Alumni Sandstorm ~ 01/5/18
5 Bombers sent stuff: 
Mike CLOWES ('54), Larry MATTINGLY ('60)
Joe FORD ('63), Shirley COLLINGS ('66)
Lynn-Marie HATCHER ('68)

WEEKLY BOMBER LUNCH: Mostly '52ers, Noon, Sterling's Queensgate 

BOMBER CALENDAR: Richland Bombers Calendar
    Click the event you want to know more about.
>>From: Bob Carlson, aka Mike CLOWES ('54)

Ah, life after the holydays. The decorations are being put
away; the tree is down and life continues.

First, my condolences to a "junior" member of this hearty
band. He found out the hard way that it is not wise to feed
birds on frozen driveways. I do hope that he has found some
form of medical assistance concerning his injuries. Just
remember, Terry ('65), that if they have to do joint
replacement; the grease "zerks" are placed where one can get
at them and won't snag on clothing or skin. Perhaps The
Tooter ('65) is flying to your rescue as we speak.

Now for the important part. You guessed it. There is a Bomber
of my generation celebrating a birthday today. Kinda think he
may have been out of the running for 1st Baby of the Year
honors way back then. And, probably, didn't even make the
front page. He should have.

So, a tip of the ol' propeller beanie and a "Happy Birthday!"
to fellow classmate Roger McCLELLAN ('54). Just don't try to
paint the "Duke" city red in celebration.

-Bob Carlson, aka Mike CLOWES ('54) ~ Mount Angel, OR where
	anticipation begins for Wurstfest (the second weekend 
	in February).
>>From: Larry MATTINGLY ('60) 

The large caliber shell (10-in)was photographed at just over
a mile across the harbor.

Photo credit: Justin Creswell

Justin runs the front desk ?at the Grand Aleutian Hotel.

-J. Larry MATTINGLY ('60)
[What a cool picture... worth the wait, Larry.  -Maren]
>>From: Joe FORD ('63)

David Rivers' stream-of-consciousness narrative of January 3
took me back 49 years, and left me standing in the bathroom
yesterday morning, looking at myself weeping in the mirror as
his mention of the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and 122 rocket
came home. The piece of the 122 that wounded me in February,
1969 was jagged and ugly, etched with Cyrillic characters,
and torn into shrapnel by the rocket's explosive charge. The
metal fragment arrived along with the roar of an explosion,
through the front of my plywood hut, high enough to clear the
blast wall outside, and ricocheted off interior walls.

Outside my hut (hootch in Vietnam), dozens of men were
wounded by the rocket and mortar rounds that caught guys in
the open, headed to the mess hall at 7:00 AM. As the medic,
my job started as soon as I emerged from the protective
bunker I dived into after being lightly wounded. The walking
wounded found me, and thereby triaged themselves into those
who did not need immediate attention. Who needed immediate
attention was Philips, the occupant of the hootch 30 feet
from mine that took a direct hit from the 122. It detonated
about 8 feet above Philips, a night-duty sentry, who was
lying in his bunk. He had many shrapnel wounds.

Philips was alive, but only for a little while would he last
without doctors and a hospital. He was very badly wounded,
losing blood and in terrible pain. The scene was surreal, a
hut torn in two and a man splattered with red and white
blobs. A can of shaving cream had also taken a hit.

Men began carrying the non-walking wounded toward my hootch,
and there were about 10 in addition to Philips who would
need hospital care. An E-7 (long-time enlisted man/sergeant,
and a good one) asked me if we needed a dustoff, an air
ambulance, and I said yes. He sprinted around the back of my
hootch to the commo shack to radio for help, and when he
returned, told me our commanding officer, a captain, had
denied the helicopter ambulance request.

We commandeered a truck, and loaded it with the litters
carrying the worst off and started toward the 91st Evac
Hospital in Chu Lai, a 30 minute drive. The back of the 
truck was strangely silent. Philips drifted in and out of
consciousness as I tried to stop his bleeding from the many
wounds. His breathing was shallow, and pulse light and
erratic. He was slipping away as shock set in.

At the 91st, we turned the truck's occupants over to the 
ER staff, some of whom were familiar from my stint there
unloading wounded from helicopters, and returned to our
compound. I picked bits of shrapnel from some guys for a
couple of weeks, as the small surface wounds festered.

The captain, a West Point man, unceremoniously disappeared in
4 or 5 days, replaced by a "mustang," an up-through-the-ranks
officer. Philips lasted long enough to be sent to Japan, on
his way home. I assume he lived. The First Sergeant thanked
me. Army Engineers arrived and removed the remnant hootch. A
week later, my fiancÚ sent me a Dear Joe letter. Late
February still makes me blue.

-Joe FORD ('63)
>>From: Shirley COLLINGS Haskins ('66)

Re: Larry Eyre (NAB-RIP)

With deep sadness I am sharing the news that Larry Eyre, 
husband of Joan BELLISTON Eyre ('66), passed away on January 1. 

 Larry's obit.

Rest in peace, Larry.

Prayers of comfort and healing for Joan.

-Shirley COLLINGS Haskins ('66) ~ Richland  
>>From: Lynn-Marie HATCHER Peashka ('68)

Re: Terry DAVIS ('65) - "THE FALL"

Oh my gosh, Terry, your fall sounded dreadful! But the way
you wrote it up made me chuckle. (Sorry)

So are you broken, or just bruised & battered, or ??????

I hope you recover quickly. For your sake, of course. But
also those birds are going to finish off that bag of seeds in
a hurry - & will pecking on your windows to get out there
with some more!

In my prayers,
-Lynn-Marie HATCHER Peashka ('68)
That's it for today. Please send more.