the advancing Russian army, the prisoners were marched 500 miles in 52 days in the middle of the German winter, subsisting on one potato a day. An allied tank column liberated the camp in the spring of 1945, and Pvt Crawford took his first hot shower in 18 months on VE Day. Pvt Crawford stayed in the army before retiring as a MSG and becoming a janitor. In 1984, President Ronald Reagan officially presented the MOH to Bill Crawford.

William Crawford passed away in 2000. He is the only U.S. Army veteran and sole Medal of Honor winner to be buried in the cemetery of the U.S. Air Force Academy.

Airborne & Special Operations Museum Foundation:

In this colorized photo taken on the evening of June 5th, 1944, Soldiers from Fox Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division are pictured waiting for their C-47 to take off to Normandy.

Robert “Bob” Noody is pictured second from right with the bazooka. Looking back, Noody said he must have weighed at least 250 lbs., encumbered with his M-1 rifle, a bazooka, three rockets, land mines, and other assorted "necessities".

Fifty feet of rope hung from his chest, which he later used to lower his leg bag to the ground, easing his fall and ensuring he was ready to fight. He landed behind the mayor’s house at Ste. Mere-Eglise. In the ensuing days, Noody utilized his bazooka to destroy a German tank that threatened his unit outside of Carentan. For this action, Robert Noody received a Bronze Star with Oakleaf Cluster. It was his first and last bazooka usage, as he expended the three rockets he carried into battle. A leg wound at Carentan ended his Normandy adventure.

He was only 20 years old on D-Day, and later in the war, Noody made the Operation Market Garden jump and fought with Fox Company from Eindhoven to the Rhine. Noody was discharged from the Army in November 1945 at Fort Dix, New Jersey, and received two Purple Hearts, the Bronze Star for his actions in Carentan, two Presidential Unit Citations, and the French Croix de Guerre.

What a hero!
#FlashbackFriday #militaryhistory #airborne #WWII #DDay

The incredible story of POW Navy Pilot Dieter Dengler and his escape from a prison camp in Laos.

Dieter Dengler (May 22, 1938 – February 7, 2001) was a German-born United States Navy aviator during the Vietnam War and, following six months of imprisonment and torture, became the first captured U.S. airman to escape enemy captivity during the war. Of seven prisoners of war who escaped together from a Pathet Lao prison camp in Laos, Dengler was one of two survivors (the other was Thailand citizen Phisit Intharathat). Dengler was rescued after 23 days on the run.

Dieter Dengler was born and raised in the small town of Wildberg, in the Black Forest region of the German state of Baden-Württemberg. He grew up not knowing his father, who had been drafted into the German army in 1939 and was killed during World War II on the Eastern Front during the winter of 1943/44. Dengler became very close to his mother and brothers. Dengler's maternal grandfather, Hermann Schnuerle, claimed he refused to vote for Adolf Hitler in the 1934 elections. Subsequently he was paraded around town with a placard around his neck, was spat upon, and was then sent to labor in a rock mine for a year. Dengler credited his grandfather's resolve as a major inspiration during his time in Laos. His grandfather's steadfastness despite the great risks was one reason Dengler refused a North Vietnamese demand that he sign a document condemning American aggression in Southeast Asia.

Dieter grew up in extreme poverty but always found ways to help his family survive. Dieter and his brothers would go into bombed-out buildings, tear off wallpaper, and bring it to their mother to boil for the nutrients in the wheat-based wallpaper paste. When members of the small group of Moroccans who lived in the area would slaughter sheep for their meals, Dieter would sneak over to their lodgings to take the scraps and leftovers they would not eat and his mother would make dinner from them. He also built a bicycle by scavenging from dumps. Dieter was apprenticed to a blacksmith at the age of 14. The blacksmith and the other boys, who worked six days a week building giant clocks and clock faces to repair German cathedrals, regularly beat him. Later in life Dieter thanked his former master "for his disciplined training and for helping Dieter become more capable, self-reliant and yes, 'tough enough to survive'".

After seeing an advertisement in an American magazine, expressing a need for pilots, he decided to go to the United States. Although a family friend agreed to sponsor him, he lacked money for passage and came up with a plan to independently salvage brass and other metals to sell.

In 1956, when he turned 18 and upon completion of his apprenticeship, Dengler hitchhiked to Hamburg and spent two weeks surviving on the streets before the ship set sail for New York City. While on the ship he saved fruit and sandwiches for the coming days and when going through customs the agent was astonished when the food tumbled out of his shirt. He lived on the streets of Manhattan for just over a week and eventually found his way to an Air Force recruiter. He was assured that piloting aircraft was what the Air Force was all about so he enlisted in June 1957 and went to basic training at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, Texas. After basic training, Dengler spent two years peeling potatoes and then transferred to a motor pool as a mechanic. His qualifications as a machinist led to an assignment as a gunsmith. He passed the test for aviation cadets but was told that only college graduates were selected to be pilots and his enlistment expired before he was selected for pilot training.

After his discharge Dengler joined his brother working in a bakery shop near San Francisco and enrolled in San Francisco City College, then transferred to the College of San Mateo, where he studied aeronautics. Upon completion of two years of college he applied for the US Navy aviation cadet program and was accepted.
Dengler would do whatever it took to become a pilot. In his inaugural flight at primary flight training, for example, the instructor told Dengler that if he became airsick and vomited in the cockpit that he would receive a "down" on his record. Students were only allowed three downs then they would wash out of flight training. The instructor took the plane through spins and loops causing Dengler to become dizzy and disoriented. Knowing he was about to vomit and not wanting to receive a "down", Dengler took off his boot, threw up into it and put it back on. At the end of the flight the instructor checked the cockpit and could smell the vomit, but couldn't find any evidence of it. He didn't get a "down".

After his completion of flight training Dengler went to the Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, Texas for training as an attack pilot in the Douglas AD Skyraider. He joined VA-145 while the squadron was on shore duty at Naval Air Station Alameda, California. In 1965 the squadron joined the carrier USS Ranger. In December the carrier set sail for the coast of Vietnam. He was stationed initially at Dixie Station, off South Vietnam then moved north to Yankee Station for operations against North Vietnam.

On February 1, 1966, the day after the carrier began flying missions from Yankee Station, Lieutenant, Junior Grade Dengler launched from the Ranger with three other aircraft on an interdiction mission against a truck convoy that had been reported in North Vietnam. Thunderstorms forced the pilots to divert to their secondary target, a road intersection located west of the Mu Gia Pass in Laos. At the time, U.S. air operations in Laos were classified "secret". Visibility was poor due to smoke from burning fields, and upon rolling in on the target, Dengler and the remainder of his flight lost sight of one another. Visibility was poor, and as Dengler rolled his Skyraider in on the target after flying for two-and-a-half hours into enemy territory, he was hit by anti-aircraft fire.

"There was a large explosion on my right side," he remembered when interviewed shortly before his death in 2001.

It was like lightning striking. The right wing was gone. The airplane seemed to cartwheel through the sky in slow motion. There were more explosions—boom, boom, boom—and I was still able to guide the plane into a clearing in Laos.
He said: "Many times, people have asked me if I was afraid. Just before dying, there is no more fear. I felt I was floating."

When his squadron mates realized that he had been downed, they remained confident that he would be rescued. Immediately after he was shot down, Dengler smashed his survival radio and hid most of his other survival equipment to keep Vietnamese or Lao search parties from finding it. The day after being shot down Dengler was apprehended by Pathet Lao troops, the Laotian equivalent of the Viet Cong.

He was marched through the jungle, was tied on the ground to four stakes spreadeagled in order to stop him escaping at night. In the morning his face would be swollen from mosquito bites and he was unable to see.

After an early escape attempt he was recaptured while drinking from a spring. According to Dengler he was tortured in retaliation:

I had escaped from them, [and] they wanted to get even. He was hung upside down by his ankles with a nest of biting ants over his face until he lost consciousness, suspended in a freezing well at night so that if he fell asleep he might drown. On other occasions he was dragged through villages by a water buffalo, to the amusement of his guards, as they goaded the animal with a whip. He was asked by Pathet Lao officials to sign a document condemning the United States, but he refused and as a result he was tortured as tiny wedges of bamboo were inserted under his fingernails and into incisions on his body which grew and festered.

"They were always thinking of something new to do to me." Dengler recalled. "One guy made a rope tourniquet around my upper arm. He inserted a piece of wood, and twisted and twisted until my nerves cut against the bone. The hand was completely unusable for six months."

After some weeks Dengler was handed over to the Vietnamese. As they marched him through a village, a man slipped Dengler's engagement ring from his finger. Dengler complained to his guards. They found the culprit, summarily chopped off his finger with a machete and handed the ring back to Dengler.

"I realized right there and then that you don't fool around with the Viet Cong", he said.
Dengler had trained in escaping and survival at the Navy SERE survival school, where he had twice escaped from the mock-POW camp run by SERE instructors and Marine guards and was planning a third escape when the training ended. He had also set a record as the only student to gain weight (three pounds) during the SERE course; his childhood experiences had made him unafraid of eating whatever he could find and he had feasted on food the course instructors had thrown in the garbage.

Dengler was eventually brought to a prison camp near the village of Par Kung where he met other POWs. The other six prisoners were:
Phisit Intharathat (Thai)
Prasit Promsuwan (Thai)
Prasit Thanee (Thai)
Y.C. To (Chinese)
Eugene DeBruin (American)
Duane W. Martin (American)

Except for Martin, an Air Force helicopter pilot who had been shot down in North Vietnam nearly a year before, the other prisoners were civilians employed by Air America, a civilian airline owned by the Central Intelligence Agency. The civilians had been held by the Pathet Lao for over two and a half years when Dengler joined them.

"I had hoped to see other pilots. What I saw horrified me. The first one who came out was carrying his intestines around in his hands. One had no teeth - plagued by awful infections, he had begged the others to knock them out with a rock and a rusty nail in order to release pus from his gums". "They had been there for two and a half years," said Dengler. "I looked at them and it was just awful. I realized that was how I would look in six months. I had to escape."

The day he arrived in the camp, Dengler advised the other prisoners that he intended to escape and invited them to join him. They advised that he wait until the monsoon season when there would be plenty of water.

Shortly after Dengler arrived, the prisoners were moved to a new camp ten miles away at Hoi Het. After the move, a strong debate ensued among the prisoners with Dengler, Martin and Prasit arguing for escape which the other prisoners, particularly Phisit initially opposed.

As food began to run out, tension between the men grew: they were given just a single handful of rice to share while the guards would stalk deer, pulling the grass out of the animal's stomach for the prisoners to eat while they shared the meat. The prisoners' only "treats" were snakes they occasionally caught from the communal latrine or the rats that lived under their hut which they could spear with sharpened bamboo. At night the men were handcuffed together and shackled to wooden foot blocks. They suffered chronic dysentery and were made to lie in their excrement until morning.

After several months, one of the Thai prisoners overheard the guards talking about shooting them in the jungle and making it look like an escape attempt. They too, were starving and wanted to return to their villages. With that revelation, everyone agreed and a date to escape was set. Their plan was to take over the camp and signal a C-130 Hercules flare-ship that made nightly visits to the area. Dengler loosened logs under the hut that allowed the prisoners to squeeze through. The plan was for him to go out when the guards were eating and seize their weapons and pass them to Phisit Intharathat and Promsuwan while Martin and DeBruin procured others from other locations.

"I planned to capture the guards at lunchtime, when they put down their rifles to get their food. There were two minutes and twenty seconds in the day when I could strike." In that time Dengler had to release all the men from their handcuffs.

Escape
On June 29, 1966 while the guards were eating, the group slipped out of their hand-cuffs and foot restraints and grabbed the guards' unattended weapons which included M1 rifles, Chinese automatic rifles, an American carbine and at least one sub-machine gun as well as an early version of the AK47 automatic rifle, which Dengler used during the escape from the POW camp. Dengler went out first followed by Martin. He went to the guard hut and seized an M1 for himself and passed the American carbine to Martin. The guards realized the prisoners had escaped and five of them rushed toward Dengler, who shot at least three with the AK47. Phisit killed another guard as he reached for his rifle. Two others ran off, presumably to get help, although at least one had been wounded. The seven prisoners split into three groups. DeBruin was originally supposed to go with Dengler and Martin but decided to go with To, who was recovering from a fever and unable to keep up. They intended to get over the nearest ridge and wait for rescue. Dengler and Martin went off by themselves with the intention of heading for the Mekong River to escape to Thailand, but they never got more than a few miles from the camp from which they had escaped.

"Seven of us escaped," said Dengler. "I was the only one who came out alive."
With the exception of Phisit, who was recaptured and later rescued by Laotian troops, none of the other prisoners were ever seen again. DeBruin was reportedly captured and placed in another camp, then disappeared in 1968.

Rescue
Escape proved to be hazardous. Soon, the two men's feet were white, mangled stumps from trekking through the dense jungle. They found the sole of an old tennis shoe, which they wore alternately, strapping it onto a foot with rattan for a few moments' respite. In this way they were able to make their way to a fast-flowing river.

"It was the highway to freedom," said Dengler, "We knew it would flow into the Mekong River, which would take us over the border into Thailand and to safety."

The men built a raft and floated downstream on ferocious rapids, tying themselves to trees at night to stop themselves being washed away in the torrential water. By morning they would be covered in mud and hundreds of leeches. When they thought they were on their way to the Mekong, they discovered that they had gone around in a circle. They had spotted several villages but had not been detected. They set up camp in an abandoned village where they found shelter from the nearly incessant rain. They had brought rice with them and found other food, but were still on the verge of starvation. Their intent had been to signal a C-130 but at first lacked the energy to build a fire using primitive methods of rubbing bamboo together. Dengler finally managed to locate carbine cartridges that Martin had thrown away and used their powder to enhance the tinder and got a fire going. That night they lit torches and waved them in the shape of an S and O when a C-130 came over. The airplane circled and dropped a couple of flares and they were overjoyed, believing they had been spotted. They woke up the next morning to find the landscape covered by fog and drizzle, but when it lifted, no rescue force appeared.

Martin, who was weak from starvation and was suffering from malaria, wanted to approach a nearby Akha village to steal some food. Dengler knew it was not a good idea, but refused to let his friend go near the village alone. They saw a little boy playing with a dog and the child ran into the village calling out "American!" Within seconds a villager appeared and they knelt down on the trail in supplication, but the man swung his machete and struck Martin in the leg. With the next swipe, Martin's head came off. Dengler jumped to his feet and rushed toward the villager, who turned and ran into the village to get help.

I reached for the rubber sole from his foot, grabbed it and ran. From that moment on, all my motions became mechanical. I couldn't care less if I lived or died.

Dengler recalls, it was a wild animal who gave him the mental strength to continue.
"I was followed by this beautiful bear. He became like my pet dog and was the only friend I had."
These were his darkest hours. Little more than a walking skeleton after weeks on the run, he floated in and out of a hallucinatory state.

"I was just crawling along," he said. "Then I had a vision: these enormous doors opened up. Lots of horses came galloping out. They were not driven by death, but by angels. Death didn't want me."

Dengler managed to evade the searchers who went out after him and escaped back into the jungle. He returned to the abandoned village where the two had been spending their time and where he and Martin had signaled the C-130. That night when a C-130 flare-ship came, Dengler set fire to the huts and burned the village down. The C-130 crew spotted the fires and dropped flares, but even though the crew reported their sighting when they returned to Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base, the fires were not recognized by intelligence as having been a signal from a survivor.

Deatrick has long marvelled at the fact that had he stuck to his original flight schedule on the morning of July 20, 1966, Dieter would not have been at the river to be sighted at that earlier hour. "If God put me on the earth for one reason," Deatrick says, "it was to find Dieter over there in the jungle." As it was, Deatrick describes it as "a million-in-one chance."
-Excerpt from Dengler biography regarding the role of pilot Eugene Deatrick

When a rescue force again failed to materialize, Dengler decided to find one of the parachutes from a flare for use as a possible signal. He found one on a bush and placed it in his rucksack. On July 20, 1966, after 23 days in the jungle, Dengler managed to signal an Air Force pilot with the parachute. A 2-ship flight of Air Force Skyraiders from the 1st Air Commando Squadron happened to fly up the river where Dengler was. Eugene Peyton Deatrick, the pilot of the lead plane and the squadron commander, spotted a flash of white while making a turn at the river's bend and came back and spotted a man waving something white. Deatrick and his wingman contacted rescue forces, but were told to ignore the sighting, as no airmen were known to be down in the area. Deatrick persisted and eventually managed to convince the command and control center to dispatch a rescue force. Fearing that Dengler might be a Viet Cong soldier, the helicopter crew restrained him when he was brought aboard.

According to the documentary Little Dieter Needs to Fly Dengler said one of the flight crew who was holding him down pulled out a half eaten snake from underneath Dengler's clothing and was so surprised he nearly fell out of the helicopter. Dengler was stripped of his clothes to ensure he was not armed or in possession of a hand grenade. When questioned, Dengler told Air Force pararescue specialist Michael Leonard that he was a Navy Lieutenant JG who had escaped from a North Vietnamese prisoner of war camp two months earlier. Deatrick radioed the rescue helicopter crew to see if they could identify the person they had just hoisted up from the jungle. They reported that they had a man who claimed to be a downed Navy pilot who flew a Douglas A-1H Skyraider.

It wasn't until after he reached the hospital at Da Nang that Dengler's identity was confirmed. A conflict between the Air Force and the Navy developed over who should control his debriefing and recovery. In an apparent attempt to prevent the Air Force from embarrassing them in some way, the Navy sent a team of SEALs into the hospital to steal Dengler. He was brought out of the hospital in a covered gurney and rushed to the air field, where he was placed aboard a Navy carrier delivery transport Grumman C-2A from VR-21 and flown to the Ranger where a welcoming party had been prepared. At night, however, he was tormented by awful terrors, and had to be tied to his bed. In the end, his friends put him to sleep in a cockpit, surrounded by pillows. "It was the only place I felt safe," he said.

Dengler's deprivation from malnutrition and parasites caused the Navy doctors to order that he be airlifted to the United States.

Later life and death
Dengler recovered physically, but never put his ordeal behind him. As Werner Herzog described it in his documentary about Dengler, "Men are often haunted by things that happen to them in life, especially in war Their lives seem to be normal, but they are not."

He remained in the navy for a year, was promoted to Lieutenant, and was trained to fly jets. When his military obligation was satisfied, he resigned from the Navy and applied for a position as an airline pilot with Trans World Airlines (TWA). He continued flying and survived four subsequent crashes as a civilian test pilot.

In 1977, during a time when he was furloughed from TWA, Dengler returned to Laos and was greeted as a celebrity by the Pathet Lao. He was taken to the camp from which he had escaped and was surprised to discover that at one point he and Martin had been within a mile and a half of it.

His fascination with airplanes and aviation continued for the remainder of his life. He continued flying almost up until his death. He took an early-retirement as a pilot for TWA sometime prior to 1985, but continued flying his meticulously restored Cessna 195, putting it on static display at numerous California air shows.

In 2000, Dengler was inducted into the Gathering of Eagles program and told the story of his escape to groups of young military officers. Dengler was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, an incurable neurological disorder; on February 7, 2001, he rolled his wheelchair from his house down to the driveway of a fire station and shot himself. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. A Navy honor guard was present at the burial as well as a fly-over by Navy F-14 Tomcats.

It was well recognized that Martha Raye endured less comfort and more danger than any other Vietnam entertainer.
Don't let the sun go down without reading this about Martha Raye. The most unforgivable oversight of TV is that her shows were not taped. I was unaware of her credentials or where she is buried.
Somehow I just can't see Brittany Spears, Paris Hilton, or Jessica Simpson doing what this woman (and the other USO women, including Ann Margaret & Joey Heatherton) did for our troops in past wars.
Most of the old time entertainers were made of a lot sterner stuff than today's crop of activists bland whiners.
The following is from an Army Aviator who takes a trip down memory lane:
"It was just before Thanksgiving '67 and we were ferrying dead and wounded from a large GRF west of Pleiku. We had run out of body bags by noon, so the Hook (CH-47 CHINOOK) was pretty rough in the back.
All of a sudden, we heard a 'take-charge' woman's voice in the rear. There was the singer and actress, Martha Raye, with a SF (Special Forces) beret and jungle fatigues, with subdued markings, helping the wounded into the Chinook, and carrying the dead aboard. 'Maggie' had been visiting her SF 'heroes' out 'west'.
We took off, short of fuel, and headed to the USAF hospital pad at Pleiku.
As we all started unloading our sad pax's, a 'Smart Mouth' USAF Captain said to Martha: "Ms Ray, with all these dead and wounded to process, there would not be time for your show!"
To all of our surprise, she pulled on her right collar and said...
"Captain, see this eagle? I am a full 'Bird' in the US Army Reserve, and on this is a 'Caduceus' which means I am a Nurse, with a surgical specialty... now, take me to your wounded!"
He said, "Yes ma'am, follow me."
Several times at the Army Field Hospital in Pleiku, she would 'cover' a surgical shift, giving a nurse a well-deserved break.
Martha is the only woman buried in the SF (Special Forces) cemetery at Ft Bragg.
Salute to Colonel Maggie! - A Great American!

OTD:
- 45 B.C.: The Julian calendar takes effect, so people celebrate New Year's Eve for the first time.
- 1863: The Emancipation Proclamation takes effect, President Lincoln's Executive Order that slavery be abolished in all states where it is being practiced, allowing people in those regions to be Free.
- 1892: Ellis Island opens its doors in New York Harbor, Welcoming millions of immigrants in the coming decades to America hoping for a better life.
- 1919: A guy with a strange name steps into his father's shoes as Edsel Ford takes the reigns from Henry as President of Ford Motor Company.
- 1959: Dictator Fulgencio Batista flees Cuba as rebels fighting under revolutionary Fidel Castro take control of the island, a bloody revolution which Castro promised would "free all the people" later imprisoning tens of thousands under his even more brutal dictatorship, a curiosity which has somehow managed to remain in effect in other brutal dictatorships around the world (North Korea, Iran, others) as their citizens have yet to figure out how to set their minds - and themselves Free.

Eclipse, a dog who gained notoriety for riding Seattle’s city bus alone, died in her sleep on Friday, according to her owner-run Facebook account. She was 10 years old.

The big red bus with three doors had been a fixture of Eclipse's daily routine for years, owner Jeff Young told USA TODAY. Several green and yellow buses stopped right outside of Young's apartment, but Eclipse knew to take the red one to the dog park in Belltown because she had done it "a million times," Young said. He adopted Eclipse when she was just 10 weeks old.

In 2015, the black lab-bullmastiff mix dog began commuting without Young two to three times a week after sneaking on the bus alone while Young was smoking a cigarette. Eclipse knew exactly where to get off the bus by looking out the window, Young said. Eclipse would hop off the bus and "fly" straight to the dog park about a block and a half away.

Eclipse, a dog who gained notoriety for riding Seattle’s city bus alone, is seen riding the bus in October, 2021.
"She would break off whatever conversation she was having or whatever interaction, jump down, go to the back door and start banging on the glass," Young said.

And since that first solo ride in 2015, Young had to keep a closer eye on Eclipse. "The celebrity kind of got out of hand," Young said. Young said Eclipse has been his "best friend" for the last 11 years.
"Missing her doesn't even cover it," he said.
~ Credits goes to respective owners

You may heard of Hadrian’s wall but not so many have heard of Antonine wall. The Antonine Wall is a remarkable historical monument that stretches across central Scotland, from Bo'ness on the Firth of Forth to Old Kilpatrick on the River Clyde. Built by the Romans in the 2nd century AD, it served as a barrier between the Roman Empire and the native Caledonian tribes of Scotland.

The Antonine Wall was constructed in AD 142-144 by soldiers from three Roman legions to serve as a barrier between the Roman Empire and the native Caledonian tribes of Scotland. It was a massive engineering feat that required the movement of thousands of tons of earth and stone, and it marked the northernmost frontier of the Roman Empire. Despite its relatively short lifespan, the 39 mile Antonine Wall remains an impressive engineering and cultural monument that provides a unique insight into the history of the region.
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Seals and/or Night Stalkers- Join Fall In for an Unforgettable Veterans Retreat at Camp Brown Bear!

At Fall In, we’re all about honoring and supporting our veterans, and this retreat is a special opportunity to do just that. Camp Brown Bear, a serene and healing place founded by retired Seal Team 6 member Steve Brown, is the perfect backdrop for our upcoming event.

About Camp Brown Bear:
Nestled in the heart of nature, Camp Brown Bear offers a tranquil escape for veterans seeking relaxation, camaraderie, and healing. With Steve Brown at the helm, you’ll be in the company of a true hero and a dedicated founder who understands the needs of our veterans.

Retreat Details:
Join us from December 15th to 17th, 2023, for an incredible experience like no other. Relax alongside Night Stalkers and Seals, share stories, and create lasting memories in this picturesque setting.

Bourbon 30 Showcase:
Camp Brown Bear will also be showcasing Bourbon 30, a custom blend of Kentucky’s finest bourbon. Savor the flavors and indulge in the rich history of this exceptional spirit.

Contact Us:
Seats for this exclusive retreat are limited, so don’t miss out! To reserve your spot and be part of this extraordinary event, contact us at skipper@fall-in-veteran.com.

Join us at Camp Brown Bear for an unforgettable experience of camaraderie, healing, and relaxation. It’s a retreat like no other, and we can’t wait to welcome you! #CampBrownBearRetreat #VeteransSupport #FallInForVeterans