AUSTIN ADVOCATE

Austin: The 10th Meanest City
By Richard Troxell

In November 2004, Austin was named the 10th “Meanest City in America.” Many City of Austin officials were dismayed to receive such a harsh designation. They felt that they were doing a pretty good job and spending millions of dollars taking care of people experiencing homelessness. They point to the Salvation Army and Caritas that receive some limited city funding and the new ARCH (Austin’s Resource for the Homeless) facility as their commitment to helping Austin’s Homeless Citizens. In deed, they should be applauded. We have come a long way since the 1980s when homeless people received Cheese Wiz on white bread and when there was no City response to homelessness whatsoever.

But in order to understand the “Mean City” designation, it would serve us to exercise a little empathy. We need to walk a mile in the shoes of a homeless person. If we do so, we may begin to see things in a different light. Imagine, if you will, that you got laid off from your job at a local computer company. Imagine also that the high tech market is so tight that you can’t get a replacement job in your own field. However, you were working general assembly so you begin to look elsewhere. You can’t find anything so you finally take a job at McDon’tpaynuf. You take a four dollar an hour salary cut and start at $7.00 per hour. This is well above the Federal Minimum Wage of $5.15 per hour so you figure you’re OK. Your apartment was costing you $690.00 per month. However, before you know it, you fall behind on the rent. You try to catch up but the landlord refuses a partial payment. He then sues you to collect his money plus the balance of your year lease agreement that has eight months left on it. You go to court. The judge sounds very sympathetic but finds that you owe the landlord $6,210 plus all the court costs and fees. The judge signs the order for an eviction. You lose your deposit of $690.00. You don’t have any of it.

So, suddenly you have had a change in jobs and lost your apartment all at once. Your friend John says you can stay on his couch for a few days until you get another apartment. You are not relieved.

The next day, you sleep in because you’re somewhat depressed over what just happened. You show up to work 3 hours late and the boss tells you that this is your first and last warning. You drag yourself through work. At the end of your shift you get your buddy to agree to help take your stuff to a storage unit. This unit costs you $50.00 for a 5’ by 5’ unit…cash up front. You only have $30 savings and so you borrow $20 from another friend. You begin to realize how really shaky things are for you. The next day during your half hour lunch break, you frantically start calling apartment complexes looking for a cheaper rental situation. You don’t even try to get a one bedroom replacement…you shoot for an efficiency apartment. You have an apartment guide that lists them from $450-$550. None of these are available. You’re not sure that even if you locate one, (at a wage of $7.00 per hour), that you’ll be able to afford it. You search like this for a week. You finally locate a few units, but they all want a deposit of one month’s rent, a criminal background check at a cost of $16.00, and a rental history. You remember that your rental history is now “bad.” You have just been evicted. You can’t overcome this problem. You contact the Austin Housing Authority to put your name on a waiting list only to find the wait is three months to eighteen months long just to get an interview.

It is now a week later and your friend tells you he wants to help you, but he needs his space you have to make other living arrangements. You then call another friend. He says he is happy to put you up, but only for three days. You jump at it. Three days later your friend tells you how sorry he is but he just needs to be able to entertain his lady friends and says he was glad to have been able to have helped for a few days. You tell him you’re jammed, that you have no family in this state and really have no other place to go. He says “OK” you can stay but only until the weekend. For two days you go into full panic mode. You turn up nothing. You even consider staying in your storage unit but it is too small with all your belongings. You get creative. You consider going to the next larger storage unit size, but it will cost almost double just to go to a 5’ by 10’ unit. The prospect seems too bleak to deal with, so you finally reject the idea. You consider the Salvation Army. You go there but within half an hour of being there you are told by one of the security guards that you have broken a rule you didn’t even know about, and you are told that you can’t return for 30 days. You try and plead your case. You explain that you were not aware of the rule. But you are told in a threatening manner that if you don’t leave immediately, a CT (criminal trespass) will be issued against you. Shocked, unable to appeal, you just leave.

You overhear some guys talking about staying at the Austin’s Resource Center for the Homeless, (ARCH). You approach them and ask about it. They point to the building right behind you. They tell you that you can sleep there if you win the lottery! They explain that each night people show up for beds and they are given a number. A lottery is held and if your number is chosen you can get a bed for the night. You get in a “virtual line” at 4:00 when the day portion closes. You stand there for two hours until the doors open and the lottery is held. Your number is not chosen. They are full. A lead feeling fills your stomach.

It is one of those cold, blustery fall nights when the dampness cuts right through you. In dejection, you hunker up against the wall of the building to avoid the sharp teeth of the wind. Several other people are already there doing the same. Time passes slowly, people are interacting. Some other people are acting secretive and lurking in the shadows. A few guys at the end of the ally are exchanging money for very small packages. Most others seem open, friendly. Some people are laughing. For a moment, you get a glimpse of something you don’t know about. Everyone seems to know everyone else. You realize that everyone is somehow the same as you…a lottery looser. Good people are sharing things: cigarettes, stories, advice. You laugh to yourself at the idea, but you are feeling a flash of kinship with these other folks. It occurs to you how odd it is that you had to come to this point in your life to understand this thing called homelessness…very odd, very odd indeed.

Suddenly, a black and white police unit swerves to the curb. Two officers stride out of their car with ticket books in hand. Many people scatter especially the lurkers from down the alley; a few of you remain huddled. A six-foot-two police officer is asking you for your identification and telling you that you can’t block the sidewalk. As you hand him your ID, you tell him that you were not blocking the sidewalk and folks can get by with plenty of space, and you were just trying to find shelter. He finishes writing the ticket without another word and moves on…as do you. A couple of guys that you were speaking with earlier approach you. One tugs on your sleeve and says “come on we got a spot.” Without question and resignedly you follow them toward Waller Creek. What else is there to do? There under some bushes you spend your first night on the streets. At 3:06 am a light shines in your face. You are again asked for your ID but more gruffly this time. A background check is run on you. No warrants. You are issued a ticket for “camping.” Again you try to explain that you weren’t camping…just sleeping. He raises an open faced hand in a warning signal to stop talking. You know enough to shut up. He hands you the ticket. He tells you to “move on” and “don’t let me see you in the area again or I’ll run you in.” You take the ticket and walk till dawn afraid to stop knowing you may end up spending the night in jail. Cold, afraid, alone…you walk on.

The next day, you look at the tickets and see that you need to appear in court “Community Court” in the next ten days. The day finally arrives. Somehow you miraculously remember to show up (you realize that you have become fairly disoriented losing track of the days and time generally. You have since lost the job at McDon’tpaynuf for showing up late again. The judge tells you that if you plea guilty you can do “community service.” The guy next you on the court bench tells you “Don’t be a chump. They just take your labor for free and you can’t even get a sandwich while doing the free work.” Instead, you decide to fight the tickets because you weren’t blocking the sidewalk or camping anyway! The sidewalk ticket is kicked because you weren’t given a warning as required by law. But none-the-less, you are found guilty of camping and told to pay a $250 fine. Again you are shocked! If you had $250.00 you would have gotten a motel room for several days in the first place. Of course, you don’t have the money. You spend three days in jail. You are devastated. Your confidence is totally shattered. You are then released still with no job, and no place to stay, subject to your next arrest.

What the hell is happening? Your brain begins to numb out. You start walking until you find yourself in front of a local What-A-Burger. You get a cup of coffee and fall into a seat. After a few minutes you take a sip of coffee…then another. Slowly you revive a little. Your eye catches a discarded newspaper on the seat next to you. The article is about an assistant City Manager holding a “Briefing” to the Austin City Council outlining a plan to “enhance” four ordinances that “target bad behavior.” These ordinances include “illegal camping” where the proposed change will again make it a crime to “sleep” in public. Unbelievable! This proposal is why you got your camping ticket! Does that mean that just “sleeping” isn’t against the law now? You are very confused. (You later learn that in deed just “sleeping” had been previously struck from the existing no camping ordinance. So why were you issued a ticket and why did you serve jail time? Suddenly, you realize it’s a matter of justice…fairness. That leaden feeling returns to your stomach.

The other change that catches your attention is where they want to make it illegal to sit, rest or lie down on the sidewalk regardless of whether or not your are blocking the sidewalk with or without a warning. All of a sudden, the last several weeks come flooding back in a wash of overwhelming depression…wave after wave after wave. You feel nauseous, and even though you don’t have anything in your stomach except coffee, you retch it up all over the newspaper article. You feel dizzy. You clutch the table. Anger sweeps across your face in a wave of burning, prickling heat. All you can think is that “This is the meanest city I’ve ever lived in.” The words echo in your mind over and over and over again.

Authors Comment:

*To a person experiencing homelessness, it doesn’t matter how many buildings are built, how new they are, or what services are offered. If there are only 500 emergency shelter beds and there are between four and six thousand homeless people vying for a mat on the floor, and he doesn’t get one and the city then acts as a partner in passing more laws that criminalize his condition of being homeless, (instead of providing him a fair living wage job), then to him, that city is indeed mean.

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“Tha Lil’ Duce”
Written by Danny “Doc” Barrow

Gazin’ upon the pure mosaic beauty of a crimson-orange sunset with tha purplish-grayness hues of tha clouds is ‘bout the most wondrous site of all. Especially when the “Texas Hill Country” is in the background.

Austin, Texas, is my home. Although, most people consider me homeless, I do not! I am more inclined towards bein’ a professional camper. Which reminds me, Where is my paycheck? Anyway, I like bein’ outdoors ‘ cuz I am a highly claustrophobic human bean. Most all of the jobs I’ve had in my lifetime have been outside. Startin’ with my first job which was sellin’ “Grit Newspapers” at age 8 in 1964. You remember, don’t ya? On tha back cover of Marvel and D.C. comic books. Well, anyway, ya might say I've come full circle, ‘cuz I now sell tha “Austin Advocate Newspaper.”

By 1965, I went to work at a second job as a bus boy and dishwasher at the “Palace Grill” in my hometown of Alice, Texas. My wages, I believe, were 55 cents per hour, which at tha time seemed like an awful lot since ya could buy a candy bar for a nickel, comic book for 8 cents and a loaf of bread for a dime. But, minimum wage was somewhere ‘round 75 cents per hour. I remember my Dad not likin’ me workin’ there.

My Dad, Sam Barrow, was a Driller/Toolpusher workin’ for Flournoy Drillin’ Company. At age 31, he was a huge man weighin’ in at ‘round 360-380 lbs. And was 6’3”. Tree-trunk sized legs, big barrel chest, gigantic arms and hardly any neck what so ever. Not tha kinda man you would ever want mad at ya. Thanks for my lucky stars, he was a gentle giant and my mom was the disciplinarian in the family. Who, by tha by, was no light weight, weightin’ ‘bout 250-270 lbs. My mom was a registered nurse.

Anyway, I was enjoyin’ this panoramic sunset with my dog “Two Dotz” earlier this evenin’ when it reminded me of a similar one I had witnessed back in ’65.

It was summertime and as per usual, I was campin’ out on a drill site.

My Dad was relievin’ E. J. Harr, the regular Toolpusher, for 2 weeks while he went on vacation. Pushin’ Tools was kinda 24-7 type job, at times, dependin’ on drillin’ conditions. This particular drill site was located near Rio Grande City and in tha summertime it could get mighty hot. Especially ‘round all that iron and machinery. Now, my Dad was always messin’ with tha new guys. I remember watchin’ my Dad walkin’ up tha catwalk and climbin’ tha V-door stairs on to the drill floor thru his binoculars that he let me use so I could watch tha action from a safe distance ‘cuz at age 9 I was not allowed to get any closer than 100 yards.

They, the drill crew, were “slow drillin’” and my Dad went up to Benny, the evenin’ tour Driller, and started shootin’ tha breeze. Benny was also a very large man, but not quite as big as my father. After awhile they started laughin’ and carryin’ on. I really wished I could have heard what they were sayin’, but dared not get any closer. Benny hollered at tha new boy, “Hey worm, come here.” Worm was how all “roughnecks” referred to tha green-uns, which was actually a compliment ‘cuz if they didn’t like ya they would call ya “weaver or maggot.” I remember Johnny had been helpin’ Pablo, the Derrickman, mix chemicals into tha drillin’ fluid referred to as mud. Johnny was covered from head to toe with barite (weight material), bentonite or gel (thickener) and a lil’ tannithin (powdered coal used as a mud thinner). Now, Johnny wudn’t as big as my Dad or Benny. He was ‘bout 18 years old and was 5’10” at near 200 lbs.

My Dad started tellin’ him somethin’ and pointed towards tha crown of tha drillin’ rig. Johnny shook his head and started fillin’ up a 5-gallon bucket with water. Then he started climbin’ tha ladder on tha side of the derrick. Tha “Lil’ Duce,” Flournoy Drillin’ Co. Rig #2, had a mast height of ‘bout 90 ft. from the drill floor to tha bottom of tha crown. Johnny had a strap attached to tha bucket slung over one shoulder so he could grip tha ladder with both hands. When he was ‘bout halfway to tha crown, I saw my Dad and Benny motion for Pablo and Red, tha chainhand, to come up to tha drill platform. When they got there, my Dad and Benny pointed up at Johnny. Red, Pablo, Benny and my Dad started laughin’ so hard, I could actually hear them over the roar of tha big diesel engines. Johnny was now ‘bout ¾ of tha way up and musta heard them also ‘cuz he looked down. My Dad was motionin’ to him to keep goin’. Tha whole time I was watchin’ through tha binoculars, I couldn’t quite figure out what tha big joke was. I looked up towards the crown and Johnny was walkin’ ‘round the crown cage lookin’ at the crown shives. Then, I remember him seemin’ a mite puzzled and pourin’ the water from the bucket onto tha horizontal beams of the crown. Tha water came down as if released by a small rain cloud ‘bout 20 ft. from the front of my lil’ tent. I looked back up towards the crown and Johnny looked mad. He tossed the metal bucket to the ground and started cumin’ down the ladder really fast. When he got to the drill floor everybody was laughin’ at him and I still hadn’t figured out what was so funny.

I remember tha speaker on tha side of tha dog house makin’ a series of beeps indicatin’ an incomin’ radio transmission. My Dad headed towards the Toolpushers’ trailer, which is where tha radio, was located. I wanted to ask him what that was all ‘bout, but he looked kinda busy.

Tha kelly was down, so it was time to make another connection (add a 30’ joint of drillpipe). Benny kicked out tha rotary and started pickin’ up off bottom. Pablo went back downstairs to the mud pits. Red was washin’ off the kelly and Johnny, who still looked angry, was getting’ ready to throw tha slips in. Benny kicked out the mud pump. Kelly bushin’ clears tha rotary table and Johnny tossed the slips ‘round tha drillpipe. Benny slacked off tha kelly to set tha slips. Red helped Johnny get his tongs ‘round tha kelly saver sub. Tongs slap shut and Johnny made a bite on the sub. Benny rotated the rotary table to “bump out” (now outlawed) or break tha Kelly/drillpipe connection. Tha connection broke and Benny rotated ‘til tha kelly jumped indication’ all threads are out. Red unlatched Johnny’s tongs, \locked tha rotary table and helped Johnny get his tongs ‘round tha box-end of tha drillpipe in tha mousehole. Red’s tongs were already ‘round tha top of the drillpipe as is tha spinnin’ chain. Benny picked up the kelly and Johnny pushed tha kelly away from tha drillpipe in tha rotary table. Mud spashed out of tha bottom of tha kelly. With Johnny pushin’ and Red pullin’, they swung tha kelly over to tha drillpipe in tha mousehole. Benny lowered tha kelly into tha pipe and grabbed tha friction cathead lever. Johnny ducked, made his tongs bite into tha bottleneck and Red chunked tha spinnin’ chain up onto tha kelly saver sub. Benny pulled down hard on tha lever until tha pipe was made up. Johnny slid Red’s tongs up onto tha sub while Red peeled off tha resta tha spinnin’ chain. Red made his tongs bite and Benny torqued tha connection until tight. They took their tongs off and Benny kicked in tha drum clutch and started liftin’ tha new assembly up out of tha mousehole with tha travelin’ blocks. Johnny helped Red put his tongs on tha drillpipe in the rotary table. Red wrapped tha spinnin’ chain ‘round tha pipe. Johnny doped the drillpipe threads. Benny stopped the blocks, Red swung tha drillpipe over to Johnny and Benny slacked off tha brake while Johnny stabbed tha pipe. Benny grasped tha friction cathead lever, Johnny ducked his head and Red chunked the spinnin’ chain. Johnny slid Red’s tongs up to tha pin-end bottleneck and made ‘em bite. Benny torqued tha connection, kicked in tha duplex mud pump while Red peeled off the resta tha spinnin’ chain, unlatched his tongs and reached down to grab tha back handle of tha slips while Johnny grasped tha front two. Benny kicked in tha drum clutch while they jerked tha slips out of tha rotary bushin’ bowl and set them aside. Red unlocked tha rotary table. Drill string pressured up to 2100 psi., Benny started slackin’ off tha blocks until tha rotary bushin’ seated in the rotary table. He kicked in tha rotary and set it at 150 rpm. And headed to bottom. Red operated tha cathead while Johnny stabbed tha drillpipe comin’ up tha V-door into tha mousehole. Johnny undid tha hook and Red lowered tha catline down tha V-door onto tha catwalk. When Benny tagged bottom, tha rotary speed slowed to 120 rpm. He then slacked off tha blocks until he had 30,000 lbs. On the drillbit and set tha rotary speed at 100 rpm.

Back to “slow drillin’,” Red and Johnny came down tha V-door steps to tha ground to roll four joints of 4” drillpipe onto tha catwalk to be hoisted up to tha drill floor. I took this opportunity to holler at Red so I could find out ‘bout tha bucket joke thingey. Red walked over to where I was ‘cuz he knew my Dad didn’t want me too close. When I asked Red ‘bout tha bucket thingey, he glanced towards tha Toolpushers’ shack and then he said, “I’ll tell you, but you must not ever tell Sam that I told you.” I remember lookin’ him straight in the eyes and sayin’ “Scout honor, I promise. I will never tell my Dad that ya tol’ me,” as I gave him the Cub Scout salute. Red pointed towards tha crown of tha rig and said, “You see those horizontal beams up yonder?” I said, “yeah.” “They are called the water table,” Red stated. “Uh huh,” I replied. “Well, your Dad told Johnny to fill ‘em up,” he said with a chuckle. “What’s so funny ‘bout that?” I said astonished. “They are all flat on top and won’t hold water. They are only called the water table because that’s where rain hits the derrick first,” he said as he howled with laughter. “Well kid, I gotta get back to work. Remember your promise. “Do not, under any circumstances, ever tell Sam,” he added. “Thank Red, Scouts’ honor,” I said as I put tha salute back in place.

Seven years later in 1972, I went to work on tha “Lil’ Duce” for my Dad at age 16.

I was 5’10” and 110 lbs. Drippin’ wet. I remember my Dad tryin’ that same gag on me. Only I turned tha joke in my favor. I filled tha bucket up, added a strap, put it ‘round my shoulder and started my ascent up the ladder. I remember how heavy that bucket felt. Anyway, I got to ‘bout the top of tha A-frame (20’ up) and hesitated. My Dad looked up at me, pointed and hollered, “Hey worm, the crown is up there!” I pointed towards tha crown and said, “All tha way up there?” When he looked back up at me to respond, I turned tha bucket over and spilled its contents right in his face. He was not amused. I tossed tha bucket to tha ground and started climbin’ a lil’ higher jus’ in case he decided to throw a wrench or somethin’ at me. I remember my grandpa Melvin (his Dad), who was his chain hand, bein’ very much amused. My Grandpa had a really good sense of humor. He tol’ my Dad, “Sam, you look a mite wet behind your ears,” and then he laughed real hard. My Dad started laughin’ too.

I looked over towards tha mud tanks and Pablo, who was now Sam’s Derrickman, was doin’ a raindance atop of a pallet of barite. He was half Mexican, half Indian and could certainly whoop an’ holler with tha best of ‘em. Than he stopped dancin’ and started mimicin’ Sam getting’ drenched and me scramblin’ up tha ladder.

My Dad saw him makin’ fun so he tol’ grandpa to watch tha brake. Then he grabbed tha high-pressure wash hose, turned it on full blast, and soaked Pablo good. Pablo grinned, shook tha water off like a dog, jumped down from tha pallet, ran towards tha mud hopper and disappeared behind tha mud tanks. ‘Bout 15 seconds later, he reappeared on tha opposite end with a high-pressure hose and blasted Sam from tha shali shaker. Some of tha water got grandpa wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. I was laughin’ so hard I almos’ lost my grip on tha ladder.

Grandpa Melvin hollered, “Sam…,kelly down, you boys done playin’ yet?” Then grandpa motioned for me to come down. I hurried down tha ladder and took up my position in worm corner. Sam kicked out tha rotary, kicked in tha drum clutch and started comin’ up off bottom. Grandpa was washin’ tha kelly off. Kelly bushin’ clear tha rotary, Sam shut off tha duplex mud pump and I chunked the slips ‘round tha kelly saver sub and then he helped me make ‘em bite. Sam bumped tha rotary, connection broke and he rotated tha rotary table until tha kelly saver sub jumped. Grandpa socked tha rotary, unlatched my tongs and helped me latch ‘em ‘round the box-end of the drillpipe in tha mousehole. I remember my grandpa givin’ me a sly grin and then he hid behind one of tha derrick legs. As I went to push off tha kelly, I found out why. My Dad had tha brake handle chained down. He kicked in the drum clutch and kicked it back out, liftin’ tha kelly up ‘jus enough for tha mud to come gushin’ out, but not enough to clear tha box end of tha drillpipe. Man, let me tell ya, I was snottin’ out mud balls for at least a week. He got me real good.

Well, we finished makin’ tha connection and then my grandpa hosed me down. My Dad was still laughin’ at me and Pablo was mimicin’ tha way my eyes musta looked like when my Dad kicked out that drum clutch early.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinkin’ ‘bout as I sat along a cliff overlookin’ a now dry Barton Creek with my dog, Two Dotz, watchin’ that beautiful sunset earlier this evenin’. Only tha backdrop looked different back then. Cactus, yucca plants, mesquite trees, jack rabbits, rattlesnakes, small rollin’ hills and tha “Lil Duce” were all castin’ their long silhouettes along tha South Texas Rio Grande River Valley.

Well, I hope y’all enjoyed my story. Two Dotz said, “Make sure that you save her some turkey and ham.” As always, “Vaya con Dios.” Go with God.

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Friendly Fire
Story by Why Change Cain

There has been a lot of publicity lately about our fine servicemen getting wounded or killed in training exercises. My Mother’s first husband died training to set land mines during World War II.

In 1971, the draft system had changed to what was then the Draft/Lottery System. I was a young man of 18 years at that time and a prime target for the draft. The lottery birth dates were drawn for that year and my birth date was # 72 in line to be drafted. It was determined that the first 135 numbers drawn would be utilized for the draft. That put me in the service rather I wanted to be or not, but I was already seriously considering joining anyway.

I decided to ask some veterans about which branch of service they would recommend. I found a Marine Veteran at my job. He looked at my Physic or lack thereof and recommended against it. He said you really need to be tough physically.

I knew an Army veteran and asked him what he thought. He said he would not recommend the Army to anyone even though he had some experiences that he would not trade for. He said the facilities and supplies were much better in the other branches of service.

I knew a Navy Veteran at Church. He said unless you are an Officer in the Navy, be prepared to be away from the world on a ship for many months scraping rust and swabbing the deck.

Well, I didn’t even check with the Coast Guard. I figured I was too far from the coast anyway. I decided to join the Air Force. I joined one month after the last shipment of soldiers to Vietnam so even though I had put Germany, Spain, and Japan on my “Dream Sheet”, my overseas tour ended up to be in Korea.

The first 3 months of my one-year’s tour in Korea was spent at Osan Air Base. After that I was moved to Camp Casey at Tong Du Chon. That’s only 30 miles south of the DMZ and pretty rough country in a lot of different ways.

My AFSC was Ground Radio Repair, but I was volunteered to be a ROMAD (Radio Operator, Maintenance, and Driver) for a FAC (Forward Air Controller) that called air strikes from the ground. My FAC Officer changed on a regular basis but they were always Fighter Pilots. My job was to drive and maintain the MRC108A and take care of my FAC. The MRC108A was a 4-wheel drive jeep much like you see on the TV show, MASH except it had 5 radios on it and pulled a trailer behind it with a power generator. We usually deployed with the Army and they would radio back the coordinates to us. Sometimes though we would actually site the enemy ourselves.

While I was stationed in Korea, the U.S. Armed Forces put on live Firepower Demonstrations on a regular basis. I would pack the jeep and trailer and pick up my Officer. We would drive up to a location just south of the DMZ where a theatre was set up with bleachers at the base of a hill. The hill was at the end of a long winding valley. Sometimes the dignitaries in the spectator bleachers included President Pach of Korea.

The demonstrations were very impressive. The order of business usually ran like this: First, the artillery would fire on the hill pounding away and lifting up tons of dirt leaving new craters. Then the Cobra Choppers would come down the valley doing tricks as they flew by. They seemed at times to be flying upside down. They would hover at the end facing the hill and send rockets and large caliber machine gun bullets into it looking much like a fireworks show.

Next was our turn. The Air Force would send the latest arsenal such as the YF18 or the C130 Gun Ship to pound away with 2000 lb. Or cluster bombs at the base of the hill and then cover the hill with some Napalm. Finally, the Army would move in with Hueys full of ground pounders, soldiers with M16 Machine Guns running up the hill firing at the rocks.

On one April morning, I watched the muzzle flash of the artillery about a mile and half to the South and listened as it passed right over our heads. My FAC and I had set up across from the hill on another one. The show was going right according to schedule. I was heating up my lunch (sea rations sitting against the exhaust manifold under the hood of the jeep). The top of the hill lifted off the ground as the artillery hit.

Our part of the show was to have 3 fighter jets piloted by South Korean fighter pilots in training drop one Napalm each on the first pass and then drop the remaining two bombs on the second pass. My Forward Air Controller was to coordinate the strike. He decided to have the pilots drop their entire load on the fist pass to eliminate the chance of confusion. He radioed the Army Commander of his change of plans.

The General of the 2nd Division (nicknamed, The Gunfighter) was there and he had given orders for his men to jump out of the helicopters onto the hill while the Napalm from the fighter jets was still burning. That would place the Army grunts on the hill immediately after the bombs were released.

I made sure the radios were operational and continued to watch the show while I ate my sea rations. The 3 fighter jets arrived and began to circle overhead. My FAC radioed the change of plans to the pilots and waited for a response. They all responded but the lead pilot. He began his approach and the others followed. The lead fighter only dropped one Napalm on his first pass, as was the original plan.

The other two pilots dropped all three bombs and the leader was already circling to drop his remaining two Napalms when the Army soldiers had jumped out and the Hueys were gone. My Officer was beside himself. He ran to the jeep and grabbed the UHF radio mike. He kept hollering into it, “Abort your pass, abort your pass, come in, abort your pass!” I was horrified. I thought I was about to see over 100 U.S. Soldiers be burned to a crisp.

My FAC looked at me with horror in his eyes as he yelled, “Is this radio working!” I yelled back, Yes sir; I tweaked it only 10 minutes ago. It’s transmitting 5X5.” The two pilots of the back two jets had pulled off, but the leader was coming around fast. My Officer dropped the mike and ran to the edge of the hill. All we could do was watch and pray.

Just as the pilot bore down on the hill he saw the men and pulled away at the last second. We both let out a big sigh of relief. Just then we heard chatter coming from the radio. My Officer ran back and found out the pilot had tuned his radio to the wrong frequency when he left the base. I later found out that Korean fighter pilot was escorted off to jail right after he landed at Osan Air Base. They didn’t take those kind of errors lightly.

Training is a necessary thing in all armed forces, and mistakes will be made as long as there are people involved. Our Great Country has the best Armed Forces on this planet. Being in the service once myself, I have a great deal of respect for their courage and sacrifice. I pray that all our boys can come home safe. But we all know some one will sacrifice whether it’s on the battlefield or on the training mission. God Bless our boys!

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