Did you ever get that feeling that you are old...

I saw this cartoon in a recent issue of Army Times and it brought back memories from my last assignment. Seeing as how I was the oldest guy in uniform at the time in the Provost Marshal shop, some of the other guys liked to chide me about having served with Hannibal when he crossed the Alps, or with Custer or U.S. Grant.

Well, I am one of those guys who thinks, believes this life isn't all we get, so I could very well have served with one of these armies in some capacity or other. I just hope I wasn't one of the elephants or a pack mule or the poor guy who cleaned up after the elephants.

In the near future, I am going to put together some short accounts of my deployments during Desert Storm and during Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF) and Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF). I will include some pictures of the areas so any readers I might have can see what the terrain looks like. I don't think this will, by any means, be the last of wars, but one can hope and pray.

I just want to recount some personal experiences and get some of this in writing in case I get to a point I am unable to remember any of it. This stuff will be for my son and his children. I didn't get to talk to my dad enough about his experiences in WWII and I regret that.

I dream of having a grandchild who will ask, 'Grandpa, what was war?'

Hooah

What a Christmas Present...

Our son, Doug, and his wife, Danika, were here for Christmas this past year. When parents live in different parts of the country, it often means going one place one year and the other for the following year. However, this time they were pretty insistent that Danika's parents come up and share a Christmas with us. We figured something was up, but we'd let them tell us when we were all together. The last time both families got together was my retirement ceremony at the Pentagon in September of '06. That's when they informed us they were getting married. Well, as an old Army saying goes, I may have been born in the dark, but it wasn't yesterday. We figured something was up this time, too.

On Christmas morning, they presented the moms with a nice green book which bore the title: "Grandma and Grandpa's BRAG BOOK." Inside was the picture you see at the right. We thought it looked like a little lima bean, so that kinda became it's first nickname -- Baby Bean.

Needless, to say, everyone is so excited. This will be Pam's and my first grandchild. We're learning, or being modernized I should say, of all the new baby things and how it is done today -- especially in NY city. Ever since we got the news, I've been looking for that book -- you know -- "Grandparenting for Dummies." This is going to be an educational adventure, an ongoing experience we've all been waiting for for a long time.

Whichever sex it is, I look forward to teaching it how to fish, maybe row a canoe in a straight line, and camp out. The adventure is about to begin.

“A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on.” (Carl Sandburg)

Hooah

It was my turn to get the mail...

My dad was a pretty handy fellow. Having come back from WWII, he was like most of the others of the Greatest Generation -- he wanted to get on with life, with living. He had a pretty good job and did what he could to make ends meet and give us a good life. Growing up, we moved a lot, going from house to house. Dad had a couple of them built and he would do lots of the work himself, especially when it came to fitting out the basements with rec rooms, workshops and the like. It used to be a joke in the family that he would get one done and tear it out only to rebuild it again a bit differently. He was usually good for two rebuilds per house and then he would get the itch to build a whole new house and move (See "Your Parents
Don't Live Here Anymore...").

Well, our first brand new house was built in a thick woods near the bottom of a holler - just at the base of a very big hill. In the winters he burned up more than one transmission in the car trying to get up that hill as the county plow/salt truck wouldn't usually make it around there for our house for about two or three days. It seems snow was a lot deeper back there back then.

Anyhow, getting back to my handy dad. He welded up a triangular go cart dealie-jigger for my brother and me. No girls need apply to drive it. We would run that thing down that hill, careening like wild boys to the bottom and then put it into a side-slide that threw gravel and cinders (remember the deep snows?) all over the place. We tipped over a few times, but having come to a dusty, dirty halt, we asked: "Is that all there is?" Not to be left wanting, we put up a ramp made out of cement blocks and an old wooden door. Boy could that thing fly. It's a good thing mom didn't see us try those first two or three attempts at "tricycle-shaped dealie-jigger flying" -- she was getting gray enough as it was. There would be plenty more of that for her from our teen-age adventures.

So what about the mail? Well, as you can guess, there wasn't all that much to do back there so as brothers would often do, we fought with each other. Being the smaller, slower of the two, I was usually on the receiving end. Now my mother, being the very intelligent lady that she was, would give us individual chores and rewards to keep us apart. One of those tasks was to go to the end of the driveway and get the mail. We took turns (no girls need apply) and this was a pretty good deal. Well, it was one of those days. My brother kept hogging the coaster and he ended up breaking a wheel. Now he was on my bike and mom wasn't paying any attention to my protests. We were in the garage, just about ready to get into it, when down the hill came the mail man -- I was on foot and he was on my bike -- AND IT WAS MY TURN to get the mail. Well, I took off running and he was not too far behind me on the bike. I was determined to get my turn in, so I yanked on the rope that pulled down the garage door and took off. All of a sudden, I heard this big CRACK. I was smiling from ear to ear. Success. My brother had run into the half-way-down garage door and cracked his head on it. I broke out in a rather pleased-with-myself walk, but peeked back over my shoulder to make sure my bike was OK and he wasn't running after me with a ball bat or something. Nope. He was holding his head (which really was bleeding) and mom was just standing there, eyes wide, too stunned to say anything.

My brother got lots smarter after that, and I got whacked when dad got home. Don't think it was his best shot though. He might have held up a bit because his #2 son started to grow up a bit that day.

When it's your turn, it's your turn!!

“Peace has its victories, but it takes a brave man to win them.” (Emerson)

Hooah

It's a family affair...

I was downstairs in the basement watching golf on TV the other day and decided that those pros don't have anything on me. Every time Phil would sink a putt I would say: "Big deal. That's just the way I do it." Tiger and a few others (well, maybe more than a few -- OK, probably everyone out there, even the caddies) may be able to outdrive me, but I can visualize my shots with the best of them.

That inspired me to get the putters out and practice the part that you do for dough. It's kind of neat 'cause I have a little ball returner that shoots the ball back to me when I make them. I turned the volume off on the returner because all that simulated crowd applause got embarrassing after a while. Of course, if I didn't make it, my dog, Bailey, would fetch for me ... eventually. 'Course it's kinda hard to putt slobbery golf balls.

Then I remembered the times when Pam and I would drive to Paulding to visit mom and dad. It seems we made more trips during the winter because they couldn't get out much. The cold was hard on his knees but he liked to practice putting on the little carpet fairway he had in the TV room. He got to where he had to fix a suction cup device on the end of the putter shaft so he could retrieve his ball from the cup. He always said he would practice a bit so he could whip our butts when spring came.

My brother (Walt, left) and brother-in-law (Luke, to the left of Walt) and I tried to get together with him because he so looked forward to those times. Dad and I used to hunt and fish together (his nickname was Catfish Joe), and he taught me how to play golf when I was about 13. I really didn't improve much past being a bogey golfer, but that's all the more seriously I wanted to take it. But playing with him was so much fun. We could have written a book with new and novel excuses for giving strokes, or not counting his putts. Did you know that if the grass on the green we were playing was a different shade of green from the last hole, the senior player in that foursome got 2 strokes off on that hole -- three if it was the beer hole. Something about older eyes having trouble adjusting to the line of putts and unfair advantages to the younger players. Hmmmmmmmm.

We didn't get to play together as often as he would have liked, or as often as we should have. Walt, Luke and I were all too busy with our jobs and our own families and things. That's kinda the way it is with fathers and sons. Now we wish we had had more opportunities to hit some with him. I think that's why I retired when I did, and why I like to hit 'em with Walt and Luke, and with Chuck, Kevin and Jed whenever I can. You just don't know when you'll get the opportunity to walk that path again. I know I miss him and our outings.

“What a father says to his children is not heard by the world, but it will be heard by posterity.” (Jean Paul Richter)

Hooah

A funny thing happened on our cattle drive...

I don't know what made me think of it, maybe yesterday's snow and sunshine, but a memory from my teenage years just popped into my brain. Thought I better capture it while I could.

It was early spring in the country outside of Zanesville. Sunshine and warm spring days came begrudgingly to the hills and hollers of that area. Some fields and woods would come alive with wildflowers and budding trees, while others would still have ice on the creeks and snow on the banks. That was what we grew up with, and it made us really appreciate spring when it finally took hold.

Early spring often meant that it was time to address a whole new set of chores. The farmers in our area looked forward to the promise of another year, and the kids looked forward to something other than cleaning out the barn-- more exciting times driving farm machinery, riding horses, and thinking about next year's tunnel system in the hay mow. I wonder if any civil engineers or architects got their start doing this. One particular assignment brought a rather unusual experience for three young buckeroos from the wild northern territories of Zanesville.

My best friend at that time, Gene (who later was the best man at our wedding), had a farm that was primarily hills and contained three large hog barns. They raised some cattle, but didn't really have the right amount of pasture land to permit grazing and still have land to raise hay and some corn. So, Gene's dad rented pasture land on the farm that was located next to theirs. Our job each year was to move the cattle from the feed lot on their farm to the pasture land. It was a pretty nice spring day so they decided that it was time to make the move.

We saddled up the horses and began to move the cattle out. The first part didn't go too badly. We drove those doggies up the closest thing to a small mountain in that area, and got ready to start the hard part -- driving about 45 cold, inquisitive cows through a strip mine and woods to the other farm. Normally this wouldn't be too bad, but we were really only into the moderately warm days and the cold lingered in the woods. The cattle were hesitant because the thin ice easily broke under their weight, and the banks were slippery and muddy. We were getting close to our destination, starting to feel like the cowboys of old nearing the end of their drives when I took a route down a pleasant looking gully-- you know "the road less traveled by...". The dogs started barking and raising a fuss. I thought maybe they had a rabbit going or something and then I saw it -- a body lying face down in the still frozen creek. The man appeared to be dead for quite a while, but since he was still obviously frozen there was little decomposition. We marked the spot, finished the cattle drive and then called the sheriff. We had to hook a wagon up to the tractor and help them retrieve the body. The sheriff said the man was an escapee from the county jail. We also found a hand gun on him.

This was quite an experience for a couple of young teenagers from a small town. It registered with our parents, each in a different manner -- mothers in the way mothers usually do, and fathers in a manly sort of way. The most interesting reaction was the one we got the next day at school at our lunch table as we recounted the details . Of course we embellished the details of the body, its condition and our HEROIC actions. Funny, we got lots of food from the other guys at the lunch table -- some of which was abandoned and some as offerings to our bravery and heroism.

That was in the early 1960s. Things like that didn't happen very often, especially in small town Ohio. Probably wouldn't even get a raised eyebrow today as nightly news stations compete quite enthusiastically to out-crime, out-dramatize each other. I don't know if this experience influenced me in any way in later life, but at least it didn't lead me down a path of crime with my trusty horse, riding through the countryside terrorizing people and robbing banks. I just continued on with my typical small-town Ohio teenage years.

Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-o to a tree.

Hooah

Did I say I would follow these guys into combat...

One of the most exciting things about having this blog is sitting at the keyboard having stories just explode out of my memory. My fingers get glued to the keys, stuck there like I'm being electrocuted or like little kids' tongues when they fall for the old tongue on the frozen pipe dare.

Well, anyone who knows of the weird weather we in Ohio have also knows that occasionally, out of nowhere, a huge clap of thunder will come rumbling out of the west and roll across the fields bouncing walls and rattling windows. It was just such an occurrence the other night that sent my dog running for cover and reminded me of a story involving my former Command Sergeant Major (Dave) and a former Battalion Commander (Bart).

I was the battalion XO (Executive Officer) at the time and the battalion was conducting exercises at Ft. McCoy, WI. Our troops were spread all over the post with unit T.O.C.s (Tactical Operations Centers) located some 30 miles apart -- as the crow flies. The trouble is, the Army doesn't own any crows, so we have to do things the hard way. Also at that time we had radios that wouldn't reach that far because of the forests and mountains, so we would drive our old 1/4-ton vehicles (the old Jeeps) from camp to camp. This was OK in the daytime, but at night we had to drive in blackout conditions -- i.e. without any lights on (post policy -- good training, huh) -- if we needed to talk to someone at the other camp.

Well, it seems the CSM and the BC decided they wanted to visit the north camp. They got started out OK -- it was daylight. However, they overstayed their welcome (that's what subordinate unit commanders always say) and had to drive home in the dark.

That shouldn't be too hard. The CSM had told us numerous times he knew every tree and blade of grass on that post and the BC had the map, so what could go wrong. As long as they stayed on the roads (the big trails with gravel on them), they would be OK...eventually. Now, I really wasn't too worried (as I was next in command -- PROMOTION) but I didn't have anything else to do so I sat around the tent listening to the radio traffic -- just in case.

Even though we had not heard anything from the two of them, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. After all, they could have just been practicing good commo discipline. However, about 2330 hrs. or so, I started to wonder if they were coming back . The Army frowns on losing commanders and CSMs, so I had the radio operator start trying to raise them. After a while we were actually able to talk to them and inquired about their location. They tried to give us some sort of cryptic numbers, none of which matched any map we had in the TOC. After some banter back and forth, the CSM came back and said they were "Lima, Oscar, Sierra, Tango." That's LOST in case you missed it. Well, after the assembled cast of TOCsters was able to regain composure (it's bad form to transmit on the radio with roaring laughter in the background), we decided to see if we could help them find their way home. Apparently there weren't any "trees or blades of grass" the CSM recognized.

Oh, did I tell you -- there just happens to be an old minefield/artillery impact zone right in the middle of the ranges. Yep -- you guessed it -- that's where they were!!! Holy smokes (well, maybe that's not a good descriptor when dealing with an impact area)!! How will we get them out of there. Eventually we were able to talk them out of the impact zone and back to the south camp. Needless to say, they had a hard time living that down, and we've had many a good laugh about that over the years.

Both of these gentlemen went on to long, distinguished and highly decorated careers, and were two of the best soldier role models the young troops in our battalions and companies could have had. They are both great human beings too.

"No arsenal, or no weapon in the arsenals of the world, is as formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women." (Ronald Reagan)

Hooah

Your parents don't live here anymore...

I know everyone has heard stories of parents sending their wicked children out to play and then moving while the kids were outside. There are also stories about babies being kidnapped by gypsies and sold, or being cooked in ovens in gingerbread houses and such. Well, I've got one that tops all of that, and it's a true story, t' boot.

I left for basic training on a Greyhound bus one sunny, Good Friday afternoon with my parents and wife seeing me off. Dad talked about the time when he and his brothers left for WWII, much like this only it was a train that carried them to their destiny. I told them I would be fine and when I finished A.I.T. (Advanced Individual Training -- i.e. Military Police school) I would call to tell them what flight I was on and when to meet me. They assured me they would meet me when I was done.

However, we finished the graduation ceremony early that fine day in late July and having learned how the army can screw things up, I decided to vamoose and see if I could get an earlier flight back to Ohio. If I weren't able to get an earlier flight, I at least wanted to get off post, knowing that out of sight meant out of mind as far as drill sergeants were concerned. I was very well schooled in the old army adage that it's better that privates are not seen or heard and I was quite happy to demonstrate my grasp of that concept.

I called Pam and told her of my plan to get back to Ohio that night rather than the next day or so. She thought that would be great and we would surprise everyone back here.

Well, I got back and we drove out to see my folks that night. I pulled in the driveway, went up to the front door and knocked. Strange, but I didn't hear the dogs. I knocked again, and the light went on in the house -- strange, I don't remember a light over in that part of the living room. Then the door opened. There was a strange lady at the door...what the heck!! I asked her who she was and she repeated the question back to me. I informed her that I was Mike and I lived here. She said she didn't care who I was and I didn't live there. And she really wasn't all that impressed by my uniform and my newly sewn-on PFC stripes!! Was she related to my drill sergeant?

Well, the conversation went on and we finally reached an understanding. She informed me that they had bought the house from my parents who had just moved up the road a bit. Can you believe that!! Well, we found their new house and was there a lot of laughing that night. I'm sure the lady at their old house wondered what the heck was really going on. Pam knew they were building a new house and would move soon, but she wanted them to surprise me with the news so she didn't say anything. Obviously she didn't know they had done it so quickly.

Later on in life, I would take mom and dad to lunch and later, after dad died, just mom. According to my sister, it seems I only did this when I had to tell her I was being mobilized and going off somewhere. My sister told me she wasn't going to go to lunch with us anymore unless I changed my routine and didn't do it just to say good-bye. Maybe so, but we would certainly have a good laugh about them moving that time. While they would tell me that they wouldn't do that again, I couldn't promise them that I wouldn't do this to them again.

Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.

"Families are like fudge ... mostly sweet, with a few nuts."

Hooah

My early flying roots...

I think I might have mentioned in one of my earlier writings that I have a Private Pilot's license. I'm one of those low and slow guys (i.e. I fly/flew a Cessna 172 SkyHawk, which is a high-wing airplane usually associated with training schools). Nothing fancy, no retractable landing gear, no high performance engine and a cruising speed of about 120 or so, depending on winds aloft.

The earliest inclination that I wanted to fly came when I would visit my grandmother and her husband (early 1950s). They managed an airport (grass strip) in Zanesville, he took care of the planes and she managed the little restaurant. How about those really cool pilot sun glasses I had back then. My first chick magnets.

Those were the days of real flying -- unencumbered by so many government regulations and terrorist worries. The typical pilot was usually a WWII vet who either flew during the war or wished he had. Training usually consisted of only a few hours and then a solo in a plane that would probably bounce off most things it would hit if the landing was less than desirable. Most of the guys (and they were usually all guys) did their own maintenance and insurance wasn't something real pilots knew of or worried about. Not at all like today.

My wife bought me my first lesson -- it was a Christmas present. What a great present. I'll bet none of your wives has ever done anything like that for you!! Well, after a year of lessons, a flight physical from a half-blind/half-deaf doc, a written test, a flying test, and a sizable expenditure of cash I was able to legally rent an airplane and fly just about anywhere I wanted or was brave/rich enough to go.

Having a ticket to explore the skyways and our countryside is really fun and you haven't seen a bird or a tree or cows in the fields until you have seen them from above. It has been said that there are really only two true emotions in a plane: boredom and shear terror. Having said that, however, I found that I especially liked to go up and commune with the birds on Sunday mornings. I felt like I was close to God up there by myself. What a Great co-pilot.

But going by myself wasn't the only thing I did. I also took students up for a ride who did something extra special at school as a kind of reward for their efforts. Most of the neighbors' kids who wanted to go and could get one of their parents to go with them also got to see their house and probably their grandma's & grandpa's house from the air. They were also treated to seeing the roof of Wal-Mart, Lake Loramie, the Villages of Anna, Kettlersville and McCartyville, a corn maze or two and other irresistible highlights.

I also flew a few times on Uncle Sam's nickel when I had to go someplace for Army business. I would get the plane and fly to Wisconsin or some town that had one of our MP units deploying for the war. That was quite an experience as well as an efficient use of time and tax payers money. I've got a good story about landing at an airport shortly after 9/11 while on Army business wearing my BDUs -- but that will be for a later time.

A heart attack, stupid FAA regulations, gas prices and military deployments have all conspired to keep me on the ground for the past three years, but I still have the fire. Keep your ears up -- that next small plane you see or hear could be me.

When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

Hooah

Early camping memories...

Every father dreams of packing enough provisions for a few days in his kit and packing off to the wilds of, of ... yeah, the nearest state park with his wife and son to educate them in the ways of our ancient ancestors. I was reminded of our first camp-out when I was cleaning out the barn the other day, checking the camping gear in anticipation of this year's upcoming fishing season.

This first of our grand adventures started out as about 99% of most family camp-outs do -- with the old "tent in the back yard " trial run. This was pretty cool. Doug (my son) and our Ginger (our beagle pup) actually made it through most of the night. 'Course, there was a pretty bright pole light in the neighbor's back yard and the back door to the house was only a few feet away. We were pretty sure we could out leg any monsters that happened to be lurking close-by.

Having passed that test, we geared up for the big one -- the state park trip!! We carefully packed the Blazer with all the best conveniences that Coleman sold. We had two tents (one for sleeping and one for all the clothes, food and other stuff). Boy, we were hot stuff. Let 'er rip ... we were ready for anything. Actually these pictures are of two different trips; one being early on at Houston Woods State Park, and the second being at Salt Fork State Park.

They were pretty cool. We did some fishing, hiking, horseback riding, and swimming. Now, I'm not saying our campsites were the envy of the entire State Park Campers Association, but we sure got some glances. It was envy, wasn't it?

As I was saying, we were the envy of all, even the raccoons. It seems on the Salt Fork trip some decided to come for a visit one night and they thought they could stay overnight in our other tent. Well, a few wacks with a stick on the tent sent them scurrying. They sure left it a mess though.

However, we had lots of fun and Pam (my wife) and I let Doug help with the cooking. I think he had fun, and this must have influenced his later life as he actually became a pretty good cook.

Doug was under the influence of a movie that hit about that time called "Strange Brew." It was really funny, and had a favorite line which involved calling people "Hosers." That was his favorite phrase of the trip (see the picture on the right).

We have been camping a lot of times, some in tents and some in cabins. Some have been with Doug and Danika, his wife, and some just Pam and me. I only hope they are able to spend this kind of time with their kids. It is amazing how much you learn about each other from camping. The outdoors is a great workshop and nature is a fantastic teacher.

Many men go camping all of their lives without knowing it is not the woods they are after.

Hooah

Walter lives !!!!

I was taking a break from the rains of last week and building my ark, when I looked out to the pond and saw something that almost sent me to the nitro bottle again.

I grabbed the binoculars and focused them on an object floating on the far side of the pond. I knew it was a fish gone belly-up, but what kind of fish. The pond was built and stocked when we built the house some 11 years ago. Since that time, smallmouth bass, catfish, crappies, white emirs, minnows and various kinds of bluegills and sunfish have brought pleasure to many an old and young fisherman. Typical of these devoted anglers is young Sydney (center) with her father. It is really cool when youngsters hook a fish and their eyes absolutely light up. Some, on the other hand, take a step back when they pull in one of the bigger catfish. Some of them go over 25 inches. The greatest thrill, however, is when they hook "Walter" (16" bass-- right, above)

Walter has been caught by almost all of the neighborhood kids and they all know him and call him by name. It's really cool when one of the young'ns knocks on the fence and ask permission to come over and see if he can try to catch Walter.

So you can see why my heart sank when I saw the sight of that white belly on the far side. Again, as the water was up so high, I couldn't get around the pond to check so I waited until the next day. Bailey (our Chocolate Lab) and I went to check it out. Fortunately, it was just one of those old catfish like the one Craig (right) is holding. Whew!! There are probably too many of them in there anyway, and the loss of one won't hurt anyone. My apologies to the members of the National Catfish Protection Society.

Everyone who has ever fished our waters knows Walter is protected -- strictly a "catch and release" fish. That's the pinnacle of fish hierarchy at this pond and only "Arnold," Walter's brother (about 14") is even close to inheriting the throne. Every other fish is fair game (except for the emirs, that is) and the catfish are often "harvested" by some of the older guys who live in a retirement home nearby. I guess they have some pretty good fish-fry evenings there.

Following a relaxing evening of fishing, enjoying the pond, the sunset, the birds and crickets, we often put a fire in the fire ring and sit out there watching the bats fly around after the evening bugs and the sparks floating up from the fire. The stars are close enough to pick. We also listen to Walter and his buds feast on the evening hatch coming to the surface of the pond. What an absolutely glorious place to live. We are indeed thankful.

"Fishing is the chance to wash one's soul with pure air. It brings meekness and inspiration, reduces our egoism, soothes our troubles, and shames our wickedness. It is discipline in the equality of men -- for all men are equal before fish." (President Herbert Hoover).

Hooah

Not just another Grunt...

Serving in the U.S. military is uniquely different from any other experience one can have in life. It is a lot of things to those who have done it, and it is a lot of things to those who haven't. For some (like me) it was the kick in the pants that wakes you up and forces you to take charge of and responsibility for your life. For others it's the worst of all possible nightmares. And it often forges bonds that last as long or longer than most marriages.

It produced some really remarkable people like Dave (my former Command Sergeant-Major who probably knew more about soldiering than any 100 senior NCOs), and Bob (a real neat guy down the road and a great fisherman), or Gary (a super guy and a real fine mechanic), or Hank (one of my brothers-in-law who is a very kind and giving soul), and Fern (a neat older lady who served in WWII as a Navy nurse -- although I won't hold the Navy part against her). It also produced Kenny Humphrey.

I know you don't know Kenny. He was a Vietnam vet who joined the Army Reserve after Vietnam because he still wanted to serve his country. He was a genuine nice guy. He showed a lot of us non-experienced sergeants how NCOs were to act, take care of our troops and accomplish the mission. He wasn't all that gung-ho and probably appeared to some to be too laid back. But screw up something you shouldn't have because you knew better, and Kenny could open a can of "Alpha-Charlie" on you pretty quickly.

One particular memory I had of Kenny was on 2 August 1980. Our MP company was on duty guarding Cubans at Ft. McCoy, WI when a riot broke out in the maximum security facility which threatened to get beyond the confines of the facility walls. Kenny and I were the senior NCOs on duty that day and were called to the facility to restore order...yep, only two of us. There were a lot of Immigration and Naturalization guys and State Department lawyers there as they were actually running the facility, but they were not able to control the situation. Kenny and I arrived, put on our riot gear and prepared to enter the facility. Little did we know what we were getting in to. However, when the dust settled, order was restored.

Kenny was put in for an Army Commendation Medal for his actions and the citation read as follows:
"... for assisting the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service in quelling a violent disturbance in a detention facility at Ft. McCoy, WI on 2 August 1980. This soldier was assaulted with sticks, poles and hailed with chunks of concrete. During the entire operation, he displayed exceptional discipline, self-restraint and judgment in that he employed only enough force to accomplish the mission without further inciting the crowd. As a Military Policeman with the 342d MP Company (EG), he reflects the type of dedication to excellence and devotion to duty that far surpass the high standards set forth in the Military Police Corps." I don't have Kenny's citation in front of me, but I know what his said as it was identical to mine.

"Dedication to excellence" and "devotion to duty" may be just phrases to some, but were kinda the hallmarks I remember about him.

Kenny died recently. I don't know if his funeral was well-attended or not and I only found out about it last week after talking with Dave. I lost track of him after our days together in the 342d and don't know how he spent the rest of his life. But I do know that he loved his country and his troops. He was one of the good guys who made us that much better for knowing him.

“When you go home, Tell them of us, and say: For your tomorrow, We gave our today.” (Anon)

Hooah