How Cold Steel Bravo got its name

How Bravo Company became “Cold Steel Bravo”

When Sergeant First Class (promotable) Steven Crews took over as company first sergeant he definitely made sure everyone knew there was a new sheriff in town. Where the previous Top Sergeant had fellow NCOs hanging out in his office at all times during the duty day, First Sergeant Crews ran them out. He told them to get out of his office and get back to their platoons.

Beware the Black Mamba!

A large African American, the 1SG didn’t waste any time establishing himself as top dog within the company. He jacked up a couple black NCOs who tried to get chummy with him. Something along the line of, “I’m not your damn brother, now get the hell out of my office!” About this time a nickname was created that fit SFC (P) Crews to a tee. He became known as “The Black Mamba,” a mean-spirited snake indigenous to Africa that was known to hold a grudge and actually hunt humans. It also had venom that was some of the most lethal in the world – all in all, a perfect name. The First Sergeant seemed to dislike everyone. 

If the commander is supposed to be the brains of a unit, the first sergeant is the heart and soul (or at least should be). It didn’t take long before everyone in the company knew First Sergeant Crews was not someone to be trifled with. One day he was standing in the hallway looking at the bulletin board with his back to the company office doors.  The CO stepped into the doorway and glanced over at the 1sg. Without turning around, Cold Steel somehow knew he was being watched and asked in his usual gruff voice, “What the hell you looking at sir?” Without saying a word, the CO stepped back in his office and gently closed the door.

The Sky Blue Gran Torino

No one really knew if the First Sergeant was married or not. He didn’t offer up the information and no one that I know of had the guts to ask. I don’t believe he even owned any civilian clothes because no one ever saw him wearing anything but Army Green. He did have a car that was the talk of the battalion. I recognized it right off as a 1972 Gran Torino, just like the one I had in high school, but this one was slightly different. Well taken care of, you could see that it had some miles on it. It kind of creaked and groaned as it passed and belched just a bit too much exhaust when the First Sergeant pushed on the gas pedal. The most unique thing about it was the color. It was sky blue. I’d never seen another car with that kind of hue – it wasn’t long before I found out why. Top Crews carried a few cans of spray paint in the back seat of his car and if he ever found a ding, scratch or bare spot he would pull out one of those cans of spray paint (Sky Blue of course) and touch it up right then and there. The guy had class.

Hot chow And Cold Desert

During the fall of 1979 we were deployed to Fort Irwin, California. Just a stone’s throw from Death Valley, Fort Irwin would eventually be revived into the National Training Center but at the time there really wasn’t much to it. However, we had barracks with heat, hot water and hot chow so we were happy. That is until the legs gassed us on the first night we were in the cantonment area! Revenge was foremost on everyone’s mind, but the BC made it clear that if anything happened we were going to move out into the desert for the remainder of our deployment – and grudgingly we accepted his edict. Eventually we did indeed go into the desert to be the aggressors against the armored brigade out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

On the first day in the field Bravo Company got the order to dig an anti-tank ditch to block an avenue of advance through a valley. Doctrine dictated that an anti-tank ditch be of considerable dimensions (see the diagram to left) and span from obstacle to obstacle to be effective against armored vehicles. So there we were, a light infantry company trying to scratch a trench across a mile-wide hard-packed valley with entrenching tools and a handful of pioneer tools. Needless to say we were a surly bunch when the CO finally told us to stop well after nightfall. Final instructions were to move up the slope of the hill and establish a company perimeter. Once in place we were told to hunker down for the night – and oh yeah, the First Sergeant had gone to the Battalion Trains to pick up some hot soup and coffee.

By this time the wind had picked up and the temperatures plummeted. The only way to get out of the wind was to dig down into the sand and get as low as possible. I remember distinctly curling up as small as I could and tried to get whatever sleep I could – at some point during the night I felt something run across my back. Never figured out what it was and didn’t really want to know!

Eventually, we could hear a quarter-ton jeep grinding its way up the valley. Top had finally arrived with some hot chow and coffee. By this time I’d finally gotten relatively comfortable and decided to just remain in my little hidey-hole until stand-to. I could hear the crunch, crunch of steps down the hill as some of the company made their way to the bottom of the hill. Murmuring voices floated up the hill until finally the company executive officer “The Sparrow” called up the hill, “Hey B Company, we have hot soup and coffee for you!” Someone answered his call with a resounding; “Fuck you!” followed by laughter and catcalls from the darkness.

You could almost see the sparks fly when the First Sergeant bellowed, “Who said that? Get your ass down here!” I involuntarily cringed at the thought of someone actually owning up to it, but of course no one did. The following morning Cold Steel chewed out the platoon sergeants, the platoon sergeants chewed out the squad leaders and the squad leaders chewed out us troopies. The Black Mamba had struck again.

An Ass Chewing and Vaseline

A drinking buddy of mine, Jim Crawford, a half-creek Indian from Helena, Montana had done something that he shouldn’t have and was supposed to report to 1SG Crews after PT. Specialist Crawford showed up at the appropriate time and the First Sergeant waved him into the office. Having just gotten out of the shower, Top had nothing more than a towel wrapped around his waist.

Jimbo was getting worried about his fate as the 1SG lit into him. Then, without warning, Cold Steel reached in a drawer and pulled out a large jar of Vaseline! Jim said later that his blood turned ice cold when that jar smacked the desk. He said later that all he could think of was that the First Sergeant was going to fuck him – literally! As if to answer Jimbo’s silent question the First Sergeant spun around in his chair and asked (told) Jimbo to apply some Vaseline on his back since he couldn’t reach. Breathing a sigh of relief that his virginity was going to remain intact, Jim quickly obliged the request and dutifully applied the Vaseline. His transgression never mentioned again.

Somewhere along the line, Top Crews became Bravo Company, Bravo Company became his. And his nickname, the one only the old-timers knew about, “Cold Steel,” became B Company’s title, with the company sign repainted to match our newly acquired name. About this time the 2^/505^th became known as “Task Force 2/505,” and somehow someone had the “great” idea for a Battalion PT shirt design and soon we were stylin’ up and down Ardennes Street in our brand new infantry blue shirts and our gawdawful yellow shorts. We were – as far as I could tell, the first unit in Division to adopt a unique PT uniform to get away from boots, fatigue pants and OD T-shirt.  We quickly became known as “Battlestar Galactica,” after the TV series of the same name, a moniker intended as an insult, but we thought it was pretty cool.

This is a photo stolen from Charlie Company, but you get the idea.

Stories, oh so many Stories

In a previous story I told you the story about Lt. Keith Bonn our platoon leader, and as I told you, he was a raconteur of prodigious standards. Like many other platoon members, I just liked to listen to his stories so whenever the opportunity presented itself I would sidle on down to the platoon CP to sit in on whatever discussion was ongoing, that December 7^th was no exception. The machinegun crews were cleaning pistols for an upcoming inspection so as we gave our pistols a once-over we got to listen to the LT tell another story. I do believe Sergeant First Class Ralph Bloomenhagen (sp?) was the platoon sergeant at the time. Ralph was another storyteller so it would be hard telling where the conversations were going to go, I sat there cleaning my pistol and taking it all in. The conversations varied from serious job-related topics, the mundane, the bawdy, to the arcane. 

During one particular discussion Ralph said something that has stuck with me to this day – having seen a lot of combat in Vietnam, he shared a comment that shook me to the core:

“There is nothing heavier than a dead American.”

Heavy stuff – literally, and something I never forgot.

Woody, Sergeant Rose and The Black Mamba

 Friday was supposed to be an easy day indeed, I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was going to be a half-day, which happened to coincide nicely with the weekend AND a platoon party that night at Sergeant Rose’s house. I don’t remember much about Sergeant Rose; looking back on it he might have been a rehab transfer from another unit. A nice enough guy, but kinda pudgy and didn’t appear to be any great shakes tactically either – but he volunteered his house for the platoon party so he was aces as far as Specialist Woods was concerned!

Once finished cleaning my sidearm I started to head down to the arms room, but the Platoon Sergeant stuck out his hand and motioned for me to hand over my weapon. Handing it over, I watched  as the pistol seemed to fall apart as he checked for cleanliness - and as quickly as he disassembled it the weapon seemed to reassemble itself all on its own. Ralph did a functions check, locked the slide to the rear and handed it back to me for turn in. And this is where the story really begins…

A Sneak Attack on Pearl Harbor Day

As I turned to head down to the arms room Sergeant Rose reached out and grabbed the barrel of my pistol and my right forearm! What the fuck?!? He was attempting – I found out later – to disarm me. Towering over him I had the mechanical advantage. However, he wouldn’t let go, he then lowered his shoulder and shoved me into the side of a wall locker. For whatever he was or wasn’t, he didn’t quit and slammed me hard into the locker. With the second impact, Specialist Woods lost his temper and all those hours in the sawdust pit during Basic and AIT finally paid off. I stepped back with one leg behind Sgt Rose, pivoted and stepped into my attacker throwing him off balance and did a classic side throw just like in combatives class. It worked! Next thing you know Sgt Rose is flying over my shoulder and headed towards the ground with me following on top of him with elbow to the solar plexus. He let go of the pistol.

As we landed in a heap, with him on the bottom I was astonished to see that it had really worked, but before I had a chance to congratulate myself I heard a distinctive ‘CRACK!’ followed by Sergeant Rose’ plaintive cry, “My leg, my leg!” Holy Crap! I broke him! Immediately everyone in the CP jumped into action and began treating him with first aid – that is everyone but me. I got up, dusted myself off and stared incredulously at Sergeant Rose rolling on the floor as Luther Hankins and a couple other platoon members tried to immobilize the apparent fracture suppressing their laughter as the pudgy Sergeant Rose whimpered on the floor clutching his ankle

Somewhat dazed and unable to help I stood there for a short while with Sergeant Blumenhagen giving me that, “What the fuck have you done now Woods?” look that I got so often. Ralph instructed me to go turn my weapon in as someone else called the ambulance to haul Sergeant Rose off to the hospital.

The Black Mamba Strikes

Specialist Woods didn’t have long to contemplate that thought. The Black Mamba reared his head from his lair and shouted, “Woods! Get you ass in here!” I hustled into the First Sergeant’s office as Cold Steel glowered over me. I remember his words verbatim, “Woods, what the hell you doin’ breakin’ my sergeant’s ankle?” I stammered my response, “Oh gee Top, I don’t know! It was an accident!”

After a few more choice words the First Sergeant told me to get the hell out of his office! As I hustled out the door I could have sworn I saw the faintest wisp of a smile flash across his face, but I was probably mistaken.

It was awfully quiet in the platoon CP after that. The PSG just shook his head and gave me that half-smirk he always gave when I pulled a bonehead stunt. Then Lieutenant Bonn patted me on the shoulder and said quietly, “You really should have just let him disarm you…”

Later, after the ambulance carried the patient off to the hospital the question on everyone’s mind was, would we still have the platoon party?

Party On Dude

The answer to that question came a few hours later after Sergeant Rose had been discharged from Womack Army Hospital in a cast – yes, we would have the party and yes, it would still be at Sergeant Rose’s house! Whew! I was sweating bullets.

I must admit I almost didn’t go to the party that night. I did feel quite guilty about breaking one of “Cold Steel’s Sergeants,” but my bunkmates wouldn’t hear of it and goaded me into going along with them.

Entering the front door was awkward but since the party was going in full gear on our arrival, music blaring, beer flowing I thought I could slide in unannounced, However, there was Sergeant Rose sitting in his recliner with his plaster cast emblazoned with the names and well wishes of the Platoon. Upon seeing me, he motioned me over and extended his hand and told me there were no hard feelings – we shook on it, but I don’t think Mrs Rose was as forgiving as her husband.

Throw Down

As with most platoon parties there was much alcohol to lubricate the evening and an enormous amount of lies too I’m sure. One aspect of the party was slightly graver than the others. One of our younger troopers “Private Smith”* had a penchant for punching other people without the slightest provocation, and of course this activity was exacerbated when there was alcohol involved. A pretty good soldier except for that one bad habit, Lt. Bonn forbade Smith from drinking and tasked SSG Baker to keep within arms reach at all times that night and keeping him under control. Well, it worked – for a while – SSG Baker turned his back for a moment and WHAM! Smith threw a solid punch that smeared another “Private Jones’”* nose all over his face. “Shit!” How the heck did that happen? Smith was just as surprised as anyone! The blood was cleaned up and the music continued. As I recall a couple shots of Tequila took care of the broken nose until medical attention could be sought. Smith and Jones were friends again and Tony Baker could relax just a little bit.

The Christmas Spirit

Eventually, the party began to wind down as Lieutenant Bonn called for everyone’s attention. At his feet he had a couple OD green Laundry bags that seemed to be overflowing with gifts. This being so close to Christmas the LT took it upon himself to buy each member of the platoon a small gift that he’d selected specifically because of a funny story, not so funny story or just because it fit. We sat there laughing with every gift he pulled from the sacks his description of the event and person more hilarious than the last. I even forgot about the day’s events. Finally he reached in and continued, “Now for Specialist Woods….” He recounted the day’s event in minute detail but reaching into the bag he pulled out a bottle of cognac – or as I’d described it after I drank a shot at his place while watching “A Bridge too Far,” French gasoline. Handing me the bottle I could see that he’d replaced the label with a hand drawn one with “Cognac de Francais le’ Petrol,’” he was always a class act and a good time was had by all.

Eventually, SGT Rose healed up, I went off to Italy, Kit went to Brigade, and I do believe that Private Smith punched his way into an administrative discharge. First Sergeant Crews eventually pinned on his third rocker and diamond and was on his way to Division Headquarters to terrorize the rest of the Division. Airborne, All the Way

Postscript

As most of you know, I eventually went off to the Special Forces Qualification Course and once I earned my Green Beret and Tab, I was reassigned to Fort Lewis, Washington. As I was getting ready to leave Fort Bragg I had to sign out at One Stop which required me to be in uniform – besides, it was really cool to have another reason to wear my hard won Green Beret.

On my way off post for the last time in September 1984, I decided to stop at the Melanie village gas station, a place I almost never went to, but it was on the way off post so I thought I’d just gas up there and get on my way. I had five hundred miles to go before dark and I was burning daylight.

As I got out of my pickup, I pulled on my beret and with extra care smoothed it out, gave it a tug so that it would hang just so and began filling my gas tank. About that time I glanced over to the other side of the pumps and there sat a sky blue Gran Torino with a very large Sergeant Major filling his own car – it was Top Crews! “Wow, what a surprise First Sergeant! Er, I mean Sergeant Major!” He looked up and for a moment he didn’t recognize me. Then, as he scanned my face and a glance over my uniform his face lit up and by God, I saw what I do believe was a smile. He extended a beefy hand and we shook hands for just a moment. He looked up and down my uniform and he smiled that half-smile of his and remarked, “Damn, Woods, you’ve really come a long way from the last time I saw you – Staff Sergeant, Green Beret, Master Wings and a CIB. I’m impressed.”

Holy crap! I impressed Cold Steel?!?! I stammered my thanks and tried to tell him that he’d really been an inspiration and kind of a northern star of what a good NCO was supposed to be. He patted me on the back once more and wished me luck as he climbed into his mighty fine ride and left me standing there in a blue cloud of exhaust.

I’ve thought of him many times since then and I truly hope he retired and is still cruising around in his sky blue Gran Torino. Thanks Top.

* Some names have been changed to protect their privacy

Of Heroes and Mortal Men; Kit Bonn - Leader

I have been furiously typing away for the last two weeks, putting down random thoughts and memories about my second assignment to Task Force 2/505 and although I feel it is a cathartic venture, it has left me exhausted and somewhat despondent.  Therefore I decided to talk about a former member of Task Force whom I respect and miss very much.

I owe so much to LTC(R) Keith E. Bonn that I felt it was finally time to put my thoughts down for others to read.

The New PL

I first met Second-Lieutenant Keith E. Bonn, 3^rd platoon’s new platoon leader in 1978-9, shortly after I joined the army. This was before 2/505 was referred to as “Task Force” and B Company became “Cold Steel”. After the two platoon leaders before him, he was like a breath of fresh air. Intelligent, knowledgeable, and above all a great human being, he was everything and more you could ask for in a leader even though we didn’t know it at the time. He was a Ring Knocker and therefore suspect.

If at the time you had told me that I would ever count a West Pointer as one of my dearest friends, I would have asked you what the hell you were smoking. However, Keith “Kit” Bonn became not just a friend but confidant, mentor and sage to my frequent questions about the military and about life in general over a span of almost three decades. Even when we had lost contact and I was faced with a difficult decision I would frequently reflect on WWKD? Yes, What Would Kit Do?

While he was our platoon leader, I remember only one tactical error and it was minor to say the least. I should never have been put on that bridge with that M60, an overwatch position would have been better. 2Lt Bonn expected much from his men, but never anything more than he wasn’t willing to give – and he gave a lot.

Holy Flaming Beer Bottles!

As anyone from the post-Vietnam era will attest, we had very little to train with, few resources and very little support above company level (at least from a grunt’s eye view that is). On many occasions our “Loo-tenant” would buy training supplies out of his own meager paycheck. One time in particular, we conducted expedient anti-armor training out in the Clay Pits of Area J with a couple gallons of gas, some oil and empty beer bottles – all purchased by Lt. Bonn – in fact I do believe the empties were from a platoon party that he had recently hosted.

So anyway, there we were, mixing gas and oil, filling beer bottles, stuffing rags down the necks and hurling the burning bottles at an abandoned dumpster from the protection of a conveniently placed fighting position. It wasn’t a free-for-all by any means; it was well controlled and managed training. Okay, I admit Private Woods slipped a couple M16 blanks into his bottle for a little dramatic effect, but only a couple. For which the LT chewed my ass. More importantly it built upon the innate confidence of paratroopers to make us believe that if called upon we would be able to close with and destroy the enemy even with Molotov cocktails. It was classic Kit Bonn.

The platoon marched back to the cantonment area at the end of training with heads held a little higher because we had adapted, overcome and defeated the lethargy that being in “Carter’s Army” could easily infect you with. The Lieutenant never lost sight of the fact that the 82d Airborne Division was the tip of the spear and one of the few obstacles the Soviet menace actually feared, or at least respected.

Can you imagine the shit-storm that would occur if a platoon leader tried to do some hip-pocket training like this during this era of zero-defects and risk assessments? I can’t either.

Our training went much like this for the term of Kit’s assignment to the platoon. We resented (at times) his demanding nature, but he was equally generous with his praise and thanks. And although he seemed a little straight-laced and as uptight as his white-wall haircut, eventually, his leadership style won out on even the most jaded soldier. He really cared about each and every one of us, believed in the mission and supported the chain-of-command even when it was questionable that they supported us.

Yes, he was a talker, oh boy, he was a talker. He loved to tell stories, mostly history, sometimes funny, but usually with an underlying message of leadership, selfless service and loyalty. I can thank him for introducing me to Rudyard Kipling – Keith could recite the poems “Gungha Din” and “Tommy,” by heart.

A Bridge Too Far and French Gasoline

One day the LT stood in front of the platoon and invited all who wanted to attend the HBO premier of A Bridge Too Far. He emphasized that it being a movie about our predecessors in WWII he wanted all of us to join him at his apartment to watch this epic film. The platoon shuffled in place as people pondered the invitation – not sure they wanted to give up an evening watching TV. Keith added, “… and I will supply all the food and beer.” My fellow machinegunner Vince Blossom and I turned to look at each other and almost simultaneously agreed that this was a major score. A large portion of the platoon filled his apartment that night where we literally ate every scrap of food and drank every last beverage in his home. Hell, he even introduced many of us to our first taste of French gasoline, AKA Cognac. He positively beamed with pride as we bid our adieus that night. The Platoon was truly coalescing as a unit.

Hot Chow in Uwharrie & Dogs in Korea

While on Robin Sage support for the Special Forces Qualification Course in the Uwharrie National Forest, our platoon actively patrolled the area and had rolled up one platoon of guerrillas while they slept in a churchyard. A platoon of Grunt Marines, between Lt Bonn and our company commander Captain “Burning Bob” Schaffer we fed the G’s a hot meal and they told us everything we wanted to know about the ongoing “insurgency.”

One day a dachshund-mix dog wandered into our company perimeter. From the neglected appearance, he had been likely dumped on the roadside and finally seeing humans, he made a beeline towards us. I still remember watching the LT cuddle and feed this dog and at first thinking what the heck was he doing?!? He ended up taking that dog back to Fort Bragg with him and ultimately it lived a long life as one of his companions. Years later, Kit also shared a story about how he rescued a couple “Rice Paddy Dogs” in Korea during his tour with the Manchus, about how he went into debt to bring them back to the States and how he paid an enormous bill to keep one of them alive after it were diagnosed with cancer. He loved animals.  I guess that’s where his affinity to grunts came from.

Bold Eagle ‘79

In October 1979, the 2/505 jumped in to Northern Florida for what euphemistically could be called “war games.” The underdogs, we were light infantry going against a mechanized/armored brigade. For the most part we held our own against them, but one night during a movement to a blocking position 3^rd platoon had the most amazing run of luck. Shuffling along in the darkness we hoped to reach our destination before dawn, but from somewhere in the darkness the Lieutenant heard a radio break squelch – freezing in place we silently turned and suddenly realized there were bad guys on our flank! We had caught an entire battery of towed artillery and their infantry support sound asleep! “Hit ‘em! Hit ‘em 3^rd Platoon!” Kit’s voice boomed in the dark. Without hesitation, we dropped rucksacks and charged into the inky dark, guns blazing and whooping like madmen.

As we swept through the enemy camp we tackled escaping cannon-cockers and rousted others from their warm “fart sacks.” Oh boy, this only happened in the movies. Finally, as we corralled the bad guys, SSG Tony Baker found the Battery Commander hiding in a port-o-potty. In short order Lieutenant Bonn called in to company HQ with his report of capturing five split trail howitzers, all vehicles and personnel intact. There was huge pregnant pause on the radio before Burning Bob came back, “Give me your location, I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” He made it in five. Dawn broke shortly after his arrival, and shortly after that the CO ordered 3^rd platoon to sack out for a couple hours.

Dying for Mother Russia

Keith was inspirational in many ways – you could even say coercive. One afternoon in the late 70s, after he became company XO, he was gleefully driving back and forth along some firebreaks in one of the training areas with a Soviet Jeep to act as a target for the platoons conducting ambush training. However, since I’d just finished 24-hour duty as CQ runner I was exempt from training that day. I’d had already had a couple beers to unwind and to help me fall asleep when Lt. Bonn saw me wandering down the hallway and asked if I wanted to be OPFOR for the day’s training. I thought for just a moment and agreed to do it, I hustled back to my room to put on my uniform, grab a rubber duck** and for the rest of the afternoon I rode around in the back of this soviet jeep, dying gloriously for Mother Russia. No one else could have talked me into doing this on my day off.

Tape Tests and Broken Hearts

Like me, Kit was a big guy who had to work at keeping his weight down. He succeeded for the most part by sheer willpower. Also like me he wore his heart on his sleeve and he was for the most part – like me – not very lucky when it came to love and dating, at least then. Of course, I found out the details much later after we became friends. We compared broken hearts and he told me about a former girlfriend. She had come down to visit him at Fort Bragg a few times and Keith would always introduce her to “his guys.” I’m not sure which he was more proud of, his girlfriend or his platoon. Anyway, as most tragedy ends, her heart was meant for another and Kit became a friend to her – a very loyal and protective friend I might add, something I would emulate myself a few years later after my first overseas tour, but that story is best saved for another time.

Loyalty, Integrity and Honesty – Above All Else

Keith demonstrated his friendship and loyalty on a daily basis, a trait sorely lacking with many other “leaders.” Sometimes he demonstrated these attributes in a way that was not to our liking, but looking at it in retrospect he as usually right.

Kit’s time in the company was one of change. A very talented officer, he moved from our infantry platoon to the mortar platoon and eventually company executive officer. At some point in time he put his career on the line to support some of the company’s NCOs. They had some complaints about training and other important issues with really no way to present their concerns to the Chain-of-Command. Kit became that conduit and arranged a meeting for the NCOs through the open door policy. No one came. The NCOs had chickened out and Lt. Bonn was left holding the bag. He was shunted off to Brigade HQ never to be “in the line” again.

I had already PCSed to the 1/509^th in Italy when this happened, so I don’t know all the details; suffice to say it was not pretty.

Speaking of the ’09, before I transferred to Europe, Lieutenant Bonn wrote a letter of introduction for me to present to my next platoon leader – who by happenstance was a classmate of Kit’s from West Point. Secret handshake complete, I was given the M60 – again. Nonetheless, lessons learned from Kit and B 2/505 helped me prove myself in my new assignment and quickly gain a promotion to fire team leader. Today, that letter (typed so carefully on a manual typewriter) is one of my most treasured mementos of days gone by.

On Brigade Staff

Living in the nebulous world of staff puke, (his words, not mine) he made the best of his new role in 3^rd Brigade, and the Golden Brigade of the 82d Airborne Division benefited from his penance. In those days before Power Point he created slides for briefings by hand. Wrote page after page of reports and operation orders annexes. Filling in information on butcher-block paper. He worked himself harder than anyone else. He wanted to support the line troops in word and deed.

Despite only being separated from his beloved paratroopers by Ardennes Street, he rarely crossed that demarcation line – but it didn’t stop us from crossing over to talk to him. When I returned to Division after my short overseas tour, and a dismal failure in the Special Forces Qualification Course (the first time), I went looking for him. He always had time for one of “His Guys,” we caught up with each other’s lives but once more slowly began to spin in different orbits. Eventually, he returned to West Point as an instructor and in those pre-email days we would occasionally exchange letters and Christmas greetings.

West Point and Enlisted Men

In 1984, I finally graduated from the SFQC and in due time transferred to Fort Lewis, Washington where I became enmeshed in a whole new dimension of the army that I had never experienced before. It was simply wonderful and although SF was fraught with its own set of problems, having more input and influence on training and warfighting was something that I embraced wholeheartedly. Kit would have loved it and he would be surprised to know that his standards of excellence were passed on many times over in many countries.

One day at the PX I discovered a brass plaque with the quote that is supposedly from an 1894 Army Officer's Manual that reads:

"Enlisted men are stupid, but extremely cunning and sly, and

Bear considerable watching."

I got a chuckle out of it and knew Kit would too, so I bought it and sent the plaque to then-Captain Bonn at West Point. Many years later he told me that that plaque had gotten him in trouble more than once with the powers-that-be of West Point. His boss told him that it was inappropriate and he shouldn’t let the cadets see it. The good captain’s response to this observation was that an enlisted man (one of HIS guys) had sent it to him and he used it as an opportunity to teach leadership to the cadets. It stayed on the wall.

California and Planet Ord

Eventually, we lost touch with each other once more. It wasn’t until 1989 while I was enduring a yearlong language course at DLI in Monterrey, California that, during a moment of melancholy I tracked him down by calling West Point and asking for him by name. The very helpful lady on the other end of the phone line gave me his forwarding address and as luck would have it, he was currently assigned to Fort Ord, just a short 20-minute drive from my current location. In those pre-internet days, tracking him down was expensive and time consuming, but I was finally able to determine his assignment at the Inspector General’s office. The IG? That was odd. Definitely had to be a story there.

On an off day from school, I made the short trip up to “Planet Ord,” and found the IG’s office. The look on his face when I walked into his office was priceless. We shook hands and he gave me a huge bear hug, since this was before the days of “man-hugs” it was totally unexpected. We just spent the time catching up with each other’s lives. In fact we sat there talking until well after sun down and everyone else had left for the day. It was great to see him. That was about the time he told me to call him Kit. He told me that we were friends and I didn’t need to call him sir – except for when we were in uniform of course. Some people might take this as pretentious with a touch of arrogance, but it was classic Kit and was meant as a complement of the highest order.

After we reconnected in California, we visited back and forth and ultimately I introduced him to a friend of mine. You see, she was a Korean Linguist and due to go back to ROK shortly for a new assignment. Problem was she had a cat and was unable to take it with her. I immediately thought of Keith and in short order he was fostering an all black cat along with the other animals he was caring for. Although the arrangement was strictly to foster “Blackie” for Lisa’s 13-month tour, when she returned stateside she quickly discovered that her cat was no longer hers and now was firmly attached to Kit and the rest of his furry brood.

As time moved on, we once more lost track of each other – with only a vague idea of what the other was doing. I’d gone overseas to Okinawa, Japan and he’d gone, well, elsewhere.

Then one day after I had returned to Fort Lewis, I got the urge to reconnect. As I began to make calls to track him down it had appeared that I had missed him at Fort Lewis by just a few months. He’d gotten an LNO job at I Corps and ended up spending a long time down in Honduras. I finally spoke with a compassionate sergeant major that filled me in on the remainder of Kit’s career. He’d done a long tour in “Hondo” followed by an assignment at TRADOC where he would ultimately retire – as an LTC.

Ouch, never thought that would happen. He always seemed to be destined for stars. After I finally reconnected with him sometime later, he told me some of the horror stories that he’d endured throughout his career. Indifferent and/or incompetent commanders were a big problem for him and with his immense desire to do things the right way he was usually at odds with his chain of command quite frequently. Being passed over for command was a death knell for an officer’s career, so between that and other painful truisms of a peacetime army, he made his way to retirement.

By this time Keith somewhat reluctantly retired and he had met the love of his life. His world revolved around Patti and their children. I still have the detailed letter talking about his retirement ceremony and how truly awesome it was. Other letters and Christmas cards reside in a box of treasured correspondence from my past.

 Lieutenant Colonel Keith E. Bonn was a warrior without a war and since he wasn’t quite what some of those in power desired, he was shunted off to the side and ignored.

Retirement and New Lives

In due time I retired and began working on my undergraduate degree. I interviewed Keith, now Mr. Bonn for a paper about the experiences and obstacles of Veterans (re)entering the workforce. I discovered through our interviews that his transition to civilian life was not much more fruitful than mine or many other vets. Granted, this was pre-9/11, but he had a tough go of retired life.

His doctorate intimidated potential employers; his combat arms background scared others. Being a genuinely nice guy confused even more people. He just couldn’t make civilian life work; therefore he ultimately decided to start his own business, being a published author of Military history, it made sense for him to start a publishing firm specializing in military history. Kit and Patti put their hearts and souls into the business while raising a young family and caring for his elderly father. Lean years followed, but little victories added up as they worked on their dream together.

Of Heroes and Mortal Men

Ultimately, Kit’s father passed away, something that I know was especially hard on him. Most people have to go out and find their heroes, however, Kit’s hero had raised him.

Life continued grudgingly onward as their business haltingly grew larger. Kit’s innate love of soldiers led him to establish and maintain a loving relationship with an infantry unit that had fought with valor during WWII. He told their story as they embraced him as their scribe. Life seemed to be going well for them.

As life went on, we exchanged emails, letters, Christmas cards and an occasional phone call. I do regret not talking to him more often, but I didn’t want to impose on him and besides, we always reconnected right?

Sadly, some time later in 2005, Kit died suddenly from complications from an undiagnosed case of diabetes. Unable to attend his memorial service I wrote about a couple funny stories where quite frankly, Kit was the butt of the joke. I shared those stories with the best of intentions, to show what a wonderful guy he was, keep in mind, he relished these stories and told them with great gusto even though he looked a little foolish. That was the kind of person Keith Bonn was. Straight forward, honest and humble and a leader of men doing great things, my life was enriched by knowing him, by serving with him, by being able to call him friend.

I hope with this writing I can show his widow and his children how important he was to so many other people besides them. Rest InPeace Kit, we miss you.

** Rubber Duck – a 1:1 scale hard rubber facsimile of a weapon, usually used when carrying a real weapon would be unsuitable for training, such as water training.