On Oct. 3, 1918, the U.S. Army's 2nd Infantry Division, along with the French Fourth Army, advanced on Blanc Mont Ridge, the Imperial German machine gun death trap that the Entente forces had failed to capture over the past four years. The goal was to capture the ridge and push the Huns back over the Aisne River. It was a good plan, but like all World War I strategies, it was easier said than done.
The Americans stepped off toward the ridge in the wake of a rolling artillery barrage. As the shells chewed up the battlefield to soften up the defenses, a lone Marine could be seen running through the maelstrom of high explosives. It was Pvt. John J. Kelly, who was about to go down in history.
The German commander at Blanc Mont Ridge knew he didn't have the manpower to hold the position indefinitely. His goal was to deter attacks by inflicting as many casualties as possible. This is why the French had failed in their previous attempts to take the position because they simply didn't have the fresh shock troops needed for an initial assault. The ridge gave the defenders absolute dominance over the approaches to this now-heavily fortified position, while entrenched redoubts and razor wire forced incoming enemy troops into the machine guns' kill zones.
When the United States entered the war, France finally got its shock troops. Along with the U.S. Army's 2nd Division came the 4th Marine Brigade—and John J. Kelly. Artillery bombardments were a common tactic in World War I trench warfare. It opened breaches in the enemy defenses and silenced machine guns that would otherwise slice through advancing waves of infantry.
Kelly was already a salty combat veteran by the time he charged Blanc Mont Ridge. He'd fought at Château-Thierry and St. Mihiel. If he was concerned about machine guns, defenses, or even getting blown up by his own artillery, it didn't show. He ran through the artillery shower, more than 100 yards ahead of the rest of the front line. When he reached a machine gun nest, he killed the gunner and another crew member and took eight prisoners.
He then moved back through the same artillery barrage, only this time with his prisoners in tow. The rest of the Division eventually smashed into the fortification, and the two sides fought with rifles, grenades, and bayonets, usually in close quarters. The Americans pushed the Germans out, and before they could mount a counterattack, the American 36th Division was also on hand to not only keep the Germans out but also push them toward the Aisne River.
The Marine Corps had already made headlines for its courage and tenacity during the Battle of Belleau Wood the previous June. Blac Mont would secure that reputation as the Marines stormed an impregnable enemy position that had shrugged off years of repeated French assaults. When the Americans took Blanc Mont Ridge, it forced a German withdrawal all across the sector.
Blanc Mont Ridge was the Champagne door that the Germans couldn't hold shut. The U.S. 2nd Division kicked it in, the 36th shoved it wide, and the whole front sagged back toward the Aisne. It's less famous than the Battle of Belleau Wood, but if you're tracking how the Western Front finally came apart, Blanc Mont was a hinge on which the end of the war swung. The Germans were out of Champagne for good.
John J. Kelly made history, not only because of his insane valor during the battle, but because of how he was rewarded. For breaking that machine gun nest and capturing the gun crew, he received two Medals of Honor. At the time, Marines operated inside Army units, making them eligible for both the Army and Navy versions of the award, which is how John J. Kelly received two Medals of Honor for the same action.
In late October 1983, the Caribbean went hot; much hotter than usual. Grenada, a postcard island with beaches, nutmeg fields, and a strategic runway under construction, had just spiraled into chaos. A Marxist government split, Prime Minister Maurice Bishop was executed by hardliners, and a Revolutionary Military Council seized power.
Nearby governments understandably panicked. Washington, worried about the hundreds of American medical students on the island and the runway's potential value to Soviet-aligned Cuba. On October 25, President Ronald Reagan sent in the troops.
The operation had a bold name—Urgent Fury—and a simple brief: rescue the students, stabilize the island, and restore legitimate authority. Simple on paper. In practice, it would expose the fractures inside America's joint war machine and force a generational fix.
The opening act fell to Special Operations units and the Marines. Navy SEALs attempted night insertions through heavy seas, and several operators were lost before they ever saw land. It was a gut-punch reminder that the ocean kills casually. Other SEAL elements and Marines linked up to protect Governor-General Paul Scoon, the Queen's representative, who was pinned down in his residence.
Meanwhile, Army Rangers, the 1st and 2nd Battalions, jumped onto Point Salines airfield in the south. It was far from the ideal airborne field manual scenario; it was a runway under construction, littered with obstacles and watched by Cuban engineers and Grenadian troops who were far more ready to fight than the pre-invasion estimates suggested.
The Rangers went anyway, under the cover of AC-130 gunships. They secured the runway and held it while Air Force transports brought in more Rangers and heavy equipment. In the east, Marines from the 22nd Marine Amphibious Unit pressed toward Pearl's airfield, cutting through roadblocks and small pockets of resistance.
Combat on Grenada looked like a mashup: jungle edges, hilltop fortifications, and sudden ambushes from troops who knew the terrain. There were skirmishes around Fort Frederick and Richmond Hill, bursts of anti-aircraft fire that chewed at low-flying helicopters, and tense building-to-building sweeps to find and evacuate students from St. George's University. The students' campus wasn't a fortress, but it wasn't a gimme either; some were scattered in compounds and dorms, and moving them safely through active fighting took hours of coordination under fire.
Urgent Fury was a win measured in hours and days. American and Caribbean coalition forces seized key terrain fast, rescued more than 600 U.S. students, and toppled the junta. But the operation also became a case study in the cost of improvisation. Inter-service communications were a mess.
Units literally used tourist maps ripped from guidebooks. Some aircraft couldn't talk to the ground. Different services carried radios that didn't share frequencies. In a fight where minutes mattered, that friction got people hurt. There were friendly-fire incidents and tragic civilian casualties, including mistaken strikes that hit non-combatants. The price for a fast victory was paid not only in American blood—19 U.S. service members were killed and over a hundred wounded—but by Grenadians and Cubans caught in the crossfire.
If that sounds like an indictment, it's really an origin story. Grenada didn't just rescue students; it rescued the U.S. military from the bad old days of "everyone brings their own playbook." The after-action autopsies were brutal and honest. Commanders demanded interoperable radios, shared planning, standard maps, and a single chain of command that could actually command.
These lessons fed straight into the Goldwater-Nichols Act of 1986, which rewired the U.S. defense establishment for joint operations. The law made combatant commanders king in their theaters, elevated joint education, and made careers hinge on joint experience. If you've watched how the U.S. fought its wars since—Panama, the Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq—you're seeing the shadow of Grenada in every synchronized air-ground push and every clean handoff between services.
There's another thread worth pulling: special operations. The attempt to insert SEALs through rough surf, the reliance on AC-130s for precision fires, the use of Rangers to seize an austere airfield weren't one-off stunts. They were a preview of a military that would increasingly lean on SOF for the hardest first hours of a crisis.
Operation Urgent Fury stressed those units brutally and revealed gaps in gear, training, and mission prep. The fixes helped shape the modern Special Operations' community, from better insertion planning and survivable comms to an institutional understanding that "special" doesn't mean "separate."
Strategically, the operation sent a political message. The U.S. proved it would act quickly in its own neighborhood to protect citizens and stabilize a failing state aligned with Soviet-Cuban interests. The Caribbean peacekeeping partners—small states with small militaries—showed that coalitions aren't just big-power toys. And for Grenada, the aftermath meant elections in 1984 and a return to a constitutional path.
Critics called Urgent Fury a "small war." They accused the Reagan administration of picking an easy fight after the trauma of Beirut, where a suicide bomber had killed 241 American service members just days earlier. Supporters pointed to the very real hostages-in-waiting at St. George's and to the fresh corpses left by the junta as proof that inaction wasn't some morally superior option.
The truth, as usual, lives in the details. Grenada was both a modest military contest and a serious logistical, political, and joint-command challenge. The Americans arrived with overwhelming capability and uneven preparation; they left with the students, the high ground, and a binder of hard lessons written in red ink.
If you study modern American operations, you'll notice that Grenada keeps popping up—not for its scale, but for its fingerprints. A single airfield taken at night by Rangers. Marines securing a coast while airborne soldiers punch inland. Precise fire from AC-130s as helicopters move shooters across a small battlespace. A coalition flag flying beside Old Glory. A quick fight that forces a long conversation about how to fight better next time. That is the real legacy of Urgent Fury: not just the dramatic rescue and the toppled regime, but the professional humility to admit what broke, fix it, and carry those fixes forward.
It's tempting to remember Grenada as a tidy, four-day victory on an island paradise. Veterans know better. It was loud, confusing, and costly in ways that don't make highlight reels. And yet it mattered. Students went home. A dictatorship collapsed. The U.S. military learned to speak with one voice. It's a big footprint for a so-called "small war."
Army TWS has a feel of family. I joined in 2008 when I was attending BNCOC at Fort Knox. My old Platoon Sergeant sent me an invitation, and I signed up and completed my profile. I really became involved in 2009 during my latest deployment to Iraq. Army TWS became a source of entertainment and a way to connect to others who had served and understood me for who I am. My wife Heidi also became involved, and we both love ATWS.
SSG Tom Benson, US Army Reserves (Ret)
Served 2001-2021
To be clear, the U.S. military did not have an actual vampire in its arsenal. There was no secret alliance with Romania to use Count Dracula in combat. In the 1950s, Romania was part of the Eastern Bloc anyway, and it's unlikely the count would have been able to escape from behind the Iron Curtain.
Also, vampires aren't real. But that's the glory of psychological operations. The boogie men don't have to be real; the enemy just has to think they're real. That was the idea behind Lt. Col. Edward G. Lansdale's plan to enlist vampires and ghosts to help subdue communist rebels in the Philippines in 1950.
At the time, former members of the anti-Japanese Hukbalahap resistance fighters were in arms against the postwar government of the Philippines in central Luzon. When World War II ended, the "Huks" (as they came to be known) were accused of being communists—and you know how the Cold War era felt about communists. The U.S. and Philippine forces hunted the Huks relentlessly.
Violence broke out almost immediately after the United States granted independence to the island nation. The reasons for that are complex, nuanced, and deeply rooted. But long story short, the peasant armies of Luzon were once again fighting an insurgency. The new Philippine government, however, didn't realize they were fighting a battle-hardened militia who were used to guerrilla warfare, so they called upon the United States for help.
The U.S. would use the insurrection as a training ground for jungle warfare and counterinsurgency operations, both of which would come in handy in South Vietnam a few years later. When Lansdale arrived in-country, there was no end in sight for the Huk rebellion. The U.S. Army veteran, Air Force officer, and head of CIA paramilitary operations in the Philippines was about to change all that. But how could he undermine this popular, combat-tested force?
Before World War II, Lansdale worked in advertising, a background that was well-known to the CIA as "psychological warfare." He assembled a team that investigated the superstitions of the Filipino peasants in the region to begin to turn hearts and minds against the Huks. He came up with a supernatural ally: the Asuang.
Asuang were mythical creatures in Filipino folklore. They were evil, shape-shifting creatures who could take on almost any form with only one goal in mind: feeding off humans. According to legend, the bloodsucking asuang takes the form of a beautiful woman, picking off stragglers in forests and jungles to drain them of their blood.
Lansdale began flooding the Huk-controlled countryside with rumors of asuang sightings. After the rumors circulated, the asuang struck.
Again, they weren't actual vampires. Lansdale's squad began silently ambushing members of Huk patrols, draining them of all their blood, and putting the bodies back on the trails. When the bloodless remains were found later, the Huk insurgents abandoned the area.
This, of course, did not end the Huk rebellion, but it helped the Philippine government gain ground in the area. Ending an insurgency is a much more time-intensive, complex process. The government eventually addressed the political reasons behind the rebellion as the more popular Huk leaders grew old or died. By 1954, the Huks returned to their regular, blood-filled lives.
In the first chaotic weeks after 9/11, two Americans walked into a 19th-century Afghan fortress with nothing but a translator, a notebook, and the kind of quiet confidence you get from hard jobs and worse timing.
The place was Qala-i-Jangi, a sprawling mud-brick stronghold outside Mazar-i-Sharif where hundreds of Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters had just "surrendered" to the Northern Alliance. And those Americans were CIA officers Johnny "Mike" Spann and David Tyson.
What started as a routine sort-and-question session turned into a six-day brawl that set the tone for the next 20 years of war to come.
The plan on November 25, 2001, was simple on paper: figure out who mattered among the newly captured fighters. Spann—a former Marine turned CIA paramilitary—worked the courtyard, asking the right questions in the wrong neighborhood. Tyson, a case officer with a linguist's ear and an Uzbek Rolodex, moved through the mass of prisoners listening for cracks in cover stories.
One quiet foreign fighter claimed to be Irish, which was cute until he turned out to be John Walker Lindh, an American who'd joined the Taliban. But that wasn't the most significant issue they'd face; they just didn't know it yet. It turns out that many of the prisoners had never been properly searched. Grenades hid under clothes and discipline. "Surrendered" turned out to mean "waiting." Spann and Tyson were about to find out the hard way.
The explosion of violence was fast and ugly. Hidden grenades came out, pins off, and the courtyard became a blender. Spann fought like the Marine he'd been, buying seconds with rifle and pistol while Northern Alliance guards scrambled for cover and footing. He was overwhelmed and killed in the opening minutes—the first American combat death of the post-9/11 war.
Tyson, only yards away, did what case officers do when the plan blows up: he survived, adapted, and went back to work. He clawed out of the southern compound, sprinted through fire into the northern half of the fort, and linked up with Alliance fighters who were just realizing their prisoners were now an armed mob with nothing to lose.
Qala-i-Jangi wasn't designed for modern combat, but it didn't ask permission or forgiveness. The prisoners tunneled into cellars, especially a building later known as the Pink House, and fought like there was no tomorrow—because there wasn't.
When Northern Alliance troops counterattacked, they got hammered back by grenades and small arms. British Special Boat Service operators and U.S. Special Forces slid in, and the whole thing escalated into the kind of battle anyone would be lucky to survive. The Army would send in the 10th Mountain Division. The Northern Alliance sent in more fighters and even a T-55 tank.
Airstrikes inside fortress walls are usually a no-go; here, they were the only move left. From November 25 to December 1, the place transformed from a fortress to a furnace when a Marine Corps F/A-18C Hornet dropped a 2,000-pound JDAM into the compound.
Spann's last stand wasn't a footnote. He wasn't there for glory; he was there to separate zealots from foot soldiers and to yank threads of intelligence out of a knot of hostility. His fight bought Tyson time to live, and Tyson used every second.
Years later, Tyson's account isn't a chest-thump—it reads like a field report edged with adrenaline: sudden grenades, short sightlines, a sprint across open ground that felt a mile long, then the slow, ugly work of clearing a stronghold that had become a tomb. Spann was buried at Arlington National Cemetery and honored for extraordinary heroism. The citation is precise; the reality is simpler. He stood his ground so others could get out.
The battle cracked a few comfortable myths in record time. "Rear area" is a map fiction when you're standing in a courtyard full of armed men. "Control" is a fragile word when the guards are outnumbered and the pat-down never happens. "Surrender" doesn't mean safe; it means check their pockets.
The coalition response—Afghans in the lead, Americans and Brits plugging in where it counted, jets on speed dial—became a rough draft for the rest of the war. Move fast with local partners. Treat human intelligence like a fuse. Accept that your next fight may be the place you were calmly taking notes ten minutes ago.
By the time the shooting stopped, Qala-i-Jangi was a case study in the new war: intelligence work done under fire; special operators and local allies stitched together in real time; airpower used with surgical brutality in spaces better suited to muskets and sabers. The coalition won because it adapted more quickly than the enemy could capitalize on its surprise.
Coalition forces also learned a valuable lesson the hard way that saved lives later: search every prisoner, every time, with no exceptions and no excuses.
The significance of the fight isn't just that it was the first big, messy test of the post-9/11 playbook. It compressed the whole conflict into one brutal week—a micro-war with every moving part visible. You saw the strength of local partnerships when they're respected and resourced. You saw the risk of assuming yesterday's surrender will behave itself today. You saw what it means when intelligence officers carry rifles, and when the first American to die in a new war is a guy who spent his last minutes doing precisely what he was sent there to do.
Qala-i-Jangi went quiet again after the battle raged, as fortresses normally do. Spann's name is etched in stone; Tyson's story slipped back into the files until he finally told it. The walls still stand, sun-baked and indifferent. But for six days in late November 2001, those walls watched the future arrive—loud, improvisational, and lethal. Two Americans walked in to make sense of an enemy order of battle. One never walked out.
In many ways, it's interesting and keeps you in touch with the Air Force and the military in general. There are good opportunities to find friends, especially those who served with you. And there are a lot of benefits available for its members, not to mention the availability and desire of the Administrators to help, which is always there when necessary!
TSgt Damaso Cabrera-Tavarez, US Air Force (Ret)
Served 1987-1998
By A3C Mike Bell
"We are obligated to live meaningful and purposeful lives. We will never forget them... We will earn what they have given us."
George Benson, LtCol 1/6 USMC, 2012
Initially activated on 11 Jul 1917 at Marine Corps Base Quantico, the 1st Battalion, 6th Marines (1/6), sometimes called “Deathwalkers" or “Comanche" with the mottos “1/6 Hard" (a name derived from its commander at Belleau Wood, Maj. John Arthur Hughes, aka "Johnny the Hard") and “Ready to Fight" is an infantry battalion in the United States Marine Corps based at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. It consists of approximately eleven hundred Marines and sailors. They currently come under the command of the 2nd Marine Division of the II Marine Expeditionary Force (II MEF). The unit's Company-specific nicknames are: Alpha Company "Apache;" Bravo Company "Black Foot," and sometimes "Black Iron;" Charlie Company "Cold Steel;" and Weapons Company "Warrior" or "Laredo." The 1/6 Battalion's fierce reputation at the Battle of Belleau Wood (1-26 Jun 1918) is a key part of the broader Marine Corps legend of how the nickname "Devil Dogs" (or Teufel Hunden) came to be. While this nickname applies to the entire Marine Corps, its origins are closely tied to the history of the 1/6 and the 6th Marine Regiment. As of this writing, Marines TWS lists 2,400 individuals who have served bearing this unit's colors. Among numerous published and film histories of the 1/6 and the 6th, a distinguished and comprehensive scholarly monograph, and eventual book (especially on pages 136-153), “A Brief History of the 6th Marines" was penned in 1987 by Lieutenant General William K. Jones (1916-1998) USMC (Ret), someone who was exceptionally well qualified to write such a history having been a 1/6 company commander, XO and its Battalion Commander. General Jones was born in Joplin, Missouri (also your author's hometown).
The most famous insignia associated with the 1st Battalion, 6th Marines is its distinctive red diamond SSI, which dates back to its service in France during World War I. That historic patch is based on the insignia of the U.S. Army's 2nd Division, with which the battalion fought. To distinguish themselves, the Marines of the 4th Brigade created their own insignia based on the same imagery. The 1st Battalion, 6th Marines' patch had a red diamond background. This shape was a variation of the 2nd Division's insignia. The patch included an Indian head with a full war bonnet, representing the nickname "Old Indian" for the 2nd Division's Commander, Brigadier General John A. Lejeune. The patch also included a black shield to mourn casualties and symbolize defense. It incorporated a five-pointed star representing the Second Division. The red color of the 1/6 insignia's background was designated for the 1st Battalion of the regiment. During World War I, the 2nd Division (Army) decided that all units in the division would wear the same insignia—an Indian head on a white star—but would have a different color background to indicate their specific unit. For the 6th Marine Regiment, the background colors were assigned as follow
s: Red: 1st Battalion, Yellow: 2nd Battalion, Blue: 3rd Battalion, Black: Headquarters, Purple: Machine-gun Company. The 6th Marine Regiment received a prestigious honor from the French government after its heroic actions in several battles in France. Awarded for Valor: The 6th Marine Regiment was awarded the French Croix de Guerre (War Cross) three times for actions at Belleau Wood, Soissons, and Blanc Mont. As a result, the regiment was authorized to wear the Fourragère, a braided cord, on its uniform. The 6th Marines is one of two Marine units to receive this award. The Fourragère became a permanent part of the 6th Marines' uniform, and all members of the modern regiment are authorized to wear it.
The unit's USMC history site records, “The Battalion got its name from its commander at Belleau Wood, at the time Major John Arthur Hughes, known by then as ‘Johnny the Hard.' The battalion gained its nickname ‘Hard' in part from its famous commanding officer, but largely from the courageous actions of the battalion's Marines at Belleau Wood and ever since. The name would have died if 1/6 did not continue to stay ‘hard.'
Colonel Hughes joined the Marine Corps as an enlisted man in 1900, but was made a second lieutenant the next year. He served in the Philippines, Cuba, and Panama his first decade in the Corps, and in 1914, as a captain, he distinguished himself at Vera Cruz and was awarded the Medal of Honor. In 1916 he commanded the Marine ships detachment on board USS Delaware and was then sent to the Dominican Republic, in command of the Marine Barracks, San Francisco de Macoris. The Corps was there to keep the peace and to keep guerilla forces, called insurrectos, from undermining the Dominican government. On December 3, 1916, he earned his nickname. Apparently not satisfied with staying in the barracks, Major Hughes was out with his Marines hunting for insurrectos when he was shot in the leg, breaking a bone in his shin. Undaunted by the image of his own shin bone jutting out of his leg, he is said to have asked for some wire cutters. He cut the protruding bone off, wrapped the leg, and continued the fight. Word got around about this from his men, and he was called ‘Johnny the Hard' from then on.
In 1917, still recovering from his wound, he sailed to France. He was the Battalion Commander of First Battalion, Sixth Marines, at Belleau Wood. The Battle of Belleau Wood was hard-fought, and at one point, the 1/6 was down to only one hundred men, from a starting strength of around one thousand. Major Hughes rose to the occasion; his courage under fire inspired his Marines, earned him the Navy Cross, and, most importantly, led his Marines to victory. Before the end of the war, Hughes was personally awarded the Croix de Guerre twice and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel."
This unit's continuously long and storied trek to glory began during and following World War I campaigns including: Aisne, Aisne-Marne, St. Mihiel and Meuse-Argonne along with the following defensive campaigns: Touln-Troyon, Chateau-Thierry, Marabache and Limey. 1/6 participated in the Occupation of the Rhineland from Dec 1918 to Jul 1919. After the war the battalion relocated to Quantico, Virginia and was deactivated there on 20 Aug 1919. The battalion was reactivated on 12 Jun 1922 and participated in maneuvers at Gettysburg. From Jun–Jul 1922, it was assigned to the Marine Corps Expeditionary Force. In Jun 1924, 1/6 deployed to the Dominican Republic and Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, participating in expeditionary operations until September 1925. The unit then returned to Norfolk, Virginia, and was again deactivated on 1 Oct 1925. After being once more reactivated in 1927 from that point right on up to the present, this unit participated or fought in many battles, campaigns, and humanitarian efforts, including: Tientsin with the 3rd Brigade, Shanghai with the 2nd Marine Brigade/Fleet Marine Force, Reykjavik with 1st Provisional Marine Brigade, and in 1942 to New Zealand. From there, they were deployed to Guadalcanal, the South Solomons, Tarawa, Saipan, Tinian, and Okinawa, ending World War II. They were then assigned to Nagasaki and the Occupation of Japan until returning to San Diego and being deactivated in late 1947. By October 1949, they were stationed at Camp Lejeune with the 2nd Marine Division, from where they were active during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, the Dominican Republic in 1965, and Panama in support of Operation Just Cause by 1989. From September 1990 through March 1991, they were part of Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. In 1999, the 1/6 saw action in Kosovo under Operation Noble Anvil. Beginning in March 2003 and again from March 2006 to May 2007, they did their part in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In between and beyond those deployments, they saw action in Operation Enduring Freedom during 2004 and 2008 through 2012.
During the Vietnam War era, from 1964 to 1975, and from then until 1989, the I/6 was engaged in several non-theater operations. Referring back to Lt. Gen. Jones's remarkable book, Marines TWS member Sgt. Donald York, on active duty during that time, summarized their activity this way, “… [they] were considered during that period to be the Corp's primary cold climate force training in Vermont, the Rockies, and making training deployments in Iceland/Norway. They were one of the standby forces if the shit were to hit the fan in GTMO. And, I was in GTMO 1974 and 1975 for two years… During that period and prior, 6th Marines were the rapid reaction force to augment the always-present battalion that rotated in and out of GTMO. Because of their lineage back to France and the historic importance of Belleau Wood, the 6th Marines will probably always be stationed on the East Coast unless a major conflict breaks out elsewhere in the world." Included among those era duties were assignments such as previously noted above and deployments to the Mediterranean and Caribbean (e.g., Vieques) in addition to spending as much as fifty percent of their time in the field and sometimes even in support of Camp law enforcement necessities during a time of disciplinary turmoil in the branches. The unit performed joint or combined arms operations with the Army at Fort Bragg, Camp Drum, Camp Pickett, and at Twentynine Palms, as well as under a number of other named Operations as far away as in Okinawa and Korea, and with USAF on Tinian, Guam, and back to Japan“…when it came time for the battalion to return to Camp Lejeune, the commanding general, Major General Robert E. Haebel, surprised everyone by asking loudly to the battalion, ‘What do you do best?' The battalion immediately shouted, `Attack! Attack! Attack!"
The 1st Battalion 6th Marines has been awarded the following recognitions: Presidential Unit Citation Streamer with Bronze star, World War II Tarawa – 1943, Afghanistan 2009–2010, Joint Meritorious Unit Award, Operation Sea Signal 1994, Operation Pacific Haven 1996-1997 B Co, Operation Inherent Resolve 2017, Navy Unit Commendation Streamer with Silver Star and Bronze Star, Panama – 1989, Southwest Asia – 1990–1991, Kosovo – 1999, Afghanistan – 2004, 2010, Iraq – 2006 – 2007, BLT 1/6 2014, BLT 1/6 2016, OIR 1/6 C – 2017, Israel-Hamas Conflict 2023-24, Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation Streamer with Bronze Star 1986–1987, Afghanistan 2008, 1/6 UDP 2020, World War I Victory Streamer with five Bronze Stars, Army of Occupation of Germany streamer, Yangtze Service Streamer, China Service Streamer, Marine Corps Expeditionary Streamer with two Bronze Stars, American Defense Service Streamer with one Bronze Star, European – African – Middle Eastern Campaign Streamer, Asiatic – Pacific Campaign Streamer with one Silver And One Bronze Star, World War II Victory Streamer, Navy Occupation Service Streamer With Asia And Europe, National Defense Service Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Armed Forces Expeditionary Streamer With one Bronze star, South West Asia Service Streamer with two Bronze Stars, Kosovo Campaign Streamer with one Bronze Star, Global War on Terrorism Service Streamer, Afghanistan Campaign Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Iraq Campaign Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Streamer, Inherent Resolve Campaign Streamer, and the French Croix de guerre With Two Palms And One Gilt star. In all, such superlatives being, as they are, warranted when rightly deserved, the 1st Battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment earned, and will continue to earn, every recognition that locates them among the pantheon of those who went before in whose honor they served.
The Story of Bombardier David W. Fisher
Jenny Ashcraft Fold3
How can Fold3® records help tell the story of your military ancestor? We came across an interesting Missing Air Crew Report for a WWII bombardier. That single record led us to additional Fold3® records, Newspapers.com™ clippings, and a Find a Grave™ memorial. Using these combined sources, we’ve pieced together the remarkable service history of David Willard Fisher. This is his story.
On May 18, 1944, David W. Fisher and a crew of nine boarded a B-24H for a bombing run over Ploesti, Romania. Their aircraft never landed. After engine trouble, the plane crashed. Two crew members were killed instantly, five were captured and taken POW, and three, including Fisher, made their way to freedom with the help of partisans.
David W. Fisher was born in 1916 in Iowa, the son of James E. and Sophia Raymond Fisher. Raised in Iowa City, Fisher excelled in athletics, lettering in football at Iowa City High School. Following graduation, he married Marguerite Schrader on August 11, 1940. That same year, Congress passed the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, and by October 1940, all men between the ages of 21 and 35 were required to register with their local draft board. Fisher registered on October 16, 1940.
After Pearl Harbor was bombed on December 7, 1941, the United States entered WWII, and Fisher was called up to serve. He was selected for training as a bombardier in the Army Air Corps and, in December 1943, was commissioned as Second Lieutenant. One day, during a two-mile training run with fellow cadets in Midland, Texas, Fisher impressed fellow airmen with his athletic prowess. A large West Texas jackrabbit lit out in front of the group, and Fisher took off on a sprint in hot pursuit of the rabbit. By the time the other cadets caught up to him, they found he’d outrun the rabbit.
Fisher was assigned to serve in the 459th Bombardment Group, 756th Bomb Squad, and 15th Air Force. He left for Europe on April 17, 1944. His unit participated in a bombing campaign to destroy enemy oil production facilities at Ploesti. Between April and August 1944, the 15th Air Force bombed Ploesti 23 times. More than 200 heavy bombers were downed, and 1,100 bombers became POWs.
On the afternoon of May 18, 1944, Fisher and his crew boarded a B-24 at Giulia Airbase in Italy. Fisher had been in Italy for six months, and this was his fifth mission. After a successful bombing run over Ploesti, the aircraft headed for home but soon developed engine trouble. Pilot Harold W. Helfrich lost sight of his formation and was losing altitude when he sent a distress call. Moments later, the aircraft went into a violent spin.
Crew members struggled to escape, and Fisher was one of the first to jump. He immediately encountered problems when his chute failed to open, and he went into a 5000-foot free fall. In a newspaper interview, Fisher recalled, “I was in a bunched position, my head down, falling headlong wi
th my knees drawn up. With a terrible shock, the chute opened. Blood spurted from my mouth and nose, and I felt like a giant hand had torn me in two.”
Fisher and Helfrich landed close together but didn’t know the fate of the other crew members. Fisher was injured, but local partisans arrived on the scene quickly and ushered the two men to safety. Back home, Fisher’s wife received word that he was missing.
For 89 days, Fisher and Helfrich crossed through enemy territory. They received help from a group of partisan fighters led by Josip Broz Tito, a leader of Yugoslav Partisans who would later serve as President of Yugoslavia. The partisans guided them through Yugoslavia and Albania with the enemy in close pursuit – so close that they shot off the heel of Helfrich’s boot. During the three-month ordeal, Fisher developed dysentery and lost almost 50 pounds. In August 1944, Fisher and Helfrich reached Peshkopi, Albania, and were turned over to an English liaison officer. Military officials then evacuated Fisher and Helfrich to a military hospital in Bari, Italy.
After recovering, Fisher returned to the US in October 1944 and was honorably discharged on February 7, 1946. He was awarded the Air Medal with four Oak Leaf Clusters. He lived a long life and passed away in 2010 at age 93.
It's somewhat painful remembering so much that I normally would keep inside, but I will always keep my Nam family alive, and this is one way to do that.
SP5 Michael Hall, US Army Veteran
Served 1968-1976
By Gerard J. Monaghan LTC, US Army (Ret.)
The visa application includes this question: "Have you been to Vietnam before?"
When the "Freedom Bird" lifted off from Tan Son Nhut airport in March 1971, there was no thought of returning to that beautiful, intriguing, bomb- and Agent Orange-scarred country.
A lot has happened in the intervening 53 years.
In 1975, we decided to add a Vietnamese orphan to our family; our son, Sean, had been born in 1971.
In August, my wife, Eileen, two friends, and I headed to Vietnam and Cambodia, with a layover in Doha, Qatar. The trip had been planned several years ago, but Covid quashed it. Now, we were doing a 14-day Viking river cruise from Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) to Hanoi. When we arrived in Tan Son Nhut and arranged transportation to our hotel, I thought, "The last time I was here, I didn't have to worry about ground transportation." The Army had taken care of all those details.
The Viking tour – seven days on a boat and seven in various hotels, all in comfort – covered the basics … Saigon, Ankor Wat, the Hanoi Hilton, etc. Our tour guide, Bik Tran, was knowledgeable and engaging, providing background on the many historic and cultural sights. It was fascinating visiting places like the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City, seeing the Vietnamese side of the war and remembering that history is written by the winners.
The accommodations, tours, service, and food all were mind boggling – and this wasn't our first travel! We've been to 67 countries on all seven continents. But this is not a travel story.
We added a few days at the beginning and end.
And that's what this story is about.
We had our daughter Brenna's birth certificate. It identifies her mother, but no father, and listed two witnesses. Her mother, Phan Thi Phan, was from the hamlet of Binh Phuoc Xuan; Brenna was born in the village of Tan My when her mother was 36. That would make her mother 86 and it was unlikely she would still be alive. Both villages are on an island in the Mekong River, in the river's Delta, in An Giang Province, near Cambodia, about 3 ½ hours by car today from Ho Chi Minh City. Much of the trip was on modern toll expressways but, off these roads, it was through poor villages on poor streets – and along the river as well -- lined with corrugated metal sheds, which serve as both business and home.
It is amazing how much the country has changed, and yet how much has remained the same, in 53 years. The cities, especially Saigon, which was not bombed and retains its French influence, are modern, but the countryside still is rural and poor. Eileen said I had told her Vietnam is beautiful, but she couldn't find that beauty. Guess I should have clarified that it's beautiful from 3,000 feet, seen from the open door of a helicopter.
That's the geography and the background.
When we initially planned the trip, we had hired a guide, Nhu Nguyen, through Tours by Locals. We had asked her if she could, by using Brenna's Vietnamese birth certificate, find any information about her. But, with the Covid collapse of the trip, we did not pursue the contact.
Fast forward three years. After the Covid travel restrictions eased, we re-energized our trip plans, with the same friends. We contacted the company again and found Nhu still was working as a guide. We booked her through Tours by Locals for a tour to the Cao Dai Temple in Tay Ninh – an incredibly beautiful and unique compound I had first visited in 1970 -- and then began working directly with her through WhatsAp to track down Brenna's background.
As with all certified Vietnam tour guides, she has a four-year degree in hospitality. Now 30, she said her business closed completely for two years during Covid, and she drained her savings. Business once again is improving and she has been able to travel for pleasure, most recently to India.
With a copy of the birth certificate in hand, Nhu went on to the Facebook page for An Giang Province. Isn't it amazing, that a rural province in the Mekong River delta would have its own Facebook page? She put out the names of the mother and the two witnesses – and got a hit. One of the witnesses, Ty Thi Nguyen (no relation), now 74, contacted our guide. (Nguyen is one of the more common surnames in Vietnam, tracing to a prominent dynasty active from the 16th Century through 1945).
All Nhu would tell us was that she had found a witness.
Arriving in Ho Chi Minh City on Aug. 25, we met Nhu for dinner at a fabulous local restaurant and confirmed arrangements to meet her and a driver, Tue Thien, the next morning for the 115-mile trip to An Giang Province, mostly on modern superhighways.
We arrived on the island by ferry (big enough for one car and a few ubiquitous motor scooters) from Hoi An. On the ferry, Eileen kept looking at the shore, thinking "if this sinks, I can swim that far." One-lane back roads (there only are back roads) led to Binh Phuoc Xuan. To call it a town would be a major exaggeration; the hamlet was a collection of perhaps 20 small bamboo or corrugated metal houses, little more than shacks. But it was cleaner and neater than many places we passed, with many flowers. The local waterway was filled with water hyacinths, which are used to weave into baskets.
Then, north about six miles to Tan My. On the way, we stopped at the absolutely beautiful Chua Phuoc Thanh Buddhist Temple, with the largest buddha statue we've ever seen. It has been honored by the Vietnam Federation of UNESCO Associations, and should be considered for a World Heritage site. Of course, there were local vendors, so we risked street food for a cold, refreshing drink in the Delta's heat and humidity.
In Tan My, the hospital where Brenna had been born, Nhu told us, had long since closed. But the Cu Lao Gieng Catholic Church, built in 1889 in classic French style, dominates the main street. We visited, and learned two Vietnamese Catholic saints were beheaded nearby in 1859; one is buried at the church. Hundreds of thousands of Catholics were killed; their feast is celebrated on Nov. 24.
All this was prelude.
Nguyen took us next door, to a small house. As we walked up the front path, Ty greeted us with a shy smile. It turns out she was not just a witness on the birth certificate – she was the assistant midwife who had helped deliver Brenna! Her aunt, who had died a few years ago and whose picture hangs in a small shrine in the little house, was the principal midwife.
Ty, of course, does not remember Brenna ("That was 52 years ago and there were a lot of babies."). She was, however, delighted to meet us (and we, her). Pointing to the name on the birth certificate, she said "that's me!" Her shy smile broadened as she looked at photos of Brenna, obviously delighted that one of her babies had had such a good life and paid it forward by adopting her oldest son -- and that we had tracked her down.
We had wanted to bring something back to Brenna from her village. Ty's special needs grandson sat nearby, weaving baskets, which she sells at wholesale. We bought two, one for us and one for Brenna.
She kept some of the photos, saying she would pass them around in the village, since many family resemblances persist in the small population.
Then it was back to the mainland, this time on a bridge and back to Ho Chi Minh City.
Emotions, to say the least, ran high. Closure? Full circle? Rewarding?
After this, the rest of the trip – amazing though it was – was almost anti-climactic. Our friends said this was by far the highlight of the trip.
And we can't blame Nhu for keeping Ty's role a secret until we met her!
Reflections on Secret Wars, Espionage, and Terrorism
By John William Davis
"Rainy Street Stories" isn't a single tale so much as a map of scars. Author John William Davis is a retired U.S. Army counterintelligence officer, a seasoned veteran of the shadow trades. In this book, he takes readers around the world as he threads together short vignettes, essays, and memory-shards about espionage, terrorism, and the people who live between those crosshairs.
If you're expecting a Tom Clancy showstopper with satellite uplinks and a missile budget, stand down. Davis brings something much different: thoughtful reflections that the author clearly wrote at different times in his life. Each chapter displays the depth of Davis' consideration for his subjects.
"Rainy Street Stories" isn't a book for learning the ins and outs of the intelligence world, nor is it a manual for spycraft. But readers won't be disappointed to find real thoughts and emotions from someone who works in the counterintelligence world, and that's something you won't get from a Jack Ryan movie.
Readers who crave a single narrative arc may feel like they're chasing a target through fog. But that's kind of the point. Intelligence work is a jigsaw puzzle where a third of the pieces are missing and some belong to a different box. Davis leans into that reality, trusting the reader to connect the fragments.
What lifts the book above "spy nostalgia" is its moral clarity without moralizing. Davis respects the professionals who keep the wheels turning, but he doesn't hand out free passes. Collateral damage isn't rhetorical; it has names. The threats are real, the victories temporary, and the bill always comes due. That quiet honesty is the book's center of gravity.
"Rainy Street Stories" is available in hardcover and paperback on Amazon, starting at $15.25
The Americans stepped off toward the ridge in the wake of a rolling artillery barrage. As the shells chewed up the battlefield to soften up the defenses, a lone Marine could be seen running through the maelstrom of high explosives. It was Pvt. John J. Kelly, who was about to go down in history.
Kelly was already a salty combat veteran by the time he charged Blanc Mont Ridge. He'd fought at Château-Thierry and St. Mihiel. If he was concerned about machine guns, defenses, or even getting blown up by his own artillery, it didn't show. He ran through the artillery shower, more than 100 yards ahead of the rest of the front line. When he reached a machine gun nest, he killed the gunner and another crew member and took eight prisoners. 
Nearby governments understandably panicked. Washington, worried about the hundreds of American medical students on the island and the runway's potential value to Soviet-aligned Cuba. On October 25, President Ronald Reagan sent in the troops. 
The Rangers went anyway, under the cover of AC-130 gunships. They secured the runway and held it while Air Force transports brought in more Rangers and heavy equipment. In the east, Marines from the 22nd Marine Amphibious Unit pressed toward Pearl's airfield, cutting through roadblocks and small pockets of resistance.
Units literally used tourist maps ripped from guidebooks. Some aircraft couldn't talk to the ground. Different services carried radios that didn't share frequencies. In a fight where minutes mattered, that friction got people hurt. There were friendly-fire incidents and tragic civilian casualties, including mistaken strikes that hit non-combatants. The price for a fast victory was paid not only in American blood—19 U.S. service members were killed and over a hundred wounded—but by Grenadians and Cubans caught in the crossfire.
There's another thread worth pulling: special operations. The attempt to insert SEALs through rough surf, the reliance on AC-130s for precision fires, the use of Rangers to seize an austere airfield weren't one-off stunts. They were a preview of a military that would increasingly lean on SOF for the hardest first hours of a crisis. 
Also, vampires aren't real. But that's the glory of psychological operations. The boogie men don't have to be real; the enemy just has to think they're real. That was the idea behind Lt. Col. Edward G. Lansdale's plan to enlist vampires and ghosts to help subdue communist rebels in the Philippines in 1950. 
Before World War II, Lansdale worked in advertising, a background that was well-known to the CIA as "psychological warfare." He assembled a team that investigated the superstitions of the Filipino peasants in the region to begin to turn hearts and minds against the Huks. He came up with a supernatural ally: the Asuang. 
The place was Qala-i-Jangi, a sprawling mud-brick stronghold outside Mazar-i-Sharif where hundreds of Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters had just "surrendered" to the Northern Alliance. And those Americans were CIA officers Johnny "Mike" Spann and David Tyson. 
Tyson, only yards away, did what case officers do when the plan blows up: he survived, adapted, and went back to work. He clawed out of the southern compound, sprinted through fire into the northern half of the fort, and linked up with Alliance fighters who were just realizing their prisoners were now an armed mob with nothing to lose.
Years later, Tyson's account isn't a chest-thump—it reads like a field report edged with adrenaline: sudden grenades, short sightlines, a sprint across open ground that felt a mile long, then the slow, ugly work of clearing a stronghold that had become a tomb. Spann was buried at Arlington National Cemetery and honored for extraordinary heroism. The citation is precise; the reality is simpler. He stood his ground so others could get out.
The significance of the fight isn't just that it was the first big, messy test of the post-9/11 playbook. It compressed the whole conflict into one brutal week—a micro-war with every moving part visible. You saw the strength of local partnerships when they're respected and resourced. You saw the risk of assuming yesterday's surrender will behave itself today. You saw what it means when intelligence officers carry rifles, and when the first American to die in a new war is a guy who spent his last minutes doing precisely what he was sent there to do.
Initially activated on 11 Jul 1917 at Marine Corps Base Quantico, the 1st Battalion, 6th Marines (1/6), sometimes called “Deathwalkers" or “Comanche" with the mottos “1/6 Hard" (a name derived from its commander at Belleau Wood, Maj. John Arthur Hughes, aka "Johnny the Hard") and “Ready to Fight" is an infantry battalion in the United States Marine Corps based at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. It consists of approximately eleven hundred Marines and sailors. They currently come under the command of the 2nd Marine Division of the II Marine Expeditionary Force (II MEF). The unit's Company-specific nicknames are: Alpha Company "Apache;" Bravo Company "Black Foot," and sometimes "Black Iron;" Charlie Company "Cold Steel;" and Weapons Company "Warrior" or "Laredo." The 1/6 Battalion's fierce reputation at the Battle of Belleau Wood (1-26 Jun 1918) is a key part of the broader Marine Corps legend of how the nickname "Devil Dogs" (or Teufel Hunden) came to be. While this nickname applies to the entire Marine Corps, its origins are closely tied to the history of the 1/6 and the 6th Marine Regiment. As of this writing, Marines TWS lists 2,400 individuals who have served bearing this unit's colors. Among numerous published and film histories of the 1/6 and the 6th, a distinguished and comprehensive scholarly monograph, and eventual book (especially on pages 136-153), “A Brief History of the 6th Marines" was penned in 1987 by Lieutenant General William K. Jones (1916-1998) USMC (Ret), someone who was exceptionally well qualified to write such a history having been a 1/6 company commander, XO and its Battalion Commander. General Jones was born in Joplin, Missouri (also your author's hometown). 
s: Red: 1st Battalion, Yellow: 2nd Battalion, Blue: 3rd Battalion, Black: Headquarters, Purple: Machine-gun Company. The 6th Marine Regiment received a prestigious honor from the French government after its heroic actions in several battles in France. Awarded for Valor: The 6th Marine Regiment was awarded the French Croix de Guerre (War Cross) three times for actions at Belleau Wood, Soissons, and Blanc Mont. As a result, the regiment was authorized to wear the Fourragère, a braided cord, on its uniform. The 6th Marines is one of two Marine units to receive this award. The Fourragère became a permanent part of the 6th Marines' uniform, and all members of the modern regiment are authorized to wear it. 
In 1917, still recovering from his wound, he sailed to France. He was the Battalion Commander of First Battalion, Sixth Marines, at Belleau Wood. The Battle of Belleau Wood was hard-fought, and at one point, the 1/6 was down to only one hundred men, from a starting strength of around one thousand. Major Hughes rose to the occasion; his courage under fire inspired his Marines, earned him the Navy Cross, and, most importantly, led his Marines to victory. Before the end of the war, Hughes was personally awarded the Croix de Guerre twice and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel."
During the Vietnam War era, from 1964 to 1975, and from then until 1989, the I/6 was engaged in several non-theater operations. Referring back to Lt. Gen. Jones's remarkable book, Marines TWS member Sgt. Donald York, on active duty during that time, summarized their activity this way, “… [they] were considered during that period to be the Corp's primary cold climate force training in Vermont, the Rockies, and making training deployments in Iceland/Norway. They were one of the standby forces if the shit were to hit the fan in GTMO. And, I was in GTMO 1974 and 1975 for two years… During that period and prior, 6th Marines were the rapid reaction force to augment the always-present battalion that rotated in and out of GTMO. Because of their lineage back to France and the historic importance of Belleau Wood, the 6th Marines will probably always be stationed on the East Coast unless a major conflict breaks out elsewhere in the world." Included among those era duties were assignments such as previously noted above and deployments to the Mediterranean and Caribbean (e.g., Vieques) in addition to spending as much as fifty percent of their time in the field and sometimes even in support of Camp law enforcement necessities during a time of disciplinary turmoil in the branches. The unit performed joint or combined arms operations with the Army at Fort Bragg, Camp Drum, Camp Pickett, and at Twentynine Palms, as well as under a number of other named Operations as far away as in Okinawa and Korea, and with USAF on Tinian, Guam, and back to Japan“…when it came time for the battalion to return to Camp Lejeune, the commanding general, Major General Robert E. Haebel, surprised everyone by asking loudly to the battalion, ‘What do you do best?' The battalion immediately shouted, `Attack! Attack! Attack!" 
The 1st Battalion 6th Marines has been awarded the following recognitions: Presidential Unit Citation Streamer with Bronze star, World War II Tarawa – 1943, Afghanistan 2009–2010, Joint Meritorious Unit Award, Operation Sea Signal 1994, Operation Pacific Haven 1996-1997 B Co, Operation Inherent Resolve 2017, Navy Unit Commendation Streamer with Silver Star and Bronze Star, Panama – 1989, Southwest Asia – 1990–1991, Kosovo – 1999, Afghanistan – 2004, 2010, Iraq – 2006 – 2007, BLT 1/6 2014, BLT 1/6 2016, OIR 1/6 C – 2017, Israel-Hamas Conflict 2023-24, Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation Streamer with Bronze Star 1986–1987, Afghanistan 2008, 1/6 UDP 2020, World War I Victory Streamer with five Bronze Stars, Army of Occupation of Germany streamer, Yangtze Service Streamer, China Service Streamer, Marine Corps Expeditionary Streamer with two Bronze Stars, American Defense Service Streamer with one Bronze Star, European – African – Middle Eastern Campaign Streamer, Asiatic – Pacific Campaign Streamer with one Silver And One Bronze Star, World War II Victory Streamer, Navy Occupation Service Streamer With Asia And Europe, National Defense Service Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Armed Forces Expeditionary Streamer With one Bronze star, South West Asia Service Streamer with two Bronze Stars, Kosovo Campaign Streamer with one Bronze Star, Global War on Terrorism Service Streamer, Afghanistan Campaign Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Iraq Campaign Streamer with three Bronze Stars, Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Streamer, Inherent Resolve Campaign Streamer, and the French Croix de guerre With Two Palms And One Gilt star. In all, such superlatives being, as they are, warranted when rightly deserved, the 1st Battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment earned, and will continue to earn, every recognition that locates them among the pantheon of those who went before in whose honor they served.
On May 18, 1944, David W. Fisher and a crew of nine boarded a B-24H for a bombing run over Ploesti, Romania. Their aircraft never landed. After engine trouble, the plane crashed. Two crew members were killed instantly, five were captured and taken POW, and three, including Fisher, made their way to freedom with the help of partisans.
th my knees drawn up. With a terrible shock, the chute opened. Blood spurted from my mouth and nose, and I felt like a giant hand had torn me in two.”
In August, my wife, Eileen, two friends, and I headed to Vietnam and Cambodia, with a layover in Doha, Qatar. The trip had been planned several years ago, but Covid quashed it. Now, we were doing a 14-day Viking river cruise from Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) to Hanoi. When we arrived in Tan Son Nhut and arranged transportation to our hotel, I thought, "The last time I was here, I didn't have to worry about ground transportation." The Army had taken care of all those details.
We had our daughter Brenna's birth certificate. It identifies her mother, but no father, and listed two witnesses. Her mother, Phan Thi Phan, was from the hamlet of Binh Phuoc Xuan; Brenna was born in the village of Tan My when her mother was 36. That would make her mother 86 and it was unlikely she would still be alive. Both villages are on an island in the Mekong River, in the river's Delta, in An Giang Province, near Cambodia, about 3 ½ hours by car today from Ho Chi Minh City. Much of the trip was on modern toll expressways but, off these roads, it was through poor villages on poor streets – and along the river as well -- lined with corrugated metal sheds, which serve as both business and home.
With a copy of the birth certificate in hand, Nhu went on to the Facebook page for An Giang Province. Isn't it amazing, that a rural province in the Mekong River delta would have its own Facebook page? She put out the names of the mother and the two witnesses – and got a hit. One of the witnesses, Ty Thi Nguyen (no relation), now 74, contacted our guide. (Nguyen is one of the more common surnames in Vietnam, tracing to a prominent dynasty active from the 16th Century through 1945).
Then, north about six miles to Tan My. On the way, we stopped at the absolutely beautiful Chua Phuoc Thanh Buddhist Temple, with the largest buddha statue we've ever seen. It has been honored by the Vietnam Federation of UNESCO Associations, and should be considered for a World Heritage site. Of course, there were local vendors, so we risked street food for a cold, refreshing drink in the Delta's heat and humidity.
Ty, of course, does not remember Brenna ("That was 52 years ago and there were a lot of babies."). She was, however, delighted to meet us (and we, her). Pointing to the name on the birth certificate, she said "that's me!" Her shy smile broadened as she looked at photos of Brenna, obviously delighted that one of her babies had had such a good life and paid it forward by adopting her oldest son -- and that we had tracked her down.