Suzanne Rice

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, Miss Peggy, tell me about your late husband.”

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was speaking to the lovely milk-chocolate-toned lady who manages Nick’s FAARP, the bar I recently inherited in Fayetteville, North Carolina, just off post from Fort Bragg.  My name is Gil Edwards, and my Uncle Nick left me this bar when he passed away recently.  He got some bad cancers from exposure to some chemical during his tours in Vietnam flying helicopters.  Miss Peggy and I were talking behind the bar, where several of our regular customers sat drinking beer and telling stories.  Because I know nothing about the Army, I am always asking questions of the people here in the FARRP.

*     *     *     *     *     *

“Yeah, Peggy,” spoke a man sitting at the bar I had come to know as Captain Kenny.  “I’d like to hear about him, too.  I don’t think I’ve heard you talk of your husband before.”

“Well,” began Miss Peggy, with a dreamy look in her eye as she was polishing a shot glass.  “I grew up in LA, and met Miguel at —”

“Woah!  LA?? You sure don’t talk like a California girl,” interrupted Captain Kenny.

“Kenny,” said the older man sitting next to him.  “You sure haven’t learned much Army lingo in your young years, have you?  — I believe I’ll have another beer, if you please, Peggy.”  The man speaking was an Army Chief Warrant Officer and Master Aviator I knew as Chief Rod.

“Kenny,” Chief Rod continued, “in Army aviation circles, ‘LA’ stands for ‘Lower Alabama.’  That’s the region of southeastern Alabama that surrounds Fort Rucker, the home of Army aviation.  That’s an aviator’s expression, so it’s understandable why a paratrooper like you might not have picked it up.  –Thank you very much for the beer, Peggy.  Continue telling him about your Miguel, or Mikey, as we called him.”

“Well, Gil,” Miss Peggy resumed, “LA is in the heart of the ‘Bible belt’ and all the counties around Fort Rucker were dry back in the 1960s.  So, the only place for miles around where anyone could get a drink of liquor was at Fort Rucker, either the Officers’ Club or the NCO Club.”

“Wait, Peggy,” I interrupted again.  “Were you in the Army?  How did you go to the clubs at Fort Rucker?”

“Gil,” replied Chief Rod again, “back during the Vietnam years the clubs at Fort Rucker were serious money-making enterprises.  So, civilians like Miss Peggy who swarmed from miles around were welcome, especially on Wednesdays and Fridays, to spend their money and support the clubs financially.”

I couldn’t help asking, “What was so special about those days?”

“Well,” Chief Rod replied, “I told you Fort Rucker was the home of Army aviation, the Army’s Aviation Center and School.  During the Vietnam years the Army trained over 40,000 aviators, the vast majority of them warrant officers, and every one of them spent some period of time at Rucker as a student pilot.  Plus, all the staff and instructors on post were already combat veteran aviators.  They worked as instructor pilots or testing new aircraft and developing aviation tactics, before being sent back for another tour.  Some, like Mikey and your Uncle Nick and me, already had multiple tours flying in combat by 1967, when Miss Peggy here met her Mikey.

“Everybody at Rucker was either on their way to Vietnam, or just returned from Vietnam and preparing for another combat tour.  The general attitude was, ‘Drink hard and be merry, for who knows what tomorrow will bring.’”

“Yeah,” I said.  “But what was so special about Wednesdays and Fridays?”

“Well,” Chief Rod resumed, “the rule for student pilots was, no alcohol for at least 24 hours before flying.  Since student pilots flew every day during the week, the only time they could partake of intoxicating beverages was Friday or Saturday night.  So, Fridays evenings were rowdy times, both at the NCO club and the Officers’ Club.  Warrant officer candidates and RLO student pilots were frequently known to behave in ungentlemanly fashion on weekends, upon imbibing excessive fermented or distilled beverages.”

A snicker went around the bar, as everyone noticed once again that Chief Rod’s erudite vocabulary seemed to grow in direct relation to the number of beers he consumed.

“So, Rod,” I said, “tell me again what ‘RLO’ means.”

“’RLO,’ my young civilian friend,” Chief Rod explained, “is a warrant officer expression for our superiors, if that’s even possible, known as ‘Real Live Officers.’  That means guys like Captain Kenny here, and Major Tony to my right.  And NCO stands for Non-Commissioned Officers, better known as sergeants.”

“So why do they have different clubs?” I asked.

“Well, historically, it has been the responsibility of the enlisted ranks, and especially the NCOs, to shelter their superior officers from the sort of unruly behavior that officers seem to believe frequents the clubs of the lower ranks.  In short, officers and enlisted do their drinking in separate facilities.”

“What he means, Gil,” said Miss Peggy, “is that ‘O’ Clubs are supposed to be more dignified, while the NCO Clubs are usually more fun.  That probably wouldn’t be the case if officers were allowed to hang around.  Lots of times NCO Clubs are even nicer than the ‘O’ Clubs.  And warrant officers go to both.”

Chief Rod puffed out his chest.  “Warrant officers, Gil, have the best of both worlds.  NCOs and RLOs are not supposed to enter each other’s clubs, but warrant officers are welcome in both.  Warrant officers get all the benefits of being both commissioned and enlisted, depending on what the deal might be, without the majority of the responsibilities.  And Chief Warrant Officers happen to hold the most prestigious position in the Army.  In case you were wondering.”

“Actually, Gil,” spoke Major Tony for the first time.  “Chief Rod is basically right in what he just said.  Warrant officers are the technical specialists in the Army and are expected to be the most skilled people at their specialty, whatever it may be.  The Army has warrant officers in many technical fields, but aviation warrants make up the largest portion of the warrant officer ranks.  All they do for their entire career is fly, so they are generally far more skilled at the operation of aircraft than us RLOs.

“We, in turn, have the responsibility of command and staffing of aviation units, as well as being required to maintain full qualifications and competence to serve in our home branch.  I used to be an Infantry officer when I was in Special Forces my first combat tour, and now I am in Military Intelligence branch.  So, for me, aviation is considered an additional skill, not a career like it is for the warrant officers.  Although I gotta say, I got to be pretty good in the Huey cockpit as a combat aviator during my flying tour.”

“If I may continue,” Miss Peggy resumed, “telling about how I met Miguel:  In LA, a lot of the girls’ greatest hope in life was to meet and marry an Army aviator.  Aviators are generally better educated than most of the troops, plus they get flight pay, which makes them richer than the regular troops.

“So, as soon as I was old enough, I began hanging around the Fort Rucker clubs on Fridays and Saturdays.  Since most of the officers at the ‘O’ Club were already married, the NCO club was way more fun.  So, anyway, that’s where I met Miguel.  He was a Chief Warrant Officer serving as an instructor pilot.

He taught advanced Huey combat tactics to student pilots just about to graduate on their way to Vietnam.  We were married in late 1967 at the Fort Rucker Post Chapel, and a year later our son Jerome was born.  You guys all met Jerome at his ninth birthday party.”

“You keep calling him Miguel,” I asked.

“Miguel Tamayo was a Puerto Rican who enlisted in the Army in 1961,” Miss Peggy explained.  “He was in the same basic training company as your Uncle Nick and Chief Rod here.  The three of them went through flight school together and volunteered to fly helicopters in combat in Vietnam in 1962.  That was back in the early days, long before I met him.”

“So, where was I?” Chief Rod continued, “Oh, yeah.  Wednesday was Bingo Night at the Officers’ Club.  That is the night that brought the largest civilian crowds on post.  The club sponsored fabulous prizes, cash, and lots of other things.  People would come from miles around, some of them playing a dozen or more bingo cards at once.  Bingo Night was the primary money-maker for the ‘O’ Club.  Because of the bingo revenue, Fort Rucker was the only Officers’ Club in the entire Army that had no membership dues.”

                      

“Chief, let me explain to Gil here,” said Major Tony.  “When Rod says ‘fabulous prizes’, he is not kidding.  While I was finishing flight school at Fort Rucker, the ‘O’ Club used to park their prizes out in front of the main entrance.  One week it was brand-new matching ‘his and hers’ Corvettes.  Another week it was a Cadillac Sedan Deville pulling a boat on a trailer.  Later on, it was a new Cessna 150 airplane, including 35 hours of flight training.

“The Officers Club was making so much money on Bingo Nights each Wednesday that it could afford prizes like that.  Now they didn’t give away these prizes every week.  To win the grand prizes, you had to cover the card in a certain number of calls.  Each week the number went up one, until somebody finally won.  Then, they started over with a new grand prize.  It was a swinging time.”

Miss Peggy spoke up.  “I wasn’t the only LA girl who found an aviator husband at Fort Rucker in those days.  There were lots of girls doing the same thing I was.”

Major Tony resumed.  “They weren’t just coming to the NCO Club.  When I was finishing up flight school in 1971, there was an absolutely gorgeous young woman who was always at the bar in the Officers’ Club.  As a bachelor captain, I asked around about her, because she really caught my eye.  Very soon I learned the story on her.

“She really adored Army aviators.  Hanging around the NCO Club when she was 19, she had met the guy who became the honor graduate of his Warrant Officer Aviator Course, and they were married following his graduation.  Being the top grad, he got his choice of combat flying assignments in Vietnam.  Gung-ho stallion that he was, he chose gunships.  Within a couple of months in-country, he was killed, and she collected his $10,000 life insurance policy.

“So, she went back to the NCO Club, and damn if exactly the same thing didn’t happen two more times.  By 24 years of age, when I saw her, she had been widowed three times, and had collected a ton of life insurance.  But she was known at the NCO Club as the ‘Black Widow,’ and no one there would even speak to her.  So, she was trying her luck at the Officers’ Club.

“Upon learning about her, I decided, ‘Thank you very much, but no thanks.’  I’m sure she was very sweet, and I’m not superstitious at all.  I understood perfectly well that she had absolutely nothing to do with her husbands’ being killed. Nevertheless, even though I felt sorry for her, there was no way I was going to get to know her any better.

“I never learned what became of her, but I hope she found what she was looking for.  Sorry, but it wasn’t going to be me.”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

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, Tony, why is your hat different from everyone else in here?”

*     *     *     *     *     *

I was talking with a guy I knew as Major Tony Williams, who was sitting at my bar with a bunch of other Army guys.  My late uncle had left me this drinking establishment, Nick’s FAARP, in Fayetteville, NC, when he passed away several months ago.  We were located just off post from Fort Bragg, and a lot of Army guys hung out here.  Since I know nothing about the Army, it seems I am always pestering these guys with questions.  My name, by the way, is Gil Edwards.

*     *     *     *     *     *

          “Well, Gil,” Tony replied, “surely you have heard of the Army’s Green Berets.  That is another name for the Special Forces, the guys I served with on my first tour in Vietnam.  This precious head cover I am holding is in fact none other than an example of the famous Green Beret.”

“How come I have never seen you wear it before?” I inquired.

“That’s because I have just come from a job interview at the JFK Special Warfare Center.  Since the JFK job as Special Warfare Center staff aviation officer calls for a flash-qualified field-grade aviator, they wanted me to show up dressed as one.”

“I thought you already had a job.  Wasn’t it psychology, or something like that?”

“Close, Gil.  I have been working in the Army’s 4^th Psychological Operations Group, better known as “the PSYOP.”

Our headquarters mess hall is known far and wide as having the best chow in the entire Army.  No offense to you, Miss Peggy,” he added, nodding to my bar manager, known for serving up a pretty good cheeseburger with fries, and a few other things on our short menu.

“So, what is PSYOP?  And what is ‘flash-qualified?’” I peppered him with more questions.

“Gil,” interrupted Chief Rod, sitting beside Major Tony.  “PSYOP is those wimpy guys with their leaflets and loudspeakers, trying to persuade the bad guys to quit fighting and come over to our side.”  Rod Jordan was a very senior Army helicopter pilot, or as I found out they like to be called, an aviator.  He had also been best friends with my late Uncle Nick, ever since they had gone through Army Flight School in the early 1960s along with Miss Peggy’s late husband Mike.

“Rod, you know that’s an oversimplification,” Tony responded.  “PSYOP really encompasses everything you could think of that might help persuade an enemy to lose his willingness to risk his life by continuing to fight.  It can involve some things that are highly classified, too Top Secret for your simple aviator ears.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Military Intelligence Hot Dog,” Rod replied with a grin.  “Peggy, would you mind bringing another beer for this poor simple aviator?”

“Wait, Tony.”  I interrupted with my earlier question.  “What does ‘flash-qualified mean?’”

Captain Kenny spoke up from the other side of Chief Rod.  “Gil, anyone can buy one of those green berets at the PX, but only fully qualified Special Forces soldiers are allowed to wear it.

You can tell that they are true Green Berets by that shield shape on the front, called a flash.  The colors of the flash tell which Special Forces unit the soldier belongs to.”

“So then, Tony, I see the yellow diagonal slash with three red stripes inside.  What is that supposed to tell me?” Another of my endless questions.

“Gil, yellow with three red stripes indicates the colors of the flag of South Vietnam, which you will see often on ribbons worn by the guys who served over there.  This is the flash of the 5^th Special Forces Group, the guys I served with during my first combat tour in Vietnam.  If I am selected for the staff aviation job, I will wear the JFK flash, which is black over white and gray.  When you see the solid red flash in here, that indicates 7^th Special Forces Group, the guys assigned here at Fort Bragg.”

“Yeah,” said Chief Rod.  “Those are the guys who every so often put on ‘The Green Beret’ show at the Gabriel Demonstration Area on Smoke Bomb Hill.”

Puzzled, I had to ask, “I’ve heard of Smoke Bomb Hill.  What is that?”

“That, New Guy,” [I recognized the affectionate term Chief Rod had for me], “is the part of Fort Bragg where the Special Forces and other special operations units are located.”

Kenny jumped in here, with a grin on his face.  “Those green beanies really keep to themselves over there.  One Friday afternoon early in my first tour here at Fort Bragg, I needed some cash for the weekend.  I was still a naïve airborne cav Second Lieutenant at the time.  On my way home, I passed the little Smoke Bomb Hill annex of the Officers’ Club, where I knew I could cash a $25 check.  It was Happy Hour at the tiny hut, right in the center of the Green Beret units at Fort Bragg.

“As I entered their small O-Club and my eyes were adjusting to the darkness inside, I heard a bell start to ring. Ding, ding, ding, ding.  Curious, I asked what that meant.  One of the guys at the bar said, ‘Lieutenant, anyone who wears his hat in the club has to buy a round of drinks for everyone present.’’’

“Oh, no, you didn’t!” groaned Tony.

“Yeah, I really did,” responded Kenny.  “Ashamed, I removed my hat and said I only wanted to cash a check.  The bartender said, ‘Sure, I’ll be glad to.’  I approached and laid my hat on the bar as I pulled out my checkbook.  Ding, ding, ding, ding.” 

          “Dang, Kenny, you sure were dumb as a lieutenant, weren’t you?” said Rod.

Kenny continued.  “‘What is that ringing again for?’ I asked.  ‘Lieutenant, anyone who lays his hat on the bar has to buy a round of drinks for everyone present.  That makes two rounds you owe us.’ So, I quickly pulled my cap off the bar and slipped it at the small of my back under my belt.

“While I was waiting for the bartender to cash my check, my curiosity got the best of me.  Wondering how this magical bell kept getting rung, I bent down to look under the bar.  There it was, a white cord running the length of the bar.  Reaching out to test the tension on the cord, I gave it a slight tug.  Ding!  A cheer went up among the dozen or so Special Forces officer in the bar.  Embarrassed, I asked sheepishly, ‘Now what?’  ‘Well, lieutenant, when you deliberately ring the bell, it is the signal to the bar that you are buying a round for everyone.  That makes three rounds you owe us. ‘

“Seeing my obvious chagrin, a major spoke up.  ‘Hey, guys, this new lieutenant obviously doesn’t know anything about Officer Club etiquette.  How about we give him a break.  Just one round for all of us here ought to settle up for him, don’t you think?’

“A grumbling consent emerged from the other officers in the hut, most of them probably remembering their own naïveté when they were Second Lieutenants.  Since it was Happy Hour, drinks were half price, so I emerged from the hut still holding about half of my $25 cashed check.  But I never set foot in that Special Forces club annex again!”

“Good story, Kenny,” said Chief Rod.

“Well,” Captain Kenny answered.  “I was pretty green as a lieutenant.”

“Still are, don’t you think?” teased Major Tony.  “Peggy, another beer for me and our junior companion here, if you please.”

“At least I wasn’t the dumbest lieutenant at Fort Bragg.  That distinction went to none other than a brand-new Green Beret lieutenant just graduated from the Q course.”

I couldn’t help from piping up.  “What’s this ‘Q’ course?”

“That, my young civilian friend,” replied Major Tony, “is the many-months-long Special Forces Qualification course, completion of which constitutes ‘flash qualification.’  All the Special Forces training happens at Camp Mackall, which is a sub-post of Fort Bragg located some 50 miles west of main post.”

“Anyhow,” continued Captain Kenny, “this brand-new flash-qualified lieutenant was part of the Special Forces capabilities show being presented for a bunch of VIPs at the Gabriel Demonstration Area on Smoke Bomb Hill.  His role was to rappel from a helicopter hovering at 50’ in front of the viewing stands, to show the ‘fast rope’ assault capability of the Green Berets.

“This hot-dog lieutenant had been practicing for a week how to take the 50’ rappel in a single bound, ruining many nylon ropes in the process by melting the nylon from the heat absorbed by the metal snap link.  He would push off from the 50’ rappel training tower, releasing all braking tension on the snap link, essentially in free fall.  At about 40 feet down he would yank tension on the rope, turning all of the kinetic energy of his fall into heat, bringing him to a halt about two feet off the ground.  Then he would just walk out of the rope, presumably to the cheers of the VIP audience in the stands.

“He practiced this repeatedly, until he could judge it perfectly.  Just one problem – on the day of the Gabriel demonstration, they had installed a brand new nylon rope in the helicopter.”

“Oh, no!” groaned everyone listening at the bar.

“What?” I asked, baffled by everyone’s reaction.

“Gil,” explained Tony.  “Nylon always stretches under a load.  The nylon ropes used for rappelling have been used and stretched repeatedly, so you can judge how much stretch you will find at the bottom.  But a brand-new nylon rope that has never been loaded will stretch a long way the first time it is used.”

“So?” I asked.

“Gil,” continued Captain Kenny.  “When he braked his rappel at the 40-foot point, the new rope stretched and stretched.  He slammed into the ground with most of the full force of his 50’ fall.  He broke both his legs and compressed his spine and spent the next several months in a full body cast, like a potted plant.

“And thus, ended his illustrious military career.”

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry

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, what’s that horse thingy on your shoulder?”

*          *        *        *        *        *      *

I was speaking to an Army guy sitting on a stool in the bar that I had recently inherited from my late Uncle Nick.  Nick’s FARRP is the name my uncle gave the bar he bought after he had to leave the Army. They retired him because of cancers he got from several combat tours in Vietnam, where he was a helicopter pilot.  Knowing nothing about the Army, I am always asking the Army guys who come in here questions, which they patiently explain to me.  “Rod” was Chief Warrant Officer Rod Jordan, who had been best buddies with my Uncle Nick, along with the late husband of Miss Peggy, my bar manager and guardian angel.

*        *        *        *        *

“Well, New Guy,” Chief Rod began. My name is really Gil Edwards, but by now I knew that “New Guy” was his affectionate name for me. “That is the shoulder patch of the Army’s First Cavalry Division. It is the largest unit patch in the Army, and its bright yellow shield shape makes it the most recognizable patch as well. The black slash represents the cav saber, and the horse silhouette speaks for itself. The guys who wear it proudly call it the ‘horse blanket.’”

“So, what’s so great about the First Cavalry Division?” I asked.

“Okay, New Guy,” replied Chief Rod. “Are you ready for a history lesson?”

When I nodded, he continued. “Back in 1964, before Vietnam really started heating up, the Army created an experimental division, the first major combat unit with their own helicopters, hundreds of them. They called it the ‘airmobile division,’ and it was intended to begin a new era of Army combat mobility. In 1965 it was re-designated as the First Cavalry Division, a historic unit from World War II and Korea, and deployed as the first Army division sent to Vietnam.

“Your Uncle Nick, Miss Peggy’s late husband Mike and I deployed as aviators with the 1^st Cav to Vietnam aboard ships in 1965. The three of us had already served a tour in Vietnam, flying H-21 helicopters supporting the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, what we called ‘ARVNs,’ right after we had graduated from flight school in 1962.  We were young in ‘65, full of piss and vinegar, but at the age of 22 we were considered old combat veterans by the majority of the thousand or so aviators in the Cav who had never seen a shot fired in anger.

“Not only was our 1^st Cav the first Army division deployed to Vietnam, but when Miss Peggy’s husband Mike was shot down and killed in June of 1972 on his third combat flying tour his Cav aerial rocket artillery unit, the ‘Blue Max,’ was the last Army division unit still in combat. The 1^st Cav served as bookends for all the other major Army combat units throughout the Vietnam War, although some American advisors and aviation units were still in combat into 1973.”

“I can attest to that,” responded the tall guy sitting next to Chief Rod that I knew as Major Tony Williams.  “To give the other guys in my assault helicopter company a break for the holidays, I volunteered to fly the only missions for those days. On Thanksgiving and Christmas days of 1972, plus New Year’s Day in ’73, I was the Aircraft Commander for the only helicopter flying on those holidays in the entire II Corps region.  And on Christmas day an American advisor to a Vietnamese Army battalion played us holiday music over our FM radio while we flew. I logged 8.5 hours of direct combat support time on January 1, the last mission I flew in country before coming back.”

“Wow,” I replied.  “I always heard the war was over by that time.”

“That’s what the American public thought,” spoke up Chief Rod, “because all the news organizations had packed up and gone home long before then.”

“Yeah,” replied Major Tony. “Nobody realized that there were more Korean troops in Vietnam by that time than there were Americans.”

“So why was an Army division called cavalry when they didn’t have horses?” I asked these guys.

Captain Kenny Wayne, sitting on the other side of Chief Rod from Major Tony, spoke up. “Back in the earlier years of this century, after Pancho Villa’s bandits began raiding our states along the Mexican border, the Army combined four of its cavalry regiments into a division to patrol and secure our border. They called it the First Cavalry Division.  My daddy served in the 1^st Cav at Fort Bliss, Texas, in the 1930s, when the Division had 12,000 men, 10,000 horses and 20,000 mules. He told me stories as a child about West Pointers he had known, in the Cav and later in World War II.  One who impressed him particularly was a brand-new second lieutenant just assigned to the Cav in 1936, a short stocky kid named Creighton Abrams.”

Major Tony interrupted, setting down his beer.  “Gil, for your civilian edification, the late General Creighton Abrams succeeded General Westmoreland as top commander in Vietnam, then served as the Army Chief of Staff.”

“Yeah,” resumed Captain Kenny, “my dad later served under Colonel Abrams in Combat Command B during the Battle of the Bulge. My dad’s stories are partly why I decided to go to West Point.”

“Resuming the history lesson, New Guy,” continued Chief Rod. “During World War II the Cav turned in their horses for jeeps and served as infantry in the Pacific.  In retaking hundreds of islands in the Philippines during 1944 and 1945, the 1st Cavalry Division made more amphibious landings and put more men ashore than the entire United States Marine Corps in every theater of every war in our nation’s history.

“MacArthur loved the Cav and called them his ‘First Team.’  They were his first troops in Manila, first in Tokyo and first in Korea. Sadly, when they were occupation troops in Japan, they were severely under-manned, under-equipped, under-trained and poorly led.  They got deployed directly into combat in Korea, where they did not perform well, and got over-run, losing their colors in disgrace.

“The new 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) saw their deployment to Vietnam in 1965 as the opportunity to regain their lost colors and restore their honor. Their baptism of fire at the Ia Drang Valley in November 1965, was the first major battle between US Army troops and the North Vietnamese Army in the war. Battalions of the 1^st Cavalry Division, including 7^th Cav, 5^th Cav, 8^th Cav, 12^th Cav, 1-9^th Air Cav and 8^th Engineers and their supporting aviation units, took horrific losses in the Ia Drang. But, by golly, they won back the Cav’s colors with distinction. Thirty Cav troopers from the Vietnam War were awarded the Medal of Honor, known reverently as ‘The Medal.’”

“And those 1^st Cav guys were sure proud of that ‘horse blanket, ‘” said Major Tony. “Everywhere you went in Vietnam you could see the Cav patch painted on any flat surface that wasn’t alive.  They went crazy, painting their patch everywhere they ever went in country.”

Captain Kenny spoke up. “After the Vietnam War drew down, the 1st Cavalry Division was relocated to Fort Hood in Central Texas, where it became the experimental test bed for every crazy idea the Army had. When I served there after my Engineer Advanced Course, the Cav was called the TRICAP (“triple capability”) Division. The first brigade was armored, with two tank battalions and one mechanized battalion. The second brigade was the Air Cav Combat Brigade (ACCB), with an Air Cav Squadron, an Assault Helicopter battalion, and an Attack Helicopter Battalion. The third brigade was an airmobile infantry brigade, with three light infantry battalions. The division also had operational control over Alpha Company, 75^th Infantry [Merrill’s Marauders, the Ranger Long Range Recon patrollers], and some supporting military intelligence units.

“In those days, the Division was a kaleidoscope of colors, with each unit authorized to wear their own distinctive headgear. The ACCB guys strutted around with their black Stetson hats and spurs when they weren’t flying.  The armor guys in first brigade wore black berets. The infantry guys in Third brigade wore light blue berets, except for the 2-7^th Cav guys, who wore camouflage patrol caps with two reflective stripes on the back. The field artillery units wore red berets, and the Division Support units wore Kelly green berets. Although lighter in hue than the Special Forces green berets, they still pissed off the flash-qualified guys who thought non-SF personnel should never wear a beret that is any sort of green.

The 8^th Engineer Battalion, my unit known as ‘Skybeavers,’ wore red baseball caps, and the signal battalion wore orange baseball caps. Division staff wore yellow baseball caps and the Rangers wore black. Sure was colorful.

“And the Army was trying all sorts of crazy ideas. We had a dune buggy platoon, and scouts mounted on 250cc dirt bikes, air-delivered on special racks mounted on the skids of Hueys.

We were experimenting with ground-surveillance radars and unattended ground sensors, small seismic detectors to report foot or vehicle traffic.

“There was a self-propelled 155mm howitzer battalion to support the armored brigade, and air-transportable 105mm howitzers to support the third “Grey Wolf” brigade. Our engineer battalion had two armored engineer companies and two airmobile engineer companies for direct support of the brigades. It was a really exciting time to be in the Cav.

“A few years later the division converted again into a conventional armor division. But all the battalions retained their designation as units of the 5^th, 7^th, 8^th and 12^th cavalry, the historic horse regiments that formed up the division back in the 1920s. Exception was the 1-9^th Cav, the Army’s original Air Cavalry squadron, which retained their designation as ‘Buffalo Soldiers.’”

“And Tony, you mentioned how they painted the Cav patch everywhere they ever went,” continued Captain Kenny. “While I was in the 1^st Cav at Fort Hood, they even painted a 30-foot-tall Cav patch on the town water tank next to my house in Copperas Cove, Texas.  You could see it for miles, all the way to Lampassas County. They sure are proud of their horse blanket.

“There’s a reason for that,” Kenny added with a grin.  “Serving in the Cav, I learned that the official logistics deployment package for the division includes 20,000 gallons of yellow paint and 5,000 gallons of black!”

                               

In memory of Bill and Terry and Eddie and Jerry