MWSAPCA Finalist 5 - The Rush of Butterflies -- Bonnie Bartel Latino

Inspiration Image — Untitled sketch by Bob Larkin

Chief Warrant Officer2 Jerry Pruet loved America and the U.S. Army as if they were his blood relatives. Alone in his parked UH-1H “Huey” helicopter, he was a long way from the comfort and safety of family or country. He peered through the windscreen. Fog clouded his view as the sound of a northbound F-105 “Thud” reverberated overhead. Not far away, somewhere in this godforsaken Quang Tri River Valley, six exhausted Rangers had been on the run all night. Radio reports painted a bleak picture. The North Vietnamese Army surrounded their long-range reconnaissance patrol.
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
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MWSAPCA Finalist 4 - Iwo Jima, August 14, 1945 by Jerry Yellin

Inspiration Image—IWO photo by Richard Lowry

Iwo Jima, August 14, 1945
My memories of August 14, 1945 are very clear. I flew P-51’s from Iwo Jima over Japan during WWII as a 21-year old Captain and Flight leader. On August 6, I returned from a mission when LT. Phil Maher jumped on my wing and shouted, “We dropped one bomb and wiped out a city, it’s over!”
There was a sense of relief in the entire squadron. No more 8-hour missions. No more guys being killed. We had survived. Our motto “Back Alive in 45,” seemed to have been fulfilled.
But it wasn’t to be.
A notice was posted in the ready room on August 13, with our assignments for the next day’s mission for all to read. The briefing would start at 1600 hours.
Major Jim Tapp, squadron commander stood in front of the map of Japan and started to talk, “Why another mission?” was called out from the gathering of pilots. Tapp responded,” We have to keep them honest. We will take off at 0800 but I doubt we will reach the target before the war is called off. If you hear the code word ‘Ohio,’ we will abort the mission and return to ‘Hotrocks’ (the code name of Iwo Jima).”
I was scheduled to lead Blue flight. Phil Schlamberg, a 19-year old pilot from Brooklyn, NY, was my wingman. Schlamberg, sitting next to me, leaned over, and said, “Captain, if I go, I won’t come back.”
Startled, I said, “Why?”
“Just a feeling I have,” Phil responded.
When the briefing ended, I approached Tapp and told him what Schlamberg told me and asked if there was a replacement.
“There isn’t anyone to take his place, Jerry. Doc Lewis can get him off if there is a medical reason and Schlamberg agrees,” Tapp replied.
When I asked Phil, he said, “No way.”
On the morning of the mission, I told Phil, “Just stay close on my wing, tuck it in tight, you will be OK. We will probably abort before we reach the target.”
No one heard the code word before we dropped our wing tanks and started strafing airfields near Tokyo. Phil was tight on my wing while we strafed our targets and on my wing when we started back toward the B-29 navigation plane. I looked over gave him a thumbs up and led the flight into some clouds. When we emerged into clear skies, Phil was gone, no radio transmission, no visual contact, just gone.
When we landed back at Iwo, we learned that the war had been over for three hours while we were over Japan.
In my mind Phil Schlamberg was the last man killed on a fighter mission over Japan and may very well have been the last man killed in combat in a war that took the lives of 60 million people.
Jerry Yellin Vero Beach, FL
POSTSCRIPT
I knew 16 young men who were killed during the war. I hated the Japanese all of my adult life. Then I attended a wedding in Japan on March 6, 1988, between the daughter of a Japanese Imperial Air Force veteran and my youngest son, Robert. This wedding between children of former enemies made me rethink, not only of my life as a warrior, but the lives of all of us who served in combat. Today I have three grandchildren living in Japan, aged 19, 17 and 13. They love me, I love them. I can’t help feeling that all of Humanity is the same, that the pure purpose of war is to kill and the pure purpose of life is to connect to all of Nature. It is up to the young people of our World to find a way to eliminate War and find a way to live in Unity with all of Humanity, in Harmony with Nature and find Peace for our Planet.

http://www.youtube.com/user/jerryellin

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MWSA PCA Finalist 3 -- Freedom isn't Free -- J.R. Jellerson

I took inspiration from all four photos and tried to acknowledge each within the lyrics, since each photo speaks volumes of sacrifice and memories…

Vs. 1
It was Friday morning…the rain was fallin' down
Another true life hero…was headed for hallowed ground
Wrapped up in Old Glory…as the cart moved along
The Old Guard marched in cadence…an honored soldier's song
I can still recall what my…Grand-father said to me
Son when you grow to be a man…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 2
In his home hung pictures…a lifetime on the wall
Ninety years of memories…shadows walkin' down his hall
Once told me his fav-rit'…of him a younger man
On a hill high above the sea…with a rifle in his hand
In front of a flag they just raised…so those around could see
He told me too his proudest day…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 3
A photo caught my eye…by the den down the hall
It was hangin' down crooked…like it was going to fall
An old tin photograph…a young son in his father's arms
It didn't matter what color…was on his father's arm
The date down in the corner…was written 1863
A line there too was faded, still I could see…simply said
Freedom isn't free.
Instrumental:
Bridge:
Thru the years n' thru the wars…our family has fought and died
Thru all the generations…who have stood half mast and cried
We have watched the flags burning bright…when retired to another time
Just now I remember…my world torn apart in sixty-nine
Holdin' my brother's little girl's hand…as they brought her daddy home
Her mother too died in Vietnam…how she felt so lost and alone
And when I left to fight that war…
She smiled and said to me…
Uncle John, please come back …remember
Freedom isn't free.

MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/JRJellerson-Freedomisntfree.mp3
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MWSA Finalist 2 -- Six Bronze Men -- Jack L. Wells

Inspiration Image — IWO photo by Richard Lowery

Straining to lift a heavy water pipe and place it and its five by eight flag at noon on a windy mountain top on a remote island. So why should such a statue even exist, let alone inspire?
These young men weren’t special. Just following orders and executing a task assigned as one of the multitude of tasks they would perform that February day. They were a hodge podge of youth from Ohio, New Hampshire, Texas, Pennsylvania or Wisconsin or even a native American from Arizona. One wasn’t even a native born American. His father and he had emigrated from Slovakia and he had only become naturalized 9 years earlier. Most were under 20. None had been to college. One wasn’t even assigned to do the task, he just pitched in when asked because the pipe was heavy and he happened to be close by. They were tired, dirty and looking forward to catching lunch soon. With names like Strenk, Sousley, Bradley, Gagnon, Block or Hayes, they weren’t famous or even in charge: just men doing their jobs in the cold wind.
Some guy with a camera wandered by and took a quick snapshot as the job was being completed. Just one black and white picture of the many he took that day that even he wouldn’t know was special until days later when the film was developed.
And their effort wasn’t even the first flag pole to be raised on the mountain, it was just a replacement for a smaller one placed a couple of hours before. It wasn’t a victory yet; not even close. It was just the beginning of what would take three more excruciating weeks. So their work that day was of small consequence. Not a big deal.
Half of the men lifting the pipe would be dead in a month. The other half would live longer but with emotional problems. One would die in less than 10 years. And two would live 30 or more years. All three would be reluctant to talk about that day or the weeks that followed.
Then why would someone make a statue of these men from that black and white photo and place it in a location of honor?
Because of what they represented: They were the sons, brothers, husbands, and best friends of America. The average guys that had gone off to fight and die for their country against the worst challenge America had faced since the Civil War. And the picture of the six of them became a symbol of sacrifice, determination and victory.
They were five US Marines and one US Navy corpsman atop Mount Suribachi on the Island of Iwo Jima. It was February 23, 1945.
And the bronze statue of them raising that flag stands proudly today by our nation’s capital reminding service men and women and a nation that bravery and heroism is usually just average Joes and Janes doing their jobs under difficult circumstances. It reminds us of the strength of our diverse nation. It reminds us that by working together we can remain free.
Six bronze men. Who would have thought they could mean so much?

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MWSA Peoples Choice Finalist 1 -- Calling by Mindy Phillips Lawrence

Inspiration Image -- “Father and Son” photo by Pat Avery

The re-enactment was the start of it. I, a small boy cradled in my father’s arms, had run my last lap around the battlefield where I’d sought out soldiers wearing Civil War uniforms and carrying vintage rifles. I was a small lad unaware of the greater significance of war and battle. It was a game to me then. Yet, when I was snuggled against my father’s chest, cheek resting on his gray woolen jacket, I knew I was protected from a dangerous, unknown world.
I had fun that day. While my father spoke with other soldiers, I held my mother’s hand and looked at the sites until she released her hold on me to look at the items in a craft tent. Then I wandered away. Fascinated by the tents set up by the soldiers, I entered one and sat. There, a soldier dressed in a color other than the color my father wore, showed me all the things he had there – his uniform, his cot, his gun. He talked to me about many things I was too young to remember and some I recall to this day. He told me that the soldiers in the Civil War didn’t want to be far from home but felt they had a purpose that was greater than sitting at their own hearth. They had gathered to decide the fate of a nation.
Soon a mounted soldier rode his horse to the tent where I was staying and found me. He told me my mother and father were worried and that I should come with him. He placed me on the horse, hugged me against him and rode to where my mother was waiting. “Where was he?” she asked. All the mounted soldier told her was, “Talking to another soldier, ma’am.”
I watched my father in battle. The cannon shook the ground with their sounding and kicked out great plumes of smoke from their barrels. The guns popped. One soldier fell to the ground then several more. A mounted soldier broke through the line and, followed by a foot soldier who took aim at him, dropped from his horse. At the end, they all got up from the ground and went home with their families, just as I went home with mine.
Even though I was very young, I remember that day as the planting of seeds inside me -- seeds like the fact that soldiers protect, that they fight for a cause and care enough for their families to leave them long enough to keep them safe.
I wear a uniform now because of the lessons I learned on the day I visited Gettysburg.

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