The equipment we maintained at the Naval Communications Station on Guam was the latest and most sophisticated available in one sense and not so complex in another. But it was what the Navy had at the time and they used it to spy on the world: secret encrypted messages, Russian missile launchings, radar communications sites and a multitude of others, among them, simple, almost archaic Chinese digital communications. Then there were our own people: the news media, telephone and short wave communications, and others.

The reason myself, Juan Trujillo, John Proza, Orion Larson and others were there is the equipment would fail at times and the operators would call down to the Electronics Shop in the basement and ask one of us to come to the third floor and get it going.

The first step would be to discuss the problem with the operator present and many times, while explaining the problem, the operator would notice something he had overlooked and take care of the problem on the spot. But there were times when the problem was real and you had to fix it.

The typical procedure would be to plant your body directly in front of a seven by three foot piece of electronics equipment then reach down to the bottom most drawer and turn the power switch off then back on - a crude sort of rebooting the system as is done these days with computers. If that didn’t work we would open the power supply drawer and close it, and might slam it closed if the first step didn’t work.

There were a number of first checks and if none of those worked we would finally drag out the Oscilloscope and start trouble shooting the beast. But that was always the last resort. We might go so far as to remove one or more vacuum tubes, bend the small pins on each base then replace the tube or tubes before reverting to such drastic measures as a technical manual and the O-Scope.

When it came time to leave Guam, Juan turned toward me as we were all standing outside waiting on a bus to take us to the airport. We had our dark green duffle bags at our side, some lying on the ground, others standing up with a hand grasping a handhold as if the person was afraid the bag might get away with all his stuff.

Juan was one of those individuals. He appeared nervous, a little fidgety and said, “Boy, I sure dread going back to the States!”

I had ulcers in my mouth: on each side, top and bottom. I couldn’t sleep at night and was daydreaming every second about the options that might be available to me once I was out of the Navy. I couldn’t wait to set my foot back on some good old solid North American soil and even turned down a rather large reenlistment bonus to have that chance.

I told Juan. I said, “Juan, you’re crazy. I can’t wait to get back home! Besides, I’ve got a woman back there and I haven’t seen her in a year.”

Juan talked slow, with the remnants of a long ago Spanish accent, but didn’t hesitate. Wagging his head, he said, “Well, I want to go back home too. But it’s the flight back there that scares me.”

My face took on a puzzled look. “W…what do you mean, the flight back home?” I asked him, as the two of us exchanged glances. “How else are you going to get back there? Hell, it’s six thousand miles to San Francisco, Juan.”

“I know that,” the Mexican American shot back, “but aren’t we going to be flying on a C141?

“Yes, but…”

“And that’s an Air Force plane, right?” Juan went on, not allowing me to finish.

“Yeah but…what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, You know how we maintain this electronics equipment. You know the Air Force men do the same thing!”

Benjamin J Cox is an author, novelist, poet, speaker, writer and humorist. He has written a book, Insider Dreams, a 911 Novel. He was born on a dirt street in a Waldron, Arkansas, in 1943. He graduated from the University of Tulsa with a degree in Electrical Engineering. He is married with three children, five grandchildren. He is the President of Mayes County Writers Club, the Treasurer of Pryor Creek Investment Club and a member of Will Rogers Toastmasters Club. He is retired and lives with his wife in Pryor, Oklahoma. He like to run, enjoys big band dancing, Speaking before groups, and writes every day.

A few U.S. Navy “tin can” sailors gathered at Punta Gorda’s Veterans Memorial Garden the other day to commemorate shipmates and a unique class of ships that helped win the World War II battle of North Atlantic.

Having served briefly, and proudly, in the Destroyer Escort fleet, I attended the ceremony to share memories - convoys, German submarine encounters and shakedown cruise mishaps.

World War II began in 1939 with the German invasion of Poland. None of the allies were prepared. France surrendered. Russia and Britain retreated. The United States geared up for war production to aid the beleaguered nations.

Most immediate need was protection of ships carrying munitions to Britain, an island country accessible only by sea. U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt “loaned” it 50 overage destroyers to protect war shipping.

He also began a crash program to build “escort destroyers.” This new type of fighting ship — designated DE for Destroyer Escort - was smaller, thinner skinned, driven by slower diesel-electric engines and carried less top-side armament.

Nevertheless, DEs were fitted with the latest anti-submarine equipment and could be produced in eleven months for one-third the cost of a regular destroyer.

The ships varied slightly in dimensions but generally were 308 feet long, 36 feet wide and 12 feet in draught. Average complement was 15 general officers, 20 petty officers and 180 seamen.

In all, 563 DEs were built. Seventy-eight were transferred to Britain. Three were given to China, six to the Free French navy and 12 sold or leased to Brazil. The latter maintained a critical staging area at Recife for convoys to Dakar and the allied North Africa campaign.

Shakedown

As new DEs were completed, crews for them were transferred from other duties, or from boot camps, to six weeks at the Norfolk Destroyer School to get acquainted with the specifics of a particular ship.

Thus, it was a green crew that took possession of the U.S.S. McCann DE-179 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard in October 1943.

As a petty officer, yeoman first class, I was one of three assigned to prepare and safeguard the mountain of records necessary to a modern fighting ship. My battle station was the bridge. My duty was “captain’s talker” to relay orders via an inter-com system to stations beyond the bridge.

DE 179 was commissioned - “given life” by Navy custom - on Nov. 10, 1943. We immediately set to sea for a shakedown cruise.

Those of us who had never seen the ocean were astonished at the beautiful, dark blue color of the deep sea. We arrived at the Bermuda fleet maneuvers and firing range for battle practice. “Piece of cake,” we told each other.

Our drills were cut short to carry out our first assignment - escort a crippled Liberty Ship freighter to Norfolk. We came abreast of our charge by early evening in a gathering storm.

By moonless midnight we were fighting for our lives in the worst North Atlantic storm of record. It was reported that 13 ships sank. We lost sight of the Liberty Ship and never learned its fate.

Our conning bridge was open to the elements - a cost-saving arrangement but damned uncomfortable for sailors required to stand duty there. The bridge parapet was 65 feet above the water line, and we were taking waves into the bridge.

Every Navy ship during fitting out is tested for its capsizing point measured by a plumb bob hanging over a protractor. The McAnn’s capsize was 47 degrees.

We exceeded capsize several times - once “losing feet” which is an eerie, floating feeling signaling roll over. We were saved by sliding down the back of the wave.

In the midst of the storm fury, our entire electrical system was disabled - lights, intercom, radio, radar, SONAR, depth finder, gyro compass - everything. The only navigating aid available was our magnetic compass and hand-held sexton.

At daylight, we determine by sexton that we were far south and east of our intended route. The captain ordered due west 270 degrees to find shore line. All hands maintained battle stations, four hours on, four hours off.

As we proceed at half speed, the forward lookout reported, “Object dead ahead.”

“Aye, aye,” acknowledged the officer-of-the deck as he turned his binoculars forward.

For a half-hour we watched the object - a huge 40-foot sea-buoy - as we drew near. The helmsman became alarmed and kept asking for a repeat of the heading. Each time the answer was “Steady as she goes.”

As were about to crash head on, the deck officer ducked behind the parapet, buried his head in his arms and cried, “Oh, my God!”

At that moment, the captain came on the bridge, saw the problem and yelled, “Hard right!” I was only a half-syllable behind the captain in repeating the order, and the helmsman was only a half syllable behind me in obeying.

The ship veered just enough to side-slip a direct crash. However, it took a glancing blow from the buoy which left a dent and long, red streak on our hull.

The hapless officer - formerly a pay officer at a shore base — said he had been afraid to change the captain’s order for a 270-degree course. The captain chewed him out with a wide range of explicit language and confined him to his quarters.

Next morning we ran into dense fog. The captain ordered idle speed, bells and a sharp lookout. Pretty soon the aft lookout reported our screws were “kicking mud.”

“All engines stop,” the captain ordered. “Throw a lead line.”

There was barely a foot of water under the keel. While pondering the situation, we heard rhythmic, rowing noise. Out of the fog came a fisherman in a skiff, his back to us.

“Ahoy,” shouted our captain. The fisherman turned his head and did a double-take at seeing our huge vessel. “We are disabled. Which way to Norfolk?”

After getting directions, the captain backed the McAnn slowly into deeper water and waited for the fog to clear. With clear visibility, magnetic compass, and sexton our navigator set course for the Norfolk area to try and reconnect with the Liberty Ship.

We sailed all day and well into the night. About 3 a.m., a lookout reported a lighthouse beam. The navigator was called to the bridge to match the beam pulse to chart descriptions.

In the dark, and too far out to sea, we overshot Norfolk and reached Cape May, New Jersey.

“To Hell with it,” said the captain. “Let’s go on to Brooklyn for repairs.

The Chief Boatswain Mate set up a $1 pool for the exact time our Union Jack at the bow passed under the leading edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. One of the cooks won $154.

We arrived at night and signaled by light flashes for a pilot. He took us to a T dock where we secured after four hectic days. The captain put on his dress-white uniform and disembarked to report to the yard’s commanding officer. Distracted, and in the dark, our immaculate captain walked off a short leg of the dock.

“Help, damn it!” he shouted.

The gangway watch fished him out, speckled with green algae; but he didn’t seem grateful.

U-Boat Chase

Our equipment was repaired, and the restricted officer was transferred back to shore duty. We were sent back to Norfolk to join a high-priority convoy of Marines and munitions on its way to the Pacific.

North Atlantic DEs took the ships to the Panama Canal. South Pacific DEs on the other side escorted ships to their destinations.

As we approached Palm Beach, Florida, all ships went to general quarters. The stretch of waterway beyond that, and past the Keys, was “U-Boat Alley.” German submarines waited there - silent and motionless - to torpedo passing ships.

Not far south of Miami, our SONAR operators detected a sub. We chased it while the convoy moved on. We made two runs over the target, bracketing it with depth charges by roller racks, side throwers and forward-throwing “hedgehogs.”

On the second run, the sub’s engines fell silent. We stopped also. The convoy commander ordered us to hover for 24 hours to make sure the sub was not playing cat and mouse.

As the convoy moved over the horizon - about 15 miles away - one of the rear echelon ships exploded in a tremendous fire ball. This indicated a munitions ship rather than troops. Nevertheless, the crew deaths must have been horrendous.

Our quarry did not move in 24 hours so we scattered a few more depth charges for good measure and returned to Norfolk for further orders. We were credited with a “probable” kill.

The McAnn made two runs to Recife without incident then was sold to Brazil. Crew members were transferred to other ships. I was assigned to the frigate U.S.S. Eagle 27 at the Key West Submarine Base. We helped train SONAR operators by playing electronic hide-and-seek with Free French submarines.

My sea duty was tame, but many DEs were in the thickest of fighting.

July 2, 2000

Click here to see this article on Lindsey Williams’ website.

Lindsey Williams is a Sun columnist who can be contacted at:

LinWms@earthlink.net or LinWms@lindseywilliams.org

Website: http://www.lindseywilliams.org with over a thousand of Lin’s Editorial & At Large articles written over 40 years.

Also featured in its entirety is Lin’s groundbreaking book “Boldly Onward,” that critically analyzes and develops theories about the original Spanish explorers of America.
(fully indexed/searchable)

The American soldiers of World War I certainly were bigger than their counterparts in the French Army. They were a good head taller and from five to fifteen pounds heavier. The French populace and the French soldiers (poilus) looked upon the average American soldier as being something of a comparative (to the French) giant. The French soldier had an average height of 5 feet 4 inches and the average height of the American soldier was about 5 feet 8 inches, thus the Americans towered over their French companions-in-arms.

That the American was a larger man, was no doubt due to the improved diet and the larger meals that he enjoyed while growing up. When the first doughboys of the AEF arrived in France, the French stood by slack-jawed and pop-eyed, looking at the tall, husky and bronzed soldiers from America as if they were men from outer space. Having been brought up on translated versions of the American dime novels of the Wild West and American made cowboy-western motion pictures, verily the French believed that all Americans had been born in the saddle. The newly arriving soldiers were the “American Indians” literally arrived in France.

It is no exaggeration to state that the French expected to see the Americans come down the gangplanks of the troopships carrying tomahawks and wearing feather-bonnets, instead of carrying Springfield 1903 rifles and wearing their peaked felt campaign hats (which made them look even taller)! Thus was the legend of the “wild, red-Indians from America” reinforced. Of course, the doughboys bolstered this French belief wherever and however they possibly could. Sometimes they would let out war-whoops, sometimes they actually (until the practice was banned) carried homemade tomahawks on their packs or on their belts. Some came down the gangplank with feathers sticking out of their campaign hats! American soldiers did not really have to do much to reinforce the French beliefs, as the French had already spread the legend of the “giants from America” the length and breadth of France, by word of mouth and in the public media. At each telling, the Americans got larger. And, it goes without saying, that the exuberant Americans played the roll to the hilt. Nevertheless, the arriving Americans detected a certain amount of disappointment on the part of the French. They found out later that the French expected the Americans to be seven feet tall and wearing long beards!

The American doughboy enjoyed a healthy diet, and was (except for the city boys) used to hard work in the fresh-air, and he got plenty of exercise. The smaller city boys didn’t arrive in France until later on when the National Army divisions began to arrive. The initial American divisions which arrived in France were composed of the `cream of the American crop’ of men, tall, rangy, well-built, and, according to the mademoiselles, very good looking. The French were always remarking on the healthy complexions and the excellent teeth of the Americans.

The men of the AEF were always amazed at the sheer muscular strength of the French soldiers. Doughboys would stand amazed while watching the shorter, more squat French soldiers march by with their great, heavy overcoats on, carrying their jumble of accoutrements on their backs in the form of pots and pans, a large pack, extra hobnailed shoes, his Adrian-style helmet perched jauntily on his head, his `pinard’ bottle, and the ubiquitous pipe stuck in his mouth. The doughboys didn’t envy the poilu carrying his long, heavy Lebel rifle with the needle-like “Rosalie” bayonet. Through all of this, the doughboy always commented that, through his thick moustaches and beard, the poilu (poil means hair) of France almost always had a smile and a greeting for the Americans. It was constantly remarked by the Americans that the French marching gait was short and choppy, so that the soldier wouldn’t topple over because of his offset center of gravity. The poilu wore a long coat, and when he was marching he buttoned back the front flaps to make room for his legs, so when the Americans saw that, they knew he was on the march. If his face was set grimly, they knew he was going to say: “Nous les aurons,” that is: We’ll have them, we’ll get them.”

Infantrymen shouldered heavy burdens during the First World War. It is a well-known fact that the optimum weight for a man to carry is one third of his own weight. The French infantryman’s load was as much as eighty-five pounds, an awesome figure no matter how well it may be distributed. No matter that he was decidedly overburdened–he carried this load everyplace that he went. Henri Barbusse described the pack as ‘monumental and crushing’: it contained not only all the regulation items, but also a man’s little treasures and comforts – tins of fruit, chocolate, candles, and so on. The regulation items comprised of: two blankets rolled up in a groundsheet, a spare pair of boots, a sheepskin or quilted coat, a shovel or pair of heavy wire-clippers, a mess-tin and a large pail for rations, two liters of wine, two quarts of water, food for four days, 200 cartridges for his Lebel rifle, six hand grenades and a gas mask, as well as assorted clothes and personal belongings. The whole lot was carried in a ‘bazaar’ or more often the ‘bordello’. The knapsack itself was referred to as ‘Azor’, the French equivalent of ‘Fido’, because at the beginning of the war it was made of dogskin.

The Americans had a saying that the French soldier “could march all night and fight all day.” The Americans also remarked that they would probably desert their own army if they were forced to carry the enormous load of the French soldiery, which, in the words of the AEF, “was only fit for a mule.” The Americans stood in absolute awe of the indefatigable, seemingly tireless French soldier. They also had a saying that the French Army would not fight any more because it had worn itself to a frazzle carrying those enormous loads all over France for four long years.

Of the two soldiers, the Frenchman was evidently the more physically powerful man, despite his shorter stature. The average French soldier was from the countryside, was an ex-farmer, and one who did not have the advantage of power-machines on the farm. Every iota of the hard work he did was by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his back. This all added up to a physically strong soldier.

The French populace was astounded at the capacity of the seemingly ever-hungry Americans to devour food. The already impoverished French had a very difficult time feeding themselves properly, let alone the always ravenously hungry American soldiers. French meals are (even today) much smaller than what the average American is used to. This was also true in 1918.

American doughboys were heartily weary of the unimaginative and barely digestible food served by army cooks. Their diet usually consisted of beans, “Canned Willy” (Argentine beef that was already rancid when it was processed), hardtack biscuits and/or French bread, and an evil concoction called “slum.” The hardtack and the bread were both so hard that one practically had to stomp on it to break it up. The Americans felt that their cooks were stuck in time, someplace between the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.

When the Americans came into town, they would order gigantic omelets made of dozens of “oofs” and have the French women cook whatever else was at hand. They would literally eat a town out of food, and then go scrounging around the local countryside for more eggs, ducks, chickens, pigs, vegetables, anything that could be boiled, baked, barbecued, or eaten raw. And they would pay some absolutely outrageous prices for all of what they ate. Big men have equally big appetites. The AEF is still remembered in France as being an army of the heartiest eaters the French had ever encountered.

There was something different about the soldiers the Americans sent abroad under Pershing in that AEF. Such soldiers, perhaps, were never seen before, and have certainly never been seen since. They sang. They laughed a great deal. They believed in themselves, their country, their way. They were young, confident and open; to the Europeans it seemed like they were indeed godlike, untouched, sure of the sacredness of their mission, which was to give the world a new order and make the world clean and right. Their sons, the ‘G. I.’ of world War Two, were comparatively somber, very quiet, did not sing, and had very much of an “Oh, God, here we go again” attitude. After all, their fathers had told them about the futility of the First World War, and urged them “not to join the army.”

The doughboys of the AEF did not have to show their hatchets or put on their war bonnets to prove that the were indeed a race of born and bred warrior-giants; they proved all of that and more on the battlefields of France. They are now just about all into that Valhalla reserved for them. Most of them are still shouting — “Lets Go!” or “When do we eat?”- the two favorite cries of the inimitable doughboys of the AEF. And, they are surely asking one another the inimitable question of, “What outfit, buddy?” God bless them all, wherever they are now. And, wherever they are now, the `doughboy’ and the French poilu probably have their arms around each others shoulders as they march along in eternal camaraderie, each probably singing some bawdy verse of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres,’ or ‘Hinky-dinky, parlay-voos.’

About the author:

David Homsher, a veteran of U.S. Army service during the Korean War, and now retired, is a historian/author of and about the American soldier of World War I and his battlefields. Dave has traveled extensively over many of the battlegrounds of both World Wars and he is has written and published the first of a series of guidebooks to the American battlefields of the World War I in France and Belgium.

Copyright April 2007 by David Homsher.
Battleground Productions
85 Tilton Avenue, # 4,
PO Box 624
San Mateo, California, 94401 USA
Website: http://www.battlegroundpro.com

Expressions of time are often used to reflect pending deadlines. “It’s almost the twelfth hour” or “It’s almost midnight,” both meaning that time is running out. Sadly, when we apply these metaphors to the few living veterans of World War I we realize that it is very close to the final tolling of the clock referring to the little time these few very old soldiers have left on earth. It will not be very long before we read in newspapers and other media that the “Last American World War One Veteran is Dead”

Veterans of World War One, Inc., the congressionally chartered American World War I veterans organization in America, reported in the final edition (Jan 2000) of their newspaper, The Torch, that as of 1 January 2000 there were 1,179 living American veterans of World War I. The U. S Department of Veterans Affairs estimated in September 2004 that only 100 World War I veterans remained alive. At this date of writing it is reported that a total of 37 veterans of World War I are still living (of the 65 million men mobilized by all of the belligerents) worldwide, and that five of them are American veterans. It will be only a few years from now when we will see a newspaper headline reading “LAST AMERICAN WORLD WAR ONE VET DIES.” Even as this article is being written there are more and more frequent The last veteran of our past wars died at the following ages: War of American Independence - 109; War of 1812 - 105; Mexican War - 98; Union and Confederate veterans of the American Civil War at the ages of 109 and 112, respectively; Spanish/American War - 106; Indian Wars - 101. The average age at death for the last veteran of all of America’s past wars was 105 years.

The average age of our soldiers, sailors and marines of 1917-1918 is now 107 years of age and they are “going West” at the alarming rate. All of them live in nursing homes and require constant care. To use a metaphor–the last dry, aged leaf is about to fall from what was once a full tree. In a few more years they will all have “gone West.”

The boys in olive drab, navy blue and forest green are now but a token handful of very old men, full of sentiment, reflecting back on full lives that will remain alive forever through the stories they have shared with us. When the last of that grand generation of men has gone on to join his comrades it will be like a light beacon going out. However, the light will remain shining through our remembrance of these brave men.

We see them today, in faded sepia-toned photographs, with their high-crowned felt hats, their spiral puttees and high-collared wool tunics. The songs they sang, “Over There,” “Good Morning, Mr. Zip-Zip,” “K-K-K Katy,”– the weapons they used, the bolt-action 30/06 Springfield repeating rifle, the Model 1917 Enfield rifle– their very concept of the world of 1917-1918—are nothing more than idle curiosities to most of us today.

The Great War, as it was initially known, was indeed global, involving twenty countries on five continents. Today, among most Americans, the war is only vaguely recalled, a misty promontory obscured by a war that preceded it and the one that followed it, the Civil War and World War II. In surviving images it has something to do with poppies, ghostly figures in gas masks, a rousing tune, “Over There,” and a fading photograph in an album of an unbelievably young grandfather or great-grandfather wearing a doughboy’s tin helmet and a collar that appears to have been choking him.

It took a special type of man to fight in World War I, and many of the soldiers did so voluntarily. Some did not go voluntarily—72 percent of the AEF was composed of draftees. During the war almost three million men were denied any choice about service in the armed forces of the United States; they were simply drafted at their numbers came up. At the time of the Armistice in 1918 there were almost five million American men under arms both at home and overseas.

Many historians have said that you probably would not be able to get succeeding generations of young men to fight such an abysmal war again. It was a war considered to have been without equal for the sheer brutality inflicted on the soldiers who were fighting in a comparatively confined area for four long years. The majority of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF) arrived in France late in the war and conducted large scale military operations only from September to November of 1918. Fortunately, they did not have to get involved in the war of the trenches which had gone on for over three long years, and which killed off an entire generation of their Allies, the French and British—the American war was fought out in the open.

The American soldiers poured into the ports of France during 1917 and 1918. The American Expeditionary Force arrived with a determination to show the world that they were better than any soldiers that Europe had ever produced, and this definitely included the Germans.

They were from all parts of America and were of the most varied origins. The AEF is recorded as having spoken and written about fifty different languages! Most of our immigrant soldiers could barely speak English! The AEF, like all armies, spoke its own language, and with great fluency. It was a mixture of certain linguistic spices and savors that gave their speech a certain pungency, including references, on many occasions, to definite illegitimacy and canine ancestry on the part of the “Boches”(Germans) as well as numerous colorful Anglo-Saxon monosyllables of their own.

The average American soldier was not the introspective Russian novelist that certain war fiction would have us to believe. He appears not to have been concerned at all about the status of his soul, nor the many and muddled causes that had dragged him out of an Alabama back-lot or from a New York City push-cart to make the world safe for anything in particular. Certainly his primary, and frequently his only, questions in regard to the murderous trade to which he found himself apprenticed were:

(a) “When do we eat?”
(b) “Where do we go from here?”
(c) “What outfit, buddy?”

They were poorly trained, ill equipped, and had to rely upon the French and the English for all of their artillery, tanks, horses, and for a large part of their food, but even these handicaps did little to stifle their spirit and their enthusiasm. The Americans were young, healthy, always clean-shaven, and of a different appearance and demeanor than the Europeans, and they radiated confidence in themselves.

And, according to the unanimous testimony of experts, psychologists, psychiatrists, ministers of religion, social workers and all of the earnest men and women who were associated with it and studied it, the American Army in France was at once the sanest, the soberest and the least criminal body of men ever gathered together as any army in human history. The French civilians and soldiers alike, and not upon affection and prejudice in its behalf, felt similarly about the AEF.

They made themselves at home in France and established a reputation with and among the French people as having been kindly, happy, very ingenious, and very helpful to everyone. They somehow hurdled the language barriers and made friends with the peasant family with whom they were billeted and with every child that was within reaching distance.

They came, roughly two million of them, infantrymen, artillerymen, machine-gunners, railroad men, loggers, engineers, mechanics, and constructors, and almost overnight they changed the face of France. Nothing astonished them and nothing was regarded as an insurmountable obstacle. Mishaps and mistakes there were but the lessons were quickly learned.

The AEF was initially a little bit unsure of itself before it was put to the test on the field of battle. They were prematurely thrown onto the battlefields during the extreme crisis period of the war in mid-1918, when the morale of the Allies had sagged to an all-time low, and when the Germans were on a spree of victories and came very close to winning the war. At one point Paris was but 40 kilometers away from the German front lines and was almost theirs for the taking, and might have been except for American intervention at Chateau-Thierry, northwest of Chateau-Thierry, at Belleau Wood and along the Marne River.

The Americans showed the utmost of resolve, determination, and frequently recklessness on the battlefield. It was this last factor that accounted for most of the proportionately high casualty rate of the AEF, and which greatly saddened the soldiers when the final tally was made of 53,500 of their “buddies” killed in action. They knew that Death had enlisted (or been drafted, as the case may be) with them, but of course they felt only an impersonal interest in the matter. Every infantryman and cannoneer knew that somebody would be mustered out. But each one knew that he would not be the one. The psychology of battles is that somebody else’s widow is going to collect the insurance.

The assistance of the Americans at this time was of incalculable value. It is admitted now by just about all historians that, although the Americans did not physically win the war, they did provide the boost in Allied morale which enabled the Entente to surge forward to final victory in 1918.

When asked if they could capture Cantigny, the Americans said they could, and they did. The same applied to Belleau Wood, Blanc Mont ridge, the St.Mihiel salient, and to the Argonne forest. The most experienced and hardened French cried, Rien les arreste—“Nothing stops them! Nothing stops them!”

The deeds of the old AEF on the field of battle are of such brilliant stature that they will ever be remembered by our sister country, La Belle France, and wondered at by every generation that has succeeded that of those who went to France to “make the world safe for democracy.”

Some years ago, and in cities and towns all across America, a few aged World War vets would gather together for monthly meetings and pot-luck lunches of their “Last Man Clubs.” These meetings are now extinguished as their membership, originally begun in the 1920’s and 30’s with some 40 to 50 vets, dwindled down to nothing. There were stories appearing in newspapers all over America relating to the passing of final members belonging to the “Last Man Clubs” composed of veterans of “the war to end all wars.” At their final meetings there would be only one or two very old and frail veterans still `present and accounted for’ when the final roll was called. Now there are not enough doughboy veterans left alive to form an infantry squad.

The old soldier’s knurled and trembling fingers would gingerly caress the aged bottle of French wine which was bought by all when their club was formed, as it now represents his buddies who have already answered their final roll call. The once new wine is supposed to be opened by the sole survivor of their club at which time a toast will be drunk to those ex-soldiers of the AEF who have already gone over the horizon into history. The wine has by now probably been turned into vinegar by the passage of time. None the less, the bottle is still looked upon fondly by the rheumy eyes of a very old man.

What does the ancient soldier see in the glass of the bottle–the faces of the men who went with him into Belleau Wood or into the Argonne Forest? Whatever he sees and feels it is enough to cause a tear or two to course down his wrinkled cheeks. A little later he will slowly smile, for he is no longer saddened by the thought that very soon they will all be together once again on some distant field. From the shadow of his memory comes the sound of distant battlefields, the crash of cannon, crack of rifles, the rattle of machine guns. Now comes the sound of voices from men on that battleground, calling to him. The now fragile man will become young and strong as he once was, and will take his place in the long ranks, look to the right and left at his buddies of yesteryear, smile happily to himself and reply with a loud and clear “here” when his name is called.

The American Expeditionary Forces of World War I will now all be gathered together in the Valhalla of heroes. The last survivor of a magnificent generation will have left us forever in body but never in spirit. The memory of the AEF of 1917-1918 who went to France will remain with us. They will know that we care and that their service and sacrifice is remembered by those for whom they fought.

So, in the very early years of the 1920’s, and when the last Doughboy was returned from occupation duty in Germany and mustered out of the service, the AEF ceased to exist and its history was brought to a close. But the deep feeling of loyalty and comradeship, strengthened through long months of deprivation and cemented continually by memories of hardships and dangers shared, can never be “mustered out” as long as one of AEF veterans still lives.

About the author:

David Homsher, a veteran of U.S. Army service during the Korean War, and now retired, is a historian/author of and about the American soldier of World War I and his battlefields. Dave has traveled extensively over many of the battlegrounds of both World Wars and he is has written and published the first of a series of guidebooks to the American battlefields of the World War I in France and Belgium.

Copyright April 2007 by David Homsher.
Battleground Productions
85 Tilton Avenue, # 4,
PO Box 624
San Mateo, California 94401, USA
Website: http://www.battlegroundpro.com

President Olusegun Obasanjo on Tuesday advised African military officers who seek public office to drop their uniforms and contest elections.
The President gave the advice while addressing members of the ECOWAS Committee of Experts on Peace and Security at State House in Abuja.

The committee comprises all Chiefs of Defence Staff of ECOWAS member-countries.

Obasanjo offered the suggestion to ward off further military coups in the continent.

”If you have worn the military uniform and desire to participate in politics, you can drop the uniform and contest for office”, he said.

Africa would no longer accept people with ”gun in hand and in uniform, shooting themselves into office. Gone forever are the days when someone in uniform hopes to use it as a stepping-stone to political office”, he further advised.

He said West Africa was experiencing a period of ”vibrant democracy”, with two nations, Mali and Nigeria, holding elections this month, while Senegal‘s newly elected leader was inaugurated last week.

The President thanked the Committee for their role in the sustenance of democracy, through the maintenance of peace, security and stability in their nations.

Obasanjo spoke with the military top brass in Abuja

Emmanuel Ayomide Praise is a world leading internet entreprenuer and investor. Some of his areas of interest include sport management,merchandise,ownership,internet entreprenuership,investments, media and writing amongst others.
Business URL: http://www.emmapraise.blogspot.com,

http://www.nigeriasoccer.blogspot.com,

In 1898, elites within the United States government falsely accused Spain of blowing up the USS Maine in order to stoke the American people into a flag-waving frenzy that resulted in the Spanish-American War.

Death of the Spanish Empire

The Spanish Empire was the first truly global empire, reaching its territorial height in the late 1700s.

As evidence of Spain’s once vast footprint, the Spanish language is still the 3rd most spoken language in the world. (Even if you don’t think you speak Spanish, you probably know some Spanish words: Can you say tornado? Bonanza? Patio? Quesadilla? Enchilada? Taco grande supreme?)

But nothing lasts forever, and like every empire since the beginning of time (save the USA, which is still young…) Spain’s status as the world’s greatest power was not to last.

By 1898, Spain was regularly losing territories. Although Spain still ruled Cuba, it, too, was becoming increasingly hard to control, and a minor revolution had broken out. This wasn’t welcome news to people in the United States who owned Cuban sugar, tobacco, and iron industry properties valued at over $50 million (which was a chunk of change in the 1890s!)

The mainstream media, then dominated by newspaper magnates Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst, exaggerated—and outright fabricated—stories of horrible conditions under Spanish rule.

Following the age-old maxim, “If it bleeds, it leads,” the newspapers published stories about Spanish death camps, Spanish cannibalism, and inhumane torture. Americans ate it up and asked for more gravy.

So the newspapers sent more reporters to Cuba.

When they got there, however, the reporters found a different story. Artist and correspondent Frederick Remington even wrote back to Hearst, “There is no war. Request to be recalled.” Hearst’s famous reply: “Please remain. You furnish the pictures, I’ll furnish the war.”

And he did. His newspaper, continually screaming how Spanish Cuba was going to hell in a handbasket, convinced big business interests in the U.S. to put pressure on anti-war President William McKinley to protect their Cuban investments.

McKinley, in response, sent the USS Maine battleship to Havana Harbor as a calming show of force.

Instead, the battleship exploded…

USS Maine Explodes in Havana Harbor

Three weeks after arriving, on the night of February 15, 1898, the USS Maine exploded.

There are two theories for the explosion: Some believe the explosion was caused by an external mine that detonated the ship’s ammunition magazines. Others say it was caused by a spontaneous coal bunker fire that reached the ammunition magazines. Currently, the evidence seems to favor the external mine theory.

One thing, however, is almost certain: if the explosion was caused by a mine, it wasn’t planted by Spain.

Nevertheless, the explosion killed 266 men. Without waiting on an investigation, America’s mainstream media blamed the tragedy on Spain and beat the drums for war. By April, McKinley yielded to public pressure and signed a congressional resolution declaring war on Spain.

Wars and Taxes

To help pay for the Spanish-American War, congress enacted a “temporary” tax of 3 percent on long-distance telephone bills. This was essentially a tax on the rich, as only about 1,300 Americans owned phones in 1898.

Although the Spanish-American War ended in 1898, the temporary tax was only abolished in…2005.

Over its lifetime, the 107-year-old tax generated almost $94 billion—more than 230 times the cost of the Spanish-American War.

The Birth of an American Empire

The Spanish-American War put a large nail in the coffin of Spain’s global empire. And by the end of 1898, the United States, which was founded in opposition to imperialism, found itself in control not only of Cuba, but of the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Hawaiian Islands as well.

Not a bad catch for one second-class battleship.

Copyright©2007 Joe Crubaugh

Joe Crubaugh is a freelance writer whose psyche is often absorbed with current events, politics, art, culture, society, and the creamy bitterness of a steaming cup of white chocolate mocha. He is the author of numerous personal emails, and on most days he blogs at Hard-boiled Dreams of the World. When he’s not writing, Joe spends weekdays masquerading as a software consultant in an undisclosed Southeastern U.S. state.

The Honorable Artillery Company is the oldest regiment in England and, some say, the world.

There is no clear understanding of the earliest origins. The earliest known primary record is dated August 25th 1537 and this documents the granting, by King Henry VIII, of a Charter of Incorporation to the Guild or Fraternity of Saint George, a Guild of Archers and Handgunmen. This group eventually become known as the Honorable Artillery Company. The wording of the charter is such that it could be inferred either that the Guild had been established earlier or that a new Guild was to be established using other groups of archers ready for incorporation in to a new body.

There is some evidence in The King’s Roll of Payments in 1509 and 1515 of disbursements to the Fraternity of Saint George’s Guild and this leads to the likely conclusion that the Company’s origins can be traced back to the 15th century. Those seeking earlier origins should look to Highmore who, writing in 1804, describes how the London Auxiliaries (”from whom in subsequent periods the Artillery Company took their rise”) marched with King Alfred in the year 883 to dislodge the Danes from the town of Hertford.

Following the grant of the Charter, the Fraternity of Artillery and Gunners of the Tower leased land (in 1537) in the Teasel Ground (or Old Artillery Garden) off Bishopsgate. This enclosure which was used for training was supposed to be the site of the old Roman ” Campus Martius”. There are many accounts of large groups of archers meeting in the surrounding area - archery was a popular leisure activity at that as well as an important military activity. There is a map by Ralph Agas, circa 1560-70, showing the old Artillery Garden. The conflicting activities of the Gunners and the Artillery Company eventually led to the move to new headquarters in Finsbury.

Bibliography Raikes, G.A. - History of the Honorable Artillery Company (Richard Bentley 1876) Goold Walker, G - The Honorable Artillery Company (John Lane The Bodley Head 1926) For a selection of historical prints visits the author’s web site thebookbay

US and coalition military forces in Iraq and Afghanistan are employing high power laser pointers as means of non lethal deterrent and saving lives. High power laser pointers though are a new form of technology and are not yet standard military issue. Due to their immense value in combat situations, military personnel and their families are regularly buying high power laser pointers at their own expense.

Sergeant Maiolo of the OIF 3 is one of many military personal who privately purchased a high power laser pointer.

“I am deployed at Baghdad in OIF 3. I recently showed this laser product to the platoon leader and both of us came up with many possible uses for this military device…. This is a great alternative to tracer fire to direct troops or a great way to paint a target; also a great intimidation to our enemies overseas…We were thinking of ordering one for each platoon in our company. ” Sgt. David Maiolo

In a recent response to the value of laser pointers as means of non lethal deterrent and saving lives, the US army Rapid Equipping Force (REF) at Fort Belvoir Va has expedited the shipment of 2000 laser pointers to soldiers in Baghdad, Iraq.

In terms of their use, a common dilemma often faced by soldiers deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan is how to warn/deter suspicious or aggressively driven vehicles that are approaching their checkpoint or convoy operations with out using potentially lethal force. This is particularly a problem during night operations when identification is more difficult. Laser pointers have been especially useful in this regard as a means of non lethal deterrent.

“The system was very effective in stopping oncoming traffic and personnel,” – Spec. Loren active duty Iraq

The use of laser pointers in combat zones is not just limited to fixed positions and vehicles. Military personnel out on patrol or in the field have also used laser pointers as a non lethal means of deterrent. This use is clearly illustrated from a soldiers records of a Baghdad night patrol on Route Michigan.

“Hey!” the lieutenant shouted, shining a green laser pointer at a group of men, walking into the road from an alley 50-75 yards away. They scattered.”

The importance of laser pointers in saving lives is also acknowledged by the Department of Defence (DOF). “When you consider the alternative which is a bullet, I honestly believe we can use [lasers]; we can use them effectively. We can use them in ways that don’t necessarily even, quote, unquote, “light up” the individual, but provide a marker so individuals realize they are approaching a danger point. And we will do everything possible to inform the Iraqi people of their use, so when they see them, they react appropriately.” – Lieutenant General (LTG) Pete Chiarelli

These high powered laser pointers are commercially available and are normally purchased by military personnel and their families online. In situations when lives are at stake, it is essential for the laser pointer to be effective. An effective laser pointer should be high power (at least 75mW), high quality components and have out standing beam specifications. Lives could easily be lost if poor quality, low power shoddy laser pointers were used.

Article provided courtesy of http://www.dragonlasers.com, an online retailer of high power laser pointers.

The United States Marine Corps Silent Drill Team is officially known as The Silent Drill Platoon. They are part of Company A, Marine Barracks, which provides support for Joint Service Commitments at the Pentagon. In addition they also perform at Ceremonies and Parades around Washington DC, as well as provide support for the Sunset parade on Tuesday Evenings at the Marine Corps War Memorial as well as The Evening Parade on Friday Evenings at The Barracks. They hail from Marine Barracks, Washington DC, also known affectionately as 8th and I, The Oldest Post In The Corps.

The Marine Corps was founded at Tuns’ Tavern outside Philadelphia in 1775, but it was not until 1948 that The Silent Drill Platoon first exhibited their rifle and drill expertise. Without any verbal commands, their performance was so exemplary, that it soon became part and parcel to many parades and ceremonies throughout Washington, DC.

A Minimum of Thirty-Nine Marines are chosen from the ranks of enlisted Marines at Infantry Training School to serve in The Silent Drill Platoon, and normally serve a two year tour. In addition the Rifle Inspectors are chosen out of their ranks and it is only them that the secrets are handed down to the next Platoon Rifle Inspectors in manner and tradition accustomed to the Corps .

The Marines use a 10 1/2 pound fully functional M1 Garand Rifle with Fixed Bayonet. In addition to no verbal commands given, this precision USMC silent drill team ends each performance with an inspection routine that will marvel your mind with how it is done. For this portion the bayonets get holstered.

The Silent Drill Platoon performs regularly on Friday evenings during the summer at 8th and I, in Washington DC. While affectionately known as “The Silent Drill Team”, it is actually a Misnomer, as their Official title is The Silent Drill Platoon. Marines know the difference between the two titles, so if you’re looking to impress a Marine, use Silent Drill Platoon instead of Silent Drill Team.

As a former Marine, (Once a Marine, always a Marine), I have been witness to this most professional performance and can only say if you have not seen it, you owe it to yourself to view this once in a lifetime example of what discipline and precision mean when one is a United States Marine. The history and pride in the corps demonstrated by these young marines show the patriotism many feel when viewing this performance.

Author Joseph Ranos is the President of http://www.ALLSalesByOwner.com In addition to expertise in Real Estate, particularly the For Sale By Owner trends, he is a Former United States Marine who regularly keeps up on current and past Marine Corps items of interest such as manuals, Marine Corps Silent Drill Team, and compilation of numerous resources into data CD’s.

You can learn about his Marine Corps compilations at http://silentdrillteam.allsalesbyowner.com as well as inquire about his DVD of The Silent Drill Platoon Battle Color Ceremony. It is his hope you found this information helpful, and we hope you search out his other articles as well.

The U.S. soldier was burned in effigy during an anti war rally in Portland Oregon on March 18, 2007.

Since that day some left wingers have distanced themselves from the factions that put on the burn and right wingers have done a bit of burning up the blogs and airwaves themselves with comments and analysis marked with anger, disappointment and disgust.

What has been harder to find is reaction from U.S. Servicemen and any calls for an apology to them on any level. We can only wonder about the pain and feeling of betrayal they must have felt at seeing or hearing of this display. The remarks are trickling into the military blogs now and it is apparent that the Portland debauch has done little to help with morale.

I can say without doubt that even as only one single and not very important citizen of this country that I speak for millions. There are millions just like me whose names I do not know who would offer a sincere apology to all servicemen of the United States.

The apology would go first to every slain soldier from George Washington’s Continental Armies to the U.S. soldiers of any conflict around the globe that have paid the ultimate sacrifice up to this very day and time.

Secondly it would cover every soldier of every rank from the Chiefs of Staff to the ordinary G.I. It would include Army, U.S. Sailors, Marines, Coastguardsmen, Air Force, National Guard, and Special Ops.

The apology would have to include my late father who dodged Nazi bullets in the Battle of the Bulge. It would include my oldest brother who often returned to his base with his Cobra helicopter riddled full of holes in the Vietnam War.

As a preacher of the gospel I have always been amazed that as I read the New Testament over and over again year by year that one thing stood out. Jesus never commended anyone openly for just about anything. All too often they would pose questions or speak of their own religious beliefs so as to trick him or boast about their solid lifestyle or religious practices. He rebuked some and ignored others but he never commended them. He left no reason to wonder why the Apostle John penned these words concerning Jesus, “And (he) needed not that any should testify of man: for he knew what was in man.” John 2:25

But wait! One person alone was highly commended by Jesus for his outstanding faith. The exemplary faith Jesus commended was found in guess whom? You guessed it, a soldier.

Perhaps a soldier will always be the best example of faith until the end of time. It takes faith in something bigger than you to even consider being a soldier. Be it God, country, family what’s right or whatever it is. Called by any other name it is after all, the right stuff.

The story is that A Roman soldier sent to Jesus to ask him if he would come to his house and heal his servant. Upon arrival at the soldiers house Jesus was told that he need not even enter the house. If he would just say a word the servant would be healed. The soldier needed no signs and wonders no sideshow or emotional outburst just a word. The soldier knew the meaning of the word authority, as a soldier it obviously goes with the territory.

Jesus not only marveled at the soldier’s faith but remarked how he had never seen such faith in the whole nation of Israel. This commendation is the only one of its kind in the entire New Testament. Read it. Luke 7: 1-10

So what has this story got to do with an apology to U.S. Servicemen? First anyone who decides to wear the uniform of his own country and stand in defense of every person within its borders has got to be acting on at least two motivating principles. One is faith. It takes faith to place a life in a position where it may end so some one else’s life will not end or even be threatened.

The second is a principle embodied in the highest of all concepts according to Christ. It is explained best in a single verse from the Bible.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13

Everyone has heard the expression “blind faith” but what is spoken of here is not blind but fully cognizant faith. A soldier is always aware of the price he or she may have to pay for their choice to stand on the line between enemies and his own countrymen.

So we apologize to you who have decided to stand by faith where the rest of us will not even have to imagine going. Thank you for your faith in us and we want you to know of our faith in you regardless of protests, flaming effigies or any other display that a few discontented citizens may produce.

Rev Bresciani is the author of two Christian books one that is entirely on the second coming of Christ. He is a contributing columnist for several online news and commentary sites. His articles are read throughout the world. Please enjoy a visit to http://www.americanprophet.org