“Homecoming Marine (The War Hero)” by Norman Rockwell (1945)

Homecoming soldiers were a popular subject for illustrators in 1945. But for this end-of-war cover, Rockwell took an unusual approach to capturing a Veteran’s welcome home.

A traditional cover would have shown a G.I. standing tall and proud among civilian admirers, and Rockwell had produced a cover like that after the last war. It showed a tough, confident doughboy surrounded by adoring younger boys. But at the end of this world war, he gives us a slim, young Marine sitting on a box. As if to emphasize his youth, he is seated beside a little boy who is mimicking his pose.

The newspaper on the wall gives us his back story: The mechanic who’d enlisted for the war has now returned a hero, probably from the Asian theater, judging by the flag he is holding. But, instead of recounting tales of glory, he is looking up with a thoughtful, almost troubled expression at the boy who has just asked him a question.

Rockwell was a master at conveying the subtleties of human expression, and it’s clear his intention wasn’t merely to show a hometown boy back in familiar surroundings, but also to capture the newly returned Veteran’s feeling of isolation — knowing he can never adequately convey to the folks at home the things he experienced in the war.

https://www.af.mil/News/Article-Display/Article/3446898/vietnam-war-pilot-returns-home/

Casualties of war took on many forms, as does their return home. God Bless all MIA/POWs/Veterans of Foreign Wars . It’s a part of war many forget that continues long after the battle. We must understand the long term effects on those that spend their lives protecting our freedoms.

We just got the information for this “Mission Request “ at 0300 we are putting this out to get a feeler for who all can join us and see if we can make it happen. We realize it’s a midweek ,workday , not much notice , but are hoping we can get those who can make it to join .

The main time of importance is the Fuel Plaza at 0900 in Pleasant View. If we have enough people that can join we will pick a meet spot to depart from Clarksville to arrive as a group. More to follow on that .

Weds Jun 26 2024——Target times—-

Meeting with Alaska Airlines Honor Cart Escort

Horizon Fuel Plaza
2601 Hwy 49 W Pleasant View Tn 0900

Conduct Safety Brief /
Depart from Fuel Plaza 0930

Arrive for Ceremony 0954
Nashville National Cemetery in Madison Tn

After Ceremony we will await call from Alaska Airlines to depart for Airport for
Mission Completion

What an honor to spend the afternoon with such a GREAT America.

Long Live LT Dan!

Tajik
Though their exact numbers are uncertain and as with other communities are contested, previous estimates have suggested that Tajiks make up around 27 per cent of the population, making them the second largest ethnic group in Afghanistan after the Pashtuns. They make up the bulk of Afghanistan’s elite, with considerable accumulated wealth within the community. As a result of this wealth and levels of education, they wield a significant political influence within Afghanistan. Being of Central Asian origin they maintain a kinship with the 7 million ethnic Tajiks who live in the neighbouring Central Asian state of Tajikistan.

While mainly urban in the pre-Soviet era, living in and around Kabul and the mountainous Badashkshan region in the northeast, they now live in different areas throughout the state though mainly concentrated in northern, northeastern and western Afghanistan. The population of Tajiks in the northeast fluctuated considerably during the Taliban era as the Taliban and opposition forces fought over the control of the territory.

Historical context

Most Tajiks are Sunni Muslims, with a minority of Twelver Imami Shi’a in the west around the city of Herat, and speak a form of Dari (Farsi dialect) close to the national language of Iran. They belong to an ethnic group that appears not to have retained memories of their tribal past, which as a result seems lost in ancient times. Instead, unlike the Pashtuns they have no specific social structure, and Afghan Tajik loyalty patterns evolve around the village and family. Interestingly, they appear to have adopted the social and cultural patterns of their neighbours in the regions where they live.

B.
Historical context
Pashtuns are historically the dominant ethnic community in Afghanistan, and they have actively fought to keep their predominance throughout Afghan history. In the years before 1978 Pashtuns made up about 40 per cent of the Afghan population. After the Soviet invasion in 1979, some 85 per cent of the more than 3 million Afghan refugees in Pakistan were Pashtuns. They have always played a central role in Afghan politics, and their dominant position has been a major catalyst in triggering conflict. For example, conflict arose between partners in the Mujahidin coalition which fought the Soviet troops and opposed the regime of President Mohammad Najibullah. Following Soviet withdrawal and that regime’s collapse, President Burhanuddin Rabbani represented the Tajik minority, whereas opposition troops led by Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, and those of the Taliban, were mainly Pashtun.

The Taliban rule was based on a strict and controversial interpretation of Shari’a law and it was responsible, during its dominance, for grave human rights violations based on gender, and also for ethnic discrimination. This period brought severe poverty to Afghanistan, accompanied by food insecurity for most Afghans, and large-scale displacement and emigration, though some Pashtun communities were treated favourably and protected against the worst of the conditions. However, though Pashtuns were in power, the majority of the community nonetheless continued to suffer discrimination. This was particularly true for Pashtun families who had been moved to the north more than 100 years earlier by Amir Abdur Rahman Khan, as part of a state consolidation effort. They were left to the mercy of the Tajiks and Uzbeks who are the predominant ethnic groups in the area. There have been reports of ethnic massacres at Mazar-e-Sharif in 1997 and 1998 and continuing reports of violence targeted against the Pashtuns (whether or not formely Taliban supporters) as vengeance for the Taliban regime’s excesses.

With the collapse of the Taliban regime and the signing of the Bonn Agreement in 2001, Pashtun dominance over the other ethnic groups in Afghanistan came to an end. Of the estimated one million internally displaced at that time, most of those remaining in displacement were Pashtuns, who had been uprooted by ethnic violence in the north and the west of the country.

Current issues

Since the fall of the Taliban, there has a fundamental shift in the traditional power balance. Although the first post-Taliban president, Hamid Karzai, belongs to a prominent Pashtun family from Qandahar, the central government was largely dominated by the Uzbeks and Tajiks of the Northern Alliance. This less privileged position in administration and power has created obvious dissatisfaction among Pashtuns. Following the final results of the most recent 2010 parliamentary elections, Pashtun parliamentary candidates from Herat and several other provinces staged protests, claiming that they were systematically excluded from the election process through fraud and intimidation. Nevertheless, Pashtuns remain the largest ethnic group and therefore in an increasingly democratic system are likely to regain their influence. Indeed, Karzai’s successor, President Ashraf Ghani is also a Pashtun, although when he took office in 2014, he signalled his intention to break through ethnic barriers by dropping his tribal last name from official documents.

Nuristanis
Nuristanis arrived in Afghanistan fleeing the eastward spread of Islam. They speak a unique Indo-European-language. Nuristanis were conquered by Amir Abdur Rahman Khan in 1895-96 and were obliged to abandon their ancient religious beliefs in favour of Islam. They reside mainly in the east of the country – between the Pashtun tribes of Kunar, Kalash in Pakistan’s Chitral, and Tajiks of Badakhshan in the north. Nuristan (‘land of light’) is located on the southern slopes of the Hindu Kush mountain range and is spread over four valleys, with each valley having its own distinct language/dialect: Kati, Waigali, Ashkun and Parsun.

Nuristan has very little arable land, the vast majority of the territory being covered by forest. The main base of the economy is animal husbandry – mostly goat-herding. While maize and barley are grown in small quantities, the Nuristani people survive mainly on subsistence agriculture, wheat, fruit and goats. Very few Nuristanis have had access to education. Yet, among those who have travelled to Kabul and been able to gain access to schools, some have gained prominence as well-known figures in the army and the government in Kabul.

Historical context

The Nuristanis’ scattered settlement is another result of Amir Abdul Rahman’s late-nineteenth-century expansionism. During his rule, what was then called Kafiristan (‘kafir’ meaning non-believer as Nuristanis did not convert to Islam until the twentieth century) was renamed as Nuristan (‘land of light’) after the forced Islamization of the community. Nuristanis are still sometimes referred to as ‘Kafir’. Some Nuristanis claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great and his forces.

Nuristani men and women follow a strict division of labour with the men working in livestock herding, while the women work on grain production or irrigated terraces.

The province was the scene of some of the heaviest guerrilla fighting during the 1979-89 Soviet invasion and occupation of Afghanistan. Nuristan is still used as a route by Taliban into Khyber Pakhtunkhwa of Pakistan.

Nuristan’s distinctive cultural heritage was under considerable threat during the period when the Taliban controlled Kabul. A collection of life-size wooden sculptures dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries was smashed by the Taliban in 2001 in their effort to destroy artistic expressions of the human form, as well as evidence that parts of Afghanistan had in fact followed other faiths than Islam until relatively recently. The collection had been brought back by the forces of Amir Abdul Rahman and housed at the National Museum. The statues depict ancestors as well as animistic and polytheistic divinities. Although some remain lost, others were hidden away by museum staff. Fourteen sculptures could be carefully restored and incorporated in an inaugural display at the newly reopened museum in 2004.

Current issues

The Constitution recognizes Nuristanis as one of the national minorities entitled to Afghan citizenship. However, Nuristan remains isolated and poverty-stricken, and due to the lack of regional institutions, there is a widespread lawlessness. As a geographically remote region, it has been difficult to establish a central government presence, and after it was virtually abandoned by NATO in 2009, many areas of Nuristan have come under the control of the Taliban. A Nuristani provincial governor commented that Nuristan province has been largely neglected by NATO and the central government as a symptom of long-term neglect and discrimination of the Nuristanis as an ethnic minority, who have not been able to represent themselves adequately in Kabul. In 2017, fighting between Taliban and ISIS erupted in the province, following a concerted effort by ISIS to recruit followers there.

Neglect from the central government as well as continuing violence and insecurity has produced extremely poor health, maternal health and education indicators. In March 2017, measles outbreaks reportedly killed 70 children in Nuristan province and schools were closed due to fear of an imminent Taliban siege in May. Community members reported a serious lack of qualified teachers and education facilities.

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.

By Major Mark A. Smith Sr. (ret)
Note: Some decades ago, a friend in the Pentagon asked me to jot down a few Soldierly thoughts. Through the years I added a couple, but deleted none of the originals. They may not be modern or politically corrected, but they did make the rounds. I stand by them today.
- Mark
1. Never accept an officer as competent based on his source of commission.
2. Your right to influence the battlefield is diminished in ratio to the distance you are from the actual arena of action.
3. The battlefield selects its own Generals. No school or board can replace it.
4. Never call fire on your own troops, unless you stand among them.
5. Leaders are indeed born and no military school can provide what God did not.
6. Equipment procurement will always be compromised by not only being made by the lowest bidder, but by attempting to make it multi-functional.
7. Attempting to lighten the soldier’s load by diminishing the weight of any given weapon, will always result in shorter range and less firepower.
8. Excellent staff officers rarely make good battlefield commanders.
9. Outstanding commanders will surround themselves with excellent staff officers.
10. Never make command a reward for good staff work.
11. Discipline began its decline with the demise of the swagger stick and centralized promotion boards.
12. Outstanding NCO’s may make good officers. But, rarely will a riffed officer make a good NCO.
13. Atheists will never be trusted by their troops on the battlefield.
14. Women can do many things men do, except for a few days every month.
15. Going through the change, has nothing to do with the female senior officer’s uniform.
16. Sexual harassment is a two-lane road.
17. Soldiers tell the truth about good and bad commanders. Their opinion is the ultimate evaluation of an officer.
18. No commander was ever hated for being too hard. But, many are detested for trying to cultivate that image, without substance.
19. The maximum effective range of any weapon is that range at which the individual soldier can hit his target and not an inch further.
20. Pretty females rarely feel harassed by male counterparts.
21. Plain-looking female soldiers are usually the best performers and fit in.
22. Endurance should be judged on the bayonet assault course and not on a marathon run.
23. How far soldiers can run in shorts is unimportant, compared to how far they can speed march with full equipment.
24. Pregnant females are overweight soldiers. Thus, the US Army Weight Control program is not based on equal enforcement of the rules.
25. Tears on the cheeks of any soldier, regardless of gender, are only acceptable on the death of a relative or comrade and when “Old Glory” passes by.
26. Pregnancy is self-inflicted, thus abortions should be paid for by the soldier, as a non line of duty procedure.
27. Soldiers are not ‘sent into combat,” they are led.
28. Your worth as an officer should never be judged on how well you ran with a football in college.
29. West Point is a place of learning, as is any college. Both produce two types of officer; Good and Bad.
30. The computer will never be able to judge the content of a soldier’s spirit, as his Sergeant can.
31. Esprit De Corps cannot be attained at the Battalion picnic or Sports Day. It must be instilled by good leadership and belief in one’s fellow soldiers.
32. No new weapon or tactic will ever instill the same fear in the enemy that one Infantryman with a bayonet can.
33. He who drinks at lunch is a drunken soldier in the afternoon.
34. No soldier is so smart that his physical deficiencies can be overlooked in the Infantry.
35. Painting rocks and serving drinks to officers, have never been soldierly functions. And golf is not a required skill for officers.
36. Consolidation of all administrative personnel at battalion level has eroded accountability and proper reporting.
37. Anyone who thinks that future battlefields will not contain Infantrymen knows nothing about war.
38. Indecision kills more soldiers than any wrong decision. One can command his way out of a wrong decision.
39. The only mission of the Infantry Soldier is to kill the enemy. “Humanitarian Missions" are someone else’s job.
40. Only the Infantry and Armor can gain ground. Only the Infantry can hold it alone.
41. Special Forces are not Rangers or Light Infantry and should never be employed as such.
42. Rangers are light infantry and are not Special Forces.
43. Victory is not a limited objective. There is no other reason to engage an enemy, except victory.
44. Never shower or apply after-shave and cologne, forty eight hours prior to a night attack.
45. Sweat is the true lubricant of the Infantry fighting machine.
46. No American Soldier can be managed to victory. He must be led.
47. The only color in the U.S. Army is green.
48. Use of chemical weapons and biological weapons are a crime against humanity.
49. Not training your soldiers to protect themselves from them is a crime against your own troops.
50. Any tactic written in a book is known to your enemies.
51. If short hair is truly a matter of hygiene and discipline, then all soldiers must have it.
52. No member of a soldier’s family is more important than the mission.
53. No soldier can accomplish his mission if the Army neglects his family.
54. Any soldier who sleeps with another soldier’s wife or lover cannot be trusted on the battlefield and should be shunned.
55. Officers are more likely to wear unauthorized awards than any NCO or Private.
56. Any officer who claims he is accepting an individual award for the entire unit should allow his soldiers to wear it.
57. There can be no quota for awards.
58. Any award for Valor is of more value to the Army than any school diploma or certification.
59. Heroism cannot be taught. But, cowardice is a communicable disease.
60. The machine gun is too important a weapon to be used as a tool for punishing poor soldiers.
61. Precision weapons will jam, if the Commander demands communal cleaning.
62. No officer should be given a command, because, he needs one for his career.
63. No officer should be denied a command, because, he already had one.
64. The state of the Army can be evaluated by how its soldiers look in uniform, at any airport in the world.
65. No reporter can be trusted with operational plans. A reporter who reveals operational plans is a traitor to his country.
66. A combat veteran of any war should be respected by soldiers.
67. American soldiers do not lose wars. Leaders lose wars.
68. What a soldier saw with his own eyes, cannot be ignored or changed by higher headquarters.
69. If Special Forces are not assigned strategic missions, they are being misused.
70. The “Hummer” is a vehicle and is the only thing of that name allowed in the Infantry.
71. If you wish to learn about guerrilla warfare, study Francis Marion and not Westmoreland or Giap.
72. The one night you don’t dig in, will bring mortars on your position.
73. Taking the easy way will always get you killed.
74. Blank ammunition has no place in Infantry training.
75. The more you restrict Infantrymen possessing live ammunition, the more accidents you will have.
76. The Air Force and Navy are supporting arms.
77. Intelligence Officer is usually a contradiction in terms.
78. Inclement weather is the true Infantryman’s ally.
79. There is no special duty so important, that it takes the Infantry Soldier away from his squad.
80. Commanders who use the “Off Limits” authority to deny sex to combat soldiers will have a high V.D. rate.
81. A Commander’s morals are his own and cannot be imposed on his soldiers.
82. Chaplains must present themselves when the soldier has time, not because they have a schedule.
83. An officer must be judged on his ability and not on how many coffees his wife has attended.
84. Senior officers who allow discussions about a brother officer, not present, are not honorable men.
85. A Commander who bad-mouths his predecessor will never be truly respected.
86. Equal opportunity is guaranteed by the law and does not require a separate staff.
87. If a Sergeant Major suggests a unit watch, he is the supplier.
88. The quality of food went down, with the initiation of the consolidated mess.
89. No NCO or Warrant Officer outranks a Second Lieutenant.
90. Any officer who does not listen to NCO’s and Warrant Officers is a fool.
91. If you wish your subordinates to call you by your first name, go sell shoes. There is no place for you in the Army.
92. Any Army man who sneers at a Marine for being sharp and well turned out is no soldier.
93. Any Infantryman who must call higher headquarters before engaging the enemy has a fool for a commander.
94. Soldiers respect leaders worth emulating. They cannot be “ordered” to respect anyone.
95. No man who refused to serve his country in war should be elected or appointed over men and women being sent to fight.

via: POW * MIA
·
REMEMBERING A HERO: Col. James "Nick" Rowe, was one of only thirty-four American POWs to escape captivity during the Vietnam War.

During most of his five years in captivity Rowe was held in a cage. He managed to escape on December 31, 1968, after overpowering his guard, he was picked up by a UH-1 helicopter.

More: http://www.pownetwork.org/bios/r/r077.htm

The Silver Star at just 18 Years old: (Then) Private First Class Monica Lin Brown served as a medic in Army. She deployed to Afghanistan at the age of 18 with the 4th Squadron, 73d Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division. When her convoy came under attack on April 25, 2007, she braved explosions and enemy fire to treat the wounded. One vehicle hit an IED and exploded. Brown moved through small arms fire to the vehicle and began moving casualties away from the wreckage. She treated them only 15 meters from the burning vehicle. Enemy mortars began falling around, and ammo inside the vehicle started cooking off.
Shrapnel and bullets filled the air all around from incoming enemy mortars and exploding friendly mortar rounds, 40mm grenades, and 5.56 ammo on the truck. Other soldiers arriving discovered that, miraculously, Brown was still alive. They moved her and the wounded to another area, where Brown continued her treatment and preparations for medevac.

For her courage and unselfishness remaining with the wounded and protecting them amidst the most dangerous conditions, Brown was awarded the Silver Star. The ceremony came a year after the action and her promotion to Specialist.
#military

79 years ago today, April 11, 1945, Robert Clary was liberated from Buchenwald Nazi concentration camp. He was the youngest of 14 children. Twelve other members of his immediate family were sent to Auschwitz. Clary was the only survivor. When he returned to Paris after the war, he learned that three of his siblings had not been taken away and survived the Nazi occupation of France. He played LeBeau on the TV show "Hogan's Heroes."

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.

REMEMBER THIS LADY!!!

Look at this lady - Let us never forget!
The world hasn't just become wicked - it's always been wicked.
The prize doesn't always go to the most deserving.

Irena Sendler
Died 12 May 2008 (aged 98)
Warsaw, Poland

During WWII, Irena, got permission to work in the Warsaw ghetto, as a plumbing/sewer specialist.
She had an 'ulterior motive'.

She KNEW what the Nazi's plans were for the Jews (being German).

Irena smuggled infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried and she carried in the back of her truck a burlap sack, (for larger kids).

She also had a dog in the back that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto.

The soldiers of course wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.

During her time of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants.

She was caught, and the Nazi's broke both her legs, arms and beat her severely.

Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she smuggled out and kept them in a glass jar, buried under a tree in her back yard.

After the war, she tried to locate any parents that may have survived it and reunited the family.
Most had been gassed. Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes or adopted.
Last year Irena was up for the Nobel Peace Prize. She was not selected.

In MEMORIAM - 79 YEARS LATER:
I'm doing my small part by forwarding this message. I hope you'll consider doing the same...

It is now more than 70 years after the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain, in memory of the six million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians and 1,900 Catholic priests who were murdered, massacred, raped, burned, starved and humiliated!

Now, more than ever, with Iran, and others, claiming the HOLOCAUST to be 'a myth'. It's imperative to make sure the world never forgets, because there are others who would like to do it again.

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

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!

Free ebook promotion.
The ebook version of the book I wrote will be free through Easter Sunday. All I ask is that after you read it you leave an honest review to help get my review numbers up.
It’s a Christian themed book telling my personal story of faith in my adult life.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0CR8PM7MP/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Military Times Early Bird Brief 27 March 24
Coast Guard conducts search and research mission after Baltimore bridge...

"The most fortunate of us, in our journey through life, frequently meet with calamities and misfortunes which may greatly afflict us; and, to fortify our minds against the attacks of these calamities and misfortunes, should be one of the principal studies and endeavours of our lives.

The only method of doing this is to assume a perfect resignation to the Divine will, to consider that whatever does happen, must happen; and that by our uneasiness, we cannot prevent the blow before it does fall, but we may add to its force after it has fallen.

These considerations, and others such as these, may enable us in some measure to surmount the difficulties thrown in our way; to bear up with a tolerable degree of patience under this burthen of life; and to proceed with a pious and unshaken resignation, till we arrive at our journey’s end, when we may deliver up our trust into the hands of him who gave it, and receive such reward as to him shall seem proportioned to our merit.

Such, dear Page, will be the language of the man who considers his situation in this life, and such should be the language of every man who would wish to render that situation as easy as the nature of it will admit. Few things will disturb him at all: nothing will disturb him much."
- Thomas Jefferson, Letter to John Page (July 15, 1763)

via: The Historian's Den
·
"Mad honey," a hallucinogenic variety originating in Eastern Turkey's Black Sea region, has a long and perilous history. Bees produce it from rhododendron flowers containing grayanotoxin, a potent neurotoxin. While consuming this honey can induce euphoria and hallucinations, excessive intake can lead to severe illness, even death. Ancient accounts, such as Xenophon's in 401 B.C.E., recount the Greek army's suffering after consuming stolen honey, and Pompey the Great's troops' ambush in 67 B.C.E. by Persians who left honey deliberately. Today, mad honey remains a risky indulgence, mainly found in rural Turkey, though occasionally surfacing in the U.S. during specific blooming periods in the Appalachian Mountains.
#historyfacts #thehistoriansden

A Father’s Pride in His Late Son’s Service
Commentary: A Father’s Pride in His Late Son’s Service
By Army Maj. Gen. Kurt J. Stein

Special to American Forces Press Service

WASHINGTON, March 15, 2010 – While flying on United Airlines last week, I overheard a telephone conversation from a gentleman seated directly behind me. His words went something like this: "Although today was an extremely sad day for me - it was absolutely the happiest day of my life, and I am proud to be an American."

This gentleman went on to talk about a funeral he attended in South Carolina, and specifically gave great kudos to the U.S. Army for the professionalism displayed at this service. He went into great detail about the funeral service itself and how it was conducted. He went on to say that Jeremiah really enjoyed serving in the Army, and now, he clearly understood why.

My ears immediately perked up when I overheard him talk about the Army in such a positive way. He boasted about the General who presented the flags to him and his family, the sharp-looking soldiers of the salute battery, the sounds of taps, how the soldiers stood at attention for such a long period of time, how the military paid for his family to fly to South Carolina, the number of letters and calls he received from Jeremiah's command, how the Red Cross assisted, and so on. He could not say enough great things about our Army.

I quickly pulled a two-star card from my briefcase and wrote him a thank-you note for his kind words about our Army. He had no clue I was in the Army since I was in civilian clothes. Within seconds, he tapped me on the shoulder and with tears in his eyes proceeded to tell me the rest of the story.

The gentleman's name is Robert Wittman. He was flying with his entire family: wife, son, daughter, Mom, Dad, grandparents and friends. They were carrying home the cremated remains of his son, Sgt. Jeremiah T. Wittman of the 4th Infantry Division, who was killed in Afghanistan on Feb. 13.

Dad told me that Jeremiah already had two tours in Iraq and ultimately gave his life in Afghanistan. While in Iraq the first time, Jeremiah's vehicle was hit by an improvised explosive device, and several of his buddies were severely injured. He went on to say that his son truly loved the Army and did what he did from the heart.

His dad was a proud man. He did say that he often wondered why his son stayed in the Army after his initial attack in Iraq. Now that he saw the U.S. Army in action at the funeral, he said – as he had on the phone earlier -- that he now understands why.

Dad proudly held up the urn and boasted about how beautiful it was, and he continued to brag about the Army for all to hear. The folks around him listened with big ears and inspiration.

I must admit, although it really was a beautiful urn and a wonderful Army story - it brought a slight tear to my eye, as I, too, have a son —- a captain in the 82nd Airborne Division -- serving in Afghanistan, and this moment hit home.

Bottom line: Although the family was saddened by the loss of their son, they were all proud to be associated with the U.S. Army. I could see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices. Why? Simply because of the way they were treated by our Army family at the funeral. The 4th ID leadership and others involved did it up right and made a positive, lifetime-lasting impact with this family.

Great job!

To top off a memorable flight, when the aircraft came to a halt the pilot announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. Among us today is a Great American Soldier named Sgt. Jeremiah Wittman, killed in action on 13 February. Our deepest sympathy, respect and sorrow go out to the Wittman family. We ask that you honor Sergeant Wittman -- our fallen hero -- the entire Wittman family and our armed forces by remaining seated and allowing the family to depart the aircraft first.”

At that moment, you could have heard a pin drop in the aircraft, but within seconds, everyone on the aircraft was clapping as the family departed on their way.

The family departed feeling special and honored. I sat there proud to be an American Soldier
(Army Maj. Gen. Kurt J. Stein is the commanding general of U.S. Army TACOM Life Cycle Management Command.)

☞Today in History
- On today’s date 98 years ago, Tuesday, March 16, 1926, famous U.S. Army war dog Sergeant Stubby (circa-1916 - 1926), hero of World War I, met his earthly demise at around the age of ten when he died in his sleep from the effects of unspecified natural causes.

Stubby, a mixed-breed dog of uncertain pedigree, but thought to be part Boston Terrier, is known as the most decorated war dog of World War I & the only dog to be nominated for rank & then promoted to sergeant through combat, a claim for which there is no documentary evidence, but which was recognized in connection with an exhibition at the Smithsonian Institution.

Sergeant Stubby was the official mascot of the 102nd Infantry, assigned to the 26th (Yankee) Division. Stubby served for 18 months & participated in seventeen battles on the Western Front.

He saved his regiment from surprise mustard-gas attacks, found & comforted the wounded, & once caught a German soldier by the seat of his pants, holding him there until American soldiers found him. Back on the home front, Sergeant Stubby’s exploits were front-page news in every major newspaper.

After returning home, Stubby became a celebrity & marched in, & normally led many parades across the country. He met Presidents Woodrow Wilson, Calvin Coolidge, & Warren G. Harding. In 1921, General John J. “Black Jack” Pershing presented a gold medal from the Humane Education Society to Stubby. Stubby later became the mascot of the Georgetown University football team.

"Charity wrapped in Dignity" - a good message:

She asked him, "How much are you selling the eggs for?"
The old seller replied to her, "Rs.5/- for one egg, Madam."

She said to him, "I will take 6 eggs for Rs.25/- or I will leave."

The old seller replied, "Come take them at the price you want. May GOD Bless us, and maybe this is a good beginning because I have not yet sold to anyone."

She took it and walked away feeling she has won. She got into her fancy car and went to pick up her friend, and invited her to a restaurant.

She and her friend sat down and ordered what they liked. They ate a little and left a lot of what they ordered. Then she went to pay the bill. The bill was Rs.1,200/-. She gave him Rs. 1,300/- and said to the owner of the restaurant: "Keep the change."

This story may seem normal to the owner of the restaurant. But it is very painful for the egg seller.

Flash:
Why do we always show that we have power when we buy from the needy and the poor? And we are generous with those who do not need our generosity?

Every time a poor child comes to me to sell something simple, I remember a tweet from the son of a rich man who said, "After every prayer, my father used to buy simple goods for very expensive prices, even though he did not need them. Sometimes he used to pay more for them.
I used to get concerned by this act and I told him about it. Then my father told me: 'It is a charity wrapped with dignity, my son.'"

Compare these two stories of social hypocrisy.
The first one is disappointing and the second one is inspiring.

_May GOD Enlighten Our Vision_.

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!

The power of the Bible changes which in turn changes which will ultimately change what comes out of your mouth, which can change everyone.

For so long I’ve been back and forth with my faith meter full or empty like a tide into a lagoon.

I’ve been filled with the Holy Spirit and I’ve also been so angry that I thought I would lose my faith.

But I always kept praying regardless of what I thought. In hopes that I would hear his voice again and have a full on conversation with him driving to work

The last few years after retirement have been a rollercoaster with my faith, health, marriage and not knowing who I am, an identity crisis. I know who I was but who am I now. Nothing was the same anymore. I was permanently stationed at home now instead of being TDY at home my entire military career.

But…….. after seeing and listening to Dylan on the podcast with Big Al, I realized that it’s ok for people like me and where I came from to be open about faith. I wish we had leaders like Dylan back then. Don’t get me wrong, I had GREAT leadership. The Overbey’s, the Wilson’s, the Elliot’s, the Bozowskis, the Roses and the list goes on and on. But Dylan awed me. I met him once at BNCOC many years ago but it was a one sided conversation, I basically was saying stuff that wasn’t true through some of my sources and he came and told me in the nicest way to shut the F up. That resonated with me for a long time. He was a professional! I wish I had him as a leader at any point of my career.

I’ll support @freedom and faith. They are doing things that should’ve been done a long time ago.

The Giant Killer
·
God Bless this Hero!

Private Cleto Rodriguez brazenly attacked an enemy fortress to save his platoon during the Battle of Manila, heroics for which he received the nation’s highest military honor the Medal of Honor:

On February 9, 1945, 21-year-old US Army Private Cleto L. Rodriguez rushed across smoking rubble and into withering Japanese gunfire on the island of Luzon in the Philippines.

For nearly a week, he and his fellow soldiers from Company B, 2nd Battalion, 148th Infantry Regiment of the 37th Infantry Division battled to liberate the capital city from a determined enemy.

The American advance had pushed the Japanese back to the Paco District’s once-elegant railway station, situated on the broad Plaza Dilao.

Three companies of die-hard Japanese marines were busily fortifying the building.

Nearly invisible entrenched fighting positions dotted the area.

Sandbag-lined pillboxes and bunkers protected well-armed and equipped defenders.

Rodriguez’s platoon launched a frontal assault against the station across the wide expanse, but enemy fire pinned them down 100 yards from the building.

Rodriguez developed a plan to save his platoon with Private First Class John N. Reese, Jr., a fellow 21-year-old automatic rifleman and full-blooded Cherokee from Pryor, Oklahoma.

Living up to the words on their regimental patch, “WE’LL DO IT,” the two grabbed as many grenades and magazines for their Browning Automatic Rifles as they could carry and ran through enemy fire toward the train station.

Even in urban combat where dangers multiply, Rodriguez was not panicked.

“I have never known fear,” he later claimed.

At a young age he had become acquainted with hardship.

Born in San Marcos, Texas in 1923, he lost his parents at only nine years old.

Selling newspapers to support his family, he often slept in the San Antonio Express’s building so he could wake up early enough to deliver the papers before school.

Rodriguez dropped out before graduating and joined a gang, leading to an aggressiveness that served him well after volunteering for the Army in March 1943 and joining the “Buckeye Division.”

Up against 300 enemy troops, the two Americans fired and maneuvered as a disciplined team.

Clearing hostile positions as they went, the pair of BAR men patiently pushed to within 20 yards of the station’s main entrance.

Without regard for his safety, Private Rodriguez destroyed a 20mm gun and machine gun from close range.

After two-and-a-half hours, the two were out of grenades and had nearly burned through all their ammunition.

With the help of Reese’s suppressive fire, Rodriguez made it back safely to friendly lines.

The Oklahoman, however, fell to a sniper’s bullet while reloading.

Both soldiers displayed exceptional bravery, resulting in 82 enemy troops killed.

With the platoon from Company B no longer caught in a deadly position, the American advance continued.

Rodriguez once again took the initiative only two days later, single-handedly killing six enemy soldiers and destroying a 20mm gun.

President Harry S. Truman presented newly promoted Technical Sergeant Rodriguez with the Congressional Medal of Honor, the first Mexican American in the Pacific theater of operations to receive the nation’s highest military award.

One of the most decorated soldiers in the PTO, Rodriguez also received the Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and numerous other awards.

For his bravery on February 9, Private Reese received the Medal of Honor posthumously.

After the war, Technical Sergeant Rodriguez returned to San Antonio to a hero’s welcome.

He left the Army in December 1945 and worked for the Veterans Administration, where he began a lifelong commitment to help fellow Hispanic Americans receive continuing education and skills training.

In 1952, Rodriguez rejoined the service, initially with the US Air Force before transferring to the Army, retiring in 1970 as a master sergeant.

On December 7, 1990, Rodriguez died at 67 years old.

He is buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery in San Antonio, the final resting place of eleven other Medal of Honor recipients, six of whom are fellow WWII veterans.

MEDAL OF HONOR CITATION:
“The President of the United States of America, in the name of Congress, takes pleasure in presenting the Medal of Honor to Technical Sergeant Cleto L. Rodriguez, United States Army, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action above and beyond the call of duty on 9 February 1945, while serving with Company B, 148th Infantry Regiment, 37th Infantry Division.

Technical Sergeant Rodriguez was an automatic rifleman when his unit attacked the strongly defended Paco Railroad Station during the battle for Manila, Philippine Islands.

While making a frontal assault across an open field, his platoon was halted 100 yards from the station by intense enemy fire.

On his own initiative, he left the platoon, accompanied by a comrade, and continued forward to a house 60 yards from the objective.

Although under constant enemy observation, the two men remained in this position for an hour, firing at targets of opportunity, killing more than 35 hostile soldiers and wounding many more.

Moving closer to the station and discovering a group of Japanese replacements attempting to reach pillboxes, they opened heavy fire, killed more than 40 and stopped all subsequent attempts to man the emplacements.

Enemy fire became more intense as they advanced to within 20 yards of the station.

Then, covered by his companion, Private Rodriguez boldly moved up to the building and threw five grenades through a doorway killing 7 Japanese, destroying a 20-mm gun and wrecking a heavy machinegun.

With their ammunition running low, the two men started to return to the American lines, alternately providing covering fire for each other's withdrawal.

During this movement, Private Rodriguez' companion was killed.

In 2 1/2 hours of fierce fighting the intrepid team killed more than 82 Japanese, completely disorganized their defense, and paved the way for the subsequent overwhelming defeat of the enemy at this strongpoint.

Two days later, Private Rodriguez again enabled his comrades to advance when he single-handedly killed six Japanese and destroyed a well-placed 20-mm gun by his outstanding skill with his weapons, gallant determination to destroy the enemy, and heroic courage in the face of tremendous odds, Private Rodriguez, on two occasions, materially aided the advance of our troops in Manila.”

Photo of President Harry S. Truman presents Cleto Rodriguez with the Medal of Honor on the White House Lawn on October 12, 1945. Signal Corps photograph.

The Giant Killer book & page honors these war heroes the book details the incredible life of the smallest soldier, Green Beret Captain Richard Flaherty along with the harrowing stories from the men of the 101st Airborne in Vietnam.

The Giant Killer FB page honors these incredible war heroes making sure their stories of valor and sacrifice are never forgotten.

God Bless our Vets!

MIgrated the "Vet HR/S1" into this page Here is the comparison for SGLI/VGLI - other options.

While there is just a letter changed in the acronym. There is a major difference between these programs. Here are some:
*Coverage/Cost*
SGLI - The lowest cost insurance period for the coverage amount of $500k. Usually is around $31 a month.
VGLI - Starts at the rate & coverage you ended with during service. Then every 5 years the rate goes up.

*Med exam: most insurances require this.*
SGLI & VGLI - None.

*Claiming Death Benefit*
SGLI - must keep OSGLI (Office of SGLI) up to date with who the beneficiary is. It's a bit complicated, yet extremely important to have that record and access up to date.
VGLI - as this is run through an insurance carrier (like Prudential) the policy can be updated through their client platform.

*Enrollment*
SGLI - Automatic in service; you can opt for lower premium/opt out.
VGLI - must be enrolled within a time window after service

*Special Coverage*
SGLI -Accelerated Death Benefit & a Traumatic Injury Protection (access to an amount for some types of injuries). Family Coverage: $100,000 for spouse, $10,000 for dependent children (FSGLI).
VGLI - Accelerated Death Benefit: in the case of being diagnosed with <9months to live; 50% of the policy may be accessed (only for insured)

*Cash Accumulation*
SGLI & VGLI: none - They are term insurance.
You'll only find this benefit with whole or universal type policies.

*Is it enough?*
SGLI - It can be, depending on the family's needs. For lower rank and less service: It could cover around 10x annual income. At the point of retirement ~2x-3x annual income.
VGLI - See above. It's also exclusive to the Veteran.
**use a calculator, or have a chat with me to determine overall insurable need**

*What else is there*
In Service - Some insurances have limited access to service members, however having coverage for a spouse and dependents is important as well.
Past Service - Calculate and ensure you're insured

More info: reply, chat with me, or setup a short call some time.

via: Medal of Honor Valor Trail
5h ·
#OnThisDay

In early March 2002, coalition forces launched Operation Anaconda to encircle remaining Taliban forces in Paktia province, Afghanistan. On March 3, a seven-man team of Navy SEALs and one Air Force combat controller John Chapman left by Chinook helicopter for a reconnaissance mission on the Takur Ghar mountain. Reaching the deployment ridge on the morning of March 4, the team, led by Senior Chief Britt Slabinski, came under heavy fire. Petty Officer First Class Neil Roberts fell from the helicopter, which was soon forced to crash-land three miles away.

Quickly, the team decided to return for Roberts, unaware he had been killed. Immediately coming under attack after re-engaging, Chapman and Slabinski charged up an incline in deep snow to successfully clear an enemy bunker. Soon after, a machine gun in a nearby strongpoint opened fire on the team. Chapman assaulted this bunker, exposed himself to the automatic fire, and was wounded in his efforts. Despite his injuries, Chapman kept fighting until mortally injured. For his bravery and ultimate sacrifice, Chapman was posthumously decorated with the Medal of Honor.

With his team suffering casualties, Slabinski moved them to a stronger position and ordered nearby close air support. Enemy mortar attacks commenced at daybreak, forcing the group further down the mountain. Across rough terrain, Slabinski carried a seriously wounded comrade while directing airstrikes. For 14 hours, he helped stabilize casualties and battled off enemy attacks. Despite suffering killed and wounded men, a quick-reaction force of Army Rangers and Air Force troops moved up to Slabinski’s team. Together, they fought against Taliban assaults until 8:15 p.m. when all personnel, including the seven men killed, were extracted by helicopter.

For his leadership and courage throughout the battle, Slabinski received the Navy Cross, which was upgraded to the Medal of Honor in 2018.
Photo: "The Battle of Takur Ghar" by Keith Rocco, National Guard Heritage Painting

via: TSAF Industries
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SPC Marc Anderson, 30, of Brandon, Florida was killed while fighting in Afghanistan against the Taliban and Al-Qaeda during Operation Anaconda in the renowned Battle of Takur Ghar; where US Army Rangers were called upon to rescue and extract a Navy SEAL team under intense enemy fire.

The MH-47 Chinook helicopter carrying a US Army Ranger Quick-Reaction-Force, including SPC Anderson, crash landed due to enemy fire.

SPC Anderson and two other Rangers were killed by direct enemy fire as they fought their way out of the helicopter.

The battle would endure for 12 hours, while Army Rangers and the surviving Navy Seals fought to secure and hold the peak of Takur Ghar, later named Roberts Ridge.

SPC Anderson proudly served with Company A, 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment.

Marc was born in Fort Benning, Georgia, and in 1978 when his father retired from the Army, his family relocated to Alliance, Ohio.

Marc was a gifted athlete in High School, with a special talent in track and field.

''Physically, Marc was like an N.F.L. lineman,'' said Jim Polen, Marc’s former track coach, adding that despite his size, he could run the 40-yard dash in less than five seconds.

But Marc had brains as well as brawn.

''He had the quick humor of a talk show host,'' Polen said, searching for words to describe what made Marc Anderson so special.

''He was as bright as a college professor. But he had the spirit of a little boy.''

Marc would go on to attend Case Western Reserve University, before transferring to Florida State University.

He distinguished himself as a standout student-athlete.

He was recognized as an All American in both football and track by the NCAA and won the Florida State student athlete of the year award in 1995.

After obtaining his teaching degree from Florida State University, he taught math in Fort Myers.

Marc was dedicated to his students and volunteered with Boys/Girls clubs during summer.

Marc enlisted in the Army to assist in paying off his student loans.

He is survived by his parents and two brothers.

#Patriot #Hero #RLTW #suasponte #tsafindustries #tsafnation
(Ref: andersonmcqueen.com/obituary; rangersremembered.com; leadthewayfund.org)

via: The 75th Ranger Regiment
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Honoring our Fallen Hero:

Sergeant Bradley S. Crose
Operation Anaconda
March 3, 2002

Bradley S. Crose, 22, was from Orange Park, Florida, and volunteered for military service with the United States Army, June 6, 1998.

He completed basic training and advanced individual training in the military operational specialty of infantryman at Fort Benning, Georgia. Sergeant Crose volunteered for the second time to attend Airborne School and completed his airborne training at Fort Benning, Georgia. On November 20, 1998, he was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment at Hunter Army Airfield, Georgia. He earned his Ranger Tab at Fort Benning. He was also a graduate of the Primary Leadership Development Course.

Sergeant Crose held many positions while assigned to 1st Battalion.

He was killed while fighting the Taliban and Al-Qaeda during Operation Anaconda, the most intense fighting thus far in Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. He died March 3 in combat after enemy gunfire forced down a MH-47 Chinook helicopter, in which he and his fellow Rangers were aboard.

As a Ranger, Sergeant Crose distinguished himself as a member of the Army’s premier light-infantry unit and was a highly trained and motivated soldier.

He is survived by his father Mr. Ricky Crose, and his mother Ms. Sheila Maguhn, both of Orange Park, Florida.

Rangers Lead The Way!

via: WW II uncovered
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🇺🇲WWII uncovered: Medal of Honor Recipient Jack Lummus: From the New York Giants to the Beaches of Iwo Jima

Jack Lummus, of Ennis Texas, was a sports star at Baylor University. Excelling in both baseball and football, Jack was nominated for two consecutive years as an All-American. However he left Baylor early to enlist with the Army Air Corps. Unfortunately, Jack washed out in flight school.

Jack returned to baseball briefly in the minor leagues and then signed with the New York Giants. As a rookie he played nine games. "On December 7, 1941, the Giants were playing the Brooklyn Dodgers. Around half-time, the Associated Press ticker in the press box gave out a message saying, "Airplanes identified as Japanese have attacked the American Naval Base at Pearl Harbor." The players continued the game, knowing nothing of the attack.

Jack enlisted with the US Marine Corps on January 30, 1942. He graduated from Officer's Training School at Quantico on December 18, 1942. Initially, Lummus was assigned to the Marine Raiders at Camp Pendleton - ultimately attaching to the 27th Marines, 5th Marine Division.

"In January 1944, he was assigned as Executive Officer, Company F, 2nd Battalion, 27th Marines. In August 1944, the Division was transferred to Camp Tarawa outside of Waimea, Hawaii. Lummus boarded the USS Henry Clay for the trip. After four months of training, the Division was assigned to the V Amphibious Corps and would fight to take the Island of Iwo Jima." - USMC Archive

According to US Marine Corps records: "First Lieutenant Jack Lummus was in the first wave of Marines to land at Red One."

"On March 6, Lummus was put in command of E Company’s third rifle platoon. Two days later, the platoon was at the spearhead of an assault on an objective near Kitano Point. As Lummus charged forward, assaulting pillboxes on his own, his men watched as he survived several shrapnel hits, only to step on a land mine. Despite horrific damage to his legs, Lummus continued to push his men forward, demanding that they not stop for him." - National World War II Museum

According to the National World War II Museum: "Lummus was triaged and evacuated to the Fifth Division Hospital, where doctors did all they could to save his life. Despite 18 pints of blood transfusions and their best efforts, the damage to Lummus’ body was too much, even for his athletic frame. Before he died, Lummus said to one o f the surgeons, “I guess the New York Giants have lost the services of a damn good end.” A few hours later, Lummus asked for a sip of coffee, after which he laid back, closed his eyes, and smiled as he took his last breath."

First Lieutenant Jack Lummus was 29 years old at the time of his passing.

"Jack Lummus was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor on May 30, 1946.

His military and athletic legacy continue today, as the U.S. Navy named a maritime prepositioning ship in his honor, the USNS 1st Lt Jack Lummus, in 1986, and the New York Giants inducted him into their Ring of Honor on October 11, 2015" - The National Medal of Honor Museum

Jack lies in rest at Myrtle Cemetery in Ennis Texas. Lest We Forget.

#ww2uncovered #honorourveterans #bayloruniversity #newyorkgiants #rememberthefallen #honorthefallen #MedalofHonor #iwojima #WWII #WWIIveteran #WorldWarII #lestweforget
WWII uncovered©️ description and photos sourced by: USMC Archive, National World War II Museum, Baylor University and Ancestry Database

This Day in US Army Signal Corp History:
1917: For the first time in US history, a human voice travels by radiotelephone from an airplane to the ground.
Shortly thereafter Close Air Support (CAS), Day Zero, began...

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:
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"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."

Triple Canopy - Airborne, Ranger and Special Forces
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First day, Desert Storm, 1991, February 25:

Seventy miles to the east, eight Special Forces soldiers from ODA 525 landed near the small village of Swayjghazi. CWO “Bulldog” Balwanz had his team dig two hide sites, 300 yards west Highway 7. This team had the same problem as Sims’ Team. They did not think that villagers would be wandering around their position, located near a drainage ditch. However as soon as the sun came up shepherds led their goats near the Special Forces team, while women and children gathered firewood. Just like Sims’ Team, children discovered the hide site. Balwanz knew that they could not shoot children, so after they were discovered the Team moved 400 yards away and into a muddy ditch. The children returned with a young man, who spotted the Americans. “As-Salaam Aleykum” Balwanz called to him, but the young man turned and hurried back to the village.

Thirty villagers returned, armed with rifles. As they fanned out across the field four trucks arrived, along with a bus and a Land Rover. The vehicles unloaded 150 Iraqi soldiers. Balwanz called XVIII Corps headquarters and told them that he needed immediate extraction and air support. Balwanz ordered his men to pile all their rucksacks and equipment outside the ditch, and then primed it with a block of C-4 plastic explosive. The Americans only kept their weapons, ammo, and a single satellite radio. The C-4 exploded just as a group of Iraqis reached the pile.

Bullets tore through the dirt around them, as the Americans returned fire with M16s and M203 grenade launchers. The Iraqis resorted to human wave attacks, but they never quite understood the accuracy of American soldiers.

In just the first ten minutes of the fight Balwanz and his men killed about forty Iraqi soldiers. The fighting continued, with no end in sight. Though the field was littered with Iraqi bodies, the men did not see any rescue in their future. Balwanz saw his men wave farewell to each other across the sides of the ditch.

Just as the Iraqis were close enough to rush the Team, several F-16s arrived and dropped cluster bombs on the highway. Balwanz used his survival radio to direct bombs to within 200 yards of his position. A group of Iraqis charged down the ditch, trying to stay clear of the F-16s, but Balwanz and one of his sergeants stopped their attack.

Balwanz moved his men 300 yards away in all the chaos, without the Iraqis being aware of it. After an hour and a half two rescue helicopters were able to land right on top of the team, and rescue Balwanz and his men.

With 150 Iraqis dead in the field, it probably seemed to the Iraqis that they had been rescued from the demons that had been unleashed upon their small village.

HOOAH!

via: U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
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Interesting aviation related Black History month story, and maybe the prelude to modern-day UAS!

There were many heroes and heroic sagas during World War II. But, many heroic actions received little or no recognition because the American Army was segregated; and the Soldiers and their units were black.

One such all-black unit was the 320th Very Low Altitude barrage balloon battalion. The battalion was raised up in 1942 just a year after the Coastal Artillery Corps took over responsibility for barrage balloons from the Army Air Corps.

"The 320th VLA was the only black combat unit to take part in the D-Day landings and was the only barrage balloon battalion to land on the beaches. Units from the 320th landed on both Omaha and Utah beaches and, if you look at pictures of the D-Day beachhead and you see barrage balloons there, they were manned by three to five black troops from the 320th," said Jonathan Bernstein, Army Air Defense Artillery Museum director here. "The first Soldiers from the battalion landed on Omaha Beach at 9 a.m., two hours after the invasion began. The first balloon was floated at 11:15 p.m. that night, and by the next day all of their balloons were knocked out by German artillery fire. But, they were resupplied and were able to quickly float new balloons."

via: U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
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Interesting aviation related Black History month story, and maybe the prelude to modern-day UAS!

There were many heroes and heroic sagas during World War II. But, many heroic actions received little or no recognition because the American Army was segregated; and the Soldiers and their units were black.

One such all-black unit was the 320th Very Low Altitude barrage balloon battalion. The battalion was raised up in 1942 just a year after the Coastal Artillery Corps took over responsibility for barrage balloons from the Army Air Corps.

"The 320th VLA was the only black combat unit to take part in the D-Day landings and was the only barrage balloon battalion to land on the beaches. Units from the 320th landed on both Omaha and Utah beaches and, if you look at pictures of the D-Day beachhead and you see barrage balloons there, they were manned by three to five black troops from the 320th," said Jonathan Bernstein, Army Air Defense Artillery Museum director here. "The first Soldiers from the battalion landed on Omaha Beach at 9 a.m., two hours after the invasion began. The first balloon was floated at 11:15 p.m. that night, and by the next day all of their balloons were knocked out by German artillery fire. But, they were resupplied and were able to quickly float new balloons."

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!

Thanks iSCA Racing for allowing Fall In to sponsor the Fall In 250 at Atlanta motor speedway.

Check out our ad after the National Anthem.

-“Drivers! Start your engines, and Fall In!”

https://www.youtube.com/live/jpK0Ri1hz84?si=zcW85eapbPjUAOq-

I had the honor of being a guest in this podcast with a fellow former Nightstalker and his cousin Firefighter. We talk everything from Breakdancing and Hip Hop, to 160th days, PTSD/trauma, and healing journeys, with mine including Ibogaine and 5MEO/DMT treatment in Mexico.

If you have a spare three hours, give it a listen. If you have any questions after, feel free to pass.

NSDQ.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/ep7-interview-with-danny-bell/id1676780906?i=1000646369679

“The MEDAL OF HONOR” #488 in this Series.
The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration awarded by the United States government.

Peter Joseph DALESSANDRO, US Army, TechSergeant
World War II – September 1, 1939 to September 2, 1945

Peter Joseph DALESSANDRO, US Army, TechSergeant

Date of Birth: May 18, 1918 Watervliet, New York
Date of Death: October 15, 1997 (aged 79)
Burial Location: Gerald B. H. Solomon Saratoga
National Cemetery, Schuylerville, NY

DALESSANDRO was Platoon Sergeant of First Platoon and ordered to secure an important
crossroad on the high grounds of Kalterherberg, Germany.

His Citation reads:

“He was with the 1st Platoon holding an important road junction on high ground near Kalterherberg, Germany,
on 22 December 1944.

In the early morning hours, the enemy after laying down an intense artillery and mortar barrage, followed through with an all-out attack that threatened to overwhelm the position.

T/Sgt. Dalessondro, seeing that his men were becoming disorganized, braved the intense fire to move among them with words of encouragement.

Advancing to a fully exposed observation post, he adjusted mortar fire upon the attackers, meanwhile firing upon them with his rifle and encouraging his men in halting and repulsing the attack.

Later in the day the enemy launched a second determined attack.

Once again, T/Sgt. Dalessondro, in the face of imminent death, rushed to his forward position and immediately called for mortar fire.

After exhausting his rifle ammunition, he crawled 30 yards over exposed ground to secure a light machine gun, returned to his position, and fired upon the enemy at almost point blank range until the gun jammed.

He managed to get the gun to fire 1 more burst, which used up his last round, but with these bullets he killed
4 German soldiers who were on the verge of murdering an aid man and 2 wounded soldiers in a nearby foxhole.

When the enemy had almost surrounded him, he remained alone, steadfastly facing almost certain death or capture, hurling grenades and calling for mortar fire closer and closer to his outpost as he covered the withdrawal of his platoon to a second line of defense.

As the German hordes swarmed about him, he was last heard calling for a barrage, saying, "OK, mortars, let me have it--right in this position!"

The gallantry and intrepidity shown by T/Sgt. Dalessondro against an overwhelming enemy attack saved
his company from complete rout.

He was captured during the battle and spent the rest of the war as a prisoner of war.”

After coming back as a war hero to Watervliet, New York, where he lived before the war, DALESSANDRO was elected to the New York Senate as Democrat Deputee, where he served for 35 years.

After he retired from the Senate, he became the Senate Minority Leader's Secretary.

He retired from public life in October 1977, but stayed active in the politic of the Albany County until his death.

DALESSANDRO was a member of the American Legion, Catholic War Veterans, Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Elks.

He died in 1998.

MEDALS and AWARDS:
. Medal of Honor
. Silver Star
. Purple Heart

IN HIS HONOR:
A portion of County Route 151 alongside Albany International Airport was been named in his honor in Colonie, New York.

NOTE:
A spelling mistake made 42 years ago by the Federal government will greet travelers every time they drive to the Albany County Airport.

The small error, however, does not bother Peter J. DALESSANDRO, the county's Medal of Honor winner. He was beaming Monday morning when he and Albany County Executive James J. Coyne pulled off the red, white and blue plastic wrap to unveil the new name for the Albany County Airport access road: "Peter J. Dalessondro Boulevard."

"That's the way it's spelled on my Medal," DALESSANDRO of Loudonville said, flipping over his Medal of Honor to show where the "o" was written on the back.

via: Historia Obscurum
·
In February of 1945, Earl Shaffer's best friend was killed on Iwo Jima.

Earl Shaffer (pictured) and Walter Winemiller had been hiking buddies back home in Pennsylvania before the war, and together had dreamed of doing the impossible...

The more than 2,100-mile-long Appalachian Trail had been finished not long before the outbreak of the Second World War, and no one believed it was possible to hike its entire length.

Shaffer and Winemiller decided that they wanted to be the first, but the war interrupted their plans.

Earl entered the U.S. Army in 1941, and worked on radar systems throughout the Pacific Theater. He survived, but his friend did not, dying on Iwo Jima in 1945.

After his discharge, Earl felt aimless and restless, and in 1948 decided to make good on his and Walter's dream.

Starting in Georgia, Earl began walking north along the trail. He took very few supplies with him, and even hiked without socks sometimes.

Earl wrote that he took to the trail to "walk the war out of my system", and as the miles wore on, he began to find the peace that had eluded him since the war's end.

As he closed in on the northern terminus of the trail in Maine, he paused and wrote in his journal, "In very good spirits. Thinking of Walter."

It took Earl Shaffer 124 days to complete the entire Appalachian Trail, but, still believing it to be impossible, few people believed he'd actually done it.

It was only after a fierce grilling from officials of the Appalachian Trail Conference that his accomplishment was recognized officially, and Earl became famous as the first person ever to walk the complete length of the Appalachian Trail.

In 1965, Earl hit the trail again, this time hiking north to south from Maine to Georgia in 99 days.

Then in 1998, fifty years after his initial thru-hike, Earl completed the full trail again at the age of 79.

Earl Shaffer died of cancer in 2002, but his personal odyssey continues to inspire countless Veterans who, like him, turn in greater and greater numbers each year to America's wild trails, forests, and mountains to find peace and purpose, and to walk off their own wars.

U.S. Army Special Operations Aviation Command
May 21, 2015
·
Brig. Gen. Erik Peterson, the commanding general of the United States Army Special Operations Aviation Command, poses with Staff Sgt. Jeremy Samuels, a medic with the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, after awarding him the Soldier’s Medial May 20, 2015. Samuels received this award for acts of heroism during a 2014 multi-vehicle wreck near Fort Campbell, Ky.

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."

OTD via: SIERRA HOTEL AERONAUTICS
·
February 20th, 1962 11:03 UTC; John Glenn boarded the Friendship 7 spacecraft.
The hatch was bolted in place at 12:10 UTC.
The gantry was rolled back at 13:20 UTC.

At 14:47 UTC, after two hours and 17 minutes of holds and three hours and 44 minutes after Glenn entered Friendship 7, engineer T.J. O'Malley pressed the button in the blockhouse launching the spacecraft.
At liftoff Glenn's pulse rate climbed to 110 beats per minute.

Thirty seconds after liftoff the General Electric-Burroughs designed guidance system locked onto a radio transponder in the booster to guide the vehicle to orbit. As the Atlas and Friendship 7 passed through Max Q Glenn reported, "It's a little bumpy about here." After Max Q the flight smoothed out. At two minutes and 14 seconds after launch, the booster engines cut off and dropped away. Then at two minutes and twenty-four seconds, the escape tower was jettisoned, right on schedule.

After the tower was jettisoned, the Atlas and spacecraft pitched over still further, giving Glenn his first view of the horizon. He described the view as "a beautiful sight, looking eastward across the Atlantic."

Glenn received word that the Atlas had boosted the MA-6 into a trajectory that would stay up for at least seven orbits. Meanwhile, computers at the Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland indicated that the MA-6 orbital parameters appeared good enough for almost 100 orbits.

John Glenn and "Friendship 7" made three orbits of the Earth, making Glenn the first American to orbit the Earth.

After four hours and 56 minutes in flight the spacecraft re-entered the Earth's atmosphere, splashed down in the Atlantic Ocean and was safely taken aboard the USS Noa.

On a side note, earlier in his flying career, Glenn was next assigned to VMF-311 flying the new F9F Panther jet interceptor. He flew his Panther for 63 combat missions during the Korean War, gaining the dubious nickname "magnet ass" from his apparent ability to attract enemy flak.

Twice he returned to base with over 250 flak holes in his aircraft.

www.Sierrahotel.net

Worth a read...

Strong words from Soldiers such as Willy McTear come in Loud and Clear to Leaders, if they have the stones to face such realities and they provide us, as a Nation, with some Hard Truths that must be heard/faced.

How our Vietnam Veterans were treated upon their return from the green hell of that conflict is something every American who is worthy of such a title should be ashamed of. That must Never happen again... it is Ok, and Right even to hate War (I know that first hand), but when we hate Our Warriors, well, that Must Never Happen Again...

May God Bless our Vietnam Veterans, May He bring them a calm to their heads and hearts from such memories, and grant them Peace for the rest of their days - we must Never Forget how we treated them upon their return to our Homeland, ever...

SALUTE!

via: The Giant Killer
·
Powerful words from a Vietnam vet!

Photo of Willie McTear, McTear served in Charlie Company of the Army 9th Division's 4th Battalion, 47th Infantry Regiment, 1967.

McTear gives his opinion of the draft, the brotherhood of war, and what it was like to be spit on & cursed at upon his return from Nam.

"I’m just one of the approximate 9,000 men who were drafted and made up the Ninth Infantry Division. This is my opinion based on my personal experience.

We, the draftees, were designated well in advance for the Ninth Division to occupy the Mekong Delta.

We fought in the most difficult terrain in all of South Vietnam: jungles, mud and swamps. The only volunteers were the officers. The rest of the entire division, with exception of some non-commissioned officers, were draftees. I was in one of the first integrated companies of all draftees.

We had the best officer, Jack Benedict. Rest In Peace.

Each patrol was a suicide mission. We would have liked the choice to choose the branch of service and a Military Occupational Speciality. But that was not an option for draftees, only a carrot that was dangled to get us to enlist.

We viewed this as punishment for not volunteering. We all gave some and some gave all. R.I.P.

After several firefights we realized how the draft board and America really felt about us. Sergeant Bill Reynolds said it best. “America is not with us.”

Enough said.

Without a word said, we understood that we had a special bond and from this point on we will fight for each other because we had been abandoned.

More abandonment was revealed and manifested upon our arrival home, not as heroes but as villains. We were spat on and cursed at. Our government didn’t have the decency to give us a heads up upon our arrival.
That hurt really deep.

The wounds inflicted are invisible and manifested in many ways. Many of us grapple with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and a sense of not belonging and not being good enough to be accepted as Soldiers.

So thank you draft board for souls lost and lives destroyed beyond repair.

I try not to remember the suffering you inflicted upon us, but remember our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility and the courage to endure past and current hardships.

I think I can speak for the Ninth Division, 4th Battalion, 47th Infantry and especially Charlie Company.

God did through Andrew Wiest what we could not do for ourselves when he wrote the book, The Boys of ’67: Charlie Company’s War in Vietnam.

Writer and arm-chair general Abigail Pfeiffer said it best: “Wiest addresses the ugliness and humanity of war but also the loving bonds that are created between Men who experienced war together and the indelible marks it leaves on their minds.”

And a big thank you to National Geographic for “Brothers in War,” for bringing The Boys of ’67 to life with that documentary, the story of Charlie Company.

To the draft board, we forgive you, but we hope and pray the draft board will be eliminated."
- Willie McTear

The Giant Killer book & page honors these incredible war heroes making sure their stories of valor and sacrifice are never forgotten. The book which features the incredible life of the smallest soldier, Green Beret Captain Richard Flaherty (101st Airborne & 3rd SF Group 46th Co.) and several of the other heroes featured on this page is available on Amazon & Walmart. God Bless our Vets!

via: Historia Obscurum

You might not know it to look at him, but the "little old man" in the center of this photo was one of the toughest Jarheads ever.

In 1942 when he was only 14, Jacklyn "Jack" Lucas enlisted in the Marine Corps after convincing the recruiter he was 17.

Posted to a depot unit at Pearl Harbor, Jack was bored and wanted action, so in January of 1945, he rolled up a combat uniform under his arm, sneaked out of camp, and stowed away aboard a Naval Transport that was taking 1st Battalion, 26th Marines, 5th Marine Division to Iwo Jima.

Not knowing what to do with him, the Marine battalion commander busted Jack one rank, then assigned him as rifleman to C Company. A few days later, Jack turned 17.*

The day after landing on Iwo Jima, Jack dove on top of one Japanese grenade then pulled another beneath him. The blast ripped through his body, but saved his comrades.

It took 21 surgeries to save him, and for the rest of his life carried in his body more than 200 large pieces of shrapnel.

On October 5th, 1945, Jack Lucas received the Medal of Honor from President Harry Truman in a ceremony on the White House lawn. He is the youngest Marine ever to receive the nation's highest honor.

He then returned to high school.... as a freshman.

After college, Jack entered the Army as a Captain in the 82nd Airborne, and survived a training jump in which neither his main chute nor his reserve chute opened.

Two years before he died in 2008, Jack was honored by the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Michael W. Hagee, who presented him with a Medal of Honor ceremonial flag at the Marine Barracks in Washington, D.C.

It was during that ceremony that this photo was taken.

Semper Fidelis.

* Although the claim often is made that he actually was only 15, every official document (including his obituary) I've been able to locate puts his d.o.b. as 2/14/1928, which would have made him 17 in 1945. If someone has a primary-source document with a different d.o.b., please send it to me.

U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs
- February 13, 2014

Today's Veteran of the Day is Jacob Parrott.
Jacob was awarded the first Medal of Honor on Feb. 13, 1863. He joined the U.S. Army in 1861.
In April 1862, Jacob volunteered to take part in a daring raid with twenty-one others. After infiltrating Confederate lines and hijacking the locomotive "General," they were captured and imprisoned. Jacob was severely beaten 110 times in an attempt to make him talk. He and fourteen others managed to escape, but only six of them reached friendly lines. Jacob was later exchanged and taken to Washington, D.C. to meet President Lincoln and was presented with the Medal of Honor by Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton. He served with the Union Army for the rest of the war.

We honor his service.

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.

It's #REDFriday Fall In!

After your many years of service making the world a better place, what are you doing to better your local communities? Get out and get involved, have a voice and make a difference; at home this time.

As Ultimate Experience Outdoors Inc. gears up for the 7th Annual SFC Luke Hortenstien Memorial Turkey Hunt in south Alabama, we'd like to extend the opportunity to share camp with anyone willing to come see us. You can contact this page or MADDOX_UXO and we'd love to show ya what we're about. Word on the street isThe_Fall_In_1SG will be on site 4-7 April 2024, shaking hands and sharing his first hand experience with UXO!

#experiencethis #teamwork #fallin #sweethomealabama #stillserving

Pilgrim’s Progress
By MATT GALLAGHER

Home Fires features the writing of men and women who have returned from wartime service in the United States military.

I’m one of the lucky ones.

War destroys without regard to what’s fair or just. This isn’t a new or terribly profound revelation, but witnessing it, and sometimes participating in it, makes it seem like both. In a professional military, the entire point of training is to minimize the nature of chance in combat. But all the training in the world will never eliminate happenstance in war, or even render it negligible.

I returned from Iraq with all of my limbs, most of my mental faculties and a book deal. I wake up every morning in an apartment in New York City. I’m working toward a graduate degree. I have a beautiful fiancée who reminds me to slow down when I’m drinking. And every day I feel more and more detached and removed from the Iraq dustlands I promised myself I’d shed like snakeskin if I ever got back home.

Like I said, one of the lucky ones.

I didn’t really appreciate the concept of becoming ‘unstuck’ in time until I returned from war.

Meanwhile, the black bracelet on my wrist carries the names of four individuals who weren’t so lucky. One got shot through the armpit with a ricocheting bullet and bled out on an outpost roof. Two drove over the wrong piece of street at the wrong time and likely didn’t even know it was a roadside bomb that ended it all. The last one made it through 15 months of war only to get drunk one night back in the States and shoot himself in the face during an emotional breakdown.

In Kurt Vonnegut’s classic novel “Slaughterhouse-Five,” the protagonist Billy Pilgrim becomes “unstuck in time.” Much of the novel focuses on Pilgrim’s experience of the fire bombing of Dresden in World War II, something Vonnegut himself survived as an American prisoner of war. Like many American literature students, I was required to read “Slaughterhouse-Five” in high school, and if memory serves, I even enjoyed that assignment at 16. But I didn’t really appreciate the concept of becoming unstuck in time until I returned from war. Just like anyone who poured blood, sweat and tears into missions in faraway foreign lands, I left part of myself over there, and it remains there, while the rest of me goes about my business 6000 miles away — a paradox of time and space Vonnegut captured all too brilliantly.

I’ve walked by manholes in New York City streets and smelled the sludge river I walked along in north Baghdad in 2008. I’ve stopped dead in my tracks to watch a street hawker in Midtown, a large black man with a rolling laugh and a British accent, who looked just like my old scout platoon’s interpreter. And I’ve had every single slamming dumpster lid — every single damn one — rip off my fatalistic cloak and reveal me to be, still, a panicked young man desperate not to die because of an unseen I.E.D.

Despite these metaphysical dalliances with time travel the names on my black bracelet are, in fact, stuck in time. Or, more accurately, stuck in memory, where they’ll fade out and disappear like distant stars before becoming shadows of the men we served with and knew.

So it goes.

So it went for my friend Rob. During the invasion of Iraq in 2003 his unit drove through a neighborhood near Baghdad airport in doorless Humvees. A civilian vehicle pulled out in front of them, temporarily blocking their path. A group of teenage boys stood aimlessly on the street, and one exchanged nods with Rob, who sat in the front passenger seat. Rob glanced away quickly, to see if the civilian vehicle had moved yet, and then, suddenly, a grenade bounced off of the inside of the windshield and into the vehicle. Rob followed the small plume of smoke and rattling noises, grabbing the grenade from behind the radio to his left. He picked it up, intending to throw it back out of the vehicle, but it slipped out of his hand and dropped, landing between his feet. He reached back down for it, fingers just meeting casing when it exploded. He lost a hand and suffered severe nerve damage in his right leg as a result.

Back from Iraq, I carried my self-righteousness around in the form of a portable soapbox.

Recounting the story over drinks one night Rob said he wished he and the other soldiers in his Humvee hadn’t taken their eyes off of the Iraqi teens. Then he added that “luck was for sure on our side that day,” because had he not dropped the grenade but tossed it away as planned, it would’ve exploded at head level, likely killing him and possibly the Humvee’s driver, as well. He laughed deeply, and clinked his prosthetic hook against my pint glass.

Everything’s relative, I guess. Especially luck.

If chance is war’s dirty little not-so-secret, self-righteousness is the veterans’. Upon returning to American society, it’s all too easy to fall into pitfalls about what civilians get or don’t get. Nine years of war fought by an all-volunteer force that constitutes less than 1 percent of the total population has augmented this disconnect between soldier and citizen; in many ways, a separate warrior caste has evolved into being. The impact on our republic of fighting protracted, landlocked wars with an all-volunteer force can be debated. The impact of it on those actually fighting can’t be.

After returning from Iraq and separating from active duty, I carried my self-righteousness around in the form a portable soapbox for many months. Occasionally this proved necessary — sometimes the pejorative “they” really didn’t get it. There was the drunk Wall Street-type who told me, without a trace of irony but with plenty of faux-jingoist twang, “it must be awesome to kill hajjis.” And there was the too-cool-ultra-progressive who couldn’t help but smirk condescendingly while pointing out that “we” signed on the dotted line, after all, so “we” should’ve been ready for anything and everything before we departed for Iraq. Then, as passive-aggressively as possible, he analogized modern American soldiers to mercenaries.

Though I’m certainly no tough guy, the primal urge to put both of these guys’ faces through the nearest window was very real and very pointed. I didn’t do that though, for better or worse. Instead, I told the former that some of my best friends were Muslim and that such a black-and-white understanding of the war is what got us into so much trouble over there in the first place. For the latter, I nodded and smiled, telling him that for someone who hadn’t left the borough of Brooklyn in over a decade, he certainly possessed one hell of a world view.

Neither talked to me again. So it goes.

Most of the time though, my soapbox and self-righteousness and sardonic wrath were unnecessary. Not because people didn’t get it, but because I finally realized it wasn’t their fault they didn’t get it. They’re not supposed to get it — this isn’t Sparta, nor is it even post-World War II America. Sometimes — many times, actually — they wanted to get it. Slowly and surely, I found the all too obvious solution of simply answering people’s questions as considerately as I could, careful not to ascribe my experiences as universal to all of Iraq or all of Afghanistan. I’d rather ramble, I reasoned, and provide nuance and opinion than serve as the representational hollow caricature born only to sacrifice for fast food and online shopping and general postmodern excess.

Just one man’s solution to a litany of complexities, I guess.

I got unstuck in time again last month, right when winter graced the Eastern seaboard with its presence. I was getting out of the Union Square subway station, headphones in, mind tuned out, stomach craving a cheeseburger. I don’t qualify as a full-fledged New Yorker yet, but I’ve lived here long enough not to be disturbed by the sight of a cold and decrepit-looking homeless person. So, coming up the subway steps, I strolled by a young man with a scraggly yellow beard wrapped in an urban camo jacket without anything more than a passing glance. He held a cardboard sign marked in black marker with the words “IRAQ VET, HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP.” I didn’t help, nor did I give the man a second thought until two blocks later, when I cynically scolded him in my head for using the veteran title to his advantage.

Coming to terms with this permanent state of combat readiness has made me realize just how much I miss war (or parts of it).

“But what if he really is an Iraq vet?” I asked myself. I’d read the statistics — according to the Department of Veterans Affairs, more than 100,000 veterans are homeless on a given night in America; the figure is twice that over the course of the month. Not all of the unlucky ones are dead, after all. So the old platoon leader in me kicked in, and I turned back around, to see if I could verify any of this. Certainly a legitimate vet would remember names, units, places … something. And then? And then I’d help. Or I’d bring him to the people or organizations who could help. Maybe, if he seemed legit and came across as relatively stable, I could talk my fiancée into letting him sleep on the couch for a night or two. Just to get him back on his feet, of course.

He was no longer there. Or anywhere nearby. Maybe someone else had helped him. But probably not. I initially breathed out a sigh of relief, and then a sigh of shame. I thought about how these wars may be coming to some sort of end, but veterans’ issues for my generation are really just beginning. I only deployed for 15 months, and had all kinds of support systems in place upon my return. What about the men and women who have done nothing but deploy, redeploy, rinse and repeat since 9/11? What about those soldiers who return to broken homes, mountains of debt, no professional goals beyond not going to war again? What about them?

I smacked my lips and tasted guilt. Then I walked to a restaurant and ate a cheeseburger.

Like the veterans who came before and the ones who will come after, I walk the streets of New York City forever the soldier I no longer am. Oh, I’m no longer lean, hungry, or clean-cut — I’ve put on a little weight, grown my hair out and sport a patchy beard that can best be described as pirate-fashionable. But I still scan crowds for suicide vests, seek out corner vantage points like a bloodhound and value competency in a human being above all else. Jumping back into civilian life headlong, like I originally attempted, proved both disastrous and shortsighted. And coming to terms with this permanent state of combat readiness has made me realize just how much I miss war (or parts of it), and how lucky — and twisted — I am to be able to even write those words. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the raw excitement. I miss the Iraqi locals, from the kids who walked our daytime patrols with us to the frightened mothers who just wanted us to go away. I miss the soldiers, the N.C.O.’s, and even some of the officers. I miss that daily sense of purpose, survive or die, that simply can’t be replicated in everyday existence. I miss standing for something more than myself, even if I never figured out just what the hell that something was supposed to be.

I don’t miss all of it, of course. I got out of the Army for some very good reasons. Love. Sanity. Bureaucracy. A Holy Trinity for our time. But there is a messy ambiguity at the core of this that must be conveyed, if not necessarily understood.

I’m one of the lucky ones. Unstuck in time. Stuck with chance. Stuck at war. Considering the alternatives, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

The Giant Killer:

Vietnam – The Men With Green Faces
Shortly after being established in January 1962, SEAL Team ONE deployed CPO Robert Sullivan and CPO Charles Raymond to take initial surveys and make preparations for training indigenous South Vietnamese in the tactics, techniques, and procedures of maritime commandos.

During this same period, the U.S. Government agreed to increase aid to South Vietnam in the fight against Viet Cong rebels. The agreement included paying for a larger Vietnamese army as well as for more U.S. advisors in the field. The Viet Cong (properly the Viet Nam Cong San or Vietnamese Communists), was the term applied to about 10,000 troops that had been left in hideouts in South Vietnam after the Geneva Conference of 1954 ended the French Indochina War (1946–1954).

The Viet Cong, or VC, as they were commonly known, first tried subversive tactics to overthrow the South Vietnamese regime and later resorted to open warfare. They were subsequently reinforced by huge numbers of North Vietnamese troops infiltrating south.

Platoons from SEAL Team ONE and SEAL Team TWO were assigned to a specific operating area in Vietnam, and for the most part operated autonomously. Each SEAL platoon had a mobile support team (MST) boat element assigned. The MSTs were small groups of men specially trained to support SEAL operations. MSTs operated a variety of boats that included the light, medium, and heavy SEAL support craft (LSSC, MSSC, and HSSC, respectively).

By mid-1968 the SEAL Teams were fielding 12-man platoons, each comprising two squads of six men each, and most missions Vietnam were squad-sized operations. Generally four or five platoons at any given time were deployed to South Vietnam. SEAL platoons were never assigned permanently to Vietnam, but were sent on temporary duty assignments; generally for period of about six months time. Many of the men made several tours.

While the majority of SEAL operations were conducted after inserting from boats, it was in Vietnam that SEALs first began developing hit-and-run air-assault tactics using Army and Navy helicopters. Operations involved helicopters in “slick” or passenger configurations, but were also lightly armed with door guns.
SEAL platoons carried out day and night ambushes (but much preferred night operations), hit-and-run raids, reconnaissance patrols, and special intelligence collection operations. Calling them the “men with green faces” because of the face camouflage they used, the VC feared SEALs and often put bounties on their heads.

involvement in Vietnam, the relatively small group of SEALs accounted for 600 confirmed VC killed and 300 more almost certainly killed. Numerous others were captured or detained. No statistical tally can be placed on the effects of the intelligence gathered by SEALs, but there is no question that they made a contribution to the war out of all proportion to their numbers. In the psychological war, too, they were extraordinary; going some way towards evening up the unspoken balance of terror and gaining a reputation as fearsome and extraordinary warriors.

The last SEAL platoon departed Vietnam on 7 December 1971. The last SEAL advisors left Vietnam in March 1973. Between 1965 and 1972 there were 46 SEALs killed in Vietnam. They are forever remembered on the Navy SEAL Memorial at the Museum.

Note: Three U.S. Navy SEALs were recipients of the Medal of Honor during Vietnam. They were: Lieutenant Bob Kerrey, Lieutenant Tom Norris, and EM2 Mike Thornton. Mike Thornton was awarded the Medal of Honor for the rescue and exfiltration of Lieutenant Norris under withering fire on the night of 31 October 1972. There is no other recorded instance where two Medal of Honor recipients are known to have been involved in the same combat operation.

Story by Navy SEAL museum

The SR 71 was made entirely out of a slide rule. The last major airplane to use the slide rule only.
An article from “We are the mighty.”~April 2022

There are countless incredible facts about the SR-71 that would warrant a place on this list, but this is one of the few facts that pertains specifically to the incredible people tasked with developing it.

Not long after the SR-71 took to the sky, the most difficult mathematical aspects of aircraft design were handed off to computers that could crunch the numbers more quickly and reliably — but that wasn’t the case for the Blackbird. Kelly Johnson and his team used their “slide rules,” which were basically just specialized rulers with a slide that designers could use to aid them in their calculations in designing the mighty Blackbird.

Years later, the aircraft was reviewed using modern aviation design computers only to reveal that the machines would not have suggested any changes to the design. Wow! #Habubrats SR-71

SR 71 pilot David Peters made this comment : “There are so many incredible firsts with the SR 71. Some that don’t often come out have to do with the many systems. Example, the cameras. If you have ever tried to hold a telephoto in place you will understand. How do you stabilize a camera with 4 inch resolution taking pictures at 15 miles while traveling more than 2,000 miles an hour? Donn Burns,one of the folks that did it, talks about it in his book. There are many other things that never get talked about.”

The incredible SR 71 still to this day January 15, 2023 holds the records for speed and altitude in a manned aircraft. That will never be broken.
~ Linda Sheffield

The Berserker
January 16, 2023

The last Berserker was a Viking who fought in the Battle of Stamford Bridge (1066) between Harald Haldrada's army and the Anglo-Saxons.

I will hardly recount the battle because they do not give me the characters. The combat took place in the province of York and after several hours of battle Harald's army was being defeated, they had to do something or they would all die.

It is here where "The Last Berserker" comes into play, according to the chronicles, a Norwegian monster of more than 2 meters who went to battle bare-chested and armed with an axe. The berserker positioned himself on the Stamford Bridge that connected the battlefield with an unoccupied field. Harald's army withdrew across the bridge into the open so they could organize a new tactic based on the few men they had left.

The berserker positioned himself on the bridge and with inhuman fury held off the Anglo-Saxon army for approximately 2 hours, killing about 80 enemies on the spot. To defeat him, some Anglo-Saxons crossed submerged in the river that was under the bridge, to finally appear under the berserker and skewer him with their spears, killing him instantly.

By the time they managed to finish him off, Harald's army was already prepared with his new tactic. However, their efforts were in vain as not only did they lose, but King Harald was killed with an arrow to the throat.

What fascinates me most about this story is that it was told and reached our days thanks to the Anglo-Saxon chronicles, being his own enemies who wanted to record his impressive feat.
Cred for the Text to Chloe Giordano

I have older kiddos in their 20’s and missed them growing up because I was a work first type of guy. TDY, Deploy, School, TDY, deploy rotation after rotation for 20 years. I hardly know my oldest two. But my young ones, I make it my priority to be there. School plays and functions, just showing up and seeing them look for you in the crowded lunch room and when they see me it just melts my heart and I hold back tears. I often apologize to my oldest ones for not being there and they just say, “dad, we understand.” So moments like these pics, I didn’t care if we caught anything, it was just passing down knowledge that was passed down to me.

MADDOX_UXO, our esteemed President, gave some solid advice last night that alot of "us" need to hear.

"If you lack purpose, get off the couch and go find it". This has been on my mind all day...the leadership aspect of taking care of people truly doesnt change. The WAY you may do that should be extremely adaptive to each man/woman you cross paths with.

None of us are exempt from problems but not everyone is fortunate enough to have someone care about them and offer assistance with solving them. Be that kind of human. After all, all of the answers were never in the book anyway.

The Bridge Builder:

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

Old man," said a fellow pilgrim, near,
"You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;

You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head:
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him."
- Will Allen Dromgoole

🇺🇲 WWII uncovered: 11th Airborne Division's Rod Serling, Hollywood's "Angry Young Man"

Before he became the well-known creator of "The Twilight Zone," Rod Serling was a young, 5'4" paratrooper in the 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 11th Airborne Division. As one of "The Angels", Rod did not meet the height requirements for the parachutes, but talked his way into the regiment anyway.

While the division was on New Guinea, Jack Benny came by to perform for the Angels and Rod was able to write and perform in a small skit that was broadcast on Armed Forces Radio. It was a sign of things to come for Serling.

During the Angels' campaign on Leyte in late 1944, T-4 Serling and the Suicide Squad kept busy eliminating enemy bunkers and defensive positions. While high in the island's mountains, the regiment could only be resupplied by air and one day Rod watched in horror as a heavy crate landed squarely on his good friend PVT Melvin Levy's shoulders, killing him instantly. Rod marked Melvin’s grave with a Star of David in honor of his friend’s Jewish heritage. It was the first of the war's many difficult experiences that affected, perhaps even haunted, Rod, in addition to a wound to his knee that plagued him for the rest of his life.

During the Angels' campaign to liberate Luzon, Rod and the Demolitions team kept busy with the dangerous job of blasting countless grass-covered pillboxes and blockhouses, many of which were heavily defended. On one occasion, Rod found himself staring down the barrel of a Japanese rifle. Luckily one of his buddies was quicker and shot the enemy soldier.

In one Manila neighborhood, Rod and the other Angels were enjoying an impromptu celebration by the newly-liberated Filipinos when the Japanese began shelling the area. Noticing a wounded Filipino woman out in the open, Rod rushed into the fire to carry her to safety, an action to earned him the Bronze Star.

After the war, Rod turned to writing to "face his demons" and went on to become one of televisions most well-known, and award-winning, screenwriters, playwrights, television producers, and narrators. He also was a passionate teacher at Antioch College (Ohio) and Ithaca College (New York).
Known to smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, Rod died on June 28, 1975. May we all remember these words spoken before his death: "for civilization to survive, the human race has to remain civilized".

For more information on Rod's experiences in World War II, please visit 511pir.com or 11th Airborne Division Association - "Angels"
#ww2uncovered #honorourveterans #ww2 #WorldWarII #worldwar2 #worldwartwo #paratrooper #paratroopers #airborne #greatestgeneration #ww2veteran #WWII #WWIIveteran #AATW #twilightzone #Airborne #rodserling #LestWeForget

Original description and photo submitted by Jeremy Holm ©️ author of "When Angels Fall: From Toccoa to Tokyo: The 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment in World War II MacArthur’s Secret Weapon & Heroes of Los Baños"

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.

Today is Walt B's Funeral/Memorial Service, info as follows:
All family and friends are welcome to attend his service on January 6th, 2024, at 1:00p, at Forest Lawns Memory Garden in Savannah, GA. Please keep his family in your thoughts and prayers.

Obituary info:
Walter C Battisti, 70, of Savannah, GA, passed away on December 15th, 2023 after a battle with a brief illness.

Walter was born on October 23rd, 1953 to Saturno and Angela Battisti in San Juan, PR. He joined the US Army in 1973 where he worked as a CH-47 Mechanic. Walter had an extensive and successful military career. He was incredibly proud of being in the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, which made a significant impact on his life. He carried this achievement with pride until his final days. Walter retired from the military in 1997.

His love for aviation inspired him to become a contractor for the 224th Military Intelligence Battalion. Adopting the name Waldo, he went on many deployments and met many friends during his time spent there. In his personal life, Walter was a man of few words. Although he was a quiet man, you could always see when he was deep in thought. Whenever something needed to be said, he always made his loved ones laugh with his quick wit.

Behind that sometimes old grumpy man persona, he had the biggest heart. Walter was a big animal lover as he leaves behind his three dogs Sophie, Lulu, and Abby. Walter also seemed to be a turtle magnet as he would rescue any turtle he found. He was a very doting grandfather who loved his grandson, Anthony, and would get excited with the smallest things he would do.

Walter will be deeply missed by his family, friends, and pets. He is predeceased by his parents and his son, Kenneth. He is survived by his wife, Nilsa Battisti, his two daughters, Angela Battisti, Barbara Battisti Bell, son in law Richard Bell, and his grandson, Anthony Bell.

Rest Easy, Brother Thank You for all provided, yours was A Life Well-Spent in the Service of Others.
We shall freshly Remember and Honor You today - Prayers Outbound for your Family!
Never Forget! - Never Quit!
NSDQ!

Awesome read; if it doesn't bring a tear to your eye, you're not human; I am so proud to have been in an organization that instilled the values described in LTC Lofaro's speech below:

Dining-in speech at U.S. Military Academy
by LTC Guy Lofaro:

"Let me say before beginning that it has been my pleasure to attend several dinings-in here at West Point and hence I have some basis for comparison. You people have done a fine job and you ought to congratulate yourselves. In fact, why don't we take this time to have the persons who were responsible for this event stand so we can acknowledge them publicly.

I guess I am honored with these invitations because there exists this rumor that I can tell a story. Cadets who I have had in class sometimes approach me beforehand and request that, during my speech, I tell some of the stories I've told them in class. For the longest time I have resisted this. I simply didn't think this the right forum for story-telling, so I tried instead, with varying degrees of success, to use this time to impart some higher lesson - some thought that would perhaps stay with one or two of you a little longer than the 10 or 15 minutes I will be standing here. I tried this again last week at another dining in and I bombed. Big time. Of course, the cadets didn't say that. They said all the polite things- "Thank you, sir, for those inspiring words" - "You've provided us much food for thought" - "We all certainly learned something from you tonight, sir." And I'm thinking - yeah - you learned something all right. You learned never to invite that SOB to be a dining in speaker again.

So in the interim I've spent quite a bit of time thinking about what I would say to you to night. What can I say that will stay with you? And as I reflected on this I turned it on myself - what stays with me? What makes a mark on me? What do I remember, and why? How have I learned the higher lessons I so desperately want to impart to you? Well - I've learned those higher lessons through experience. And as I thought further, I realized that there's only one way to relate experience -that is to tell some stories. So I'm going to try something new here this evening. I'm going to give you your stories and attempt to relate what I've learned by living them. I'm going to let you crawl inside my eye-sockets and see some of the things I've seen these past 18 years.

Imagine you are a brand new second lieutenant on a peacekeeping mission in the Sinai Peninsula. You are less than a year out of West Point, and only a few weeks out of the basic course. You are standing at a strict position of attention in front of your battalion commander, a man you will come to realize was one of the finest soldiers with whom you've ever served, and you are being questioned about a mistake - a big mistake - that you've made. You see, your platoon lost some live ammo. Oh sure, it was eventually found, but for a few hours you had the entire battalion scrambling. Your battalion commander is not yelling at you though, he's not demeaning you, he's simply taking this opportunity to ensure you learn from the experience. And you do- you learn that people make mistakes, that those mistakes do not usually result in the end of the world, and that such occasions are valuable opportunities to impart some higher lessons. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see your platoon sergeant emerge from behind a building. He's an old soldier - a fine soldier though - whose knees have seen a few too many airborne operations. He sees you and the colonel - and he takes off at a run. You see him approaching from behind the colonel and the next thing you see is the back of your platoon sergeant's head. He is now standing between you and your battalion commander - the two are eyeball to eyeball. Your platoon sergeant says, a touch of indignance in his voice "Leave my lieutenant alone, sir. He didn't lose the ammo, I did. I was the one who miscounted. You want someone's ass, you take mine."

And you learn another lesson - you learn about loyalty.

It's a few months later and you are one of two soldiers left on a hot PZ on some Caribbean island. There's been another foul up - not yours this time, but you're going to pay for it. It's you and your RTO, a nineteen-year-old surfer from Florida who can quote Shakespeare because his Mom was a high school literature teacher and who joined the army because his Dad was a WWII Ranger. The last UH-60 has taken off on an air assault and someone is supposed to come back and get you guys. But the fire is getting heavy, and you're not sure anything can get down there without getting shot up. You're taking fire from some heavily forested hills. At least two machineguns, maybe three, maybe more, and quite a few AKs, but you can't make out anything else. You and your RTO are in a hole, hunkered down as the bad guys are peppering your hole with small arms fire. Your RTO is trying to get some help - another bird to come get you, some artillery, some attack helicopters - anything. But there are other firefights happening elsewhere on this island involving much larger numbers.

So as the cosmos unfold at; that particular moment, in that particular place, you and that RTO are well down the order of merit list. You feel a tug at your pants leg. Ketch, that's what you call him, Ketch tells you he got a "wait, out" when he asked for help. The radio is jammed with calls for fire and requests for support from other parts of the island. "What we gonna do, sir?' he asks. And all of a sudden, you're learning another lesson. You're learning about the weightiness of command, because it's not just you in that hole, it's this kid you've spent every day with for the last five months. This kid you've come to love like a kid brother. There is only one way out and that's through the bad guys. You see, you are on a peninsula that rises about 100 feet from the sea. The inland side is where the bad guys are. You figure you are safe in this hole, so long as they don't bring in any indirect fire stuff, but if they come down off those hills, onto the peninsula, then you're going to have to fight it out. And that's what you tell your RTO. We either get help or, if the bad guys come for us, we fight. He looks at you. You don't know how long. And he says only four words. Two sentences. "Roger, sir. Let's rock." Appropriate coming from a surfer. Then he slithers back down to the bottom of the hole. Staying on the radio, your lifeline, trying to get some help. You are peering over the edge of the hole, careful not to make too big a target. You're thinking about your wife and that little month-old baby you left a few days ago. It was two o'clock in the morning when you got the call. "Pack your gear and get in here." You kissed them both and told them to watch the news. Hell, you didn't know where here you were going or why, but you were told to go, and you went.

Then all of a sudden it gets real loud, and things are flying all around and then there's a shadow that passes over you. You look up and find yourself staring at the bottom of a Blackhawk, about 15 feet over the deck, flying fast and low, and as it passes over your hole you see the door gunner dealing death and destruction on the bad guys in those hills. It sets down about 25 meters from your hole, as close as it can get. You look up and see the crew chief kneeling inside, waving frantically to you, the door gunner still dealing with it, trying to keep the bad guys' heads down, who have now switched their fire to the bird, a much bigger, and better, target. You look at Ketch and then you're off - and you run 25 meters faster than 25 meters have ever been run since humans began to walk upright. And you dive through the open doors onto the floor of the Blackhawk. There are no seats in the bird since this is combat and we don't use them in the real deal. And you are hugging your RTO, face-to-face, like a lover, and shouting at him "You OKAY? You OKAY? You OKAY?" but he doesn't tell you he's OKAY since he's yelling the same thing at you -- "You OKAY? You OKAY? You OKAY?" And then the pilot pulls pitch and executes a violent and steep ascent out of there and had you not been holding on to the d-rings in the floor and the crew chief not been holding your legs you might have fallen out. Then you're over the water, you're safe, and the bird levels out, and you roll over to your back and close your eyes - and you think you fall asleep. But then you feel a hand on your blouse, and you open your eyes and see the crew chief kneeling over you with a head set in his hand. He wants you to put it on so you do. And the first thing you hear is "I-Beamer, buddy boy. I Beamer." You were in I-4 while a cadet, and that was your rallying cry. And you look up to where the pilots sit and you see a head sticking out from behind one of the seats. He's looking at you and it's his voice you hear, but you can't make out who it is because his visor is down. Then he lifts it, and you see the face of a man who was 2 years ahead of you in your company. He tells you that he knew you were there and he wasn't going to leave an I-Beamer like that. And you learn about courage, and camaraderie. And friendship that never dies.

It's a few years later and you've already had your company command. You're in grad school, studying at Michigan. You get a phone call one night, one of the sergeants from your company. He tells you Harvey Moore is dead, killed in a training accident when his Blackhawk flew into the ground. Harvey Moore. Two time winner of the Best Ranger Competition. Great soldier. Got drunk one night after his wife left him and took his son. You see, staff sergeants don't make as much money as lawyers, so she left with the lawyer. He got stinking drunk, though it didn't take much since he didn't drink at all before this, and got into his car. Then had an accident. Then got a DUI. He was an E-6 promotable when this happened, and the SOP was a general-officer article 15 and a reduction one grade, which would really be two for him because he was on the promotion list. But Harvey Moore is a good soldier, and it's time to go to bat for a guy who, if your company command was any sort of a success, played a significant part in making it so. And you go with your battalion commander to see the CG, and you stand at attention in front of the CG's desk for 20 minutes convincing him that Harvey Moore deserves a break. You win. Harvey Moore never drinks again. He makes E-7. And when you change command, he grabs your arm, with tears in his eyes, and thanks you for all you've done. Then the phone call. And you learn about grief.

And then you're a major and you're back in the 82d - your home. And one day some SOB having a bad week decides it's time to take it out on the world and he shoots up a PT formation. Takes out 20 guys. You're one of them. 5.56 tracer round right to the gut. Range about 10 meters. And you're dead for a little while, but it's not your time yet - there are still too many lessons to learn. And you wake up after 5 surgeries and 45 days in a coma. And you look down at your body and you don't recognize it - it has become a receptacle for hospital tubing and electronic monitoring devices. You have a tracheotomy, so there's a huge tube going down your throat and you can't talk, but that thing is making sure you breathe. And there's a tube in your nose that goes down into your stomach - that's how you eat. And there are four IVs - one in each arm and two in the veins in the top of your feet. There is a tube through your right clavicle - that's where they inject the high-powered antibiotics that turns your hair white and makes you see things. But disease is the enemy now and it's gotta be done. And there are three tubes emerging from three separate holes in your stomach. They are there to drain the liquids from your stomach cavity. It drains into some bags hanging on the right;side of your bed. And they've shaved your chest and attached countless electrodes to monitor your heartbeat, blood pressure, and anything else they can measure. They have these things stuck all over your head as well, and on your wrists and ankles. And your family gathers around, and they are like rocks, and they pull you through. But there's also a guy, dressed in BDUs, with a maroon beret in his and, who stands quietly in the corner. Never says anything. Just smiles. And looks at you. He's there every day. Not every hour of every day, but he comes every day.

Sometimes he's there when you wake up. Sometimes he's there when you go to sleep. He comes during his lunch break. He stays an hour, or two, or three. And just stands in the corner. And smiles. No one told him to be there. But he made it his place of duty. His guard post. You see, it's your sergeant major, and his ranger buddy is down, and a ranger never leaves a fallen comrade. And you learn, through this man, the value of a creed.
(Note from Guy): if you've never read the Ranger Creed, Google it. The men of the Ranger Regiment live this creed every day. It is probably more powerful than wedding vows, and once you've lived by it, it's part of your life forever)

And every four hours two huge male nurses come in and gently roll you on your side. The bullet exited through your left buttock and made a hole the size of a softball. The bandages need to be changed. Take the soiled wads out and put clean ones in. And a second lieutenant comes in. She seems to be there all the time. She's the one changing the bandages. And it hurts like hell, but she, too, is smiling, and talking to you, and she's gentle. And you know you've seen her before, but you can't talk - you still have that tube in your throat. But she knows. And she tells you that you taught her Military Art History, that now it's her turn to take care of you, that she's in charge of you and the team of nurses assigned to you, and she won't let you down. And you learn about compassion.

And then it's months later and you're still recovering. Most of the tubes are gone but it's time for another round of major surgeries. And you go into one of the last, this one about 9 hours long. And they put you back together. And you wake up in the ICU one more time. Only one IV this time. And when you open your eyes, there's a huge figure standing over your bed. BDUs. Green beret in his hand. Bigger than God. And he's smiling. "It's about damn time you woke up you lazy bastard" he says. And you know it's your friend and former commander and you've got to come back with something quick - something good. He's the deputy Delta Force commander, soon to be the commander. And you say "Don't you have someplace else to be? Don't you have something more important to do?" And without skipping a beat, without losing that smile he says "Right now, I am doing what I consider the most important thing in the world."

And you learn about leadership.

So there you have them. Some stories. I've tried to let you see the world as I've seen it a various points in time these 18 years. I hope you've learned something. I certainly have."

For the record, I know these men personally, and I served during these times the writer is describing, I was there @ Hill AFB that dark night on 29 Oct '92 during the final hit of Operation Embryo Stage when RANGER Moore departed this rock, he was my buddy... I also recall very clearly that damn sniper doing his evil down @ Bragg... this world just never quits jackin with the good folks seems like. My point of all of this is while you are in the middle of it all, this Serving stuff, pay attention to those around you, that is what is Truly of most importance, gubmints will come and go, Honor, Courage, being Solid under extreme pressure and circumstance will be your test... make this world a little better of a place while you are among the living... and Never Forget the RANGER Harvey Moore's that you will meet along the way...

HOOAH!
RLTW! - NSDQ!

A Seattle Washington Motor home made from a single Douglas Fir Log on a 1920 3 ton Dodge Brothers chassis. The Douglas Fir was named after David Douglas a Scottish botanist.

The Foundation for Exceptional Warriors - The FEW
- 4 Jan, 2022

He was the first.
On this day in U.S. Army SF history, 04-January, 2002:
US Army Special Forces Staff Sgt. Ross Chapman was killed by enemy fire near Khost, Afghanistan. He became the first US military service member to be Killed In Action by enemy fire after 9/11.

Chapman's military career spanned 13 years and included combat service in Haiti, Panama and the Persian Gulf War. In 1989, he parachuted into Panama during the invasion of that country. He also served in Operation Desert Storm and later attended the U.S. Army Special Forces School at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Assigned to the 1st Special Forces Group following the 11 September attacks, Chapman was directing troop movements from the back of a flatbed truck when he was shot. He did not die instantly from the attack, which also saw a CIA Paramilitary Operations Officer from Special Activities Division wounded.

Rest Easy, Brother - We Remember...
DOL

#exceptionalwarriors #TheFEW #purpleheart #SOF #Valor #Heroes #warfighter #America #armyranger #navySEAL #MARSOC #JSOC #SOCOM #greenberet #ranger #PJ #jtac #deltaforce #OGA

It’s that time again! We will be in deer camp this weekend 5-7 January 2024, at none other than Coon Creek, LLC in Andalusia, Alabama! We hope to continue our streak of good luck this year with an amazing experience and fellowship opportunity! This year we will be taking US Army Veteran Alfonso Nixon after a big buck ! Say a prayer for everyone involved and wish us luck in south Alabama!
#experiencethis #cooncreeklodge #sweethomealabama

In Kubrick's film 2001: A Space Odyssey, Bowman is seen exiting the capsule hatch and entering the ship without a helmet or pressurization. It would be possible?

Kubrick, who was an absolute perfectionist, posed this question to the top leaders of NASA and the greatest medical experts. And the answers he got were surprising, so much so that he then proceeded to shoot the scene.
When asked, “Would such a feat be possible?” the answer the experts gave was "Yes, although for a short time."

* Freezing problems: it's true, in space there are around -270°C, but we are in a vacuum, and the vacuum is a terrible conductor of heat: it would be the vacuum itself that prevents us from dissipating the heat instantly. Furthermore, some heat would remain inside the suit, so the sudden loss of it would be limited to the hands and head. A few seconds would be too few to reduce a man like in the film "Mission to Mars".

* Pressure problems: experiments have been carried out, and it has already been established that for a few seconds the skin would be able to retain the swelling of the body due to the lack of external pressure. Probably, a mistake made in the film is that there would be some small lacerations and edema, but nothing fatal.

* Lungs: Bowman is clearly seen emptying his lungs before the hatch exploded. Which is the correct thing to do, as the air in the lungs would undergo a sudden expansion, held back however by the fact that the lungs compete for as little air as possible in the diaphragm.

* Evaporation/Boiling of blood liquids: at zero pressure, blood and body fluids, being hot, would begin to approach the boiling point. But a few seconds would not be enough to reach that boiling point inside the body.

* Eyes, ears and mouth: The most significant damage would probably occur at the level of the eyes, ears and mouth, due to the internal pressure of these organs (eyes and ears) and the fact that the liquids would be in contact with the vacuum (eyes and mouth). These liquids would be immediately subjected to boiling and evaporation, unlike what happens with body fluids. However, your mouth can be kept tightly closed, and so can your eyes, as Bowman did, but the problem would be seeing where you are going to grab the locking handle of the hatch. Perhaps this can be remedied by keeping your eyes as narrow as possible, to allow the liquids to evaporate/boil slower. For the ears, such a sudden drop in pressure would probably cause the eardrums to collapse outwards, and this is perhaps the only real and gross mistake in the movie, unless Bowman had some glues in his emergency suite for quick repairs to the suit, and had created earplugs with them, which, however, are not seen in the movie.

* Embolism: in space the blood would be subjected to a sudden drop in pressure, so all the nitrogen contained in it would tend to create dangerous bubbles circulating in the arteriovenous system. Perhaps this would be the worst enemy, even if it is clear that the embolism would occur about over ten seconds after the shock, so the timing for not having embolism is correct, even if almost at the limit of the available time.

* Radiations: in space, you are not shielded against cosmic radiation: but Bowman is not in open space, but inside the spaceship, and is in any case also protected by the suit on almost the entire surface of his body. Therefore, radiation does not pose a danger for such a short and limited exposure.

So, the conclusion of the analysis is yes, such a feat would be possible, but it would really require a lot of luck, especially in being able to grab the compensation handle and it would leave serious damages to the body, even if not fatal, in the organs in contact with the vacuum, such as eyes and ears. Sure, Bowman wouldn't get off as easily as in the movie, but he'd still survive, at least for a while.

Lông Trắng, aka "White Feather Sniper"

After the Vietnam War
After returning to active duty, Hathcock helped establish the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School, at the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia. Due to his extreme injuries suffered in Vietnam, he was in nearly constant pain, but he continued to dedicate himself to teaching snipers.

In 1975, Hathcock's health began to deteriorate, and he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. He stayed in the Corps, but his health continued to decline, and was forced to retire just 55 days short of the 20 years that would have made him eligible for full retirement pay. Being medically retired, he received 100% disability. He would have received only 50% of his final pay grade had he retired after 20 years. He fell into a state of depression when he was forced out of the Marines, because he felt as if the service had kicked him out. During this depression, his wife Jo nearly left him, but decided to stay. Hathcock eventually picked up the hobby of shark fishing, which helped him overcome his depression.

Hathcock provided sniper instruction to police departments and select military units, such as SEAL Team Six.

Civilian life
Hathcock once said that he survived in his work because of an ability to "get in the bubble", to put himself into a state of "utter, complete, absolute concentration", first with his equipment, then his environment, in which every breeze and every leaf meant something, and finally on his quarry. After the war, a friend showed Hathcock a passage written by Ernest Hemingway: "Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and like it, never really care for anything else thereafter." He copied Hemingway's words on a piece of paper. "He got that right", Hathcock said. "It was the hunt, not the killing." Hathcock said in a book written about his career as a sniper: "I like shooting, and I love hunting. But I never did enjoy killing anybody. It's my job. If I don't get those bastards, then they're gonna kill a lot of these kids dressed up like Marines. That's the way I look at it."

Hathcock's son, Carlos Hathcock III, later enlisted in the Marine Corps; he retired from the Marine Corps as a Gunnery Sergeant after following in his father's footsteps as a shooter, and became a member of the Board of Governors of the Marine Corps Distinguished Shooters Association.

Carlos Hathcock died on February 23, 1999, in Virginia Beach, Virginia, from multiple sclerosis.

Hathcock was awarded a Silver Star in 1996 not for his sniping, but for his act in 1969 of saving the lives of seven fellow Marines after the amphibious tractor (AMTRAC) on which they were riding struck a landmine. Hathcock was knocked unconscious, but awoke in time to race back through the flames to rescue his injured comrades.

On this day in U.S. Army history, 30 Dec. 1776:

General Washington tries to hold his worn-out Army together.
After the American success at Trenton on Christmas, General George Washington returned to Trenton, near Assunpink Creek. The victory had changed much of the General’s fortunes, but he still had a problem. Many of his troops were free to leave at the end of the year. Washington decided to make a personal appeal to his men.

He offered a bounty to any man who would stay another 6 months. After this first appeal, none stepped forward.

But one Soldier remembered what Washington said next: “My brave fellows, you have done all I asked you to do, and more than could be reasonably expected, but your country is at stake, your wives, your houses, and all that you hold dear. You have worn yourselves out with fatigues and hardships, but we know not how to spare you. If you will consent to stay one month longer, you will render that service to the cause of liberty, and to your country, which you probably never can do under any other circumstance.” Men began to step forward. Not everyone stayed, but many did. Only a few stepped out at first, then others. Finally, only those to injured fight had not stepped out, and new men also joined.

On this day in U.S. Army SF history, 31 Dec 1968
– (then) 1st Lt. James N. “Nick” Rowe escaped Viet Cong captivity.

Prisoner of war:
On October 29, 1963, after only three months in country, Rowe was captured by Viet Cong elements along with Captain Humberto "Rocky" R. Versace and Sergeant Daniel L. Pitzer while on an operation to drive a Viet Cong unit out of the village of Le Coeur. Rowe states that the VC were a main force unit due to his observations of their equipment.

Rowe was separated from his fellow Green Berets and spent 62 months in captivity with only brief encounters with fellow American POWs. Rowe was held in the U Minh Forest, better known as the "Forest of Darkness," in extreme southern Vietnam. During most of his five years in captivity Rowe was held in a 3 by 4 by 6 feet (0.91 m × 1.22 m × 1.83 m) bamboo cage.

As an intelligence officer, Rowe possessed vital information about the disposition of defenses around the CIDG camps, the locations of mine field, names of friendly Vietnamese, and unit locations and strength. Rowe had left his West Point ring at home in the United States, and he told his captors that he was a draftee engineer charged with building schools and other civil affairs projects. The Viet Cong interrogated him unsuccessfully. They gave him some engineering problems to solve and Rowe, relying on the basic instruction in engineering he'd received at West Point, successfully maintained his deception.

However, Rowe's deceptive cover was blown when the Viet Cong managed to obtain a list of American high-value prisoners-of-war (POWs), and his name was in the list, identifying him as an intelligence officer. This enraged the VC, prompting them to order his execution.

Rowe was then led deep into the jungle to be shot. When his would-be executioners were distracted by a flight of American helicopters, he overpowered his guard, escaped and flagged down a UH-1 helicopter. He was rescued on December 31, 1968. Rowe had been promoted to Major during captivity.

In 1971, he authored the book, Five Years to Freedom, an account of his years as a prisoner of war. In 1974, he continued his military career the U.S. Army Reserve.
-Special Forces Association Chapter LX

Rebel History
December 31, 2021

27 years ago today in 1994, Russian forces enter the Chechen capital Gronzy during the First Chechen War.

Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, Russia became a federation. However within this Russian federation were many ethnic groups of people who still felt subjugated since the old days of the Russian Empire. The most militant of these ethnic groups were white Muslims located in southern Russia in the Caucasus region. Two provinces in this region that had fought the Russians for centuries was Dagestan and Chechnya. The people of Chechnya wasted no time organizing a serious independence movement as the dissolution of the Soviet Union began in 1991.

Chechen separatists stormed a session of the Soviet installed government and killed their communist leaders. They were adamant that Chechnya was not only a free republic outside of the Soviet Union, but also the Russian Federation. Russia was not going to let a province that had been under their domain for centuries separate without a fight. Small instances of violence began to occur between both sides as Russia started applying military pressure in the region and building up their forces. It was decided that a three-pronged attack would be launched on the Chechen rebel capital of Gronzy on New Year’s Eve.

As part of the Russian forces were about to enter the city, a Chechen commander begged over the radio to the incoming Russians not to come into their capital because they would die, the chilling audio was recorded (See references).

“Ivan, maybe while it’s not too late,” the Chechen said over the radio:
“Tell your men to retreat. Don’t do this, don’t do this. In any case, Ivan, you and I will die. What’s the point of all this? Who will win this? You and I will not win this, understand? If we or I see you in the action, I won’t show you mercy, just like you won’t, understand? It’s better if you come to me as a guest. Retreat your men, have pity for their mothers, have pity for your guys, retreat them. Give the order to retreat.”

After a pause, “I can’t give that order,” the Russian commander responded.

“Ivan, listen to me!” the Chechen said, raising his voice. “From my heart, I wish that you survive this, but you better leave.”

“I don’t have a choice!” he responded. “I have orders and I will obey them in any case.”

The first wave of the Russian forces entering the city were mostly young conscripts and the result of the New Year’s Eve battle was a disaster for them. When the captured Russian soldiers were shown on TV, some of their mothers without assistance of the Russian government went to Gronzy to successfully negotiate the release of their sons. Over the next two months fighting would rage on in the Chechen capital and Russia would secure it in a pyrrhic victory only to lose it in August 1996. Demoralized from this encounter, Russia would be brought to the negotiation table. But over the next 20 years the fight for absolute Chechen independence would continue until a Pro-Russian government was successfully installed that kept Chechnya in the federation to this date.

The fighting during the Chechen Wars is considered to be the toughest war the Russians have experienced since World War 2.

[Online References]
Chilling video of audio from Chechen Commander pleading to the Russian Commander to not come into the city: (https://youtu.be/bWzB8IkXWJI )

First Chechen War:
(https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-18190473 )
(https://www.rand.org/.../monograph.../MR1289/MR1289.sum.pdf )
(https://sites.tufts.edu/.../08/07/russia-1st-chechen-war/ )

Battle of Gronzy:
(http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/482323.stm )
(https://www.rand.org/natsec_area/products/chechen.html )
(https://popularmilitary.com/chilling-radio-message.../ )
Authored by R.E. Foy

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

Judy, a purebred pointer, was the mascot of several ships in the Pacific and was captured by the Japanese in 1942 and taken to a prison camp. There she met Aircraftsman Frank Williams, who shared his small portion of rice with her.

Judy raised morale in the POW camp and also barked when poisonous snakes, crocodiles, or even tigers approached the prisoners. When the prisoners were shipped back to Singapore, she was smuggled out in a rice sack, never whimpering or betraying her presence to the guards.

The next day, that ship was torpedoed. Williams pushed Judy out of a porthole in an attempt to save her life, even though there was a 15-foot drop to the sea. He made his own escape from the ship but was then recaptured and sent to a new POW camp.

He didn't know if Judy had survived, but soon he began hearing stories about a dog helping drowning men reach pieces of debris after the shipwreck. And when Williams arrived at the new camp, he said: "I couldn’t believe my eyes! As I walked through the gate, a scraggly dog hit me square between the shoulders and knocked me over. I’d never been so glad to see the old girl!"

They spent a year together at that camp in Sumatra. "Judy saved my life in so many ways," said Williams. "But the greatest of all was giving me a reason to live. All I had to do was look into those weary, bloodshot eyes and ask myself: 'What would happen to her if I died?' I had to keep going."

Once hostilities ceased, Judy was then smuggled aboard a troopship heading back to Liverpool. In England, she was awarded the Dickin Medal (the "Victoria Cross" for animals) in May 1946. Her citation reads: "For magnificent courage and endurance in Japanese prison camps, which helped to maintain morale among her fellow prisoners, and also for saving many lives through her intelligence and watchfulness".

At the same time, Frank Williams was awarded the PDSA's White Cross of St. Giles for his devotion to Judy. Frank and Judy spent a year after the war visiting the relatives of English POWs who had not survived, and Frank said that Judy "always provided a comforting presence to the families."

When Judy finally died at the age of 13, Frank spent two months building a granite and marble memorial in her memory, which included a plaque describing her life story.

via Stars & Stripes Museum:

We invite you to visit our museum and explore the extraordinary experiences of Frank Praytor during the Korean Conflict.

Frank Praytor, a U.S. Marine, gained fame for a photograph taken during the Korean War where he was captured nursing a kitten. This heartwarming moment not only showcased humanity amidst the brutality of war but also saved him from a potential court-martial.

While serving as a combat correspondent with the 1st Marine Division in Korea in 1952, Praytor took two orphaned newborn kittens under his care. A widely distributed photograph of him gently feeding one of the kittens named "Mis Hap" touched the hearts of millions and appeared in 1,700 newspapers worldwide.

The image of a compassionate Marine caring for a tiny animal resonated deeply with the public, resulting in an outpouring of letters and even marriage proposals. Praytor's fame grew, but he soon faced potential court-martial for violating regulations by publishing photos without military clearance.

However, thanks to his newfound celebrity status and the commandant's decision to let him off the hook, Praytor was spared from charges. He attributed his fortunate outcome to the kitten that had become his companion in Korea.

After narrowly escaping court-martial, Praytor returned to Korea as a writer for Stars and Stripes. He covered significant events like the truce-signing at Panmunjom and had a reunion with "Mis Hap," who had become the Division's mascot. His reporting continued in Tokyo for two years.

Come to our museum and delve into Frank Praytor's captivating story. Witness his remarkable photos taken during Korea and learn how a small kitten played a significant role in shaping his fate.

#FrankPraytor #KoreanConflict #WarPhotography #History #MuseumExhibit

Hhhmmm... interesting read, click on pic to read full article:

"In these days when our history and heritage are being aggressively stripped from us for malevolent ends, it is all the more important that we recover a healthy appreciation for those on whose broad shoulders we stand."

https://pjmedia.com/robert-spencer/2023/12/26/how-the-byzantines-saved-civilization-n4925019

"If the United States were to last as long as the Roman Empire, including its Byzantine period, it would have to continue as an independent country, with political and cultural continuity, until the year 2899. To maintain a unified nation state for over eleven hundred years is a remarkable achievement by any standard, and the Romans accomplished it while facing existential threats and efforts to extinguish their polity during virtually every period of their existence. Now, nearly six hundred years after the demise of the empire, its influence still resonates in a number of fields, albeit almost entirely unnoticed and unappreciated."

Happy birthday Johannes Kepler.

Johannes Kepler was born #OnThisDay December 27, 1571, in Weil der Stadt, Wurttemberg, in what is now Germany. His father, a mercenary soldier, left the family when Kepler was five. Historians believe his father died soon afterwards. His mother was the daughter of an innkeeper and Johannes was put to work at the inn at a young age. Despite his poverty, he was able to attend Latin School at Maulbronn and at the age of twelve, enrolled in a Protestant Seminary in Adelberg. He earned a scholarship to the Lutheran University of Tübingen in 1589. By the time he received an M.A. in theology there in 1591 he had read of the Copernican model of the universe that stated the Sun, not the Earth, was the center of the Universe. Intrigued by this view, he decided to change his major studies to mathematics and astronomy. In 1594, he left the University to become a mathematics tutor in Graz, Austria where he continued his interest in astronomy. In 1596, he wrote the first influential defense of the Copernican system, the Mysterium Cosmographicum (The Sacred Mystery of the Cosmos).

In 1600, Kepler was forced out of his teaching post at Graz due to his Lutheran faith, and moved to Prague to work for the renowned Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe. In 1601 Tycho died, and Kepler inherited his post as Imperial Mathematician to the Hapsburg Emperor. Using the precise data that Tycho had collected, Kepler discovered that the orbit of Mars was an ellipse, the first step towards his formulation of the laws of planetary motion. In 1606, he published De Stella Nova (Concerning the New Star) on a supernova (new star) that had appeared two years before. In 1609, Kepler published his book Astronomia Nova (New Astronomy) , which contained his first two laws of planetary motion. Due to his detailed calculations and data, some credit Kepler with the creation of what is now known as the scientific method.

In 1610, Kepler learned of Galileo’s use of the newly invented telescope in astronomy, which inspired him to build his own telescope. Later that year Kepler published a confirmation of Galileo’s observations of Jupiter’s moons, the Narratio de Observatis Quatuor Jovis Satellitibus (Narration about Four Satellites of Jupiter observed) , which lent further support to the Copernican model. In 1611, Kepler published Dioptrice, the first scientific discussion of the telescope.

Kepler lost his post in 1612 as Imperial Mathematician when Lutherans were expelled from Prague. He moved to Linz, Austria but had to return often to Wurttemberg where he successfully defended his mother against charges of witchcraft. In 1619, he published Harmonices Mundi (Harmony of the Worlds) , which contained his third law of planetary motion. In spite of more personal tragedies and the religious strife of the Thirty Years War, (1618-1648) Kepler continued his research, publishing the seven-volume Epitome Astronomiae Copernicanae (Epitome of Copernican Astronomy) in 1621. This important work played a major role in the eventual acceptance of Copernicus’ theories.

In 1627, Kepler completed the Rudolphine Tables, begun by Tycho Brae the previous century. These included calculations using logarithms, which Kepler developed, and provided perpetual tables for calculating planetary positions for any past or future date, forming the most concrete proof yet for the Copernican model of the Universe. Kepler also used the tables to predict a pair of transits by Mercury and Venus of the Sun, although he did not live long enough to witness the events.

Johannes Kepler died in Regensburg, Germany on November 15, 1630. His grave there was destroyed in 1632 by the Swedish army during the Thirty Years War. In poor health most of his life, and caught up in the religious turmoil of the Reformation, Kepler’s accomplishments as an astronomer, physicist, and mathematician seem even more remarkable. His greatest feat in astronomy was his explanation of planetary motion, which has earned him the title “founder of celestial mechanics” as he was the first person to identify “natural laws” in the modern sense. He was the first to prove that the ocean’s tides are due to the Moon’s gravity and pioneered the use of stellar parallax caused by the Earth’s orbit to measure the distance to the stars. Kepler was also the first to suggest that the Sun rotates about its axis, and coined the word “satellite.”

Kepler’s book Astronomia Pars Optica (the Optical Part of Astronomy) has earned him the title “founder of modern optics,” while his work Stereometria Doliorum Vianiaorum (The Stereometry of Wine Barrels) forms the basis of integral calculus. A devout Lutheran, he derived the birth year of Christ that is now universally accepted, and was the first to derive logarithms purely based on mathematics. Johannes Kepler’s most influential accomplishments in astronomy were his three Laws of Planetary Motion, which were used by Isaac Newton to develop his theory of universal gravitation:

-Kepler’s First Law: The planets move in elliptical orbits with the sun at a focus.
-Kepler’s Second Law: In their orbits around the sun, the planets sweep out equal areas in equal times.
-Kepler’s Third Law: The squares of the times to complete one orbit are proportional to the cubes of the average distances from the sun.

Source:new Mexico museum of space history

On this date, Dec. 28, 1965: CIA pilot Mele Vojvodich, Jr. takes Lockheed A-12, 60-6929, Article 126, for a functional check flight after a period of deep maintenance, but seconds after take-off from Groom Dry Lake, Nev., the aircraft yaws uncontrollably, pilot ejecting at 100 feet after six seconds of flight, escaping serious injury. Investigation finds that the pitch stability augmentation system had been connected to the yaw SAS actuators, and vice versa. SAS connectors are changed to make such wiring mistake impossible.

Said Kelly Johnson in a history of the Oxcart program, “It was perfectly evident from movies taken of the takeoff, and from the pilot's description, that there were some mis-wired gyros in the aircraft. This turned out to be exactly what happened. In spite of color coding and every other normal precaution, the pitch and yaw gyro connections were interchanged in rigging.”

For a singer born in Mount Olive, Alabama, it all started with a song he wrote for himself!

King Hiram "Hank" Williams was born, September 1923 in rural Alabama, very rural. Never one much for attending school or "book learning", a young Mr. Williams was on the road to being a country music entertainer in his early teens. With his Mother's help and blessing, a very young Hank Williams played beer joints, "skull orchards", and various types of other night clubs of, shall we say, “dubious repute”.

Hank Williams also started writing songs when he was in his teenage years. As a teenager, Mr. Williams won a talent contest in the late 1930's performing a song he in fact wrote, one called the "WPA Blues". A young Hank Williams was also a regular guest and performer on local country radio stations as well.

At one point during World War II, Mr. Williams, growing tired of the struggle of trying and trying to become a successful country music singer and musician, briefly worked at a shipyard. His mother could tell, and realized the young Hank was unhappy, discontented and unbeknownst to the young Hank, his mother booked him a couple of months of shows causing Hank to tell his mother she had made him “the happiest boy in the whole wide world”.

After getting married to a beautiful young lady named Audrey, Hank Williams' wife, the Ms. Audrey pushed him to audition for Acuff-Rose publications of Nashville, Tennessee in 1946.

Fred Rose and his son Wesley were playing ping pong one day at lunch when Ms. Audrey and Hank Williams showed up. After sitting, listening and hearing a few of Hank's songs, they quickly signed him to a songwriting contract. Then, quickly placed his songs with the then-popular Molly O'Day on the Columbia Records label.

When a small record label in New York City, the Sterling Records label, wanted to make some country music records, Acuff-Rose Publishing placed Hank Williams and the Oklahoma Wranglers (better known today as the Willis Bros.) with this small record label. Hank made 4 records for them and while they were not officially hits, they paved the way for a better, more lucrative contract with the new MGM Records label.

Hank's 1st record, "Move It On Over" was an immediate hit. The record climbed to #4 on the Billboard music charts in the fall of 1947. 3 more hits followed before Hank Williams hit #1 in early 1949 with the mega hit “Lovesick Blues". “Lovesick Blues” was #1 for 10 weeks and stayed on the country music charts a remarkable 42 weeks! It’s a really good chance that we think all of you know the Hank Williams story from there!!!!

Hank Williams placed 42 singles on the Billboard Music charts between 1947 and 1999. 33 of those songs came during his lifetime with the last 9 posthumously. They included a produced, “electronic" duet in 1999 with his son, Hank Williams Jr. “There's a Tear In My Beer", a song written for Big Bill Lister. Mr. Lister found the original demo in his attic, forwarded it to Bocephus and the rest is history as they say! #Legendary #hank

The iconic, the bigger than life, the legendary Hank Williams scored 37 top 10 records with 11 of those hitting #1. Hank Williams passed away in the back of his Cadillac in the early morning hours of January 1st, 1953 on the way to a live engagement. His death, at the highest peak of his popularity, left many to wonder what his career could have been had he lived.

Most fans of real, traditional, classic country music pause and reflect on the life and career of Hank Williams, Sr. at the end of each year.

January 1st marks 71 years since his death but let not your heart be troubled, without a doubt, Hank Williams continues to be a major influence on so many in the country music industry and the country music community!

And it all started with a song he wrote about being in the dog house!

Pre 9-11, heard the stories of digging trenches, and who would be the sacrificial lamb to take their mask off after an attack. Well, 2003, I got to witness this poor E-1 take his mask off after an attack on Camp Thunder in Kuwait.
1SG says, “ take you mask and MOPP gear with you to the aircraft”. The aircraft were 1/2 mile to a mile away from our tents. As the crew chiefs were out doing daily maintenance on the blackhawks, the patriot missiles fired off. A loud explosion was heard and seen over our heads. I was on top of the bird and looked over to the other aircraft and saw everyone looking up. One crew chief yelled “gas gas gas” while giving the hand and arm signal at the same time. I swear I leaped off the top of the aircraft did a PLF went inside the cabin and grabbed my mask. I donned it in the fastest time ever. I did not bring the rest of my gear. So I ran back to the tents, with about 20 other CEs. Having the mask on didn’t phase me or slow me down. I don’t think I took a breath the whole time. Got to my bunk and finished putting on the rest of my suit. Everyone else was in the trench already. Sat there for hours until the LTC asked this one Soldier to stand up and stand in front of everyone and take his mask off.
“All Clear” said the Doc. It just so happened that the thunderous boom over our heads was a patriot missile self detonated because it was off course. But in fact, the other 4 patriot missiles did knock down 3 scuds that were headed to Kuwait City.

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The function of man is to Live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

Up to a certain point, it is necessary for a man to live his life in the world in which he finds himself, and to make the best of it. But beyond that point, he must create a world of his own. And the greatest thing about life is that it is always giving us the opportunity to create something new. It is never too late to start over, to make a fresh beginning, to blaze a new trail.

Life is short, and we have but a brief time in which to explore, to learn, to experience, and to create. Let us make the most of that time, and let us burn brightly, like meteors across the night sky, leaving behind us a trail of light and inspiration for those who come after us.
~ Jack London

(Book: I Would Rather Be a Meteor https://amzn.to/45j7GSW )

I’m shutting it down!

No you’re not! We got a wounded eagle in the back. A Hot LZ is not a place to be, fly it outside the city. Transload onto -3.

The wounded eagle was Kent Solheim. On one of the hundreds of missions I’ve been on, I remember this one quite well.
It was 2007. I was a FMQ (fully mission qualified) crew chief sitting on the right seat.
We flew from Balad to an SF outpost south of Baghdad. We had a mission brief with the ground force. I remember one of the SF guys say, it’s been a while since any US forces were walking the streets of Karbala. It’s was supposed to be a quick and easy snatch and grab of one of the targets they had on file.

4 H-60’s, I was in dash 4 that night as a CASEVAC bird. All 4 of us were to rope in the center of the city and then hold 2km off of the target until the GFC cleared us to go get fuel.
Upon conducting the insertion, the ground force was under immediate fire. I can see tracer rounds coming toward the aircraft, not effective so I decided not to engage but to focus my attention to the guys roping out my side. “Last man” I called out over ICS, I looked over my right shoulder and saw my BMQ had his thumb up, an indication that his side was empty and his rope was clear, we were clear to cut ropes. I called out “ropes clear, clear for flight”! (With that statement you should know which battalion of the regiment I was from). We caught up with the rest of the flight and held off target by 2km. At this point, flight lead is getting everyone’s fuel numbers, to see how much time we had to hold until we were at Bingo fuel. The call came over SATCOM, we need CASEVAC at Black LZ time now. Grid as follows! They sent the grid coordinates and we plugged them in. Flight lead sent both -3 and -4 to the LZ. We followed 3 in and landed 100 meters short of the intended LZ. We were in a brown out condition, I hear the Ground force say, you are 100 meters south of where you need to be I need you here right F’n now!
At this point, I told my pilots, I got -3 insight come up and I’ll call you passed them. We all agreed. I told my BMQ, keep on eye on the wires out your door (we crossed over them when landing). Ok come forward 20, keep coming forward sir let’s go, 15, 10 ,5 we are clear of -3. He flew it till the GPS read 0. He said are we clear. No Joy on the right is what I replied with, we were browned out. He said I’m coming down. Bam! My spine compressed then I hit the ceiling and the back of the pilots seat. Bells and whistles going off (both the aircraft and I) had a black cockpit, rotors and engines sounded weird. While the pilots were working those issues I waved the ground force in to load the wounded eagle Kent Solheim. While loaded the FMQ pilots says, I’m shutting it down! I immediately responded with
“No you’re not! We got a wounded eagle in the back. A Hot LZ is not a place to be, fly it outside the city. Transload onto -3.”
He said we got all the chip detector lights on, we are shutting down! Then Flight lead came on and said Fly it out of there. We secured the passengers in the back, doc went straight to work on Kent.
We flew out and headed straight to Baghdad Cash. Doc needed help in the back so he gave me some shears to start cutting uniforms and sleeves. We moved his IV to another place and applied another tourniquet. I stayed in the back holding the bag and occasionally taking his pulse on his ankle and his wrist while doc worked on other things. We assessed the integrity of the aircraft and troubleshoot systems on the way and concluded that it was safe enough to fly. We get into the Baghdad CASH area and I see tracer rounds come between us and -3. I didn’t think anything of it cause all I wanted to do was get this guy to the hospital. Luckily we didn’t get hit and landed on the pad at the hospital safely.
When we got back to Balad, we needed to replace the TRGB and IGB and replace all the filters along the oil system. I never knew who he was until recently when I was scrolling through another social media platform that Socom Archive posted. It brought me back to that night instantly. I have never known the persons names during the 20ish CASEVACs I’ve done but this one and it only took 16 years to know who he was and what he’s done after that night. A true hero and a perfect example of bravery and resilience.

This is to you Kent! We may never meet but just wanted you to know the perspective from your Air Uber!

NSDQ!

#combatstories

https://news.va.gov/press-room/va-releases-national-veteran-suicide-prevention-annual-report/

It’s time to get after It. Reach out to your Tribe.

Good Saturday Everyone, just wanted to share this today :

Life is a journey filled with ups and downs, but it's how we navigate through the challenges that truly defines us. Today, I want to remind you that you possess an incredible strength within you – a strength that can move mountains and conquer any obstacle that comes your way.

Remember, success is not measured by the absence of failure, but by the courage to rise every time we fall. So, don't be afraid to take risks, to dream big, and to chase after your passions. Believe in yourself and your abilities, for you are capable of achieving greatness.

In the words of the legendary Maya Angelou, "You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it."

So, let go of self-doubt and embrace the limitless possibilities that lie ahead. Surround yourself with positive energy, inspiring individuals, and never forget to be your own biggest cheerleader. Remember, you are capable of achieving anything you set your mind to!

Today, I challenge you to take that first step towards your dreams. Whether it's starting a new project, pursuing a new hobby, or simply taking care of your well-being, know that every small step counts. And as you embark on this journey, always remember that you have a community of supporters cheering you on.

Let's make this day count, my friends! Together, let's inspire, uplift, and empower one another to reach for the stars. "

#Inspiration #Motivation #BelieveInYourself #DreamBig #RiseAbove #YouAreCapable #NeverGiveUp #Community #Support #MakeItCount

NOT ABLE TO ADD A COMMENT TO A GO LIVE VIDEO THAT WAS CREATED ON A GROUP AFTER THE RECORDING WAS COMPLETE. See below for evidence and reference these remarks for explanation.


ON THE FIRST GO LIVE TEST. I went into the Group page after making a GO LIVE video and attempted to leave a comment. When I PRESSED the ENTER button, the comment disappeared as if I DELETED it. However, when I returned to the GROUP page and looked at the comments section of the 1st GO LIVE video. You can see that the comments were actually added to the comments sections.

Get on the Offensive.

Get after it.

Attack.

Over.