"How do you like your birthday gift?"
his Dad asked the little boy.
It had been just what he wanted,
it would be his favorite toy!

At five years old the world
was just what it should be,
candles on a birthday cake,
presents and family.

To bad how time slips by,
faster than it should,
when grown up thoughts and attitudes,
rob your childhood.

Put away the toys, pack up all his clothes
and store them the best you can.
Somewhere along in time,
the boy became a man.

"Are you going to burn your draft card, John?"
his best friends asked one day.
He knew of a place called Vietnam,
but he registered anyway.

When you're eighteen, the world
is an ever changing place.
Two years didn't seem like long,
the time was sure to race.

"You're going to Vietnam, my boy."
That's what the C.O. said.
"Yes Sir!" was Johnny's snapped reply,
the words buzzing in his head.

Four months ago in high school,
now on a transport plane.
You weren't supposed to question,
but the whole thing seemed insane!

"I don't want to die here!"
was Johnny's very thought,
as the plane touched down on foriegn ground,
he clutched the rosary that he'd brought.

The voice echoed throught the plane,
for everyone to grab their gear.
"The runway's being shelled!" it screamed,
"Get the hell out of here!"

Johnny never knew
that he could get so low,
or run as fast as he now did,
when the order came to "GO!"

The first thing he learned
that he never knew before,
was once you reached your limit
the Army demanded more.

Days without a shower,
a hot meal or any sleep.
A hurried letter home,
the real news would have to keep.

He used to watch the motor attacks
and think of the 4th of July,
as bursts of deadly firelight
lit the night time sky.

Walking through the paddies,
his rifle held high in hand,
searching for the enemy
in a God forsaken land.

He'd lost count of the number,
he didn't want to know
how many men that he had helped
death take it's final toll.

Two years sure hadn't seemed like long,
Johnny thought he knew,
but twelve months in a place called Vietnam
was at least seven lifetimes through.

At last, Freedom's Bird had come,
Vietnam he'd leave behind.
He was going home,
in search of peace he knew he'd find.

Fifteen more years had etched away,
the erosion of a life.
The boy had gone, the man returned,
he even sought a wife.

But something deep inside him,
burned an eternal fire.
The more he thought of the war he fought,
the more the flames grew higher.

He wondered of the guys he'd known,
and had come to call his brothers.
He laid awake in bed at night
and was haunted by the others.

The peace he had thought he was sure to find
had eluded him forever.
He knew now that the time for peace,
was surely going to be never.

The park lay deathly quiet,
even the birds were still.
Something was drawing Johnny there,
much stronger than his will.

Early in the morning light,
with Mr. Lincoln sitting close by,
at a long black granite monument,
a grown man kneels to cry.

The sun's a little brighter now,
flowers sweeter than he'd known.
The guns are never silent,
Will Johnny eVer go Home?

                                               Ric  r0C.

John Alexander Hottell, III, graduated from West Point in 1964, tenth in a class of 564. He was a Rhodes scholar in 1965. In Vietnam he earned two Silver Stars as commander of Company B, First Battalion, Eighth Cavalry, First Cavalry Division (Airmobile.) He later became aide to the First Cavalry commander, Major General George W. Casey. Both were killed in the crash of a helicopter on July 7, 1970. Major Hottell was 27 years old at the time of his death, which occurred about one year after he wrote his own obituary and sent it in a sealed envelope to his wife, Linda.

by: Forrest Brandt
? Copyright (1996)
        I am writing my own obituary for several reasons, and I hope none of them are too trite. First, I would like to spare my friends, who may happen to read this, the usual clich鳦amp;#141; about being a good soldier. They were all kind enough to me, and I not enough to them. Second, I would not want to be a party to perpetuation of an image that is harmful and inaccurate: "glory" is the most meaningless of concepts, and I feel that in some cases it is doubly damaging. And third, I am quite simply the last authority on my own death.

        I loved the Army: it reared me, it nurtured me, and it gave me the most satisfying years of my life. Thanks to it I have lived an entire lifetime in 26 years. It is only fitting that I should die in its service. We all have but one death to spend, and insofar as it can have any meaning, it finds it in the service of comrades in arms.

        And yet, I deny that I died FOR anything - not my country, not my Army, not my fellow man, none of these things. I LIVED for these things, and the manner in which I chose to do it involved the very real chance that I would die in the execution of my duties. I knew this, and accepted it, but my love for West Point and the Army was great enough -- and the promise that I would some day be able to serve all the ideals that meant anything to me through it was great enough - for me to accept this possibility as a part of a price which must be paid for all things of great value. If there is nothing worth dying for - in this sense - there is nothing worth living for.

        The Army let me live in Japan, Germany and England with experiences in all of these places that others only dream about. I have skied the Alps, killed a scorpion in my tent [while] camping in Turkey, climbed Mount Fuji, visited the ruins of Athens, Ephesus and Rome, seen the town of Gordium where another Alexander challenged his destiny, gone to the opera in Munich, plays in the West End of London, seen the Oxford-Cambridge rugby match, gone for pub crawls through the Cotswolds, seen the night-life in Hamburg, danced to the Rolling Stones and earned a master's degree in a foreign university.

        I have known what it is like to be married to a fine and wonderful woman and to love her beyond bearing with the sure knowledge that she loves me; I have commanded a company and been a father priest, income-tax adviser, confessor, and judge for 200 men at one time; I have played college football and rugby, won the British national diving championship two years in a row, boxed for Oxford against Cambridge only to be knocked out in the first round, and played handball to distraction - and all of these sports I loved, I learned at West Point. They gave me hours of intense happiness.

        I have been an exchange student at the German Military Academy, and gone to the German Jumpmaster school. I have made thirty parachute jumps from everything from a balloon in England to a jet at Fort Bragg. I have written an article that was published in Army magazine, and I have studied philosophy.

       I have experienced all these things because I was in the Army and because I was an Army brat. The Army is my life, it is such a part of what I was that what happened is the logical outcome of the life I loved. I never knew what it is to fail, I never knew what it is to be too old or too tired to do anything. I lived a full life in the Army, and it has exacted the price. It is only just.

Hottell, John A III
MAJ - Army - Regular
27 year old Married, Caucasian, Male
Born on 12/24/42
From Highland Falls, New York
His tour of duty began on 04/13/69
Casualty was on 07/07/70
in Tuyen Duc, South Vietnam
Non-Hostile, died missing
Helicopter - Noncrew
Air Loss, Crash on Land
Body was recovered
Religion - Episcopal, Anglican

             DEROS: Flight to D.C. -

     My flight left at 10 a.m. Pacific Standardtime. I didn't have much time to kill but I stopped and picked up something to read and then headed to the gate.
      The American Airlines flight, a Boeing 707, was all but empty;a handful of people in first class and maybe two or three of us in coach. We taxied to the end of the runway, taking the route that crossed an overpass to the LA freeway.
      The stew in our section was beautiful, long trim legs, an excellent figure, golden hair in a perfect pageboy cut and a smile that gleamed when she looked your way. I was fascinated and listened to each of her word's about safety exits, seat belts, upright serving trays and oxygen masks that would fall from the ceiling should "our aircraft suddenly loose cabin pressure." Then she disappeared and I returned to my magazine and glancing out the window.
      The big jet made a left turn, stopped long enough to race the engines and began the long roll down the runway. My heart was beating fast. I was saying good-bye to California, the West Coast, and two good friends. I had looked forward to being here and especially to being with them. But in each case the visit was unsettling. I still felt like a stranger even while with good friends and I could not figure out why.

      We lifted off the ground and I watched as the city and freeway shrank from view. We continued to gain altitude and then LA disappeared under a sulfuric cloud of yellow smog. I was now free to think about DC and my next step toward home. These first two stops had opened my eyes as to what to expect the rest of the way home. I was beginning to understand that this was not going to be a ticker tape, Stars and Stripes Forever, give-the-vet-a-hand, experience. That was the kind of welcome I perceived my dad and uncles had received. It was the payoff they deserved for all that they had done. Now I wanted the same treatment.
      Instead I was trying to understand why soldiers, like me, were being harassed by protesters and 16 year old punks in pea-coats and field-jackets and ignored by everyone else. I was thinking of Mary, and sex, and being home, and going back to Ohio State. I was thinking of Willy and Wayne, wondering what they were doing in my absence, wondering who had taken my place on the radio station, thinking about LTC Vitello, hoping that CPT Kelly or LT Johnson would stand up to him and keep him from messing with the troops. It was all bubbling around in my head.
      Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted. "Sir, would you like something to drink." I realized that this was not the first time she had asked me that question. I had been so into my thoughts that I had lost contact with everything around me. Emerging from my cloud, I half expected to find out that the voice belonged to a Lai Khe based Donut Dolly. Instead, I turned and looked into the blue eyes of the stewardess. My God, she was even prettier up close than when I had first noticed her. I continued to look straight into her face, determined to break out of my shell of confusion and morose thoughts and get into a celebratory mood.
      "Any chance you have some champagne?"
      "I'm sure we do. Anything else?"
      "Oh, yes. Can I have some earphones?"
      "They're in the seat pocket, right in front of you sir." Her voice was as soft and pretty as the rest of her. I pulled the earphones out of the pocket and their plastic wrap. I began to channel hop, listening to bits of six or seven different types of music. Another discovery: I could have choices in music, I didn't have to listen to the steady stream of rock 'n roll that poured out of AFVN. It had been 10 long months since I had been able to listen to classical music so I finally selected that channel and heard the opening notes of a familiar Mozart piano concerto.
      The stew was back with a split of champagne and a small lunch of salad and a sandwich. I ate the food quickly and enjoyed the music. She came back to take the tray and to check up on me. "Everything OK?"
      "Yes, just fine, thanks."
      "All right then. Just let me know if you need anything else."
      I ordered and received a second split. With that accomplished she returned to the front of the cabin. I was getting happier with each sip and each musical note. Finally I was going home! Mozart finished and an announcer with a wonderful baritone voice and perfect diction introduced the next selection, New World Symphony by Antoinin Dvorak. I heard the first few notes begin, the sound coming from the flutes that always reminded me of a telegraph signal, dots and dits, carrying news. The swirl of thoughts began to spin in my head again but I listened carefully to the music. It was a piece I had heard so often that I could anticipate each note, each solo. We had not played New World in band but I had heard it over the radio many times, always failing to catch the title or the composer's name. Then I heard it again in music appreciation class during my junior year and rushed out to buy a recording. I had hurried back to the apartment I shared with Dennis Michalski, a fellow Phi Delt, and put it on the stereo. The version I had bought was my standard for measuring the quality of all others; Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. Now I settled back and thought, "How perfect. Champagne, great music, money in my pocket, sitting all by myself in this huge flying tunnel, a beautiful young woman fetching me wine . . . what better way to go home?"
      A new voice interrupted the music, "Ugh, this is Captain Townsend, we're at 35,000 feet and still climbing. We're going to try and pick up a jet stream that's just above us. That ought to put us into DC about 30 minutes early. If you look out on the left side you can see the North Platte River below. If you look carefully, you can see two thin white lines running parallel together, that's part of the Oregon trail."
      I scanned the ground. It was easy to spot the river, a twisted, glossy black line that cut across the tan and green earth. The trail was harder to spot but eventually I located it. I imagined the thoughts and feelings of the brave people who had used the trail. I assumed that they had missed home just as I missed it, that they must have spent time in lonely isolation wondering about what had brought them to such a spot, why they had made the life decisions that had separated them from all that was familiar, perhaps, like me, they had thought of how wonderful it would be to return to home again. And maybe, in their thinking that thought of return confused them just as it was confusing me.
      I imagined a long wagon train passing below. I knew that some of those who made that trip were buried alongside the trail. Headed to the West, they ended up having bought the farm 1,000 miles and many weeks short of their goal. And then I thought of the guys who had bought the farm in the Michelin or Ho Bo Woods, or Song Be or FSB Julie. I remembered interviewing grunts and listening to them talk about "riding the freedom bird back to The World", "goin' home on the freedom bird." I remembered nights when I had offered up informal prayers that those same guys I had interviewed be spared, that their ride home not be in a steel gray casket resting in the belly of a 707.
      Subtly, the orchestra moved into the largo and the haunting sound of an English horn began the familiar strain, "going home, going home, I am going home . . . ." I had assumed that Dvorak had borrowed the melody from a Negro spiritual. It would be years before I learned that this was not the case. But then, as now, I heard those words to the music though no one was singing. Before I realized what was happening I let the music and the emotions come together. I remembered the 21 year old college student listening to his new record, thinking of how beautiful and sweet and delicate the melody, sensing the undulating rise and fall of the notes.

      I remembered rainy days at Ft Lewis or Columbus, days when I had indulged myself in melancholy or self pity by playing this music. I listened as the strings repeated the melody and pictured the flat farmlands of my native state, recalled driving by farms on my rare trips to and from college in my Volkswagen bug and feeling the isolation, remembered the same places blanketed in snow, long purple shadows of the bare trees reaching across the white fields, remembered the burnished glow of those same farms in autumn sun light.
      I remembered old loves: Ethel, Diana, Jan, Judy, and now Mary and wished, wished I could somehow express all that I was feeling, tell them how their patience and friendship had brought me to a point where these feelings, and this music, and all my memories of time spent with them, all of it could merge and melt into one experience, wished I could hold their collective hands and thank them for helping me learn how to love.
      I remembered the kids I had grown up with, Ed Rupert, Greg and Gary Etter, Phil Brown and Wally Scheer and Brooks Couser and Kenny Wilson. And I was "going home, going home." Home to the countless games of baseball, football and basketball and riding bikes and playing tag and going to church and growing up together.
      I remembered serious talks, confessions of heart and soul, passionate discussions of what really mattered to us, what we really believed in, with Ed and Herb Walker and Mitch and Amy Kunkler.
      I remembered my dad and trips to Crosley Field and Ohio Stadium and Friday night jaunts to small towns to watch the Fairmont Dragons play football and basketball.

      I remembered the day I found out Bob Fox had to leave for Vietnam . . . . Ah, yes---Vietnam. And then I thought about Vietnam. I thought of those kids on the flight line at Bien Hoa, wrapped like mummies, drugged out of their minds by pain killers, staring at me in my starched fatigues. Thought of the sounds of jazz followed by the bouncing amputated leg as the medics unloaded the Huey at dust off. Thought of body bags and body counts. Thought about how easily I had succumbed to aiming a rifle and taking a deliberate shot. Thought of the frightening sound of incoming. Thought of my debt to Willy and Wayne for helping me stay sane. Remembered that they were still in Lai Khe, still OCONUS (Outside Continental United States), while I was at 35,000 feet and, "going home . . . going home . . . I am going home . . . ."

      I remembered how lucky I was to be, "going home, going home, Lord, I'm going home." I chose to think about it all. My confused mind swirled with the thoughts of everyone and all I cared about. My throat tightened and then burned. My stomach knotted up and then began to tremble. A shiver racked my frame as my hands grew clammy cold and when I could not suppress it any more I felt the fiery tears rush into my eyes and spill down my cheeks. My chest shuttered and a soft sob came to my throat. I let the torrent continue and I could hear the soft plops as tears fell onto the crisp, starched, khaki shirt. I watched, bleary eyed, as they flowed over my silver lieutenant's bar and then dropped onto the green and red of my First Division patch. I tried to gulp in a breath, thinking to stop this silly cry and then discovered I could not and so I relaxed and just let it take hold of me, the sting of salt in my eyes, the taste of salt in my mouth, the warmth of letting go.
      Tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears of memory, tears that begged to understand why I had been spared and others had not, tears of frustration, of trying to understand all that had happened in the last two years, understand how it fit in with all I had experienced before and would experience in the future.
      Silently, unobtrusively, she responded. I felt her hand run across my shoulders, felt her slip into the seat next to me, her left arm resting around my slumping shoulders, her perfume filling the space. The pretty stew with the perfect golden pageboy and the deep blue eyes grasped my right hand with hers and said in a soft, soft voice, "It's OK Lieutenant. You're almost home."

Copyright, FORREST BRANDT, JUNE 25,1996

I Remember . . .

I remember when the sound of raindrops was the beginning of the needed rainfall and not the beginning of the monsoon season.

           I remember when the sound of distant thunder and lightning was when the surrounding counties were getting our needed rainfall and not trying to figure out if it was their artillery or ours.

            I remember when the sight of a hilltop, a woodline, or an open field was something beautiful to admire and not something to expect ambush and death to come from.

           I remember when the oncoming of darkness was the time to settle down and feel at peace and not the time to dig in and expect the worst.

            I remember when hunting season came around and you prepared for your trophy and not search and destroy missions that meant misery for many days.

           I remember when going camping with your family or friends was a time to be together and enjoy each other and not a time to be in the open and vulnerable to our enemy.

      I remember when the holidays and sounds of celebrating were a joyous occasion and not the dread of your enemy's offensive.

       I remember when the sounds of overhead aircraft were looked up to in awe and envy of the pilots and not the dreaded sounds of airborne assaults, napalm runs or medivacs coming to pick up your wounded and KIA.

             I remember when making friends was the thing you could never get enough of and not the dread of losing someone you had really been close to.

               I remember when loud noises was something that scared you and made you laugh at yourself and not something associated with death.

                I remember when going fishing and being out on the water was something you enjoyed and looked forward to and not the memories of riverboat patrols and crossing flooded rice paddies.

             I remember when being alone was a time to enjoy your hobbies or do your own thing and not a time to surround yourself with your weapons and be suspicious of every little noise.

            I remember when happiness was being with your family or friends and doing things that you enjoyed and not one of your superiors telling you that you were getting hot chow, a shower,

R&R or the big one . . . going home.

        I remember when death was something you had to put up with occasionally and not as an everyday occurrence.

I remember the sound of r a i n d r o p s . .

by: Patrick Camunes  (Copyright ? 1997)

APVNV Pat "Beanie" Camunes
D/4/31 196th Lt. Inf. Bde
Tay Ninh Dec.'66-Apr.'67, Tam Ky Apr.-Dec.'67

A Herd Award:

     A CERTIFICATE OF APPRECIATION has been presented to West Plains Elementary School from the 173rd Airborne Brigade, Second Battalion 503rd Able Company, stationed at Vicenza, Italy. The company, including Spc. Clayton Grigsby, son of West Plains Elementary art teacher Kathy Grigsby, served in Afghanistan from March 2005 to March 2006. Kathy Grigsby said students sent letters, cards and packages, including at Christmastime, to the soldiers during their duty in Afghanistan. The certificate reads, “For exceptional volunteer service as a supporter of the soldiers,” adding, “Your continuous show of support through sending care packages and items to welcome our soldiers home from Operation Enduring Freedom VI have brought distinct credit upon yourselves.” First row, from left: Third graders Katerina Yudin, Tyler Sands, Isabella Fleming and Dalton Brazeal. Second row: Kathy Grigsby and Principal Steve Wanicke. (Quill/Wilson)

Subject:   Col. Sigholtz

     Colonel Sigholtz passed away recently. He was a true leader With

 the` 173<sup>rd</sup> Airborne Brigade` During Our ConflicK  and a friend to

 all sky soldiers. He lead the 2/503rd on the combat jump in 173rd in Vietnam.
       His long Airborne Military career included being one of Merrill's Marauders.

His Burial is planned for Arlington cemetery, the
 date`s  estimated to be around the first week in November.

We will post info as it  becomes available.
              Sara requests that no one send flowers.  Instead,

 

 send a check to  Childhelp, USA, earmarked for the Bob Sigholtz Memorial Project.  (Project to be announced later.)  Checks may be sent to the local Child-help Office
 or to Sara at  6135 East McDonald, Paradise Valley, AZ 85253

HOW TO PROVE YOU ARE DISABLED
WHEN YOU HAVE A MENTAL ILLNESS

By Martha A. Churchill

       Some individuals with mental illness are not aware of their own behaviors and symptoms. The person realizes he or she cannot work, but does not understand exactly why.  This makes it difficult for someone with a mental illness to obtain benefits.  

       It's hard for you to prove you are disabled when you don't even realize what your behaviors are, and how you affect others.

       That’s why it is so important for friends, family, and former employers to write letters and reports about you. They notice the things you do or say that don’t fit in at the employment scene.  Statements from the people who know you best are important to your Social Security claim.   Observations from your family can carry a lot of weight and make a big difference for the success of your claim.

        Your doctor is a key person when you are trying to prove your disability to the Social Security Administration.  A doctor’s report carries more weight if your doctor knows you well, and has been treating you for a long time.

         A psychiatrist or psychologist is the best type of doctor to write a report about your disability. A family practitioner is okay, but a specialist is better.  Your psychologist, social worker, or psychiatrist should be helping you with your Social Security claim by writing a suitable letter explaining your symptoms and behaviors, in detail.

         Anyone who is around you frequently, and knows you well, can write a report or come to your hearing and explain what problems you have interacting with other people. For example, maybe you isolate yourself for hours at a time when you feel stressed, but you don’t realize you do this. Your friends or family might notice this. Information of this type is extremely helpful when you are trying to prove that you are disabled due to mental illness.

         Some people think that if they have a diagnosis such as "depression" or "schizophrenia," the Social Security Administration will automatically grant benefits. That is not true. You can’t get benefits just because you have a label like "schizophrenia." First, you have to prove that your illness is severe enough to stop you from working.

         There is a "Catch 22" here. Because of your illness, you have trouble realizing what the problems are that you have in the workplace, and you don’t know how to explain it. But if you are too good at writing reports and expressing yourself, the Social Security judge will think that you are capable of getting a job. So, you need other people to talk or write about your difficulties. It isn’t pleasant to hear these things about yourself, but it has to be done if you want to receive Social Security benefits or SSI.

          As a general rule, for people with psychiatric disabilities, having an attorney or other representative is a must.

         There are four main areas of functioning that are considered by the Social Security judge in deciding whether your illness is severe enough to prevent you from working: (a) daily living, (b) social functioning, (c) concentration, and (d) decompensation. (see chart.)

          If you have bipolar disorder, major depression, phobias, agoraphobia, Tourette Syndrome, obsessions, compulsions, or panic attacks, you must prove that you have problems in at least two of the four areas of functioning.

          If you have somatoform disorder or a personality disorder, Social Security requires you to have serious problems in three of the four areas.

          For schizophrenia, the criteria is a little bit more complicated. Delusions, hallucinations, or illogical thinking could help prove you can’t work. Emotional withdrawal could be a factor. If you have problems in two of the four areas, that could show disability. Or, you could show that you can’t function outside a highly supportive living situation, and that it’s been that way for at least two years.

        Conclusion: To prove that you are disabled, the Social Security office needs to know all about your behavior as it relates to the four areas of functioning. Your doctor has to write a letter or report that explains whatever problems you are having in these areas. The doctor has to give specific examples, and go into detail. Show your doctor this chart about the Four Areas of Functioning. Make sure he or she has written a report that discusses your problems in a way that will be understood at the Social Security office.

         For a look at the complete Social Security rules for mental illness, check the "Listing."  This listing has a wide variety of mental conditions covered, including personality disorders, mental retardation, and panic attacks.  For your convenience, I have added a few comments in brackets [like this] to help you navigate.   The first half of this listing is an essay on mental illness generally, and the second half is a list of mental illnesses with a description, by the number.  Click on  "Listing."    

    Martha A. Churchill  has prepared summaries of some actual law cases which deal with "Activities of daily living."

Sky Gunners . . .

Sometimes in the night, I awake to the Day
Only to wonder, what made us feel this way

Yea, and in my mind, I think of the time
Flying over the tree-tops, of Viet-Nam

All of us that served, did it with Great Pride
From Bein Hoa, to China Beach,
just watching the tide

Now and many years later, I think of that time
Flying, over the tree-tops, of Viet-Nam
Gunners in the sky,
this may be the day you Die
Flying over the tree-tops, of Viet-Nam
Praying everyday, that Viet-Nam wasn’t a Lie

Flying in those tin-can helicopters,
they said wouldn’t Fly

But, everybody knew, that what you needed,
it came from the sky,
Gunners in the sky,
this may be the day, you Die
Flying over the tree-tops, of Viet-Nam

Many Grunts were in the jungles of the Bush
Looking to each other for trust
Because, you see, out there it was a Must
To look to each other, for that trust

Many Grunts, in the Jungles of the Bush
Now, Gunners in the sky,
this may be the day, you Die
Flying, over the tree-tops, of Viet-Nam . . .

 

by: Johnny Hubbs (Copyright ? 1997)

Handing Over The Mic

Troops talk from Iraq.

By Michael Graham

        I just spent a week in Iraq and Kuwait cultivating a skill that I, as a talk-show host, have found nearly impossible to master: shutting up.

Turns out, it was easier than I thought, at least in Iraq. When you're listening to a 20-year-old kid from Indiana tell how he earned his second Purple Heart, speechlessness is the natural reaction.

I was there as part of the much-maligned "Truth Tour" organized by Move America Forward, a conservative group based in California. According to reports in the mainstream media, I was part of a "propaganda" junket paid for by the Pentagon to buy some desperately needed positive coverage of the unwinnable military quagmire. All I can say is: If this was a junket, it was the worst-run junket in the history of public relations.

My radio station and I had to pay all my expenses, I slept on a bare cot in a tent in the desert, and at some locations the only available "food" (and I use that term under protest) were MREs - which stands for "Meals Ready to Eat...assuming you've already eaten both shoes and most of your undergarments."

This alleged "junket" failed in another way, too. The Pentagon didn't control what went out over the airwaves. Then again, neither did I. I left it all up to the soldiers.

I traveled about Iraq from Camp Victory at the Baghdad International Airport to Camp Prosperity on the very edge of the Red Zone, then down the Baghdad Highway to Camp Falcon, and on to the Command Headquarters in the heart of the city and, eventually, to the deserts of Kuwait and Camp Arifjan. And everywhere I went, I flipped on my mic, sat back, and let the troops tell their story.

These soldiers weren't stooges from Public Affairs or handpicked flag wavers foist on me by media handlers. I found some in the mess hall, others working security checkpoints; others sought me out because they have family living in the D.C. area where my radio show is broadcast. The least fortunate were the soldiers in Humvees stuck with "tourist duty," four friendly but serious young men who got stuck with a couple of bonehead radio hosts riding along on patrol.

In all, I spoke to more than 100 soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, with different ranks and different duties at their FOBs (forward operating base), and yet they overwhelmingly had the same things to say about the war in Iraq:

"We believe in the mission."

"We're making progress."

"The Iraqis are making progress, too."

And, perhaps most important of all: "We're going to win."

I expected to hear this sort of positive assessment from General George Casey, commander of operations in Iraq, when I interviewed him at his headquarters deep inside the International Zone. When he pointed out that, one year ago, there was just one standing battalion in the Iraqi army, but there are 107 battalions today, he was doing his job of supporting the war. And I expected it from Lt. General Steve Whitcomb, commanding general of the 3rd Army, as he talked about successfully moving more than one million gallons of fuel across Iraq every day, despite the best efforts of the insurgents.

Generals are supposed to be gung ho. It comes with the pay grade.

But I heard the same, positive assessments from 23-year-old sergeants from New Iberia, La., and from PFCs from Wisconsin and Alabama. I heard it from Lieutenant Li, whose Humvee had been hit by IEDs so many times he'd lost count. I heard it from Airman Truong, who was born in Vietnam and had recently returned to his native country to marry. Two weeks after "I do," Airman Truong was headed back to Kuwait to do his duty for his adopted country.

Again and again, from "white-collar" soldiers working in the relative safety of Camp Victory at the Baghdad airport to the "real" soldiers patrolling Route Irish (a.k.a the "Highway of Death"), I heard that America and their Iraqi-army allies are winning the war against the insurgents. I was told again and again by the soldiers themselves that their (our) cause is just, the strategy is working, and the enemy they fight represents evil itself.

In other words, I heard things seldom heard on CBS or read in the pages of the New York Times.

It was only a week, and I have my obvious Bush-supporting, troop-cheering biases, but how much closer can a reporter get to delivering unspun, bias-free objective reporting than live-mic broadcasting instantly back to the states? No edits or filters or editorial meetings. Just the young men in the hot desert telling what they've seen, what they've heard, and what they now believe based on those experiences.

Isn't it at least significant that not one in 100 thought invading Iraq was a mistake? Was it mere coincidence that a random selection of 100 soldiers all believe their mission is worthwhile? Should we detect the hand of the Vast, Right-Wing Conspiracy in the fact that the vast majority of the troops find the media coverage of the war ignorant, harmful, or both?

I'm proud to say that, for a week, the soldiers had their say. If I were the editor of a major daily newspaper or a national network, I would be concerned that what they said is so contrary to what I am printing or broadcasting.

But the mainstream media don't need to hear from the soldiers. They already know that the war was a terrible mistake, that the world would be safer if we'd left Saddam in power, and that there is no chance for victory in Iraq.

Me, I'm not so smart. I like to let the guys on the ground tell their story. I believe it is completely possible that they know something that I - and the New York Times editorial page - do not.

Radio-talk host Michael Graham covers southern politics from his home in Virginia. He is an NRO contributor.

G.M. Kozak

Ohio Supercomputer Center (OSC)

2673 Commons Boulevard, Suite 70

Beavercreek, OH 45431

NEW INFORMATION ON AGENT ORANGE:

   Scientists boost estimate of Agent Orange sprayed in Vietnam

   A study has increased the estimate of how much Agent Orange and other dioxin-tainted defoliants the U.S. military sprayed during the Vietnam War. But it remains unclear whether the increased amount raises the illness risk of those exposed, scientists say.

   Re-examining military records, researchers at the Columbia University School of Public Health determined that about 21 million gallons of the herbicides were sprayed from 1961 to 1971 - 1.84 million gallons, or 10 percent, more than previously believed.

   About 55 percent of the defoliant was Agent Orange - nicknamed for the color of the identification band on its storage containers. Scientists said the other herbicides, such as Agent Pink, were closely related to Agent Orange but even more potent.

  Two-thirds of the herbicides were contaminated with the most dangerous form of dioxin, TCDD, which is associated with cancers, neurological disorders, miscarriages and birth defects.

   Details of the study appear in the current issue of the journal Nature.

   Agent Orange toxins persist in soil and water in parts of the southern half of Vietnam. Tree cover has re-grown in many locations, but chemicals have migrated into the tissues of fish and fowl that local residents eat.

   Studies by U.S. scientists show that blood samples from residents in exposed communities contain dioxin at levels 135 times higher than blood from areas that were not sprayed.

   In 1999, Vietnam conducted its own Agent Orange survey, but details were not made public.

   ``Cancer, miscarriages and birth defects in the sprayed areas are always higher than in the areas not sprayed,'' said Tran Manh Hung of the special committee on Agent Orange in Vietnam's Ministry of Health. ``It might take another 50 years before those rates become equal.''

   The Columbia researchers suggest 2.1 million to 4.8 million people were living in 3,181 villages that were directly sprayed.

   But other scientists said the work ``does little'' to determine the health consequences of the campaign to deny jungle cover along supply trails used by communist forces.

   ``What is important from a health perspective is what gets into humans, not what is sprayed,'' said Arnold Schecter of the University of Texas School of Public Health. Schecter has conducted dioxin research in Vietnam since 1984.

   ``Whether the amount of herbicides is a bit higher and the TCDD content a bit heavier,'' Schecter said, ``what counts for health purposes is the dose the person receives.''

    Last year, U.S. and Vietnam conducted their first joint conference on Agent Orange exposure.

    In January, the Department of Veterans Affairs extended extra benefits to U.S. veterans suffering from a form of leukemia after researchers found a link to Agent Orange. About 10,000 Vietnam vets receive disability benefits related to the herbicide.

Joseph B. Verrengia, Associated Press

Exposure to dioxin far worse, says report

    Those involved in the Vietnam War, including Australian troops, were exposed to twice the amount of dioxin in Agent Orange than previously thought, according to the journal Nature.

    The total amount of the herbicide sprayed was underestimated by between seven and nine million liters, said US researchers who revised US military documents and corrected their errors.

About 10 per cent of the herbicide was used, but the missing inventory contained some of the most dioxin-rich herbicides - dioxin being the toxic active ingredient blamed for diseases and birth defects suffered by millions of Vietnamese and war veterans and their children.

     The researchers, from New York's Colombia University and the Institute for Cancer, said the data revealed that "millions of Vietnamese were likely to have been sprayed upon directly" .

Agents Orange, Pink, Green, Purple, White and Blue were sprayed by US planes in Vietnam between 1962 and 1971 to defoliate jungle cover for communist troops, and ruin the crops needed to feed them.

The researchers tracked down US Defense Department documents, including the HERBS file - the flight paths of air force spraying missions between 1965 and 1971.

     "The HERBS file error rate was about 10 per cent, attributable largely to transcription, data entry and pilot-recording errors," wrote the researchers.

     One of the paper's co-authors, Dr Jeanne Stellman, said: "It's difficult to say who bore the brunt of the increased dioxin.

     "The Aussies were in the Rung Sat area, which was the most heavily sprayed area of Vietnam over the course of the war. No-one knows the extent to which presence of dioxin in the soil could have affected troops serving there.

     "Hopefully, in a few years (before all the veterans are dead) we will be able to know these overdue answer ... I am certain that Australian researchers will be very interested in our methodology - we've had lots of contact with them."

     The HERBS file were first assessed in 1974 by the National Academy of Sciences.

     "We have re-estimated the volume and type of herbicides sprayed between 1961 and 1971 to have 7,131,907 more liters than the 'uncorrected' NAS-1974 inventory and 9,440,028 liters more than NAS-1974's 'corrected' inventory, in which about 10 per cent of all missions had been discarded because of obvious recording errors," wrote the researchers.

     The national president of the Vietnam Veterans' Association of Australia, Brian McKenzie, questioned whether the original data was wrong by accident or by purpose.

     "The whole thing [Agent Orange] has been a series of cover-ups during the war and ever since."

      A 1998 Department of Veterans Affairs survey of Vietnam War veterans' health found that among veterans' children:

        Spina Bifida was 10 times the expected rate.

        Cleft palates were more than four times higher.

        Absent body parts 10 times higher.

         Suicide rates three times the rate of the general population.

         Cancers, anxiety, psychiatric disorders, accidental death were significantly elevated.                                     By Stephen Cauchi

Ca m o u f la ge !

DMZ
Operation Kentucky

      We were crossing a rice paddy in the z , up to our ankles and beyond in the goo that is a rice paddy when the officer, Cory Hart, that I worked with turned to me and said that I needed to camouflage myself when we got past the paddy. I told the officer that I was six foot six , had a ten foot antenna on my back, was in the middle of an open field and asked what difference a bunch of twigs stuck in my helmet would do to keep me from being less obvious than I already was. He insisted on being an officer and ordering me to camouflage anyway.
      When we got through the paddy I past by a large leafed tropical plant.  The leaves were as large as I was so the idea came to me to cut one of the leafs off the plant, cut two eye-holes in the leaf and put the stalk of the leaf in the rubber band that most of us had for our helmets to put our cigarettes and pencils and whatever we could carry in that strap on our helmets. I did all of this as we were continuing to go through the jungle with the officer still in front of me.
        I pulled out my pistol and with it in one hand and my k bar in the other I began to act as if I were sneaking along behind the officer. I would suddenly turn to imaginary enemy and make motions with the pistol and k bar from behind this large leaf. I waited for the moment that the officer would turn around to see me, and that moment came when the men's laughter behind me became so obvious that the officer had to turn to see what was so funny.
         When he did turn we made eye contact and from his view it was a pair of eyes behind a large leaf with a pistol in one hand and a k bar  in the other. I could tell by his look that he wanted very much to burst out laughing, but he did not and said, "Whiznuts", which is what he called me instead of my real name, "I thought that I told you to camouflage!"
       I screamed from behind the leaf from my eye holes “Sir, you mean you can see me Sir? I am camouflage!” The officer never broke into the laughter that I believe would have broken most men, and turned back away from me to continue on the trail. I walked for several more yards behind him and finally grew tired of the game I was playing and threw  the leaf beside the trail and continued on that mission.
        Officer Cory Hart never again during our tour of duty asked me to camouflage.

Semper Fi, Bill

Photo: 1967, Operation Kentucky, DMZ - Bill Whisenant, left, and a good friend ... in a bad time. I was serving with 2/9 as a forward observer attached from 2/12.  I had received the new t-shirts from home and gave one to my friend.  He made it out and we were reunited in 1997 at a reunion in Washington.

By: Billy R. Whisenant
Copyright ? 1999

Phu Bai,
3rd Med. Bn. Triage
Christmas Eve, 1967

If I could just remember his name ...

I've never encountered a veteran from 'Nam who had total and clear recollection of the names of guys they served with in 'Nam for up to (and over ) a year. It seems to be the most common disease shared by nearly all Vietnam vets. Several personal incidents remain imbedded in my mind as clearly as if they had happened only yesterday, and yet, I can't recall one single name.

There is one name in particular I wish I could remember, 'cause I sat up with him all night waiting for him to die, praying for him to die, wanting him to be at peace. Maybe I was wishing it for myself so I could go back to my hooch, close my eyes, and dream about being back home with my family and friends.

As the company driver/litter-bearer for 3rd Med. Bn. triage in Phu Bai from 9/67 to 9/68, duties included driving ambulance, taking the docs (corpsmen and surgeons) wherever they needed to go, transporting the KIA's to graves registration, etceteras. Seeing dead, twisted, and torn young men was a daily occurrence. It was somehow easy to become complacent and detached about what you saw and how you felt. After all ... "better him than me", right?

On Christmas Eve of 1967, things were relatively quiet around our area. I can remember only one incoming med-evac coming in around 9 p.m. with just one casualty: a 2/26 marine who'd been shot "through 'n through" (head-shot). It didn't take long for the docs to determine that he was brain-dead, even though they were amazed at his almost normal vitals. The docs instructed me to wheel him back to S&D ( a shock and debriedment room ) on a gurney, and from where I was sure I'd be taking him to Graves the next morning. Just leave him in that dark cool room all night, and he'll slip away quietly and peacefully. After all, he couldn't feel anything ... wasn't aware of anyone or anything around him, so what's the diff?

I went back to my hooch and BS'd with my buds. We sat around quietly that Christmas Eve night talking about family, girlfriends and wives, what we were going to do when we got home, and stuff like that. Everyone took a turn at telling their teary-eyed stories and having a good cry with each other.

I don't know if it was that I was so drunk, had the holiday blues, or what, but I found myself wandering back over to a pretty quiet and dark triage, and feeling compelled to check in on the young marine in S&D. I suddenly felt compelled to stay with him. It was Christmas eve, he was alone ... I was alone.

I thought of him laying there alone in the dark, left to die -- it just didn't set right with me. I wouldn't want to die that way -- not on CHRISTMAS EVE! I held his still warm hand and began "talking" softly to him, telling him it was okay to let go ... head for the light ... anything I could think of that would be appropriate to tell a dying man. I dozed off several times, cursing myself for not being more attentive. One time after nodding off, I'd have sworn that he squeezed my hand, as if to say "... Hey, you were doing fine ... don't go to sleep on me now!"

It was around 6? a.m. when a corpsman came in and was startled to find me there with this guy, holding his hand no less. The corpsman had a hint of morbidity in his voice 'till I told him why I'd spent the night, then he started crying, and left us alone.

We packed him off to Da Nang Airbase that day. I have no idea what happened to him after that, but he still had strong vitals when we put him on the med-evac. I wish I could have remembered his name. I'd promised him I would let his folks know that he wasn't alone on what I believe was his last Christmas Eve. Like so many other promises I'd made to myself or others ( keep in touch, etc.), once I left 'Nam, all was nearly forgotten. Do we want it this way?

My memories of 'Nam come to me in the form of dreams and nightmares. I find myself trying to escape from a bodybag, or trying to scream out that "I'm not dead!" No one ever hears me.

If only I could remember his name ....

L/Cpl. Paul Dean Scimone,
H&S co. 3rd Med. Bn.,
Phu Bai, RVN.

By: Paul Scimone
L/Cpl., H&S co. 3rd Med. Bn.,
Phu Bai, RVN
Copyright ? 2002

     Included in Our BunKer~s are many WEB VetLinks for information on Agent Orange, Its composition and by-products, which may be affecting YOU the Vietnam Veteran.

    We as Vietnam Veterans have all been exposed and do not have to prove this fact, but have to show our medical problems are related to Agent Orange. I would also suggest that you sign the appropriate rosters noted on our Agent Orange page.

Vietnam Veterans must unite and make the public aware of the government's negligence in treating the medical problems caused by Agent Orange.

    We are inflicted with many problems such as:
Peripheral Neuropathy: Nerves dying, numbness in feet/hands/fingers/legs/arms/etc.
Diabetes Type II: Watch food intake, see doctor, stay alive!
Chloracne: Skin rashes, open sores, redness, discoloration of the skin, cyst's, boils, etc.
PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
Sleep Apnea: A serious breathing disorder,
Hypertension: High Blood Pressure and related heart problems.
A Constant burning sensation of my internal organs, of which, the VA cannot find the source. I relate this to an AO problem because other Vietnam veterans have complained of the same problem,
Tinnitus: Ringing in the ears

    Along with many other medical problems Such as Knee Problems & Tinnitus which the government denies after a small time period of leaving the service. Many doctors believe that it takes time for some of these problems to manifest themselves and should not be held to the time limit that the VA has determined.

    We hope that these pages will help in filing and retrieving the proper forms for your claims and give you some ammunition to submit and win your claim. MUCH more information is on this web site for ALL visitors.

    Vietnam Veterans please check my VetLinks pages, Sign Our GuestBook and take some time to browse the many other pages listed in my Our Bunker~s.

Thanks To;

WHY A WINGED LION?

          The winged lion is the symbol of St. Mark the Evangelist, and is used as the logo for St. Mark's Parish. This symbol comes from St. Mark's description of John the Baptist's voice "crying out in the wilderness" upon hearing the Word of God (Mark 1:3). His voice is said to have sounded like that of a roaring lion. This lion symbolism also appears in a vision of the Prophet Ezekiel where four winged creatures represent the four evangelists (Ezekiel 1:10). Matthew is depicted as a human, Mark as a lion, Luke as a bull, and John as an eagle.

Pop Flare!

      12CAG in Plantation Vietnam, 71-72: Charlie must have laughed---we didn't! Standing guard duty was never fun. We crewmembers flew all day and then got word when we landed, and after pre-flight inspections and putting the bird to bed, that we had second watch---midnight to six A.M.

      Tower 13 was the least desired post. A high tower on the Jungle side of our compound, was dark and the furthest from the hooches. It seemed that night we had several of the "fly boys" all standing guard in the same tower. I remember the stillness, the noises out there, the bone chilling fear, not knowing . . . .
      About 2:30 A.M., we heard noises in the night. We called the Sergeant of the Guard for permission to pop a flare. These hand held flares were different colors, but we always used white. You took off the cap and placed it on the bottom of the silver tube which was a little larger than a road flare. While holding the side of the tube, you smacked the cap on something hard. Doing so fired the small pyrotechnic flare up 50-75 feet before a small charge would "pop" and ignite the white phosphorus. It was suspended on a small parachute which would keep the illumination for a few minutes. As the flare would swing on the end of this parachute it would cause shadows to sway and dance in the night.
      Well here we are scared crapless in the middle of the night, in the worst tower for guard duty, in the middle of Viet Nam---hearing noises in the wire! We finally got permission to shoot off an illumination flare. Except, nobody in the tower had ever fired one before! You do it! No. You do it! No you do it! I'll watch. We went round and round with that because nobody wanted to do it.
      I finally got brave (suckered into doing it) and volunteered. I removed the cap placing it on the firing end of the flare. I aimed it out of the tower and smacked the cap to ignite the flare. The flare launched beautifully! But to my shock, it hit the edge of the tower roof and bounced right back at us, and ricocheted on the inside walls of the tower. We danced and dodged to get out of its way! Hollering and yelling as the sparks flew and the flare kept banging against the tower walls.
      After several minutes of dodging this missile it came to rest, and with a pop ignited the white phosphorus flare blinding us. I squinted to see where it had landed. To my horror it was burning brightly on a box of grenades! We yelled and started throwing everything out of the tower. I picked up the burning phosphorus with an old flak jacket and threw it over board. Several of the guys were already on the ground as they had un-assed the tower when the flare came back inside!
      When my turn for guard duty came around, nobody wanted to stand guard with me, unless I promised not to get near the flares!

There were so many incidents like this that its a wonder any of us got back to the world!

PTSD: The Emotional War After The War

When David Adams came back from Iraq, the war followed him home. Adams is from Joliet, Illinois. He was a specialist in the 101st Airborne from Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, destined to be in the military.

"My father had served in the Marines. My mother's father served in World War Two in Patton's army. All my uncles and cousins, they've all served," said Adams.

Adams was serving when the US went to war with Iraq in 2003. "We were told this thing about winning the hearts and minds of the people and one of the way we can win the hearts and minds is to give them a bottle of water and throw candy to the kids," said Adams.

Their orders were to keep the convoys moving through every village. Do not stop for any reason. That included one April morning. "Out of the left corner of my eye, I can see a child start to run across the street," remembered Adams.

Adams continued, "She was a little girl, probably about 5 or 6 years old, and as she is running across the street, she's not looking where she's going. She's just a kid and she gets run over by a truck. I would say there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about her."

When Adams came home five months later, he enrolled at SIU-Carbondale and tried to plan for the future. Then came the nightmares, anxiety and violent temper. One day he just started screaming at his mother and sister.

"My dad comes out into the driveway and he says,
'What's wrong? What's the matter with you?' And so I put my fists up like I'm going to fight him," recalled Adams. "And I'm yelling at him and told him to go back in the house or I'll kill you in the driveway right now."

A short time later, Adams was diagnosed with PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. "As the name implies, it's a disorder that happens in the wake of violence and a threat to one's life," said Dr. David Klein, a clinical psychologist for the St. Louis Veterans Affairs Medical Center.

Studies show as many as 30 percent of soldiers returning from the Middle East could have PTSD, but less than a quarter of those will seek help.

"A lot of people get hung up on this being a psychiatric diagnosis. What they don't realize is this is the brain's attempt to adopt to an extraordinarily stressful situation, and it's an effort in self protection" said Klein.

Critics of the Bush administration say the government shouldn't wait for veterans to ask for help. They need to be proactive. "The veterans affairs budget, especially for health care every year is discretionary funding, which means it's there initially and the President can say I gave 12 million dollars for this and that" said G. David Curry a professor at the University of Missouri at St. Louis. "But it doesn't stay there. So more and more veterans are being denied more and more healthcare."

Curry is a veteran still living with the psychological scars of Vietnam. He says veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan often wait months just to get a doctor's appointment, and if something doesn't change soon the war will continue to cost America long after it's over.

"It doesn't matter whether you're against the war or in favor of the war, we've got to repay these veterans by treating them well," said Curry.

As for Adams, now 25, he's back in school studying administrative justice. He says he still has nightmares and probably drinks too much. But his best therapy has been talking to other veterans.

Still he worries about all his brothers, as he calls them, who've yet to get help. "When we signed that contract, we swore to God we were going to take care of this country and defend it and America was going to do the same for us," said Adams. "And I feel like a lot of us are being left behind."

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder:
http://www.ncptsd.va.gov/facts/general/fs_what_is_ptsd.html- from U.S Dept. of Veteran's Affairs

http://www.nmha.org/reassurance/ptsd.cfm- from the National Mental Health Association.

         Casper 721 . . .

. . . is Down Casper flight platoon HHC 173rd Abn. Brigade Sep. - 1968

       December 11, 1968 began early with a flight from LZ English to LZ Uplift where we were to fly Command and Control for the Battalion Commander 1/503, 173rd ABN. CW2 Walton Henderson (Sugar Bear) was the aircraft Commander and myself, 1st Lt. Clifford White, with only three months in country was flying PP. ("PP" was used for the term Peter Pilot. In the Army there was no designation as co-pilot. Pilots logged time as either Aircraft Commander or the right seat as Pilot. Both being 1st pilot time. In most units rank had no claim on Aircraft Commander that was earned and usually only after at least 2 plus months in country flying right seat, and after the approval of the other AC's and the company commander) Neither one of us were supposed to be flying this mission, however Walt lost a coin toss, and I wanted more stick time than I had been getting.
      Walt was one of those AC's that was good to fly with, he would give you all the stick time he could, and try to teach you something in the process. The crew chief was SP4 Ned Costa and the door gunner was John Steen, and Casper 67-17721 was a new ship with a little over 200 hours. We were members of Casper flight platoon HHC 173rd Abn. Brigade Sep.

      At the briefing we received specific flight routes and altitudes to avoid artillery firing from English, An Khe, LZ Uplift, and LZ Fox. Elements of the 1/503rd were to be inserted by the 61st AHC about 20K Northeast of An Khe Pass at the north end of "Happy Valley". This area was known to be an enemy strong hold. At the briefing no one had said any thing about weapons. Since Walt had not flown in the area for the preceding three months, he asked if there was any 51's or heavier anti air craft in the area. We were advised that there were no heavy weapons in this area, and that was the reason the Battalion was being lifted into this end of the valley. We were shot down later that morning, and Walt was trapped for over seven hours before being freed. He spent 2 and 1/2 years in the hospital prior to returning to flight status. I spent 3 months at Camp Zama in Japan returning to active duty with the 29th Infantry in Hawaii, and to Viet Nam in 1971 with the 61st AHC. The crew chief and the door gunner returned to Casper after a month at the Evac. hospital in Qui Nhon.

      For 30 years some pieces of what happened that day have been unclear to both Walt and myself. Because of the seriousness of the injuries neither of us were able to be debriefed or talk with each other. We finally found one other at the 1998 Viet Nam Helicopter Pilots Association (VHPA) reunion in Fort Worth. Walt had been to the reunion several times prior, but this was my first. I did not know there were reunions happening and only found out on the Internet. We are trying to locate our crew and the others who were there to help us. We are still looking for the door gunner to complete the crew. What follows is from what both of us are able to remember, and from what others that were there have told us.

Casper Flight 721 is Down!

December 11, 1968,

        Our first mission was to lift a 4.2 mortar crew to a mountain top over looking the Area of Operation (AO). This went without any problems. The only interesting point was that on the first lift while on short final to the top of a mountain that looked like no man had ever been there the grass parted and the LZ was leveled with sandbags and a large 1st Cav. patch painted in the middle. We were surprised and disappointed that we weren't first.
      After the mortar crew was in place we returned to LZ Uplift, refueled and picked up the Battalion Commander 1/503, Artillery Forward Observer (FO), radio operator and five PRC 25 radios. At 10 hundred hours we were back in the AO. The Colonel asked us to over fly the LZ so they could get a look. The low cloud cover and flight restrictions, due to the different gun target lines, kept us below 1500 feet, which was causing Walt a great deal of concern. On the first pass the LZ was on the Colonel's side and he wanted a second pass so the FO could see the LZ. On the second pass I was flying and Walt was turned talking to the Colonel trying to convince him our repeated action was not the best plan, and that a third pass the Colonel wanted to make was not going to happen. Walt had been varying our flight path and altitude as much as much as possible to make it difficult for any NVA gunners who might be tracking us. As we crossed the LZ the second time the mortar crew advised the FO they were ready to fire. Walt turned to take the aircraft, all discussion was over, and we had to get clear.
      During the time Walt was talking to the Colonel, and I was looking down at the LZ, neither of us was looking forward and never saw the initial shell burst. As Walt turned to take the controls, and I looked up from tracking the LZ, we both saw the long smoke immediately at our twelve o'clock and slightly higher. From our prospective it looked like a large bird with his wings outstretched riding the updraft, about the size of the turkey vultures we saw at flight training in Texas (At the reunion in Fort Worth Walt said that at that moment he was real upset at me for flying us into the bird's flight path). Walt took the controls and started an evasive maneuver down and to the left.
      I remember watching what we still thought was a large bird as we went under it, feeling like crap for making a FNG mistake, and putting us in jeopardy. Not a second later there was a series of loud bangs, the Huey acted like a truck with no springs bucking over several speed bumps at high speed. We began flying out of trim with the nose about ten degrees to the right and the helicopter rolled about fifteen to twenty degrees to the left. At this point a lot happened at the same time. The FO was yelling cease-fire; so I shut off the FM radio and his added noise. We already knew the obvious but the crew chief yelled in the intercom that we had lost the tail rotor.

      Walt yelled we were going in and he needed the coordinates, I searched the map but was too excited to quickly find our exact location. In the same moment, Walt told me to get on the controls with him. He then put out the first May Day call that we had a bird strike and Casper 721 was going down. I said something I had remembered from one of my flight instructors, ". . . as long as we were still flying, try to keep it flying." More a prayer than anything of substance.
      There was a Special Forces base about 10k to our Southwest and Walt said he was going to try to make it there, it was down slope all the way. The Huey was so out of trim that we had to look through the green house overhead (like a car's sunroof) to see where we were going. A Huey is real hard to fly when she wants to roll over. Walt remembers me reading the instruments to him, repeating the air speed; we had to stay above 70 Knots! Walt was trying to nurse the aircraft through a turn that would head us back down the valley and down to the tree tops. All this happened in seconds, but it seemed like minutes.
      As we passed through 1000 feet Walt remembers a bright flash but no noise, I never saw the flash and only remember a loud explosion. Before the sound of the explosion had gone the Huey began a violent spin. I could not discern the sky from the ground, and don't know how many times we went around. I remember both of us rolling the throttle off so hard it broke the idle stop switch. With the torque of the engine

gone we came out of the spin nose down.
      Walt began a series of May Day calls, as both of us were going through shut down, fuel and battery. Walt was looking for the best place in the trees to crash, and planning a controlled auto rotation (no power). We started the very rapid descent to tree top level. The mountains were behind us and our auto rotation glide was down slope, and away from the mountain. Both of us were on the controls and I was following every move Walt made---the Huey was not responding, and there was little if any cyclic control.
      The loud noise had been a round exploding and taking out our controls; the bright flash was a AA flak round exploding somewhere to our left front . . . almost close enough to be the one you don't hear is the one that gets you. There had never been a large bird. We tried full aft cyclic and no flair, twice, and still no flair. We pulled all the collective there was without response. Airspeed and rate-of-descent when we hit the trees was 70 knots, and 700 feet/m. We ran out of air before reaching the valley floor, and the last thing I remember was hitting the top of a large dead tree head on.

      A Casper ship, piloted by CWO Larry Kahila was setting on the Crap table at LZ English waiting for a Colonel and some Red Cross ("Donut Dollies") ladies and heard the 1st May Day call. Larry had an Artillery Lt. and a Major already on board waiting for the Colonel and the "Donut Dollies". Larry ordered the ship ready to respond to the May Day, but the Major refused to get out of the Huey, insisting it was the Colonel's helicopter. Obviously he did not understand the urgency of the situation and possibly did not hear Larry when he told him there was an aircraft down, and to get out. In the excitement of the moment Larry's crew chief grabbed the Major and tossed him out of the Huey into the arms of the Colonel, just as their Huey came to a hover and departed to join the recovery effort.
      When I came to after the crash, I could hear our Huey's engine winding down, and reached for the fuel switch only to find some grass and dirt, but the instruments---everything was gone. The nose from in front of the pilot's seats to the green house was gone, and there was a strong smell of fuel. The Huey was standing on its nose on a very steep slope. I was down slope and Walt was up slope.
      The jungle can be a quiet place, and the silence now was deafening. Fuel was running down my back and the fear of fire suddenly motivated me to crawl free of the debris. Walt was pinned against the ground with the ship braced on his back. If it shifted again he could be crushed. John Steen, the door gunner, was pinned-in his seat by a 6" diameter tree branch pressing against his "chicken plate" Walt had to order him to wear that morning. SP4 Ned Costa, the crew chief, had freed himself and between the two of us we got John out.
      The door gunner didn't appear to have any other injuries than a sore chest, but later we found John had been hit and wounded several times and had other crash injuries. Ned said he thought he had a broken leg and the carbon steel core of a armored piercing round in his arm, which he took out---my first indication that we had taken fire.
      There was a real danger of fire in the Huey any second, so I crawled back in looking for Walt---there was not a lot of room. The green house was caved in to the top of the seats, the transmission had broken loose and had come forward. The toolbox, a case of "C's", and the Colonel's radios were on top of the back of Walt's seat. After frantically clearing the tangled mess, searching for him, I heard Walt say to get the ---- off my back!
      I could only see part of his face, and wiped dirt and grass from his mouth. There was nothing I could do to free him quickly. I tried to use the little 12" cutting tool with rings on each end, which was worthless against metal. Ned joined me but the both of us could not move the seat.
      I took a quick inventory of our injuries: The Colonel was trapped with his leg under the left side of the Huey, his shoulder was dislocated, he was drenched in fuel. His injuries and agony prevented anyone from approaching him. The radio operator was still unconscious with serious face and head injuries. I had found the Artillery Lt. about 25 feet from the crash site wrapped in branches with only his eyes visible, however, he was conscious. It appeared that he had been ejected from the Huey prior to it coming through the trees. My left knee was severely damaged, and my right leg had several cuts and holes. Everyone was alive.
      I couldn't do anything more to help the injured and began to look for weapons, the SOI and the operations Map. I think they taught this either at Infantry Basic or Flight School, however all I can remember is I felt I had to do something. The NVA were all around us and we needed a defense. No doubt they were searching for us.
      The crew chief had pulled the pins and kicked his M-60 and ammo over prior to hitting the trees. I remember being really upset at him for getting rid of the M-60. But when I talked to Ned later he explained this was what he had been taught at school. In hindsight, the mount and the M-60 would of pinned him in the ship and probably killed him.
      The door gunner's M-60 and M-16' were broken. I could not get to the Colonel's Car-15, he still wasn't letting anyone near him. That left a couple of 45's, and an M-16. The SOI and survival radio was buried under Walt in the pocket of his "chicken plate" and the map was next to the Colonel. I recovered the map but before burying it I had a good quick look at it. There were several "hot spots" marked on the map that were heavy gun emplacements---the ones that we were told weren't there. Later it was confirmed we had crashed in the middle of an NVA Regiment. With a 37 mm and three 51 emplacements set up in a triangle they had to be protecting something big. We later found out it was a Division size hospital dug into the mountains (It was still there in '71 when I returned to the same AO).
      I tried to find a radio that would work. All the Colonel's PRC 25s were destroyed, except one and only its headset was working. The frequency was set to the mortar crew, and as I listened I could only hear one side of the conversation, so I don't know whom they were talking to, but they were telling them there were no survivors. I wanted to shout that we were alive!
      We carried a case of smoke and I passed a smoke to each of the crew and told them to throw a smoke in different directions as far from out helicopter as possible so as not to ignite the fuel. We threw the smokes at the same time hoping the four-duce crew would know more than one person was alive.
      We proceeded to set up what security we could. Ned said there were rounds being fired at us so he had us huddle next to a large tree. Perhaps the NVA were firing blindly hoping to get us to reveal our position with return fire. I don't remember how much time passed, or much else. Ned said the smoke hung in the trees like a trapped fog, and he heard rocket fire and AK-47's.
      Meanwhile, the Artillery Lt., a friend of Walt's, had stayed on board Larry's Huey. Larry knew the mission and the general area where we were down. He flew into the valley from the West expecting to find us on the lower valley floor.
      A mortar crew on the mountain had watched as we went in, and made their own radio calls for assistance. They had reported that we went in spinning vertical (tail up and nose down), and hit the canopy of trees cart wheeling over the top till we slowed down enough to rip through the heavy branches.
      The Casper ship piloted by CW2 Larry Kahila was in fact the first to find us and began hovering over the canopy above the jungle floor. Casper found our crash site by parts of the rotor blades on top of the tree canopy. We were on the North side of the valley on a 60 degree slope in 150 foot tall trees.
      As Larry hovered over the crash site, the Artillery Lt. said he saw three survivors. Larry couldn't see any way to get to us, plus the longer he hovered the more hits he was taking. One of the NVA 51's was above him on a hill and shooting down through his rotor blades. Others were shooting from across the valley. They were also receiving small arms fire from beneath and not far from where the crash site was.
      Casper started drawing fire from the jungle floor, and from the same positions that had hit us. Their chopper was taking too many hits to stay on scene much longer. When Larry felt the pedals go stiff he had to either leave or join us. He radioed LZ Uplift and told them there were survivors seen moving around, and the recovery operation was now a rescue operation. With problems of his own he had no choice but to depart immediately.
      You know your buddies are trying to get to you, but there is an unspoken fear they won't make it in time. We had gone from the noise of a crashing Huey through jungle canopies to near total silence in a few seconds. Then to the bark of a radio we feared was announcing our location to the world . . . and now the growing chatter of enemy firearms and AA at Hueys circling overhead. What else could happen?
      I was suddenly surprised by a Ghostrider chopper hovering at tree top level seemingly trying to find a way down to us. There was an old bomb crater about 50 feet down slope from our crash site that had cut a well hole through the forest, but was quickly being reclaimed by the jungle. The Ghostrider began descending through the new growth cutting its way through tree limbs and vines with its rotor blades! You can't imagine the racket of a rotating blade cracking home runs through vines and canopy limbs unless you are beneath it, while trying not to get speared by flying shards, splinters and limbs.
      I still clutched the one-way radio and knew the importance to tell someone above that we needed equipment to free Walt. I told the door gunner to get in the Huey. He was beginning to feel his wounds and said he couldn't make it. The Crew chief was in bad shape and didn't think he could make it either.
      The Huey seemed to be hovering forever, descending slowly constantly adding to the shrapnel of cut branches. They must of thought we were nuts as none of us were moving toward their ship.
      The rescue Huey could not get down through the limbs to land. They had descended near the bomb crater and no further. Their crew chief began waving for us to come to their position. He gestured toward a broken limb laying across the bomb crater, wanting us to use it as a plank to get in. With what appeared to be no other choice I went, knowing I could tell them first hand about rescue equipment needed for Walt. I crawled out on the tree that laid across the crater. I could not hear anymore firing due to the Huey's engines.
      The crew chief hooked his seat belts together making a rope and dangled it so I could climb up to the skids. As I reached the skids, Ned joined me. The crew chief told me the hovering Huey was taking small arms hits the whole time they were hovering and waiting for us. The Ghostrider held his position as if he had all the time in the world. The AC of that ship was an CW2 Don Wittke, with the 189th Ghost riders, and the ship's tail number was 71.
      By now gun ships from the Avengers were in a frenzy above trying to search out targets. The Colonel, Walt, and John were still at the wreckage as we began lifting up through the well of darkness toward blue sky. I told the AC we needed cutting tools and a fireman to get the pilot out. He made the radio call as we headed to Phu Cat, starting the Air Force response.
      The Major told me he had been crossing An Khe Pass and, heard our May Day, knew the area, so came to see if he could be of some help. He had heard a May Day call about a bird strike, I am sure the green birds of flak and tracers he ran into really surprised him. Strikes from 51's had hit his ship on its way in and out from the rescue.
      The 61st slicks and guns were 10 minutes behind us with the first lift, and were able to get troops on the ground to provide security, and get seriously wounded John and the Colonel out. Walt would have to wait for heavier rescue equipment.
      Some time during the rescue operation "Red Baron" took over the Command and Control of the rescue operation. Casper operations, hearing one of their ships was down and that a pilot was trapped, sent an additional ship with the Flight Surgeon, himself, and another crew chief to the crash site. They could not find a place to land near the crash site so the pilot dropped them off in a bamboo thicket at the bottom of the hill leaving the three of

them to find their way up the slope. They used a visible trail, and when stopping to rest could hear all sorts of movement in the jungle.
      At the crash site the medical team found the 173rd had already secured the crash site and everyone except AC CW2 Walt Henderson had been evacuated. They tried to get him free, but did not have the right equipment. The doctor gave Walt shots of Morphine, but could not get any closer to his wounds to help.
      It was getting dark and the flight surgeon said they couldn't stay and to get Walt out they were going to amputate his legs. Fortunately, an Air Force recovery Sergeant had the required cutting tools and went to work freeing Walt. In a matter of minutes they had him in a stretcher. Walt and the others were lifted into the Pedro and flown directly to Qui Nhon.

Since the rescue, we have tried to find out as much information as possible. We were told that it was strongly recommended to the flight surgeon at the crash site, by Gen. Allen commanding 173rd ABN, that he should not come in after Walt. The flight surgeon not only knew and was a friend to all the pilots and crews, but had the integrity to stand by his own decision to do what at the time he knew had to be done, before the Air Force recovery Sergeant arrived.

Stars & Stripes had an article on their front page saying the Air Force was calling this the largest air rescue operation of the war (Before Bat 21). According to the Air Force three Pedro helicopters rigged for rescue of down crews were dispatched from Phu Cat air base. They were turned back by heavy antiaircraft fire, with two Pedros' being damaged and returning to Phu Cat. F-100's were sent out from Phu Cat, and along with Army gun ships suppressed the fire so the Pedros' were able to get to the downed crew.

 

The Air Force Tech. Specialist who repelled in with cutting tools designed to cut out trapped aircrew, was credited by Stars & Stripes for freeing Walt. My E-mail communication with the Tech. Specialist from Casper, who came in to help, confirms everything the paper said about the Air Force Sergeant. I also found out from Larry Kahila that the pilot from the first Pedro that was shot up and had to return to Phu Cat, and also flew the third Pedro that

finally was able to reach the crash site.

We don't know if this was the largest air rescue, because there were many other rescue efforts by aircrews from all branches to get their downed crews out. We do know there was a great deal of effort and commitment by everyone in getting us all out, and the crew of 721 would like to find and thank all those involved.

Our search continues so if anyone knows the whereabouts of our door gunner John Steen, the pilots and crew from the Pedros, from the Ghostriders and Avengers, the Air Force fireman Robert Rager, the Flight Surgeon from the 173rd, Bill Dyer, or the crew chief that came in with the Flight Surgeon, let us know. We would even like to talk with the Battalion Commander 1/503rd, there still are some questions we would like answers to.

      It wasn't till this year when Walt and I met, that he found out about an investigation by the 173rd looking to fault Walt. The investigation at the time believed Walt had flown into our own artillery. The rounds and shrapnel in the ship and crew members stopped any further efforts in that direction. The cease-fire orders from the FO had stopped any artillery action and no friendly rounds were ever fired.

by: Cliff White
(Copyright ? 1998)

Forget Me Not

I am a Vietnam Veteran.

I was there, with these men of The Wall.

I am with them now.

Their names are here---come and see!

   Read the dappled letters . . .

   touch the lights once bright.

Have you shared a tear with

     who they loved . . .

     or the memory of when you heard,

     the night you cried, and

     times you wondered why?

Have you even remembered

This host of granite names so

     fleeting in hearts and minds---

     Who they were . . . 

         Who they touched . . .

             Who they touch today?

Does it even matter they lived

   Or died

   Or cried a friend to heaven?

   Or will you forget---

      would you if you could?

Blood spilt on Vietnam's soil---

   in pain

      in rain

         in glory

      in vain---

   still reaps the land today.

I am a Vietnam Veteran.

I was there, with these men of The Wall

I am with them now.