Biography

Dewey Neufeld is a Project Member of the Military and War subproject Vietnam War

Military Service

CPO Dewey Neufeld served in the United States Navy in the Vietnam War
Service started: 06 Jul 1966
Unit(s): Commander, Naval Forces Vietnam, Saigon
Service ended: 01 Nov 1969

US Navy

Dewey Donald Neufeld served in the U.S. Navy, retiring as a Chief Petty Officer. Serving in Vietnam, 3 years, 3 months, 3 weeks and almost 1 day. If he could have completed the last day, he would have had nine campaigns on his Vietnam Service Medal instead of eight.

Dewey was aboard a ship off the cost of Vietnam when Saigon fell in 1975, being awarded three additional Armed Forces Expeditionary Medals, two Humanitarian Service Medals and a Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation award. It was an historic last deployment before retiring from active naval service. When volunteering for Vietnam duty, Dewey requested River Patrol Boats (PBRs), Coastal Patrol Boats (PCFs) and Advisor to the Vietnamese Navy, receiving orders for Chief Naval Advisory Group, Vietnam. Instead of being an advisor, Dewey was assigned to the newly formed Commander, U. S. Naval Forces, Vietnam, headquarters. He was Chief of the watch; the twelve-hour watch the 1968 Tet Offensive started, receiving word they were one of the likely targets. That is a separate story.

Subj: Letter of Commendation

1. During the early morning hours of Wednesday, 31 January 1968, various areas of the city of Saigon came under attack by organized elements of the Communist insurgents (Viet Cong). At approximately 0300, the sounds of the explosions of mortar rounds were heard at the headquarters of Commander U.S. Naval Forces, Vietnam and Commander Naval Support Activity, Saigon. Immediately, you and your shipmates responded to the threat. Some of you rapidly and effectively established armed defensive positions throughout the compounds; while others established radio contact between the two headquarters and the Military Police radio network and kept close watch on Viet Cong terrorist activity in the surrounding area. Your prompt and selfless actions, without regard for your own safety, greatly enhanced the security posture of the NAVFORV and NAVSUPPACT compounds and afforded protection for the personnel and buildings in those naval installations.

2. For your actions on that occasion, you are commended.

signed: K. L. Veth

Copy to: BUPERS Service record

A Chief’s Sea Story

I hesitate to include this, because it seems out of place when talking about heroes, but it is part of the “parchment” of my life. It is included for three reasons: first, it is the only sea story I have; second, it allows the real heroes to know that I know the experience of the fear of dying in combat; and third, it is a definitive part of who I am. While I may not know what combat is like, up close and personal, I do understand the fear of death and the responsibility of keeping men alive in a situation of eminent danger. We will discuss the real heroes a little later, standing in respectful awe of their heroism and valor. Heroes like my cousin, Warrant Officer Norman Wayne Partridge-3077, an Army helicopter pilot with the 68th AHC. Partridge-3077 There are some real heroes around!

The Chief Petty Officer stared into the night, listening intently for gunshots and/or explosions that would mark the beginning of the expected attack on the compound of the Commander, Naval Forces Vietnam (COMNAVFORV) headquarters in Saigon. The questions in his mind being: Where are they? What are they waiting for? Is there anything else I can do to help protect us? Is there anything I have left undone? Where are they?

A few minutes earlier, the morning of January 31, 1968, there was the sound of explosions sounding close, probably from the attack on the Presidential palace about three or four blocks away. The four men, the Chief had assigned to the compound defensive positions, had followed his instructions immediately upon everyone hearing the explosions nearby. The Chief had gone to the defensive positions on the flat roof of the two-story building, telling each: Stay calm; don’t shoot at shadows; don’t fire at anyone not firing at us; be certain of your target(s) identification and do not put your weapon on automatic because there were only forty-five rounds for each of his men on the roof. I am not going to be able to get you any more until after daylight.

The Chief had been in Vietnam for nearly a year and a half, having read everything he could find on strategy, tactics and guerrilla warfare before volunteering for this duty. Expecting the attack to materialize at any moment, the Chief knew if the enemy was attacking in a city as large as Saigon, it would require an extremely large number of combatants and was a major effort not to be underestimated. It looked as if "the enemy" had come to stay! The Chief had already decided he was not going to run. He felt it was his responsibility to do everything possible to keep the men of his watch section alive as long as possible. The Chief also knew if there was an attack, everyone would be dead before sunrise. Even surrender was not an option until "the enemy" had achieved their objective(s) in the attack, then having the luxury of taking prisoners.

Fear was real! The Chief went around checking each man, trying to keep everyone calm and vigilant; whispering because it seemed the enemy might hear what was being said. The fear was more palpable because the men on duty in the Communications Center were not issued weapons until after the Tet Offensive had begun. The Chief had only four .30 caliber carbines from the WWII-era and forty-five rounds each, plus two .45 caliber automatic pistols.

What do you do when fear is real, and survival seems questionable? Even with heroic determination, death seemed inevitable. Where is God in the, horrific beyond imagination, experience called war? Into this experience, there is brought a conundrum (puzzling problem) of the greatest magnitude, confronting individuals preparing for combat, facing the prospect of taking the lives of others, being told on one side it is noble, just and patriotic to defend your country’s freedom, even righteous when helping others retain or obtain their freedom. While socially unacceptable, with civil laws exacting severe penalties, killing the “enemy” in defense of your country is laudable, commendable and praiseworthy rather than morally reprehensible outside the boundaries of the war experience.

The other side of the puzzling problem (conundrum) of perplexing proportion for those believing there is a God interested in the moral realm of humanity, revealing Himself, having a nature of love, ^[1] requesting us to love our neighbors as ourselves, seeming to exclude taking the lives of those God says He created. The individual combatant faces an enormously perplexing puzzle, much like trying to put a square peg in a round hole, made traumatic by the fear of dying while in combat, trying to work out the answer, feeling the answer may have consequences beyond this life, afraid any answer will cause severe problems whatever is decided.

Our religious backgrounds, historically if not personally, value both freedom and life. If we take life in combat to preserve freedom, there is a disconnection from the moral constraint. If we refuse to defend freedom, there is a disconnection with society’s call for patriotic response when danger threatens the social unity. However, the conundrum is answered, it will not please everyone.

As a career military-type, I ask the statesman to exhaust all diplomatic efforts before we use the sword, thinking also of the morality and spiritual aspects involved in combat. In war, people die or are terribly maimed. The cost is high for heroes who come to the aid of their country; please be certain it is worth it when we send our young people off to war. In his book, On War, Prussian General Carl von Clausewitz repeatedly states, war is simply an extension of politics. When we un-sheath the sword, the price is always bloody, seemingly so difficult to get the sword back into the scabbard. I believe in civilian control of the military. I believe our forefathers were wise. I also believe it is easier to negotiate from a position of strength―weakness only emboldens the bullies. If we must fight, I prefer winning―losing is not fun―however, winning means killing, which means hating, which excludes love, ending up a terrible price to pay for excluding God, because love and hatred cannot co-exist in the same heart.

Before volunteering for duty in Vietnam, I attempted to prepare myself by reading all the books I could locate concerning guerrilla warfare, counterinsurgency, military history, strategy and tactics. There seemed a compulsion to study these subjects. I was convinced the Cold War was going in this direction and our country would need to meet this threat more as time went on. The books I read helped me understand the theoretical aspects of warfare, helping me to make better decisions in 1968. I volunteered for Vietnam, because I felt we were trying to help a country retain its freedom. They called it “nation building.” If it was not a worthy cause, do we blame the hero or the politician? It is a question worthy of our contemplation. If war is an extension of politics, then it bears societal as well as social implications.

In 1969, my fifth request for a six-month extension of my tour was disapproved at the second endorsement at the Enlisted Personnel Distribution Office, U.S. Pacific Fleet, San Diego, California, stating I had been “in a hostile fire area since July 1966.” Whether the war was right or wrong, I was there because I thought my country needed me. When asking for duty in Vietnam, I got as close to the war a sailor could without becoming a Navy SEAL or Hospital Corpsman with the Marines. I requested river patrol boats (PBRs), coastal patrol boats (PCFs) and advisor to the Vietnamese Navy, receiving orders for: Enlisted Allowance, Chief Naval Advisory Group, Commander, U.S. Military Advisory Command, Vietnam, (CNAG, COMUSMACV). It looked as if I had my wish, presuming I would be an advisor. God had other ideas. God was watching over me, even when I had not asked for help, running away from accepting Jesus Christ as personal Savior and Lord.

An interesting aside, is two years earlier, when the Navy first asked for volunteers for Vietnam, I nearly volunteered, only consideration for a girl at home, restraining me. Two years later, the girlfriend was no longer in my life. Had I submitted the same choices the first time, receiving the same orders, I would have likely been exposed to combat situations, perhaps, fatally; certainly, my life would have been much different. Another aside: when I joined the Navy (in the Naval Reserves while in High School) I wanted to be a Boatswain Mate and requested this when I went on active duty for four years. Had I been able to pursue this desire, advancing to First Class Petty Officer, I would have likely received orders to River Patrol Boats as a boat commander. It is interesting to look back on “the road not taken.” Some times, we find God's footprints there.

In 1966, the Navy’s presence had grown so large and was continuing to grow; a separate command structure was required rather than the naval forces being operated by the Army. Commander, Naval Forces, Vietnam (COMNAVFORV), was established on April first, and the building of the necessary command support structure began. Arriving in Saigon three months later, on the seventh of July, I was assigned to the Communications Center, COMNAVFORV. I was disappointed my orders had been changed. I was a Radioman First Class Petty Officer (E-6), communications, not war, was my technical field. I was where I was supposed to be, if not where I requested.

The workload continually increased to an average of over 100,000 messages a month. Until after the 1968 Tet Offensive, we kept a year’s worth of files in the command’s vault. That was above a million messages on January 31, 1968. That was a lot of paper! After Tet ‘68, the files were limited to three months because the command was in a war-zone. This will be more important as the story continues.

In 1967, I was selected for, and advanced to, Chief Petty Officer. The Certificate of Permanent Appointment reads, in part: "Your appointment carries with it the obligation that you exercise additional authority and willingly accept greater responsibility. Your every action must be governed by a strong sense of personal moral responsibility and leadership."

1968 Tet Offensive

As a Chief Petty Officer, a “defining moment” came when I had to face the dragon called “Fear.” In retrospect, there was little danger, but at the time, it seemed greater and the expectation of dying, for me, was real. My section had the twelve-hour watch the night of January 31, 1968, when the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and Viet Cong (VC) began their Tet Offensive. I learned I was able to do my job, when I was too frightened to speak in anything but a whisper, with the words trying to stick in my throat, while the sounds of combat were going on nearby.

Not long after relieving the day watch section, word was received from the Operations Center across the hall: they had intercepted, or received, a report on the Military Police (MP) radio channel. The MPs had captured some enemy “sappers” (commandos) carrying explosives and armed with automatic weapons. The enemy soldiers had orders to attack a radio station on the same street the naval headquarters was located (Phan Dinh Phung). We were at the intersection of Doan Thi Diem.

We thought they had orders to attack our compound. We prepared as best we could with the limited resources available. In the Communications Center, I had about twenty-five men, armed with: four .30 caliber M2 carbines with forty-five rounds each, plus two .45 automatic pistols. The weapons were used primarily for the courier runs we made to pick up communications items at Tan Son Nhut Air Base. We were not issued personal weapons until the second or third day of the Tet Offensive.

It seemed probable we would be attacked, likely before morning. If attacked our options were few―the prospects of survival fewer. The Admiral and most officers had gone to their billets, leaving those of us standing watch in the compound to our own resources. As Chief of the Communications Watch Section, I organized my part of the defense team, which consisted of four riflemen, with the carbines. There was no hesitation on my part. I did not wait to be told what to do, making my plans without consulting with the Ensign (O-1) acting as CWO (Communications Watch Officer). As a Chief, I assumed it was my job and I was determined to protect my men as long as possible.

The Compound Defense Plan assigned two corners of the roof to the Communications Department. On my own recognizance, the other two riflemen were assigned to guard the two stairways to the second floor, where the Communications and Operations Centers were located. Selecting the four men I thought to be the most mature, calm and unflappable, I took each man personally, to the gun rack where I had stacked their weapon and ammunition. I instructed each what they were to do and where they were to go, until there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, directing: if anything “unusual” happened, they were to go immediately to their defensive positions without waiting for orders. We would “sort things out” later.

I informed the First Class Petty Officer (E-6), he would be responsible for running the communications watch section and for maintaining the continuity of communications, reasoning: if something happened, my first priority was the defense of the compound and the actions of my men in defense thereof. Being inside the building and not knowing what might be going on outside when the action started, I reasoned the First Class Petty Officer deserved the reassurance of having a weapon and assigned him the .45 caliber automatic pistol. I instructed the First Class Petty Officer he was to allow no one out of the communications spaces. No matter what, there was to be no “sightseeing” on the roof if something happened. Usually, on quiet nights when everything was caught up, some of the men would go up on the roof and see what was going on or to just catch a breath of fresh air.

A Chief Petty Officer is expected to act like the Chiefs of his heritage, calmly setting about to evaluate the situation and resources available. After careful consideration, there was no alternative than to make a stand; I had personally determined I was not going to run; if necessary, this would be the “hill” I would die on. I explained my assessment of the situation to the First Class Petty Officer, explaining: if the enemy was attacking in a city the size of Saigon, it was a major undertaking, requiring an extremely large number of combatants. There would likely be no taking of prisoners until their objective(s) was secured, so surrender was not a viable option, if we wished to stay alive. If we were the object of the attack, we would be hit from all sides simultaneously, making escape unlikely. If we did run, managing by some means to escape, there would be a court martial to be faced for running off and leaving all the classified “stuff”―especially, in the vault. Also, with a large number of enemy combatants loose in the city, the safest place was staying where we were, even if it involved combat.

When everything was analyzed, the only option was to stand and fight. Hopefully, we would be able to keep the attackers off the second floor of the building and out of the communications spaces until daylight. With the classified material in our spaces and the inadequate disposal facilities, there would be no hope of being able to dispose of things in time to evacuate successfully―even if an escape route was available. When there is time, and you are asking people to face possible death, it seems good to let them know what is happening. It is important to stay calm; it will reassure your people, you have a handle on the situation, and are their best chance for continued good health. Panic is never a leader’s friend and is devastating to those being led.

During the night, there were reports of several MP jeep patrols having been ambushed in Saigon, which heightened my concern about the expected attack. About three o’clock in the morning, the explosions commenced all around town, some sounding close! The men in the compound went to their defensive positions without being told. I spent the time going around to each position on the roof, insuring everything was in readiness. I wished each man to remain calm, not firing indiscriminately. There were only 45 rounds for each of my rifle positions. If they opened fire at shadows without having a clear target, we would soon exhaust our limited supply of ammunition. If possible, I wanted to conserve our ammunition as well as avoid a prolonged firefight with our limited resources.

With the fear in my throat so great it was hard to talk or swallow, I went around to each defensive position, quietly reiterating my orders to my men and the other men in the compound who were manning rooftop positions. As Chief, I took it upon myself to issue orders to the men they were to shoot only if we were shot at and, then, only if they had a clear target―not wasting ammunition shooting at shadows. I tried to make certain they understood my orders trying to make sure they remained calm enough to carry out the orders. As a Chief Petty Officer, I assumed it was my responsibility to try to keep everyone calm even though I was uncertain whether any of us would be alive in the morning. It was my job to keep us alive and to keep communications functioning.

I am proud no one, in the compound that night, fired a shot―there was no need. If the others were half as frightened as I was, there was plenty of nervous tension on the trigger fingers. The report earlier in the evening and the explosions around town, made me expect to see the enemy come charging out of the dark night to attack the compound. I noticed one young officer was aiming his .45 pistol at a figure sneaking along in the shadows of the wall on the other side of the street. I walked over quickly, to see what he was aiming at, and quietly said to him, “Don’t shoot, Sir. I think he is one of ours.” The figure turned out to be one of the Military Police patrols. As a result of the loss of several of the jeep patrols, the MPs did not run through intersections without first checking whether it was clear of an ambush. I could not recognize the identity of the individual in the shadows. I only knew he was not shooting at us and waiting to learn the identity was our best option since it would conserve our limited supply of ammunition and shooting at a “friendly” was not wise, since they would be sure to shoot back—possibly with a M-60 machine gun.

The 1968 Tet Offensive went all around the city and near the naval headquarters compound. The NVA/VC attacked the Presidential Palace, which was approximately three or four blocks away―the American Embassy a few blocks farther. There were intense, hotly disputed battles going on not far from us. We learned later, the radio station to be attacked was in the Cholon area, but the fear of expectation was real, as we waited for the attack, expecting a black-clad hoard of soldiers to come charging out of the dark with guns blazing and death eminent. When you are too scared to talk, in anything but a whisper, because the enemy might hear, knowing by sunrise you and the men working for you will probably be dead, you fight the way you trained. Whatever happened, I was determined to react as the Chief, “dragon” or no.

In retrospect, I wonder why our compound was not on the Tet Offensive target list. Directly across the street was the headquarters for the U.S. Naval Support Activities for Vietnam. On our side of the street was the billet for General Westmoreland, Commander, Military Assistance Command Vietnam. (The general was at his headquarters and not at home that night.) It looked as if we were a “soft” target which could have been taken with relative ease and of some political, if not strategic, value. I learned later, my maternal grandmother was a praying lady where her children and grandchildren were concerned. She prayed for me intensely, and God making a difference.

My “sister-cousin” Alice shared the following about our grandmother: “. . . and what you don’t know is that your life is a direct answer to our beloved Granny’s thousands of prayers. We took turns spending nights with her as often as mother would allow, and she was a true prayer warrior. She never forgot a grandchild, great grandchild or child. She prayed so earnestly for their souls and safekeeping. Your name was mentioned often. I knew ‘Dewey’ before I ever met you at Norman’s funeral. She prayed you through your trials in Vietnam. . . . There’s no doubt she had a direct line into heaven! She’d be so proud of the choices you’ve made, your testimony and God’s love you so faithfully share with everyone you can. I’m blessed to have you in my family.” ^[2]

Later, I read five battalions of NVA and VC had infiltrated Saigon for the 1968 Tet Offensive. Another estimate was four thousand enemy attacked Saigon. Lieutenant General Hal Moore of the book and movie, We Were Soldiers, stated there is always something a leader can do to improve the situation―it is never three strikes and you’re out. ^[3] We were facing a possible battle: with four World War II-era carbines, with forty-five rounds per weapon, with carbines which could be set to full-automatic fire by nervous fingers, it was not a comfortable position. The enemy did not come, but the fear did. In spite of fear everyone stayed calm as we waited, hearing the explosions near us. I would have given anything for two Thompson sub-machine guns, with three magazines each and a supply of hand grenades for our inner-perimeter defensive positions. It would have been better if each of my men had been issued weapons.

I Served with Heroes

Those who serve in the military or defend society from the dangers will be the first to tell you they are not heroes. They will say, however, they have served with heroes. I served with heroes. Those young sailors were asked to serve in a “hostile fire area” without weapons. It was thought they did not require weapons in Saigon, going to and from their billets to work, knowing they were in a country at war where they could anticipate an unexpected attack at any moment. These heroes quietly went about doing the duties asked with professional competence, wishing they had the comfort of weapons. The Tet Offensive proved the fallacy nothing was going to happen in Saigon.

There is a less dramatic form of heroism, which does not diminish the more spectacular events propelling heroics to the highest level of sacrifice. Quietly going about their duties when fear is rampant and survival seems questionable is heroism, expected by the trust of comrades, but normally not rewarded, except in the acceptance by those of the same experience―facing the possibility of death every day. Those twenty or so individuals, having to stay in the Communications Center, while the four with weapons were manning compound defensive positions, were my heroes. They did not have the reassurance of having weapons with explosions going on not many blocks away, keeping the communication circuits and facilities operating while awaiting the predicted enemy attack. The hero stays to do the necessary duties when self-preservation indicates the flight mode of escaping imminent danger the wisest alternative, staying to carry out the duties, earning our respect and admiration.

My being in Vietnam did not affect the war one way or the other. Still, I am glad I went. I believe many veterans feel they were glad they were there. It was a “defining moment,” changing my life. I cannot say it was a “rite of passage,” but going to war, made me examine my spiritual condition―the possibility death could come at any moment will cause introspection. I was running away from the responsibility of accepting Christ as my personal Savior. As I look back, this may have set in motion the framework for my making the decision a decade later. Regretfully, I was a slow learner.

Raining Rockets on My Life

From time to time, the Viet Cong (Charlie) sent rockets into Saigon. With several exceptions, they did not usually land close to where I worked or lived. One morning, Charlie sent about two dozen 122mm rockets, aiming them toward the Presidential Palace. Fortunately, rockets are difficult to aim. They are pointed in the general direction of the target, hoping they come down about where you want them.

The morning was still dark in Saigon, when I stepped out of the small taxi, paying the driver, turning to walk toward the gate of the compound, when explosions seemed to come from all around. I thought about “hitting the dirt,” but looked over at the wet weeds and grass, thought about messing up my freshly starched, khaki Chief’s uniform, deciding to let the explosions come a little closer. These foolish thoughts could have cost my life and seem dangerous now. I crouched down as low as possible beside the small tree, trying to minimize the possibility of being hit by shrapnel, waiting for a lull in the explosions. It seemed like an eternity, but was only a few seconds when the lull came.

It seemed prudent to get some layers of building over my head, so I ran the remaining distance toward the COMNAVFORV compound gate and shelter, quickly covering the remaining twenty or thirty yards to the compound gate―I was moving out smartly. As I turned the corner into the compound, I remember seeing a yellowish gray plume of smoke coming up near the building directly across the street. The rocket hit in the little back yard and was probably something like 25 or 30 yards away from the compound gate, the rockets coming down a little short―if we were the target. The explosions reverberating off the building walls and solid fences made it seem as if they were all around. There was some difficulty putting the letters into the mailbox inside the building. The mailbox seemed to be moving around on the wall.

I spent one week short of three years and four months in Saigon, having eight campaign stars on my Vietnam Service Medal, leaving Tan Son Nhut Air Base at 1830 hours on the first of November 1969, but not in country long enough (twenty-four hours) to be eligible for the ninth campaign which started that day. I regret not having been able to stay another six hours to be eligible for the ninth campaign star; that would have been “cool.” In 1975 I would be eligible for the ninth campaign star, my ship being a part of Operation Frequent Wind in the evacuation of Saigon, but it is also “cool” having three stars on my Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (AFEM) received early in my career.

Link to Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt, Jr. Zumwalt-233 I had the distinct honor of meeting Admiral Zumwalt socially, one time. He was gracious, friendly and immediately made me feel at ease in his company. I had the greatest respect for him then, and still do today. I was delighted and proud, when he was named as Chief of Naval Operations and endorsed his efforts to make my Navy better. I consider it a great honor to have been a Chief Petty Officer on his staff! There is a saying, "The Chiefs run the Navy. We let the officers drive our ships." Admiral Zumwalt could have driven my ship anytime! I am proud to have served with him!

Last Deployment

Ironically, I would be off the coast of Vietnam, when it fell to the Communist invasion in 1975. My final tour of duty, before retiring, was aboard a ship being on deployment to the Western Pacific (WESTPAC) area. I was aboard the refrigerated stores ship, U.S.S. Vega (AF-59), as Operations Department Chief Petty Officer, when Cambodia (Operation Eagle Pull) and Vietnam (Operation Frequent Wind) fell, also becoming a part of the SS Mayaguez Recovery Operation when the Cambodian Communist rebels captured the United States merchant ship. The crew of the Vega receiving three Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal awards―one for each of the above mentioned operations, two Humanitarian Service Medal awards for the evacuation operations and one Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation.

We were about twelve miles off the coast of Vietnam, near the port of Vung Tau, when Saigon fell, we watched as the people evacuated their country in anything that would float or fly, trying to escape the horror of the Communist invasion. The United States Navy ships escorted the Vietnamese “Freedom Flotilla” to Subic Bay in the Philippines. There were so many ships in port, we were sent back to sea to look for stragglers.

Personal Thoughts & Observations

The following was received from the Commander, Task Force Seventy-Three, and illustrates how planning seemed evident to even the Vega’s immediate superior:

1. Vega’s superior performance in carrying the full load of SCS is noted with great pleasure. As you service the fleet, you have shown a superb level of readiness and exceptional "can do" spirit. I am very proud of the old girl. Well done to all hands for a totally professional showing.

My Observations:

The 27th of April saw the ship arriving off the coast of Vung Tau, Vietnam, to replenish the amphibious landing force watching the communist takeover of South Vietnam. The Vega was scheduled to conduct underway replenishments of the task force the following day. The Vega anchored late in the evening. It was anchored approximately 22 miles from the coast of Vietnam so there was nothing to be seen. The following morning Saigon fell and the refugees began their mass exodus to the sea. The people fleeing the communists came out to sea in anything that would float or fly. They came in small and large craft. Everything from tugboats and barges to the Vietnamese naval craft. It was an astonishing sight for me since I had spent three and a half years stationed in Saigon.

The Vega was off the coast of Vietnam until the 30th of April. While the ship did not pick up any refugees, one Vietnamese Landing Ship Tank (LST-505) came alongside for food and water. It was sad to see the people packed so closely on the decks of the ship. The Vietnamese pilots flew their helicopters and other aircraft out to the waiting ships. When I the flight decks were too full to land any more aircraft, the pilots crashed their aircraft as close to the ships as possible in order to be picked up.

I wrote down some of my thoughts during this period and it might be well to include them at this time:

Today is 1 May 1975, and a day of destiny. Presently, the ship is anchored at 9-03N 107-37E off the coast of Vietnam. We are a part of one of the largest groups of ships assembled in many years. It staggers the imagination to see so many ships in one area. It is impossible to count their vast numbers, as they are of every size, shape and description imaginable.

Since the North Vietnamese invasion of South Vietnam is now complete, the mass departure of citizens from the Republic of South Vietnam should be greatly curbed. Still, a mass of people have departed the country and one has to wonder if this might not be a bad thing for those who have conquered this country's land but not so many of its populace. There have been so many people to flee the communists one wonders if there are many people left in the country.

Of course, there are many more who could not flee the conquerors.

Those who have fled the invaders have come out to sea in just about any craft that would float. Fortunately, for all, the weather has been calm and has made their departure a little easier. This morning a Yard Freight Utility landing craft came alongside for food and water. YFU-69 was loaded with several cars, a jeep and jeepny/land rover type vehicle. There were approximately twelve persons aboard this craft and the "skipper" was planning to try to make Malasia (Singapore, I think they said). Since this morning, we have joined with the rest of the U.S. ships standing by to assist this evacuation of a country.

Earlier in the day, I counted at least 22 vessels around us. Since that time, the number has grown into an uncountable mass of vessels of all types. It seems as if most of the South Vietnamese Navy must have departed. Many sea-going vessels surrounded by shallow-water patrol boats and fishing boats are everywhere one looks.

As yet we do not know how many people have left their homeland. It seems there are people crowding the decks of every ship and boat one sees. Who will welcome these displaced persons? What country will offer them asylum? Where can they go to start rebuilding their lives? I have not heard anyone give the answers to these questions. Most countries would seem reluctant to offer a safe harbor to so many people and to so many naval craft—some as large as LSTs and destroyers. There is a rather nice size navy, which has managed to extract itself from South Vietnam with their craft and weapons. It will be interesting to see what develops from this point. Can they continue to maintain a semblance of order and perhaps act as a government in exile with the hope of one day returning to their homeland?

Today is 2 May 1975. It is 1730 (5:30 P.M.). LST-505 came alongside to receive food for 2,000 refugees for five to seven days and 20,000 gallons of fresh water. This is the closest we have been to the face of war. Seeing these people crowing the decks of the LST makes a person take a long hard look at himself. I am not sure what I see within myself.

Mostly, I feel a deep sense of sadness. I am sad that on the eve of our 199th birthday of independence, we betrayed another country in its fight for freedom. It saddens me to think, if our country's leaders would have stepped in with moral indignation and courage, all of these refugees might not have had to leave their homes.

It is my belief if we had demonstrated the courage to get involved, regardless of the cost, we could have stopped things before they got beyond the point of being controllable. This is an exercise in intellectual hypothesis and many will disagree with my views. Be that as it may, I am deeply saddened that because we did not have the resolution and courage to stand up and be counted these people have to bear crosses we might well have done away with.

Have 199 years taught us nothing? It should have shown us freemen cannot turn their backs on other people's fight for liberty. Too soon we forget our own fight against oppression. Can we really be free if we isolate ourselves from the world around us? Will our freedom count for much when others are not free to live as they choose? Yes, I am sad and more than just a little frightened at the answers to these questions. God grant us the collective courage to stand alongside our friends in their time of trouble even though we would rather not be involved. God grant us the courage to feel our responsibilities to freemen everywhere, even when it is easier to run away instead.

While I am sad, the people I see on LST-505 seem relatively happy and filled with hope. It would appear they feel a sense of gratitude at being able to flee their country's invaders. It would seem they are people without a country and yet they appear optimistic. They have left their homes, relatives, friends and neighbors and yet, they are optimistic. How can this be? Is what they are fleeing so bad as to make their present life happier: in comparison?

The Vega and other American ships escorted the refugee flotilla back to Subic Bay and the Philippine Islands. This would be named the New Life Flotilla. During the slow trip back, the Executive Officer took command of one of the Vietnamese ships on 5 May. Since the harbor at Subic Bay was so packed with ships, the Vega was sent back to sea to continue looking for refugees fleeing the communists and assist them in reaching safety.

The following was received from the Secretary of Defense, James R. Schlesinger:

TO ALL MEMBERS OF THE ARMED FORCES.

As the last withdrawal of Americans from Vietnam takes place, it is my special responsibility to address to you, the men and women of our armed forces, a few words of appreciation on behalf of the American people.

For most of you the tragedy of Southeast Asia was more than a distant and abstract event. You have fought there, you have lost comrades there, you have suffered there. In this hour of pain and reflection, you may feel your efforts and sacrifices have gone for naught.

That is not the case. When the passions have muted and the history is written, Americans will recall their Armed Forces served them well. Under circumstances more difficult than ever before faced by our military services, you accomplished the missions assigned to you by higher authority. In combat you were victorious and you left the field with honor.

Though you have done all that was asked of you, it will be stated the war itself was futile. In some sense, such may be said of any national effort that ultimately fails. Yet our involvement was not purposeless. It was intended to assist a small nation to preserve its independence in the face of external attack and to provide at least a reasonable chance to survive. That Vietnam succumbed to powerful external forces vitiates neither the explicit purpose behind our involvement—nor the impulse of generosity toward those under attack that has long infused American policy.

Your record of duty performed under difficult conditions remains unmatched. I salute you for it beyond any question, you are entitled to the nation's respect, admiration, and gratitude.

The following was received from the Secretary of Navy:

The performance of the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps in the evacuation of Americans and Vietnamese this week was outstanding. Those who participated have earned my lasting respect for their professional competence in conducting the final military mission of our nation's Vietnam experience. This particular effort was typical of the many heroic actions of sailors and marines throughout the years of our involvement in the Southeast Asia conflict.

I express deep appreciation to all men and women of the Navy and Marines Corps for their dedication to duty—whatever location or assignment they have had during these difficult years. My appreciation extends to the civilian members of the Department and to the families of our personnel. Great personal sacrifices have been made as a matter of routine. These sacrifices are keenly felt at this moment. Whatever our heartaches at the outcome of events, we must now look to the future. Our Navy and Marine Corps must remain strong. Our personal allegiance to our country must not be forgotten. God bless you for being great Americans. Signed by J. William Middendorf, II, Secretary of the Navy.

The following was received from General George S. Brown, USAF, Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff.

VIETNAM EVACUATION

Execution of Operation Frequent Wind is a tribute to the courage, professionalism, and devotion to duty of the air crews, ground security forces, ship's companies and support personnel who participated. This final humanitarian action, culminating along military commitment in Southeast Asia, was accomplished under the most demanding circumstances. Please convey my personal appreciation and admiration to those who executed this successful operation.

While at sea, word was received concerning the SS Mayaguez being captured, the Vega being directed to head in that direction following behind the faster U.S.S. Holt (DE-1074). The Vega was a refrigerated stores ship, carrying supplies from Subic Bay, in the Philippines, to the Marine Expeditionary Force and ships in the South China Sea. Although not involved in the action, we were close whenever something was occurring. We were expecting, and making plans for, the possibility of towing the large, container ship when it was recovered. The members of the crew were released. The crew and the Marine boarding party were able to get the ship underway being towed by the U.S.S. Holt, at least initially, getting the boilers up later. We had an underway replenishment with the Holt the next day, seeing some of the Marines on deck. Those Marines and the Air Force helicopter crews who took them in and who fought on the island known as Koh Tang are my heroes. We lost some brave men on that little island and sadly, we left some Marines behind! Every serviceman will tell you, "That’s not supposed to happen!"

It was an interesting deployment, considering the time I had spent in Vietnam, emotionally thought-provoking, for my last year of naval service, wondering whether the deaths of those 58,272 individuals ^[4] really mattered, deciding politics may stop war as well as start it, the deaths of those brave warriors did matter. Their sacrifice should never be forgotten. The names of my cousin, Norman [Warrant Officer Norman Wayne Partridge-3077], and his two companions are listed on the black marble wall of the Vietnam War Memorial. (I will relate his unfinished parchment in chapter 8.) Politics may change, but heroism is a legacy coming down to us across the ages undiminished as the heroes paid the ultimate sacrifice, in the company of their hero friends, to help protect the freedom we hold dear and attempt to help others achieve. Our freedom is paid for by the blood sacrifice of heroes and Heroes!

Upon returning to San Francisco from the WESTPAC deployment, I retired from active naval service, completing another nine and a half years of inactive service in the Fleet Reserve before officially retiring at the end of thirty years service. When a person volunteers for duty in a war-zone, the prospect of dying or being wounded is something you think about before requesting such assignment, trying to get your life right with God, asking for His mercy and protection, trying to face the fear of dying before it should occur, resigning yourself for whatever happens.

I do not like the way the politicians try to play general, but I want civilian control of the military. We are willing to die for our country, we ask only our sacrifice be not futile, but then in God’s view all war is futile. I am glad Jesus is coming soon. Until then, we will have wars and rumors of wars and the conundrum war brings.

During my years of service, I witnessed naval communications go from Morse Code to teletype and was getting satellite downlink facilities on the ship when I retired. I was also Communications Watch Officer for the Naval Communications Center at Guam when it became computerized handling fleet communications. This allowed me to be instrumental in the testing and instigation of the procedures utilizing the new computer to make communications for the fleet more expedient and easier for the ones trying to keep the traffic flowing to the fleet.

I was a part of Joint Task Force Eight in 1962 with the Atomic Tests in the Pacific when Hawaii's night was lit up like day as the last bomb was exploded in the test series many miles south of the Hawaiian Islands. It was a stunning, experience of the destructive power of nuclear weapons. I was also able to visit Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan earlier where the weapons had been used to end WWII.

Communications Watch Officer

From Carlsbad, I was transferred to the U.S. Naval Communication Station at Guam, Marinas Islands. I was stationed there from 21 July 1973 to 12 July 1974. I was assigned duty as Communication Watch Officer (CWO). I was the direct representative of the senior executives. As such, I was designated the senior watch-stander in general services communication with the responsibility for efficient utilization of all tactical assets. I coordinated and directed all general service communication supervisory watch personnel on matters pertaining to carrying out established procedures and policy. When an operational requirement necessitated immediate divergence from established communication policy, I initiated action in the best interest of communication effectiveness and informed cognizant executive personnel in a timely manner of my action and supporting reasons thereof.

All my assignments have been interesting, however, the tour at the U.S. Naval Communication Station, Guam, was the most intriguing as it excited an interest in computer application. During the space of one year, I was privileged to witness how the Naval Communications Processing and Routing System (NAVCOMPARS) could revolutionize the communicator’s work. The computerized system made dramatic changes in the methods and effectiveness of processing and relaying information. It became possible to handle a larger volume of work with greater ease, fewer operators, and increased efficiency. As CWO, I was given a comprehensive overview of the capabilities and potential of computers and satellites to dynamically improve man’s ability to process and transmit vital information expeditiously. I wish to participate in discovering better means and methods in the utilization of these advanced instruments that allow the processing of intelligence on a real time basis.

My initial personal evaluation of performance at the NAVCOMMSTA Guam reflected my unusual assignment:

Annual evaluation aboard NAVCOMMSTA GUAM 23 JUL 73 - 30 NOV 73:

Background data: (RMC) Communications Watch Officer—responsible for efficient and effective utilization of General Service assets and coordination of command watch sections.

Evaluation comments: In the short time Chief Petty Officer Neufeld has been assigned, he has exhibited a steadily improving general knowledge of communication procedures and policies. Along with expanded knowledge, his performance of duty is also improving. He is a quiet and unassuming individual, with the ability to imparting of well being to others he comes in contact with. It is felt that his growth potential in rate is not yet reached, the outlook of which is excellent. His cooperativeness and his will to please others is outstanding. When speaking or writing the English language, Chief Neufeld has the ability to present himself clearly and concisely. He is highly recommended for people-oriented types of duty. Ratee is eligible in all respects and is recommended for advancement to Senior Chief Petty Officer.

Justification comments: Chief Neufeld's conduct is exemplary of a Senior Petty Officer. At all times, either on or off duty, he sets an outstanding example for others to follow.

Being stationed at the Communication Station, gave me a broader view of naval communications. It was an experience, which would decide my future occupational pursuits. I arrived before the new computer was to be installed and received a first-hand experience of the old method of handling message traffic addressed to the ships operating in the western Pacific Ocean areas. I saw the old “torn tape” relay methods of manually handling the teletypewriter messages and then the operation, when the computer became operational. I have long been a believer in letting the machines make life easier. The computer was seen in the same light, and I delighted in trying to utilize it to make the communication operation run more efficiently and quickly. There was some reluctance on the part of personnel to utilize the untried computer to its fullest potential. I was instrumental in causing the new methods to be exhibited for the first time in controlling a satellite communications link to the station at the remote island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean.

I had been informed it was possible for the computer to be linked with satellite communications circuits. When the requirement for the circuits to Diego Garcia (in the Indian Ocean) was established, I asked if the watch personnel could set things up to run on the satellite circuits. When it was learned the circuitry was possible, I obtained permission and established the links. It was especially gratifying to see the computer handle the message traffic instead of the extra watch personnel that ordinarily would have been required for the additional circuits to Diego Garcia. It was a start and after the circuits had been in operation for most of the watch, it was difficult for the more reluctant individuals to deny it was possible for the computer to do the work more efficiently than manual intervention.

I had the opportunity to establish circuits with the Commander, Seventh Fleet, one of the major afloat commands, when the flagship was docked in the Philippine Islands. It was known the computer would operate well on the reliable satellite and oceanic cable links, it was thought it could not hold up, when it was necessary for radio frequency transmission. When the flagship got underway from Manila, the circuits were shifted from the oceanic cables to the radio frequency transmission. The message traffic continued to flow to the flagship without any problems or major delay. It was proved the computer was able to handle things so much easier than had been done in the past.

I delighted in being instrumental in trying these new methods of communications and inspiring others to utilize the new “tool.” It was difficult for the prominent individuals to extend themselves and authorize the utilization of the computer to its fullest potential. I did not feel this reluctance and tried to push the watch personnel to utilize it to the fullest capabilities. I enjoyed watching the computer do the jobs once done with so much more difficulty by manual methods. I took on the role of instigator and motivator to urge the personnel to utilize the computer to its fullest designed potential. It excited me to see the computer doing the work and making life for the watch-standers easier. The personnel to man the Fleet Center message relay function had been cut to around half by the introduction of the computer. Communications was more rapid and efficient than what was accomplished with manual methods of the past years. This dramatic observation made me decide I wanted to enter the field of computers, when I retired from the naval service. The experience on Guam only whetted my desire to learn more about this fascinating field.

Recognition of professional performance

I wrote the following memorandum to my immediate superior to make official the recognition of the professionalism displayed by the personnel who were supervising the efforts of the personnel manning the Fleet Center communication efforts:

1. It is respectfully recommended consideration be given for recognition of the leadership and professional accomplishments displayed by three Traffic Watch Officers. It is difficult to describe their accomplishments because the effects are primarily behavioral and attitudinal in scope. It has taken great dedication and persistence to reverse the trend, exhibited by many Fleet Center personnel, of lack of concern for anything in the field of naval communications. It is my firm conviction, that last year, there were few communicators in the Fleet Center who had a feeling for their job, responsibilities or duties. The general attitude conveyed to all was one of apathy and even, at times, hostility toward the mission of NCS Guam. Even the watch supervisors, at that time, exhibited a blatant lack of concern for their responsibilities, and showed little professional pride in themselves or their men. It is with great and justifiable pride I announce my conviction this situation has been corrected by the efforts of the Traffic Watch Officers and recommend proper recognition be given to:

2. While changes in attitude and behavior are difficult to document, some recent events serve to illustrate the present high level of professionalism, which exists throughout the Fleet Center. Tropical Storm Carla required the setting of Tropical Storm Condition One, on short notice, during the evening of 2 May 74. During this period of heavy traffic, WESTPAC COMM TEST and weather uncertainty, numerous Fleet Center personnel voluntarily came in, without being asked, and helped the regular watch as peak loaders. Also, personnel who had stood the eve watch that day stayed on to assist the mid watch to clear traffic and assist as needed. This would not have happened last year. The COMM TEST has repeatedly provided opportunity for personnel to exhibit their professionalism with an extraordinary number of terminations and heavy traffic loads. On 12 June 1974, the Fleet Center had nine terminations. CAMS required the additional emergency termination of USS New Orleans and requested to know if we could handle additional circuits with the USS Juneau and NAVCOMMSTAs Diego Garcia and H. E. Holt. Although it required considerable ingenuity and management of resources to figure out where to put the additional circuits, each request was met with a hearty “can do” response. Each of these Traffic Watch Officers believes he had the best watch section and takes pride in the professional accomplishments of himself and his men. In the length of time since NAVCOMPARS has been operational, the watch personnel have constantly strived to further their understanding of this communication “tool” in order to utilize it to the fullest potential. This has required flexibility, ingenuity and initiative as procedures, methods and practices had to be developed or modified to meet the new requirements of a changing communications environment.

3. It is apparent the major factor contributing to the impressive change in professional performance and attitudes can only be attributed to the leadership qualities exercised by the Traffic Watch Officers mentioned. It is with justifiable pride in their outstanding performance I request consideration be given for official recognition in the form of command letter of commendation or appreciation. The recognition of leadership efforts and accomplishments should prove good for morale and encourage greater efforts by others in the command to exhibit their professional potential. RMC D. D. NEUFELD, USN

I was never certain if this memorandum accomplished the recognition I desired as I was transferred soon afterwards. I also feel I may have had a slight influence on the change in attitude and the professionalism exhibited by these personnel. The position of CWO allowed me to advise and work with the other men while they were standing watches. The CWO position was removed from the direct chain of command so it was a position of advisory influence to the Fleet Center Personnel. My tour of duty with the naval reservists in Carlsbad helped me on Guam. I was able to persuade where once I had a tendency to order things done.

I received the following personal evaluation of my performance when I was transferred from U.S. Naval Communications Station, Guam:

Transfer evaluation aboard NAVCOMMSTA GUAM 22 JUL 73 - 12 JUL 74:

Background data: (RMC) Communications Watch Officer—Functions as direct representative of NAVCOMMSTA Communication Officer. As such, is designated as Senior Watch-stander in General Services (GENSER) Communications and is responsible for efficient utilization of tactical assets. Performs as liaison and coordination point for intra-department/division watch functions. Authorized to release operational GENSER messages originated by the command.

Evaluation comments: Chief Petty Officer Neufeld’s performance is such that he will be a great loss to the command. In his quiet but firm manner, he has the ability to gain the confidence of personnel under him and achieve excellent results from them. His knowledge of Naval Communications has been applied exceedingly well towards the efficient utilization of GENSER assets. His sincere feeling for other people instills a rapport conductive to an easy and harmonious working relationship with all he comes in contact with. Chief Neufeld is a very conscientious and dedicated professional Navyman who places the service above himself. Chief Petty Officer Neufeld is qualified and recommended for advancement to Senior Chief.

Justification comments: Chief Neufeld has been instrumental in the improved working relationship with other departments/divisions. His performance of duties is of the highest quality and a definite asset to any command. Due to his wide and varied background in the Naval Service, Chief Neufeld has gained considerable Communication knowledge and know-how which he applies to his daily work with exceptional results. On his own initiative, he has on many occasions undertaken projects to improve the effectiveness as well as working conditions of his division. Always with a kind word for others, regardless of conditions, Chief Neufeld is the best example humanly possible in the area of personal conduct. He has never been known to commit any act, verbally or otherwise, that would bring discredit upon himself or the Naval Service. A soft-spoken man, he has the ability to clearly and concisely convey his meaning with an excellent command of the English language. He continuously demonstrates the skill and intelligence necessary for the added responsibility of a higher rate.

It has been said that you do not have to give reasons because your friends don’t need them and your enemies won’t believe them. While this is undoubtedly true, I feel I should set the record straight. During the “mini reunion” of the Neufeld kids on Memorial day weekend 1981, I was told about my brother-in-law’s security clearance investigation for his work with the Kansas National Guard. He mentioned the investigator’s report to him concerning several members of our family and he mentioned some things concerning my naval service. My impression was the brother-in-law felt there might be some truth to the stigma concerning my service record did not show that I was recommended for re-enlistment upon my transfer to the Fleet Reserve and retirement status. I am uncertain as to the investigator’s branch of service, but it is apparent he knew nothing of naval retirement policy and if his remarks are true, show a blatant lack of professionalism on the investigator’s part.

Now for a bit of bragging although as friends you won't need it:

I was required to request transfer to the Fleet Reserve a year in advance, therefore, everything was determined by the Navy Department. I was asked to reconsider a number of times during the U.S.S. Vega’s deployment and if I had wished to change my mind, the officers and men I served with would have had the greatest chance for making me extend my service. I am proud of my naval service to my country. It was both honorable and faithful. I am extremely proud to have been a part of the crew of men and officers of the U.S.S. Vega. They were and are a group of skilled professionals who did their jobs with flair and aplomb! It was a historic Western Pacific deployment in 1975. It seems well to provide the readers with some information concerning my professional evaluations and allow them to judge the nature of my naval service.

I was the only Chief marked in the top 1 percentile in both the category of performance and reliability. I was one of three Chiefs marked in the top 5 percentile category in: cooperativeness, initiative, conduct, resourcefulness, potential and the overall evaluation appraisal block. I was one of two Chiefs marked in the top 10 percentile category in: appearance, leadership directing and expression—writing. My lowest marks were in the top 30 percentile for leadership counseling and expression—speaking. There were four other Chiefs rated in the top 50 percentile area and this is considered the medial area in which most people are expected to fit and is listed as the “typical outstanding Chief of ratee’s rate.” The marking for my trend was “steady” and the marking for “your attitude toward having ratee in your command” was in the “particularly desire to have.” I was also marked as highly recommended for: MAAG/Mission duty, joint/combined staff attaché/naval headquarters, recruiter, instructor, career counselor, independent duty, recruit company commander, and NAVCOMPARS site supervisor.

The verbal description in the background data blocks describing my primary and collateral duties is as follows:

“Chief Neufeld is an exceedingly competent individual. His attributes include a particular flair for administration, an energetic and inquisitive mind which always seeks to find a better method of getting the job done, he is a tenacious and always finished what he starts and above all, ratee is a thoroughly dedicated Navy professional. Chief Neufeld, assigned as departmental leading chief, efficiently schedules and coordinates work and operations with the postal clerks, medical department, ship’s office, combat information center, signal bridge and radio. As training assistant for the command, he organizes and coordinates ship-wide training. Ratee’s flawless files, and administrative procedures have contributed immeasurably to the smooth and effective operation of the department and the training program. Chief Neufeld is a tireless counselor, spending many hours, routinely after working hours, providing guidance and support to all levels of the Operations Department. Ratee regularly works a 60-hour week, giving his free time to the personnel who require his assistance and to solving personnel problems of the thirty young men assigned to him. Once a project is undertaken, RMC Neufeld stays with it until it is finished. A mere suggestion that a job needs to be done, or a project undertaken will immediately find ratee involved in completing that job or project. Chief Neufeld operates with great initiative and organization and will be effective in a role from totally independent operation to supervision of a large group. Chief Neufeld’s contributions to Operation Eagle Pull, Frequent Wind in the New Life Flotilla, and the S.S. Mayaguez recovery were notable particularly in the area of communications. Often working 12 or more hours a day, Chief Neufeld personally insured every circuit was up and operating at top efficiency. Often manning the voice circuits, Chief Neufeld contributed to the command’s responsiveness to the ever-changing situation. Ratee is a strong supporter of the Navy equal opportunity programs. His ability to express himself in writing and orally is outstanding. RMC Neufeld is recommended for promotion within earliest of his peers.”

The verbal description in the evaluation comments which is used to further describe ratee’s performance and qualifications, contained the following comments:

“Ratee continually exhibits unequalled performance, standing out virtually from all others. His professional knowledge and ability is exceeded only by his dedication and zeal. Whether in uniform or not, Chief Neufeld’s performance and carriage are an example to be emulated by peers and juniors alike. Ratee always has a well thought out and viable point of view on any situation, presents his case, discuss the situation with his seniors and then “take charge and move out” in the direction whether it is the one he championed or not. Once having been assigned a duty or having selected a course of action by his own initiative, he sees it through to swift completion. Ratee may be relied upon to check out and discover problems and find solutions. He is dynamic and is aggressive in completion of his routine duties, thereby stopping many problems before they even are recognized by others. Radioman Chief Petty Officer Neufeld is moderate in drink, demeanor and speech. He consistently demonstrates those qualities which have earned him the reputation among his shipmates of being a “gentleman.” Ratee brings his total aptitude and experience to bear in solving a problem. Every resource is used in daily working routine. Ratee is seldom at a loss as to what-to-do-next. Ratee has not developed to his full potential. He would make an outstanding Senior Chief or Warrant Officer. Chief Neufeld's ability to organize and utilize his personnel is of the highest order. Ratee is an excellent supervisor, knowing when to bear down and when to ease off. He directs and leads by example, challenging his men to be better performers instead of threatening them if they do not perform. Ratee is an excellent writer and presents his concepts in a clear, concise manner. His reports, evaluations and memorandums are clear, concise, readily understood and brief.”

I had in mind to cite some other evaluations to clear the point concerning my naval service. The other evaluations were not quite as high as my last one, but they were all well above the medial of the of the average 50 percentile expected of the “typical outstanding chief or ratee’s rate.” In fact, the evaluations are so good as to be embarrassing. Still, it is nice to exit my active duty on such a good note. I believe my evaluations would have done much to compensate for the one bad evaluation received at Carlsbad and would have soon insured my advancement to Senior Chief Petty Officer had I elected to stay in the naval service. I am proud of my naval service to my country and extremely humbled by the evaluation remarks I received.

Annual evaluation aboard USS VEGA 12 JUL 74 - 30 NOV 74:

Background data: (RMC) Chief Radioman, Alternate Classified Material Security Custodian, Electronics Material Officer, Operations 3-M Coordinator, Operations Department Administrative Assistant, Departmental Safety Officer, Departmental Leading Chief Petty Officer, Crypto Board Member

Evaluation comments: RMC Neufeld’s over-all performance since reporting aboard has been outstanding. He has given a new meaning and significance to the Departmental Leading Chief’s billet. Chief Neufeld has an excellent and comprehensive background in all aspects of Naval Communications, administration and organization. He has further demonstrated an exceptional ability to analyze administrative changes and recognize and correct problem areas and streamline procedures. His recommendations for physical and administrative changes significantly improved the functional efficiency and capacity of the Operations Officer. Although he lacks any formal 3-M training, RMC Neufeld has successfully taken over the functions of Departmental 3-M Assistant and maintained the departmental standard of excellence in this area. He is completely reliable in every aspect of his duties from the initial sounding of trouble spots to the follow up and supervision required to ensure timely corrective action is completed. Chief Neufeld’s quality control is extraordinarily effective in every task he undertakes; he has set a new standard for his men. His completed staff work is invariably accurate, comprehensive and timely. Chief Neufeld is a thorough and meticulous worker in all things, and expresses himself concisely and accurately in any medium. His conduct, moral standards, and equal opportunity goals are of the highest caliber.

Justification comments: RMC Neufeld is an unusually competent and effective leader. His industry and initiative are such that it is not uncommon for him to be in the Operations Office at 2200 investigating administration or studying a new field. He learned enough about the 3-M system completely in his own initiative, in less than 3 weeks, to successfully take on duties of Departmental 3-M Assistant, which he continues to perform in an exemplary manner. Upon reporting aboard, Chief Neufeld began looking for ways to improve capabilities and efficiency of the Operations Office, again on his own initiative, and within 2 months submitted and completed physical and administrative changes which streamlines the Department’s filing system, tickler file system, and proofreading procedures. His extraordinary zeal for accuracy and pride in his finished products have already become legendary in the department, and are setting a new standard for his men. Within two months after reporting aboard Chief Neufeld quietly undertook the revision of numerous ship’s and departmental instructions, again completely on his own initiative and working primarily after working hours, and personally rewrote and typed several, including the Ship’s Training Bill, Long-range Training Plan, the CDO (Command Duty Officer) Emergency Action Folder, and the Ship’s various emergency/exercise/operational reporting instructions. His work is so singularly reliable that it is often promulgated with only the most cursory reviews or proofreading.

R. E. Brown, CDR, USN, Commanding Officer

Navy Good Conduct Medal - five awards

Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal - four awards

Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal Eligibility Requirements (1) Personnel. Awarded to personnel of the U. S. Armed Forces who, after 1 July 1958:

(a) Participate as members of U.S. military units in a U.S. military operation in which personnel of any military department participate in significant numbers, in the opinion of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS).

(b) Encounter, during such participation, foreign armed opposition, or are otherwise placed in such position that hostile action by foreign armed forces was imminent, in the opinion of the JCS, even though such hostile action did not materialize.

Humanitarian Service Medal - two awards

National Defense Service Medal

Vietnam Service Medal - 6 Jul 1966 to 1 Nov 1969 - 8 campaigns

Vietnam Campaign Medal with 1960- clasp

Certificate of Permanent Appointment to Chief Petty Officer

Dewey's Ribbons and Medals

Personal Information

Dewey Neufeld - Vietnam Service Certificate

I Count My Blessings

by Dewey Donald Neufeld

September 11, 2023

Acknowledgments

This autobiography is a humble acknowledgment to the assistance, guidance and love so many wonderful people poured into my life. If it were not for the efforts of these magnificent people, this story would not and could not be told. Because so many good people have touched my life, it makes me feel there is much more good in our world than is generally credited or counted. Either I met just about all the good people in our world or there is more good in humanity than we think. I prefer to believe there is much more good, if we will but look for it.

While it difficult to single out the many individuals who have influenced this work, and my life, the greatest contribution of encouragement came from my cousin, Shirley Ann Leonard. Without her support, this work would have been less detailed, less expressive and certainly less lengthy. There were times, when it seemed much longer than necessary. When I wondered whether the work should be continued, I received reassurance the story should be told as completely as possible. Without telling me what to write, Shirley guided my efforts toward expression with generous amounts of encouragement and technical assistance as the story unfolded.

Woven into this story, is story in the background of the God who was always there, when I did not know Him, when I was running away from making the personal commitment to the relationship He desired, and even when I was not giving God the glory He so rightfully deserves. I was forty-four and a half years old when I was baptized, so you can see, it was a long struggle between me and God. I hope to be able to weave, into this story, the times I believe God was there. It will sound megalomaniacal, but I believe God is intensely, individually-concerned with the relationship He desires with each.

I am not certain to what end this story will serve, but it seems necessary to be told. I hope it will help more than it hurts. I know, it has helped me to write about some of the things I have encountered during my life. In the writing, some things are less bothersome than they once were. Perhaps, this is reason enough for anyone to write their autobiography. I hope this work expresses a small measure of the gratitude I feel for the assistance so many people have given me during my lifetime. This book is dedicated to a multitude of wonderful people who have, in the great and small ways, influenced my life and the wonderful God, inspiring their kindness.

Since I left home, to go out and make my own way in the world of responsibilities and obligations, I have been exposed to kind people everywhere I traveled. From Kansas to Japan, Hong Kong to San Francisco, Los Angeles to Honolulu, California to Texas, I have been greeted by a multitude of kind and wonderful people. This abundance of good will has helped instill, in me, the basic belief God has placed within mankind has a tremendous capacity for doing good. I might be called naive, but in spite of the realities of the school of experience, this inspiration cannot be shaken.

I have grown to manhood and accepted my place in society. I am better equipped to handle the vagaries and vicissitudes of life, because folks lent me a helping hand, as I was stumbling along on my way to this present position. I have always been too shy and reserved to express the deep sense of gratitude I felt as the kind people offered their assistance. Now, I can only do so, by trying to be worthy of their trust and faith in me.

When critics scoff at my naivety, I cannot help but feel proud my path was crossed by so many men and women of good will. The reason I can chuckle at the critics’ efforts to convince me I am wrong, is I know better; I have seen so much good it belies their efforts. But as I am chuckling at their skepticism, I am also mumbling my thanks to God for my extreme good fortune.

Dewey’s Prayer

Lead me Lord—for I know not the way. Strengthen me Lord—for I am weak without Thee. Give me courage Lord—for I am sore afraid. Teach me Lord—for I have much need of learning.

Guide me Lord—even when, I stumble from the pathway Thou has shown. Be merciful unto me Lord—even when, I forget to show love and mercy. Bless me Lord—even when, I forget to show gratitude. Be gentle unto me Lord—even when, I am proud and require a measure of humility.

Forgive me Lord—for I have great need of Thy love! Let me be gentle of speech Lord—for a sharp tongue, no matter how righteous, can turneth away love! Let me sow love, harmony and unity Lord—even when, I am of a mind to turneth away. Lord, “Let me be a little meeker to a brother who is weaker—Let me think a little more of others and a little less of me!”

Thank You, Lord, for the little joys You have allowed us to share. Thank You, Lord, for the late night talks and the quiet interchange of thoughts. Thank You, Lord, for allowing us to share a bit of ourselves with dear friends and loved ones. To make all our worlds a little brighter in the warm glow of our trust in each other and Thee.

THANK YOU, LORD! Amen!

Introduction

There is a song which says, “When I’m weary and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep and I fall asleep counting my blessings . . .” This expresses my views so eloquently. Because I feel my life has been so richly blessed, I am unable to long retain a feeling of depression, when something unpleasant touches my life.

When I catch myself wondering if there are any redeeming virtues left in the human race, I start to mentally listing the wonderful people who have so richly blessed my life. While I do not fall asleep, I soon feel there must be more good in the world around us than others give credit. Either I have been blessed by having met most of the good people in the world or there are still a lot of nice people, who are not being touted in the news media. It seems the good events in people’s lives are not dramatic enough to make most of the spectacular news coverage. Because of the economics of that competitive industry, this is to be expected. Still, it is sad we are not more aware of the good around us.

As I cannot presume to have met all of the good people in the world, I must conclude there is still much to be optimistic about. Too often, we let the unpleasant events cast a dark cloud of pessimism over the countenance we display to the world around us. It is good to stop and count our blessings and the thanksgiving will cause our attitude to blossom in the radiance of the good in our lives.

I do not know at what point I became convinced my life had been so richly blessed by God. I believe the idea has been there for a long time and probably started to germinate and grow shortly after I left home to join the U.S. Navy. I have long been convinced my life has been brought into contact with some exceptionally wonderful people. This conviction is likely fostered by a feeling of inferiority, for in the past, I have found it difficult to believe such wonderful people could want to help or be nice to me. Perhaps, a low opinion of myself raised my esteem for these people, but, I do not believe the answer is so simple. While I recognize a feeling of inferiority in myself, it is something I am comfortable with—I like myself, but I am puzzled, when others like me as well. There seems to be just enough inferiority to create a pleasant sense of humility which I also find comfortable in myself.

I like myself and I hope you will also like Dewey, when you read my story. Most of us look for approval from our friends and loved ones and I am no exception. In respect to excuses, it has been said, “your friends do not need them and your enemies will not believe them.” This work is not offered as an excuse and I am not concerned about what my enemies might think. Still, I would like to explain some of my behavior to my friends, even though they have not asked for these explanations and have accepted my idiosyncrasies with loving kindness. Friendship is a marvelous thing, when we learn people care about us in spite of all our faults, uncertainties and insecurity. It is reassuring, to the ego, to learn we are worthy of the affection of others and it is uniquely special, when those others are the wonderful people who have richly blessed my life.

I believe what we are today is largely the result of our past. The experience, events and people of our yesterdays along with God’s providence to provide an atmosphere of growth, contribute to make us what we are now. If we are satisfied with what we have become, the events of our past do not seem as harsh. I am basically pleased with myself and at ease with what I have become. There are certainly some things I might wish to correct in the mistakes I have made along the pathway of my journey from yesterday to today. However, when I look back at my life, I would most likely make the same mistakes, if I had it to do all over again. For the most part, I believe, I have learned from my errors, although, there may be some who may wonder just how well I learned my lessons in the school of my experience. The benefit of having studied in the “school of hard knocks” is the individualized instruction I have received in the school of experience.

I do not think I would do things much differently, if I had my life to live over—even, if I had the present level of knowledge and experience. I would try to be more attentive to the needs of those I came in contact with, so I might help them in their journey through life. I would try to correct some of the misunderstanding and confusion created by my reticent nature and try to be more communicative of my feelings for others. There would be some things I would wish to “fix,” if I had it all to do over, but mostly I would likely do things pretty much the same as before. Being at ease and comfortable with myself makes the events of the past seem less troublesome, having confessed my sins to my Savior helps.

I have long considered myself to be somewhat of a philosopher and keep referring to myself as a “cracker-barrel philosopher.” This seems a good title for a home-grown, philosophic wanderer, traveling through life without any special credentials or diplomas. My only qualification for this title is a deep sense of wonder at the events I am allowed to participate in or the scenes I am privileged to witness as I journey through this life. This is an unusual time, with some amazing personalities I have been blessed to have experienced.

I travel through this life with a childlike sense of wonder and awe. I am aware of the depth of my ignorance and am constantly seeking more knowledge, light and wisdom. In spite of my years, I am still awestruck with wonder at the things I see and the people I meet. I still get an emotional lump in my throat whenever I witness some special human kindness done to myself or another, a dramatic example of human courage performed in the face of great adversity, or any number of other emotional displays. As a philosopher, I do not have any profound answers to the burning questions facing our lives. I have only a deep sense of wonder, a profound trust I am not alone and an innate belief there are a lot of good people in the sea of humanity around us!

The feeling I am not alone allows me to try to look at the greater picture painted by the events in our lives. I only see small glimpses and cannot discern what the total picture will be when the “Master Artist” has completed His work. Still, the tiny glimpses are enough to convince me something, or rather Someone other than coincidence, is at work in our lives.

The conviction of a force at work in our lives other than the laws of chance or coincidence is a subject much too lengthy and detailed to expound upon now, so I will leave it for another time. Still, as the topic fascinates me, I will likely comment on the theme from time to time in my writing. I feel I have been extremely “lucky” in my lifetime. In spite of what may appear to be revealed in my writing, I feel I have never lived through any really bad times. I am one of those “lucky” individuals who has never really known adversity. I think this is why I do not have a proper respect for money. I have been too richly blessed to know what it is like to be needy. Sure, I remember some times which were not too pleasant, but even those times were not all that bad. As I look back, God has always looked after me and kept me protected. Because of this, I can afford to have a careless attitude toward material gain. I may pay for this attitude one day, but for the present it allows me to do things and aid some of those closest to my heart. It also allows me to be a bit carefree when others take advantage of my financial largess by no repaying what I lend them. I feel they will have to answer to Someone with more authority than I.

“We tire of those pleasures we take, but never of those we give.” I do not know who said this, but it describes my thoughts. I am not the most expressive person, when it comes to letting those around me know how much I care for them. Therefore, in doing things for those I care about, it helps them to know what I generally forget to express verbally. Perhaps, this behavior, of wanting to do things for those I care for, is indicative of a feeling of inferiority or insecurity. It could be misconstrued as an effort to buy love, but his is not my aim. I am sure my behavior can be easily explained by those who know about such things. Still, I do not care what it indicates, because I am comfortable with myself and my actions. I realize it is hard for me to express my feelings verbally and this can sometimes create misunderstandings among those I would least like to be uninformed of my feelings for them. So, in doing things for those I care about, it helps both them and me. It is also easy to do things for those I know would do the same for me if our circumstances were reversed.

Because I have this conviction, it is easy to want to do things for people. There are some who may not receive as much attention or expression of my feelings. I am certain they may misunderstand or be jealous, because they did not receive quite as much as another. If this becomes a factor, it is something they will have to deal with themselves, because the fact remains there are some I am closer to than others. There are others whom I am getting to know a little better, the longer I am able to share time with them. If some misunderstanding, I am sorry, but I do not think I will change my feelings or my actions a great deal. Life can be much more pleasant for all of us, if we help each other. This does not mean just money or things. It can be something even more significant such as the gift of time, or an attentive ear, or just telling someone you think they are special.

Years ago, I formulated a mental exercise which allows me to keep material “things” in their proper place. The first part of the exercise is to pick out the most treasured possession I owned. This took a bit of thought, but I finally decided the things I valued most were my photographic albums and family pictures. The second part, of the exercise, is to think of all the ways these valued material possessions could be taken away. There are so many ways to lose material treasures no matter what their form or substance. Material gain can be stolen, ravaged by fire, wind, flood and any number of other ways taken from us. Once I realized how easy it is to lose something material, I began to realize there are treasures of greater value which cannot be taken from us. A thief cannot steal the love and affection of our friends and family. Flood, fire or wind cannot damage our inner qualities of character and faith. The less tangible traits of the inner person are far more valuable than whatever precious metals or stones may adorn the outer shell. So, while I do not have a great deal of outer wealth and not the best attitude toward amassing such, I am comfortable with myself and feel I have been richly blessed in so many other aspects. I have no desire to be the richest man in the cemetery. While I am sure I cannot take my material gains with me when I die, I feel the inner qualities will follow me beyond the grave!

I was asked to reveal all of myself in the telling of my story. This request has given much stimulus toward an introspective look at myself and this may have been the reason behind the request. It was said, if I could be completely free to express my innermost self, it might make others feel free to reveal theirs. It has been said, the image projected by my story is one of sterility—too clean to be real—and others feel intimidated by the perceived perfection they believe they see (or want to see). While this request is too much for me to respond to at this point in my life (and probably always will be so), it has given me something to think about.

The defensive mechanisms, the years have brought forth, provide a secure barrier which is hard to bring down. There is a part of me which wonders whether this is desirable or even wise. Another part of me is saying, maybe it would be okay to eliminate some of the barriers. I prefer to think I am sharing a large part of myself with my loved ones and friends, as I tell them the story of my life. There is a quotation attributed to Earnest Hemingway which seems appropriate at this time:

“No man can ever reveal me to the world more vividly than I have chosen to reveal myself. No man can conceal himself from his fellow men, for everything he fashions and creates interprets him. I tell people all about myself in my books.”

It is natural for people to reveal more of themselves to those they feel worthy of such trust and who provide a sense of security. Even so, I feel the natural desire to “put my best foot forward.” As a child, I tried very hard to do what was “right” and please to gain love, attention and acceptance. I do not wish to disappoint those who are the closest to me so I try to “reveal” my better qualities and hope they will not discover the less noble side of my character. I would prefer not to reveal all of myself because there are things I do not like in myself. Also, I am a shy, somewhat introverted, private person by nature and inclination and I choose to keep a portion of myself behind the protective mask I wear for my “public” image. Even so, I will now share a portion of myself I find I am less comfortable with in the hope some will see the perceived perfection is but a graven image of a false idol.

One of the things I least like in myself is what I perceive to be a quick temper which I find difficult to keep under control. If someone cuts me off in traffic, I find it easy to verbally lash out in anger in the most unseemly manner. While quick to anger, I believe I am just as quick to cool down. Unfortunately, the damage has been done by that time and I do not like the results of my behavior. Fortunately, a Creator-God works on changing our attitudes which does much to change our actions towards others.

Next on the list of things I do not like in myself is a sharp tongue which tends to speak biting words better left unspoken. It is hard for me to keep from using harsh language—especially under the stimulus of my temper. I find this quality repugnant in myself and I am embarrassed by such behavior in myself as well as others. I have been led to believe such behavior is not appropriate and I certainly do not like it in my makeup. I remember a sign I saw when I was stationed on Adak, Alaska, which has stayed with me all these years. It stated, “Profanity is the mark of an inadequate vocabulary!” How true! It is a sign of weakness, since it solves nothing and reveals vividly our ignorance.

It is extremely hard for me to forgive with the complete sense of forgetfulness we are taught to exercise. Instead of “turning the other cheek,” I want to extend a closed fist. To try to overcome this reprehensible tendency, I try to pray for those who have done me wrong. While doing this, I try to cleanse my heart and mean the words I am praying. This is hard and I wonder just how successful I am, but it generally makes me feel more at ease with myself, my God and the person concerned. An indication of my lack of success is I tend to try to erase all feeling for those who have wronged or disappointed me. I try to put those individuals in the past, learn from my mistakes and go on trying to concentrate on the present events. I feel this tendency is contrary to what we have been taught as the lessons of our faith in the God who loves sinners such as I.

There are things we do, say and think which we have been taught by religious and social convention are not desirable. If we accept these guiding influences and try to live within their teachings, we are upset whenever we do something “wrong.” We can (and often do) rationalize our behavior so we can continue without having to answer to the voice of our conscience. We all have our faults, fallacies, frivolities and flaws. Our greatest concern should be if we come to believe these things do not exist within us. Fortunately, it will be awhile before I can feel I have reached such a state of perfection. When I do, I know I will be granted an appropriate measure of humility to bring things back into proper perspective again. I have discovered God is deeply interested in my learning more about His nature and following His example in the way I treat others.

So perfection is a state we have been taught we should strive to reach. Because we wish it so desperately, we seek perfection wherever we think we can find it. This can make us tend to make false idols out of those we believe are more perfect than ourselves. We must beware of this because only One who walked among us attained such a state. The others should not be placed on pedestals as symbols of perfection. There is but One worthy of emulation and the rest of us can but try to live by the lessons He taught. I especially caution those who want to put themselves on a pedestal as a mark of perfection, because in such a lofty position, there is a tendency to “throw stones” at those less perfect. Self-righteous pronouncements and judgments can hurt others and turneth away a loving heart. Pedestals can be a shaky place to stand and because of my lack of perfection, I find it easy to avoid such a lofty perch.

Humility is an easy virtue, if you keep things in a proper perspective. In the light of Christ’s perfection, it is easy to be humble. If some were intimidated, by what they perceived to be perfection, I hope they will realize they need only look to One example to follow and it certainly is not this one! So we should not try to judge another person’s state of perfection or imperfection. If we wrongly judge too harshly, we may do severe damage to the one judged and may ourselves stand in judgment for our actions. If we judge wrongly in the other direction, we may tend to make false idols out of those unworthy of such adoration and, again, must pay the price of our judgment. It is much better to accept the persons for whatever good and bad qualities they have and leave all judgments in the hands of One better qualified than ourselves.

I have the same good and bad qualities as anyone else. I have the same hopes, fears, insecurities and conflicts. I am pleased by some of the things I see within myself and troubled by others. It is getting easier to speak of some of the things which have been troublesome in the past, but I doubt if ever all the “veils” will be dropped. There will always be the wish to present my best image to the world, my friends and certainly my loved ones. This should not intimidate anyone or make them feel inadequate for certainly, I have my share of faults. With the help of friends and loved ones, I am finding it easier to present some of these less desirable qualities. Still, there will be a measure of privacy I will desire and expect. I do not wish to exhibit all of my character flaws and I do not think it entirely necessary. It might be better, for me, if I had the courage displayed by others in my family, but I do not. Therefore, I will show those closest to me some of my foibles and those not so dear will be given a more guarded presentation.

Along with the bad qualities, there are some things I like in myself. I am proudest of the help I have been to others. As I have been so helped, I have tried to lend a helping hand to others. This might be analyzed as one with an inferiority complex, searching for acceptance and approval. This may well be, but as long as it pleases me, I see no need to change. I care not the nature of the complex, I am happy with myself and proud I have been able to lend a helping hand from time to time. One maxim in life is: Whatever you know and are convinced is good and right, do it always couched in love and let God get the blame since He says, “In as much as you did it to the least of these My brethren, you did it unto Me.” Further, “What we would the other person do to us, we should do to them first.”

As a practical matter, in helping others with their problems, I have found my own troubles seemed much less than I first thought. In thinking of another person’s problems, I find less time to concentrate on my own woe. I firmly believe in the adage about the man who complained he had no shoes, until he met the man who did not have any feet. If we but look around, we will find plenty of people who have troubles far greater than our own. This helps me keep things in proper perspective and I generally find I would not wish to trade places with them even if I am “barefooted.” I cannot help but believe we get back a measure directly proportionally to what we give out. If we sow trouble, we may reap a whirlwind harvest not to our liking.

Some of proudest accomplishments will not be included in my story, because they cannot be told without sounding like I am bragging. This would embarrass both me, for sounding boastful, and those the stories would concern. Because I am a private individual and would find it embarrassing to be thrust into the spotlight, I trust these stories will not be told until after my death—and only then, if those concerned really feel it necessary. It is because I was so helped by many people, the deeds I am most happy with have been, when I was able to help someone else along a troubled pathway. Because of all the wonderful people who have touched my life, it is hard for me to feel depressed, when I hear about all the bad things going on in the world around us. Either I have met all the good people, or there is more good than people think. Of course, the good things are not generally spectacular enough to make the news reporting.

How does a person measure the value of their life? Do they count the degree of financial wealth or perhaps, consider the magnitude of personal fame and notoriety? Is the asset side of the ledger filled with material grandeur and vast holdings of property? Is not fame and fortune the true test of success and a valid measurement of personal worth? Those of us without grandiose holdings must elect a simpler set of values to substitute for fame and fortune. This is likely the rationalization of one who expects never to amass great financial wealth and who would be uncomfortable in the limelight of notoriety. Someone has said, “Measure success by lives touched and helped across the Brook of Life.” (I wish I could remember who said that.)

When I measure and weigh the value of my life, I am comfortable with the way the “business” is going (and growing). There is little likelihood (or desire) of financial greatness and fame seems but a fickle transient. The deeds on the “asset” side of my “ledger” are stories which I would just as soon remain private. If I told these tales, it would sound boastful and unbecoming. If others related the events, I would be uncomfortable and uneasy. While I will not talk about my successes, I do not mind talking about my failures, because I feel some of these incidents must be told in fairness to those who have had their character tainted by falsehood and innuendo and some of this misinformation brought into the light. I also feel others may learn from my failures and this would be reason enough for the telling.

Lately, I have been doing a lot of thinking about why I have found it easier to become closer to the maternal side of my family instead of my father’s side of my family. This is due, in part, to having greater opportunity. Events, such as my cousin Norman Wayne Partridge’s funeral, seemed to forge a growing bond with my maternal family. I seem to feel more at ease within myself with many of my mother’s family. Recently, I have begun to wonder why this should be. I have been trying to look within myself to learn the answer to the questions: “Why don’t I go see dad’s family more than I do?” and “Why don’t I feel closer to them than I do?”

The underlying reason, I believe, would have to be my desire to forget much about my past. I have been trying to forget the disappointments of my youth. Because of their closeness and their attempts to help our family, the paternal side of my family is associated with the things I wanted to forget. It has been easier to run from the memories—if I did not acknowledge them, they might go away. I tried to ignore my past and have succeeded in “blocking out” some of the vivid details of the events which happened in my lifetime. It is easier to push the disappointments, in my life, into the farthermost corners of forgetfulness. If they are pushed back far enough, it is difficult for them to see the light of my recollection. “Blocking out” my disappointments and hurts is easier than dealing with such painful subjects.

But, “blocking out” is not a practical application or technique. It allows the things I did not want to face to remain in the shadows of my consciousness to haunt and torment me by flitting in and out of the view of my memory. These restless spirits, of my memory, remain with me to mar the beauty of my today with ghosts of my yesterdays. Instead of “blocking out” my memories, it is better to bring them out into the light of reason and examine them for form and substance. The examination of these tormenting spirits from my memory allow me to learn they are not to be feared, but rather to be cherished. They helped make me what I am today and if I like myself today, I should not regret the pain of my past. There would not be steel if the iron ore were not refined in the heat of the blast furnace! So it is the mettle of my character was forged under the pressure of my past. We are the product of our past and the hope of our future.

The ghosts of my past have been allowed to mar the beauty of today. There were many good times in the past as well as the unpleasant things. The good should not be ignored, because their memory might also remind me of the pain of my disappointments. I choose to not remember the unpleasant past any more than I have to by the fickle circumstances of fate. Then, I decided to write some of the events in my life for the family-tree story. The more I wrote on my story, the less I was bothered by the ghosts of past unpleasant memories. The first efforts at writing my story were conducted in the impersonal third person style. As I continued to grow less troubled by past memories being expressed in the biographical sketch, it seemed the impersonal third person style was no longer necessary. I found myself being able to express my memories, of past disappointments, in the more personal first person style of writing.

Revising my story to the new style of writing allowed me to further explain my views, thoughts and emotions about the events which shaped my life. Because I was less troubled by the past, I was better able to explain it in the present. Greater explanation led in turn to less bother about what was being elaborated upon. The ghosts of past disappointments seem less troublesome. They are still about, but we are much more cordial terms. There is no longer the fearful stimulation towards flight, but rather the gentle reminder of the foundation upon which the present is built. Whatever I am or have become has been influenced greatly, by the events and individuals of my past. Add to this the gentle, guidance of a loving God, who determined the course of my travels through this life, and you have a person with a greater sense of serenity. I know not the destination of my tomorrow, but I am at peace with my today and more comfortable with my yesterdays.

My aunt Velma, a wise lady, once said, “Yesterday is like a cancelled check; Tomorrow is like a promissory note, but Today is ours to spend as we wish.” Perhaps, using today to describe my yesterdays will help someone be less troubled tomorrow. In any event, talking about the past has helped me. It has allowed me to look within myself and question my feelings about some of the past events I once preferred to forget. I do not always get logical answers in response to my questions, but I feel free to ask myself, “Why?” I trust this autobiography will answer some of the “why’s” for my friends and help to explain some of my idiosyncrasies which they have accepted so graciously, with loving understanding and often forgiveness. I will let the reader decide whether or not my life has been blessed as I believe it has.

Early Life

Dewey Donald Neufeld was born in 1930s. ^[5] He was the son of Ida Wilma Lenora May and Herbert Arthur Neufeld. ^{[6] [7]}

I was born at the home of my maternal grandparents, 420 Avenue B in Newton, Kansas, on Sunday morning of March 27, 1938. At 4:36 A.M., Doctor M. C. Martin, M.D., and nurse Sally McCrary, R.N., attended the birth of the firstborn son of Ida Wilma Lenora May and Herbert Arthur Neufeld. I weighed in at seven and a half pounds, was 21 1/2 inches long and had light blue eyes. My maternal grandmother, Minnie Agnes (Muskat) May, suggested the name Dewey as a first name because it was not a common name. My father liked the sound of Donald as a second name. It was decided; my name would be Dewey Donald Neufeld.

According to mother’s entries in my baby book:

“Our baby’s first outing was Saturday morning, April 9th, 1938. We came from Newton to Grandpa Neufeld’s Jacob H. Neufeld when baby was only 2 weeks old.”

“Baby’s first hair was a light brown with a little bit of red cast to it.”

“Now our baby is 19 months and I cut a lock of hair—it’s almost white and he has light blue eyes.”

I said my first word when I was nine months old, started walking at the age of thirteen months and never learned to creep until after I started learning to walk. The most important entry concerned baby’s first birthday and tells where I developed my “sweet tooth.” Mother wrote this entry:

“Baby’s first birthday was celebrated at grandpa Neufeld’s house. Dewey was a very good boy. It rained all day and was awfully muddy. His birthday cake was chocolate with white frosting. He ate about four pieces. We stayed home all day and uncle Edward A. “Ed” Ediger was here too and mother sent Imogene Helen “Gene” (Ediger) Cole and aunt Dorothy, Dorothy Esther (Neufeld) Ediger some cake.”

I have been eating cake from that time on. I can remember making a trip to grandpa Neufeld’s farm and the road being extremely muddy. The car was slipping and sliding and it looked as if we might not be able to get through the country road to the farm. I wonder if this is the same trip I remember?

Paternal

Because there is indication that much of what we are can be attributed to hereditary influence, some historical background of my family would be appropriate to give an indication of the “stock” from which I may have inherited some of my “mettle.” The paternal side of my family are of “Dutch” Mennonite descent. I always thought we were of German origin, because the family spoke German, until my grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, corrected me the last time I saw him alive.^[8]

The Mennonites have a dual origin of Switzerland and The Netherlands. From these two countries they spread over Europe, Russia and to America. Therefore, it is said all Mennonites are either of Swiss-German or Dutch-German origin. The Mennonites are one of a denomination of evangelical Protestant Christians, formed from the Reformation movement of the 16th century. The first church was organized in Zurich, Switzerland in 1525 and the members called themselves the Swiss Brethren. They believed that church and state should be separate, and that Reformation leaders had not reformed the church enough. They also believed that baptism and church membership should be given only to those who voluntarily gave up sin. Because they baptized only persons who proved their goodness in their daily lives, they were nicknamed Anabaptists, meaning re-baptizers. Historically, they have stood for adult baptism, aloofness from the state, exercise of the ban, or excommunication, restriction of marriage to members of the group, and practice the rite of foot washing. Its name is taken from Menno Simons (1496-1561), a Roman Catholic priest who was born and lived in Witmarsum, The Netherlands. After his conversion in 1536, he led the Anabaptists in The Netherlands and northern Germany.

The Mennonites were persecuted in many countries. Dutch Mennonites moved to northern Germany and Danzig, Prussia, in the 1600’s and to the Russian Ukraine in the 1700’s. Gdansk, Poland, is the name of the city which was once known as Danzig. I believe my family settled in the delta region formed where the Wista (Vistula) and Nogat Rivers empty into the Bay of Danzig and the Baltic Sea. It was a 900-mile (as the crow flies) wagon-train journey in 1820-21 to the area in South Russia where they settled after leaving Danzig. In 1874, many Mennonites moved from Russia to Canada and Kansas, Nebraska, and nearby states. A Kansas Historical Marker erected by the Kansas Historical Society and State Highway Commission gives the following description of the Alexanderwohl Mennonite Church and its members’ immigration to the United States:

THE MENNONITES IN KANSAS

Beginning in 1874, hundreds of peace-loving Mennonite immigrants settled in central Kansas. They had left their former homes in Russia because of a hundred-year old immunity from established religious orthodoxy and military service was being threatened.

The Alexanderwohl community, so named because of a solicitous visit by Czar Alexander I with Prussian Mennonites in 1821, had lived happily in southern Russia for more than 50 years before coming to America. Originating in The Netherlands in the 16th century, the community moved to Prussia in the 17th century and later to Russia, always seeking freedom from intolerance and persecution. Their decision to come to America and Kansas, where they chose lands in Marion, Harvey, McPherson and other nearby counties, was due largely to the efforts of the Santa Fe railroad’s foreign immigration department. With them, they brought the hard winter wheat which has since helped make Kansas the breadbasket of the world.

The Alexanderwohl church is typical of many Mennonite organizations in this part of Kansas. Today these religious folk prosper in a modern world while retaining their original philosophy of freedom and manner of worship.

My paternal grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, was born on December 15, 1879, in Neu-Halbstat, Darpe (village) Number 4, Sagradealka (Sagradowka), South Russia. My grandfather did not have a middle name, but used the name Henry to explain the initial “H” in his name. His father and mother immigrated to the United States when he was seven-years-old (August 1, 1887) with the Mennonite movement from Russia. My grandfather told me relatives took his family to Odessa in a horse and buggy. The Peter Johann K. Neufeld family sailed from Odessa, Russia, in a small ship to a large town (Bremen) in Germany. In Germany, they changed their money from Russian to United States currency. They then boarded a larger ship, the Elbe, to make the journey to the United States. The voyage took nine days from Germany to New York. The ship’s captain was a man named Von Goessel. The town of Goessel, Kansas, is named after the captain after it was learned he had gone down with his ship when it sank after hitting an iceberg.^[9]

The Peter K. Neufeld family left New York for Hillsboro, Kansas, on a Santa Fe train. My great grandfather (Peter K. Neufeld) rented a farm six miles south of Walton, Kansas, until he died on December 26, 1902.

My grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, told me his grandfather, Peter Neufeld, had supplied milk to the Russian Czar (Nicholas I?) when the ruler of Russia had come to the coast for a vacation. Grandfather’s parents, Peter Johann K. Neufeld and Anna (Friesen) Neufeld, and the Abe Friesen family also helped milk the cows. A German leader by the name of Cornice Nealista (sp?) had brought about twenty cows. The czar’s life was being threatened and this man, Nealista, trusted Peter Neufeld. He asked Peter Neufeld to supply the milk while the czar was on vacation, because they were concerned about the czar being poisoned. ^[10]

I never knew my paternal grandmother, Helena (Reimer) Neufeld. She died before I was born. My paternal grandmother was born on a farm four miles east of Goessel, Kansas, on December 23, 1883, and died on April 23, 1935. Her parents immigrated to the United States from South Russia in the year 1877 and arrived in Newton, Kansas, on the fourth of July. It saddens me not to have known my grandmother, because the pictures we have show a lovely person with a delightful twinkle in her eye and the look of a person who enjoyed life.

My grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, Jacob H. Neufeld, married my grandmother, Helena (Reimer) Neufeld, on November 4, 1909. They lived on farms near Walton and Peabody, Kansas. My father, Herbert Arthur Neufeld, was born on February 13, 1912, in Peabody, Kansas. My father was raised on a farm about midway between Moundridge and Peabody, Kansas. He had one older sister, Hedwig Helena (Neufeld) Schmidt, two younger sisters, Hilda Marie (Neufeld) Friesen and Dorothy Esther (Neufeld) Ediger and a younger adopted brother, Willard Milton Neufeld.

Maternal

My maternal family is derived from German and English origins who united in Missouri, in the early 1800’s. The Muskat family immigrated to the Missouri frontier around 1834. The Schumaker (Shoemaker) family is from Pennsylvania Dutch origin. I do not know when they immigrated from Germany. The May family is of English/Irish origin.

My maternal grandfather, William Logan May, married my grandmother, Minnie Agnes (Muskat) May, on March 18, 1903, in Oak Hill, Crawford County, Missouri. They had nine children, but one was born dead. They knew only the “hard times” of the edge of poverty as they tried to raise their family in Missouri and Kansas. The family moved to Hesston, Kansas, in 1915. My mother, Ida Wilma Lenora May, was the sixth child born into the family (October 11, 1916) and the first child born after moving to Kansas.

While poor all her life, my grandmother, Minnie Agnes (Muskat) May was a strong willed woman with great religious convictions. She held her family together with courage, will power, and faith when there was little else. It was she who moved her family to Kansas, without even enough money for a ticket to go all the way on the train. They were to meet my grandfather, William Logan May, in Kansas City and he would have money enough to move them the rest of the way to Hesston. It must have taken a great courage to leave the area my grandmother knew and where her friends and family lived to move to a strange place without even enough money to go all the way. To move her four children and their meager belongings and not even know if they would be able to find my grandfather in a strange city must have required great faith and courage for my grandmother.

While I have known some difficult times, I have never had to experience the bitter poverty of my family or the desperation of trying to raise a family with so little money as to live in constant doubt and worry. My grandmother was a great lady and perhaps, I have inherited a small measure of her determination and perseverance.

Emotional Experiences

My father, Herbert Arthur Neufeld. married my mother, Ida Wilma Lenora May, on August 25, 1936. My parents had five children born to that union: Dewey Donald, Gerald Dean “Butch” or “Jerry,” Richard Lyle “Dickie” or “Rick,” Donna Jean “D.J.” (Tyler) (Perry) (McClung), and Sharon Darlene (Martin), before they were divorced on March 30, 1945.

My father next married Nora Marie Jarvis on August 28, 1945. To this union was born five children: Sandra (died at 6 weeks), Linda Susan “Linda” (Manning), Patricia Kay “Pat” (Nordmeyer) (Unruh), Pamela Ann “Pam” (Nichols), and Herbert Allen “Herb.” My mother, Ida Wilma Lenora May later married Curtis Willard Hausey and they had one child, Earnest Carlton “E.C.”

The first five, of us Neufeld children, alternated between living with our mother, who had legal custody, and our father and his new family. There was always the threat hanging over the first five of us, we would end up in an orphan or foster home if the slightest thing went wrong. I do not remember where this threat originated. I once thought it was with my stepfather, but I in reading some of the old letters, it was talked about between my mother and father before Curtis came on the scene. The last time we were brought back to Kansas (May or June 1949), it was for this purpose. Our uncle, Edward A. “Ed” Ediger, informed our stepfather such a move was unacceptable and he would arrange for our care. We were taken back to our father and stepmother. This was a brave thing for uncle Ed to take on, because his family was poor and another five children to raise was a staggering prospect.

The incident which seemed to bring our departure, from Fort Worth to Kansas, was my two brothers playing in the house on Lemming Avenue and breaking the glass-top coffee table. I learned later, my brothers and sisters thought it was the breaking of the coffee table which caused us to be taken back to Kansas. My stepfather was certainly enraged, some whippings were administered and we were soon being taken back to our father. When we discussed this incident years later, my brother, Richard, said he grew up feeling responsible for what had happened to us. This was a terrible burden for a young child to have to carry! Needless to say, our childhood was one of turmoil and lack of stability.

I can remember a trip my father made to see us while we were living in Texas. My uncle Edward A. “Ed” Ediger brought my father and my grandfather to Texas. I do not remember where they were going, but they stopped to see us on the way back to Kansas. My father started giving mother a difficult time to the embarrassment of my grandfather and uncle. They tried to settle my father down, but seemed to have no effect. We kids were terrified of what was going on. Finally, mother took a butcher knife out of the kitchen and told my father he would be leaving. When my stepfather found out about the incident, he reported he had sent word to Kansas, my father had better not come back to Texas again. Supposedly, if he did, my stepfather would shoot him.

My aunt Myrtle told me of another unpleasant incident before my parent’s divorce, but I could not remember it. There seems to be a tendency to block out unpleasant events from the mind and the things I witnessed between my parents are difficult to remember. My childhood was traumatic, so it is understandable some of my recollections are indistinct and fuzzy at best. As my brothers and sisters talk about the events in our lives, many things are being remembered which were once blocked out. Donna Jean’s autobiography has helped me remember several incidents with more detail than before I saw her work.

I do not know whether a measure of my feelings of inferiority can be attributed to a feeling of blame for my parent’s divorce. Perhaps, some of the “guilt” was transferred to me and I thought I might have, in some way, been the blame for their not staying together. Because I have “blocked out” so much of what happened, it is hard for me to say if I felt responsible. It seems entirely possible for my subconscious to have assumed I was at fault, because it seems the mantle of responsibility fell upon my shoulders at an early age. I cannot remember a time, when I was not responsible for something. Being the eldest, I was taking care of my younger brothers and sisters as long as I can remember. I was helping around the house in whatever capacity I was able.

It could have been the threat of being placed in an orphan home, which led to my desire to want to please. It may have been the sense of responsibility of being at fault for my mother and father’s divorce, which drove me to want to help out or please my elders. It may have been just being a “good kid” was my way of gaining love and attention. Regardless of the reasons, I accepted the responsibility and tried to do as much as I could to help.

It may have been the terrible uncertainty of the orphan home, which made the fights between my parents and later between them and my stepparents so upsetting to me. It bothered me very much as a child, and even as an adult, I find it most uncomfortable to be around people who are bickering or fighting. I do not like verbal abuse, even now, so I can understand why I would try to forget some of these things from my childhood.

My father started drinking heavily after the failure of his first marriage, possibly due to a feeling of guilt and depression. He found it difficult to hang on to a job for very long and worked at whatever he could find. Consequently, his new family and the original five of us children spent a great deal of time moving around; usually, just one jump ahead of our creditors. In desperation, my grandfather borrowed the money to build our family a small house. The little five room house was on the edge of the town of Moundridge, Kansas, on Ruth Street. My grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, did most of the carpenter work himself. Finally, we would have a permanent place to live and could cease our rambling.

The little house on Ruth Street was simple. There was not enough money for fancy things. There was no bathtub; bathing was done in a large wash tub in the kitchen. There was no hot water heater; the water was heated on the stove. There were no inside toilet facilities, although there was a room built for a bathroom. I guess money must have run out before the plumbing could be put in. It was a simple abode, but it was the first real home our family had known in a long time. My grandfather did pretty well, with his limited resources, and our family owes him a large debt of gratitude. I read once, where privacy is tremendously important to people of working-class background who may have had to sleep three or four to a room sometime in their lives. These people want walls around every room, and they want doors to the rooms, not entry ways. This seems to fit my architectural preferences and privacy is important to me.

Childhood

One of my earliest memories involves being laid on a bed, when a baby. The bed was against the wall, in a room just off the kitchen of my grandfather’s farmhouse. Being just a baby, I was fascinated by the pretty wallpaper and began eating pieces of it. It may be I heard the story and just believe I can remember the event. Be that as it may, it was on my grandfather Neufeld’s farm I developed a taste for exotic foods. I managed to pull off pieces of the wallpaper and eat them. Apparently, my concerned parents discovered what was happening and removed me from the tempting morsels. After some worry on the part of the relatives, no apparent ill effects were noted other than a ravenous appetite which remains with me still.

Another momentous event stands out in my mind and was confirmed many years afterward. As a small child, I helped fill up the gas tank of my cousin’s 1929 Harley Davidson Racer motorcycle. The only problem was, I filled the tank with tiny handfuls of dirt and sand. I was so small, I had to reach over my head to place the contents of each tiny fist into the motorcycle’s tank. I happily filled the tank, until I tired of being helpful. Many years later my cousin, William Rankin “Billy” Watkins, confirmed the incident. I thought it took place at the house of my maternal grandparents, but I learned from my cousin the incident took place in McPherson, Kansas.

At the house of my maternal grandparents, I learned not to play with wasps. There was a wasp nest in the mail box and I was told to stay away from them both. Still, it seemed like a good idea to go get the mail for my grandparents. Not being able to see into the mailbox, because of my small stature, I plunged my hand into the inside to retrieve the mail. Instead of the mail, I stirred up the wasps and proceeded to beat a hasty retreat towards the house with the wasps in hot pursuit. This incident did teach a healthy respect for those little winged critters with fire in their stingers. I believe I was more frightened than hurt by the wasps.

As a lad, I enjoyed the trips to my grandfather’s farm. I remember playing in the tent-like foliage of the two, large cedar trees between the house and the road. The trees were planted on either side of the sidewalk. I enjoyed climbing on the limbs. It was like climbing a tree inside a tent. The limbs hung down and were like a canopy isolating the tree from the outside world. The cedar trees provided a private world of adventure. The call for adventure beckoned me to explore new realms.

The call for adventure on the farm also produced several painful reminders to be a bit more cautious in my explorations. I learned to give the pot-bellied wood stove a wider berth, when I burned the back of my left hand on the stove. The scars remained for the longest time during my childhood. I learned to stay away from the yawning, black abyss of the cellar door after falling down the steps on at least two different occasions. I fell down the cellar steps at my grandfather’s farm and again at my aunt Hilda and uncle Jake Friesen’s house in Inman.

When just a little older, the farm began to hold even greater fascination and a fun time was had on our family visits. My young uncle, Willard, would give us children rides on one of the horses used to do the farm work. He was once showing off for us children by riding down the driveway rather quickly, when the horse stumbled and rolled over on uncle “Bill.” I thought, at the time, that the only thing injured was the rider’s dignity, when both the animal and rider got to their feet. I later learned uncle Willard had broken his arm, which may account for the reason it is the last time I can remember being taken for a ride on the horse.

The story is told of my grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, planting some horse radish on the farm. The plants multiplied and did quite well. they became so abundant, after several years, it was decided to plow them up. The plowing only made the horse radish more abundant. While I was too young to remember the event first hand, the story stuck in my mind, when someone in the family told it on my grandfather. The curious thing is, I cannot remember how the plants were finally killed off. I had visions of a tremendous horse radish jungle growing on the old home place and taking over the entire yard.

Another story I heard was concerning the time, when crows were a menace to the farmers. The farmers would gather to try to kill the crows. They would get as many men as possible with shotguns. The men would sneak up to the hedge row where the multitude of crows were roosting in the trees. In the dark, the crows either would be asleep or would not see the men and did not fly away as the men came up to the hedge row. The men would line up with their shotguns. When the signal was given, all would fire their shotguns into the branches of the trees. The firing would cause the uninjured crows to fly away, but the farmers would rush up and club the wounded crows on the ground. Someone’s city cousin was visiting and wanted to accompany the farmers on the night’s crow hunt. He was given a shotgun and it was assumed he knew how to shoot the weapon. The “city slicker” took his place in the line on the dark night. Somehow, he managed to hold the double-barrel shotgun to his shoulder while he put both index fingers on each of the shotgun’s triggers. When the signal was given, he pulled both triggers at the same time, apparently thinking this was why there was two triggers on the gun. The recoil knocked him down and nearly broke the index finger on each of his hands.

I was in kindergarten, when my mother baked some cupcakes for my birthday party at the school. I was proud to be able to help pass out the cupcakes to my classmates. I remember, when the president died in office. The children gathered around the flagpole as the flag was lowered to half-staff. I did not know anything about President Franklin D. Roosevelt except he must have been someone quite important. I remember my first grade class being taken for a ride on a fire truck. It was quite exciting for everyone in the class. Some of the children were allowed to wear the firemen’s hats, when we were riding on the truck, but I do not recall being one of the lucky ones.

Adventure

As an adult, I can look back upon the adventures of childhood and wonder how children ever manage to survive into adulthood if mine was a normal youth. One of our thrilling adventures was to climb up the brick-layer’s scaffolds and leap off the top of the walls into the rather small pile of sifted sand. The building was an automobile dealership being built in McPherson, Kansas. The walls were nearly finished, when this sport was discovered. My brother, Gerald, and I would climb up the inside scaffolding and leap off into the sand from what now seems like a frightening height. Then, we found it quicker to climb the boards bracing the walls on the outside. We would scale the boards, like monkeys up a coconut tree, and leap out into space with the childlike confidence we would not be hurt because of the soft, sand pile below. There is no fear in the hearts of the children. We only knew it was great fun. Still, something inside told us, it would be better if we did not tell our parents of this adventure. God’s angels must have to work hard, protecting young people out for adventure.

Many such events never made it to the ears of our parents. One adventure happened when we lived in McPherson, Kansas, when I and my brothers were playing at floating our home-made sailboats in a large body of water. A tremendous rain storm had dumped a lot of water. The water filled up the pit of the ready-mix cement facility. It was a deep pit under a set of railroad tracks. The sand and cement train cars would be put onto the rails over the pit and the cars would dump their contents into what must have been a ten or twelve foot deep pit. A conveyer belt took the sand and cement to overhead bins where it was dispensed to the mixer trucks.

The pit was level full of water and the only thing keeping us at bay was a simple board fence placed around it to warn the workers. My brothers and I were leaning through the boards, floating our boats in the lake provided by the rain. My youngest brother, Richard Lyle, fell through the boards, when he leaned over too far trying to retrieve his boat. None of us could swim and my brother was not doing very well at learning. I did not know what to do. I knew I should not jump in the water and try to help him, because I could not swim and we would both be in trouble then. I had a thought which God’s angels must have inspired, because it was beyond my experience. There was a ladder used by workmen to get down into the pit to check the conveyer belt. I thought, if I could just pull on the ladder, I might be able to help my brother. I pulled on the end of the rough-board ladder and pulled the sunken steps under my struggling brother. I quickly took my brother back to the house, but told my stepmother only that Rick had fallen into a puddle of water—it was not mentioned where the water was located.

Another fascinating haunt was some storage tanks down by the same railroad tracks. The tanks were a little farther down the tracks. The three of four tanks were about fifteen feet high. On the top of the tanks was a little catwalk which allowed a person to go from one tank to the other. With a little more daring, my brothers and I discovered we could step from tank to tank without using the catwalk. On one of the frequent trips to the tanks, our littlest sister, Sharon Darlene, was tagging along after her brothers. We boys climbed up the ladder, leading to the top of the tanks and the catwalk, without giving any thought to the little girl trying to follow. Our sister made it up several steps before she lost her grip on the rungs of the ladder and fell off backwards. She put a nasty gash in the back of her head which took several metal clamps to close.

I have apprehensions about the value of fireworks in the hands of children. I was lighting some firecrackers, when one of them did not go off as expected. I walked over to the firecracker and was going to break it apart and light the powder to make it fizzle. As I reached for the firecracker, it exploded and blasted something into my eye. I found it difficult to see out of that eye for quite some time afterwards. One should be extremely cautious around fireworks and not take these tiny explosive devices for granted.

One of my most vivid memories is of the lasso. I wanted a rope lasso for the longest time. I kept pestering my father to get me one. After quite some time, my father relented and we went to the hardware store to buy the lasso. We also purchased a metal eye and my father spliced it into the end of the rope. I was extremely proud of my lasso. I knew it was just like the ones the cowboys used. I would practice with it constantly, trying to learn how to rope anything that moved or that did not move. One summer evening, relatives were visiting and all of us children were playing outside. It was dark and we were running and chasing each other. My brother, Gerald, was running from me, when I got the idea I could lasso him. As we ran along, I flipped the rope up and dropped the loop around Gerald’s neck. I then stopped, while he kept running, until he hit the end of the rope and left his feet. The rope left a terrible burn on his neck and the fall knocked the wind out of Gerald. This was the last I ever saw the lasso. I am not sure what happened to it, but it was never to be had after this event. This probably hurt me about as much as the rope had hurt my brother.

A happier memory involves the iceman’s gift of a chunk of ice. We children would follow the iceman on his rounds in the neighborhood. One time, he gave us a piece of ice, which was rather large to us children. It may have been around five pounds. It was too large for us to eat. The only thing I could think of was to get up on the porch railing and throw the ice down on the cement porch. The plan was to smash the ice into smaller and more manageable pieces. I climbed onto the railing, the ice was handed up to me, I raised it as high as I could and the ice crashed down. It broke into many little pieces which all of us children grabbed and stuck in our mouths to suck on in the heat of the summer afternoon. The iceman’s gift was nice!

It is not a good idea for children to cause their mothers worry. This lesson, in human behavior, was brought home most vividly, when I went to see my best friend, Paul Ediger, who lived about a block up the street. The two of us were inseparable and seemed to be at either one or the other’s house all the time. We played for awhile, then Paul’s family got ready to go pick up his older brother at work. They asked me if I wished to go along. Naturally, this seemed like a good idea. I completely forgot that I was supposed to be home in about an hour—around five o’clock, I think. Paul’s brother had to work late and did not get off work until nearly seven o’clock. The family waited for him outside in the car. It was nearly eight o’clock when I returned home. I found a worried mother who had even been thinking of calling the police, when her son had not returned home when expected. My mother proceeded to apply a razor strap in a most undignified place which left an impression on my memory and another part of my body. This experience taught me to be certain my parents knew where I was going and when I would be coming home. I did not want to confront the visage of a worried mother again.

The worry of my parents’ impending divorce must have created an unsettled subconscious. For a time when we lived in McPherson, I had terrible nightmares of being burned up in a fire while skeletons were trying to get me. I was glad when these nightmares stopped. For the longest time, I also had the fear of the bridge falling, whenever I rode over one as passenger in a car. I remember, as a tiny child, standing with my mother on a bridge-like structure over some railroad tracks. I think we were waiting for my father to get off work. My father may have been riding on the little rail cars track workers use. I seem to remember my mother and I waved at the workers on the little train cars.

In McPherson, I remember a fortune-teller telling the grown-up’s fortunes. The children were made to play outside, but I had to go inside on some pretext or other. I wanted to watch, so the fortune-teller asked me what I most wished. I said a horse. She did something with the cards and told me I would have my wish in so many months. I cannot remember the figure except it was a rather large number of months. It could be the smart fortune-teller had found an effective way of getting rid of pesky children with overactive curiosities. I have yet to receive the horse.

I can remember my mother making cottage cheese. I do not remember developing a taste for the dish, until much later in life. The cottage cheese’s taste and texture reminded me of sour milk and I did not like that taste. To this day, I do not like buttermilk for the same reason. In the days of the ice box, the milk soured easily. Still, the cheese was put into a cloth sack and hung outside on the clothesline pole. I also remember the same clothesline pole knocking out Gerald’s front tooth, when I accidently bumped into him. My brother met the clothesline pole with his mouth and the tooth suffered from the impact. Our traumatic childhood may be the reason Gerald and I do not have a much closer relationship.

My brothers and I went through a phase, when we spent every possible dime we could get our hands on for comic books. It would be nice to have a stack of those books now, since they have become collector’s items of some value. Then, they were just a stimulus to the imagination and a source for daydreams of adventure.

I remember, spending three days in the hospital to have my tonsils removed, when I was nearly six years old. Although it was January 21, 1944, according to my baby book, the weather was beautiful and made it so hard to be cooped up in a hospital bed. I watched the squirrels playing on the lawn and trees outside the hospital grounds. I so wanted to get out of the hospital room. I remember, fighting when they put the mask over my face and started to administer the anesthetic. After I awoke, I was asked what I most wanted to eat. I chose ice cream. Ice cream was such a treat to us, it would be the first thing chosen. I could not swallow the ice cream and was so disappointed.

Since ice cream was such a treat, I would try to talk my father into making us children some “snow ice cream.” The recipe for snow ice cream involved clean snow, milk, vanilla extract, and sugar. The milk, sugar and vanilla mixture was mixed with the clean snow and a substitute ice cream was made which tasted delicious to us children. When winter arrived, I would welcome the first snowfall, knowing soon we would be able to have some snow ice cream. I still retain a great fondness for ice cream.

Another recipe, I can remember, concerns home-made carbonated soda water. While I cannot remember the proportions of the recipe, it concerned water, vinegar and baking soda. The resulting mixture made a fizzing soda tasting drink which would have been better if it had been made with some flavoring to add to the mixture.

I can remember some incidents about World War II. There was a popular little song called, “Bell-bottomed trousers, coats of Navy-blue” I tried to learn to sing. I remember, when my father was drafted into the Army. I was told my mother talked to the draft board, because my father was not giving us any support and if he was in the Army, there would be the government allotment. Be that as it may, I was proud of the helmet-liner my father sent each of his three sons and the picture of him in uniform he sent me. I believe I was in the second or third grade at the time.

I wore my “helmet” proudly to school. During recess, I decided to test the device I thought would stop bullets. The helmet-liner was not the steel outer shell which actually provided the protection. This was painfully learned, during recess, when I went running toward a stately tree on the playground to butt it like a Billy goat. Wearing the “helmet,” I knew I would not be hurt and this would show everyone the protective capabilities of the “helmet,” I was so proud to have. The stars which danced in front of my dazed eyes gave vivid demonstration of the lesson learned about trusting the bullet-stopping ability of helmet-liners. If it were not for this early “helmet” testing, I might have grown much taller and become a professional basketball player.

In McPherson, Kansas, there was a drainage ditch between the railroad tracks and the road. The tracks were higher than the road and water gathered in a pool between the road and tracks. The pool was about three feet deep and rather large. It was great fun to take the old railroad ties and float them in the water as boats which could be ridden in half-submerged condition. The pond had its hazards. I cut the bottom of my left foot on a broken piece of glass on the muddy bottom. Still, it was fun on a hot summer day to splash around in the poor folks swimming pool.

Poor folks learn to survive by using whatever resources they have available. There was not a lot of money to be had, so I could not ask my parents for things like candy or sweets. If these things were desired, it meant doing something to obtain the goals. Money was literally within my grasp. With the aid of a “gunny sack,” I had only to walk along the highway and pick up the discarded soda and beer bottles. The bottles were sold after they had been cleaned and sorted. This was how I learned to be independent and gained the finances I desired. Sometimes, I would give the money to my stepmother and she would figure how many groceries we could buy with it. Other times, I would buy candy and appease, with childish delight, my sweet tooth. Usually, I would take the assorted candy bars home to share with my younger brothers and sisters.

One of the civic organizations of Moundridge, sponsored a kite flying contest. The contestants had to make their own kites. String and sticks were provided, but paper and labor were the charge of the contestants. I got my paper from my father at the flour mill where he worked and made my kite. At the contest, I was able to get my kite airborne first. I won first place in this first event for getting the kite up in the air, at the end of the string, the quickest. However, it was with great difficulty I managed to keep it aloft. The kite was tied so it continued to make large loops in the air and seemed destined to crash into the ground. Some stroke of fate or the angels kept the kite up, but I was not able to do anything in the other events, until time came for the most loops. My kite would not stop and no one else could make their kite do a loop. Consequently, I won first, second and third place in this event.

When the points were figured from all the events, I had won the overall first place, a modest little trophy with one arm broken off and a little over five dollars in prize money. The trophy was kept, but the prize money was given to my stepmother to buy groceries. The prize money came at a most opportune time, when the family’s finances were at one of their lowest points, because my father had gone off somewhere to look for work and had not yet returned. My stepmother greatly appreciated the money brought in from the kite flying contest. I do not remember what became of the little trophy, because there was a time, when I wanted to forget my unsettled childhood and did not want anything around to remind me of what I had been through.

Yes, our family was poor. There were times when the family had barely enough to eat and these were the times the “gunny sack” would be taken out for many workouts. Other times, a relative or social worker would stop and deliver a box of groceries. I did not give much thought to the arrival of the groceries. I just accepted the fact someone, other than my father, had provided them. However, one box contained a large, Hershey chocolate candy bar for each of us children and this did impress me. The thoughtful person who packed that box was remembered many times even though the name remained a mystery for many years. I thought it was so delightful for someone to remember the children, when they were extending a helping hand to the family. Little details such as candy for deprived children are so easy to overlook. Many times, I thanked God for providing someone so thoughtful, when we needed the help so tremendously. It was not until later in life, I learned aunt Hedwig and uncle Art Schmidt had delivered that box and were responsible for the thoughtful candy for us children. I was able to thank them and tell them of my memories of their gift of candy.

I can remember going along with my grandfather on a trip to Inman, Kansas. My grandfather had once lived there, in a little house, and was returning to see if he might be able to borrow some money to help support our family. We had to hitchhike, since my grandfather had no car to make the trip. It was a hot day and we walked most of the 15 or so miles. Even then, it was difficult to get a lift. I do not remember if our trip was successful, but we did not have to walk back to Moundridge. It was nice to spend the time visiting with my grandfather. I had so little time with my grandfather, each moment now, seems a precious treasure. I persistently requested the honor of accompanying my grandfather, until the permission was granted.

As a young lad, I spent many hours at the blacksmith shop, watching, with fascination, as the smith pounded the white hot plowshares to a sharp point. With great interest, I watched the smith heat the iron in the forge, first to a cherry red and then to white hot. With a long pair of iron tongs, the smith removed the plowshare from the fire and placed it on a large machine that hammered it to the desired shape. When the smith had the plowshare to his liking, he would plunge it into the big tub of water causing a great hissing noise and much steam. The blacksmith seemed to tolerate curious boys in his shop and would let them try to pound a piece of cold iron, with one of his big hammers, into some recognizable form. After attacking the chunk of metal vigorously for a time, we would retire to an empty nail keg to listen to the smith and his cronies swap stories. The blacksmith shop was as much a social place as a professional spot.

My uncle Jake D. Friesen owned a blacksmith shop and hardware store in Inman, Kansas. I remember my uncle Jake and uncle Edward A. “Ed” Ediger, at one of the family gatherings, trying to see who was the stronger. The contest took place at uncle Ed's farm with my two uncles taking turns holding a sledge hammer vertical, at arm’s length, with one hand. Then, they would slowly lower the sledge hammer, until it touched their nose and raise it back to the vertical position. Both of my uncles were able to perform this feat without smashing their noses as we children watched with fascination. It took tremendous arm and wrist strength to perform this feat and it still is amazing to me to think of their feat. What is even more staggering, to my imagination, is the fact I seem to recall the sledge hammer being one of the large twelve pound ones used to drive posts in the ground. Be that as it may, this is what sticks in my memory.

On other times, I would wander out of Moundridge, cross a couple of fields and sit by the little creek, when I wearied of watching the smith at his tasks. During these quiet times, I would observe the mud turtles sunning themselves, or a crayfish backing into deeper water, or the birds singing in the trees. I once tried my hand at fishing in the creek. I cut a willow branch for a pole, tied some string and a fishing hook to the pole and proceeded to try to catch a fish. After using nearly all the worms I had dug for bait, I finally hooked the catfish which had been nibbling on the bait all afternoon. The fish was slightly over a pound, but to me it seemed larger. After the moments of solitude and enjoying the revelations of nature, I would amble back to my troubled world in town.

While returning home from one of my trips to the stream, I found a broken machete-like corn knife. It did not have the handle and was rusty. This did not matter, because my head was filled with visions of making it into a hunting knife. It was ground to some semblance of a point at the blacksmith shop. It was starting to look like a hunting knife, but the problem of a handle remained. When I found the old jawbone of a steer which had been butchered, visions of a fancy bone handled hunting knife filled my imagination. While trying to cut the jawbone with the newly acquired, almost-hunting knife, it slipped and nearly took off the knuckle of my left index finger. It was then, the hunting knife ceased to be a neat idea and was discarded in favor of trying to stop the bleeding of the cut.

I was a proud lad. My bitterest memory is the time I had to wear the clothes, some nice people had given me, to church. In the same congregation was the son of those nice people. His name was in the waistband of the trousers he had outgrown and his parents had given to the poor kid down the street. It hurt my pride to have to wear the hand-me-down trousers to church and I was very self-conscious. I sat in the pew thinking everyone in the church knew the pants, I had on, were not mine but some other boy’s. I don’t remember ever going back to that church. I now realize I was selfish to think along those lines. Such thinking undermines the good work of the people who were only trying to salvage a bit of my character out of the chaos in which I lived. However, the memory will always haunt me and has given me the strong conviction never again will I wear another kid’s trousers. This attitude remained, until I finally gave my heart to Jesus after so many years of running away from making a commitment to our Lord. Anyway, this experience also taught me charity should be best handled with a gentle hand to prevent injury to the recipient’s pride. I have attempted to follow this lesson during the times I have been able to lend a helping hand to my relatives.

Near the school in Moundridge was a small park. During the winter, the children would slide on the ice of the frozen stream flowing through the park. During one of these morning skating excursions, before school started, I fell through the ice. We would run along the bank, stop and slide on the ice. I lost my footing and landed in a most undignified manner. The seat of my trousers hit the thin ice in the middle of the stream. The stream was shallow so the only danger was the soaking of body and pride. It is difficult to act nonchalant, when you are cold and wet. It seemed best to go back home instead of to school. It is not known if this incident had anything to do with most of us children coming down with whooping cough about that time. I can remember, being quarantined and the doctor prescribing doses of vitamins.

The town dump was a fascinating place to visit. The opportunity to make some “find” was ever present. One time, I found an old golf club and took it home. Across the field from the dump was a dried up pond. The banks of the pond contained some holes among the dried grass and weeds. I knew the holes must be animal burrows and house some animal—maybe a wolverine. I decided to “smoke out” the animal and see if I could catch it. There was no thought given as to what I might do if I caught something so wild as a wolverine. It would have been like the story of the fellow having the tiger by the tail and could not turn loose of it for fear of being eaten by the tiger. Still, I was determined to carry out the project and capture the creature. This bold plan necessitated a trip home to get some matches.

Upon returning to the pond, some paper was gathered up and kindling placed in the mouth of one burrow entrance. The small fire was lit. I proceeded to the other hole I knew must be the exit to await the animal which would most certainly come charging out. I am not sure what I would have done if an animal had come out, but I was intensely watching the exit hole, when something told me to look around. It was startling to see the dry grass, on the banks of the pond, afire. The exit hole was forgotten in the rush to try to put out the fire before I could get in trouble. I tried stomping out the fire, but that did not seem to slow its progress. My shirt was removed and I proceeded to beat out the fire with the shirt. When the fire was out and a hasty retreat had been beaten back to the dump, I decided to try to wash the fire stains out of the shirt. I was not successful at washing the shirt, but nothing was mentioned about the dirty shirt—maybe dirty shirts are expected on little boys.

One of my classmates told me about the Boy Scouts of America and talked me into joining its organization. Although my uniform was bought by someone else, it did not scar my ego, because I was one of several who had their uniforms purchased for them. The uniform was new and did not have another boy’s name in the waistband. The scout troop also held paper drives to earn money to help pay for the other scout’s uniforms. I was able to assist these efforts after I joined the troop. I was so proud to wear my scout uniform.

I had a difficult time learning how to tie knots required to become a “tenderfoot” scout. Somehow, I learned how to tie bowlines, square knots and sheep shank knots. Later, I would become fascinated by knots and relish being able to tie a turkshead knot on coffee cups to give to friends and loved ones. The comradeship and the learning to ply the skills of the outdoorsman, with other eager lads, took my thoughts away from my problems at home. The close contact with other scouts plus the steadying influence of the Scout Master provided me with the help required to set me upon the right path to manhood. The hikes and camping trips are remembered with pleasure. I remember the urge to get out in front of the pack during the hikes. The competitive spirit made me want to walk just a little faster so I could be out in front of everyone else. The several trips were pleasant escapes from the worries of home.

Many people endeavored to aid our family and the children would often receive clothing from the county welfare people as well as various church organizations. I remember going, with my father, to a county welfare center to receive a winter coat and shoes. This was not as personal as receiving clothes with someone’s name in the waistband. Still, it did not set well with a young lad’s pride that his family had to accept charity from any source. Charity was received from neighbors and relatives, but nothing seemed to alleviate our family’s basic problem of my father’s psychological confusion.

As the oldest child, I began to realize my father was not entirely responsible for the support of his family. As a result, my pride was severely hurt. I could not comprehend why my father was not like the other boys’ fathers. I began to feel as though I could not depend on my father to satisfy my needs, either materialistic or spiritualistic, and I tried to develop into a self-reliant being. This conflict, of trying to be an entity and the need to depend on my father for the guiding influence in my life, became a difficult burden for my sensitive personality. When young, a child has the tendency to worship his father and I was no exception. I was very disappointed to learn my father did not seem worthy of such adoration.

Foster Parents

Link to foster parents Arthur A. "Art" Schmidt and Ruth Elizabeth (Unrau) Schmidt

Space:A_Tribute_to_My_Foster_Parents

When this conflict was reaching a climax, my father left to look for work and was not heard from for some time. After nothing was heard for nearly two weeks, my grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, tried to find some homes for us children. Relatives and friends were called upon to share the burden of our support. One day, I was ushered into our living room and was presented to some strangers. I was told, because my father was out of work and times were difficult, our family could not stay together any longer. My grandfather, Jacob H. Neufeld, told me the other children would go to stay with relatives. I was to live with these people, on their farm, until my father could come and get me. My father never came and the strangers became my family.

The family who took me in was Ruth Elizabeth and Arthur Adolph “Art” Schmidt. They had three children. I was welcomed as another addition to their family. They offered the gentleness and feeling of security which had been missing in my home. Much of the inner conflict disappeared as this new family quickly won my loyalties. My heart was captured by their understanding and affection. They became an integral part of my life. The farmer and his family took me into their hearts and by doing so, unlocked my heart to them. A boy with a jaded outlook on society and few belongings was accepted into their household. It must have taken a great measure of courage to accept such a challenge.

I was given new clothes, plenty of good food and my very own room. In fact, we stopped to buy me some clothes on the way from Moundridge to their farm outside Walton. But more important, I was given the compassionate understanding and sense of belonging to something permanent. I no longer had the fear of being separated from the security of my home. Now, the somber lad learned to laugh more freely and to enjoy life as a boy should.

The regime of farm life agreed with me and the steadying influence of the Schmidt family gave me a strong foundation in achieving the attenuation with society, required by anyone assuming a position within its organizational structures. For the first time in my life, I attended church regularly and learned to respect its spiritual aspects in the shaping of a person’s character. I had many examples to follow in the conscientious responsibility displayed in an everyday manner of daily living by this wonderful family. This family’s influence in molding my character will be appreciated and felt for as long as I hold a position among the other members of the society in which I reside.

This wonderful family shaped the lump of frustrated fears and insecurities to mold a boy into a responsible person, better equipped to deal with the demands of society. They accomplished this transformation by providing plenty of hard work, though none was beyond the capabilities of a boy’s willing young hands. In addition, the formula included loving care, a sense of belonging, a moral guidance of regular church attendance, and the essence of having good examples to follow as I grew up. These subtle influences did much to erase earlier prejudices and directed my steps toward a favorable character development. I spent some of the most impressionable years of my life in those beneficial surroundings, so it is not without reason this wonderful family will always hold a place of endearment and gratitude in my heart.

The subject of my adoption came up in the course of a conversation, to see what I thought of the idea. I gave it some consideration. It might have been nice except for the nagging hope someday my family would still be able to reunite. It did not seem right to consent to the adoption, when my parents were still alive. My life might have been different, had I consented to the adoption and stayed a part of the Schmidt family. It is unlikely I would have chosen the military service as a career had I been adopted.

I especially enjoyed the “covered dish” church socials. The end of the table with the numerous desserts was the most appealing to my sweet tooth. I could generally eat more sweets than at home without anyone noticing. The children usually played tag in the little park across from the church. I was a fast runner and could dodge quite well. I also enjoyed giving the younger children rides on my shoulders.

Another vivid memory associated with church happened, when my friend decided to show me a nerve pressure point between the first two knuckles. My friend pressed between my knuckles and a hot searing pain flowed up my arm. The pain made it difficult to keep from yelling out in the middle of the sermon. The outcry was stifled and the pressure was soon released, but it was difficult to concentrate on the preacher’s words. I never quite forgave my friend, the preacher’s son, for demonstrating the nerve pressure point, although, some atonement was accomplished by being able to ride in his horse cart. It was a two-wheeled buggy which was harnessed to a pony. It was great fun to be taken for a ride in the pony cart.

One of my favorite places, on the farm, was the top of the 45 foot silo. I would climb the ladder. Holding on to one of the two reinforcing rod rails, I would walk around the edge of the silo. I would sit on the edge, hanging my feet over the rim and lean my arms on the lower of the two railings. The top of the silo offered a wonderful view of the surrounding fields, but was dangerous if I had fallen. God must watch over the adventures of young boys. One of my less favorable memories concerning the silo, was having to smear mud around the doors to make the air-tight seal, when the ensilage was being put into the silo. I was not fond of getting my hands dirty to put the mud around the edges of the doors. I also had to get inside to level out the ensilage and pack it down after each load had been blown into the silo. This was hot work inside the silo as no wind was able to ease the heat of the day.

When it came time to bring the cows in for evening milking, another bit of sport took place. In the herd was a young yearling bull. I would sneak up through the tame cows and catch hold of the young bull’s tail. The young bull did not like this and would take off at a run with me trying to keep up. The race did not last very long, because my two feet had problems maintaining the speed of the bull’s four feet. Still, this bit of sport was fun—at least, from my point of view—but the bull probably did not think much of the game.

In winter, it was hard for me to find the determination to get up and face the world. It would be dark outside. The wind would be howling as it blew the snow around. The warmth of the bed would make it hard to want to arise, get dressed and start the morning chores. Still, it had to be done before school started, so I would drag myself out of the bed. After my feet hit the floor, the pace would pick up in order to get dressed in the cold of the room upstairs.

Another vivid memory involves gathering eggs from the henhouse. After filling the large wire basket with eggs, I was on my way to place them in the cellar. The eggs were kept in the cool cellar, until it came time to take them into town to sell. Half way down the cellar steps, I stumbled and the wire basket slipped out of my hand when I tried to catch myself. There was not an egg left intact and it was a messy business cleaning up the residue of the accident. No one ever yelled at me, when I did something dumb like break the basket of eggs. When I needed discipline, I the firm displeasure was communicated to me, but nothing physical. There were times, when the physical would have been easier to bear than the knowledge I had done something to displease and disappoint my new family.

The cellar also contained the sugar-cured hams. The hams hung from the ceiling beams in the cool of the cellar. The hams did not look appetizing with the green mold which grew on the outside. However, they did taste good. Working on a farm can develop an appetite. Things like the ham and the crisp cracklings are remembered with pleasure. Cracklings were the residue from the rendering of lard. They were the tiny pieces of meat cooked out of the lard. The cracklings were fried and then put in a press to remove all of the grease. Then, the cracklings were served with eggs for breakfast.

Some of the nicest memories of farm cuisine was during the time for harvesting the wheat. The days were long and work was not stopped, until absolutely necessary. At these times, the dinner and supper would be brought out to the field. Time would be taken from the combining to spread a picnic feast under one of the shade trees and enough food to feed an army would be unloaded. The appetites were good and the hearty meals provided witness to the culinary prowess of the cooks.

I remember one season, when the oats were bundled, shocked (put in stacks), and combined with an old-style threshing machine. This manner of harvesting had pretty much gone out of style, so it was a treat to be a part of history being replayed. I also found the small, three-tine pitchforks used to put the shocked bundles on the hayrack was just my size.

One of the most enjoyable farm task was putting up the hay. Handling the hay bales gave me a feeling of accomplishment. It was easy to see something was being accomplished and did not take long to make an impact on a field. One of the times, when handling hay bales was not as enjoyable, was the time some clover was cut and baled. The clover had gone to seed and after being pounded through the hay bailer, the seeds were loose. When the bales were lifted overhead, to stack them, the seeds and loose bits of clover flowed down the front of the body lifting the bale. As it was a hot day, the seeds and bits of clover stuck to the body to make an itching, uncomfortable situation. It was good to have that job out of the way.

I remember, playing on the old horse-drawn farm implements which were no longer being used. My imagination would let me picture what it must have been like to work with the old implements. It must have been a lot more work to use the horse-drawn hay rake than the modern one used with the tractor. I did have the opportunity to work with one of the older hand-tied wire hay bailers. It took two people to tie the bales. Each person sat in a seat on either side of the bailer. One would poke the wires through and the other person would tie them before the bale exited the machine. The newer machines took less people to operate and were a lot faster to use.

In the old days, before hay bailers, the hay was put up loose in the barn. With the advent of the hay bailer, it was no longer necessary to use the tremendous rope slings and the trolley arrangement. The hay was stacked on top of the hay slings on the hayrack. The wagon (hayrack) was pulled up to the end of the barn and the trolley hook was connected. The hay in the slings would be lifted up into the barn, moved along the trolley track in the peak of the barn and dumped where desired when a rope was pulled to release the hook’s catch. With hay being put up in bales, it was no longer necessary to use the trolley arrangement. Consequently, the rope was no longer used until I discovered it made a wonderful Tarzan swing.

The trolley could be pulled anywhere in the barn and it was possible to swing from the stack of hay bales on one side to those on the other side of the barn. This was great fun, until it was learned a pull on the rope would cause the trolley to speed down the track and crash into the stop at the end. This resulted in a loud noise that delighted childish ears. It was while showing this delightful noise maker to some children over for a visit one Sunday, the inevitable happened. The wood block, u-bolt arrangement blocking the end of the track shattered. The trolley and rope came crashing the twenty or so feet down to the hayloft floor. It was fortunate none of us were standing in the center of the barn. The trolley hit a hay bale and shattered the bale. It would have been even more devastating to any of us children, had we been standing in the path. It was difficult for me to go and tell the Art and Ruth Schmidt what had transpired during a childish display of the noise maker.

Words have different meanings to different people. Much of the definition of words comes from a person’s background. I learned this lesson when I returned from working in the fields to find my mother and stepfather were paying a visit to the farm. My stepfather asked me what I had been doing. I replied I had been “chiseling.” My stepfather got visibly upset because, to him, the word denoted swindling someone. I had to explain, to him, a chisel was a farm implement used to break up the fields like a cultivator. It was an interesting lesson in learning to be more aware of people’s perspectives and perceptions during the course of a conversation.

On Sunday afternoons, there was little to be done on the farm. It was a day for rest, relaxation and spiritual renewal. One of the neighbor boys and I would go swimming in some of the ponds in the nearby pastures. One such pond had a make-shift diving board we enjoyed using. It was a board plank which had been anchored securely over the pond and could be used to dive into the pond. I had not learned to swim good, but I could dog paddle. It bothered me for water to get in my nose. When it came to diving off the board, I would hold my nose with one hand and stick the other hand out in front of my body. I made what I thought was a perfect jack knife dive and entered the water in a nearly vertical position. Unfortunately, the water was only about four feet deep, at that point, and there was a deep layer of mud on the bottom of the pond. I stuck the arm, which was stuck up in front of my body, into the mud until my head just touched the surface of the mud. This left my feet sticking up in the air above the surface of the water in the most undignified end to a perfect jack knife dive. I extracted myself from the mud and learned to be more cautious in diving into strange ponds.

After learning to shoot the .22 single-shot rifle, my friend and I would go to the ponds for target practice. We would shoot at the snapping turtles which lived in the ponds. The turtles would come up for air and present a little bit of a challenge to us. After several shots, the turtles would only stick their noses out of the water. It was extremely challenging to hit the small targets presented. The snapping turtles were never completely culled from the ponds. A few of them were dispatched, but most of the turtles managed to survive our marksmanship or lack thereof.

Another bit of fun on a Sunday afternoon was going to the closest neighbor’s farm to visit their children and ride their horse. Late one evening, the neighbor boys and I were taking turns riding the horse down the road. The horse was ridden without a saddle and with just a bridle. I had ridden down the road and was headed back to the neighbor’s farm, when a car came up the road from behind me and startled the horse. The horse took off at a run with me trying to hang on to the bridle and the horse’s mane in sheer desperation. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, but was probably shorter, of bouncing up and down on the horse and knowing at any instant I would fall off, the car finally went around me and the horse. The horse then became more manageable and I was able to get my mount under control for the rest of the trip.

I had to ride the school bus from the farm to school. For the most part, the bus rides were uneventful. Riding the school bus meant I could not stay late after school and practice with the rest of the football team. Still, that would not have made a lot of difference to my athletic ability. The bus driver once told us the story about a person walking past the cemetery. It was late and a ghost jumped up. The man was frightened and took off running about thirty or forty miles an hour down the road. After running for about an hour, the man got tired and stopped to sit down on a log to catch his breath. The ghost came up puffing, sat down beside him and said, “That was some race we just had.” The man replied, “Yes, but it is nothing like the one we’re goin’ have!”

While living on the Schmidt farm, I joined the Walton 4-H Club. For the first time, I had to manage my own finances and organize my project. The first year, my project was a Poland China pig. When it came time to exhibit my animal, at the county fair, it was evident I had much to learn about showing animals. The pig was somewhat wild because I had not taken enough time to train the pig to stand still. As a result, the pig continued to circle the arena at a fast pace and it was quite a job to try to keep up with the animal and try to stop its wanderings. I would head off my pig and just when I thought I had him stopped, he would start off in the opposite direction and the foot race began again. Still, the judges awarded me a third place ribbon, possibly for stamina and endurance. I believe all 4-H contestants received, at the very least, such an award as a boost to their morale.

The following year, I won an essay contest sponsored by Sears. This was my first attempt at professional writing and my essay won a prize. The prize was a registered Durroc pig. The only stipulation was one of the pig’s litter would be given to the following year’s winner. The experience gained from the first 4-H Club project was of benefit and next year’s fair saw a first place ribbon and a tamer animal to exhibit. The money earned from the 4-H Club projects was invested in Postal Savings bonds at the suggestion of Art and Ruth Schmidt.

During one of our 4-H Club outings to visit the member’s projects and see how things were progressing, I remember the following incident: We had visited several projects, when we stopped to see one of the member’s pig. Someone in the club asked the member what he had named his pig. The member responded his project did not have a name, until he got mad at it; then, the pig had a lot of names.

When I started school at Walton Consolidated School, I was warned to watch out for the other boy in my eight grade class. They said to beware of Jim DuFriend for he was a rough lad. It turned out Jim and I became good friends. Jim’s recital of The Charge of the Light Brigade was my first introduction to the action poetry I would develop a taste for in later years. Jim was a typical, small town lad, who grew up wanting to be outdoors. He enjoyed hunting, fishing and being able to enjoy the outdoors. The last I heard of Jim, he was an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps and I suspect Jim was good at his craft, because I remember him as a natural leader as well as a really nice person.

In the eighth grade, I developed a thirst for reading which could not be quenched. I read something like sixty or seventy books from the school library. This is the first time in my life I can remember reading with such interest and vigor. To this day, I enjoy reading. I mostly read to improve my knowledge rather than just light reading only for pleasure.

In the ninth grade, we were given aptitude and I.Q. tests. We were never told our scores, but we were given a list of occupations from which to chose in the ranges indicated by the testing. The occupation which interested me was veterinarian. Since I lived on a farm, it seemed the natural occupation to satisfy my interests and aptitudes. I started collecting the articles from the farming magazines about veterinary medicine. I once diagnosed a calf with “wooden tongue” from the scrapbook information and had it confirmed, when the veterinarian came to treat the animal.

There were only two boys and four girls in the eighth grade class. In my freshman year of high school, another boy joined the class. When it came time for athletics, every boy was expected to try out for the team. I was a small lad, but I tried out for the football team. I was so small, there was not enough room between my hip and shoulder pads to wear the rib pads. I did not weigh much over a hundred pounds wearing the football equipment. Still, I gamely tried the sport that was more than my small, uncoordinated size could master. I was more of a mascot for the team than one of the players. It was fun for me to go to the games. The coach would let me go into the game, when the team was so far ahead of our opponents it would not do any harm or so far behind it could not matter. Our small school played six-man football. It was difficult for our small school to win many games, when we played schools who carried a full schedule of eleven-man football games and played their best six for the six-man games apparently scheduled for practice.

One of the times the coach let me go into the game was one of the times the other team was way ahead. I was sent in to play nearly every position except center. This time I was sent in as right end. The play was going to the left so the only thing I had to do was to try to block my opponent as best I could. The opposing right end was a huge lad. The ball was snapped and I threw my block with my feet just a churning. Since I was so small and the other team was so far ahead, the other player just stood there with his hands on his hips and watched me trying to move him out of the way. The coach took me out of the game right after the play had been completed.

Another game, I was sent in as left halfback. I was to run with the ball around the right end. The ball was snapped and handed off to me as I charged with the ball around the right side of the line. I made it just about to the line of scrimmage, when I looked up to see the biggest player in the world waiting for me. The player made the bone crunching tackle that nearly knocked the breath out of me and the coach took me out of the game.

During one of the practice sessions I had the opportunity to tackle one of the football players who was a senior in high school. He was the best broken field runner the school had produced. He could cross-step and spin out of the tackler’s grasp with the greatest of ease. He ran with authority and was difficult to stop when he got moving. The practice drill was to line up the team about five yards apart. The runners would attempt to break tackles as they ran up the line of tacklers. I was midway up the line and just behind one of the better players who was a junior in high school. The junior tried to tackle the senior and almost had him stopped. As the senior was breaking free of the junior’s tackle and had just turned to start forward again, I ran up to tackle him. I felt as if I had tackled a locomotive. I was nearly knocked loose by the impact, but managed to hang on, slide down the legs and trip up the senior. I was not sure the effort to make the tackle was worth it, because the wind was almost knocked out of me in the process. Still, the team kept this game lad around and I enjoyed going along to the games.

The following is one of the letters I wrote, attempting to tell Art and Ruth Schmidt how greatly I appreciated their effect on my life:

Dear Art and Ruth,

We have much to be thankful for. God has been so gracious to us. It seems like each year we have more to be thankful for. It seems like things break easier now, than when we were younger. I am glad Ruth is doing better from the broken leg. Falls seem to be a major danger as you get older. I can imagine the broken toe was quite painful. It is a hard place to immobilize so it can heal. Since you can wear regular shoes again, I guess the pain is not so bad now. It seems good health is the greatest blessing. Life can be difficult, when a person doesn’t have good health.

One of the greatest blessings God has given me is you and your family. I cannot thank you, and Him, enough for what you have given me. At a time when things were looking pretty bad for me, you came along and rescued me. Thank you! You gave me the stability of a loving family when mine was a mess. You took me to church regularly. In fact, I don’t think we ever missed a Sunday of church, even though sometimes we had to drive across the pasture and go out by the highway, when the roads were drifted up. More than going to church, you showed me how Christians were supposed to deal with life. It took me a long time, of running away from making a commitment to accept Jesus, as my Savior, but I could never run away from the example you set for me to see. Knowing about Jesus and seeing what He does in people’s lives was the most wonderful gift you gave me. Thank you!

Sometimes we do not see the example we are setting for others. I feel it is that way with you. It seems, God does so much through the willing disciple, that he or she can ever realize. I think it is going to take eternity for God to show us all the things He did, when we did not realize He was even at work. You probably do not realize what you were doing, but thank you anyway. I remember the kind way you treated a couple of strangers who stopped by for gas and how kindly you treated me, even when I did something foolish. I think back on some of the dumb things I did and marvel at your sense of composure.

I want to thank you for the offer you made to adopt me. It was one of “those roads not taken.” It was a wonderful and generous offer. Had I accepted, life would have been much different than what I made of it. I don’t know if I ever explained why I did not accept. I guess every child, of a broken home, always hopes the family will somehow be reunited. Both of my parents were alive and I had that hope, of the family getting back together. Maybe I felt that if I accepted the offer of adoption I would not be able to get back with my family. Now that I am older, I can see some of these thoughts were foolish. I can also understand what a wonderful offer you gave me and thank you for opening your heart to me so completely. Your disappointment in my not accepting your offer of adoption is like what God must feel when His children do not accept what Jesus has done for us. I think our experiences in life give us some tiny glimpse into the heart of God. Having once rejected the offer of adoption into your earthly family, I do not want to reject God’s offer to adopt me into His family. I want to be a brother to Jesus and tell Him how grateful I am for His many blessings. I also want to thank you for the many blessings you gave me. I have prayed, and still continue to do so, that God will wonderfully bless you, because He has wonderfully blessed me through you. Thank you so very much!

Because I felt that Jesus was real for you, I found that He was real for me. Just living for eternity did not seem so grand, but living for eternity with Jesus does seem like a wonderful blessing. Being able to spend eternity with the wonderful people I have met and known in this life seems like such a grand experience. I may not understand why Jesus should love me so much, as to make such a sacrifice to adopt me into His family, but I am so glad He did! I don’t know why you and your family should love me so much as to want to adopt me into your family, but I am so glad you did. By not accepting your wonderful offer, I must have caused you much grief. I am so sorry! Sometimes, we do not understand the pain we cause without thinking.

We can all look back and find a few things we might have changed given our understanding now. The important thing is that we did the best we could at the time. You did the best you could and I pray God has and will continue to bless you so abundantly, more than you can even expect. What you did for me, during the time we were together, has stayed with me all my life. You built well with the material God gave you to work with! The foundation of your work stayed with me, even when I was running away from making a personal commitment to accept Jesus as my Saviour. Even when I was running away from Him, I knew He was there and that He loved me, because you had shown Him to me in every aspect of your everyday living experiences. I could not run away from the foundation you had built in my life. Thank you!

You might think you could have done better, but you did the best you could with what you had to work with. That is good enough! You were a faithful servant and your Lord Jesus will say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servants.” It is hard for me to express how wonderful the example you lived out before my eyes. You probably do not remember it and may even doubt my words. Please do not doubt. You did good! Look at your family. You raised them well. You can see God’s success in them! You have a wonderful family and in this day and age, that is quite an accomplishment! It looks like (to me) you have raised not only a nice family, but a family of Christians. That is a wonderful heritage! It looks, as if you will have your whole family with you in Heaven. Can you ask for more than that? I think not, but God still has some blessings reserved for you. I pray they are wonderful, because you are wonderful!

I have learned to not worry about “the road not taken,” because I cannot go back to change the journey. The past is gone and we cannot do anything about it. Tomorrow holds some wonderful promises, especially when you put Christ Jesus into the picture. I am looking forward to many wonderful tomorrows with Jesus and some wonderful Christians in my past, but tomorrow is just a promise that gives hope. In the end all we have for now is Today. When we put Christ in our today, He gives us strength for whatever comes and the grace of His companionship to make the trip so much better! You might have done some things differently with me if you had to do it all over, but you did pretty well considering what you had to work with. I am looking forward to spending eternity with you, because I know you are going to be there. I know that if I do not let go of Christ’s hand, I am going to be there also! Eternity with you and Jesus sounds good to me! I am looking forward to being able to get to know your family. They seem like such neat people, I am looking forward to spending time with them. Maybe the true measure of a man is not what he has accomplished, but rather what God has accomplished through him. I believe God has done well through you! Enjoy today, because God will give you eternal tomorrows and at His right hand is pleasure forever more and in His presence is fullness of joy!

May your Christmas holidays be filled with joy and may you feel the sweet joy of communion with your Lord Jesus Christ. Please give my love to your wonderful family.

I love you both so very much!

Life in Texas

Two and a half years were spent in the sheltered protection of the Schmidt family before my mother again established a home for us children in Fort Worth. The family of my stepfather soon became endeared to my heart by providing warmth, understanding and companionship. The Hausey clan became far dearer to my heart than most of my blood relations, which were remembered only vaguely and were never brought into as close a relationship because of their distance.

Once again, my mother and stepfather undertook to gather us children under one household. Their courage in undertaking this challenge is to be commended, since each child’s character had developed differently as each of us was exposed to a different environmental situation. The magnitude of this decision can be appreciated in the light of the lack of success of the other time they gathered us together. I wonder, now, if there might have been some guilt feelings concerning the previous rapid transit of us back to Kansas after the broken coffee table incident. I am certain mother may have been deeply troubled about it, but I am not as certain about the state of my stepfather’s conscience. It may have been Curtis felt we were old enough to be of some help and work around the house. Be that as it may, there were numerous problems to be overcome and a great measure of patience was required to deal with the five new charges. Sometimes, the patience was there and sometimes, it was not.

I was somewhat awed by this rough, gruff, loud-talking truck driver who was at times coarse, rude and inconsiderate. He had a habit of drinking too much beer and becoming loud and obnoxious. Because of the disillusionment with my father’s behavior and drinking problem, I found it difficult to respect my stepfather’s behavior. While I could not respect my stepfather, I managed to get along with him. Still, it was like walking on eggshells, when he started drinking. We knew the least little thing would start him off on a loud tirade. I think verbal abuse is almost as damaging as physical abuse. Both are not the most pleasant way to grow up.

It was especially upsetting to me for my stepfather to “bad mouth” his two brothers. He would talk about uncle Marvin like his brother was the dumbest person in the world whenever uncle Marvin made a decision. You would think the trucks belonged to Curtis instead of his brother. Curtis acted as if his brother was working for him instead of the other way. Curtis would “pad” his receipt tickets to get extra money. This appeared to me to be the same as stealing from his brother, who was paying his salary and expenses. When uncle Marvin was settling his accounts, after aunt Rita’s death, he found some unauthorized checks where Curtis had signed Marvin’s name to write the checks for what appeared his own gain. Much of this has been told to me so I am not sure I remember things like the checks. I do remember enough things Curtis did where it did not surprise me, when I learned about the checks. I am sure uncle Marvin put up with a lot of trouble only because Curtis was his brother. Curtis seemed to utilize his family influence whenever it suited his needs and he repeatedly took advantage of those around him.

Still, Curtis did have some good qualities. He did try to help make our family a new home. When my stepfather accepted the responsibilities of a ready-made family of five, he provided us with a host of new relatives. The new family opened their hearts to me and again, I opened my heart to my new family. I could not understand why they could be so kind and endearing upon such short notice.

Father Figures & Heroes

Link to my step-uncle Marvin C. Hausey, one of my father-figures: Hausey-6

Link to my step-uncle Toliver "Tol" E. Hausey, one of my father-figures: Hausey-8

I tagged along with my new uncles on fishing trips, an occasional hunting excursion and the multitude of small journeys around town. Whenever there was a job to be done, they would welcome my feeble, but wholehearted, attempts to help. They treated me with respect, as if I were more of an equal or friend, rather than the young lad who was usually underfoot. Consequently, I grew much closer to my two step-uncles than my stepfather. They were more of a father to me than my stepfather ever tried to be. Uncle Marvin and aunt Rita had a standing contract with me to take care of their lawn. Thus they made certain I had enough spending money, which I would have been reluctant to ask from my mother and stepfather.

My stepfather seemed to want us children around, only when he needed something done. If he required someone to drive him around as he went to visit the bars, my younger brother or I was asked to act as chauffeur. If he needed the oil changed in the truck he drove, we were allowed to make a few dollars by doing the work he preferred not to do. This was a good way to earn some spending money, but I soon got the impression the only time he wanted us was when there was a job to be done.

My step-uncles would ask me to go along just for the companionship. Uncle Tol would ask if I wanted to go along if it were only down to the Montgomery Ward’s store to look at a new boat or outboard motor that was being contemplated. I was more like the son my two step-uncles never had. During the fishing months, I could count on my uncle Marvin being at home, when I got in from school on Friday afternoon. His pickup truck would be loaded and he would ask if I were ready to go fishing. It did not take me long to round up my fishing gear and we would soon be on the way to the lake for the weekend.

The first time I went fishing with my uncle Marvin, was in the fall of the year. It was so cold out on the lake it did not seem fishing should have such an attraction. The fish would bite just enough to keep my uncle Marvin from wanting to quit. About the time I would get my hands warm again, another nibble would happen. It would be time to get the hands wet and re-bait the hook with a minnow or take a fish off the hook. The hands were cold and inner reasoning made me wonder why anyone would want to go fishing as I prayed the fish would stop biting. Other trips were more pleasant and fishing became more fun.

Aunt Kot and aunt Rita undertook to make me feel accepted and welcomed in their homes, whenever I paid a visit, which was often. On one of my visits, my aunt Rita asked to be allowed to purchase my high school class ring as a graduation present. The ring was ordered special my senior year rather than the junior year, when most of my classmates bought their rings. I was grateful, as I would not have bought the class ring, if it had not been for her thoughtful consideration. The money for the class ring seemed to be more than our family could afford. The ring was only twenty dollars, but to me that was a lot of money. We children had the idea there was not enough extra money for such luxuries. Still, there was enough money for my stepfather’s ever present six-pack of beer. I had even helped my mother and stepfather by contributing the money I had saved in the postal savings bonds from my 4-H projects. While our family could not be considered as poor, there was not a great deal of extra money in the family’s coffers.

I attended Diamond Hill Jarvis High School after transferring from the small Walton Consolidated High School in Walton, Kansas. I graduated with the class of 1956. The school in Texas was of little challenge after being conditioned to the competition of small classes of only five or six students. Studying in the small class environment was like having a private tutor and the class progressed rather quickly. I was soon lost in the anonymity of the larger institution. I was once informed some people at school called me “genius” behind my back. While this is good for the ego, it does not seem likely. It does speak highly for the individualized instruction given at the small school. In later years, there developed the regret I allowed the anonymity to submerge my competitive spirit in striving to top others in my class. Thus more knowledge might have been gained during those formative years.

It was difficult to form close attachments with classmates or contemporaries, because my transitory childhood had developed a fear of parting. I learned to know many people, but would never really feel free with the people around me and held a vast portion of myself in reserve for fear of being hurt. I was courteous and friendly to my classmates, yet remained cool and distant; not encouraging closer relationships, which might cause pain in the future.

A large chink was hacked out of my “armor” when my classmates at Walton High School gave me a going away party, just before the Thanksgiving holidays (1953), when I went to live in Texas. The small class of two other boys and four girls gathered at the house of my favorite teacher, had dinner, played a few games, talked and finally presented me with a gift. The gift was small hunting knife. Being a sentimentalist under my hard shell of indifference, this was a traumatic experience making dry eyes difficult to retain. Only the wise remark about the knife coming in handy out in the “wild and wooly west” made the situation remain dignified. In later life, I would be less reserved, but I am still a private person who found himself uncomfortable by public displays of affection or notoriety. I am much more comfortable with smaller groups of individuals than with crowds.

I remember the only fight I got into while in high school. It took a long time to develop and was not much of a fight. A young lad kept trying to get a fight going with my younger brother, Gerald. Each afternoon as we walked home from school, the boy would try to get my brother Gerald to fight him. There was never anything said to me and things rocked on for several weeks. Gerald did not want to fight the other boy, so he took the verbal taunting and abuses. One day, I had my fill of the situation and turned to the boy and said if he wanted to fight we ought to go to it. I was so enraged I did not offer much of a fight. As I was going after the boy like a wrestler would approach an opponent, he backed away and proceeded to handle me like a boxer. After about six hard right hand punches to the left side of my head, reason set in and I began to wonder if this was the best way to approach the situation. About the time reason began to dawn on me the other lad was getting a bit concerned that his punches were not doing much to slow the enraged lad coming after him. He offered to call a truce, which I was glad to accept. The truce was accomplished by the shaking of hands as each of us parted to continue our way home. My boxing lesson was punctuated by the most dramatic of black eyes and I still carry the ruptured blood vessels in the left eye to remind me it might be better to try to hold my temper than fight.

In the summer time, I enjoyed sleeping outside on an Army cot ordinarily used for fishing trips. It was cooler outside and a lot more peaceful. My stepfather would become obnoxious, when he had a few too many beers under his belt and it seemed more peaceful outside of the house. In the days before air conditioning the open windows did not prevent the bellowing from being heard outside. In fact, my uncle Tol and aunt Kot moved from next door, because they could no longer stand to hear Curtis make drunken slurs on his brother’s character. I was never able to understand how my stepfather could have so little concern for his own brothers. My stepfather not being close to me did not bother me, but the abuse of my “uncles” did. Later, when my mother and aunt Rita died within about a month of each other, I wrote long letters (from Vietnam) urging my stepfather to get close to his two brothers. I thought the shock of the two brothers losing their wives within such a short time would bring my stepfather closer to his two brothers. My efforts did not seem to have an appreciable effect on my stepfather’s behavior.

While it is difficult for me to pinpoint the reason for the turmoil with my stepfather, it does seem there was something basically wrong. All of the children tried to escape the household as soon as possible. I was going to quit school and join the Navy. I was “lucky” and fate allowed me to finish school. My brother Gerald, did quit school and joined the Army as soon as he was old enough. He had my mother and stepfather’s consent to enlist. My sister, Donna Jean, quit school to get married and get away from the household. My brother Richard and my sister Sharon both ran away from home, when our father died. My sister Sharon was brought back to Fort Worth, but she left again as soon as she was able. There was a considerable amount of turmoil and much negative vibration in the house.

My brother, Earnest, has had a tough time adjusting to life. I think it stems from a conflict on the part of my stepfather and the lack of love E.C. must have felt as he was growing up. I think my stepfather being the youngest of the three brothers, resented the attention E.C. received, when he was born. E.C. was the only Hausey son to be born to the three brothers and the family was proud of him. I think my stepfather resented not being the center of attention he had been all the many years. His mother treated him as if he were an only son, while protesting she never showed any favoritism. Hers was the rankest hypocrisy and it hurt my uncles Toliver and Marvin deeply. She would give all three of her sons a shirt for Christmas, but Curtis would receive a matching tie with his dress shirt.

My mother put up with much more than she should have, because of the problems with her first marriage to my father. I think she felt responsible for what happened and suffered longer with Curtis, because she was determined her second marriage would not fail. I do remember my mother saying she hated to make one of their frequent trips to Kansas, to see our relatives. My mother would have to pack all the clothes for her, Curtis and E.C. She would have to load the car and get everything ready for the trip. She would have to drive all the way, while Curtis drank his beer. When they got to Kansas, she received frequent verbal abuse from Curtis for such silly things as not packing a particular shirt Curtis wanted to wear. He had not even thought to mention he might want to wear the shirt and had done nothing to help pack their clothes. Such was some of the things Curtis put people through and the underlying atmosphere is what made the children of his household wish desperately to escape.

The lessons a person learns during the course of their life, comes in many varied sizes and shapes. A valuable lesson can be learned from unpleasant circumstances as much from the nice times. There were a lot of nice times to be had. I helped my uncles Marvin and Tol build the fishing cabin on the four lots uncle Marvin bought on Lake Whitney. Uncle Marvin would fish on Possum Kingdom Lake and always rented a boat and cabin on each trip. Along with all the bait and groceries purchased, the expense was great. He tried to get the man to lease him a cabin so he would not have to load the fishing stuff each time he wanted to go fishing. The man said he would not lease a cabin. He preferred to continue the present arrangement. After all the business uncle Marvin had given the man, this was a bit upsetting. Marvin decided he would not go back there anymore and found some property on Lake Whitney. He bought the property, built a fishing cabin and our family enjoyed many good times at uncle Marvin’s fishing camp.

I remember one trip I made with uncle Marvin, when we were going to Possum Kingdom Lake. It seemed uncle Tol and my aunts had gone ahead and were already at the lake. Uncle Marvin and I had a later start because we had to wait, until school was out for the week. Uncle Marvin was hungry and decided to stop at a roadside fruit stand to get some fruit to eat on the trip. He asked the man selling the fruit how much his grapes were and received an answer of something like twelve cents a pound. Uncle Marvin said he wanted a couple of dollars worth and proceeded to get some other fruit such as bananas and peaches and a hundred pound sack of potatoes to take to the lake. My uncle and I ate grapes, until we could hardly stand the sight of another grape and still we had a large sack left when we got the lake.

Uncle Marvin would take me along on the truck he owned and drove, when it did not interfere with my school. The large International truck would set up a rhythm as it passed over the tar strips separating the sections of pavement in the highway. The rhythm would make me so sleepy I could hardly hold my eyes open beyond the Fort Worth city limits. Uncle Marvin would let me just about doze off and slap my knee to wake me up with a comment like, “wake up! I didn’t bring you along to sleep.” Actually, he seemed to enjoy my company and the talking helped pass the time away.

I wrote my feelings for uncle Marvin, the last time I saw him in the funeral parlor: There was only the receptionist present, when I went to say my good-byes to the man who had meant so much to me and who had done so much for me. I believe uncle Marvin and I had about fifteen minutes alone together. The door to the room was closed when I got there, so I closed it when I entered where the casket had been placed for viewing. This provided a greater sense of privacy for me to sort out my feelings and analyze my grief for a man I dearly loved.

I called Marvin Carlton Hausey my uncle, but he was the combination of all the male relationships in my life. Uncle Marvin was a combination of friend, uncle, big brother and certainly more of a father than my stepfather ever was. Uncle Marvin never had any children of his own, so he unofficially adopted me as his son. I loved that man and I am deeply thankful to God for having allowed us to share some time together.

As I looked at the body in the casket, I felt like I want to cry at my loss. There was a deep sense of loneliness in me, as I realized uncle Marvin would be with me only in my memories from now on. I was glad I had those moments alone with uncle Marvin, because my grief was a private one. In recent years, we had not shared much time together and after a loved one dies, you can think of so many things you wished you had done, but did not. The feelings of regret can weigh heavily and increase the grief you feel; you begin to feel sorry for yourself more than for the deceased. I was starting to feel sorry for myself, until it hit me how selfish I was by feeling that way. To wish uncle Marvin back to life, would be to wish for him to continue suffering and pain.

To wish him more agony, to ease my sense of loneliness, made me feel selfish and cruel. While I might be grieving at my loss, I had to believe his gain was much greater. Because of my love for uncle Marvin, I could not wish him continued suffering just because I was lonesome or regretful. There would be no more good times to share with him. As I gazed at the frail, tiny body of uncle Marvin, my selfish grief for myself seemed even more cruel. He had been in poor health for ever so many years. When you looked close, you could see even the undertaker’s skill could not cover the pain the years had brought forth for uncle Marvin. I no longer wanted to be selfish. I preferred to remember him as the “giant” in my memories.

After I realized it was being unkind to wish uncle Marvin more trials and suffering, my loss did not seem so great. I was still sad and there was a hollow, empty feeling inside. Still, I begin to remember the good times we had shared and I smiled to myself as I wondered if there would be golden catfish in Heaven for uncle Marvin to catch. I told him not to catch all of the catfish and to save some for the rest of us.

We never spoke much about our feelings for each other, but I always felt uncle Marvin loved me as much as I did him. Because I felt he knew my feeling of love, I did not feel quite so sad. Even though we had drifted apart physically, I do not think there was any doubt concerning the emotional bond we shared. I regret not having spent more time with him. I could blame this situation, which allowed us to grow apart physically, on Wanda or uncle Marvin’s second wife, Ann. Wanda tended to want to spend our time with her family and I never felt all that comfortable around Ann. Any blame would have to rest on my shoulders and most likely it was many factors rather than just one. It does illustrate we should sometimes “make time” to do the things we may regret not having done after our loved one dies.

The first time I rode with my stepfather or step-uncle, I thought we would never stop. It seemed like the truckers should stop more often, but I was informed this was the way they made the greatest progress. Maintaining a steady speed and not stopping often allowed the truckers to cover the greatest distance. Later, I would be allowed to drive late at night, when there was little traffic on the road. It was a lot of fun, except I could never get the truck into third gear. I would grind gears for nearly a half-mile before the transmission would finally agree with my efforts. I never mastered the art of double-clutching the big International trucks like my brother Gerald.

I remember nearly being electrocuted, by the metal light socket on a frayed extension cord. I was helping my uncle Tol put in plumbing for an automatic washing machine in my mother and stepfather’s house at 3025 N. Harding Street in Fort Worth. I had to crawl under the house to help with something from underneath the flooring. I had the light socket in my left hand. I kneeled on the damp ground to enter the crawl-space under the house. As I kneeled in the damp ground, the socket made contact with the frayed electrical cord. The electricity flowed through my body to the ground with great force. I was unable to let go of the cord and could not yell for help. All I could do was try to shake the extension cord from my grasp. After what seemed like an eternity, the light was finally shaken out of my grasp and I got to my feet in a shaken condition. This event taught me to be weary of electricity and attempt to exercise the greatest of caution, when working around it. In later years, my cousin, Billy Watkins, would be electrocuted under similar circumstances while working under his home in Wichita, Kansas.

I once caused my brother Gerald some pain before I thought what I was doing. I was playing with a large alligator clip that must have come off a jumper cable. It was not as large as the present day jumper cables, but the alligator clip was a large one with serrated teeth. I had been pinching my finger with the jaws of the clip. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I attached the clip in the middle of my brother’s back. It pinched the skin unmercifully and Gerald let out a howl of indignation and pain as he started to run for the house. I ran along behind my brother an managed to remove the alligator clip. Then, Gerald turned to try to catch me. I knew better than to let him catch me and I raced up the street with Gerald in hot pursuit. We ran for nearly a block, before Gerald decided fear would continue to put wings on my feet and he could not catch me. I had not meant to hurt my brother with my thoughtless action. After the deed had been done, I knew my brother did mean to do me harm, so I proceeded to run as fast as the motivational force of fear would put wings on my feet.

Gerald and I wanted to surprise our parents by baking a chocolate cake while they were away from the house. There was a recipe on the can of cocoa and we proceeded to build the cake. It was mixed according to the directions, placed in the oven to bake the prescribed length of time and removed when done. The cake was a three-layer cake. Each layer sagged in the middle, when removed from the oven in the pans. When the cake was removed from the pans; it sagged the on the other side as well. It was decided this would never do. We would eat up the first cake and try to make another for our parents. The second cake ended up the same as the first. We must have left out some ingredient in the mixing process. My brothers and sisters and I ate the unfrosted chocolate cakes, until we were unable to look at another piece of cake. This event made me think I had better choose another career field than baking. I might be able to eat good, but I doubted I would never make much money with cakes that sagged in the middle.

My stepfather would entertain us children with stories of his Navy flying experiences, when stationed in Kansas, during World War II. He told of “buzzing” a railroad man on an old hand car. The railroad man shook his fist at the fliers. The pilot, Curtis was flying with, decided the impudent railroad man could not get away with shaking his fist at the aviators. The pilot came around again to “buzz” the handcar. This time the plane was much lower. When the aviators looked back, the railroad man was in the ditch and the handcar was going down the tracks without him.

Another time, he was flying with a pilot who flew his plane along the river. The pilot was bouncing the wheels of the plane on the frozen ice of the river to break the ice. My stepfather said he was a little nervous at this escapade. He and the pilot had flown somewhere and spent the weekend on liberty. The aviators had done a lot of drinking and were still feeling the effects on Monday. They were flying along and the pilot let Curtis take control of the airplane. My stepfather asked permission to do an acrobatic loop. The pilot gave his permission and the loop was accomplished. My stepfather was feeling rather smug about the trick and decided to do it again without telling the pilot. My stepfather slowly gained the altitude he required for the trick without alerting the pilot. Suddenly, he pulled the plane into a quick loop and frightened the pilot. After the stunt had been completed, the pilot took control of the plane and proceeded to make the aircraft do all kinds of acrobatic stunts. The booze started rolling about in my stepfather’s stomach and nearly made him airsick. It taught him to not scare his pilot with unexpected stunts again.

Later my stepfather would start taking lessons to obtain his pilot’s license under the G.I. Bill. He did not complete the lessons. After listening to his stories, Gerald and I pestered my stepfather to take us flying. After a big Sunday dinner of chicken and dumplings, my stepfather took Gerald and I out to Meacham airport. We went to one of the flying schools and the instructor agreed to take us for a flight. My stepfather told the pilot to do some acrobatics to show us what flying was really like. The pilot took us over one of the nearby lakes to do the stunts. We did stalls, and various stunts for nearly an hour. The pilot would explain the stunts to us and my stomach held out, until the pilot started doing something called a “lazy 8” or “lazy S” stunt. The big dinner came up and my stomach cramps were severe, until the pilot took the plane down to a lower altitude. The pilot decided it was time to take the flight back to the hanger. After we landed my stepfather made me clean up the mess in the plane. The experience showed that acrobatics and chicken and dumplings are not the best combination for a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

Starting Naval Service

During the last of March of my junior year (1955), I desired to enlist in the U.S. Navy. There was a phase when school did not seem as interesting as the call to explore the world on a first hand basis. I was most fortunate to encounter an understanding recruiter. I have thanked that old Navy Chief Petty Officer many times, in later years, even though I never knew the recruiter’s name. The recruiter asked about my scholastic record and advised I wait until school was completed before enlisting. This would benefit both me and the naval service. Because the Chief said it would be to the Navy’s benefit, if I completed my high school before joining, it was taken to heart as being good advice. If he had just said to finish school, it is wondered whether the advice would have been heeded as readily. My stepfather suggested, if I desired to make the naval service my career, I might consider joining the Naval Reserve unit and become a “part-time sailor” during the time spent finishing my education.

I do not remember when I was first introduced to “The Sailors’ Creed,” but I was impressed with the solemn words: “I am a United States Sailor. I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America and I will obey the orders of those appointed over me. I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world. I proudly serve my country’s Navy combat team with Honor, Courage and Commitment. I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all.”

This is the oath of enlistment I took: “I, Dewey Donald Neufeld, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so help me God.”

Regular Navy Boot Camp

Shortly after joining the reserve unit, a program allowing selected individuals to volunteer for regular Navy recruit training was introduced. I requested to be considered and spent my summer vacation attending the basic training “boot camp” at the United States Naval Training Center, at Great Lakes, Illinois, with twenty-four other reservists from throughout the country. The training period was to be not less than nine nor more than eleven weeks in duration. It turned out to be ten and one half weeks in length.

The training was a novel experience, an adventure I even enjoyed. It advanced my career by gaining advancement to Seaman Apprentice (E-2), which came about more quickly than if I had gone to the usual two-week Reservist basic training. The training provided an unusual topic for discussion during my senior year of school. Younger boys, and some my age, looked with awe at my “dog tags” which were worn on a chain around my neck for this very purpose, as well as to identify myself as a member of the military profession. Even then, I would state I planned to make the Navy my career, when asked what my plans were after high school. I would delight in bringing the naval history I had read, in one of the reserve books, into the American History classes. Finally, in self-defense, my teacher asked to borrow the book and also read up on naval history.

Graduation from high school was followed closely by a two-week annual training cruise aboard an attack cargo ship out of Norfolk, Virginia. Two weeks of shipboard life on the U.S.S. Muliphen (AKA-61) only whetted my desire to make the Navy a life’s undertaking. The ship looked large to the young reservists reporting aboard for duty. The other lads and I nudged each other each trying to get someone to lead the way up the gangway. I finally decided to lead off. I could remember most of what the training films had said a person was supposed to do when reporting aboard a ship. Memory failed and doubt set in, when I got to the top of the gangway and tried to find the national ensign to salute. I was looking all around in the middle of my salute and must have provided a chuckle to the Officer of the Deck on watch. The Officer of the Deck pointed to the stern of the ship, indicating to me where the national ensign was being flown. The ceremonies for coming aboard ship where then accomplished with proper dignity and decorum. Thereafter, during my naval career, I would take pride in conducting these ceremonies with precision and pride. I would pause, when rendering my snappy, crisp salute, when coming on board or leaving the ship.

I still remember the thrill of seeing the three battleships, USS Iowa, USS New Jersey and USS Missouri moored up near the ship I was taking my reserve cruise. There is something special about a Navy “man-of-war.”

The introduction to shipboard life was fascinating and I tried to be everywhere, at all times, to experience the most I could. I ended up standing more watches than any of the other reservists, but I did not mind, as I was interested in everything. I remember being a bit queasy, when standing watch in after steering. It was in the stern of the ship and the compartment was going up and down at the most extreme motion of the ship. My stomach was a little uneasy, until the experienced sailors said I might try lying down on the deck, until my stomach got under control. This helped and I was soon back to my more exuberant self. Later, I learned the fantail of the ship could be a lot of fun. The extreme up and down motion of the ship would allow you to jump in the air as the ship was at its topmost motion. As the ship fell, you seemed to float in the air and it was fun.

During the reservist’s two-week cruise, the ship had a landing exercise to show the part-time sailors what it was like to “hit the beach.” The reservists had to climb down the debarkation cargo net ladders into the waiting landing craft alongside the ship. Then, we went out to form up in our groups and made circles, until time to head for the beach. At the appointed place, our landing craft formed a line and headed for the beach. I was riding in an LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle and Personnel) and I could envision some of the drama, I had read about in the naval history books, about how the Marines must have felt in the South Pacific. There were no bullets being fired at the landing craft, but there was still the sense of drama in the air. When our boat hit the beach, we were unable to get the ramp down. After beating on the ramp and the latches to no avail, the beach-master finally waved the boat back off the beach to make room for others. It took some maneuvering to get the boat off the beach, because by that time, it was stuck in the sand.

I remember my first experience with the ship’s guns being fired. The gunnery exercise went well in the beginning stages. It was a hazy day. That, prevented the aircraft from coming out to tow the sleeve target, ordinarily a part of the gunnery shoot. To compensate for the lack of an aerial sleeve target, the five-inch open gun mount on the ship’s fantail (stern) was firing a flare shell and the smaller caliber weapons were firing at the flare. There were several firing runs for the port side guns and those guns were shooting exceptionally well. Even the untrained reservists could see the tracers heading for the flare shells as the 20mm and 40mm anti-aircraft weapons fired.

The run to starboard was a little more dramatic. As the five-inch gun mount fired the flare shell for the starboard quarter, an airplane materialized out of the haze farther astern of the target area. I was looking in the direction I expected to see the flare shell burst. As I watched, I had the impression the projectile from the gun was going sideways. I knew that could not be possible and I looked in amazement at what first seemed to be the star shell projectile going sideways. The pilot saw the gunfire and knew he was in a bad location. As the pilot tried to scramble for more altitude, the airplane emitted an exhaust trail. The flare shell had not yet exploded, so the gunners saw the airplane and the exhaust trail and assumed this was the target. Since it was not where they were expecting, the guns had to be trained farther aft. This gave the pilot a few precious extra seconds to spoil the gunner’s aim. It looked as though the tracers from the 20mm guns were right on target, but perhaps, the plane was a little out of their range. The tracers from the 40mm guns were walking their way up the vapor trail, when an officer literally ran up the ladder to the fire control director and yanked the man off the controls for the gun mount. Apparently, the airplane was not damaged, but the firing exercise was cancelled and the pilot must have been concerned. It must have taught the pilot not to fly into restricted gunnery areas.

One of my favorite places, on the ship, was the forecastle of the ship. I enjoyed sitting down by one of the holes in the side of the ship that the mooring lines were passed through. I was out of the wind and weather, but I could look at the fascinating sea through the hole. The sea was constantly changing colors. One time I would see a dark, rich blue and the next moment it would look like the sea was black. Another look might prove an emerald, green. Not far away from the ship’s stopover in Boston, the crew got to see whales spouting.

Another bit of excitement happened, when the ship encountered a thick fog bank. As I had spent a lot of time on the forecastle, I was naturally curious and around the area of the bow lookout’s position. I watched and listened with him and several other men and officers. The ship’s radar had picked up another ship closing on us and the lookout was trying to make a visual observation. We could just barely see the water, when we looked straight down from the bow of the ship. We ended up being able to hear the other ship’s propeller noise as it passed just in front of our ship, but we were never able to sight the ship visually. It was an interesting two weeks of shipboard duty, which stimulated my spirit of adventure and the thought of “seeing the world.” This spirit of adventure was quelled long enough to spend a leisurely summer fishing and relaxing with my family.

During this time, we made a trip to Kansas, to visit my maternal grandparents. While we were visiting in Towanda, I borrowed my grandfather’s .22 rifle and took it out in the field behind my grandparent’s house to see if I could scare up a rabbit. I finally shot a rabbit and proudly took it back to the house. I remember my grandfather taking the rabbit and seemed to have it skinned almost at once. He was fast, when it came to skinning a rabbit. We did not get to eat the rabbit, because it had a large cancer-like sore on the side. That would be the last time I would see my grandfather as he died Friday, August 16, 1957, just before my tour of duty on Adak, Alaska, was completed.

My first introduction to the seafaring life brought a feeling for the fascination the sea holds for the mariner. I particularly thought the poem “A Sailor’s Song” by Paul Laurence Dunbar was so expressive in describing the fascination the sea seems to hold for the seafaring man.

A Sailor’s Song

Oh for the breath of the briny deep, And the tug of the bellying sail, With the sea-gull’s cry across the sky And a passing boatman’s hail. For, be she fierce or be she gay, The sea is a famous friend alway.

Ho! for the plains where the dolphins play, And the bend of the mast and spars, And a fight at night with the wild sea-sprite When the foam had drowned the stars. And, pray, what joy can the landsman feel Like the rise and fall of a sliding keel?

Fair is the mead; the lawn is fair And the birds sing sweet on the lea; But the echo soft of a song aloft Is the strain that pleases me, And swish of rope and ring of chain Are music to men who sail the main.

Then, if you love me, let me sail While a vessel dares the deep; For the ship’s my wife, and the breath of life Are the raging gales that sweep; And when I'm done with calm and blast, A slide o’er the side, and rest at last. (Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Active Duty Navy

I was advanced to Seaman (E-3) on June 27, 1956, during the summer before active duty was requested in mid September 1956. Since I knew I wanted to make the Navy a career, I tried to enlist when it was time to request the active duty. Apparently, the yeoman did not want to do all the paperwork involved with a reenlistment and I did not know any better. The yeoman gave me the story it would be a lot of paperwork if he did it now, but I would only have to go to my next duty station and request the change in status. I believed the yeoman and did not stop to think if he had a lot of paperwork to do, it would seem reasonable the next duty station would be required to submit the same amount of paperwork. Still, if this was the best way, then, I would do things the way the yeoman said it should be done.

On September 19, 1956, I was sent to Dallas, Texas, for the commencement of my four years of service as USNR. From Dallas, I was sent to San Diego, California, for further processing. At San Diego, I was given a classification interview to determine what career path I would follow during my next four years of active duty. The Chief Petty Officer conducting the interview was surprised, when I requested fleet duty and said I wished to strike for Boatswain Mate. The Chief said he could recommend any school he desired, because of the high test scores on my basic battery classifications tests. The Chief said he thought I might not do well if I went to a school I obviously did not want. The Chief would recommend “on the job training” in the fleet. This was music to this young sailor’s ears. So it was with some disbelief orders were received stating my next year would be spent at some place called Adak, in a cold region of Alaska. This shock was accompanied with the immediate thought: “Oh, no, they wouldn’t send a southern boy to Alaska! There must be some mistake!”

After the initial shock had worn off and a journey to Seattle, Washington, I was flown to Adak, by way of Kodiak, Alaska. I was stationed on Adak, from September 22, 1956 to September 23, 1957. The duty at the U.S. Naval Station, Adak, Alaska, was quite interesting. It was here my career path was determined by my high marks on the entrance tests, typing skills learned in high school and something called “the needs of the service.” Because of these factors, it was decided I would be assigned to the Operations Department to work in communications. This was a considerable letdown, because I had my heart set on being a Boatswain’s Mate.

A Boatswain’s Mate was my image of the ideal sailor; someone who was out, on deck, battling the elements and tying knots, being a “real” sailor. Still, I was determined to make the best of a disappointing situation and soon learned I was fascinated by all the gadgets in the “radio shack.” I soon developed some degree of expertise with the teletypewriter keyboard and continued to develop this skill during my years with naval communications. As a part of the naval communications system, I experienced developments in the field of communications ranging from telegraphy to high-speed computer/satellite methods of relaying messages. The telegraphy was the most difficult. Morse Code would prove a tough skill for me to master. I would never be quite as good at it as with the teletypewriter keyboard.

The elements were not entirely forgotten and much time was spent hiking around that remote island in the Aleutians. The urge toward adventure could not be stifled and the elements seemed more friendly than had first been anticipated. The cool, clear streams, with their many small waterfalls, and the rugged terrain made each hike an adventure. The cold fresh water coming from the melting snows on the mountaintops was a delight to taste as I quenched my thirst on the hikes.

While en route to Alaska, one of my buddies, Robert Ray “Bob” Tapp, and I had the idea we would do a little trading with the Eskimos for a polar bear skin rug. It seemed a way to take advantage of a year in the barren northland. This was mostly Bob Tapp’s idea since his stepfather had been stationed as a weather observer on one of the northernmost islands off the cost of Alaska. Bob’s idea sounded good to me and I readily went along with his proposal. Bob and I set about accumulating a supply of items we deemed would be what the Eskimos might require and be easy to trade. It seemed fishhooks and fishing line would be the best goods with which to barter. It was with some disappointment we landed in Adak, where we found no Eskimos. The only inhabitants on the island were the military and their dependents stationed there. Also, there were no signs of polar bears in those waters so far to the south of the bears’ normal haunts; so much for my efforts at merchandising and barter.

While at Adak, after one year of active service had been completed, I was allowed to reenlist for four years to gain the status of being “regular Navy” rather than a reservist on active duty. I learned, soon after reporting aboard, I had to wait until I had been on active duty for a year before I could reenlist to become USN rather than USNR. The remaining three years of my active duty were dropped and my enlistment of four years started at this time. Thus began the realization, of the status, of truly entering the career I had always thought I would pursue. At this time, I requested the Radioman Class “A” basic school that would have been easy to get during the classification interview in San Diego. The Navy Department, in all their wisdom, decided I was needed too badly to spend the time going to school. I would have to learn about those fascinating gadgets, in the radio shack, on my own. I received the orders for the sea duty I wanted so badly a year before.

Adak, taught me to appreciate music for the first time. Until then, I thought music was something to be tolerated, but not enjoyed. Since there was little else to do at times, a lot of time was spent listening to the Armed Forces Radio Station. After awhile, music seemed nice and I was surprised to find I actually enjoyed listening to it. I find I can now enjoy just about any type of music, but I’m not too fond of the loud, blaring variety that gives witness to little talent, masked by loud amplifiers.

While stationed on Adak, I made use of the indoor swimming pool to increase my proficiency. When I went to basic training, I could only “dog paddle” and swim just a little. In basic training, I learned to swim enough to pass the qualifications. On Adak, there was plenty of time and the pool was convenient. I used the opportunity to practice and thought it good exercise to swim laps as a workout. The base also had a nice hobby shop and I would wander around and see what looked interesting. I tried some of the simpler leather kits that required only lacing the pre-cut pieces together. Still, it was interesting and I enjoyed the time spent at the hobby shop and swimming pool.

I had opportunity to get close to the Boatswain Mate rating I once desired. I was assigned to the “hatch crew.” This duty involved unloading of the supply ships, when they arrived. I have vivid memories of ammunition handling working parties while a member of the hatch crew. One cold icy morning, I was carrying boxes of ammunition. We had been warned to be very gentle with the boxes and not to drop them under any circumstance. It was difficult to hang on to the box, when the feet go out from under the body and the natural tendency is to drop what is being carried to break the fall with the hands. My safety indoctrination made me feel if I dropped the ammunition box an explosion might result. In spite of the desire to do otherwise, I clung to the box. I landed on my back and the box coming to rest on my chest. A little bruised from the experience, it taught me to walk a bit more gingerly, when carrying ammunition boxes on an icy pier.

Not long before my tour on Adak, was completed, the island was shaken by an earthquake. The earthquake hit one night after “taps” had been sounded and the lights turned out in the barracks. I was about to go to sleep, when my bunk started shaking. My first thought was someone had come back from the Enlisted Men’s Club and was trying to wake me up. I was not going to give them the satisfaction and I pretended to continue sleeping. The shaking continued and it became obvious it was not caused by someone with a few too many beers under their belt. Then, it seemed wiser to stay put rather than run downstairs as others were doing. If the building collapsed, I thought it better to be on the second floor with less to come down on my head. Running outside meant worrying about the falling power lines and possible electrocution. The earthquake was eight on the Richter scale and only .5 less than the great San Francisco earthquake (8.5). Little damage was done to the island base of Adak.

During the long night watches, I thought it fun to go up in the signal tower in the Operations Center across the hall from the Communications area. We would use the high-powered binoculars and long glass telescope and look at the full moon. It seemed, when the moon was full, we could observe great detail through the magnification of the “glasses” and the seeming nearness of the moon. It was a shock for me and the rest of the world, when Russia launched the first “Sputnik” satellite into orbit around the earth about this time.

When I departed Adak, I went home on leave. My stepfather was thinking of buying a new car, so we went looking at Buicks. We saw one I thought was really neat and helped to persuade him it was what we ought to have. It was time for the 1958 models to come out so the dealer wanted to make a good deal. The car was a two-door, white with light blue trim around the lower part of the car. It was sporty and the blue color sold me on the car at once. Anyway, I helped my stepfather make the down payment on the car since I would be using it while I was home on leave. We made a trip to Kansas, to see my grandmother.

Going to Sea

On Thanksgiving Day, November 24, 1957, after having spent my thirty days of leave at home, I reported aboard my new duty station, the U.S.S. Zelima (AF-49), home ported in San Francisco, California. The U.S.S. Zelima was a refrigerated cargo ship whose primary mission was to lend her support to the other ships in the fleet by transferring freight and food needed for long periods of deployment. Standing pier sentry watches during the cold, wet, San Francisco winter made the tour on Adak, seem mild in comparison to the biting cold being experienced from the wind blowing off the bay. Shipboard life also provided many jolts to the head and shins, until I learned to go through hatches and up ladders successfully. It was while I was aboard the U.S.S. Zelima I was tagged with the nickname, “Smiley.”

Daddy Dies

I received word my father had been murdered on April 25, 1958, in Farmington, New Mexico, by one of my father’s friends, when my father stepped between the man and his wife during a family quarrel. My father’s friend thought my father should not interfere in a family matter even if he was pushing his wife around. As a result of trying to keep his friend from beating his own wife, my father received a blow to the head and died almost instantly. The details I received, third hand through my mother, are a bit hazy. It must have been difficult for the man to have to live with the knowledge he had killed his friend. The only friend whose name I could remember was a fat man by the name of Johnny Potwin. My brother, Richard, informed me this was the same man who killed our father. It is my understanding the man was not charged with any crime and had only to live with his conscience concerning the deed. I found out later that it was not Johnny Potwin.

Although there were many years, my feelings bordered on dislike and disrespect for my father, I realize the things my father gave me were worth much more than the tangible material support denied. I saw my father twice after his apparent desertion of our family; both times for only about fifteen minutes. I received only one bit of correspondence, a birthday card on my twenty-first birthday, with a short note for a letter accompanying the card. A curt, but firm, letter informed my father there was little common ground to continue the correspondence and I tried, not so gently, to tell my father I did not wish to continue writing. Now, I wish I had not written that letter.

Later, out of consideration for my grandfather, I contributed ninety dollars of the $185.53 required to purchase a tombstone for my father’s grave in Kinsley, Kansas. My grandfather tried to help our family stay together and was hurt, when he was unsuccessful. The old man deserved a small return on his deep agony and suffering. It meant so much to my grandfather the grave be marked properly. The dislike for my father had mellowed and been replaced with a feeling of pity for my father and the people who suffered because of him. I begin to see, failed relationships are generally affected by both parties, in various degrees, and a relationship without Jesus in the middle is nearly always going to fail.

While still uncertain just what I want from life, because of my father, I am certain I know what I do not want. For many years, I felt as if my father had abandoned us or betrayed our love. I felt he and my stepmother were to blame for the precarious and uncertain childhood. Now, I realize there were many more factors involved and perhaps, no one single reason can be singled out as being the reason for the way things developed. The results of the things which happened to myself and my brothers and sisters will have to be determined as the years pass. I think, I am a more understanding individual for having been through the trials of these early years. Perhaps, this is the reason for having to give up a more carefree childhood for the uncertainty and disappointment I had to experience. It has been said, even as a child, I acted as an adult and my aunts and uncles could talk to me as an adult rather than a child. In some respects, this is a compliment, but it would have been nice to have experienced a more carefree childhood.

Link to one influencing my father's family Mennonite belief system, Menno Simons: Simens-20

Family

He married Wanda Patterson.

Literary Efforts

Link to books written by Dewey: Space:Dewey%27s_Books

Link to Life Has Choices - Lessons I wish I Had Learned Earlier https://www.wikitree.com/photo.php/0/03/Neufeld-430-2.pdf

Special Profile on Neufeld Genealogy & DNA link Space:Neufeld_Family_Genealogy_%26_DNA

Link to help: Space:How_to_break_down_your_German_immigrant_brick_wall

Really Good Link for Mennonite Genealogy: https://www.mennonitegenealogy.com/prussia/

Sources

1. ↑ John 3:16
2. ↑ Roberts, Alice, e-mail July 16, 2009
3. ↑ American Profile Magazine, May 24, 2011 issue, Vietnam War Hero Offers Leadership Lessons by Hal Moore, Lt. Gen. Hal Moore shares 17 rules for success. http://www.americanprofile.com/articles/leadership-lessons-list-from-vietnam-veteran/ accessed: June 3, 2013.
4. ↑ The Virtual Wall, Vietnam Veterans Memorial, http://virtualwall.org/aboutwal.htm accessed June 9, 2013.
5. ↑ GRanDMA GM21-07 July 2021, California Mennonite Historical Society (CMHS) Genealogy Database Project GMOL Website: GRanDMA Online v7.0.7. Use reference #1108406 as guest or enter # in the surname field. https://www.grandmaonline.org/GMOL-7/login.asp
6. ↑ First-hand information as remembered by Dewey Neufeld.
7. ↑ Tabor Mennonite Church (Newton, Kan.), Membership record book, Tabor Mennonite Church, page 49.
8. ↑ Personal Conversation with Jacob H. Neufeld in 1968, Moundridge, Kansas.
9. ↑ Personal Conversation with Jacob H. Neufeld in 1968, Moundridge, Kansas.
10. ↑ Personal Conversation with Jacob H. Neufeld in 1968, Moundridge, Kansas.

Letter to my family and my Wiki-Family We really are a "family."

Subject: What is Important in Life?

Dearest,

As the oldest of eleven siblings, who are not that much younger than myself, I consider our family most fortunate. It seems as if around ninety years of age is about the life expectancy of our family. That’s not that far off. Some of us are finding it more problematic to travel, making family reunions less likely. If one of us were to pass away tomorrow, what would I want to say, now?

The obvious is probably, the most uncertain, since communications over the miles is always difficult in a busy world. I would wish to assure each of my great love, respect and admiration in my heart for you. I would hope you would know that, but it doesn’t hurt to say it again: I love you!

Because they have been so few and we are separated by so many miles, we appreciate, so deeply, the family reunions we have been blessed with sharing. My dying wish is to have in Heaven the opportunity to enjoy your companionship throughout the ceaseless ages of eternity. Please be there for me!

I sincerely, and I think intelligently, believe God is real! Having typed the entire King James Version, my conviction it is the historical account of God’s intervention with His human family to get us ready for the next phase of creation. It just makes sense! It doesn’t matter how I tell you this, you must be convinced in your own mind. If God is not real or is not our Creator, nothing else can provide reason, cause or effect upon our lives. It is all or nothing. If there is no God, there is no purpose. Without purpose, our lives are without meaning. It takes a big God to create a universe. How big is your God? Mine is sufficient!

If this were my last communication, I would tell you God created you! You were not cloned. You were created for a special purpose. What is your purpose in life? Why did God create you for His love? God’s love for you was so great, He allowed Jesus to take the punishment for your sin so He could offer you a free pardon and the opportunity to be adopted into His family as a brother or sister of Jesus. Yes, it is that personal with God! How is it with you? God wants to “hang out” with you for eternity. Do you want that? I dearly hope so!

There is only one question I would ask: If you could convince yourself, Jesus was the Son of God, would you follow Him? It is not if Dewey can convince you. It is if YOU can convince yourself Jesus was the Son of God, would you follow Him? I hope your answer is yes. If it is, read the gospel book of John. John had a deep sense of the depth of God’s love expressed through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. In reading John, you will gain insights the Holy Spirit will impress upon your mind that will delight and amaze you. You will not be the same after this. It will change you for better or worse, depending upon your decision to accept or reject Jesus Christ as your Savior.

After typing the KJV Bible, I can tell you with conviction, there is an end of the sin rebellion against a Creator-God. Jesus is going to return! I may not be able to tell you when, but I know it is as sure as the word of a truth-telling God. Do you believe it? Do you want Jesus to return? Perhaps, it would put some restrictions upon your lifestyle. Jesus does change our attitudes and our lifestyle. You will never be the same no matter what choice you make concerning acceptance of Christ into your life.

Why do I care whether you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior? One of my sweet sisters expressed it so eloquently; “I want in Heaven the closeness we were not allowed here in this life.” We have so much to talk about. Each of us is a special creation of God. God is not going to get tired of talking to us, nor are we going to get tired of talking with each other. What would bring Jesus so much joy in sharing a conversation with you? If you ever convince yourself that God created you especially for Him to love, you will never be the same. It is true! You will find it, if you want!

Whether Jesus returns in my lifetime (I believe He will!) doesn’t matter. It seems people die, in our family, around the age of ninety. That is not many years! Live or die, I belong to Jesus. It does not matter if I am alive to see His return or resurrected. God is not finished with me because I have accepted His purpose for my life. I am looking forward to receiving the joy of sharing eternity with the family I have spent so little time with during this life.

You may not be aware of it, but our family is composed of some of the most amazing people I have met! You are all heroes in so many ways. I am looking forward to the pleasure and privilege of getting to know you better throughout eternity. I want you to be there! I hope you want me also.

Having lived through nearly nine decades of history, I think I can speak with some knowledge, there has never been a time like the one we are experiencing. I think we are going to see Jesus return. If so, there may be some false ones around too. You may wish to study the difference. The real Jesus will come! It looks as if that may be sooner than expected. I hope and pray you want this also!

With deep love, admiration and appreciation. Thank you for being my family! Let’s have the next reunion in Heaven.

Dewey

[Note: The many profiles I have worked on tell me this is true. Each is a very special creation for God's love! ]

WikiTree Will

To aid WikiTree in the administration of my account should I be incapacitated, or in the event of my death, I hereby give permission for all private profiles to be transferred to the following WikiTreers, Wendi (Patterson) Neufeld [Patterson-10774] or Sheila Perry [Perry-15104]. If they are unavailable, I want to be certain none of my hard work on WikiTree ends up having to be deleted. I hereby give permission for all of my private profiles to be transferred to any of my family members or to any of the other wonderful WikiTreers who have collaborated with me, each having my deepest respect and greatest admiration. It is my wish that my personal profile be "opened" immediately after my death. I trust my Special profiles will be kindly preserved. Thank you! It has been an honor to serve with you in this grand cause. Respectfully, Dewey D. Neufeld-430. [Originally added:12 Jan 2022] [Reaffirmed just before my 85th birthday 2023]