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West Point Class of 1969

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By Pete Grimm

Jan 15 2021

Twelfth Man – 1984

Back in 1984 I was in my fourth year of what eventually became a twenty-five-year career as a Lincoln Mercury dealer in Seattle, Washington.

Pete’s Dealership

     The Seahawks were an expansion franchise owned by the Nordstrom’s and, despite a respectable won-loss record with Jim Zorn at quarterback and Steve Largent pulling down his passes, they were having trouble filling the old Kingdome. Ten thousand or more tickets went unsold at each home game.

Seattle Kingdome

I had signed on as a radio and TV advertiser for Seahawks games from the moment I bought my dealership in 1980. KIRO had the contract to broadcast all things Seahawk and my sales manager’s brother was the GM at KIRO. I was a fan and an easy sell and willing buyer. My dealership and KIRO both had a vested interest in the Seahawk’s success. KIRO and Seahawk management worked hand-in-glove on promotions to boost fan interest in the team.

Seattle Seahawks Logo
Seattle Television Station

     One Monday morning my KIRO advertising rep and I met to discuss media buys for the upcoming season. During our meeting he solicited my advice on what promotions might win over more Seattleites, get them more involved in supporting the team. He said there was going to be a big meeting with Seahawk management the next week to decide what promotions to adopt and he was trying to get ideas from advertisers. Asking for advice is the sort of thing a good sales representative does to keep a client involved. Nevertheless, I took him seriously.

     In 1984 Seattle was definitely a different place than many cities in America. Some say it still is. Seattleites viewed themselves as civilized. To a fault they drove, acted and spoke courteously, but many looked down their noses at professional sports. Support for the University of Washington Huskies was rabid but playing sports professionally was viewed as a bit crass.

     As my rep and I discussed the issue, I told him the Seahawks needed a more collegiate connection with the fans, more rah-rah like the Huskies had. My thoughts went back to Army football. I told him how the entire Corps of Cadets attended every game and stood in support throughout; how we were the 12th man, the rocket*, the roar that might just spur the Army Team on to victory. I then related the story of the Penn State game in 1968 – how the 300 of us who attended that game wore white sweatshirts with the number 12 on them under our dress gray and carried two air horns each; how, on a signal from the rabble rousers we tore off our tunics; how six hundred air horns starting and stopping in unison completely silenced 50,000 Penn State fans; how we beat the #4 team in the country in every way but on the scoreboard – the loss due to a fluke Penn State TD with what all of us in the stands presumed was a dead ball.

Corps of Cadets as the 12th Man**

     My KIRO rep left my office that day pumped up on the idea of a promotion centered around the concept of fans as the 12th man on the field. Two weeks later he came back and said the team’s management had decided to adopt the 12th Man concept and they were trying to decide just how to implement it. Later that year the Seahawks retired the number 12 and made the 12th Man a centerpiece of their marketing. The rest is history.

     In a Seattle Times story, the Seahawks credited a woman named Karen Ford with calling and suggesting the 12th Man jersey for the fans. In fact, there may have been many people who suggested the same or similar ideas. But I will always believe my sales rep got the ball rolling with the enthusiasm he got from my stories about Army football and the BOTL.

      Imagine my frustration years later when Texas A&M sued the Seahawks for using “the 12th Man” promotion. It was supposedly THEIR long-standing tradition, one which they had registered as a trademark. The Seahawks caved and since 2006 have paid Texas A&M to use the expression “the 12s” to describe their fans, renegotiating usage rights every five years.

     The Seahawks have gone on to appear in two Super Bowls and win one. Their new stadium, Century Link Field, is filled to capacity at every home game and the 12s are the noisiest, most disciplined fans in the NFL. So, I guess the Seahawks can afford it, but it still irks me.

Seattle’s Century Link Field

     A little web research revealed that idea of the fan as the 12th man on the field did not begin at West Point and Texas A&M’s claim that it began there in 1922 is questionable at best. Through the years the expression “12th man” used to describe fans (or even a referee) appeared in countless newspaper stories about many different college teams of many different sports. However, the 12th Man traditions at Texas A&M and West Point are so similar, I believe they migrated from West Point to Texas A&M, brought there by tactical staff who were West Point grads. Texas A&M did not register their trademark until 1990.

     Here is a link to a video summary of that Penn State game in 1968. It is amazing what you can find on the web: November 2, 1968 – Penn State 28, Army 24 (10 Minutes or Less) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHPHXR29T_c 

*A traditional West Point football cheer led by the cadets that goes like this:

(Whistle) –

BOOM! – Ahhh

U – S – M – A, Rah! Rah!

U – S – M – A,  Rah! Rah!

Hoo-Rah! Hoo-Rah!

AR-MAY! Rah!

Team! Team! Team!

** Editor’s Note: This photo shows the Corps of Cadets at the Army-Navy game, November 30, 1968. The Army football team, energized by the unexpected show of support, went on to beat Navy 21-14!

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Pete Grimm

Aug 19 2015

The Medevac Flight – 1970

 The Medevac Flight

by Pete Grimm

He hadn’t imagined going home this way. The cargo plane had two rows of bunks to accommodate the wounded, stacked side by side down its center and bolted to the floor. Racks of double bunks also lined the port and starboard bulkheads. Every bunk had a wounded soldier, or sailor or airman strapped into it on takeoff.

Nurses and corpsmen dressed in BDU’s moved from bunk to bunk administering medication, passing out bottles of water and sandwiches and offering words of encouragement. “You’ll be home soon.”

It was a long, long flight to Washington, DC. The plane would stop only once for refueling in Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska on the journey. Many bed pans and colostomy bags would need empting.

Nurse Holding Hand

He was a twenty-two year old second lieutenant and among the lucky ones assigned to the upper bunks because they could climb up and down on their own. Some in upper bunks lacked an arm or hand. He was among the especially lucky who were still whole.

With barely more than a month in country, an explosion had ended his tour. He hadn’t been wearing body armor, none of them had. My fault. I was in charge. It was so damn hot. Even so, I should have insisted.

No one else blamed him. They gave him a frigging medal, a purple heart, his wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time medal. Guilt was a constant companion.

Sufficiently far from the blast to survive, he sustained wounds from many pieces of shrapnel. Two punctured his left lung, two tore meat from his right shoulder, another tore meat from his left, another collapsed veins in his groin, smaller pieces peppered his body. His wounds had to be minor compared to those of his men who were closer.

He wondered what had happened to Swartz and Mendoza. It had been over a month and a half and no one had been able to tell him what had happened. Maybe they don’t want me to know. He felt guilty that he did not know, that he was going home without knowing, that he was going home at all. His body still needed rehabilitation, but he wasn’t like these others, truly disabled.

The novel propped on his chest was a gift from a helicopter pilot who had left on an earlier flight. The pilot had lost a hand and was worried how the loss would affect his wife, and how he would provide for his family, now that flying helicopters was out of the question. The pilot wasn’t whole and he still was. It was a simple as that. So why did he feel guilty even being grateful that he was whole? Did his gratitude suggest that the pilot, and all these men who had lost limbs, were something less? He really didn’t want to see it that way.

Flight nurse attending to patien
Flight nurse attending to patient

The nurse in his section of the plane was a first lieutenant, which meant she was probably older than he. She cropped her wavy blond hair above shoulder length, and wore no makeup. Baggy BDU’s cloaked what looked to be a great figure. The way she moved, her strength and grace and balance, suggested it was. He wanted it to be. Her mane framed a high forehead, wide cheekbones and bright blue eyes. A too-wide mouth, square jaw and a scattering of freckles made her more girl-next-door than model-beautiful, but more attractive for it.

Moving from bunk to bunk in his line of sight, the nurse distracted him from reading. With a touch here and word there, she gave solace to men who hadn’t seen a woman like her in quite some time. He hadn’t seen a woman like her in a long time. Those who were well enough hung on her words and basked in her smiles. Those who were not demanded most of her time.

When she passed, sometimes she would smile and ask how he was. Her name tag read M. Sommerville. He kept the exchanges short, even though he desperately wanted her attention too. The others needed her much more. M might stand for Mary. His mother’s name was Mary.

Walter Reed Army Hospital waited for him. He was healthy enough that he would probably complete his rehab as an outpatient. That meant time with his family, and a chance to connect with old friends before going back on duty. Will the wounds affect my next assignment? At least I can count on having a next assignment. The ceaseless drone of the engines lulled him to sleep.

He woke needing to pee. Climbing down from the bunk made his chest ache where the doctor had done emergency surgery under a local anesthetic to slip a vacuum tube between his ribs, drain the blood and reinflate his lung. He walked along the steel floor to join a line waiting to use the head. Bags of urine hanging off the sides of bunks of catheterized troops made him doubly grateful to be ambulatory. On the way back, he met her.

“I see you are up. How are you feeling?” she said.

“Good.” He lowered his voice. “Next to the rest of these guys, I’m doing great. You’re wonderful with them.”

Her smile lit the dark interior of the plane like a ray of sunshine. “Where are you from?” she asked.

Is she flirting with me?

“I’m from Alexandia, Virginia. When we hit the ground, I’m almost home. Where are you from?”

She’s even prettier when she smiles.

“I grew up an army brat, but right now, I’m from San Diego.”

“I’m an army brat too.”

Just then, one of the more seriously wounded men down the aisle moaned and asked for more medication. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

He went back to his bunk, climbed in and finally got into the novel the pilot had given him. When she would pass, she smiled and sometimes pause to chat.

We had a moment there. Didn’t we?

He let his mind drift over the events of the past year. Graduation leave, Officer’s Basic School at Ft. Sill, Jump School, Ranger School. Ft. Sill hadn’t been all studies. There had been wild parties, weekend football games in Dallas and U of O, dances at the O’ Club and beautiful women. Time at Ft. Benning managed to produce its own series of escapades. Life had been a blur. He had lit the candle at both ends and didn’t care. He lived like there might not be a tomorrow. As it turned out, there damn near hadn’t been.

He watched the nurse, ministering to the troops, smiling and sharing words as she passed. He soaked in the essence of the woman. Generous. Giving.

There’s no chance, but I’m losing a piece of my heart here.

Dragging a notepad from his duffel, he scribbled down what he was feeling.

On the ground, after the plane had taxied to the terminal, while preparing to disembark, he had a chance to speak with her one last time. “What does M stand for?”

She looked confused. “M?”

“Your name tag says your first initial is M. I wondered what M stood for?”

“Oh. It’s not my name tag. My uniforms weren’t clean and I borrowed this from a friend. My name is Nancy.”

He quickly scribbled something on the notepad, tore out a page and gave it to her. “I’d like you to have this.”

He shouldered his duffel and moved down the corridor towards the exit. He glanced back and waved. She held the paper in one hand and waved goodbye with her other, and turned to read.

 Poem on Notepad

An Actual Event in Fictional Form

Written by thedaysf · Categorized: By Pete Grimm

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