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