tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51776108762315328582012-02-07T15:30:24.492ZBrat, Army One (1) Eachtintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.comBlogger341100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-46297028370321839892011-10-14T10:46:00.000+01:002011-10-14T15:47:33.735+01:00

With sisters: Chapel Hill, NC 1967Dad gets his ears cleaned: Vinh Thanh, 1967Sister Jane did not like my Cub Scout knife clipped to my shorts.Up to the Fall of 1966, Army posts had been my home. Any Army post since they were the same no matter where. Same front gate, P.X., Commissary, movie theater and MP barracks. Grade schools were usually on post and that was life behind the wire. St

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-41921343574273361322010-02-08T19:17:00.001Z2010-02-09T01:31:09.818Z

UNC - Chapel Hill Mid '60's Sunchon Street, Ft Bragg, NC March 1966 Central Highlands, South Vietnam Summer 1966 I remember my father coming home but rarely his leaving. Except once.We took him to Pope Air Force Base. A short drive from our quarters on Bragg. I remember he kissed my two sisters goodbye. He kissed my mother goodbye. And he turned to me, poked my chest with his finger and said, "

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-35440291671489601652010-01-13T19:07:00.000Z2010-01-14T00:08:02.218Z

Sicily Drop Zone South of the BorderThe Indian chief could have been a problem. Worse case scenario - I disappear. Best case - I get my ass kicked by some high school kids. I avoided both. 11 years later on Ft Bragg I came close very close to making a mistake that could have lasted a life time. At the time it seemed nothing more than a quick and easy solution.We were waiting to load a C130 for a

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-44335502728200925112010-01-11T20:06:00.002Z2010-01-14T00:51:40.861Z

My fort of soldiers and tanks. The woods are in the backgroundDad's camp. Vinh Than is in the foreground - the camp is in the middleThe voice was a low rumble that crept out of green overgrowth and bushes.I was playing in the woods behind quarters for senior enlisted men. Dad was a captain but Vietnam was keeping Ft Bragg hopping and officer's quarters were on a wait list. I wonder today if I

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-14343691848808550342009-12-12T15:17:00.011Z2010-01-14T00:50:32.403Z

Dad in 1966 Me in 1966The smell of pine trees and their fallen needles baked in a hot sun always makes me a little sick.When I was running with a ruck sack, a rifle and sucking in red dust four platoons back, that burnt pine needle smell took me past the point of being, 'a little sick' to an anger bordering on satanic. I would kill Jesus not to be doing what I was doing. A stabbing pain in my

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-35676233920514249582009-11-22T16:22:00.006Z2009-11-23T01:17:47.622Z

My father and his shirtless team sergeant visit the Koreans. Vietnam 1966A few years ago my father and I sat on my patio after dinner and discussed my job, which was and still is in sales. "I could never sell anything." he told me. He said it in a disparaging way... like sucking the words through his teeth. I knew he had visions of me in a white short sleeve button down with a navy clip on tie

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-72245771853347444582009-11-11T13:53:00.004Z2009-11-11T15:14:15.688Z

The Major is on your left. The NCO is on the right. I worked for both of these men and they came from very different places. The Major was from New York City. Erudite and sophisticated...we both shared very close quarters for a 30 day exercise where he told me drinking stories from his college days and shared his future plans with me - - which didn't include the Army. Jump Pay: $110 a monthThe

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-22595582738530455992009-05-25T13:14:00.002+01:002009-05-25T13:25:17.588+01:00

Awards Ceremony in the Central HighlandsMy father passes out awards to the top graduates of a political indoctrination class. I wonder where these men are today and what the last 43 years were like for them. These thoughts conjure up lots of others. Most not good. But today is for memories. Good and bad. It's helpful to remember all veterans and not just ours.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-7779988464322588772009-05-14T18:35:00.007+01:002009-05-14T19:02:03.265+01:00

Another Polaroid. Somewhere in Arlington. Sometime in the 60's.This picture says a lot about my sisters. And unfortunately me.This was my paternal grandparents home in Arlington. Grandfather had retired from the Army as a Sergeant Major and was working as a civilian for the federal government. Grandmother forever influenced my politics by telling me Republicans were evil and the only hope for our

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-38561197385454424772009-05-13T17:36:00.004+01:002009-05-14T18:59:19.999+01:00

A Polaroid. Somewhere in Mexico. Sometime in the 60's.It appears I already know the position of Parade Rest and my sister knows Attention. My other sister declines to pose due to an interest in the goat. I loved going to Mexico as a kid. The food, the people, the candy. Man, it was like a dream. We never vacationed much as a family. That was usually saved for a transfer. If we moved from Ft Sill

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-13802821532026666002009-05-12T18:40:00.002+01:002009-05-12T18:50:31.672+01:00

John Vachon's Bus depot, Washington D.C. 1951This image never fails to stop in me in my tracks. Whatever petty thoughts I'm having run for the hills to make room in my brain and my heart for this couple. I know exactly what they're thinking. And I would love to know what happened to them because I feel like I know them. I guess in a way I do.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-33060657440850102202009-05-05T21:03:00.007+01:002009-05-06T18:45:30.166+01:00

I live under a moving cloud. Never in my adult life have I ever thought I would be one place for long. There's always the knowledge - - not an idea or clue or anything else - - but the concrete knowledge I will be moving on. I'm never sure when or how or why. But I do know it'll happen. Pretty much the only constant in my life since I was 18 has been USAA.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-9879525722057788962009-04-27T14:18:00.008+01:002009-04-27T15:30:43.715+01:00

The other homeLike many brats -- when it was time to settle down it was time to find someone who was settled. A good looking crowd they are. All my ex-wife's family. Third generation natives of Chicago's North Shore. The photographer announced the wife's family picture and as my new Irish Catholic relations came from every direction one guest laughed, "When does Rose Kennedy come rolling out in

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-55190296267121147102009-04-15T23:00:00.000+01:002009-04-16T04:01:22.269+01:00

HomeMy parents in the living room. I was discovering photography and this was taken by me. Some time in the 70's, somewhere in Colorado, sometime after 5PM. I remember this moment because it was repeated through most of my childhood. The old man came home, grabbed a beer and met my mother in the living room. My mother sipped a Coke and dad sipped his beer and they talked and smoked and caught up

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-84589458265385112452009-02-12T21:17:00.004Z2009-02-13T14:22:41.506Z

My father inscribed the photo with the comments you see. I'm pretty sure this is how he sees life. I know I see it that way.Look at him. That's what I call cocky. This is Korea in 1960. My father was a young lieutenant in the Air Defense Artillery branch. That must have been cooler than cool in 1960. Screwing around with missiles...cutting edge stuff I imagine. Sure to give a man a sense of

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-75932578101767348692008-11-13T00:33:00.003Z2008-11-13T00:45:15.634Z

How long the Army can take to do things. Like pay it's troops. I looked everywhere for this yesterday...It's a day late for Veterans Day but at least I'm not three years late. This is a receipt for final payout to a Continental Army soldier, Roger Smith. It looks like Mr Smith served through 1780 (the end of hostilities) and was finally paid what he was owed by congress in 1783. This was

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-62747261660905060052008-11-11T19:46:00.004Z2008-11-12T09:54:40.758Z

The two-oh-one file. When my old man came home carrying this --I knew it was time to pack and wait for the Mayflower truck. This is a day civilians wear a red poppy and wonder what the military must be like. But you know.Civilians look at us behind the barb wire and MP guarded gates around the world and think we live in a prison. As a Brat, I looked out the gate to the civilian world of pawn

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-27545357769570201482008-11-07T00:28:00.010Z2008-11-07T01:57:11.308Z

Since the point of this was to give advice about being a Brat...And since I discovered I still had a lot to learn and was in no place to hand out advice...I decided to quit. I've quit a lot of things in my life. In fact, I tried to quit the Army. I called my father after two weeks of Basic Training and told him I had made a big mistake and was getting out. He told me he would support me in

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-34680030308897304852008-06-04T03:25:00.006+01:002008-06-20T15:46:51.770+01:00

Part of moving...the biggest part...is making friends. It's hard to show up mid term in a high school. Darn hard. Understand this: These people are afraid of what they don't know...and that is you. Every Brat knows what it's like to eat lunch alone. Out of shyness, we try to come off like we want to eat alone. And that's when it starts. The misconception by other students that we're full of

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-60580287794309609362008-06-02T04:41:00.004+01:002008-06-02T05:28:10.725+01:00

When I look back at the pictures on this blog - - I don't know who I am. My father or myself. The only people I recognise are my sisters. They seem to be connected to who they are. Why is that? I know it's me and my father. But I'm reminded of Matthew Brady tin types of the Civil War. We seem to be distant and alone. Just a figure or face. Long gone and lost in history. I just don't see myself or

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-25756166185904888592008-06-01T19:01:00.007+01:002008-06-20T15:52:54.324+01:00

HHC XVIII Airborne Corps at Ft Bragg. I'm second from the right. The peace time Army. All volunteer as well. A horrible time it was. For the Army that is. Not for us. This picture was taken after I had been kicked out of Special Forces Phase Selection. 88 were in my SF class and only three made it to the green beret. All prior enlistment NCOs. I never really had what it takes. I

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-90007686200310063242008-05-27T17:05:00.005+01:002008-05-27T17:24:05.416+01:00

Ft Bragg. 1966. My father's A Team just before deployment to Vietnam. Three men did not return. In memory of their sacrifice. I don't know what else to say. Only, that I look at their faces and remember when they were alive. At a party in my living room with the theme from "The Magnificent Seven" blaring from the stereo as they drank beer and smoked cigarettes . How I wanted to be like them.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-58163784339537804822008-05-07T01:42:00.004+01:002008-05-07T02:10:58.509+01:00

Here's the old man in Panmunjeom in 1971. I though it wise to post this in case he's able to get out of his wheel chair and kick my ass. You never know with these guys. This was a good five years before the "Poplar Tree Incident" where...Well, I'll let my Dad tell it, "The nasty felons of the north attacked our guys with axes and murdered them." So it says on the back of this photo.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-30768875088975047692008-05-06T23:48:00.004+01:002008-05-07T00:06:55.749+01:00

He'd kill me if he knew I was doing this. But he's going thru Chemo so he's not gonna be kicking any one's ass. Especially mine. These were taken in South Korea around 1971. He was with the 2nd Infantry Division. That's a woman's Red Cross uniform and I can't even begin to think -- of what this -- was all about. Except as a grown man I look at these picture and laugh out loud. I wish he did this

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-88863285904579044482008-05-06T02:18:00.003+01:002008-05-06T02:41:59.159+01:00

My grandparents in Paris while my grandfather was chief announcer for Armed Forces Network Europe. Sometimes these photographs alone are worth the lost friends, constant moving and postings to less glamorous assignments. I loved moving until I hit 14 or so. Before then, my bags were the first packed. "Get me on the road and outta here." I still love to travel and have vivid memories of our moves.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-2112399980893546362008-04-30T19:07:00.003+01:002008-04-30T19:21:45.579+01:00

Ft Bragg in 1978. Me on the left. I can't remember the guy on the right. We lived in these WWII barracks just next to Pope AFB. I would stand on the top of the fire escape ladder and read Richard III aloud to the guys below drinking beer. "What glorious summer this son of York..." The latrine had six toilets without any partitions. Something that took a while to get over. A Staff Sergeant, who I

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-73850716707721858962008-04-30T18:29:00.004+01:002008-04-30T19:23:42.458+01:00

Ft Bragg in the Spring of 1965. That's my little sister. Our experience was somewhat unique from other Brats in that my sister was deaf. And it took a while for the doctors to figure that one out. The quarters were on Sunchon Street. I have memories of running behind platoons while they did their PT. Singing cadence songs in fatigue pants, boots and white tee shirts. The beautiful sound of

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-34973940146648465422008-04-28T00:55:00.004+01:002009-11-11T15:23:34.283Z

First row on your far left. My paternal grandfather in WWII. WO-2. Assistant to the 77th Infantry Division G-4. Taken somewhere in the Phillipines circa 1945. Famous for being a great scrounger. Also the guy who figured out gasoline was lighter than water. While everyone wondered how to get gasoline drums to shore, he just kicked them off the ship. They floated.Reduction in Force after the war

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-56578248364672984152008-04-27T19:56:00.004+01:002008-04-27T20:30:59.966+01:00

My father, on the far right, thought the world of the two NCOs standing to his left. He called them real heroes. And while my father was not the warmest man...this picture is about as close as I've seen him with other men. I remember when he bought a car on a used lot in Fayetteville. A typical used car salesman threw his arm around my father's shoulder upon closing the deal and congratulated my

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-33961024003576237982008-04-26T17:02:00.004+01:002008-04-26T17:35:06.504+01:00

Ft Bliss, TX in the early '60s. I'm in there somewhere. I should be. It's my birthday party. While understanding this was a different time I'd like to point out some of the good things about growing up in the Army. One, you get a ton of toys and have parties like this because you're parents feel so guilty. Had I known then what I know now...I'd have pushed for more.Two, you grow up in a diverse

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-28710276460833729102008-04-22T18:41:00.010+01:002008-04-22T23:41:02.126+01:00

The business of the Army is killing people. Whether you pull the trigger or support those that do. I read that only one out of ten who served in Vietnam actually participated in combat. Of that 10%, there were those who refused to kill. Combat troops, usually drafted, who made the moral decision not to put another human being in their sights and pull the trigger.Then there were the professionals.

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-62347729903268217662008-04-18T16:01:00.001+01:002008-04-22T17:28:16.278+01:00

"Do you know something I know, Mama? He loves the Marine Corps more than he loves us. He's supposed to, son. That's his duty. His job. All men are like that. No, said Ben harshly. It's different. Do you think Dupree Johnson's daddy loved his gas station more than his family? Or Robbie Chambers' daddy loved his doughnut shop more than his wife or kids?"Pat Conroy, The Great SantiniIf you're Brat

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-7216568759537680612008-04-17T02:45:00.000+01:002008-04-17T03:51:27.709+01:00

I know a lot of Army Brats can be pretty gung ho. Real patriotic and they cry at a flag raising. I'm not like that for one reason. I served in the Army for four years. In the Infantry as a paratrooper. I returned to my childhood home (one of them), Ft Bragg and was exposed to an Army I knew nothing about as a dependent. It was a real eye opener.The picture above is a water color of a NVA attack

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5177610876231532858.post-80919007163609934272008-04-16T22:51:00.000+01:002008-04-17T03:53:36.944+01:00

12 moves and four high schools. I don't have to write anything more if you are or were a Brat. You know what I mean. I'm not whining. I'm not contemplating my navel. I hope to pass onto others what it's like growing up with a father who was a career soldier during a war. The war was Vietnam. A long time ago. A war a lot of people want to forget. It will be a part of me until the day I die.If

tintinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13652066200071703445noreply@blogger.com1