James Robinson Risner was a man of humble origins, son of an Arkansas sharecropper, educated at secondary school level, not particularly ambitious, a common man save for two things: He could fly the hell out of an airplane; and, under terribly difficult circumstances as a Prisoner of War in North Vietnam, he rose to a level of heroic leadership matched by few men in American military history.
Born in Mammoth Springs, Arkansas on Jan. 16, 1925 and raised in a religious family, Risner made his first critical life choice between attending Bible College or joining the Army Air Forces during World War II. When he passed the tough entrance exam for pilot training by one point, his future aloft was set.
Flying came easily to the gifted trainee, which led to a coveted assignment flying fighters after graduation. But Robbie's repeated requests for combat duty were ignored by the Army's personnel system, and he spent the rest of the war defending the Panama Canal.
Postwar peace and return to civilian life brought mundane employment for Risner as an auto mechanic, a service station manager and a short stint running a service garage. He also became a P-51 Mustang pilot in the Oklahoma Air National Guard
When the Korean War began, he wangled his way out of the Oklahoma Air National Guard and arrived in Korea on May 10, 1952, where he was assigned to the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron at Kimpo Air Base. In June, when the 336th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron, also at Kimpo, sought experienced pilots, he arranged a transfer to 4th Fighter Wing.
Risner was often assigned to fly F-86E-10 Sabrejet, nicknamed 'Ohio Mike' and bearing a large cartoon rendition of Bugs Bunny as nose art, in which he achieved most of his aerial victories
On Sept. 15, 1952, his fighter unit found itself in a fierce dogfight over the Yalu River near the East China Sea when he noticed that the plane of his wingman, 1st Lt. Joseph Logan, had been hit and was leaking fuel. They were 60 miles from friendly territory and he knew his fellow pilot would never make it.
Amid heavy flak from antiaircraft fire, Risner maneuvered his jet behind Logan's and, at a speed of more than 200 mph, placed the nose of his plane in the tailpipe of the damaged plane. Through turbulence and with leaking oil splattering his cockpit canopy, 
he pushed Logan's powerless plane until they were beyond enemy territory and within reach of U.S. troops. Logan bailed out over water but became tangled in his parachute lines and drowned before he could be rescued.
On September 21, 1952, he shot down his fifth MiG. In October, Risner was promoted to Major and named Operations Officer of the 336th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron. Risner flew 108 missions in Korea and was credited with the destruction of eight MiG-15s, his final victory occurring January 21, 1953
It was his heroics of the Korean War that put "Robbie" Risner's name on the map of aerial warriors of that era and earned him the title of the 20th Ace of the War. It was according to him, the most gratifying period of his life.
While the Korean War may have been Risner's favorite period, it was by no means the most consequential in the lives of others. It would take another war, and an extraordinary set of circumstances for that to occur.
As storm clouds gathered over Southeast Asia in 1964, Risner arrived in the region, as if on cue, to take command of a fighter-bomber squadron in preparation for the larger war nearly everyone saw coming.
Early in the air war over North Vietnam, Risner led the first flight of Operation Rolling Thunder, a high-intensity aerial bombing of North Vietnam. Subsequent to that said he received his first Air Force Cross in April 1965 for leading air strikes against a strategic 
bridge in North Vietnam. Later that same month, "Robbie" was featured on the cover of Time magazine. He became in the eyes of others in the business one of two things: the perfect role model, or just plain crazy. All, however, held him in awe.
On March 22, 1965, while leading two flights of F-105s attacking a radar site near Vinh Son, North Vietnam, Risner was hit by ground fire when he circled back over the target. He maneuvered his aircraft over the Gulf of Tonkin, ejected a mile offshore, and was rescued after fifteen minutes in the water.
Then, in the most unlikely circumstances, came true greatness. Sometimes in history, a man emerges whom no one saw coming, one who rises to the awful challenge of crisis leadership when others are faltering and provides exactly the right strength of character, calming influence, and credible guidance out of the morass. But first, he must earn the respect and commitment of his subordinates by demonstrating a personal willingness to assume any risk, physical or moral, that he might later ask of his followers.
For Risner, this moment came on Sept. 16, 1965, during a raid over North Vietnam when his F-105 Thunderchief was hit by ground fire. He was forced to eject when the aircraft, on fire, pitched up out of control. He was captured by North Vietnamese while still trying to extricate himself from his parachute. He was on his 55th combat mission at the time.
Because of the Time cover story, he would become one of the highest-profile U.S. prisoners of the Vietnam War. Unfortunately, the Time magazine article featuring Risner made its way to his captors.
They told Risner there were only three people they would rather have as a captive: Lyndon Johnson, Robert McNamara or Dean Rusk. For the next 7 and a half years Robbie absorbed levels of torture and abuse those three could likely never have grasped, let alone endured.
Following being shot down a second time and then captured, his arrival in the old French dungeons of Hanoi began the trial of his life, but also the leadership role that would be his legacy.
He had been beaten up and starved, thrown for months into a dark cell crawling with rats, held immobile with his legs pinned in stocks, and strapped with ropes so tightly that his right arm was torn from its socket. When he passed out from pain, the ropes were briefly loosened until the ordeal could start yet again.
Risner exercised as much as he could and "prayed by the hour," he wrote in his 1973 memoir, "The Passing of the Night: Seven Years as a Prisoner of the North Vietnamese." In the book he wrote, "I did not ask God to take me out of it, I prayed He would give me the strength to endure it."
At the time of Robbie's capture, there were 27 other Americans incarcerated in Hanoi, separated from each other, all doing their best to abide by the Code of Conduct for American Fighting Men. Once Risner determined that he was the senior ranking officer, he began to put structure and guidance into the POWs' lives, a sense of order and community, the very thing their captors were trying desperately to prevent. He would pay a terrible price for that leadership when the guards would catch him communicating, but they couldn't stop him. No matter how brutal the beatings, the next day he would be at it again.
In the early days he was generally held in that small cell block mentioned earlier, and since most new prisoners were held there temporarily, after initial interrogation and torture sessions, Risner used brief moments of guard absence to "induct" new men into his POW command.
According to fellow prisoner Charles G. Boyd (who retired as a four-star general), Risner told him his name and asked for his name and rank. Risner then said, "Learn the tap code, and here's how it works, memorize it, and practice it, it's vital." Adding, "Eat everything they give you, no matter how disgusting; it'll keep you alive. You've just been tortured, and that's not the end of it; resist to the limits of your sanity, or to permanent physical damage. You'll know when you get there." And concluded: "And pray; if you haven't been, start. We're going to get through this, and I'll see you when it's over."
Using coded messages that could be passed with the flash of a hand or the whisk of the broom, Risner encouraged his several hundred fellow Americans at Hoa Lo "to hang tough and resist until you are tortured but never lose your ability to think."
As a leader of the POWs, Risner set up committees, assigned tasks and helped set up communication systems through tapping, scraping walls and even coughing. Some prisoners reconstructed an abbreviated version of the Bible from memory. Others were tortured and never seen again.
Risner's leadership was on display when he organized a forbidden worship service in 1971. Guards stormed into the cellblock and hauled Risner and two other organizers to certain torture. As they did, the 40 or so men in their cellblock burst into "The Star-Spangled Banner." The other six cellblocks also erupted in the national anthem as the three were marched off. The proud strains rang out of the 15-foot walls of the camp and reverberated outside in the streets of downtown Hanoi.
Later on, as the POW organization grew, and prisoners were taken to other prisons throughout the country, Risner's guidance would expand and continue to spread. Always it would make sense, be crisp and to the point. It was never threatening, always gentle and optimistic, like a loving father giving guidance to his son. Yet all he did, remained in a military framework, based on the core principle that each were fighting men with a code of honor that must be upheld.
Risner became the inspiration for all of the confused and scared young men in a very hostile environment. He was a guiding presence, a behavior yardstick, and he managed to achieve this without direct contact. He somehow conveyed to his fellow POWs that it was the right thing to do in order to survive with dignity and honor. But there is no doubt in that every last one of the POWs stood taller in Risner's shadow, tougher in their own resistance, and come home better men as a result.
On Feb. 12, 1973, he was among the first group of prisoners to be released from North Korea. He said he would be ready to return to duty "after three good meals and a good night's rest."
After Vietnam, Risner was promoted to the rank of Brigadier General and returned to the pilot's seat and commanded several fighter training programs before his retirement in 1976.
Risner received two Silver Stars for his heroics and was one of only four airmen in history to receive more than one Air Force Cross, second only to the Medal of Honor for wartime heroism. In addition to his two Air Force Crosses and two Silver Stars, his decorations included the Distinguished Service Medal, three awards of the Distinguished Flying Cross and two Bronze Star Medals.
His second Air Force Cross wasn't pinned to his chest until after he returned from the prison camp when it was awarded for his leadership as a POW.
After his military career, Risner lived for many years in Texas, where he was executive director of an anti-drug program. He often spoke at gatherings for veterans and Air Force pilots.
He was a close friend of the billionaire businessman and onetime presidential candidate H. Ross Perot, who commissioned a statue of Risner, which was installed at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, on November 16, 2001. It was a reminder of the general's strong leadership among the POWs.
The nine-foot bronze statue of Risner, sculpted by Lawrence M. Ludtke and mounted on a five-foot pedestal of black granite, commemorates Risner and other POWs who were punished for holding religious services in their room at the Hanoi Hilton on February 7, 1971, in defiance of North Vietnamese authorities.
It was no accident that the statue was nine-feet tall. When he and two other organizers were hauled away for being behind his comrades singing The Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America, Risner said, "I felt like I was nine feet tall and could go bear hunting with a switch."
Risner, the highest-ranking American POW during most of his seven years, four months and 27 days behind bars, died in his sleep October 22, 2013, at his home in Bridgewater, Virginia three days after suffering a severe stroke. The retired brigadier general was 88-years-old. Survivors include his wife of 36 years, the former Dorothy Miller Williams, of Bridgewater; six children; a sister; and 14 grandchildren.
Risner was buried at Arlington National Cemetery on January 23, 2014, with fellow former POWs and current members of the 336th Fighter Squadron among those in attendance. Also in attendance was retired Gen. Charles G. Boyd, his fellow POW.
James Robison Risner's detailed biography can be found at:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Robinson_Risner
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"Because you started it," the captain said. "If you hadn't been successful, we wouldn't be doing what we're doing today."
Blake, who died April 9, 2015, at the age of 94, was believed to be the last surviving graduate of the first Women's Airforce Service Pilot (WASP) training class during World War II.
"I feel very blessed to have been there at the beginning and gotten in," said Blake in an interview with Airman Magazine before her death. "It's been an exciting life for a little kid who grew up on the beach in Honolulu."The WASPs flew aircraft ferrying and delivery missions, towed aerial targets, and participated in flight testing and evaluation of advanced jet and rocket-powered aircraft. The women replaced male pilots so they could fill combat roles.
Bernice "Bee" Falk Haydu, another Women's Airforce Service pilot who now lives in New Jersey, served in the training command while Blake was in the Ferry Command, but she recalled her as "a very accomplished pilot".
"She liked to tell the story about how she and about 20 male pilots were delivering (Vultee BT-13 Valiants) someplace," Haydu said. "They were flying as a group and then you'd have to land before sunset, not ferrying at night, and then you'd have to find a hotel, and it was difficult. But advance information had been sent that this group was coming and that they would need hotel rooms.
So they all got the same key for the same room. She went down to the desk and she said, "I don't want to sleep with 20 men." So they said, "Well, we'll see if we can get you something else." All of the other hotels were booked, so she said she went up, got in her bunk and she didn't take one stitch of clothes off. She slept in her clothes all night. "That's the way things were in those days."
Blake's class began with 38 women pilots on Nov. 16, 1942, but only 23 graduated on April 24, 1943. They weren't known as WASPs until the merging of the Women's Flying Training Detachment and Women's Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron on Aug. 5, 1943. "We were an experiment," Blake said. "We were a guinea pig class, as they called us because they didn't think women could learn to fly military planes."Blake began flying at the age of 14 in 1934 and became even more interested in airplanes when she met Amelia Earhart at the University of Hawaii in January 1935. Earhart traveled to the islands on her quest to become the first pilot to solo the 2,408 miles across the Pacific Ocean between Honolulu and Oakland, Calif. Blake was the only child in the audience, so she was seated in the front row for Earhart's speech. Afterward, Earhart sat beside Blake and invited her to the airport to see the twin-engine Beechcraft she would be flying the following day.
"She was very excited to know I was learning to fly," Blake said. "She told me to keep going and do something exciting and show that women could fly. She had a lot of people fighting against her who didn't think women could do it."
Blake flew tourists around the Hawaiian island of Oahu in an open-canopy biplane before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941. She recalls the time as two different lives, before and after Dec. 7, 1941.
The night before the attack, she was invited by Navy ensigns to the officers club to celebrate her 21st birthday. The next morning, she watched the attack from the balcony of her family home on a hill above Pearl Harbor.
"My family didn't drink, so I'd never had a drink in my life," Blake said. "That was my first taste of liquor (at the party). The next morning, when Pearl Harbor happened, I was in bed with the worst hangover I ever had.
"My younger brothers woke me up, and we all went to the balcony of my house, and we watched all these planes coming over the mountain behind us going toward the ocean. When the planes went over us, they looked like AT-6s (Texans), but they were (Japanese Mitsubishi A6-M) Zeroes. They had big orange suns painted on the bottom of their wings. Then, we saw them as they started diving toward the ocean in front of us. Their machine guns started going off, and you could see the bullets hitting the water and bouncing up.
"We had been having so much fun before Pearl Harbor. We were having fun every night, and suddenly it stopped." Two ensigns Blake dated were killed at Pearl Harbor, and a third, who became her first husband several months later,
also would have died if her father hadn't intervened. He had invited Robert Tackaberry to spend the night after the party so his daughter wouldn't have to drive him back to his ship at night."It saved his life," Blake said. "His cabin on the (USS) California was below the water line, and they dropped a bomb right in the water beside the ship. His roommate was asleep, and it killed him. So my father always reminded my future husband he'd saved his life."
Blake, who worked at Pearl Harbor as a secretary before she married Tackaberry, moved to the East Coast when he was reassigned to a ship stationed in Erie, Penn. A couple of years later, she was selected for the first women's pilot training class in Houston, Tex. near Ellington Field.
Unlike the casual way women pilots are regarded today, Blake recalls a much different attitude during World War II. However, she had an advantage her fellow classmates didn't. She was already accustomed to getting along with men from growing up with two brothers in a neighborhood filled with boys.
"I got along fine with them because I'd grown up with boys," Blake said. "I knew how to joke, spit through my teeth and crack my jaws with them. That was very fortunate because some of the girls were in tears if a boy made a crack. I just joked back. They were always my pals."
"But a lot of the men were not happy having the women fly the same planes they were flying. They watched us like hawks, and if we did anything wrong, it was back at our base before we could get back."
After completing training, the graduates from the first class were given their choice of assignment and job. Blake chose ferry command at Long Beach, CA., because she figured she'd be able to fly home to Honolulu. She never got the opportunity but met her second husband, who was also assigned to Long Beach. Blake was part of a group of pilots who shuttled aircraft from factories to sites where they could be sent overseas. There was some discussion of using WASP pilots as co-pilots for overseas flights, but the war in Europe ended before it could happen."So, I didn't get checked out in a lot more planes that I would've liked to have flown because they brought all the men pilots back and didn't need us anymore," she said. "They gave us three days' notice, and it was, "Goodbye, girls."
Blake ferried about 35 aircraft models, in addition to the AT-6 and others she flew in during training. But one airplane still remains her favorite even today.
"The P-51 (Mustang) was definitely my favorite," she said. "Whenever one goes overhead, and there are still a few of them flying around, I hear that sound and instantly know it's a P-51. It was reliable. I liked the engine, and I just felt safer in it than anything else."
In February 1969 deep in the jungles of Vietnam, the legend grew exponentially. While serving as a First Lieutenant, his company came under a massive attack from a numerically superior force. Wounded during the initial assault, Fox found himself the only officer capable of organizing the defense. He destroyed an enemy emplacement and began directing his company to take out the rest.
Calling in airstrikes while maneuvering under heavy fire, Fox was credited with inspiring his Marines to defend. He was wounded during the final assault but refused medical treatment so he could continue to rally his Marines. For his actions, he received the Medal of Honor and remained in a career that lasted until he was forced to retire as a Colonel at the mandatory age of 62.Wesley Fox was born in 1931 in Virginia, the oldest of ten siblings. Perhaps it was his upbringing among his brothers and sisters, but Fox from an early age was never known to shun a fight. Having watched the Marine Corps storm across the Pacific in his early teens, Fox knew he wanted his chance to serve and live up to that legacy. Shortly after North Korea invaded South Korea in 1950, Fox earned his first taste of combat. Having enlisted in the Marine Corps at the age of 18, by 1951 he was serving as a Rifleman with the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines.
In the brutal fighting of the Korean War, Fox was wounded and earned his first Purple Heart as well as the Bronze Star with a Combat "V." In a military culture living off the legends of WWII in the Pacific, Fox was working to build a new legacy showing that Marines of any generation were up for the fight at hand.
By 1954, he was back in Korea for peacetime duty. Over the following years, he rose through the ranks of the enlisted Marines. He served tours as a drill instructor and a recruiter before becoming a First Sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps. In 1966 the well-respected Marine became an Officer.
By 1967, Fox was immersed in the Vietnam War as a Lieutenant with a Marine Infantry Company. Usually, enlisted Marines were wary of a Lieutenant taking charge of a company in the middle of a conflict. But the fact that this Lieutenant was a combat experienced veteran of over 17 years put their minds at ease. Fox took charge of Company A, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines and did not disappoint those left in his charge.In 1969, Fox and his Company were embroiled in the midst of Operation Dewey Canyon. It was the last major offensive for the Marine Corps in the Vietnam War and represented a show of power and Marine grit.
On February 22, 1969, Fox and his Company were in the thick of it - fighting off a larger force of North Vietnamese determined to reject the Marine offensive.
The day started with Fox and his Company of Marines being assaulted from a well-concealed and entrenched network of North Vietnamese soldiers. With the poise and resolve expected from a veteran, Fox moved to assess the situation and gathered his platoon leaders for action. After briefing them on the task at hand, the command group was struck by heavy fire resulting in wounds to Fox and nearly his entire leadership team. With unwavering courage, Fox instantly rallied his men and took action to destroy an enemy position himself.
As the heavy enemy fire continued to rage around him, Fox shouted directions and encouragement to his men. While organizing and calling in fire missions for the supporting aircraft, the Executive Officer for the company was mortally wounded leaving Fox as the only officer still in the fight. He continued to move from one position to the next directing fire for his Marines with almost blatant disregard for his own life.
As the enemy rallied for their final charge, Fox was again wounded. Refusing medical treatment to organize the defense, Fox stayed in the fight as his men pushed the enemy into retreat. When day gave way to evening, Wesley Fox and his Marines were still in charge of their assigned real estate.President Richard Nixon presented the Medal of Honor, the military's highest award for valor, to Fox on March 2, 1971. Fox and six Soldiers received the distinction in a group ceremony at the White House.
However, it was not the end of his storied career. Fox remained a Marine Officer for over 20 more years rising to the rank of Colonel.
Fox, who always wanted to join the military, told the Veterans History Project interviewer that he had no regrets about choosing a career in the Marine Corps.
"To tell you how proud I am to wear the Marine uniform, my first four years as a Marine I didn't own one stitch of civilian clothes - everything I did was in a Marine uniform," Fox said. "I'd go home on leave, working in the hay fields or whatever, I wore my Marine utilities. Go into town to see the movies, I wore Marine dress."
The man who first enlisted as a Private to see action in the Korean War finally retired after 43 years of active service. For Fox, it was not his service in Korea and Vietnam that sidelined him but rather his age as he was forced to retire at the required age of 62 in 1993, having worked his way up through every enlisted rank from Private to Colonel.
After retiring from the Marines Corps, he wrote a book about his career - "Marine Rifleman: Forty-Three Years in the Corps."
For eight years after his retirement, he worked as a Deputy Commandant of Cadets for the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets and continued to speak about his military service to students and civic leaders.
Fox died during the evening of Nov. 24, 2017, in Blacksburg, Virginia at the age of 86 years old. He was survived by his wife Dottie Lu (formerly Dotti Lu Bossinger).They have three daughters. He is buried at Arlington National Cemetery.
His legend extended from the Korean War through to the First Gulf War, but for those with whom he served, there is no doubt that Col. Wesley Fox deserves his rightful place in Marine Corps history.
Editor's Note: In 1986 I wrote, produced and directed a film for the United States Marine Corps called "Combat Leadership: The Ultimate Challenge." Wesley Fox was one of the Officers I interviewed. He was in every way a kindly gentleman and a Marine's Marine.
Below is the Wikipedia biography of Wesley Fox.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wesley_L._Fox
The 29-minute film can be viewed in its entirety on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gYax3bhwUk
The narrator and on-camera host was former U.S. Marine Lee Marvin. During WW II he was wounded in action by enemy machine gun fire during the assault on Mount Tapochau in the Battle of Saipan.
Long after we packed up our equipment and returned to Los Angeles, I received a call from a Marine Officer wanting to invite Lee Marvin to be their guest of honor at Camp Pendleton's Marine Corps birthday. I called Lee at his home in Tucson and he was delighted. He and his wife and I enjoyed a very special Marine Corps anniversary.
On September 1, 1983, Korean Airlines (KAL) flight 007 was on its last leg from New York City to Seoul when it mistakenly flew into Russian airspace over the Kamchatka Peninsula where top-secret Soviet military installations were located. Two fighters were launched, zeroed in on the KAL flight and tried to make contact with the pilot. Failing to receive a response, one of the fighters fired a heat-seeking missile, hitting the passenger plane, plunging it into the Sea of Japan, killing all 269 passengers and crewmembers. The Kremlin claimed the jet was an American spy plane deep in Russian territory.
In response, President Ronald Reagan called the incident a "massacre" and issued a statement in which he declared that the Soviets had turned "against the world and the moral precepts which guide human relations among people everywhere." The incident dramatically increased tensions between the Soviet Union and the United States. So high were passions, it was not out of the question that the U.S. might fire nuclear missiles toward the Soviet Union in retaliation over the incident.
Three weeks later, on September 26, 1983, 44-year-old Lt. Col. Stanislav Yevgrafovivh Petrov of the Soviet Air Defense Forces was on duty at Serpukhov-15, a secret bunker outside Moscow. His job was to monitor Oko, the Soviet Union's early-warning system for a nuclear attack and then pass along any alerts to his superiors. It was just after midnight when the alarm bells began sounding. One of the system's satellites had detected that the United States had launched ballistic missiles that were heading toward the Soviet Union. Electronic maps flashed; bells screamed; reports streamed in. A back-lit red screen flashed the word "launch." It appeared that the world was less than 30 minutes from nuclear war.
The satellite signal Petrov received in his bunker indicated that a single Minuteman missile had been launched and was headed toward the East. Four more missiles appeared to follow, according to satellite signals, and the protocol was clear: notify Soviet Air Defense headquarters in time for the military's general staff to consult with Soviet leader Yuri Andropov. A retaliatory attack and nuclear holocaust would likely ensue.
Petrov, however, had a hunch - "a funny feeling in my gut," he would later recall - that the alarm ringing through the bunker was a false one. It was an intuition that was based on common sense: the alarm indicated that only five missiles were headed toward the Soviet Union. Had the U.S. actually been launching a nuclear attack, however, Petrov figured, it would be extensive - much more, certainly, than five missiles. Soviet ground radar, meanwhile, had failed to pick up corroborative evidence of incoming missiles - even after several minutes had elapsed. The larger matter, however, was that Petrov didn't fully trust the accuracy of the Soviet technology when it came to bomb-detection. He would later describe the alert system as "raw."Instead of immediately reporting to his superiors about the apparent missile launches by the American enemy, Petrov followed his instinct that was telling him that the signals could have been false alarms. This was a direct breach of protocols as the safest thing to do would have been to inform the higher authority immediately. However, it was this bold decision made by Petrov that may have saved the world from a nuclear holocaust as Soviet protocol said the military should respond to a nuclear attack with one of its own.
Convinced he was right about a false alarm, Petrov called the duty officer in the Soviet Army's headquarters and reported a warning system malfunction and more than likely the satellite in question had picked up the sun's reflection off the cloud tops and somehow interpreted that as a missile launch.
If he was wrong, atomic bombings of USSR would have happened within minutes. Twenty-three minutes later his intuitions were proved to be correct: American missiles apparently minutes away from impact seemed to vanish into the air and Soviet missile - armed and ready - remained in their silos
The U.S. had not attacked the Soviets. It was a false alarm. One that, had it not been treated as such, may have prompted a retaliatory nuclear attack on the U.S. and its NATO allies. Which would have then prompted a devastating global nuclear warfare.
It was for Petrov such a relief. He celebrated his decision with half a liter of vodka, fell into a sleep that lasted 28 hours, woke up and went back to work.
Petrov was initially praised for his cool head but later came under criticism and was made the scapegoat for the false alarm. This was because the incident and other bugs found in the missile detection system embarrassed his superiors and the influential scientists who were responsible for it, so that if he had been officially rewarded, they would have had to be punished.
He was chastised and eventually reassigned, in large part for not keeping a detailed log of his actions during the five minutes it took him to decide the alarm was false. He had also thwarted a protocol that was designed to take such a weighty decision out of the hands of humans. A computer, not an individual officer, would decide whether missiles were imminent and, thus, whether retaliatory action might be necessary.
Petrov's colleagues were professional soldiers with purely military training; they would being trained to follow instructions at all costs, likely have reported a missile strike had they been on shift at the time. Petrov, on the other hand, trusted his own intelligence, his own instincts, and his own gut. He made the brave decision to do nothing.In later years, Petrov sometimes said that he was simply "in the right place at the right time." Most of his comrades, he said, would probably have confirmed the approaching missiles rather than questioned the alerts from the computer.
In fact, according to Peter Anthony, a Danish filmmaker who directed "The Man Who Saved the World," a 2014 documentary on Petrov, he wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.
"Another officer was sick," Anthony said, "so Stanislav had to take over."
Petrov's story began attracting wide attention only in the late 1990s, after Gen. Yury Votintsev, the retired Soviet missile-defense chief, published a memoir describing Petrov's previously classified role in preventing a nuclear disaster. Once his role in preventing what could have been a nuclear holocaust was reported throughout the world, Petrov became known as "the man who single-handedly saved the world from nuclear war."
Stanislav Yevgrafovich Petrov was born on Sept. 7, 1939, in Chernigovka, an air base north of Vladivostok. His mother was a nurse, and his father was an aviation engineer who had flown fighter planes during World War II. He was once shot down by the Japanese, resulting in a severe head injury and an admonition to his aviation-minded son: Never fly.
When his mother became pregnant with a second child, his parents decided they could not support a family of four, and enrolled Petrov in a military academy.
He studied long-distance radar systems at Kiev Higher Engineering Radio-Technical College of the Soviet Air Force, and after graduating in 1972 joined the Soviet Air Defense Forces. When he was stationed in the Far East, he met his wife, Raisa, who was working as a cinema operator at a military base in Kamchatka.When Raisa was diagnosed with brain cancer, Petrov retired early from the military to care for her during her chemo and radiation treatments. Raisa died in 1997.
Reliant almost entirely on a state pension, he was reduced at one point to growing potatoes outside his apartment building to feed his family. For a time, he made soup by boiling water with a leather belt for flavor.
Petrov died on May 19, 2017, at the age of 77 in his home in Fryazino, a center for scientific research outside Moscow. According to his son Dmitri. Petrov had been sick for six months with an "internal disease." He was living alone.
In addition to his son Dmitri, Petrov is survived a daughter, Yelena and two grandchildren.
Editor's Note: Here is a short video on Petrov's decision to call a missile attack on the Soviet Union by the United States a false alarm.
On the morning of 3 March 1965, a UH-1B helicopter piloted by an Army Lieutenant lifted off the pad at Qui Nhon on the central coast of South Vietnam and headed south. On his right, the Lieutenant could see the mountains of the Chaine Annamatique, their steep slopes covered with dark green carpets of jungle foliage, their feet immersed in the blue of the South China Sea. Just before 1030, the pilot rounded the promontory that flanked the northern side of a picturesque bay known as Vung Ro.
Because they sometimes fly in tight formations, Army helicopter pilots have a finely tuned sense of relative motion, and as he surveyed the sapphire waters of the bay below, the lieutenant sensed that something was not right. Focusing on a small, vegetation-covered island he suddenly realized that it was moving!Swooping down for a closer look, he saw that the "island" was actually a trawler whose decks and superstructure had been camouflaged with potted trees. The pilot reported his discovery, and what would enter the history books as "the Vung Ro Incident" was underway.
What this Army lieutenant did not realize at the time was that he had triggered a sequence of events that would take elements of the U.S. Navy away from their traditional blue-water realm and send them into the green and brown waters of South Vietnam.
Sea Change
A combination of U.S. air strikes and attacks by Vietnamese Navy (VNN) vessels disabled and eventually captured the intruding ship at Vung Ro. On board were large amounts of ammunition and other supplies - many bearing labels from an assortment of communist countries - as well as numerous documents and objects that made it clear the trawler had come from North Vietnam. The long-running debate about whether the North was using the sea to supply communist forces in the South was over.
But there was also concern that VNN forces had taken nearly five days to capture the ship, and U.S. Navy advisers who participated in the operation reported many significant problems with the effectiveness of their South Vietnamese counterparts. U.S. planners concluded that this now-proven threat needed to be countered by an active American effort that would transform the U.S. Navy's in-country role from nominally advisory to openly operational. This was a momentous change that would eventually bring nearly 2 million U.S. sailors and Coast Guardsmen to serve in-country over the course of the war.The sailors who left gray decks to serve in-country traded their white hats and combination covers for black berets and helmets, their bell bottoms, and khakis for green utilities and various forms of camouflage. Five-inch guns were replaced by machine guns and grenade launchers, rudders and screws gave way to Jacuzzi pumps, and malaria and dysentery joined mal de mer as common afflictions.
Leaving traditional career paths to serve in Vietnam sometimes proved less than career-enhancing, and in-country life lacked some of the creature comforts found in the blue-water Navy, but there have always been "swashbucklers" in the service willing to trade a swab or a typewriter for a .50-caliber machine gun, so there were many volunteers. The preferred ratings for these operations were those with applicable skills, such as boatswains, gunner's mates, and enginemen, but many other ratings were represented, with eagerness making up for the lack of vocational skills.
Market Time
The transition from advisory roles to operational ones began with the creation of the Coastal Surveillance Force, designated as Task Force (TF) 115, whose primary mission - code-named Operation Market Time - was to interdict the flow of supplies to communist forces by conducting random searches among the throngs of junks and sampans that travelled these waters on a daily basis.
Seventeen existing 82-foot patrol boats (WPBs) were provided by the Coast Guard, but for these shallow-water operations, the Navy had to rely on modifying a 50-foot aluminum craft that was being used in the Gulf of Mexico to transport crews to and from offshore drilling rigs. Officially designated as PCFs (patrol craft, fast), these converts were suitably armed with machine guns and naval mortars. Capable of 28 knots, they came to be known as "Swift Boats."Patrols were marked by extreme contrasts. A Market Time sailor typically spent weeks roasting in the Southeast Asian sun, then found himself battling pounding seas and torrential rains during the monsoon season. While stopping and searching vessels could earn him appreciative smiles from people who understood why he was there, he more often saw the scowls of fisherman and farmers who resented the delay in getting their products to market. Although he was there to help the South Vietnamese people, he could never fully trust them, which meant that despite the tedium of his mission, he could never let his guard down.
Mostly the U.S. sailors' mission was one of deterrence - like the cop on a beat - and it could be frustrating as well as boring. Occasionally a North Vietnamese trawler attempted a run into the shore, offering the opportunity to target a clearly hostile vessel, but these were relatively rare. The business of routine searching for contraband was sometimes interrupted by delivering fire support to friendly units on shore, conducting occasional search-and-rescue missions to recover downed aviators, or providing assistance to vessels in distress.These sailors were most vulnerable when their craft was tied up at bases ashore. The threat of attack was a constant for virtually all Americans serving in South Vietnam. They never knew when rockets or mortars might rain down, or when a sniper's bullet or a sapper's explosive might send them home early in a zippered bag.
The task at hand was enormous by any calculus. Different sources estimated the daily coastal traffic of South Vietnam ranged from 4,000 to 60,000 vessels - the discrepancy of these figures telling much about the difficulties of the mission. Measuring success was challenging since the only measurable data consisted of successful intercepts and captures, whereas the number of "misses" was entirely unknown. But postwar studies suggest that TF 115 succeeded in extensively altering the enemy's logistics, substantially reducing his ability to resupply guerrilla units by sea infiltration and forcing him to rely instead on much less efficient overland supply through Laos and Cambodia.
Game Warden
The most serious infiltration by land occurred in the southernmost part of South Vietnam, in the region known as the Mekong Delta. Geographically this area represented only one-quarter of the country's land area, but demographically it comprised about half of the population. It consisted of a vast network of waterways, with a spider's web of streams and canals interconnecting four main branches of the Mekong River.
Adjacent to the Delta was the Rung Sat Special Zone (also known as the "Forest of Assassins"), a foreboding maze of waterways, swamps, mangrove tangles, and islands that the communist insurgents, or Viet Cong, had inherited from the bandits and pirates who had long dominated the region. Between the Delta and the Rung Sat was the meandering Long Tau River that provided the capital city of Saigon access to the sea.
Despite the Mekong Delta's long-standing reputation as one of the great "rice bowls" of Asia, the Viet Cong controlled much of the flow of rice to South Vietnamese markets, and the VNN was having difficulty keeping the shipping channels to Saigon open, which hampered needed commercial trade. Consequently, the U.S. Navy was called on to fix these problems, and another task force (TF 116) was created, officially called the River Patrol Force.
Once again, the Navy's blue-water parochialism left it unprepared for this new campaign, known as Operation Game Warden. The needed vessels had to be created by modifying an existing 31-foot fiberglass recreational craft. Designated PBRs (Patrol Boats, River) these crafts were powered by a pair of diesel engines designed for a maximum speed of 30 knots (not quite realized after weapons and ammunition were added). A pair of rotatable, stern-mounted jet pumps manufactured by Jacuzzi Brothers served as both propulsion and steering, obviating the need for screws and rudders. That made them less vulnerable to the vegetation and debris that proliferated in the rivers and canals. A pair of .50-caliber machine guns were mounted forward in an open mount, and a single .50-caliber was mounted aft on a centerline pedestal and often accompanied by grenade launchers or 7.62-mm M-60 machine guns on each side.In February 1966, Game Warden officially commenced. FT 116's missions were to interdict enemy infiltration, enforce curfews, prevent taxation of water traffic by the Viet Cong, and keep the main shipping channel into Saigon open.
Seven operating bases were set up in both the Delta and Rung Sat and were supplemented by four old LSTs (landing ships, tank) that were brought out of mothballs to be fitted as mobile floating bases. A minesweeping contingent was added that consisted of 57-foot wooden MSBs (minesweeping boats) and regularly patrolled the meandering Long Tau. "Sea Wolf" helicopters (Army hand-me-down UH-1 "Hueys" flown by Navy crews) were added and later supplemented by "Black Ponies" (Army OV-10 Bronco turboprop aircraft also flown by Navy pilots) to provide air support.
The established fleet doctrine was of little use, so these brown-water sailors had to "write the book" as they went. While trial and error are rarely preferable to reliance on established procedures (because of the "error" part, which can be costly), these neophytes learned quickly and enjoyed the autonomy and flexibility that Americans often prefer at the tactical level.
Tactics evolved that included the pairing of PBRs for most operations, with a "Patrol Officer" (a Junior Officer or Senior Petty Officer) in charge of both boats. This allowed mutual support and permitted one boat to conduct inspections while the other "hovered" nearby watching for other dangers (such as ambushes from ashore). Searches were conducted as near as possible to midstream, with one PBR maintaining clear lines of fire to both banks, while the other conducted the inspection with weapons ready, engines running, and the inspected vessels brought alongside but never moored to the inspecting PBR. (Virtually all of these procedures were violated in the famous movie Apocalypse Now, as a single PBR moors to a sampan, shuts down its engines, and ultimately fails to employ weapons discipline.)In addition to search operations, PBRs conducted nighttime ambushes, aided units under attack on shore, and supported a number of SEAL counterguerrilla operations. Tactical innovations included such things as "acoustical detection devices" (Coke cans filled with pebbles strung across a canal at night), an M-60 machine gun mounted on top of the boat's canopy (to allow firing over elevated canal banks when the tide was low), and a "flamethrower" (a hunter's bow used to shoot flaming arrows).
The enemy too developed his own tactics by taking advantage of low tides to restrict the maneuverable battle space for the PBRs, faking a medical emergency on one sampan to distract U.S. sailors from countering the movements of another, and timing ambushes to occur when the Americans were returning from a long patrol and consequently fatigued.
The early frequency of ambushes by the enemy served as credible evidence that these operations were having the desired effects. Eventually, the Viet Cong were driven from the major waterways. Gone were the VC tax-collecting stations; shipping flowed through the Long Tau, and enemy contact gradually fell off until tedium replaced terror as a major morale problem.
Mobile Riverine Force
Even though Game Warden operations were solving problems on the major waterways, the land areas of the Delta remained in jeopardy. Well-ensconced enemy forces operated with too much freedom in this vital geographic area, and sending in ground forces seemed the logical solution. But the U.S. Army traveled largely on wheels and treads, and there were few roads in this region. With waterways as the highways, some sort of amphibious capability was required. The U.S. Marines would have been the logical choice, but by this time they were fully occupied in "I Corps," the northernmost quarter of South Vietnam.
The solution was to designate yet another Navy task force (TF 117) - dubbed the Riverine Assault Force - that would be combined with the Army's 2nd Brigade of the 9th Infantry Division to form the Mobile Riverine Force (MRF). Mobility was provided by a large fleet of existing landing craft that were converted into various configurations and clustered around a flotilla of larger vessels, including several LSTs that were resurrected and reconfigured for the new purpose. This "jungle green" flotilla could move about the main rivers, positioning themselves where needed to root out enemy concentrations. The soldiers lived in barracks ships during transits, then embarked in modified LCM-6s (landing craft, mechanized) for assault operations.The LCM-6s had been significantly modified for the various needs of the assault force. The most numerous were the armored troop carriers (ATCs), also known as "Tango Boats." Of the various conversions, this 56-foot craft looked most like the original landing craft, retaining the large bow doors that could be lowered onto the river or canal banks to allow rapid egress of embarked troops. They were heavily armed with an array of machine guns and grenade launchers and one 20-mm cannon. Bar armor pre-detonated enemy recoilless-rifle rounds and rocket-propelled grenades before they could penetrate the troop-filled well deck. A canvas awning over the top of the well deck protected the soldiers from the sun and light grenades. With a seven-man crew, one ATC could transport and land an Army platoon (approximately 40 men) and provide close-in fire support. The craft carried spare ammunition, food, and other supplies for the initial assault and could ferry more during extended operations.
Some ATCs were modified to accommodate a steel flight deck, in place of the canvas awning, where helicopters could actually land to evacuate wounded or perform other support duties, making them the world's smallest aircraft carriers. Others, equipped with medical-aid stations, served as diminutive hospital ships, and still others with large fuel bladders functioned as counterparts to the fleet oiler.
The most formidable craft were the monitors, which functioned as the battleships of the flotilla. Although they too were once LCM-6s, their bow doors had been removed and replaced by a rounded bow. A cluster of weapons similar to those of the ATCs was complemented by a potent 81-mm naval mortar amidships and a 40-mm cannon in a forward turret.
Later versions came to Vietnam with 105-mm howitzers replacing the forward cannon. Some monitors were also equipped with flamethrowers (useful for burning away heavy vegetation as well as terrorizing enemy soldiers) and dubbed "Zippos" in recognition of the cigarette lighter that many GIs carried in those days.The CCB (command communications boat) was similar to the monitor but carried a command-and-control console amidships in place of the mortar. These functioned as a kind of flagship, their banks of HF, VHF, and UHF radios providing commanders the means to coordinate operations.
In late 1967, assault patrol support boats (ASPB) were added to the force. The only riverine craft built from scratch for service in Vietnam, they were designed to function as a hybrid destroyer-minesweeper. At 50 feet and 28 tons, these relative latecomers were crewed by seven sailors and could provide a lot of firepower from an array of machine guns and grenade launchers as well as a stern-mounted mortar and a bow-mounted 20-mm cannon. Their reinforced hulls and chain-drag mine-countermeasures rig could clear the way for an assault, and an innovative underwater exhaust system significantly reduced engine noise (but created maintenance headaches because of their complexity).
Tactics evolved as experience begat innovation. Troops began carrying lines with snap-hooks to aid in water crossing and detonating booby traps; truck tires and sandbags were placed beneath mortar baseplates to absorb the shock of firing; underwear was left behind in the barracks ships because it did not dry as rapidly as fatigues.
Periodically shifting its location, the Mobile Riverine Force anchored in various rivers and conducted a wide variety of operations in both the Delta and the Rung Sat that varied in size and complexity, many large enough to warrant special operational names such as Great Bend, Concordia, and Hop Tac.
In the early hours of the Tet Offensive in early 1968, the MRF moved around the Delta, engaging enemy forces in a series of intense battles. One took place along a three-mile stretch of the Rach Ruong tributary, where the waterway narrowed to a mere 30 yards wide. Enemy forces opened up with heavy machine guns, rockets, and recoilless-rifles, and the prepared Americans retaliated with a heavy barrage, using leveled howitzers to fire deadly "Beehive" antipersonnel rounds with devastating effect, begging comparisons to broadsides exchanged in close-quarters battles during the Age of Sail. The half-hour battle left a large number of enemy dead along the banks as the MRF forces continued down the waterway to their next engagement, a 21-hour pitched battle at My Tho.
In the weeks that followed, the soldiers and sailors of the MRF fought with little rest to preserve South Vietnam's vital "rice bowl," moving around the Delta, driving enemy forces out of and away from the critical cities, inflicting heavy casualties on the Viet Cong, who had at last come out of the proverbial woodwork and into the crosshairs of American guns.
The MRF continued operations after the Tet Offensive and, as time went on, the enemy ceded control of much of the Delta territory. But it was also clear that he was not defeated. Withdrawing deeper inland and relying on the smaller waterways in those areas, he continued to infiltrate from the nearby Cambodian sanctuary that had been allowed as a result of American concerns about widening the war.
SEALORDSWhen Vice Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr. arrived in South Vietnam in the fall of 1968 to take command of the in-country naval forces, he found that the three task forces had successfully carried out their missions. But he also faced two problems that begged solutions. One was the existence of the Cambodian sanctuary, and the other was that morale was suffering because declining contact with the enemy meant that patrols were becoming mind-numbingly routine. The old strategic concept of a "fleet in being" has always suffered from this problem - existence playing an important strategic role, but inactivity breeding discontent.
It was clear that it was time for a strategic adjustment, and Zumwalt responded by creating a whole new task force - TF 194 - and dubbed it SEALORDS, for Southeast Asia Lake, Ocean, River, and Delta Strategy. The idea behind this new strategy was to carry the fight to the enemy by restructuring the forces available and redefining their missions.
Swift Boats were drawn from the coasts to operate in the rivers and canals, PBRs were tasked with deeper penetrations into the smaller waterways, and various elements of the MRF were reassigned to support new penetrating and blocking missions. These newly configured forces probed deeper into the Delta hinterlands to interdict enemy movements, but more important, they were tasked with establishing a barrier near the Cambodian border to cauterize the arterial bleeding that had been suffered as a result of the existing sanctuary.
Initially, this new force conducted four aggressive campaigns - Operations Search Turn, Foul Deck, Giant Slingshot, and Barrier Reef - that established an effective barrier and greatly reduced the amount of infiltration.Engagements were so common during the Giant Slingshot operation that an acronymic shorthand was developed to speed up the reporting process: ENIFFs were enemy-initiated firefights, FRIFFs were friendly-initiated firefights, while an ENENG represented contact with the enemy in which fire had been initiated by him but not returned, and a FRENG was the converse.
ENIFFS along the Vam Co Dong were so frequent that a particular stretch of the river was called "Blood Alley." In a strange but logical twist, friendly casualties increased significantly, but so did morale among those who preferred the adrenaline-fed activity to the tedium of routine patrols.
Subsequent operations with different names but similar purposes increased the pressure on the enemy and neutralized his effectiveness in various parts of the Delta. New tactics were developed that included the employment of "waterborne guard posts" - a euphemism for ambushes - and the use of giant pontoons to establish small "advanced tactical base camps" (ATSB) in remote waterways. These were eventually extrapolated into larger, more permanent, floating bases designed to maintain control of regions previously belonging to the enemy.
The Americans and their South Vietnamese allies conducted "randomized pressure" operations in the area that took various forms, including organized sorties, emergency response operations, and routine patrols. Early resistance diminished, and gradually local villagers began to provide warnings of enemy movements and plans. It was clear that Zumwalt's strategy was succeeding.
Vietnamization and PostscriptWhile Zumwalt's aggressive approach injected new life into the U.S. Navy's in-country operations, the progress was made less relevant by a major change in American policy. The unpopularity of the war resulted in U.S. extrication becoming the primary strategic goal. Washington directed American military commanders in Vietnam to turn the war back over to their South Vietnamese allies under a new policy called "Vietnamization." And it was clear that "sooner" outranked "later."
For the Navy's part, Admiral Zumwalt responded to this new directive by creating a graduated, on-the-job training program that he dubbed ACTOV (Accelerated Turnover to the Vietnamese). ACTOV got underway in late 1968 and proceeded at a steady rate thereafter, putting the Navy out ahead of the other services for its part in Vietnamization. The whole process took less than a year.
It had been a strange cycle that had begun with U.S. Navy personnel arriving in South Vietnam to serve as advisers to the VNN, then shifting to full combat operations in the middle years, only to be later returned to the role of advisers at the end.
Preparing for war with the Soviet Union during the Cold War had required the building of a powerful blue-water navy in a classic blend of the traditional strategic concepts of deterrence, sea control, and forward presence. And when it came time for power projection in Vietnam, the blue-water giants were more than capable of launching strikes against the communist North. But the Navy was ill-prepared for the green- and brown-water operations needed in the South. Consequently, appropriate vessels had to be created by conversions, tactical doctrine had to be developed in the crucible of combat, and many of the sailors who went in-country had to learn skills well outside their ratings. The in-country Navy had been an aberration, a jury-rig of sorts, and ultimately it was for naught.
But it was also a triumph of American adaptability and of the Navy's traditional "can-do" spirit. Despite numerous handicaps, the needed forces not only coalesced in relatively short order but were effective in turning the tide of battle in several specific areas. Infiltration from the sea was significantly reduced by Operation Market Time, vital waterways were kept open by
Operation Game Warden, and enemy forces were pushed back into the hinterlands of the Mekong Delta and the Rung Sat Special Zone by the Mobile Riverine Force. And Operation SEALORDS combined the Navy's in-country assets into an aggressive assault on those forces that continued to infiltrate from the Cambodian sanctuary.Most of the 2,663 Navy and 7 Coast Guard personnel who died in Vietnam - and thousands more who were wounded - were casualties of these anomalous operations, but for most of the in-country sailors who survived, our service was (and remains) a source of pride. And, as the years have passed, the in-country experience has lingered as an assortment of surreal memories, occasionally resurrected by the sound of a passing helicopter, or the sight of a dripping palm frond, or the ominous rumble of distant thunder.
Article courtesy of USNI.org
It was cold at the turning of the year in Murfreesboro, right in the middle of the state of Tennessee. The little town nestled under a crook in the arm of the Stones River, near where the water rushed and chattered over a long shallow ford. The Civil War had raged across the country for nearly two years. At the end of December in 1862, the Union force called the Army of the Cumberland was maneuvering into position to challenge the Confederacy's Army of Tennessee.
The Confederate troops were commanded by Gen. Braxton Bragg, a tall, thickly bearded, sad-eyed veteran of the South's campaigns. His army numbered around thirty-five thousand men, cavalry, cannon, infantry, and skirmishers. They had been encamped north of Murfreesboro for a month when the Union forces finally arrived.
Maj. Gen. William Rosecrans was in command of the Union Army of the Cumberland, which out-numbered Bragg's force by nearly ten thousand men. They had marched the long road south from Nashville to Murfreesboro, and by New Year's Eve in 1862 they had deployed in a line stretching four miles long facing the Confederate Army. Overnight, the armies were camped so close to each other that they could hear and see each other clearly.
Each army was well equipped with musicians, and both sides began to play and sing competing songs under the starry sky. After some time, one band struck up a tune which resonated with both sides, and the musical competition became an alliance. Thousands upon thousands of voices from both sides joined together in a song everyone knew. 'There's no place like home, boys' they sang, 'There's no place like home.'
Both sides were readying themselves to attack in the morning, but Bragg struck first. The left wing of the Confederate army swept forward in a huge wave toward the Union lines. Ten thousand men marched swiftly toward the enemy, pausing only to unleash huge barrages of rifle-fire against their enemy.
The Union soldiers were not prepared for the sudden onslaught, and when their enemies closed the distance and charged to fight hand-to-hand they were driven backyard by yard, three miles from their original position. Their losses were terrible, but they fought for every foot of ground they gave. Cannons began to fire from both sides, and the second wave of Confederate soldiers began to advance on the disintegrating Union right.
Gen. Rosecrans scrambled reinforcements toward the fighting, riding to and fro at a gallop across the battlefield. He was covered in blood, and everywhere he went he cried out in strident tones to his men, encouraging them.
The right flank of the Union army was crumbling, and the line was so long that it would be some time before the reinforcements were able to be of any use. However, in a little grove of Cedar trees in the center of the right flank, one man had not been caught short by the early morning attack. Union Maj. Gen. Philip Sheridan was in command of a division of infantry and cannon, and his men had been up, fed and deployed long before the rest of the divisions on the right. He was a stubborn, canny fellow, sharp-eyed and quick to act, and he commanded the respect and trust of the men under him.
As the Union army around him gave ground, his men held their position and returned fire rapidly at the advancing enemy. Again and again, the Confederate soldiers assaulted his position with blade and bullet, but each time they found the defense could not be broken. Sheridan and his men fought with the bravery and determination of those who know that to retreat is to fail utterly.
As the morning wore on Bragg's army's efforts became concentrated on Sheridan and his ferocious resistance at the center of the Union right. The trunks of the Cedar trees were scarred by bullets, and the ground below them was red with blood. The Confederate dead were piled up at every point where the assault had been hottest, but still, Sheridan did not give up his position.
As the Confederate attack on Sheridan intensified, the attack on the rest of the Union right waned, and the reinforcements, chivvied on by Rosecrans himself, 
were able to reach their goal and strengthen the position held by those troops who had been forced back in the initial assault.
A little after 11 AM Sheridan's ammunition was running out, and he had no choice but to give the order to withdraw. He left more than a third of his men dead among the Cedar trees, but his actions had allowed the reinforcements to arrive, and when he reached the main body of the army he found a great mass of men and artillery assembled with their backs to the road.
The Confederate troops were now advancing into the teeth of massed volleys of cannon fire, and the regrouped Union forces were now able to hold their position against the enemy advance.
On the left flank of Rosecrans' army, a similar story was taking place. Confederate Lt. Gen. William Hazen, a tough, battle-hardened veteran, held the center of his line steady while the rest of the army around him was driven back. Behind him, supporting fire from an artillery division helped his cause, but it was the hand to hand combat which saved the day for the Union army.
Again and again, Confederate assaults were repulsed, and it slowly became apparent to the attackers that Hazen's brigade would fight to the last man. Without this resolute defense, the battle on the Union right would have been outflanked by Bragg's troops, and all would have been over.
Instead, as late afternoon bled into the evening, the Confederate forces withdrew. Both sides had suffered horrific casualties, numbering many thousands, but the Union troops now held a strong position from which it would be hard to shake them.
The next day was New Years, January 1st, 1863, and all was relatively quiet. After the horror and ferocious fighting of the previous day, both armies tended to the wounded and gathered up their dead. Great long wagon trains carried these unfortunate souls away north from the Union line, protected by units of cavalry.
The movement of troops was so large that Bragg's scouts reported to him, mistakenly, that Rosecrans' army was retreating, so Bragg did not attack again. He thought he had gained a victory, but by the late afternoon of the next day he was aware of his mistake and ordered the assault to begin again.
The Union troops had regrouped and redeployed. The main strength of their artillery had been arrayed facing the approach to the river, while a great body of infantry had crossed and now occupied a hill on the other side.
The Confederate attack was hard and determined, and the Union troops were forced back across the ford, but the Confederate troops now found themselves advancing straight toward forty-five field guns, which laid down a relentless curtain of shot among them. After only an hour they had lost almost two thousand men, and they withdrew as they saw groups of Union infantry and Cavalry massing for the counter-attack.
Devastated, Bragg's army began their retreat on January 3rd, and Rosecrans did not pursue him. He crossed the river and occupied the town of Murfreesboro, where he began the long process of resting and rebuilding his army, and of reinforcing the town.
The American Civil war raged on for more than a year, and many more battles were fought. Few, however, were as costly as the battle fought at Stones River that New Year. More than twenty-four thousand men died there over a three-day period, in one of the bloodiest battles in this long and violent period in American history.
In her introduction, the author describes how rapidly the physician-patient relationship has changed since she became a doctor thirty-years ago. She blames it on today's corporate hospital systems, health insurance companies, and the federal government interested in the costs of healthcare. She also notes how numerous doctors are leaving the healthcare profession because of an intense dissatisfaction with their present-day medical practices.
For the rest of this beautifully written, compassionate book, she writes how her patients bring their pain, their problems, and their heartaches but also how they share their joys, successes, life lessons, and insights.
Camosy wrote that within the patient-physician relationship, energy and motions flow in both directions. She writes of the parents who lost their baby to sudden infant death syndrome, yet still had enough room in their hearts to help her in her feelings of inadequacy; of a military veterans who helped her feel closer to her father after his death telling her details about Vietnam her dad never discussed; of a patient who came to the clinic for high blood pressure and returned later with homemade baked goods to brighten her hectic day. Two stories from this wonderful book stood out for me.
Early in her career as a Navy physician, the author cared for active duty members and their families as well as veterans. One of her patients was a seventy-nine-year-old veteran named Grumwald who was in for a follow-up on his hypertension and diabetes. He had served in France during World War II. During the checkup, the conversation comes around to his stress level from the war. With that, he said, "I think about it a lot. We were in a foxhole together when my friend Nate took an incoming round straight on." Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to recount the incident. "It should have been me. Nate had a wife and a new baby at home. I had no one." He then looked at his wife for comfort, nodded and allowed her to continue the story for him. "He still has nightmares about it. He relives in his dreams, thrashed about in bed, and then wakes up in a sweat." It was apparent that Grunwald had PTSD. Following the exam, he agreed to see a counselor and to take medication.
From this experience, Camosy was filled with a sense of gratitude that he had chosen to share the painful, well-guarded episode of his life with her.
Another patient, Adriana, was married to a Navy sailor serving overseas on an unaccompanied tour. She was pregnant and at every visit to the clinic, she pleaded to Camosy to please get her husband home. Unfortunately, a pregnancy is not a reason to end an overseas tour and bring the father-to-be home.
Early in her pregnancy, Adriana learned Camosy was a crafter. When she completed making a Raggedy Ann doll, she brought it in on her next appointment. The doll was colorful, smiling and lovely, about the size of a real baby.
One day Adriana called the clinic that she had not felt her baby moving all morning. She was told to come immediately to the obstetrics ward. When Camosy cannot find the baby's heartbeat, Adriana is sent to Radiology for a formal ultrasound. There is no cardiac activity and it appears the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby's neck. The baby was dead.
With the guidance of the obstetrician on duty and with heaviness in the hearts of all present, the pale limp baby comes out. When asked if she wants to see the baby Adriana she says yes. Camosy gives the little angel boy to his mother to hold. "Hello, my Jason," Adriana murmurs. Everyone in the room had tears in their eyes as they witnessed this precious life taken far too soon.
Adriana and her husband Robert are reunited a few days later. Adriana's handmade Raggedy Ann doll is now a symbol of their broken hearts, so they gave it to Camosy.
To be sure, some of the events are sad, some uplifting, some ordinary. You will relate to the patients whose paths crossed hers. You will gain an enhanced understanding of the process of developing therapeutic relationships.
This beautifully, heartwarming book written book by an excellent storyteller should be in every library in their home.
Reader's Reviews
I laughed and cried and felt reaffirmed in my approach to practicing medicine. Healer's Heart is an inspirational companion for those who aspire to heal the whole person in their full humanity, a journal of gratitude for the privilege of being a family physician.
~Carlos Roberto Jaen, M.D.
A healing shot in the arm, this book is a must for anyone who needs a boost of joy, is in or considers any career in medicine. Healer's Heart is an inside look at the life and personalities of patients and their very dedicated doctor. It made me smile, cry, laugh, reflect and above all energizes me to work just like Dr. Camosy to improve the life of every person I encounter.
~Connie
Healers Heart is a most pleasant read. It is reassuring and refreshing to find an individual reflecting such joy in every aspect of her profession. The stories are entirely relatable to all of our lives. And Dr. Camosy shows all of us how to respond and interact with compassion. I was sharing my enthusiasm for the book while getting my hair cut and my hairdresser stopped and ordered a copy right then and there!
~Geralyn LaPorte
Wonderfully enjoyable and heartwarming. Dr. Camosy illustrates how important compassion and caring are to the healing process. Good information for anyone who has ever been a caregiver or a patient. Healer's Heart contains many examples of the art and heart of medicine.
~Peggy Colby
About the AuthorPamela Camosy is a practicing family physician and writer in San Antonio, Texas.
After growing up in a military family and traveling the world, she attended the University of Texas at Austin, where she received a B.A. in biology in 1976. She completed medical school at the University of Texas Health Science Center at San Antonio (UTHSCSA) in1980 as a U. S. Navy scholarship student. She spent eight years as active duty Naval physician from 1980 to 1988 and has been in civilian practice since then. In 1993, she and her family returned to San Antonio.
In addition to her medical practice, she has served since 2004 as an adjunct Assistant Professor in the Department of Family and Community Medicine at UTHSCSA. In this role, she teaches medical students in her office, in lectures and grand rounds, in free clinics, and at health fairs. Her passion is remaining joyful and creative in her profession and encouraging everyone she meets to do the same.
She has been a writer of poetry, prose, plays, and music since childhood. As an adult, she has published scholarly articles in "American Family Physician" and "The Journal of Family Practice" and serves as manuscript reviewer for these journals. In the 1980s, she wrote a regular bioethics column for "The New Catholic Miscellany," South Carolina's official Catholic newspaper. In 2014, she felt called to return to creative writing pursuits and has since had poetry and prose published in literary journals. She recently completed "Healer's Heart: A Family Physician's Stories of the Heart and Art of Medicine," a book that focuses on the healing power of the physician-patient relationship.