At the beginning of December 1941, Army Air Forces pilots Second Lieutenants George Welch and Kenneth Taylor had moved their P-40s away from the main airfield at Wheeler to a nearby auxiliary field at Haleiwa as part of a gunnery exercise. The vast majority of Army Air Forces fighters at Wheeler were parked in neat rows on the main flight-line; although war with Japan appeared imminent, it was decided that the possibility of sabotage from the ground presented a greater threat than a potential air attack, and it was easier to guard them while parked in neat rows than dispersed on the airfield perimeter. When the Japanese carrier-based sneak attack against Pearl Harbor and Wheeler and Hickam Fields came on the morning of December 7, 1941, the majority of the U.S. Army Air Forces fighters were easily destroyed on the ground, several of them when the first P-40 pilot attempting to take off to fight was hit and killed on his takeoff roll and his fighter went crashing down the flight-line at Wheeler.
Welch and Taylor had spent the evening of Saturday, Dec. 6, at a dance at the Wheeler Field officers club, followed by an all-night card game some distance away from their home base at Haleiwa. That fateful Sunday morning, as they discussed the merits of taking an early morning swim, they heard distant gunfire. 
Suddenly the Japanese swooped down on Wheeler Field, which was a center for fighter operations in Hawaii. Dive bombers seemed to appear out of nowhere. Violent explosions upended the parked planes, and buildings began to burn. Welch ran for a telephone and called Haleiwa as bullets sprayed around him.
"Get two P-40s ready!" he yelled. "It's not a gag. The Japs are here." The two hopped into Taylor's car with machine-gun bullets from planes of the attacking Japanese aircraft kicking up dust around them. They reached speeds of 100 mph during the 16-mile dash to Haleiwa. Japanese Zeros strafed their car three times. When the two fliers careened onto the airfield nine minutes later, their fighter planes were already armed and the propellers were turning over. Without waiting for orders they took off.
As they climbed for altitude they ran into twelve Japanese Val dive bombers over the Marine air base at Ewa. Welch and Taylor began their attack immediately. 
On their first pass, machine guns blazing, each shot down a bomber. As Taylor zoomed up and over in his Tomahawk, he saw an enemy bomber heading out to sea. He gave his P-40 full throttle and roared after it. Again his aim was good and the Val broke up before his eyes, tumbling into the sea. In the meantime, Welch's plane had been hit and he dived into a protective cloud bank. The damage didn't seem too serious so he flew out again - only to find himself on the tail of another Val. With only one gun now working he nevertheless managed to send the bomber flaming into a watery grave.
Both pilots now vectored toward burning Wheeler Field for more ammunition and gas. Welch later recalled: "We had to argue with some of the ground crew. They wanted us to disperse the airplanes and we wanted to fight." Unfortunately, the extra cartridge belts for the P-40s were in a hangar which was on fire. Two mechanics ran bravely into the dangerous inferno and returned with the ammunition.
They headed directly into the enemy planes, all guns firing. This time Ken Taylor was hit in the arm, and then a Val closed in behind him. Welch kicked his rudder and the Tomahawk whipped around and blasted the Val, though his own plane had been hit once more. Taylor had to land, but George Welch shot down still another bomber near Ewa before he returned.
In the aftermath, the single American airfield to emerge from the battle unscathed was Haleiwa. Some speculated that this was because the Japanese did not know of its existence. More likely, it was because Welch and Taylor aggressively and continually drove off the attackers. One group of Japanese planes, their bomb cargoes expended, turned to strafe Hickam and Ewa airfields and the naval installations at Ford Island. One of those Japanese pilots saw an aerial melee in the distance that very likely included Welch and Taylor. The Japanese flier reported seeing several of his comrades' planes falling from the sky in flames.
Taylor later recalled: "We went down and got in the traffic pattern and shot down several planes there. I know for certain I shot down two planes or perhaps more; I don't know." A total of 29 Japanese planes were shot down during the attack, and Welch and Taylor were officially credited with seven of them, four in their first sortie and three in the second.
In all, a total of five U.S. Army Air Forces pilots managed to get their planes off the ground and give battle that morning. One of them, a lieutenant named Sanders, led a group of planes through overcast skies at 6,000 feet. When a formation of six Japanese bombers was spotted attacking an airfield, the group chased them off. Sanders picked out the Japanese leader and sent the smoking enemy plane spiraling into the sea.
Sanders then spotted a comrade in trouble. Lieutenant James Sterling had closed with an enemy bomber, but another Japanese plane had gotten on his tail and was pouring fire into him. Sanders pulled in behind Sterling's attacker, and all four planes went into a steep dive. Sanders was the only one to come out. Sterling lost his life, and both Japanese aircraft went down.
After the Pearl Harbor attack, Taylor was assigned to the 44th Fighter Squadron and went to the South Pacific at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. 
He was able to record two additional aerial kills: the first on January 27 and the other on December 7, 1943, two years after Pearl Harbor. This brought his total number of career kills to six, making him a flying ace. After 27 years of active duty, he retired as a colonel in 1967, and became the Assistant Adjutant General for the Alaska Air National Guard, retiring as a Brigadier General in 1971.
After contracting an illness from a hip surgery two years prior, Taylor died on November 25, 2006, of a strangulated hernia at an assisted living residence in Tucson, Arizona. He was cremated and later buried at the Arlington National Cemetery in June 2007 with full military honors.
Welch remained in the Pacific Theater of Operations and went on to score 12 more kills against Japanese aircraft (16 in total), making him a triple ace.
In the spring of 1944, Welch was approached by North American Aviation to become a test pilot for the P-51 Mustang. He went on to fly the prototypes of the FJ Fury, and when the F-86 Sabre was proposed, Welch was chosen as the chief test pilot.
In September 1947, the F-86 project moved to the Muroc test facility (now Edwards AFB, California), the same base at which the Bell X-1 was being developed. 
North American was instructed by Secretary of the Air Force Stuart Symington that they were not, under any circumstances, to break the sound barrier before the X-1 achieved this milestone. However, Welch disregarded this order, and during a test flight on October 1, 1947, he entered a steep dive from 35,000 ft. During the dive, Welch observed symptoms compatible with Mach jump. However, due to problems with the landing gear, further full-speed flights were delayed. On October 14, the same day that Chuck Yeager was to attempt supersonic flight, Welch reputedly performed a second supersonic dive. This time he started from 37,000 ft., and executed a full-power 4g pullout, greatly increasing the power of his apparent sonic boom. Yeager broke the sound barrier approximately 30 minutes later.
To justify the investment in the X-1 program, the Pentagon allegedly ordered the results of Welch's flights classified and did not allow North American to publicly announce that the XP-86 had gone supersonic until almost a year later. The Air Force still officially denies that Welch broke the sound barrier first. Welch had achieved supersonic flight only in a dive, not in level flight, and his flights were unofficial and not tracked by NACA measuring equipment, making verification impossible.
Welch went on to work with North American Aviation in the Korean War as Chief Test Pilot, engineer and instructor, where he reportedly downed several enemy MiG-15s while "supervising" his students.
After the war, Welch returned to flight testing - this time in the F-100 Super Sabre - with Yeager flying the chase plane. Welch became the first man to break the sound barrier in level flight with this type of aircraft, the first USAF fighter to achieve level supersonic flight, on May 25, 1953. However, stability problems with the aircraft arose, and on Columbus Day, October 12, 1954, Welch's F-100A-1-NA Super Sabre disintegrated during a 7g pullout at Mach 1.55. When found, Welch was still in the ejection seat, mortally injured. He was evacuated by helicopter but was pronounced dead on arrival at the Army hospital. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
Welch and Taylor were both nominated for the Medal of Honor for their heroic actions on Pearl Harbor Day, and the Commanding General of the U.S. Army Air Forces, General Henry H. "Hap" Arnold, was reportedly anxious to receive the nominations. Unfortunately for the two heroes, the intermediate Chain of Command, whose pride was evidently smarting from having been caught off guard and suffering the devastation they did, reasoned absurdly that they had taken off without proper authorization and therefore could not be awarded the United States' highest military award. As a result, the awards were downgraded to a Distinguished Service Cross for both men.
During the early morning hours of May 15, 1967, personnel of the 1st Brigade, 101st Airborne Division, were ambushed in the Song Tra Cau riverbed near the Duc Pho District in the South Central Coast of Vietnam by an estimated battalion-sized force of the North Vietnamese Army. 
The NVA attacked with numerous automatic weapons, machine guns, mortars, and recoilless rifles from a fortified complex of deeply embedded tunnels and bunkers that were effectively shielded from counter fire. Upon learning that the 1st Brigade had suffered casualties during an intense firefight with the enemy, then-Maj. Charles S. Kettles volunteered to lead a flight of six UH-1D helicopters to carry reinforcements to the embattled forces and to evacuate wounded personnel. As the flight approached the landing zone, it came under witheringly deadly enemy fire from multiple directions, with reinforcements hit and killed before they could even leave the helicopters.
Jets dropped napalm and bombs on the enemy machine guns on the ridges overlooking the landing zone, with minimal effect. Small arms and automatic weapons fire continued to rake the landing zone, inflicting heavy damage to the helicopters. However, Kettles refused to depart until all reinforcements and supplies were off-loaded and the helicopters were loaded to capacity with wounded personnel. Kettles led the flight out of the battle area and back to the staging area to deliver the casualties and pick up additional reinforcements.
Kettles then returned to the battlefield, with full knowledge of the intense enemy fire awaiting his arrival. Bringing reinforcements, he landed in the midst of enemy mortar and automatic weapons fire that seriously wounded his gunner and severely damaged his aircraft. Upon departing, Kettles was advised by another helicopter crew that he had fuel streaming out of his aircraft. Despite the risk posed by the leaking fuel, he nursed the damaged aircraft back to base.
Later that day, the infantry battalion commander requested immediate, emergency extraction of the remaining 40 troops, and 
four members of Kettles' unit who were stranded when their helicopter was destroyed by enemy fire. With only one flyable UH-1 helicopter remaining, Kettles volunteered to return to the deadly landing zone for a third time, leading a flight of six evacuation helicopters, five of which were from the 161st Aviation Company. During the extraction, Kettles was informed by the last helicopter that all personnel were aboard and departed the landing zone accordingly. Army gunships supporting the evacuation also departed the area.
When they were airborne, Kettles learned eight men had been unable to reach the evacuation helicopters due to the intense enemy fire and had been left on the ground.
With one of the rescued Soldiers on board in addition to his crew of four, Kettles immediately turned his unarmed Huey around and headed back to the landing zone to rescue the remaining troops. Without gunship, artillery, or tactical aircraft support, the enemy concentrated all firepower on his lone aircraft, which was immediately damaged by a mortar round that damaged the tail boom, a main rotor blade, shattered both front windshields and the chin bubble and was further raked by small arms and machine gunfire.
Coming in low over the treetops, he skillfully guided his helicopter onto the ground where the eight Soldiers dove into the helicopter, 
but there was another problem: it was now about three men, or 600 pounds, too heavy. "I didn't know if we were going to get out of there," Kettles remembered, "but I was just going to give it my best try."
In spite of the severe damage to his helicopter, Kettles repeatedly adjusted the revolutions per minute until the heavily damaged aircraft lurched upward, stayed close to the treetops and limped home to Duc Pho. Without his courageous actions and superior flying skills, the last group of Soldiers and his crew would never have made it off the battlefield.
For his heroic efforts, Kettles was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross (DSC), the nation's second-highest medal for gallantry.
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Charles S. Kettles was born in Ypsilanti, Mich., Jan. 9, 1930. The son of a World War I Royal Air Force (Canadian) and World War II Air Transport Command (U.S. Army Air Corps) pilot, Kettles had aviation in his blood. While attending the Edison Institute High School in Dearborn, Michigan, Kettles honed his love of flying on the Ford Motor Company Flight Department simulator.
Following high school graduation, Kettles enrolled in Michigan State Normal College (now Eastern Michigan University), where he studied engineering. Two years later, Kettles was drafted into the Army at age 21. Upon completion of basic training, he attended Officer Candidate School at Fort Knox, Kentucky, and earned his commission as an armor officer in the U.S. Army Reserve, Feb. 28, 1953. Kettles graduated from the Army Aviation School in 1953, before serving active duty tours in Korea, Japan, and Thailand.
Kettles returned in 1956 and established a Ford Dealership in Dewitt, Mich., with his brother, and continued his service with the Army Reserve as a member of the 4th Battalion, 20th Field Artillery.
He answered the call to serve again in 1963 when the United States was engaged in the Vietnam War and needed pilots. Fixed-wing-qualified, Kettles volunteered for Active Duty and attended Helicopter Transition Training at Fort Wolters, Texas in 1964. During a tour in France the following year, Kettles was cross-trained to fly the famed UH-1D "Huey."
Kettles reported to Fort Benning, Georgia, in 1966 to join a new helicopter unit. He was assigned as a flight commander with the 176th Assault Helicopter Company, 14th Combat Aviation Battalion, and deployed to Vietnam from February through November 1967. His second tour of duty in Vietnam lasted from October 1969 through October 1970.
In 1970, Kettles went to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas, where he served as an aviation team chief and readiness coordinator supporting the Army Reserve. He remained in San Antonio until his retirement from the Army in 1978.
Kettles completed his bachelor's degree at Our Lady of the Lake University, San Antonio, Texas, and earned his master's degree at Eastern Michigan University, College of Technology, in commercial construction. He went on to develop the Aviation Management Program at the College of Technology and taught both disciplines. He later worked for Chrysler Pentastar Aviation until his retirement in 1993. Kettles currently resides in Ypsilanti, Mich., with his wife Ann.
Many who were present for or had heard of Kettles remarkable act of heroism wondered why he never received the Medal of Honor instead of the Distinguished Se
rvice Cross. Numerous attempts to get his DSC upgraded to a Medal of Honor were made, but all such efforts failed. Eventually, the tenuous efforts paid off, and his DSC was upgraded to a Medal of Honor.
On Monday, July 18, 2016, President Barack Obama awarded retired Army Lt. Col. Charles Kettles the Medal of Honor during a White House Ceremony.
"You couldn't make this up. It's like a bad Rambo movie," Obama said, describing the harrowing exploits of then-Major Kettles on that fateful day, May 15, 1967, in "Chump Valley," South Vietnam.
As commander of the 176th Aviation Company, Kettles' mission was to fly in reinforcements and evacuate wounded Soldiers of the 101st Airborne Division, who were outgunned and outnumbered by the North Vietnamese in a rural riverbed near Duc Pho. "They needed support fast," the President said.
Towering above Chump Valley was a 1,500-foot-high hill where the enemy was entrenched in an extensive series of tunnels and bunkers. It was "the ideal spot for an ambush," Obama said.
Despite the dangers that they all were aware of, Kettles and his fellow company of Soldiers took off in their Hueys. As they approached the landing zone, they met a "solid wall of enemy tracers coming right at them," Obama said. "None of them had ever seen fire that intense. Soldiers in the helos were hit and killed before they could even leap off."
Despite the withering fire, Kettles landed his helicopter and kept it there exposed so the wounded could board.
"Once more, machine-gun bullets and mortar rounds came screaming after them. Rounds pierced the arm and leg of Chuck's door gunner, Roland Scheck," Obama said. His Huey was hit. Fuel was pouring out as he flew away. His helicopter was so badly damaged that he couldn't make it to the field hospital so Kettles found another helicopter and took them to safety, the President said.
By then it was near evening. Back in the riverbed, 44 American Soldiers were still pinned down. "The air was thick with gunpowder, the smell of burning metal," the President described. "Then they heard a faint sound. As the sun started to set, they saw something rise over the horizon - six American helicopters, one of them said, "as beautiful as could be.'"
For a third time, Chuck and his unit "headed into that hell on earth," Obama said. "Death or injury was all but certain," a fellow pilot had said, "and a lesser person would not return," the President related.
Once again, the enemy unloaded everything they had on Kettles as he landed: small arms, automatic weapons, and rocket-propelled grenades, Obama said. Soldiers ran to the helicopters as they had before. When Kettles was told all were accounted for, he took off, the President said.
On the return flight, Kettles received a radio call informing him that eight men had not made it aboard. "They'd been providing cover for the others," the President said. They "could only watch as the helicopters floated away. "We all figured we were done for,'" one later said. Kettles came to the same conclusion, the commander in chief said, conveying his words: "If we'd left them for 10 minutes, they'd become POWs or dead."
Kettles couldn't shake from his mind the idea of leaving the eight behind, so "he broke off from formation, took a steep, sharp descending turn back toward the valley, this time with no aerial or artillery support, a lone helicopter heading back in," Obama said.
"Chuck's Huey was the only target for the enemy to attack. And they did," he continued. "Tracers lit up the sky once more. 
Chuck came in so hot his chopper bounced for several hundred feet before coming to a stop," the President said.
As soon as he landed, a mortar round shattered his windshield. Another hit the main rotor blade. Shrapnel tore through the cockpit and Kettles' chair. Yet, Obama said, those eight Soldiers sprinted to the Huey through the firestorm.
The President described what happened next: "Chuck's helo, now badly damaged, was carrying 13 souls and was 600 pounds over the weight limit. He said, "it felt like flying a two-and-a-half-ton truck." He couldn't hover long enough to take off, but the cool customer that he is, he saw his shattered windshield and thought, 'that's pretty good air conditioning.'
"The cabin filled with black smoke as Chuck hopped and skipped the helo across the ground to pick up enough speed to take off, 'like a jackrabbit bouncing across the riverbed,'" the President said, relating Kettle's analogy.
The instant he got airborne, another mortar ripped into the tail and the Huey fishtailed violently. A Soldier was tossed from the helicopter, but managed to grab a skid, hanging on as Kettles flew them to safety," Obama said.
"The Army's Warrior Ethos is based on a simple principle: A Soldier never leaves his comrades behind," Obama said. "Chuck Kettles honored that creed. Not with a single act of heroism, but over and over and over and over. And, because of that heroism, 44 American Soldiers made it out that day."
The most gratifying part of this whole story "is that Dewey's name and Roland's name and the names of 42 other Americans 
he saved are not etched in the solemn granite wall not far from here that memorializes the fallen in the Vietnam War," the President remarked.
"A Soldier who was there said, 'That day, Major Kettles became our John Wayne,'" Mr. Obama said. "With all due respect to John Wayne, he couldn't do what Chuck Kettles did."
"To the dozens of American Soldiers that he saved in Vietnam half a century ago, Chuck is the reason they lived and came home and had children and grandchildren. Entire family trees, made possible by the actions of this one man," the President concluded.
Kettles, 86, was joined at the ceremony by his wife, Anne. They will celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary in March. With them were eight of their 10 children and three grandchildren.
When the ceremony concluded, America's newest national hero said, "We got the 44 out. None of those names appear on the wall in Washington. There's nothing more important than that."
Also attending were some of the Soldiers Kettles served with that day, including Scheck, Dewey Smith, who was among the last eight Soldiers rescued that day, and a number of other Soldiers who fought in that battle. Past Medal of Honor recipients attended as well.
A largely unsung and non-known hero of the World War One was the fascinating Eugene James "Jacques" Bullard of the Lafayette Flying Corps.
Bullard was born in a three-room house in Columbus, Georgia, the seventh of ten children born to William (Octave) Bullard, a black man who was from Martinique, and Josephine ("Yokalee") 
Thomas, a Creek Indian. His father's ancestors had been slaves in Haiti to French refugees who fled during the Haitian Revolution. They reached the United States and took refuge with the Creek Indians.
An adventurer by nature, he left the small town of Columbus and moved to Atlanta by himself while still in his teenage years. He had been told that the way to escape racial prejudice was to head to Europe, particularly France (he once said he witnessed a near lynching of his dad). A long time back his father had pointed out to him that Bullard was a French name and that at least one ancestor had hailed from there. Stirred by all the possibilities, he stowed away on a ship bound for Scotland, arriving at Aberdeen and made his way south to Glasgow. On a visit to Paris, he liked what he saw and how he was treated and decided to settle in France. He became a relatively good boxer in Paris and also worked in a music hall.
France had been good to Bullard, and he quickly fell in love with the country. So when World War I broke out in August 1914, he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion at a time when volunteers from overseas were only allowed to serve in the French colonial troops. Assigned to the 3rd Marching Regiment of the 1st Foreign Regiment as a machine gunner, he saw combat near the Somme River. It was during this time when he learned Americans and other volunteers were now allowed to transfer to Metropolitan French Army units, including the 170th French Infantry Regiment - nicknamed "Les Hirondelles de la Mort," or "The Swallows of Death."
Liking the idea of being part of a unit with crack troops appealed to Bullard, so he put in his request to join the regiment. In February 1916, his requested was granted just as the 170th Infantry was sent to 
Verdun, one of the largest and longest battles of the First World War on the Western Front between the German and French armies. The battle took place on the hills north of Verdun-sur-Meuse in north-eastern France. It was during this battle that Bullard was severely wounded on March 5, 1916 and sent to a Parisian hospital where he spent the next six months recuperating. During convalescence, he was cited for acts of valor at the orders of the regiment on July 3, 1917 and was awarded the Croix de Guerre.
While convalescing in Paris, his friend and fellow Southerner Jeff Davis Dixon bet Bullard $2,000 that he could not get into the French Air Force. Bullard contended that he could, accepted the bet and on October 5, 1916, arrived at the French aerial gunnery school at Cazaux on the Atlantic. It was here that he met Edmond Genet (the first American flier to die in the First World War in April 1917). He told Bullard about the 
Lafayette Escadrille which inspired him to be a pilot and not a back seat gunner. In mid-October with Genet's help he transferred to the flight school at Tours for pilot training. The training took a few more months, but it was inevitably given Bullard's persistence that it would pay off. Bullard earned his pilot's license and then Dickerson faithfully paid the $2,000. It was a considerable sum at the time, especially for a gentleman's bet. Dixon admitted that he hated to lose the money, but was delighted that at least Bullard was from Dixie. The result of the bet was to launch Eugene Bullard into history as a first ever African-American aviator.
Like many other American aviators, Bullard hoped to join the famous Lafayette Escadrille, but after enrolling 38 American pilots in spring and summer of 1916, it stopped accepting applicants. After further training he joined 269 American aviators at the Lafayette Flying Corps on November 15, 1916. American volunteers flew with French pilots in different pursuit and bomber/reconnaissance aero squadrons on the Western Front.
On August 27, he was assigned to the Escadrille N.93 based at Beauzee-sur-Aire south of Verdun. The squadron was equipped with Nieuport and Spad VII aircraft that displayed a flying duck as the squadron insignia. 
He took part in over twenty air combat missions, and he is sometimes credited with shooting down one or two German aircraft. However, the French authorities could not confirm Bullard's victories. His Spad had an insignia lettered "All blood runs red" and his nickname became the "Black Swallow of Death."
When the United States entered the war, the United States Army Air Service convened a medical board to recruit Americans serving in the Lafayette Flying Corps for the Air Service of the American Expeditionary Forces. Bullard went through the medical examination, but he was not accepted, as only white pilots were allowed to serve. Sometime later, on a short break from duty in Paris, Bullard allegedly got into an argument with a French commissioned officer and was punished by being transferred to the service battalion of to the 170th infantry Regiment of the French army. He was discharged in October 1919 and returned to Paris.
After the war, Bullard settle down, and in 1923 married a French Countess from a wealthy family named Marcelle Straumann. They settle down and had two daughters Jacqueline and Lolita.
Post war Bullard bought a bar named "Le Grand Duc" on the north side of Paris. In the late 1930s, prior to the outbreak of World War II, he was recruited by French intelligence to spy on the Germans who come by his bar. He remained very devoted to France and tried to join the French army but was considered too old. In 1940, he managed to find a way out of German-occupied France, biked all the way down to Portugal and returned to the United States on a Red Cross ship. He settled in New York City. He was able to extradite his daughters, but Marcelle remained in France and eventually, they divorced.
In 1954, along with two other French veterans, he was invited by French Pres. Charles de Gaulle to light the flame of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
Eugene Bullard received fifteen decorations from the government of France. He was made a Knight of the Legion of Honor, France's most coveted award. He also was awarded the Medaille Militaire, another high military distinction.
He died in New York City of stomach cancer on October 12, 1961, at the age of 66 with his achievements all but forgotten.
While Eugene Bullard is not as famous as a Tuskegee Airmen or Gen. Benjamin O. Davis Junior, as an African-American aviator, he came before all of them. The Chicago Tribune herald him as "as probably the most unsung hero in the history of the U.S. wartime aviation."
After its defeat in the Spanish-American War of 1898, the Treaty of Paris (1898) transferred Philippine sovereignty from Spain to the United States, ending centuries of Spanish control over the politics and economy of its longstanding former colony. 
Filipino leaders, however, did not recognize America's authority and had no intention of ceding their homeland to a new colonial power.
The decision by U.S. policymakers to annex the Philippines was not without domestic controversy, either. Americans who advocated annexation evinced a variety of motivations: the desire for commercial opportunities in Asia, a concern that Filipinos were incapable of self-rule, and fear that if the United States did not take control of the islands, another power (such as Germany or Japan) might do so. Meanwhile, American opposition to U.S. colonial rule of the Philippines came in many forms, ranging from those who thought it morally wrong for the United States to be engaged in colonialism, to those who feared that annexation might eventually permit the non-white Filipinos to have a role in American national government. Others were wholly unconcerned about the moral or racial implications of imperialism sought only to oppose the policies of President William McKinley's administration.
Annexation came through a circuitous route. Following the sinking of the battleship USS Maine in Havana's harbor on Feb. 15, 1898, then-Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Navy (and future president) Theodore Roosevelt, while temporarily in charge when Secretary John Long had left early for the day on Feb. 25, responded to what he felt was potential Spanish treachery by placing the entire U.S. Navy on alert worldwide and issuing orders to 
Commodore George Dewey to gather his Asiatic Squadron in Hong Kong and prepare for war with Spain. When Secretary Long returned to the office the next day, in spite of being surprised and upset at the issuance of such drastic orders without his approval, he did not rescind them. A month later, on Friday, March 25, President McKinley received the Navy's final report blaming the sinking of the Maine on Spanish mines and ordered the U.S. Navy to blockade all Cuban ports. Finally, after another month of contentious debate, on April 25, Congress declared war against Spain.
During the 2 months on alert following the sinking of the Maine, Dewey's Asiatic Squadron went through intensive preparations, including re-supply, reinforcement, and very strenuous and continuous drilling and training. On April 26, following the declaration of war, Dewey sailed with four cruisers (including his flagship), 
two gunboats, a revenue cutter, and two cargo ships loaded with coal for the flotilla, and headed for Manila to engage a Spanish naval force of approximately 20 craft, consisting of two cruisers, gunboats, and smaller torpedo craft. Dewey risked his flotilla 8,000 miles from home, with no supporting naval ports due to neutrality laws, to steam through potentially mined channels lined with ancient forts bristling with big guns. At sunrise on May 1, after successfully and uneventfully sneaking into Manila Harbor overnight, and with deck gun crews yelling, "Remember the Maine!", Dewey caught the unprepared and ill-trained Spanish fleet flat-footed at anchorage and engaged them in a devastating skirmish with minimal American casualties and no loss of American naval craft. The Spanish fleet surrendered within hours, but Dewey was unable to occupy Manila for over 3 months until ground troops arrived.
While the American public and politicians debated the annexation question, Filipino nationalist revolutionaries led by Emilio Aguinaldo seized control of most of the Philippines' main island of Luzon and proclaimed the establishment of the independent Philippine Republic.
On August 13, Manila fell after a bloodless "battle". Spanish Gov. Fermin Jaudenes had secretly arranged a surrender after a mock show of resistance to salvage his honor. With American troops in possession of the city and Filipino insurgents controlling the rest of the country, conflict was inevitable.
On February 4, 1899, just two days before the U.S. Senate ratified the treaty, sporadic fighting broke out between American forces and Aguinaldo's nationalist fighters. When it became clear that U.S. forces were intent on imposing American colonial control over the islands, the clashes escalated into all-out war. Americans tended to refer to the ensuing conflict as an "insurrection" rather than to acknowledge the Filipinos' contention that they were fighting to ward off a foreign invader.
The United States entered the conflict with undeniable military advantages that included a trained fighting force, a steady supply of military equipment, and control of the archipelago's waterways. Meanwhile, the Filipino forces were hampered by their inability to gain any kind of outside support for their cause and complications produced by the Philippines' geographic complexity, resulting in chronic shortages of weapons and ammunition. Under these conditions, Aguinaldo's attempt to fight a conventional war against the better-trained and equipped 
American troops in the early month of the conflict in February 1899 proved to be a fatal mistake; the Filipino army suffered severe losses in men and material before switching to the guerrilla-style tactics that might have been more effective if employed from the beginning of the conflict.
Throughout the spring of 1899, American troops pushed north into the central Luzon Plain, and by the end of that year, Filipino Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo had retreated into the inaccessible northern mountains.
Fighting flared with increased bitterness on the island of Samar in 1901. Gen. Jacob H. Smith, enraged by a guerrilla massacre of U.S. troops, launched a retaliatory campaign of indiscriminate and ferocious retribution on the island, resulting in the deaths of between 2,500 civilians (according to western researchers) and 50,000 civilians (according to Filipino historians). His orders included, "kill everyone over the age of ten," and to "make the island a howling wilderness." For his notorious actions, he was court-martialed and forced to retire.
Guerrilla hit and run tactics began in November of 1899 and lasted through the capture of Aguinaldo in 1901 and into the spring of 1902, by which time most organized Filipino resistance had dissipated. President Theodore Roosevelt proclaimed a general amnesty and declared the conflict over on July 4, 1902, although minor uprisings and insurrections against American rule periodically occurred in the years that followed.
The war was brutal on both sides. U.S. forces at times burned villages, implemented civilian reconcentration policies, and employed torture on suspected guerrillas, while Filipino fighters also tortured captured soldiers and terrorized civilians who cooperated with American forces. Many civilians died during the conflict as a result of the fighting, cholera and malaria epidemics, and food shortages caused by several agricultural catastrophes.
Even as the fighting went on, the colonial government that the United States established in the Philippines in 1900 under future President William Howard Taft launched a pacification campaign that became known as the "policy of attraction." Designed to win over key elites and other Filipinos who did not embrace Aguinaldo's plans for the Philippines, this policy permitted a significant degree of self-government, introduced social reforms, and implemented plans for economic development. Over time, this program gained important Filipino adherents and undermined the revolutionaries' popular appeal, which significantly aided the United States' military effort to win the war.
After 1902 the American civil government regarded the insurrection as over, and the remaining guerrillas as mere bandits, though the fighting continued for years later. About 1,000 guerrillas under Simeon Ola were not defeated until late 1903, and in Batangas province, south of Manila, troops commanded by Macario Sakay resisted capture until as late as 1906.
The last organized resistance to U.S. power took place on Samar from 1904 to 1906. There the rebels' tactic of burning pacified villages contributed to their own defeat. In 1907, the Philippines convened its first elected assembly, while an unconnected insurgency campaign by Moro bands on Mindanao continued sporadically until 1913. The United States had gained undisputed control of the Philippines, and the archipelago became an autonomous commonwealth in 1935.
Except for a 3-year period during WWII when Japanese forces occupied and brutally subjugated the Philippines, the U.S. retained possession of the islands until 1946, when it finally granted independence. But it wasn't until 1992, after the rejection of the U.S. Bases Extension Treaty by the Filipino government, that the U.S. relinquished the last of its naval and air bases in the sprawling archipelago.
The Philippine-American War's cost was significant in the loss of human life. An estimated 20,000 Filipino troops were killed, and more than 200,000 civilians perished as a result of combat, hunger, or disease. Of the 4,300 Americans lost, some 1,500 were killed in action, while nearly twice that number succumbed to disease.
Entering active duty in August 1965, I immediately volunteered to go to South Viet Nam. The Air Force accepted the volunteer statement, but I had to complete that first assignment before going, which included some 19 months (two winters - brrrrr!) in Maine.
In May 1967, I arrived in Saigon and was immediately flown to Da Nang. My assignment was to a radar site on Monkey Mountain, some 7 miles NE of Da Nang, perhaps one of the safest locations in all of South Viet Nam. At Monkey Mountain, as with other long-range radar sites, we primarily
provided flight following to fighter and transport aircraft, joined fighters with tankers for mid-air refueling on their way to and from
the Hanoi and Haiphong areas of North Viet Nam, assisted in downed pilot rescues, and provided other support as necessary.
In mid-October, I volunteered for and was reassigned to the radar site at Dong Ha, 70 some-odd miles NW of Da Nang. Dong Ha was located in Quang Tri Province, 6 miles northwest of Quang Tri, and 24 miles northeast of Khe Sanh. Being only six miles below the so-called demilitarized zone (DMZ), it was an inviting, stationary target for North Viet Nam military forces, who moved rockets and artillery guns into the DMZ. While an Air Force tour in Viet Nam was 12 months, the maximum tour at Dong Ha was six months due to continuing artillery barrages. The attacks were sporadic but often. One might go for two weeks with no incoming shells or "rounds" followed by a similar period of several barrages a day. During my approximately 180 days at Dong Ha, we endured 113 barrages. While taking a sporadic (never more than) 150 rounds a day was nerve-wracking, it small potatoes compared to Khe Sanh where, during the 
Tet Offensive of 1968, as many as 1,500 rounds a day were endured. We thought we had it pretty rough, but Marines coming out of Khe Sanh felt Dong Ha was almost an R&R site!
When one is attacked by artillery, there are several aspects that become immediately apparent. First, when the initial round explodes you literally "hit the dirt," as the last place you want to be in an artillery barrage is in an upright position. The flatter you can be on the ground, the better. Due to incoming speed, shrapnel from the exploding round literally goes forward and up. Only a few pieces of shrapnel will blowback in the direction of the firing gun. If a round lands just a few feet beyond your location, you are relatively safe. Also, if you are fortunate enough to drop in a ground depression, a round has practically got to hit you in order to do damage. This doesn't make the attack any less terrifying, but it does greatly increase survivability. Somewhat humorously when lying flat on the ground, there is an urge to yell or scream, but you don't, because sucking in the air to yell will raise your back another inch or two off the ground! Also, when lying there, you can feel your belt buckle and shirt buttons keeping you up off the ground!
Second, the sound of incoming rounds, where everyone recognizes the sound and takes cover is the stuff of which movies are made. While you can hear and react to an incoming round that will impact to your right or left at say a ¼ mile or more, a round coming at you is traveling so fast it will explode by the time your mind recognizes what's happening. It is similar to a lightning strike that hits closer than 50 yards. Ironically, since the round travels in an arc, and the firing sound travels in a straight line, the sound will arrive approximately 1-2 seconds before the round itself. One never hears the first firing, but as you lie flat on the ground, you will hear a very soft "poom," telling you another round is on the way.
Third, there is almost no excuse for being injured or killed by any incoming round except the first one. As the above paragraph indicates, being flat on the ground should prevent injury or death from later rounds. Unfortunately, every artillery-caused death that occurred at the Dong Ha Air Force radar site from October 1967 to April 1968 occurred after that first round. Why? Because being caught out in the open during an artillery barrage is absolutely terrifying, and the temptation to get up and "run for cover" is very powerful. Far too many Airmen paid the ultimate price for yielding to this temptation.
So, the only viable option is to lie there and take it. Fighting back is impossible. For someone who had not been allowed to fight after sixth grade, because the other kid's parents might take away their insurance from our family's agency and put us in the poor house, I was much better prepared than those raised without such restrictions. My most vivid memory here was of a Captain who played the first-string backfield at a large university. He was very powerfully built and could probably have taken on a pack of alligators and won. Unable to fight back when under artillery attack turned him into a virtual alcoholic in a matter of weeks. Regrettably, he was one of many who chose to bury their fears in alcohol, which was readily available.
A Navy Triage located next to our radar site was the initial receiving point for anyone injured in Quang Tri Province. Often, when not controlling aircraft, many of us could be found at the Triage carrying stretchers from the incoming helicopters to the first treatment location. Between our own compound and the triage, we saw 
enough injury and death to last many lifetimes. As for what we saw at these side-by-side locations, just think of the opening D-Day scenes in
"Saving Private Ryan." When I and others who served at Dong Ha think of the Purple Heart, injuries seen in our compound and the Triage come to mind. For this reason, none of us at the radar site who received minor cuts and scratches from shrapnel ever put in for the Purple Heart. We all felt we just didn't deserve it.
At the end of March 1968, I left Dong Ha and returned to the safety of Monkey Mountain, and stayed until leaving Viet Nam in May. Those of us returning to Monkey Mountain occasionally provided humor for other individuals, such as when a truck backfired while carrying a lunch tray to my seat. I dove to the floor, and the tray, hot food and all, landed on two Colonels visiting the site! Another time, I was sitting on a bench outside reading a newspaper in the late afternoon when an F4 broke the sound barrier. The paper went up, I dove forward for the ground, and made the best "football clip" of my life on a Marine who happened to be standing about four feet away with his back to me! Fortunately, he wasn't armed at the time!
There were several after-effects from experiences at Dong Ha, and everyone changed, some for the better, and some for the worse. Many became alcoholics. Some later overcame the disease, while others did not. Second, after observing so much maiming and killing, many lost the desire to ever again have anything to do with guns. Outside of mandatory proficiency training, I hadn't fired a gun since leaving Viet Nam until 2005 when I bought a shotgun to kill turtles eating fish in our stocked pond. Third, any sudden loud noise would, for several years, cause us to duck, often to the point of hitting the ground. To remain standing after a nearby lightning strike was virtually unknown! Even today, if a loud noise occurs when talking about the war in general or Viet Nam in particular, the result is the same. Fortunately, I haven't "hit the ground" since a lightning strike in the summer of 2004. As for PTSD, I thought I never had it until my late wife told me I periodically woke up screaming at night during the first 20 years of our marriage (we married 17 Aug 69). I can't confirm this, as I have no recollection of it ever happening.
Lest one think Viet Nam was nothing but despair, most radar controllers received numerous, very proud moments when they helped save lives and equipment. Joining a fighter with a tanker after the fighter has run out of gas and is gliding down; running a ground-controlled approach (GCA) which "the book" says can't be done with long-range radar, in near-zero visibility and a fighter pilot who is injured and can't change frequencies; and guiding a rescue helicopter to a downed pilot before he can be captured all leave one with a satisfaction that cannot be described. There were many times in Viet Nam when we felt we were needed more than at any other time in their lives, before and since.
As most veterans will tell you, those six months of trial at Dong Ha, as with any trying experience forged some of the strongest friendships of our lives. I still have the names addresses of nearly 20 friends with whom I served during those six months at Dong Ha. The experience? I wouldn't trade it for all the tea in China, but I wouldn't wish it on a dog.
In 1998, one of my children asked if I ever suffered from PTSD, to which I responded that I had no such suffering and felt very lucky about that. My wife Nancy immediately said that if I didn't have PTSD, then why did I wake up screaming at night for the first 20 years of our marriage? To this day, I have no memory of that ever happening!
In 2010, John Black and his wife Kay of Germantown, Tennessee received an unexpected surprise at their doorstep: a footlocker, which had been stored and unexamined for 
decades in a family member's garage in California. Inside they found his mother's footlocker filled with a 100 images of her sketches, photographs, scrapbooks, news clippings, and other memorabilia. "I remember these. Thank heavens they're still around," he thought to himself. "The sheer volume of it was overwhelming. It took us a while to sort through it all."
Although he and his brother knew some things about their mother during her World War II experience, the discovery of her work launched him on a journey to meet this remarkable woman who had been his mother and to share her story in the widest, most dramatic way possible.
Eventually arriving at WQED Multimedia in her hometown of Pittsburgh he found what he had been hoping for: people who shared his vision on what a great documentary his mother's story would make. The project was immediately assigned to the Emmy Award-winning team of writer/producer David Solomon and photographer/editor Paul Ruggieri. The award-winning documentary, "Portraits for the Homefront: The Story of Elizabeth Black" premiered November 2013.
The one-hour documentary explored Miss Black's lost art career, features interviews with elderly veterans who encountered the artist on the battlefield, and captures memorable scenes of amazed and appreciative families finally receiving portraits that never arrived during the war.
Frank and Eva Clark were surprised when John Black and WQED staff visited their home to present them with a long-lost portrait of Frank sketched in 1944, while he served with the Army in France.
"It's a nice gift, a really nice gift," Clark, 92, said. "I've got four girls, and they all wanted one. They are fighting over it," he said "They really enjoy the way it looks. It looks just like me."
Clark remembered Elizabeth Black as "really nice to get along with. She took a lot of time with you." It lifted the spirits of the men, he said.
When contacted, Betty Koppel Houston said it was about a year after her father, Leo Koppel, had been deployed with the Army that her worried family received a portrait of him from the Red Cross. He was sketched on leave in Holland after fighting in the Battle of the Bulge. "It was exciting to see the portrait when it came home. I was 7 when he went away. I was Daddy's girl. I missed my father," she said.
Her mother hung the portrait on the wall in the living room of their residence. Houston now has it on the wall in her home. "It means the world to me," she said. "It's a good likeness."
Leo Koppel autographed it to his wife: "To Betty, Love + Kisses, your loving husband, Leo."
John Black, who praised the manner in which Solomon tells his mother's story, said, "The most-poignant takeaway for him from all the memorabilia probably is the letters written to his mother from family members after they received a sketch."
In some cases, because of slow wartime mail, the loved one had been killed. But a family member, usually a wife, mother or sibling, still wrote a thank-you letter to a stranger who had given the family a wonderful gift. Other letter-writers pleaded for more information about their loved one. Black said, "They wrote, ‘You have seen him. How is he? Where is he now? It's been so long since we heard from him. We are so worried."
Born in 1912, Elizabeth Black descended from a paternal grandfather John Wesley Black, founder of a weekly newspaper called The Pittsburgh Bulletin. Her father, John Wesley Black Jr., also worked for that publication.
At a very young age, Elizabeth showed a remarkable talent as an up-and-coming artist in 1930s Pittsburgh. Following recognition at Carrick and Peabody high schools and taking classes at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, she won a scholarship to the city's Ad-Art Studio School, took classes at Carnegie Tech and studied at the prestigious Art Students League of New York.
Prominent Pittsburgh families including the Mellons, Craigs and Shaws asked her to sketch portraits of their children and other family members. She painted murals for the Point Breeze Presbyterian Church. Her crowning achievement was her selection in 1940 to paint 25 larger-than-life portraits of literary greats such as Henry David Thoreau, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Emily Dickinson. It was no easy task. She stood for hours on a ladder, day-after-day carefully painting each stroke of each portrait into recesses near the ceiling of a great room in the Carnegie Library in the city's North Side neighborhood. Unfortunately, the paintings disappeared during a 1960s renovation.
At the height of World War II, Elizabeth left her promising art career behind and joined the American Red Cross. Following three weeks of screening and training in Washington, D.C., she boarded a ship for England in summer 1943. At age 31, she was stationed in London at a Red Cross Club as part of the Clubmobile brigades - women who drove to field camps in retrofitted buses or trucks throughout Europe providing doughnuts, coffee and a smiling face to war-weary troops.
Hoping to be more than a hostess, she sought permission from the American Red Cross and the U.S. military to use her abilities to sketch Soldiers and send the portraits to worried families in the 
United States. In a seven-page business plan written on onion-skin paper she laid out her idea, what she would need in the way of art supplies to carry it out and how it would all work to include that camps hold lotteries to determine who would set for her. The American Red Cross accepted her proposal.
In less than a year, Elizabeth sketched her way across England, France, Germany, Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg visiting camps and boosting the morale of American Soldiers and capturing hundreds of young faces with deft strokes of charcoal.
When she finished whosever portrait she was working on, she asked her subjects to sign their portraits and write their hometown addresses. The large sketches, dated and signed, often containing endearments to loved ones back home, were mailed to parents, wives and siblings.
Often her sketches reached families months after they were mailed due to the agonizing slow nature of wartime delivery. Some were never arrived at all. In some cases, the subject had died before the portrait got to the family. They would write a letter saying, "Thank you so much. We will cherish this forever. He was killed a month ago."
Regardless of where she was drawing a portrait, curious onlookers gathered around, grateful for the chance to talk or even flirt with the blue-eyed, brunette portrait artist. Some wrote heartfelt notes of appreciation in a notebook she carried with her at all times.
On Oct. 21, 1944, a staff sergeant from Los Angeles wrote, "My best wishes to the finest personality I have ever met and sincerely an artist to scetch (sic) a mug like mine. Thanks a million!" A poem from a Brooklyn Soldier ended, "Never will I forget that friendly gal/who made me smile, thank you pal."
During a visit to Cherbourg, France, in 1944, the artist met Julian Black, a Navy commander from Chattanooga, Tenn. They joked about their shared last name, and he wrote a popular song lyric in her notebook, "I'll be seeing you."
After an intense courtship, they married during the 1944 Christmas holidays at the American Chapel in Paris. Family legend has it that they were the first American couple to do so there since D-Day.
When the war ended, the couple sailed for America in June 1945 and settled first in Staunton, Va., moving three years later to Waynesboro, then a town of 11,000 people located 20 miles southeast of Charlottesville.
Elizabeth had two sons and helped her attorney husband Julian with his soft-drink business he had entered with a college classmate. After he husband died from a heart attack in 1956, Elizabeth sold the business back to her late husband's friend and waited for her sons to grow up. In 1963, she packed up the family car and moved to Berkeley, Calif. She chose Berkeley because it was a college town and had a bohemian reputation of being a good place for artists and musicians. She resumed portrait work but on a far lesser scale than her successful Pittsburgh years.
Later she moved to Portland, Ore., where at the age of 71, she died from a heart attack in October 1983.
Producer/writer David Solomon said, "The story of Elizabeth Black is a reminder of how just one person can make a huge difference." "She provided a moment of brightness for hundreds of troops in battle, and gave hundreds of families' peace of mind when it was desperately needed." The undertaking has been one of the most-memorable and satisfying in his career he added.
If you are interested in seeing the entire hour of "Portraits for the Homefront: The Story of Elizabeth Black," please go to the following site. It will be well worth your time.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9K2Wgvs_hM
Review
Looking for that perfect book that takes you from your reading chair to the high seas of adventure? Look no further than this book which contains 40 separate stories from the author's 20-year service in the U.S. Navy. Some of these stories are quite short, others are not.
Some stories are humorous; a couple are grim; some people will find one of them a bit disgusting. All are based on real people and real events. A few are liberally laced with profanity but most of them are not.
These tales from the author's Navy days are meant to be educational as well as entertaining. After all, sea stories - whether real or imagined events - have something in common with myths and folklore.
So what is a sea story? Ask any Sailor or Marine, especially "seagoing" Marines. On occasion, they are mostly fact. At other times mostly fantasy. Sometimes they are reconstructions of the way things should have been and others are works of pure imagination - which are the most fun and most memorable.
Perhaps the most popular and timeless sea story repeated over and over again deals with making the distinction between the "Old" Marine Corps with the current one at the time of its telling. It begins on November 10, 1775, at Tun Tavern, in Philadelphia where Navy officers interviewed the first prospect willing to join the Marine Corps. After numerous applicants were turned down, they finally found a young man who fit their requirements. They had him sign the book, paid him his dollar, and bought a round of rum to toast his enlistment followed by a second-round before sending him off to a table in the corner to wait. After a few more interviews, they found a second recruit, who soon joined the first. "This is great," the second recruit said. "They paid me right away, and even bought me a tot of rum!" "Humph" sneered the first. "In the Old Corps, they bought us two."
I recommend this fun, entertaining and informative book for anyone and believe they will find something in the stories to which they can relate. It is also an easy read since it can be read chapter by chapter as each of the 40 episodes stand on their own. This is especially true for those with a busy schedule who can enjoy a chapter or two in a matter of minutes and come back later to read a few more.
In his parting words, the author wrote: "This concludes the sea stories I have to tell at this time. Do I have more? Yes, I do, but as my wife has so firmly pointed out, "You can't tell those." So these will have to do for the time being.
Reader Reviews
Fred Nickols shares authentic stories from his U.S. Navy career in a humorous way. I read a sea story a day. He adds a lesson learned about human nature and human relations that are short and sweet. It made me remember and reflect upon a few sea stories of my own! I plan to pass this treasure trove along to another Navy person to enjoy.
~Amazon Customer
I have known about the author for some 20 years through our common interest in Perceptual Control Theory (mentioned on page 95) but met him just once along the way.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this collection of stories; laughed my head off in places, and came to better understand where Fred is coming from in his current role as an independent management consultant.
These enjoyable stories not only shed light on life in the navy as experienced by the people who actually make the ships function but provide a perspective on life in any big organization and the importance of human touch.
Once I got into it, I could not put it down until I came to the very last page.
~Dag Forssell
About the Author
Fred Nickols was born in Fort Madison, Iowa in 1937. He is a retired, decorated Navy chief petty officer and a fire control technician, charged with operating, maintaining and repairing complex, shipboard weapons systems (guns and missiles).
He currently writes and consults about various aspects of workplace management, including human behavior, performance, and productivity.