A Life Revisited
"Every day is Christmas"
Reflections by Joe Tedeschi on 87 years of a full and happy life
Remembering My Father—Veterans’ Day
I want to honor my father on this Veteran's Day. He served in the Navy in World War 1. This is a father I really did not know, and I guess I’ve always wanted desperately to know. Having lost him when I was seventeen, I have so little to hang on to that was really him. I have spent time trying to reconstruct my father’s life from his service record with the Navy during World War 1 and from the few letters and cards he wrote during that time.
My father enlisted in the US Navy on 12 April 1917 (22 going on 23). The US declared war on Germany on 5 April 1917. He “joined up” a week after war was declared. His service number was 199909. His service record reads:
My father enlisted in the US Navy on 12 April 1917 (22 going on 23). The US declared war on Germany on 5 April 1917. He “joined up” a week after war was declared. His service number was 199909. His service record reads:
Entered US Navy April 12, 1917 at Newport, RI as Seaman. Assigned to US Battleship New Hampshire. Transferred to oil tanker O.B. Jennings, Standard Oil Ship as a member of the Gunners Crew, which on 24 March 1918, on fourth trip was torpedoed by a German submarine and rammed by His Majesty’s Ship Man of War off the Isle of Wight in the English Channel. Was one of the crew picked up by the British Destroyer Garland. Was taken to the Victory Station at Portsmouth, England, and later transferred to the Bay Ridge Brooklyn Navy Yard and assigned to the Lake Harney at Montreal. Sailed to Rochefort, France, where ship was assigned to transportation service between Ireland, Wales, England and France. After serving for some time on this ship, was transferred to the USS Philippine transporting troops back to the US until date of discharge. Discharged from service Oct 20, 1919 at Newport, RI as Gunners Mate, Second Class.
In a very poignant letter to his sister after his rescue at sea, my father disclosed a side of him which I would have liked to have explored further. He concludes his letter:
“I have lots of letters to write tonight. I received quite a few letters yesterday and today (his mail was catching up to him), so you see I am feeling quite happy.”
I am thrilled even today as I write this to know of this point in time in my father’s life when he declared he was “quite happy.” How I wish I could have talked about it with him sometime, especially after my Vietnam experience, and we could have shared the same feelings. I, too, knew the joy of receiving overseas mail from home and how much it meant. In a post card from Paris, my father wrote to this same sister:
“Dear Sister, I am sending you this card because it looks so much like you. I thought you would like it.”
Again, this beautiful sentiment revealing a nature of my father I never saw. The picture on the reverse of the post card is classic beauty, and even today, I can see some of my Aunt Gina in it. My father concludes the short post card with:
“Every ship that’s making the last trip to France gets a leave in Paris, so that’s why I’m getting mine.” M.A. Tedeschi.
Once again, my curiosity of what’s not there. I have been to Paris numerous times. I wonder if my father and I visited the same places? This was his last voyage. How many voyages were there before this? What was it like ferrying US troops home after the war?
He must have had more experiences, more tales to relate. As a former professional soldier and military man, I would love to have learned the details first-hand from him. He never spoke to me about his war time experiences, and I rarely heard him talk to others about it either. I really regret this omission in my life and feel disappointed even today that I was denied this opportunity by his early death from cancer.
Brothers Worlds Apart in 1966
When the telegram informing my mother of the 4 October 1966 plane accident and my disposition arrived, other events were preoccupying her. The essential facts are that while I was crashing into a mountain in Vietnam, my brother was in the process of returning from Italy to the US with his new bride. At that time, my mother had been dealing with two very stressful situations. She had one son fighting in Vietnam and the older son in Italy courting and about to marry a girl she had never met. Trying to get my thirty-four-year-old brother hitched, my mother, along with my Uncle Tony, plotted to effect as close as was possible in 1966 an “arranged” marriage with a girl from their village, Fornelli, in the old country. Their plan worked, and Mike met and fell in love with Ersilia and asked her to marry him—and she accepted! However, the village priest was not about to bless this hasty marriage and allow my brother to take one of his village girls off to the US. After a lot of letter writing and scheming on how to accomplish the wedding civilly in Italy and have a church wedding back in the States, the village priest finally gave in and married them in Italy. After the marriage ceremony, my brother telephoned my mother with the happy news and said he would send her a telegram with the details of their arrival flight home into Logan Airport with his new bride. Now, I am in no position to judge, but I would say my mother’s focus on 6 October 1966 was on the news that her older son had just been married and was about to bring his new bride, whom she had never met, home from Italy to live in the US. My mother had several relatives and friends in her living room discussing the news of my brother’s marriage when the Western Union messenger rang the doorbell and handed her a telegram. I can only imagine the look on the Western Union messenger’s face as he passed the telegram to my mother, and she remarked, “Oh good. I’ve been expecting this. Thank you very much.” The messenger knew it was a telegram from the Department of Defense and that it usually meant sad news for the recipient, though if it had been a notification of death in combat, a US Army officer would have brought the news personally to the next of kin. (Although with the large number of deaths in Vietnam, I was told that even this courtesy was dispensed with at the height of the war.) The news of my being injured in the plane crash did not warrant direct notification, so delivery by Western Union messenger was proper and correct. The same was true for the notification provided to my wife Sue that was taking place just a few miles away. The Western Union messenger must have thought he had encountered the most callous mother in the world when my mother then put the telegram in her apron pocket without even reading it! Likely thinking it was the promised telegram from my brother, she could read the details of the flight home later. She was more interested at that point in returning to her friends in the living room and continuing the discussion of Mike’s marriage. It was only later when Sue called to inform Grammy of the plane crash and my injury that she finally took the telegram from her apron pocket and read it for the first time.
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Gigged by Cpt. Alexander Haig
In 2009, I carried on our over 40 year tradition of sharing snippets of my life with my friend Col. Bob Ray (Ret.) and his wife Peggy.
I know the shadows are lengthening when at the West Point Founders Day Dinner this past March (held at the Union League in downtown Philly), I turned out to be the “oldest grad” signed up to attend. As such, I had the “honor and privilege” of giving the traditional “old grad” speech. To balance it, tradition has the “youngest grad” give a follow up speech. Both speeches turned out well. The superintendent and the new football coach were in attendance.
I’d like to give you this old grad’s perspective on West Point looking back fifty-two years by using a couple of West Point stories as my crutch—one of them on the light side and one more serious. To tee up the first story, I want to tell you why I really accepted the honor to give the “old grad” speech this year. I accepted this honor because now, now, I finally have the chance to tell a very personal, up-front story, and it involves General Alexander M. Haig, Jr., the illustrious graduate of our alma mater whose storied accomplishments have been recognized by our West Point Society of Philadelphia with the prestigious annual Guardian of Liberty Award which bears his name. I’m certain you all know that General Haig was the US Secretary of State in 1981–1982 and the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe, from 1974–1979. It’s common knowledge that General Haig was the White House Chief of Staff in 1973–74 and the VCSA (Vice Chief of Staff of the Army) in 1973, but how many of you know that General Haig was the Company M-1 Tac Officer in 1953! Well, my story takes place in the fall of 1953, a Saturday morning in ranks inspection—one of my first as a plebe.
We did the open ranks thing, and in time, Captain Haig and the cadet platoon leader with pen and quill pad in hand made their way down the ranks toward me. Now, I had prepared very hard for this inspection, and I thought I was really ready—brass, shoes, belts, haircut, rifle, the whole works. Captain Haig did a left face and pivoted in front of me. My heart was pounding as I came to inspection arms and slid the bolt of my M-1 rifle open. Major Haig was very old school, and he gave me the top-of-the-head to the tip-of-the-toe thorough inspection, and I thought I had nailed it when he returned my rifle to me. I waited anxiously for him to pivot and move to the victim next to me. Instead, he turned to the cadet platoon leader and said, “This man is out of uniform. He has his cuff links on backwards. Let’s do a better job of teaching these plebes how to wear the cadet uniform.”
And there you have it! My moment of fame which I share with you. How many of you grads can claim to have been gigged by General Haig for wearing his cuff links backwards. Well, I can. . . that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!
Meeting a Classy Lady
Kitsy Westmoreland visiting a soldier in the hospital,
image from VietnamWarEra/tumblr.com
My second account was more serious.
My story concerns class rings and our cherished motto “Duty, Honor, Country.” I’ll be brief about setting this one up. The time was October 1966, and the place was the Clark Air Force Base [AFB] hospital in the Philippines. A week before, I had been in an airplane crash in Vietnam—the C-7 Caribou in which I was flying as a passenger along with thirty-two other people flew into the side of Hon Cong Mountain near An Khe during a blinding fog.
I was one of the fortunate survivors—I survived the crash with a broken hip and was being medevaced through channels with the first stop out of Vietnam being Clark AFB [in the Phillipines].
I had been placed in a spica body cast to immobilize the hip, and I relate this story from the perspective of being in that full, rigid, horizontal body cast, completely dependent on others for just about everything. I attempted to recall years later as much of what happened when we arrived at Clark in a short piece I wrote for our class’s 50th Anniversary Year Book, part of which was to collect the Vietnam experiences of our class. I would like to read this excerpt from that piece to you:
After landing at Clark Air Force Base, we were transported to a modern base hospital by a blue air force bus that accommodated our stretchers in the now familiar stack. No sharp memories about all this except the realization and recognition of the signs that we were now out of the battle zone, and everything, including the nurses’ uniforms, were back to normal white. The overall pace and outlook were clearly becoming “stateside” and away from the war zone. I was placed in a transient ward with about twenty other immobilized patients—the usual ten or so beds along each wall with an aisle in the middle.
I had been placed in the first bed along one of the walls. I can remember being visited by a nurse who did the usual check-in patient profile—temperature, pulse, blood pressure. I remember another set of X-rays being taken and added to my manila envelope. This last set was done by a portable X-ray device that was brought to my bed and the X-rays taken right there in the ward.
I was next visited by someone I thought was yet another nurse. This lady wore what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform dress but with an apron. She was pushing a wheeled cart with several metal wash bowls containing warm water. Since I was in the first bed, she started with me and asked if I wanted a bath. We had traveled for what seemed like all day, and I was tired and feeling somewhat travel weary—all this over and above the discomfort I was feeling in that body cast. It had been several days now since I was placed in the cast, and my body and skin beneath the cast were telling me how abnormal this situation really was.
I tried to make light of the situation and told the lady, passing my arm over the body cast, “Whatever is exposed of me, I would be grateful for a bath.”
The exposed parts of me outside the body cast were my head, shoulders, and arms, the two-by-two-inch square cut out on my chest, my left leg below my knee, and my right foot. The lady never hesitated and immediately took a washcloth, dipped it in the warm water, soaped it up, and began to wash the exposed upper part of my body. Even under these extraordinary circumstances, it is somewhat embarrassing and awkward to be washed by a stranger—and a woman. If I wondered what I was going to say or how I was going to feel, the lady put me completely at ease.
She immediately began to ask me questions as she washed me. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Where were you hurt? How were you hurt? Do you have family? Where are they?” Somewhere in the conversation, she mentioned she had noticed my West Point class ring and asked me what class I had been in. She told me her husband was a West Point graduate as well.
As she spoke, a flash thought went through my mind that this lady was the wife of a West Point graduate who went into the air force after graduation (you could select air force as a career choice back then). He must be stationed at Clark Air Force Base, and she was a Gray Lady volunteering her help with the Red Cross at the base hospital.
Then I asked her, “What is your husband’s name? I just might know him. Where is he stationed?”
The next two events happened almost simultaneously. As I asked the last two questions, my eyes glanced over at the little, rectangular metal name tag she had pinned to her apron. It said, “WESTMORELAND.” This incredible recognition was coming over me just as she was saying, “My name is Kitsy Westmoreland and my husband is General Westmoreland. He’s in Vietnam right now, although he was just here for a short visit and left last night.”
As the full recognition hit me, I blurted out, “Mrs. Westmoreland, you do me great honor!”
She replied, never stopping for a second giving me my “bath”, “No, no—you give me great honor.”
The remainder of my bath was spent trying to understand how the wife of the commanding general of US Forces in Vietnam, a four-star general in the US Army, was giving me a bath! In the most unpretentious and straightforward manner, Mrs. Westmoreland explained how she and her two children had tried living in several places while General Westmoreland served in Vietnam, but in these places, and particularly in their last location in Massachusetts, the harassment and ominous phone calls became too much for her, especially as it related to their children. The decision was then made to move the family to the Philippines and to be as close to her husband as she could. He was occasionally able to slip away from Vietnam to visit them, as he did just recently.
After finishing bathing this awe-struck major, Mrs. Westmoreland said she would return and talk to me some more, and then she proceeded to the next bed and asked its occupant whether he would like a bath. And that’s the way it went for the next hour or so before she finished her task and really did return and talk to me again. We talked for a few more minutes about families and West Point, and then she left me.
I had watched Kitsy Westmoreland go from bed to bed around that entire ward, and as best as I could observe, she had given a bath to every one of those twenty or so occupants. This was a mixed, transient ward I later found out. There were no rank or service differences on this ward—just hurting military men, wounded or injured in Vietnam. I remember there being officers and enlisted men—all races—soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen. This was a staging and decision point in the medical evacuation channels out of Vietnam. The seriously ill and wounded would be identified and sent directly home to the United States; the less seriously wounded and injured would be sent to Japan to one of two general hospitals there for treatment and surgery and possible return to Vietnam.
I was told by one of the nurses that Kitsy Westmoreland met this flight every day, and she greeted the wounded and injured coming out of Vietnam just as she did for me—with a warm smile and a bath. For the cynical reader, I want to say that this act was clearly much more than a token or symbolic gesture by the wife of the senior US military officer in Vietnam. This was very hard work that filled a real need providing comfort and relief to immobilized wounded and injured military men coming out of Vietnam. This was the act of a classy lady who matched her feelings and beliefs with actions and example. I doubt that most of the men she bathed and comforted ever knew her name or who she really was.
That ends the excerpt from my little written piece—and my story about Kitsy Westmoreland, a member of our West Point family. This story will not be found in the New York Times or the Washington Post, not in 1966 and not today. This story, however, is very important to me, and I wanted to share it with you because it says everything I want to say to you about Duty, Honor and Country—the motto engraved on the sides of our class rings—and how Kitsy Westmoreland lived it.
I was one of the fortunate survivors—I survived the crash with a broken hip and was being medevaced through channels with the first stop out of Vietnam being Clark AFB [in the Phillipines].
I had been placed in a spica body cast to immobilize the hip, and I relate this story from the perspective of being in that full, rigid, horizontal body cast, completely dependent on others for just about everything. I attempted to recall years later as much of what happened when we arrived at Clark in a short piece I wrote for our class’s 50th Anniversary Year Book, part of which was to collect the Vietnam experiences of our class. I would like to read this excerpt from that piece to you:
After landing at Clark Air Force Base, we were transported to a modern base hospital by a blue air force bus that accommodated our stretchers in the now familiar stack. No sharp memories about all this except the realization and recognition of the signs that we were now out of the battle zone, and everything, including the nurses’ uniforms, were back to normal white. The overall pace and outlook were clearly becoming “stateside” and away from the war zone. I was placed in a transient ward with about twenty other immobilized patients—the usual ten or so beds along each wall with an aisle in the middle.
I had been placed in the first bed along one of the walls. I can remember being visited by a nurse who did the usual check-in patient profile—temperature, pulse, blood pressure. I remember another set of X-rays being taken and added to my manila envelope. This last set was done by a portable X-ray device that was brought to my bed and the X-rays taken right there in the ward.
I was next visited by someone I thought was yet another nurse. This lady wore what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform dress but with an apron. She was pushing a wheeled cart with several metal wash bowls containing warm water. Since I was in the first bed, she started with me and asked if I wanted a bath. We had traveled for what seemed like all day, and I was tired and feeling somewhat travel weary—all this over and above the discomfort I was feeling in that body cast. It had been several days now since I was placed in the cast, and my body and skin beneath the cast were telling me how abnormal this situation really was.
I tried to make light of the situation and told the lady, passing my arm over the body cast, “Whatever is exposed of me, I would be grateful for a bath.”
The exposed parts of me outside the body cast were my head, shoulders, and arms, the two-by-two-inch square cut out on my chest, my left leg below my knee, and my right foot. The lady never hesitated and immediately took a washcloth, dipped it in the warm water, soaped it up, and began to wash the exposed upper part of my body. Even under these extraordinary circumstances, it is somewhat embarrassing and awkward to be washed by a stranger—and a woman. If I wondered what I was going to say or how I was going to feel, the lady put me completely at ease.
She immediately began to ask me questions as she washed me. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Where were you hurt? How were you hurt? Do you have family? Where are they?” Somewhere in the conversation, she mentioned she had noticed my West Point class ring and asked me what class I had been in. She told me her husband was a West Point graduate as well.
As she spoke, a flash thought went through my mind that this lady was the wife of a West Point graduate who went into the air force after graduation (you could select air force as a career choice back then). He must be stationed at Clark Air Force Base, and she was a Gray Lady volunteering her help with the Red Cross at the base hospital.
Then I asked her, “What is your husband’s name? I just might know him. Where is he stationed?”
The next two events happened almost simultaneously. As I asked the last two questions, my eyes glanced over at the little, rectangular metal name tag she had pinned to her apron. It said, “WESTMORELAND.” This incredible recognition was coming over me just as she was saying, “My name is Kitsy Westmoreland and my husband is General Westmoreland. He’s in Vietnam right now, although he was just here for a short visit and left last night.”
As the full recognition hit me, I blurted out, “Mrs. Westmoreland, you do me great honor!”
She replied, never stopping for a second giving me my “bath”, “No, no—you give me great honor.”
The remainder of my bath was spent trying to understand how the wife of the commanding general of US Forces in Vietnam, a four-star general in the US Army, was giving me a bath! In the most unpretentious and straightforward manner, Mrs. Westmoreland explained how she and her two children had tried living in several places while General Westmoreland served in Vietnam, but in these places, and particularly in their last location in Massachusetts, the harassment and ominous phone calls became too much for her, especially as it related to their children. The decision was then made to move the family to the Philippines and to be as close to her husband as she could. He was occasionally able to slip away from Vietnam to visit them, as he did just recently.
After finishing bathing this awe-struck major, Mrs. Westmoreland said she would return and talk to me some more, and then she proceeded to the next bed and asked its occupant whether he would like a bath. And that’s the way it went for the next hour or so before she finished her task and really did return and talk to me again. We talked for a few more minutes about families and West Point, and then she left me.
I had watched Kitsy Westmoreland go from bed to bed around that entire ward, and as best as I could observe, she had given a bath to every one of those twenty or so occupants. This was a mixed, transient ward I later found out. There were no rank or service differences on this ward—just hurting military men, wounded or injured in Vietnam. I remember there being officers and enlisted men—all races—soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen. This was a staging and decision point in the medical evacuation channels out of Vietnam. The seriously ill and wounded would be identified and sent directly home to the United States; the less seriously wounded and injured would be sent to Japan to one of two general hospitals there for treatment and surgery and possible return to Vietnam.
I was told by one of the nurses that Kitsy Westmoreland met this flight every day, and she greeted the wounded and injured coming out of Vietnam just as she did for me—with a warm smile and a bath. For the cynical reader, I want to say that this act was clearly much more than a token or symbolic gesture by the wife of the senior US military officer in Vietnam. This was very hard work that filled a real need providing comfort and relief to immobilized wounded and injured military men coming out of Vietnam. This was the act of a classy lady who matched her feelings and beliefs with actions and example. I doubt that most of the men she bathed and comforted ever knew her name or who she really was.
That ends the excerpt from my little written piece—and my story about Kitsy Westmoreland, a member of our West Point family. This story will not be found in the New York Times or the Washington Post, not in 1966 and not today. This story, however, is very important to me, and I wanted to share it with you because it says everything I want to say to you about Duty, Honor and Country—the motto engraved on the sides of our class rings—and how Kitsy Westmoreland lived it.
Kitsy Westmoreland Interview
(Click image to listen)
Post script: My editor, Shauna Perez, found a recording of Mrs. Westmoreland describing her life as a general’s wife in general and highlighting her cherished time at West Point. Mrs. Westmoreland told a very similar story to mine of a young man recognizing her and being surprised at how the "generals' wives" stayed busy when their husbands were deployed. I will give you some timestamps to find the parts of her interview intersecting with my experience.
“Kitsy Westmoreland on Service, Family, and the Army Life,” The West Point Center for Oral History, 1 October 2016. (Click picture to view full interview)
30:20 “My main work was the Red Cross”32:43 Mrs. Westmoreland describes her Red Cross work.
33:45 She describes the hospital she worked with while in Vietnam and setting up their guest house for additional 30 beds which was used for overflow after a bombing at the Rex Hotel sent many injured to the hospital. Then they went to Hawaii. Bought a house there, but then went and lived in the Philippines.
40:00 She describes life in the Philippines.40:30: “I worked in air-evac”
46:00 She tells about helping a soldier who said, “I always wondered what generals' wives did when their husbands were overseas.”47:10 “It made me feel more useful.” 52:20 Her best experience as an Army wife: “Being here [West Point].”
55:53 “I would say to the young wives, ‘Go get a job, quick…go get something that you like, to volunteer.'”
40:00 She describes life in the Philippines.40:30: “I worked in air-evac”
46:00 She tells about helping a soldier who said, “I always wondered what generals' wives did when their husbands were overseas.”47:10 “It made me feel more useful.” 52:20 Her best experience as an Army wife: “Being here [West Point].”
55:53 “I would say to the young wives, ‘Go get a job, quick…go get something that you like, to volunteer.'”
NBC Training at Armed Forces Staff College, Iran
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A Bazaar in Teheran
After a second trip to Norway, my third out-of-country trip with the British DNBC School took me to Iran as part of a “Combined Team” for training their forces. This was the first of two separate trips I made to Iran. I will document the extraordinary set of circumstances that placed me in Iran 1–10 June 1972 and two years later, 1 May to 15 June 1974. The purpose of both trips was to provide nuclear, biological, and chemical (NBC) training (now commonly phrased “weapons of mass destruction”) for the Iranian Armed Forces. The West was then friendly with the regime of the imperial Shah. The “Islamic Revolution” was to follow shortly thereafter.
In light of the chemical attacks that Saddam Hussein later used against the Iranian Armed Forces (IAF) and the civilian populace of his own country, these early attempts at training the IAF in NBC defense may prove to have some historical significance. The circumstances of my first visit to Iran were particularly interesting.
I was a US Army Exchange Officer with the British Defence NBC School, Winterbourne Gunner (near Salisbury in Wiltshire, England). The second visit was made almost exactly two years later when I led a US Army mobile training team to Iran for the same purpose. I met many of the same Iranian officials on the second trip as I did on the first trip. I’m sure there was some surprise and even a little confusion for the Iranians, because I made the first visit under British government auspices and the second trip under US auspices. On the first trip, I served as the “token American” on a four-man British team from the Defence NBC School, while on the second trip, I led of a five-man US team. Both trips offered fascinating learning experiences for me, both professionally as a US Army career chemical officer and as an individual learning about the Mideast and Muslim culture.
Toward the end of my two-year tour as an exchange officer with the British Army in England in 1972, a request was made by the Iranian National Defence University (NDU) Combined Team in Teheran (consisting of six 0-6 level officers—three British and three US—representing Army, Navy and Air Force services. This Combined Team was chartered in 1970 to advise the Imperial Iranian Armed Forces on a course curriculum that suited a modern armed force.(Note: Teheran was the spelling the British used, closer to its native pronunciation, so I will use it throughout instead of “Tehran”.) Directors [or Officials] recognized that the course curriculum had no portion covering NBC defense, and the team requested both the US and British governments to provide some assistance. After negotiation, the directors made the decision to send a British team, and the request was sent to the Defence NBC School (DNBCS). After some initial correspondence in March, the formal request came in April 1972. I quote below a portion of the letter from Colonel Pakenham-Walsh, the senior British member on the Combined Team to LTC David Owen at DNBCS. The letter outlined details of the visit, personalities to be encountered, country notes, etc.
I was a US Army Exchange Officer with the British Defence NBC School, Winterbourne Gunner (near Salisbury in Wiltshire, England). The second visit was made almost exactly two years later when I led a US Army mobile training team to Iran for the same purpose. I met many of the same Iranian officials on the second trip as I did on the first trip. I’m sure there was some surprise and even a little confusion for the Iranians, because I made the first visit under British government auspices and the second trip under US auspices. On the first trip, I served as the “token American” on a four-man British team from the Defence NBC School, while on the second trip, I led of a five-man US team. Both trips offered fascinating learning experiences for me, both professionally as a US Army career chemical officer and as an individual learning about the Mideast and Muslim culture.
Toward the end of my two-year tour as an exchange officer with the British Army in England in 1972, a request was made by the Iranian National Defence University (NDU) Combined Team in Teheran (consisting of six 0-6 level officers—three British and three US—representing Army, Navy and Air Force services. This Combined Team was chartered in 1970 to advise the Imperial Iranian Armed Forces on a course curriculum that suited a modern armed force.(Note: Teheran was the spelling the British used, closer to its native pronunciation, so I will use it throughout instead of “Tehran”.) Directors [or Officials] recognized that the course curriculum had no portion covering NBC defense, and the team requested both the US and British governments to provide some assistance. After negotiation, the directors made the decision to send a British team, and the request was sent to the Defence NBC School (DNBCS). After some initial correspondence in March, the formal request came in April 1972. I quote below a portion of the letter from Colonel Pakenham-Walsh, the senior British member on the Combined Team to LTC David Owen at DNBCS. The letter outlined details of the visit, personalities to be encountered, country notes, etc.
Combined Team was formed at the NDU in Aug 1970 under the sponsorship of General Djam, the former Chief of the Supreme Commanders Staff. The terms of reference the Team was to study the AFSC [Armed Forces Staff College] as it then existed and recommend changes to make the course more “joint.”
The first report of the Team was rejected by His Imperial Majesty, who then changed the terms of reference. Eventually the Team was cleared to rewrite the course, and the first of the new-style courses started in September 1971. The contract period for the Team [had] re-cently been extended from the original two years to four years, so British and American of-ficers are likely to be at the NDU until about September 1974. (From an official letter ex-plaining objectives and history of the partnership)
The first report of the Team was rejected by His Imperial Majesty, who then changed the terms of reference. Eventually the Team was cleared to rewrite the course, and the first of the new-style courses started in September 1971. The contract period for the Team [had] re-cently been extended from the original two years to four years, so British and American of-ficers are likely to be at the NDU until about September 1974. (From an official letter ex-plaining objectives and history of the partnership)
In the initial correspondence I was tapped as a member of the British team even though I was serving in an exchange officer capacity. I was likely included because British national policy for chemical and biological warfare was defensive only. The British had no offensive capability in this area. Accordingly, the British armed forces did not have a unique branch of officers which specialized in all phases of NBC Warfare as the US Army had in the Chemical Corps branch. All the members of the DNBCS staff (Army, Royal Navy, and Royal Air Force [RAF] Regiment) were “loaned” to the school, and none of them had any particular depth of understanding of the offensive dimension of this type of warfare. I believe my presence on the team gave it additional credibility.
Prior to the trip, the four team members put together a syllabus and rehearsed. It consisted of a general overview of NBC Defence and the things modern armed forces might do to provide defense and protection. No offensive aspects of NBC were included except what a potential enemy might do. Since the US then had offensive capability, I gave some credence when we talked potential offensive use.
My Papers for Passing Through Cyprus (below)
We traveled to Teheran by British RAF flight (VC-10) from Brize Norton to Nikosia, Cyprus, on 1 June (see my “papers” for entry into Cyprus). My memory is vague as to whether we spent the night there or immediately took off again for Beirut, Lebanon. I kept a diary of the trip, and my notes mention Akatiri in Cyprus and taking a bus from Akatiri to Nikosia for the flight to Beirut. Following, I pick up from my diary notes made during the trip (slightly edited):
2 June 1972
Flight from Nikosia to Beirut was uneventful except for the extreme caution being taken at both ends of the journey to search luggage, etc. Met at the airport (which was well guarded) by member of the British Embassy who had a car and lunch lined up for us. Took us to the Bristol Hotel. After a few drinks in the lounge, we took a long walk around Beirut. Saw the American University where Dave and Jill Page (friends from Iowa State University) had attended. A few more drinks at a below-the-pool bar, and back to the Bristol Hotel for a fine lunch. The whole place is filled with Americans!
Then, back to the airport, more searching of luggage, and another uneventful flight to Teheran. Came in at night (2110, Friday, 2 June, or in Farsi, the date 12 Khordad)—city looked beautiful all lit up. The Concorde was on the hard stand having just flown in from London (Brits were trying to sell one to the Shah).
After the meeting and greeting, we were driven to the Iranian Army Officers Club for accommodation. Saw a wedding party on the drive here—very interesting. All seem to be very tired after the long trip.
3 JuneUp very early—interesting but light breakfast. On to the college (NDU) after another hair-raising ride. (Note: driving in Teheran was a sporting event. No one seemed to pay any attention to traffic lights or signs! Our Iranian military driver drove wherever he wanted on the road, and it seemed his life and military career depended on getting us to our destination as fast as possible.) The traffic is indescribable.
Then, back to the airport, more searching of luggage, and another uneventful flight to Teheran. Came in at night (2110, Friday, 2 June, or in Farsi, the date 12 Khordad)—city looked beautiful all lit up. The Concorde was on the hard stand having just flown in from London (Brits were trying to sell one to the Shah).
After the meeting and greeting, we were driven to the Iranian Army Officers Club for accommodation. Saw a wedding party on the drive here—very interesting. All seem to be very tired after the long trip.
3 JuneUp very early—interesting but light breakfast. On to the college (NDU) after another hair-raising ride. (Note: driving in Teheran was a sporting event. No one seemed to pay any attention to traffic lights or signs! Our Iranian military driver drove wherever he wanted on the road, and it seemed his life and military career depended on getting us to our destination as fast as possible.) The traffic is indescribable.
Traffic in Teheran's Ferdowci Square
3 June 1972, Cont'dSpent the morning meeting and greeting people—coffee or tea whenever you meet each one. Met the Commandant of the combined schools which make up the National Defense University, the Chief of Staff, etc. Two South Korean officers on the school staff greeted me warmly. Then a full morning of talking to our interpreters, fooling around with lights, training aids, etc.
Back to the Officers’ Club for lunch—very good! Then some work on lesson plans, a nap. In evening, the team was invited to attend the Queen’s Birthday Party at the British Embassy. (Note: This [was hosted at] the same building where the Teheran Conference took place between Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin in 1943—very historic). Enjoyable affair. In the receiving line, things got confused with our team being assumed to be the pilots and crew of the Concorde! I noted two Chinese nationals at the party in their Mao boiler suits. Added note, May 2021:The receiving line was incredibly long and comprised of officials of all rank and position. There was a clear impetus to keep the line moving at a brisk pace. The interaction when it came to the handshake and introductions was very impersonal. Looking at this long line before we started, a member of the team, Tom Potts, turned to the team members and said this was his opportunity to try something he always wanted to do, and he started down the receiving line.
I was behind Tom going through the receiving line, and as Tom greeted each person, he said to them, “You have ketchup on your tie!” I was amazed that not one person in the whole line was phased by Tom’s remark, and each one just smiled, shook Tom’s hand and moved him on to the next person. Toward the end of the line, I thought I might try Tom’s “stunt,” but my courage failed me. However, I did resolve that I might try this myself someday under similar circumstances where I am sure no one is really interested in who I am.
Afterwards, a try to find a place to eat proved very frustrating—no one speaks English! Tom Potts found a place that served caviar (Leon’s). My first real taste of good caviar washed down with iced vodka. Had trouble getting back to the Officers’ Club by taxi and with the guards at the gate of the club.
4 June 1972Another early start (0600) and hair-raising ride to the NDU. Lectures started slowly (0700 to 1230)—usual problems with interpreters, foreign audience, etc. They are a most interesting audience—they hiss, go to sleep, come in late, and at times, can be quite rude, but we are told that this is quite normal.
I called LTC John Longstreet (US Army Chemical Officer assigned to embassy in Teheran) and made arrangements for dinner the next night. This was followed by the morning “break for breakfast,” then we finished up the lectures.
Left with Col. Cleaverly (Air Force, West Point Class of ’46) for his home. Had lunch while a rug appraiser looked over Col. Cleaverly’s latest acquisitions of rugs. Fascinating business which began my interest in the Iranian rug sub-culture. Lovely home, swimming pool, etc.
Then on to Capt. Bob Todd’s home to look at more rugs. He literally had a rug collection—thousands of dollars’ worth. Then on to look at a rug dealers’ shop—Sam and Eliajah’s. Saw some possibilities for me. Then back to the Officers’ Club.
Picked up the others and went shopping at a local department store—fantastic buys in brass, jewelry, chaffing dishes, etc. If only I had more money and room to bring all that I want back! Bought a few things.
Then back to Officers’ Club for official cocktail party for us. We are being treated very well (despite the fact that our personal belongings were looked over while we were away—standard practice for the intelligence agencies of all nations). Other Americans not invited—wonder why? Excellent food and drink—except that we kept drinking after the party. Ended up at the Park Hotel nearby. Good Italian piano player.
Must mention that during the cocktail party, the Shah’s room at the Officers’ Club (which is kept in readiness at all times) was opened for us to see. Saw the clothes he wore during assassination attempt with bullet holes still in them. Gorgeous room with an especially beautiful all-silk rug which covered the entire floor. The furniture and other trappings were all very impressive. My 15th year in the Army today!
5 June 1972Another very early start. I’m really hurting in the sleep department. Left with a very thick head but managed to get through the morning lectures (0700 to 1230). Thought the response was a little better this morning.
The usual hair-raising ride back to the Officers’ Club. Then another three-course, very delicious lunch—thick soup, huge omelet, followed by a steak! Fresh fruit for dessert. Then a quick nap; we have all been very tired.
Up to go to Col. Peckham-Walsh’s house for a swim and tea. Very nice house—very enjoyable. Left the party and took a taxi over to John and Ruth Longstreet’s house for supper. Fabulous house—big courtyard (11 times around made a mile!). House filled with rugs and brass. Fell in love with the Russian samovars Ruth had on display around the house (used to heat water for tea, continuing my interest in the Iranian sub-culture of all things brass and copper).
Two other American couples there—both on their way home. All have thoroughly enjoyed their stay in Iran but thought two years was enough. I think I can understand their feelings. One of the couples had just adopted an Iranian baby girl—big people. Most of the evening we talked brass and rugs. Ruth Longstreet caught my keen interest in Iranian rugs and volunteered to meet me the next day to buy a rug and some brass. Caught ride into town—very tired.
6 June 1972Another early start. I gave my biological warfare class first thing—seemed to go over all right. Then the three-day lecture tour wrap-up, question period, display of equipment, etc. The head general, Lt. Gen. Khanahzi, invited us to his office, where we had coffee and said good-byes.
Then I took off to meet Ruth Longstreet. We went shopping with her kids. Went to the brass store first. It was a sight to have gladdened [my wife] Sue’s heart. A whole shop full of gorgeous brass. I started at the samovars first—the store had a whole wall full of them, many of them Russian made which came in all shapes. (Note: I bought two samovars and later a rug with the kind help of Ruth). Finished the day with an evening buffet supper at Captain Brown’s home (Royal Navy).
7 June 1972Free day. Traveled by escort to see a dam in the north of Teheran. Shopped for rugs with LTC David Owen in the morning. In evening, dinner back at Leon’s—a Russian Jewish restaurant. Had caviar blintzes—very good! Also saw the Shah’s monument in the morning. The slide/movie orientation was interesting—very clever propaganda.
8 June 1972 (Thursday)Departed from the Officers’ Club to the airport for our flight to Beirut at 0810. A hectic time at the Teheran Airport. The Iranians never do anything simply—all must be accompanied by shouting and confusion.
Swiss Air flight—bad landing at Beirut. Gorgeous landscape scenery from the air. Short stay in Beirut. Finally got off after much searching of luggage, etc.
Arrived in Cyprus after short flight. RAF flight delayed until Saturday. (Today Thursday—I was informed by my British colleagues with tongue-in-cheek that all RAF flights to/from Cyprus automatically “break down” for a few days to visit this beautiful island!). Accommodation at the Episcopy Mess, Hqs. NEAF.
9 June 1972 (Friday)David Owen rented a car, and he and Tom Potts really showed me Cyprus. Tom Potts had been stationed in Cyprus when the Brits were trying to negotiate between the Turks and Greeks and was very knowledgeable of the island and its recent history. He said he was present in the room when they drew the infamous “green line” down the middle of the island to separate the Turks and Greeks.
We visited Nicosia, Limosol, Kyrenia, saw the “murder mile” (the Green Line), Greek and Turk quarters, then on to Kyrenia—a delicious lunch at the Harbour House. On to the Mare/Monte Hotel for a delightful swim. Looked at some old monasteries/churches in the area. Traveled the Turk-controlled road. Ended the day with dinner at a Greek restaurant. Had a meze—delicious.
9 June 1972 (Saturday)Flight from Akratiri to Brize Norton on RAF Brittania. Trouble with tire blowing out on take-off. I guess the breakdown for maintenance was a little sloppy, and they missed a worn tire!. Landed OK after having to fly over Brize Norton airfield with wheels down to assess the blown tire.
Delightful homecoming—showing the gifts to Sue and the girls. (Note: I hand-carried the rug which had been cleverly packed suitcase-size by the rug merchant.) Everything arrived OK despite the rough baggage handling. Gained 9 pounds!
(End of diary entries.)
Back to the Officers’ Club for lunch—very good! Then some work on lesson plans, a nap. In evening, the team was invited to attend the Queen’s Birthday Party at the British Embassy. (Note: This [was hosted at] the same building where the Teheran Conference took place between Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin in 1943—very historic). Enjoyable affair. In the receiving line, things got confused with our team being assumed to be the pilots and crew of the Concorde! I noted two Chinese nationals at the party in their Mao boiler suits. Added note, May 2021:The receiving line was incredibly long and comprised of officials of all rank and position. There was a clear impetus to keep the line moving at a brisk pace. The interaction when it came to the handshake and introductions was very impersonal. Looking at this long line before we started, a member of the team, Tom Potts, turned to the team members and said this was his opportunity to try something he always wanted to do, and he started down the receiving line.
I was behind Tom going through the receiving line, and as Tom greeted each person, he said to them, “You have ketchup on your tie!” I was amazed that not one person in the whole line was phased by Tom’s remark, and each one just smiled, shook Tom’s hand and moved him on to the next person. Toward the end of the line, I thought I might try Tom’s “stunt,” but my courage failed me. However, I did resolve that I might try this myself someday under similar circumstances where I am sure no one is really interested in who I am.
Afterwards, a try to find a place to eat proved very frustrating—no one speaks English! Tom Potts found a place that served caviar (Leon’s). My first real taste of good caviar washed down with iced vodka. Had trouble getting back to the Officers’ Club by taxi and with the guards at the gate of the club.
4 June 1972Another early start (0600) and hair-raising ride to the NDU. Lectures started slowly (0700 to 1230)—usual problems with interpreters, foreign audience, etc. They are a most interesting audience—they hiss, go to sleep, come in late, and at times, can be quite rude, but we are told that this is quite normal.
I called LTC John Longstreet (US Army Chemical Officer assigned to embassy in Teheran) and made arrangements for dinner the next night. This was followed by the morning “break for breakfast,” then we finished up the lectures.
Left with Col. Cleaverly (Air Force, West Point Class of ’46) for his home. Had lunch while a rug appraiser looked over Col. Cleaverly’s latest acquisitions of rugs. Fascinating business which began my interest in the Iranian rug sub-culture. Lovely home, swimming pool, etc.
Then on to Capt. Bob Todd’s home to look at more rugs. He literally had a rug collection—thousands of dollars’ worth. Then on to look at a rug dealers’ shop—Sam and Eliajah’s. Saw some possibilities for me. Then back to the Officers’ Club.
Picked up the others and went shopping at a local department store—fantastic buys in brass, jewelry, chaffing dishes, etc. If only I had more money and room to bring all that I want back! Bought a few things.
Then back to Officers’ Club for official cocktail party for us. We are being treated very well (despite the fact that our personal belongings were looked over while we were away—standard practice for the intelligence agencies of all nations). Other Americans not invited—wonder why? Excellent food and drink—except that we kept drinking after the party. Ended up at the Park Hotel nearby. Good Italian piano player.
Must mention that during the cocktail party, the Shah’s room at the Officers’ Club (which is kept in readiness at all times) was opened for us to see. Saw the clothes he wore during assassination attempt with bullet holes still in them. Gorgeous room with an especially beautiful all-silk rug which covered the entire floor. The furniture and other trappings were all very impressive. My 15th year in the Army today!
5 June 1972Another very early start. I’m really hurting in the sleep department. Left with a very thick head but managed to get through the morning lectures (0700 to 1230). Thought the response was a little better this morning.
The usual hair-raising ride back to the Officers’ Club. Then another three-course, very delicious lunch—thick soup, huge omelet, followed by a steak! Fresh fruit for dessert. Then a quick nap; we have all been very tired.
Up to go to Col. Peckham-Walsh’s house for a swim and tea. Very nice house—very enjoyable. Left the party and took a taxi over to John and Ruth Longstreet’s house for supper. Fabulous house—big courtyard (11 times around made a mile!). House filled with rugs and brass. Fell in love with the Russian samovars Ruth had on display around the house (used to heat water for tea, continuing my interest in the Iranian sub-culture of all things brass and copper).
Two other American couples there—both on their way home. All have thoroughly enjoyed their stay in Iran but thought two years was enough. I think I can understand their feelings. One of the couples had just adopted an Iranian baby girl—big people. Most of the evening we talked brass and rugs. Ruth Longstreet caught my keen interest in Iranian rugs and volunteered to meet me the next day to buy a rug and some brass. Caught ride into town—very tired.
6 June 1972Another early start. I gave my biological warfare class first thing—seemed to go over all right. Then the three-day lecture tour wrap-up, question period, display of equipment, etc. The head general, Lt. Gen. Khanahzi, invited us to his office, where we had coffee and said good-byes.
Then I took off to meet Ruth Longstreet. We went shopping with her kids. Went to the brass store first. It was a sight to have gladdened [my wife] Sue’s heart. A whole shop full of gorgeous brass. I started at the samovars first—the store had a whole wall full of them, many of them Russian made which came in all shapes. (Note: I bought two samovars and later a rug with the kind help of Ruth). Finished the day with an evening buffet supper at Captain Brown’s home (Royal Navy).
7 June 1972Free day. Traveled by escort to see a dam in the north of Teheran. Shopped for rugs with LTC David Owen in the morning. In evening, dinner back at Leon’s—a Russian Jewish restaurant. Had caviar blintzes—very good! Also saw the Shah’s monument in the morning. The slide/movie orientation was interesting—very clever propaganda.
8 June 1972 (Thursday)Departed from the Officers’ Club to the airport for our flight to Beirut at 0810. A hectic time at the Teheran Airport. The Iranians never do anything simply—all must be accompanied by shouting and confusion.
Swiss Air flight—bad landing at Beirut. Gorgeous landscape scenery from the air. Short stay in Beirut. Finally got off after much searching of luggage, etc.
Arrived in Cyprus after short flight. RAF flight delayed until Saturday. (Today Thursday—I was informed by my British colleagues with tongue-in-cheek that all RAF flights to/from Cyprus automatically “break down” for a few days to visit this beautiful island!). Accommodation at the Episcopy Mess, Hqs. NEAF.
9 June 1972 (Friday)David Owen rented a car, and he and Tom Potts really showed me Cyprus. Tom Potts had been stationed in Cyprus when the Brits were trying to negotiate between the Turks and Greeks and was very knowledgeable of the island and its recent history. He said he was present in the room when they drew the infamous “green line” down the middle of the island to separate the Turks and Greeks.
We visited Nicosia, Limosol, Kyrenia, saw the “murder mile” (the Green Line), Greek and Turk quarters, then on to Kyrenia—a delicious lunch at the Harbour House. On to the Mare/Monte Hotel for a delightful swim. Looked at some old monasteries/churches in the area. Traveled the Turk-controlled road. Ended the day with dinner at a Greek restaurant. Had a meze—delicious.
9 June 1972 (Saturday)Flight from Akratiri to Brize Norton on RAF Brittania. Trouble with tire blowing out on take-off. I guess the breakdown for maintenance was a little sloppy, and they missed a worn tire!. Landed OK after having to fly over Brize Norton airfield with wheels down to assess the blown tire.
Delightful homecoming—showing the gifts to Sue and the girls. (Note: I hand-carried the rug which had been cleverly packed suitcase-size by the rug merchant.) Everything arrived OK despite the rough baggage handling. Gained 9 pounds!
(End of diary entries.)
Hardfall Trials Team — Norway
My Time as a US Army Exchange Officer with the British Defence Nuclear, Biological and Chemical (DNBC) School
Posted 26 April 2021
To enhance cooperation and better understanding between their armies, the US and Great Britain agreed to exchange military officer positions at various key installations and schools. One of my army career highlights was serving as the US Army Exchange Officer with the British Defence Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical (DNBC) School in Salisbury, United Kingdom, located in the small village of Winterbourne Gunner just outside of Salisbury. During the period of my exchange assignment (1970–1972), twenty-six US Army officers were being exchanged with their British counterparts. For me, this was an exciting and challenging assignment, rewarding me with a rich and fascinating military experience and a wonderful life adventure for me, my wife, and two daughters. We made a number of new acquaintances and thoroughly enjoyed British hospitality and friendship. On the military/professional side, I was fully integrated as an instructor of US Army NBC operations for all British Forces officer and NCO courses given at the DNBC School. In addition, I was assigned as Chief of Trials Division, conducting hands-on service trials of the full range of British NBC equipment. Any misgivings I might have had about being a “foreign” officer serving with another nation’s military were quickly dispelled. I was welcomed, and it was made known to me that I would be an essential part of the DNBC School staff. To comply and demonstrate my full agreement with this arrangement, I modified my daily uniform by wearing US Army pants and sporting the very comfortable British Army “wooley pulley” (sweater) as an upper garment. My officer “exchange” was nearly so complete and integrated that it even included being assigned secondary duties such as the Officer in Charge of the Officer’s Mess and the job of auditing the Sergeants’ Mess. I readily accepted these opportunities to serve and enjoyed them immensely.
Trials Team (back to front): Flt Sgt Greenwell (Trials NCO), Nicholls (CDE PORTON), Dr. J.D. Nelms (APRE), Wg. Cdr. Hubbard (Trials Director), Mr. C. Simcock (SCRDE), Sqn Ldr Bridges (Trials Project Officer), Cpl Barker (Trials Photographer), Lt Col J. R. Tedeschi (Trials Coordinator). This mixed leadership team included British civilian government scientific personnel, Royal Air Force Regiment and British Army officers.
The rewarding two-year exchange with the British army was further enhanced by participating in military activities outside the UK such as integrating NBC equipment and operational trials with British forces conducting annual NATO training exercises in Norway. I was part of the Trials Team conducting these exercises (titled Hardfall) on two separate occasions. We traveled from the UK to Norway for several weeks each year, and I experienced a close bond with British army troops under severe winter conditions. On the second of these trips, our trials team was linked with a battalion of one of the renowned British army guards units, the Scots Guards. They had just recently been rotated from an assignment in Northern Ireland without any home leave break. I met the battalion commander on the train ride from Voss to Mjolfjell (pronounced muir-fell; the site for the trials), and he told me his troops were sorely in need of rest and recuperation from the intensive security duties they had been conducting in Northern Ireland. For that reason, he had rented an entire pensione (pronounced pon-shun-et; a winter vacation boarding house) in Mjolfjell for his officers and senior enlisted men and had invited their wives to stay with them during the trials. This outstanding leader would have done the same for all his men had there been more facilities available. Since our trial team were also billeted at the same pensione, we were able to meet many of them since this edifice contained multiple rooms and a dining area for all the families to share.
RAF Regiment Wing Commander Hubbard and I
Thus began my introduction to the Scottish soldier and the unique way in which he spoke the English language. Just after arriving at the train station in Mjolfjell, we were told we would be provided transportation to the pensione. Shortly thereafter, a pair of snowcats (treaded motorized vehicles) arrived, and the two drivers approached our assembled team. They were dressed in military coveralls and black berets with no rank or unit insignia. One of them made a strange and, to me, unintelligible announcement to the assembled group, and as he did so, I turned to Rod Hubbard and remarked, “It looks like they’ve sent us Norwegian drivers.” Bemused, Rod turned back to me and responded, “Those are not Norwegians; they’re Scottish soldiers. You had better get used to the way they talk.” And for the next three weeks, I made my best effort to “get used to the way they talked” so that I might understand the language of these remarkably tough and seasoned soldiers. I spent a great deal of time up close with them during the trials, and toward the end of the trial period, I began to understand them just a little better. My understanding was enhanced when I realized I had to filter out from all their conversations the one word they used as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb—the infamous f-bomb! By doing this, I could then make sense of the few English words in between to understand what they were saying!
On one of the trials, a squad of the soldiers (twelve men) bivouacked overnight on the frozen, snow-covered Norwegian landscape several miles away from the pensione. They were instructed to be in a chemical defensive posture and to operate as if they were anticipating a chemical attack. One of the purposes of the trial was to determine if the atropine syrettes (antidote to nerve gas) each man carried could be prevented from freezing if the men placed the syrette under their armpits for warmth. The Trials Team decided to join the men as a gesture of our appreciation and understanding for the difficult task we were asking them to perform, but only one of us at a time! We drew straws to determine who would join the men, each of us doing a two-hour shift. I drew the midnight to 2 a.m. shift, and despite the hours, I was eager and curious to have this experience. We were to take temperature readings and check the condition of the syrette that was under the armpit of the sentry posted outside the tent for an hour on a rotating basis. The squad sheltered under a circular tent simulating combat conditions and followed their unit SOP (standard operating procedures) for security, sleeping bag arrangement, etc. When I entered the inside of the tent, the first thing that struck me was the bayonet hanging from a wire above each of the ten sleeping bags arranged in a circular pattern on the floor of the tent. The foot of each sleeping bag came together in the middle of the tent where a fire pit had been dug in the snow. There was room enough around the pit for one of the soldiers to sit and tend the Coleman lantern (which stayed on all night) and a small camp stove at the bottom of the pit to heat water for tea. The SOP called for one hour shifts, and each man rotated duties which consisted of tending the lantern and camp stove (along with boiling water and the makings for tea), awakening the next soldier in line for sentry duty, and then standing guard outside for the next hour. The soldier coming in from guard duty was given a cup of tea and then located the “hot” sleeping bag just vacated by the man coming on duty. I was told that they hung a bayonet over each sleeping bag to cut their way out of the tent in any emergency such as a tent fire or enemy action which might require a rapid exit. Thus, I found myself sharing the fire pit in the tent for two hours with two different soldiers for the duration of my shift. I sat opposite the soldier manning the kettle just a couple of feet apart with our feet dangling in the pit. For a brief moment, I pondered what I was doing and how I got here sitting on the snow in the middle of a Norwegian winter night in a tent full of sleeping soldiers with a Scottish soldier next to me trying to make conversation. I’m certain my soldier companions were thinking along the same lines—Who was this American officer “bloke,” and what was he doing here sharing our discomfort? The situation demanded that we get to know each other, and so for an hour with each soldier, conversed to become acquainted. I could never recall all the details of the conversations we had nor the difficulties and pauses that took place as I tried to understand what they were telling me. But I do remember they talked about their recent deployment to Northern Ireland and what a tough job it was to maintain order and peace under almost impossible political conditions. In fact, one of them told me the joke that was going around within their ranks while they were there. I can never forget it, and so I’ll tell it (hopefully with proper respect to all parties):
An American was walking through the streets of Belfast, and from behind a corner, an arm went around his neck, and the point of a knife at his throat. The assailant asked, “Are you Catholic or are you Protestant?” The American had to think very fast under this situation, and a flash of inspiration caused him to reply, “Well, I’m neither. I’m Jewish.” To which the assailant answered, “Tough luck, mate, you’ve met the only Arab in the IRA!”
Of course, I’ve cleansed it of all the potentially offensive nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs, but I found it hilarious at the first hearing.
This exercise was cut short when a blizzard was forcast so we broke camp and returned to the po
as pictured in the title picture It was an honor and a privilege to team with these soldiers, and I will always be grateful for this opportunity. During a later phase of my army career, I had the opportunity to visit and spend the night at Sterling Castle in Scotland, the home depot for the Scots Guards. The castle contained all the memorabilia and history of the Scots Guards, an overwhelming experience. Every recruit entering the Scots Guards must spend a period of time at the castle to absorb and appreciate the legacy of this proud unit.
Deceived by Poverty
Boys in my kindergarten class - Front row: 4th - Sammy Parente, 5th - Joe Tedeschi; Back: 3rd - Turk Petrarca
I began kindergarten at Baker Street School in September 1939, the same month World War 2 started in Europe. From the time of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941 to the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, this world event would paint a backdrop to my life and early school years. The rationing sticks with me, how frightened we were by the shortages of sugar, butter, meat, etc. Air raid drills and the black outs constantly reminded us of the uncertain times. But surrounding my school days, I also remember the pleasure of seeing the big lilac tree in the corner of the school yard and the smell of lilac blossoms on spring days when the classroom windows were all opened (no air conditioning in those days!). For my First Communion, my mother bought me five chicks from the Woolworth’s in Arctic, a town south of us. I remember they sold such things in the five and dime stores back then. They had an incubator filled with chicks, and you bought them just like any other purchase! The purchase was very timely—with the war just starting, we would have our own source of eggs! All was well, but as the chicks grew, it turned out we had two roosters and three hens. It didn’t take very long before the dominant rooster got rid of the other rooster. We named the survivor “Blondie” because of the blond streaks he had in his feathers. He clearly ruled the roost—and everything else in sight. Blondie was very territorial, and he staked out our yard as his turf. This meant no one could enter, including the postman, the milkman, and the tenants who were living in our upstairs apartment. Silk was used for making parachutes and was very scarce (nylon stockings were just coming into their own). So, this made Blondie attacking the lady visitors and tearing their stockings quite the travesty. My brother Mike and I were the only ones Blondie would tolerate and allow to handle him. These transgressions and his threatening the postman really led to his demise. We had him for at least a couple of years, but at some point, my Uncle Mike took his hatchet and did away with him. The cruelest thing—my brother Mike and I did not know it until Blondie showed up at the Sunday dinner table!
By today’s standards, my family would have been considered poor, but I certainly was not aware of it. I just didn’t see or feel any poverty. I was deceived by all that “poverty” implies. Instead, despite all the trappings of poverty, I was raised in a loving home and nurtured by a caring family, relatives, and community.