Next up was the lights. To install them, JD requires the mounting of a nifty self contained switch panel and the routing of a couple of per built wiring harnesses. It's a simple plug and play assembly is nothing more that tedious. Here's pics of all that going in:

John deere makes some neat side armor pieces that bolt right up to the bed. Not as strong as a tubing roll cage or rock rail, but this thing only weighs 1600 lbs so this tubing is more than up to the task of rubbing up against trees or hyundais.

OK, got some more stuff done today. Got some more armor installed and added some lights. Let's start with the simplest addition, stuffing a tow strap into one of the storage cranny. THis is a 12K, 25 foot strap folded and stuffed, burrito style.

Posted by Armalite View Post
Don, where is the switch located for the wiper motor?? Is it up high, next to the actual motor itself, or is it down on the dash? Or maybe you havent even gotten to that part yet. I may be jumping ahead too far...

Just curious. I like the windshield. The bottom section does flip up. I was about to call you out on that one, because the majority of them, the top folds up, and the bottom stays put. But, you are right. Bottom piece folds, not top. Maybe you already know this, maybe you dont, going to interject it either way...

In the summer, when it is dusty, when the windshield is down, all that dust and dirt will come around the sides, and settle in behind the windshield, right where you sit, and fall out all over you and everything there with you. When you raise the top, or in your case, the bottom, it allows the air to flow through, and carry the dirt with it. Now, you will still get some dirt on ya, but, not nearly as much as what will fall out on you with the windshield down. We had these issues out in west texas where we were hunting. Even though it was winter, it was bad dry. You pack about 6 guys and gear on one, and take off. After we all got to our destination, we would be covered in dirt, as well as our guns and gear. So, we opened up the windshield, and battled the cold air, but not the dust.

Again, just interjecting a small point, in case you were not aware... Not trying to hijack. Keep up the good work. You're going to convince me into buying one now!!!

Good one Ash, but here in the tucky we don't have no stinkin dust! Only this strange blue grass clippings getting all stuck in your hair, nose, ears, mouth and so forth.
OK, a bit of an exaggeration there we definately do have dust, although not Texas sized. Good call, didn't know that...
The switch is right on the motor. THe harness is not hooked up at the moment. SInce I ordered every concievable light made for this thing, I had to order an electrical distribution panel as well. I plan to pull the 35W Halogen bulbs out of the headlights and replace with HID's to lower the amperage draw. But it has a huge 70+ amp alternator.
Just wait until I turbocharge it...it is gonna absolutely fly!
__________________

Installing it is about as simple as it can be. THe bottom piece swings up for ventilation if you so desire, I have mine down as cold weather ah cometh. I reattached the top and just like that, I was done with this step of the process.

Clear working space!

And the before pic

Hmmm, seem to have pulled a blackhawk pilot, err, I mean a bonehead. I forgot to snap a shot of those guards installed. Oh well, owe you all that. Anyway, here's the thing in it's current state of modification, which will change again tomorrow!

Next comes the front
These are much easier. THe new gators have a factory long travel suspension already installed and feature cast steel lower control arms which are predrilled for the CV guards!
Here's the stockers:

You just get a small plastic guard covering one side of the outer boot. Much more is needed. I'm holding the old one in front of the new one...Any questions?? Here are the new steel guards:

With a quick removal of the stock bolt and the addition of this length of nylon, the belt is reconfigured for rough terrain useage.

Reversing the process the muffler installs easily and just like that I am as done as I am going to make it. I decided I don't need no stinkin heat shield! Extra weight carried around to protect some bonehead from burning himself because he's not smart enough to avoid hot stuff. In this case we'll allow the law of natural selection to deselect such a person. (Now having made that statement, watch the bonehead be me!)

John Deere does not use, nor recommend using a clamp. THey just use this "fuzzy bushing" and the muffler simply slips over the old exhaust pipe

First you remove the heat shield which is an easy removal of 4ea 8mm head bolts

Easy build day today.
Got the exhaust , seat belt things and the CV guards installed. Tomorrow thinking about tackling either the windshield or Fox Shocks.
The muffler replacement was about as straight forward as it could possibly could be. The factory muffler does a descent job, but the aftermarket one supports more flow which gives a 5% power boost right now up to 52.5hp. That estra flow rate will get a lot more important when it comes to turbo time.
Here's the before shot:

Then the parts started to arrive

This will be my John Deere Gator 825i build thread. My hope is to take an already capable utility vehicle, and build it for use as a farm utility vehicle and a security/recon vehicle for possible bad times

I'll focus on suspension, lighting, redundancy, extra range, horsepower, weapons, and a good selection of auxiliary equipment

What are the plans for mounting on the truck? Standard hitch mounted rack or something else up your sleeve?

Definitely something else up me sleeves

Picture a 4' X 4" square tube hinged with a gigantic hinge, more like you'd find on a track loader affixed to the left side. It rests on a support on the right side of the bumper and is pinned vertically to retain it in position with a 1" through pin
Everything is close tolerance (No-slop) and has zerks
The hinge on the left side is multi-axis
Below the box tubing is a hydraulic jack, one end affixed to the hinge, the other to the section of 4 X 4
The top of the bar has fixtures to guide and capture the bike. The wheels will drop into large "Catches, through which a series of nylon protrude and affix to the bike in several locations. Those straps anchor in a lever affair that simply pushes down to lock the bike into place.

To deploy the bike: Lift up the lock pin. Rotate the bike left until it presents at about a 30 degree angle away from and relative to the Cl of the vehicle. Turn a valve to release hydraulic pressure and the end of the steel tube settles to the ground.
Release the straps in a predetermined sequence, then roll off the bike and it's ready to use

It's happening right before our eyes
But weakened, mostly now-coward Americans are not willing to rise up

The Conquest of Aztlan

Could Mexico retake the southwestern United States?

Illegal crossings of the U.S.-Mexico border have doubled recently, and possibly even tripled, since the latest congressional push toward "comprehensive immigration reform" – which many consider a euphemism for amnesty.

Indeed, as journalist Katie Pavlich has reported, some border patrol agents claim illegals are coming to the U.S. in much higher numbers in just the past few months, with data from Customs and Border Protection showing 504 illegals were detected crossing in just one border sector between Feb. 5 and March 1. Only 189 were caught on camera, and just 174 of the 504 were apprehended. Of those spotted on camera, 32 were carrying huge packs believed to contain drugs and several were heavily armed.

But could, as some immigration activists openly advocate, Mexico actually retake the Southwestern part of the United States?

Not only are the Mexicans capable, but an invasion is underway, insists immigration expert Glenn Spencer.

Gotta love a grunt!




Captain Terry M. Hestilow, United States Army, Retired (Examiner)


On Saturday March 23, Terry M. Hestilow, a retired Army officer with nearly 30 years of service under his belt, postedthis letter he sent to Sen. John Cornyn (R-TX) this week. Hestilow wants DHS to hand over their war weapons to the Department of Defense.


The Honorable Senator John Cornyn, State of Texas
United States Senate
517 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510


Re: Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and that agencies preparation for war against citizens of the United States of America


Dear Senator Cornyn,


It is with gravest concern that I write to you today concerning the recent appropriation of weapons by the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) that can only be understood as a bold threat of war by that agency, and the Obama administration, against the citizens of the United States of America. To date, DHS has been unwilling to provide to you, the elected representatives of the People, justification for recent purchases of almost 3,000 mine-resistant ambush-protected (MRAP) armored personnel carriers, 1.6 billion rounds of ammunition (with associated weapons), and other weapons systems, when, in fact, the DHS has no war mission or war making authority within the limits of the United States of America.


Significant is the fact that at the same time the Obama administration is arming his DHS for war within the limits of the United States against the People of the United States in accordance with his 2008 campaign speech claiming,



•“We cannot continue to rely only on our military in order to achieve the national security objectives that we’ve set. We’ve gotta (sic) have a civilian national security force that’s just as powerful, just as strong, just as well funded [as the United States military]”–Candidate Barack Obama, 2008.


The Obama administration is deliberately defunding, overextending, and hollowing the Department of Defense; the only legitimate agency of the U.S. government with a war mission.

This act of the Obama administration stands as a glaring threat of war against our nation’s citizens! This act of the Obama administration can only be understood as a tyrannical threat against the Constitution of the United States of America! If left unresolved, the peace loving citizens who have sworn to defend the United States Constitution “against all enemies, both foreign and domestic” are left no option except to prepare to defend themselves, and the U.S. Constitution, against this Administration’s “coup” against the People and the foundations of liberty fought for and defended for the past 238 years. We have no choice if we honor our oaths.


The only proper response to this threat against the American people is for the representatives of the People, the members of the U.S. House and Senate, to demand in clear terms that the Administration cannot ignore, that the Department of Homeland Security immediately surrender their newly appropriated weapons of war to the Department of Defense (DoD). Further, since the DHS has assumed a position in the Administration to enforce the tyrannical acts of this president against the People of the United States against the limits of the United States Constitution, it remains for the United States Congress to exercise its limiting power in the balancing of powers established by our founding fathers, to disestablish and dissolve the DHS as soon as possible. One needs only to look to the rise of Adolf Hitler, and his associated DHS organizations, the SA and the SS, of 1932-1934, to see the outcome of allowing an agency of government this kind of control over the free citizens of a nation. The people of Germany could not have imagined, until it was too late, the danger of allowing a tyrant this kind of power. We must not be so naïve as to think it will not happen to us as well if we remain passive toward this power grab by the Marxist Obama administration!


Finally, for more than two centuries the nation has lived in peace at home because of the protections of our legitimate military and the many appropriate state and federal law enforcement agencies, supported by Constitutional courts. We stand today at a cross-road. Will we allow this present Administration to overthrow our United States Constitution and its legal processes to amend injustices, or, will we honor our obligations to defend the Constitution against a “domestic” enemy? Our Constitution lays out the proper methods of resolving our differences; and it does not include its overthrow by a rogue agency of a Marxist leadership at home. You, sir, are our constitutionally elected agent to defend our Constitution at home. We are counting upon you. We remain aware, however, of this present threat and will not expose ourselves as an easy prey to the authors of the destruction of our nation.


I know that this letter demands much of you. We elected you because we, the citizens of the State of Texas, believe that you are up to the task at hand and will, against all threats, honor your oath and office. We are also writing to your fellow members of the House and Senate to stand in integrity with the Constitution and against this present threat by the Obama administration and his DHS.


We refuse to surrender our Constitution or our nation!


Resolved,


Captain Terry M. Hestilow
United States Army, Retired
Fort Worth, Texas
March 23, 2013

…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!

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...

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

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...

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!