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Are you facing issues like oil leakage, unusual noise, or low pressure in your hydraulic pump?

As one of the best hydraulic pump repair shops in Delhi NCR, we provide complete hydraulic pump repair and service under one roof, covering leading brands like Danfoss, Rexroth, Yuken, Nachi, Eaton Vickers, and Kawasaki.
Our workshop is equipped with testing facilities, genuine spare parts, and skilled technicians to restore your pump’s performance to factory standards. We specialize in:
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Industrial and mobile hydraulic systems If your equipment isn’t performing efficiently, it is time for expert attention!
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Can Rexroth pumps be used in mobile machinery?
Absolutely. Rexroth hydraulic pumps are widely used in mobile machinery such as excavators, loaders, cranes, and agricultural equipment. Their robust design, high efficiency, and responsive control make them ideal for machines that operate under continuous load and varying conditions. Features like variable displacement and load-sensing technology ensure precise hydraulic performance while reducing fuel consumption and wear. Simply put, Rexroth pumps provide reliable power and long-term durability, making them a trusted choice for mobile applications.
Rexroth pumps are used in countless industries. Some of the most common applications include:
•Construction machines– Loaders, cranes, excavators, pumps, and drilling machines rely totally on piston pumps for lifting and heavy movement.
• Industrial Machinery – Injection molding, metal forming, and presses often depend on Rexroth pumps for better hydraulic force and performance.
• Marine and Offshore Systems - this category includes ship steering systems, winches and offshore oil drilling rigs where reliability is critical.
• Energy and Renewable Power – this power is used in and is seen in wind turbines, hydroelectric systems, and oil and gas systems.
• Agricultural Machinery – hydraulic pumps are used in tractors, harvesters, and other agricultural equipment because of their reliability.
Their adaptability makes them a preferred choice in both mobile hydraulics machines that move and stationary hydraulics (industrial setups). For any kind of maintenance, repair or OEM parts replacement, visit Reliable Rexroth hydraulic pump service
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Aapke area mein Hydraulic Pump Repair kaha karwa Sakte Hain?

Agar aapka hydraulic pump properly kaam nahi kar raha, oil leak ho raha hai, ya pressure low hai, toh naya pump lene ki zarurat nahi hai. Zyada cases me pump ke issues worn-out seals, damaged valves, ya contamination ki wajah se hote hain, jise professional repair se easily fix kiya ja sakta hai.

Aapke area me kaafi industrial workshops aur hydraulic repair centres available hote hain jahan experienced technicians pump ko dismantle karke inspect karte hain, defective parts replace karte hain aur fir se test karke ensure karte hain ki pump smooth aur reliable performance de.

Repair karwane ka sabse bada benefit ye hai ki aapko system compatibility aur downtime ki tension nahi hoti. Agar repair properly ho, toh pump ki life extend ho jaati hai aur naya pump kharidne ka kharcha bhi bach jata hai.

Bas dhyan rakhein ki workshop me genuine parts, skilled engineers, aur testing setup ho. Ye chhoti cheezein hi decide karti hain ki repair kitna reliable hoga. Agar core components damage nahi hain, toh repair work aapke pump ko almost naya jaisa bana deta hai.

Agar aap Delhi NCR me best hydraulic pump repair shop search kar rahe hai to you can find Excellent Hydraulic Works in Bawana with more than 27 years of experience.

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Why are Rexroth Hydraulic Pumps the First Choice of Operators?

When it comes to reliability, efficiency, and durability in real-world situations, no one performs like Rexroth hydraulic pumps. Whether you are on a construction site, at a factory, are on a river bank, or are operating a logging operation, any downtime is expensive. If you are running equipment each day, often under stress, the machinery they choose will operate as a pump, regardless of their intended use.

They are built well, intended applications with strong materials, giving the operators dependable constant flow, stable pressure, energy efficient performance, and advanced features to enhance performance. Load sensing and variable displacement models have machines that operate only on the fuel and power needed to operate, thus saving fuel cost and wear and tear on the equipment.

Operators have all the ease of maintenance and Bosch Rexroth Global support and can be assured that this design is the most selected by other operators, when every detail counts and they can't afford a mistake.

Now it's easy to understand why Rexroth hydraulic pumps are the first choice for operators that can't afford a failed response.

From my experiences, the biggest reasons people stay with Rexroth hydraulic pumps is this:

Efficiency: Because there is less wasted energy, there is less fuel or power cost.

Its high pressure rating: many models are rated to continuous operations above 300 bar without damage.

Control: Variable models engage to regulate themselves, making a responsive machine.
Durability: If oil is clean and good practices are followed, it works.

Power in a compact package: One little hydraulic pump can produce high-pressure output and fits into the most compact of designs.

check it out- https://hydraulicpumprepairing.wordpress.com/2025/09/18/unlocking-fluid-power-efficiency-with-rexroth-piston-pumps/

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Top 7 Common Excavator Hydraulic Pump Problems and How to Fix Them

Excavators are built for heavy-duty work, and at the heart of their performance lies the hydraulic pump. When this pump starts to fail, even a minor issue can slow down operations or cause complete machine downtime. Operators who understand the usual problems can often spot trouble early and avoid expensive repairs.

Here are seven common issues you’ll come across:

1. Low Pressure – Usually linked to leakage inside the pump or seals that have worn out.

2. Overheating – A filter that is dirty or the incorrect type of oil are often reasons the pump is running hotter than normal.

3. Strange Noises – Air bubbles, cavitation, or parts that have come out of alignment can cause whining, rattling, or vibrations.

4. Sluggish Response – When the machine feels sluggish, it may be due to low oil or a blocked hydraulic line.

5. Oil Leaks – Typically, a crack in a hose, a weak fitting, or bad seal, account for leaking oil.

6. Worn Parts – Running on old oil or contaminated oil can cause the wear on pump parts to happen faster.

7. Sudden Failure – If the machine is neglected for too long, it could totally fail and simply stop working.

CHECK IT OUT- https://excellenthydraulic.wixsite.com/excellenthydraulic/post/what-are-the-common-problems-in-excavator-hydraulic-pump

Regular servicing, clean oil, and timely inspections are the best way to ensure that an excavator hydraulic pump is taken care of and works properly.

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Why is My Hydraulic Pump Not Building Pressure?

When a hydraulic pump fails to build pressure, it can stop heavy equipment and machines from working properly. This issue often appears in construction, industrial, and farm machinery and usually needs quick attention.

Here’s a detailed checklist of the things you should check before hydraulic pump repair when it is not creating pressure:

1. Hydraulic oil level and fluid condition
2. Air trapped in the system (cavitation or aeration)
3. Worn or damaged seals, pistons, or gears
4. Blocked filters or restricted lines
5. Incorrectly set or stuck relief valve

Ignoring these signs can lead to costly downtime. If the problem continues after basic checks, getting the pump repaired by an expert is the safest option.

We provide professional hydraulic pump repair in Delhi NCR, including Danfoss, Rexroth, and Sauer pumps. Our team ensures complete troubleshooting, rebuilding, and testing for reliable performance.

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What are the issues that occur in Hydraulic Cylinders & Pump?

Hydraulic machines do the heavy lifting in almost every industry- construction sites, farms, and even factories. At the centre of it all are two parts: the pump and the cylinder. If either one fails, the whole system starts giving trouble. You will notice slow movement, higher fuel use, and downtime that no operator wants.

Most problems do not occur instantly, they give early signs. If you catch them in time, you can save money and avoid a complete breakdown.

1. Oil Leakage
2. Contaminated Hydraulic Fluid
3. Overheating
4. Seal & Bearing Wear
5. Air in the System (Aeration/Cavitation)
6. Misalignment / Overloading
7. Improper Maintenance

In short: leakage, contamination, overheating, air entrapment, wear & misalignment are the biggest common problems in hydraulic cylinders and pumps.

Here, find troubleshooting guides for hydraulic cylinder pump and why they happen, and what operators can do before calling for a major repair.

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How do I choose the right Rexroth pump for my application?

A piston pump is a device that pushes hydraulic oil at high pressure into your system. That pressure is what makes a big excavator arm lift tons of weight like it’s nothing. Unlike gear or vane pumps, which are fine for lighter jobs, Rexroth piston pumps are built for heavy applications.

Rexroth (part of Bosch Rexroth) makes these pumps with tight tolerances and quality materials. The result? Pumps that run hard, stay efficient, and don’t give up easily. There are various models you can choose from- A4CSG series, A4VG, A2FO, A7VK etc.

Now, here’s where Rexroth piston pumps stand apart:
1. Maximum Efficiency, Minimum Loss
2. Reliability in Harsh Conditions
3. Long-Term Savings
4. Easy Maintenance & Quick Repairs

Looking for a Rexroth Hydraulic Pump and want to select the right one? Read this blog for an in-depth guide, expert maintenance tips, and the right solutions for your hydraulic needs. We specialise in restoring pumps to peak performance using genuine spares and precision repair techniques.

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What Is The Cost To Repair A Hydraulic Cylinder?


Most repair costs are associated with changing seals, rods, or bearings, machining or polishing worn-out parts, etc. If the barrel of the cylinder is damaged and needs to be completely rebuilt, the costs could be higher. Labour costs can also vary in total based on whether it is heavy equipment, where dismantling and reassembling take several hours.

How Can You Lower Repair Costs?

Perform Regular Maintenance: Inspect the seals, rods, and connections periodically to catch any issues early on.

Use Quality Hydraulic Oil: Clean hydraulic oil will help eliminate the chance of internal damage.

Get Issues Fixed Quickly: Minor spills/leaks may not be costly at first, but they can turn into major breakdowns if not taken care of at the right time.

Contact trusted service providers: For emergency or regular maintenance, contact skilled trade technicians who will ensure with right Hydraulic Cylinder Repair and do not need to come back in a few months for a repeat failure.

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If the goal is to improve the cost of long-term repairs and extend the life of your hydraulic cylinder, it is worth investing in a preventive maintenance program.


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https://www.databridgemarketresearch.com/reports/global-baby-toiletries-market

Supply Chain Resilience in Europe Biofertilizers Industry (2021–2028)

Get a sample PDF of the report – https://www.businessmarketinsights.com/sample/TIPRE00028015?utm_source=Blog&utm_medium=10640

The biofertilizers market in Europe is expected to grow from US$ 469.34 million in 2021 to US$ 1,153.11 million by 2028; it is estimated to grow at a CAGR of 12.1% from 2021 to 2028.

Get Full Report: https://www.businessmarketinsights.com/reports/europe-biofertilizers-market

Organic farming is basically a method that includes growing and nurturing crops with the utilization of biological materials and products and eliminates the use of synthetic-based fertilizers and pesticides. Organic farming is being increasingly adopted as it provides healthy and high-quality food products. Along with this, organic farming provides several environmental benefits such as it improves soil fertility, combating soil erosion, and reducing greenhouse gas emissions. The demand for organic products is increasing which is not only due to the increase in conscientious consumers but also due to rising incomes which has increased the area under organic farming. According to the report of World of Organic Agriculture, by the Research Institute of Organic Agriculture (FiBL) and IFOAM, in 2019, 72,3 million hectares were under organic agricultural management across the world.

Foundations for Oily Skin Market Size, Trends & Forecast 2032

The Foundations for Oily Skin Market is experiencing steady growth as increasing numbers of consumers seek tailored skincare and cosmetic solutions that address specific skin concerns. With oily skin being one of the most common skin types globally, the demand for mattifying, long-lasting, and non-comedogenic foundations has surged.

In 2024, the global Foundations for Oily Skin Market was valued at USD 2.85 billion, and it is expected to reach USD 5.62 billion by 2032, reflecting a CAGR of 8.7% during the forecast period. Growth is fueled by the rising popularity of personalized skincare routines and the availability of a diverse range of formulations catering to different ethnicities, skin tones, and age groups.

The increased penetration of e-commerce and beauty-tech platforms has also been a significant growth enabler, offering consumers easy access to product reviews, tutorials, and skin analysis tools. This, in turn, has made it easier for individuals with oily skin to find foundation products that match both their aesthetic preferences and skincare needs.

The Foundations for Oily Skin Market is witnessing significant momentum, propelled by a mix of technological innovation, shifting consumer behavior, and growing awareness of skin health. With multiple growth opportunities emerging across regions and demographics, brands that align product offerings with consumer needs, ingredient transparency, and digital engagement will likely gain a competitive edge.

View Full Report: https://dataintelo.com/report/global-foundations-for-oily-skin-market

https://www.databridgemarketresearch.com/reports/global-hydrogenated-oils-market

To qualify for membership in the VFW you MUST meet the following TWO requirements:

1: Honorable Service – must have served in the Armed Forces of the United States and either received a discharge of Honorable or General (Under Honorable Conditions) or be currently serving.

2: Service in a war, campaign, or expedition on foreign soil or in hostile waters*. This can be proven by any of the following:
- An authorized campaign medal (see a full list of qualifying medals and badges)
- Receipt of Hostile Fire Pay or Imminent Danger Pay (verified by a military pay statement)
- Service in Korea for 30 consecutive or 60 non-consecutive days

*This information is usually available through a veteran’s DD-214. If other information is needed or if a veteran’s DD-214 is not complete, they can contact the National Personnel Records Center online or at 314.801.0800 to request more information.

via: U.S. Pacific Air Forces
·
Col. Doolittle and his accompanying 12 bombers hit various military targets in Tokyo, including a steel mill, an oil farm, and several power plants. The other three planes bombed targets in Osaka, Kobe and Nagoya. Some of the bombs accidently hit civilian targets instead of the intended military targets. This error would prove fatal to four airmen later captured by the Japanese.

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

Small Town America = Perfect Bugout Location? Part 2

Bugout vehicle or SUPPLY DUMP for the unprepared?

I love a good kitted out vehicle BUT is it a good answer in an emergency...probably not! Planning to drive around a vehicle with supplies hanging off of it through or around people without those resources doesn't pass the common sense test. It falls into the same category as Marie Antoinette's infamous "let them eat cake" comment before she lost a vital appendage.

Humans are basic despite all of our beliefs of having a more evolved mind. Those in need/fear will fill that need through almost any means necessary. Remember everyone fighting over toilet paper? Now replace that with food, gas, housing and you can see where this goes. Everyone that has ever seen combat knows this simple truth...people survive and not always in a pretty or socially acceptable way.

Back to the kitted out vehicle with gas, food, housing hanging from every square inch... I would venture to say they're not going to remain attached very long! I'm not saying don't prepare a vehicle to give you mobility...just saying don't advertise everything you're taking with you!

#America #veteran #commonsense

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."

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.

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.

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!

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.

The Vespa 150 TAP was an anti-tank scooter made in the 1950s from a Vespa scooter for use with French paratroops (troupes aéroportées, TAP). Introduced in 1956 and updated in 1959. Modifications from the civilian Vespa included a reinforced frame and a 75 mm (3.0 in) recoilless rifle mounted to the scooter (obvs).

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

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