Veteran of four wars, four enlistments, four branches: Air Force, Army, Army Reserve, Army National Guard. I am both an AF (Air Force) veteran and as Veteran AF (As Fuck)
Monday, February 22, 2016
Not Looking Good for Another Year in the Army
This weekend, I found out my application for another year in the Army has not yet been approved at the state level. And after that, it would have to approved by National Guard Bureau at the Pentagon.
I can't say for sure, but if I were betting, I would bet against me getting the extension.
Yesterday, I turned in a lot of my field gear and went on what may have been my last flight in an Army helicopter.
The field gear that remains for me to turn in during March drill weekend has my name on it and the name has to be cleaned off. Of course, when I was issued this field gear, my unit said write your name on it. So I did. Now I have to erase it or I will have to pay for it.
That's the Army!!
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Americans in West Germany During the Cold War: Don't Piss Off the Polezei!
During the height of the Cold War in the 70s and 80s, West
Germany had a higher population of American citizens than ten states. One million Americans including 250,000
soldiers and airmen and their families, lived in West Germany. The 1970 census says more Americans were
living in West Germany than in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Alaska, Hawaii,
both Dakotas, Montana, Idaho and Wyoming.
Most of those Americans lived in “Little America” military
communities, shopped on Base/Post and never learned German. Sometimes, they were rudely introduced to
differences in German culture.
In 1977, I drove from Wiesbaden to Frankfurt Airport to
pickup the wife and child of one of my soldiers. The post-draft Army recruited very different
soldiers from when I enlisted in 1972.
During the draft, although mostly Southern, I met people from the entire
country. By 1977, that was over. Every
new soldier on my tank crew or in my platoon was from the South or the
West.
When I went through basic training in 1972, no one in my
platoon was married. By 1978, when we
got a replacement, I would expect he was 19 years old, married, had one child
and his 17-year-old wife was pregnant with their second child. The pregnant wife was the reason he
enlisted. That and the mill or factory or
garage or warehouse where he worked closed or laid workers off.
The woman I met at the airport on that hot July day was
older than average, but so was my soldier.
He was 21. She was 20. She was pregnant and had a two-year-old son who
was quiet like his Dad. Mom was not
happy. And she was not quiet. The flight was long. The day was hot. I had a 1969 VW Beetle. It was not air-conditioned. While we walked through the terminal, I
listened to how difficult the trip was for her.
She told me how unfair it was that there was no base housing for her PFC
husband. She asked if I could get them
on-base housing.
I could not help with that problem.
We left the airport on the A3 Autobahn. While my aging Beetle was moving, the car was
not terribly hot. The breeze from every
car on the road passing us at about twice our speed helped with cooling. We
turned onto A66 toward Wiesbaden. Two
miles later, everyone stopped. We had no
idea what was going on, but we were in a VW Beetle at Noon in July sitting
still on the Autobahn. I shut the
air-cooled engine off until we actually moved.
An hour later we arrived at a Polezei check point. The Baader Meinhof gang was active at that
time and the German Police were searching cars.
The melting Mom beside me was angry at the US Government, the Army,
Germany, NATO and most of the world for her current sweat-soaked state.
One of the policemen approached my window and asked for
identification and about the purpose of our trip. My passenger said “What the Hell do they need
ID for. We’re Americans. . .” Then she stopped in mid sentence. I looked to my right and another Polezei officer
had come to her window, leveled his automatic weapon at my passenger, and said,
“Identification!”
She complied. More
importantly, she shut up.
After we were out of sight on the roadblock and on our way
to Wiesbaden, I reminded my passenger we were in another country and subject to
their laws. And that she should do
whatever Polezei said. She nodded. We were quiet for the rest of the trip.
Apparently, looking down the barrel of an MP5K submachine
gun that the Polezei officer was carrying can bring a whole bunch of cultural
awareness to an American on her first trip overseas.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Tank Gunnery 1976, Part 7, Final Engagement HEP-T at 2000 Meters
HEP High Explosive Plastic, muzzle velocity 2,450 fps.
In this night-fire picture, the flat trajectory of APDS is very clear.
HEP-T at 2,000 Meters looks very different.
Now we reached the end of Table VIII Tank Gunnery 1976. The last engagement was a house—an
8-by-8-foot panel between 1,500 and 2,000 meters from the firing position. The ammunition is HEP-T—High Explosive
Plastic-Tracer, the slowest round that tanks fire. The actual rounds we fired is not the service
ammo pictured above but the powder-blue inert rounds.
This final engagement was truly different from the preceding
three main gun rounds because it was the longest shot with the slowest
round. When we fired APDS “SABOT” rounds
at the moving tank target at 1,000 meters distance, the round is traveling just
over a mile per second leaving the gun muzzle.
Even allowing for wind resistance, the time to a target roughly 3,300
feet away is less than a second. The
trajectory is essentially flat. For a
tank-sized target, it is point and shoot.
When we fired HEAT at 1,500-meter target, the
muzzle-to-target time was more than a second and I could see a ballistic arc,
but with a 3,850-foot-per-second speed out of the gun tube, the trajectory was
still close to flat.
For the final engagement my gunner was firing at a panel
nearly seven thousand feet away. The
HEP-T round has a muzzle velocity of 2,450 feet per second. So the time to target is nearly 3 seconds
(2.7 seconds with wind resistance). When
you fire SABOT at 1,000 meters, it is difficult to see the tracer at all. Firing HEP-T at this distance, the tracer
goes up, up, up in a straight line then drops rapidly at the end of its
parabolic trajectory.
As anyone knows who has watched a 70-yard touchdown pass,
the ball appears to go up for 60 yards then drop rapidly in the final ten
yards, right into the receiver’s hands.
Actually, the peak of the arc, whether pigskin or HEP-T round is half of
the travel time form the gun muzzle to impact.
So for this final engagement, every skill of tank gunnery
was important. When I issued the fire
command, the driver had to stop on what he saw as the most solid, level ground
possible. Any tilt of the tank would
send the round off target to the left or right.
For every engagement we had just fifteen seconds from the
moment we identify the target until the first round goes down range. No problem with a flat shot at 1,000
meters.
On the other engagements, I did not have to be perfect with
the range finder. On this target, I had
to have the range right or we would not hit.
While Merc, my gunner, refined his aim, I made sure I had the best
possible range, that my head was straight on the head rest and the sight
picture was as good as I could get.
With every other shot, Merc had a round down range
fast. With this one he made sure his
sight picture was as perfect before squeezing his electric trigger.
Then he said, “On the Way!”
I watched the round go down range for what seemed like
minutes. The red tracer went up in a
straight line then seemed to drop almost straight down toward the target.
Before the round hit the target, the loader yelled, “Up!”
then clambered up through the hatch. He
wanted to see the round hit.
Merc had the best view in the gunner’s seat with the sight
on the target.
“Hit!” I yelled on the intercom. “Damn,” Merc said looking through the
sight.
What I saw through the binoculars and Merc saw through the
primary sight was a dust cloud rising around the target, but the most important
part of what we saw was that we could see the panel for just a moment after we
saw the cloud. That meant the round
strike was behind the panel. Of course,
that could mean we missed by firing over the target, but we were pretty sure
the dust pattern said Hit!
I yelled, “Fire!”
Merc refined his sight picture then announced “On the Way!”
It looked like another hit.
I said, “Driver Move Out.” We rolled off the range.
As soon as the grader left the tank at the ammo point, we
started yelling and clapping and congratulating each other. We unloaded brass and rolled to the rally
point.
After night gunnery, which I really don’t remember well, we
scored “Distinguished.”
We hit every target during daylight gunnery and range
control confirmed we put a hole in the panel on the last engagement.
Before gunnery that year, I read the entire Dash 10
manual. I know the TM Number as well as
I know my Social Security Number.
9-2350-215-10.
I am in Army Aviation now and have had some great flights on
Blackhawk, Chinook and Lakota helicopters.
But I am not part of the crew.
For the years I was in tanks, I was crew. It really was the best job I ever had.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Tank Gunnery 1976, Part 6, Moving Truck, Coax Machine Gun
The second to last target on Table VIII is a moving truck panel. As with the moving tank target, we had practiced tracking moving targets more than anyone else in the battalion. We were ready to perforate the track mounted panel as soon as we saw it. But the real preparation for this engagement was done by my loader, Gene Pierce. The M73 coax machine gun was a reliable weapon in general, but in my experience was finicky about dirt and ammo feed.
The night before Table VIII Pierce cleaned our coax to whatever coax perfection can be. By the time we reached the moving truck target, we had fired the coax twice in engagements one and four, firing 100 rounds at each firing point. We had 100 rounds to hit the moving truck, which is plenty, unless the gunner gets interrupted and has to re-acquire his sight picture.
We were tense rolling from the .50 cal. engagement looking for the moving panel. We also knew pretty much where the panel would be since the moving panels are in roughly the same area of the range. Pierce was scanning with me, mostly to show the grader we were following procedure, but he was ready to drop down the moment we saw the target and ready to keep the coax firing if anything went wrong.
I saw the target move. Announced "Gunner! Coax! Moving Truck!" We stopped smoothly as I swung the turret to the moving panel. Pierce yelled "Up!" Merc said "On the way!" Pierce lightly held the belt of 7.62mm ammo as it fed into the M73 machine gun. Tracers sailed winked out of sight as the passed through the panel. Merc knew he was on target and burned the 100 rounds in short bursts. I announced "Cease fire! Driver move out."
Now we were heading to the last engagement. The last round on Table VIII is still one of my favorite all-time moments in the Army.
In the meantime, an instructional video on the M73 coax machine gun.
Monday, February 8, 2016
"A Hero of Our Time" and "Brother" Wild, Wild West in Russia
I just finished the book "A Hero of Our Time" by Mikhail Lermontov. If you like Western novels, or War novels, this book will make you smile. I laughed out loud at some of the conversations among soldiers in this book. So why does a novel with Russian soldiers as main characters make me think of "Western" novels and movies? For the same reason the first Star Wars movie (1977) made me think Western: the setting an scenery is the frontier and civilization is somewhere else.
"Hero" is set in the Caucuses mountains, near Georgia on the southern frontier of Imperial Russia about 200 years ago. The soldiers in frontier outposts are there to protect the borders and and to stop the locals from rising in rebellion against their new masters. The Russian soldiers trade with the locals and try to stay on peaceful terms, but they do not think the natives are fully human. Just as the American soldiers in frontier outposts tried to keep the peace, but were ready to fight.
The novel is really several related stories revolving around the main character Pechorin and an old soldier named Maxim.
The first time I read this book was in the summer of 1980 in a Russian Literature class at Penn State Harrisburg. The professor loved this book. He was a Serbian, a World War 2 veteran who fought the Germans and their allies the Croatians. Professor Djordjevic was a 60-year-old chain smoker with not much longer to live when I met him. He escaped to America through Hungary in 1956. He fought the Nazis from the Serbian mountains and escaped the Russians who occupied Serbia through those same mountains. Professor Djordjevic was a mountain soldier and clearly identified with "Hero."
"Brother" is related to "Hero" because for me it had that same feel of the lone hero/cowboy on the frontier. In the case of Brother, all the action is in St. Petersburg, Russia, so the setting is not the frontier. But it is in the 1990s in the midst of the economic collapse and lawlessness after the fall of the Soviet Union. And the main character of Brother is a veteran of the nasty Chechen war of 1994. The action at the end of the movie has many links to gunfights in traditional Western movies and watching Brother load his own shotgun shells will delight Western fans.
Russia, like America, started as a small country that grew by conquering and settling neighboring areas. It had a "Louisiana Purchase"-like expansion in the 1600s when it bought Siberia for a price as cheap as the one America got. Many of the problems Russia has had relate to rapid expansion and trying to hold on to conquered territory, just like the Wild, Wild West here in America.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Tanker's Final Exam, Part 5, .50 Cal. Machine Gun, 1200 meters
The commander's cupola with the M85 .50 Caliber Machine Gun is on top of the turret.
As we rolled away from engagement 6, firing the main gun at a moving tank, next up was firing the .50 caliber machine gun a "truck" target. Actually a plywood panel. The target was almost 1,200 meters away. My loader, Gene Pierce, spotted the target first on a rise to the left of the tank trail. As we rolled from the last firing point, I made sure the commander's machine gun was in line with the main gun.
When we spotted the target, having the guns lined up meant I could swing the turret with the commander's override and be close to the target. When the main gun was on target, my .50 cal. machine gun would be close to the target, so I could drop down into the turret and fire as soon as possible.
When I looked through the 1 to 1 sight, I saw the target, so I grabbed the cupola controls and got the gun on target. I had spent a lot of time zeroing the machine gun on the static range. And even when I could have shot "cowboy" not using the sights I made myself drop down in the turret and practice with the sights. A 1,200-meter shot needs the sights. The other reason I needed the sights was the limited ammo capacity of the cupola. I had 100 rounds for two engagements. That's enough if I am on target, but not enough to shoot with my head out.
I squeezed the trigger. Pierce called hit on the second burst. I put two more bursts in the panel and said, "Driver move out!"
Friday, February 5, 2016
Photos from My Father's 1st Command, Black Company World War 2
During the early months of World War 2, my father went to Officer Candidate School. Since he was very old in Army year, 36, his first command was in Pennsylvania, a Black Company at Camp Shenango near Erie, Pa.
My son Jacari scanned one of the albums today. Here are some of the photos from my Dad's scrapbook:
My son Jacari scanned one of the albums today. Here are some of the photos from my Dad's scrapbook:
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Tanker's Final Exam, Part 4, Moving Tank
We are now at Part 4 of Table VIII of 1976 tank gunnery at Fort Carson, Colorado.
The previous post described Engagements 3, 4 and 5 which occur at the same firing point. Now I will describe Engagement 6, the moving tank.
We practiced for this shot more than any other. In fact, I am sure we practiced more than any
crew in the battalion. Several times in
the weeks leading up to gunnery, I took my crew out in early evening after
everyone else left the motorpool and practiced sighting on moving targets.
Today, I am sure I would be busted to Private for the way we
practiced. We rolled out of the
motorpool up on a ridge that looked down on Interstate 25—the North-South
highway that passes the east side of Fort Carson.
From that ridge, the highway was about two miles away, much
farther that the distance to the range target.
But since the cars were going 60-70 mph, their speed relative to us was
good for practice tracking a moving target.
To get a good shot at a moving target, my gunner, Merc
Morris, had to practice steadily tracking the target. This took real skill and control. While my gunner tracked the target, I would
look through the range finder. After a
while he could keep the crosshair perfectly steady center of mass on a Chevy
Impala or a Ford Pinto.
Back to Table VIII.
As we moved along the trail on the tank gunnery range, I saw plywood
panel target moving right to left. I
called, “Driver Stop!” Then “Gunner,
SABOT, Moving Tank.” Pierce (Eugene
Pierce, my Loader) yelled “Up!” confirming the gun was loaded. He was so fast,
I barely finished the Fire Command before he had loaded the main gun. The range was about 1000 meters so it was
point and shoot with the solid-shot SABOT round. I handed the binoculars to Pierce so he could
track the shot from the top of the turret while I watched the round go down
range through the range finder. I was
looking for the flash of the tracer disappearing through a hole in the
target.
If I had any doubt Merc would get a first-round hit, I would
have been watching through the binoculars from the commander’s hatch, but I
knew Merc would get a first-round hit.
When Merc yelled “On the Way” I pushed my helmet against the range
finder and opened my eyes as wide as I could.
I didn’t see anything. Too much
dust. Pierce yelled “Hit!” dropped into
the turret, slammed another SABOT round into the breach of the main gun and
yelled “Up!” Merc fired again. I said, “Driver Move Out” quite sure there
were two new holes in the moving-tank target.
Next engagement was the M85 .50 cal. machine gun at 1200
meters.
This series started with seeing the movie "Fury" and wanting to be back in a tank turret. Then the first main-gun shot of Table VIII.
Monday, February 1, 2016
The Cold War Versus the Iraq War: The Mission Shapes Reality
From 1972 to 1984 on active duty and in the Army Reserve, I was
a Cold War soldier. My Mission, with a capital M, was to “Defend America
against the Soviet Union and her Warsaw Pact allies.”
In the military and in every organization, there is a “Big
M” Mission that the whole organization works toward and a “small m” mission for
individuals and units. During the Cold
War my Big M mission was clear. It began
with a verb: Defend. The enemy was
defined: Soviet forces and their allies.
Because the Big M was so well defined, the “Small m” mission
was equally clear: I trained my tank
crew to fight the invading forces of the Soviet Union. When I was stationed in Germany, we trained
to fight at Fulda, our alert area. When
I was in a reserve unit in the U.S., we had pre-positioned tanks in Baumholder,
Germany.
During all the time I served in the Cold War, I knew the
mission of the entire U.S. military and the mission of my tank. While on active duty, that tank was Bravo 13,
Company B, 1st Battalion, 70th Armor. Also, the rules of engagement were clear if
and when the war started—Kill Soviets until we win.
In 1984, I left the clearly defined world of the Cold War
Army and became a civilian. Twenty-three
years later, in 2007, I re-enlisted. I jumped into the murky water of our wars in the Middle East. I could not tell you now, nor could I tell
you in 2009 when I deployed to Iraq what the Big M mission of the U.S. Army was in that ill-fated war,
or it is now in the War in Afghanistan.
We defeated Saddam Hussein’s Army three weeks after the war
started in 2003. What were we doing
after that? “Winning hearts and minds”
is the phrase I remember most clearly.
Judging by the looks I got from the Iraqis I met in the local market or
working on our base, we did not win a lot of hearts and minds.
Even when the Big M mission is murky, the Small m mission
can be clear. I worked hard every day I
was in Iraq, whether it was in the motor pool or on the flight line or in an
office or flying across southern Iraq in a Blackhawk helicopter. But I never had the clarity of purpose that I
had as a Cold War tank commander.
And in retrospect, I see my Cold War
service as being more clear, more real than my service during the IraqWar.
When I finally leave the Army either in May of this year or
next year, I will look back on my service in the Cold War as having an edge of
reality that my service in Iraq never will.
It is also easy to make the case that we won the Cold War. By making the Soviets spend hard currency on
huge military, the regime went bankrupt.
We won the Cold War without actually firing a shot.
In Iraq, we fired a lot of shots, and a lot of people died, and
everybody lost.
Monday, January 25, 2016
Sunset on Muir Field After the Big Snowstorm
I took pictures from several angles of the sun setting on Muir Field, Fort Indiantown Gap, Pa., after the big snowstorm. The angles and blades of a Blackhawk helicopter do wonderful things to the light. I hope I captured a little of that.
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