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Post by Alpo on Aug 19, 2017 5:23:09 GMT -6
I know. Y'all are all thinkin', "What? Nah. Can't be."
But it's true. Lives in Colorado, so of course his name is Utah. Utah Bob.
Back in the late 60s, Bob wore a Girl Scout cap and jumped out of perfectly good airy-planes. He protected the FRD from the evil DDR and the eviler Ruskies, and later participated in the Southeast Asia War Games. Then he comed back home to Florida where he was a shuriff. Leastways I think he was a shuriff. He wore a gun and a badge and a big hat and rode a horse. His badge said Fish and Game, but whadaheck.
He worked down Miami-way, which might be why he decided to move to a place that ain't got no oxygen in the air, and has lots of that cold wet white layin' around lots of the time.
Anywho.
Bob will occasionally regale us with tales of his mispent youth as one of Uncle Sammy's Finest, protecting the world for Democracy.
I've saved some of his stories, and I thought I would share.
T'other day was National Airborne Day. August 16, 1940, first US Army parachute jump. First official one, anyhow. And Bob, he put up a picher of his certificate. Said that he gradjiated Jumpin'-outa-airyplane-school on October 13, 1967. FRIDAY October 13, 1967.
I mentioned that I did not believe I would have liked jumping out of an airplane on Friday the 13 (actually, I would not wish to jump outa way atall, no matter what day it were).
That comment prompted a story. Hope you like it.
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Post by Alpo on Aug 19, 2017 5:23:40 GMT -6
Funny you should mention that.Yeah, and it wasn't pretty. The jump went fine, but the landing, which is a very important part of a jump of course, did not.
The Drop Zone winds were a bit borderline. When I hit the ground, they went over the border. It was an equipment jump so we were burdened with a rucksack on a dropline and a weapons bag strapped to our side.
You are suppose to land using these points of contact:
Balls of feet
Right calf
Right thigh
Right butt cheek
Right side/upper back
After you come to a stop you get out of your harness, roll up your chute and proceed to the rally point.
Due to the wind however, as the chute stayed full of air, I also used:
My Head
Lower back
Knees
Stomach
Face
Feet again
Butt
Elbows
So I ended up wrapped like a Christmas turkey in lines and being drug across the ground in the general direction of Alabama. I had no fear of actually making it to Heart of Dixie as the Chattahoochee River would stop me long before I reached Montomery.
At some point I heard a Black Hat (instructor) yelling through a bull horn.
"Quick release! Quick release!"
"Aha", I remembered. All you had to do was reach up and pull down on the quick releases that keep you attached to the shroud lines and the canopy. Unfortunately, I was now wrapped up in the lines due to rolling about like a gator (look it up, it's called a death roll) on landing. So when I popped the quick releases, I was not released at all. This caused me some concern. I could hear the instructors voice fade into the distance as I outdistanced him, being drug across the ground of Fryar Field at a good clip.
"Well", I thought, "At least it's not rocky"
But it was definitely uncomfortable.
Getting to my feet and running around the canopy to collapse the air out of it was not an option. But I did manage to get turned around feet first and while hanging on to the lines tried to dig my heels in like a steer wrestler. That slowed me a tiny bit but the seat of my britches was getting warm....and thin. I yanked on those lines like Gabby Hayes on a runaway stagecoach and began to pull them in. Eventually I reached the edge of the canopy and, hand over hand, got the bulging white behemoth down to the shape of the 50 Ft Woman's brassiere (awesome movie by the way). The air finally spilled out and the wind died. I got shakily to my feet and untangled myself from my shroud lines, got out of the harness and stowed the chute in the kit bag as a jeep slid to a stop with a couple of wide eyed instructors who seemed to be amazed I was standing.
I debated if I should say, "I meant to do that".
I didn't say it. Just sheepishly got in the jeep and road back to the marshalling point where the graduation ceremony was about to commence.
I thought I noticed just a moment's of hesitation as the Colonel handed me my wings. Coulda been the weeds and dirt covering my fatigues.
I think that was the last Friday the 13th jump I ever made.
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Post by armedandsafe on Aug 19, 2017 18:36:28 GMT -6
I remember my first jump. The yank when the chute opened was very similar to the one I felt when I slipped on the canyon wall and the safety harness caught me after about a 20 foot fall. At least this time I had arranged the crotch of the harness properly, so I didn't say the words I had used in the canyon. Pops
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Post by Alpo on Aug 21, 2017 6:10:02 GMT -6
Second installment. Cold War, West Germany.
Remember --- "Luger" has an R.
Okay. To illustrate the leadership and judgment abilities I possessed in my meteoric, but short-lived, military career, I offer you this...
Late winter 1967: The picturesque town of Garmisch, Federal Republic of Germany.
The sky was clear and the weather mild as a group of near 100 men from the 10th Special Forces Group slithered along like a green snake. Our hideous M1942 Army-issued skis were supposed to be suitable for cross-country and downhill skiing.
They were suitable for neither.
7 feet long, wide, solid wood, heavy and painted white, the troops jokingly called them "White Stars" after the popular high-tech top of the line Kneissl White Star.
Historical note: Initially intended to invade Norway with the 1st Special Service Force, the mission was scrapped and the skis went into warehouses until, in a stroke of military genius in the 50's and '60s, someone said, "Hey, let's issue these things out!"
But you dance with who you brung so off we slid on numerous forays through the Alps in our Winter Warfare training. Winter Warfare training is a lot like desert training only there's more water (beneficial) and your toes can fall off (not so beneficial).
We also used snowshoes at times. Something the locals were not at all familiar with. Neither was I, being from Florida, but that's another story for another time.
So there we were on the outskirts of the old 1936 Olympic facility. The map said we had one bodacious climb and then turned south for a few kilometers where we would pick up a truck convoy. In cross-country skiing someone has to break trail. You change off frequently when the point man gets whupped and stick a fresh body up front. We traversed up a pretty steep slope most of the morning, making frequent switchbacks as we got higher. At last we reached the top just as I rotated into the point position.
"Lucky break", I sez to myself. “It's flat and packed up here.” We had reached the well-used Olympic site, and families of Germans, ski bunnies and Jean-Claude Killy wannabe's were everywhere having a great time. We poled along with our clown skis, overstuffed rucksacks and sweat stained berets as we waved and greeted the multitudes.
They were quite used to seeing GIs wandering about the countryside. It was the Cold War period after all, and we were there to keep it from warming up.
"Guten Morgen" I cheerily exclaimed to each smiling Teutonic face I encountered. "Gruss Gott" (Southern German for Howdy).
One of my team members called from behind me. "Hey Ell-Tee, do you know where we're going?"
"Of course", I said smugly, "I've got the map right chere".
For 10 minutes or so we had a marvelous time schussing (That's what you do on skis. You schuss) along the flat manicured trails. We passed a restaurant, packed with people looking out at the sunny slopes. We also passed a sign at the entrance to a path. It was in German. My German was not too good. I ignored it.
I noticed a lot of the people up at the restaurant were standing on the balcony or inside at the pictures windows and waving excitedly at us. I waved back. I was MacArthur. I was Patton with my troops behind me on parade. I was Caesar returning triumphantly to Rome!
They waved even more enthusiastically. Some would say frantically.
I waved back, American Hero smile on my face.
We passed another sign. Couldn't read that one either but one of the men behind me could. "Oh Shit" was what I heard.
It was too late.
Suddenly, the benign, pleasant pathway narrowed. We passed a small building. I thought it said, "Luger". “Odd place for a gunshop”, I thought. I was wrong. It didn't have an R on it.
Along with the narrowing came a difference in surface texture. From packed snow to....ice.
Now the Army White Star skis were pretty inadequate on snow. On ice they become instruments of death. You have no control and basic physics takes over. Momentum, inertia, gravity, all that stuff.
Next, after the solid ice surprise, came another. The angle of the narrow trail increased from 5 degrees to 25 degrees to OHMYGOD degrees. The sides of the trail rose on each side. I began to hear shouts from the long line of troops behind me. Perhaps a few curses. They faded away as the wind in my ears drowned out everything else after a few seconds. I wouldn't have been able to hear them anyway over the screams of terror. Mine.
Once you're skiing down an Olympic Luger trail (it was actually Luger without the r), you don't have a lot of control. I suppose that's why they put up those Eintritt Verboten signs. Turns out it means “Oh No You Don’t.” If you ever see an Eintritt Verboten sign turn around immediately. Germans, not known for their impish sense of humor, never kid about those.
So down we went at ever increasing speed. then we hit a corner. I'd never skied on a wall like that. Some of the fellas took that opportunity to shoot right up and out of the Trail 'o Death at that point. Actually I'm not sure that it was by choice. I think they were yelling "Yahoo" but, as I said, I couldn't hear too well.
Down, down, down we sped as I alternately prayed to the snow gods and cursed the wooden slats strapped to my feet. Sometimes I was on my skis, sometimes my butt, I even went down backwards at one point. It seemed I could hear demonic laughter in the chattering of the skis. After what seemed like 12 or 15 hours on this E-ticket ride the trail widened out. The tall ice sides dropped down. It straightened out, flattened out, and ended…..
In the late winter Bavarian mud and gravel.
While the Army skis are poorly designed they at least do slide, albeit uncontrollably, on snow and ice.
On mud and gravel they do not.
I was the first one in line to come to an abrupt stop. The other 80 or 90 men then plowed into me in rapid succession. Such a tangle of men, equipment and skis has probably not been seen since on the continent of Europe.
The good news is the only one civilian witness to my fall from Caesar/Patton-like status was an old farmer on a honey wagon about 50 yards away. He seemed interested and amused. I wondered what he did during The War.
As the groans curses and wind noise abated, I thought I heard a voice in my ear....“All Fame is fleeting”.
The incident became known as "The Charge of the Ice Brigade" I think they put a statue up to honor me at the Olympic stadium.
Maybe not.
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Post by Alpo on Aug 22, 2017 19:53:40 GMT -6
3rd Installment - What Did You Do In The War, Bobby?
When I was a young captain with the 1st Cavalry Division in 1970 at a firebase north of Tay Ninh, (VeetNam as LBJ used to call it). One day, in preparation to moving the base to another location, the Battalion Commander wanted us to dispose of all the old ordnance. I grabbed a platoon leader and told him to police up the old ammo and miscellaneous ordnance and haul it way outside the wire. Then get the engineers to dig a good deep trench and light it off. I then turned my attention to other matters and pretty much forgot about it. I was a helluva delegater.
But, I had no idea how much old crap was on the base. It had been there for many months before I arrived.
All day, unbeknownst to me, the young LT and his minions energetically loaded a deuce and a half up, time after time, and hauled the ammo, grenades, mortar rounds, High Explosive 105 and 155mm shells, claymores, White Phosphorous rounds, rockets, greenie-stickum caps, cracker balls, rice krispies and anything else that would make noise.
Late in the afternoon I inquired how the detail was going. “All done Sir” said the smiling young butter-bar. “Can we wait till dark to set it off? The troops would like to see it.”
“Sure, whatever”, I said. “Just give the Tactical Operations Center a ‘fire in the hole’ when you're ready.” (Note: Tactical Operations Center or TOC was a fancy name for the shipping container buried in the mud where all the radios and the Bn command staff hung out and drank Cokes. Fire in the Hole alerts everyone that a Big Noisy Event is about to occur).
After a delicious post-sunset supper of mystery meat and mac & cheese, I was sitting in my lavishly appointed bunker preparing to read a 3 week old newspaper from home when I heard the “fire in the hole” call on the radio.
A few seconds later, the ammo box lined sides of my hole bulged in and then snapped back. The atmospheric pressure changed, the bunker filled with dust, and I felt a great disturbance in the force. It was one of those explosions you don't hear but feel. I think if God spoke to you, he'd probably sound like that. Especially if he was pissed.
I ran out of my underground condo and headed for the TOC, figuring the old man might not be pleased.
Along the way I could hear the shouts, oohs, aaws, and cheers of appreciation from the troops as a whopper of a mushroom cloud rose into the evening tropical sky. Many parts of the landscape sparkled with newly ignited fires. I noticed the counter mortar radar dish had fallen over and there were a lot of hats drifting around.
I was about halfway to the TOC when the second, and much bigger explosion, went off. I don't know how much stuff the boys set off, but this one brought me to my knees. Some of the cheers sounded more like screams this time. I was never in the middle of an Arc Light strike, but I imagine it would have been similar. Perhaps less noisy. I suspect at that moment, some geeky fella sitting is a USGS office in California glanced at his seismometer and said, “Hmmmm”. Later, there was some speculation that several of the troops nearest ground zero had gone back in time briefly. There may have been something to that. They certainly had that dazed look and silly smile of someone who doesn't know exactly where they are. The mushroom cloud from this one looked properly nuclear. It rose to about a million feet into the Southeast Asian atmosphere (that would be Vietnamese feet not American feet so it's really maybe not that impressive. I'm not sure how many British feet it rose. I think they call ‘em “Pints”).
The cloud loomed over the base and every now and then, much to the delight of the watching infantrymen, an M-72 rocket would shoot out and head for places unknown. It was like Rocket Roulette for a while. Burning white phosphorous is also extremely spectacular at night but I cannot recommend in for July 4th events, especially during drought conditions
The Col. met me before I could get to the TOC. He was, as I expected, not happy. He expressed his displeasure for quite some time.
It was a mere side note in my meteoric, if brief, military career.
P.S. One good note was that we didn't see any NVA for a week. I would have liked to see their reports on the event.
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Post by shooteruk on Aug 26, 2017 8:03:36 GMT -6
Thanks for those.....
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Post by Alpo on Aug 26, 2017 20:42:13 GMT -6
Last thing in my files. Bob's a purty damn good po-8.
>I wrote this on ANZAC Day in honor of the soldiers from Australia and New Zealand troops who participated in the disaterous Gallipoli campaign in WWI. It applies to anyone who has ever been in battle.
The Men on your Left and Right
"It really don't matter what side you're on, Son" The Sergeant says to me. I listened real close for I was a lad Not yet quite twenty-three
"You were sent by your Country, or God or King It's a soldier's lot to die So I'll tell you what you're fightin for" And he looks me in the eye
"For freedom", says I. "That's probably it!" "Or maybe to save mankind!" "Or to keep the world all safe and sane And make sure it don't unwind"
"For your Family and Home and your Flag so dear!" I knew I had it at last! Then I heard the shells scream overhead And the trench shook from the blast.
The Sergeant's eyes they held me still My own stayed open wide. With a click, he fixed his bayonet His head shook side to side.
"No Lad", he said. "That's just not it. That's what them civilians think. A soldier's thoughts are simpler still", And he gives me a quick sad wink.
"A soldier's got no time to think of such grand things ya see. No King or Queen in this here trench. Just the Lads, and you, and me"
"You fight for the men on your left and right. It's just as simple as that. Now straighten your kit, tighten your belt And don't forget your tin hat."
"If you're still alive tomorrow" he says You'll long remember this day. You'll remember the men on your left and right When you hear the pipers play"
"So on your feet Lad, It's just about time Wipe that mud off your pistol sight. We're in for it now, so let’s give 'em Hell We may see it ourselves tonight!"
He smiled at me then and chuckled no doubt At my brief patriotic vent Then the flare gun went off, and I blew my whistle And over the top we went.
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Post by eddien on Sept 1, 2017 18:13:47 GMT -6
Haven't laughed that hard in awhile. 👍
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Post by Alpo on Jun 4, 2021 18:19:06 GMT -6
Time for another installment. Russian 122mm katyusha rocket A friend of mine in the 7th Cav heard a loud Thump outside his sleeping hole on the firebase and emerged to find a sizzling 122mm rocket that had hit the sandbags. It was frired from one of our own abandoned bases nearby. He was a bit shaken by that. In addition he was a Hawaiian fella of Japanese descent and in charge of the commo section. Still in his OD boxers and flip flops, he grabbed his M16 and headed for the TOC as more Russian built hardware impacted in the perimeter. One of the guys there advised him to put on a shirt ASAP. “What for?”, he asked. He was informed tactfully that dressed in shorts and sandals his appearance was just wee a bit North Vietnamese and running around the firebase in that configuration could be hazardous to his health. His second Oh S**t moment of the evening. Fortunately our recon platoon was in the area of the firebase they were firing on, heard the ruckus, got eyes on the bad guys and called in a rain of steel from our 105 battery. End of rocket incoming. The fight lasted from 200 hrs to near dawn. They tried 3 ground assaults, shot down a Huey flare ship when a flare got hung up on the skid, the co-pilot was killed. The infantry company just about exhausted the ammo supply. The artillery, who were firing beehive rounds still had a good stockpile. Col Trobaugh said, in his best John Wayne voice after an ammo count, “Well, if they hit us again, we’ll fall back to the 105 pits and fix bayonets” Fortunately, the NVA were spent and headed back to Cambodia to lick their wounds. They missed their chance to re-enact Custer’s Last Stand FSB Atkinson. April 1970.
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