Chinook Landing on a Roof in Afghanistan Honored in Original Art

On 10 November 2003 the crew of Chinook helicopter 

Yankee 2-6 made this landing on a cliff in Afghanistan.

Artist Larry Selman immortalized the event in a limited-edition print.

When I deployed to Iraq in 2009 with an Army helicopter brigade, nearly all the soldiers in our unit and every other unit were younger than me—a generation younger than me. But not the pilots.  Some were young, but many more were in their 40s and 50s.  Larry Murphy, a Chinook helicopter pilot, was one of the very few soldiers older than I was.  I was 56. He was 58. 

On Wednesday, 5 September 2019, Larry was honored with the unveiling of a painting commemorating an amazing bit of flying he and his crew did in Afghanistan in 2003.  Larry was deployed with a company of Chinooks and supporting equipment to Afghanistan. The tour was supposed to be a year and was extended to 16 months. The Chinook company was made up of soldiers from the Pennsylvania and Connecticut Army National Guard did not leave Afghanistan till 2004. They were in support of several companies of soldiers from the 10^th Mountain Division, Fort Drum, New York.

On 10 November 2003, Larry and the crew of Chinook helicopter Yankee 2-6 received an additional mission to pickup prisoners while they were on a resupply mission. These missions are a routine part of combat operations in Afghanistan.  But this mission was different. The prisoners had to be picked up from the side of a steep mountain at an elevation of 8,500 feet above sea level.  There was no place to land an aircraft with a 52-foot-long fuselage that is almost 100 feet long from tip to tip of its massive twin rotors. 

The pickup point was a shack on the side of a cliff.  Larry and the crew landed rear-wheels-only on the roof of the shack with the tail ramp lowered.  With the back of the helicopter on the shack roof, Larry and the other pilot, Paul Barnes, could not see the shack or any other close-in visual markers. From the cockpit, the pilots could see down the cliff to the valley 2,500-feet below.  The flight engineer James Duggan, crew chief Brian Kilburn and door gunner Margaret Haydock guided the pilots from the side and rear of the aircraft.  

Although technically a landing in the sense that the rear wheels were on the ground, the pilots were carefully keeping the full weight of the 25,000-pound (empty) helicopter from resting on shack, and keeping the front of the helicopter stable and level while the prisoners were brought aboard.

As soon as the prisoners were on board, the big helicopter returned to base. 

Five years ago, I was in a Chinook helicopter on Fort Indiantown Gap that landed rear-wheels-only on a cliff.  Twenty soldiers in full battle gear ran off the ramp and set up a security perimeter.  As the soldiers left the aircraft with their gear and heavy weapons, the weight of the aircraft dropped by 6,000 pounds, but the pilots held the helicopter level and steady.  I was looking out the door gunner’s window near the front of the aircraft. I saw nothing but sky above and rock-strewn valley hundreds of feet below.  I had heard about the roof landing since I joined the unit in 2007. It is amazing to see. It is more amazing to feel.

Larry Murphy signing prints at the Aviation Armory on 

Fort Indiantown, Pennsylvania  

The print by artist Larry Selman is available on his website.

In the years since the landing, the photo (above) has become an iconic image for Army Aviation, so much so that people question if the landing really happened.

Snopes.com answered the question: True. From their site:

I’m sure all of you have seen many choppers make some daring moves, but this one is spectacular. Hope you enjoy it. This attached shot was taken by a trooper in Afghanistan. Pilot is Larry Murphy, PA National Guard. Larry is a Keystone Helicopter Corp. EMS Pilot employee called to active duty. I must state that this is a “unique” landing operation. I understand that this particular military operation was to round up suspects.

We have some super reservists and National Guard folks out there in addition to our volunteer troops. God bless them all.

Accidentally Stumbling into Happiness

The Declaration of Independence

The pursuit of happiness is enshrined in the Declaration of Independence, along with Life and Liberty, as the foundational rights we should have as Americans--and a good reason to rebel against the English King. 

Pursuit of happiness, like pursuit of wealth, is not the same a having it.  Annie Grace, author ofThis Naked Mind helps people get alcohol out of their lives and live happier lives as a result. She is brilliant and very much data oriented. When I heard about her, I was impressed. So who has a happy life?  

It turns out that the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence were doing many of the things that lead to real happiness. They were committed to a cause bigger than themselves; they had strong relationships (a real possibility of "hanging together" as Benjamin Franklin famously said); each one had a goal in life; and they were helping others. In their pursuit of happiness, they were doing the things that actually make people happy.

Annie Grace puts exercise and meditation at the top of her list of things that lead to true happiness and she uses a lot of data and brain science to show why this is true. Since I did not hear about Annie Grace until this week, I had not plan to follow her advice, but it turned I am doing most of the things she says lead to a happy life.

According to Grace people who have a happy life:

1.     Exercise, not just exercise but exercise with others toward a personal goal. Most of my rides are training rides with other racers.  When I was in the Army, I went to crowded gyms and trained to score high on the fitness test.

2.   Meditation. I started meditating this year. The program I use calls meditation, “a vacation for your mind.” They are right.

3.     Strong relationships.  It has been my immense good fortune to have a variety of strong relationships. I have Army buddies I am still in touch with from both the 70s and recent years. I have a wonderful family. I have friends from racing and friends who are as intensely into books as I am.  Recently I have added friends who share an intense interest in politics. I hang out with some of my former co-workers more than three years after I retired. Social media keeps me in touch with people I only rarely see in person.

4.     Having a goal in life. From the time I left home at 18, I have joined groups with shared goals and had goals of my own. In each of the four military organizations in which I enlisted, I was part of the mission. My professional jobs were in communications—my mission was to tell customers and other influential people that the place I worked is wonderful. I did far and away my best work when the communication goal was clear.

5.     Gratitude. Annie Grace recommends a gratitude journal, writing down five things I am thankful for each day. I am going to start.

6.     Helping others. I don’t do enough of this.

7.     Active leisure: Do sports, don't watch sports, at least while the sun is up. I am a member of book discussion groups and even had a couple of book groups in Iraq. My current college course is learning Modern Hebrew. 

8.     Belonging to something bigger than us. In real life, the Lone Ranger was miserable.

I really do have a happy life, but it’s nice to have data that confirms why I am happy.

I didn't start meditating or Yoga until this year. It's never too late to make changes. 

Unforgettable Moment, B-52s Scramble, Hill Air Force Base, 1974

B-52 Bombers taking off on full throttle on Strategic Air Command alert

I was stationed at Hill Air Force Base, Utah, from 1972-74. Early in 1974, Strategic Air Command stationed a wing of B-52s on Hill.  

My duty station was four miles from the airfield on the north end of the base.  Sometimes I went to the hangar for electronic parts.  On a warm spring day, I happened to be in the hangar when I heard an enormous roar, then another, then another, and another.  

Six B-52s filled the air with black smoke and the howl of 48 jet engines on throttle. The planes took off one after the other less than a minute apart. When all six formed up in the sky above the base, the giant airplanes flew east toward the Rocky Mountains and disappeared.

It was magnificent.

I was 21 years old when those planes took off.  Those airplanes were about my age, first entering service in 1952, a year before I was born. Like me they have had a lot of maintenance, but still have an active life today. Some of them, like me, are in their 60s.  

Military Movies and "The Rule"

Dick Winters, inspiration for the book and video series Band of Brothers

The world is full of good, great and terrible things to watch: movies, TV, and videos. To figure out what to watch, I have The Rules.

The Rule is, I won't watch anything about which I know technical details. Of course, I have exceptions, but in general, if I want to be entertained, I stay away from subjects that are part of my actual experience. I watch car racing; I don't watch car racing movies.

Next on my suspect list are war/military movies.  Even when I like part of a war movie, I know I am going to hate part of it too.  For instance, the first half of "Full Metal Jacket" is amazing. The second half is so predictable it could be a John Wayne movie.

I loved the movie "Fury" which was so right about procedures inside the turret of the tank. But, as with Full Metal Jacket, the final 30 minutes would make John Wayne blush.

And speaking of John Wayne movies, is there a veteran anywhere who does not think "The Green Berets" is the worst war movie ever made? In 1977 in the dayroom of Bravo Company, 1-70th Armor in Wiesbaden, West Germany, that movie came on the one TV channel we had--Armed Forces Network. Half the company crowded into the dayroom throwing rolled up socks and popcorn at the TV and howling about how bad that movie is.

Using The Rule, I will happily watch shows and movies about Secret Agents, Drug Dealers, Mobsters, Undercover Police, Surgeons, and Pirates.  I have no experience in any of those jobs, so when the they get the technical details wrong, I don't know it.  I have watched medical shows with real medics.  That's a hoot, listening to them flare up and yell, "No way! No one does a tracheotomy that way!" I have not had the chance to watch "The Sopranos"with a mobster or "Rome" with a Centurion, but that would be fun!

Just as an aside, I enjoyed all five seasons of "Breaking Bad" until the final episode. I know nothing about teaching high school or cooking meth and the series was brilliant. But when the star of the show welded a remote controlled M-60 machine gun into the trunk of a Cadillac and fired it with a key fob, killing a half-dozen Neo-Nazi drug dealers: "That's Bullshit!" was my reaction.

That's how I acted at the end of "Saving Private Ryan" when the German tanks went into a built up area, just so they could get blown up. "No armor commander would be that stupid" I spluttered in the theater eliciting glares from those around me.  I calmed down, but when I left the theater I called an old friend from 70th Armor and said, "The end of that movie is bullshit....." and we laughed about all the movies we dissed over the past two decades.

The glaring exception to my criticism of military video is "Band of Brothers." I found nothing to criticize in that amazing tribute to Major Dick Winters and the paratroopers he led from D-Day to VE Day.  When I re-enlisted and went to Iraq in 2009, I found many fellow critics of military-themed movies, but I never heard anyone criticize "Band of Brothers."

Next on my "To Watch" list is a video series: To Watch is a real list I keep in the Task List of Google Calendar. When I hear about something good to watch, I add it to the list.  Anyway, next is the final season of "The Americans" on FX. What a great show. I know nothing about being a Russian sleeper cell secret agent.

The Painting in My Living Room by a Prisoner of War

 A Picture of Bavaria on My Living Room Wall

Painted by an Afrika Korps Prisoner of War

When I look up from reading on the couch at night when the house is quiet, I see this painting. It was painted by an enlisted man serving in the Afrika Korps who was a Prisoner of War of the American Army.

The POW camp he was a prisoner in for more than two years was in Reading, Pennsylvania. The site is now the Reading Airport.

The painting was a gift from the prisoner to the camp commandant, my father, Capt. George Gussman. When my father took command of the camp in 1944, most of the prisoners had been there for more than a year.

On the day he took command, my father lined up the officers to introduce himself and let them know what he expected from the prisoners. One of the officers whispered that my father was a Jew. Which is true. He was also a ranked middleweight boxer before he enlisted. He called the man out of formation and hit him hard enough to lay him out cold in front of the other officers.

Dad then sent his guards into the barracks for and inspection that led to confiscating hundreds of Hershey bars the prisoners had bought with the money they earned in work on local farms.  These candy bars became my mother's engagement present from Dad.  That story is here.

My Dad never went overseas in World War II. He enlisted before the war started at 34 years old. As a rule, the Army did not send soldiers that old into combat during World War II.

After the initial drama, Dad had no more trouble and got along well with the prisoners.  The prisoners were repatriated several months after the war ended, and few applied to stay in America and pursue citizenship.

The painting reminds of the ironies of war--that soldiers from the country that killed millions of Jews would be prisoners in a POW camp run by the son of Jewish immigrants.  I keep that token of respect and affection on my wall. It hung on the wall of the home I grew up in. I will pass it to the next generation.

The prisoners my father was in charge of were captured far from home in a war that was already going against Germany. Prisoners of War in any Army are brave men who faced the enemy and death and survived.

Reality Catches Up With Fiction 70 Years After World War II

B-25 Bomber Pilot 1st. Lt. Bernard "Bernie" Steed Receiving 

the Distinguished Flying Cross for Bravery 

on a Mission over Avignon, France.

Last month a friend started a Facebook discussion about the worst book we ever read. One of the books that came up was Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. Published in 1961, the novel was based on life in an Army Air Corps bomber squadron flying B-25 "Mitchell" medium bombers over Italy, Southern France and across the Mediterranean Sea.

B-25 "Mitchell" Medium Bombers

I jumped into the discussion saying Catch-22 was one of my favorite books. I put the comment on my own page and one of the responses was from a guy I worked with almost 20 years ago.  Joseph Steed’s comment:

“My Dad literally lived Catch 22. He was assigned as a pilot to his bomber squadron in Europe within a month of the arrival of a young bombardier from New York City named Joseph Heller. Heller flew as Dad's bombardier on several missions. In the Avignon mission which was a significant scene in the book, like the author, Dad saw one of his friends shot down for the first time. On the same mission, Dad's plane lost an engine and he had to ditch it in the Mediterranean. Dad had told me about the ever-increasing number of missions required before being allowed to leave (he flew 66), and about the one guy in their unit who refused to fly again after reaching 40, the latter becoming the model for the guy who claimed he was crazy to avoid flying but whose sanity was proved by his not wanting to fly -- the original catch 22. When I discovered the Heller connection, Dad was in his 80s. He had heard of the book, but was not aware it was written by one of his bombardiers about their shared time in Europe. We looked up an old picture of Heller, and Dad remembered him as a little guy always running around with a notebook in his hand and writing things down. I got a copy of the book for him, but he made it only a couple of chapters in. He couldn't deal with being satirical about the experience.”

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

Joe’s Dad, Bernard “Bernie” Steed was drafted in 1942 at 19-years-old. He qualified for flight training and within a year was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant and training to fly B-25 “Mitchell” twin-engine bombers. These planes were made famous in the “Doolittle Raid” in which the big planes flew from aircraft carriers and bombed Tokyo in 1942. Bernie Steed’s life included the terror and humor of war. While still in pilot training in Georgia, shortly after landing in his trainer plane from a routine flight, a second plane’s propeller began chewing through their plane’s tail section, destroying it most of the way to the cockpit. The guy never saw them until he hit them. “Pilot inattention."

Bernie Steed in pilot training

By May 1944, Bernie Steed was 21-year-old pilot flying bombing missions from a base in Corsica across the Mediterranean theater of operations. On one mission Steed lost an engine, but managed to land the plane safely in the sea and get all of his crew into the life raft. They were rescued by a seaplane just a few hours later.  Bernie Steed earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for that mission and earned many other awards and decorations for flying 66 combat missions.

Joseph Heller was from Brooklyn and was a year younger than Bernie when he was assigned as bombardier in the 488th Bombardment Squadron in May 1944. He flew a couple of missions as part of Bernie’s six-man crew.

Joseph Heller in the Bombardier Compartment of a B-25 Medium Bomber

The characters in Catch-22 were composites of more than one person, Heller said. But about the action described, he said, “All the physical details, and almost all of what might be called the realistic details do come out of my own experiences as a bombardier in World War II. The organization of a mission, the targets—most of the missions that are in the book were missions that I did fly on.”

Thanksgiving Dinner, 1944, on the 488th Bomber Squadron Base, Corsica

A month before I learned about Bernie Steed, I saw a copy of Catch-22 at a book sale and bought it, thinking I would like to re-read it. Now that I know more about the author and one of the heroes in the squadron the novel is based on, I will definitely be re-reading the book.

Battle of the Tanks, Kursk, 1943: A Review

-->

In July of 1943, the German Army’s ability to attack the Soviet Army ended in smoking wrecks and twisted bodies.  The German attack on Kursk was supposed to turn the war around and put the Wehrmacht back on the offensive. A series of delays that gave the Soviets time to prepare massive defenses doomed the attack from the start—before the start.

In his book, Battle of the Tanks, Kursk, 1943, Lloyd Clark tells the story of Kursk beginning with the rise to power of both Hitler and Stalin. Clark makes the case that the strengths and weaknesses of these two men made the biggest tank battle in history inevitable.

Clark mixes eyewitness accounts of tank crews and other soldiers on both sides with the high-level view of Generals and the two Supreme Commanders.  He begins in the 1930s when both leaders consolidated power and traces decisions on both sides that led to what remains the largest tank battle in the history of the world. 

One of the key differences between Hitler and Stalin in the view of Lloyd is that while both retained the title of Supreme Commander, Stalin was willing to name Georgy Zhukov his deputy and ceded much power to him in deciding the conduct of the battle. 

Hitler trusted no one else. In the view of most of Hitler’s generals, the battle should have begun on schedule in April. In Kursk Hitler repeated his error of 1941 in delaying Operation Barbarossa until June 22.  Hitler held back his forces until the arrival of Panther and Tiger tanks.  But in the three months that the Germans delayed, the Russians added layers and depth to their defenses.   By July, the Russians were dug in and outnumbered the Germans nearly two to one.

In the grinding dozen days of battle total casualties far exceeded a million killed and wounded. The Russians lost more men by far than the Germans, but, as the Germans lamented, the Russian reserves seemed inexhaustible and the German reserves were exhausted. 

After Kursk, the German Army fell back for nearly two years until the Soviet Army captured Berlin.

Lloyd does a good job of telling the story of the battle as well as keeping the broader context. 

Who Fights Our Wars: Sgt. 1st Class Thomas, Gospel Worship Leader, Tanker

In the 70s chaplains came to the Army with graduate degrees and credentials as Priests, Pastors, or Rabbis from their religions.  The chapel system tried to cover every spiritual need. But the chaplains also recognized their limits.  So in the Wiesbaden Military Community in the 1970s, the very proper Colonel in charge of the chaplains in the community authorized a Gospel service every Sunday night in the main chapel. 

The Pastor of the mostly Black congregation on Sunday night was Sergeant First Class Thomas (I can’t remember his first name). His Sunday night services were long, loud and a sharp contrast with the United Methodist morning services. 

The choir in the Gospel Service numbered more than fifty, singing, swaying, clapping and shimmering in blue robes. The service began and ended with music and prayers. In the middle was a sermon with deep lows, soaring highs and its own rhythm. 

In his office in battalion headquarters of 1st Battalion, 70th Armor, Thomas was the re-enlistment sergeant.  He enlisted in the early 60s, served two tours in the Vietnam War in infantry if I remember correctly. He switched to Armor later.

He filled out the endless paperwork required re-enlist. But the calm, detail-oriented man behind the retention desk was on fire in the pulpit.  He could deliver lines that were dire warnings in a way that would make me smile even while I felt the cold wind of condemnation blow in.

He would grab the pulpit with both hands.  He would hesitate, look directly at the congregation, then beginning in a low voice say, “Only your own faith will open the doors of Heaven. Sittin’ in a garage don’t make you a car, and sittin’ in this Church don’t make you a Christian! –at this point his volume was close to max – Only your own personal faith in Jesus will get you into Heaven.”

Another exhortation to personal faith delivered from low to crescendo ended with “We must be children of God. [Long Pause.] God don’t have any grandchildren.  Your grandma’s faith won’t get you to Heaven. And don’t you think you are foolin’ that faithful woman. She knows you need faith, and a whoopin’!”

After Wiesbaden, the next time I went to Black Church was in the summer of 2007.  I was in a neck and chest brace after a near-fatal bicycle accident. We went to an African Methodist Episcopal Church in the Lancaster City. My wife and I were two of the three white people among hundreds of people in the pews. It was a new and delightful experience for my wife. For me, it was just like the Wiesbaden Military Community.

A few months before our visit, I made the casual remark to my wife, quoting SFC Thomas, that 11 a.m. Sunday was the most segregated hour in America. Soon after, my wife started visiting Black and Latino and other Churches. They were very different the Presbyterian Church we attended. 

As was true in Wiesbaden, the Lancaster preacher illustrated his sermon with vivid metaphor. But the best and most memorable moment for us was when the minister called the children to the front of the Church to listen to a story.  He retold the story of the Good Samaritan as a man shot and left for dead in a side street right near the Church.  A preacher walked past the bleeding man, a star football player from the neighborhood walked past the man, and then there was a hush. The preacher told about a man who picked the wounded man up out of the gutter, took to the emergency room and paid his bill. 

Who was this man? 

The preacher boomed:  A man from Lititz! Yes, a man from Lititz saved him. The man from Lititz was truly a neighbor.

The kids clapped. The adults laughed. I thought I was going to re-break some of my cracked ribs I was laughing so hard.  Lititz is the whitest, richest suburb of the city of Lancaster.  A man from Lititz is the best replica of a Samaritan in that neighborhood.

When the adults calmed down the preacher asked the kids, “Who is this man’s neighbor?”

After a pause, a little girl said, “The football player.”

Now the preacher was laughing too.

I could imagine SFC Thomas loving that localized story of the Good Samaritan. 

Who Fights Our Wars? CSM Donald C. Cubbison, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division

In the fall of 1977, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division got a new Command Sergeant's Major.  Donald C. Cubbison, veteran of the Vietnam War with 23 years of service became the top enlisted man of the 4,000-soldier mechanized brigade where I was a tank commander.

Like most career soldiers, he hated journalists, especially Army journalists.  But he gave me the chance to be an Army journalist, then a civilian journalist.  More on that soon.

When Cubbison came to our base in Wiesbaden, West Germany, we had a weekly brigade run, sometimes more than two thousand soldiers formed up by company and battalion and ran the perimeter of the former airfield, now a parking lot for tanks and other tracked vehicles.

At the time I was 24 years old.  When we heard about this new hard-ass CSM coming to the base, everyone was saying he was 52 years old, even older than our Korean-War veteran First Sergeant, Robert V. Baker.  So we expected this ancient sergeant's major would just watch his troops run the airstrip.  We were wrong. First run he grabbed the brigade flag and led the formation.  Anyone who dropped out of that formation caught Hell.  "You can't keep up with a guy who's THAT old!!"

Clearly, Cubbison was not one of those people who everyone says looks young for their age.  A week ago, I found a brief article about Cubbison and an obituary.  He was 42 years old, not 52 when he became sergeant's major of 4th Brigade.

After he made clear that the fitness program would be continuing with him at the front, Cubbison had an NCO meeting in the base theater just before Christmas.  He told the nearly one thousand sergeants in the brigade his priorities.  The Tennessee native talked about leadership, readiness and other topics on the NCO to-do list.

Then at the end he said he wanted a Combat Arms sergeant to volunteer to get his brigade into the newspapers. He wanted us in Stars and Stripes, in the Air-Force run base newspaper, "and every place else that writes about soldiers." Then he repeated the volunteer has to be infantry, armor or artillery. "I don't want a raggedy-ass Army journalist that doesn't know one end of his rifle from the other."

With that he dismissed us.  I saw that he wrote with a blue marker pen on yellow pads.  I went straight to the PX, bought the pen and paper he preferred, then ran to the airstrip.  There was a German and an American squad practicing together to be the honor guard at a friendship event on Christmas Eve.

I wrote the story and went to Cubbison's office in Brigade Headquarters an hour after the NCO meeting ended.  The other sergeants who auditioned for the job showed up later in the day or the next day.

I got the job.  By the first week in January, I was re-assigned to Brigade and on my way to becoming a journalist.  I got 4th Brigade in the base newspaper almost every week and in the Stars and Stripes enough that Cubbison told me, quite proudly, that Col. John Riscassi, the brigade commander, got a call from Division HQ asking, "Why the Hell is it always 4th Brigade I'm seeing in the newspaper."

In 1979, Cubbison went on to be the top sergeant of 3rd Infantry Division, then the sergeant's major of a rapid reaction force formed within US Army Europe. He passed away in 2015 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

When Cubbison moved up, I moved out. I left active duty in 1979 and went to college. While I studied, I had a part-time job as a newswriter at the Elizabethtown (Pa.) Chronicle.  Cubbison made my new career possible.

Tanks from Inside, Tanks from Outside: The Huge Difference

The podcast Sectarian Review just did an episode on Philip Roth. It included a passage from American Pastoral using a military tank as a metaphor.  It made me realize how different it is to be outside a tank than inside.

It is very different to see a dragon than to be a dragon.  I was a U.S. Army tank commander trained at Fort Knox, Kentucky, in 1975. The following year I waited for World War III to start, looking across the east-west border in Fulda.  Tactically, most of what we knew about our own tanks and those of our enemies came from the devastation of Israeli armor at the outset of the Yom Kippur War in 1973 and the subsequent destruction of Arab armor after the initial shock and loss.

Tanks, like mythic dragons, are terrifying to those outside. But on the inside they are the target everyone wants to kill.  In 1973, lone Egyptian infantrymen with Soviet "Sagger" missiles more than a mile away could and did kill Israeli tanks.  In Cold War West Germany, we looked across the border in Fulda and saw a vast Army of tanks, men with missiles, helicopters, fighters and artillery arrayed to kill us.  No one I knew thought we were the terror of the battlefield.

It just reminded me the experience of literature, of all art, is different depending on the experience of the reader.  Armor crewmen, tank commanders especially, see the modern battlefield as a massive "kill the tank" game.  Some of the most fearsome weapons to our enemies in the current wars were designed as tank killers then used on other targets.  The A-10 Warthog, the most nearly perfect ground attack aircraft in history, was designed around it's tank killer gun.  The Apache helicopter has the same design concept--kill tanks with Hellfire missiles and it amazing chain gun.  As it turns out if you can kill a tank you can kill other targets.  There are youtube videos of Apache helicopters vs. Toyota pickups filled with terrorists caught in the open.  The outcome is always the same: Apache 1 Toyota 0.

Anyway, Roth was right to see the modern dragon as terrifying from the outside.  But we who are inside the dragon, who see out of our dragon eyes, know the terrors both of seeing a dragon and being a dragon.

On Memorial Day: Visiting the Grave of Major Richard "Dick" Winters

Major Richard Winters, 1918-2011

This morning I got a message on Facebook from Sarah Frye Gingrich. She was asking about a gravesite of a soldier to visit on Memorial Day.  I immediately answered with the grave of Major Dick Winters, one of the soldiers I most admire, and who is admired by even the most cynical of my fellow soldiers. 

The Winters family grave at Bergstrasse Lutheran Church

Ephrata, Pa.

 In suggesting the visit to Sarah, I was aware I had never visited Dick Winters grave.  Sarah took her six kids to cemetery at Bergsrasse Lutheran Church in Ephrata, Pa.  An hour later, I put on my uniform for the first time since I left the Army and went to visit Winter's grave with my youngest son Nigel. 

Nigel at the Winter's family grave site.

For those who don't know the story of Dick Winters, I cannot recommend more highly the book Band of Brothers by Stephen Ambrose and the HBO miniseries of the same name.   

First time in my uniform since 2016

There are many memorials to the men who participated in the Normandy invasion. The airborne museum at Sainte-Mere-Eglise tells the story of those who flew into the invasion in gliders and with parachutes.  And the American Cemetery at Normandy where more than 9,000 soldiers are buried on the cliffs above Omaha Beach.

Nigel and I after the visit.

Rest in Peace Major Winters.