OUR HONORED DEAD

 

 

I NEVER SAID GOODBYE

 

In memory of Lt Col James Wesley Widdis, Jr., USAF

Shot down over Laos in an A-26 in March 1969.

Remains returned and interred at the

USAF Academy Cemetery, 22 November 1996.

 

I NEVER SAID GOODBYE

 

I wasn't even old enough that cold December day

To know that duty called you and you had to go away.

I don't remember what you said when last you held me tight,

Or what I could have thought as you went out into the night.

I'm sure you said you loved me and you'd soon see me again,

But I was just a two-year-old and couldn't comprehend.

I may have answered something in the way of a reply,

But the last time that I saw you, Dad, I never said goodbye.

 

I learned as I grew older that your plane had been shot down, They told us not to give up hope; someday you might be found.

I know I hoped each time that I was told of a "surprise"

That you had finally come back home in some sort of disguise.

But dreams were dashed each time, and slowly hope began to wane.

The doubt increased but through it all I put away the pain.

I never save up all the hope, I never stopped to cry,

And clinging to that shred of chance, I never said goodbye.

 

Nine years had passed before they finally said that you were gone.

Officially your status changed, so our lives could move on.

We finally held a service for you - I helped lay a wreath,

But I was too confused that day to understand my grief

I listened to the pastor, tried to memorize the words;

Someday when I was older I might grasp what I had heard.

I still remember "Taps" that day, the first time I would cry

But even through my tears that day, I never said goodbye.

 

The years continued passing, and the older I would grow,

The more I yearned to learn of you, the more I wished to know.

I watched old faded films of you, I listened to your voice,

I wanted to talk back to you, but didn't have that choice

Each year we'd make a visit to your marker and we'd pray,

But still in my confusion I would not know what to say.

I'd thank you for your sacrifice, regret you had to die,

But all those times beside your grave, I never said goodbye.

 

I read your commendations, all the medals that you'd earned.

I'd build up more respect for you, the more that I would learn.

I followed in your footsteps, as I joined the service, too.

To serve my country proudly was the least that I could do.

I went to the memorial in Washington D.C.,

I stood in my dress uniform and hoped that you would see,

I saw your name and touched it, as I stood and questioned why;

But then we had to leave, and I forgot to say goodbye.

 

Throughout the years since then I've worn a bracelet with your name,

I've used it to remember that you didn't die in vain.

And also with that bracelet came a shred of hope, it seemed,

That one day I could show you how I'd kept alive your dreams.

But also came the thoughts of things you never got to say.

No father-son discussions you could use to guide my way.

You never got the chance to send me from the nest to fly -

So when I set out on my own, I didn't say goodbye.

 

This year a new memorial was built in your home state,

To honor you and others who had faced a similar fate.

I touched your name and once again I slowly bowed my head

I knew that there was something that I'd never thought or said.

I saw a vivid statue of a soldier's final breaths,

His friend was reaching out to him, to touch him before death.

No words need have been spoken, you could see it in their eyes,

They knew that death was certain, and they said their last goodbyes.

 

But looking at those soldiers as my eyes filled up with tears,

I knew what it had been that I was missing all these years.

I thought of myself standing there and watching as you died,

And reaching out to touch you as I stood out there and cried.

But still I couldn't touch you, our hands never guise would meet,

Standing just like those two soldiers, our arms barely out of reach.

And though I couldn't close my heart I finally knew why.

Through all these years of thoughts of you, I never said goodbye.

 

The opportunity is here now, you have finally come home.

I can reach right out and touch you, and I know I'm not alone.

I know the time is right for me to finally close the door

And have the chance to say things I could never say before.

Dad, I know you loved me - and even though you left,

You knew that what you did would somehow work out for the best.

I haven't said this all these years, but now it's time to try:

I love you and I miss you - and Dad? ... Goodbye.

 

Daniel Brent Widdis

November 11, 1995

 

 

 

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

Flight, each Veterans Day and Memorial Day I give my parish pastor this poem and he gladly reads it aloud as part of his homily at mass at each of the day's services.  It is one of several that come to mind as I see our flag waving proudly outside of my window, my eyes filled from your contributions to the brotherhood today.  I'm so far from the wall, yet never feel far at all.  I hope everyone has a great, thoughtful and meaningful Memorial day.

I salute you all.

                    Tom Green

                    40th ARRS, Udorn 69-70

                    21st SOS, NKP 71-72

                    40th ARRS, NKP 72-73

 

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

by John McCrae

 

"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below."

 

"We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and new we lie

In Flanders Fields."

 

"Take up our quarrel with the foe;

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields."

 

The Following is from The Minister of Veterans Affairs (Canada) Cat. No: V32-1272

John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, November 30, 1872. His illustrious career could certainly not have been foreseen at that time. However, his father, David, and his mother, Jane, both born in Scotland, must have relished the fact that their second son had come into the world on St. Andrew's Day.

In 1899 he enlisted as a Lieutenant in the Canadian Artillery for service in the South African War. He wrote several poems during the South African campaign probably the most well-known being 'The Unconquered Dead'.

When the thunder of the guns in Europe reverberated in the 1914 August nights, John McCrae immediately volunteer his services to his country either as a doctor or a gunner. He achieved both desires as he was appointed surgeon to the 1st Bridage Artillery, which was lead by his old comrade-in-arms (E.W.B. Morrison) from South Africa. He would often direct the fire of the batteries in his sector when time permitted and when there was a lull in his duties as a doctor.

The brigade was in position in Flanders in the spring of 1915, within sight of the village of Ypres and John McCrae had his dressing station on the banks of the Ypres Canal. It was here that he wrote 'In Flanders Fields'; the poem that was literally born of fire and blood during the heaviest fighting of the second battle of Ypres. From his dressing station he could see - day by day- the crosses springing up in the Canadian cemetery.

In Boulogne, on January 28, 1918, Colonel John McCrae died of pneumonia. He was buried on January 29th with full military honours at the cemetery in nearby Wimereux. In the funeral cortege, his horse Bonfire went first, led two grooms and decked in the regulation white ribbon

 

MEMORIAL FOR CREW OF JOLLY GREEN 54

 

RE: 30 Jun 70 “Olivia 807” - >

Very interesting pict of the OV-10 shot down 30 June 70 - one of our HH-53s (Jolly 54/40ARRS/Udorn) was downed during rescue attempt and the entire crew was lost - I was airborne on another 2-bird Jolly flight for a 3-day TDY at Ubon (readiness in case US embassy people in Cambodia needed evac) and heard over the intercom what was going on - Jolly 54, heading East out of Udorn to assume the daily routine mission, never landed at for customary SOS briefing at NKP, then to fly across the Fence - instead the Low & High Bird Jolly were ordered directly to attempt to rescue pilot and backseater from the downed OV-10 --- Well, the bad guys’ were waiting - and since the backseater had informed that he was injured, a MAX EFFORT was made to rescue - meaning: not sufficient time was devoted for the Sandies to sanitize the area - Jolly 54 was shot down in flames....

Not until April 95 did the crew came back (in one casket) and were ceremoniously and with greatest honor set to rest at Arlington - I was there with a number of old and newer’ PJs (pararescuemen), flight engineers and pilots - - was hard to keep back the tears....

 

At THE WALL, look about 3/4 downward on W-9. There are the names of the Jolly 54 crew:

 

LEROY C. SCHANEBERG, CAPTAIN USAF, PILOT

JOHN W. GOEGLEIN, MAJOR USAF, COPILOT

MARVIN E. BELL, STAFF SERGEANT USAF, FLIGHT ENGINEER

PAUL L. JENKINS, MASTER SERGEANT USAF, PARARESCUEMAN

MICHAEL F. DEAN, STAFF SERGEANT USAF, PARARESCUEMAN

 

Read at the gravesite by a pararescueman:

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there, I did not die.

 

26 April 1995 - twenty-five years after these gallant men gave their lives to save that of others....

 

Udo Fischer (PJ 52-76)

retired in Alamogordo , New Mexico

 

Subject:     News From Paintersville

Sent:          8/20/98 4:06 AM

From:        Jay Strayer

 

I'll call this one of life's moments of reality -- Chuck Rouhier, former Jolly Green (JG) HH-3 Flight Engineer (FE) dropped me an e-msg yesterday advising that Senior Airman (SrA) Sean McDermott, a young pararescueman (PJ) lost his life a few days ago during a lifesaving training exercise while parachuting into the Pacific Ocean near Okinawa -- it was a HALO (hight altitude-low opening) jump -- the first chute opened tangled, was jettisoned out of the way OK but the reserve chute never deployed for some reason -- would I please attend the funeral as a veteran JG representative? 

I tell you truthfully, I was not enthusiastic about attending for I have been that route too many times and besides, my 90 yr old Mother had fallen the night before and broken her hip

-- even with this perfect excuse for declining, I awoke early this morning knowing I had to make the 70-mile trip to Hilliard, Ohio

-- I worried about what to wear to this Catholic ceremony and half way there realized that maybe I should have worn my uniform

-- but it was too late so I pressed on

-- approaching this fairly new and beautiful church, I fell in line behind an AF staff car and two blue vans

-- I was aware there would be some fellow PJs there but was astonished to count more than 50 in attendance from as far as Kuwait

-- like SrA McDermott, they all appeared much too young for such a serious mission

– I was privileged to sit among them, and the small sea of blue they made that in places was broken by the contrasting color of their maroon berets neatly tucked in trouser belts

-- it occurred to me I was correct in not being in uniform for my high rank would merely attract undeserved attention from these fine young men

-- after all, this was their program and their friend

-- on my trip up, I thought about what I might say if I were asked for remarks

-- I had never been introduced to SrA McDermott, but I knew him well

-- after all, I had flown many, many times with his predecessors who like Sean, possessed the enthusiasm, strength, athleticism, professional qualities, support, humor  and daring that PJs are so well known for

-- the service was long, but didn't Sean deserve as much?? 

We sang the Hymn BE NOT AFRAID:  

"Be not afraid, I go before You always;  come follow me, and I will give you rest"

-- this quiet melodious strain provided a relaxing quality to the program and adequately satisfied my wish for this young man and his premature departure

-- I thought what a deceitful shame that his commander-in-chief was getting all those disgraceful headlines while Sean's sacrifice would garner, maybe, a small obituary piece on the cak page of the local paper

--he had done his duty and he was leaving us quietly; perhaps that would be his wish

-- after the indoor program, we trooped outside to a three-shot volley salute, taps and the ceremonious folding of the flag which was quietly delivered to the bereaved

-- Sean's PJ friends filed by, each removing the PJ insignia from his beret and laying it upon Sean's coffin, a moving touch

-- they were then removed, one at a time and returned in a single beret

-- Sean was then placed in the hearse

-- Air Force blue lined each side of the exit route and I joined them in a final salute to our comrade as he made his final flight by us

--after, I introduced myself to many of the PJs and they were very  polite to this old Jolly Green pilot

-- I told a PJ story to Sean's Dad and he was pleased

-- I gave my condolences to his Mother as I did his wife Jackie

--by that time I was "emotioned out" -- this young woman understood my mood beyond her years

-- she sensed by that time that I needed her hug more than she did mine

-- at that very moment I knew why I had come

-- and that's life in Paintersville this week -- Jay 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

USAFA VETERANS DAY TRADITION

At the reunion, we ate lunch with the Wing, and met a fine young first-classman.  Later, during our walk through the 15th Squadron area, he was kind enough to spend some more time with us, filling us in on many of the changes to cadet life.  We had a good talk.

After returning to Dallas, I went to the web, found the 15th squadron page, and sent a note of appreciation to the AOC.  In it I gave him permission to release my e-mail address to two of the cadets, both first-classmen who had taken time with us on a tour of the cadet area.

Long story short... one of them has written several times, and I have found it a valuable link to roots which are pretty significant to me.  In one exchange, we discussed service to country, and Memorial Day in particular.  He told me about a new tradition which I think is in keeping with the finest we expect from the Academy.  Here is what he wrote.  I requested and received his permission to release it:

11/12/98

"We had an awesome experience here at the Academy last night.  West Point and Annapolis already have this in place and have been doing it for a while, but it was USAFA's first one, from what I understand.  Anyway, at about 11:45 last night, all cadets who wanted to attend quietly left their rooms, dressed in service dress.  In complete silence, we made our way to the terrazzo, which had been darkened by turning out dorm and outdoor lights. 

We stood at parade rest until we heard the firing squad come to attention. Then we all followed their lead.  As the first 7 shots rang out, we presented arms.  Then came 7 more shots... finally, the 21-gun salute was completed with 7 final shots.  Then, two buglers echoed TAPS across the terrazzo.  After they finished, we all ordered arms and took off our service caps.  The Cadet Chorale sang "High Flight" beautifully.  They then started the 3rd verse of the AF Song, with which we all sang  along.  When they finished, we put our service caps back on, then made our way back to our rooms even more quietly than we had been coming out there.

This was our TAPS Vigil.  IT was held in honor of the cadets from the current Academy classes (1999, 2000, 2001, 2002) who have died since coming to school here.  I'd say about 90 to 95% of the wing was there, even though it was voluntary.  No officers, enlisted, MTAs, AOCs, or anybody else was there...just cadets.  I knew one of those departed cadets from playing basketball with him during intramurals and while playing pick-up games.  It was a neat experience.

I hope this continues every year from now until the Academy ceases to exist, because it brings Veteran's Day closer to home for the cadet wing.  I hope your Veteran's Day experience was as fulfilling as mine."

Later,

Bill

 

EARN THIS!

This is from a Special Forces retiree on our list - It's worth reading, and if you're ever in San Antonio looking for a doctor, look up this one!!  - Ginny

 

I am a doctor specializing in Emergency Medicine in the Emergency Departments of the only two military Level One trauma centers.  They are both in San Antonio , TX and they care for civilian emergencies as well as military personnel.  San Antonio has the largest military retiree population in the world living here because of the location of these two large military medical centers  As a military doctor in training for my specialty I work long hours and the pay is less than glamorous.  One tends to become jaded by the long hours, lack of sleep, food, family contact and the endless parade of human suffering passing before you.  The arrival of another ambulance does not mean more pay, only more work.  Most often it is a victim from a motor vehicle crash. Often it is a person of dubious character who has been shot or stabbed.

With our large military retiree population it is often a nursing home patient. Even with my enlisted service and minimal combat experience in Panama prior to medical school, I have caught myself groaning when the ambulance brought in yet another sick, elderly person from one of the local retirement centers that cater to military retirees.   I had not stopped to think of what citizens of this age group represented.

I saw Saving Private Ryan.  I was touched deeply.  Not so much by the carnage in the first 30 minutes but by the sacrifices of so many.  I was touched most by the scene of the elderly survivor at the graveside asking his wife if he'd been a good man.  I realized that I had seen these same men and women coming through my Emergency Dept and had not realized what magnificent sacrifices they had made.  The things they did for me and everyone else that has lived on this planet since the end of that conflict are priceless.

Situation permitting I now try to ask my patients about their experiences. They would never bring up the subject without the inquiry.  I have been privileged to an amazing array of experiences recounted in the brief minutes allowed in an Emergency Dept encounter.  These experiences have revealed the incredible individuals I have had the honor of serving in a medical capacity, many on their last admission to the hospital.

There was a frail, elderly woman who reassured my young enlisted medic trying to start an IV line in her arm.  She remained calm and poised despite her illness and the multiple needle-sticks into her fragile veins.  She was what we call a "hard stick."  As the medic made another attempt I noticed a number tattooed across her forearm.  I touched it with one finger and looked into her eyes.   She simply said " Auschwitz ."  Many of later generations would have loudly and openly berated the young medic in his many attempts.

How different was the response from this person who'd seen unspeakable suffering.

A long retired Colonel who as a young USN officer had parachuted from his burning plane over a pacific island held by the Japanese.  Now an octogenarian, his head cut in a fall at home where he lived alone. His CT scan and suturing had been delayed until after midnight by the usual parade of high priority ambulance patients.  Still spry for his age, he asked to> use the phone to call a taxi to take him home then realized his ambulance had brought him without his wallet.  He asked if he could use the phone to make a long distance call to his daughter who lived 70 miles away.  With great pride we told him that he could not as he'd done enough for his country and the least we could do was get him a taxi home, even if we had to pay for it ourselves.  My only regret was that my shift wouldn't end for several hours and I couldn't drive him myself.

I was there the night MSG Roy Benavidez came through the Emergency Dept for the last time.  He was very sick.  I was not the doctor taking care of him but I walked to his bedside and took his hand.  I said nothing.  He was so sick he didn't know I was there.  I'd read his Congressional Medal of Honor citation and wanted to shake his hand.  He died a few days later.

The gentleman who served with Merrill's Marauders, the survivor of the Bataan Death March, the survivor Omaha Beach , the 101 year old World War I veteran, the former   POW held in frozen North Korea , the former Special Forces medic now with non-operable liver cancer, the former Viet Nam Corps Commander.

I remember these citizens.  I may still groan when yet another ambulance comes in but now I am much more aware of what an honor it is to serve these particular men and women.  I am angered at the cut backs, implemented and proposed, that will continue to decay their meager retirement benefits.

I see the President and Congress who would turn their back on these individuals who've sacrificed so much to protect our liberty.   I see later generations that seem to be totally engrossed in abusing these same liberties won with such sacrifice.  It has become my personal endeavor to make the nurses and young enlisted medics aware of these amazing individuals when I encounter them in our Emergency Dept.  Their response to these particular citizens has made me think that perhaps all is not lost in the next generation.

My experiences have solidified my belief that we are losing an incredible generation and this nation knows not what it is losing.  Our un-caring government and ungrateful civilian populace should all take note.  We should all remember that we must " Earn this."

Rangers Lead the way!

CPT Stephen R. Ellison, M.D.

 

 

ALL GOOD THINGS

He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris , Minn.   All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund   was one in a million.  Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.  Mark talked incessantly.  I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable.  What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"

I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.

One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake.  I looked at Mark and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"

It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again."  I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on  it.

I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning.  I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened by drawer and took out a roll of masking tape.  Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth.

I then returned to the front of the room.

As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!!  I started laughing.  The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders.  His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."

At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math.  The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again.  He was more handsome than ever and just as polite.  Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third.  One Friday, things just didn't feel right.  We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves and edgy with one another.  I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand.

So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name.  Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.  It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers.  Charlie smiled.  Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister.  Have a good weekend."

That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual.  On Monday I gave each student his or her list.

 Before long, the entire class was smiling.  "Really?"  I heard whispered.

“I never knew that meant anything to anyone!"  "I didn't know others liked me so much.  I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter.   The exercise had accomplished its purpose.  The students were happy with themselves and one another again.

That group of students moved on.

Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport.  As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the  weather,  my experiences in general.

There was a lull in the conversation.  Mother gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?"

My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important.

"The Eklunds called last night," he began.

"Really?"  I said.  "I haven't heard from them in years.  I wonder how Mark is."

Dad responded quietly.  "Mark was killed in Vietnam ," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."

To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.

I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before.  Mark looked so handsome, so mature.  All I could think at that moment was, Mark I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.

The church was packed with Mark's friends.  Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral?  It was difficult enough at the graveside.  The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps.  One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.

 I was the last one to bless the coffin.  As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me.

 "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked.

I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. 

"Mark talked about you a lot," he said.

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch.  Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. 

"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket.  "They found this on Mark when he was killed.  We thought you might recognize it."

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times.

I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.

"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said.  "As you can see, Mark treasured it." Mark's classmates started to gather around us. 

Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list.

It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."  Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."   "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."

Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash.  "I think we all saved our lists."

That's when I finally sat down and cried.  I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.

Sister Helen P. Mrosla

 

 

STORIES FROM COMBAT

 

EVERYTHING I EVER NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT LIFE, I LEARNED AS A HELICOPTER CREWMAN IN VIETNAM

 

Bobby McBride

Crew Chief

128th Assault Helicopter Company

Phu Loi, RVN 3/69 - 3/70

 

Once you are in the fight, it is way too late to wonder if this is a good idea.

Helicopters are cool!

It is a fact that helicopter tail rotors are instinctively drawn toward trees, stumps, rocks, etc. While it may be possible to ward off this natural event some of the time, it cannot, despite the best efforts of the crew, always be prevented. It's just what they do.

NEVER get into a fight without more ammunition than the other guy.

The engine RPM, and the rotor RPM, must BOTH be kept in the GREEN. Failure to heed this commandment can affect the morale of the crew.

A billfold in your hip pocket can numb your leg and be a real pain in the ass.

Cover your Buddy, so he can be around to cover for you.

Letters from home are not always great.

The madness of war can extract a heavy toll. Please have exact change.

Share everything. Yes, even the Pound Cake.

Decisions made by someone over your head will seldom be in your best interest.

The terms "Protective Armor" and "Helicopter" are mutually exclusive.

The further away you are from your friends, the less likely it is that they can help you when you really need them the most.

Sometimes, being good and lucky still was not enough. There is always payback.

"Chicken Plates" are not something you order in a restaurant.

If everything is as clear as a bell, and everything is going exactly as planned, you're about to be surprised.

The BSR (Bang Stare Red) Theory states that the louder the sudden bang in the helicopter, the quicker your eyes will be drawn to the gauges. The longer you stare at the gauges, the less time it takes them to move from green to red.

It does too get cold in Vietnam .

No matter what you do, the bullet with your name on it will get you. So too can the ones addressed "To Whom It May Concern".

Gravity: It may not be fair, but it is the law.

If the rear echelon troops are really happy, the front line troops probably do not have what they need.

If you are wearing body armor, they will probably miss that part.

It hurts less to die with a uniform on, than to die in a hospital bed.

Happiness is a belt fed weapon.

If something hasn't broken on your helicopter, it's about to.

Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. Shit when you can. The next opportunity may not come around for a long time. If ever.

Combat pay is a flawed concept.

Having all your body parts intact and functioning at the end of the day, beats the alternative..

Air superiority is NOT a luxury.

If you are allergic to lead, it is best to avoid a war zone.

It is a bad thing to run out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas all at the same time.

While the rest of the crew may be in the same predicament, it's usually the pilot's job to arrive at the crash site first.

When you shoot your gun, clean it the first chance you get.

Loud sudden noises in a helicopter WILL get your undivided attention.

Hot garrison chow is better than hot C-rations which, in turn are better than cold C-rations, which are better than no food at all. All of these, however, are preferable to cold rice balls even if they do have the little pieces of fish in them.

WHAT is often more important than WHY.

Boxes of cookies from home must be shared.

Girlfriends are fair game. Wives are not.

Everybody's a hero ... on the ground ... in the club ... after the fourth drink.

There is no such thing as a small firefight.

A free fire zone has nothing to do with economics.

The further you fly into the mountains, the louder the strange engine noises become.

Medals are OK, but having your body and all your friends in one piece at the end of the day is better.

Being shot hurts.

"Pucker Factor" is the formal name of the equation that states the more hairy the situation is, the more of the seat cushion will be sucked up your asshole. It can be expressed in its mathematical formula of S(suction) + H(height above ground) + I(interest in staying alive) + T(# of tracers coming your way). Thus the term 'SHIT!' can also be used to denote a situation where a high Pucker Factor is being encountered.

Thousands of Vietnam Veterans earned medals for bravery every day. A few were even awarded.

Running out of pedal, fore or aft cyclic, or collective are all bad ideas. Any combination of these can be deadly.

Nomex is NOT fire proof.

There is only one rule in war: When you win, you get to make up the rules.

Living and dying can both hurt a lot.

Do not wear underwear. It can cause crotch rot or be used as evidence against you.

While a Super Bomb could be considered one of the four essential building blocks of life, powdered eggs cannot.

C-4 can make a dull day fun.

Of course you can drink out of a human skull! Duct tape over the eye sockets will keep it from leaking.

Cocoa Powder is neither.

There is no such thing as a fair fight-only ones where you win or lose.

If you win the battle you are entitled to the spoils. If you lose you don't care.

Nobody cares what you did yesterday or what you are going to do tomorrow. What is important is what you are doing-NOW-to solve our problem.

If you have extra-share quickly.

It's OK to take stuff off the body of a buddy, 'cause you know he would have wanted you to have it anyway.

Always make sure someone has a P-38.

A sucking chest wound may be God's way of telling you it's time to go home.

Prayer may not help . . . but it can't hurt.

Flying is better than walking. Walking is better than running. Running is better than crawling. All of these however, are better than extraction by a Med-Evac, even if it is technically, a form of flying.

If everyone does not come home, none of the rest of us can ever fully come home either.

Do not fear the enemy, for your enemy can only take your life. It is far better that you fear the media, for they will steal your HONOR.

A grunt is the true reason for the existence of the helicopter. Every helicopter flying in Vietnam had one real purpose: To help the grunt. It is unfortunate that many helicopters never had the opportunity to fulfill their one true mission in life, simply because someone forgot this fact.

"You have the right to remain silent." is always EXCELLENT advice.

If you have not been there and done that . . . you probably will not understand most of these.

NEVER FORGET!

 

TWO GOOD WAR STORIES

 

Below are two good war stories.  One is of a conventional war, the other is of an eternal war....

Story number one:

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific.    One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission.  After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank.  He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier.  Reluctantly he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mothership, he saw something that turned his blood cold. A squadron of Japanese Zeroes was speeding its way toward the American fleet.  The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless.  He couldn't reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor, could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger.  There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet.

Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 calibers blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch weaved in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until finally all his ammunition was spent.

Undaunted, he continued the assault.  He dove at the Zeroes, trying to at least clip off a wing or tail, in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly. He was desperate to do anything he could to keep them from reaching the American ships.

Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction.  Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier.  Upon arrival he reported in and related the event surrounding his return.  The film from the camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He was recognized as a hero and given one of the nation's highest military honors.  And today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

Story number two:

Some years earlier there was a man in Chicago called Easy Eddie. At that time, Al Capone virtually owned the city.  Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic.  His exploits were anything but praiseworthy. He was, however, notorious for enmeshing the city of Chicago in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.  Easy Eddie was Capone's lawyer and for a good reason. He was very good!  In fact, his skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.

To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well.  Not only was the money big; Eddie got special dividends.  For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day.  The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago city block.  Yes, Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him.

Eddy did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddy saw to it that his young son had the best of everything; clothes, cars, and a good education.  Nothing was withheld.  Price was no object.  And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong.  Yes, Eddie tried to teach his son to rise above his own sordid life.  He wanted him to be a better man than he was.  Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things that Eddie couldn't give his son.  Two things that Eddie sacrificed to the Capone mob that he could not pass on to his beloved son...a good name and a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision.  Offering his son a good name was far more important than all the riches he could lavish on him.  He had to rectify all the wrong that he had done.  He would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Scar-face Al Capone.  He would try to clean up his tarnished name and offer his son some semblance of integrity.

To do this he must testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great.  But more than anything, he wanted to be an example to his son.  He wanted to do his best to make restoration and hopefully have a good name to leave his son. So, he testified.

Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago street.  He had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer at the greatest price he would ever pay.

I know what you're thinking. What do these two stories have to do with one another?  Well you see, Butch O'Hare was Easy Eddie's son.

 

 Michael Fricano, Colonel, USAF

 

 

A NURSE'S STORY

 

Theresa Morel Hudler

As Told To Roberta S. Rogers

 

    Suddenly, in my head it is 1968 and I am back in Vietnam .

 

    A monsoon rain has just ended this late-January morning when the UH-1 "Huey" helicopter settles into the mud by the 12th evacuation hospital at Cu Chi ("KooChee"). The chopper is a "slick," a troop carrier, not the medevac chopper we are used to. It is full of wounded men who a few minutes before were in battle. Their comrades have hastily loaded and flown them to us.

    Nurses, aides, medics run under the rush of blades to lift the wounded through the open sides of the helicopter. Triage is begun. There is the sickly smell of blood and mud, the shouts of medics, the moan of a man in pain, the down-winding whine of the chopper's engine.

    I have just finished my 12-hour shift and should head for the "hooch"--the nurses' barracks-- but as nurse in charge, I know I cannot leave my staff at a moment like this.

    "Lt. Morel, come here, please! Tell us what to do with this one!"   I slop through the mud to where a nurse is standing beside a low stretcher.

    I crouch down beside the soldier and observe a massive head wound. This man will die if we cannot get him to a field hospital up north where they are better equipped to deal with head injuries. I motion to have an IV started and move my mouth down near the soldier's ear.

    "Don't worry, sweetheart; we'll get you out of here. We'll get you someplace safe. Just hang on."

     Glancing up through the noise and confusion toward the slowly rotating helicopter blades, I see crew members heading back to the "slick."

    "Wait!" I yell. "Wait! We have to take this man on! We have to take him up north!"

     I scramble to my feet and run toward the chopper, gesticulating wildly. The pilot glances at his crew; flying wounded is not their usual duty. After a pause, he looks back at me and nods.

    Hands lift the litter and slide it in, lodging it against a projecting bulkhead near the rear. It takes up all but a few inches of the width of the chopper's floor.  Two door gunners, their heads bulky in huge protective helmets, climb onto narrow benches behind the litter, facing outward, sliding in behind mounted M-60 machine guns.

    It is not common for nurses to fly evacuation runs, and I have never been in a helicopter before, but there is no one else free to go. I scramble up onto the metal floor behind the pilot and co-pilot's seats. Someone has tossed me a flak jacket and a standard "steel-pot" helmet. I see the gunners and pilots hooking their helmet headsets into plugs in the roof: The crew will now be able to communicate with each other. I have no headset, no ear protectors. My helmet flops back and forth on my small head as I struggle to snap the drab flak jacket over my green fatigues and then reach up to check the patient's IV, attached to a hook overhead.

    The co-pilot shouts that voice communication will soon be impossible. He tells me to bang on his seat if I need something once we are airborne. He will swing his boom mike out then so I can shout into it. Now the chopper engine begins to whine.

    I am sitting with my back to the pilots' seats. The metal floor beneath me vibrates. The doors are open; it is as if the chopper has no sides, but nothing holds me in.  Sweat trickles down my face and under my uniform where the flak jacket covers it. I am watching my patient closely as the engine winds up to full pitch. We lift up just above the trees,  the nose drops a bit, and we move forward. We are flying.

    The throbbing of the engine and rotors through the metal roof and the rush of wind past the open doors are deafening. The roar increases as we begin to move a hundred miles an hour  up and just over jungle trees, down low over rice patties and fields.

    Suddenly the pilots behind me are shouting something about enemy troops below. Simultaneously the gunners open up with their machine guns. The chopper begins to fly evasive maneuvers--banking steeply first to one side and then the other, still following the nape of the earth. The noise increases; the sounds do not blend; the noise is multidimensional, each sound adding to another.

    Through the vibrations and throaty pounding of the guns and the whine of the engine, despite the rush of a 100-mile-an-hour wind, I force myself to concentrate on my patient. I turn my thoughts inward to escape facing the incredible place I find myself. Hours earlier, I had begun my shift with my daily visit to the chapel area for a quick prayer for safety for myself, my staff and anyone who would be with us that day.

    Now I am praying again, crying silently inside: "Oh dear God! Don't let him die here in all this! Let us get him to a safe place!"

     Suddenly I notice that the IV has come loose from my patient's arm. He will die! I bang on the pilot's seat to get him to level off, but he cannot hear me. I must act now.

    I scramble to my knees beside the litter. The stretcher is only five inches off the floor and, as I lean over to reach for the IV needle, my helmet slips forward. It will come off and hit him! I reach up with one hand, pull it off and fling it behind me. It rolls away.

    Now I am bent over, fighting for balance, trying to hold the IV in with one hand, tearing tape with my teeth and the other hand, screaming silently over and over, "Oh dear God, don't let him die here!"  The noise and vibrations possess my body.

    Is that sweat or tears on my face? I don't know.

    Suddenly the gunner on my left stops firing. He pivots sharply 90 degrees and moves his head down beside mine so his mouth is within an inch of my ear.

Why is he here? Does he want to speak to me?  For an instant I am aware of him poised there, then there is a "pang-ping" whine. The gunner slumps unconscious over me and my patient.

    A bullet headed straight for my uncovered left temple has ricocheted off his helmet with enough force to knock him out, but I realize this only dimly at this moment.  He will suffocate us. I shove his body to the left and he rolls onto the litter handles, inches from the open door. I don't know if he is tethered or secured in some way or not, so I grab him with my left hand, still holding the IV needle with my right. I am crying.

    "Oh dear God, he'll fall out! Don't let him fall out! Help us dear God!"

    It is a little while-- a minute? an hour? a lifetime?--before the other gunner looks around and realizes what has happened. He calls on his mike to the pilots and they break off the fight and head straight north, to the field hospital. We land. I unclench my hands from the gunner's fatigues, from the patient's IV.

    Medics pull the gunner down and place him on a stretcher, then slide the patient's litter to the ground. I run first to my patient. The IV is in, he is stable, still alive. He is rushed away. I will never know if he survives.

    I dash to the other litter and bend over the man who took the bullet for me, grabbing his wrist, feeling for a pulse. They have removed his helmet; there is no sign of a wound.

    As I bend over him, the gunner's eyes open and focus on me.

    "What is it? What do you want?" he asks.  Does he think only a moment has gone by? I just look at him; I do not understand his questions.

     This soldier whose helmeted head covered my bare one so perfectly in one bullet-splintered second in time, speaks again, struggling to rise up on his elbow: "You called me!"

    In a few days the gunner, who will be back flying tomorrow, and I will meet to compare notes on what happened this January morning in 1968. The TET offensive will now be fully under way. He will offer me the bullet-scarred helmet as a souvenir, but I will insist that he keep it. Already I will not be sure that I will want anything to remind me of this day, or any, I spend in Vietnam .  I will not remember the gunner's name. But over the years, even as I repress my Vietnam memories, I will always acknowledge that in the one moment I needed protection, a gunner heard a voice cry out "Help me!" so clearly over the cacophony of noises in a helicopter at war, that he stopped firing, turned, and bent down to see what I wanted. Yet with my teeth busy tearing tape, I had not spoken out loud to him or anyone. I had only cried out silently, to a God who had heard and answered me "exceedingly abundantly beyond" anything I thought to ask.

 

Writer's Note:

    I had trouble believing it when a friend told me that the sweet-smiled middle-aged grandmother who sat in front of me in church most Sundays had been a nurse in Vietnam . I was even more incredulous when I found that Theresa Morel Hudler was one of the few women  who have ever been in actual combat.  With my writer's juices racing, I approached her and set up an interview.

    We met one morning over coffee at my dining room table and she shared the basics of her story. Her facts were there,  but something was missing.  She hadn't opened up enough to give me the whole story. Then that evening my phone rang.  It was Theresa. As she tried to relax in a warm tub, she realized a flashback was beginning. Throwing on her robe, she raced for the phone and dialed my number.  "Quick, grab a recorder. I am only going to be able to do this once!"

    I hit the "record" button on my phone answering machine and then listened. Theresa took me with her as she re-lived Vietnam , 1968. After a half hour, both of us in tears, her voice trailed off at last. After a few moments, we prayed together for the peace of God to heal this shrapnel-memory.

    When I hung up and took the micro cassette out of the machine, I knew I held in my hand a special piece of American history, and a story of God's protective presence, even in war.

    Because I have no military background, before I tried to write Theresa's story I did some research. As part of it, I located a UH-1 "Huey" helicopter at Ft. Meade , Maryland and received permission to climb around on it. My husband Bill - an editor for SFTT --  and our oldest son, Tom came with me. Tom played the wounded soldier and Bill took up Theresa's position while a helpful National Guardsman sat and moved as the door gunner had. As I watched the men replay the motions of that January hour in Theresa's life, I noticed patched bullet holes in the metal of the old chopper; it, too, had been to war.  Maybe it was the same one.

    The story you have just read is a compilation of Theresa's flashback and my research. The first two decades after the war were difficult for Theresa, but in the third one she has dealt with her memories and moved on. She is a neo-natal nurse at a hospital in Southern Maryland .

                        ---Roberta Rogers

 

 

MEDAL OF HONOR RECIPIENT

STAFF SERGEANT HENRY “RED” ERWIN

 

The last enlisted airman to receive the Medal of Honor in WW II was Staff Sergeant Henry Eugene “RED” Erwin.  Sadly, on the same day that Erwin faced death in the skies over Koriyama , Japan , April 12, 1945 , President Franklin Delano Roosevelt died.

 

          Erwin served as a radio operator on the lead aircraft in a formation of B-29’s intent on bombing the chemical plants of Koriyama , Japan .  Red Erwin’s duties required that he trigger and drop phosphorescent flare bombs to signal the other ships in formation when they were close to the target.  As the aircraft approached the target, the navigator moved from his table to assist with the bombing run and Staff Sergeant Erwin moved moved to the flare chute.  As he knelt over the opening in the deck he began to trigger the signal bombs when one of the arming devices proved faulty.  The bomb ignited prematurely and was propelled backward striking the young Staff Sergeant in the face.  Phosphorus has two qualities -  it is sticky and it burns with persistent, intense heat.  This bomb burned at about 1300 degrees Fahrenheit; 212 degrees is boiling.  Smoke immediately filled the compartment, obscuring the pilot’s vision, as the flare began to burn its way through the floor.

          Despite intense pain, Sergeant Erwin had enough presence of mind to realize the entire aircraft would be in grave danger if the flare was allowed to burn inside the plane.  Recognizing the urgency of the moment, Erwin picked it up and blindly began to grope his way toward the front of the aircraft so that he could dispose of the burning flare.  At one point, his path was blocked by the navigator’s table, which swings down and is fastened by a spring-triggered latch.  Even as the flames engulfed him, he maintained his grasp on the bomb, holding it between his right arm and chest. Working with one hand, he freed the table from its down and locked position.

Later they found a perfect imprint of one hand etched on the table in seared flesh.  He continued toward the copilot’s window when he was able to dispose of the burning bomb.  With the smoke clearing, the pilot recovered his vision and pulled out of a near fatal dive at three hundred feet above the ocean.  Only then did Red Erwin collapse in pain and fatigue.  He saved the crew and their airplane, The City of Los Angeles.  Grateful and anxious crewmen rushed to his side to extinguish the flames that engulfed him.  He never lost consciousness and had their presence of mind to inquire if the crew was safe.

          The pilot of the B-29, Captain George Simeral, made a direct return to Iwo Jima and medical teams rushed to young Staff Sergeant into emergency treatment.  No one expected “Red” to live.  The officers of both The City of Los Angeles and their headquarters, worked furiously all night to compose a recommendation for the Medal of Honor for Red Erwin.

          As Erwin hovered near death, the Army bureaucracy moved with uncharacteristic efficiency.  A one page citation was finally agreed upon. The tough icicle-veined boss of the Twentieth Air Force, General Curtis LeMay, was emotionally shaken by “Red’s” act of heroism. After being awakened to read and approve the citation, he dashed off his recommendation that “Red” get the Medal of Honor, and he let Washington know he thought “it would be a stinking shame if the boy didn’t get it before he died.”  The award was approved within days.

Working against time and Erwin’s delicate medical condition, Army officials sought and found a Medal of Honor in Honolulu , Hawaii for the presentation.  A special B-29 was ordered for the mission.  The crew rushed to pick up the medal, only to find the case locked and the key missing.  Without spending much time looking for the key, the glass was smashed, the medal retrieved and sent on its way to Sergeant Erwin’s bedside.  There, in the Iwo Jima hospital, General Curtis LeMay presented the nation’s highest award for gallantry in action a little more that one week after the act that saved the lives of the B-29 crew.

          Immobile and swathed in bandages, “Red” Erwin uttered a characteristically humble “Thank you, Sir.”   When the General asked if there was anything else he would like, Sergeant Erwin said, “Yes, Sir.  I would like to see my brother again.  He is a Marine, serving with the Second Marine Division on Saipan .”   The next day Lance Corporal Howard Erwin was given twenty-four hours to spend at this brother’s bedside.

          In the more than fifty-two years that have elapsed since that fateful night over Koriyama , Red Erwin has continued to serve his fellow man. He endured almost three years of hospitalization and dozens of operations.  After he was discharged as a Master Sergeant in 1947, he served more than thirty years as a counselor with the Veterans Administration.  Red has often been recognized for his heroic deed, including a special Citation of Honor by the Air Force Sergeants Association in 1989.

          Today, this quiet, humble Alabamian enjoys the company of Martha, his wife, and takes pride in his son, who is an ordained minister, and three daughters.  He has four grandsons and three granddaughters.

 

 

 

 

 

THE FINAL TOUCHDOWN

by Capt Holland Redfield

 

    During a lifetime in aviation, I have experienced only one forced landing.  It was not difficult.  The dead stick glide began at 3,000 feet. I had several suitable fields from which to choose.  It worked out nicely. Yet, I know that I have another forced landing lurking and waiting for me out there.  I believe at this stage of my life that I am prepared.  Maybe I will get a warning, maybe not.

    Will I have time to plan my glide to the final touchdown?  Will it be a hasty, no-power, no-options glide to a walloping hard touchdown?  Or will it be a smooth-air, soft-afternoon, peaceful glide?

    For this final glide, I ask only for an open cockpit, so I can, however briefly, savor once more the feel of flight, as biplane wings ahead of me exquisitely frame and record for a last time the slowly changing, tilting scenes, as I maneuver and glide and bank onto what I have long known will be my very final approach.

    Please, no helmet, so old ears can best sense vital changes in speed, relayed through the lovely songs of whistling interplane wires, and so cheeks and bared head can best read changing airflows swirling behind the open cockpit's tiny windshield.

    Below, in a forest of trees, lies a grass field long ago set aside for biplane fliers of old.  It looks small, tiny.  With lightly crossed controls, I'll slip her a few inches over the fence, level her off, then hold her off, with wheels skimming the grass tips.  Here, the lift of wings and sounds of flight rapidly diminish.  The stick is full back, lift fades, a slight tremor, then she and I are bumping and rolling across the grass. The wooden prop remains still.

    We roll to a stop.  I have no belt to loosen.  I raise goggles and climb out.  Suddenly I hear applause.  Then bear hugs and back slapping. "Hey, you old goat, you really slicked that one on."  I am with old friends.

    Among all airmen is an understanding, a camaraderie, that is almost impossible to explain.

 

Capt. Redfield, age 78, is retired from Pan Am.  This was published in the November issue of "Airline Pilot" and was dedicated by Capt. Redfield to those "Flying West".

 

 

"To fly west, my friend, is a flight we must all take for a final check."

                                             Author Unknown