In 1905, Gen. Horace Porter, the U.S. Ambassador to France, was on a quest. This mission required an old map of Paris, the help of an anthropologist, thorough research of the history of France's capital city, and most importantly, sounding probes.
Porter was led through the city until he reached what was once St. Louis Cemetery. Using the sounding probes, he and his team looked underground for lead coffins. They found five and, once unearthed, they opened three of them. The third contained what Porter was searching for: the remains of Revolutionary War hero John Paul Jones.
Jones began his career in Scotland, where he learned the ways of merchant ships and slowly worked his way up in the ranks. He assumed his first command in 1786 after the captain and first mate of his brig died of Yellow Fever. In his time as a Captain, he fought off two mutinies, killing one of the mutineers with a sword and fleeing to Virginia to avoid a trial in an Admiral's Court.
He immediately fell in love with his new home, and the soon-to-be United States was better off for it. Not much is known about the first few years he spent in the colonies, but what is known is that he volunteered for service in the nascent Continental Navy in 1775. He was the first to raise the U.S. flag, the Grand Union Flag, over a U.S. Navy ship.
Jones assumed command of a sloop, USS Providence, while the first 13 home-built ships of the U.S. Navy were under construction. Aboard the Providence, he ferried troops and supplies around the colonies and captured 16 enemy ships.
In 1777, he assumed command of the newly-constructed USS Ranger. The Ranger set sail for France with the vague orders of assisting American interests wherever possible. He remained in France until 1778 when the French joined the War of Independence on the American side. As the Ranger departed France, the flagship of French Captain Count Toussaint-Guillaume Picquet de la Motte fired the first official salute to an American vessel.
But John Paul Jones wasn't heading back to fight the British in North America. He was about to take the fight to British waters - and he was going to strike a blow for American independence on Britain's home soil.
Jones and the Ranger raided English shipping in the Irish Sea for months before he and his crew decided to hit Great Britain at home. Just after midnight on April 23, 1778, two boats carrying Jones and 15 men landed on the shores of Whitehaven, England. The attackers were going to set the town, and the merchant fleet docked there ablaze.
The Americans spiked the guns that made up the town's defenses and set about lighting the fires, but their lanterns had run out of fuel, making the fires hard to ignite. The men went to a local pub to acquire more but stayed for a drink, which delayed the attack. By the time they actually began lighting the fires, the townspeople were alerted to the Americans' presence, and they were forced to retreat.
Once again aboard the Ranger, Jones and his crew set out to capture the Royal Navy sloop HMS Drake, which had taken British sailors aboard - sailors meant to be used to capture the Ranger. Jones made haste toward the Drake and captured it after an hour-long battle. The capture of the Drake was one of the Navy's most important victories at sea during the Revolutionary War, but John Paul Jones was yet to have his most important moment.
Jones was given command of the USS Bonhomme Richard, as well as a squadron of five ships. He led the Americans into the Irish Sea as Royal Navy ships pursued them. The squadron was sailing into the North Sea as they encountered a British merchant fleet off the coast of Flamborough Head. There, two armed escorts, the HMS Serapis and an armed hired ship, the Countess of Scarborough, met Jones and his ships.
The Merchant fleet escaped, but the Bonhomme Richard met Serapis at Flamborough Head. Jone locked the two ships together, and his Marines cleared the enemy deck while shooting from the topsails.
As two other ships from Jones' squadron engaged and subdued the Countess of Scarborough, the crew of the Bonhomme Richard engaged the crew of Serapis. One of Jones' ships, the USS Alliance, fired two broadsides into the melee, damaging both ships. The Bonhomme Richard was on fire, and the Serapis could not free itself from the Americans.
Unable to withdraw and unable to fire at either ship, the captain of the Serapis realized he had been beaten and struck his colors, surrendering to the determined Jones and his crew. The Bonhomme Richard was allowed to sink, and Jones took command of the Serapis. He received a gold medal from the Continental Congress and the title of Chevalier from King Louis XVI in France.
Jones fell out of favor with Congress by the end of the war and was in need of employment. So he took command of ships in the Russian Navy during its 1787 war against the Ottoman Empire. In 1792, Jones was appointed U.S. Consul to Algiers, but before he could take the position, he was found dead at home in Paris. He was just 45 years old.
His body was interred in a royal plot at Paris' St. Louis Cemetery, but after the French Revolution, the royal plot was forgotten and the cemetery lost to history.
When Gen. Horace Porter began looking for the famous patriot in 1905, all he knew was that Jones' body had been preserved in alcohol and buried in a lead coffin in the cemetery. After finding his remains, Jones was repatriated to the United States aboard the USS Brooklyn, an armored cruiser.
Jones was reinterred at the United States Naval Academy presided over by then-President Theodore Roosevelt. Today, the body of America's first naval hero lies in a marble and bronze sarcophagus and the academy's chapel.
The United States entered World War I on April 6, 1917, when it declared war on Germany. The declaration came after a series of provocative acts from the German military and diplomatic corps. U.S. troops arrived in Europe by June 1917 but were largely ill-prepared for the kind of fighting taking place on the western front.
For months, American soldiers were used to augment French and British forces in Europe. As training improved and the number of veteran U.S. troops increased, Americans reasserted control of their forces. By September 1918, Gen. John J. Pershing had taken command of the American First Army and would lead them into combat at Saint-Mihiel.
Pershing was leading the largest American offensive operation ever assembled for combat in the first time American troops were deployed to defend a foreign country.
The Germans had captured Saint-Mihiel early on in the war, and its position cut a hole in the French Army’s line of communications and railways between Nancy and Verdun. Pershing believed that attacking the Saint-Mihiel salient would not only restore those lines, but it would also be devastating to the German Army and its plans. Moreover, he believed that he could use the town of Metz to push into Germany.
The American Exp
editionary Force at Saint-Mihiel comprised 14 divisions of more than 550,000 men, hundreds of tanks, and aircraft with thousands of artillery guns. They were also backed up by four French Divisions of 110,000. It would be the first large-scale attack of World War I, led by the United States.
Facing them were 500,000 entrenched German soldiers. Worst of all, the weather was not favorable to the Americans. Driving winds and heavy rains turned the roads to mud and forced U.S. soldiers to walk in deep mud themselves. Even American tanks had trouble getting to the lines. The German lines were a defense in depth with rows of trenches, barbed wire, tank obstacles, and more, all peppered with machine-gun nests.
Americans did have one thing in their favor: raw talent. The AEF was a virtual who’s who of American military history. On top of being led by Gen. Pershing, the U.S. First Army featured young officers Douglas MacArthur, Billy Mitchell, Hunter Liggett, George Marshall, and two tank battalions led by then-Lt. Col. George S. Patton.
Saint-Mihiel also featured the largest allied air effort of World War I. 1,481 aircraft performed aerial reconnaissance, close-air support, and night bombing missions, along with pursuit fighters from four allied nations.
When the attack was
launched on September 12, 1918, it came in a three-pronged attack all along the 25-mile salient. The U.S. force was so large, it moved in corps, and only three divisions were held in reserve. In the middle of the line were French colonial troops intended to keep the Germans busy as three corps of American troops enveloped the salient along its flanks. Then, remaining troops would drive on to capture Metz.
The Americans caught the German Army in the process of a retreat, so its defenses were less organized than expected, and its artillery was out of place. The American I Corps, which attacked the right flank of the salient, reached its first objective by noon the same day. It reached its second objective the next day. By September 13, all the plan’s objectives had been captured.
The pincers movement to the sides of the salient linked up by the next day, IV and V Corps linked up at the French village of Vigneulles. By September 15, the French colonial forces marched into Saint-Mihiel and captured 4,000 German defenders.
The American victory at Saint-Mihiel didn’t just come because the Germans were disorganized at the start of the battle. Gen. Pershing meticulously planned every aspect of the assault and empowered his battlefield commanders to take bold action. Leaders like Patton and MacArthur led their troops from the front lines and took direct control of their movements.
The Americans had done what the allies were unable to do for the previous four years, dislodging the Germans from Saint-Mihiel and relinking the supply lines between Nancy and Verdun. Although they were not able to advance on Metz due to supply problems caused by weather, American forces proved themselves in battle with their European allies – and enemies.
It didn’t come without cost, either. Some 4,500 soldiers were killed in the fighting at the Saint-Mihiel salient, with another 2,500 wounded. It was a harbinger of the fight to come. After the fight for Saint-Mihiel, American troops, now seasoned veterans, were moved all along the front in preparation for an assault that would become known as the Meuse-Argonne Offensive – the deadliest battle in American military history.
On May 8, 1945, the Allies accepted the formal surrender of Nazi Germany. The capitulation of the last Axis power in Europe marked the end of World War II there. The war in the Pacific, however, was still raging. American troops, along with the rest of the Allies, began to reorient their forces to concentrate on fighting the Japanese.
But they didn't have to work for very long. Just a few months later, the Japanese Empire also surrendered. On August 15, 1945, the Japanese forces officially surrendered, and World War II was finally over. The Allies had won the war.
Over the course of four years, the United States had enlisted, trained, equipped, and shipped some 7.6 million men and women overseas. They had done their duty, and they were ready to go home - they wanted to make it home by Christmas.
Unfortunately, four months was not enough time to move millions of men from the four corners of the globe back to their stateside homes. Many GIs were not able to spend Christmas Day with their families, and they began to get restless.
To make repatriation fair, the War Department came up with a points system that measured how long a troop had been in service, how long they had been deployed overseas if they saw extensive combat duty, and if they were parents. The more points you had, the more likely you would be home sooner rather than later.
Everyone generally agreed the system was fair, but with no war left to fight and so many men in uniform, there simply wasn't enough work to keep everyone in the U.S. military busy and occupied as the War Department made plans for getting them back to the United States. They were homesick and bored, and the politicians back home weren't helping. They were under intense pressure from their constituents.
By January 1946, thousands of American GIs were taking to the streets while in uniform, marching in protest of being kept so long away from their homes and families. Many carried placards expressing their anger and frustration at their commanders and their government.
In the December 1966 issue of the Journal of American History, author R. Alton Lee wrote that the actions soldiers took to protest the delays could easily qualify as a mutiny - an offense punishable by death under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
So did the GIs who won World War II for the United States "mutiny?" Technically, they did, but did the U.S. Government treat them like mutineers? No. President Truman, Congress, and the War Department increased their efforts to get as many men back home as soon as possible. By March 1946, demobilization progressed enough that the protest at home and abroad ended.
The Vietnam War, from its outset, presented novel threats to US forces from unfamiliar terrain, embedded supply practices, enemy infiltration tactics, and more. Striving for strategies to achieve battlefield supremacy, the Army relied on tried-and-true practices, applying equipment and personnel in innovative ways to gain the advantage. Without question, the single largest departure from earlier conflicts was the extensive rivers and waterways, creating unique logistic and combat challenges. Drawing largely on experience with amphibious operations in WWII and Korea, the Army deployed its Transportation Corps with defensive and offensive roles. Spanning May 1965 to February 1972, the 1099th Transportation Company, popularized as the "River Rats," became the most decorated boat unit in Vietnam.
The 1099th Transportation Company's roots reach back to 1953 in the form of the 159th Transportation Battalion, activated at Fort Eustis, Virginia. Comprised of four companies with letter designations A through D, the 159th was an expert in operating landing craft for combat and logistical support during joint amphibious operations and tactical mobility, combat, and logistical support in the ship to shore missions. The only designated combat battalion in the Transportation Corps, many of its original members were veterans of the Inchon landings in Korea. On September 25, 1959, the Battalion was reorganized as HHC, with Companies A, B, and C redesignated to the 1097th, 1098th, and 1099th Transportation (Medium Boat) 
Companies, respectively, with D Company, disbanded. Nonetheless, much of the unit's character was attributable to those interim years and the then battalion commander, LTC Michael D. Isrine. A flamboyant personality, he was said to be chauffeured by his military driver in a Jaguar alongside his Dachshund (Gretchen) and is responsible for the unit's insignia and motto "Hit the Beach." In the attempt to retain Esprit de Corp across the transportation units, Isrine also restored unique features of the amphibious engineers' uniform dating back to WWII and was reported to routinely fine any soldiers seen to not be visibly engaged in some activity while on duty. Though these practices would not survive long term, the effects would become embedded as cultural traits of the later transportation companies.
With the US "Gulf of Tonkin" resolution authorized on April 29, 1965, empowering President Johnson to wage an all-out war against North Vietnam, no time was wasted in deploying the 1099th. Elements of the Company arrived in May 1965, first based just outside of Tan Son Nhut Air Base, but then moved to Camp Davis (also known as the Fish Market), with the rest of the Company arriving in July. The US Army had three major ports that supplied units in the field. One medium boat company was assigned to each one with the 1099th operating out of the Saigon area. Though the unit's primary mission was to provide and operate landing craft for the movement of personnel and cargo for Army terminal operations, the 1099th served a dual mission as the 11th Battalion logistical support and 199th Light Infantry Brigade tactical support. 
Acting as a troop carrier for the 199th Riverine Forces and other tactical units operating throughout the vast river complexes of Saigon Port, the unit became widely known by their nickname "River Rats" and growing reputation, "We haul anything, anytime, anywhere and under any conditions." According to veterans, "the thing that separated the 1099th from other boat companies was that we were a combat boat company engaged in direct combat support; if it was safe or easy someone else did it".
To accomplish their mission, the transportation companies were authorized for two 65-foot steel hull command boats, one 46-foot steel hull control boat, and 33 LCM-8 (landing craft mechanized). The LCM-8s (called Mike Boats) were well suited for river and inland waterway operations due to its shallow draft and, when fully loaded could carry 60 short tons of supplies or 200 personnel on short missions. However, the craft traveled between nine and twelve knots fully loaded and provided an easy target for enemy forces. Under constant danger of attack from the riverbanks by Viet Cong snipers, rockets, or water mines, the crews were equipped with two M-60 machine guns mounted on top of the shack and two 50 caliber machine guns mounted on the quarterdeck. One soldier described river travel as "ranging from scary to terrifying beyond comprehension," which could be compounded by mission objectives. For example, 1099th boats were retrofit with 10,000-gallon bladders to transport JP4 aviation fuel to remote bases, using waterways too narrow for other craft and ideally suited for ambush.
Nonetheless, evolving strategies created the need for tactical innovation, including the use of LCMs and their crews. In one example, an LCM was outfitted with a platform covering the well deck and utilized as a floating helipad for UH-IB and UH-ID helicopter gunships. A second craft was mounted with 105 mm howitzers and 4.2" mortar on the deck to serve in a support role. A further development to support large-scale infantry operations again involved the retrofit of a 105 mm Howitzer. Two LCM, one carrying the Howitzer and four-man artillery crew, the other carrying an infantry platoon, would position themselves and wait for destination coordinates to be radioed. On arrival the Howitzer fired several rounds of beehive to clear the landing area, the infantry swept the area of enemy and artillery then provided fire support for infantry in distant locations. Upon completion of the fire mission, the boats pulled back and waited for further direction.
The 1099th distinguished itself in combat and logistical support operations throughout its tenure in Vietnam, but equally stirring are the humanitarian accomplishments. The men were touched in particular by the plight of orphans rampant throughout the villages. One soldier recounted the Company's leadership in flood relief efforts, carrying villagers to safety and their eventual return. In a further goodwill mission, a herd of water buffalo were rounded up and transported to a farmer, replacing those killed during a firefight. Unexpectedly, 50% of the soldiers involved in the transport were injured and led the men to equate the herd to an infantry company of VC. In these cases, and others, the 1099th acted self
lessly and in the best interest of Vietnamese locals, but often times, these efforts were driven by combat operations. In one such event, the US compiled Operation Cedar Falls to drive the Viet Cong out of the Iron Triangle, a long-time haven for Viet Cong forces to launch attacks on US installations in and around Saigon. To safeguard locals from ensuing battles the 1099th evacuated 6,000 villagers and their animals from the 60 square mile area.
The complexion of war has changed significantly and continues to evolve with new technologies and lessons learned on the battlefield. One such development is the growth of combat support resources and related operations. In fact, it has been suggested that 85% of the military are now in support roles, and the figure is growing. The simple reason is that these resources are able to change the tide of battle and determine outcomes. The most decorated boat company in Vietnam, the 1099th Transportation Company, demonstrated this ability and the commitment to purpose that underlies this success, but perhaps said best by a 1099th veteran, "I find myself very proud of what we did, I give a damn less about the war or the government, but proud of the help and support we gave to the combat units we worked with, supported and protected."
Brig. Gen. James R. Risner was the kind of pilot every fighter pilot wanted to be. He became a fighter ace in the skies during two wars, served in three wars, became one of only four airmen to receive more than one Air Force Cross, and was the first airman to receive the award while alive.
Risner also led a squadron of F-105 Thunderchiefs in Vietnam, leading his men in 55 air combat missions. On his 55th, he was shot down over North Vietnam and was captured. He spent the rest of the Vietnam War, from 1965 to 1973, as a prisoner of war.
Although his exploits in Vietnam gave him national attention, what he did in the Korean War was so spectacular that it will live forever in aviation history. He had first joined the Army Air Forces in 1944 as an aviation cadet, but he never saw combat during World War II. After spending some time as a civilian, he joined the Oklahoma National Guard, where he took to the skies once more.
After the Korean War broke out, Risner was called up to active duty in the newest branch of the armed forces, the U.S. Air Force. This time, he was dead-set on seeing some action. Risner arrived in Korea in May 1952, flying the F-86 Sabre out of Kimpo. His first few months of duty in Korea were light on combat, but things soon picked up. There's a reason they called the area "MiG Alley."
Risner shot down his first enemy MiG in August 1952, and the tempo of intercepting communist aircraft began to rise steadily. On the night of Sept. 15, 1952, Risner's squadron was escorting a bombing run near the North Korean border with China when he engaged in a low-altitude, supersonic dogfight with an enemy as it tried to flee to its airbase inside China. Risner followed the MiG home.
As the aircraft began to head for the base, Risner's Sabre tore it to pieces, and the aircraft went down through a hanger full of parked airplanes. After scoring the kill and setting the hangar on fire, Risner turned to head home with his wingman, Lt. Joseph Logan. As they flew over Antung, a Chinese city on the banks of the Yalu River, Logan's Sabre took heavy anti-aircraft fire and began to dump fuel.
It was clear that Logan would not make it back to their home base at Kimpo, more than 100 miles away. To help his wingman, Risner attempted a maneuver that never had been attempted before in aviation. He told Logan to cut his engine, then positioned the nose of his plane into his wingman's tailpipe.
Risner was trying to give Logan's Sabre enough lift to make it close to Cho-do Island in the Yellow Sea. Technically, the island belonged to North Korea, but the Air Force maintained an air rescue unit on the island. If he could get Logan close enough to the island to either bail out in the Yellow Sea or on the island itself, it could keep him from being captured by the Communists.
Engine fluids poured over Risner's canopy as the planes flew in tandem. They flew like this until the gasoline and other engine liquids began to threaten the safety of Risner's own plane. Still, they made it close enough to Cho-do that Logan could bail out and Risner could head home.
He almost didn't. As he approached the airbase at Kimpo, his engine flamed out, and unable to restart it, he was forced to perform a deadstick landing, gliding it down safely onto the runway. Logan had come down close to the shoreline at Cho-do, but he became tangled in his own parachute and drowned before he could be rescued.
Risner's last words to his wingman as he bailed were, "I'll see you at the base tonight." He would go on to shoot down eight enemy fighters in the Korean War.
It's time to tell the stories of the 2,355 Pearl Harbor fallen.
Can you help?
Our goal is to have all these stories done in time for the 80th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor this December 7, 2021.
To join this project you need to do four things:
1/ Email sbts@togetherweserved.com to get your free Together We Served membership. You will need this to save your Pearl Harbor fallen stories and use the TWS Forums to communicate with the other volunteers.
2/ Sign up for the free STAR Corps Boot Camp 2.0 where you will learn how to save stories on Together We Served.
3/ Sign up for the free Pearl Harbor Research Aids course where you will find tips and aids to use specifically for the Pearl Harbor Fallen Project.
4/ Let me know when you are ready to start writing stories and I will get you in touch with our Pearl Harbor Fallen Project directors Allison Albert, Coby Crump, and Jackie Menasco. They will get you matched up with some names that need stories. Just email me at don@storiesbehindthestars.org.
For both our Utah pilot project and the D-Day fallen project we had more than a hundred volunteers participating. I hope to see that many volunteers or more for the Pearl Harbor Fallen Project. If we get 120 volunteers, we need to average one story a week per volunteer to get done. Of course, some of you will do many more than this, which is great. It is also okay to join this project and just write a few stories.
When the stories are done, they will be visible at gravesites or memorials using the upcoming smartphone app. This short video gives you a preview of what it will look like. Don't you think it will be great to start using this for the 80th anniversary of Pearl Harbor? We need your help to make it happen by having all the Pearl Harbor stories completed.
I very much appreciate your interest in assisting with this massive undertaking. Our goal is to have all 400,000+ stories done by September 2, 2025, the 80th anniversary of the end of World War II. To do that we are going to need 2,000 people averaging one story a week, so invite others to get on board! Please share this document here with others who may be interested in learning more.
Our Stories Behind the Stars podcast is still moving up the charts. This is where we interview our volunteers about the stories they have written and also share some great stories of the World War II fallen. Listening to this program can get you familiar with what to expect if you join this project. We may even interview you down the road! You can download it on all popular podcast platforms. Our latest episode covers the story of a fallen hero and the letter he left for his unborn son. It's powerful.
If you haven’t kept up with all the great news exposure this project is getting, you can find that here.
Don Milne, Founder, and Director
don@storiesbehindthestars.org
Stories Behind the Stars
What do the Son Tay Raid and Operation Eagle Claw have in common? Not much, looking at the operations themselves. But special operators from both missions have come together in recent years for the good of another cause: the needs of Special Operations veterans and their families.
The Silent Warrior Foundation is a nonprofit organization formed by American special operations veterans in 2011 to offer scholarships to family members, procure service animals for veterans, and generally provide for the needs of their community.
To raise money for their causes, they've reunited notable veterans to have a few drinks and share some of their firsthand experiences from those prominent moments of military history.
They call the event "Whiskey and War Stories™," and it's filled with reminiscences you won't find in any book anywhere. The 2021 event is the sixth annual and featured veterans of Operation Eagle Claw, the aborted mission to rescue hostages being held at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran after the 1979 Iranian Revolution.
Dave Hall, a retired Navy SEAL senior chief petty officer and President of the foundation, helps set up the annual "Whiskey and War Stories™'' events. He has organized reunions of veterans of the invasion of Grenada; Operation Thunderhead, an attempt to rescue escaped prisoners of war in North Vietnam in 1972; and, last year, veterans of the Son Tay Raid, an earlier rescue mission in Vietnam.
Those veterans are the guests of honor, taking the stage at a gala event where they give their personal accounts of what happened, the good and the bad. For the veterans, it's a heartfelt reunion. For those watching, it's a revealing look at the lives of the Special Operators who risked their lives to rescue their fellow Americans.
Hall believes there's no better way to relay the story and the emotion behind it.
"We decided we would just tell the story," he said. "The story is huge, and the audience is just wide-eyed the whole time. They really get into it; they really listen to the ups and downs of the stories when these guys are talking."
When it came time to decide which group to gather in 2021, the choice was easy: Operation Eagle Claw is one of the reasons Hall joined the military.
"I was 12 years old, and I remember watching it on TV," he recalls. "That's one of the things that inspired me to join the military, to become a SEAL. But I've always felt like the media steals the story every anniversary, giving a revamped, tired story of tragedy and failure. But they don't talk about the sacrifice, the innovation and persistence it took to go and try to get these guys."
This year's event featured a couple of the former hostages, U.S. Marine Corps veterans Rocky Sickmann and Billy Gallegos, who met some of their would-be rescuers for the first time.
"The number of people involved, It just blows my mind," said Sickmann of the hostage rescue team, "41 years later, that so many people were put together to come over and gain my freedom."
Sickmann, Gallegos, and 50 other hostages were taken when the U.S. Embassy in Tehran was overrun by protesters on November 4, 1979. By April 1980, talks between the United States and the new Islamic government in Iran had failed, and the administration of President Jimmy Carter severed diplomatic relations.
On April 11, 1980, Carter gave the green light to the U.S. military to mount a rescue.
The operation required 93 Delta Force soldiers to assault the embassy;13 more Special Forces soldiers to hit the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where other hostages were being held; a force of 12 U.S. Army Rangers to act as a roadblock team for the first airfield, codenamed Desert One; another team of Rangers to seize Manzariyeh Air Base outside of Tehran for the hostage to escape; and 15 Farsi-speaking locals and Americans to act as drivers to move the hostages.
Even before the President gave the go-ahead, Air Force combat controllers marked the makeshift airfield at Desert One for landing three Air Force EC-130Es carrying fuel and supplies and three MC-130E Combat Talons carrying the Delta and Ranger teams. Eight Navy RH-53D Sea Stallions were to stop at Desert One, refuel and carry the assault teams to another site, Desert Two, to stage for the rescue missions.
But the mission did not go as planned. Three helicopters experienced mechanical failures, and two of those had to abort the rescue attempt. Along the way, one of the Sea Stallion helicopters crashed into one of the fuel-carrying C-130Es, causing an explosion and fire that killed five airmen and three Marines.
"The men that were coming to get us are my heroes -- always have been, always will be," Gallegos said. "I've met a couple over the years, and, being here, I've met a lot of them, and it's the greatest thing in my heart, other than the birth of my daughter."
To learn more about the Silent Warrior Foundation or to find ways to support the cause, visit the Silent Warrior Foundation website. You also can learn more about "Whiskey and War Stories™" and Operation Eagle Claw.
"Jimmy, how you doing?" Jack shook my hand. We were in the Reno, Nevada hotel meeting room that would serve as our reunion headquarters for the next three days. Whenever I hear Jack come into sight, he always says the same thing: "Jimmy, how you doing?" No one else that I know ever calls me "Jimmy," but Jack always uses that diminutive for some reason. Not that I mind it - after all, that is what most people called me through high school. I cannot see Jack or hear his familiar voice call me Jimmy without thinking about one night forty years earlier in September 1972, a night that is seared into my brain forever.
We both sit down. I give Jack a bottle of cold beer and go through the old ritual of getting out my old dark blue Navy pilot's flight logbook and thumbing through the drying and yellowing pages. We do this every reunion. There it is, September 26. The line entry in the logbook is written in red ink. A flight in a Stoof, the unofficial name for an S-2G "Tracker," Bureau Number 152811, 5.8 hours total flight time, 4 hours of night time, 4 hours of actual instrument conditions, and an actual radar approach and landing in Bodo, Norway. And it shows that Jack and I flew together on that dark and stormy evening. Suddenly, I am no longer in a Reno hotel room but instead north of the Arctic Circle over the Norwegian Sea in our twin-engine carrier-based Navy aircraft.
"Jimmy, let's climb up and get some altitude." As soon as I advanced the throttles, there was a series of loud bangs and milder pops. Then the cockpit filled with flashes of light, white smoke, and the smell of burned aviation gasoline and oil. I looked at the red-lit gauges in the dark cockpit and saw that the port engine tachometer was falling off, showing that it was not developing full power. I instinctively throttled back the left engine until the popping stopped and turned the aircraft east towards the nearest land and a safe long runway ashore. "Jack, I'm headed to the beach," and I turned the aircraft to the east.
Jack, sitting in the right seat as co-pilot, was senior in rank to me and actually the pilot in command of the flight. That meant that Jack would be making all official decisions during the flight. Both of us were fully qualified aircraft commanders, and we had been scheduled together so that Jack could conduct my annual instrument check. I was sitting in the left seat and performing first pilot duties while Jack in the right seat acted as co-pilot although really in charge.
Jack radioed USS Intrepid (CVS-11): "We have a rough running port engine and are headed to the beach." After a slight pause, the air controller replied: "Negative, return to the ship for a landing. Your signal is Charlie 30" (indicating that we should expect to land in about thirty minutes). I turned back in the rain and dark towards the west and the aircraft carrier despite my instincts. We were given radar vectors and then told to hold until the flight deck was cleared of other aircraft so that we could make a landing.
New and even louder bangs and pops filled our eardrums and the cockpit once again filled with flashes of light, acrid smells, and white smoke. Both of us flinched in our seats and involuntarily took in sudden breaths. Then without any actions by either of us, one tremendous "BANG" caused the whole aircraft to shudder as yellow, and red flames shot out the front of the port engine through the slowly rotating propeller. "Shit," we both said as we looked out the left side. I pulled back and to the right on the controls as the aircraft pitched down and yawed to the left. Engine sounds diminished, and blue flames out of the exhaust stacks died completely. Our speed slowed, and the altimeter began to unwind. I increased rudder pressure on the right rudder pedal as the aircraft's remaining engine responded to my throttle movements forward to generate more power that would keep us in the air.
"Jack, we've lost number one, and I have to feather it."
Since Jack was legally in charge, I did not automatically feather the propeller but instead informed him that is what we needed to do while I awaited his concurrence. Making a decision to feather a windmilling propeller attached to a dead engine was a no-brainer. Without moving the propeller blades into a streamlined position and by doing so reducing the drag, we would descend and eventually hit the water. Jack and I both agreed on which of the two engines was causing the problem and which button would feather the dead prop. I pushed the correct [left] red feather button, causing the three propeller blades to align themselves with the wind stream so that we could maintain altitude and airspeed.
"Jack, I think we ought to go to the beach."
Without waiting for a reply, I turned the yoke to bank the aircraft again the second time towards the east. We had taken off from the ship a little over an hour before. When our Stoof was catapulted into the air, the 872-foot-long gray aircraft carrier had been pitching and rolling with white foam coming over the bow with spray hitting the aircraft parked behind the island amidships. After we had taken off, the sun had set, and a cold front had moved in, further agitating the ocean. Steady rain now fully obscured the moon and stars. Outside of the cockpit everything was gray.
Jack radioed the ship: "We've lost the port engine and are headed towards the beach." The ship replied with a "Roger." I jettisoned the aircraft's ordnance load to lighten the aircraft and calculated roughly how long it was going to take us to get to the closest divert airfield - Bodo, Norway - about two and a half hours east with a tailwind. The ship then radioed a "Request you return - your signal Charlie upon arrival." Not an order but clearly what they wanted.
I knew that we were scheduled to finish our major multinational naval exercise in the morning and the ship was due in England the following evening. Having a broken plane stuck in Norway would prove to be a bit of a logistical and maintenance problem with the rest of the air wing a thousand miles away. "Jimmy, we need to go back to the ship." Not an order, but close enough. I banked the aircraft again to the west.
All I could think about was how tough it was going to be to land our plane with only one working engine onboard a heaving deck, in a storm, and in the pitch dark. "…Jimmy, I really want to get back aboard tonight."
I, on the other hand, was actually flying the plane, and I was very skeptical of this course of action. "Jack, if you really want to land this broke-ass plane aboard the ship tonight, you should get into the left seat and do it yourself."
Before he could reply, I radioed the ship to let me talk to one of the landing signal officers (LSOs). To my relief, one of my fellow junior officers and good friends came on the radio, and I asked him directly: "Paddles (the universal call sign for the LSO), how is the deck?" I knew I could count on him to describe the actual conditions of the Sea and the pitching and rolling of the deck at that moment without any editing from the senior officers also listening to the radio chatter.
There was an abnormally long pause before Paddles very crisp and abnormal monotone answer, "Smooth as glass."
"Bullshit," both Jack and I exclaimed as I turned the aircraft again to the east.
"Jimmy, you're right, let's go to the beach. There is no way that ship is not rocking and rolling in this weather".
Despite frequent continued calls from the ship's controllers, our squadron commander, and a number of other "heavies" to please come and at least try to land on the ship, we kept flying east until we were picked up by Norwegian military radar and got a steer to Bodo. Our broken Stoof droned on toward the Norwegian coastline in the dark, the rain, and with only the one engine keeping us in the air and out of the frigid turbulent Sea. The Norwegian controllers tried to keep up our spirits with occasional chatter about what to expect upon arrival.
On final approach to the east, the Bodo tower controller informed us that: "Bodo has rainstorms in all quadrants with winds gusting from variable directions but generally from the west-northwest." The winds would be behind us and to the left on landing. A quick calculation revealed that the crosswind that evening was outside the design specifications of our Stoof for a safe single-engine landing. I would not be able to generate sufficient thrust with just the one good engine to get airborne again once we had touched down. Also, even if Jack and I both pushed on the right rudder pedal, would we be able to generate the muscle strength needed to manhandle the asymmetry of the one good engine? It was going to be a straight shot in from the west over the water for one shot at bringing this crippled bird down in one piece. "Jack, this is not going to be pretty - follow me on the controls and back me up."
As I lined up on final approach with our landing light shining ahead through the rain, I could see the green runway threshold lights and the white striping at the approach end coming closer as we lowered down towards terra firma. The wheels touched down one at a time on the dark pavement, and the white lights on either side flashed by way too fast. The rear quartering wind pushed us down the runway instead of a landing into the wind where the wind would slow us down. I throttled back to idle on the good starboard engine. Red overrun lights at the far side of the field rapidly approached. The brakes had no effect on the wet tarmac.
A sudden gust from the north caught the tail. The plane weather-cocked violently to the left. "Shit." We were going down a wet runway with the tires hydroplaning on top of the water but not gripping the surface. Worse, the tires were not rolling in the direction of our travel - the wheels were cocked about 45 degrees to the left of the direction of travel. As we skidded off the runway, I began to see blue taxiway lights and the blackness.
"J-I-I-I-M-M-M-Y-Y-Y, you got this aircraft under control?"
I didn't reply. I was too busy stomping on the brakes, kicking the rudder pedals, and bracing for a crash. Fortunately, it was either not our time or Jack, and I had cashed in on some good karma. After leaving the runway, the plane rolled over dirt and wet grass, and we finally slowed to a very welcome stop. I cut the fuel and ignition to the starboard engine. Jack and I sat there, immobile and speechless. Our flight suits were soaking wet.
After what seemed like an eternity, I exited the aircraft on not too steady legs. We sat on the wet ground under the starboard wing and sucked in the welcome, clean cold Norwegian mist. The sound of sirens from the crash trucks grew louder as they closed to our position, red lights flashing and deep-throated diesel engines racing.
I looked up towards the tower. There was a SAS jetliner on the ramp only a few hundred feet away from where we had ungracefully ceased moving but on a direct path ahead. The boarding ramp on the SAS plane was still down, and its engines did not appear to be running.
Without saying a word, I got up, trotted over to the airliner, and walked up the ramp.
Five minutes later, I slowly walked back to our broken-down aircraft, grinning widely - with eight frosty cold bottles of Tuborg beer.
"Well, Jack, is that the way you remember it?" Jack shakes his head and says, "Jimmy, we only made the one turn back to the ship, and I always agreed with you that we should go to the beach."
"Bullshit Jack," I insisted as we both laughed and drank a nice cold bottle of Tuborg to the memory of our LSO who told us, without words, that there was no way in hell that we were going to get aboard the ship that night safely.
Originally published in the Corrales Writing Group 2013 Anthology, Sandi Hoover, Tom Neiman, Don Reightley, Jim Tritten, Patricia Walkow, Leon Wiskup, North Charleston, SC: CreateSpace, October 2013, pp. 107-113. It also appears as "The story of a U.S. Navy S-2 Tracker that lost one engine, at night, in bad weather, off Norway," http://theaviationist.com/2015/01/23/s-2-flying-to-norway/ January 23, 2015—awarded Honorable Mention, Feature Story, Online Publication in the New Mexico Press Women 2016 Communications Contest.
Many veterans, especially those who have spent significant time fighting an enemy in combat, have difficulty talking to their families about their time in the service. Many of us gloss over important details, if we talk about it at all. Richard Cacace, a United States Marine Corps veteran who served in Vietnam, was no different.
His book, "The Path I Walked," details the first 20 years of his life, which he describes as a "roller coaster ride that ended badly." Then it talks about his enlistment in the U.S. Marine Corps during the Vietnam War. His time in the Corps gave him a renewed sense of energy and purpose; a sense of pride that helped him pull himself out of an "abyss," and taught him to value people not by their color or nationality, but by their effort and desire.
Vietnam gave him the will to live again.
At first glance, the early years of Cacace's life look like they might be ideal. He was a graduate of the New York Military Academy and later attended the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. At the height of the Cold War, Cacace was studying national security affairs, Russian history and American diplomacy.
He left the Air Force Academy to work for the Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation, working on technology that was being developed to land the first men on the moon. But something was not right, and it soon came crashing down. Then, he enlisted in the Marine Corps.
Cacace served with the 3rd Recon Battalion, 3rd Marine Division in the Republic of Vietnam. The recon Marines of the 3rd Battalion hunted down the Viet Cong in the jungle areas around Da Nang, secured beachheads in Chu Lai, and saw intense combat the entire time. And that was just 1965.
Richard Cacace was there for all of it. As his autobiography puts it:
"There were incidents where he should have been killed but walked away without a scratch. There were incidents where he was at the edge of his sanity and someone stepped in to keep him from doing something that would have destroyed his life. Vietnam helped simplify the equation of the relationship of people to people in his eyes. They needed one another at a crucial time and didn't care whether they were White, Black, Hispanic, or Asian. It also taught him that in each of us, there is a battle raging between good and evil and, if we are not careful, the evil can win."
After his time in Vietnam ended, he attended the City University of New York, became an electrical engineer, and went to work for Syska & Hennessy, an international consulting engineering firm based in Manhattan. He began leading international projects that took him to Egypt, Iran, Kuwait, and beyond.
But he wanted to be able to share his life's story with his sons, an incredible undertaking for anyone, but a difficult task for a recon Marine with so much time spent fighting the Vietnam War. When he told his sons about the idea, they told him to do it, but only if he could be completely honest and if he could include every detail: the good and the bad.
"The Path I Walked" is the result of that undertaking, from his formative years through his time in Vietnam. According to the book, his intense pride in his accomplishments made the writing come fast, but it also meant he had to force out the skeletons in his closet, writing things no one ever knew about himself.
It came as a relief.
Veterans interested in writing their life stories, either to themselves, to family, or to the world at large might want to read "The Path I Walked" by Richard Cacace. It's an honest, detailed retelling of the first 25 years of Cacace's life, intended to inform his sons, but also freed him from the burden of keeping it bottled up for decades.
"The Path I Walked" is available for around $8.99 and is available in paperback, audiobook, and Kindle versions. It can be found on Amazon, Google Play, Target, Walmart or Barnes & Noble. You can also find it in the iTunes Store.
Porter was led through the city until he reached what was once St. Louis Cemetery. Using the sounding probes, he and his team looked underground for lead coffins. They found five and, once unearthed, they opened three of them. The third contained what Porter was searching for: the remains of Revolutionary War hero John Paul Jones. 
Jones and the Ranger raided English shipping in the Irish Sea for months before he and his crew decided to hit Great Britain at home. Just after midnight on April 23, 1778, two boats carrying Jones and 15 men landed on the shores of Whitehaven, England. The attackers were going to set the town, and the merchant fleet docked there ablaze.
The Merchant fleet escaped, but the Bonhomme Richard met Serapis at Flamborough Head. Jone locked the two ships together, and his Marines cleared the enemy deck while shooting from the topsails. 
His body was interred in a royal plot at Paris' St. Louis Cemetery, but after the French Revolution, the royal plot was forgotten and the cemetery lost to history. 
The United States entered World War I on April 6, 1917, when it declared war on Germany. The declaration came after a series of provocative acts from the German military and diplomatic corps. U.S. troops arrived in Europe by June 1917 but were largely ill-prepared for the kind of fighting taking place on the western front. 
editionary Force at Saint-Mihiel comprised 14 divisions of more than 550,000 men, hundreds of tanks, and aircraft with thousands of artillery guns. They were also backed up by four French Divisions of 110,000. It would be the first large-scale attack of World War I, led by the United States.
launched on September 12, 1918, it came in a three-pronged attack all along the 25-mile salient. The U.S. force was so large, it moved in corps, and only three divisions were held in reserve. In the middle of the line were French colonial troops intended to keep the Germans busy as three corps of American troops enveloped the salient along its flanks. Then, remaining troops would drive on to capture Metz. 
The Americans had done what the allies were unable to do for the previous four years, dislodging the Germans from Saint-Mihiel and relinking the supply lines between Nancy and Verdun. Although they were not able to advance on Metz due to supply problems caused by weather, American forces proved themselves in battle with their European allies – and enemies. 
But they didn't have to work for very long. Just a few months later, the Japanese Empire also surrendered. On August 15, 1945, the Japanese forces officially surrendered, and World War II was finally over. The Allies had won the war. 
By January 1946, thousands of American GIs were taking to the streets while in uniform, marching in protest of being kept so long away from their homes and families. Many carried placards expressing their anger and frustration at their commanders and their government.
The 1099th Transportation Company's roots reach back to 1953 in the form of the 159th Transportation Battalion, activated at Fort Eustis, Virginia. Comprised of four companies with letter designations A through D, the 159th was an expert in operating landing craft for combat and logistical support during joint amphibious operations and tactical mobility, combat, and logistical support in the ship to shore missions. The only designated combat battalion in the Transportation Corps, many of its original members were veterans of the Inchon landings in Korea. On September 25, 1959, the Battalion was reorganized as HHC, with Companies A, B, and C redesignated to the 1097th, 1098th, and 1099th Transportation (Medium Boat) 
Companies, respectively, with D Company, disbanded. Nonetheless, much of the unit's character was attributable to those interim years and the then battalion commander, LTC Michael D. Isrine. A flamboyant personality, he was said to be chauffeured by his military driver in a Jaguar alongside his Dachshund (Gretchen) and is responsible for the unit's insignia and motto "Hit the Beach." In the attempt to retain Esprit de Corp across the transportation units, Isrine also restored unique features of the amphibious engineers' uniform dating back to WWII and was reported to routinely fine any soldiers seen to not be visibly engaged in some activity while on duty. Though these practices would not survive long term, the effects would become embedded as cultural traits of the later transportation companies.
Acting as a troop carrier for the 199th Riverine Forces and other tactical units operating throughout the vast river complexes of Saigon Port, the unit became widely known by their nickname "River Rats" and growing reputation, "We haul anything, anytime, anywhere and under any conditions." According to veterans, "the thing that separated the 1099th from other boat companies was that we were a combat boat company engaged in direct combat support; if it was safe or easy someone else did it".
Nonetheless, evolving strategies created the need for tactical innovation, including the use of LCMs and their crews. In one example, an LCM was outfitted with a platform covering the well deck and utilized as a floating helipad for UH-IB and UH-ID helicopter gunships. A second craft was mounted with 105 mm howitzers and 4.2" mortar on the deck to serve in a support role. A further development to support large-scale infantry operations again involved the retrofit of a 105 mm Howitzer. Two LCM, one carrying the Howitzer and four-man artillery crew, the other carrying an infantry platoon, would position themselves and wait for destination coordinates to be radioed. On arrival the Howitzer fired several rounds of beehive to clear the landing area, the infantry swept the area of enemy and artillery then provided fire support for infantry in distant locations. Upon completion of the fire mission, the boats pulled back and waited for further direction.
lessly and in the best interest of Vietnamese locals, but often times, these efforts were driven by combat operations. In one such event, the US compiled Operation Cedar Falls to drive the Viet Cong out of the Iron Triangle, a long-time haven for Viet Cong forces to launch attacks on US installations in and around Saigon. To safeguard locals from ensuing battles the 1099th evacuated 6,000 villagers and their animals from the 60 square mile area.
Risner also led a squadron of F-105 Thunderchiefs in Vietnam, leading his men in 55 air combat missions. On his 55th, he was shot down over North Vietnam and was captured. He spent the rest of the Vietnam War, from 1965 to 1973, as a prisoner of war. 
It was clear that Logan would not make it back to their home base at Kimpo, more than 100 miles away. To help his wingman, Risner attempted a maneuver that never had been attempted before in aviation. He told Logan to cut his engine, then positioned the nose of his plane into his wingman's tailpipe. 
For both our Utah pilot project and the D-Day fallen project we had more than a hundred volunteers participating. I hope to see that many volunteers or more for the Pearl Harbor Fallen Project. If we get 120 volunteers, we need to average one story a week per volunteer to get done. Of course, some of you will do many more than this, which is great. It is also okay to join this project and just write a few stories.
The Silent Warrior Foundation is a nonprofit organization formed by American special operations veterans in 2011 to offer scholarships to family members, procure service animals for veterans, and generally provide for the needs of their community. 
Those veterans are the guests of honor, taking the stage at a gala event where they give their personal accounts of what happened, the good and the bad. For the veterans, it's a heartfelt reunion. For those watching, it's a revealing look at the lives of the Special Operators who risked their lives to rescue their fellow Americans. 
This year's event featured a couple of the former hostages, U.S. Marine Corps veterans Rocky Sickmann and Billy Gallegos, who met some of their would-be rescuers for the first time.
Even before the President gave the go-ahead, Air Force combat controllers marked the makeshift airfield at Desert One for landing three Air Force EC-130Es carrying fuel and supplies and three MC-130E Combat Talons carrying the Delta and Ranger teams. Eight Navy RH-53D Sea Stallions were to stop at Desert One, refuel and carry the assault teams to another site, Desert Two, to stage for the rescue missions. 
We both sit down. I give Jack a bottle of cold beer and go through the old ritual of getting out my old dark blue Navy pilot's flight logbook and thumbing through the drying and yellowing pages. We do this every reunion. There it is, September 26. The line entry in the logbook is written in red ink. A flight in a Stoof, the unofficial name for an S-2G "Tracker," Bureau Number 152811, 5.8 hours total flight time, 4 hours of night time, 4 hours of actual instrument conditions, and an actual radar approach and landing in Bodo, Norway. And it shows that Jack and I flew together on that dark and stormy evening. Suddenly, I am no longer in a Reno hotel room but instead north of the Arctic Circle over the Norwegian Sea in our twin-engine carrier-based Navy aircraft.
Jack radioed USS Intrepid (CVS-11): "We have a rough running port engine and are headed to the beach." After a slight pause, the air controller replied: "Negative, return to the ship for a landing. Your signal is Charlie 30" (indicating that we should expect to land in about thirty minutes). I turned back in the rain and dark towards the west and the aircraft carrier despite my instincts. We were given radar vectors and then told to hold until the flight deck was cleared of other aircraft so that we could make a landing. 
Without waiting for a reply, I turned the yoke to bank the aircraft again the second time towards the east. We had taken off from the ship a little over an hour before. When our Stoof was catapulted into the air, the 872-foot-long gray aircraft carrier had been pitching and rolling with white foam coming over the bow with spray hitting the aircraft parked behind the island amidships. After we had taken off, the sun had set, and a cold front had moved in, further agitating the ocean. Steady rain now fully obscured the moon and stars. Outside of the cockpit everything was gray.
Before he could reply, I radioed the ship to let me talk to one of the landing signal officers (LSOs). To my relief, one of my fellow junior officers and good friends came on the radio, and I asked him directly: "Paddles (the universal call sign for the LSO), how is the deck?" I knew I could count on him to describe the actual conditions of the Sea and the pitching and rolling of the deck at that moment without any editing from the senior officers also listening to the radio chatter.
On final approach to the east, the Bodo tower controller informed us that: "Bodo has rainstorms in all quadrants with winds gusting from variable directions but generally from the west-northwest." The winds would be behind us and to the left on landing. A quick calculation revealed that the crosswind that evening was outside the design specifications of our Stoof for a safe single-engine landing. I would not be able to generate sufficient thrust with just the one good engine to get airborne again once we had touched down. Also, even if Jack and I both pushed on the right rudder pedal, would we be able to generate the muscle strength needed to manhandle the asymmetry of the one good engine? It was going to be a straight shot in from the west over the water for one shot at bringing this crippled bird down in one piece. "Jack, this is not going to be pretty - follow me on the controls and back me up."
After what seemed like an eternity, I exited the aircraft on not too steady legs. We sat on the wet ground under the starboard wing and sucked in the welcome, clean cold Norwegian mist. The sound of sirens from the crash trucks grew louder as they closed to our position, red lights flashing and deep-throated diesel engines racing. 
His book, "The Path I Walked," details the first 20 years of his life, which he describes as a "roller coaster ride that ended badly." Then it talks about his enlistment in the U.S. Marine Corps during the Vietnam War. His time in the Corps gave him a renewed sense of energy and purpose; a sense of pride that helped him pull himself out of an "abyss," and taught him to value people not by their color or nationality, but by their effort and desire.
After his time in Vietnam ended, he attended the City University of New York, became an electrical engineer, and went to work for Syska & Hennessy, an international consulting engineering firm based in Manhattan. He began leading international projects that took him to Egypt, Iran, Kuwait, and beyond.