In a few minutes it slackened. York sat up and took the position used by hunters since rifles were first invented. The range to the gun-pits was that at which he had so often shot in those seemingly distant days, in his far-off home in the Tennessee mountains. This time, however, he was not shooting for sport but “battling for the Lord.” He saw several German heads peering cautiously over the emplacements. He swung his rifle toward one and fired; the helmet flew up and the head disappeared. Four times more he fired before the Germans realized what was happening and ducked back.
Bullets spattered around him, splintering the tree at his elbow and covering him with slivers of wood and dust. Heedless of the danger, he watched the ridge until another head appeared. Again his rifle cracked and again the head disappeared. Hitting German heads at forty yards was easy for a man who had hit turkey heads at the same range, and whose nerves were of iron because of his belief in his cause.
The battle rested entirely on his shoulders, for the rest of the Americans were so screened by the brush that they were only able to fire a few scattered shots.
The Germans could not aim at this lone rifleman, for whenever a head appeared it was met with a bullet from the mountaineer. York was not fighting from a passion for slaughter. He would kill any one without compunction who stood in the way of victory; but it was not killing but victory for which he strove. He began calling: “Come down, you-all, and give up.”
The battle went on.
At times the Boche riflemen would creep out of their emplacements, take cover behind some tree, and try to get the American. The hunter from the Cumberland Mountains was trained to note the slightest movement. The man who could see a squirrel in the tree-top could not fail to observe a German when he moved. Every time he found them and fired before they found him. That ended the story.
The Germans by this time knew that the brunt of the battle was being borne by one American. They realized they were not quick enough to kill him by frontal attack, so they sent an officer and seven men around his left flank to rush him. These crawled carefully through the brush until they were within twenty yards of him. Then with a yell they sprang up and came at him on a dead run, their fixed bayonets flashing in the sun.
The clip of cartridges in York’s rifle was nearly exhausted and he had no time to reload. Dropping his Enfield he seized his automatic pistol. As they came lunging forward through the undergrowth he fired. One after another the Germans pitched forward and lay where they fell, huddled gray heaps in the tangled woods. Not only had York killed them all, but each time he had shot at the man in rear in order that the others might not halt and fire a volley on seeing their comrade fall. The machine-gun fire had slackened during the charge. Again it burst forth and again York stilled it with his rifle.
The grim, red-headed mountaineer was invincible. Almost unaided he had already killed some twenty of his opponents. The German major’s nerve was shaken. He could speak English. Slowly he wriggled on his stomach to where the American sat and offered to tell the machine-gunners to surrender. “Do it and I’ll treat ye white,” said York.
At this moment a lone German crawled close, jumped to his feet, and hurled a grenade. It went wide, but when the Enfield spoke its bullet did not. The German pitched forward on his face, groaning. The Boche major then rose to his knees and blew his whistle shrilly. All firing ceased. He called an order to his men. Instantly they began scrambling to their feet, throwing down belts and side-arms.
The American was alert for treachery. When they were half-way down the hill, with their hands held high over their heads, he halted them. With the eyes of a backwoodsman he scanned each for weapons. There were none. The surrender was genuine.
Corporal York stood up and called to his comrades. They answered him from where they had been guarding their first prisoners. The thick grove had prevented them from taking an active part in the fighting, but they had protected York from attacks by the prisoners who would otherwise have taken him from the rear.
Sergeant Early, the leader of the patrol, was lying in the brush desperately wounded in the abdomen. York called: “Early, are you alive?”
“I am all through,” groaned the sergeant. “You take command. You’ll need a compass. Turn me over. You’ll find mine in my pocket. Get our men back as soon as you can, and leave me here.”
York had well over a hundred prisoners, as sixty had come from the machine-gun emplacements. Some of the Americans doubted the possibility of getting them back to the lines. York paid no attention to this. He formed the Germans in column of twos, placing our wounded at the rear, with prisoners to carry Sergeant Early, who could not walk. Along the flanks he stationed his surviving comrades, with instructions to keep the column closed up and to watch for treachery. He himself led, with the German major in front of him and a German officer on each side.
Before they started York had had the major explain to the men that at any sign of hostility he would shoot to kill, and the major would be the first to die. They had seen enough of the deadly prowess of the mountaineer. Not one made the attempt. He marched his column around the hill to a point from which he could probably have taken them back safely, but his mission was to clear the hill of machine-guns. He knew that some still remained on the front slope.
Turning the column to the left, he advanced on the Boche garrisons. As he approached he had the German major call to each in turn to surrender. When they did he disarmed them and added them to his train of prisoners. In only one instance did a man attempt to resist. He went to join the long roll of German dead.
York’s troubles were not over. Though he had cleaned up and destroyed the machine-guns, he still had to get back to our lines with the men he had captured. To do this he had to be very careful, for so large a body of Germans marching toward our lines might well be taken for a counter-attack and mowed down with rifle-fire. Bringing all his woodcraft into play he led his long column of gray-clad prisoners over the ridge and down through the brush, until he reached the foot of the slope up which his patrol had climbed earlier in the day.
Suddenly from the brush on the other side the command “Halt!” rang out. York jumped to the front to show his uniform, and called out that he was bringing in prisoners. He was just in time to prevent casualties. The lines of our infantry opened to let the party through. As the doughboys from left and right looked between the tree-trunks they saw gray form after gray form pass. A yell of approval rang out. Some one shouted: “Are you bringing in the whole German Army?” The lines closed behind the column. Corporal York had fulfilled his mission.
In a few minutes he reported at battalion headquarters. The prisoners were counted. There were one hundred and thirty-two, including three officers, one a major. With less than a year’s military training a red-headed mountaineer, practically single-handed, had fought a veteran battalion of German troops, taken thirty-five guns, killed twenty men, captured one hundred and thirty-two and the battalion commander.
For three weeks more the Division hammered its way forward. The stubborn German defense was beaten back, the Allies drove on to Sedan. Even among the fighting troops rumors of peace became more persistent. One morning word came to the front lines where the tired men stood, ankle-deep in mud—an armistice had been signed.
York had become a sergeant. He was with his company. His feat, as he saw it, was merely a part of the day’s work. The officers and men of the 82nd Division, however, were very proud of him. They had reported the facts to General Headquarters. The story had spread like wild-fire, and Alvin York was famous.
During his simple country life York had never met any of the great of the world. His nearest approach to a general had been when he stood stiffly at attention while the general inspected the ranks. Now he found himself honored of all, because physical courage, especially when backed by moral worth, commands universal admiration. General Headquarters ordered him from place to place in France. A brigade review
was held in his honor. He was decorated not only by the United States but also by the Allies. At Paris Poincaré, the president of the French Republic, pinned the highest decorations to his coat.
In May, 1919, he came back with his regiment to our country. Here enthusiasm ran even higher. The streets of New York were jammed with people who cheered themselves hoarse. He went to see the Stock Exchange, where no visitors are allowed on the floor. Not only was he permitted to visit the floor but business was suspended and the stockbrokers carried him around on their shoulders.
In Washington, when he went to the gallery of the House of Representatives, the congressmen stopped debate and cheered him to the echo. Great banquets were given for him, which were attended by the highest ranking civil, military, and naval officials.
In his olive-drab uniform, with his medals and shock of red hair, he was a marked man. When he walked the streets enthusiastic crowds gathered. There were men and women to greet him at the railroad-stations as he travelled back to Tennessee to be mustered out.
He was offered a contract for $75,000 to appear in a moving-picture play on the War. He was approached by vaudeville firms, who suggested tours on which they agreed to give him a salary of $1,000 a week. Newspapers were willing to pay fabulous sums for articles by him.
He was taken up on a mountain and shown the kingdoms of the world. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have cracked under the adulation. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred who can bear the famine worthily will lose their heads at the feast. York did not. Though his twelve months in the army had greatly broadened him, his character was still as strong and unshaken as the rock of his own hills. He refused the offers of money or position, saying rightly that these were made him only because of his feat in the Argonne. To sell his war record would be putting a price on patriotism.
As soon as he could he made his way back to his home in the mountains, his family, and his friends. There he was met by his mother in her calico bonnet, his sisters and brothers, and Grace Williams, the mountain girl to whom he was betrothed.
In a few days there was an open-air wedding at Pall Mall. It was held on the hillside. A gray ledge of rock served as altar. The new leaves of spring danced in the sunlight, casting flickering shadows on the white starched “Sunday-go-to-meeting” dresses and blue serge “store clothes” of the mountain folk, who had driven in from the surrounding country. The governor of the State officiated, assisted by Pastor Pile. The bride and groom were Grace Williams and Sergeant Alvin York, late of the United States Army.
Though York refused to sell his service record, he knew his Bible far too well to have forgotten the parable of the talents. That which it would be wrong to use for his own benefit, it would be wrong not to use for the benefit of others. His experience in the world had made him bitterly conscious of his scanty education. He realized that “wisdom excelleth folly as far as light excelleth darkness.” He decided to bend his efforts toward establishing proper schools for the children of the hills.
The people of Tennessee had been collecting an Alvin York Fund. He asked them to turn it into a foundation for building schools in the mountains. All he would accept for himself was a small farm.
Chapter Three
Poker and Missiles: A Pilot’s Life in Vietnam
By Craig K. Collins
“My uncle was a top-gun pilot before there were top-gun pilots. He was Tom Cruise before there was a Tom Cruise. In addition to his motorcycle, he drove a red MG convertible with silver-spoked wheels. I recall him on leave, roaring up to our house in the MG with his dark, wavy hair and aviator sunglasses. The entire neighborhood would step onto their porches and walk to their lawns to catch a glimpse. He was Hollywood handsome and a magnet for beautiful women. At five feet nine, he was the perfect size for a plane jockey. His vision was 20-15. He had the strength of a wrestler, the reflexes of an athlete, and the timing of a musician. His ego was as large as the planes he flew. He once told me, years hence, with matter-of-fact sincerity that he was the best fighter pilot in the world. I reflexively laughed. His eyes seethed. I then thought about it. Maybe there was some Russian MiG pilot who was better. Maybe another hotshot American. Maybe not. Regardless, there was a time when my uncle could make an authentic claim to be king of the sky.”
That’s how author Craig K. Collins introduced his uncle, Don Harten, in the book Midair, published by Lyons Press in 2016. As a pilot in Vietnam, with incredible skills ranging from the cockpits of B-52 bombers to F-105 and F-111 fighters, Harten was the ultimate sky warrior. His adventures, with narrow escapes and lucky breaks, are captured with incredible realism in Collins’s book, the source of this excerpt.
—Lamar Underwood
Poker was life for the American pilots of Vietnam. Between moments of white-knuckle, adrenaline-filled, Russian-roulette terror that was the average combat mission, there lay vast expanses of boredom—boredom that was partially assuaged by poker.
The men played poker in the Officers’ Club. They played poker on base. They played poker off base. They played poker in the backrooms of bars and clubs in Bangkok.
Poker was a way to maintain camaraderie. To talk to each other candidly—man to man, emotionally even—with the macho buffer of a card table between them. To sustain a certain mental acuity. To compete. To win. To dominate.
Not lost on any of the men was how the game put the vagaries of chance on full display. Just as each of their lives was now fully subjected to the great spinning wheels of Fortune and Fate, so was each hand of poker. An ace of spades here. An inside straight there. All so random. All so essential to the game.
And, of course, poker was something in which Don reveled.
Like his uncle John Boyatt, it was a game at which he excelled.
Don had played cards—mostly family favorites like pinochle and bridge—from a young age and had an exceptional mind for calculating probabilities and tracking the remaining cards in each deck.
At the age of sixteen, Don was scheduled to spend the weekend at a church camp near Pocatello. His uncle instead took him on a road trip to a country club in Sandpoint in the state’s far northern panhandle. It was ostensibly a golf outing but instead turned into a marathon game of poker with a group of well-to-do club members. Don and his uncle drove back to Pocatello with more money than Don could’ve earned in an entire summer of working at his father’s business.
Don would later recall, “On that trip to Sandpoint, Uncle John told me, ‘It’s great that you can count cards and that you have a wonderful technical grasp of poker. But here’s ten thousand dollars’ worth of advice that I learned the hard way in World War II: if you got ’em, bet ’em. If you don’t got ’em, fold. It’s really that simple. Don’t try to overthink.’”
It was advice Don would take to heart and later live by.
“I maybe bluffed three times in all the poker games I ever played in Vietnam. And when I returned stateside, I had enough from all my winnings—of which I saved every penny—to buy a brand new Corvette and a penthouse apartment.”
Whenever Billy Sparks was hungover, which was often, his fellow pilots would yell out, “Hey, Sparky, let me see that aerial map of Hanoi.” Sparks would then oblige. He had the ability to pull down on one of his lower eyelids, flex a combination of facial muscles, and force his eyeball to bulge gruesomely from its socket. Though Billy’s bulging, bloodshot eye the morning after a long night at Takhli’s Stag Bar was unnerving, pilots viewed it as something of a good-luck talisman. And its resemblance to the air force’s bombing maps of Hanoi was so uncanny as to be satirically hilarious.
In 1967, President Lyndon Johnson crowed, “They can’t even bomb an outhouse without my approval.”
Which, sadly, was true.
And it was clearly no way to run a war.
But that was the reality the pilots of Takhli found themselves in. And as good soldiers, they flew the missions they were told to
fly, even though the strategy was so clearly unsound.
The F-105 pilots were all familiar with the aerial map of Hanoi. They’d all spent hours studying every statute mile, river, tributary, road, bridge, building, and landmark. Their lives depended on it. The map featured a solid red circle, five miles in diameter, encompassing the city center. No target within this circle could be engaged without direct approval from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And of the approved targets, most likely were handed down from President Johnson himself. The pilots were essentially left to peck at their enemy, all at the whim of politicians and bureaucrats over eight thousand miles away.
Radiating from the solid red blotch encircling downtown Hanoi were thin, red, jagged lines representing railways, roads, and supply lines, essential for keeping the North Vietnamese war machine humming. These extended to the edge of another circle, extending ten miles from Hanoi’s city center.
Viewed from a few feet back, the map, with its blood-red pupil and surrounding web of throbbing red veins, was indeed an eerie likeness of Sparky’s eye.
Further complicating the map of Hanoi and the pilots’ missions was the fact that the North Vietnamese had so readily adapted to the US playbook and highly predictable aerial intrusions. It would be akin to a football team running the exact same play over and over again and expecting success.
By 1967, downtown Hanoi bristled with the most sophisticated, jam-packed aerial defense system on the planet, courtesy of the Soviet Union. “Going downtown,” for an F-105 pilot, meant flying directly into the blood-red circle of Sparky’s eye. More than seventeen thousand Soviet missile men had been dispatched to Hanoi to operate more than 7,600 SA-2 electronically guided surface-to-air missiles. One particularly skilled Soviet SAM operator was Lt. Vadim Petrovich Shcherbakov, who by himself downed twelve American fighter jets over Hanoi. By the end of the war, some 205 US aircraft had succumbed to Soviet-made and mostly Soviet-launched guided missiles.
War Stories Page 5
