By 1941, the Japanese Empire was fully invested in China, where it had begun a full-scale invasion in 1937. The Japanese made huge gains in the first two years of the war, occupying Manchuria and annexing it, then moving south into Beijing, Shanghai and Nanking. By 1939, China began a counterattack that only proved it wasn't capable of winning in modern combat of the time.
Chinese troops saw some successes against the Japanese, but they were only piecemeal and not part of a greater strategy. Still, cities occupied by Japanese puppet governments continued their resistance, as many cities that had fallen under the fascist boot around the world continued their resistance.
In the United States, people were taking notice of the spread of fascism around the world. In 1941, most Americans knew a war was coming, either against Germany, Japan, or both. One American, who had been in China advising Chinese leader Chiang Kai-Shek on his air forces since 1937, was ready for it.
Claire Chennault, a retired U.S. Army Air Corps officer, was originally overseeing the training of Chinese pilots flying Soviet-built aircraft. But in 1940, he went to Washington to convince the Roosevelt administration to take the new Curtiss P-40B Warhawks to China.
The Chinese were able to buy 100 Warhawks and recruit 100 volunteer pilots, 60 from the Navy and Marine Corps, and 40 more from the Army Air Forces. They also recruited 200 ground crews, all of which volunteered to fight Japanese aggression under the Chinese flag. They were paid through a military contracting company and offered a bounty for every Japanese plane shot down.
The first 300 men of the American Volunteer Group (AVG) arrived in what was then called Rangoon in Burma (today, it's called Yangon, Myanmar) on July 28, 1941. They were on a Dutch liner traveling on civilian passports. They began by training at a British-built airbase in Burma to brush up their flying skills, learn the new plane, and -- most importantly -- learn how to fight the Japanese.
To do this, Chennault taught them everything he knew from watching Japanese aircraft in action over China for the previous five years and from testimony provided from Soviet pilots who were already flying missions against the Japanese. Instead of chasing more agile Japanese planes into turns and trying to beat them from behind, Chennault preached a doctrine of attacking the Zero from a superior altitude while in a dive.
When ready for another attack, they were instructed to slash at the Japanese, then prepare for another diving attack. This was all contrary to everything they learned at American or British flight school, but everything the AVG was doing in Burma was contrary to how they were initially trained. Chennault set up the "world's best early warning system" to ensure his pilots could successfully execute the strategy.
Unfortunately, it took so long to plan and create the Flying Tigers (which was what Washington was already calling them by the time they were ready for combat) that the United States had entered World War II before they flew their first missions.
When their aircraft arrived in Burma, the P-40s were assembled, test flown and delivered to the airfield for use by the pilots. While the pilots trained, they watched newsreels and read stories about the fight against fascism elsewhere in the world. One day, they saw a picture of a Curtiss P-40 flown by the British, where they had been fighting the Germans since 1940.
One aircraft, part of the Royal Air Force No. 112 Squadron, had a nose painted with large sharks' teeth. The AVG adopted the look, which is now associated with them today.
When the Flying Tigers were ready to take the fight to the Japanese, much of China's eastern coast was already occupied, so vital supplies, troops, and equipment had to be moved into China overland via the Burma Road. The Flying Tigers' three squadrons, 1st Squadron, the "Adam & Eves"; 2nd Squadron, the "Panda Bears," and 3rd Squadron, "Hell's Angels," watched over opposite sections of the road.
On Dec. 20, 1941, they saw combat for the first time, as Japanese Lily bombers made their way toward the city of Kunming on the Chinese end of the Burma Road. The AVG's 1st and 2nd Squadron intercepted the bombers and forced them to jettison their loads before they reached the city.
Five days later, heavy Japanese bombers made their way toward Rangoon itself. Fourteen fighters from the Flying Tigers flew alongside 15 British Brewster Buffalos to intercept 63 Japanese bombers and 25 Zero fighters. The RAF and the Flying Tigers down almost half of the enemy planes.
The Flying Tigers operated in the skies over Burma and the Burma Road until July 1942. In that time, they took significant losses but always inflicted much more damage to the enemy than they took, despite only ever having 63 fighters operational at best. However, its most important contribution was winning battles for the good guys at a time when World War II seemed to be going terribly for the Allies.
As newsreel after newsreel lamented the losses of bases on Guam, the Philippines, and Singapore, the volunteer pilots and ground crews of the Flying Tigers provided combat victories and hope that the Allies would win the war in the Pacific.
On Dec. 15, 1864, Confederate Gen. John Bell Hood had the unfortunate job of going up against the Union's only undefeated general officer, Maj. Gen. George H. Thomas. Thomas, nicknamed "The Rock of Chickamauga" for preventing a disaster for the Union in 1863, would keep that record throughout the Civil War.
After the two-day Battle of Nashville, his nickname would become "The Sledge of Nashville," after he effectively destroyed the Confederate Army of Tennessee.
Aft Hood failed to prevent Gen. William T. Sherman's forces from destroying Atlanta; he sought to disrupt Sherman's supply lines by moving north to Chattanooga. Sherman instead conducted his now-famous March to the Sea, instead leaving Gen. Thomas to secure Tennessee. Hood would have been better off against Sherman.
In moving north, he chased Maj. Gen. John M. Schofield's army to Nashville, where the Union forces retreated into the fortified city, which had been in Union hands since 1862. He arrived on Dec. 2, 1864, but instead of assaulting the city, Hood took a defensive posture hoping Thomas would come out and attack him. Such an attack could allow Hood's forces to defeat units sent against him one by one.
To draw Thomas out, Hood sent large detachments of men to attack railway depots and reinforce other rebel operations in the region. Thomas wasn't fooled, and Hood lost his best men to risky ventures. Still, Thomas couldn't ignore Hood's army, either. He prepared for two weeks, despite pressure from Washington and the Confederate blockade of the Cumberland River to the south.
When the battle finally began on Dec. 15, Thomas came out swinging. He started with a diversionary attack on what appeared to be a weak Confederate right flank. He threw two brigades of U.S. Colored Troops at a reinforced skirmish line, but though the Union forces were able to fight and regroup for much of the day, enfilading fire from rebel artillery forced them to retreat.
The Confederates were not fooled by the move and reinforced their left flank when they realized it was actually the army's weak point. Initially defended by only five redoubts, they were quickly overrun on the first day of the fighting, when Thomas sent an entire Corps to capture them. Four of them fell quickly as the Confederates retreated behind a skirmish line. That too fell to the Union Army, which, after reforming its lines, captured the final position.
After the first day of the battle in which Thomas was supposed to be defeated in detail by Hood's army, the Confederate left flank was collapsing, and its defenders were retreating two miles away.
On the second day of the battle, the Confederate Army had withdrawn to the hills south of the city and reformed a much stronger line. In the center of the line was a series of stone walls and entrenched infantry positions. Three divisions unde Confederate Gen. Stephen D. Lee were sent to the right flank, and the rebel's weakened forces occupied the middle.
The new left flank was now atop Shy's Hill, a steep climb with a view of all surrounding areas. The only problem with its new position was that it could also be seen by everyone, especially Thomas' artillery, which were very much within range of the hill. That was just the beginning of the problems for the Confederate left.
Thomas attacked the rebel army with the exact same plan as the previous day. He launched a diversionary assault on its right while throwing the bulk of his forces against the left. While the left appeared strong, it was actually weaker than the previous day. This time, however, the Confederates, believing in the strength of the left flank, fell for it.
When two brigades of Union troops attacked the right flank, Hood sent reinforcements from the left flank, further weakening the position. Shy's Hill was pounded by Union artillery for most of the day from every direction. Seeing this and knowing that sunset would allow the Confederates to withdraw Brig. Gen. John McArthur launched an attack on the hill with three brigades, quickly revealing the weakness of the position.
The rebel defenders built defenses, but they did it poorly. Exhausted and beaten from the previous day, its trenches were too shallow and were constructed on the actual crest of the hill, not the military crest. So when the Union forces assaulted Shy's Hill, they were actually protected from enemy fire with the exception of one group of defenders who had a clear shot at them.
Those defenders, distracted with the potential turkey shoot on their right, were overrun by Union forces they didn't see coming from their left. McArthur's three brigades not only toppled the defenses of Shy's Hill, but they also ran smack into the Confederate lines.
The rest of Thomas' forces then rolled up the Confederate Army from west to east. What was left of Hood's Army was forced to retreat through the night and for the next week, harassed by Union cavalry the entire way. The Army of Tennessee was no longer an effective fighting force, Sherman's supply lines were secured, and George Henry Thomas notched one more victory under his belt.
As every United States Marine can tell you, the Corps was birthed in a Philadelphia bar called Tun Tavern in 1775. Although that is a true statement, ye olde drinking establishments were a lot different from the watering holes we know today.
Sadly for the Marine Corps and its veterans, local residents of Philadelphia don't have thousands of celebrating Marines packing the streets of the neighborhood every November 10th. All that remains of the historic birthplace is a marker where Tun Tavern once sat. Its original site near the waterfront is now occupied by Interstate 95.
Almost as old as the English presence in the New World, Tun Tavern was founded just three years after the city of Philadelphia itself. It was founded in 1685 by local Samuel Carpenter (Philadelphia was founded in 1682; the first English settlement was founded in 1607) on the corner of Tun Alley and Water Street, the city's first brewhouse - and among the earliest in the North American colonies.
Before long, everyone around knew that the Tun Tavern was serving the best beers in Philadelphia, and it kept that reputation for more than a century. As a result, it became an important meeting place for the city and colonial officials and, eventually, for revolutionaries.
With the turn of the 18th century, prominent Philadelphians and society members began holding official meetings at Tun Tavern. Charitable organizations like the St. George's Society and St. Andrew's Society, groups that helped needy colonists get on their feet, began meeting there. It even became a Grand Lodge for Philadelphia Freemasons.
It is now recognized as the birthplace for Freemasonry in what would become the United States and home to the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania. Benjamin Franklin was the third grandmaster of the lodge. So along with the Marine Corps, America's 2.3 million Freemasons can celebrate Tun Tavern as their origin.
Eventually, the owners of Tun Tavern began to recognize the importance of having some food to go along with their beverage offerings and expanded the tavern to include a restaurant, Peggy Mullan's Red Hot Beef Steak Club, by the 1740s. America's founding fathers were known to indulge in both and met there while in Philadelphia.
With its quality food and drink renowned across the colonies, when it came time for the Continental Congresses to meet in Philadelphia in the 1770s, they often found themselves at Tun Tavern, planning for the next steps in shaking off the yoke of the British crown in America. After all, Franklin had been organizing militias there to fight off American Indian tribes for decades by then. Why wouldn't it work for pesky European regents?
On top of drafting militiamen, in October 1775, a seven-person committee - led by John Adams - met at Tun Tavern to draft articles of war and commission a new naval fleet. But something was still missing from the colonies' new armed forces: Marines.
On November 10th, 1775, an innkeeper (and former Quaker) named Samuel Nicholas was assigned by the Continental Congress to raise the first two battalions of Marines, so he did it at - where else? -- Tun Tavern. Nicholas was given the rank of captain and appointed commandant of the new Continental Marines. Robert Mullan, son of Peggy (of Red Hot Beef Steak fame), was the official proprietor of Tun Tavern and was dubbed "Chief Marine Recruiter."
Nicholas and Mullan recruited skilled marksmen to become the first Marines from a Conestoga wagon outside of the tavern. The first-ever company of Marines consisted of 100 Rhode Islanders. They, like the rest of the new Marine Corps, were posted aboard Continental Navy ships.
Throughout the Revolutionary War, Philadelphia was a contested city. It was the second-largest port city in the British Empire (after London itself). As the capital of the rebel country, it was the target of the British from early in the war. The British held the city until their defeat at Saratoga, New York.
After France joined the war 
on the American side, Gen. William Howe resigned in Philadelphia in 1778, and his successor, Sir Henry Clinton, abandoned control of the city in favor of protecting the Eastern coast from a French attack. Tun Tavern stood the whole time, even as fighting raged in the streets.
In 1781, Tun Tavern burned down, a disastrous end to an illustrious and historic site, and was never rebuilt. Marines visiting the Society Hill area of the city can visit the historical marker at 175 Front St. and learn more about its history at the nearby New Hall Military Museum.
For a taste of Tun Tavern, Marines and military history buffs can visit the U.S. National Museum of the Marine Corps' Tun Tavern in Virginia, which is decorated in the colonial style.
With the rise and reemergence of the coronavirus, medical personnel are in high demand and short supply. So it might come as a surprise that veteran Army and Air Force combat Medics and Navy Corpsmen are being turned away when they try to help.
The reason for this is that many states don't accept military training or credentials in civilian hospitals. There are 28 problem states in all, and only six states really handle the issue well. This comes from Dan Goldenberg, executive director of the Call of Duty Endowment, the largest private funder of veteran employment initiatives.
Goldenberg is a retired naval officer of 27 years who has led the organization since 2013. He says the problem is that there's no federal standard for veterans moving to jobs like civilian EMTs, and the states each have their own requirements. In some cases, requirements can vary by county.
"They make [veterans] basically either start over or do a whole bunch of extra surplus stuff," Goldenberg told Military.com. "In most cases, especially with army Medics, they have a national civilian EMT certification. So the problem is going from that EMT certification to getting licenses in the various states."
It all started early on in the pandemic as the need for medical workers grew (according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, employment in the field is still down by over 500,000 jobs since February 2020). Goldenberg wondered how veterans with medical experience were faring. He reached out to Hire Heroes USA, a major partner of the Call of Duty Endowment that collects and parses data on veteran employment.
"We asked them how Medics and Corpsmen are faring," Goldenberg said. "They looked into it and said, 'Actually not well. Half of former Medics and Corpsmen who want to work in the health-care industry cannot get jobs in that industry,' which was pretty shocking to us."
The endowment then went out to collect its own data, grading the licensure process in each state and U.S. territory. What they found was that a majority of those places have their own rules for transferring military training, some of which are just bizarre at best and nearly impossible at worst.
"The really difficult ones will ask them to show a license from another state," said Goldenberg. "Well, they never had a license from another state because they didn't need it. Or before the state will count military training, they have to go back and find the original military instructor who gave the initial training and have them sign off that they completed [it]. They won't accept a transcript from the school in San Antonio. In Wyoming, they have to start over completely."
Call of Duty Endowment will publish a paper on its findings at the end of October 2021. The findings not only will include state-by-state barriers to entry for military medical veterans; it also will grade the states on their barriers and correlate the information to the states' individual demand for medical personnel. The idea is to inform state governments, some of which aren't even aware their rules are a hindrance to veteran hiring and pressure them to make the right changes.
And those changes are something the whole country can feel good about. The Army used these personnel to augment their active-duty Medics and Corpsmen while those troops went out to build field hospitals and vaccination centers.
"Early on in the pandemic response, the Army put out a call asking for former military medical personnel to volunteer to help in local hospitals," Goldenberg said. "And they got like 20,000 volunteers in a week. So the military was confident in them, but the civilian sector wasn't. It was just nuts."
For the Call of Duty Endowment, an overall problem about veteran employment is that the civilian sector is just not correctly recognizing the skills veterans bring and putting the right premium on them, Goldenberg said. There are 30,000 to 50,000 veteran medical personnel unemployed or underemployed who want to help.
"You were patching together Marines in the Khyber Pass [in Pakistan], vaccinating tribal elders in Afghanistan, prescribing medicine to your troops, and taking care of local malnourished children," Goldenberg said. "But all those efforts mean nothing to a lot of the states."
Martha Raye isn't a name heard much these days. The comic actress and singer was a star of stage and screen who worked in show business for around 60 years by the time of her death in 1994.
In her radio days, she was known for her performances on Al Jolson's "Cafe Trocadero." She was best known for "The Martha Raye Show," which featured a string of notable guest stars on television. She was probably best known for her USO work during World War II, the Korean War, and the war in Vietnam, where she entertained troops so often, she earned the nickname "Colonel Maggie."
Raye was born Margie Reed in Montana in 1916. By the age of 18, she was already on film, performing on the screen and radio in the 1930s. When the United States entered World War II, Raye was more than ready to perform for the troops. Her first stop came in 1942 when she was sent to England. From there, she took her USO show to North Africa with three of her friends, Carole Landis, Kay Francis, and Mitzi Mayfair.
Their adventures from England to North Africa were immortalized in the 1944 movie "Four Jills in a Jeep." Along the way, she was granted the honorary ran
k of a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps and Army Special Forces for her service to the troops, but the military didn't seem to know who they were dealing with when it came to Martha Raye.
The actress was well-known for pulling that honorary rank when the moment arose. On more than one occasion, Raye was told her performances would have to be put on hold or flights diverted to aid the wounded. She would pull rank so the pilots could go directly to the wounded men and take them to safety rather than drop her off first. Once on the ground in a medical ward, Raye would help medical personnel in whatever way was needed.
She often assisted in medical units, and it soon became a rumor that she was trained as a nurse before her silver-screen days. This wasn't true; the closest the actress ever got to nursing was serving as a candy-striper in a hospital for a time. As the war ground on, Raye got plenty of on-the-job experience.
She continued performing for the troops in Korea and in Vietnam, where she formed an especially close bond with the men in the Army's Special Forces.
"They ask so little and give so much," she said during the Vietnam War. "The least we can do back home here is give them the love, the respect, and the dignity that they, our flag, and our country deserve."
Raye served on the front line
s of America's 20th-century conflicts for a total of 24 years, but to her, the Special Forces were heroes through and through. She entertained them in places no one else would go and tended their wounds at the same time. Raye never complained about the field conditions and lived the same way the deployed troops did the entire time. In 1993, President Bill Clinton awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom for her lifetime of dedication to U.S. troops.
Raye suffered from myriad health problems at the end of her life, including heart disease and Alzheimer's disease. She died of complications from pneumonia at age 78 in 1994. Her last wish was to be buried at Fort Bragg, the final resting place of many of her heroes. She was buried in October 1994 with full military honors; the only woman interred there.
There I was (as all war stories must start) nearing the end of Army Ranger School. The term 'school' was a bit of a misnomer since the only thing they taught was how much the human body could endure and still manage to function. This nine-week endurance test was as tough as any the Army had to offer. The final test was in the swamps of Eglin AFB in the Florida panhandle. To pass this portion, all we had to do was successfully lead operations against the enemy while being deprived of food, sleep, shelter and warmth for 12 straight days in the first weeks of February. The steady harassment we received from the cadre, the frequent (wet) water crossings, and other unexpected challenges were just extras tossed in to set the tone.
Florida in the 'winter,' you say, 'How tough can that be? Why that's where my grandparents migrate to each 'winter.' Sure, they go to Southern Florida, but at Eglin, it was different. At daybreak, after the few nights we were allowed to get even some rest, we could sometimes peel inch-thick layers of frozen dirt from around our foxholes. Despite my growing up in New Hampshire, the cold and lack of any remaining calories in my body combined to make this the coldest I had ever been in my life. We actually resorted to huddling in our foxholes to share precious body heat. Yes, we hugged, but there was no kissing.
2 February 1972 started as many others while on long-range patrol ('LeRPs'). As I was assigned platoon medic duties, I went with the resupply team each morning to get our one C-ration meal (C-Rat) per soldier for the day and link up with our new cadre for the day. My purpose was to meet with the real Medics to replenish my medical supplies (mainly alcohol-based, cough syrup I'd pass around while on ambush) … and to finagle as much as I could in terms of unwanted C-Rats such as little packets of coffee, creamer or sugar. All such extras were contraband. I'd definitely be in trouble if I was found conniving, but every single calorie I could collect was a big bonus. I was the only one in the platoon with anything even resembling contact with the outside world while we were on patrol.
The new cadre always brought with them our orders for the day, and on this day, it was good news; we were launching an airborne assault sometime after dark. Jumping was always a good thing. All we had to do was get to the airstrip some 20 clicks (kilometers) away.
The patrol to the airstrip was uneventful – by which I mean that we were not ambushed. Our only obstacle was the ubiquitous wait-a-minute vines that wrap around your neck and body as you advance through the swamp. But they are so much easier to negotiate in daylight.
Due to an obvious breakdown within the Ranger Committee, my assigned Ranger buddy, 'Ranger Bob' Hensley and I, got along very well. You see, the Committee chooses 'buddies' on the basis of incompatibility. From their standpoint, the ideal team would be a tall, thin, Black, Southern, enlisted man with a short, stocky, White, Northern officer – any combination that might cause conflict between them. But both Bob and I were short, scrappy, and conniving. And we didn't hold it against the other that I was an officer, and he was enlisted. We chatted constantly through the bush to keep our minds off the hunger while ever alert to lurking danger and ambushes … and, more importantly, to anything that was remotely edible on the ground.
We'd talk about the mission, our experiences, our next duty assignment, but mostly about food. We talked about that little pecan roll I had saved from my C-Rats for the time we wouldn't be able to go on without some morsel of food, or about what Bob might be able to get in exchange for the extra cigarettes he always brought along for just that purpose, or about everything we would eat once this test of endurance was over. We also talked about being Airborne. 
We kept track of each others jumps. I knew he was an old veteran of 28 jumps, and he knew I had completed only 12.
At some point, before we reached the objective, he started in on me. "So Buddy, which jump is this going to be?" he said, knowing full well the answer.
Innocently, I answered, "Thirteenth."
"Thirteenth, as in … number 13? Oh, Buddy!" he moaned.
"What?! … Oh, don't try telling me thirteen is bad luck! It's going to be Lucky 13, as the other 12 were." I said confidently.
And so it went for the rest of the patrol, with Bob offering more and more hints of impending doom. The platoon arrived at our objective by late morning, and we quickly drew our parachutes and helmets for the jump and started to suit up. None of Bob's comments had fazed me in the least … that is, until I looked down at my reserve chute that I was hooking on to my harness. There in the middle, looking right up at me, was a big blotch of semi-dried blood. Obviously, the last person to use that chute had had a serious problem. 'Hmm, that can't be a good omen,' I thought.
We were then briefed on our mission. We would be conducting a night combat equipment jump on DZ (Drop Zone) Rohr. There would be six lifts. However, there would only be three aircraft to transport us, which meant that half of us would not be involved in the excitement of the initial assault. The first three planes would depart at 1700 hours. But bad news for us – we were designated to be Lift Six, meaning we would miss most of the fun. Hell, we'd be lucky if there was even any mop-up operations for us by the time we hit the ground.
The briefing continued. Pathfinders on the ground would guide us jumpers to the assembly areas with a red laser beam aimed at the aircraft. "Look for the red beam as soon as your chute deploys, and slip in that direction," we were told. Slipping, by the way, is the act of navigating the T-10 Army parachute in any desired direction. By pulling specific risers to your chest, you could generate up to two and a half miles per hour of forward momentum … assuming, of course, you weren't fighting a headwind of more than two and a half miles per hour.
We were then assigned teams (Assault, Search, Security, etc.), told the concept of the operation, and given our specific assignments for actions at the objective, but ours really didn't matter as we were showing up late for the party. Next, we got the first of several safety inspections. Then we waited … and waited on the tarmac. Though it was sunny, the temperature was in the forties, and with no excess calories to burn, it felt cold, and we were there for hours all dressed up with nowhere to go, just waiting for darkness and our transportation.
Fearing another contraband inspection like before our last jump, I devoted time to stuffing every packet I had collected from the Medics under the camouflage cover on my helmet. For some reason, they never inspected the helmets, and I was not taking any chance of losing what I had worked so hard to collect. All the while, Bob continued his harassment of how unlucky #13 was.
Finally, dusk arrived, and three C-123 Provider cargo planes landed at our desolate landing strip. After hugs and kisses, and many cheerful choruses of 'Bon voyage!', No, wait!, that was another story – No, actually the first three lifts just loaded their aircraft as the rest of us watched with envy. Moments later, they were off to attack some jungle compound, and we were back to waiting in the cold … and now darkness.
An hour or so later, we heard the aircraft returning, but … we only saw two of them. 'What the f…???' When they landed, we learned that the third aircraft had experienced some difficulty after disgorging their load of jumpers and had returned to base. This meant we weren't even going in with the second wave and were only minimally reassured that one of the aircraft would eventually return for us. What's the point?! Oh well, we'll at least get a 'Hollywood-style' night jump to add to our count … and more important for me, I'll never again have to listen to any more talk about my thirteenth jump.
When that lone aircraft finally arrived somewhere around midnight, we climbed aboard and took our seats on canvas benches that faced inward and buckled in. This was my first jump from a C-123. The '123' was specifically chosen for this mission because it could take off on our short runway. I happened to miss the significance of that statement. What it meant was that this aircraft took off like a shot, and after revving up its engines to the point we thought they might explode, it lunged forward down the runway. Buckled in or not, we all slammed into the jumper next to us. Wow! What a jolt that was! BUT, before we could even straighten up, we were slammed in the other direction as the plane came to a screeching halt! We all looked at each other in total confusion as the plane turned around and brought us back to where we started. The bay doors opened, and we were ushered out on to the tarmac once again. Thanks for the ride, fellas, but what was that all about?
Unbeknownst to us at the time, the pilot had determined that he could not clear the trees at the end of the runway. He aborted the take-off at the very last instance and probably saved all our lives, but we were just too tired and numb to take it in. Our one thought seemed to be, 'So now how do we get to the party?' This being said, it's not at all surprising that within the Army, Rangers are known as the lowest form of intelligent life … but only slightly dumber than single-celled creatures.
Before long (in Ranger time), another C-123 came to get us. We boarded, took our seats, and, though better prepared, were once again slammed into each other upon take off, and we became airborne without incident. Shortly after we were aloft, the Jumpmaster called out to us over the drone of the engines and the air rushing by the open door, "GET READY!" Ah, sweet music to our ears, we were about to go Airborne.
After the standard series of commands, our stick (the jumpers who exit one door) was lined up by the door. We were at 1,250 feet doing 110 knots, waiting for the command to go. I was first in line behind the Ranger cadre who was standing in the door. I can't deny the temptation just to push him right out as there was no love lost between the cadre and ourselves, but my main thoughts were on, 'Get out the door, head for the red beam, and get the food from my helmet liner.'
The light in the door went from red to green, and the Jumpmaster yelled, "GO!" Hello, Lucky 13. We exited the aircraft with less than a second between each jumper. The Jumpmaster slapped each man hard on the butt to speed us along, and after a 'Whoosh' that lasted only a second, my chute was deployed, and all was relatively quiet. But I can't see! Something is not right. Oh, wait, my helmet is over my eyes. While I made the adjustment, I think, 'That's never happened before.' Then I make a quick search for the red beam. I can't spot it.
Only now do I look up to check my canopy and find that I've got three full twists in my lines reducing the size of my canopy. That's not good. So with a series of kicks, I spin myself around to untangle the twists. I kept my eyes open during each rotation, looking for the red beam, but nothing. Those bastards must have said, 'Screw it!' and gone home! Hey, there's a war going on, you know!
I'm thinking to myself, 'I've wasted enough time looking for the beam. I gotta find the ground. Boy, it's dark. That looks like a … Shit! I'm coming down on a tree! Slip away!' I picked up my feet to keep from hitting the top of a 70-foot Southern Pine. 'Now, if I can only slip fast enough to keep my canopy from being snagged, I'll hit the drop zone. I think I made it. I think I made it. I …'
"Damn!" I yelled as the edge of my canopy caught the very peak of the tree, and I was forcefully pulled back to its embrace. Slamming up against the tree and hanging some 40 feet above the ground, my one thought was: How do I get down? Noooo, that would be normal. A Ranger would think, 'Gotta get the food out of my helmet before they collect our equipment.' Remember what I said about Ranger intelligence?
Before I could finish, someone from below yelled, "Hey, are you all right up there?"
Instinctively I replied, "Yeah, you got any food?" Again, our reputation was well-earned.
That answer obviously caused some confusion, and after a pause, one of two said, "We're with the Recovery Team. We're here to recover any chutes that land in the trees … and to help you get down."
Still not even thinking about my condition or situation, I yelled, "Great, now have you got any food?"
"Wait a minute," one of them said cautiously. "We were told that the cadre would try to trick us into giving them food, and then we'd be in trouble if we did."
'Cadre?' I thought. 'If I fell just short of the DZ, he must be way out in the woods. Hmm?.'
Just then we heard a cry from more than a hundred meters deeper in the woods yell, "Heelllp!"
"That would be the cadre you were referring to", I said. "I'll be right down and we can talk."
"But shouldn't we go help him?"
"Just hold on and I'll be right there." And as fast as I could say that, I had pulled out my reserve chute and dangled it down between the branches. Then I popped the quick-release to free myself from my harness, and slid down using the risers from my reserve. From there I was able to climb to the ground using the lower branches, and started negotiating in earnest with the two-man recovery team.
I explained with deep emotion how the cadre only spent 24 hours at a time in the field, while we lowly Ranger students went without food, sleep and warmth for up to 12 days. We needed to scrounge for food for our very survival. OK, so I stretched it a little, but just a little.
I asked if they had any extra C-rations. They said they had none, as if C-rats were precious to them. I said we'd take anything, ANYTHING! – that old can of Lima Beans you got stuck with, or the coffee creamer you were going to throw out … Anything Man! I finally convinced them of the seriousness of our situation and walked away with a handful of various packets … and one real prize – a packet of cocoa mix. I'll use all this good stuff to spring some Ja-Mocca on the boys the next time we're allowed a fire, I thought.
After thanking the Recovery Team profusely, and releasing them to go save our precious cadre, I went off to link up with my stick, and the others who had already completed the night assault. It wasn't until that point that I started feeling a bit dizzy and disoriented. I brushed that off. A new patrol leader was selected to lead the next phase of the operation, new orders were given, and off we went into the night to launch a dawn raid on some small outpost another 20 clicks away. We weren't going to get any sleep tonight either, but at least I wasn't chosen to lead this patrol considering my increased stupor.
Apparently, I really was messed up. On patrol, I zombied along blindly through the woods following Bob. I tripped every so often and stumbled into him every time he stopped. On one short break, I stepped to the side to throw up. On another, I missed the order to move out, and the guy 
behind me had to get me going. Fortunately, my senses returned to me about the time the sun came up and we launched our dawn raid. Yeah, this is what I was meant for. Check the captives for food.
Sometime later, I learned that we had jumped in strong crosswinds, causing the pilot to make frequent and sudden corrections. This results in the tail jerking to one side and sometimes banging into jumpers on the way out at 110 knots. I was told that that was called 'crabbing', and it explained the helmet over my eyes and the physical signs anyone else but a Ranger would have recognized as a concussion. But in Ranger School, that was just another day at the office. Drive on, Ranger!
I further learned that more than a dozen jumpers were hospitalized that night, many after bouncing off their aircraft as I did. 'More than a dozen, huh? … that's like 13, isn't it?'
During the height of the Vietnam War, Da Nang Air Base was one of the busiest airports in the world, if not the busiest. As if the stress of being an air traffic controller wasn't enough, U.S. Air Force Air Traffic Controllers in Vietnam had to deal with the same levels of traffic found in places like Chicago O'Hare International Airport while under fire.
Amazingly, these no doubt stressed-out airmen were able to do their jobs flawlessly, often living in wartime conditions in the middle of enemy attacks and other challenging scenarios. Keith Krejci was one of those airmen, and he chronicles the stories of his year in South Vietnam in "I Never Left Anybody Up There: A Year In The Life Of An Air Traffic Controller in Viet Nam."
Krejci would spend more than 30 years in the Air Force, retiring with the rank of Chief Master Sergeant (E-9) in 1997. In this time, he worked as a controller at ten control towers and eight radar facilities in eleven locations. Like many career military men his age, he cut his teeth during the Vietnam War.
Controllers like Krejci controlled the passenger air traffic, bringing troops in-country or out, as one might expect at a civilian airport. They also had to control fighter aircraft, launching at a moment's notice to support troops in contact with them the enemy. They handled launches and recovering aircraft, all while dealing with the differences between pilots from four military branches and allied nations.
There are many, man
y books from veterans' service history, especially in Vietnam, about what life was like for troops in combat and their place in the world. Many are very well-written and worth a read. Few books from any era cover what life was like for a small number of people performing such a critical role under the kinds of conditions Krejci and his compatriots in the Da Nang tower experienced.
The year Krejci spent in Vietnam, 1969-1970, was one of the busiest times of the war for Da Nang Air Base. As they worked, they endured attacks from the People's Army of Vietnam - North Vietnam - who managed to shell and fire rockets into Da Nang many times during the war.
It was located in a strategic point in the middle of what is today Vietnam and had been in continuous operation since World War II. It had been used by the Vichy French, Japanese Empire, the French Republic, South Vietnam, and the United States. It's no wonder that the base was such an important target.
Krejci's recollections are a delight for all veterans, especially Vietnam veterans, who all give the book glowing reviews. They say Krejci's writing evokes their own memories of Da Nang and the greater war, in both good times and bad. There's also something in "I Never Left Anybody Up There" for 
civilians and those who don't understand air traffic control, who call the stories inside "eye-opening" and delivered in the clear, concise language you might expect from a seasoned air traffic controller.
Today, Keith Krejci and his wife Brenda travel the United States, visiting parks and volunteering their retirement years. Krejci writes about their travels and adventures across America on his blog, "Damn Near Perfect Couple," which is filled with the memories and good humor you might find in his book.
If you take a look at his blog and like what you see, then "I Never Left Anybody Up There" might be the perfect page-turner for you or a loved one. You can purchase copies on Amazon Kindle Reader for $2.99 or on Barnes and Noble Nook for $3.99.
By 1941, the Japanese Empire was fully invested in China, where it had begun a full-scale invasion in 1937. The Japanese made huge gains in the first two years of the war, occupying Manchuria and annexing it, then moving south into Beijing, Shanghai and Nanking. By 1939, China began a counterattack that only proved it wasn't capable of winning in modern combat of the time. 
Claire Chennault, a retired U.S. Army Air Corps officer, was originally overseeing the training of Chinese pilots flying Soviet-built aircraft. But in 1940, he went to Washington to convince the Roosevelt administration to take the new Curtiss P-40B Warhawks to China. 
When ready for another attack, they were instructed to slash at the Japanese, then prepare for another diving attack. This was all contrary to everything they learned at American or British flight school, but everything the AVG was doing in Burma was contrary to how they were initially trained. Chennault set up the "world's best early warning system" to ensure his pilots could successfully execute the strategy.
On Dec. 20, 1941, they saw combat for the first time, as Japanese Lily bombers made their way toward the city of Kunming on the Chinese end of the Burma Road. The AVG's 1st and 2nd Squadron intercepted the bombers and forced them to jettison their loads before they reached the city. 
When the battle finally began on Dec. 15, Thomas came out swinging. He started with a diversionary attack on what appeared to be a weak Confederate right flank. He threw two brigades of U.S. Colored Troops at a reinforced skirmish line, but though the Union forces were able to fight and regroup for much of the day, enfilading fire from rebel artillery forced them to retreat. 
The new left flank was now atop Shy's Hill, a steep climb with a view of all surrounding areas. The only problem with its new position was that it could also be seen by everyone, especially Thomas' artillery, which were very much within range of the hill. That was just the beginning of the problems for the Confederate left. 
Sadly for the Marine Corps and its veterans, local residents of Philadelphia don't have thousands of celebrating Marines packing the streets of the neighborhood every November 10th. All that remains of the historic birthplace is a marker where Tun Tavern once sat. Its original site near the waterfront is now occupied by Interstate 95. 
It is now recognized as the birthplace for Freemasonry in what would become the United States and home to the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania. Benjamin Franklin was the third grandmaster of the lodge. So along with the Marine Corps, America's 2.3 million Freemasons can celebrate Tun Tavern as their origin. 
On November 10th, 1775, an innkeeper (and former Quaker) named Samuel Nicholas was assigned by the Continental Congress to raise the first two battalions of Marines, so he did it at - where else? -- Tun Tavern. Nicholas was given the rank of captain and appointed commandant of the new Continental Marines. Robert Mullan, son of Peggy (of Red Hot Beef Steak fame), was the official proprietor of Tun Tavern and was dubbed "Chief Marine Recruiter."
on the American side, Gen. William Howe resigned in Philadelphia in 1778, and his successor, Sir Henry Clinton, abandoned control of the city in favor of protecting the Eastern coast from a French attack. Tun Tavern stood the whole time, even as fighting raged in the streets. 
It all started early on in the pandemic as the need for medical workers grew (according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, employment in the field is still down by over 500,000 jobs since February 2020). Goldenberg wondered how veterans with medical experience were faring. He reached out to Hire Heroes USA, a major partner of the Call of Duty Endowment that collects and parses data on veteran employment. 
And those changes are something the whole country can feel good about. The Army used these personnel to augment their active-duty Medics and Corpsmen while those troops went out to build field hospitals and vaccination centers.
k of a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps and Army Special Forces for her service to the troops, but the military didn't seem to know who they were dealing with when it came to Martha Raye.
s of America's 20th-century conflicts for a total of 24 years, but to her, the Special Forces were heroes through and through. She entertained them in places no one else would go and tended their wounds at the same time. Raye never complained about the field conditions and lived the same way the deployed troops did the entire time. In 1993, President Bill Clinton awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom for her lifetime of dedication to U.S. troops. 
2 February 1972 started as many others while on long-range patrol ('LeRPs'). As I was assigned platoon medic duties, I went with the resupply team each morning to get our one C-ration meal (C-Rat) per soldier for the day and link up with our new cadre for the day. My purpose was to meet with the real Medics to replenish my medical supplies (mainly alcohol-based, cough syrup I'd pass around while on ambush) … and to finagle as much as I could in terms of unwanted C-Rats such as little packets of coffee, creamer or sugar. All such extras were contraband. I'd definitely be in trouble if I was found conniving, but every single calorie I could collect was a big bonus. I was the only one in the platoon with anything even resembling contact with the outside world while we were on patrol. 
We kept track of each others jumps. I knew he was an old veteran of 28 jumps, and he knew I had completed only 12. 
Fearing another contraband inspection like before our last jump, I devoted time to stuffing every packet I had collected from the Medics under the camouflage cover on my helmet. For some reason, they never inspected the helmets, and I was not taking any chance of losing what I had worked so hard to collect. All the while, Bob continued his harassment of how unlucky #13 was.
When that lone aircraft finally arrived somewhere around midnight, we climbed aboard and took our seats on canvas benches that faced inward and buckled in. This was my first jump from a C-123. The '123' was specifically chosen for this mission because it could take off on our short runway. I happened to miss the significance of that statement. What it meant was that this aircraft took off like a shot, and after revving up its engines to the point we thought they might explode, it lunged forward down the runway. Buckled in or not, we all slammed into the jumper next to us. Wow! What a jolt that was! BUT, before we could even straighten up, we were slammed in the other direction as the plane came to a screeching halt! We all looked at each other in total confusion as the plane turned around and brought us back to where we started. The bay doors opened, and we were ushered out on to the tarmac once again. Thanks for the ride, fellas, but what was that all about?
Only now do I look up to check my canopy and find that I've got three full twists in my lines reducing the size of my canopy. That's not good. So with a series of kicks, I spin myself around to untangle the twists. I kept my eyes open during each rotation, looking for the red beam, but nothing. Those bastards must have said, 'Screw it!' and gone home! Hey, there's a war going on, you know!
"Just hold on and I'll be right there." And as fast as I could say that, I had pulled out my reserve chute and dangled it down between the branches. Then I popped the quick-release to free myself from my harness, and slid down using the risers from my reserve. From there I was able to climb to the ground using the lower branches, and started negotiating in earnest with the two-man recovery team. 
behind me had to get me going. Fortunately, my senses returned to me about the time the sun came up and we launched our dawn raid. Yeah, this is what I was meant for. Check the captives for food.
During the height of the Vietnam War, Da Nang Air Base was one of the busiest airports in the world, if not the busiest. As if the stress of being an air traffic controller wasn't enough, U.S. Air Force Air Traffic Controllers in Vietnam had to deal with the same levels of traffic found in places like Chicago O'Hare International Airport while under fire.
y books from veterans' service history, especially in Vietnam, about what life was like for troops in combat and their place in the world. Many are very well-written and worth a read. Few books from any era cover what life was like for a small number of people performing such a critical role under the kinds of conditions Krejci and his compatriots in the Da Nang tower experienced. 
civilians and those who don't understand air traffic control, who call the stories inside "eye-opening" and delivered in the clear, concise language you might expect from a seasoned air traffic controller.