Secret World War II Rescue

During Ancient times, if a soldier was wounded, he laid in the field where he had fallen. There was no one to come to his aid. 

It wasn't until Napoleon's army created a corps of trained and equipped soldiers to aid those on the battlefield. George Washington had a similar system during the American Revolution. But too many warriors still died long before they could be evacuated to better-equipped medical facilities. 

It wasn't until the American Civil War that one man developed a timely and efficient evacuation system. In 1862, due to the unexpected size of casualty lists during the battle of Manassas, it took up to one week to remove all the wounded from the battlefield. In response, Dr. Jonathan Letterman, Head of Medical Services of the Army of the Potomac, overhauled the Army Medical Corps with the inclusion of badly needed medical evacuation. His contribution included staffing and training men to operate horse teams and wagons to pick up wounded soldiers from the field and to bring them back to field dressing stations for initial treatment. This system was further advanced during World War I with the advent of a motorized ambulance. 

But it was never enough to get the most severely wounded and sick back to the rear of the frontlines before they died. This changed dramatically in 1942 with an innovative new medical program. Army Air Force aircraft began transporting the seriously wounded and ill from field hospitals and aid-stations near the frontlines to better-equipped facilities staffed by trained doctors and nurses, using up-to-date medical equipment. 

Throughout the war in Europe, dedicate nurses, medics and flight crews assigned to medical air evacuation squadron evacuate over one million patients. Only forty-nine died before reaching a better-equipped hospital. Among the units engaged in this life-saving mission was the 807th Medical Air Evacuation Transport Squadron. 

Following its training at Bowman Field in Louisville, Kentucky, the 807th was sent to the Mediterranean in October 1943. From its base at Catania, Sicily, it flew many critical missions aboard transport planes carrying equipment and men toward the front lines, helped load sick and wounded patients onto empty planes, and escort the patients back to Sicily or North Africa where they could receive better medical treatment.

This is the story of one of those missions that resulted in a crash landing in German-occupied territory, a rescue that was kept secret for many years long after the war ended in 1945.  

It begins on the morning of November 8, 1943. A persistent cold rain finally came to an end, allowing 30 people to board a C-53 airplane that was to take them 260 miles, to Bari, Italy. The mission was to pick up a growing population of wounded soldiers and take them to a more secure location where they could get the best medical help available. 

On board was a pilot, a co-pilot, a radio operator, and a crew chief, plus 13 nurses and 13 medics. Heavy rain had prevented flights from leaving Catania for the previous three days. To make up for a lost time, the 807th commanding officer decided to send half of the squadron's medical personnel to evacuate the many patients who had been waiting for days in Bari, Italy, 260 miles away.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky when the C-53D transport took off from the airfield, but several hours in the flight to Bari, it went into heavy, dark clouds. Within seconds, visibility was zero. After about 10-minutes of rough flying, the plane hit a severe storm, smashing the plane around like driftwood. Worse, all radio communications with the ground were lost. The pilots soon became disoriented.

To get out of the dangerous storm and to reestablish communications, the plane climbed up to 8,000 feet, where the wings started icing over. Worried what the icy might do, the pilots made a decision to dive back down through the clouds. 

Once out of the thick cloud cover, a coastline came into view. The aircrew thought they may have flown across Italy and were near Italy's western coast. What they didn't realize was the fierce storm had blown them off course over eastern Italy and across the Adriatic Sea, a body of water separating the Italian Peninsula from the Balkan Peninsula.

Unsure of where he was, the pilot, 1st Lt. Charles Thrasher, tried to land on what looked like an abandoned airfield only to be greeted by black puffs of smoke and shrapnel from German anti-aircraft guns. Thrasher immediately headed the plane towards the clouds, flying through a valley where the tops of the mountains were higher than the clouds. 

When it emerged from the clouds, the plane was very close to two German Messerschmitt fighters, which began firing at them. The pilots dodged the enemy planes by returning to the clouds. 

Less than an hour later, fuel running low, Thrasher aimed the plane toward an open field below next to a lake. When they started landing, many aboard thought the pilots wouldn't be able to stop in time and that they would end up in the water. The pilots braked hard, and the landing gear sank in the mud. Just before the plane would have hit the water, it came to a violent stop. The force embedded the plane's nose in the marshy ground, and the fuselage hovered upright for a few seconds before falling to the ground in a belly flop. When they crashed, only the crew chief was seriously injured. 

When the Americans came out of the plane uncertain where they were, they only saw rugged mountains, but a few minutes later, a band of armed men came out of the woods. Not knowing if these men were their enemies, a panic raised among the Americans.

Fortunately for them, Hasan Gina, one of the Albanian men who approached them, had learned English at the Albanian Vocational School, also known as the Red Cross School. He told the Americans that they were in Albania. He also told them the Germans weren't that far away and offered to get them out of there. The Americans soon learned that these men were Albanian partisans, members of a resistance group.

At the time of the crash, Albania was in the middle of a civil war. Two resistance groups were essentially fighting to see who would control Albania after the war ended. The partisans who met the Americans were one group - a communist-led National Liberation Movement. The second group was the Balli Kombetar, or BK - a right-wing nationalist group. The two groups had formed when the Italians occupied Albania. When Italy surrendered to the Allies in September 1943, the Germans took control of the country. When the partisans led the Americans through the countryside, they had to avoid not only the Germans but also the BK.

The main partisan leading the Americans for several weeks was Kostaq Stefa. But when he returned to his village after helping the Americans, he was tortured for several days by the BK. After the war, communist dictator Enver Hoxha had Stefa executed in 1948. He left behind a widow and five children.

After three weeks of walking in the rugged and often inaccessible Korab Mountains and facing German attacks and being in total culture shock, they learned that British agents were operating in the country. Why the partisans hadn't made that clear isn't apparent. There was some thought from the Americans that the Albanians were using them as propaganda because they wanted the villagers to side with them and help them fight for the partisan cause. 

The partisans took the Americans to different villages where the Albanian people risked their own lives by giving them food and shelter. There were days when the Americans only had a bite of cornbread, so every little bit helped. If the villagers had been caught helping the Americans, the village likely would have been burned, and many of its residents killed. It is almost certain that without the help of the Albanian people, the Americans wouldn't have survived the cold winter.

The Americans had to be careful about how the women and men interacted in the stricter Muslim villages. In one instance, when the Americans had just crossed a mountain during a blizzard, a medic and nurse were seen talking to one another as they entered a village. Because of this interaction, some of the villagers were opposed to the Americans staying. They ultimately decided to let them stay that night as a reward for surviving the crossing that had killed people even in the warmer summer months.

Fortunately for the Americans, the Germans tended to stay on the roads in Albania while the partisans led the Americans mostly through the rugged mountains.

There was definitely still a risk that the Americans and the partisans would encounter when Germans were in the area. They had to be on their guard at all times.

After learning that British officers were operating in the country, they asked one of the partisans to get a message to them, and he sent a runner. A few days later, they got word that a British officer was nearby, and they received directions on where to meet him. His name was Lieutenant Gavan Duffy. He was only twenty-four himself, and he was a demolitions expert. It was extraordinary that he kept the group of thirty Americans together. After the group met up with him, they began their long march to the coast through rugged, German-occupied territory. The photo shows two of the rescued nurses giving Duffy a big kiss.

As the group traveled, the major concern was that their shoes were wearing out quickly because of the terrain, particularly those of the nurses. With a destination of getting to the coast, walking was the only option. 

Hungry, cold, and tired, the only thought on their minds was about surviving. Shuffled by partisans from village to village, they hiked six or eight hours a day. Their bodies were thick with lice. They contracted dysentery. They were cold and wet. On one occasion, they barely escaped strafing by a pair of German fighter planes.
Over the following weeks, they traced a zigzag route over rivers and up the slopes, often one step ahead of the enemy. One of the nurses collapsed in the snow. She was urged onward, the storm broke, and the group eventually reached another village hours later.

Each night the Americans were broken into small groups, and each stayed with a different villager. One night they arrived in Berat, Albania, and broke up into these groups and settled down for the night. When they awoke to leave Berat, the Germans had arrived. When a headcount was made at the rendezvous point, it was discovered three nurses were missing. Forced to leave Berat to avoid capture by the Germans, they had no choice but to leave after the three nurses did not show up. Since the group couldn't go back to Berat, they had to keep hiking through the snow, narrowly surviving a blizzard not knowing the fate of the missing nurses, not knowing the partisan family had hidden the three in the basement until the Germans left. 

A few days before Christmas, the group pushed toward the Adriatic Sea, hoping to reach the coast. Finally, on January 9, 1944, the group did make it to the coast, and the rescue boat operated by a team made up of American, British, and Yugoslav forces was waiting for them. They paddled out in small groups by rubber raft and eagerly climbed aboard by rope ladder. Once aboard, all were given hot food and warm blankets. 

 Against all the odds, they all survived.

When the British in Albania learned the Americans were safe, they notified the American military and the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS (later the CIA). OSS agent Lloyd Smith, a twenty-four-year-old American, volunteered to go in and help get the three nurses out. He was all alone, did not know Albanian, and did not know anything about the terrain but somehow managed to meet up with the three in Berat.
 
Dressed as Albanian civilians and supplied with Albanian identification cards, the nurses and Smith finally left Berat by car in March 1944. The four were taken deep into the countryside and rode pack mules to the coast where they met up with a torpedo boat that took them to Otranto, Italy, on March 21, 1944.

During their months-long ordeal, the group of men and women traversed somewhere between 600 and 800 miles of brutal terrain, dodged German troops, faced desperate hunger and debilitating illnesses, survived blizzards, and were caught in crossfire.
 
In the photo, six nurses show the wear and tear on their shoes following their rescue.

In a debriefing session, everyone in the group was ordered to tell no one - not even their families - where they had been, who helped them, or how they escaped. The secrecy was to protect the people who had helped them and to protect the means of escape for future downed airmen. After the war, Enver Hoxha became the ruthless dictator of Albania, and the Allies were concerned that if the names of the Albanians who saved the Americans' lives were to get out, they most certainly would be killed. 

All of the nurses, medics, and aircrewmen have passed away, except medic Harold Hayes, who is ninety-one now and lives in Oregon. Below is a video of Hayes promoting a book written about the group's harrowing experience and a rare newsreel of the first group arriving by boat in Bali Italy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5EAHLytu7BI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2No81Ad2aJQ

Alpha II

Alpha II, was the most-northern allied outpost in all of South Vietnam. The sea was incredibly blue, and the sun always shining but for the monsoon seasons, unpredictable typhoons, hurricanes, and tropical storms. 

 On a clear day flying in plain sight was a very large North Vietnamese flag.

Thirteen kilometers to the south, near the Cua Viet River, was a large post, the 'home base' camp of the U.S. Marine 'Northern I Corps' units. Just southeast was a large U.S. Army base at Quang Tri.

None of Alpha II's U.S. troops liked to be recalled (travel to the 'rear') even when it was necessary. To do so meant polishing their worn 'jungle boots' and shining their brass buckles, which, when 'on the hill', made a good target for the occasional, errant snipers.

This is a story of Alpha II Hill 46 or better known by the name of the little hamlet two kilometers to the south - Gio Linh. Just a 'hump on the road,' it was half surrounded by rice paddies, half by small bushes that were trying desperately to sprout up before the next airborne application of Agent Orange poured down upon the area.

This Allied post was a small hill just at the 'NATO allowable' edge of the demilitarized zone, one and a half 'clicks' (1500 meters) south of the Ben Hai River and about 7 'clicks' west of the South China Sea. 

It was manned by a reinforced company of ARVN's (Army of the Republic of South Vietnam). Permanent American forces at the time consisted of about 16 soldiers, 10 Marines, and a lone U.S. Navy Corpsman (medic to some).

There was never an airstrip, Heli-pad, or mess hall on Alpha II. Unless some large U.S. artillery unit came up from the south for a special operation, everyone was restricted to the compound and the same 12 meal cartons of processed food commonly known as 'C' rations. Some boxes were marked as early as 1948.

All slept in cramped, twelve-man 'bunkers' which were of wooden construction and barely above the ground level. The timber frames were sturdy, and the outer walls and roof were surrounded by layers of sandbags. A small 'parapet' on the top barely protected two 'duty watch' when conditions called for it.

There were three old, concrete bunkers built in the mid-1950s by the French army long before their surprising defeat at Dien Ben Phu near the Chinese border way to the northwest. Two of these concrete fortifications can be found today.

 There was rumored to believe that a couple of U.S. officers, 'ARVN advisors', were stationed at Alpha II. If true, they never showed their heads (or chevrons) above the surface. No officer would, as snipers were a constant menace.

The base was part of then-Senator McNamara's "electronic wall." The mission(s) of the American personnel were to detect incoming artillery, troop movements, or any other infiltrations from the north. Besides their M-16's, the Americans had but a few 'LAW's (light anti-tank weapons) and grenades to defend themselves. The actual base security was the responsibility of the ARVN soldiers.

In 1968, there were three groups of U.S. personnel. The U.S. Army manned an AN/MPQ-44 and the Marines; an older version called an AN/MPQ-10. Both were Doppler-style radar sets designed to 'search the skies' in hopes of detecting (and 'tracing back') incoming mortar or artillery rounds anywhere within range. 

Another Army group was called the 'Sound Rangers,' their team set out microphones surrounding this base, intended to 'hear' any unapproved singular or group movements. 

Much later in 1969, was added an AN/TPQ-25 manned by just a couple of Marines and supported by the AN/MPQ-10 force - just before the entire base was evacuated by the U.S. and subsequently overrun in the last, massive battle of the 'Northern I Corps.'

At Gio Linh, although being on this very exposed hill, there were times when they felt safe and well 'backed up' by the mass of big artillery at Dong Ha, to the west at Camp Carrol and other locations. Still, they were hammered by unpredictable mortar, artillery, and occasional rocket fire. Just when they felt safe - they were not.

On the sandy, north shore of the Ben Hai River were a couple of North Vietnamese soldiers assigned to keep their flag flying. They were well dug-in to the rapidly rising terrain, the foothills to the small range of hills to the north. It was in these higher hills that they had some larger caliber artillery pieces tunneled all the way through to the Allies blind side.

By early 1968, the U.S. had already destroyed every foot of (the still famous) Highway 1, leading from the far south of this base, up to and past the once large bridge that crossed over the Ben Hai River to 'North Vietnam.' 

Unlike other bases to the west, Alpha I, II, III, Con Thein, "C I, II & III" bases were 'in plain sight' of the North Vietnam scope. This was "the front" for many kilometers heading inland from the South China Sea.

Giving much credit due, further to the west were a number of American and Allied bases surrounded by dense jungles and jagged mountain regions all the way to Laos. The Marine base of Khe San is a notable one in particular. 

Gio Linh at the time had two 50' tall wooden observation towers for 'manual' (binocular) forward observation, one on the north face, abandoned as it was very exposed, and another on the southwest side overlooking the main gate which led into the red dirt compound. 

Both towers were about 6'x6' on the inside of two layers of sandbags and had a tin roof. Underneath the southwest tower was a small water pump. It was called it the 'Shower Tower' as this was the only water supply on the base for the 100 or so allied troops. When the pump broke down, it was time for helmet showers and shaves - water was rationed at a single, potable water "mule" transported up from Dong Ha.

My story begins here.

I am not trying to belittle the soldiers mentioned. They were doing exactly what I wanted to do on my first day in the country. They wanted to win the war! Little did we know that our efforts to "protect American interests" meant companies like Shell and Mobile Oil, vast American rubber plantations and textile industries looking for Chinese silk.

September 22, 1969, was hot as normal. A half dozen or so Army soldiers had 'commandeered' a deuce-and-half (two and 1/2 ton truck) in Dong Ha or Quang Tri for an unauthorized trip. They headed north. They wanted to "see the front." About thirteen kilometers later, the road directed them on to the small mound just 46 meters above sea level, known as Alpha II.

After driving through the twisted paths around bunkers and artillery fortifications of the small base, they stopped at what we referred to as the (largely defunct by then) 'communications' bunker to ask for directions to "the front" from the only American they saw a single Marine, me.

It was quite obvious that they were "newbies" (newly arrived in the country). 

Their boots were new, their plain green uniforms didn't show evidence that they had been washed more than once, their chevrons (insignia of rank) were missing, but it could be seen that they had once been pinned to their collars.

They wouldn't give their names, ranks, or the 'call sign' of their unit. Their spokesman mentioned that they got confused when the road seemed to vanish, leading only to our small outpost. 

Not giving a sound answer after a round of "Who are you?" and "What the hell are you doing here?" I put it a different way...

"Well, no s*&#, Sherlock! This is THE most northern outpost in all of allied South Vietnam. If there is a front, this is it!"

I don't know what they expected to see, hear or do, maybe a big sign that said, "You are now at the frontline!" a welcoming committee, trench line or perhaps red, white, and blue banners or a 'still smoking .50 caliber machine gun'. I told them to leave - NOW! I was not of their unit or service, so they paid little attention to my warnings. It was just that way.

They just drove off around the base again, looking for another way north. A half an hour later, they wound up at the same bunker with me in their face again.
 
I repeatedly told them told them that "there was no road that went further north." "Highway one was destroyed years ago!" They just wouldn't be convinced.

Finally, I acquiesced. I told them if they wanted to see something, there was a big North Vietnamese flag planted on the far shore of the Ben Hai River, which they could see plainly without binoculars. I was upset, so I sent them up to the roof of the bunker told them to take their pictures and leave before I started calling for their superiors.

Much disappointed, they went to their truck and pulled out all of their brand new, purchased-in-Okinawa-on-the-way-overseas camera equipment and climbed to the top of the communications bunker. 

That small group of soldiers setting up their shiny new tripods did not go unnoticed for long. It took only minutes for the "crack-shot" North Vietnamese mortar teams hidden in the brushes south of the river to set up and start lobbing in shells.

 As I recall, not one of these new recruits went unscathed. The NVA needed no 'bracketing' (an artillery term). Just one round from one of their infamous 91mm mortars got them all.

Telling them to climb up and take their pictures was by far and away one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I should have thought more about it - I knew better! They went up all right - in smoke! These NVA teams had every inch of our base pegged in advance! 

If you are 'in-country' long enough, you get to recognize the 'pvoosh' sound as the deadly mortar round leaves the tube (origin). And, if you're real quick (and very lucky), you can almost guess about how many seconds might pass before the familiar 'vawuump' sound when it hits the ground. If your head was not buried before then, you wouldn't have heard that last sound -  nor any sound thereafter.

Still in the bunker and upon hearing the deafening explosion, I knew exactly what was happening; in fact, this same scenario took place once before during my twenty-month tenure on that same hill. 

The first mortar shell landed just shy of the bunker and blew upwards. The dust, dirt, and smoke immediately filled the dusty bunker from everywhere; it was so thick inside the bunker that for moments, I couldn't find the entranceways. 

Hearing the ruckus from a different position, the sole U.S. Navy 'Doc' corpsman, under fire, lit out for the bunker where and by the concussion of the second blast he was blown into the concertina wire and engineering stakes, himself suffering a shrapnel wound to his hand.

Everyone tried to scramble in. We were bumping into each other. The 'walking wounded' came in through both entrances; the smell of burned flesh and clothing putrefied the already dust-filled air.

Blood was spewing everywhere. It filled the cracks of the wooden flooring so much that the spiders and centipedes crawled up to the deck just to keep from being drowned themselves.

'Doc' and I tried our best to help these soldiers - those that showed any signs of life. We got them lined up on the floor as best we could when 'Doc' gave them the once over, and we started in on the most critically wounded. 

Having worked a short while, the corpsman asked me to go outside and look for others. I chose the north side of the bunker to exit - just a few steps up, there was a 'landing' where the entrance turned 90 degrees, then it went up just a few more steps to the outside.

As I up to the landing, I looked up and saw a soldier standing at the threshold of the bunker. He was as pale as a ghost and obviously disoriented. 

I tried to coax him down to the landing but soon realized that he couldn't hear anything after such an explosion. As I made my way up, I noticed that his eyes were wide open but completely covered over by the red, dusty dirt. He was in shock. He wouldn't move!

Once I got to the top step, I noticed that he was a large guy, and now we were both in harm's way! So, I swung his arm over my head and tried to grip him around his waist to help him manage the stairway. In a moment that I will never forget, all four of my fingers slid into a large gaping wound on his far side.

Immediately he passed out, causing us both to tumble down the steps to the landing. It was a scramble, but others joined in to help bring him inside.

Victor 'Doc' Bravo and I worked frantically jumping from one patient to another, establishing working pressure points, applying bandages and tourniquets, hooking up I.V.s, and at times our hands were cut, bleeding, and our fingertips were burnt while we tried to remove smoldering, white-hot chunks of metal from their clothing and wounds.

Shortly after, a big 'Chinook' medevac helicopter landed safely as U.S. soldiers and Marines came to assist with the loading and 'walking wounded'.

The helicopter was soon full but could not get off the ground. We had to literary beat off a number of ARVNs clinging to the chopper's landing skids. They were trying desperately to escape the bombardment to safety. 

In the helter-skelter of the moment, I didn't realize that one of the chopper crew had pulled the corpsman into the bird. I learned later that 'Doc's shrapnel was still embedded in his hand.

They flew toward the south where the quick-thinking pilot-in-command landed them on the USS Repose (AH-16), a Haven-class hospital ship in service with the U.S. Navy. I often wondered where the 'Doc' had disappeared to on that day as a few troops with slighter, bleeding wounds drove the truck back to its base.

A couple of months later, after all of the U.S. troops were evacuated, the base was overrun and captured by a large force of NVA soldiers equipped with tanks and armored personnel carriers even though the ARVNs had reinforced it heavily with more artillery. 

I wasn't even out of the country when I heard the news of their fall on the Armed Forces Radio Network. We lost some brave Vietnamese soldiers in that battle.

Years later, a psychiatrist asked me if I was ever able to contact any of the men wounded that day. But I never knew the names of the dead or wounded. As I told the good doctor, "Once they're on the chopper, you never know if they made it or not. They are either returned to their units or get sent home, some of them 'horizontally.'

Other than the surviving wounded, there is only myself and the true hero of this story, U.S. Navy Corpsman Victor 'Doc' Bravo, a three-tour man already, who can attest to the events of those hours. 

Telling my tidbit of a story has not been for glory or gore. As stated, I should have known better or maybe should have given them a stronger warning. This is something I will never forget or forgive of myself.

Until now, I've never been able to finish this story or send it to anyone. It has been a struggle each time I have tried to write, re-write, and make it comprehendible.

Much like the story of Boa Ninh, the author of The Sorrow of War, my personal attempts go around in circles, always leading back to this same day. 

There were a few other circumstances that now evade my consciousness but, I was the one who insisted that these soldiers "needed a picture" of that oversized North Vietnamese flag: Alpha II, Gio Linh's only "tourist attraction." A Kodak moment.

A Veteran Remembers

A friend of mine recently wrote, "A guy can get out of the military, but the military never quite gets out of the guy." I know that is a parody on an old saying about a country boy, but it rings very true here as well. It has been almost 60 years since my military hitch was up, but still, today, when I hear a marching drumbeat or see Old Glory waving in the breeze, my old body straightens up and I feel like snapping a salute. My throat still tightens when I see a picture of the Statue of Liberty or hear "O say can you see?.." sung with a hand over the heart. I love this country; I am troubled by what I see happening to it and pray we will not forget how it began and what keeps it strong. Hardly a day goes by that I do not reflect on those days when my sense of patriotism characterized my life and hopes.

I had hardly graduated from high school when my life circumstances made it clear that I had to give serious thought to an enlistment in whichever branch of the military that attracted me. It was not without some considerable inner debate that my decision was made to sign on for a four-year tour of duty in the United States Air Force. Even at the young age of 18, my decision was made fully aware that I was going to be a candidate for some level of warfare in the conflict in Korea, raging heavily at that time. To be quick to say; I was so fortunate to miss such danger. About the time I was to deploy to the war zone, a cease-fire was instituted and a lot of guys along with me were able to breathe a deep sigh of relief. But we never forgot that each of us had signed that blank check payable to the United States of America for any amount, up to and including our lives. How can a kid like that make such a commitment? I don't know. But I know that was exactly what I did, with full knowledge, and willing to keep that commitment. I am so proud of my fellow military vets who were exposed to mortal danger, and I celebrate their dedication and service. I know full well that except for the grace of Almighty God, that could have been me. I was willing, but He was not.

So by comparison, my four years were a wonderful experience, and today and I can enjoy the freedoms afforded me by those whose sacrifices took on a far more serious nature. God bless them. I fly my Star Spangled Banner with great pride and gratitude for my country and my God. My heart is full and I can say to any military person today, man or woman, I salute you and wish you blessings for your faithfulness.

Military Myths and Legends: The Patriot and the Traitor

Two hundred thirty-five years ago an event took place which, had it succeeded, would have ended the American fight for independence. Before exploring that near disaster, see if you can answer these questions about the American Revolutionary War, all of which have some bearing on the event.

Who was called "The Hannibal of North America?"

Who built a fleet on Lake Champlain and fought British ships invading New York from Canada?

Who led a small American army more than 300 miles through the Maine wilderness in fierce winter conditions in an attempt to capture Quebec?

 Whose heroic action at the Battle of Saratoga led to the greatest American victory of the war?

Who did George Washington consider to be his best fighting general?

Who attempted to betray West Point to the British in exchange for 20,000 British Royal Pounds? 
    
The answer to all these questions is Benedict Arnold, the most notorious traitor in American history. Entrusted with the defense of West Point by George Washington during the Revolutionary War, he attempted to surrender it to the British. The conspiracy, had it succeeded, would probably have sounded the death knell for the American cause. Fortunately, his treachery was discovered at the last moment. Warned of the plot's failure, Arnold just barely evaded capture and escaped to British lines. 

What prompted this man, a true hero of the war's early days, to suddenly turn on his country? Perhaps the only way to understand this turnabout is to recognize that there were two Benedict Arnolds, the Patriot, and the Traitor. The Patriot accomplished repeated feats of military brilliance, exhibited uncommon valor on the battlefield, provided outstanding military leadership, and earned the respect, and even love, of his men. The Traitor was a man turned inward, mulling unhappily over perceived slights and injustices, fretting that others less qualified were given preference over him, and easily provoked if his "honor" was challenged. But it probably was his desperate need for both money and power that finally turned him to treason, for as the war dragged on, Congress became less able to provide either. The Traitor did not want to be caught on the losing side.

Benedict Arnold's first action in the Revolutionary War was the capture of Fort Ticonderoga in a joint action with Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" in May 1775. His success persuaded George Washington to commission him a colonel in the Continental Army, and give him command of one wing of a two-pronged attack on Canada, designed to seize Quebec and Montreal from the British, and hopefully bring Canada into the war on the American side. Arnold had by far the more difficult mission, a march of more than 300 miles up the Kennebec River, ending with an assault on Quebec. Despite the difficulties of moving men and supplies through an untamed wilderness in almost winter conditions, the newly commissioned colonel jumped at the chance. Even after losing almost half his force to exposure, disease, and desertion, Arnold succeeded in linking up with Brigadier General Richard Montgomery, the leader of the second wing. Together, they launched an attack on Quebec, which failed, when early in the action Montgomery was killed and Arnold seriously wounded. 

What followed was a long retreat from Canada, involving a delaying action against British forces intent on seizing Albany, New York, before winter made military operations in the area impossible. To slow the British advance, Arnold constructed a small flotilla of lightly armed galleys and gunboats on Lake Champlain in order to harass and slow a much larger British fleet, embarked to capture Fort Ticonderoga, and the gateway to the Hudson Valley. In spite of being heavily outnumbered, Arnold engaged the enemy without hesitation. Although his small force of vessels was eventually destroyed, he succeeded in delaying the British long enough to force them to turn back to Canada to avoid the onset of winter.

Although he continued to distinguish himself in several military actions, Benedict Arnold's greatest service to the revolutionary cause was the part he played in the battle of Saratoga, which became the turning point of the war. Leading from the front, as he always did, Arnold urged his division forward in attack after attack against heavy enemy fortifications, until he fell wounded, once again in the same leg as at Quebec. He was out of the battle, but the battle had been won. Later, the British commander, General John Burgoyne, gave Arnold credit for the outcome, praising his "bravery and military abilities."

Arnold was now at the height of his fame, yet eight short months later he made his approach to the British. What prompted him to do so? While we will probably never know for sure, we can draw inferences from two major events that affected him deeply. In February 1777, Congress announced the promotion of five new major generals. Arnold's name was not among them. To make matters worse for a man of his sensitivities, all five men on the list had been brigadier generals a shorter time than he had, and none equaled his military achievements. Although at the urging of Washington, he was eventually promoted and his date of rank adjusted, it took months of haggling in Congress to accomplish, convincing Arnold that certain members of that body would always view him with disfavor.
 
After Saratoga, Arnold's wounded leg was slow to heal. He limped noticeably, could not mount a horse, and was generally unfit for military campaigning. Partly for this reason, Washington appointed him as military commander of Philadelphia, giving his leg time to mend. His high living and questionable financial dealings while in this position soon aroused the attention, and later the ire of Joseph Reed, President of the Executive Council of Pennsylvania. In February 1779, Reed published eight charges against Arnold, and in March a Congressional committee recommended court-martial on two of them. In May, without waiting for the court to convene, Benedict Arnold offered his services to the British.
  
Over the many years since that fateful day in September 1780 when his treachery was discovered, there has been no mercy for Benedict Arnold in either the hearts or in the minds of his countrymen. He has been vilified by the press, in books, and in the halls of learning from grade school to university. His very name has become synonymous with treason. But perhaps it is finally time to take a more moderate view, to recognize that there were two Benedict Arnolds. In judging him, we should rightly condemn The Traitor, but can we not also remember The Patriot?

Profiles in Courage: Heroines Under Fire

On July 29, 1918, field nurse Linnie Leckrone jumped on a truck headed for the front as part of Gas and Shock Team 134 in the battle of Chateau-Thierry northeast of Paris during the Great War. As German artillery rained down, she tended the wounded. For her "conspicuous gallantry in action," Leckrone was awarded what was then called the Citation Star in a certificate signed by Gen. John (Black Jack) Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Force.

She was one of only three women to earn the Citation Star in World War I, but she left the service before she received the award. She was also unaware that the Army in 1932 made recipients of the Citation Star eligible for the new Silver Star, the nation's third-highest award for valor.

Her courageous service was finally recognized posthumously on July 31, 2007, at the Women in Military Service for America Memorial in Arlington, Va. when her daughter Mary Jane Bolles Reed accepted a Silver Star in her place.

An unknown number of women received the Silver Star in World War II. In 1944, four Army nurses serving in Italy - First Lieutenant Mary Roberts, Second Lieutenant Elaine Roe, Second Lieutenant Rita Virginia Rourke, and Second Lieutenant Ellen Ainsworth (posthumous) - became the first women recipients of the Silver Star since World War I. All were cited for their bravery in evacuating the 33rd Field Hospital at Anzio, Italy on February 10, 1944. 

The first woman soldier since World War II to receive the Silver Star - and the first ever to be cited for valor in close quarters combat - was Sgt. Leigh Ann Hester.

Hester's military career began in April 2001 when the 19 year old from Bowling Green, Kentucky, enlisted in the Army Nation Guard. As she was awaiting notification on where and when she would to go to basic training, the 9/11 terrorists crashed commercial airliners in the Trade Center and the Pentagon. When she was at basic training, she and the other recruits were told by the drill sergeants that they would be the ones to go to war. That happened in July 2004 when she received orders for Iraq. 

After arriving in Iraq, her unit - the 617th Military Police Company Kentucky Army National Guard unit out of Richmond, Kentucky - took up the task of providing security to truck convoys.  

On Mar. 20, 2005, just south of Baghdad, the squad was shadowing a 30-truck supply convoy. As convoy slid by Salman Pak, Iraq, the squad leader, Staff Sergeant Timothy Nein, came on the phone to report the insurgents had attacked one of the vehicles ahead. The Humvees immediately sped up and raced down the length of the convoy on the shoulder of the road, flanking the insurgents and cutting off their escape route. 

As Raven-42 swung into action, the gunners on each Humvee started laying down suppressing fire with an M2HB .50-caliber machine gun, an Mk. 19 40 mm grenade launcher, and an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. The insurgents were using a pair of dry irrigation ditches parallel to the road as an expedient trench line. From behind effective cover, they began directing fire at the MPs using Kalashnikov automatic rifles, belt-fed machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. 

One of the Humvees was struck by an RPG, wounding the three soldiers inside. In the rear vehicle, Staff Sgt. Timothy Nein dismounted and dashed toward a nearby berm as the enemy's bullets sliced the air around him. Five-foot-four Hester followed him. From the cover of the berm, the two opened fire with their Colt M4s. Hester also had an M203 Grenade Launcher and pumped out several 40 mm high explosive rounds. Other team members were either treating the wounded or firing one of the mounted crew-served weapons. The two MPs treating the wounded on the ground behind the rear Humvee then came under sniper fire as the skirmish continued to escalate. Both soldiers responded by firing toward the farmhouse where the sniper was hiding. 

With the fire of the .50-cal. machine gun and the SAW beginning to thump away at the enemy's flank, Nein and Hester laid down a continuous volume of fire at the ten insurgents in the closest ditch. Since their ammunition supply would run out long before a relief force could get to them, the two had only one real option: attack.

Vehicle-mounted weapons forced the enemy to keep down their heads while Nein and Hester rushed forward, tossing grenades and firing their M4s. Swiftly moving down the ditch, the two MPs overwhelmed the enemy. In that assault, Hester killed three insurgents.

At the end of the 30-minute long engagement, the battlefield was found littered with 24 dead and six wounded insurgents. One unwounded Iraqi was taken prisoner after apparently feigning injury in order to avoid the battle. In addition to that, the MPs collected an impressive haul of weapons and ammunition: 22 Kalashnikov rifles, six rocket-propelled grenade launchers, 16 rockets, 13 RPK-type light machine guns, insurgents with her M4 Carbine and a fourth with a 40 mm HE round from her M203 three PKM belt-fed machine guns, 40 hand grenades, and a mountain of small arms ammunition - 123 loaded AK magazines and 25,000 rounds of belted 7.62x54r for the PKMs.

Sergeants Hester and Nein were both awarded the Silver Star. Sgt. Nein's was later upgraded to the Distinguished Service Cross. 

Also awarded the Silver Star in this ambush was platoon combat medic Specialist Jason Mike, who took up and simultaneously fired an M4 carbine and M249 SAW light machine gun in defense of his comrades.

Hester took a brief break from the U.S. Army in 2009 and worked as a civilian law enforcement officer in a Nashville, Tennessee suburb. However, she returned to the military a short while later, in late 2010.

Purdie Finds a Home

"I called about the Dalmatian," the lady said as she and her husband came through the door of the rescue. I was not at all prepared for what I saw. On the phone, the woman had spoken of her husband having once a Dalmatian and being very active, but the man I saw with her did not look well enough to be very active at all. I was immediately worried that our "Purdie," the beautiful female Dalmatian they were coming to see, might be too much for him.

I brought her out to greet them, and Purdie, who was always a little shy, to begin with, walked right over to the man who'd sat down on a chair waiting to meet her. She came and stood right under the chair like she belonged there. "Well, this is a good sign," I said to the lady, whose name was Janet. We decided to walk outside so that they could all get better acquainted. 

Once outside, the woman's husband, whose name was Jim, walked off with the Dalmatian down the parking lot towards the garage, petting her the whole time. Jim was a bit bent over, and his arm just touched the top of Purdie's head naturally as they walked.

"Is your husband ill?" I asked Janet, who gave me a knowing smile and began to answer me. "He was a POW in Vietnam. Four years and seven months," she said proudly as is she'd answered questions like mine dozens of times before. "He has PTSD and is all crippled up from Agent Orange, but he does just great." I looked up and saw him walking along with Purdie; her gait matched his as he held the leash, and they walked together. 

"He was captured two days after his twenty-first birthday in January of '69 and was released after the French treaties in 1973." She continued, "I cannot imagine the horrors he went through, but he does talk about it, which helps. Not all of the fellas that go to the Vet hospital do, but Jim does."

I looked up to watch Jim again and saw him in a whole different light, imagining him as a young soldier and what he once must have been, and done, and seen. I also thought about my own brother-in-law, Wayne, who I never met, who was killed in the same country where Jim did all that time as a captive. I thought about the pictures that hang on the walls of the place I now call home of Wayne as a young man and how Jim was also just no more than a kid when he was a captive in the same war. It made me see Jim and Purdie as really a boy and his dog and my eyes filled with tears. Janet must have read my thoughts and my face, because she said, "Jim and a dog - well - that's really the best thing for him."

I watched as Jim stopped to regain his balance just as Purdie walked between his legs and looked straight up at him - as if to steady him. This brought me to full tears - not just tears running down my face - but I stood there blubbering like a child - full sob - and I excused myself for a tissue. 

As I walked in the rescue, Jim walked back towards Janet, and by the time I'd blown my nose and gotten myself together, they were telling me that Purdie was definitely going home with them. I told them I'd lather her up and get her all pretty for her new life.

And as I stood with the warm water running on Purdie and tears still streaming down my face - I thought what an appropriate match this was going to be because we really didn't know all that much about Purdie; what she had been through and what she had put up with. She acted as though she may have lived through her own captivity and feelings of being lost several times in her life - just like Jim. And from the moment she'd met him, she seemed to sense a sameness of spirit - a kindred need. I whispered to her as I rinsed her and patted her dry "You will be just right for each other. I am so happy for you!"

As I came back out to the front room of the rescue, Jim was sitting and waiting for her as she walked up and nuzzled her head under his hand and looked up at him. "HIS dog!" Janet laughed, and they prepared to go. 

I gave both Janet and Jim a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you so much for everything you did for us," I said to Jim, and I looked closely at this Vietnam hat and all the medals he had on it. My eyes rested on the pin that said "POW," and I immediately got tears again. "Oh, you're welcome!" he said cheerfully and unassumingly - like it wasn't anything - and he gave my arm a squeeze. "Come on girl," he said to Purdie as I watched him walk out with his hand resting on her head as they walked towards the door. The former soldier - crippled up by his service and the rescue dog with the sketchy past - but truly, a boy and his dog.