Do you know what gives me a warm feeling right down to my toes?  It is the way the American people today treat our service men and women.  The American people may disagree on whether we should be in Iraq, but almost none blames the soldiers, marines, sailors or airmen who are serving there.

It wasn’t that way 40 years ago when we were bogged down in Vietnam.  For some reason, just seeing a military uniform set off a certain segment of our society.  Of course, this same segment did not trust anything called the Establishment.  I think the message was, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”

In the early years of the Vietnam War, I was protected from the impact of the dissent by being assigned in Germany (1966-69).  We had all we could handle with the drug and racial problems.  Our sources for information were Armed Forces Radio and the Stars and Stripes newspaper.  Not a lot of anti-war stuff was getting through to us.  We did know that President Johnson had decided not to run for re-election because of anti-war sentiment, but we truly were sheltered.

So in 1969, when I showed up at Northwestern University School of Law to obtain a masters degree in criminal law, I wasn’t prepared for the resentment to the military I encountered (was I really a baby killer?).  I wasn’t in uniform, but I couldn’t hide.  I was the only one on the downtown campus without a pony tail!

Having lived in a cocoon for three years, I wasn’t prepared for the intense anti-war, anti-military uproar that enveloped me in Chicago.  I softened the impact by getting my news from the conservative Chicago Tribune and their TV station, WGN.  In reflecting, I am satisfied that the Germans treated the US military better than our fellow country men.  I knew we were in trouble when our graduate group’s sweet 50 year-old secretary told me she would be late coming back from lunch because she was attending an anti-war rally.

It was during this period, with me on orders to Vietnam, that Carole decided that she and the kids would be more comfortable in a waiting wives community (see blog on Shilling Manor under My Military Daze) than living  among the demonstrators.  It turned out to be a spectacular choice.

In 1973, our country eliminated the draft and went to a volunteer Army (VOLAR).  Even though all JAG officers were volunteers, some of them may have volunteered rather than be drafted (“It was either the JAG Corps or Canada.”).  The JAG Corps was given a certain number of “VOLAR” dollars to go out and recruit young law students to join us.  I was teaching at the JAG School in Charlottesville, Virginia and was selected to visit 11 law schools in the Midwest.

My Commandant, Colonel John Jay Douglass, advised me that since it was already October, I needed to start my visits with North Dakota.  The longer I waited the less likely I was to get there.  Well, I put Grand Forks, ND at the top of my list and just barely got there.  The plane I was on started to land in Grand Forks, but pulled back up and we landed in Winnipeg, Canada.  They bussed us back to Grand Forks and promised our luggage would soon follow.

I set up my visit at Washington University School of Law in St. Louis with their placement office.  They provided me with an office for interviews, but did not notify the student body that I was coming.  The uniform was still a problem.  One reservist who saw me stopped by to say hello.

My alma mater, the University of Missouri treated me much better.  When my interviews were completed, I decided to step over to Jessie Hall and say hello to Dean Harris.  He had been a friend and advisor throughout my six years at MU.  He was my first counselor when I stepped onto campus.  It was he that I talked out of sending me to remedial English Class (five hours a week for three hours credit).  He also was instrumental in finding Carole a secretarial position in his office when I started to law school.

Dean Harris’ secretary told me he couldn’t be disturbed, because the entire afternoon was blocked out for interviews with medical school applicants.  I told her I wouldn’t mind waiting so that I could say hello in between interviews.  She said that was impossible.  Just then, he came out of his office, saw me and pulled me into his office.  I kept insisting that I didn’t want to get him off schedule.  As he shut the door to his office, he said,”Jack, I am so sick of hearing these applicants tell me they want to become a doctor so that they can work in the inner-city and help the poor!”

We probably talked for 20 minutes with me continually reminding him that I shouldn’t stay.  It was great seeing and chatting with an old friend.  When I left the office, the secretary was waiting for me.  She was furious.  She said, “Major, by being so inconsiderate and interrupting the interview schedule, you may have cost some young student the opportunity to become a doctor.”  I looked at her for a second and then said, “I think you are more upset about my uniform that your are with me.”  There was a long reflective pause and she said, “Well, you may be right.”

Her comment was very telling of the time.  Thank goodness things have changed.  Today, under the same scenario, she would probably try to get me on the interview list.  I love it!

Last Thursday, the Old Fuds met on the third floor of Tony Cheng’s Restaurant in DC’s Chinatown.  The Old Fuds consists of Retired Army JAGs who can still climb up to the third floor.  There were about 50 of us and we do this twice a year.  That is the sum and total of the physical training for a number of the Old Fuds.

We usually have a guest speaker and we buy him lunch, unless he speaks for over ten minutes.  Then, he is on his own.  This time, we had Royce Lamberth speak to us.  He is now the Chief Judge of the US District Court for the District of Columbia.  In earlier days, he was one of us.  In fact, back in the early Seventies, he defended me when I was accused of trial misconduct back in Germany.  I had to appear in the US District Court in Baltimore and Royce was a young JAG captain working in the Pentagon in the Litigation Division.

Back in 1969, I prosecuted a soldier named Alsop for sale and possession of hashish.  Alsop was sentenced to two years in Leavenworth and a dishonorable discharge.  The key witness against Alsop was a soldier named Jones, who had purchased hashish from Alsop.  When Alsop’s civilian appellate attorney reviewed the case, he observed that I had dismissed the possession charge against Jones.  If I had done that as part of an agreement with Jones to get him to testify, then that fact must be shared with the defense.  They insisted that there had been a secret agreement between Jones and me and consequently the conviction should be thrown out.

Alsop’s case had already gone through all of its military appellate appeals when they discovered my alleged misconduct.  Therefore, they filed for a writ of habeas corpus to overturn the case.  I guess it is kind of obvious, since I am telling the story, that there wasn’t any misconduct or secret agreement.

The whole episode happened in Germany.  Jones was stationed in Crailsheim and was suspected of using drugs.  A criminal investigation detachment (CID) agent went to Jones’ unit.  He was advised by the charge of quarters (CQ) that Jones was off post on a pass.  The CID agent told the CQ that when Jones came in, he should be escorted over to the CID office.  That is what happened and at the CID office Jones was searched.  He was clean.

Then, the CQ told the CID agent that a funny thing had happened as they were walking over to the CID office.  Jones had taken a Marlboro crush-proof pack out of his pocket and thrown it in a snow bank.  The CID Agent told the CQ to go back and retrieve the Marlboro pack out of the snow bank.  He did and surprise, surprise, it was packed full of bricks of hashish.  Jones then gave up Alsop and a search of Alsop’s wall locker found enough hashish to float his entire company.

Along with being the general courts-martial prosecutor, I was the Chief of Military Justice for the 4th Armored Division.  We decided to try Jones by summary court-martial.  A young major (not a JAG) was assigned to be the summary court officer and to decide whether Jones was guilty.  On the day of the trial, the major asked Jones how he wanted to plead.  Jones said he wanted to plead guilty.  The major told Jones he didn’t have to plead guilty, but could plead not guilty and require the Army to prove his guilt.  So Jones said, “OK, I plead not guilty.”  The summary court officer then handed Jones his confession and asked him if he signed it.  Jones said he had.  The summary court officer then said, “OK, I find you guilty.”

Unlike television, books and movies, in the real world you have to lay a foundation before you can accept a confession.  The summary court officer needed to hear the testimony of the CID agent as to the circumstances surrounding the taking of the confession and that Jones had received his Miranda warning.  He also needed to hear from the CQ to put the hashish in Jones’ hands.

I was the one who received the trial record on Jones’ conviction.  It was clear that we needed to retry Jones.  I can’t remember whether we were planning to use the major again or find a new summary court officer.  It turned out it didn’t matter.  There could be no second trial.  In the time it took for all this to play out, the CQ’s enlistment had expired and he had returned to the United States (the land of round door knobs) and was no longer in the Army.  We could not bring him back to Germany and the case against Jones was toast.

As I mentioned earlier, I was also the Chief of Military Justice and, in that capacity, I dismissed the charge against Jones.  Wanted to prosecute him.  We tried.  We just screwed up.  Jones was the most surprised when the charge was dismissed.  Clearly there was no secret agreement.

In Baltimore, Royce explained that there were valid procedural reasons the case should be dismissed and that I probably would not have to testify.  Then the judge came in and told us he had not had time to review the case and since I was present, he might as well hear from me.  So, I got my chance to tell the judge what I have just told you.  The opposing counsel was hearing what had happened three years before for the first time.  He was not equipped to challenge it.  The beauty of telling the truth is you don’t have to remember what you have previously said.

Since the trial in Germany, I had spent a year at Northwestern University getting a masters degree in criminal law, spent a year in Vietnam getting a different sort of degree and was now teaching at the JAG School in Charlottesville, Virginia.  Royce called me a week after my testimony and told me the judge had dismissed the case.  I was vindicated.  Hooray for the good guys!

Thirty-five years later, for the first time, I saw Royce at a Vietnam Reunion.  I mentioned to him that he had been my lawyer in Baltimore in 1972.  He smiled and nodded his head.  What does that mean?  I don’t blame him if he doesn’t remember.  I was the one on the hot seat.  He is still one of the good guys.

Last night, we had our first full blown reunion of JAGs that served in Vietnam.  There have been other reunions, but this was the first that included everyone.  It was held at the Hilton Garden Hotel in Fairfax, Virginia.  JAGs showed up from every corner of this country.  The number from California was remarkable.  Chuck Spradling, Barry Steinberg and Bill Suter were principally responsible for making this reunion happen.

We had about 80 JAGs, plus their wives and friends.  It was not a riotous affair, but it was great.  Thank goodness, the organizers judiciously scrubbed the wet t-shirt contest.  I guess the younger JAGs in attendance were in their mid-sixties, but those in the seventies and eighties were well represented.  Energy dissipates, but not spirit.  Spirit sores.

We were seated, to a great extent, by the units we served with.  There were so many JAGs present who were with the 1st Air Cavalry Division that we took up two plus tables.  The 1st Air Cav could deploy most of the division through the air.  This lead to the motto, “Freed forever from the tyranny of terrain.”  This lead my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Ron Holdaway, back in 1970, to poke his head out of the office tent during one of our nastier monsoon storms and say, “Ah yes, freed forever from the tyranny of terrain.”

Our guest speaker was Fred Borch, the Army JAG historian.  He had been instructed not to speak over ten minutes  I think that’s a bit harsh to tell an historian not to speak over ten minutes.  I think we should have given him at least twelve minutes.

Fred did provide us with some remarkable information.  We had JAGs in country from 1959 to 1975.  Of course, in the early years, they were very few and they were part of a military advisory group.  And, toward the end, we had just a few closing doors and turning out the lights.  The vast majority were from 66-67 to 70-71.  Fred advised us that his research determined that 352 JAGs served in Vietnam.  John Hatcher, who was sitting next to me and served as one of my captains was quite impressed that he was part of such a small number.  I thought about that and decided that within a few years, we may be placed on the endangered species list.  I think what that means is that developers will not be permitted to encroach upon our habitat.  I am not sure that will solve our problems.

When we were in Vietnam, there were only two places you could be.  One was “in country,” which meant you were in Vietnam and the other was back in the “World,” which meant you were anyplace other than Vietnam.  The airplanes taking soldiers back to the World were called, “Freedom Birds.”  Toward the end of my tour, the 1st Air Cav headquarters moved from Phouc Vinh to Ben Hoa.  My second boss, Lieutenant Colonel Joe Conboy and I used to drive out by the airport and watch the Freedom Birds take off.  It was relaxing.  It was sort of like stretching out in your den with a brandy and listening to your favorite music.

It is now Sunday morning and there are no pills in my idiot pill container.  My idiot pill container handles two weeks for me.  It makes sure that I take the right pills on the right day.  No double dipping.  I need to get out my pill bottles and load up.  So enough of this JAG Vietnam nostalgia.  I’m back to the serious stuff.

I have written a couple of blogs recently on our indoor waterfall and the trauma surrounding water damage through the house.  I now report that it is done.  We may never be back to normal, but the house is.

The final anxious episode was dealing with the insurance company.  You’ve all heard the horror stories.  Well, in our case, it turned out to be a pleasant experience.  I notified Armed Forces Insurance that we had paid out a little over $30,000 in bills and forwarded the receipts.  We received notification from Jeanne Priddy, Senior Staff Adjuster, the next day that they were paying for everything (less the $500 deductible).  The check arrived shortly thereafter.  It is really a pleasure dealing with insurance companies dedicated to assisting the military.

Between Armed Forces Insurance (AFI) and United States Automobile Association (USAA), military personnel have great insurance available to them.  I have my house and personal property with AFI and our cars with USAA.  Granted, I don’t have a gecko working for me or a goofy woman named Flo, but when I’m in trouble, AFI and USAA are definitely on my side.

I think this is only the second claim we have filed with AFI.  Previously, back in the Seventies, we had two ceramic elephants (BUFEs -pronounced boofies) stolen off our front porch in Charlottesville, Virginia.  By driving to the pottery “plant” in Vietnam with my boss, Joe Conboy, we were able to pick up BUFEs for practically nothing.  After they were stolen, Carole took some pictures of the BUFEs to the local department store and got a quote on replacement costs.  We made so much money on the stolen BUFEs that we seriously considered putting two more out on the porch.

My first experience with USAA was when I was assigned to Goeppingen, Germany in 1966.  I am reasonably certain that our 64′ Chevy Impala Super Sport (bright yellow with black interior) had rough handling at the Bremerhaven port (like it was dropped).  On the ride home, I found a tire bubble that indicated to me that the tire had been pinched during a short drop.  Then, on my first trip to Nuernberg, while driving down a cobblestone road, my rear window shattered.  What a mess.

I notified a Mr. Schwartz, with USAA in Heidelberg.  I told him I was driving to Stuttgart to the Opel dealer to get my window replaced.  He told me I probably wouldn’t have much luck and when I got tired of trying to find my rear window in Germany to notify him.  He said he would find it and ship it to a local auto repair shop.  I tried for three weeks, then contacted Mr. Schwartz.  My replacement glass was flown in from Denmark.  I doubt whether any other auto insurance company would even have an agent in Germany.

What did I do with no rear window?  No problem.  The Army solves all their problem with green tape!  We cut a piece of clear plastic and slapped it on with green tape.  The Army used green tape for every conceivable purpose.  It would stick to almost anything.  There was only one problem with my car.  When I took the green tape off, it took the yellow paint pigment with it.  Powerful stuff.  I had a pale white strip around my rear window.

On my second tour in Germany, we were on vacation and I was driving the entire family from Munich to the Neuschwanstein Castle.  I hit some black ice and ran into a tree.  The car was totaled.  We all survived and USAA paid us for the car.  A good samaritan German assisted in getting us back to Munich.  No Neuschwanstein, no vacation.  That’s not covered in the insurance policy.

When I started working at Arent Fox, I had to park in the garage under our building.  Driving around support posts was not my strength.  I kept scraping the side of my car. USAA kept putting new doors on my car.  As you would expect, my insurance rate went up, but they never deserted me.  I wonder if some of the cheapo insurance companies would have put up with me.  I’ll never know, cause I ain’t switchen.

We have an expression, “The Army takes care of their own.”  But, if the Army can’t, there’s a good chance that military insurance will cover it nicely.
 

In looking back, it seems that many of the important decisions we made were made while we were traveling across the country.  When traveling long distances, there are few distractions and time to give serious discussion to the issue at hand.  There used to be portions of our country where you couldn’t even find a decent radio station.  I’m afraid XM Radio may have ruined our decision-making process.

In the Spring of 1965, Carole and I took a vacation down into Mexico.  We were stationed at Fort Hood, Texas and Carole’s dad lived in Rosenberg, Texas, just south of Houston.  We dropped Becky (age 3) and Missy (three months) off at her dad’s and headed South.  It was during that trip that we decided that I would become a career Army JAG.

With that decision behind us, we enjoyed a beautiful little resort, south of Monterey.  I think it was our third and last day there when we figured out that this quaint little resort had a bit of a flea problem.  Adios Mexico!  We left Mexico, but Mexico refused to leave me.  Three months later, I was twenty pounds lighter and wondering if I would ever be free from the curse.  Then, as suddenly as it came, it went away.

Shortly after I returned from Mexico, I received a phone call from the JAG Career Management Office in the Pentagon.  “Paul?”  Paul is my first name, but only telemarketers call me Paul.  I responded with “Yes?”  He was a JAG major whom I don’t remember, but he told me that The Judge Advocate General had asked him to call and let me know that he was aware of the good work I was doing at Fort Hood.  There were some many funny responses I thought about saying, but I played it straight. 

He asked me if I had given any thought to a career in the Army.  I told him I had.  I mentioned that a friend of mine was able to attend the language school to study German and then be assigned to Germany.  I told him that I thought that sounded exciting.  He told me that he thought that could be arranged.  I told him to put the offer in writing and I would accept it.  He then said something strange.  He said he could make it happen, but he couldn’t put it in writing.  I figured he must have been speaking Pentagonese, because I had never heard anything like that before.  But, I wanted what he said he was going to “make happen.”  I said, “OK,” and, in fact, it all worked out as promised.

The last thing I needed to do was pass a simple language aptitude test.  They sent me over to the Fort Hood test center.  I sat down with an NCO and he explained the test.  I would be dealing with a made-up language and I was to answer a number of multiple choice questions.  I needed a score of 18 to pass.  In order to discourage people from guessing, each wrong answer subtracted one-half point.

I was the only one taking the test and we were alone in the room.  He took out a large test clock and wound it.  He said I had twenty minutes, set the clock down right in front of me and left the room.  I started in on the test and the first few questions seemed easy.  Then, I looked at the clock.  It was like an oversize old-time alarm clock, but I couldn’t read it.  It looked like it ran backwards, but I just couldn’t figure out how it worked, what it meant or how much time I had left.  I began to panic.  I had a wristwatch on, but I hadn’t bothered to look at it when I started the test.  I went out into the hall and looked for the NCO.  The building seemed empty.  I went back to my desk and tried to answer more questions, but the ticking seemed to be getting louder.  It was maddening.  I spent more time trying to compose myself than answering questions.  Somehow, I needed to answer 18 questions and get them all right.  Tick, tick, tick.

I had just finished my 21st question when the alarm went off and the NCO reappeared.  I tried to explain to him about the clock, but “concern” was not in his job description.  He just said, “Let’s see how you did.”  It turned out I missed only one, which gave me a score of 19 and one half.  I was embarrassed, but I had passed and I just wanted to escape from the clock and the building.  I determined that my aptitude for languages was a lot better than for time keeping.

In the early days of my career, I was a defense counsel.  The worst cases were AWOL and desertion cases.  An AWOL could be proved by submitting a couple of morning reports – one showing the soldier wasn’t present and one showing when he came back.  Talk about exciting – I went to law school for this!  If a soldier was gone for over 28 days, the morning report would show that he was dropped from the rolls as a deserter.  Almost all of these exciting cases ended up with a guilty plea and a conviction for AWOL.

Then one day at Fort Hood, Texas, everything changed.  I was advised that Private Clarence Westmoreland was down at the Fort Hood Stockade and that he had deserted from the Army five years ago.  I went down to see him.  He was a soft spoken guy who told me he didn’t know that he was in the Army.  He told me that he tried to enlist, but the Army wouldn’t take him.  I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth, but if he was lying, he had a great imagination.  A few days later, his wife showed up and told me the same story.  I decided to check it out. 

Neither Clarence nor his wife was a spring chicken.  I suspected they were both about forty, but they had been rough years.  His wife had moved into transient billets awaiting Clarence’s trial.  She told me not to worry about her safety, because while down in the billets, she was taking her teeth out, so she would not excite some young soldier.  She told me when she was a much younger girl, she had been married to a TV western star (I can’t remember his name).  But, believe me, she had traveled many dusty trails since then.

So here is the Private Clarence Westmoreland story, most of which I was able to verify.  Clarence was drafted and served two years in the Army during the Korean War.  He then got out and enlisted in the Air Force for three years.  Then, he reenlisted for three more years.  With less than a year left on his Air Force obligation, he received orders to Greenland.  He was advised that he would have to extend his enlistment to cover the two year tour.  Failure to extend would result in immediate discharge.  Clarence decided not to extend and was subsequently honorably discharged from the Air Force.  His discharge papers stated that he could not enlist for 90 days.  He was a sergeant and by staying out for 90 days, he lost all his rank.

Clarance and his wife and son went back to their home town in Arkansas (I no longer have a clue as to the town’s name) and he looked around for a job.  He also bumped into the Army recruiter.  He told the recruiter that he wouldn’t mind enlisting in the Army, but his discharge papers stated he couldn’t enlist for 90 days.  The recruiter looked at the discharge and explained to Clarence that the 90 days only applied to the Air Force.  So Clarence enlisted in the Army  They took him up to Little Rock where he had his physical and was sworn in.  He was given orders to report to Fort Polk, Louisiana and sent back home.

He didn’t have any money to drive to Fort Polk, so he took his wife’s silver service to the bank and using it as collateral, borrowed enough money to get down to Fort Polk and survive until the Army paid him.  With his wife, his son and all their worldly possessions, they piled into their VW bus and drove to Fort Polk.  It was about 9:00 in the evening when they arrived.  He took his records and orders and reported to the headquarters.  We never determined who he talked to, but an NCO in charge insisted that Westmoreland could not enlist for 90 days and consequently his enlistment was illegal and he was not in the Army.  They looked around for a place to spend the night, but anyone who remembers Fort Polk in the late 50’s will verify there wasn’t much, if anything.  The Westmorelands ended up driving back to their home in Arkansas.

Clarence went to see the recruiter and told him what happened.  According to Clarence, the Army recruiter said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait until the 90 days are up to enlist you.”  Clarence told him that if he wasn’t in the Army, then he wasn’t going through the drill again.  Clarence found a job as the handy man at a local motel and stayed there for the next five years.  His son enlisted in the Navy.

After about five years, Clarence’s aunt started looking for him.  She wrote to her congressman and said she knew he was in the Army, but didn’t know where he was assigned.  The congressman asked the Army.  The Army determined that Clarence had enlisted in Little Rock and was assigned to Fort Polk.  Fort Polk advised that he never reported and prepared the necessary paperwork showing Clarence was AWOL and a deserter.  After that, the FBI picked him up.  The sheriff told the FBI that Clarence wasn’t hiding.  In fact, Clarence cleaned up the jail every Saturday morning.

I explained everything I had discovered to the powers that be in the JAG office.  I didn’t think that this case needed to go to trial.  I was officially designated as gullible and a bleeding heart.  Me?  The case was going to trial for desertion.

We were scheduled for trial right before Christmas (not a bad time to try such a case) and I brought his son in from Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida.  We were ready to go and then, we couldn’t find Mrs. Westmoreland.  Had she slipped her teeth back in and run off with some young soldier?  It appears that Mrs. W. had been living off of money she was receiving from the Army Emergency Relief (a wonderful organization that provides money to soldiers and families who are in trouble).  They told her that they couldn’t give her any more money, but they would provide her with a bus ticket to anywhere she wanted to go.  She decided to go to Pensacola and spend Christmas with her son (who now was at Fort Hood).

Well, Clarence got to have Christmas dinner at the Fort Hood Stockade.  We started the trial the third week in January and Clarence, his wife (with teeth) and their Navy son all testified consistently as to what had happened.  I even brought in to testify the owner and manager of the motel where Clarence worked.  He was right out of Mayberry RFD.  Based upon his testimony, Clarence could have been elevated to Eagle Scout.

The court didn’t waste much time in finding Clarence not guilty.  That entitled him to back pay for the three months he spent in the stockade.  I was also able to get him time in service for the years he was found not guilty of being AWOL.  So I figured Clarence needed about seven more years to retire.

I never found out what happened to my 40-year-old private.  His Navy son flew back to NAS Pensacola and I guess Clarence and his bride headed off for their next Army station.  I hope they didn’t send him to Fort Polk.  The cycle might start all over again. 

My last blog was about General Colin Powell and the number of similar experiences we had (I forgot to mention that we both had our retirement parades at the Fort Myer Parade Field).  I mentioned that we both lived in senior government housing in Bad Vilbel, Germany (near Frankfurt).  Well, before General Powell arrived, we had to put one of the general officer quarters under a microscope.

There were four or five units designated as general officer quarters.  It housed the V Corps generals and generals from other units in our area.  We had one general and his wife and child move in, and immediately move back out.  They said there was something strange and unhealthy about the house.  It was “contaminated.”

The wife explained that both she and her child had been sick since they moved in.  Some of the wives from her husband’s command had brought some flowers by and as soon as they left, the flowers started dying.  There was more.  She saw a fly come in an open window,  fly around and then, drop dead.  A very large painting that was to be placed in the living room had been damaged in the shipment and needed to be touched up.  A German artist came out to the house to work on it.  But, he got sick and could not complete the work.

Not only did they move out, but they no longer wanted any of their furniture, because they now believed that it too was contaminated.  I was now monitoring the situation, because I was seeing down the road a pretty big claim against Uncle Sam.  I wasn’t disappointed.  We sent out our resident specialists to test the air, drapes and rugs.  We found nothing.  I suggested getting an exorcist.  No one saw the humor.

It was decided between the V Corps leadership and the general that V Corps would hire the best company in Germany at investigating contaminations.  It cost quite a bit, but it would be worth it to put this mess  behind us.  The German company came in and took scrapings from the fabrics, paint chips and gathered up the dust balls.  They had contraptions for capturing the air in every room.  They went at it with German efficiency and attention to detail.  No turn was left unstoned.

As we expected, nothing was found.  But, it is hard to prove a negative and the general’s wife came back and said that no one had checked the crawl space under the house.  We checked it and found nothing.  We were at loggerheads.

One of my dearest friends in the Army is Ron Holdaway.  When I was assigned to Vietnam as the Deputy Staff Judge Advocate (SJA) for the 1st Air Cavalry Division, Ron was my boss.  And as it turned out, now that I was the V Corps SJA, Brigadier General Ron Holdaway was the Judge Advocate for US Army Europe and again, my boss.  He called me about the “contaminated” house.  It was getting some attention through the “old boy net” in Heidelberg.  I briefed him on what we had found so far.  Finally, Ron said, “Jack, we are dealing here with a general officer.”  I paused. Then, I said, “Sir, Major General Curry (our Deputy CG) told me yesterday that he would be delighted if someone could find that the house was contaminated.  Then, we could level it and move on.  But, since we have done all the superb testing and found nothing, what are we supposed to do?”  I think Ron understood our dilemma. 

About six months later, our general was promoted to his second star and reassigned out of the Frankfurt area.  We assigned another general to the “contaminated” house and guess what?  No dead flies, no problem.  We were not surprised.

Our newly promoted two-star general was reassigned to Heidelberg and assigned to quarters right behind General Holdaway.  The family didn’t last a month.  It turned out that Bad Vilbel wasn’t the only place with contaminated general office housing.  The general took his family to the Black Forest and commuted from there.  The next time I had the flimsiest excuse to call Ron Holdaway, I was all over it.  He said, “Jack, I know why you are calling.”  I said, “Sir, we are dealing here with a two-star general.”

I am a little over half way through reading Colin Powell’s book, “My American Journey.”  I am loving it.  I’m embarrassed to say that I bought the book when it first came out.  It’s been on my shelf for over ten years and I just got around to it.  It’s nice to finally be retired.

Even though he had a meteoric career and I just sort of chunked along, we still had a lot in common.  I guess that is natural when we both spent a large portion of our lives wearing the green uniform.  Each time something popped up in the book, I would think, “Yeah, that happened to me too.”  Like buying a home in the Springfield/Burke area while working in the Pentagon.  Isn’t it a small world.

As his going away gift from Fort Carson, they gave him a Michael Garman statue.  When I left Fort Riley, I got the same.  I think his was a cowboy and mine was the old trooper, but let’s not quibble.  He didn’t mention whether he paid for his.  I paid for mine.  Our command decided that it wasn’t fair to have subordinates pay for a senior officer’s going away gift.  So, I selected my “gift” from a large number of options and paid for it.  Then, at the going away party, the general would present the “gift.”  It was hard to be surprised since everyone in the room knew I had purchased it.  I still display it proudly on my shelf.

Both Colin Powell and I received killer OERs (Officer Efficiency Reports) and survived them!  That is not easy to do and I am sure we realize how lucky we were.  His bad OER came when he was a brigadier general and an assistant division commander at Fort Carson.  He ran into a situation where the division was run by intimidation and both the general and his wife had a hand in it (Carole and I ran into one of those situation, but we survived).  Major General Hudachek, the division commander, rated Powell to be “promoted with contemporaries,” and was totally silent about his future potential.  For my military friends, I don’t need to explain, but promoting with contemporaries was the kiss of death.  One time, I checked with the Department of the Army and found that 80% of majors were rated “promote ahead of contemporaries.”  That means that if you are rated to promote with contemporaries, you are in the bottom 20% (math was always one of my strengths).

Lieutenant General Ross, the deputy commander of Forces Command, was Powell’s senior rater and he just repeated what General Hudachek had said and placed him in the third block, where blocks one and two were reserved for officers on the move.  My one experience with General Ross wasn’t any better, but he wasn’t rating me.

I always wondered if I could make it in the military, because trying to be funny can sometimes be inappropriate in the Army and I couldn’t seem to pass up an opportunity.  I am also short in height and on one occasion at the Fort Riley Officers Club, I mentioned to the chief of staff and other officers present that putting the tall soldiers in the front of the formation wasn’t fair to the short soldiers in the rear.  First, they couldn’t see over the tall soldiers and second, when marching the guys in the back had to really stretch out.  The chief mentioned the need for uniformity and I said put the short soldiers up front.  It will make the formation look more aerodynamic.  Everyone thought it was funny. 

About two weeks later at a social event, here comes the chief and Lieutenant General Ross (who is about 6′ 5″).  the chief introduced us and told Ross that I was the guy that wanted to put the short soldiers in the front.  Ross got right on top of me, leaned over and asked what I had against tall people.  It was an amusing scene.  He then lectured me on uniformity and appearance and that it was important.  I then mentioned that out in front of the formation we had the division G1, G2, G3 and G4 and that the G3 was really tall and that the G2 was short.  I suggested we needed a taller G2 or a shorter G3.  We were all having a good time and my comments were meant (almost) in jest.  However, at the next parade, the division staff lined up G1, G3, G4 and then the G2.  I guess I am glad no one got reassigned.

Getting back to General Powell’s OER, it appears that along with the formal rating system, general officers have an informal system.  In Powell’s case, General Cavazos, the FORSCOM Commander, was looking out for him and recognized that things were not as they appeared in the formal rating system.  General Powell ended up assigned to a two-star billet.

In my case, I was a brand new major working for a more senior major who couldn’t understand why I had been promoted so quickly.  The reason was we were in the middle of the Vietnam War ramp up and people were getting promoted more quickly.  He was forever competing with me.  You really don’t want to compete with your rater.  What made matters worse was that after he would insist on competing, he would lose.  It was my worst experience in the Army  He came into my office one day to talk about ratings.  He said he would never give anyone lower than a 92, because he wouldn’t want to kill them.  At that particular time, ratings were so inflated that anything but a 99 or 100 would be devastating.  He gave me a 92.  I am convinced that our earlier conversation was so that I would know that he was giving me his lowest rating.

At that time, the system consisted of a rater and an endorser.  What saved me was the staff judge advocate was my endorser and he gave me 100 and noted that I was the best major in his office.  Fortunately, I was not to be considered for lieutenant colonel for seven years.  The Vietnam War was winding down and few were getting promoted.  I had plenty of time to build up my file.

General Powell and I were both assigned to V Corps in Frankfurt, Germany and both lived in a senior housing area in the town of Bad Vilbel.  Not at the same time.  And, we both had our tours cut short.  I was selected to be the Commandant at The Army Judge Advocate General’s School and he was asked by President Reagan to be his Deputy Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs.  If I hadn’t come back early, I would have been his SJA.  As it turned out, he came down to The JAG School for legal orientation before he went to V Corps.  Along with the instructors bringing him up to date, I had a chance to brief him on what to expect when he arrived at V Corps.

I’m going to get back to the book.  I can’t wait to see how it ends.  I hope he gets his fourth star.

If you spend your life in the military, you will do more than your share of moving.  In 28 years, we had 17 PCS’s (permanent change of station).  That means you load up everything you own and ship it to your next assignment.

In my last three years in the Army, I made three major moves.  In 1988, we moved from Charlottesville, Virginia to Washington, DC.  Then, in 1989, we sold our house in Springfield, Virginia (never to return) and moved from DC to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.  Then, nine months later, I retired from the Army and returned to DC (and bought another house in Springfield).

Making a lot of moves at the end of your career is maddening.  I can prove this point with a graph.  On the left hand side of the graph, you put down the amount of energy you have.  Across the bottom of the chart, put in the amount of household goods (HHG) you own.  When you are a young officer, you have lots of energy and very few household goods.  As you graph the energy and HHG lines, they will cross somewhere around major – energy is dropping and HHG is rising.  Of course, the children are at an age where they are a big help.  But, our last three moves were at the point where we had very little energy and had accumulated lots of stuff from all over the world.  Energy low, HHG high, and the kids are married or off at college.  You spend a lot of time looking at boxes.

Three moves is a significant number, because in the household goods claim’s business, they joke that three PCS’s equals one fire! 

However, we generally had good moves.  We worked at it.  First, we explained to our children how exciting it was to move and meet new friends and see a new part of the country or the world.  That worked until they were teenagers.  Then, they would say, “Knock it off, Dad.”

We tried to be friendly with the packers.  They were wrapping some of our cherished possessions and they were, in fact, impacting (no pun intended) on how they arrived on the other end.  “Would you like a Coke?”  “We are running out for hamburgers.  Can we get you something?”  Then, there’s the driver of the van.  We treated him like a long lost brother.  He had some control over what day he would arrive at our new “home.”  If we were there to meet him, all our possessions marched right in.  If he arrived before us, everything went into storage (which is also know as “lost and found”).

One time we were walking around the house with the driver showing him what was to go.  He started ranting about the dirty, filthy things that people ship.  When we got to the back yard, he pointed at my old, but quite serviceable grill.  He said, “You’re not shipping that, are you?”  Both Carole and I said, “No.”  One more little expense we hadn’t planned on.

I mentioned our last three moves.  The first was planned.  The second surprised us and the third almost wiped us out.  The first was a routine reassignment.  I had been the Commandant at the JAG School for three years and I was assigned to the faculty at the Industrial College of the Armed Forces at Fort McNair in the District.   After being there for a year, I contacted my good friend, Bill Suter, and told him that when Fort Leavenworth, Kansas opened up for a new staff judge advocate (SJA) in the Summer of 1990, I would like to be considered.  We agreed it would be a good fit, particularly since I would only have two years to retirement and I wanted to retire in the Kansas City area.

I hardly had time to bring my wife up to date on my discussion with Bill, when Bob Murray, the Executive Officer in the Office of The Judge Advocate General called.  He told me that the SJA at Fort Leavenworth had just announced his retirement and if I wanted to go to Fort Leavenworth, I had to go now.  Well, Carole and I decided to go.  We sold our house and arrived at Fort Leavenworth  in September, 1989.

During our discussions about leaving, Carole said, “At least I will never have to drive through the Mixing Bowl again.”  The Mixing Bowl is the junction where I-95, I-395 and I-495 all meet.  To get off on the Springfield exit, you have to fight your way across three lanes of I-495 traffic fighting to get onto I-95 South.  In 1999, the State and Federal government started fixing the Mixing Bowl.  It took eight years and $676 million.  Now that the project is complete, there are no traffic jams at the Mixing Bowl.  By expediting traffic through the Mixing Bowl, they have successfully moved the traffic jam three miles South on I-95.  Now, they are about to widen I-95 at the cost of many millions.  Your tax dollars at work.

About three weeks ago, we had really bad weather, including freezing rain which materialized right at evening rush hour.  There were all types of problems, including lots of accidents, on the ramps and flyovers at the Mixing Bowl.  The media was all over the State for not anticipating the weather problem.  Quite frankly, freezing rain and good old boys in their four-wheel drive pickups are not a good fit.  I think you just have to expect a bad day when the sky surprises you with freezing rain.

Four months after we moved to Fort Leavenworth, I received a call from one of my former bosses, Major General Jerry Curry.  President Bush had selected him as Administrator for the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) and he was calling me to see if I wanted to retire and become his chief counsel.  He thought I was still in DC.  After I explained that I had just moved to Fort Leavenworth, he said to think about it.

On June 1, 1990 (when I should have been getting ready to move to Fort Leavenworth), I had purchased another home in Springfield, Virginia (in the shadow of the Mixing Bowl) and was retiring from the Army and starting to work at NHTSA.  After a long day’s work trying to learn about motor vehicle safety, I would come home and cut open some packing boxes.  I should have put that skill in my resume.