REMEMBERING DAD

My father died on March 1, age 91.   I was with him when he peacefully departed the pattern about 0540.

Fourteen years before I’d held my mother’s hand when she died, early in the morning.  Anticipating Dad’s death, I wondered if it might be somewhat easier the second time.

It wasn’t.

John Henry Tillman, Jr., was born in Portland, Oregon, in April 1922, the son of a construction engineer and a home maker of Swiss ancestry.  Dad and his sister didn’t always have a full-time father as JH Senior traveled often.  His construction work included the seawall at Seaside, Oregon, and the vista house overlooking part of the Columbia River Gorge.  He bid on the Golden Gate Bridge but withdrew, leaving the earnest money on the table.  That probably was about 1930, when money was tight.

Dad graduated from Grant High School in 1939, playing soccer and doing best in chemistry, history, and economics.  He entered Oregon State College as an engineering student with aeronautical option.  After two years he left school to become a draftsman at Douglas Aircraft in the LA area.  He was still there when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

Though JH Senior owned a ranch in northeastern Oregon, Dad did not want to sit out the war on a tractor.  But there are always losses in aviation: two of his  room mates in Navy flight training died in the war: one disappeared on a PBY flying boat in Alaska, the other was killed in a Hellcat by U.S. Navy gunners off Japan in 1945.

Postwar Dad remained on the ranch rather than completing college.  He would have made a poor corporate man, and I cannot imagine him stuffed in a cubicle, even with as fine a company as Douglas.

But first Dad had to face the challenge of a lifetime.  Visiting friends in Puerto Rico in 1946, he contracted polio.  He said that the government minimized the risk out of concern for the tourist trade, and whether it’s true or not, he became a Republican bolshevik.  For the rest of his life he had an industrial-grade distrust of bureaucrats.

While Dad was hospitalized in Portland, JH Sr. brought a morale builder long-long before therapy dogs existed.  Dad’s pet was a 70-lb Doberman.  Soon as Clipper got off the elevator he began a methodical search of the floor, eliciting shrieks of laughter or distress as he padded down the corridor.  When he jumped on Dad’s bed the white-clad authorities demanded his removal.  Dad said, “You pull him off!”  Clipper remained awhile.

Despite doubt that he would recover, Dad regained his legs, which were atrophied.  Nonetheless, he had a gritty determination to do what he wanted.  As soon as he could sit a horse again he took his .270 Winchester and his Canadian walking sticks with his mare, Blaze, and resumed elk hunting.  Mother said that when she saw him ride off with her father, Henry Barrett, she knew she would marry Jack Tillman.

Mother’s family was pioneer stock, and she’d been a princess on the Pendleton Roundup court two weeks after VJ-Day.  That’s where my folks first hooked up.  (I never did get the full story but apparently there are some things that parents do not share with adult children.)  My folks married in 1948; I was born that year, followed by John and Andy.

In the 60s Dad and partners built a grain elevator integrated with our 5,000-head feedlot.  Designed with typical JHT detail, it was perhaps the first fully integrated operation in the area, with molasses and ingredients mixed for optimum nutrition of the beef on the hoof.  Meanwhile Dad maintained a string of horses and pack mules for elk hunting, and a buffalo named Sarah for diversity. 

Dad believed in supporting the community.  He served on the county Red Cross committee, the board of Pendleton’s hospital, formed the Sand Hollow Volunteer Fire Department, drove for the Athena-Weston Ambulance Service, and carried a special deputy’s card for Umatilla County Sheriff’s Office most of my life.  Our shooting range (aka Buffalo Wallow) was used by USCO for years, and if I say so myself it was the best firearms training facility in that part of the state.  Some officers drove half a day from Salem and Portland to partake.

And Dad continued flying.  Though he walked with a pronounced limp all my life, and took his time climbing in an airplane, he was an accomplished aviator.  I flew more than 500 hours with him in some really interesting machinery, most notably our restored WW II Dauntless dive bomber.  Most of the planes had conventional landing gear with tailwheels, which require agility on the rudder pedals.  Despite his withered legs, Dad never had any trouble. 

Our antique airplane group, the Scarf and Goggles Club, took annual jaunts around the west, alternating leaders who set the itinerary.  Because we flew a 1940 Naval Aircraft Factory N3N painted trainer yellow, Dad became Yellow Leader.  That was appropriate because he was one of those who could navigate reliably. Naturally I became Yellow Two—and if I was a so-so aviator I was a better than average navigator.  But as much as I admired Dad’s piloting, I grew increasingly respectful of his refusal to succumb to his limits. 

However, I don’t want to overstate matters: Dad could have paid more attention to Mother, and he drank more than he should have rather than rely on pain killers.  That was not unusual for his generation, though he never bought into Tom Brokaw’s hype about “the greatest.”  One evening at Christmas dinner with Joe Foss’ family, Dad and Joe concurred, “We weren’t the greatest—we just did what we had to do.”

Eventually the polio returned.  Post-polio syndrome recurs in about 25 percent of patients, and eventually Dad progressed from a cane to a walker to an electric wheelchair that he controlled with surprising dexterity despite his tremors. 

Yet the bolshevik under the skin remained.  Our family collected machine guns, and Dad’s favorite was a Model 1917 Browning water-cooled.  We set it up beside his easy chair for awhile, allowing him to use the affixed ammunition box as a glass holder.  He would pat the water jacket, saying, “Old girl, I’m afraid we’re going to miss the revolution.”

Word quickly spread that Jack Tillman was dying. Throughout his life, but especially in the last 20 years or so, he became a mentor to more people than I ever knew. Though he was comatose most of his last three days, he had 40 visitors (including dogs) from as far as 250 miles away. 

People came to spend a few minutes speaking in his ear, holding his hand, sharing their love.

Sorry—I gotta go.  The screen’s getting misty again.  Guess I need to call the computer tech.

Miss you, Dad.

Yellow Two, out.

SHEEP, WOLVES, AND SHEEPDOGS

Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman, U.S. Army (Ret), is best known for his combat mindset survey, On Killing.  Published in 1996, it remains on military and other professional reading lists for its historical perspective and insight.

A former paratrooper and ranger, Grossman continues sharing his knowledge and views with the military, police, and emergency services communities as well as armed citizens. Traveling 300 days a year for 16 years, he sees a wide variety of groups and individuals who have been or might be exposed to violence.  Many of his appearances are sold out, and in December he spoke to a near-capacity audience in Mesa, Arizona. 

Grossman gave a six-hour presentation covering numerous aspects of what he calls the “sheepdog” philosophy.  He opines that 98% of humans are sheep waiting to be sheared or worse; 1% are wolves and 1% are protective sheepdogs. He covers a wide range of topics including heavy Second Amendment emphasis, insisting, “Only predators can hunt down other predators,” hence the armed good guys (sheepdogs) are needed to deter the human wolves.

Rather than crazed individuals or theological zealots, Grossman insists, “Our enemy is denial.”  Part of the problem he sees is individual and institutional inability to conceive that something atrocious could happen to them.  From local non-responders at Columbine High School and other U.S. mass murders to nation-state atrocities such as the Holocaust, humans have proven supreme deniers of what history proves not only possible, but inevitable.

Typically history oriented, Grossman notes that civilian mass killings with firearms are new in the 500-year history of gunpowder.  Offenders come from across the spectrum: rich, poor, smart, dumb, white, others, etc.  The worst cases have been in Europe (notably Finland) and there are many edged weapon killings in China.  Grossman states the reason for high body counts in the U.S. appears to be the recent juncture of (usually) legally acquired guns and extremely violent video games.  He described how to "win" some of the most appalling games but First Amendment considerations usually triumph in court.

Meanwhile, Grossman notes that Islamists believe the best way to advance their violent cause is to kill infidel children.  The best (worst) example occurred when Chechen zealots took over a Russian school in 2004.  Grossman says the opposition sees that incident as a model for Over Here.  He recounted some horrific (an understatement) details of what the terrorists inflicted on 1,000 captives, mostly kids and mothers.  More than 300 hostages died in the three-day horror.  Nearly 50 perpetrators were killed or caught but about 12 escaped and are considered potential leaders for the next round.  Al Qaeda reputedly says that the U.S. and West owe “The Base” about 2,000,000 deaths.

In a startling contrast, Grossman explains that we spend billions on fire protection (often half the cost of a new building) but almost zip in hardening entrances (at the cost of less than $25 per window!)  There have been zero school fatalities to fire in 50-plus years.  Yet only now are more schools deploying armed guards, which has been SOP in Israel for decades.  Guess what: no terrorist shootings occurred in Israeli schools in decades.  

Elsewhere, mass murderers pick on schools because they're usually undefended and the kids offer easy targets.  But Grossman believes that any action can be helpful, as many killers stop at the first sign of resistance.  In practice he taught his grandchildren to throw books at his head, then run.  "Throw harder, Billy."  "Gosh Grampa, this is fun!"

Using one example from his native Arkansas, Grossman cited a massacre in 1998.  Two juveniles stole guns from a relative (a game warden) and murdered five people at a school near Jonesboro.  Because of lenient sentencing laws, they were released at age 21 and one of them resumed a life of crime.

Investigators noted that the Aurora, Colorado, killer passed up two theaters that did not prohibit weapons.  That's what detectives call A Clue.

"Newtown was just the start," Grossman asserts.  He considers Virginia Tech’s 32 dead as “inevitable” given the university’s no-defense policy.  

Schools definitely can be made into harder targets, especially with armed personnel, secure doors and windows.  But Grossman contends that shall-issue CCW is "the greatest grass-roots movement in US history."  Nearly every state now has shall-issue requirements, excepting criminals and the mentally incompetent.  (Criminals will violate the law anyway—that’s why they’re called criminals.) 

The national homicide rate has remained flat line for decades but aggravated assault has spiked alongside releases from prison.  Conclusion: we'll never build enough prisons or have enough mental-health people and medications to handle all the potential perps, so expect things to get worse.  But keep in mind: only an armed sheepdog can protect the flock’s lambs from the wolves circling out beyond the perimeter.

Meanwhile, what can individuals do in an increasingly violent world?  For starters, they can recognize that The State has zero obligation to protect them individually.  Twice the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that police are not required to respond to cries for help from you, Mr. Tommy Timid or Ms Mary Meek.  You can read Warren v. District of Columbia (1981) and Bowers v. DeVito (1982).

Secondly, individuals have not only the responsibility to defend themselves, but the right (often miscast as permission in some jurisdictions).  When crime victims are denied the means to defend their lives where The State fails—whether on 9-11 or in an urban jungle—the options are clear.  Either avoid the problem by voting with one’s feet, or as Grossman insists, get involved in the political process.  After all, Sheepdogs are not limited to where they may roam. 

For more information, visit Dave Grossman’s web site:

http://www.killology.com.

TRANSPORTATION, AVIATION, AND AIRMEN

Earlier this month I was privileged to be inducted into the Arizona Military Aviation Walk of Honor, sponsored by the local wing of the Commemorative Air Force.  This year was the third installment ceremony, which I shared with WW I ace and entrepreneur Ralph O'Neill, Major General Carl Schneider, and Rear Admiral Denny Wisely.  Previous inductees included Frank Luke, Joe Foss, and two helicopter luminaries--Sergei Sikorsky and Fred Ferguson, a Vietnam Medal of Honor recipient.

My selection was based on the aerospace education category, as I’ve written nearly 50 books and more than 600 articles, largely on military aviation subjects.  But clearly I’m running in mighty fast company.  Therefore, I’d like to attempt to place my aviation perspective in broader context: air travel as it evolved from transportation generally.

I believe that the history of America is a history of transportation, from the Mayflower to the moon.  I'd like to offer a brief survey based on my family's experience, as many of you will share similar backgrounds.

Both sides of my family came to the New World in the 1630s.  They crossed the North Atlantic by sailing ship, covering about 3,200 miles in 30 to 35 days.  That's an average rate of advance of about 90 miles per day or not quite 4 mph.  They fetched up in Virginia, Maryland, and the Carolinas, and there they stayed most of the next 200 years.  Their main mode of transportation was horseback, about 8 to 10 mph.

But some looked west.  Two of my maternal great-great grandparents wanted more than the east offered, so they invested everything in a Conestoga wagon and an ox team.  In the spring of 1852 they crossed the Missouri south of the mouth of the Platte, and set out on the Oregon Trail.  Contrary to what you see in movies, they seldom rode that wagon.  Mostly they walked 2,000 miles in five months, engaged in a ponderous race against nature itself.  They had to reach Oregon City before the end of October when winter arrived.  Over those five months they averaged about 12 miles per day.  Their actual travel was 2 to 3 mph, depending on terrain.

John and Martha's grand daughter was my great aunt Areta.  "Auntie B" was one of the most memorable people I ever knew, and that is saying something.  She was born amid one of the last Indian wars in the Northwest, as her parents forted up with friends.  That was in 1878, almost three years before completion of the second transcontinental railroad.  Raised hardshell Baptist, she really did run away with a traveling salesman, and it was years before she could show her face in her hometown.  Yet she watched Neil Armstrong take One Giant Leap For Mankind.  

Think about that.  Areta was born when the fastest thing on earth was the steam locomotive, maybe 60 mph, though 14 to 40 mph was more typical between stations.  But 90 years later we attained escape velocity of 25,000 mph.  That’s one of the things that makes aviation so fascinating to me.  Apart from the exceptional men and women who populate aviation, it’s a limitless endeavor where innovation and risk-taking produce astonishing progress in a blink of history’s eye.  Let’s hope that the pioneering spirit of the innovators and risk takers survives us into the next century of flight.

For my acceptance speech at Falcon Field, the organizers asked me to share some recollections of notable airmen I’ve known.  I said that the committee should have tapped Tom Cruise for that task because it’s Mission Impossible, but since the CAF is military oriented, I focused on the following:

First of course has to be Jimmy Doolittle, perhaps the most complete aviator of all time.  His master’s and doctoral papers in 1925 extended our knowledge of the theory of flight; he carved unique records with instrument flight and his spectacular racing career; and of course his wartime influence is well known.  My first interview with him was in 1976, writing the program for his 80th birthday party by the LA Chamber of Commerce.  He was still working at Mutual of Omaha, and he said he took the stairs to his third-floor office “keeping in shape for World War III.”

Among Arizonans, I had to mention Joe Foss.  The Marine Corps has wronged him for 70 years by accepting Greg Boyington’s claims, but Joe was too much of a gentleman to make an issue of it.  (Even accepting Pappy’s USMC claims, he finished with 22 victories as a Marine to Joe’s 26.)  But the thing about Joe was that he was absolutely genuine.  His son said “Never an unspoken thought!”  When Joe spoke at opening of the Pacific Wing of the National WW II Memorial in 2001 he said, “They told me not to mention God or guns so that’s what I’m gonna discuss.”  The audience cheered its approval.

My friend and fellow Oregonian Marion Carl was another Guadalcanal fighter ace and longtime friend of Joe’s.  (In fact, Marion had instructed when Joe went through Pensacola.)  Marion was arguably the finest naval aviator of his generation—he had the flying gene the way Mozart had the music gene.  Marion soloed in 2 ½ hours, and anything less is hardly credible.  Yet despite his combat and flight-test records, he was devoid of ego.  He described aerial combat and milking cows in the same tone of voice.

The astronaut I knew best was Wally Schirra, as we coauthored a book with two other Golden Wingers, Blue Angel Zeke Cormier and carrier skipper Phil Wood.  Wildcats to Tomcats took years to complete but it was worth the effort.  Once Wally picked me up in his new purple Porsche and, though knowing better, I asked, “What’s the top end, Wally?”  He shot me that Gotcha grin: “Idunno.  Let’s find out!”  On the winding roads behind Rancho Santa Fe I remember thinking, “My name will be in all the papers because I’m going to die with Wally Schirra!”

They’re all gone now, but I remember each with abiding respect and affection, for I was privileged to know such men.