When he joined CAP the first time, Compton was in his early 20s. It was during World War II, when German submarines were effortlessly picking off American cargo and transport ships. As a volunteer member of the fledgling CAP — established 1 Dec 41, and originally called the Coastal Patrol — Compton flew missions on numerous aircraft, including a Stinson and Grumman G44 A.

During WWII, the presence of CAP aircraft discouraged enemy submarines from surfacing to recharge their batteries, forcing them out to sea. Those that were spotted were reported by CAP to the military for action, though members of the organization — which was eventually allowed to carry ordnance — were credited with sinking two German U-boats.

CAP’s WWII service also included towing targets for military shooting practice, transporting critical supplies within the country and conducting general aerial reconnaissance. Compton played a key role in accomplishing these missions.

The Distinguished Service Medal is CAP’s highest award for service and is bestowed for “conspicuous performance of outstanding service in a duty of great responsibility where the position held and results obtained reflect upon the accomplishments and prestige of CAP on a national scale.” Compton earned his recognition for his service at CAP Coastal Patrol Base 1 in Atlantic City, NJ. The use of CAP personnel during WWII literally depended on the success of this base, which was given a 90-day trial.

Compton left two Chicago jobs — one as an advertising salesman for the Daily News and one working in a plant that manufactured aircraft parts — to go to the East Coast as a CAP citizen volunteer based, he said, on “a desire to be more actively engaged in the war effort.” There he was part of the flight staff, serving on missions to search for German submarines and providing escorts for American convoys as they sailed along the Eastern seaboard.
The duty was dangerous, Compton recalled. “There was nothing like GPS,” he said, and members used partially sunken American merchant ships, which were plentiful, as a navigational tool.

He showed his great sense of humor when he related CAP aircrews’ struggles to discern between enemy submarines and whales to avoid any ridicule for attacking marine life. And he told about dangerous night duty on base when someone patrolling the perimeter encountered a sentry. “Both you and the sentry needed to know the correct password, or it would mean a ‘tense moment’,” he said.

Compton, who at one time commanded CAP squadrons in both Evanston and Morton Grove, IL, was honored at a ceremony on 18 June, organized by the Illinois Wing’s Palwaukee Composite Squadron and held at the Presbyterian Home where Compton resides. In addition to the entire membership, including a cadet color guard and honor guard, of the Palwaukee squadron, which “adopted” Compton, other guests included Ann Compton, Compton’s daughter and White House correspondent for ABC News; Sen. Mark Kirk (R-IL), Rep. Jan Schakowsky (D-IL), the Rev. Jill Paulson, granddaughter of Gill Robb Wilson, who is credited with founding CAP; and CAP’s national commander, Maj. Gen. Amy S. Courter, and national vice commander, Brig. Gen. Charles Carr.

Compton is one of some 60,000 unsung heroes who volunteered through CAP during its early years to protect the American homeland.

On 20 August 1969, I was a U.S. Army captain assigned to the 236th Medical Detachment (Helicopter Am-bulance) in Da Nang, South Viet Nam as operations officer and a medical evacuation pilot. Our mission en-tailed evacuating wounded and dead Americans, South Korean, South Vietnamese, Australian allies, Vietnamese civilians and, often, enemy soldiers to aid stations and hospitals in our 5,000-square-mile operational area.

From 20-22 August, I had assigned myself as copilot to a field-site crew of four at Landing Zone (LZ) Baldy, approximately 25 miles south of Da Nang. Warrant Officer 1 William A. (Wild Bill) Statt was the aircraft commander, SP5 John N. Seebeth was our medic and SP5 Paul L. Sumrall was the crew chief. I’d barely been in Viet Nam a month, and in our unit for two weeks as a rookie pilot.

What we weren’t aware of was that we were about to be shoved into the middle of a major battle involving four regiments of the U.S. Army’s 196th Light Infantry Brigade, two battalions of the U.S. 7th Marines and batteries of the U.S. 82nd Artillery that provided fire support from four firebases. These Americans were fac-ing 1,500 Communist troops.*

Insecure missions
In those 2 1/2 days of devastating action, our crew evacuated 150 wounded Americans from the Que Son Val-ley on 42 missions, 15 of which were “insecure.” This meant that our ground troops couldn’t guarantee the safety of the LZ because the enemy was in contact and too close, or friendlies were low on ammunition and couldn’t provide appropriate covering fire. On a majority of these insecure missions, helicopter gunships were unavailable to cover our unarmed aircraft because there was too much action requiring their services in other parts of this battleground. So our only alternative was to take our chances and go in alone because most of the wounded wouldn’t have survived if we waited for gunships to arrive.

During late morning of 21 August, our UH-1H (Huey) was shot up by enemy AK-47 rifle fire while exiting another insecure LZ. One of our three patients was wounded for the second time. A burst of enemy fire ripped into a can of oil our crew chief kept under my armored seat, spraying it over my Nomex fire-retardant flight pants. Another round locked me in my shoulder harness when it clipped a wire on the unlocking device attached to the left side of my seat. After depositing our patients at the battalion aid station at LZ Baldy, a replacement bird and a different crew chief were flown down from Phu Bai (a medevac unit north of Da Nang) for our use.

Less than 24 hours later, we were shot up for the second time on another insecure mission. This one involved evacuating an infantry staff sergeant who’d been shot in the back. Seebeth was wounded in the throat as we made our hot-and-hairy tactical approach into the LZ. An AK-47 round tore out his larynx before we’d even landed. As we exited the LZ with our original patient, who’d been literally thrown aboard by two of his comrades under heavy enemy fire, two of our three radios were also shot out.

In the aid station at LZ Baldy, Seebeth kept mouthing the words, “I can’t breathe” as he kicked his legs in frustration. I held his legs and attempted to calm him while Captain George Waters, M.D., performed a tracheotomy without anesthesia. The wound had swollen so fast that it was cutting off his oxygen. Time couldn’t be wasted being concerned about alleviating his pain. Doc Waters immediately initiated an incision. Mercifully, Seebeth quickly lapsed from shock into unconsciousness.

John survived, but endured 12 follow-up operations since then… one of which gave him back a voice. But it’s not the same voice we’d known and grown to love as he provided emergency medical care to thousands of his patients; instead his voice is produced by a plastic Montgomery T-tube that’s inserted into his tracheotomy opening and, when he wants to talk, he must plug an opening on one end with a finger to force air through his mouth.

Crossing paths
Since that first paragraph of Rocky Bleier’s story in 2001 had caught my attention, I decided to do some re-search. I’d heard that Bleier had written an autobiography, “Fighting Back” (with Terry O’Neil). In it, he’d written about his early life, the fact that he’d been drafted into the U.S. Army in 1968 and details concerning his subsequent service in Viet Nam in 1969 where he was severely wounded in both legs. He also provided an inspiring story of how he overcame his wounds and recovered the use of his right foot, which doctors had at one point thought would have to be amputated. This ultimately led to Bleier being a part of four winning National Football League (NFL) Super Bowls as a starting running back with the Pittsburgh Steelers in 1974, 1975, 1978 and 1979.

Both the 1975 and revised/updated 1995 editions of Bleier’s autobiography were out of print, so I contacted an out-of-print book dealer who was able to acquire a copy of the 1975 edition. I sat down to read the entire book as soon as it arrived in 2002.

Before beginning the first chapter, I glanced at the contents and Chapter 7, titled “August 20, 1969,” quickly caught my eye. This is when things became interesting and nearly unbelievable.

On 20 August, Bleier was an M-79 grenadier with the 196th Light Infantry Brigade of the Americal Division. He was wounded twice on that Wednesday near Million Dollar Hill (which gained its name and fame because a million dollars worth of American helicopters were shot down there in one day) that was located east of the infamous village of Hiep Duc. His book described in detail how a “Dust Off” medevac helicopter had pre-viously completed two missions to their location that night evacuating other wounded Company C members. Bleier was next to the last patient crammed into the cargo compartment on this third and final flight to be evacuated to LZ Baldy at 0200 on 21 August. That’s when it hit me.

I went to my military files and pulled out my combat flight records. Then I retrieved a citation for the Distinguished Flying Cross that our entire crew had been awarded for those traumatic 2 1/2 days. Everything fit. Our unit’s lone field-site was at LZ Baldy and I only assigned one flight crew there at a time. Hiep Duc and Million Dollar Hill were in our area of operations. That’s when I recalled our crew landing on the same hilltop three times in one night during that period of time. We were obviously the crew that had evacuated Bleier and his other wounded infantry comrades from that ambush site during this chaotic night.

Ernest Hemingway wrote, “The world (and also combat) breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” Perhaps this is what happened to Rocky Bleier, our flight crew and so many others in Viet Nam. Adversity has a way of introducing you to yourself.

Empathy & guilt
As soldiers, especially medevac crews, doctors, nurses and medics, we were all our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers… and still are to this day on different battlefronts. It was a fact that many of our brothers needed evacuation and immediate medical care during that horrific August 1969 night on Million Dollar Hill in Viet Nam. I’ll always be grateful that our crew was there and able to assist those courageous American warriors.

On this Memorial Day, I’m again reminded of how war changes veterans’ lives forever in painful ways. Those who’ve experienced combat’s physical and psychological pressure cooker know it can be like swimming with piranhas, great white sharks and moray eels in a sea of blood. Surviving in such an atmosphere is often as easy as attempting to perform disappearing magic tricks in front of a firing squad.

When we veterans returned home, and so many of our friends and comrades didn’t, nagging doubts had the ability to creep into our minds about whether we really accomplished everything that we could have done. Survivor’s guilt can overwhelm a combat veteran with an emotional tsunami just because he or she is still alive.

In my own case, I know how it feels to make a judgment error that cost a South Vietnamese lieutenant colonel with seven children his life. My crew could have saved him but, as aircraft commander, I failed to recognize the danger he was in quickly enough. Forget those other 986 missions that ended successfully. That particular incident continues to wend its way through my thoughts almost daily. I finally forgave myself for this personal blunder, many years later, but the survivor’s guilt I internalized for so long etched this mistake deep into my conscience. How quickly and easily war can destroy lives. Just the blink of an eye and their lights are extinguished forever.

A persistent voice in the back of my mind used to whisper a disturbing thought. Why did you survive when so many others didn’t? I don’t know the answer to that question and may never know in this lifetime. That’s one of the reasons I became a writer. I’ve made it a personal goal to ensure that the legacies of courage, duty and dedicated service our military members have provided through over 235 years as a nation don’t die and aren’t swept into the dustbin of history.

Honor
I celebrate my combat survival, and over 27 years of military service on three continents that began at the age of 17, by writing and publishing the truth about the heroism and sacrifices of military personnel that I’ve witnessed. That’s because it’s important to honor all veterans — dead and alive — who’ve served America in time of both war and peace.

Some of our fellow citizens, journalists, college professors and politicians apparently lack understanding about our warrior culture. They often fail to fully appreciate its deep loyalty to comrades, Ramboesque competitive nature, periodic paranoia (generated mostly by reality) and profound sense of service. I feel obligated to help educate them, whenever possible, about this magnificent “band of brothers and sisters.”

A day seldom passes when I don’t recall bloody scenes of young men sprawled on our cargo deck, most whom were barely out of high school, and how they were cut down defending the freedoms of others before their own lives had barely begun. I think of all the milestones they never reached such as graduation from college, marriage, children… and old age with the rest of us. Remembering is a continuous act. I don’t need Memorial Day to remind me. Every day is Memorial Day in my world.

August 20, 1969 was merely another dangerous and dramatic day for so many in our country’s history of sacrifice and service on behalf of others. But it taught me an important lesson. We never know whom our actions might impact in this life or who might touch and influence us in return. And each time Memorial Day rolls around, we can benefit ourselves and others by celebrating, acknowledging and never forgetting those who gave — and are still giving — their all in the fight for freedom around this planet. We forget their strength, courage and dedication at our nation’s peril. Honoring their memories, missions and meritorious achievements is the least we can do for them, now and forever.

*Nolan, Keith, “Hiep Duc ‘Death Valley,’” VFW, (August 2008), p. 39.

I had gone to Italy on a troop ship from Newport News, VA, departing in July 1944, and arriving at Naples, Italy, a couple of weeks later. Mooring in Naples gave the thousands of replacements aboard their first sight of the wreckage caused by war. Our troop ship tied up to a big ship that was on its side, and we off-boarded onto the side of that ship going to the dock. We were marched to a railroad where we boarded a 40-and-8 boxcar that took us on a short ride to Caserta. From there we were marched to a huge replacement camp; it had been Count Ciano’s dairy farm.

The dairy farm was a new kind of camp for us as there were few structures and some big tents. We were broken up into groups and told to pitch pup tents along a line after making a dirt form to keep rain from seeping into the tents. Two to a tent was the drill, and I partnered with a nice fellow I’d met on the ship. This is where we were to sleep and live until we were shipped further. There were mess tents nearby, and each of them fed about 1,000 men.

The food was passable, but the lines took a lot of the day, and so did the lines for cleaning our mess kits.

This camp was made to accommodate replacements for a short period of time, but the invasion of southern France was to take place in August, and it was expected that many replacements would be needed. Alas, it was an easy invasion with few casualties, so few of us were needed in France. Instead, the 5th Army in northern Italy had plenty of casualties, so that was our destination.

A new job
One day I saw a “cook” from our mess packing to leave. I asked him about it, and he said he was going north. I ran over to the mess tent, and volunteered to take his place. The mess sergeant asked me about my skills and I somehow managed to get the job. Although it meant starting at 0400, and working till 2200 or 2300, every third day I could get a pass to Naples. I did my best — which was good enough as there was very little real cooking, mostly a lot of hard pumping to make the gas stoves work.

Heading out
I stayed there until the end of September when I was called to pack and board a boxcar; it took us two days to get to Florence. On the way, two fellows were killed — one was on the roof of a boxcar when we got to a tunnel; the other fell between two cars. It was a slow trip, with lots of pauses near farms with wine for sale. Once we got to Florence we were housed in a pleasant camp with wood-framed pyramid tents, but I was only there a few days.

The next trip was a 6×6 ride up Highway 65, which took me to the 88th Division HQ. We spent one night there dug in on a hill. We had been warned of possible shellfire, and thought it was just a joke on us green doggies. It wasn’t, and several of our new replacements were hit. We had another C ration meal, and then were split up and taken to our new units.

A few of us ended up with the 2nd platoon of H Company of the 350th Infantry Regiment. I was a heavy machine gunner, and this platoon was supposed to have four squads with these water-cooled guns. However, the battalion had just been relieved after a very costly battle for Mount Battaglia in which the battalion was awarded a Presidential Unit Citation, and the CO of G Company received a Medal of Honor. There were not too many survivors, and the ones there were not a happy crew. Sergeant Mazzarella questioned me, and when he heard that I had 16 months on these guns, he appointed me a gunner. I did not quite realize why the survivors did not want the gunner’s job, but they knew the score all too well. Sergeant Mazzarella left that day as he was to be commissioned, and Sergeant Forbes took over.

My replacement days were over all too soon. We got into several scraps in which quite a few of those who had come up with me went back over the pack saddles of mules. Their experiences in combat were short and deadly. A good measure of the KIA/MIA rate was the fact that I was promoted 10 days after I arrived with my platoon.

Through October until the war in Italy ended, we had a steady stream of replacements. We called many of them Camp Blanding Commandos, having only 16 weeks training at Camp Blanding in Florida. The assignment of junior officers was even worse; they were given patrols before they knew where they were.

Winding up
I’ll end with the tale of my brother Joe, who was assigned to the 80th Division during the Battle of the Bulge. After just 13 hours with his outfit he was taken back to an ambulance and spent the rest of the war in a hospital. He survived with a 45% disability.

It is worth noting that the Army Specialized Training Program was broken up in the winter of 1944-45, and those poor ex-students, about 145,000 of them, were fed into the replacement system whether they were reasonably trained or not. That is a story unto itself.

His tank battalion was a separate outfit in General George S. Patton’s 3rd Army, operating most of the time with the 90th Infantry Division. “The 712th is my spearhead,” once remarked Division Commander, General James Van Fleet.

His tank section had taken over the lead when the other section got stuck in the mud off the main dirt road into the French town of St. Suzanne in early August 1944. They had experienced some resistance in that area.

Tank Platoon Sergeant Warren B. Willinger was positioned in the open top hatch of Sparks’ tank with a clear view of the road ahead. Suddenly a German Panzerfaust rocket launcher fired an anti-tank rocket from high up on a ridge over the road. The rocket killed him as it entered the open hatch and exploded inside.

The beginning
Sparks grew up in Abilene, KS, where his father worked for a telephone company, moving to Modesto, CA, in 1937. He registered for the draft at the age of 23, a few months before Pearl Harbor, and had been classified 1-A. He was working in a wholesale grocery business in Modesto at the time. He received his draft notice in January 1942 and was ordered to the Presidio of Monterey for induction. His advanced training was at Fort Riley, KS, where he learned how to ride a horse and take care of it. “We all carried broom sticks in those early days as there was a shortage of rifles at the time,” he remembered with a laugh.

Private Sparks was not too happy doing the scoop-shovel work around the horse barn. “I could think of a whole lot of other things I would rather be doing,” was how he put it. His assignment with the horses didn’t last too long however.

The Army became mechanized in 1942 and, with that horse training experience, the new soldier ended up in an “iron horse” of the 712th Tank Battalion that had formed up at Fort Benning, GA. The unit left for England after extensive training in the States.

In the Army
“I was a gunner at first and later became a driver,” he said. “We had five men in the crew and were equipped with M-4 Sherman tanks with short-barreled 75-millimeter guns. The muzzle velocity was so slow that the projectiles in flight were visi-ble from a position standing directly behind the tank.”

The German tanks had a real edge against the American tanks with their long-barreled 88-millimeter, high-velocity guns. They also used that multi-purpose round in field artillery guns and anti-aircraft guns. The 75mm guns in the Sherman tanks were no match for the German 88s

Sparks lost his second tank in the fighting around St. Suzanne, France; he was awarded a Silver Star for his actions in that battle. When an anti-tank rocket fired from a hill above them entered the open top hatch, the molten slag produced by the rocket’s impact splattered around inside the tank, started a fire and welded the gun-breech closed. Sparks immediately turned on the tank’s fire extinguishing system and put out the fire. After he removed the wounded crewmen, he went back into the tank and moved it off the road to allow the rest of his battalion to continue into town.

A few days later he and another crewmember trucked back to an ordnance outfit to pick up another tank. The first tanks they saw had new long-barreled 76mm, high-velocity guns.

“You can’t have one of those as they are all going to another unit. You can go over to the other tank park and pick out one of those older ones we have fixed up,” said the ordnanceman.

The two tankers went to the other site, took a look at those old patched up “coffins,” and both agreed, “To hell with that,” and left without a tank. They went back and reported what they had seen to their company commander and some time later the 712th got the newer tanks with the 76mm guns.

The end of the war
They were in Suscice, Czechoslovakia, when the war ended and then relocated to Amberg, Germany, for rest and maintenance of their equipment. There he received his Silver Star — pinned on personally by Maj. Gen. James Van Fleet, 90th Infantry Division Commander — before leaving with the others for the States.

Sparks never received a copy of his Silver Star citation for that August 1944 incident; the Military Records Department in Washington, DC, searched for his citation in the 712th Tank Battalion records but found nothing. In 2004, Lloyd asked California Congressman Dennis Cardoza to have Washington check the records of the 90th Division for his citation and there it was found! Sparks received a nicely bound copy of the citation in June 2004, arriving just two months short of 60 years after he was awarded it in 1944 when the world was still at war.

It read: “For gallantry in action on 7 August 1944 in the vicinity of St. Suzanne, France. The tank which Technician Fourth Grade Sparks was driving was set ablaze by a hostile bazooka round. Technician Fourth Grade Sparks immediately crawled onto the back deck and operated the armored vehicle’s fire extinguishing mechanism. He then went back into the smoking turret and removed a wounded comrade from the tank. Despite intense machine gun fire directed at him, he carried the casualty 500 yards to an aid station. Returning over the fire-swept route, he evacuated another wounded crewmember. On his third return, he located the hostile machine gun position for the infantry commander to effect the speedy elimination of the strong point. The gallantry dis-played by Technician Fourth Grade Sparks was in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflects great credit on himself, the 712th Tank Battalion, and the Army of the United States.”

The veteran tanker remarked, “I still have a copy of the history book from our battalion and the one from the 90th Division. I also have Gen. Patton’s ‘Prayer Card’ with my name printed on it.”

Lloyd was discharged in October 1945, went back to Modesto and got his old job back. In 1962 he began working for the California Department of Transportation, retiring in 1980. He presently hangs out at the Merced Senior Community Center (Merced, CA) and shoots a “mean” game of pool.

Bedcheck Charlie had been raiding before the cease-fire finally stopped him. When Charlie flew his single-prop plane at night over Radio Company, the men scrambled out of the huts with their weapons and jumped into foxholes and bunkers around the compound, some manning machine guns. The enemy aviator lobbed grenades in the pitch darkness, hoping to hit men and equipment, his vision impeded by searchlights from the ground. Most of his grenades managed to plow up the rice paddies.

Operation BIG SWITCH
Bruce Bottum was our radio-teletype operator who relayed the progress of the armistice negotiations from Panmunjom to Tokyo, before and during the signing in July. In August he was at Munsan-ni, reporting on Operation Big Switch, the major prisoner exchange. (There would be POW exchanges into 1954.)

These POW exchanges were contentious, to put it gently. As the Chinese and North Korean prisoners approached the exchange area on trucks, they stripped down to their shorts in protest against their American-made clothing and shouted “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” incessantly, waving small North Korean flags. With fists they broke the windows of the train that would take them back to North Korea, intentionally making their hands bleed on the broken glass.

With their blood they wrote defaming slogans on the sides of the train against the Americans.

Bruce was a witness to this exhibit of fanaticism and rage. One of the American prisoners was a high school acquaintance of his, a downed fighter pilot who was purportedly tied to a tree and had cold water thrown on him in the freezing cold of winter.

Our mission
The mission of the 304th Signal Battalion (headquartered in Seoul) was to supply the 8th Army with radio, wire, photo and crypto support.
Our company, on the site of a WWII Japanese radio station, was the radio-teletype arm of 304th Signal. We slept in Japanese-built wood-and-cement huts and, outside the compound, was a minefield — and lots of raggedy kids, dust, mud, and stink. Originally, Radio Company was in a palace in Seoul, but a fire there in 1951 made it move to Bupyeong. I was assigned to the radio repair shop. My MOS of 1649 (Fixed Station Radio Repairman) was of little use in dealing with the mobile equipment I found.

Our mainstay was the AN/GRC-26, dubbed the “Angry 26.” These walk-in radio-teletype/voice rigs were mounted on deuce-and-a-halves for quick deployment. Radio electronics were based on vacuum tubes. Bristling with antenna posts, our company would have been an easy target from the air, had the Chinese and North Koreans not been pinned down by our forces.

War’s heartbreaks
The heartbreaks of the war must include the plight of the war orphans. Like other units in Korea, Radio Company hosted an orphanage, where the children had food, clothing, a place to live, and as much cheer as we could provide — like Christmas parties in our mess hail.

I am proud to have participated in the rescue of South Korea from the Communists, whose ferocity and determination to deliver South Korea to Kim Il Sung caused enough bloodshed and suffering to still spring tears among those who remember. But after everything is said and done, we must dwell on the importance of our action in Korea.

This is best summarized, I think, in the words of a label for the Korean War that I recently came across: “The substitute for World War III.” I think we can all be proud of the stunning result for the people of the Republic of Korea.

It was 2 March 1991, and the ground war with Iraq had supposedly ended at sunrise on 28 February with a U.S. declared cease-fire. The preceding week had happened at breakneck speed. Under the command of Lt. Colonel John Craddock, Task Force TUSKER, a tank battalion of the 24th Infantry Division, had charged across the Iraqi border on 24 February, raced nonstop for 36 hours as part of the HAIL MARY, and attacked into the Euphrates River Valley. Despite an attack through the Republican Guard’s 26th Commando Brigade, as well as a night attack into a logistics depot, only three soldiers had been wounded, one seriously.

The task force was a task-organized tank battalion, 4th Battalion, 64th Armor Regiment. They consisted of two M1A1 Abrams tank companies, two M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle-equipped infantry companies, an engineer company and a headquarters company.

As part of First Brigade, the TUSKERS stood quietly astride Highway 8, just east of the Rumaila oil fields, blocking the retreat of the Iraqi Army.
First Brigade, commanded by Colonel John LeMoyne, was arrayed with two infantry battalions defending forward and Task Force TUSKER in reserve behind them. The remains of the Republican Guard, bottled up in the Basra pocket, were probing the American lines along Highway 8 looking for a way out to Baghdad. Throughout the evening scout elements had reported the movement of vehicles with their lights on. The Division’s Air Cavalry Squadron confirmed the northward movement of over 200 trucks across the Hawr al Hammar causeway, a 2½-mile bridge that crossed a tributary lake of the Euphrates River. It had just been repaired by the Iraqis the evening before.

Shots fired
At 0700 hours an armored convoy of T-72s and BMPs from the Hammurabi Division ran into the scouts of 2nd Battalion, 7th Infantry and opened fire. After a brief exchange of shots, the scouts overran an Iraqi dismounted RPG team but then reached their limit of advance. Lt. Col. Ware, the 2-7 Infantry commander, ordered his companies forward to return the fire. His tank company, commanded by Capt. Russ Shumway, opened fire from 2,000 meters, destroying approximately 20 vehicles. The stunned Iraqi column turned north trying to work their way across the Euphrates River. The Hammurabi Division, which had remained relatively unscathed throughout the war, was attempting their escape. Ware’s battalion waited in frustration for per-mission to advance as they watched the convoy slip away. Several long columns of armored and light-skinned vehicles were now moving north across the causeway toward Baghdad and freedom.

Escape would not be so easy. The rules of the U.S. declared cease-fire allowed the Americans to return fire when fired upon. The Iraqis were about to get more than they had bargained for. Major General Barry McCaffrey, the 24th Infantry Division Commander, approved a counter-attack by First Brigade. While the brigade prepared to attack, 1st Bn., 24th Aviation Reg., the division’s AH-64 Apache attack helicopter squadron, was placed under the operational control of LeMoyne. LeMoyne would use the helicopters as well as artillery delivered minefields to stop the convoy. He would then attack with Task Force TUSKER to finish the job.

At 0830 hours the Apache helicopters, commanded by Lt. Col. Thomas Stewart, passed over the waiting TUSKERS heading for the Iraqis. Meanwhile the artillery fired scatterable munitions onto the causeway creating instant minefields slowing the Iraqis’ movement. Bumper to bumper the Iraqis were lined up in a deadly traffic jam extending over seven miles. LeMoyne instructed the Apaches to fire in front of the lead vehicle to stop the convoy. The warning shots had no effect — the vehicles kept moving. The Apaches then destroyed the lead vehicle but the Iraqis simply pushed it into the water and continued their escape. LeMoyne then issued the order to destroy the convoy. During the next hour the helicopters fired 107 Hellfire missiles and countless rounds of 30mm cannon fire. With munitions expended and fuel low, the helicopters pulled off station leaving over 120 burning vehicles in their wake.

Attack positions
At 1015 hours the TUSKERS were ordered forward to an attack position just behind 2-7 Infantry. Craddock moved his battal-ion in a box formation with the two tank company teams on the front corners of the box and two mechanized infantry teams on the rear corners. The tank teams, Teams ANVIL and COBRA, each consisted of 10 M1A1 Abrams tanks and four M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicles; the mech teams, Teams ALL BEEF and CHARLIE MIKE, were a mix of 10 Bradleys and four Abrams. The formation stopped in place upon reaching the attack position and waited for the order to attack. At 1045 the order came and the TUSKERS sprang forward.

On the front left and right corners of the attack formation were COBRA and ANVIL tank teams commanded by Captains Todd Mayer and Bob Roth respectively. From the turret of his tank Roth surveyed the 14 combat vehicles of his company. They were in a wedge formation with a tank platoon in the front center, a Bradley platoon on the left trail, and another tank platoon on the right trail. Roth had not lost a soldier nor vehicle and he was determined to keep it that way.

As the juggernaut of 30 tanks and 29 Bradleys roared toward the Iraqis, the open, flat desert gave way to a marshy oil field crisscrossed with pipelines. The heavy, armored vehicles were forced to abandon their dispersed formations and line up in staggered columns on the roads. As they entered the peninsula, the terrain forced the entire unit through a single intersection less than a mile from the Iraqi vehicles.

Beyond the chokepoint, the road system branched into three parallel roads leading north to the Iraqis. The companies broke through the bottleneck and split onto these three routes. Team COBRA went up the left side. ANVIL and a mechanized infantry team, CHARLIE MIKE, went up the center and the other mech team, Team ALL BEEF, advanced up the right side. There was no way out — the Iraqis were trapped.

As Team ANVIL cleared the chokepoint Roth looked forward at the great billows of smoke just over the horizon. The Apaches and artillery had done a job on the Iraqis in front of them. His column plowed forward on a road raised about four feet above the surrounding mud flats. He could see several Iraqi trucks and a BMP stopped at odd angles on the road in front of them. Roth’s lead platoon of tanks, under the command of Lt. Robert Andrews, opened fire on the derelict vehicles. The BMP burst into flames and a truck that was hit exploded with a deafening roar.

As 2nd Platoon passed the burning BMP, Andrews realized that they had missed a truck. He ordered the last tank in the platoon to destroy the unscathed vehicle. As the coaxial machine gun rounds struck the truck, it exploded and immediately set off a second tremendous explosion in a truck adjacent to another platoon tank. Roth watched incredulously as 2nd Platoon vanished amid the smoke and fire.

Sit Rep
Craddock, who was moving behind Team ANVIL, immediately requested a situation report. One of 2nd Platoon’s tanks, A-22, had caught fire when burning debris fell through the hatches. The internal fire extinguishers had failed to quell the flames. Sergeant Lyle Stola, the tank commander of A-22, ordered the crew to abandon her when it became apparent that they could not stop the fire. The tank ammunition inside was highly volatile if exposed to flame. Stunned and bleeding, the crew took cover in the mud next to the road as ammunition continued to explode on the truck. The rest of the platoon tried to extinguish the flames with hand-held fire extinguishers but in vain. Sergeant Stola and his crew watched sullenly as their proud steed burned.

After ordering his soldiers to leave the trucks to the engineers, Roth then ordered the final destruction of A-22. The ammunition bay doors protected the classified main gun rounds from destruction by the flames in the turret. With all hope of saving the tank gone, the rounds had to perish with the rest of the vehicle. Lt. Kirk Dorr of 3rd Platoon received the grim task of finishing the job. As in the days of the plains cavalry, the injured mount had to be put out of its misery. Dorr fired two main gun sabot rounds through the rear of the turret penetrating the bay doors and exposing the rounds to the inferno within. The company rolled solemnly by the dying Abrams. Despite his best efforts, Roth had lost a tank, not to enemy fire, but to a secondary explosion. He thanked God that the crew was all right.

ANVIL and COBRA teams systematically destroyed the Iraqi tanks and infantry fighting vehicles as they moved north. The trucks were being left for the engineers to blow up later once the area was secure. It was a turkey shoot as the tanks and Bradleys fired round after round into the abandoned vehicles, many of them with their engines still running.

By 1500 hours the companies had reached the north end of the peninsula and the beginning of the causeway. The snarl of abandoned vehicles coupled with the U.S. artillery-delivered minefields made it impossible to proceed any farther mounted. The companies began the task of gathering any remaining prisoners and collecting the Iraqi dead for burial.

Iraqis defeated
Roth climbed down from his tank onto the road overlooking the lake and causeway. As far as he could see, the causeway was littered with burned and abandoned Iraqi vehicles. The shattered remnants of the doomed Hammurabi Division convoy extended for miles. Roth’s gaze fell to the ground in front of him and he hesitated. In the mud were the bare footprints left by hundreds of Iraqis as they fled east towards Basra. The Iraqis had not fought here. They had run from the onslaught of Apaches, the deluge of artillery, and the thundering charge of the tanks. In the same area where civilization had begun — on the banks of the Euphrates — the Iraqis had been soundly defeated and the ground war had ended.

The battle at Rumaila had not been without significance. The destruction of the Iraqi column played heavily in the surrender talks at Safwan the next day. As McCaffrey pointed out, the “battle in the Rumaila oil fields had one major impact, among other things, the immediate return of our prisoners of war. Our CINC, General Schwarzkopf, looked them dead in the eye and said, ‘Earlier today, with zero effort on our part, we destroyed a division minus. Hand back our prisoners’.”

The 24th Infantry had destroyed 30 tanks, 33 artillery pieces, 56 other armored vehicles, 486 trucks, as well as an estimated 200 Iraqi dead and 89 captured. The cost to the Americans had been only one wounded soldier and one destroyed tank. The one-sided battle was the final blow to the Iraqis in a disastrous conflict.

As stated at the Tuesday morning event, submarine crews made up two percent of the Navy but accounted for 55% of the Japanese ships sunk in the Pacific. The subs sank 4,000 enemy ships, but at quite a severe price. While in the Pacific, eight percent of Army soldiers were fatalities and 12% of Marines were killed, the “Silent Service” lost 20% of their personnel; 52 submarines were lost with 3,600 crew and officers.

The present was also on the minds of the attendees as one former submariner was heard to comment that today the U.S. is building two submarines a year and China is building five submarines a year.

U.S. Submarine Veterans, Inc., has nearly 14,000 members and U.S. Submarine Veterans of World War II has 3,600 members.
(Note: Spending time, before and after the ceremony, with these submariners, brings me to again repeat: Veterans who aren’t members of any organization of their fellow veterans, or who don’t gather together, are really missing something.)

While still sitting on the guardrail, we again heard a thump, and I looked back at the field it had landed in before to watch an-other harmless explosion. To this day I don’t know if it was an audible sound that made me turn my head back toward my vehi-cle but I did, and the mortar hit about 10 feet behind me. Thankfully the guardrail took the brunt of the shrapnel, but I did find out the true meaning of “catapulting through the air” as that is what I did until I finally found myself sprawled out on the ground near a tire of my vehicle.

A promise made
I found myself staring at my shoes as I picked myself up off the ground. There is research that says people who are exposed to a traumatic event will sometimes make a deal with themselves if they make it out of a situation alive, and I now know what they mean. As I stared at my shoes, I made a deal with myself: if I didn’t die that day, or the rest of the time I was in Iraq, I would buy myself a new pair of shoes. Not just any shoes, but Italian leather dress shoes.

From that attack, I found a very sharp 3½-inch thick piece of shrapnel that had whizzed past my ear lodged in my vehicle’s antenna.
I did finally make it to Baghdad in early May, but not before I had had munitions inside a burning enemy tank explode five feet from my vehicle, I was shot at more times than I care to recall, and I called in airstrikes on over 50 separate targets.

Upon returning to the States, alive and well, I kept that promise to myself and bought a $400 pair of Italian dress shoes. It makes me wonder what other military men and women have promised themselves.

Your story may be edited, but you will be sent a copy of the edited version before it is published. The book will be along the lines of the “Chicken Soup” series of books. Here is an example of what Brian is looking for.

From Stanley Skinner, Ottumwa, Iowa, US Army:
“It still amazes me how every so often, some total stranger will thank me for my service, in ‘the Nam!’ I will never forget the first time that it happened to me. I was at Methodist Hospital, in Des Moines, Iowa. My brother, Rod, and I were there with our stepmother who had just had a surgery for clogged veins in one of her legs. For some reason that I can’t recall, Rod was not present when the following occurred.

Stan goes on to say, “They are still veterans!”

Why I would write an article about veterans finding the remains of military veterans who are resting on the shelves of funeral homes and mortuaries throughout our country? I will try to explain.

About two years ago I was at the veteran’s cemetery located by the town of Igo, in Shasta County, CA. There was an event going on, where a group of leather-clad motorcycle riders were assembled and I asked about it. I learned that these bikers were veterans rendering honors to “passed on” veterans who had never been so honored. As I delved into the program, I was amazed to hear that hundreds, make that thousands, of unclaimed cremains (remains) are resting in funeral homes all over the United States. Many of these are veterans who were never given a proper burial, with military honors; some dating back to the American Civil War.

How it started
A few years ago Fred Salanti, a dedicated Viet-Nam veteran, then of Grants Pass, OR, found a veteran’s remains that were never claimed and, therefore, never buried. Investigating, Salanti came upon many unclaimed veteran’s cremains in many funeral homes and mortuaries locally and, on further research, nationally. Thus, the organization Missing in America Project was founded, and now the MIAP has become a nationwide organization. Their members work (mostly at their own expense) to bring these forgotten heroes’ cremains to a proper closing. Before the cremains can be buried in a state or national cemetery they must be properly identified and proven to be veterans, which sometimes takes hours of research. To demonstrate the lengths to which the research can go, a Buffalo Solider (from the 1800s Indian wars) was found in an indigent graveyard (boothill) outside of Phoenix, Arizona. This soldier had received our nation’s highest military decoration: the Medal of Honor.

Honoring our heroes
In 2009, local MIAP members found that there were two highly decorated veterans (Silver Star) from Shasta County who had not been interred nor honored. With their medals, they deserved to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. Several MIAP members from the West Coast, along with Linda Hartman (a Shasta County Supervisor) and her family, formed a group to take the two veterans’ cremains to Arlington and give them a proper heroes’ burial. They mounted their motorcycles and, along with the Hartman’s motorhome, proceeded some 3,000 miles to Arlington National Cemetery. While en route they stopped in Phoenix and added the above-mentioned Medal of Honor holder’s cremains.

The Missing in America Project is a very worthwhile program that is not widely known. Our local MIAP group meets every other month at the Igo Cemetery where we render honors for the cremains that have been researched and collected.

As an added note, over 2,600 unclaimed remains have been found, of which 19 were from WWI and five were from our own Civil War. The research continues.

For more information, visit www.miap.us.