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Offline Flyin6

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From my books and writings
« on: September 15, 2014, 06:36:11 PM »
Folks, thought I'd start a thread to let you read new stuff I've written for books which I am currently writing.

I do not sit down and muscle out a 70,000 word manuscript. I do write when I feel so motivated, and add to the story until such a point that I consider it complete. I did that with Distant Thunder, well, sort of.

So in this thread you can ask questions about Distant Thunder and I'll see them, then disregard...or not...just kidding!

I also want a place to share fresh and new material for those who keep asking me to write more
« Last Edit: September 17, 2014, 12:44:47 PM by Flyin6 »
Site owner    Isaiah 6:8, Psalm 91 
NSDQ      Author of the books: Distant Thunder and Thoren

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #1 on: September 15, 2014, 06:36:46 PM »
A diversion
From another book I wrote that I didn't publish, well sort of didn't...



CHAPTER 1

Reminiscing


The nose pitched up gently to around 2 degrees above the horizon as we started a slow climb to flight level three three zero. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the air was smooth in the climb. The jet was operating like the finely tuned machine it was designed to be, passing effortlessly through the atmosphere at .80 mach. I selected 500 feet per minute climb on the auto pilot control panel, punched the vertical speed button, then started to chuckle.

In my mind, I was suddenly back in the turret of my M60 tank at Ft. Knox Kentucky on the basic driving course. Doug was a loveable sort of guy, in a clumsy sort of way, the kind of guy you somehow felt compelled to tease, but then later felt badly for doing so. He was a fellow tank commander and my friend. My driver had just knocked down a tree with our tank, and Doug’s driver was just about to do the same thing. Back then he and I were Tank Commanders and instructors at the US Army’s Armor Center, teaching young recruits and passing on our craft of dispatching an enemy tank with precision and speed. The difference was at this particular time that he had never knocked down a tree before. Doing so was strictly forbidden and Doug liked to follow the rules, so this was going to be a new experience for him and a treat for me.

His tank approached a sizable Sassafras tree at about five miles per hour, and then as he got close suddenly lurched forward. What was he doing, the fool was supposed to drive up slowly, just touch it, and then, simply push it over. His tank hit the tree so hard, it came out of the ground roots first, then toppled over the turret, falling right on top of him. As the scene unfolded in front of me, I began to have one of those out of body moments where you find yourself hovering above this incredible scene, not actually participating in it, but watching in non belief. A large branch had caught him under his arm and as the tank moved forward and plucked him right out of the turret! I could see the expression on his face, a wild and crazed look, being pulled farther away as the tree rolled off the still moving tank until finally the electrical helmet connection pulled apart.

The driver, oblivious to what was going on above him, just kept driving forward, leaving Doug entangled in the tree as it rolled off the back deck and onto the ground. Well, the way that event unfolded describes Doug in a nutshell, he always had the best of intentions, but the result of his actions was seldom what you would have expected. I thought about calling the driver of his Tank on the radio, as he drove away, but decided not to. Doug didn’t seem to be hurt and the whole thing was just too funny. The last thing I remember seeing was Doug running after his tank yelling “stop, stop,” as the lumbering vehicle disappeared over a hill, simply unbelievable!

While still savoring the humor of the thought, a voice broke in, “what’s so funny,” the voice asked? Ah, the other pilot, he’s one of those tetchy types, long in education but short on common sense. Taking my time to answer, I studied the concerned look on his face, and began to wonder. Perhaps he thought I was one of those guys who have spontaneous delayed battlefield stress syndrome reactions. Probably read about those types in one of his psychology classes. The set up was perfect for a little fun, we were six miles above the surface of the earth at something just short of the speed of sound, and he’s doesn’t have a warm and fuzzy about me. Unfortunately For him it was going to be a very long flight to Nassau.

We were approaching Orman Beach Florida, We were cruising at a comfortable point eight five of mach. I noted we had 24 minutes to go before we would start our approach for landing into Nassau. The weather report called for clear skies with a slight quartering headwind. I guessed we’d get runway 09 and started doing the mental gymnastics for the landing I would have to do there. Funny thing about being a pilot, even if you do a fabulous job for twelve hundred miles, at the destination if you bounce the plane on landing, all the passengers will ever remember is the lousy landing.

I still couldn’t get Doug out of my mind, and began to think about when I taught him another lesson in modern tank warfare called “back-scratching.” It was just another method in a long list of unauthorized techniques that was never taught in formal circles, however was well known with experienced crews and sometimes used in combat. Being inside fifty-two tons of steel insulates you from the outside world pretty well and gives one a false sense of safety. Enemy infantry don’t like tanks very much and have developed a trick of shooting small arms at you to keep you buttoned up (hatches closed) while someone rushes the vehicle, jumps on board and attaches an explosive. The rest, as they say, is history.

Those infantry guys were not chosen because they didn’t make the cut for medical school, no, they were chosen for the job because they didn’t make it to school at all. OK, perhaps there is a bit of exaggeration here, but we’re having fun at someone else’s expense so let’s continue. To defend ourselves, tankers travel in groups of two to three, and keep watch over each other as we moved, always mindful of the infantry threat. If some unfortunate enemy soldier were to make a poor choice, and try to attack one of our mighty vehicles, a nearby tank would simply shoot a burst of machine gun fire onto the other tank, quickly removing the annoying infantry attacker. That is the “back scratching technique in a nutshell.

For obvious reasons, in our ultra safe and politically correct society, we would never dream of firing on another manned vehicle while training, there is just too much of a risk of injury or damage. Steele tank range was, in our minds at least, purpose built just for some unauthorized “back scratching” training. There just happened to be a place on the range where two tanks would be out of sight from the tower for several minutes. The tower is where the safety nazi lived. He was the person everyone sings about in the song “every party needs a pooper, that’s why we invited you, party pooper…” He was the company kill-joy who was hand selected to monitor every action on the range in the hopes of creating some imaginary veil of safety to protect our precious tanks and tankers alike as if training for war is somehow a safe activity.

I had talked to Doug about doing a little back scratching over coffee during breakfast. He had reluctantly agreed, or more to the point, had been dragged, kicking and screaming to a “yes” answer. Doug was definitely a stay between the lines sort of guy and he would never do something like this without significant coercion. When it was finally our turn to go down range, as fate would have it, Dough was in lead and I was following. All the better, I was well practiced at the technique, and, as with the tree incident, Doug was new to this also.

We had discussed a code word we would use to switch to a discreet frequency only he and I knew, and when the time neared, I gave it. He met me on frequency but nervously tried to back out of our conspiracy. It was too late, “one-one, this is one-three, you buttoned up?” “Yes, but we really shouldn’t be doing this.” Never mind, too late now, here it comes. Peering through the sight, all I could see was a big fluffy sleeping bag tied neatly to the infantry hand rail on the side of his turret. Good aim point I thought as I squeezed the trigger. Instantly I saw the bullets bouncing off his tank’s turret and about one million feathers suddenly went airborne in a cloud that looked like snow. “Hey one-three, this is one-one, that’s cool, I can hear the bullets hitting me” Doug said, “what does it look like from your angle?” I was looking at what was left of his sleeping bag and then noticed that the shredded mess had been set on fire by the tracer rounds. “Hey one-one, I’m cold, (meaning I have stopped firing), you have a small fire on the side of your turret!” I saw the hatch open, Doug’s helmet and the fire extinguisher cloud as he sprayed and extinguished the fire. The safety nazi in the tower apparently mistook the cloud of feathers for smoke and called to see what was going on. “Nothing,” I lied, “ops normal here, you OK one-one?”

Through the sights, I saw Doug holding up his two rubber boots which had been stowed just behind the sleeping bag. They had suffered the same fate as the sleeping bag, and were full of holes. He signaled me with his long middle finger, I waved with half of my arm, which I extended out of the hatch, and life was good. The other commanders laughed and poked fun at him every time they saw him later on walking through the mud for the next couple of days in those bullet riddled boots. The boots may have been destroyed but Doug wasn’t going to let it get the best of him. He’d wear those boots as a sort of badge of courage. Yep, he was a hard act to follow.

The approach and landing was as they said in some movie, a piece of pie. We almost caught the downwind main gear first, but I leveled and flared at just the right time getting a long squeaker at about the two thousand foot mark. We taxied clear of the active runway to a spot that was in a good position to witness the American Eagle guy just behind us. He landed on the left main first, bounced back into the air, then came down again on the left, then right and finally planted the nose. Those huge ATR turbo props weren’t all that difficult to land. They must have had an unlucky gust of wind or the person flying was a new guy. Someone said “amateur” over the tower frequency just as I was switching to ground control, we both chuckled.

To this day I cannot explain why I made it a personal project of mine to corrupt Doug, I guess it just seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. He must have learned some fundamental lesson while growing up in his structured world that made him the way he was. You see, the irony in warfare of knowing when not to follow the rules is that if you are able to live and operate on the fringe you just might have a small advantage and that just might save your bacon some day. I Once served under a Battalion Commander who often chewed on my butt. He’d say “Harward, If I could, I would put you in a glass case labeled, “BREAK IN CASE OF WAR,” and keep you there.” I took that as a compliment. He was the paper pusher type looking for a quick star. We called guys like him “corporate raiders, clerks, or remfs.” None of those terms are complimentary in nature, the last of which is probably the worse. Given that I have decided to keep this story clean, I can not explain what those letters stand for. I liked Doug and we just wanted him to push his limits a bit to learn a little more about himself.

I could probably dedicate most of the space in this book to Doug stories, and although he was amongst the most humorous of my acquaintances at that time, he wasn’t the only one. The ground hog story relates to that exact moment when something in him changed. Perhaps he finally gave in to all the “training” we had given him, or maybe he was just maturing and coming into his own.
The time was midsummer, and we were busy with training yet another group of recruits and it was lunchtime. Three other sergeants and I decided to drive down to the mess hall from the sub-caliper gunnery range we were teaching at that week. The evening before, we had left the tanks on the range with a guard so that we could drive our cars out there the next day. Without doing so, we would have been condemned to eating the C-rations the recruits were blessed with that day. Doug, myself, and another tank commander, Eddie, all owned Jeep CJ-7s. Our final musketeer was Smitty from Jackson, Mississippi who drove a full sized Ford F250, who always managed to get stuck on our weekend four wheeling outings. That’s when I first began to notice there were quite a few “Smitty’s” in the Army.

My jeep was lifted, had a built engine and big mud tires, Doug’s was just the way he purchased it and would remain that way until the end of time. Eddie’s was slightly modified, but always seemed to be in the body shop recovering from an endless stream of mishaps. Everybody liked the loud exhaust on mine, so we climbed in that beautiful orange jeep and headed down the tank trail toward the battalion area for lunch. I was going a little to fast, which always annoyed Doug. He was pointing out the posted 25 mile per hour speed limit and saying something about the fact that a lifted vehicle was not as stable an a stock one. He was always complaining like that about something. So just to prove him wrong, I steered abruptly to the right, absolutely sure that nothing bad was going to happen. The jeep responded by rolling onto its side, top, other side, and then sliding into a two-foot high pile of dust on that side. No, you haven’t seen dust until you’ve seen dust that has been pulverized by huge dirt destroying tanks for years and years, that is some really fine powdery stuff.

After we stopped, I was hanging in my shoulder harness on the up-hill side, Eddie was below me in the passenger front seat cussing just like normal but he was all right. Smitty was behind me and had the good sense during the roll over to grab a speaker that had gone airborne. It would have likely taken one of us out. He was OK also. Doug was only about ten percent visible. He was almost completely buried with the dust the jeep had scraped up during the rollover and slide sequence. “Doug, you all right?” The shoulder moved, Smitty already had unbuckled and was digging in the dust for Doug’s seat belt. He found and released it and pulled Doug up out of the dust. Poor Doug was the exact color as the pulverized mud and the only way you could distinguish which end was the talking side of his head was three narrow slits of moisture where his eyes and mouth were supposed to be.

Other than eating a mouthful of Kentucky’s finest mud mix, he was OK too. He smiled, wiped his eyes, looked at me, and said “told ya!” About that time, a basic training platoon marched up to the crash site and halted. A sergeant first class asked “what happened here?” Doug the ranking guy in our dust covered group stepped forward, took a long look at me, then told the Sergeant how the driver had done a great job steering to avoid a ground hog which was standing in the road. We got the expected dubious smile, The sergeant noted that none of us seemed worse for the wear and ordered the trainees to roll the jeep back up on its wheels. We checked the oil, I cranked the engine and it started! We thanked everyone and quickly drove off.

Having to defend me with a bold faced lie was a cross roads event in Doug’s life. He could have told the truth and see me suffer the punishment I rightfully deserved, or choose to protect his friend and compromise his values. He was never the same from that day on, he was better in a strange unexplainable way. He squared up at people, seemed to have better posture and gained confidence. He became able to hold me at bay, but also to operate in the gray zone just past the line where we often operated. He earned my respect and trust in a way I would never have anticipated, he was one of the best NCOs I have ever known.
Site owner    Isaiah 6:8, Psalm 91 
NSDQ      Author of the books: Distant Thunder and Thoren

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #2 on: September 15, 2014, 06:42:03 PM »
Another chapter from another book:

OK, I can't just write the smoking deer story. It is a part of a chapter in another book I am writing. So I'll have to share the whole stinkin chapter. So we'll do it a few pages at a time. Chew away on this and I'll get more on in the morrow

Enjoy (or not??

CHAPTER 3

D-3-1

Fort Know is the US Army’s Armor center and school. Following an assignment in Germany, it was normal for an aspiring tanker to serve one assignment at the Armor School to pass on your experiences, and to grow professionally to the next level. This was the place where most of the training main gun ammunition purchased by the Army was going, so this was the only place to be if you enjoyed shooting cannons and breaking things.

I was further assigned to D Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Training Brigade. I was just what they wanted, a young, in shape, single, warrior spirit filled, killing machine. The day I reported in was one filled with anticipation, coming from Charlie Company and the likes of First Sergeant Tucker, and Captain Miller, could this place possibly match up? My question began to be answered the moment I knocked on top’s door and walked in. First Sergeant Benjamin Whitt was a kind man, you could see it in his eyes. He stood to greet me, shook my hand firmly and asked me to sit down. His desk was adorned with pictures of his family. Later I would learn that one of his children had a serious illness and the Army had stabilized his assignment at Fort Knox so the child could receive the necessary care. His smile was genuine and I would soon come to know him as an honest and caring man.

My Platoon Sergeant, Sergeant First Class Williams was leaning against the back wall of the office. He wore the campaign hat of a drill Sergeant and the same warm smile. He too, in turn, introduced himself then went back to the leaning position as Top talked about the Company. We were an OSUT company, meaning “one station unit training, a new concept for the Army. New recruits would report to the company and go through the normal basic training routine for about four weeks. Afterward, they would enter a second phase of almost ten weeks of intensive armor or tank training. That was my piece; teach them the art of war fighting, using the M60A1 battle tank. The normal routine was for someone like myself to teach with the tanks for two years, then go to the Drill Sergeant Academy, then be stabilized as a drill instructor for three more years. Being in one spot for five years in combat arms is unheard of, so many family oriented soldiers sought out the assignment. I was having an internal struggle. one part of me wanted to teach the Armor skills, but another sought the blue skies as an Army pilot, I’d get both from this place.

Sergeant Williams was a hands off sort of guy. He expected me to show up, run my classes as scheduled and that’s about it. He shouldered the responsibility for showing up at 0430 every morning to get the troops up, although I offered to help, he never expected me to do it. Once the troops were finished with morning PT, showers, and breakfast, he would march them to the training site, where I would take over.

I had never dealt with new recruits before. Some were wild, most were scared, and then there were the lonely ones. You had to watch over the latter very closely, we had several suicide attempts every class or cycle. The most common technique was to jump off the building. Top was all over that one; he had planted a large flowerbed with literally tons of sphagnum moss and mulch. No one ever died jumping into his flower beds, the worst injury was a sprained ankle and several dead flowers. Top did have a mean streak in him when someone killed one of his flowers! There were other techniques those kids used, but none worse than the kid who poured liquid Drano into his ear!

The first time the new recruits ever saw the M60 was on a gunnery range. The set-up was awesome. There were a bleachers positioned near to the firing pads. The tank was concealed down the hill in trees where no one could see it. The veteran tank commanders manned the vehicle and were well practiced in it’s use. The speaker, normally the drill sergeant, would go on for some time about how awesome the tank was and then on command the tower would call us, cleared to engage. Down range was a multitude of old armored targets, plastic troop silhouettes. And hundreds of balloons. We would load a sabot round, drive up the hill, then just as the muzzle passed the forward row of bleachers, we’d open fire. The blast from the main gun normally swept a dozen or more troops right out of their seats. The Tank commander would fire the .50 caliber machine gun as the gunner alternated between the main gun and the turret coaxially mounted machine gun. During the spectacle, we would loft several rounds of white phosphorous, which would explode in brilliant white clouds of smoke and fire. Once we had achieved the desired effect, we’d turn to the balloons and fire a beehive round. That little beauty was filled with hundreds of nail-like fleshetts, fused to detonate about a hundred meters prior to the target, which were always troops in the open. We replaced the normal command, “Gunner, Beehive, Troops,” with, “Troops, nail em.” That last Beehive round would do away with any remaining balloons, but if there were some then we’d shoot them with another white phosphorous round. Then as quickly as we’d shown up, we would quickly drive away leaving everything burning, what a show!

Since the tank commanders were expected to prepare to eventually become a drill sergeants, we would sometimes march the troops from one place to another for practice. It may look simple, but to get a group of people marching in formation around turns, through doors, and around obstacles requires a degree of skill. If that wasn’t enough there were dangers from traffic and the eventual challenges to your authority. General George Patton once said, “The best defense is an active offense.” I interpreted that to mean having fun with recruits to keep them guessing what I would do next. My first act of torment was that they had to carry their tank gunnery manual FM17-12, (FM for field manual), with them, everywhere they went. If their manual was ever in danger, such as if they thought they were about to be run over by a car, they were to hold the manual safely out of harms way. I had two favorite commands which some enjoyed, some didn’t, but all quickly learned. The first was, “flash flood.” Upon hearing those words, you were expected to run to the nearest tree and climb it, theoretically saving yourself from quickly rising floodwaters. A good soldier can never be over prepared.

The second command was, “feet eaters.” That was handy when a platoon of female recruits from the nearby basic training brigade came marching by. At the first catcall from my guys the feet eaters command was surely coming in seconds. When “feet eaters” was heard, you dropped, rolled onto your back, extending your arms and legs into the air, and of course holding the gunnery manual away from the danger of the approaching feet eating critters. The troops were also required to yell “feet eaters” loudly to warn others of the danger. A soldier, I would explain in the early days of training, is no good without his feet, hence, the feet saving technique was necessary and should be used from time to time.

The best part of teaching at Fort Knox, by far, was the gunnery phase, where we would have to teach upwards of one hundred fifty recruits how to fire the various weapons and actually hit something while doing it. The second was teaching tank driving skills, both basic and advanced.

We taught the driving in several ways. Initially we began in a large flat area called the basic driving range. The best students would be allowed to drive the tanks back to the motor pool, a couple miles away. Tanks are not high mileage vehicles. An M60 was ready for retirement at five thousand miles!

The basic driving skills range was where Doug met that sassafras tree. It was also located right beside the post landfill. Has anyone ever seen a military landfill? It is a precision built, well engineered, non-polluting piece of work, and a fun place to play with bulldozers. We happened upon the Fort Knox landfill one day in the late afternoon. We were on the backside of the driving range, Doug and I were parked beside one another. We were watching an enormous Caterpillar bulldozer smoothing an area. I mentioned that we could tear up his work quicker than he could fix it. Doug thought about it, “naw, it’s no fair, they are too slow.” “Let’s drive over there, just to see if we can climb the loose dirt.” “OK, you lead.” Away we went, in low range, my M60 went right up the side about 50 feet high, then along came Doug. Right away I could see the guy in the bull dozer had stopped, so I commanded the driver to drive over to where the big cat was sitting, so we did. We got there, stopped and starred at the dozer operator for a second. I think we said something uncomplimentary about him not having a gun tube, being slow and heavy, and so on, then we took off, then immediately doing a neutral steer.

The Tank is designed so that in neutral, when turning, the tracks turn in opposite directions. It gets you turned within a minimum distance and leaves big piles of dirt from scraping fifty tons sideways. The dozer driver’s expression said it all, we had created three-foot high piles of dirt and scrapped down to the garbage he had just covered. He was signalling us the number one with his middle finger as we continued in spinning bliss. Then Doug’s tank started doing the same thing. We left the victors, disappearing over the side of the dump, descending back to the safety of the driving range. Funny, we never heard a thing about that, however I would learn that bull dozer drivers have long memories, and that day would come back to haunt me.

The advanced driving course was better. We had concrete walls to climb over, ditches to cross, a water obstacle, steep slopes, mud pits, you name it we had it. That place was also a popular spot for weekend recreation amongst the four-wheel drive jeep crowd. Many a jeep has been pulled out of a mud hole on Monday morning by a main battle tank. I personally disliked the ditch crossing the most. The driver would inch out over the abyss (about a four foot drop) until the vehicle started to lean forward. If it worked out, the track would catch the opposite bank before falling into the deep. The driver would throttle hard bridging the gap and successfully crossing the obstacle.Just as the back end of the tank cleared the ledge behind, the front end would rise, the rear would fall and somehow it would rock forward onto the opposite terra firma.

Should have said “In theory,” then the explanation, because normally it didn’t go that way. New drivers obviously lack the experience of a seasoned driver such as Garcia. They would creep out over the drop-off then just as the tank leaned forward, instead of mashing the accelerator pedal, sometimes would hit the brake. Sudden stoppage at that second would cause the whole tank to topple nose first into the ditch and crash hard to the bottom. The sudden stop there would sometimes propel the tank commander out of the hatch into the ditch by way of various parts of the tank, or knock him into the inside of the turret where there were many bad things to bounce off of. The best that would happen was being banged around the cupola ring where you could break ribs, arms, or accumulate contusions. I finally learned after taking a flying leap from the turret one day, that drivers didn’t really need to know how to cross wide ditches.
Site owner    Isaiah 6:8, Psalm 91 
NSDQ      Author of the books: Distant Thunder and Thoren

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #3 on: September 15, 2014, 06:43:02 PM »
The story continues...



We couldn’t believe the day a school bus showed up at the driving range from a local public school. They were elementary students (who love to play in mud) and several teachers. We were asked to demonstrate the agility of the machine, which we did to the delight of the children and teachers alike. After the demonstration a petite lady asked if the teachers could get a ride. I nodded in the affirmative; dismounted and helped the ladies onto the fenders. The trainee driver got out and an experienced tank commander got in to drive. We drove away slowly, careful not to offend our precious cargo. While driving near a woodpile, the strangest thing happened. A crazed skunk, probably frightened half to death by the noise and vibration, dashed out of the woodpile and straight toward us! Before we could do anything, it ran right under the track! Everyone saw it, it was horrible, poor little thing, then came the smell, oppressive smell, over powering smell. I could see one of the ladies was about to loose it, so we sped up considerably heading back to drop them off. Remember before when I mentioned the rooster tails of mud created by fast driving. We were making two grand fountains of mud spray, most of it contaminated with the remains of skunk, and some of it was landing right on the ladies. I can’t begin to describe how those ladies felt. They were frightened, getting mud all over them and they smelled of squashed skunk! No kidding, it really happened! When we drove up to where the busses were, their tour guide, a new second Lieutenant covered his nose as the smell swept over him. We all did the best damage control we could but it was a disaster! The teachers and kids left quickly and we drove directly to the water obstacle where we left the tank parked most of the afternoon submerged up to it’s turret.

We spent a lot of time shooting the main gun. The trainees would start with a stationary vehicle, engaging various single targets then later graduate to firing at moving or multiple targets. There were extraordinary safety measures in place to mitigate the considerable danger. The firing line would shut down while troops were walking anywhere near by. This was necessary since the muzzle blast from a cannon can kill or seriously injure. The Tanks were actually chocked in place to prevent the hammering of the main gun from pushing the tank backward. Early in the gunnery training, only one tank would fire at a time. That tank would display a red flag and turn on a red light on the back of the turret to visually indicate that vehicle was “hot”.

Doug and I were parked side-by-side about six inches apart. He and I were alternating firing, pushing the trainees through as quickly and as efficiently as we could. My gunner had just completed his firing tables, an engagement of sixteen targets. He had done well. Following the shoot, we would fill out a grade card, hand it back to the student, then he would leave, and a new guy would climb on board. Looking to my right, I could see Doug’s helmet moving inside the copula. A quick glance at his green flag confirmed the coast was clear; I pulled down my red flag, replaced it with green, then took off my helmet and pulled out the earplugs. Wearing that helmet for hours was giving me a headache and I needed a break. I just started to fill out the card when there was a blinding flash, everything was moving, there was dust in my eyes, but oddly enough, I didn’t hear a thing.

I must have looked drunk, because when I finally looked up Doug was staring at me from his tank. His expression said it all, something was very wrong. My eyes then focused on Sergeant First Class Ed Kovacheck who was holding onto my shoulders. His mouth was moving as was Doug’s, but I couldn’t hear a thing. That’s when it hit me, the flash, the dust, another tank must have fired and I must be, oh my God, I’m deaf! Ed was another one of those combat hardened soldiers who carried the same expression almost all the time. The face he was wearing then was different, concerned, but not trying to alarm me. My nose was running, I wiped with my hand and it came away red.

That incident earned me a trip to the hospital, where they wrote of lost hearing, broken blood vessels, cuts and the like, and gave me several weeks off to convalesce. My hearing slowly came back over those weeks but a ringing still persists to this day.

It wasn’t only humans that had occasional problems with cannons firing or exploding shells. Wildlife native to that part of Kentucky couldn’t read the danger signs or failed to heed the many calls over the loud speaker, asking, “Is there anyone down range? Is there any one down range?” Despite our best efforts, deer, turkey, ducks, geese, foxes, and skunks roamed about as if they owned the place. Night time was the most difficult time for us to spot a critter in our line of fire. If we were lucky enough to spot an offending animal, we would clear our weapons, and call a cease-fire. Usually the safety nazi showed up in a four-wheel drive and ran the animal off prior to commencing gunnery once again. Despite our instinct to shoot and break things, no one would harm an animal on purpose, lest he bring the anger of the other soldiers upon himself. German trucks were one thing, but wildlife had a right to exist.

Then came the incredible smoking deer incident! It was on Yano tank range, no doubt named for a Mr. Yano who through a combat misfortune, no longer walks the earth. I was moving slowly along a gravel road using night vision devices. The trainee had to successfully negotiate several difficult night engagements to pass this phase of training. The tank commanders were doing their best to find the targets, then lay the gun as close as possible to aid the gunner in acquiring the target. We got the call, “one two, there are three enemy tanks your twelve o’clock, you are cleared to engage.” Through the night vision goggles, I could see three plywood silhouettes coming up about one thousand yards directly ahead. I laid the gun as quickly as possible, traversing the turret rapidly, then allowing the turret brake to stop the swing with a protesting groan while yelling the command “Gunner, battle sight, three tanks.” I heard an “identified,” and an, “up.” This crew was working well, I commanded “Fire.” The shooting went fast and well. The first two rounds went right through the targets, the third was just loaded, the gunner was moving the turret slightly to the right, and I knew in about a second I would hear, “On the way.” Upon hearing that phrase, the tank commander closes his eyes momentarily to avoid being blinded, especially at night, then as the tank finishes recoiling, reopens his eyes to observe where the round went relative to the target. If it goes high, then you would state, “Drop one target form, fire,” and so on. But, I had seen something in the fading light from the last shot.

The red flag was up in my mind, something wasn’t right, I yelled, “Cease fire, cease fire.” Looking around I couldn’t see anything, I ordered the driver to turn on the headlights, the sign to the tower that something abnormal was happening. The instant the lights came on I saw it. Standing along the side of the road was a deer, and it was literally, smoking. It’s hair had probably been singed by the blast and fire ball of the main gun. Remember the cartoons where a bomb goes off in the coyote’s hand, then you see him charred black and smoking, well that’s what that deer looked like. It wasn’t moving, just standing there staring straight ahead. I called the tower, told them there was a smoking deer in the road, they asked me if we could continue? I emphasized, the poor animal was literally smoking, and still standing upright. I was considering using a fire extinguisher on it. There was a moment of silence on the radio, then the voice of the safety nazi and laughter in the background. “Did you say it’s standing up and smoking, like on fire, smoking?” “Affirmative, and not moving.” While they processed that I asked for the fire extinguisher just in case the poor deer suddenly burst into flames. I commanded the driver to pull forward slowly toward the deer in hopes he would indicate a life sign and scurry off.

The driver did so very slowly, displaying as little hostility as is possible from a small steel hill that belches fire. We pulled right up to it, and the deer still wouldn’t move. Traversing the gun tube slowly, I gently pushed the animal with the muzzle of the main gun, the deer moved, but only when pushed. It looked as though it was in a drunken stupor. By pulling back, then forward, and pushing with the main gun we managed to move it about fifty feet off the road, to what I thought was a safe distance. That poor deer must have been casually watching us approach, when, all of a sudden the gun went off and enveloped the animal in flames. He was definitely having a bad hair day!


To be continued...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #4 on: September 15, 2014, 06:43:50 PM »
And the story continues...


The mischief we tank commanders had learned from our previous assignments was honed to a fine edge while stationed at Knox. We would provide plenty of amusement for the safety nazi and others. One favorite trick was to blow up the bridge down range during a “mad minute”. The “mad minute” lasts about that long. It occurs when every tank on the range fires as fast as it can, usually to get rid of excess ammunition. The mass confusion created by eight main guns hammering out rounds provides the perfect cover for some “precision gunnery.”

The tank range in question had an access road located just outside the range boundaries. The road crossed a stream about half a mile from the firing line. The engineers had constructed a timber frame bridge across the stream big enough for a normal sized pickup truck. The bridge was used for routine range maintenance by engineer types and some of our folks. That bridge was a well sought after prize and had suffered accordingly over the years. There were always threats to our careers should someone accidentally shoot outside the range fan and damage the bridge. I wasn’t the only tank commander after that bridge that day.

The trick was not in hitting the bridge; it was not being seen while sighting the structure in or when actually shooting it. The main gun can be laid on any target selected, then precise measurements taken of its exact position recorded. The idea is to be able to point the main gun during low visibility based on these precise measurements and hit the target even if you couldn’t see it. The technique was effective and was a common skill amongst tankers. The system worked pretty well, so we would use things like bridges to train the recruits how to take and record the measurements.

During one such mad minute, I knew several other Tank Commanders intended to shoot the bridge. I picked my favorite recruit to be the last guy firing that night. He was the very soldier who had sighted in the bridge in the first place. When the time came and all the tanks opened up, we carefully laid the gun. Peering through the night sight, it looked like we had it, then “Boom,” the bridge took a hit from someone else. I ordered the gunner to fire and we quickly put two rounds into it. We moved the gun back onto the range and fired the balance of our rounds at legitimate targets. Before we finished, there was a brilliant blossom of flame as something blew up on the moving target side of the range. The moving targets were towed around by small gasoline powered remote control trains, and one had just been blown to pieces. Man, this night was really shaping up to be a good one. The safety nazi, as expected, called a cease-fire, and ordered everyone to leave the gun tubes exactly where they were presently pointed. The radio must have been garbled in every tank on the range that night, because when the lights came on, every gun tube was elevated as high as it would go!

The best part of the evening was yet to come. The range safety officer and someone else got into the truck and took off down range to try to fight the fire. They made it about half the way there when they happened on to the place where the bridge once stood. Yep, we had finished it off very nicely, thank you and no one was going to cross that stream anytime that night. Tank Commanders and recruits alike climbed up on the turrets and watched the spectacle for quite awhile as the fire department tried to get to the fire, I don’t think they ever did. Someone ought to build a better bridge!

Despite all the fun we would enjoy on the ranges, there were serious times also. We discovered a flaw in the method we used to train our recruits to unload and clear machine guns the hard way. Ed Kovacheck would pay a heavy price learning about that error. We were in the move-out phase of gunnery, and we were shooting the coaxial machine gun only. I had taught Doug on this same range about back scratching a few days earlier. Ed was running troops down range along with Smitty, Doug, and I that day, and things were going smoothly. Ed had just completed a run and was displaying the green flag as he drove off the range and pulled into the ammo pits where he would pick up a new crew and restock the machine gun ammunition. Smitty and I were off the range eating lunch as Ed’s tank pulled to a stop. He sprang out of the turret, walked down the side of the vehicle, and crossed the back deck. We watched as Ed suddenly rolled up into a ball and fell off the deck onto the ground. Incredibly, the machine gun was firing! Ed had been shot by his own tank, by his own crew! It seemed surreal, everything was happening in slow motion. I reached him first, bright red blood was coming out between his fingers which were clasped over his leg. He was cussing his bad luck more disappointed than scared. We quickly saw he had taken one round right through the thigh, and judging by the rate he was loosing blood, we thought the bullet had severed an artery or a vein. We applied pressure, and got a tourniquet on in a couple minutes. We held him still until the ambulance arrived which seemed to take too long. Some of us climbed in the ambulance and went to the hospital with him.

The injury looked a lot worse than it actually was. Lucky for Ed the bullet, had passed cleanly through the large part of the muscle making a 7.62 millimeter hole in either side of his leg. The ammunition the military uses is designed not to do very much damage to the body, but rather to have good penetration characteristics. Those traits allow it to dig into fortifications that bad guys might be hiding behind. The bullets are designed to maintain shape, having a shell of copper around a lead core. The construction of the bullet meant the round would simply pass easily through the tissue in the leg without doing any unnecessary damage. The accident bought Ed a couple weeks off from work and a well-deserved rest.

The young trainee came out of the hatch unaware of what had just happened. He knew the gun had gone off, and feared the wrath of the Sergeants more than anything, but had no idea he had just done what no Viet Cong had ever been able to do. The investigation revealed the fault lied with us, not the new recruit. We had trained the soldiers well how to unload and to clear the weapon; the problem was we never started with a loaded one. The exercise started with the trainee first loading a small belt of dummy ammo into the weapon. From there, he would proceed to remove the belt, clear the chamber, and place the safety on. This particular soldier thought you first had to load the weapon before you could clear it! Ed told him to clear all weapons just before hopping out. The trainee did just as we had taught him. He placed the belt of live ammunition into the opened feed tray, and then slapped it closed. Machine guns will sometimes discharge when the cover is closed to quickly, and this one did. It fired off five to ten rounds before stopping; all at the exact instant, Ed was in front of the barrel!

That particular gunnery cycle was a very active one for the instructors and drill sergeants of the company. Normally we lost about a quarter of the trainees during the basic training phase. For one reason or another, but this class was well above average. We had most of the recruits still in the ranks, having only lost perhaps ten to twelve soldiers. That meant the gunnery qualifications were going into overtime. We were working so hard and fast, the tanks were turning over crews and running back and forth on the range almost without stop. With all the extra traffic on those gravel tank roads, the damage to the range itself was considerable. Just to keep everything going the range people, who were not a part of our organization called for engineer support to repair the roads in between firing tables. The help they requested was in the form of a bull dozer. Fate was working against me, the bull dozer operator was the same guy from the garbage dump!

It took him about one millisecond to recognize me and one more to rekindle his anger over the day we “trained” in the garbage dump. There were words exchanged, but we managed to avoid one another, well until lunch. The conversation between the other tankers and the dozer guy started with the normal comment about “Hey, where’s the gun tube, you sure have one ugly tank,” and “What about it, you weren’t smart enough to get into tanks?” I said something about how underpowered and slow the bull dozer was, a comment I was very soon to regret. He countered stating that he could drag a tank all over the range if it were hooked to his dozer, we all disagreed, so we decided to test his theory. Everyone was into this Herculean test of power, so I was volunteered to champion the tank crews.

We pulled up, back end to back end and hooked up two, 2 inch steel recovery cables, used for pulling other stuck tanks out of the mud and fired up our respective steeds. That dozer was a huge D-something made by Caterpillar corporation, that I thought weighed approximately the same as my fifty tons. With the engines started we eased into low gear and idled out until the cables were tight. With the drop of an arm the tug of war started. I am sure the tank did not move the dozer one half inch. We actually were spinning both tracks and not moving, then with a lurch, we started to go backward. Judging from the exhaust plume from the dozer’s diesel, he wasn’t even pulling all that hard. We tried everything including locking the brakes, doing so would only stop the track movement, but not affect our increasing rearward speed. The driver reported that out transmission oil temperature was increasing so I called to halt the operation. The request fell on deaf ears. We just kept going backward. Finally we had to place the transmission in neutral while that dozer driver made a triumphant circle of the whole range firing area in full view of everyone. Amidst boos and down turned thumbs, I had to ride there in humiliation in the cupola of that tank in front of every drill sergeant, tank commander, and recruit on the range that day. The thought of shooting him with the cannon crossed my mind, but it was too late, I’d been had. I am now convinced that one of those Cats can drive straight through a mountain without stopping!

We often took other opportunities to “blow off steam” created by the long hours and frustrations of working with recruits. Some drank, some spent time with family and friends, I enjoyed long distance running and casual rides to and from work on my motorcycle. It was a jewel at that time, a black seven fifty Suzuki with a loud exhaust pipe and custom seat. By today’s standards it would have made a great lawn mower engine, buy in 1978 it was the cat’s meow!

One day after work I cranked the thing up and took off. Just down the hill just after a stop light and left turn there was a long straight away which was incorrectly marked with a 35 mile per hour speed limit. That speed equaled somewhere in the middle of first gear in a five speed gearbox. It felt good holding the throttle wide open all the way to the top of third, probably around eighty. My luck had been good, but not that day. The MP was sitting on the side of the road running radar. It must have read “tilt” or simply melted down when viewing me. I knew that MP was going to enjoy this catch, and I was definitely going to a room made with steel bars, so I went for it!

Braking hard, I turned off the main road with the blue lights and siren right behind me. The Army in all it’s brilliance had equipped the MPs with those same hopelessly under-powered Dodge Darts. My bike made short work of the Dodge, easily out distancing the MP’s. I rode quickly back toward the company I had just left. My buddies were standing there near the curb when I raced up to them. They were listening as I went through the first three gears a few minutes before, then heard a siren and me running at full speed. They put the rest together. When I stopped you could now hear several sirens headed our way. Smitty said “what are you doing back here?” “Open the door to the barracks, I’m driving inside.” A couple other sergeants quickly vetoed that idea and told me to get to the tank trail and take it off post. I watched as Smitty pulled his F250 across both lanes of the road behind me, get out and throw open his hood. He was pretending to be broken down, he yelled at me, “get out of here, now!” I didn’t waste any time, I headed straight for the tank trail.

Looking over my shoulder as I crested the hill above the battalion area, I could see a MP slowing as he approached Smitty’s truck. I hit that tank road and opened that Suzuki up. I hadn’t crossed a mile when I came upon a troop formation marching on either side of the road. They were new recruits in the basic training phase of their life. The maximum speed to drive past marching troops on the road was ten miles per hour. My speedometer said something in excess of ten times that. If I attempted a panic stop I would likely have lost control of the bike and hurt myself or them. I rolled off the gas and “coasted” through that formation in excess of ninety. Well, if they caught me now I was surely going to be drawn and quartered, so I truly had nothing to loose. Those six cylinder, ninety horsepower Darts never had a chance of catching me. I reached an off post access road and was home free. You can bet I drove at exactly the speed limit until the bike and I were safely at my house. I parked it around back and went inside leaving the lights off. I never heard a thing about it, except for some well thought out words by Sergeant Williams the next day.

To be continued...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #5 on: September 15, 2014, 06:44:39 PM »
...And the rest of the story, well at least the chapter!



Others in the company were, from time to time drawn into the zeal for “additional training.” Smitty, with his southern draw and slow measured mannerisms even participated in some daring escapades. I believe he was the culprit who put the first round into the bridge during the mad minute gunnery, although I could never prove it, and all he would do is smile when asked about it. On the north end of the basic driving range, near the deceased sassafras tree was a natural pond. Constantly filled with muddy water running off from the mud on the basic driving course, the pond was a point of interest to our weekend four wheeling group. We wondered about two things, if it had any fish, and how deep it was. On occasion we had ventured out a few feet into it with our jeeps or on foot, but that was about it. Up to this point we were satisfied to leave it alone, at least most of us were.

Smitty called me on the radio to meet him discreet, or tune to our secret frequency. We met there and were soon joined by Eddie and Doug. “what’s up guys?” a curious voice asked. Smitty said something about meeting him at the pond. Away we went, three other tanks moving out of eyesight toward the north. We arrived to see Smitty pulled a few feet into the pond, just sitting there idling. “What’s up,” Doug asked. Smitty replied that he could cross the pond and wanted us to watch. Something didn’t look right, the angle of the tank suggested the bank was steeper than normal, but Smitty dismissed it saying he thought they had just sunk a little in the soft mud. His driver was buttoned up and they had pumped up the turret ring boot, which is an air filled rubber seal placed around the turret to keep water from entering if you got in too deep.

I just didn’t feel right about the whole thing and for once expressed my reservations. Doug backed me up and Eddie remained silent. Smitty called us some cowardly name and started forward. We all watched as he went in ever deeper and deeper, and deeper until the water was abouthalf way up the turret! Remarkably, the vehicle was still moving forward like some giant whale, until they got to the middle of the pond. The two or so feet of exposed turret once again assumed the nose down angle callowing water to begin pouring into the loader’s hatch! Smitty was barking commands into the headset, probably “Stop, or back up,” but they didn’t. With very little of the tank showing showing above the waterline the engine died and the doomed tank stopped. We watched as one by one, the crewmembers climbed onto the top of the turret standing in water with that hopeless look on their faces. We knew this was going to be a very bad thing. Our commander, first sergeant and platoon sergeant were ususlly very supportative of our little deviations from normal procedure. But to loose an entire US Army tank, no sir, this was not going to be received very well at all.

Working with recruit drivers, we tank commanders could get away with quite a bit, but this one was surely going to be a little hard to explain. The next day, a recovery crew, aided by some divers did manage to pull the stricken tank out of the water Lucky for us, our company had a great reputation which consistently produced the best graduates, so the punishment was not too severe and life went on. Privately, at a dinner for cadre, we awarded Smitty the Navy’s Submariner badge for underwater heroism!

All the while I was living in Delta company I was pursuing my dream of becoming an Army Aviator. The application process is a long one, probably designed so to weed out those without perseverance. It was very frustrating for me to try to arrange the various tests, flight physical, and interviews required to be submitted in packet form to Department of the Army. My greatest frustration was with the fact that the flight physical was only good for six months. Following the physical, something would go wrong, get lost, or conflict with my day job, and the six months would expire. This continued almost the entire time I lived at Fort Knox. Finally, it started to depress me and that reflected in my attitude.

I had been doing a good job, and all the drill sergeants and top were growing fond of me. They were all beginning to say it was time for me to go to the Drill Sergeant Academy, a school which would lock me into several more years of being a sergeant and pushing troops through the training machine. My heart was simply not in it. I wanted to fly. First Sergeant Whitt noticed the subtle change in attitude and called me in for a “visit” one afternoon. He began, stating how pleased he and the others were with me, despite blown up bridges, shot up sleeping bags and other things he suspected I had a hand in. He expressed his feelings about my career, “Sergeant Harward, I feel it is time for you to become a Drill Sergeant.” He must have expected happiness on my part, but I just answered, “OK top.”

He pried a little, “I thought you would have been happy hearing that, and I’ve noticed a slight change in your attitude, is there something troubling you?” I had never told anyone about my quest to become a pilot, fearing they would cast me out thinking I was going to be one of “them,” an officer. For the most part, the armor corps is populated by second lieutenants, young officers that are placed in charge, but know practically nothing about being a soldier. The stigma of the second lieutenants cast a shadow on officers as a whole as far as NCOs are concerned and I just wanted to avoid the whole subject. I slowly told top how I wanted to be a pilot, about my father, the Warrant Officers in Germany, the Cobras, and my dream of flying some day. He listened intently and what he did next changed my life.

“OK, Harward, I understand, I never knew you wanted to be a pilot, from this day on you are off of the training schedule. You are to complete your application for flight school and come back only after you have submitted it, just check in daily to let me know where you are.” I just couldn’t believe what I had just heard. First Sergeant Benjamin Whitt had just given me my golden opportunity! Through the compassion of this wonderful man I was going to get my shot at the dream that I just could not shake.

Now that I had plenty of time to get everything done I was able to reschedule the class one flight physical and set up an interview with a field grade aviator. I had taken the physical before and felt I would pass, however that little hurtle was responsible for removing more applicants than any of the other steps in the process. The test went well, and again, like the last time I had a hard time driving home with totally dilated pupils. The only obstacle remaining after a couple weeks was the interview with a field grade aviator. Fort Knox had a general support aviation company with a Major in command, bingo, a field grade aviator. I requested and was granted permission for the interview the following Monday.

My uniform was perfect. A new set of heavily starched fatigues spit shined jump boots, and a white wall hair cut. I could have made an Army recruiting poster. I had practiced interviewing with the Sergeants of the company and with a couple of officers also, I was tuned, manicured and wired for sound. The interview was set for 0900, I arrived thirty minutes early. Waiting outside the commanders office, I was in the midst of the mysterious ones, the Warrant Officers. When I entered the room, they stopped talking and watched me as I crossed to the commander’s secretary’s desk. It felt like a scene from some John Wayne movie. You know, the scene where the sheriff throws open the saloon doors, and everyone stops talking, waiting for the gunfight. That was the scene in that room on that day. It continued when one of the moustached ones with a CW2 bar on his collar asked if I was the new pilot. The others started laughing, I got scared and there we were. I had heard rumors of how hard flight school was and how ruthless these Warrants could be, so I just tried to be as non threatening as possible I guess this was a short preview of what the future might hold if I ever made it to train in helicopters.

A few minutes before nine, the Major summoned me to his office. I reported, saluting sharply, he returned the salute and I snapped back to attention. He smiled, told me to “at ease,” a command which formally means place your feet shoulder width apart, place your hands behind your back and more or less rest in position. He actually meant “take it easy, relax, take a break, chill out!.” He motioned me into a stuffed chair to the side of his desk. I noted it would be very difficult to sit at attention in that chair, but I tried. The Major was friendly, something I had not expected. The last Major I had known was known as “mad dog” behind his back, never to his face, he was a man to be feared. If you were doing anything, good or bad, he’d reem you for something. “Soldier, don’t just stand there, move out!” or “Soldier, get your but over here and clean this up,” or one of a thousand other little nasty treats, no that guy was strictly see and avoid! This Major was very different indeed. Was this how it was going to be for me in this new flying world? Could it be possible that there was a part of the Army where people were happy and enjoyed their lives?

Observing my rigid seated posture, he told me to please lighten up before I injured myself, then laughed saying, “well, you’ll do fine during WOC D, but can he fly?” WOC D is the warrant Officer equivalent to Officer’s Candidate School, renowned for being super tough and weeding out over half of everyone that showed up. I would soon learn that reputation was well deserved. He began by asking me to tell him about myself, then, asked some questions concerning becoming an officer and flying. We finished by sharing some of my father’s flying stories and a few of his. He told me I would get my recommendation and likely a shot at my dream of becoming a pilot!

Within a week of that pleasant interview, I turned the carefully completed packet in to another Warrant Officer in the Military Personnel office. He smiled at me, shook my hand and wished me luck. I finished the process just days before my birthday in April, then returned to duty as an instructor at D-3-1. I came back full of anticipation and very motivated, in top’s words, “full of piss and vinegar.” I don’t know what that means, but apparently I fit the mold.

Life slowly returned to the normal routine over the next few weeks. Initially, the other sergeants joked around with me making sport of the fact I was going to become a “wobbly one” which is what new Warrant Officers or W1s are sometimes called. Sometimes they jokingly saluted me. But as with everything in life, time heals all wounds and by early July the flight school quest had been all but forgotten. One late afternoon in the middle of that hot month, top called a meeting in his office after work. I had to attend to a late chore sergeant Williams had given me, but rushed to top’s office as soon as I finished.

Everyone was there, even the officers and I felt bad I couldn’t have shown more respect by being there on time. Upon arriving I was motioned forward, I noticed all eyes were on me. Top began speaking, telling me he had some bad news for the company, he stated we were losing a member of the team, and how the loss would be felt by all. My friends were smiling as the commander stood and called “attention to orders.” Upon hearing those words a soldier will assume the position of attention and not move while the orders are read. He began, “Sergeant Donald L Harward is ordered to attend initial entry rotary wing flight training at the Fort Rucker, Alabama and the Army Aviation center, class number 80-9, reporting 1 September, 1979.” I could hardly believe my ears. Top took the orders, then slowly handed them to me. He took one step backward, then rendered a salute, everyone then saluted me. They were acknowledging the fact that I was to become an officer, I was humbled beyond what mere words can describe. These honored veterans and patriotic Americans were saluting me. I made a promise to myself to make them proud that one from their ranks would become an Army aviator. I have seldom been so honored!
Site owner    Isaiah 6:8, Psalm 91 
NSDQ      Author of the books: Distant Thunder and Thoren

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #6 on: September 15, 2014, 06:45:28 PM »
Originally Posted by Armalite View Post
Great write up Don, as usual. Very good stories there. Only the bad part is now I want to read the whole book!!


I haven't finished it,
in fact
I'm not working on it!

One of my publishers, following "distant Thunder" which as you know jumps all over the place dealing mostly with the war(s), wanted me to write a biographical story, for those who might be interested.
I just don't see myself as being interesting and after 50 or so pages just quit writing. As you can see, I was focusing on the funny stuff I saw along the way, but, I'm just not into writing about me.
Unfortunately, when doing that sort of work, you can't help it!
Anyway, someday, I'll finish all of that but in the meanwhile I was working on two other projects.
I wanted to write a survival book, from the military perspective. Where there is as much emphasis on surviving a home invasion or gun fight as there is in purifying water or starting a fire. I wanted to deal heavily with some of the more military skillsets that "survivor man" does not go into. I don't care how good you are at trapping game, if a bunch of lawless bikers is threatening you, it's game over unless you know your stuff!
The other work I wanted to do is about my personal Christian walk. It has been an amazing one and the stuff that has happened would encourage many and prove to the doubting Thomas's out there that God is very real and very much an instant part of your life. Not like someone who after days of searching in the wilderness, finally hears your calls...
I have a lot more good stuff from that first book, if you boneheads want to read more, you only have to ask.
Site owner    Isaiah 6:8, Psalm 91 
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #7 on: September 15, 2014, 06:46:40 PM »
Something else for you knuckleheads, another chapter:

Well, at least the start of it!



CHAPTER 2

13th Tank


Dad drove me to Maguire Air Force Base that sunny day in June, 1976. We had a lot to talk about. I was wearing heavily starched Khakis and fresh set of buck sergeant stripes. I was leaving my home and my country for overseas duty in West Germany for the first time in my life. I was scared and dad knew it, he saw it all over my face and I suspect he also heard it in my voice as we mixed small talk with the serious topics he needed to talk about. I was a young Army tanker; still wet behind the ears, assigned to combat arms, the tough guys. I thought of myself as being just as tough, and ready to fight if called to do so. Many years later, I would look back on those days after having seen another side of being a soldier and smile inwardly.

Dad is one of those incredibly heroic types having flown B17s as a young man of twenty over the very same skies I was now leaving to defend. He showed me his air medals once; I can’t remember how many there were. Then there were the pictures of his airplane, which looked more like something you’d see in a junkyard. One photo showed a tail half shot away, another a propeller feathered in flight, and still others, holes the size of a football in the fuselage. He flew these planes long before he fathered me, and I used to wonder what were the odds were that I should never have been born at all. I could see the lines of stress in Dad’s face, he was sending his son away to a place where armed conflict could break out before he would even read about it. I saw a concerned look on that face I had only seen one or two times before. I burned it in my memory and locked it away. he loved me and didn’t really want me to leave. He hugged me tightly when they called my name to board the contract DC-8 that would carry me to Frankfurt. Fighting back the tears, I hugged him back then turned and walked away. I started to grow as a man that day in a way I had never done before.

Frankfurt was “hello Army” all over again. “Hurry up, move your butt, we don’t have all day,” and so on. We were bussed to some processing center, I was given orders, told to get on a bus and get off when the driver said “Illesheim.” The driver didn’t speak English, so I was pretty sure I was in for a tour, but somehow he found that tiny outpost that looked like something out of a world war two movie, in fact, it was an old Wermarkt army post from the forties. The driver pulled over at the front gate, I got out and retrieved my duffle bag, then bus drove away in a cloud of dust. I looked up to see a sign affixed over a red and white steel gate which said “Stork Barracks, Illesheim.” A specialist met me, asking, “you Harward?” I Nodded in the affirmative, he thrust out his hand, “I’m weeks, throw your bags in, let’s get you to battalion headquarters.” The jeep stopped next to a sign labeled “Thirteenth Tank.” It made me wonder about the previous twelve. This was my new home, First Battalion, Thirteenth Armor, a proud member of the famous First Armor Division, “Old Ironsides.”

The Sergeant major gave me the normal new guy speech and some clerk handed me orders. I was temporarily assigned to Headquarters Company, which apparently needed a sergeant for their vehicle recovery section more so than the tank companies needed another warrior. Weeks took me to my new barracks, dropped me off and wished me good luck with a sarcastic laugh, then drove off. The building had stood there since before World War 2, but had undergone a recent renovation. I hadn’t quite gotten to the front door, still dead tired from all the travel and lugging two heavy duffle bags, when the CQ (charge of quarters) burst out the door. “You the new guy? Great, you’re a sergeant! Hey, your platoon is out of control making way too much noise and partying, I need you to do something about it!”

Imagine my surprise, this guy was telling me to discipline a bunch of folks I had never met, who didn’t know me from a can of oil. What the heck why not just jump in head first, but why didn’t this guy try to do something about it himself? Dad once told me to make a good first impression, so away I went marching down the hall to a double steel door with hard rock music emanating from it. Throwing open the door I stood in the doorway looking through a pall of smoke at the scene before me. The first thing I noticed was the odd scent of the smoke, almost like marijuana, only more acrid, I would later come to know this to be hashish. Nobody was moving, twenty or so eyes were fixed on my six foot three inch figure. Not knowing exactly what to do I suddenly screamed “I’m the new sergeant, what the hell is going on here?” You should have seen it, people started jumping out windows and running about just like they saw a grenade on the floor, and in about 10 seconds, the room was empty. The CQ peered in, muttered, “good work” and walked away.

The next day at the morning formation I recognized the various faces I had seen the night before in that room, most notable of which was my new platoon leader, Lieutenant Cole! He was the one holding the pipe next to the window. This was starting to feel way out of whack, even the officer in charge was into smoking dope. OK, I thought, I’m in big trouble, I definitely don’t fit in and this is some sort of dope addict platoon, what was I doing here? The commander said something about how preparations were going for the upcoming field exercise, then mentioned my name stating the company had a new leader in the recovery section, no one did anything, I was really beginning to feel unwelcome.

I was lucky enough to get a large room with two other non dope-smoking sergeants, Davis and Smith. We were in the minority, being non drug users, and pretty much stayed to ourselves. I spent all my spare time lifting weights, running, and taking college courses after duty hours. Davis drank and Smith whined about not being home when he wasn’t sitting on his bed with headphones on listening to country music. The guys in the recovery section kept their distance also and for a while it seemed like it was going to stay that way.

As fate would have it, one night around one AM, I awoke to the yelling of a couple of infantryman outside my window. They were ticked because someone in my company had short changed them in some hashish sale earlier that night. I opened the window, told them to “at ease, and move out” They didn’t respond exactly how I had expected, instead I heard something with a F and a U, and then another stream of uncomplimentary terms. That was the first time in my life anyone called me a honkey, Something about that language, the lateness of the hour, and being wakened by them just didn’t sit well with me. I threw on my shorts and a fatigue shirt, jumped out the window and walked straight at them.

Now you have to understand something about this. The infantry, (them,) and the Armor,(us,) just didn’t get along on the best of days, and this definitely wasn’t one of those days. Behind me there was a considerable clamor as the windows of my barracks began to open as the CQ started yelling, “fight, fight.” The grunt (infantryman) said something like “what are you going to do,” but didn’t get it all out before I punched him and knocked him out cold. The other guy did a little better but went down pretty quick also. I had wrapped my knuckled hand with a leather belt with one of those bubba sized buckles which, as it turned out was a pretty good striking device!

What happened next would best be explained by watching the marines going ashore during an amphibious landing. There must have been some angry pent up emotions in the participants that night because those buildings either side of the street looked like Omaha beach on D-day. People were pouring onto the street and into the widening fight, well, more accurately, riot . I saw Smith hobbling out on a set of crutches, which was odd because he didn’t use crutches. When I saw him swinging them like Babe Ruth a moment later I realized the brilliance of his design. Davis was yelling out of our window, he was drunk as usual, but it sounded good just the same.

When the MP’s showed up, they showed up with a vengeance, they viewed the whole thing as a huge training opportunity. One of their cars, a Dodge Dart mistakenly pulled right into the fracas and was quickly covered and surrounded by soldiers fighting. I could see several MPs inside with their pistols drawn, pointing them at us through rolled up windows. That car at times had people on the hood, roof, and trunk, it was being covered in dents. The other MP’s who wisely pulled up a safe distance away saw the need to mount a rescue mission to save the foolish ones in the Dodge. They formed a group, then charged the crowd and before long most of the fighting subsided.

Someone with a shiny MP helmet yelled, “all right, all the NCOs over here right now.” Remembering my fatigue shirt had pin on rank, I pulled those stripes off as quick as I could, and apparently so did everyone else, odd how there could be a gathering of upwards of a hundred soldiers and not a single sergeant in sight! Those same eyes that had gazed upon me through a hashish smoke filled room weeks earlier were now staring at me much differently, and at that moment I became one of the “boys.” From that day on, I became known as “Big Don” a nickname that would follow me for over twenty more years. I had earned their respect and became a trusted member of the company.

Those guys in the recovery section taught me a neat trick during the next road march. From time to time, we would scramble out of our little compound and drive those lumbering behemoths across Germany’s excellent system of roads. We would drive at about 25 miles per hour and keep an interval of about one hundred meters between each vehicle, a practice designed to make a marauding fighter’s strafing attack less successful. The Germans weren’t all that enthused by the convoy practice and would make a habit of passing the armored vehicles at every opportunity. Even though it just happened to be their country, we felt an obligation to try to control them and to punish the offenders who dared to interfere. Several practices grew out of that belief. Number one was tank cannon jousting, second was end connectoritis and the third was the test by fire. I knew about the first two but my guys decided to show me all about technique number three.

to be continued, maybe 
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #8 on: September 15, 2014, 06:49:00 PM »
Here's some more:

The M88 Armored Recovery Vehicle is by all standards a monster. Weighing in at near fifty-five tons way back then, it was powered by a gasoline twelve cylinder supercharged engine making in excess of one thousand horsepower. The gasoline part is important. It had spark plugs and a regular ignition system just like a modern car. The fact that the ignition system could be turned off while driving, then switched back on quickly was a very critical element to the test by fire.

Normally during a night move, we would allow an unsuspecting victim, usually a truck to move up behind the M88. That M88 would then move ever so slightly into the other lane so as to block the road making passing impossible. Believe me, oncoming cars had no problem getting out of the way of anything that big! Once the victim, oops, I meant vehicle, was stuck behind the M88, the next vehicle behind the “target truck” would close up the gap, effectively forcing the truck very close to the M88. When the truck was about twenty feet behind the eighty-eight, the driver would floor the recovery vehicle and simultaneously turn the ignition off, killing the engine. This would produce a gasoline vapor rich cloud, which would trail aft from the eighty-eight. After about a five second delay, the M88 driver would switch back on the ignition, which had the immediate effect of igniting the vapor cloud and creating a huge fireball. If all went according to plan, that fireball would envelop the truck’s front end and windshield. The effect was amazing! Immediate compliance by the driver, usually with the offending truck exiting the road into a sugar beet field! Judging by how far those trucks would drive into the fields, one had to wonder if anyone was driving at all. Oh well, we felt it was a small price to pay for the freedom they enjoyed!

I remember one particular day like it was yesterday! Colonel Kirk had just taken command of our brigade and gathered every tanker and infantryman into the post theatre to give the traditional new commander speech. We knew we were really there so he could to chew our butts. He was a Vietnam era combat veteran, tough as nails, had been shot up, blown up, shot down, and everything else imaginable, this guy was for real. He gave us a stirring dissertation and seemed to know exactly what had been going on in the brigade up to that point. From that day on after that very well delivered “talk” we called him Colonel Kirk of the starship Illesheim, a term he was not endeared to. He had arrived amidst reports of German trucks being burned up, cars being crushed, and sidewalks being destroyed in nearby towns by our tanks. Man, that guy was well briefed, he was on to us from the very start, he knew about the sidewalk game.

That technique was very difficult to master and required a high degree of skill while driving. we viewed this particular technique as an opportunity for additional training. The driver would move ever closer to the sidewalk until a distinctive clicking sound could be heard. That sound occurred when the steel links, called, end connectors, that held our very heavy steel and rubber track together contacted the edge of the sidewalk. Once you had established a good contact with heavy grinding, one would steer abruptly away from the sidewalk. If everything worked out, a single end connector would catch a corner of the sidewalk and fling the entire section of sidewalk into the air. It was magnificent to watch, and the local Germans were well aware of that clicking sound, a sound which would send them scurrying like so many mice.

For some reason Colonel Kirk didn’t share our enthusiasm for additional training opportunities, and wanted the practice stopped. He said “If I ever hear of any more end- connectoritis, I’ll string the guilty party (explicative changed so as not to offend) by his (male body parts).” The Army at that time didn’t have many female soldiers, and there certainly weren’t any in the Infantry or Armor corps, so we knew exactly what he meant, and believed him.

Colonel Kirk had a good side, and was very protective of the welfare of “his” soldiers and their families. He learned the local German landlords were charging more for rent from American soldiers than from native Germans. The rent for an apartment housing a US soldier was very carefully calculated based on the local’s knowledge of our pay and housing allowance. The amount they charged pushed soldiers to their financial limits, forcing lower ranking families to do without a car and to live in smaller quarters. Colonel Kirk called a meeting of all the local mayors to “dictate” his policy regarding rent. He demanded rent be equalized within two weeks or he would take action. He then had all off-post soldiers report their exact rent cost. After the two week period, his adjutant reported no significant change had been made. What happened next I can’t imagine occurring in our politically correct present day society.

Colonel Kirk had a tent city erected on post. He then ordered all family members not directly serving on active duty to leave Germany within the month. He published a letter which he actually sent to those very same mayors stating “his” soldiers were no longer authorized to live off post effective the following month. He had his effect. Initially, those Germans went to the Division Commander, a two star general, who was a war buddy with Colonel Kirk. The General politely observed that the colonel was operating within the purview of his authority and was free to command as he saw fit to. The benefit to our soldiers came quickly. Miraculously, the rents all came down, and we earned a new degree of respect from the local Germans. Life was good again and I considered moving to a nearby town.

Colonel Kirk was not without balance. He was a fair minded man who believed in give and take. One day our recovery section got a call to help the local town of Bad Windsheim. I was ordered to move the M88 to the front gate where some vehicles from our MPs and local police were going to escort us to a site where a German vehicle was in need of our services. We went only to find a huge Deutz tractor mired in mud five feet thick. We hooked onto it and easily pulled it out. The Mayor of the town handed us a case of local wine for our efforts, a case that would remain hidden in the bowels of the M88 until it was consumed. We heard Colonel Kirk and the Mayor had become friends following the rent battle, and this act of aid by the Army to our German community would repeat itself again and again.

Those joyous days of working in the mud, living in the field and repairing everyone else’s broken tanks soon ended for me, it was time to move on. During my stay in Headquarters Company, I made myself famous on several different occasions. My dad always told me, “son don’t become famous, don’t do anything that would make yourself famous.” He was referring to life in the military in general and to combat in particular. I later came to understand what he was talking about. It was common knowledge that I had started that little riot between the Armor and Infantry, and since that time, I had taken one or two other opportunities to defend myself or others in the local German gausthauses. Although I have never seen any convincing proof of any wrong-doing on my part, the rumors persisted. The Command Sergeant Major felt my fighting spirit might be better served in a line tank company. Talk about the rabbit being thrown into the briar patch. I received orders to report to Charlie Company, First of the Thirteenth Armor, I was estatic!


To be continued...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #9 on: September 15, 2014, 06:50:46 PM »
OK people, shut your yaps for awhile and read this:

Captain Miller was a real guy, an officer, but not the west point type, he was down to earth and he was my new company commander. Known for working on his own tank along with the enlisted men he was well liked and highly respected. Serving under him, First Sergeant Tucker was just as fine a man and they made a great team. They had been briefed on my “activities,” but also knew through the grapevine that I did not indulge in the gaseous form of inebriation that was so rampant in those days. They had decided to give me a little character test, and what a test it turned out to be.

The First Sergeant or “top” as soldiers call him, assigned me to third platoon. The platoon sergeant from the first day we met called me “hemorrhoid,” a nickname I later used from time to time for my son. He drove me to the motor pool and showed me my tank. It was the oldest tank in the battalion. It had no engine, needed new tracks and was filthy. He then introduced me to my crew. Garcia, the driver was a street-smart kid from Los Angles who had been a gang member. Melton, the loader had a stutter, a sixth grade education, and a heart of gold. He had another problem that I would learn about in the days to come. Smitty was my gunner and the second in command. A buck sergeant also, he had been relieved for drug use as Garcia had been, and the both of them were participating in a voluntary drug rehabilitation program.

I eyed them for a few minutes not saying a word, they were standing at parade rest staring back at me. I decided life for this motley crew was going to get decidedly harder in the weeks to come, and I inwardly accepted this considerable challenge to get this collection of parts and people functioning as a tank crew. I explained I had only one name, and that name was sergeant, that I didn’t like time off, and in fact would rather spend my time working on the tank or practicing gunnery skills. I further explained that free time was reserved for the guys who would rather be the targets for a superior enemy tank crew. I was convinsed, another European war was coming, one which we would eventually fight against the Russians and their neighboring Warsaw Pact allies. My new crew had different ideas about their use of time, but had heard of my reputation for applying bruises to people so they remained silent. We reached a basic understanding that day, I gave them the rest of the day off, but warned them that their life would change at 0600 the next morning.

The first report to top about me was favorable. I was later told, I had passed my first test. The next morning after PT, at breakfast, I sat with the other sergeants, who I knew who didn’t smoke dope. Top made a mental not it but didn’t say a word. The weeks that ensued were filled with fourteen hour days of hard work but after about a month or two we had completed the first step of my plan. That sad looking rusting lump of metal had been replaced by a freshly painted tank boasting two new tracks, and a freshly rebuilt engine and transmission. As a reward for their considerable efforts, I allowed the guys to paint their names on the side of the hull, a practice that was not allowed. The platoon sergeant noticed and told me to paint back over the names. I told him I would do no such thing, and he had better not get near my tank without my permission, and, finally, that my name was Sergeant Harward, not hemorrhoid!

My crew saw the whole exchange, and immediately united behind me. That very instant we jelled as a crew and I knew they would have fight for me when the time came. The platoon sergeant smiled, said “OK, Sergeant Harward, now, if you’re done, report to the first sergeant’s office at 1700.” Oh no, a visit with Charlie Tucker, top, that couldn’t be good, what was it about, I’ll bet it’s insubordination, or worse, what had I done?

I knocked on that door at precisely 1700 and heard the “come in,” then I reported with crisp movements to a position of parade rest. Inside was the platoon sergeant, top, Captain Miller, another Lieutenant, and a couple other NCOs. Top told me to relax and take a seat. He explained to me the people in the room were probably the only soldiers in the company that were not smoking dope, and that they had been watching me for some time. He asked me directly, do you smoke dope? I answered no, which was the truth, and top said “call me Charlie, but only behind these closed doors.” I had just been inducted to the “insiders” the very power base of the company and they trusted me. From that day on I have stood a little taller, and tried to do things just a little better, I loved those guys.

Charlie Tucker, from El Paso Texas, had no hair and a smile as big as the state he hailed from. He was one of the few people in my life that helped shape who I am today. He was careful to keep me away from the “dark” element in our little military society, the dopers, and the racial prejudice, which was rampant in the Army those days. He was an island of good and righteousness who tried to do his job amidst all the negatives. He taught me how to drink at the NCO club. Not to get drunk, but to just milk a couple beers, all the while building camaraderie with fellow NCOs. He and the Sergeant Major shared different views about me, something that never seemed to bother me at all. Charlie Tucker, taught me to have compassion for my men. He taught me to eat last, after the other soldiers, and not to complain to them about personal problems. He showed me it is sometimes better to do without. He taught me how to make tough decisions, and how to stand up for what I thought was right. Our heavenly Father definitely did something right in the Lone Star State for I have met many a good man from that place, but none finer than Charlie Tucker.

Melton my private first class with the stutter, was, to put it mildly, a little slow. His “other” problem came up about a week into our first meeting. Seemed he had a problem controlling his bladder while under duress. I discovered it one afternoon while I was chewing him out. He had just shoved the .50 caliper machine gun barrel into the tank cannon optical sight port, thinking it was where the machine gun was. What kind of a numbskull could make a mistake like that and miss the correct port by over six feet? The barrel cracked the lens, destroying the sensitive sighting instrument. It turned out to be a good thing since it netted us a new sighting mechanism, but at the moment I was mad as hell. I was yelling at him, he was trembling, Garcia was cussing and Smitty was pacing back and forth, when suddenly the wet circle appeared in his trousers. No way, it couldn’t be, but it was. He had just relieved himself! For some reason it had the opposite effect on me than I would have expected. I suddenly felt compassion for this person, and for the first time saw him as a teenager, a scared young boy and not some Army warrior. The crew must have felt the same thing because they huddled around Melton and took him back to the barracks. I later got him medical help, which eventually helped him to control himself and gain the dignity he lacked.

Garcia, the Mexican-American prankster, however, never actually completely laid off Melton. He continued to tease and have fun, but Melton seemed to be handling it well enough, and I felt it would be best to watch and control it from a distance. Garcia had a pretty big bag of tricks, and Melton was purpose raised to be susceptible to all of them. There was the time I was in the Battalion Maintenance office discussing the need for a new engine and in walks Melton in search of “squelch oil.” When you tune a radio from one frequency to another or simply turn it on it might emit a squeal, which was perfectly normal. Garcia explained to our hapless victim that the sound was caused by a low oil level in the radio, and we needed a fresh quart of “squelch oil.” Everyone and their brother knew the radio had no oil in it, everyone except for Melton.

I would sometimes stop the prank, bu,t other times allow it to proceed in hopes Melton would learn. Sadly he seldom did. Field exercises were times when boredom would serve as the catalyst for Garcia to kick into overdrive. We often had to go days or longer without showers while moving around the German countryside. After a few days, the interior of that tank would become a little “gamy.” We created a neat little system to stay clean and shower. The back deck of an M60 battle tank had thick armor steel plating and vent doors on the topside that allowed cooling air to be ducted to the huge engine. This same mass of steel absorbed and stored heat for long periods of time. We would place several five-gallon cans of water inside those doors next to the engine. After a couple hours of driving about or even remaining parked, the water would become nice and hot, just perfect for a shower. With the engine running, two huge fans blew the exhaust and the engine warmed air out the back armored and vented grill doors and down toward the ground. All one had to do was to place a wooden pallet on the ground just aft of the tank a couple fo feet, strip down, stand in the warm exhaust air and scrub away. Using a buddy to pour the warm water over you, one could clean up in a snap with a minimum of effort. Granted this wasn’t perfect, but given the option of living with yourself or others without washing, it was just fine.

The day was really cold, it was in January, we had been out for a couple weeks and it had been several days since our last warm shower. Tonight was the night. Water was short, but we were able to fill two cans and warm them in the bowels of the M-60 for the showers. The last light brought a light snow but it was shaping up to be a good night. Top would be along before long with warm chow, we were all going to get a shower, and the snow was naturally camouflaging our tank so we had little work left to do. Smitty went first, then me, Garcia was next and finally Melton. By now the engine had been idling a couple hours and had settled into an even rumble. Melton got into position. Sitting in the commanders position, the cupola, I could see Melton’s head just below the rear grill doors. Smitty was pouring the last of the warm water over Melton, rinsing him of suds when all of a sudden the engine unexpectedly revved to it’s redline. Drivers would sometimes do this to clear out the cylinders of the soot that would accumulate in an idling diesel engine. Looking aft I could no longer see Melton, only a thick black sooty smoke blowing out of the rear. The next second the engine settled down to a nice idle, the smoke cleared, and there stood Melton covered from head to toe with black oily soot! The soot had collected on every inch of his naked body! Garcia popped up, “just clearing the jugs sarge’” chuckled, then disappeared inside. Unfortunately for Melton we only had one five-gallon can of half ice, half water for him to rewash himself. Garcia’s pranks could be brutal sometimes!
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #10 on: September 15, 2014, 06:51:33 PM »
OK, now for Melton's revenge...


There were other times where Melton would disappear looking for a can of “muzzle blast” or a bag of “Emory sparks,” but usually the pranks were harmless. During the same field exercise where Melton changed color, one prank , however, almost resulted in a serious accident. It is the practice of tankers to perform maintenance on their vehicle at literally every opportunity. The most common of which, was, checking the end connectors for tightness (grinding up German sidewalks would cause them to quickly loosen). This practice was known as “walking the track.” With all the rubbing against rocks, trash cans, road signs, and other things, the bolts holding them in place could sometimes work loose. The method of checking them was to take a ball peen hammer and strike each link with the rounded end. If the thing was tight, you would be rewarded with a high pitched “ping” sound, not all that much different that the sound of striking a crystal wine glass. A dull thud indicated the need to tighten the bolt or risk loosing the track.

The entire battalion was moving to contact to intercept an “enemy” German Leopard tank unit during a massive exercise called “Reforger.” Maneuver damage was considerable to the country-side. We were told to do what we could to minimize damage, and for the most part we did, that is when some “training opportunity didn’t present itself. Instead of moving across open fields which destroyed the crops, we would move along the side of a field on a dirt road. That dirt road made a hard ninety degree left turn at one point and every tank had scrapped away several inches of dirt while negotiating it plowing an ever deepening pit of silt like mud. The act of turning a tracked vehicle involves slowing or locking one track and pivoting on it in the direction of the turn. With fifty two tons pressing downward, the result is the creation of a slight depression and a pile of dirt at the point of the turn. This particular well used turn point, was about fifty feet long, twenty wide, and perhaps five feet deep and was filled with soupy mud, freshly churned by the previous M60s. The column stopped just as we drove down into that hole of mud, and we came to a stop in its center. I liked my position, we were well masked and affored a low profile to an enemy gunner. Melton, riding in the loader’s position had been down inside the turret keeping warm instead of peering out of the hatch. Had he done his job, he would have known of the nature of the pit we were parked in and just how deep the sea of mud was all around us. I was in the cupola like usual wrapped up in several scarves with my helmet on. the warm air from within was wafting up and around me as I monitered radio traffic. We were all listening for the first reports that we had sighted the Leopards and were going to attack. They had been spotted earlier by scouts, so this could be it, a running tank battle could be just minutes away! Note here: Tankers live for an open field running attack where you throw caution to the wind, jam the accelerator and charge headlong while firing every weapon you have!

Garcia emerges from the drivers hatch, tosses Melton the hammer and tells him to “walk the track.” Melton reacted just like a robot, and once again I found myself in one of those out of body situations not believing what I was seeing and paralyzed by some sinister force which allows these things to happen. I watched as Melton jumped out of the hatch and onto the fender where he bounced once just like some Olympic diver leaving a diving board, and into the soup he went feet first! He must have thought it was solid ground with a few inches of mud on top. I couldn’t even get a single word out of my mouth before he disappeared from sight, he actually went completely under!. Garcia looked up at me, “Sarge, did you see that?” “Get him, get him now,” was all I could say. Melton’s head emerged from the mud a couple seconds later as Garcia and I reached down into the goo after him. Needless to say, our hapless Melton survived, although requiring yet another cold shower. I felt the pranks had reached a dangerous level and something inside me decided to make things right. It was time to give Garcia a taste of his own medicine, my mind started wondering…

That attack against the Germans that occurred some time later was a total hoot. Once we saw them and the shooting started, any hope of saving crops or anything else instantly vaporized. Alpha and Bravo Companies went straight at them while our company made a flanking charge at full speed across a freshly cut wheat field. Now that’s living, running almost 30 miles per hour leaving two-twenty foot high rooster tails of mud and dirt all the while firing at random and maneuvering violently. We felt like charging cavalry troopers from the pioneering days of the wild west. I don’t remember just how well we did, probably a draw. Normally the Germans made short work of us with their better tanks, good training, and the fact that they grew up there, but we had our days and our surprises too. No matter, it had been great fun and a good training opportunity for everyone.

Perhaps a week later was the day of reckoning for our notorious Garcia. We were tired from all the activity and lack of sleep. Our commander ordered us to move into a defensive position and were crossing some obstacles when I saw it. A stream running perpendicular to us had to be crossed to get to the selected logger area. Yes, this just might get my little driver payback done before stopping for the evening. Garcia was an expert tank driver. He always did a great job of keeping us out of trouble and not throwing one of our tracks off while maneuvering. Loosing a track is a dreaded occurance for a tank crew which normally means working for many cold and wet hours while removing and reinstalling the track, which weighs tons, sometimes piece by piece. Usually this happens in the muddiest of areas, and if you’re unlucky that mud will harden into ice before you’re done reinstalling the track, making the whole process even that much more difficult. Much credit is due to our driver here, he kept trouble at bay by assessing the terrain, sometimes skillfully backing away from questionable spots. He could read the terrain as well as a New York City cabbie negotiated downtown rush hour traffic.

Garcia had difficulty reading the water in front of us, he had stopped and was carefully evaluating the water. From my vantage, I could see it was deep. Normally from the cupola, I could see down about two to three feet down into that grayish European water, but I wasn’t seeing anything like a bottom in this stream. Our driver pulled right up to the edge careful not to bring our full fifty two tons to a sudden stop on a river bank, which might collapse under the weight of the tank, yep, this kid, was good. Part of me wanted to just back away and let him off the hook, and then I looked to my left and saw Melton, head poking out of the loaders hatch. That kid had endured enough. “Hey Melton, take a look at the water, you have a better view than me, does it look shallow enough to cross?” “He knew in an instant what I was thinking, “Sure Sarge, it’s maybe three feet deep,” I gave him a knowing wink and said “OK Garcia go for it, but switch the air intake to the turret.” For suspected deep water crossings, the driver could select the air for the engine be drawn fron inside of the tank, effectively making the turret a giant shorkel. That simple precaution would prevent the engine from stalling if we got in too deep and water swept over the back deck.

Garcia would usually enter the water with a slight rush then slow down. The rapid entry would form a bow wave, which an expert driver could control with vehicle speed. With practice, crossing streams and rivers up to about six feet deep could be done routinely and with confidence. Naturally, the driver would close his hatch for water deeper than around four feet, but at three feet, Garcia still had his head protruding from the hatch. I carefully raised the gun tube and positioned the turret to the rear just in case the driver had to get out of his hatch, then in a flash we were off. The same second we hit the water, was the last second I could see anything of Garcia. The bow wave was more like a tidal wave and immediately piled up to about three feet from the top of the turret. Garcia, although completely underwater, gunned the accelerator, causing the ensuing wave to actually wash over the top of the turret. All I could hear was a loud squealing sound, caused by an electrical short when one of the helmets became submerged. The ordeal only lasted a few seconds, then the mighty M60 climbed out of the water on the other side. I told you this kid was good!

The engine went to idle, I heard the muffled sound of the parking brake being set under a foot of water, then out came Garcia. Somehow, he looked much taller than the five foot five inch frame he lived in, and those eyes of his were on fire. He took the squealing helmet off and threw it off into the weeds. Those eyes locked with mine and he started around the turret toward me. I had this neat trick, where I could literally jump out of the cupola and onto the air cleaner box on the outside of the vehicle with a single bound, and I used it at that moment. We met on the fender, I saw the fist, he drew back, and I braced, and then yelled at the top of my lungs “soldier!” It worked, he relaxed his fist stared at me for a few hard seconds, then jumped down and walked away cussing to himself. I figured he needed the time, so we stayed there for some time. Melton looked at me and smiled, for once he was not the butt of a joke or the victim of a prank, he was happy.


And even more yet to come!
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #11 on: September 15, 2014, 06:52:10 PM »
The saga continues!

The second platoon Sergeant, was a strange cat indeed. Something had happened to Staff Sergeant Kidwell in Vietnam, something which he or no one else ever talked about. What ever it was, it left him with a stutter that made listening to him a real chore. It was summer gunnery, 1977, at Graf, or Grafenwhoer, a pre world war two German training base in the middle of nowhere. Gunnery is a great time for tankers, you actually get to shoot the weapons and break things and feel good about it.

Kidwell wasn’t doing all that well, the slowness of his fire commands was costing him valuable seconds. A standard fire command sounds something like “Gunner, battle sight, tank.” Now that small command means, “hey gunner I want you to set your computer to sabot ammunition, set the range for one thousand one hundred meters, aim center of mass, and you’re shooting at another tank.” The tank commander’s job is to identify hostile targets, traverse the turret and lay or roughly point the cannon at the target. The gunner in the bowels of the turret is looking through his sight for the tank in question. During this process the loader uploads the correct round, pushes the safety lever to fire, and announces “up.” Once the gunner sees the target, he states, “identified.” The tank commander then orders, “Fire!” The gunner then takes over control of the turret, makes a final aiming adjustment, announces “on the way,” and pulls the trigger. If it all went correctly the whole thing took about four to five seconds and the projectile strikes the bad guy ending his day, and well, I guess pretty much everything else.

Kidwell’s command was more like “Gu, gu, gu, gu, gu, gunner, ba, ba, ba ba, ba battle sight, t, t, t, t, t, t, t, tank.” The non firing tankers all knew what he was saying because the internal communications were being broadcast over our internal radio and over the loud speaker at the base of the tower. In a flash, you could hear the loader say “up,” and the gunner say, “Identified.” Then an agonizing eternity later, “f, f, f, f, f, f, fire.” With Kidwell’s crew, the gun would normally fire long before the actual command to fire was given.

The Colonel’s briefing prior to the afternoon gunnery was straightforward. He was old school, “guys, kill the enemy anyway you can, use any thing on any target, run over them if you have to.” He was speaking rhetorically, of course, just doing a pep talk, and we all knew it, that is, all of us except for Kidwell.

Most crews were getting first round hits, the thing we trained for, and some were even shooting and hitting targets while on the move. These days with the technology available to M1 Abrams crews, that feat has been made much easier with automation, however with the M60, it took a skilled crew indeed. Kidwell’s tank drove up to the starting line and the tower commanded, “two three, move out.” They did, and the stuttering fire commands preceded each engagement. The commands were so long, the driver actually had to slow down to keep from driving too far during a firing engagement, fearful they would drive off the range before they completed the required firing sequences.

Our Colonel was a stickler for keeping costs down, he fretted over the smallest details, on that day it was the targets themselves. He had spent a ton of money buying us new plastic troop and tank silhouettes. The troop silhouettes were used for machine gun engagements in between the main gun shots. Kidwell had just shot a pair of tank silhouettes and was trying to shoot the plastic troops. This time, we listened to the incredibly long command to engage enemy troops. “Gu, gu, gu, gu gu, gunner, co, co, co, co, coax, t, t, t, t, t, troops.” The command should have been, gunner coax, troops, asking the gunner to use the coaxially mounted machine gun to engage the bad guys.

We heard the command maybe three times followed by a single shot, indicating the machine gun was malfunctioning. Then for the first time ever in a clear voice, we heard “Gunner HEP, troops.” HEP is the acronym for, High Explosive, Plastic. The HEP round is just a big dumb shell loaded with lots of explosive material used for gererally blowing things up like bunkers, houses, bridges, and the like. All at once it seemed like everyone watching yelled “NOOOOOOO!” Ka-Boom, the main gun went off and about fifty plastic troop silhouettes disappeared as the high explosive round detonated next to the leading edge of silhouettes obliterating the colonels expensive investment. Yea, he was wrong, but that sure was cool!

Stay tuned for moooooore...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #12 on: September 15, 2014, 06:52:51 PM »
All righty... everyone is on deck, let's move on, here's moor:
Yes I misspeleded dat ans I's no's it!


That gunnery was also famous for the brilliant fireball experiments. The one hundred five millimeter cannon which every one called the one-o-five, was a fearsome invention indeed. When it fired, the tank commander had to close his eyes to avoid being temporarily blinded by the bright flash. The color of the flash was a white fading quickly to a reddish color. For some reason that just wasn’t good enough for our group. Someone suggested one night how Alcohol burned invisibly by itself, but when mixed with other materials might create a blue hue. That’s the way the experiment with plastic bottles of rubbing alcohol began. The stuff was available at the PX, and soon we were buying it up to have a little fun with.. Lots were drawn and the looser was given a plastic bottle full of the liquid with instructions about how to use it. The bottle of alcohol, or some other creative mixture would be placed in the breech first then followed by a live round of ammunition. We decided firing it with a HEAT round, an acronym for High Explosive Anti Tank, would be safer since that round left the tube at a much lower velocity. The incredibly powerful Sabot round was actually a dart made of some super-hard metal encased in a plastic sheath, loaded into a standard cannon shell. The powder was special and the concoction made short work of anything you cared to shoot with it. It scared us whenever we shot it so there was no way we were going to tamper with that violent round.

We watched as the moment approached when the enhanced fireball device would be fired for the first time. The fire command was issued, the gun recoiled and the biggest, prettiest blue fireball burst out of the gun. The safety nazi in the tower called “cease fire, cease fire, malfunction in the firing tank.” No one in the tower had any idea what had really happened, so before long the firing started again. My tank was the third to shoot and I had a better idea to thrill the guys. If one bottle made that last fireball, two bottles could only make a bigger one. Melton carefully loaded two bottles, followed by a training HEAT round. I gave my fire command then closed my eyes when I heard “on the way.” The gun recoiled, I opened up to see the remnants of a huge blue fireball, then I noticed the tracer in the base of the round we had just fired. It was wobbling as it traveled down range, then all at once the thing made a hard right turn and went off the range somewhere out of sight! Let me tell you, that was a bad feeling. we just sent something going really fast to somewhere and you have no idea where it’s going to land. The guys in the platoon thought I was some sort of a hero, but the safety nazi was suspicious, the fireball experimentation stopped as quickly as it had started.

It was during this gunnery I saw a vision. It happened one perfect Sunday morning. Perched in the cupola hatch, I was resting comfortably on it’s thick inner rubber pad. The range was peaceful, there wasn’t any shooting going on, the air was still, and most guys were still asleep from the evening gunnery tables the night before. We were sharing the range with someone that day and weren’t scheduled to go “hot” until around noon. It began as a distant growl constantly growing in volume, then increased to something like the hum of perhaps a thousand angry bees, then the air started to stir. I turned around just in time to see an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter coming straight at my tank, it was almost overhead. It’s thin profile only interrupted by its stubby wings bustling with rockets, missiles, and cannon. He flew right over me; the air was alive with the turbulence, noise, and moving helicopter parts. He came to stop at a fifty-foot hover just over the firing pads, paused then fired a missile, which streaked down range and struck a target tank. Three more of the menacing aircraft appeared, did the same thing, then all three flew slowly forward shooting rockets, cannon, and mini guns. Those mini guns are menacing little gattling style, six barreled machine guns that spit out an amazing 4,000 rounds a minute and emit a BURRRRRRR sound that is unmistakable, The shooting lasted about twenty seconds, then as quickly as it had started, it ended. The Snakes as everyone affectionately called Cobras then nosed over sharply turned and flew away. Well, that was the vision, they came, stayed maybe a minute then left, and everything was on fire! Man, I had to do that someday. The seed my father had planted long ago to become a military pilot took root. I would never be the same, I had to become an Army pilot!.

Gunnery can be a crazy time for everyone. The act of pulling the trigger and watching that gun recoil, feeling the tank being lifted and propelled backward, and the filling of the turret with fumes, can get you into sensory overload in a hurry. The antics occurring in the turret between well trained tankers is hilarious. A good gunner stays in the sight always looking for a target. During an engagement as the cannon fires he stays there, leaning forward to keep good contact with the main gun’s sight head pad. A good loader can skillfully catch the hot casing ejecting from the breech with his foot and kick it onto the back of the gunner. If it falls just right, it might jam between the gunner’s back and the back rest of the seat, burning the gunner while he wrestles it out of the cramped space, yep just good old Army fun!

The gunner will counter by firing the machine gun a little too long. While it’s firing, the loader will typically pour oil on the rounds as they are pulled into the hungry machine gun. By firing too long a burst, enough heat is generated to ignite the oil and start a fire. The loader then has to run through a fire fighting drill or risk being burned up. Sometimes the loader himself actually catches fire, that’s when the fun really starts. Often I would witness these bizarre events from my lofty perch and just shake my head.

Tank jousting was the tank commander’s game of choice, and like most, I was good at it. During road marches, this technique was used against oncoming trucks, which we always viewed as hostile. We didn’t have a good rear assault countermeasure like the gasoline fireball trick like the M88 crews had, so we concentrated on the frontal attack. To provide the maximum degree of protection against an ambush while being in a very exposed place on a highway, tank commanders would position their gun tubes alternating from the left to the right. For safety reasons, the tubes were supposed to be kept inside the edge of the front fenders. Every other tank would therefore have its gun facing the opposing lane of traffic, the place where the trucks lived.

Truck drivers in Germany must all receive evasive driving training for instances when passing American tank convoys, since they would sometimes weave wildly to avoid a “chance” meeting with a tank. Every once in awhile, a truck driver would drive by normally providing the perfect target. When the truck approached, we would traverse the gun tube ever so slightly toward the inside lane and raise it to the exact height of the truck’s mirrors. Timing was everything, at the last possible second, you would stab the mirror with the gun tube and be rewarded with an explosion of glass as the mirror, the mirror mount, and sometimes other parts of the truck blasted all over the road, and your front fender! I’m not sure Colonel Kirk ever caught onto that one; we always explained it away, stating how dangerous it was driving on such narrow roads with such a large vehicle, maybe he knew after all and just let it happen.
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #13 on: September 15, 2014, 06:53:33 PM »
The story continues:


My personal best gag was my stealth paint removal system. The M60 tank had a heater system mounted beside the driver’s compartment. This contraption burned diesel fuel in a combustion chamber and had a powerful fan motor that blew cabin air over the hot core, both cooling it and warming the air. The warm air was then ducted to various locations throughout the interior of the tank. Theoretically, the system was ideal, in reality; however, it only worked in the motor pool. The designer had somehow created a unit that would fail within an hour of leaving the safe confines of the motor pool, condemning the crew to a miserable two or three weeks of cold wet field duty.

The fact that that heater was so unreliable gave rise to a local cottage industry on the German economy. There was a small engine shop in Bad Windsheim that specialized in tank heater repair, actually modification. There was quite a bit of underground business generated by the heater’s inherent poor design. The unauthorized repair procedure was not condoned by the Army, in actuality it was forbidden. The guys who wrote those rules worked in comfortable heated offices, far away from the reality of a cold tank turret and were probably second generation safety nazis. It was the responsibility of the tank commanders to remove the heater, carry it to our friendly German mechanic, and reinstall the modified unit without anyone knowing. There was a slight risk of an explosion and a possible fire since the heater was located next to a rack of 105-millimeter main gun rounds, but we felt the risk was acceptable when compared to the total misery of being cold and wet for weeks at a time.

My heater was even more special than the others. The mechanic had created a true hybrid; he installed an adjustable fuel flow screw, and gave me a better fuel pump. When we first started it up, the unusual sound cleared the tank of all crewmen immediately. It had a low growl, followed by a growing rumble, sort of like a jet engine starting. Suddenly it emitted a loud “burp,” then settled into a normal hum. More importantly, it really did it put out the heat! That thing could cook eggs!

The heater exhaust pipe snaked out of the hull, just under the right side of the turret-mounting ring. It made a ninety-degree turn around the air cleaner box, then straight along the rear edge of the front fender. My heater ran so hot that it produced an almost invisible flame several inches from the end of the exhaust pipe. The length of that flame could be adjusted by turning the fuel screw in or out, it was neat!

My first accidental victim was Captain Miller’s tank. He had called for me to rendezvous with him to discuss a battle position we were going to occupy that day. The side of the air cleaner box sits at about the same height as the heater outlet on the fender atop the tracks. Two tanks would often pull right along side of another tank to allow the crewmen to step from the fender on one tank onto the next, avoiding the always present mud. Garcia pulled up about three or four inches and right along side from Captain Miller’s tank. While we were talking, I could smell something burning, but paid no real attention. Later as we drove away, I glanced back to see all the lettering and paint burned off the side of his air box. My brain connected the dots instantly, and the game was afoot! My crew loved it and Garcia made sport of pulling alongside every tank we could, where we would butn sections of paint and lettering of the other tank, and before long, we had most of them!

Those wonderful times in Germany were oddly, made even better by all the dope smokers in the company. Other than providing entertainment from time to time when one would fall out of a window, (they normally smoked that stuff while perched on a second story window sill), or get arrested by the MPs, they were indirectly responsible for me touring the country. Every weekend that we were back at out little post, those dopers would light up all weekend. Starting Saturday morning around ten to eleven, the smoke would drift out into the hallway and begin to form a layer near the ceiling. The first few times this happened, my roommate and I would stuff a wet towel under the door to try and stop the smell from entering. Finally I was so tired of it and the commands inability to do anything about it, I began to spend more time out in the towns and countryside of Germany. This quickly grew into a passion to get on my ten-speed bike, pedal to some nearby town, and spend the weekend. Bad Windshiem was the closest town, but lacked any real fun things to do. Neuestadt was a bit farther, but they did not like Americans there at that time.

During world war two, as the story was told to me, a crippled B17 bomber was limping back to England but only made it as far as Nuestadt. The crew bailed out and landed in the fields surrounding that ancient town. The angered inhabitants, outraged by the horrors of war lost control and pitch forked the American crew to death. News of the heinous act got out, and members of the American Eighth Air Force bombed that city almost every day with at least one bomb for the remainder of the war. Our Battalion could seldom get permission to road march through that city, but when we did, we trained especially hard. For me and my weekend escapades, that only left Rothenburg as a possible destination and what a wonderful choice it was.

The beautiful walled city of Rothenburg was only thirty miles away, a perfect distance for a weekend visit. That city has been featured in a number of popular movies and is a summer tourist destination for Americans and other Europeans. It turned out to be an excellent place to meet American girls, well, that’s a story in itself. I spent many a carefree day there enjoying the place and explored with complete abandon and bliss. Oddly enough there was a total lack of end connectoritis anywhere near the town. I quietly resolved also never to “train” near this special place, and it became my sanctuary from the dopers of Stork Barracks
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #14 on: September 15, 2014, 06:54:40 PM »
I had one other safe place, the Rod and Gun Club on the post. There, I met a strange inhabitant of the military ranks. Some people called them “chief,” which is the nickname my son uses for me to this day, or “Mister,” or “Sir.” These guys were officers, actually Warrant Officers but didn’t act at all like the commissioned officers. They were the ones who flew the Army’s Cobras, Hueys, and Scout helicopters. They seemed to tolerate Army protocol only to the extent that it allowed them to fly their noisy machines. Their hair was longer than any enlisted soldier would be allowed to have and most sported mustaches, a big no-no for officers. However, no one would ever say anything to them about their lack of compliance of grooming standards. They were as approachable as your kid brother, yet kept to them selves. When any former Vietnam veteran was asked about them, you’d get “son, those crazy bastards are the bravest soldiers you will ever see.” I learned of that bravery later in my Army journey first hand.

I had a deep abiding respect for those guys, and they saw something in me also. One day one asked me, “you ever think of flying?” I told him of the vision I had, the Graf experience. Then I talked of my father, the B17 pilot who had told me of flying stories. He stared right into my eyes as I talked; there was a hint of a smile on that weather beaten face. Then he began to talk, I studied his face. His eyes focused on some point out in space, he had a different look on his face, where had I seen that look before? I studied the man further, on his right soldier was a 101st airborne patch. He had been in combat with the famous 101st Airborne, the Screaming Eagles. He wore a W4 bar, the highest rank a warrant officer could attain. The wings on his chest had a star over the shield and a wreath around that. Weren’t those Master Aviator wings? This guy was the real McCoy. Then, I remembered, that stare. It was the same one my father wore when he talked about piloting B17s over Germany, that look was the look of a true combat veteran, an American hero.

We talked many times about flying, being a Warrant Officer, flight school, and integrity. He kindled a flame inside me which was to burn brighter and brighter in the coming years, I now knew as long as I drew a breath I was going to be an Army Pilot,no matter what it took. I would never stop until the day I climbed into my own aircraft, until I, too wore those silver wings.




That's all I had left in this chapter (Thirteenth Tank) of my other book
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #15 on: September 15, 2014, 06:55:32 PM »
Here's another one.
Didn't publish it yet

Yup

Totally new stuff here!

I'll post it up in two parts, here's the first...

Please enjoy


FLIES!

That big old fly was angrily buzzing all around the cockpit. He kept bouncing off the Plexiglas windshields followed by a couple quick aerobatic maneuvers, then back into the glass once again. On some of his wildly flown “evasive” maneuvers he had clipped my nose or slammed straight on into my cheek. I’m sure he would have careened into my eye had it not been for the visor on my HGU-56 helmet which I wore down at all times while flying. His presence was getting quite annoying. First because he was ramming my face at his maximum speed, and secondly because at any moment I awaited his maneuver to carry him out one of the windows into the one hundred fifty knot slip stream anxiously waiting just outside the door. He was extraordinarily lucky or gifted, for after some fifteen minutes since we took off from TK he was still at it!

Watching him try to fly through the Plexiglas, and waiting for him to be sucked out the hole of death that’s steady suction silently awaited its prey was definitely distracting me from looking outside. Below us in the ragged cliff faces were thousands of shadowy areas that no doubt concealed some hate filled eyes. Some might even have been or were concealing a heavy weapon, one big enough to turn me into aluminum scrap in a couple seconds. There was a reported 12.7mm Diska heavy machine gun in the area, but intelligence was betting it was low on ammo and would probably only be employed on a high value target. I don’t know how much higher value there is than a fifteen million dollar helicopter full of troops, but other than Air Force one doing low passes overhead, I’m thinking we were near the top of the list.

Deciding that smashing the fly was quickly becoming a matter of tactical importance so I batted at the critter a time or two in vein. Becoming ever more sucked into the fly killing game, I spent good time watching my evasive little target before striking out at just the right moment, then Ahhhh, another miss! I was so distracted, in fact, that on one lightening fast stab of my hand, I somehow touched and turned off the aircraft’s GPS!

Up to this point Brent was minding his own business and flying the one-three-nine. He had no doubt noticed the fly, and I think he smiled just a bit one time when the hapless creature had bounced off my face, but mostly he just looked out his side. He was riding right seat today, I was playing AMC (air mission Commander) , making radio calls, navigating, and day dreaming. When, however, I slapped at the tiny aviator and accidentally turned off the GPS, he noticed. He then looked over at me, but didn’t say a word. No need, his expression said it all. Sort of a smile, but not quite. He had me dead to rights. I had screwed up after slapping after a fly which I should have not been paying attention to. This area we were crossing while going over to Qalat was called the punch bowl and was an area of frequent Taliban conflict. Years earlier while flying a gunship through this area our convoy we were flying cover over had been engaged. Clearly the area had not changed, and would probably remain contested long after the Republic of Haiti invades the Stan in some future century.

Back to the GPS, turning it back on was not such a simple matter. You could push the switch, the same one that immediately turned it off and put into a deep, deep sleep, but engineers these days who must have some anxiety or remorse over losing their slide rules designed it to be a simple one hundred thirty two button push sequence to restart! First you press ON, Do you want to acquire satellites or enter a flight plan?” No, just turn on. “Your data base or stored points?” No, just turn on please! “Acquiring satellites, navigation unreliable at the moment, please wait.” Please, pretty please just turn on!” “Restore old flight plan, or enter a new one?” I don’t care about any stinkin’ flight plan now show me a picture!!” “Please make an entry, entry is required before position can be displayed.” Entry, you want an entry?? How about a 9mm entry, right through your freakin little screwed up silicon brain?” Position data not available, shutting down, please initiate start procedure again!

Now I know for a fact that some of these GPS unit operate autonomously but some of them are secretly controlled for a remote location. One such remote location is the lunch café and break room at Garmin. It’s a place where the engineers who are on break can select from a large number of in-operation GPS units. When they find one they want to “adjust” they take control of it, and make it do strange things. They do this to amuse themselves. If they get a pilot all flustered, there’s bets to be won and cubicle glory to be had. Get one to have a panic attack or have desires to kill something like me in this case, and man, you’ve got real entertainment. No doubt in my mind at all that some engineer was whispering into the guy’s ear who was on the keyboard, “Tell him to select flight plan B, see if he will go for that one?”

In the name of all that’s holy why is this Da#$*! F#*$!!G thing doing this to me. “Should have just left it alone.” “Alone, what, left what alone?” It was Brent, “should have left that fly alone, he wasn’t hurting anything.” Wasn’t hurting anything I thought to myself. You want to see hurting, I’ll show you hurting, I’ll. Just then the fly bounced off my face again. I almost drew on bastard, but then I remembered I didn’t have a pistol. No worries. I’ll just reach behind me and grab one of the M4 carbines the soldiers back there had. I’ll do a mag dump on his arse, that will show him. If Brent says anything I’ll include him in the sweep as well, yea, that will show them!

To be continued...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #16 on: September 15, 2014, 06:56:26 PM »
OK, well, here's the rest:


“Don’t you think you should call?” Call, what, what are you talking about?” Well, even though you’re engaged in surface combat with that fly, all along we have actually been moving across the ground and by now are in restricted airspace!” Restricted airspace, oh crap, Oh no, I wasn’t paying attention to where we were, and there had been a ROZ (Restricted operating zone) posted along our route of flight briefed to us earlier in the morning. You know the part before the coffee when I was still half asleep in the TOC (Tactical operating center). They were either flying a predator, or killing something, or raining artillery or exploding nukes or dropping nerve gas or something, (it’s always something) and we were right there where all the fun was happening. The thing about the GPS was that it displayed a pretty good moving map. We had actually programmed the various circles and rectangles of airspace along with the ROZ to use as reference. We would fly up to and alongside a ROZ, skirting it by a mile or so before proceeding along on our way. But because of that Da##$!!ed fly, none of that was now possible. Further because of those Da##$!! Engineers, the da!*#!ed thing wouldn’t turn back on until, perhaps the second coming so we were literally just winging it.

I made a call to Ridgeback to make some frivolous request to make it look like I actually was in control of this mission and was immediately answered. Roger, Swiper, show you inside ROZ tango alpha, but nothing is happening at the moment, continue straight ahead to vacate!

“Nice move” taunted Brent as I started to think of more and different ways to kill that fly. We no sooner cleared the ROZ at some eight thousand feet when all at once, BANG! My door flew open, well. not all the way open, but somewhat. Of course my lunch, the mission packet, about a dozen barf bags and yes, that fly were immediately expelled. I could no longer talk effectively on the radios since the mission packet contained all the daily frequencies. And I’d be going hungry now, and along with those barf bags were the passenger briefing cards, but you know what? None of that mattered in the least! You know why? Because that darned fly was dead! Yep I imagine he was smashed into a mist the moment he hit that wall of really fast air. That’s all that mattered to me. The fly was dead, he’s dead and all is now right with the world. Brent had slowed the aircraft a lot. He was actually in the cockpit, and doing his job. I was off in murder land enjoying a fresh kill, yea, the fly is dead! “Yo Don, wanna close the door?” “Oh, sure, I ’ll get it right away, can you slow down to about fifty?” The wind was creating a powerful suction which was pulling the door open.

“Hey lead, what’s going on? We thought we saw a bunch of trash fall out of your aircraft, and what’s the deal with flying through the ROZ?” Oh it’s just Don and some fly.” “Ok makes sense, everything OK?” “Sure, we got it, switch up to Qalat control tower.” Hey that was my job I thought in anger, the fresh kill still on my mind. I make the radio calls, not Brent. Then I realized I was also supposed to navigate and I didn’t do that either. Was supposed to look for bad guys on my side, and didn’t do that either, hmmm. Brent, I’m all better now, I’m back in the cockpit!” “Good to have you back, I was getting lonely up here all by myself, he poked back.” “It’s all good, bro, it’s all good, I said, however I wondered if it would be.

Chalk 2 (our second aircraft) dropped into Eagle and we spiraled into Qalat to drop off our troops. While there a Romanian sergeant who had become savvy to American ways came bouncing out to the aircraft and yelled, “Where to?” “KAF, we’re going to KAF.” “You have room for four?” Glancing at my mission sheet it showed I had to pick up six troops here and take them to KAF (Kandahar Air Field). Glancing over to the passenger marshalling area, I counted four bodies. “I’m supposed to pick up six”, I yelled back over the roar of the engines sucking in millions of parcels of air. “Your six guys got on an earlier flight that was here an hour ago.” “Who?” I yelled again. “Primus flight.” Primus, what the heck, that was a flight of Russian MI8’s. Flying with those guys was like playing Russian roulette with a revolver with 3 rounds in the cylinder. Coupled with the fact that US Troops were forbidden from riding on Russian birds!

Looking back over at the PAX eagerly awaiting their ride to KAF, I noticed they were all Romanians. Hmmm, now it all started to make sense. This Romanian sergeant had hooked his buds up. He controlled the LZ (Landing zone). He knew his buddies were needing a ride to KAF. He knew as well that we were coming, he had no doubt been briefed it earlier. So knowing that a sleek air conditioned helicopter was coming, he put the American soldiers in a crappy old MI8 made of boiler plate and chicken wire and flown by unemployed rail road workers and saved the Mercedes for his boys.

I knew this sergeant, this poker faced “player.” I unstrapped and jumped out of the cockpit. I grabbed his right epaulet and told him to come with me. When I got far enough away from the roar of those two big Pratt and Whitney’s, I took off my helmet and looked the sergeant right in his eye. “Dude, you put my boys on that MI-8 so your boys could get a nice ride didn’t you?” No, sir, I was only trying to get the priority soldiers out first. He was making fun of the fact that we tended to take better care of our boys from Texas than his band of thieving gypsies. “OK, bro, you win this time, but if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’m going to personally skin you alive, capiche?” “OK sir, right away sir, what is stunt?”

What can you do except to just laugh it off. I gave him a solid punch to his shoulder, smiled and said “send your boys to the aircraft, we’re going to KAF.”

When he showed up with his friends he stuffed two cold Gatorades into my hands. Cool anything was good, it was better than a hundred degrees and as dry as a Kansas dust devil. I quickly checked the lid which didn’t appear to have been tampered with, Gatorade is the same color as, well you get the picture I hope. With a departure call to tower it was my turn on the controls. I pulled us up to a hover then dove down the embankment quickly gaining airspeed. In a moment I had us up to one twenty and I flared with aft cyclic and climbed like a homesick angel toward the safety of the blue sky.

You see in a lot of tactical situations low and slow, is not safe. Yea, I know the Army trains that concept and they call it low level, contour or nap of the earth flying. But in these wide open deserts, that is just a bunch of junk and it doesn’t work. The way to survive is to put distance between you and the speedy little things. If you have to be low, then be really fast and jerky, going all over heck’s half acre. Taking off from the base at Qalat when you break over the hesco barrier walls you are immediately right over a town. Sometimes kids stand on the roofs waiting to throw stones at our aircraft when we pass overhead. Towns are where people live, and people can and often do carry guns. So when taking off from Qalat, I use all the power those engines feel like supplying to get going just as fast as I can while snaking around and turning away from the greatest density of huts, then I’ll pitch aft which causes the bird to climb wildly, in excess of 4,000 feet a minute with this sleek Agusta.

Looking downward I checked fuel and got a heading off the once again functioning GPS pointing toward our first check point. Just then I saw him coming in from the side at about mach two. It was another large black fly! His body slammed into my cheek and rebounded onto my plate carrying vest coming to rest on my tourniquet pouch. It hesitated, stirred then launched with renewed vigor back into the windshield. Brent saw it, and slumped in his seat a little. Immediately my mind was right back at 9.5 on the rage/murder-Richter scale and I was thinking hateful thoughts of death! Brent made the all clear call on the radio and commanded the flight to switch frequencies. He thumbed 8500 into the altitude selector and punched the climb button. The fly bounced off the windshield again, obviously a victim of the same worthless gene pool his hapless twin had sprung from as well, and started his crazy spins and loops. I tried to think happy thoughts…
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #17 on: September 15, 2014, 06:57:02 PM »
…More about Flies!

Refer back to Nate's comments about the flies...not your normal stateside variety.

U.S. flies die when you swat them...not combat flies!

These things zero in on moisture

Sources like your eyes, lips, nose...stuff like that.

They are made of something stronger than Kevlar, Army labs have been trying to isolate the material so we can make new bullet proof vests that stop 105mm rounds and weigh 6 ounces! You swat these flies with a normal swat calibrated for, say a Texas horse fly, and sure enough, the combat flies will fall away.

A seasoned soldier is quick to stomp them for the micro second they are immobilized. The nubee watches in amazement as the thing stirs for a second then leaps back into the air and makes it straight to the corner of your lip in one fourteenth of a second.

We veterans jab other veterans in the ribs to watch the spectacle unfold.
The new guy is both amazed that the fly is alive, that it is right back to the same spot that got it wacked before, and is so persistent. THe Nubee will usually offer a minute or two of entertainment before uttering some profanity and some version of, "Man can you believe this fly? I smashed it, it fell dead, then a second later it is right back in my mouth."

The funny part is that while uttering that dribble, the fly actually gets into his mouth! Finally as some point the victim leaves the scene or finally knocks the fly out long enough to put a number 12 Batesville combat boot on him. That doesn't always work either...the boot has voids in the thread which the combat fly can easily find.
The veteran kills the fly quickly with several stomps then checks th make sure the wings are all caty-whompus to ensure that at least if it isn't dead, that it won't be able to fly again!

Not sure where these flies come from...Some say the bio labs of China, others say they were developed by the US Army and released over Nazi Germany. I don't know, but I do know they serve proudly in Satan's Army and are the most formidable adversary we soldiers face other than over bearing mothers-in-laws and prying Jehovah witnesses!

Soldier on!
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #18 on: September 15, 2014, 07:00:15 PM »
I think the stuff he says is quite interesting. Do you know him personally or just know of him? This would explain your ability to do all the mods on your truck?

What do you think about what he says?

not personally, but have read his stuff for years.

He seems to understand the obvious. Let me explain. Most people drink the media and uncle sugar kool-aid. However if one has half a brain, I estimate maybe 10% of the population, then all one has to do is to process what they see and run things to their natural conclusions. Anyone can see a total socital collapse right at our doorstep.

It has happened in most great empires, so it's a familiar pattern. It's always born of moral decay. Looking at our once great culture, standing up for what is right, we now stand for nothing. Everything is acceptable. Marriage is down the tubes, something like half the kids now have two parents. The gay thing is especially damaging. That is an extreme perversion of normal human behavoir, however through the mechanism of PC, it is now widely accepted as normal or just another alternate lifestyle. It is not and most of us know it.
We roll over on everything, no one stands for anything. Worthless welfare people suddenly have a voice and their ignorant demands will voice over those of us who live productive lives. In fact these days if you oppose any of the freak groups that are all the rage, you become a bigot in the eyes of the same groups who seem hell bent on destroying us.

Those people think that they are so smart and visionary that they have closed their minds to alternatives. They do not and will not listen to convention, so in that sense alone, a collision course has been set.

Well, I say let it go. Unfortunately we will have to let the system burn itself down. It is the liberals, drug addicts, criminals, gays, illegal immigrants and so forth that will suffer the worst. THeir numbers and strength will all but dissapear. In the aftermath, common sense will rule, and without the artificial buttress of the thin veil of corrupt laws and a liberalized, increasingly socialized govermental system, they will simply not survive.

The way I see it we are headed over the clift. THe people who steered us along that path will be the ones who will be lost in the greater numbers, so in reality it all has a better ending for those of us who prepare and those of us who contribute.

Thomas Jefferson was well aware of this fact. Looking at things through his eyes, freedom at times needs a sacrifice of blood. THe loss of our system is only bad if you hold to and want the trappings of our current lifestyle. If, however, you desire freedom, then we will need to get through all this madness to get to a point to rebuild. So like Stansbury, I and millions like me are silently biding our time while the idiots rush headlong into the wall.
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Offline Nate

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #19 on: September 15, 2014, 07:46:47 PM »
this is gonna take a while to read
If you need the promise of eternity in the kingdom of heaven to be a good person … You were never a good person in the first place!

Offline cudakidd53

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #20 on: September 15, 2014, 09:49:04 PM »
Oh Boy!  I don't spend enough time each morning to catch-up on this during my "3 S" time!  Thanks, now I got HOMEWORK! :)
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #21 on: September 16, 2014, 09:17:45 PM »
From a member:

I just finished your book. The final chapter got me. Not sure if I told you, I am a "recovering" dispatcher, spent almost 12 years in that role. In the first 3 years, I attended 2 LODD funerals (line of duty death). The roll call ritual is very similar to our last call ritual in law enforcement. When it is called, nobody moves. I think some don't even breathe. After it is finished, you hear nothing but the sobbing of family and friends. I have a difficult time reading or watching a formal funeral without tearing up. Very few things get me, but any officer, soldier, firefighter death or funeral pierces the manly facade and tears my heart. I feel what you felt in both stories in the book, at the TLS building and again at the Mogadishu service. I know I don't share the experiences from war, but I feel the experience of losing an honorable man who died by knowingly going into harm's way knowing they might not go home again. Similar, but not the same.




I knew the danger of writing about that stuff was that I'd get to relive some of it...



Ya know, no one gets out of life alive. A couple years I started looking at life as what it was actually intended to be. A short "lived" thing, a transition really. It's wonderful, it should be, God created it. But I started to realize that he and his son is standing there just one breath after life! Now that's pretty cool... That's what I focus on, with respect to the concept of going on. Life here on this earth is really just a test, a laboratory of sorts where we get choice. That's how God makes us pure and separates the wheat from the abundant chaff. We get that remarkable opportunity to mature, to use the super computer he stitched in between our sensory organs. So we get to test the reality of things. Can we look at a situation and see what is really going on? We get to make a choice! That's really remarkable when you come to realize who's in charge!



For most, they cannot see truth. Lots of us have come up with terms like "Sheeple" to describe such a person. Just follow along blindly, being quietly and comfortably led to the slaughter. Well, for them, I inwardly lament and wisper, "Enjoy it while you have it."



What's better I'd ask? Living a long comfortable life full of the trappings of modern man, or a short one filled with conviction and purpose? Well for most, it must not be the latter! Know why? Lack of belief in God! It's evidient everywhere. ANd growing most rapidly in a neighborhood near yours! Humanists are really just Satanists happily hanging on their theories that we created all this. That a process of evolution shapes and molds us. That we are the supreme creatures on earth and so forth.



Your friends who you sat silently in the cold wind to honor as they were lowered to their final resting place didn't do that at all. They went on to an eternity with their creator or with their antagonist in hell. Theirs is a victory in some cases.



Yup, I would morn the man who died not knowing a relationship with Jesus, because it's really all over for him. For ever and ever...torment. But for a few of those dear warriors who left us while being so young, theirs is a manifest victory. THey literally are smiling and laughing with our King in heaven. How cool is that?



Don't lament the passing of a warrior. They did what they were designed to do. They responded to that inner siren ever beckoning them to the greater existence...They literally fought the good fight, and for some, Won! I hope we get to be warriors in our next life as well.



Their lives, their physical lives were or should be a lesson to those of us who remember them or knew them. Everything that happens to you is an opportunity to grow, to learn. So do that, and smile some, but not for effect, but because you knew them, and in some cases, loved them...
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Offline Drunksailor

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #22 on: September 20, 2014, 04:07:52 PM »
By the way Don i never got the chance to tell you that i read your book for a second time. It has even been added to the couple books i take every trip over. Even let a buddy borrow it on the last leg of my trip here..... He is Army so i had to let him keep it a few extra days on the count he reads slow....i cant find the stick poke thing or it would be here.
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #23 on: September 20, 2014, 06:20:47 PM »
By the way Don i never got the chance to tell you that i read your book for a second time. It has even been added to the couple books i take every trip over. Even let a buddy borrow it on the last leg of my trip here..... He is Army so i had to let him keep it a few extra days on the count he reads slow....i cant find the stick poke thing or it would be here.

Just for that you're banned!
Lovin the power!
Well, maybe I'll keep you around to keep me sharp...Navee guys...
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #24 on: September 20, 2014, 08:28:00 PM »
Spooky, isn't it!

So wanna hear another funny story about that ait to air combat school I attended?
OK, well you get to anyway...We had a great time there.
You see, back in those days the unit I was assigned to was totally classified as in didn't actually exist although it was fully manned and all that. Well we were tasked with doing some pretty crazy off the hook things and each of us were specializing. I was learning all I could about air combat since we'd always find ourselves in indian country (No offense intended to my Indian countrymen) we might have to deal with an hostile aircraft.
So that became my deal and learning that the Marines were already playing air to air with helos we sent me along with a crew in a Chinook to the school. I was the co pilot but training to become an air to air instructor pilot.
We flew daily sorties practicing what we were being told in the classroom and honing our skills on military ranges closed to public scrunity.

Well one day I was leading a flight of Marine CH-53's and all of us were carrying sling loads. I should have known something was up. You see the previous sorties I had slung loaded a Maring 105mm cannon and carried their crew inside at the same time, something the Army is allowed to do, but the Navy prevents the Marine Corps pilots from doing.

So I'm flying along with this 5-ton concrete block hanging from my center cargo hook with the Marine 53's flying either side of me and as I crest this ridge and start the long dive down the opposite slope into the valley below I look ahead to see two columns of smoke coming right up toward me.

What the Fark??? Those nut cases just shoot some missiles at us? Without so much as a second thought I armed the hook and punched off that concrete block, which was actually a training aid used to train Marines in how to carry external loads. Of course it hit the ground and broke all up. I went to diving, jinking, and tearing up peaceful air molecules then noticed the 53's hadn't jettisoned their loads. Hmmm, don't understand that. You get shot at, the first thing that goes is the load so you can save your bacon and the aircraft.

Later I found out while standing at rigid attention if front of a livid, screaming Marine Colonel, that we only had to report seeing the smoke trails which were radio controlled missiles designed to simulate a SAM launch, not actually punch off the load. I heard Army this, and Dumb a$$ that, and Costing the Marine Corps valuable money and so forth. This Marine named McKorkle, later became a 3 star and I would meet him several times in the years to come. He never forgot that Army pilot standing there taking that tongue lashing...


« Last Edit: September 20, 2014, 08:30:33 PM by Flyin6 »
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #25 on: September 21, 2014, 02:54:01 PM »
Did I tell this story???
Once during the Desert war, that would be Desert storm, up in KKMC, we are fussing around the flight line.
At this point the thing is still in the air phase and Saddam is shooting his scuds at us.
The minute he shoots one, Norad in Colorado knows he did and calls the theater to let the probable impact point know of incoming. Intelligence told us Saddam was getting desperate since we were busting up his launchers one by one and threatened to fire nerve gas.
So I'm out by 24114, one of our birds when the air raid siren goes off. Then a guy yells from the hangar...Incoming...Target is here!
Knowing I was about to be doing PT in a cloud of nerve gas I said to hell with it and jumped in the cockpit and cranked that Chinook by myself. I was waving for everyone to jump on board and I ended up with a plane load. I started to take off from the parking spot and was actually still starting engine #2 when I lifted off.
I had shorts and a T-shirt on, no helmet, no copilot, no plan and a hand full of very noisy Chinook. Soon a crew chief makes it forward and finds me all alone and without a headset, so he hands me a set of headphones. He said he'd run the back end and I had the front. I was in a homesick angle climb. I figured I'd climb to 6,000 and circle the airfield and see if the thing hit and blew up in a cloud of gas. If so, I'd go opposite of the wind and find a place to land upwind and wait until I got an all clear before returning.
About then my first Sergeant shows up and climbs into the left seat, he became the co-pilot.
Well, I think some patriot missiles intercepted the scud a hundred or so miles away, because we never saw any impact and just circled for awhile. No one was on the radio for quite awhile, so we just circled burning jet gas at an alarming rate.
We all survived and I bought the Dodge and that's my story!
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Offline cudakidd53

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #26 on: September 22, 2014, 01:27:13 PM »
I envision mandals working the rudder pedals........did you ever fly with speakers strapped to the helo blasting "Flight of the Valkaries" ala Robert Duval in "Apocalypse Now"
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #27 on: September 22, 2014, 05:00:51 PM »
Man, I was just trying to survive!
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #28 on: January 22, 2015, 10:04:18 AM »
Can't decide if I want to finish the books I started to write, or just combine all the CIEMR nonsense into an appropriately named book...Wonder if it would sell?
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Offline cudakidd53

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #29 on: January 22, 2015, 06:44:48 PM »
I bought one......   8)
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Offline TexasRedNeck

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #30 on: January 22, 2015, 08:09:04 PM »
Good story.  Would have been better in your skivvies.  Can the MH47 fly with one engine?
Kids today don't know how easy they have it. When I was young, I had to walk 9 feet through shag carpet to change the TV channel.

Joshua 6:20-24

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #31 on: January 22, 2015, 09:59:09 PM »
Good story.  Would have been better in your skivvies.  Can the MH47 fly with one engine?
It can hover on one engine!
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #32 on: January 22, 2015, 10:00:29 PM »
I envision mandals working the rudder pedals........did you ever fly with speakers strapped to the helo blasting "Flight of the Valkaries" ala Robert Duval in "Apocalypse Now"
No...but as I wrote in one of my essays, I did roll in on a target with "Jump" from Van Halen blasting in my headset!
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Offline BobbyB

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #33 on: January 23, 2015, 03:48:50 AM »
No...but as I wrote in one of my essays, I did roll in on a target with "Jump" from Van Halen blasting in my headset!


That song and "Running With The Devil" will to this day cause me to turn the radio station or shut the radio off..
So, Bobby...being the calculating trained warrior NCO that you are.  Take the appropriate action, Execute!
your standard grunt level CQB is just putting rounds and rounds on scary stuff till it stops scaring you!

Offline cudakidd53

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #34 on: January 23, 2015, 06:53:29 AM »
Now, we're I a pilot, I might be partial to Molly Hatchect "Flirting' With Disaster" or Queen "Fat Bottom Girls" maybe some Rush....... ;)   A pilot blaring "Jump" or something from Crash Test Dummies might make me nervous ridding in the back as if the music selection was foreboding in nature .......... :-\
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Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #35 on: January 23, 2015, 07:40:25 AM »
Now, we're I a pilot, I might be partial to Molly Hatchect "Flirting' With Disaster" or Queen "Fat Bottom Girls" maybe some Rush....... ;)   A pilot blaring "Jump" or something from Crash Test Dummies might make me nervous ridding in the back as if the music selection was foreboding in nature .......... :-\
I didn't pick the song. The guy monitoring the flight a hundred miles back in operations who was watching us played it over the long range radio system for all to hear. How cool is that!
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Offline Nate

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #36 on: January 23, 2015, 02:33:22 PM »
the crew that I have over 200hrs with had the ipod spliced into the internal comms system, and played just about everything and anything.

here is an interesting story in regards to my previous statement. 

There was this young man who at one point was in the Marine corps and made sure everybody that came around him knew it.  well we were about 3 hrs into the Flight and somebody played Johnny Cash's "IRA HAYES".  he told us that he had never heard that song and that it was too country for him.  I asked him if he knew who Ira Hayes was and why he was so important.  he responded with "I don't know who he is and I don't care!"  I was a little upset with him and his answer, and began to educate him on who Ira Hayes, Louis Charles Charlo, Mount Suribachi, the Marines and why it was so important for him to know and understand all of this.  He proceeded to tell me that I was making it all up and that I shouldn't talk bad about the Marines.  well at this point I was quite a bit upset as well as the rest of the Crew. 

about this time I had stated to the young man "ill make you a bet.  when we finish this flight, I will show you that what I am saying is the truth, that the people were real, why the battle on IWO JIMA and Mount Suribachi were very important.  and if you don't believe me when I present you with this information, then I will stand at the chow hall for a day and tell everybody on camp that I am a liar and I don't know my American history.  BUT, if you believe the information that I show you, you will have to admit in front of this crew that you were wrong and humbly apologize." 

well he accepted the bet, and apologized to his crew.  now when ever I hear that song I get a bit of a chuckle knowing that I helped educate a part of our younger generation.
If you need the promise of eternity in the kingdom of heaven to be a good person … You were never a good person in the first place!

Offline Flyin6

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Re: From my books and writings
« Reply #37 on: January 23, 2015, 10:23:19 PM »
And Ira Hayes met with such a sad ending. These days we recognize PTSD. Back then guys like him who suffered from "Shell Shock" were left to their own devices, often drinking their lives away as Mr. Hayes did...
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