Throughout the Vietnam War, the United States estimated that more than 2,500 American service members were taken prisoner or went missing during the Vietnam War. North Vietnam acknowledged only 687 of those unaccounted for. Most of them were returned during Operation Homecoming in 1973 after the Paris Peace Accords ended U.S. involvement in Vietnam.
Of those 687, only 36 U.S. troops managed to escape their captors in North Vietnam and Laos. Of course, there were other attempts, but only those 36 made it back to American lines. One of those successful attempts was made by James N. Rowe, a Special Forces officer who would later use what he learned to help future American escapees.
James N. Rowe was a Texas native who attended the U.S. Military Academy at West Point after graduating from high school in 1956. He earned a commission in 1960 and by 1963 found himself in South Vietnam, acting as the executive officer of Detachment A-23, 5th Special Forces Group.
It was there that Rowe commanded his A-Team in training Civilian Irregular Defense Group (CIDG) soldiers in the Mekong Delta. The goal was to train these South Vietnamese locals to bolster the South's defenses and counter the growing influence of North Vietnam's Viet Cong guerrillas.
While training the CIDG troops, Rowe and two of his fellow West Point classmates accompanied troops trying to clear the village of Le Coeur of VC activity. The CIDG troops moved into a VC stronghold in the U Minh Forest. As they moved to attack the command post, they found it empty and moved deeper into the dense jungle to pursue the enemy.
But it was an ambush. They underestimated the Viet Cong in this area and found it was a Main Force battalion. The CIDGs and Green Berets fought for eight hours but were overrun. Rowe was captured during the fighting after just three months in-country.
Rowe would spend the next 62 months in captivity in the dark U Minh Forest, in a bamboo cell three feet wide, four feet long, and six feet high. He fought off dysentery, fungal diseases, and terrible psychological and physical torture for the duration of his stay in the prison.
The Viet Cong initially tried to interrogate him, but he claimed he was a drafted civil engineer, a ruse he was able to maintain until the VC discovered his true identity as an intelligence officer. By the time they discovered who he really was, the information he had would have proven useless. Angered at the missed opportunity, the VC sent him to be executed in the U Minh Forest.
Rowe had made a number of escape attempts before this final one. Each time, he was either recaptured or coerced into returning by threats of violence toward his fellow POWs. This time would be different. The communist guerrillas led Rowe into the dark jungle for his coming execution. As they walked, a flight of UH-1 Iroquois "Huey" helicopters flew overhead. As his captors watched them fly by, he used the moment as an opportunity to escape.
He overpowered one of the guards, shoving him down to the ground, and made his getaway. Rowe ran into a clearing of the trees, waving at the Hueys. Dressed in the black pajama uniform of a Viet Cong, the Americans almost opened fire on him, but one pilot noticed his thick beard, one a Vietnamese man could not grow. The pilot realized he was an American.
After realizing who he was looking at, the Huey pilot dropped down, scooped Rowe up, and flew him to safety. The year was 1968, and Rowe had been promoted to Major while he was held captive.
He later served as the Army's Adjutant General for the POW/MIA program and published his book, "Five Years to Freedom," a retelling of his time as a prisoner, based on a diary he kept while in captivity. He left active duty in 1974 but remained a reservist in the Army.
When the time came for the Army to develop a program of training for soldiers who were in danger of being taken captive, they looked to then-Lt. Col. James Rowe to design it. His training and time as a prisoner, along with his numerous escape attempts, gave him insight that few others could offer.
He developed SERE, Survival Evasion Resistance Escape training, used even today for special operations troops and aircrews from all service branches. It is still considered one of the most important training programs for military personnel.
In 1987, Rowe was reassigned to assist the CIA and the government of the Philippines with infiltrating the New People's Army (NPA), a communist insurgency that threatened to topple the government in Manila and replace it with a communist regime. Sadly, he was assassinated by the NPA in 1989.
James Nicholas Rowe, a recipient of the Silver Star, Legion of Merit, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart, was buried in Arlington National Cemetery later that same year.
On April 5, 1986, the La Belle nightclub in Berlin, a popular off-duty spot for U.S. troops, exploded, injuring 229 people and killing three, including two American soldiers. Among the wounded were 79 more Americans.
The bomb was placed underneath the DJ booth and went off at 1:45 in the morning. It killed Sgt. Kenneth T. Ford immediately. Sgt. James Goins was wounded in the blast but died of his injuries two months later.
American intelligence agencies suspected Libyan involvement. Then-Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi was known for sponsoring terrorist organizations from Ireland to the Middle East and considered the United States his primary geopolitical adversary.
In March of 1986, the U.S. Navy and the Libyan Navy exchanged hostilities over the Gulf of Sidra when the United States asserted the Freedom of Navigation in the area under international law. American F-14 Tomcats engaged in a dogfight with Libyan MiG-23s, and Libyan ships began firing on an American battle group in a quick altercation that ended with a decisive U.S. victory.
After the Berlin nightclub bombing, U.S. intelligence intercepted Libyan communications in East Germany with the Libyan government in Tripoli. These communiques pointed to the North African country’s involvement in the bombing, an apparent response to the Gulf of Sidra incident.
In response to the terrorist attack in Germany, President Ronald Reagan ordered a coordinated aerial attack on targets inside Libya, including Libya’s special operations training barracks, Mitiga International Airport and Benina International Airport (both used by the Libyan military), and the Jamahiriya Guard barracks in Benghazi, which was a command and control center for the Libyans.
Most importantly, the operation, code-named Operation El Dorado Canyon, targeted Gaddafi’s Bab al-Azizia compound in Tripoli. Bab al-Azizia wasn’t just the nerve center for Libya’s entire armed forces; it was also Gaddafi’s official private residence.
Because the U.S. was denied the use of airspace over France, Spain, and Italy due to their objections over the American use of force, the F-111 Aardvarks and A-6 Intruders being used in the operation would have to fly around continental Europe, over 6,000 miles round-trip, and conduct several aerial refuelings along the way.
Some 28 KC-10 Extenders and KC-135 Stratotankers took off from airfields in England on April 14, 1986, followed by 24 F-111 Aardvarks and five EF-111 Ravens. And that was just the Air Force. The Midway-class aircraft carrier USS Coral Sea and the Kitty Hawk-class supercarrier USS America were in the Mediterranean, carrying A-6 Intruders, A-7 Corsairs, and F/A-18 Hornets.
Together, they raided Libyan defenses all across the country in an effort to end or suppress its ability to train and conduct terrorist operations. At 1:54 a.m., the EF-111s and EA-6B Prowlers began jamming Libya’s sensor networks. At 2:00 a.m., the full attack began. It took only 12 minutes for all aircraft to drop 60 tons of munitions on their targets. President Reagan warned that the United States would do it again if necessary.
An estimated 45 Libyan troops and 30 civilians were killed, but Muammar Gaddafi was not one of them. Bombs struck the residence of the Libyan dictator during the attack, but he escaped, having been warned about the attack by Italian Prime Minister Bettino Craxi.
The U.S. lost one F-111 to enemy fire, shot down over the Gulf of Sidra. Air Force pilots Capt. Fernando L. Ribas-Dominicci and Capt. Paul F. Lorence died following the shoot-down. Gaddafi would hold the remains of Ribas-Dominicci until 1988 when Pope John Paul II secured its release. The remains of Capt. Lorance are still missing.
Enraged at the attack, Gaddafi accused President Reagan of trying to kill him in his own home, and Libya was far from finished supporting international terrorism. Western journalists and tourists were kidnapped and killed by Libyan agents and Libyan-supported terror groups in the Middle East. In 1988, Libya bombed Pan-Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in retaliation, killing 259 people.
Gaddafi would not renounce terrorism until after the 9/11 attacks on the United States, attacks he condemned. He would also renounce his weapons of mass destruction programs and pay compensation to the families of the victims of the Berlin bombing, the Lockerbie bombing, and other acts of terror in the years that followed.
You just can't keep a good tradition down. The good stuff will always come back up to the top in the ebb and flow of history. Using yellow ribbons to remember the troops is based on that kind of tradition.
There are a lot of myths and legends surrounding when ribbons were first tied on, why the color yellow is used, and where exactly one is supposed to tie the ribbon. Those legends are only a part of the full story.
For centuries, people have used items with special meaning to remember loved ones while they are away, whether they're at war or not. The use of a yellow ribbon in American popular culture first appears in a folk song, "Round Her Neck She Wore A Yellow Ribbon." This song can be traced as far back as 1838 and as far away as the United Kingdom.
Versions of the song have appeared and reappeared in American culture ever since. It emerged once again in 1917, as the United States entered World War I as "Round Her Neck She Wears a Yeller Ribbon (For Her Lover Who Is Far, Far Away)." Two million Americans would deploy to Europe to fight in the Great War, so this song naturally became culturally important.
In 1949, after World War II, the John Wayne western "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" revived the practice once again, with actress Joanne Dru as Olivia Dandridge donning a yellow ribbon to remember her lover, the Duke, who was a cavalry officer. The movie also included a new version of the song.
In 1973, the custom was revived once more with a hit song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree," by Tony Orlando and Dawn. The song was so popular that radio stations would play it multiple times every day for months. It went around the world and spanned generations. Many people still remember the song today.
Two years later, inspired by the song, a woman named Gail Magruder decorated her porch with yellow ribbons to welcome her husband, Jeb Stuart Magruder, home from prison. The story (and the Magruder porch) was covered by news outlets because Magruder was one of President Richard Nixon's operatives. He helped to plan and execute the Watergate break-in and then helped in the attempt to cover it up.
The seminal event that revived the tradition – perhaps for good – is that Penne Laingen was watching that night. She was the wife of Bruce Laingen, charge d'affaires at the U.S. embassy in Tehran. Laingen and 51 others were taken hostage in Iran on Nov. 4, 1979, and held for 444 days. Penne tied yellow ribbons to remember her husband and the other hostages.
Soon, the yellow ribbons were showing up all over the United States for the hostages being held in Iran. The families of the hostages formed an action group, Family Liaison Action Group (FLAG), to help bring the hostages home. The symbol for that effort was the yellow ribbon, which was quickly adopted by a sympathetic nation.
Less than a decade late
r, the United States was facing a new crisis in the Middle East: Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm. As American troops deployed to expel Iraq from Kuwait, Americans once more tied the yellow ribbons to remember their deployed loved ones, keeping the living tradition alive with a new purpose.
So the yellow ribbon isn't necessarily just for veterans and troops; it's to remember anyone who should be home and isn't, for whatever good reason, until they return. It's just likely that American troops will most likely be the ones missing from the holidays and other important family events – and they are important to remember until they come home.
By 1944 the tide of battle in World War II was turning in favor of Allied forces across the various theatres. With momentum building in Europe and the Mediterranean through the successive invasions of North Africa in November 1942 (Operation Torch), the invasion of Sicily in July 1943 (Operation Husky), and the invasion of Italy in September 1943 (Operation Avalanche) a much broader front was necessary to redirect Axis forces and free Russian troops. A keystone to accomplishing this was debuted by US forces in 1942 and would prove invaluable in spearheading further ground combat operations, the parachute infantry. 
Though the US was late in establishing airborne capability, it would quickly become the centerpiece of Operation Overlord, the assault on Western Europe on June 6th, 1944. And one fledgling unit, in particular, would prove the most audacious of US airborne troops leading this invasion, the 1st Demolition Platoon, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR). Trained as demolition saboteurs to destroy enemy targets behind the lines, this unit was commonly known as the Filthy Thirteen. It became the real-life inspiration for the book and 1967 movie, The Dirty Dozen.
In reality, the Filthy Thirteen are well known to anyone that has seen images of the paratroopers readying for D-Day with Native American haircuts and war paint. This inspiration came from Jake McNiece, who was part Choctaw and unofficial leader of this unwashed, hard-charging demolitions outfit, making these men the most recognizable airborne troops of all time.
Coined by War Correspondent Tom Hoge in an article for Stars and Stripes (June 1944), the name "Filthy Thirteen" referenced the practice, while training in England, of washing and shaving only once a week and never cleaning their uniforms. Of the activities of the Filthy Thirteen, Jack Agnew once said, "We weren't murderers or anything. We just didn't do everything we were supposed to do in some ways and did a whole lot more than they wanted us to do in other ways. We were always in trouble." Unlike the Dirty Dozen, the Filthy Thirteen were not convicts; however, they were men prone to drinking and fighting with serious disrespect of officers, spending considerable time in the stockade. In one example, only weeks before deploying, Jake McNiece blew up part of their barracks, stole a train while drunk in town, and drove it back to base.
The legend of The Filthy Thirteen got its start at Camp Toccoa, Georgia, during their training with the 506th as part of the Regimental Headquarters Company. This experience, the leadership, and ensuing preparations for war created a unique culture across the men, who, just like airborne troops still today, were all volunteers. Activated in July 1942, the 506th undertook one of the toughest physical training programs in the Army, including twelve hours of daily strength and endurance training, runs to the top of Currahee Mountain (three miles up and three miles down), and forced nighttime marches. Said one member, "the training was intended to "acquaint you with a well of energy which you had never tapped in your life before." Here, the men also endured what was reported to be the roughest obstacle course in the United States Army, part of "A" Stage training and a primer for jump school.
In late November 1942, with the "A" Stage training behind them, the 506th was ordered to Fort Benning for parachute training. The 3rd Battalion, with the 1st Demolition Platoon in tow, traveled to Atlanta by rail and then marched the remaining 136 miles to set a new endurance march world record previously held by the Japanese Army. The men completed their parachute training and qualifying jumps to receive the Parachutist Badge on the heels of this accomplishment. The 506th then moved to Camp Mackall, North Carolina, where extensive tactical training was conducted, centered on night jumps with full combat equipment. In early June 1943, the Regiment was attached to the 101st Airborne Division and moved west to participate in the Tennessee maneuvers. Here they dropped behind the lines to establish roadblocks, destroy bridges, and snarl communications, after which the 506th moved to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, arriving as a fully trained fighting unit. At Fort Bragg, the 506th largely participated in reviews for visiting dignitaries, including the British Foreign Minister, Sir Anthony Eden.
In August 1943, the unit reported to Camp Shanks, New York, to prepare for overseas transport. The 506th crossed the Atlantic on the SS Samaria, arriving at Liverpool, England, on September 15th, 1943. While in England, the 506th was stationed in Wiltshire County and villages such as Aldbourne, Ramsbury, Froxfield, and Chilton-Foliat. Each man mastered the tasks necessary to make the unit run smoothly in combat.
Perhaps little known by most, here the unit also played critical roles in preparatory operations for D-Day, Operations Wadham, and Rankin. Wadham was one of three diversionary operations (Starkey, Wadham, and Tindall) comprising the overarching Operation Cockade. Executed in September 1943, planners for Operation Wadham wanted the Germans to believe the Americans would invade in the area of Brest, a seaport on the Breton peninsula. The notional order of battle for Operation Wadham involved two headquarters corps, seven infantry divisions, two armored divisions, and the 101st Airborne.
On the other hand, Operation Rankin was a very real undertaking, the details, and existence of which were known only to a handful of officers. The purpose of Rankin was to plan for a German surrender before the invasion in Normandy, a possibility due either to a military disaster on the Russian front, to an internal collapse of Germany, or both. The 101st Airborne was to play the key role in a rapid airborne invasion and seizure of German-held territories, but without trigger conditions, the operation did not take place.
On June 5th, 1944, the men of the 506th parked by the aircraft that were to carry them into their first combat mission. As demolition saboteurs, the 1st Demolition Platoon's mission was to defend or destroy two bridges over Douve Canal, preventing the Germans from reinforcing the Utah and Omaha beach heads. Located near the small Normandy village of Brevands, the mission was considered suicidal. Nonetheless, the men accomplished their objectives despite a vastly superior enemy force and repeated German counterattacks, holding until relieved on June 10th. One battle at the Canal reportedly pitted thirty paratroopers against an entire German Battalion. In doing so, half of the men were killed, wounded, or captured either during the jump or in combat soon afterward. Jack Womer fought his way out of the swamp that he and forty other paratroopers landed in but proved to be the sole survivor. On the second day, Jack participated in fighting that resulted in the capture of over one hundred Germans of the 6th Paratrooper Regiment, only to see them annihilated by the German's own mortar barrage.
The men fought bravely for thirty-six days in Normandy before returning to England for resupply and redeployment, contributing to the liberation of the first major city in France, Carentan, and earning the 506th a unit citation, "In the face of determined and fierce enemy resistance, the unit seized and kept open the main causeway leading to the beaches. This action led to the seaborne forces' successful and rapid advance inland and insured the establishment of the beach-head in Western Europe."
The Demolition Platoon's second combat jump would come quickly on September 17th as part of Operation Market Garden along with the rest of the 101st and 82nd Airborne. The objective was to create a salient into German territory through the Netherlands with a bridgehead over the River Rhine, creating an Allied invasion route into northern Germany. This was to be achieved by seizing nine bridges along Highway 69, later named Hell's Highway, with combined US and British airborne (Market) followed by land forces (Garden). Fighting for seventy-eight consecutive days, the Allies fought to keep this vital transportation corridor open. The 1stDemolition Platoon specifically was assigned to defend four bridges over the Dommel River in Eindhoven, the Netherlands. Taken without a fight, the 506th formed a defensive perimeter around the bridges though German bombing of the city again killed or wounded half the men in the Demolition Platoon. Reportedly, the remaining Filthy Thirteen then fought their way through tanks and infantry, removing German explosives from bridges, improvising, and always pushing forward. McNiece acquired an abandoned German truck and drove his men into town. There, the men dodged 88mm rounds and fought house to house until victorious. For the rest of the campaign, the demolitions men secured the regimental command post, protected wire-laying details, and in one case, were assigned as a rifle squad to an understrength company.
Coming back AWOL from Paris after Market Garden, Jake McNiece volunteered for the Pathfinders with Jack Agnew; paratroopers sent in ahead of the main force to guide airborne and resupply drops. Half the surviving members of the Filthy Thirteen followed him into the Pathfinders expecting to sit out the rest of the war training in England. But no one could foresee Operation Autumn Mist in December 1944, later known
as the Battle of the Bulge. To assist in relief of the 101st Airborne, the Pathfinders were dropped into Bastogne at the height of the fighting, McNiece securing a position within eyesight of the Nazis. Surprisingly, with eighty to ninety percent expected casualties, the twenty pathfinders lost only one man.
In many ways, Operation Market Garden failed to achieve its objectives, and in Spring 1945, a Rhine River crossing into Northern Germany was needed. For this purpose, Operation Varsity was launched on March 24th, 1945. Involving more than 16,000 paratroopers and several thousand aircraft, Varsity was the largest airborne operation in history, meant to help the surface river assault by landing two airborne divisions on the eastern bank of the Rhine near the town of Wesel. Once again, Jake McNiece volunteered as an observer for the 17th Airborne Division to extend his combat jump career.
At the closing of the war, the Demolition Platoon deployed to the Alps, where they were ambushed by mortar fire. Armed with only a knife, a pistol, and two grenades, Jack Womer scaled the mountainside to coordinate a fire mission that killed eight Nazis and saved the unit. Occurring the day after the war in Europe officially ended, this was the final patrol for the Filthy Thirteen and a fitting end to their exploits. In retrospect, their deeds have lived on beyond them and will remain larger than life. War Correspondent Tom Hoge wrote, "They called themselves the 'Filthy Thirteen,' and took pride in the reputation they had of being the orneriest, meanest group of paratroopers whoever hit their base." According to Barbara Maloney, daughter of Jack Agnew, "Most of the men that I talked to that were with the Filthy Thirteen - they wanted to be with that group for a number of reasons. One is they felt safe with them. They trusted them. The 506th … a lot of these guys, that's their identity for a lifetime. They were young men defining themselves. That's who they are the rest of their life."
For the 69th anniversary of D-Day, Jack Womer was decorated with the French Legion of Honor in Carentan.
Russia and Ukraine have a long history that dates back long before economic pressures and Russia's 2022 invasion. Russia may consider Ukraine as part of its sphere of influence, but Ukrainians have long memories of Russian and Soviet domination, a centuries-long era that resulted in the deaths of millions.
Since the end of the 18th century, Russia (and then the Soviet Union) has controlled or attempted to control historical areas of Ukraine, so, understandably, Ukrainians might be tired of it and ready to fight back.
1. Ukrainian War of Independence
Toward the end of World War I, the Russian Empire had fallen and was under the control of the Bolsheviks, and many of the empire's former holdings attempted to declare independence. Ukraine established the Ukrainian People's Republic while the Soviets set up a rival Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic in the east.
Ukrainians had to fight Germany, Austria-Hungary, Russian Bolsheviks, White Russian volunteers loyal to the Russian monarchy, and Poland while fighting a brutal civil war in the middle of World War I. By 1922, Ukraine's internationally recognized government was defeated, and its territory split between the Soviet Union, Poland, Romania, and Czechoslovakia.
2. The Red Terror
Between 1917 and 1922, areas controlled by the Bolsheviks experienced a wave of reprisal killings, repressions, and executions against the Bolshevik's political rivals. These rivals include those who sided with the Tsarist White Forces in the Russian Civil War, Kulaks (private landowners), and middle-class "bourgeoisie."
The Bolsheviks called the campaign the "Red Terror" and modeled it after the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. Not limited to the use of firearms, Ukrainians were thrown into boiling water, tortured publicly, impaled, crucified, or killed in some other painful way. An estimated 1.3 million were killed.
3. The Holodomor
After consolidating power in the Soviet leadership, Joseph Stalin moved to implement a massive industrialization program throughout the USSR. At the same time, the Soviet harvest was much lower than expected due to collective farming and land redistribution. The result was a man-made famine that killed 3.5 to 10 million people in the Ukrainian SSR.
The Soviet government in Moscow not only did little to aid the Ukrainian famine, it actively tried to cover it up to maintain a facade of international strength. Even inside Ukrainian cities, few people knew what was happening to those in the countryside.
4. World War II
The German Army advanced to Ukraine's capital city within six weeks of launching its invasion of the Soviet Union. Much of Ukraine saw the Germans as liberators in the early days of the war, especially in the western areas of the country, further from Russia's traditional border. Many Ukrainians joined the German forces against the Red Army.
As German intentions in the east became clearer and the Nazis began killing Ukrainians en masse, more and more joined the Red Army to fight off the invasion. Ukraine had the second-largest population in the USSR and was a large part of the Soviet military. About 4.5 million Ukrainians served in the war, and 31% of Ukrainians who fought in World War II died, some 1.4 million.
5. Resistance to the Soviet Union
During World War II, an insurgency broke out among Ukrainian nationalists, who fought not only the Nazi invaders but also the Soviet Union. The Ukrainian Insurgent Army, an anti-fascist, an anti-communist military force with a political arm, fought for a Ukrainian state long after World War II ended.
Between 1944 and 1954, the Ukrainian guerrillas killed some 35,000 Soviet soldiers, police officers, and party officials. It was a higher casualty rate than the Soviets experienced in Afghanistan in the 1980s. It received little international support because of its collaboration with Nazi Germany. Eventually, it was infiltrated by the Soviet NKVD (later known as the KGB), which led to widespread arrests and executions among its members.
I pulled into the parking lot of Jittery Joe's coffee shop in Watkinsville, Georgia, and looked around the almost empty parking lot. I was meeting Bob Bolton at the iconic coffee shop to review and select photographs for our upcoming book, US Air Force Tactical Missiles – 1949-1969 – The Pioneers. Bob had driven over from Lawrenceville and waited for me in the coffee shop. My wife and I drove up from Port Charlotte, Florida, and we're staying with our daughter just outside Athens, Georgia.
While sorting through a double-table spread with photographs of Matador and Mace missiles for possible inclusion in our book, we came across a photograph taken of a TM-61C Matador at Wheelus Air Base in Libya. The photograph, taken in 1955, showed a Matador being prepared for launch in the Libyan desert during Operation Suntan, part of the Annual Missile Launch Operation in North Africa. The AMLO, as it was known, was an annual launch exercise attended by all the active US Air Force tactical missile launch squadrons in Germany. This particular missile was from the 1st Pilotless Bomber Squadron at Bitburg Air Base, Germany. One of the comments written on the photo identified the officer seen on the far left side of the photograph as 1st Lt. John Gibbs. Bob and I decided to use the photograph in the book.
After the book was published, I got an unidentified telephone call a year or so later. I rarely accept unknown cellphone calls, but I took this one for some reason. It was John Gibbs. His name rang a bell, but I couldn't remember why.
"Hey, George, I'm a former missile man and found out about this group called TAC Missileers Association. I found your telephone number and decided to find out what this is all about."
"What this is all about," I answered without realizing who I was talking to, "Is documenting our place in Air Force history, and the guy you need to talk to is our membership director, Max Butler. We'd love to have you join us."
It didn't take long for John to join the TAC Missileers Association and almost immediately catch Max's ear about an Air Force tactical missile he found in central Florida that was looking for a new home. John drove by the American Legion post in Wildwood, Florida, not far from an area known as The Villages, and saw a weather-worn, CGM-13B Mace missile on display in front of the American Legion Post 18. He stopped to see if the Legion post would be interested in a historical presentation about their Mace missile.
On the contrary, the American Legion post membership had already voted to remove the Mace. Several post members had issues with paying the liability insurance required by the National Museum of US Air Force, owners, and trustees of all Air Force vehicles on loan for display. The CGM-13B - known initially as a TM-76B, known simply to those who were assigned to her as the "B" bird - was moved from its duty station at the Tactical Missile School at Orlando Air Force Base, some fifty miles south, to the Wildwood American Legion post when the 4504th Missile Training Wing at Orlando AFB inactivated in 1966. The Air Force Museum at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, already has a pristine CGM-13B that served combat duty in Okinawa in its static display and did not have a new home for the old Wildwood Mace. They hadn't yet decided where to relocate the missile.
CGM-13B (TM-76B), serial number 59-4871, manufactured by The Glenn L. Martin Co., Baltimore, MD, was accepted by the US Air Force in December 1960 and sent to the Tactical Missile Combat School at Orlando Air Force Base. The Tactical Missile School was operated by the 4504th Missile Training Wing, Ninth Air Force, Tactical Air Command. The school was inactivated in 1966, concurrent with the phase-out of the "A" version of the Mace, the ground-hugging ATRAN – Automatic Terrain Recognition and Navigation – model comprised most of the 38th Tactical Missile Wing in Germany.
All "B" Bird missile training classes were then reassigned to the 3415th Training Wing at Lowry AFB, Colorado until the inertially-guided Mace "B" was removed from the operational inventory in 1969. The "B" Bird, renumbered several times until finally designated the CGM-13B, remained on duty in Germany, reassigned to the 36th Tactical Fighter Wing at Bitburg and with the 498th Tactical Missile Group at Kadena, Okinawa. The forlorn school Mace from the inactive 4504th MTW had been on standby in the middle of Florida ever since the school closed. It was simply awaiting further orders. With Max Butler in the loop, a request for a Permanent Change of Station began processing.
Frank Roales, a volunteer for a new military museum project in Vincennes, Indiana, and a contributor to our book - his specialty was the Air Force MM-1 Terracruzer transporter – previously contacted Max Butler looking for any available Mace or Matador missiles the TAC Missileers Association may have known about. It didn't take long for Max, Frank, and John to mix and match the need of both the American legion post and the fledgling Vincennes museum. The mayor of Vincennes, Indiana, officially requested approval from the Air Force Museum to display the missile at the new Indiana Military Museum project. The Museum agreed, and the project was in motion. All that was needed was the method and money. Again, Max Butler and the TAC Missileers were at the forefront.
Bob Bolton, the editor of the TAC Missileers newsletter, published a request about the upcoming project and caught the attention of Jerry Brenner, a former nuclear weapons mechanic on the Mace. Jerry contacted the Commander of the Indiana Air National Guard's 181st Intelligence Wing in Terre Haute, Indiana, asking for assistance with the move. Jerry sent photographs and documentation from past missile moves, including a photograph of the Mace missile in Wildwood. It wasn't long before Jerry received a telephone call from 1st Lt. Randi Brown, Wing Executive Staff Officer, 181st Intelligence Wing, asking how they could help. Jerry gave her Max's telephone number, and the project began to take shape. Lieutenant Brown coordinated the Air Force/ANG side of the 840-mile project with Max Butler and provided the truck transportation and two drivers. All Max Butler had to do was figure out how to make it work. And when. We needed some serious planning.
Bob called me in February 2010, asking if I could meet him in Wildwood, almost in the dead-center of Florida. The association had an on-site planning and measurement session – Max called it a scope meeting – for the upcoming move. "Great," I thought. Probably my last chance to see a missile I worked on for eight years. "I'll see you there!"
The last operational CGM-13B Mace Missiles were taken out of combat service in October 1969 from Kadena Air Base, Okinawa. The 71st Tactical Missile Squadron, my unit, had inactivated in Germany on April 30th, some six months earlier. The Mace continued in service for several years as target drones fired from Eglin AFB as target practice for the Air Defense Command at Tyndall AFB. One gained international notoriety when it continued to fly down-range, crossing over Cuba despite being raked by cannon fire and being hit by at least one air to air missile in the Gulf of Mexico gunnery range. It crashed somewhere on the other side of Cuba after running out of fuel.
Most of the combat unit personnel had moved on by then. Many of our peers migrated to Strategic Air Command Titan or Minuteman launch or maintenance crews by then, but after eight years of tactical missiles, I separated from the Air Force for civilian life.
MARCH 15TH, 2010 – SCOPE DAY
I headed out of Port Charlotte early enough to drive the two and a half hours and still be there well before everyone else was due to show up. I should have known better, I was the last one to arrive, and I was an hour early! Bob had driven down from Atlanta, and other association members had come from as far away as Jacksonville. Max was staying an hour or so away and acted as if it were in his backyard. A tall gentleman watched from the edge of activity, and when all of us who knew each other were finished with our cordialities, he walked over and introduced himself. It was John Gibbs. He was the First Lieutenant in our Wheelus photograph and the catalyst in moving the Mace missile to its new home. John was a former member of the First Pilotless Bomber Squadron at Bitburg Air Base, Germany, the very first operational missile squadron in the United States Air Force. John was a pleasure to meet, and his knowledge of early missile operations in Europe was fascinating.
How big is a Mace missile? How much does it weigh? Nobody knew, or more correctly, no one remembered. It had been fifty years since the last time I worked on one, and I wasn't alone. We measured, photographed, videoed, measured again, and measured serial number 59-4871 yet a third time. The J-33 jet engine had been removed, as had almost every other piece of ancillary hardware. Everything except for the network of impact fuses still mounted to the inside of the nose cone. The small, innocuous, static, piezoelectric generators that, crushed all at the same time, created enough current to detonate the High Explosive trigger that was absolutely the last way to detonate the Mark 28, 1.2 Megaton thermonuclear warhead, were still in place. The small, plastic-appearing gizmos were no hazard of any kind. The minuscule voltage each one created during its one-time destructive activation was like having a rack of double "A" batteries that only worked once mounted in the front of the missile. This training missile had never mounted a live warhead.
Then it was time to count the money. The TAC Missileers Association would pay the estimated $2500 for crane service and insurance, and the 181st Intelligence Wing, Indiana ANG, supplied the transportation. The rest was a volunteer effort. Max penciled in April 14th, just a month away, as M-day, and we were committed to the move.
We started collecting and disseminating information on a daily basis. Request for copies of old Air Force Technical Orders brought a wealth of information. Soon Max and Roger St. Germain began the tedious, time-consuming task of designing and building precision wooden cradles, exactly fifty-four inches in diameter, to be mounted to a yet unseen Air Force flatbed trailer that would secure the missile during its eight hundred and a forty-mile trip to its new home. It was decided the wings we removed would be mounted either under or alongside the fuselage. The horizontal stabilizer would be removed from the vertical stabilizer due to its width, and the two would be strapped together with the wings. It sounded good in theory, at least.
APRIL 14TH, 2010 – MOVE DAY
Most of the license plates parked under the old Spanish Moss-draped Live Oak trees at American Legion Post 18 that beautiful, sunny morning were from counties all over the state of Florida, but plates from Georgia and North Carolina were there as well. Luckily, we had a pretty good spread of Air Force Specialty Codes or skill sets represented, but we did have one problem: we had no Engine or Airframe mechanics among us. None of us had ever taken a Mace apart before. The youngest one of us Missileers gathered for the project was sixty-eight years old. We figured we could still do the job; it just might take a little longer than planned.
Undeterred, we stuck bookmarks in our dog-eared Technical Orders and started on our work plan. While we had many launch crew members, several guidance technicians, and test equipment specialists, many trained only on the older Matador, only Max and myself were Flight Controls and were familiar with the wing layout. Max was a TM-61C Matador troop; he had never seen a Mace before. I told him, "No problem, Max, the wings come off the same way." That proved to be an almost correct statement. Step one, however, was to mount the custom wooden cradles to the US Air Force flatbed trailer, driven down from Terre Haute, Indiana, by T/Sgt Stacey Snow and T/Sgt William Curtis. Stacey and William listened carefully to Max describe our plans, then they both smiled and said, "Sounds good, let's do it!"
While Max and his group finagled the shipping cradles into position on the flatbed trailer, another team laid out sandbags on the lawn where they wanted the crane operator to place the missile once it was cut free from its secure pedestal. The pedestal turned out to be a facade, simply bricks arranged around a steel frame with two vertical steel rods mounted to the frame that thrust upwards through the missile's belly. The missile was also tethered to the pedestal with a cable attached to the nose and a second cable securely attached to the tail.
The crane moved carefully into position alongside the missile to start the removal process. Robert Pyne and Billy Graham from Graham's Trucking mounted huge lifting straps fore and aft on the silver, forty-four-foot-long fuselage. Billy signaled to the crane operator, and the missile gently lifted just enough to take the weight off the stand. Cutting the cables and steel bars was our first step in freeing the missile. After the second cable was severed, Billy again signaled the crane operator. Everyone held their breath as the crane engine revved up and 59-4871 gently lifted free of its home for the last forty-four years.
With guy ropes tied to the nose and tail – and a myriad of attentive supervisors scattered safely outside the work zone – the Mace was slowly swung over the sandbags and gently lowered to the ground. Stepladders appeared from somewhere, and we were soon walking along the top of the missile as if it were fifty years ago. Waves of nostalgia overtook all of us during that first few minutes, bringing back memories of scampering up and down the alert-ready missiles in their angled launch bays. In our late sixties and seventies, we were no longer a scampering crowd.
There were five or six of us standing on the wings and fuselage as Max started removing the large, Phillips-head screws that mounted the crown panel over the wing mounts. The first three-panel mounting screws, untouched for four decades, protested but slowly broke loose and were removed. The fourth screw proved to be a foreboding of things to come: it was frozen solidly in place. It wasn't one of the original Phillips head screws, but some odd screw someone used simply because they thought it fit. After bathing the stubborn screw in every known kind of penetrating lubricant and many varied attempts at removing the balky screw, it was finally cut out with a small sledgehammer and a cold chisel. Max knocked it loose almost an hour after we started. He sat back on the wing and looked around, sweat dripping from his forehead. "I'm getting too old for this high-tech stuff," he said.
During the Scope meeting a month earlier, Bob mentioned to me there was a slight difference between the left and right wings. One wing had the track in the root section used to mount primer cord, a linear, rope-type explosive used by the "B" bird to separate the wings at dump to facilitate a supersonic terminal dive. I asked Bob if the "A" Bird, the model of Mace he had launch-crewed on in Germany, had tracks in the wing roots. "Nope," he answered. We didn't need to do a terminal dive; we were low altitude attacks. So our missile, 59-4871, had one "A" bird wing and one "B" bird wing. Bob laughed and said, "Well, it is what it is. Besides, there's one more thing, the trailing tip of the "B" bird wing is bent."
Again, nostalgia swept over me. I was there with Bob Harkins and Leonard Estrada in our B-Bird flight controls class when a forklift sped out of our checkout hanger with his lift raised. The driver looked over his shoulder but not up. He had raised the lift high enough to solidly catch the low-hanging wing-tip of the incredibly strong, honey-comb cathedral wing. The missile shuddered with the impact that slam-lifted the back of the forklift off the ground. But the damage to the missile was minimal. Only a few inches of the trailing edge of the wing were deformed. If it had been an operational bird, the wing would have been depot repaired, but apparently, there was no urgent need to repair the training missile. That accident was sometime during the summer of 1961, and here I sat, in 2010, looking at the distinct, bent-up wing, mesmerized as if I were in high school. I felt a sudden fondness for this old, weather-worn bird.
We eventually dismounted the wings with close coordination with everyone involved, safety being our utmost concern, but it wasn't easy. The huge shoulder mounting bolts were as corroded as the ones on the access panel. We had help from Graham Trucking, which loaned us not only the use of their professional truck and crane tools but also their muscle. We would never have made it without their assistance and the five or six cans of penetrating lubricants they expended removing the bolts. Removing the missile shoulder bolts proved to be a hard, tedious, time-consuming task.
Mounting the removed wings on the trailer proved to be another challenge. Max had mounted the fuselage cradles so the separated wings would easily slide onto the back of the trailer. With a wingspan of only twenty-two feet, it was naively assumed the length of an individual wing wouldn't exceed eleven feet. Wingspan does not translate to wing length, as we did not consider the swept length of the wings, only the distance from tip to tip when mounted. We were off by over a foot and a half on each wing. After quick, emergency consultations with Stacey and William, who by now were known to everyone by their nicknames, Gunny and Snowman, the two front cradles on the truck bed were relocated far enough apart to slip the wings in between them. A few sandbags under the wings for shock absorption, and we were in business.
The last task, removing the vertical stabilizer, was almost a show stopper. Lindsey Cosby of Graham Trucking arrived with more tools, including the biggest ratchet wrench I have ever seen. The wrench, mated with a six-foot-long iron handle extension and manhandled by Pyne and Graham, two of the strongest men there, slowly, painstakingly, brought forth a metallic squeak as the first bolt finally broke loose. Removing the remaining bolts was as time-consuming and nerve-wracking as the first one. By the time the crane was ready to attach to the stabilizer almost an hour later, tension among all the onlookers was at its highest for the day. The crane gently lifted the stabilizer, but it didn't budge. It was still firmly attached to the missile. It took several intense moments of frantic work to pry it loose from the fuselage, but when it finally lifted free, you could feel the wave of jubilation sweep over the onlookers. That was the last major mechanical task before loading the fuselage on the waiting flat bed trailer. After setting the stabilizer on the ground, the crane swung back to pick up the missile. Everyone silently watched as the missile slowly, almost gracefully, lifted off the sandbags. This time she was being finally loaded for its trip to its new home.
Both Max and Roger are union-certified master carpenters, and no one expected problems lowering the missile into the cradles, but the missile didn't fit. No one said a word as Max and Roger glanced at each other. The perfectly round fuselage simply would not slide into the first cradle. The crane operator lifted the bird up several inches and waited for instructions. Max leaned over and inspected a thin strip of felt that had been added to the rim of the cradles to prevent possible scarring. Max carefully pulled out the strip of felt, and the crane lowered the missile perfectly and firmly into all three perfectly radiused, hand-made 54.00 inch wide cradles.
Max directed the strapping of the missile, then waited as I struggled with another group to separate the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. The two had to be separated to avoid the extra width the stabilizer gave the trailer load. To get permission from four states to haul an over-wide load was out of the question, so the two units had to be separated. Again, after careful analysis, Max found if we turned the stabilizer assembly a certain way, it would fit laterally on the trailer in front of the missile, and we wouldn't have to separate the two stabilizers.
The whole assembly strapped in securely, and we all stood back for one last look at the Mace, almost defiantly displaying US Air Force boldly emblazoned on its side even though its wings had obviously been clipped. The moment for most of us was a somber one. Our tool bags would be put away with our memories.
After photographs were taken and we double-checked everything on our lists, we all watched in the late afternoon sun as the flatbed pulled carefully onto Highway 44, headed for nearby I-75 with our weather-worn icon strapped securely to it. I'm sure there were more than a few startled motorists on the Interstate as 59-4871 headed north through the Smoky Mountains toward its new home. I have no doubts the question, "What is that? A rocket?" was uttered more than once.
Somewhere in the process, the old bird picked up a new name. When she arrived at Vincennes, she would be known as "Miss L." But before "Miss L" could once again go proudly on display, she needed a makeover. One that was forty-four years overdue.
POSTSCRIPT
TAC Missileer Association member Jerry Brenner, volunteer at the Indiana Military Museum, met Gunny and Snowman as they crossed the Ohio River into Indiana on Interstate 69. Brenner, who followed the missile for several miles, was amazed at the surprised reactions of motorists who drove past the old missile being transported to her new home. He was at the motel the following morning after the final overnight stop as a family came out of the motel restaurant. They were startled to see the missile they had passed on the way to the hotel parked at the side of the lot. They asked if they could get close to it, and Jerry told them, "Sure, take all the photos you want."
The last leg to Vincennes was uneventful, and the Mace was met at the Museum by workers and volunteers who gave a round of applause as the newly named "Miss L" slowly pulled in. After being lifted off the trailer, the Mace sat outside, covered with tarps to protect the openings, while everything else was stored under a shed for most of the year while planning and funding took place. Photographs were taken and sent to the Air Force Museum to show that the missile was secured and covered from the weather. The next year and a half were an exercise in patience and hard work.
The Indiana Military Museum was granted $2,280 for the acquisition of decals and detail work from the Association of Air Force Missileers, an organization for all former United States Air Force Missileers or anyone with an interest in past or current USAF missile and space systems, and another $1000 donation from the TAC Missileers Association. The hard work was done mainly by the volunteers, headed by Frank Roales, who helped start the original project.
The next year saw the damaged air intake plenum chamber and the bent wing-tip repaired, as well as the missing parts from the stabilizer being fabricated. The entire missile was prepared for new paint, which included the removal of the old decals.
According to Jerry Brenner, "The decals on the missile were removed by using a one-inch wood chisel, and the main part of the missile was done with palm and hand sanders. Many hours were put in during the summer when the humidity was higher than the temperature, and we are talking about 100+ degrees. The tail assembly was sandblasted as it was made of cast aluminum."
Frank Roales designed the support that holds the missile at its launch angle of 17 degrees, and the custom-built structure was fabricated by J and J welding of Mt. Vernon, Indiana. The support posts were donated by local supporters of the Museum, including an unnamed oil company. The Air Force Armament Museum in Destin, Florida, supplied the information about decals made by a company in Vincennes. Some of the larger decals on the wings were made by hand and painted on. The missile was slowly, painstakingly reassembled. Finally, in May 2012, the wings and the stabilizer were attached. Frank made covers for the plenum chamber intake and made a plate to cover the tailpipe opening.
A crane from a local company was brought in to raise the assembled missile onto the pedestal. There was excitement as the reassembled missile was slowly lifted up for all to see. Motorists stopped and stood beside the road outside the Museum to see the Mace as it was lowered to its new, permanent cradle. Once the missile was lowered, brackets were attached to the missile to secure it in place and a large bolt was attached to hold down the missile's tail.
The Mace was spray painted from nose cone to tailpipe, and in June 2012, Frank, Max, and Jerry got together to apply the final decals.
In October 2012, a dedication ceremony was held at the Indiana Military Museum to officially make the Mace-B a part of the Museum.
The CGM-13B greets visitors to the Museum, standing in front of the Museum, not in "Hot-Hold" as its colleagues in Germany and Okinawa did for almost ten years, but as a tribute to the Missileers who lovingly moved it and restored it, and to the Air Force Museum, the Indiana Military Mus
eum, the 181st Intelligence Wing of the Indiana Air National Guard and to the Association of Air Force Missileers and the TAC Missileers Association, who all together, made its reassignment possible.
Post Script:
"Here is the origin of "Miss L" It actually came about after the bird reached The Indiana Military Museum. Jerry Brenner and I had been working on cleaning, striping, and repairing the bird for a few months when he had to go to the hospital for a heart problem, and of course, he couldn't return right away after his release. After a number of weeks of this, I sent him an e-mail asking him how he was doing and in jest told him to hurry back for the "Miss L" was missing him…..the name stuck."
Frank Roales
All photos made possible from the TAC Missileers Association
It's not often we get a glimpse inside the secret world of a covert CIA operative, let alone one as storied as Ric Prado. Prado is a 24-year veteran of the agency, the equivalent of a two-star general, and a retired member of the Special Activities Division, where he and others performed covert paramilitary actions all over the world.
His new book, "Black Ops: The Life of a CIA Shadow Warrior," takes readers into the world of the CIA, covering the shadow wars the agency has conducted in the years since the end of the Vietnam War. It's a memoir and a recounting of a secret history, a behind-the-scenes look at some of the biggest headlines of the Cold War and the War on Terror. It's also a must-read for anyone interested in covert operations.
Prado's life of action started early. He was born under the Batista regime in Cuba and was caught in his first firefight at age seven, amid the Castro-led Cuban Revolution. His family fled Cuba for the United States. Fifty years later, Prado would retire from the CIA after a covert life spent ensuring what happened in his birth country would never happen in his adopted country.
He served as an operations officer in six overseas postings and was the deputy chief of station for the original Bin Laden Task Force in 1995. He was also the Chief of Operations in the CIA's Counterterrorist Center during the September 11th attacks, where he helped coordinate special operations activities with the National Security Council, FBI, and U.S. military. His book makes him the highest-ranking CIA operative to ever give readers a look inside the workings of the agency.
Ric Prado spent 36 months in Nicaragua, one of the first officers to work with the Contras against the expansion of the Marxist Sandinistas in the Central American country. After years of working in Central and South America, he then went to the Philippines and onto Langley in 1995, where his job was to counter the World's Most Wanted Terrorist, Osama Bin Laden.
His next posting was to South Korea, where he faced a new adversary, the rogue nation of North Korea, before moving on to re-establish a once-abandoned CIA station inside a hostile nation, long since considered a front line of the fight against Islamic terrorism. There, he and his team developed an intelligence infrastructure that would be essential in the War on Terror.
"Black Ops: The Life of a CIA Shadow Warrior" takes us behind the scenes of all of it, a world filled with assassins, terrorists, spies, and revolutionaries. Prado decided to write the book because he considers CIA operatives "unsung heroes." He was tired of seeing the CIA maligned and misportrayed in the media.
"We have 137 stars on our wall of men and women who sacrificed their lives for God and country, unsung heroes," Prado told The Washington Post. "The majority of those stars are actually anonymous… a third of those stars are post-9/11. And some of the people after 9/11 I personally knew; they were my colleagues. So, I believe that we owe them a debt of honor to at least be able to portray them in a more realistic light."
"Black Ops: The Life of a CIA Shadow Warrior" is available in hardcover for $19.49 and on Kindle eReader for $14.99 at Amazon. It's also available on Barnes and Noble's Nook eReader.
Of those 687, only 36 U.S. troops managed to escape their captors in North Vietnam and Laos. Of course, there were other attempts, but only those 36 made it back to American lines. One of those successful attempts was made by James N. Rowe, a Special Forces officer who would later use what he learned to help future American escapees.
Rowe would spend the next 62 months in captivity in the dark U Minh Forest, in a bamboo cell three feet wide, four feet long, and six feet high. He fought off dysentery, fungal diseases, and terrible psychological and physical torture for the duration of his stay in the prison. 
He later served as the Army's Adjutant General for the POW/MIA program and published his book, "Five Years to Freedom," a retelling of his time as a prisoner, based on a diary he kept while in captivity. He left active duty in 1974 but remained a reservist in the Army. 
The bomb was placed underneath the DJ booth and went off at 1:45 in the morning. It killed Sgt. Kenneth T. Ford immediately. Sgt. James Goins was wounded in the blast but died of his injuries two months later. 
In response to the terrorist attack in Germany, President Ronald Reagan ordered a coordinated aerial attack on targets inside Libya, including Libya’s special operations training barracks, Mitiga International Airport and Benina International Airport (both used by the Libyan military), and the Jamahiriya Guard barracks in Benghazi, which was a command and control center for the Libyans.
Together, they raided Libyan defenses all across the country in an effort to end or suppress its ability to train and conduct terrorist operations. At 1:54 a.m., the EF-111s and EA-6B Prowlers began jamming Libya’s sensor networks. At 2:00 a.m., the full attack began. It took only 12 minutes for all aircraft to drop 60 tons of munitions on their targets. President Reagan warned that the United States would do it again if necessary.
Enraged at the attack, Gaddafi accused President Reagan of trying to kill him in his own home, and Libya was far from finished supporting international terrorism. Western journalists and tourists were kidnapped and killed by Libyan agents and Libyan-supported terror groups in the Middle East. In 1988, Libya bombed Pan-Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in retaliation, killing 259 people.
There are a lot of myths and legends surrounding when ribbons were first tied on, why the color yellow is used, and where exactly one is supposed to tie the ribbon. Those legends are only a part of the full story.
In 1973, the custom was revived once more with a hit song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree," by Tony Orlando and Dawn. The song was so popular that radio stations would play it multiple times every day for months. It went around the world and spanned generations. Many people still remember the song today. 
r, the United States was facing a new crisis in the Middle East: Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm. As American troops deployed to expel Iraq from Kuwait, Americans once more tied the yellow ribbons to remember their deployed loved ones, keeping the living tradition alive with a new purpose. 
Though the US was late in establishing airborne capability, it would quickly become the centerpiece of Operation Overlord, the assault on Western Europe on June 6th, 1944. And one fledgling unit, in particular, would prove the most audacious of US airborne troops leading this invasion, the 1st Demolition Platoon, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR). Trained as demolition saboteurs to destroy enemy targets behind the lines, this unit was commonly known as the Filthy Thirteen. It became the real-life inspiration for the book and 1967 movie, The Dirty Dozen.
The legend of The Filthy Thirteen got its start at Camp Toccoa, Georgia, during their training with the 506th as part of the Regimental Headquarters Company. This experience, the leadership, and ensuing preparations for war created a unique culture across the men, who, just like airborne troops still today, were all volunteers. Activated in July 1942, the 506th undertook one of the toughest physical training programs in the Army, including twelve hours of daily strength and endurance training, runs to the top of Currahee Mountain (three miles up and three miles down), and forced nighttime marches. Said one member, "the training was intended to "acquaint you with a well of energy which you had never tapped in your life before." Here, the men also endured what was reported to be the roughest obstacle course in the United States Army, part of "A" Stage training and a primer for jump school.
In August 1943, the unit reported to Camp Shanks, New York, to prepare for overseas transport. The 506th crossed the Atlantic on the SS Samaria, arriving at Liverpool, England, on September 15th, 1943. While in England, the 506th was stationed in Wiltshire County and villages such as Aldbourne, Ramsbury, Froxfield, and Chilton-Foliat. Each man mastered the tasks necessary to make the unit run smoothly in combat.
On June 5th, 1944, the men of the 506th parked by the aircraft that were to carry them into their first combat mission. As demolition saboteurs, the 1st Demolition Platoon's mission was to defend or destroy two bridges over Douve Canal, preventing the Germans from reinforcing the Utah and Omaha beach heads. Located near the small Normandy village of Brevands, the mission was considered suicidal. Nonetheless, the men accomplished their objectives despite a vastly superior enemy force and repeated German counterattacks, holding until relieved on June 10th. One battle at the Canal reportedly pitted thirty paratroopers against an entire German Battalion. In doing so, half of the men were killed, wounded, or captured either during the jump or in combat soon afterward. Jack Womer fought his way out of the swamp that he and forty other paratroopers landed in but proved to be the sole survivor. On the second day, Jack participated in fighting that resulted in the capture of over one hundred Germans of the 6th Paratrooper Regiment, only to see them annihilated by the German's own mortar barrage. 
The Demolition Platoon's second combat jump would come quickly on September 17th as part of Operation Market Garden along with the rest of the 101st and 82nd Airborne. The objective was to create a salient into German territory through the Netherlands with a bridgehead over the River Rhine, creating an Allied invasion route into northern Germany. This was to be achieved by seizing nine bridges along Highway 69, later named Hell's Highway, with combined US and British airborne (Market) followed by land forces (Garden). Fighting for seventy-eight consecutive days, the Allies fought to keep this vital transportation corridor open. The 1stDemolition Platoon specifically was assigned to defend four bridges over the Dommel River in Eindhoven, the Netherlands. Taken without a fight, the 506th formed a defensive perimeter around the bridges though German bombing of the city again killed or wounded half the men in the Demolition Platoon. Reportedly, the remaining Filthy Thirteen then fought their way through tanks and infantry, removing German explosives from bridges, improvising, and always pushing forward. McNiece acquired an abandoned German truck and drove his men into town. There, the men dodged 88mm rounds and fought house to house until victorious. For the rest of the campaign, the demolitions men secured the regimental command post, protected wire-laying details, and in one case, were assigned as a rifle squad to an understrength company.
as the Battle of the Bulge. To assist in relief of the 101st Airborne, the Pathfinders were dropped into Bastogne at the height of the fighting, McNiece securing a position within eyesight of the Nazis. Surprisingly, with eighty to ninety percent expected casualties, the twenty pathfinders lost only one man. 
1. Ukrainian War of Independence
The Bolsheviks called the campaign the "Red Terror" and modeled it after the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. Not limited to the use of firearms, Ukrainians were thrown into boiling water, tortured publicly, impaled, crucified, or killed in some other painful way. An estimated 1.3 million were killed.
4. World War II
While sorting through a double-table spread with photographs of Matador and Mace missiles for possible inclusion in our book, we came across a photograph taken of a TM-61C Matador at Wheelus Air Base in Libya. The photograph, taken in 1955, showed a Matador being prepared for launch in the Libyan desert during Operation Suntan, part of the Annual Missile Launch Operation in North Africa. The AMLO, as it was known, was an annual launch exercise attended by all the active US Air Force tactical missile launch squadrons in Germany. This particular missile was from the 1st Pilotless Bomber Squadron at Bitburg Air Base, Germany. One of the comments written on the photo identified the officer seen on the far left side of the photograph as 1st Lt. John Gibbs. Bob and I decided to use the photograph in the book. 
On the contrary, the American Legion post membership had already voted to remove the Mace. Several post members had issues with paying the liability insurance required by the National Museum of US Air Force, owners, and trustees of all Air Force vehicles on loan for display. The CGM-13B - known initially as a TM-76B, known simply to those who were assigned to her as the "B" bird - was moved from its duty station at the Tactical Missile School at Orlando Air Force Base, some fifty miles south, to the Wildwood American Legion post when the 4504th Missile Training Wing at Orlando AFB inactivated in 1966. The Air Force Museum at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, already has a pristine CGM-13B that served combat duty in Okinawa in its static display and did not have a new home for the old Wildwood Mace. They hadn't yet decided where to relocate the missile. 
All "B" Bird missile training classes were then reassigned to the 3415th Training Wing at Lowry AFB, Colorado until the inertially-guided Mace "B" was removed from the operational inventory in 1969. The "B" Bird, renumbered several times until finally designated the CGM-13B, remained on duty in Germany, reassigned to the 36th Tactical Fighter Wing at Bitburg and with the 498th Tactical Missile Group at Kadena, Okinawa. The forlorn school Mace from the inactive 4504th MTW had been on standby in the middle of Florida ever since the school closed. It was simply awaiting further orders. With Max Butler in the loop, a request for a Permanent Change of Station began processing.
Bob called me in February 2010, asking if I could meet him in Wildwood, almost in the dead-center of Florida. The association had an on-site planning and measurement session – Max called it a scope meeting – for the upcoming move. "Great," I thought. Probably my last chance to see a missile I worked on for eight years. "I'll see you there!"
How big is a Mace missile? How much does it weigh? Nobody knew, or more correctly, no one remembered. It had been fifty years since the last time I worked on one, and I wasn't alone. We measured, photographed, videoed, measured again, and measured serial number 59-4871 yet a third time. The J-33 jet engine had been removed, as had almost every other piece of ancillary hardware. Everything except for the network of impact fuses still mounted to the inside of the nose cone. The small, innocuous, static, piezoelectric generators that, crushed all at the same time, created enough current to detonate the High Explosive trigger that was absolutely the last way to detonate the Mark 28, 1.2 Megaton thermonuclear warhead, were still in place. The small, plastic-appearing gizmos were no hazard of any kind. The minuscule voltage each one created during its one-time destructive activation was like having a rack of double "A" batteries that only worked once mounted in the front of the missile. This training missile had never mounted a live warhead.
While Max and his group finagled the shipping cradles into position on the flatbed trailer, another team laid out sandbags on the lawn where they wanted the crane operator to place the missile once it was cut free from its secure pedestal. The pedestal turned out to be a facade, simply bricks arranged around a steel frame with two vertical steel rods mounted to the frame that thrust upwards through the missile's belly. The missile was also tethered to the pedestal with a cable attached to the nose and a second cable securely attached to the tail.
There were five or six of us standing on the wings and fuselage as Max started removing the large, Phillips-head screws that mounted the crown panel over the wing mounts. The first three-panel mounting screws, untouched for four decades, protested but slowly broke loose and were removed. The fourth screw proved to be a foreboding of things to come: it was frozen solidly in place. It wasn't one of the original Phillips head screws, but some odd screw someone used simply because they thought it fit. After bathing the stubborn screw in every known kind of penetrating lubricant and many varied attempts at removing the balky screw, it was finally cut out with a small sledgehammer and a cold chisel. Max knocked it loose almost an hour after we started. He sat back on the wing and looked around, sweat dripping from his forehead. "I'm getting too old for this high-tech stuff," he said.
Again, nostalgia swept over me. I was there with Bob Harkins and Leonard Estrada in our B-Bird flight controls class when a forklift sped out of our checkout hanger with his lift raised. The driver looked over his shoulder but not up. He had raised the lift high enough to solidly catch the low-hanging wing-tip of the incredibly strong, honey-comb cathedral wing. The missile shuddered with the impact that slam-lifted the back of the forklift off the ground. But the damage to the missile was minimal. Only a few inches of the trailing edge of the wing were deformed. If it had been an operational bird, the wing would have been depot repaired, but apparently, there was no urgent need to repair the training missile. That accident was sometime during the summer of 1961, and here I sat, in 2010, looking at the distinct, bent-up wing, mesmerized as if I were in high school. I felt a sudden fondness for this old, weather-worn bird.
Mounting the removed wings on the trailer proved to be another challenge. Max had mounted the fuselage cradles so the separated wings would easily slide onto the back of the trailer. With a wingspan of only twenty-two feet, it was naively assumed the length of an individual wing wouldn't exceed eleven feet. Wingspan does not translate to wing length, as we did not consider the swept length of the wings, only the distance from tip to tip when mounted. We were off by over a foot and a half on each wing. After quick, emergency consultations with Stacey and William, who by now were known to everyone by their nicknames, Gunny and Snowman, the two front cradles on the truck bed were relocated far enough apart to slip the wings in between them. A few sandbags under the wings for shock absorption, and we were in business.
Both Max and Roger are union-certified master carpenters, and no one expected problems lowering the missile into the cradles, but the missile didn't fit. No one said a word as Max and Roger glanced at each other. The perfectly round fuselage simply would not slide into the first cradle. The crane operator lifted the bird up several inches and waited for instructions. Max leaned over and inspected a thin strip of felt that had been added to the rim of the cradles to prevent possible scarring. Max carefully pulled out the strip of felt, and the crane lowered the missile perfectly and firmly into all three perfectly radiused, hand-made 54.00 inch wide cradles.
After photographs were taken and we double-checked everything on our lists, we all watched in the late afternoon sun as the flatbed pulled carefully onto Highway 44, headed for nearby I-75 with our weather-worn icon strapped securely to it. I'm sure there were more than a few startled motorists on the Interstate as 59-4871 headed north through the Smoky Mountains toward its new home. I have no doubts the question, "What is that? A rocket?" was uttered more than once.
The Indiana Military Museum was granted $2,280 for the acquisition of decals and detail work from the Association of Air Force Missileers, an organization for all former United States Air Force Missileers or anyone with an interest in past or current USAF missile and space systems, and another $1000 donation from the TAC Missileers Association. The hard work was done mainly by the volunteers, headed by Frank Roales, who helped start the original project.
A crane from a local company was brought in to raise the assembled missile onto the pedestal. There was excitement as the reassembled missile was slowly lifted up for all to see. Motorists stopped and stood beside the road outside the Museum to see the Mace as it was lowered to its new, permanent cradle. Once the missile was lowered, brackets were attached to the missile to secure it in place and a large bolt was attached to hold down the missile's tail.
eum, the 181st Intelligence Wing of the Indiana Air National Guard and to the Association of Air Force Missileers and the TAC Missileers Association, who all together, made its reassignment possible.
It's not often we get a glimpse inside the secret world of a covert CIA operative, let alone one as storied as Ric Prado. Prado is a 24-year veteran of the agency, the equivalent of a two-star general, and a retired member of the Special Activities Division, where he and others performed covert paramilitary actions all over the world.
His next posting was to South Korea, where he faced a new adversary, the rogue nation of North Korea, before moving on to re-establish a once-abandoned CIA station inside a hostile nation, long since considered a front line of the fight against Islamic terrorism. There, he and his team developed an intelligence infrastructure that would be essential in the War on Terror.