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West Point Class of 1969

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Suzanne Rice

Jul 09 2020

The Hanging Man – 1992

Remember Nancy Drew? The Hardy Boys?  These were series of books about amateur teen-aged detectives and their remarkable ability to help the locals solve crimes.  Those stories filled many rainy winter nights for me with myself (in my imagination) in the title role.  Later, I graduated to Sherlock Holmes. (He never said, “Elementary, my dear Watson”, by the way). Then, I progressed to Agatha Christie, famous for too many red herrings and not enough pertinent information. The appeal for me was to figure out “who did it” before the book revealed it.

Life seldom afforded me opportunities to “amateur sleuth”, but I did get some practice sessions over the years.  The scene: the suspect/witness is seated on a chair facing me.  I pace a few times back and forth. “Now, let’s return to the events of last night in the order that they happened.  When was the last time you remember seeing the missing—shoe?”  The suspect stares at me, swinging a naked foot in a strange rhythm.  You get the picture!

We were living in Erlangen, Germany at Ferris Barracks.

Memorial to Ferris Barracks Returned to German Use in 1993

Our quarters were one side of a small duplex in the post housing area.  It was not one of the stand-alone grander houses that most brigade commanders have but we didn’t mind.  Though the kaserne had been in U.S. hands for 50 years, the commander had always lived in a rental house somewhere else. The time frame for our being there was after Desert Storm and the U.S. Army Europe was in a flux, a period of realignment and revision. When we arrived, we were happy to live more humbly in exchange for being closer to the excellent battalion commanders and brigade staff with whom we were privileged to serve. Having the battalion commanders’ wives so close by afforded us a chance to spend more time together and we were in the habit of taking an early walk together as a traveling staff meeting.  That day, the morning dawned with promise of sun and warmth.  We set off. This particular day was not a day when I was looking for a crime to solve. No matter: the crime was looking for me.

Behind our duplex was a small fenced yard.  Beyond our yard was a large open field, about the size of 2 football fields. It belonged to the American post but was seldom used for anything, because the training area just north of it was 8800 acres. Since it was an armor post, most of the action took place in the larger area where the tanks could maneuver and fire, away from the city and housing area. Strangely, this smaller field behind our yard seemed to be our version of Area 51.

To the left of our German Area 51 field, there was a wide gravel path that constituted our route.

Ferris Barracks near “Area 51”

After a 10-minute walk on it, the path took a 90 degree turn to the left.  This wider path was frequented by the local Germans.  It was a short cut for them from one of the main thoroughfares to the university and businesses on that side of the city. Many rode bikes but there were also walkers who had disembarked from the closest bus stop.   This practice was technically trespassing but was generally tolerated as a “steam control” factor.  The relationship between the American Army and the local liberal politicians and university was rather frosty, as the mayor had been lobbying for some time to get rid of us.  In fact, sometimes soldiers training close to the path had been subjected to spitting and verbal abuse as the bicyclists went whizzing by. There was always plenty of people traffic there and this morning was no exception.

As our walking group turned that corner, we began to hear a plaintive, repetitive cry. We paused and listened as the sound became louder.  Clearly, it was a human call. “Helfen Mir! Helfen Mir!”   You probably figured out that the English translation is, “Help Me!”  We rushed to find the source. There was a break in the foliage around the field and we turned into the break in the greenery.  Now, in that area, the army had built a modified obstacle course with chin up bars, wooden balance beams and the adult equivalent of a jungle gym.

Modified Obstacle Course                          

There before us was a young man, stripped to his underwear, hanging by his outstretched arms from the climbing apparatus. Clearly weak and possibly in shock, his head and body were limp. Two of us took off running (pre cell phones, remember) to summon the medics and MPs. The two remaining (I was one) decided to try to get him down.  He was very slight, and we thought we could manage to get him to the ground if we could get him loose.

Since I was too short to be able to reach his core to lift him down safely, I was the one who climbed up the back of the jungle gym to see if I could free his hands.  The other wife with me was much taller and stronger and thought she could manage to hold him, if I got him free, until I could climb back down and help her carry him to the grass.  When I made it to the top, I thought if I could get a little slack in the rope binding his arms, I could slip his hands through and free him.  My larger walking friend was able to lift him enough for me to get one hand out.  Then, we repeated the “lift” for the other hand.  We were then able to gently place him on the grass next to the jungle gym.  We covered him with our jackets.  By then, we could hear the medics and MPs coming.  He was conscious and responsive.  The medics and MPs took over, questioned us about the sequence of events, and asked us to stay.

While we were waiting, I surveyed all the area.  What was this about? Were there others? As often happens in times of adrenaline rush, the mind photographs everything in hyper detail.  I still remember the scene clearly.  As the young man was being loaded on the stretcher, one of the MPs said, “He does not want to go to the hospital”, but they took him, anyway.  Since we had no hospital on the post, he was taken to the closest German hospital and a report was filed with the local police because he was clearly not an American.

We were allowed to leave and walked back to our homes.  A couple of hours later, my doorbell rang.  When I opened the door, there stood a German police detective.  He flashed his badge, just like in the movies and asked me to accompany him along with the other wives to the scene of the Hanging Man.  Of course, I did.  He spoke excellent English, so communication was easy.  We were there quite some time.  He asked me many questions about what I had seen.  He then told me the young man had said he was attacked and robbed by a group of American soldiers.  I said, “That’s curious! If he was robbed, it was by the neatest, most considerate ‘thief’ I can imagine.”  He lifted his brows.  In my “photographing” of the scene, which was still pretty much intact minus the ‘victim‘, I remembered seeing by the bushes that formed the edge of the perimeter a very neat stack comprised of carefully folded clothing, paired shoes, a backpack and glasses folded on top. It was still there.  I pointed to it, and said, “What thief, especially one who would assault him like that, would have done that?”

The detective gave me a wry smile and then asked me to recall in detail the configuration of the rope that bound the young man to the apparatus.  I reenacted my climb and answered him as I remembered what I had to do to loosen the rope.  The other wives were likewise interviewed.

That afternoon, I had to be in Wurzburg at Division Headquarters for a ceremony and dinner.

Third ID Headquarters, Wurzburg, Germany

Dick had flown up early that morning and I was to join him later in the day.  In Germany, the brigades are scattered across the region and being at the Division Headquarters always involved travel.  I got in the car after lunch and headed to Wurzburg, replaying the morning’s events over and over in my mind.

After all the formalities, the brigade wives would usually gather and chat.  It was the only time we really saw each other.  As I was “catching up” with their news, the Division Provost Marshal came up to me.  I knew him from other social times.  I smiled and said, “What’s up?”  He replied, “I was reviewing the police reports from this morning and you were on it.  Sounds like you had an exciting morning!  And, by the way, the German detective there was very impressed with your observation skills.”  I laughed and asked him if he knew anything about the condition of the young man and the circumstances that had placed him on the brigade’s obstacle course.  He said that it was in the hands of the German police now and he did not have the report yet.   That night, on my drive back home, I was concerned about the Hanging Man’s accusation.  Would this constitute another anti-American headline in the local paper, a very public investigation and lots of time-consuming trouble for my husband?

Two days passed before I received yet another visit from the German detective. As he stood in my doorway, I looked at him curiously.  He smiled and said, “I wanted you to know the result of our investigation.  You were right that the scene of the crime revealed some contradictions in the young man’s statement.  He is a Russian exchange student at the local university.  As we continued to press him about the evidence at the scene, he confessed to what really happened: he had become involved with another student – a German girl – who had decided to end their relationship.  He then plotted a way to try to regain her “love”.   If he became a victim, especially of the Americans, he thought she would be so sympathetic, she would rush to his side.

He scouted a location close by the path, figuring he would not hang there long since it was so well-frequented by the German locals.  Shortly before dawn, he crept into the area.  He stripped down to his underwear (it resembled a lavender speedo, I might add. I told you I remember details), folded his clothes, paired his shoes, stacked them neatly with his backpack and glasses, climbed to the top of the “jungle gym” and looped the tied rope around his wrists.  Once he heard people passing, he would begin his cries and let his legs fall to “lock” the rope in place.  When he was discovered, he would blame American soldiers and be whisked off by the locals to a sympathetic political climate, quick to blame.

But no Germans stopped, though his cries were clear and easily heard.  Considering his condition, his cries had been going on for some time. Many locals had passed within a few yards of him. The irony of the whole plan was that the Americans were to be blamed and villainized when the truth was the Americans had proved to be the rescuers and saviors.  Remember, this was Europe in 1992.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Sallie Wallace

Jul 09 2020

Where Were You When…? 1972

I am sure you, like me, have been asked that question. Perhaps the first thing that comes to mind is where you were on the morning of 9/11.  That was a date that marked us all, the memory of that day’s activities indelibly imprinted as news of the terror attacks flashed across TV screens.  But for those of us fortunate enough to have lived at various places around the world and at key points of history (thanks to frequent Army moves) there are other intersections of place and events that stay crystal clear in the memory.  Here is one of my “where were you when” moments.

Summer Olympic Stamp

Eric and I were living in Germany in 1972, an exciting time as Munich prepared to host the Summer Olympics.  Thirty-six years after Hitler’s showcase summer games in Berlin, Germany was set to show off its vibrant and prosperous new post-war image.

Deutschemark Coins Commemorating the 1972 Olympics

Welcoming more than 7,000 athletes representing 121 countries, Munich opened the Games on 26 August.

Mark Spitz with his medals

American swimmer Mark Spitz’s seven gold medals and Soviet teen sensation Olga Korbut’s two Gymnastic gold medals became memorable highlights of the Games.  Unfortunately, these accomplishments would be eclipsed by other news.  Early on the morning of 5 September, the peaceful international atmosphere of the Olympic Village was horribly shattered.  Palestinian terrorists known as Black September broke into the rooms of the Israeli Wrestling Team, killing 2 and taking 9 hostages.  By early morning 6 September, all 9 hostages and 1 German police officer had been murdered.

American Newspaper Announcing the Tragedy in Munich

Eric was assigned at Herzo Base, a former Luftwaffe base outside the small Bavarian village of Herzogenaurach (115 miles north of Munich).  Serving with him was a dear friend, fellow field artilleryman and classmate, Bill Rice, (https://thedaysforward.com/bill-rice/ and another look at the Olympics 1972 https://thedaysforward.com/life-in-germany-1972/) and also Joel Pigott, USMA ‘68 grad and friend from Cadet Company A-2.

Joel’s wife was German and had access to much coveted Olympic tickets as the Executive Secretary to Rudolph Dassler, owner of Puma, an international sporting goods company headquartered in this small village.

Film about Family Ties in Herzogenaurach

Also headquartered in the town was its highly competitive rival Adidas, owned by Rudolph’s estranged brother Adolf (Adi).  Family animosity often created friction and division within the town; however, these two billion-dollar giants today maintain a much friendlier rivalry.  In fact, a film of this famous rivalry, Adidas vs Puma, was released in 2016.  Herzo Base has long since disappeared, its location now upscale housing for Herzogenaurach’s international industries.

Back to our “where were you when” story.  Months before the Olympics opened, with tickets all but impossible to get, Joel offered us the ultimate jackpot prize, two tickets for the morning of 7 September, compliments of Puma.  We were now among the fortunate few!  However, I could never have imagined how marked by tragedy that date would be, following the terrorist attack and a memorial service for the 11 murdered Israelis.

1972 Olympic tickets

                                        

Eric and I had looked forward to the upcoming track and field events, but now a dark shroud hung over Munich and the Olympics.  Arriving that morning, we found the Olympic Village and venues somber, only light traffic, and sparse attendance in the stadium.  We watched several qualifying races, and various field events but not the one runner we were hoping to see, Jim Ryun, the world record holder in the 1,500-meter (3 minutes, 33.1 seconds).  We were to miss him by a day.

Jim Ryun During the Olympics and Afterwards

Jim Ryun’s now ill-fated run occurred on 8 September, when he tripped, fell, and was knocked unconscious for several seconds in the qualifying heat of the 1,500-meter race and failed to qualify.  Although he was obviously fouled, Olympic officials verbally shrugged, “It’s unfortunate what happened to you. Why don’t you come back in four years and try again?” ** By his own admission, he was angry and bitter, but years later wrote, “I can say that Munich really was the beginning of our lives. We had become Christians that spring, and the challenge of Munich forced us to grow up very fast.  We developed a whole new understanding of forgiveness.” ** I might add from a vantage point of hindsight; his best run was yet to be.  In 1996 he ran successfully for the US Congress and served five terms as a Representative from Kansas. Jim Ryun was awarded the Medal of Freedom on July 24, 2020 by President Trump.

The events of that Olympics not only altered Jim Ryun but they altered in part how Munich and Israel would come to view terrorism and security.  Fast forward 14 years to 1986.  Eric and I, along with sons Paul and Jed, once again were living in Germany, in the beautiful Bavarian town of Augsburg.  We arrived in 1985 during their 2,000th year anniversary celebration!  Talk about encountering history!

1985 Stamp Commemorating the 2000th Anniversary of the Founding of Augsburg

During that assignment we took a week-long trip to Israel in November 1986.  Preparing to board the El Al flight from Munich to Tel Aviv, we experienced the most comprehensive and thorough security checks we have ever witnessed, long before the all-too-familiar protocols instituted following 9/11.  We, along with all the other passengers in our tour group, were individually interrogated, luggage was randomly searched, then we were bussed out to our plane located on an isolated section of runway.  As we at last began to taxi for take-off Eric looked out the windows on either side of the plane.  Two German Polizei armored vehicles with mounted machine guns tracked close by the wingtips and accompanied us all the way down the runway.  All access roads to the runway were simultaneously blocked by armored vehicles; the airport virtually shut down to see the flight become airborne!  I felt a moment of panic at all the security precautions but my calm husband assured me that it was because of the security measures that I should sit back and relax.  Fourteen years after the Munich massacre, it was very obvious Munich had not forgotten the summer of 1972, nor had we.  I doubt that the exact same security measures for El Al flights are practiced today but “where we were when” in 1972 dictated our departure experience in 1986.  We had slipped in and out of Munich’s tumultuous and tragic summer Olympic games of 1972 and “where we were when” in 1986 brought back a deja vu moment and a reminder how events change people and even nations.

** Quotations from an article in Vox as told to Eleanor Barkhorn

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Sally Robyn

Jul 09 2020

My Friend Fritz – 1971

 

From the summer of 1970 through the summer of 1971, I served as the aide de camp for the Assistant Division Commander (Maneuver) of the 3rd Infantry Division.  My boss’ job put us in constant contact with various units of the German military, one of which was the 1st German Airborne Brigade.  My boss wore Belgian parachute wings so I paid attention to the jump wings of the other European countries.  On one occasion I found myself in brief conversation with my boss’ counterpart, the commanding general of the German airborne unit.  When I admired his jump wings, I was immediately invited to jump with his brigade during an upcoming training exercise in the Black Forest.

I was instructed to report at dawn to a checkpoint in the woods in the middle of nowhere in southern Germany. I didn’t speak German, but I found the first checkpoint and kept getting waived from one checkpoint to another. I finally got to a clearing with a runway and several French Nord Atlases all buttoned up and idling, ready to take off.

French Nord Atlas

Even though I had on a class A uniform, it was clear through signals that they were waiting for me, and I was about to jump in a matter of minutes.

Class A Uniform

        

I parked my VW, stripped and put on fatigues and boots as fast as I’d ever done it in my life.

Cary Dressed Ready to Jump

The door to one of the aircraft opened and I got on.  When I looked around inside the dark aircraft, all I could see was a bunch of guys who looked like 6’5” Dolph Lundgren.

 

Dolph Lundgren in “Universal Soldier”

I figured out that particular look must have been a unit requirement!  Only one guy spoke English, a red-headed Command Sergeant Major named Fritz Janke.  He was barking orders in clipped German, but when he opened his mouth to speak to me, he spoke English like a backwoods chicken farmer from Alabama.  I spent the next four days camping with the Germans and made five jumps with them.  These guys were the hardest-drinking bunch I’d ever seen in my life.  I had previously thought that distinction belonged to my cadet company, E-3.  Each night we had a roast pig which we cut off pieces and ate with bread.  Both during and after dinner, there were endless rounds of toasts, each one ending with German for “Luck going up.” I was more interested in “Luck coming down,” but that wasn’t the toast.  Each toast included one shot of schnapps and a glass of pilsner.  At the conclusion of the toasts, there were guys who were sufficiently unconscious that open heart surgery could have been performed on them and they wouldn’t have known it was happening! In spite of their condition, they were ready to jump at 5 AM!

It turned out that Fritz had been a 17-year-old private in the Waffen SS in WWII and had been captured at Bastogne.  After he was captured, he told me that all members of the SS were separated and shipped back to Alabama as POWs. According to him, he escaped 25 times but there was no place for him to go. He said that he spent the remainder of the war picking cotton and collecting eggs in southern Alabama and that was how he acquired his accent. Being raised as a Florida Gator in SEC country, I immediately said, “Sergeant Major, that was your punishment. All those Alabama chicken farmers were stuck just like you and couldn’t get out, either. If they’d been able to, they’d all have been in Florida!”  He didn’t get the joke, and I never had time to explain it.

Over the five days I was there, I became friends with a German 1st Lieutenant named Martin Roessler.  On the last day, he needed one more jump to earn a bronze wreath around his wings, and I needed one more to qualify.  Unfortunately, on the last day a 20-knot wind blew up and the jump was cancelled.  An American general officer had showed up in his helicopter, and I pleaded with his aide to let us both jump from his aircraft.  We only needed one jump, and if it went badly, we’d have time to recover in the hospital.  Fortunately, we were appealing to a general who would have done the same thing himself, so Fritz took us up for our last jump out of a Huey.  The last jump for both Martin and me was like jumping from the back of a deuce and a half – going 25 mph through an open field.

U.S. Army Deuce and Half Truck

The field was soft, we both survived, and it made for good stories being told to this day.

German Parachute Wings awarded After Five Jumps with the German 1st Airborne Brigade

 

German Beret exchanged with 1st  LT Martin Roessler for an American Garrison Cap worn with tan summer uniform

 

 

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Cary Gaylord

Jun 14 2020

Nick’s FARRP #11 – Airborne -1978

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Kenny, tell me what ‘airborne’ is all about.” 

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was speaking to one of the regulars at the bar in Fayetteville, NC, that I inherited from my late Uncle Nick, Captain Kenny Wayne.  Kenny was known as a “master blaster,” which is Army talk for somebody who has been a paratrooper for a long time.  All of the regulars here at the bar, known as Nick’s FARRP, are Army guys.  Since I know nothing about the Army, I am always asking them questions.  My name, by the way, is Gil Edwards.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Well, Gil,” Captain Kenny began, “the obvious answer is that ‘airborne’ means the paratroopers who are qualified to parachute from airplanes.”

“Yeah, I know that much,” I said.  “So, how did you get into jumping?”

“Well, actually,” Captain Kenny began, “I went to jump school back when I was at school.”

“What Kenny means any time he says ‘at school,’” interrupted Major Tony, another regular here at the FARRP, “is, ‘when he was a cadet at West Point.’  He’s trying to be modest, although being a West Point graduate is hardly anything to brag about, especially when he gets to sit next to a Texas A&M grad like me.”

Captain Kenny responded, “Texas Aggies, like the illustrious major here, think they have the supreme pedigree as Army officers.  What I don’t get is why you would ever pay out of your own pocket to go through officer training.”

“You’re just jealous,” Major Tony shot back.

“As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted,” Captain Kenny continued, “I went through jump school as a cadet.  After I finished my second year, in 1967, I volunteered to go to Fort Benning on my summer leave, to earn jump wings on my own time.”

“So, then, what does it take to earn jump wings?”  I asked.

“First off,” Captain Kenny replied, “you have to be a volunteer.  You can’t order someone to jump out of an airplane.  To become jump qualified, a volunteer must go through ‘jump school,’ a three-week course down at Fort Benning.  Then, to finish the course, you make five jumps from Air Force cargo aircraft.

“Then my subsequent duty that summer was serving as an airborne infantry platoon leader in the 101st Airborne Division.  I got three more jumps with my troops at Fort Campbell, for a total of eight as a cadet.

“Was that unusual?”  I asked Kenny.

“Back in the 1960s it was,” he replied.  “A few cadets who had prior enlisted service had jump wings before entering.  But most West Pointers went to jump school as lieutenants after they graduated.

“So once my third year, we call it ‘Cow’ year, began, I got to thinking.  I wrote up a proposal that West Point should send all cadets to jump school during their summer duty that begins their ‘Cow,’ year.  I explained that, even though jump school is normally three weeks, a large part of that is physical conditioning.  So, a class of West Pointers could easily complete the course in two weeks.  There was already a two-week summer period for all new Cows (Juniors), called June Encampment.  We all called it June Entrenchment, because it was just a despised time killer.  Since cadets were already in pretty good shape, I said the new Cow class could just as well spend those two weeks at Fort Benning earning jump wings.

“In my proposal, I explained that the Army could save a lot of time and expense by not having to pay lieutenants travel expenses, since cadets would gladly do it for free, just like I had done.  Morale would go sky high.  I did fail to consider that all paratroopers have to be volunteers, because I couldn’t imagine why anyone would not want to jump.  But some people actually don’t want to.  Even cadets.  Beats me.

“Anyhow, I typed my two-page proposal up and sent it up my chain of command, through our Regimental Commander, a new colonel named Alexander Haig, to the Commandant of Cadets, Brigadier General Bernard Rogers.  Both of those guys wound up as four-star generals just a few years later.  Anyway, I never heard anything back about my idea, so I put it out of my mind and went on my way.

Alexander Haig (as SACEUR)               Commandant of Cadets Bernard Rogers

“But dang if, shortly after our graduation in 1969, West Point didn’t open up Jump School as an option for summer duty for new Cows.  And a year later it became an option for ROTC cadets as well.  They actually adopted my proposal.  There’s no telling how much money the Army saved by sending cadets to jump school instead of waiting until they are commissioned officers.  Maybe, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

“You know, Kenny,” Major Tony said.  “I knew that jump school was made an option for ROTC cadets in 1972, but I never knew that was your idea. Not bad.”

Practice jumping from the Tower at Ft. Benning

“Well, then,” I asked Captain Kenny, “what did you do after you graduated West Point?”

“After graduation leave, I reported in to Ranger School at Fort Benning.  Already being jump qualified, I went through on jump status as an airborne Ranger.  From there I went to my Armor Officer Basic Course at Fort Knox, and from there I reported for duty at the 82nd Airborne Division here at Fort Bragg.  I got enough jumps in Ranger school plus once I got to the division that they covered me for jump status and pay through all of my basic course and leave and travel time.  Counting my two months as a cadet, I already had nine months on jump status when I hit the division.

“There is always rivalry within the paratrooper ranks.  When I was in the 101st, we put down the guys in the 82nd by calling them ‘almost airborne.’  You see that red, white and blue painting of the 82nd patch on the wall there?  The ‘AA’ butt-to-butt in a blue circle on a red square stands for ‘All American.’

Insignia of the 82nd Airborne

When I got to the 82nd, we in turn referred derisively to the 101st Airborne Division, whose insignia is the ‘Screaming Eagle,’ as the ‘puking buzzards.’

101st Airborne Insignia

“My orders for Vietnam came through during the summer of 1970, and I was assigned to the airborne armored cavalry troop of the 173rd Airborne Brigade, E Troop, 17th Cav.  So, I stayed continuously on jump status from the summer of 1969 until the summer of 1971, when the 173rd rotated back to Fort Campbell.  By that time my branch transfer to the Corps of Engineers was getting processed.  So, I spent every day of my time as an armor officer on jump status, and never jumped again as an engineer until I got back here to Fort Bragg.”

Major Tony spoke up, “I always wondered how you got enough months on jump status to make master blaster.  It takes 36 months on status and at least 65 jumps.”

“Yeah,” replied Captain Kenny, “when I got back here to the airborne engineer battalion, I had 27 months on jump status, but I sure did a lot of jumping during the next year.”

“So, Kenny, what’s so great about being a paratrooper, anyway?”  I asked.

“Well, Gil,” interrupted Major Tony.  “Do you remember when you first got here and Chief Rod was telling you about the Cav?  He told you that armies tend to recognize elite units by their willingness to do something completely insane in combat.  When I was in the Mexican Army, their elite units are the horse cavalry troops, who train to attack tanks, artillery and machine guns on horseback.

“But for our American troops, it is the willingness to enter the battlefield suspended from a parachute.  Totally insane in this century.  And I say that as a Special Forces combat veteran.  All Special Forces troops, as well as Rangers, have to be jump-qualified as a prerequisite.”

“Funny thing,” Captain Kenny said.  “You don’t have to be a paratrooper to go to Ranger school, but you do have to be jump qualified to serve in a Ranger unit.  And you don’t need to be a Ranger school graduate to be in a Ranger unit, just airborne.  Another funny thing:  Ranger school is the only training program in the US armed forces where successfully completing the course doesn’t necessarily earn you the course award.  Only some Ranger graduates are awarded the Ranger tab, that yellow arc that says ‘RANGER’ inside.”

“Another funny thing,” spoke up Major Tony.  “The regulations say there are two ways to earn jump wings.  Hardest way is to volunteer for a combat jump, whether you are jump qualified or not.  Primary way is ‘to complete a ground course of instruction’ and then make five jumps.  A jump is defined as to ‘exit an aircraft while in flight.’  It doesn’t say airplane, and it doesn’t say use a parachute.  Sometimes, when a paratrooper, especially a senior officer, has been injured, he can continue to qualify for jump pay by making water jumps.  That means a helicopter hovers over a body of water and he hops into the drink, to be fished out right away by guys in a boat.

“During the Vietnam ramp-up,” Major Tony continued, “I knew of specialists, mostly signal types, who were being rushed from Fort Bragg to fill critical billets in 5th Special Forces headquarters units.  Since all of Special Forces personnel must have ‘silver wings upon their chest,’ these guys had to be jump qualified.  Their jump school consisted of one afternoon at Sicily Drop Zone, being taught how to make a parachute landing fall for an hour or so, then taking five rides in a helicopter to make their parachute jumps.  Even the ones who were banged to hell by the third jump were loaded with Darvon and completed their final jumps semi-comatose.  They were told they could convalesce on their plane trip to Vietnam.”

“Back to your question,” Captain Kenny resumed.  “The real value of paratroopers is that they think they are supermen.  They have demonstrated the guts to do something, repeatedly and voluntarily, that no sane person would ever do, and they think all ‘*legs’ [* is pronounced with a spitting sound] are inferior troops.  They are fond of saying, ‘Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for I am the toughest SOB in the valley.’

“Let me give you an example.  In the 82nd Airborne Division museum over on post, there is a display that illustrates what I am saying.  During the World War II Battle of the Bulge, when German forces were overrunning our panic-stricken troops far and wide, a US Sherman tank was racing through the Ardennes Forest.  Approaching a young corporal from the 82nd Airborne standing in the trail, the tank commander yelled, ‘Hey, mac.  Do you know where we can find a safe area? ‘The kid replied, ‘Just pull in here behind me. I’m an American paratrooper, and they ain’t coming past me.’”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

 

 

 

Editor’s note: The Nick’s FARRP series was written to remember the lives of some special men, members of the Class of 1969. Four of them were lost as young men soon after graduating from West Point as they were serving their country in Vietnam. The author, Guy Miller, was close to each one of them. One of the them was not only a high school friend, but also a roommate at West Point. The two of them shared a room Cow year (Junior) with another of the men remembered in the FARRP series. Guy was roommates twice with one of the men in the stories: Yearling (Sophomore year) and Firstie (Senior) year. Besides being a West Point classmate, another of the men in the stories served with Guy in the 82nd Airborne Division as young officers. Guy’s hope in writing this historical fiction series was to introduce you to his friends and to memorialize these great patriots. Miss Peggy is patterned after the widow of one of the men in the stories.  Each of the stories is based on real events given to you through the personalities of these men who were close to Guy and who are remembered fondly by Guy and members of the Class of 1969. We hope that you enjoyed meeting all of them. 

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Guy Miller

Jun 14 2020

Nick’s FARRP #10 – Three Musketeers – 1978

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“So, Rod, you knew him better than anyone else.   Tell me about my Uncle Nick.”

*     *     *     *     *     * 

I was talking to Rod Jordan, an Army Chief Warrant Officer and Master Aviator, sitting across from me at my bar.  My Uncle Nick opened this bar, called Nick’s FARRP, when he had to leave the Army because of cancers he got from some chemical he was exposed to during his tours in Vietnam.  He died a few months ago and left the FARRP to me.  It is located in Fayetteville, North Carolina, just off post from Fort Bragg.  My name is Gil Edwards, by the way, and I know nothing about the Army, so I keep asking questions of the regulars here in the FARRP.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Well, New Guy, I’m glad you asked,” Chief Rod replied.  I knew that “New Guy” was his affectionate term for me.  “Your Uncle Nick and Miss Peggy’s late husband Mike and I were known as The Three Musketeers during our days serving together in the Army.”

Miss Peggy was the lady standing beside me behind the bar.  When Uncle Nick opened the FARRP a couple of years ago, he brought her on as his bar manager.  She is now my special guardian angel, teaching me about running a bar and keeping me from getting in trouble with the regulars here.”

“The three of us were in the same Basic Training company at Fort Benning, Georgia, when we enlisted in the Army in 1961.  While we were going through infantry Advanced Individual Training there, some aviation recruiters came up from Fort Rucker, Alabama, looking for people who wanted to go to flight school and become Army aviators.  We had no idea what that involved, but they told us aviators get to fly helicopters, and get extra pay to do it.

“That sounded good to us, better than being infantry grunts living in the mud, so we applied.  The first thing that happened was that they gave us what they called the Flight Aptitude Test.  It was a crazy test that asked questions about whether we ever raced cars, or rode motorcycles, or rebuilt engines.  It showed us little pictures and had us answer what we thought an airplane was doing, and had us chose which arrows would move a dot in a certain direction.

“Of the 17 of us that took the aptitude test, only eight passed.  Then they sent us eight to the airfield to get flight physicals from the flight surgeon.  Everyone but us three flunked the flight physical, mostly because of less-than-perfect eyesight.  Mike, Nick and I were accepted to be Warrant Officer Candidates but had to wait a couple of months after we finished AIT for the next flight school class date.

“During the waiting time at Benning, they made us do menial things, like painting rocks and picking up pinecones.  To get out of those details, we volunteered to go through Jump School, which was actually a lot of fun.  We were in super physical shape in those days, and none of us had any fear of jumping.  Once we were parachute qualified, we volunteered for more schools to stay off pinecone duty.  Mike and I got to go through jumpmaster school and pathfinder school, but that idiot Nick begged to go to Ranger school.

“By the time we finally reported in to Camp Wolters in Texas for warrant officer candidate training combined with flight school, all three of us were hot stuff paratroopers bursting with airborne pride.  Little did we suspect that once we began flight training, the Army would never let us jump again.  Jump wings were a dime a dozen, but with Vietnam starting to heat up, aviators were invaluable.

“Being warrant officer candidates, or WOCs, was like basic training again, only more so.  At the same time that we were earning aviator wings, we were being made into officers, which was a double dose of work and pressure.

Aviator Wings

The first four weeks at Wolters were hell, but once we started flying, it got a lot better.

“Our primary helicopter trainer in those days was the OH-23, better known as the ‘Hiller killer’

OH-23

It was weird to fly, because instead of hydraulics, the rotor disk was controlled by gyroscopic precession.  That means the controls operated a pair of paddle blades, which then forced the rotor disk to tilt 90º later.  So, there was always a delay between control input and the aircraft response.”

“Rod,” spoke up Miss Peggy.  “Tell me about my Miguel.  He never told me anything about those days.”

“Sure, Peggy,” Chief Rod replied.  “Being Puerto Rican, Mikey spoke with a slight accent, which sometimes made people think he wasn’t too bright.  But he was always the smartest among the three of us.  Nick was the best pilot, but Mike was the sharpest.  He was the only man in our class who could handle the brain-work of flying instruments well enough to earn a standard instrument rating at Rucker, while the rest of us just got what was called a ‘tac ticket.’.  That meant if we punched into a cloud inadvertently, hopefully we could trust our instruments well enough to keep the bird straight and level and get back on the ground alive.  During the pre-Vietnam days, that was the best they could hope for.

“During the tactics phase at Fort Rucker, just before graduation, our class flew down to the Florida Ranger camp to practice formation flying and to fly the Rangers in air assault operations.  We had been told that the Rangers are always starving, and it was customary to bring candy bars to hand out to them during the flight.  But Nick had been a Ranger himself, and he told Mike and me that what Rangers really need was meat.  So, he bought a case of Spam for us to hand out instead of candy bars.

SPAM for the Rangers

“So, I handed out cans of Spam to the Rangers on my bird, and their eyes got huge.  They cut off the lids with those twist keys that were attached and began wolfing down the meat.  Damn if one of the idiot Rangers wasn’t so ravenous that he sliced his tongue open on the can edge and bled all over the helicopter.  I always kidded Nick that he proved it didn’t require a lot of smarts to get through Ranger school, but he never thought that was funny.

“Before graduation, the Army asked us our preferred next assignments.  They told us that some helicopter units were being sent to Vietnam, which sounded like a real adventure to us, plus the chance to earn combat pay.  We three volunteered to go, and got sent for transition to H-21s, the old ‘flying banana’ helicopters.

H-21 “Flying Bananas”

In those days, the Army considered helicopters as transportation machines, same as trucks.  In Vietnam we were assigned to the 8th Transportation Company [Light Helicopter], flying in support of the Vietnamese Army troops.

“The H-21 was huge, with two rotors, front and rear.  They were designed for the Air Force to use in the arctic to service radar sites and worked really fine in the cold.  But Vietnam was way too hot for them to work efficiently, and a lot of times we couldn’t carry more than five Vietnamese troops at a time.  Sometimes it was so hard to get them flying that we had to hover them sideways into the wind to get both rotors into translational lift.

“In June 1963, the Army closed down four helicopter transportation companies in Vietnam and sent most of us aviators to Fort Benning.  The Army was getting ready to create a special unit to test how the Army could use helicopters to move and support infantry troops in mobile combat.  The unit, called the 11th Air Assault Division [test], would have hundreds of their own helicopters.  They assigned us aviators to the 10th Transportation Brigade, a part of the 11th Air Assault.  As air combat veterans who had already served in Vietnam, the three of us were considered the old men of the unit.  And we weren’t even 21 years old yet.

“In the summer of 1965, the ‘test’ division was renamed the First Cavalry Division [Airmobile], and President Johnson ordered us to deploy to Vietnam.  The 1st brigade of the division was all airborne, at least for the first year in country.  So, Fort Benning ran 659 Cav troops through jump school in ten days before we deployed.  We loaded 16,000 men and 470 aircraft aboard Navy ships and sailed halfway around the world.  By September we had moved into the 1st Cav Division basecamp at An Khe, and were becoming operational.

“Lots of people have called the 1st Cav the “Air Cavalry Division,” but that’s not right.  Only one unit was actually Air Cavalry, which means they fought from their mounts.  That was the 1st Squadron [Air] – 9th Cavalry, better known as “first of the ninth.”   It had four air cav troops, each with their own scout helicopter platoon, gunship platoon and aero-rifle infantry platoon.  The rest of the division consisted of infantry battalions with ‘cavalry’ names.  These were actually dragoons, meaning infantry who rode to the battlefield and fought on foot.  Plus, there were all the supporting units, including aviation battalions, helicopter-transportable artillery and engineers, and all the service supporting units.

“I was assigned as section leader of a scout platoon in one of the air cav troops in the 1-9th.  Our scout helicopters were the old Korean War vintage bubble OH-13 helicopters like you saw in that movie MASH.  Our job was to fly low and slow, hoping to get the bad guys to shoot at us, whereupon the gunships that were covering us would roll in with rockets and machine guns blazing.  We didn’t even have any weapons except for the personal .38 revolver we carried.

“Right away, us scout guys decided that would never work.  So, we duct-taped M-60 machine guns to our skid crosstubes, and tied commo wire to the triggers so we could fire them.

M-60 Before Being Wired to the Skid Crosstubes

It wasn’t authorized, but, like we said, ‘What are they going to do?  Send us to Vietnam?’ Trouble with the duct tape was that after a hundred rounds or so of machine gun fire, the tape melted through.  We lost a couple of weapons that way, before the maintenance guys figured out a better way to secure the guns.

“Mikey was a gunship section leader in the 229th Aviation Battalion, and Nick was the principal Huey instructor pilot in a company of the 227th Aviation Battalion.  I only got shot down twice in 14 months with the Cav.  Both times I got extracted by the aero-rifle platoon, we called them the ‘blues,’ within less than an hour.  Never got hurt.

“We all got reassigned to Fort Rucker by the end of 1966.  They were just starting to get the new turbine-powered OH-6 scout birds as I was leaving, so I didn’t get much time in them.”

“So, Rod, you said my Uncle Nick was the best pilot of the three of you,” I asked.  “Is that right?”

“No doubt about it, New Guy,” Rod replied.  “He was the first man in our class to be able to hover, and the first man to solo, and was the honor graduate in our class.  Nick was just a natural aviator.”

“But, Rod,” Miss Peggy asked, “you said my Miguel was really the smartest one, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely no doubt about it,” Chief Rod answered.

“What makes you so sure?” replied Miss Peggy.

“That’s obvious,” said Chief Rod.  “He married you, didn’t he?”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Guy Miller

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