Historie Podcasts

Kampen om Segorbe, 30. september 1811

Kampen om Segorbe, 30. september 1811


We are searching data for your request:

Forums and discussions:
Manuals and reference books:
Data from registers:
Wait the end of the search in all databases.
Upon completion, a link will appear to access the found materials.

Kampen om Segorbe, 30. september 1811

Kampen ved Segorbe den 30. september 1811 var en mindre fransk sejr under belejringen af ​​Saguntum. Efter at den franske hær under marskalk Suchet havde indtaget en position omkring Seguntum, havde general Joachim Blake, chefen for den spanske hær i Valencia, besluttet at sende to små afdelinger ud af sine forsvarslinjer rundt om byen Valencia i et forsøg på at tvinge franskmændene til at opgive deres fremadrettede position. Den første løsrivelse, Obispos division, blev sendt til Segorbe, godt femten kilometer nordvest for Seguntum, mens den anden under Charles O’Donnell blev udstationeret på Beneguacil, vest for Saguntum. Disse afdelinger skar virkelig Suchets kommunikationslinjer ind i Aragonien, men havde ingen indflydelse på hans vigtigere forbindelser langs kysten.

I stedet for at trække sig tilbage reagerede Suchet ved at angribe de to spanske afdelinger. Obispo var den første til at blive angrebet. Den 30. september sendte Suchet Palombinis italienske infanteridivision og Roberts franske brigade til at angribe Obispos hovedkvarter i Segorbe. Spanierne forsøgte at kæmpe uden for byen, men blev hurtigt tvunget til at trække sig tilbage i de nærliggende bjerge. Efter at Palombini vendte tilbage til den franske hovedlejr, ledede Suchet selv angrebet på den anden spanske position og tvang O’Donnell til at opgive Beneguacil den 2. oktober.

Napoleons hjemmeside | Bøger om Napoleonskrigene | Emneindeks: Napoleonskrige

Gem denne side: Lækker Facebook StumbleUpon


Kaptajn Philip Browne (eller Brauer) bestilt Hermes i juli 1811. [1] Under Browne, Hermes fangede først et amerikansk fartøj ladet med butikker til Brest -flåden og derefter to skibe fra New York og Baltimore. [2] Den 24. september 1811, mens den var nær Cape La Hève (Le Havre), Hermes generobrede den preussiske brig Anna Maria som havde været på vej til London fra Lissabon. Det lykkedes en privatist at flygte på grund af den franske kysts nærhed. [3] [4]

Da dagen fortsatte, kørte stærke vinde Hermes fra stationen, da nær Beachy Head Browne opdagede en stor fransk lugger, der opererede som privatist midt i en række engelske fartøjer. [4] Privatpersonen havde allerede taget en præmie og kunne have taget andre havde Hermes ikke ankommet. Efter en jagt på to timer, hvor luggeren pådrog sig en vis skade og havde flere mænd såret, slog privaten til Hermes. [4] Som Hermes bremset, den stærke vind brød hendes hoved-sejl-værft i slyngerne og hendes forsejl splittede. Privateren forsøgte straks at flygte på den modsatte vej. Hermes formåede at vende og ved at stramme på alt sejl indhentede privatisten, selvom hun havde fået en føring på to kilometer. [4] Browne besluttede at løbe ved siden af, på trods af kuling for at forhindre det franske fartøj i at flygte igen. Desværre, da luggeren krydsede Hermes 's hawse et tungt hav forårsaget Hermes at køre over luggeren og synke hende. Hermes var ude af stand til at affyre nogen både og kunne derfor kun redde 12 ud af luggerens 51 mand. [4] (Yderligere 10 mand havde været ombord på luggerpræmien, som var flygtet til Frankrig under jagten og tog præmiens besætning med.) Det viste sig at være luggeren Mouche af Boulogne, under kommando af M. Gageux. Hun havde båret fjorten 12-punds og 6-punds kanoner. [3] [4] [5] [6]

Den 11. februar 1812 Hermes fangede den amerikanske brig Flora. [7] Så den 26. april Hermes fangede den amerikanske brig Tigress. [8]

Fire dage senere, Hermes og Belle Poule fanget det amerikanske brev af marque -skonnert Sigøjner (eller Gipsey). Hun var på vej fra New York City til Bordeaux med en last til en værdi af 50.000 pund, da de britiske fartøjer fangede hende midt i Atlanterhavet efter en tre dages jagt. [9] Gipsey overgav sig to gange til Hermes og to gange slap igen før Belle Poule fanget hende. Gipsey var på 300 tons (bm) og var bevæbnet med tolv 18-punders karronader og en 18-punders pistol på et drejebeslag.

Sidst på efteråret 1812, Hermes sejlede ud for Azorerne i selskab med 74-kanons tredje sats Elefant, under kommando af Francis Austen, bror til den anerkendte romanforfatter Jane Austen, sammen med 36-kanons femtrangs fregat Phoebe. [10] Den 27. december Elefant og Hermes fangede den amerikanske privatskonnert Sværdfisk af Gloucester, John Evans, Master, og hendes besætning på 82 mand. [11] Under den 11-timers jagt, der dækkede mere end 100 miles, Sværdfisk havde kastet overbord ti af hendes seksten 6-punds kanoner. Sværdfisk var 16 dage ude af Boston, men havde ikke fanget noget. [11] [a]

I april 1814 foretog kaptajn æren. William Percy overtog kommandoen Hermes. [1] Den 5. august sejlede han hende, med Carron medfølgende, fra Havana. De ankom til mundingen af ​​Apalachicola -floden otte dage senere.

I september 1814 førte Percy hende i et mislykket angreb på Fort Bowyer. Louisiana State Museum har et kort over slaget. [13]

Angrebet fandt sted den 15. september omkring klokken 16.30. To af de fire britiske fartøjer kunne ikke komme tæt nok på at skyde. [14] Fortet var stærkere bevæbnet end forventet, den britiske brand var ineffektiv, og et parallelt terrænangreb mislykkedes. Da hun endvidere forsøgte at trække sig tilbage, Hermes jordet under fortets kanoner. [14] Percy evakuerede sit mandskab på både fra Sophie og derefter sætte ild til Hermes, der blæste op, efter at branden nåede hendes magasin omkring kl. I alt, Hermes havde mistet 17 dræbte i aktion, fem dødeligt sårede og 19 sårede. (Den medicinske journal for Hermes har overlevet. [15])

Den 18. januar 1815 stod Percy over for en krigsret om bord Cydnus, ud for Cat Island på Mississippis kyst. Retten frikendte ham for al skyld og fandt, at omstændighederne berettigede angrebet, og at alle involverede havde opført sig med stor galanti. [16]


Angels of the Battlefield: Sygeplejersker i Vietnam

En soldat såret under en kamp med Viet Cong i det centrale højland bliver behandlet af en sygeplejerske på et hærhospital på den sydvietnamesiske kyst i februar 1965.

Jimmy Morrison
Februar 2021

Sygeplejerskerne i Vietnam var blandt de mest heroiske amerikanere der. De bragte store ofre, men har ikke modtaget den anerkendelse og respekt, de fortjener.

Mange sygeplejersker, normalt kvinder i begyndelsen af ​​20'erne, meldte sig frivilligt til at tjene i Vietnam, fordi de ville hen, hvor de troede, at de kunne opnå det bedste, selvom de var på vej ind i en krig, der var upopulær i store dele af landet.

Jimmy Morrison, der kæmpede i et af de farligste områder i Vietnam

Mange andre var imidlertid som Susan O'Neill, der blev vildledt af militære rekrutterere. Mens hun var på sygeplejerskeskolen, fik hun at vide, at hvis hun blev hvervet, ville militæret give penge, som hun kunne bruge til at betale for sit sidste skoleår. Da O'Neill, der var imod krigen, spurgte om Vietnam, fortalte rekruttereren hende ikke at bekymre sig om Vietnam, fordi der var en lang række sygeplejersker, der ventede på at tage derhen. Det var ikke tilfældet. Det ene minut protesterede O'Neill mod krigen, det næste minut var hun midt i den. O'Neill brugte sine oplevelser som grundlag for en samling korte fiktionshistorier, Don't Mean Nothing, udgivet i 2001.

Jeg blev udarbejdet som 19-årig og tjente i Vietnam fra september 1969 til september 1970 med kompagni C, 1. bataljon, 46. infanteriregiment, 196.-198. lette infanteribrigade, 23. infanteridivision (Americal). I det meste af min tur var jeg en assistent M60 maskingevær eller skytte. I løbet af mine sidste 30 dage blev jeg forfremmet til sergent, hvilket gjorde mig til en gruppeleder. Jeg gik regelmæssigt point for truppen. Min enhed var i et af krigens hårdere områder - det centrale højland, nær Laos.

Den amerikanske division var baseret på Chu Lai på den nordlige kyst i Sydvietnam. Der var et stort hospital ved basen, og mange af vores mænd endte i det, selvom jeg var så heldig ikke at være en af ​​dem.

Sygeplejersker der arbejdede 12-timers vagter i seks dage om ugen. På deres fridage vendte de tilbage til hospitalet for at holde hænderne på døende mænd og trøste dem så godt de kunne. En sygeplejerske sagde, at en alvorligt såret soldat bad hende ringe til sin mor. Hun gjorde og hørte et skrig i den anden ende af linjen. Hæren havde tilsyneladende allerede misinformeret kvinden om, at hendes søn var død af sine sår.

Nogle gange ankom 60 sårede eller døde samtidigt, og omkring 15 sygeplejersker og læger på vagt måtte hurtigt træffe beslutninger om, hvilke af de sårede de kunne redde, og hvilke de ikke kunne. O'Neill sagde, at hun engang så omkring 30 mænd alvorligt forbrændt af et helikopterstyrt og indså med rædsel, at alle ville dø af dødelige kvæstelser. En helikopter blev skudt ned på vores side af Firebase Landing Zone Judy den morgen, jeg forlod hjemmet, og 30 mænd døde også den dag. En anden sygeplejerske sagde, at hun i løbet af sine første dage på hospitalet skulle åbne omkring 20 kropsposer og skrive dødsårsagen på etiketterne.

Sygeplejersker så generelt mange flere lig, end infanteritropper gjorde. Efter en kamp flyttede vi sårede og døde fra feltet og over på en helikopter. Nogle gange, da medevac -politimanden tog fart på at bære en soldat med et mindre sår, ønskede du, at det var dig. Selvom de fleste dage var elendige for infanteriet, oplevede vi ikke tab hver dag. Sygeplejerskerne måtte møde smerter og død dag efter dag.


En sygeplejerske på et Saigon -hospital lytter til en patient, der blev ramt af malaria i 1967. / Getty Images

Selvom de fleste infanteri fyre værdsat og respekteret sygeplejerskerne, ikke alle viste de gode engle den samme respekt. Nogle sygeplejersker blev chikaneret af læger og andre medlemmer af militæret.

Ved siden af ​​professionelle sygeplejersker på hospitalerne var der en gruppe unge frivillige fra Røde Kors, der havde arvet navnet "Donut Dollies" fra kvinder fra Anden Verdenskrig, der gav kaffe og donuts til tropperne. I Vietnam besøgte de med sårede på hospitaler og forsøgte at trøste dem.

Donut Dollies rejste også til yderbaser og landingszoner for at tale med GI'erne der og spille spil, de havde medbragt. Vores gruppe var så langt ude, at Donut Dollies kun kom til ildstedet, der var tættest på Chu Lai, Landing Zone Professional, en gang. Det var en velsignelse at se dem.

Sygeplejersker i Vietnam udførte opgaver, som kun læger ville udføre andre steder. Da disse sygeplejersker vendte tilbage til USA, fandt mange ofte ud af, at deres store medicinske erfaring opnået i Vietnam ikke havde nogen værdi. Da de gik på arbejde på civile hospitaler, var de begrænset til mere begrænsede roller. Værre var, at nogle kolleger, der var imod krigen, så ned på dem.

En sygeplejerske fortalte mig det at selvom hun ville forlade Vietnam og vende tilbage til staterne, følte hun sig skyldig i at efterlade de sårede mænd og andre sygeplejersker og læger. Jeg havde det på samme måde som jeg forlod mine medfødte infanterister, da min tur i Vietnam var slut. Den samme sygeplejerske sagde, at da hun kom til staterne, boede hun i lufthavnen i mange dage og frygtede at gå hjem. Hun sagde, at hendes venner i Amerika var bekymrede for mindre ting som noget, deres kæreste sagde, eller hvad lommebog de skulle købe, eller hvad de skulle have på. Efter alt hvad hun havde set i Vietnam, virkede disse bekymringer så trivielle for hende.

Disse sygeplejersker havde gennemgået meget mere i Vietnam, end nogen, der ikke havde været der, kunne forstå. Det så ud til, at få mennesker var ligeglade. Tilbagevendende sygeplejersker blev til tider behandlet lige så dårligt som de tropper, der kom tilbage fra Vietnam. Alligevel havde sygeplejerskerne gjort en enorm forskel i så mange unge GI’ers liv. Dette er en historie, jeg havde brug for at fortælle, og jeg er kun 50 år for sent. V

Jimmy Morrison og hans bror grundlagde Morrison Motor Co., en sælger af samlerbiler, i 1970 i Concord, North Carolina.

For flere historier fra Vietnam blad, tilmeld dig her og besøg os på Facebook:


Lærer og fritænker

Hidalgo blev ordineret til præst i 1778 og vendte tilbage til Colegio de San Nicol ás for at undervise i filosofi, latinsk grammatik og teologi og til sidst tiltrådte skolekasserer, sekretær og prorektor.

På trods af sine løfter til kirken var far Hidalgo ikke interesseret i at følge den accepterede vej fra en mexicansk katolsk præst fra det 18. århundrede. Han støttede værker af europæiske oplysningstænkere, socialiserede frit, erhvervede ejendomme og efter sigende fik flere børn uden for ægteskab.

Hidalgo blev rektor i San Nicol ás i 1790, men hans fritidsaktiviteter tiltrak granskning af andre fakultetsmedlemmer, der anklagede ham for fejlstyring af midler, og han forlod skolen i 1792.


Mr. Stewart går i krig

Betjente ved den 703. bombe-eskadron, inklusive Jimmy Stewart (fremhævet i bageste række), står foran en konsolideret B-24-frigørelse.

Jimmy Stewart så tilbage på sin tjeneste som bombefly fra anden verdenskrig som en af ​​hans livs største oplevelser.

Hans farfar havde kæmpet mod Syden, og hans far mod Spanien og Tyskland, så det var rimeligt at antage, at James Maitland Stewart ville tjene i sin tur. I slutningen af ​​1930'erne var hans karriere bare ved at tage fart med hits som Du kan ikke tage det med dig, Smith tager til Washington og Destry Rides igen. Men da krigen så uundgåelig ud, satte Stewart blikket på en ny rolle, denne gang i US Army Air Corps. Han købte endda sit eget fly, en Stinson 105, til sidst tog han eksamen til flermotorede fly og tjente et erhvervspilotlicens, helt alene.

Stewarts udkast nummer var 310, men selvom han var 6 fod 3, vejede han kun 138 pund. Da hæren afslog ham som for tynd, begyndte han at spise spaghetti to gange om dagen, suppleret med bøffer og milkshakes. Ved en anden fysisk marts 1941 havde han stadig ikke fået nok vægt nok til at være berettiget, men han talte hærens læger til at tilføje en ounce eller to, så han kunne kvalificere sig, og løb derefter udenfor og råbte til skuespillerkollegaen Burgess Meredith: “Jeg jeg er med! Jeg er med!"

Natten før han tog af sted til træning, holdt MGM en afskedsfest for sin afrejsende stjerne. De fleste skuespillerinder, der var til stede den aften, kyssede ham farvel, og Rosalind Russell tørrede læbestiftet af med sit lommetørklæde og skrev hver piges navn på det. Stewart holdt hanky for held og lykke.

Den 22. marts 1941 blev Stewart optaget i hæren som et privat serienummer 0433210. Han blev sendt til Fort MacArthur, Californien, hvor kameramænd jagede ham og fulgte ham, selv da han fik sit undertøj. En gammel soldat vidnede om al den uønskede opmærksomhed og bemærkede sympatisk: "Din stakkels skurk." Stewarts løn faldt fra $ 12.000 om ugen til $ 21 pr. Måned, men han sendte pligtskyldigt en nedskæring på 10 procent ($ 2,10) til sin agent hver måned.

Stewart gennemgik grunduddannelse på Moffett Field, Californien, hvor en flok piger ventede lige uden for portene, ivrige efter at få et glimt af deres idol. Det blev så slemt, at hans kommandant lagde et skilt op, der bad civile om at lade Stewart være i fred, indtil han var færdig med sin uddannelse. Han blev bestilt den 18. januar 1942. I den følgende måned optrådte han i uniform ved Academy Awards, og han overrakte Oscar for bedste skuespiller til Gary Cooper for Sergent York (Stewart havde vundet det foregående år for Philadelphia -historien).


Korporal James M. Stewart blev bestilt som 2. løjtnant ved Moffett Field, Californien, den 19. januar 1942. (National Archives)

Selvom Stewart efterfølgende fortalte to træningsfilm, Medamerikanere og At vinde dine vinger, og lånte sin stjernekraft til et par radioprogrammer og krigsobligationer, generelt modstod han bestræbelserne på at udnytte sin karriere. I stedet bad han om mere flyvetid - og han fik snart sit ønske. Først blev han flyveinstruktør i Curtiss AT-9s i Mather Field, Californien. Derfra gik han til Kirkland Field, N.M., i seks måneders bombardierskole. I december 1942 anmodede han om overførsel til firemotorsskolen i Hobbs, N.M. Endelig rapporterede han til hovedkvarteret for det andet luftvåben i Salt Lake City.

Stadig på udkig efter mere end skrivebordstjeneste blev Stewart sendt til Gowen Field i Boise, Idaho, og den 29. bombardementsgruppe, hvor han blev flyveinstruktør på B-17 flyvende fæstninger. I løbet af denne tid blev hans værelseskammerat dræbt i en ulykke, og tre af hans praktikanter gik tabt i et andet uheld. En elev huskede, "Stewart var kendt for at være en af ​​de få betjente, der aldrig forlod lufthavnstårnet, før hvert eneste fly var vendt tilbage."

På en natflyvning med en studenterpilot forlod Stewart copilotsædet for at kontrollere udstyr i næsen og lade en ny navigator sidde på højre sæde. Pludselig er nej. 1 motor eksploderede, sendte stykker granat i cockpittet og bankede piloten meningsløs. Med motoren i brand og vind, der slog igennem vinduerne, frøs navigatoren ved betjeningselementerne. Stewart måtte trække ham ud af sædet, så han kunne overtage, ramme ildslukkerne og lande på tre motorer.

I marts 1943 blev Stewart kortvarigt operationsofficer for 703. Squadron, 445. Bomb Group, i Sioux City, Iowa. Han blev udnævnt til eskadrilleens chef tre uger senere.

Den 11. november førte kaptajn Stewart to dusin B-24H-befriere til England via Florida, Brasilien, Senegal og Marokko. De blev en del af 2. luftdivision, ottende luftvåben, stationeret i Tibenham. Inden for få timer efter deres ankomst tog Tysklands “Lord Haw-Haw ” imod eskadrillen i radioen. Efter et par shakedown-flyvninger var Stewarts første mission at bombe søværftene ved Kiel og flyve med en B-24, der var blevet navngivet Ni Yanks og en Jerk af et tidligere besætning.

Skuespilleren-vendte-kommandanten var en succesrig, populær officer. Hans værelseskammerat huskede dengang: ”Jeg har altid haft en fornemmelse af, at han aldrig ville bede dig om at gøre noget, han ikke selv ville gøre. Alt, hvad manden gjorde, syntes at gå som et urværk. ”

Stewart var også heldig. Under hans tredje mission, juleaften, blev hans gruppe beordret til at ramme V-1 opsendelsessteder i Bonnaires, Frankrig. Ved at komme lavt på 12.000 fod pudsede 35 B24'er målet nær kysten og vendte derefter tilbage til basen uden selv at blive målrettet af flak eller krigere. Hvis to af befrierne ikke var kollideret ved start, havde det været en perfekt mission.

Han tog sig også af sine mænd. Da Stewart fandt ud af, at økonomibetjenten ikke ville have penge nok til sit besætning i et par dage, truede han med at få ham overført til infanteriet, medmindre de blev betalt med det samme. Og da en af ​​hans besætninger skjulte en tønde stjålet øl i deres kaserne, kastede han sig ind, kastede dækslerne af og trak sig et glas og meddelte derefter, at der var et fad øl derude et sted, det var en meget alvorlig sag og det skal straks tages hånd om ... hvis de nogensinde fandt det. Derefter sluttede han sin øl og gik ud.

I januar 1944 blev Stewart forfremmet til major, en forfremmelse han havde nægtet, indtil, som han sagde, "mine juniorofficerer bliver forfremmet fra løjtnanter." På det tidspunkt havde han kommando over alle fire eskadriller i den 445. bombegruppe.

Den 7. januar, efter at han havde bombarderet Ludwigshafen, bemærkede Stewart, at hovedgruppen, den 389., var 30 grader uden for kursen og langsomt afveg fra den beskyttende ild i resten af ​​formation på vej tilbage til basen. Da han kendte bombeflyernes nye retning ville føre dem direkte over Luftwaffe -flyvepladser i Nordfrankrig, radioerede han hovedflyet og forklarede, at de var ude af kurs. Lederen svarede kort, at nej, det var de ikke, "og hold dig væk fra radioen."

Stewart stod over for en vanskelig beslutning. Han kunne blive med resten af ​​formation på den korrekte bane, eller han kunne følge sin vildfarne blyskvadron. En to-eskadron-formation ville være meget mere sårbar, men en enkelt eskadrille havde slet ikke den store chance. Han valgte at blive hos 389. og tilføje sine egne kanoners forsvarskraft til deres.

Sikker nok sværmede mere end 60 Luftwaffe -fly op fra baser nedenunder. Chefen for den 389. bombegruppe betalte dyrt for sin fejl: hans fly gik i flammer. Syv andre 389. B-24'ere blev også skudt ned, men Stewart var heldig igen, alle bombeflyene i hans eskadrille kom hjem. Som en medbetjent senere ville påpege, "Der var mange liv reddet den dag, fordi han vidste, hvad han lavede, og hvornår han skulle gøre det."


& quotNine Yanks og en Jerk's & quot-besætningschef kigger gennem hullet efterladt af en ueksploderet anti-flyskal, der næsten savnede Stewart. (Mike Simpson/445BG.org.)

Stewart oplevede, hvad der sandsynligvis var hans nærmeste børste med døden den 25. februar, under en ni timers mission til Furth, der ikke var eskorteret det meste af vejen. For første gang smed taljeskyttere i blyflyene bundter af agn over bord for at prøve at narre de tyske radarstyrede luftværnskanoner. Det lykkedes kun at tiltrække dem. Hver gang de smed et bundt ud, blev flagen mere præcis. Tyskerne ramte bombeflyene med alt, hvad de havde på den mission, inklusive luftfartsraketter.

Den 445. ramte sit mål, men på vej hjem sprang en flakskal i maven på Stewarts Liberator, lige bag næsehjulet. På en eller anden måde blev B-24 ved med at flyve-helt tilbage til basen. Men da granatsplinteren perforerede bombefly landet, knækkede dens skrog. Lige foran vingen ved flygedækket revnede flyet som et æg. Besætningen klatrede uskadt ud og kiggede over deres lamme fly. På sin karakteristisk underspillede måde tænkte Stewart til en tilskuer: "Sergent, nogen kunne sikkert komme til skade i en af ​​de forbandede ting."

Bortset fra en lejlighedsvis tur til skuespilleren David Livens hus, et møde med en dignitær eller en hurtig sejltur, koncentrerede Stewart sig om jobbet ved hånden. "Jeg bad om, at jeg ikke ville begå en fejl," huskede han. "Når du går op, er du ansvarlig." Engang gik en flyingeniør AWOL lige før en mission, og tvang sit fly til at flyve uden ham. Det vendte ikke tilbage. Stewart blev forpligtet til at disciplinere manden, men han spekulerede på: "Hvordan straffer du nogen for ikke at blive dræbt?"


Oberstløjtnant Martial Valin, stabschef, fransk luftvåben, tildeler Croix de Guerre med Palm til oberst Stewart for ekstraordinære tjenester ved frigørelsen af ​​Frankrig. (U.S. Air Force)

Krigen kom til sidst til alle, endda rolig, mildmodig Jimmy Stewart. "Frygt er en lumsk ting," sagde han. ”Det kan fordreje dommen, fryse reflekser, opdrætte fejl. Og værre, det smitter. Jeg følte min egen frygt og vidste, at hvis det ikke blev kontrolleret, kunne det inficere mine besætningsmedlemmer. ”

I begyndelsen af ​​1945, efter 20 B-24-missioner, blev Stewart overført til Old Buckenham og blev operationsofficer for den 453. bombegruppe. Da han ankom i en B-24, summer han angiveligt af tårnet, indtil kontrollerne flygtede.

Den 453. ledende befrier, Papirdukke, havde ingen permanent tildelt copilot. Denne stilling blev normalt besat af en af ​​de højtstående stabsofficerer, ofte Stewart selv. Taljeskytter Dan Brody huskede: "Han udstillede sig selv som en fremragende pilot, selv under ugunstige forhold."

Ligesom mændene i 445. fandt hans nye gruppe Stewart usvigeligt venlig. På vej tilbage op ad landingsbanen, for eksempel, da han så en fodgænger, stoppede han sin jeep og trak: "Hey fella, lak en tur?"

De øverste medarbejdere roterede normalt og fløj hver femte mission, men Stewart gik ud af sin måde at lede 11 flere slags. Mens han kunne lide B-17, havde han stadig et blødt punkt for Liberator. Han sagde senere om B-24: "I kamp var flyet ikke matchende B-17 som et formationsbomber over 25.000 fod, men fra 12.000 til 18.000 gjorde det et godt stykke arbejde."

De fleste af mændene var morede over at finde ud af, at de blev orienteret af den berømte skuespiller. Ekstraudstyr faldt ofte til - blandt dem radiomand Walter Matthau, der syntes at han “var fantastisk at se”.

I april 1945 blev Stewart forfremmet til oberst og stabschef for 2nd Air Division. Det var i løbet af denne tid, mens han svedte tilbage på sine fly fra hver mission, at hans hår begyndte at blive gråt.

Stewart vendte endelig tilbage til Stateside i september 1945 ombord på foringen Dronning Elizabeth. Forudsigeligt ventede han på gangplanken, indtil alle hans mænd var steget i land, før de kom i land. Spurgt om hans tjeneste i Europa kommenterede han: "Jeg havde nogle tætte opkald - hele krigen var et tæt opkald." Da han vendte tilbage til Hollywood, nægtede han en overdådig velkomstfest ved at sige: "Tusinder af mænd i uniform gjorde langt mere meningsfulde ting."

En standardklausul i Stewarts kontrakter derefter fastslog, at ingen omtale af hans krigsrekord kunne bruges i forbindelse med nogen af ​​hans film. Han forblev i Air Force Reserve, og i 1955, overtalt af venner, lavede han filmen Strategisk luftkommando. Ironisk nok, selvom han havde tusinder af timer i luften, på grund af studieforsikringsreglerne, måtte Stewart faktisk ikke flyve i nogen af ​​sine film.

I 1966 foretog Stewart endnu en kampflyvning-denne gang som observatør i en B-52 Stratofortress over Nordvietnam. Hans stedsøn Ronald McLean blev dræbt i Vietnam et år senere.

Under et interview sent i livet forklarede skuespilleren, at Anden Verdenskrig var "noget, jeg tænker på næsten hver dag - en af ​​de største oplevelser i mit liv." På spørgsmålet om, hvorvidt det havde været større end at være i film, sagde han ganske enkelt: ”Meget større.” James Stewart - modtager af Distinguished Flying Cross, luftmedaljen med Oak Cluster, the Croix de Guerre med Palm og syv Battle Stars - døde den 2. juli 1997 i en alder af 89 år.

Freelancer Richard Hayes skriver fra Chicago. For yderligere læsning, prøv Jimmy Stewart: Bomber Pilot, af Starr Smith.

Mr. Stewart går i krig udkom oprindeligt i marts 2011 -udgaven af Aviation History Magazine. Abonner i dag!


Anden Verdenskrig

QMAAC var blevet opløst i 1921, men det inspirerede dannelsen af ​​Auxiliary Territorial Service (ATS), som blev oprettet i september 1938. Kvinder fik stadig ikke lov til at kæmpe i kamp, ​​men vendte igen tilbage til biroller under Anden Verdenskrig (1939-45).

De var kokke, ekspedienter, chauffører, radaroperatører, telefonister, luftværnsskytter, afstandsmåler, lyddetektorer, militærpoliti og ammunitionsinspektører. Kvinders Royal Naval Service og Women's Auxiliary Air Force blev også etableret på det tidspunkt. Kvinder gik også igen på arbejde på hjemmefronten, enten i industrielle roller, som før eller som en del af Women's Land Army.

Juli 1941

Hjælp til territorial service

ATS fik fuld militær status, hvilket betyder, at dens medlemmer ikke længere var frivillige.

December 1941

Værnepligt for kvinder

National Service Act gjorde værnepligten lovlig. Først blev der kun indkaldt enlige kvinder i alderen 20-30 år. Men i midten af ​​1943 var næsten 90 procent af enlige kvinder og 80 procent af gifte kvinder ansat i krigsarbejde.

Februar 1945

Kongelig tjeneste

Prinsesse Elizabeth (nu dronning Elizabeth II) sluttede sig til ATS og uddannede sig på Aldershot som chauffør og mekaniker.

8. maj 1945

VE -dag

Ved krigens slutning var over 190.000 kvinder medlem af ATS.


Combat of Segorbe, 30. september 1811 - Historie

Den strenge definition af Regency -perioden


Regenten
George IV
fra Huish's Erindringer om hende sent
kongelig højhed Charlotte Augusta (1818)

Regency er forbundet med en arkitekturstil, møbler og design, der strækker sig over mere end et enkelt årti. Det Encyclopaedia Britannica beskriver Regency -stil som

En periode med høj mode

Boldkjole
fra La Belle Assemblée (1816)
Så hvornår er Regency -æraen?

18 kommentarer:

Rachel,
Jeg har læst nogle artikler, der betragter & quotRegency Era & quot (i modsætning til Regency-perioden 1811-1820) til at strække sig til 1837 og slutte, da dronning Victoria efterfulgte William IV.

Tak for din kommentar, Regan. Jeg synes, at det er ganske nyttigt at skelne mellem Regency-æra eller Regency-stil æra og den faktiske Regency. Det sidste er klart ikke til forhandling, men der er mange forskellige meninger om, hvor længe Regency -æraen varede, afhængigt af hvilke egenskaber du anser for at være de vigtigste.
Rachel

Hvilke egenskaber synes du er de vigtigste om regentperioden?

Alle elementer i mode, stil og litteratur er spredt over den bredere Regency -æra. Det, der kendetegner selve Regency-perioden dvs. 1811-20, er, at landet blev styret af regenten på vegne af kongen. En vigtig begivenhed i denne periode var slaget ved Waterloo og den efterfølgende fred med Frankrig.

Jeg tænker altid på Regency som at have & quotarrived & quot engang omkring århundredeskiftet, måske på grund af ændringen i mode og slutningen på den franske revolution. Dette er nok en meget vilkårlig måde at se på det på, men det er mit og jeg holder mig til det! Hvad angår slutningen af ​​æraen, synes bøger fra 1820'erne mig lidt & quotlate & quot, men igen, det er bare mig.

Jeg tror, ​​du har ret i at sige, at der er en & quotfeel & quot eller en & quotstyle & quot; til Regency, i det mindste som opfattet af dem af os, der elsker perioden og regentsromantikken. Så længe en forfatter fanger det miljø, er det ligegyldigt om bogen er sat inden for de ni år eller ej.

Dejligt at høre fra dig, Jillian. Jeg er enig i, at det, vi betragter som Regency-mode, er på mode i en meget kortere periode end min Regency-stil-æra. Jeg synes, at dette er meget subjektivt, afhængigt af hvilke kriterier der er vigtigst for dig - jeg har gået i en større periode, fordi jeg har fokuseret på Regentens liv.
Rachel


Slaget ved Saguntum

Det Slaget ved Saguntum (25. oktober 1811) så den kejserlige   franske hær i Aragon under marskalk Louis  Gabriel  Suchet kæmpe mod en spansk hær ledet af kaptajn  General Joaquín  Blake. Det spanske forsøg på at hæve belejringen af ​​Sagunto  Slottet mislykkedes, da franskmændene, italienerne og polakkerne kørte deres tropper ud af slagmarken i rute. Handlingen fandt sted under Peninsular  War, en del af Napoleons  Wars. Sagunto ligger en kort afstand fra Spaniens østkyst, cirka 30 kilometer nord for Valencia. [2]

Suchet invaderede provinsen   af  Valencia i september 1811. Han forsøgte hurtigt at beslaglægge Sagunto Slot, men dets garnison under oberst Luis Andriani afviste to angreb, og den fransk-allierede hær blev tvunget til at belejre den gamle fæstning. Da Blakes hær avancerede fra Valencia for at hæve belejringen, udsendte Suchet sin noget mindre hær for at modstå spanierne. Blakes angreb på Suchets højre flanke gik galt, og snart var de dårligt uddannede spanske tropper på flugt. De spanske tropper, der angreb Suchets venstre flanke, var imidlertid lavet af strengere ting, og konkurrencen der var mere alvorlig. Endelig fik de kejserlige tropper overhånden og satte næsten hele den spanske hær på flugt. Garnisonen på Sagunto Slot overgav sig snart, og Blakes soldater haltede tilbage til Valencia, hvor de forsøgte at bringe byens forsvar i orden.


Spitfire vs Hurricane: Første RAF -kamp mod Anden Verdenskrig

En Hawker Hurricane Mk. XIIa (til venstre) og en Supermarine Spitfire Mk. Jeg genopfører slaget ved Storbritannien under et Duxford Airshow. RAF -krigerne gjorde gode holdkammerater - undtagen under deres første krigstidens møde.

For otte år siden startede luftkrigen over Storbritannien ikke godt for Royal Air Force i en "venlig brand" -hændelse, der involverede Spitfires og orkaner.

Da Storbritannien erklærede krig mod Tyskland den 3. september 1939, blev nyheden hilst med spænding hjemme hos nr. 74 “Tiger” -eskadronen ved RAF Hornchurch, øst for London. Industrien fortrængte hurtigt følelser, da flyvere og besætninger på jorden begyndte at fylde tusindvis af sandsække for at skabe sprængsikre spredninger til eskadrillen Supermarine Spitfires. En pilot fraværende fra det hårde arbejde var pilotofficer John Freeborn, en 19-årig, der talte sin mening med en tillid, der troede på hans ømme år. As squadron adjutant, Freeborn excused himself from sandbag duty on account of the growing pile of paperwork on his desk.

The next day there was a squadron scramble that proved to be a false alarm. There were no Luftwaffe bombers approaching the coast, so the nervous Royal Air Force pilots sat in the late summer sunshine and waited for what they believed was an imminent enemy attack.

At 0645 hours on September 6 there was another scramble and Flight Lt. Adolph Malan, nicknamed “Sailor” because of his stint as a naval cadet, led Red Section through a thick ground mist into a clear blue sky. Yellow Section—Flying Officer Vincent “Paddy” Byrne his no. 2, Acting Flying Officer John Freeborn and Sgt. Pilot John Flinders as no. 3—followed.


Asked if he followed Adolph "Sailor" Malan’s “Ten Rules for Air Fighting,” John Freeborn, seen atop his Spitfire Mk. I, dismissed them as “a lot of rubbish.” (Courtesy of Bob Cossey, 74(F) Tiger Squadron Association)

Adrenaline coursed through the pilots as they headed east to intercept aircraft that a searchlight battery had reported approaching the Essex coast at high altitude. Also scrambled were 12 Hawker Hurricanes from No. 56 Squadron at North Weald. Two of 56 Squadron’s reserve Hurricanes soon followed, with pilots Montague Hulton-Harrop and Frank Rose unable to resist the urge to join the hunt. None of the 20 fighter pilots had ever been in combat, or even seen a German airplane up close, and this inexperience, ignorance and excitement was about to have fatal consequences.

I first met John Freeborn in the summer of 2004, when I was writing a book about the Luftwaffe bombing of London. As one of the few surviving RAF pilots who had flown night patrols against the Germans, his input was invaluable. He had only recently agreed to talk publicly about his wartime experience as the pilot who had flown more operational hours during the Battle of Britain than any other. Freeborn was in his mid-80s when I got to know him, living by himself in northwest England, having outlived two wives. He was in poor health and lonely, so he enjoyed talking about old times. What hadn’t dulled over the years was his character: Like many Yorkshiremen he was forthright, funny and fearless in what he said. He could be provocative, yet his character was underpinned by an acute sense of probity.

Freeborn joined the RAF in 1937 and was posted in October 1938 to 74 Squadron with the rank of acting pilot officer. Having trained on a de Havilland Tiger Moth, he was now introduced to another biplane, the Gloster Gauntlet, which he appreciated for its gentle maneuverability.

On February 13, 1939, 74 Squadron took delivery of its first Spitfire. Freeborn described the new fighter as “bloody wonderful,” adding, “but I was quite nervous. I was only a kid and I’d never flown a monoplane.”

Freeborn got a crash course in how to fly the Spitfire as he sat in the cockpit on the grass runway at Hornchurch. Flight Commander Wilfred “Paddy” Treacy talked him through the controls and then wished the teenager good luck.

The Spitfire’s long nose prevented Freeborn from seeing where he was going, and the sheer power of his new mount took him by surprise. “I took off and went so bloody fast!” han sagde. “I thought, ‘Bloody hell, I’ve got it all wrong,’ and I went between the hangars at 180 mph.”

Freeborn soon mastered the Spitfire, but some of his fellow pilots were less easy to handle. He was in B Flight, commanded by Treacy, as was another Irishman, Byrne. “They went to school together, they both came from Dublin and they fought a lot,” recalled Freeborn.

There were other strong characters in the squadron: Sgt. Pilot Peter Chesters Pilot Officer Don Cobden, a huge man who had played rugby for New Zealand and South African Malan. Handsome and charismatic, Malan was at first friendly with Freeborn, but slowly another side began to emerge. “Malan was just married, always broke, always borrowing money,” he said. “And if you had no money to lend him he would take it out of your pockets. You couldn’t stop him—too big and strong.”

Nonetheless, Freeborn liked Malan well enough to apply for a transfer to his A Flight, and early on the morning of September 6 the South Afri­can led his flight to intercept the approaching hostiles high over Essex. Unfortunately, the enemy aircraft supposedly sighted by the searchlight battery did not exist.

Suddenly Malan’s voice called over the radio: “Tally-ho! Number one attack. Go!” Freeborn and Byrne turned in their cockpits and saw two aircraft flying a mile behind and about 1,000 feet below the dozen 56 Squadron Hurricanes, which they took to be fighters escorting the unseen Luft­waffe bombers.


Hurricanes of RAF No. 56 Squadron embark on a mission from North Weald. (Imperial War Museum CH158)

Repositioning to attack from the rear, Byrne dispatched one of the aircraft and Freeborn opened fire on the other with his Spitfire’s eight Browning .303-inch guns, sending it down in flames.

Freeborn broke off the attack with a sense of euphoria, believing he had just shot down his first German. A short while later he spotted what he took to be a Luftwaffe bomber and closed in for the kill. “I think I would have shot down more if it weren’t for Flinders, the sergeant pilot,” said Freeborn. “He got in the way. I was shouting at him to get out of the bloody way, either shoot or let me shoot it. But then he said, ‘It’s one of ours.’ When the adrenaline is running, you don’t realize these things. Byrne had landed and was under close arrest, and when I landed [squadron commander] George Sampson was waiting and I’m under close arrest. And where’s Malan? Never saw him. They couldn’t find him. He’d gone home [he lived with his wife off base] and dropped us right in the s—.”

Byrne had shot down the 56 Squadron Hurri­cane flown by Frank Rose, who managed to bail out, but Freeborn had downed his wingman, 26-year-old Pilot Officer Montague Hulton-Harrop, who was dead, the first British pilot combat fatality of the war. Had Flinders not intervened, Freeborn probably would have also shot down a Bristol Blenheim he believed to be a German bomber.

Hurricanes from 151 Squadron had also been scrambled, and Sqd. Ldr. Edward Don­aldson, who witnessed the attack, had no doubt who was to blame. “We landed back at North Weald very angry at the terrible mess-up where our controllers had so irresponsibly vectored two wings onto each other, guns loaded and pilots warned for combat,” he remarked after the war.

The incident has become known as the Battle of Barking Creek, which is curious given that Bark­ing Creek is in east London and Freeborn shot down Hulton-Harrop many miles north over rural Essex. But partially treated sewage once flowed into the River Thames at Barking Creek, and it’s been suggested that Barking Creek was a euphemism for “s— creek,” the American expression that had recently found its way to Britain.

The court-martial that took place at HQ Fighter Command on October 17, 1939, was held in private, and the findings have never been published. Freeborn and Byrne had a first-class defense team. “We had two great barristers in Sir Patrick Hastings and Roger Bushell [later murdered by the Nazis for his part in organizing the ‘Great Escape’],” said Freeborn.


POWs Roger Bushell and Vincent “Paddy” Byrne flank a Luftwaffe guard at Luft Stalag III before the “Great Escape.” (Courtesy of Bob Cossey, 74(F) Tiger Squadron Association)

Malan, who reportedly described Freeborn’s actions as “impetuous,” confirmed he had given the order to engage but also claimed that moments later, on realizing his mistake, he had called “friendly aircraft—break away!” Freeborn, Byrne and Flinders all said they never heard the counterorder. “Hastings didn’t half take Malan to pieces,” recalled Freeborn. “He told him he was a downright bloody liar.”

The court-martial lasted half a day and, after considering the evidence, the tribunal acquitted Freeborn and Byrne. “My confidence didn’t really suffer,” reflected Freeborn of the incident. “I was very sorry about it, but it was Malan’s fault. He gave us the order to attack and we attacked. It created friction between Malan and myself, but not the rest of the squadron. They couldn’t have cared less. Malan wasn’t liked. He was a bully.”

Others were more generous in their appraisal of the man, who was a vociferous anti-apartheid protestor in South Africa after the war. When Malan died in 1963 of Parkinson’s disease, Tiderne of London said in his obituary that he had been an inspiring and unselfish leader in combat and in politics. The paper also hinted at Malan’s other side in describing “his coldly calculating attitude” as a pilot. Did that include lying to protect his reputation? Perhaps the fairest assessment of what happened that September morning is to attribute it to the fog of war.

Fortunately out of the confusion emerged greater clarity. Pilots were instructed to sharpen up their visual identification of aircraft, while the training of controllers, plotters and radar operators was improved. An IFF (identification friend or foe) signal system was also fitted into aircraft to aid ground controllers.

Freeborn and Malan remained in 74 Squadron despite their mutual dislike. The two men were ferociously strong characters, and the two best pilots in the squadron, as they proved once the Phoney War ended and Germany invaded the Low Countries in May 1940. That month Malan was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and Freeborn became the de facto commander of B Flight. It also marked the first of Freeborn’s 13½ kills.

“I caught this one knocking bloody seven bells out of a Spitfire over Dunkirk,” he remembered of the Messerschmitt Me-109E he encountered on the French coast. “As soon as he saw me, he pushed his stick forward, which we [Spitfire pilots] couldn’t do because the engine would stop and it would be some time before the carburetor would be able to flow again. So instead I half rolled, went through some cloud and of course I came out behind him. I gave him a squirt or two and he hit a telegraph pole with his prop and it knocked him to pieces. I can see to this day the old farmer who was alongside ploughing, and this 109 went on, straight through his cottage, and he’s shaking his fist at me.”

Having shot down one of his own pilots, it was a relief for Freeborn to dispatch an enemy for whom he felt no pity. “They were Germans and they had to go,” he said. “I had respect for their pilots—they were very good—but they didn’t like to mix it.”

Freeborn did. He soon acquired a reputation for ruthlessness. One of his sergeant pilots, Bill Skinner, recounted how a Junkers Ju-88A was shot down over France in May 1940: “The Nazi crew were seen to get out and shake their fists at us. That proved too much for John Freeborn. He promptly shot them up and consigned them to their maker.” Freeborn acknowledged the incident with a laugh. “I did things like that,” he said.

Freeborn’s methods upset some of his fellow pilots. Harbourne Stephen had a blazing row with him after he heard of his habit of buzzing Luftwaffe pilots who had bailed out. “I used to take the piss out of Stephen and say, ‘Oh, you should have seen him, climbing up his bloody shroud lines,’” remembered Freeborn. “I would sometimes fly quite close to frighten them, so close the slipstream would hit them and it would blow the parachute all over the place. [Stephen] would say I was a rotten bugger for doing that, but I didn’t shoot any, not at all.”

Although Freeborn and Malan despised one another, they shared a mutual respect for their flying ability. Who was the best? “I was a very good pilot, there was no one in the squadron as good as me, not even Malan,” claimed Freeborn.

Indisputably, they brought out the best in each other. Malan, who was appointed 74 Squadron’s CO on August 8, frequently consulted Freeborn on tactics. One of their conversations resulted in abandonment of the Vic formation of three aircraft in favor of the finger-four formation.

Their collaboration bore fruit on August 11 when the squadron flew into combat four times between dawn and 1400, accounting for 23 enemy aircraft, one probable and 14 damaged.

Freeborn shot down a 109 in the second sortie and was leading a third sortie of 11 Spitfires at midday when he was given misleading information by the ground controller. “He was controlling the squadron at 32,000 feet and 10/10ths cloud and he said there are bandits,” recounted Freeborn. “If there were any aircraft anywhere I hadn’t seen them. So I had to come down through the cloud and that’s when we ran into the Messerschmitt 110s.”

Most of Freeborn’s combat reports were lost in the war, but his account of this encounter with dozens of Me-110s is one of the few that survived. “Two of our A/C [aircraft] went down immediately,” he wrote. “I made a sharp turn and got directly onto an E/A [enemy aircraft] which I gave a short burst of 2/3 secs and E/A turned and went down. I did not follow as many E/A were engaged and I had noted another of our A/C damaged. I was again attacked from astern by a 110…and I took decisive action coming up under him and sending a long burst into his tailplane. E/A fell as T/p broke up, falling in a spiral. I watched him go down to 5,000 ft before breaking off due to being short of petrol and ammunition. I then returned to Hornchurch.”

The first of Freeborn’s two kills gave him particular satisfaction. “I got him down with about four bullets from each gun and he just burst into flames,” he recalled. “I was in the middle of 30 or so bloody Germans and it felt good to give the Germans some stick of their own.”

That evening Winston Churchill arrived at 74 Squadron to congratulate the pilots for their achievements. Freeborn was in no mood for pleasantries. In the dogfight with the Messerschmitts he had lost two pilots, including his friend Don Cobden. “He wasn’t received very nicely,” said Freeborn of the prime minister. “He was a swine. He wouldn’t give us any more money. We got 14 and 6 pence a day during the Battle of Britain.”

In time Freeborn saw many of his friends killed: Cobden, Douglas Hastings, Peter St. John, Wally Churches and Peter Chesters, the last as he attempted a victory roll over the airfield in April 1941. “A daft way to die,” reflected Freeborn of his best friend. “I never did daft things like that, or if you do, you do them properly, not the way he did it.”


A lineup of No. 74 Squadron members includes Malan (circled in red) and Freeborn (circled in white). (Courtesy of Bob Cossey, 74(F) Tiger Squadron Association)

Freeborn did do the odd daft thing in the war, on one occasion buzzing two golfers on a local links course. “I was teaching the doctor to fly, as all medical officers were permitted to fly, and there were two blokes playing golf,” he explained. “I said to the doc, ‘Look at those buggers playing golf and here we are fighting a war.’ I gave them such a s—-ing up and they were lying flat on their faces. That was the end of that.”

Men det var det ikke. The terrified golfers were a pair of wing commanders, and Freeborn received a reprimand for his prank.

Freeborn’s outspokenness undoubtedly worked against him in the rigid hierarchy of the RAF, as did his relatively humble upbringing. He was neither well-connected nor had he been to the right school, important factors in the class-conscious higher echelons of the wartime RAF. When he was posted in December 1941 as liaison officer to British pilots training in the United States, Freeborn found the Americans’ openness a refreshing change. He spent a year in the U.S., during which he fell in love with the P-51 Mustang, his favorite of all the aircraft he flew.

Sailor Malan was 74 Squadron’s ace of aces, finishing the war with 27 victories. He was a brilliant pilot, but he was as evasive on the ground as he was in the air, a mix of showman and politician. Freeborn, in comparison, lacked Malan’s diplomacy, and there was probably some envy at the South African’s suave charm. Asked for his opinion of Malan’s famous “Ten Rules for Air Fighting,” which became an unofficial guide for new pilots, Freeborn snorted with derision: “A lot of rubbish. Written for Malan by some actor friend of his who wrote for films.”

Freeborn died in 2010, the last of 74 Squad­ron’s Battle of Britain aces. The final time we spoke I asked him what it was that had made him such a good pilot. “Practicing all the time,” he replied. “But I could never get blokes to do it. I would say ‘get in the air’ and they would say, ‘I don’t want to.’ But I did. I flew all the time. But luck came into it, too, particularly in shooting down the enemy. That’s why it didn’t bother me, or anyone else in the squadron, if you weren’t successful during a sortie. You could only do what you could do.”

Gavin Mortimer is a British historian whose published works include histories of Merrill’s Marauders and the London Blitz. Yderligere læsning: Tiger Cub: A 74 Squadron Fighter Pilot in World War II, by Christoper Yeoman and John Freeborn and Tiger Squadron: The Story of 74 Squadron, RAF, in Two World Wars, by Ira Jones.

This feature originally appeared in the November 2019 issue of Aviation History. To subscribe, click here!


Fødselsdage i historien

Isaac Pitman

Jan 4 Isaac Pitman, English teacher and inventor of Pitman shorthand (Stenographic Soundhand), born in Trowbridge, England (d. 1897)

    Louis L Bonaparte, English/French linguist/senator Thomas Neville Waul, Brigadier General (Confederate Army), born in Sumter County, South Carolina (d. 1903) Ann Rutledge, said to be Abraham Lincoln's true love, born in Henderson, Kentucky (d. 1835) Agostino Depretis, Italian statesman, Prime Minister of Italy (1876-78, 1778-79, 1881-87), born in Bressana Bottarone, Kingdom of Italy (d. 1887) James Marion Sims, American physician & surgical pioneer (vesicovaginal operation), born in Lancaster County, South Carolina (d. 1883) Joseph Glidden, American inventor of 1st commercial usable barbed wire, born in Charlestown, New Hampshire (d. 1906) Henry Bessemer, engineer/inventor (Bessemer engine) Jacon Gartner Lauman, American Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Taneytown, Maryland (d. 1867) Juan Pablo Duarte, Dominican founding father (d. 1876 Samuel Sarphati, Amsterdam, physician/pharmacist/social activist Jacob G Agarah, Swedish algologist Otto Ludwig, German writer and critic (d. 1865) Charles Pierre Schimpf, governor of Suriname (1855-59) John McNeil, American Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada (d. 1891) Joseph Reid Anderson, Brigadier General (Confederate Army) (d. 1892) Wijnand Nuijen, Dutch romantic and water color painter (Wrecked), born in Den Haag, Netherlands (d. 1839) Judocus Smits, Dutch Catholic newspaper pioneer/founder (The Time) John Snow, English epidemiologist (d. 1858) Friedrich Hebbel, writer

David Livingstone

Mar 19 David Livingstone, Scottish explorer (found by Stanley in Africa), born in Blantyre, South Lanarkshire, Scotland (d. 1873)

    James Jesse Strang, King of Mormons on Beaver Is, MI (1850-56) Gabriel René Paul, American Brigadier General (Union Army), born in St. Louis, Missouri (d. 1886) Thomas West Sherman, American Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Newport, Rhode Island (d. 1879) Nathaniel Currier, American lithographer (Currier & Ives), born in Roxbury, Massachusetts (d. 1888) John Letcher, American lawyer and politician, U.S. House of Representatives from Virginia, born in Lexington, Virginia (d. 1884) Junius Spencer Morgan, American merchant and philanthropist (Metro Museum of Art), born in Holyoke, Massachusetts (d. 1890) Henry Washington Benham, American Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Cheshire, Connecticut (d. 1884) James McCune Smith, African-American doctor and abolitionist, born in Manhattan, New York (d. 1865) Stephen A. Douglas, American politician, US senator from Illinois (Lincoln-Douglas debates), born in Brandon, Vermont (d. 1861) Frédéric Ozanam, French scholar and founder of the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul, born in Milan, Italy (d. 1853) Søren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher, born in Copenhagen, Denmark (d. 1855) Joseph Tarr Copeland, American Brigadier General (Union Army), born in New Castle, Maine (d. 1893) Montgomery Blair, American lawyer (Dred Scott v. Sandford), born in Franklin County, Kentucky (d. 1883) Johann Czerski, German clergyman, founded German Catholicism, born in Warlubien, West Prussia (d. 1893) Mason Brayman, American attorney, newspaperman and Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Buffalo, New York (d. 1895) Israel Washburn Jr., American politician, U.S. House of Representatives from Maine (1853-61), born in Livermore, Massachusetts (d. 1883) David Dixon Porter, United States Navy admiral, born in Chester, Pennsylvania (d. 1891) Otto Jahn, German archaeologist (d. 1869) Pavel Annenkov, Russian literature historian (Zametsjatelnoje desjatileti), born in Moscow, Russia (d. 1887) Henry Ward Beecher, American clergyman/orator (Independent), born in Litchfield, Connecticut (d. 1887) William High Keim, American politician and Brigadier General (Union Army), born in Reading, Pennsylvania (d. 1862) William Scott Ketchum, American Brevet Major General (Union Army), born in Norwalk, Connecticut (d. 1871) Claude Bernard, French physiologist involved in the founding of modern physiology (blind experiments), born in Saint-Julien, Rhône (d. 1878) Isaac Baumann, Jewish pioneer and trader in Bloemfontein, South Africa, born in Kassel Hesse, Germany (d. 1881) Carnot Posey, American Confederate brigadier general, born in Wilkinson County, Mississippi (d. 1863) Ivar Aasen, Norwegian linguist and poet, born in Ørsten, Norway (d. 1896) Jules Grévy, 2nd President of the French Third Republic, born in Mont-sous-Vaudrey, France (d. 1891) Benjamin Alvord, American scientist and Brigadier General (Union Army), born in Vancouver, Washington (d. 1884) Jean Stas, Belgian chemist, born in Leuven, Belgium (d. 1891) Nicaise de Keyser, Flemish painter (Battle of Guilder Tracks) Princess Mathilde Caroline of Bavaria, eldest daughter of Ludwig I of Bavaria, born in Augsburg, Germany (d. 1862)

Mark Hopkins

Sep 1 Mark Hopkins, American business tycoon and railroad executive (Central Pacific Railroad), born in Henderson, New York (d. 1878)

    Conrad Feger Jackson, American Brigadier General (Union Army), born in Alsace Township, Pennsylvania (d. 1862) John Sedgwick, American Major General (Union Army), who is best remembered for his famous last words "they couldn't hit an elephant at this distance" before being shot in battle, born in Cornwall, Connecticut (d. 1864) John J. Pettus, American politician, Confederate governor (D-Miss, 1859-63), born in Wilson County, Tennessee (d. 1867) Lyman Trumbull, U.S. Senator from Illinois (1855-73), born in Colchester, Connecticut (d. 1896) Georg Büchner, German playwright (d. 1837)

Ludwig Leichhardt

Oct 23 Ludwig Leichhardt, German explorer of inland Australia, born in Trebatsch, Prussia (d. c. 1848)

    John Wolcott Phelps, American abolitionist, author and Brigadier General (Union Army), born in Guilford County, Vermont (d. 1885) Peter II, prince-bishop of Montenegro (1830-51) and poet (The Ray of The Microcosm), born in Njeguši, Montenegro (d. 1851) Franz von Miklosich, Slovenian linguist (d. 1891) Hermann Kurz, German poet and novelist (Schillers Heimatjahre), born in Reutlingen, Germany (d. 1873) Louise-Victorine Ackermann, French poet (works characterized by a deep sense of pessimism), born in Paris (d. 1890) Zachariah Chandler, American merchant and politician (found Republican Party), born in Bedford, New Hampshire (d. 1879) Thomas Andrews, Irish chemist and physicist (ozone), born in Belfast (d. 1885) Samuel Jordan Kirkwood, American politician (Gov-Iowa)/US Sect of Interior (1881-82), born in Harford Country, Maryland (d. 1894) Milledge Luke Bonham, (Confederacy) (d. 1890)

‘Big Ears Three’ and the Battle of Bien Hoa

On January 29, 1968, the night sky above the sprawling Bien Hoa Air Base, where I was on sentry patrol, appeared to be on fire. Large numbers of flares shot high into the air and burst into brilliant light, illuminating the landscape before slowly descending to earth. The flares, accompanied by the occasional rattle of mixed rifle and machine gun fire, marked a celebration of Tet, Vietnam’s lunar New Year. I observed the sight from my post at a fuel dump and hoped the remainder of the night would be quiet.

As the hours dragged into January 30, one of our squadron’s three-man security alert teams pulled up in a vehicle and told me that the bases at Da Nang and Pleiku had been attacked at 3:30 a.m. and that Bien Hoa, about 60 miles north of Saigon, might be on the enemy’s hit list. In addition to checking on sentries, security teams patrolled their designated area. If the teams detected any attempted penetration of the barbed-wire fence around the base’s perimeter, they would greet the Viet Cong with slugs from an M60 machine gun and M16 rifles, as well as rounds from a 40mm grenade launcher.

Only minutes after the team had driven away to check the next post, an enemy rocket suddenly screamed over me and struck a nearby hangar, severely damaging the structure and the aircraft inside. Seconds later, the air-raid siren let everyone know Bien Hoa was under attack. More missiles struck randomly across the base. The unguided Chinese-made rockets (105mm and 122mm) had a limited range but caused serious damage wherever they landed. That rocket attack, however, was nothing compared to the life-and-death struggle I would face over the next 36 hours.

I had arrived at Bien Hoa early in January and was assigned to the 3rd Security Police Squadron, part of the U.S. Air Force’s overall security force in Southeast Asia. Trained as a specialist in police security after enlisting in the Air Force in September 1966, I was first assigned to Sewart Air Force Base near Nashville, Tennessee, in 1967. In the late 1960s the base had become a bustling center of intensive training for crews flying Lockheed C-130 Hercules and de Havilland DHC-7 Caribou transport planes. Many of those crews were bound for South Vietnam and Thailand, and our squadron’s job was to provide security for Sewart. Bored with what I considered to be mundane duty and ready for some excitement, I volunteered for a transfer to South Vietnam. The Air Force gladly obliged, and early in January 1968 I was winging my way across the Pacific Ocean in a Boeing 707 packed with soldiers, airmen, sailors and Marines.

Within 24 hours of arriving at Bien Hoa, I began about three weeks of intensive combat training. The instruction prepared us to defend the base from an attack that intelligence sources indicated could occur any day. The squadron, a force of more than 100 men under the command of Lt. Col. Joseph A. Lynn, was part of the 3rd Combat Support Group of the Pacific Air Forces. It had been protecting the base since November 1965. In January 1968, however, the unit was generally unprepared both in manpower and weaponry for any major assault. Bien Hoa had two east-west runways (each nearly 2 miles long) that were used by the U.S. Air Force, Army, Navy and Marine Corps, as well as the South Vietnamese Air Force, chiefly for bombing missions and close air support to assist ground troops fighting the Viet Cong.

After the combat training, I was assigned to a Quick Reaction Force, which gave me the opportunity to learn even more about the base and its security procedures. I stood my first post alone on January 8 and occasionally served as a Security Alert Team member until January 30, when the rumor mill really went into overdrive after intelligence indicated that a massive attack throughout South Vietnam was imminent. My experiences over the next 36 hours were etched so deeply in my memory that even today I can recall in detail the sights and sounds of combat. Above all, however, I remember the searing stench of death in my nostrils.

It began the afternoon of January 30 when we hurried to prepare all of the squadron’s resources, human and material. At guard post we were again told a night attack was coming. The officers and senior noncommissioned officers said we were to defend the base “at all costs”—words that generated intense fear in a 19-year-old kid from a dairy farm in South Jersey.

A staff sergeant and I were assigned to Defense Post 3 on the far east end of the base. Each of us carried an M16 with plenty of ammunition, along with a hand-held Motorola radio for communications with the 3rd Security Police Squadron’s command post on the base. Our primary purpose was to listen for any evidence of enemy troop movements just outside the perimeter, and we were given the code name “Big Ears Three.” About 2 a.m. on January 31, a truck took us to a section of the perimeter fence along the east end of the base.

Our post was about a quarter-mile from Bunker Hill 10. The bunker, inside the perimeter fence, was manned by a small group from our squadron, equipped with M60s, M16s, .38-caliber Smith & Wesson “Combat Masterpiece” revolvers and 40mm grenade launchers. The staff sergeant and I spent the early hours of the night lying on the ground and listening for any unusual activity in a village uncomfortably close to the other side of the fence. Occasionally we would check in with the command post, but the night remained relatively calm.

At 3 a.m. January 31, that calm was shattered when the first of more than 150 rockets, backed up by a barrage of mortar fire, roared across the sky to strike the base. The airborne attack lasted for one hour and was aimed chiefly at the flight line, where planes were parked within fortified walls. The aircraft included U.S. Air Force North American F-100 Super Sabres, twin-engine Cessna A-37 attack jets and piston-powered Douglas A-1 Skyraiders flown primarily by the South Vietnamese. The fusillade of rockets and mortars was the initial phase of the Viet Cong’s plan to neutralize Bien Hoa Air Base. The enemy forces reasoned (correctly) that they would have a better chance of conquering Saigon if they could prevent the base from providing effective air support to the city’s defenders.

Bien Hoa, we found out, was not the only target during the night of Jan. 30-31, 1968. A massive, well-planned and coordinated offensive was launched across South Vietnam during Tet. About 100 cities and 20 air bases were attacked by more than 80,000 North Vietnamese and Viet Cong troops, including two infantry battalions and an infantry company assigned to destroy Bien Hoa’s formidable air power. When the aerial bombardment ended at about 4 a.m., ground forces almost immediately began a direct assault on Bunker Hill 10.

Big Ears Three was ordered to hold its position and, if possible, help defend Bunker Hill 10’s right flank against the waves of enemy troops. Only a few minutes after the ground attack began, a Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade struck the road about 50 feet from where the sergeant and I were positioned. We were showered with dirt and debris from the RPG’s impact but were not hit by any flying shrapnel. That grenade, however, made it clear to me that the enemy knew where we were. Trembling with fear, I cautiously crawled out to the road to see what was happening at Bunker Hill 10. A major firefight was in progress there. It seemed surreal—screaming men, machine gun fire, RPG explosions, the staccato sound of small arms all jumbled together to create a cacophony of death and destruction.

I reported what I had seen to the sergeant, who tried to tell the command post about the hot battle at the east end of the runway, but he couldn’t get through because there was so much radio traffic. He was still trying to relay that information when a 1½-ton truck slowly drove by us, obviously headed for Bunker Hill 10. Perhaps the driver was trying to resupply the bunker with much-needed ammunition. The truck had traveled about 50 yards beyond our post when it took a direct hit from an RPG. The round blew the cab to pieces and sent the steel roof flying upward end-over-end as the flaming wreckage careened into a ditch on the side of the road.

Although I could see that a small number of the enemy had fought their way past Bunker Hill 10, many more were lying dead in front of it and along the perimeter road, victims of the ferocious fighting in and out of the bunker. The sight was made even worse by the bullet-riddled bodies of the attackers. Some were hanging in one piece across the perimeter’s barbed wire, but the bodies of others had been torn to shreds by M60s and were sprawled grotesquely on the killing field.

It was obvious that we were in no position to help Bunker Hill 10. The sergeant, finally able to reach the command post on the radio, requested permission to fall back across the road and take up a defensive stance that would give us a better field of fire. His request was denied several times before we were finally ordered to proceed across a large field behind us toward the base’s flight line.

Unfortunately, by the time we received that order, the sergeant and I had become mixed in with the enemy soldiers who had managed to bypass Bunker Hill 10. The field was dominated by grass as high as 8 to 10 feet. With the sergeant leading the way, we raced through the grass in the general direction of the flight line. The tall grass, however, was so thick that it not only slowed our progress but also wrenched the M16 out of my right hand, taking away my only weapon.

It was decision time: keep moving or go retrieve that rifle. I stopped in my tracks, wheeled around and ran back to where I hoped the M16 had fallen. I remember praying out loud, “Oh, God! Please help me!” My hands were shaking badly as I fell to my knees and frantically began to search the ground. A few seconds later my hand hit the rifle. I picked up the weapon and resumed my run toward the flight line.

I had not gone more than 50 feet when a bullet whizzed by my right ear so close the earlobe fluttered. I will never forget the distinct sound of that bullet, probably fired from an AK-47 assault rifle belonging to a Viet Cong who was catching up to me. The adrenalin kicked in and my legs shifted into high gear until I was out of the grass. Finally in the open, I was able to see the sergeant and threw myself down beside him in a small depression that afforded us only minimal cover. Our location was not good. We were still short of the flight line and in the same general area as the enemy. Thanks to a dead radio battery, the sergeant was unable to inform the command post of our new position.

By now it was about 6 a.m., and the dawn was slowly beginning to illuminate the battlefield. That allowed aircraft to take over the defense of the air base’s east end. Helicopters from the Army’s 334th Gunship Company, based at Bien Hoa, soon detected the enemy troops in the field where we were hunkered down. Their gunships, Bell UH-1 Iroquois “Hueys” and AH-1 Cobras, made repeated strafing runs, flying very low over our position and blasting rocket and machine gun fire with devastating success. Many of those rockets hit their human targets so close to where we were lying that every impact caused us to bounce a few inches off the ground and plop down again. The sergeant feared we would be killed by our own forces.

Amid all the confusion of the battle, I heard another helicopter coming in for what I assumed would be a firing pass from behind our position. I turned and looked up to see a Cobra bearing down on us. The helicopter fired a salvo of rockets I was certain were aimed at us. I remember thinking, “This is the end, and there won’t be enough body parts left to send home after those rockets blow me to smithereens.” Fortunately, the rockets struck the enemy less than 200 feet in front of our little hole in the ground. For the next few hours, the gunships continued to fire, killing dozens of attackers before returning to their landing pads to refuel and rearm. Attack helicopters from the 118th Assault Helicopter Company joined the gunships of the 334th and hammered the enemy incessantly. The close air support the Army aviators were giving the 3rd Security Police gradually began to seal the defeat of the attackers. We owed a lot to those Army pilots and their gunships.

The sergeant and I could hardly believe we were still alive. We looked up as a lone Huey passed above and to our left. The cabin side door slid open, and a senior master sergeant from our squadron was peering down at us to determine who we were—friend or foe. We were not about to stand up, so we frantically waved our hands. The message was received and acknowledged with a salute. Big Ears Three had been found at last, and we assumed that the command post would be duly informed.

As is often the case in war, no one got the word. Shortly after the Huey departed, we were shocked to suddenly receive blistering machine gun fire from one of our own Security Alert Teams spoiling for a fight. The sergeant and I could not have known that the team was a few hundred yards behind us, but we quickly recognized our predicament when they opened up with their M60s. As the bullets began whizzing closer and closer to our heads, we tried desperately to become one with the dirt in that little hollow of earth. I remember the bullets striking the ground 10 to 20 feet in front of where we were lying. They kicked up big plumes of dirt that fell down on us. I am convinced we survived only because the gunners on the truck could not angle their weapons low enough to hit us. Had they been on higher ground, we would have been killed.

By noon it became obvious that the fight was finally winding down. The enemy attack had failed. A small number of commandos with multiple charges packed in satchels had reached the places where the aircraft were parked, but they did little damage and eventually were captured or killed. Around 2 p.m. the sergeant and I were relieved by other units sent to “mop up” enemy soldiers still alive or hiding on the battlefield. As we walked out of that field of death and flagged a ride on a flatbed truck back to our squadron, both of us were trying to grasp all that had transpired during the past 24 hours.

I remember sitting down on my bunk in Hut 27 and writing a few lines in my daily journal: “I thank God that I’m alive. VC penetrated the perimeter and were all around us. Retreated from Defense Post #3 to cover. Quite a ways to go but made it OK. Not enough room here to even start describing it. Many mortars and rockets began the attack.” In the wake of the fight, I guess I suffered from the “shock and awe” of battle because I had absolutely zero appetite for three days and managed to grab only a little sleep. In the end, Big Ears Three survived the Battle of Bien Hoa and lived to tell the tale. Incredibly, throughout the entire ordeal neither the sergeant nor I had an opportunity to fire even one shot at the enemy.

In retaliation for the enemy’s ground assault, the next day a flight of F-100s flew a series of low-level bombing attacks that destroyed the villages outside the east end of the base. I watched from our barracks as the 500-pound bombs fell very near where the sergeant and I had spent nervous hours on the perimeter the night before. According to the Air Force report on the attack, one member of the 3rd Security Police Squadron was killed (at Bunker Hill 10), along with three other Air Force personnel, while 26 men were wounded. On the enemy’s side, 139 were killed (based on a body count) and 25 were captured.

My one-year tour of duty at Bien Hoa ended late in December 1968. During that time I had experienced one major ground battle and 36 rocket and mortar attacks. The Battle of Bien Hoa had not only demonstrated to me the horror of war but, more important, had awakened me to the potential brevity of life and how quickly one can die. Now, 47 years later, that battle continues to remind me to never take anyone or anything, particularly your life, for granted.

After his Vietnam tour, Edward H. Phillips was assigned to the Strategic Air Command at Grand Forks Air Force Base in North Dakota, where he continued in the Security Police until his discharge in September 1970. He has researched and written eight books on the history of aviation in Wichita, Kansas.

Originally published in the April 2015 issue of Vietnam. To subscribe, click here.


Se videoen: TRABZON RUS İŞGALİ 1914-1918 (Juli 2022).


Kommentarer:

  1. Worthington

    Jeg mener, at du ikke har ret. Jeg er sikker. Lad os diskutere det.

  2. Tojabei

    Efter min mening tager du fejl. Jeg kan forsvare min holdning. Send mig en mail på PM, så snakkes vi.

  3. Aodhfin

    Alt ovenstående er sandt. Lad os diskutere dette spørgsmål.

  4. Karan

    Jeg har en idé, hvis du er interesseret, kan du tale om det ...



Skriv en besked