27 Mar 70
Dear Mom & Dad,
I just received my orders for the field early this morning, so I left Bien Hoa for Tay Ninh by Chinook. We’re going to be operating near and around Black Virgin Mountain near the Cambodian border.
I gotta make this quick cuz we’re processing in now and don’t have a lot of spare time. Please write and send Paul’s and Grandpa Petes address. Bye.
Love
Rog
Happy Easter!
PFC RJ McInerny
###-##-####
Co C 2/8 1st Cav Div AM
APO SF 96490
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Roger J. McInerny, Jr.
Private First Class Roger J. McInerny
Note:
I found this document among papers I had collected regarding Roger Jr. It apparently is a typed version of a newspaper article written about Roger, my parents and siblings. I do not know who the author is, nor if the type written account is an accurate reflection of the original article. Judging from references in the article, the original article appears to have been written in 1997. I have made minor spelling, punctuation and paragraph spacing corrections. Thank you. Paul D. McInerny, June 8, 2011
Private First Class Roger J. McInerny, Jr. and his company were hard at work securing a fire support base in the area of Tay Ninh, Vietnam, when they suddenly came under heavy rocket, mortar and ground attack. He immediately moved to the perimeter of the base, where he fired until his weapon malfunctioned, though he was within feet of impending explosion. After his weapon failure, Roger proceeded to engage the enemy in hand-to-hand combat until he was mortally wounded.
Roger J. McInerny, Jr., lovingly called “Rog” by his family, was a nineteen-year-old boy. He had just graduated from a Catholic high school and was attending junior college. He teased and bickered with his five younger siblings, (oldest to youngest) Paul, Jenny, Vivi, Maurice and Joe. He worked hard to make his parents, Roger and Luella, proud of him. He was your average American young man. This young man lost his life fighting for his country, and for democracy, far from home in the Vietnam War.
There are many stories like his, because the average American soldier was a nineteen-year-old, middle class boy. The way Rog’s family reacted to his death was diversified to each member of the group. Their different reactions provide an enlightening reflection of the overall effects on American society.
Vietnam is often described as a “working class war.” One of its main source of criticism is that many families lost their sons and brothers to a conflict that they hardly understood. Luella, Rog’s mother, exemplified this principle. “I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on. Housewives were involved in trying to make a pound of burger feed eight people. I was a homemaker with six kids to take care of and the war was ‘over there.’ Who even thought of it?”
With three brothers involved in the military, and two sons fast approaching the age of 18, Roger Sr., who had a more vast knowledge of current world events, paid much attention to the war. “The way I saw it was that we were in Vietnam to prevent communism for taking over South Vietnam as they had tried to do in 1950 South Korea.”
Vivi, Rog’s second sister, looks back on the “working class war” label bitterly. “I had heard my brother, my family and everyone like us, dismissed as chumps and suckers, dumb enough to die.”
The younger children, such as Joe, the youngest, were completely confused as to why they had sacrificed a brother. “Initially, I didn’t understand at all what the war was about. In fact, I didn’t understand what the Army was. When Rog went into the Army, I imagined it was like when Maurice (second youngest child) and I played army. I thought he joined up, got a uniform and a gun, and started shooting at people.”
The same basic results would be found of anyone in these positions in 1960s/1970s society. Mothers and homemakers were concerned with feeding the family, the father was concerned with politics and reading the evening paper, and children grasped at their quickly disappearing innocence, enjoying as much of their youth as they could in the shadow of a war.
Though understanding of the conflict was limited to the father in the family, a sense of honor and patriotic duty were abound in the McInerny home. “I was and am very proud that (Paul) and…Roger volunteered for service in 1969…[He] and [Rog] were a part of our national history,” remarks Roger Sr.
Luella commented that, “all of the boys in [Roger Sr.’s] family were in the service, and were very strong about patriotic duty.” Roger Sr. recounts a conversation with Rog. “Roger had told me that one of his professors said that poor blacks were bearing the brunt of the war, and Roger wanted to do his share. [He] had a sense of honor and duty.”
Vivi has mixed feelings about Rog’s patriotism. She describes him as, “a boy – all of nineteen-years-old who held onto traditional beliefs of honor and duty to his country a little longer than was fashionable. Certainly, too long.”
Though this type of patriotism was abundant in Midwestern communities like that of Richfield, Minnesota, and in families with strong military backgrounds, boys Roger’s age in other parts, and with different family belief systems were not so quick to enlist.
Both parents agree that religion played a large role in coping with their loss. Luella first states, “I guess it didn’t change my religious practices other than to make me, of course, include [Rog] in my daily prayers, and to pray more for the kids all here that this would never happen again,” she then adds, “I guess it did make me more religious now when I think of it.” Roger Sr. concurs with; “Our Catholic faith and family love were very essential to our coping with that terrible ordeal in April 1970. I’m thankful we had that faith and love.”
The event played a major role in the formation of the younger children’s beliefs, also. Jenny, the third child, recalls, “When I saw my parents remain strong in their beliefs despite the most devastating thing that could happen to a parent, I think it caused me to become stronger in my beliefs.”
She also recalls an incident with Maurice upon the delivery of the bad news. “He said he didn’t understand why we were all crying because Rog was in heaven now, and shouldn’t we all be happy? Mom smiled and said, “from the mouth of babes.” She smiled and told us Maurice was right.” Luella reaffirmed Maurice’s faith by explaining to him that she did believe Rog was in heaven, but she had to cry because she would miss him terribly.
This type of terrible trauma affected many families in America wartime. In every religion, faith was being tested, patience and understanding were being stretched to their utmost limits. This created tension within every type of family.
One of the frequent effects of a loss in a war is the loss of trust in the government. Luella clearly states, “ After Roger’s death, I have never trusted the government again. I feel they all lie just to make things sound good.” Not only has she lost trust in the government, but she also seems to have developed an acute disgust for it. "I now feel very sad when baby boys are born as I just think of them as cannon fodder for the old coots in Washington who decide to fight a war. It is okay with them because they don’t send their own kids, but only someone’s else’s.”
The younger members of the generation, like Joe, see the era as their first, and rather distasteful introduction to politics and the U.S. government. “I essentially came of age understanding that our president was a bad person, kind of like an evil king who had to be overthrown.” Constant protests, such as the infamous Kent State University incident, attest to this widely shared belief. Youth from all over the nation began to develop a distaste and distrust for their government.
Family life was also subject to a drastic change during the ordeal of dealing with Rog’s untimely death. Luella remembers the change in attitudes at home. “Rog’s death changed the family in that [Roger Sr.] had a hard time with disciplining the younger ones ever again. I had to try to be the firm hand in the family and I was not good at it.”
Jenny recalls her change toward her parents and toward her children now. “Having seen my parents in such pain, I tried never to hurt them at all. I hate to yell at my own kids – remembering that something could happen to them and those would be the last words they heard from me.”
Joe was younger, but still had the same idea. "It was the most traumatic change for me, having seen my parents go through so much sadness. I just didn’t want them to feel sad anymore.” This type of awful event often affects the way the next generation of children is brought up, thus having profound, but indirect effect on the new members of American society.
Even now, over twenty years after the United States fought many losing battles and twenty-seven years after the death of Rog, the McInerny family is still affected by the war and their loss in many ways. Roger Sr. writes, “It was a terrible shock to lose a son – it still hurts. Even after all these years there are frequent reminders of him throughout the house and neighborhood.” On an optimistic note he adds, “I never feel the need to blame anyone for his dying a hero’s death. At the time, it seemed that all our efforts had been in vain. Now, twenty years later, the Berlin Wall is down, Germany is united, communism has been rejected in Russia and in Eastern Europe, and we now have an ambassador in Vietnam and commerce with China. Perhaps what we did in Korea, Vietnam Libya and Grenada were all important factors in the ending of the Cold War and for the first time in fifty years, a major war isn’t a dominant concern for our world.”
Luella’s constant reminders of the war don’t give her much consolation. “I find I can’t watch war shows or the film clips of the war or any of the enactments at the various military places around. It is too close to what really happens.”
Vivi [a writer for the Oregonian Newspaper – added by Paul D. McInerny 6/8/2011] receives a steady stream of reminders of her brother from men now who would be the same age. “I feel a strange connection to Vietnam veterans, as though they are all my lost brothers. And when I meet men who are the age my brother would be, should be, and hear them brag about how they were too smart or too rich to fight in Vietnam, I feel only sadness for their lack of compassion."
Jenny’s troubles extend to the new Vietnamese inhabitants of Minnesota. “The Hmong have settled in the Twin Cities in large numbers. They set up craft booths and people buy their products. I am uncomfortable with this. I have heard the vets talk about the Hmong and how they couldn’t tell who was the enemy and who was their ally. There was a lot of deceptions and I am left with the irrational feeling that these are the people who killed my brother.” She also has developed an intense empathy for young boys, as did her mother. “I feel a very strong affection for boys. Deep inside knowing that the draft could be recalled…When I see young men in army uniforms, I just want to give them a hug and tell them to be safe…I worry about the short time we have with each other and everyone seems more precious.”
The entire McInerny family have a deep-laid scar in their past. Fortunately, all of them have learned to grow and heal. Society however, has not been so lucky. There are many people still bitter and regretful about American involvement in Vietnam and even more so for the many lives we lost there. Society must learn to heal, but never to forget.
“For if we forget them, they will have died twice.”
Note:
I found this document among papers I had collected regarding Roger Jr. It apparently is a typed version of a newspaper article written about Roger, my parents and siblings. I do not know who the author is, nor if the type written account is an accurate reflection of the original article. Judging from references in the article, the original article appears to have been written in 1997. I have made minor spelling, punctuation and paragraph spacing corrections. Thank you. Paul D. McInerny, June 8, 2011
Private First Class Roger J. McInerny, Jr. and his company were hard at work securing a fire support base in the area of Tay Ninh, Vietnam, when they suddenly came under heavy rocket, mortar and ground attack. He immediately moved to the perimeter of the base, where he fired until his weapon malfunctioned, though he was within feet of impending explosion. After his weapon failure, Roger proceeded to engage the enemy in hand-to-hand combat until he was mortally wounded.
Roger J. McInerny, Jr., lovingly called “Rog” by his family, was a nineteen-year-old boy. He had just graduated from a Catholic high school and was attending junior college. He teased and bickered with his five younger siblings, (oldest to youngest) Paul, Jenny, Vivi, Maurice and Joe. He worked hard to make his parents, Roger and Luella, proud of him. He was your average American young man. This young man lost his life fighting for his country, and for democracy, far from home in the Vietnam War.
There are many stories like his, because the average American soldier was a nineteen-year-old, middle class boy. The way Rog’s family reacted to his death was diversified to each member of the group. Their different reactions provide an enlightening reflection of the overall effects on American society.
Vietnam is often described as a “working class war.” One of its main source of criticism is that many families lost their sons and brothers to a conflict that they hardly understood. Luella, Rog’s mother, exemplified this principle. “I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on. Housewives were involved in trying to make a pound of burger feed eight people. I was a homemaker with six kids to take care of and the war was ‘over there.’ Who even thought of it?”
With three brothers involved in the military, and two sons fast approaching the age of 18, Roger Sr., who had a more vast knowledge of current world events, paid much attention to the war. “The way I saw it was that we were in Vietnam to prevent communism for taking over South Vietnam as they had tried to do in 1950 South Korea.”
Vivi, Rog’s second sister, looks back on the “working class war” label bitterly. “I had heard my brother, my family and everyone like us, dismissed as chumps and suckers, dumb enough to die.”
The younger children, such as Joe, the youngest, were completely confused as to why they had sacrificed a brother. “Initially, I didn’t understand at all what the war was about. In fact, I didn’t understand what the Army was. When Rog went into the Army, I imagined it was like when Maurice (second youngest child) and I played army. I thought he joined up, got a uniform and a gun, and started shooting at people.”
The same basic results would be found of anyone in these positions in 1960s/1970s society. Mothers and homemakers were concerned with feeding the family, the father was concerned with politics and reading the evening paper, and children grasped at their quickly disappearing innocence, enjoying as much of their youth as they could in the shadow of a war.
Though understanding of the conflict was limited to the father in the family, a sense of honor and patriotic duty were abound in the McInerny home. “I was and am very proud that (Paul) and…Roger volunteered for service in 1969…[He] and [Rog] were a part of our national history,” remarks Roger Sr.
Luella commented that, “all of the boys in [Roger Sr.’s] family were in the service, and were very strong about patriotic duty.” Roger Sr. recounts a conversation with Rog. “Roger had told me that one of his professors said that poor blacks were bearing the brunt of the war, and Roger wanted to do his share. [He] had a sense of honor and duty.”
Vivi has mixed feelings about Rog’s patriotism. She describes him as, “a boy – all of nineteen-years-old who held onto traditional beliefs of honor and duty to his country a little longer than was fashionable. Certainly, too long.”
Though this type of patriotism was abundant in Midwestern communities like that of Richfield, Minnesota, and in families with strong military backgrounds, boys Roger’s age in other parts, and with different family belief systems were not so quick to enlist.
Both parents agree that religion played a large role in coping with their loss. Luella first states, “I guess it didn’t change my religious practices other than to make me, of course, include [Rog] in my daily prayers, and to pray more for the kids all here that this would never happen again,” she then adds, “I guess it did make me more religious now when I think of it.” Roger Sr. concurs with; “Our Catholic faith and family love were very essential to our coping with that terrible ordeal in April 1970. I’m thankful we had that faith and love.”
The event played a major role in the formation of the younger children’s beliefs, also. Jenny, the third child, recalls, “When I saw my parents remain strong in their beliefs despite the most devastating thing that could happen to a parent, I think it caused me to become stronger in my beliefs.”
She also recalls an incident with Maurice upon the delivery of the bad news. “He said he didn’t understand why we were all crying because Rog was in heaven now, and shouldn’t we all be happy? Mom smiled and said, “from the mouth of babes.” She smiled and told us Maurice was right.” Luella reaffirmed Maurice’s faith by explaining to him that she did believe Rog was in heaven, but she had to cry because she would miss him terribly.
This type of terrible trauma affected many families in America wartime. In every religion, faith was being tested, patience and understanding were being stretched to their utmost limits. This created tension within every type of family.
One of the frequent effects of a loss in a war is the loss of trust in the government. Luella clearly states, “ After Roger’s death, I have never trusted the government again. I feel they all lie just to make things sound good.” Not only has she lost trust in the government, but she also seems to have developed an acute disgust for it. "I now feel very sad when baby boys are born as I just think of them as cannon fodder for the old coots in Washington who decide to fight a war. It is okay with them because they don’t send their own kids, but only someone’s else’s.”
The younger members of the generation, like Joe, see the era as their first, and rather distasteful introduction to politics and the U.S. government. “I essentially came of age understanding that our president was a bad person, kind of like an evil king who had to be overthrown.” Constant protests, such as the infamous Kent State University incident, attest to this widely shared belief. Youth from all over the nation began to develop a distaste and distrust for their government.
Family life was also subject to a drastic change during the ordeal of dealing with Rog’s untimely death. Luella remembers the change in attitudes at home. “Rog’s death changed the family in that [Roger Sr.] had a hard time with disciplining the younger ones ever again. I had to try to be the firm hand in the family and I was not good at it.”
Jenny recalls her change toward her parents and toward her children now. “Having seen my parents in such pain, I tried never to hurt them at all. I hate to yell at my own kids – remembering that something could happen to them and those would be the last words they heard from me.”
Joe was younger, but still had the same idea. "It was the most traumatic change for me, having seen my parents go through so much sadness. I just didn’t want them to feel sad anymore.” This type of awful event often affects the way the next generation of children is brought up, thus having profound, but indirect effect on the new members of American society.
Even now, over twenty years after the United States fought many losing battles and twenty-seven years after the death of Rog, the McInerny family is still affected by the war and their loss in many ways. Roger Sr. writes, “It was a terrible shock to lose a son – it still hurts. Even after all these years there are frequent reminders of him throughout the house and neighborhood.” On an optimistic note he adds, “I never feel the need to blame anyone for his dying a hero’s death. At the time, it seemed that all our efforts had been in vain. Now, twenty years later, the Berlin Wall is down, Germany is united, communism has been rejected in Russia and in Eastern Europe, and we now have an ambassador in Vietnam and commerce with China. Perhaps what we did in Korea, Vietnam Libya and Grenada were all important factors in the ending of the Cold War and for the first time in fifty years, a major war isn’t a dominant concern for our world.”
Luella’s constant reminders of the war don’t give her much consolation. “I find I can’t watch war shows or the film clips of the war or any of the enactments at the various military places around. It is too close to what really happens.”
Vivi [a writer for the Oregonian Newspaper – added by Paul D. McInerny 6/8/2011] receives a steady stream of reminders of her brother from men now who would be the same age. “I feel a strange connection to Vietnam veterans, as though they are all my lost brothers. And when I meet men who are the age my brother would be, should be, and hear them brag about how they were too smart or too rich to fight in Vietnam, I feel only sadness for their lack of compassion."
Jenny’s troubles extend to the new Vietnamese inhabitants of Minnesota. “The Hmong have settled in the Twin Cities in large numbers. They set up craft booths and people buy their products. I am uncomfortable with this. I have heard the vets talk about the Hmong and how they couldn’t tell who was the enemy and who was their ally. There was a lot of deceptions and I am left with the irrational feeling that these are the people who killed my brother.” She also has developed an intense empathy for young boys, as did her mother. “I feel a very strong affection for boys. Deep inside knowing that the draft could be recalled…When I see young men in army uniforms, I just want to give them a hug and tell them to be safe…I worry about the short time we have with each other and everyone seems more precious.”
The entire McInerny family have a deep-laid scar in their past. Fortunately, all of them have learned to grow and heal. Society however, has not been so lucky. There are many people still bitter and regretful about American involvement in Vietnam and even more so for the many lives we lost there. Society must learn to heal, but never to forget.
“For if we forget them, they will have died twice.”
Soldier Boy
Soldier Boy
By Vivian McInerny
The Oregonian
November 11, 1988
Memories of an Innocent Time - Soldier Boy
His Family’s Life Changed Forever on the Sunny Spring Day They Learned He Died
Rog was my big brother. I cheered his Pony League pitches. I rode shotgun in his Chevy. I swiped his skates to glide across a frozen Wilson Pond. And I cried ‘til I felt my soul was going to turn inside out the day we learned he would not be coming home from Vietnam.
Last week I met a man who is the same age my brother would be, should be, and I listened in stunned silence as he bragged about the fact that he had not served in the armed forces. No one with any education, any money, any brains at all, he said, went to Vietnam.
I was horrified.
His observation was not new to me. People had been describing Vietnam as a working class war for many years. But they used to say that with compassion in their voices. They used to say it with a certain sense of sadness about the pegholes society puts us in. But this man’s attitude was new to me. This was the first time I had heard my brother, my family and everyone like us, dismissed as chumps and suckers; dumb enough to die.
Rog was killed April 1, 1970. The pain of that date. My brother was no hero, but neither was he a fool. He was a sweet suburban boy, an altar boy, a paper boy—a boy—all of 19 years old who held onto traditional beliefs of honor and duty to his country a little longer than was fashionable. Certainly, too long.
Rog was not drafted. He joined the Army. He joined not with rugged Rambo illusions, but with the gentle opinion that it was the right thing to do. Classes at the community college weren’t working out. It was tough studying and pulling railroad ties in the summer to pay for schooling, especially since he wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted to learn. A couple years in the service would give him time to find a focus. Besides, there’d be the GI Bill at the end of it all to pay for his education, just as it had for his father and for his father’s brothers. I don’t think it ever occurred to Rog—or anyone else in the family—that he might not get a chance to use that bill.
Rog came home on leave before shipping out to Vietnam. His dark hair was cut in an unfamiliar crop. The uniform made him appear strangely formal. But he still teased his five younger siblings with familiar bad jokes.
I remember him sitting on the sofa with our Grandpa poring over maps of Asia. Our home in Minneapolis was small and always crowded with us six kids, friends, and ongoing visits from extended family, but the two of them had carved out a quiet corner in the chaos.
With one finger, Rog followed a thin, black outline of Vietnam. He located his base camp between the wrinkled folds of the map and pointed it out to Grandpa who, always stubborn, found some point to argue.
Grandpa adjusted his glasses. He drew from his pipe. He complained that the map wasn’t right and said this “Vietnam thing” was sure nothing like the First World War he fought in Europe.
Peeking over the top of the map, Rog saw his little sister. He moved his eyebrows up and down like a Saturday morning cartoon character and broke into a broad smile.
A few weeks later Rog’s life ended in a faraway country fighting for a cause he couldn’t possibly understand.
We learned of his death the following afternoon.
Ah, but that morning, that precious, last morning of innocence. The sun was out. The sky was blue. Winter’s blanket of snow had retreated to the shadows and though it managed to hold its ground at night when temperatures and darkness dropped, it was obvious spring soon would triumph.
The combination of sunlight and school bells that Friday afternoon was like a champagne cocktail bubbling straight to my 13-year-old head. I was giddy. I was giggly. I leaped from the school bus. I splashed through melted snow puddles. I challenged my two little brothers to a race for home, confident, even after giving them a generous head start, that I easily would beat them. As I ran, the hard edges of our neighborhood blurred. My short, shallow breaths blended with the sound of the wind rushing past my ears. My toes seemed to touch ground only now and again as a polite gesture to those mere mortals ruled by the laws of gravity, because on this particular spring Friday high, I swore, I could fly.
Maybe it was the time of life. Or maybe it was the time in history. But I think there was never a more optimistic moment than those split seconds spent speeding toward a suburban home in middle America on that spring day.
“I won,” I shouted as I jumped onto the back steps. “I won.”
With one shoulder against the hard wood door, I pushed, shoved and rushed into the kitchen, my two younger brothers tumbling in after me.
Our dad caught us. His eyes were red-rimmed. Our mom and older sister stood behind him holding each other.
“I have sad news,” he said. “Rogie was killed.”
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Almost 20 years later and I still feel the tears when I flip through old family photos of those times. I feel a strange connection to Vietnam veterans, as though they are all my lost brothers. And when I meet men who are the age my brother would be, should be, and hear them brag about how they were too smart or too rich to fight in Vietnam, I feel only sadness for their lack of compassion.
Because I simply remember a more innocent time. I remember when my family was middle America, when we were the people Norman Rockwell painted, when we were the spirit of a country that still believed in itself. And way back then, we weren’t considered corny.
My brother’s Purple Heart hangs in a glass case on a wall in my parents’ home. But I have a different sort of Purple Heart. It was not earned on a battlefront, but granted at the home front. It is not proudly pinned to a uniformed chest, but sadly worn on a civilian sleeve. It is the bruised heart of one who lost her big brother in Vietnam.
By Vivian McInerny
The Oregonian
November 11, 1988
Memories of an Innocent Time - Soldier Boy
His Family’s Life Changed Forever on the Sunny Spring Day They Learned He Died
Rog was my big brother. I cheered his Pony League pitches. I rode shotgun in his Chevy. I swiped his skates to glide across a frozen Wilson Pond. And I cried ‘til I felt my soul was going to turn inside out the day we learned he would not be coming home from Vietnam.
Last week I met a man who is the same age my brother would be, should be, and I listened in stunned silence as he bragged about the fact that he had not served in the armed forces. No one with any education, any money, any brains at all, he said, went to Vietnam.
I was horrified.
His observation was not new to me. People had been describing Vietnam as a working class war for many years. But they used to say that with compassion in their voices. They used to say it with a certain sense of sadness about the pegholes society puts us in. But this man’s attitude was new to me. This was the first time I had heard my brother, my family and everyone like us, dismissed as chumps and suckers; dumb enough to die.
Rog was killed April 1, 1970. The pain of that date. My brother was no hero, but neither was he a fool. He was a sweet suburban boy, an altar boy, a paper boy—a boy—all of 19 years old who held onto traditional beliefs of honor and duty to his country a little longer than was fashionable. Certainly, too long.
Rog was not drafted. He joined the Army. He joined not with rugged Rambo illusions, but with the gentle opinion that it was the right thing to do. Classes at the community college weren’t working out. It was tough studying and pulling railroad ties in the summer to pay for schooling, especially since he wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted to learn. A couple years in the service would give him time to find a focus. Besides, there’d be the GI Bill at the end of it all to pay for his education, just as it had for his father and for his father’s brothers. I don’t think it ever occurred to Rog—or anyone else in the family—that he might not get a chance to use that bill.
Rog came home on leave before shipping out to Vietnam. His dark hair was cut in an unfamiliar crop. The uniform made him appear strangely formal. But he still teased his five younger siblings with familiar bad jokes.
I remember him sitting on the sofa with our Grandpa poring over maps of Asia. Our home in Minneapolis was small and always crowded with us six kids, friends, and ongoing visits from extended family, but the two of them had carved out a quiet corner in the chaos.
With one finger, Rog followed a thin, black outline of Vietnam. He located his base camp between the wrinkled folds of the map and pointed it out to Grandpa who, always stubborn, found some point to argue.
Grandpa adjusted his glasses. He drew from his pipe. He complained that the map wasn’t right and said this “Vietnam thing” was sure nothing like the First World War he fought in Europe.
Peeking over the top of the map, Rog saw his little sister. He moved his eyebrows up and down like a Saturday morning cartoon character and broke into a broad smile.
A few weeks later Rog’s life ended in a faraway country fighting for a cause he couldn’t possibly understand.
We learned of his death the following afternoon.
Ah, but that morning, that precious, last morning of innocence. The sun was out. The sky was blue. Winter’s blanket of snow had retreated to the shadows and though it managed to hold its ground at night when temperatures and darkness dropped, it was obvious spring soon would triumph.
The combination of sunlight and school bells that Friday afternoon was like a champagne cocktail bubbling straight to my 13-year-old head. I was giddy. I was giggly. I leaped from the school bus. I splashed through melted snow puddles. I challenged my two little brothers to a race for home, confident, even after giving them a generous head start, that I easily would beat them. As I ran, the hard edges of our neighborhood blurred. My short, shallow breaths blended with the sound of the wind rushing past my ears. My toes seemed to touch ground only now and again as a polite gesture to those mere mortals ruled by the laws of gravity, because on this particular spring Friday high, I swore, I could fly.
Maybe it was the time of life. Or maybe it was the time in history. But I think there was never a more optimistic moment than those split seconds spent speeding toward a suburban home in middle America on that spring day.
“I won,” I shouted as I jumped onto the back steps. “I won.”
With one shoulder against the hard wood door, I pushed, shoved and rushed into the kitchen, my two younger brothers tumbling in after me.
Our dad caught us. His eyes were red-rimmed. Our mom and older sister stood behind him holding each other.
“I have sad news,” he said. “Rogie was killed.”
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Almost 20 years later and I still feel the tears when I flip through old family photos of those times. I feel a strange connection to Vietnam veterans, as though they are all my lost brothers. And when I meet men who are the age my brother would be, should be, and hear them brag about how they were too smart or too rich to fight in Vietnam, I feel only sadness for their lack of compassion.
Because I simply remember a more innocent time. I remember when my family was middle America, when we were the people Norman Rockwell painted, when we were the spirit of a country that still believed in itself. And way back then, we weren’t considered corny.
My brother’s Purple Heart hangs in a glass case on a wall in my parents’ home. But I have a different sort of Purple Heart. It was not earned on a battlefront, but granted at the home front. It is not proudly pinned to a uniformed chest, but sadly worn on a civilian sleeve. It is the bruised heart of one who lost her big brother in Vietnam.
A Search For Peace
A SEARCH FOR PEACE
By Vivian McInerny
The Oregonian
Source: THE OREGONIAN
Monday, November 10, 2003
Edition: SUNRISE, Section: LIVING, Page D01
Summary: For the sister of a slain Vietnam soldier, grieving never ends, but a message brings a healing response
The phone rang one Saturday morning. My daughter was watching cartoons, so I took the cordless into the hall. A man introduced himself. I expected him to launch into a rote sales pitch for a new long-distance service or credit card company, but the voice on the other end paused, as though awaiting recognition.
”Denny McCarty,” he repeated.
The name still meant nothing to me.
”I knew your brother,” he said.
They were bunkmates. They trained together. They went to Vietnam together.
They came home separately.
Unable to think of any useful words, I nodded, and in that stretched moment of silence between us became keenly aware of the colored shadows of cartoons casting random patterns across the bare, white walls.
My brother Roger James McInerny was killed in Vietnam on April 1, 1970. He was 19, the oldest of six kids in a lively, noisy Irish Catholic family in Minneapolis. That was the day when things once familiar felt strange, when previously important things became trivial, when the sum total of everything I knew about the world equaled absolutely nothing at all. I was 13.
Today in Iraq, the weapons are different, but the emotional shrapnel is the same. Hundreds of families have suffered the shock of losing a loved one and, for them, the task of grieving has just begun. It never ends.
Sorrow is a strange emotion. Some people describe it as pain. Others describe it as numbing. Sometimes I feel it is the purgatory of ricocheting between those two extremes, caught in a quiet chaos.
For a 13-year-old in 1970, sorrow was also mixed up in the chaos of the times. The war that took my brother was ripping apart the United States. Generations were separated, not just by age but also by perspective. The traditions of parents seemed hollow to their kids. The revolution of kids seemed pointless to their parents. I was old enough to question the ways of the world but too young to do anything about them. So I mostly sat, dazed, in front of a flickering television screen, taking in the phony sets and canned laughter of “Gilligan’s Island” and the real footage of soldiers crying on the news. Both seemed worlds away.
My brother’s room in the basement, untouched since his death, became my refuge. I would retreat downstairs and play his Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix tapes full blast.
I wish I could say my brother’s death spurred me to become a political activist or a community volunteer. Instead, I spent five years on a path of rebellious self-destruction and three more bumming around the globe until I found some peace, and a livelihood, in Portland.
It was easy, in the business of everyday life, to push aside sorrow. You never forget. It’s there. But instead of drowning in it, you learn to stay afloat.
In spring 2000, I began surfing the Web for information on Vietnam. I wanted to write a newspaper story. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I reread my brother’s letters to get the names of companies, units and platoons. I was convinced no one would remember Roger—my brother was in Vietnam less than a month when he was killed—but I wanted to gain some understanding of what it was like for him there. I posted a single message, hoping to communicate with anyone who had served near the Cambodian border around the same time as my brother.
I felt as if I were tossing a bottled message into a vast cyber sea.
More than two years later, Denny McCarty found it.
He signed on to the Internet for the first time at his home in Elgin, Minn., and almost immediately came across my note. The e-mail address I’d left was no longer valid. McCarty, however, managed to get my phone number and was itching to dial, but it was still early morning in Minnesota and two hours earlier on the West Coast.
”I’ve been sitting here waiting for it to be 9 o’clock in Oregon so I could call,” McCarty said when he finally phoned. “I figure I’ve been waiting 30 years for this.”
He and my brother met in training in Alabama, two Minnesota boys looking for someone familiar. My brother was killed in the first, and only, heavy action their company encountered.
”I spent 12 months in the field and never saw anything like that first battle again,” McCarty said. “We lost 50-something guys that night. Out of the 16 guys Roger and I went in with, only three came home.” McCarty returned to the United States one year later and a lifetime older.
”I was a basket case,” he said.
He got a job in a John Deere factory. He married, had a couple of kids, got divorced. He never talked about Vietnam.
”But most nights I woke up screaming Roger’s name,” he said.
McCarty never attended a veterans group. He didn’t go to therapy. He didn’t join a 12-step program. But about 15 years ago, he met with another Vietnam veteran in town for coffee. They talked. They felt better. They talked some more. They’ve been meeting weekly ever since.
”But some things you only need to say once,” McCarty said.
Whenever McCarty visited the Twin Cities, he’d search the Minneapolis phone books to find Roger’s parents, relieved each time he failed.
”I didn’t know if they’d want to talk to me,” he said. “I didn’t know what I’d say.” Years slipped by, and McCarty began to think maybe too much time had passed. No one would remember Roger. No one would be left to care. He was both relieved and nervous to learn otherwise.
”This is something I should have done years ago,” he said.
I didn’t tell most of my family about McCarty. Earlier this year, I flew to Minneapolis but said nothing of my plans to meet him later that week. I knew they would ask why, and I didn’t have a clear answer. A friend suggested that maybe I hoped to get to know my brother through McCarty’s reminiscing. But I had my own memories.
He was the brother who taught me how to skip stones on the Mississippi River. He showed me how to throw a football when the trees in the front yard glowed brilliant yellow in the autumn sun. Once, when I cried because I’d broken a favorite kaleidoscope, my brother took it apart to show me how pieces of colored glass and mirrors made the mysterious patterns. I carried those bits of stained glass around until I lost them through a hole in my pocket, leaving a trail of rainbow colors behind me.
Each member of my family has dealt, or not dealt, with Roger’s death in his or her own way, choosing the memories carefully.
In the wisdom and arrogance of my middle years, I thought that I had finished grieving. I reasoned that time had long ago sutured the gaping wound left by my brother’s death.
Yet, some 30-odd years later, there was still something that provoked me to seek out McCarty.
On a drive through southern Minnesota, the land stretches flat as far as the eye can see. The lines on the highway roll beneath the car at a hypnotic pace. What should have been a relaxing car ride had me in a silent panic.
McCarty and I had talked several times by phone. We’d exchanged e-mails. But I started worrying that I hadn’t checked out the details enough. What if he was some crazed vet living in a tent in the woods? What if his home was a half-buried bus filled with war memorabilia?
I turned on the radio. The talk was about the price of cattle and wheat. I looked at the directions McCarty had given: “Drive about five miles to the three-mile mark.” It wasn’t too late to make a U-turn. But I didn’t. Eventually, I came to a quiet cul-de-sac with several modest homes surrounded by woodlands.
McCarty met me at the front door and introduced me to his wife. She left us alone to talk. We pulled chairs up to the kitchen table.
”What do you want to know?” he asked.
”I’m not sure,” I said nervously. This is not the way reporters typically begin interviews, but I was being honest.
McCarty told me the story he had told already on the phone.
”We were guarding a fire base about the size of two football fields,” he began.
It was nothing but dirt and dust and ammunition. About 125 young soldiers waited, tense and edgy all day and into the starless night. At 1 a.m., the firing started. Bullets and bombs stirred a choking cloud of dust.
”You couldn’t see two feet in front of you,” McCarty said.
The fighting lasted until dawn, when U.S. planes flew over and bombed what remained. As the sun rose on a new day, more than half the guys were gone: Fifty or more were dead; another 30 or so were injured and air-lifted out. The rest were left trying to make sense of what had happened.
McCarty sought out his five friends. He found two alive.
”I unzipped 35 body bags looking for your brother,” McCarty said, his voice breaking. “I never found him.”
My brother was missing in action for one day. McCarty was being treated for his own injuries when they found Roger and shipped him home.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. McInerny,
I extend my most profound sympathy to you on the recent loss of your son, Private First Class Roger J. McInerny Jr. who died in the service of his country on April 1, 1970. On the morning of April 1, Roger and his Company were securing Fire Support Base Illingworth in the vicinity of Tay Ninh, Republic of Vietnam, when Roger was mortally wounded at approximately 4:30 A.M. It may afford you some comfort to know that death came quickly and he was not subject to any unnecessary suffering.
Respectfully,
George K. Hobson
CPT, Infantry
Commanding Officer
Some people told us we should feel angry at the government for sending him to war. Everyone said that, with time, we would get over it, as though grief were a bump in the road. But the loss of my brother was more like a forced detour on a family drive, a winding, rugged road through strange territories that led everywhere but home.
There are thousands of families going through the same thing now in the United States, Iraq, Afghanistan—all over the world. When the battles, bombs and terrorist acts are forgotten and their reasons for being—right, wrong or misguided—have faded from popular memory, the rippling effects continue, not for a while, but forever. Maybe 30 years down the road you hang on to your kids a little longer than you might have otherwise. Maybe your kids’ kids will tell the story of their great-uncle who left a hole in the heart of their family.
I worried that wanting to meet McCarty fed a morbid curiosity, that I might be wallowing in past sadness, stirring up forgotten feelings and subjecting my family and myself to “unnecessary suffering.” I worried that I was courting chaos.
But sitting at his kitchen table, listening to the stories of a tough young soldier who became a good man, a man my brother never had a chance to be, I knew this was the right thing to do. I felt as if I were reassembling that broken kaleidoscope of my childhood. Fragmented bits of life, like pieces of colored glass, make no sense without reflection. Reflection allows us to see the ever-changing patterns, slightly different with every turn.
I sought out McCarty without an idea of what I wanted. But when I asked him what he hoped to get out of our meeting, he was clear.
”I want you to know that your brother was not alone. He had friends,” McCarty said. “I want you to know that I think about him every day. I think about them all.”
By Vivian McInerny
The Oregonian
Source: THE OREGONIAN
Monday, November 10, 2003
Edition: SUNRISE, Section: LIVING, Page D01
Summary: For the sister of a slain Vietnam soldier, grieving never ends, but a message brings a healing response
The phone rang one Saturday morning. My daughter was watching cartoons, so I took the cordless into the hall. A man introduced himself. I expected him to launch into a rote sales pitch for a new long-distance service or credit card company, but the voice on the other end paused, as though awaiting recognition.
”Denny McCarty,” he repeated.
The name still meant nothing to me.
”I knew your brother,” he said.
They were bunkmates. They trained together. They went to Vietnam together.
They came home separately.
Unable to think of any useful words, I nodded, and in that stretched moment of silence between us became keenly aware of the colored shadows of cartoons casting random patterns across the bare, white walls.
My brother Roger James McInerny was killed in Vietnam on April 1, 1970. He was 19, the oldest of six kids in a lively, noisy Irish Catholic family in Minneapolis. That was the day when things once familiar felt strange, when previously important things became trivial, when the sum total of everything I knew about the world equaled absolutely nothing at all. I was 13.
Today in Iraq, the weapons are different, but the emotional shrapnel is the same. Hundreds of families have suffered the shock of losing a loved one and, for them, the task of grieving has just begun. It never ends.
Sorrow is a strange emotion. Some people describe it as pain. Others describe it as numbing. Sometimes I feel it is the purgatory of ricocheting between those two extremes, caught in a quiet chaos.
For a 13-year-old in 1970, sorrow was also mixed up in the chaos of the times. The war that took my brother was ripping apart the United States. Generations were separated, not just by age but also by perspective. The traditions of parents seemed hollow to their kids. The revolution of kids seemed pointless to their parents. I was old enough to question the ways of the world but too young to do anything about them. So I mostly sat, dazed, in front of a flickering television screen, taking in the phony sets and canned laughter of “Gilligan’s Island” and the real footage of soldiers crying on the news. Both seemed worlds away.
My brother’s room in the basement, untouched since his death, became my refuge. I would retreat downstairs and play his Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix tapes full blast.
I wish I could say my brother’s death spurred me to become a political activist or a community volunteer. Instead, I spent five years on a path of rebellious self-destruction and three more bumming around the globe until I found some peace, and a livelihood, in Portland.
It was easy, in the business of everyday life, to push aside sorrow. You never forget. It’s there. But instead of drowning in it, you learn to stay afloat.
In spring 2000, I began surfing the Web for information on Vietnam. I wanted to write a newspaper story. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I reread my brother’s letters to get the names of companies, units and platoons. I was convinced no one would remember Roger—my brother was in Vietnam less than a month when he was killed—but I wanted to gain some understanding of what it was like for him there. I posted a single message, hoping to communicate with anyone who had served near the Cambodian border around the same time as my brother.
I felt as if I were tossing a bottled message into a vast cyber sea.
More than two years later, Denny McCarty found it.
He signed on to the Internet for the first time at his home in Elgin, Minn., and almost immediately came across my note. The e-mail address I’d left was no longer valid. McCarty, however, managed to get my phone number and was itching to dial, but it was still early morning in Minnesota and two hours earlier on the West Coast.
”I’ve been sitting here waiting for it to be 9 o’clock in Oregon so I could call,” McCarty said when he finally phoned. “I figure I’ve been waiting 30 years for this.”
He and my brother met in training in Alabama, two Minnesota boys looking for someone familiar. My brother was killed in the first, and only, heavy action their company encountered.
”I spent 12 months in the field and never saw anything like that first battle again,” McCarty said. “We lost 50-something guys that night. Out of the 16 guys Roger and I went in with, only three came home.” McCarty returned to the United States one year later and a lifetime older.
”I was a basket case,” he said.
He got a job in a John Deere factory. He married, had a couple of kids, got divorced. He never talked about Vietnam.
”But most nights I woke up screaming Roger’s name,” he said.
McCarty never attended a veterans group. He didn’t go to therapy. He didn’t join a 12-step program. But about 15 years ago, he met with another Vietnam veteran in town for coffee. They talked. They felt better. They talked some more. They’ve been meeting weekly ever since.
”But some things you only need to say once,” McCarty said.
Whenever McCarty visited the Twin Cities, he’d search the Minneapolis phone books to find Roger’s parents, relieved each time he failed.
”I didn’t know if they’d want to talk to me,” he said. “I didn’t know what I’d say.” Years slipped by, and McCarty began to think maybe too much time had passed. No one would remember Roger. No one would be left to care. He was both relieved and nervous to learn otherwise.
”This is something I should have done years ago,” he said.
I didn’t tell most of my family about McCarty. Earlier this year, I flew to Minneapolis but said nothing of my plans to meet him later that week. I knew they would ask why, and I didn’t have a clear answer. A friend suggested that maybe I hoped to get to know my brother through McCarty’s reminiscing. But I had my own memories.
He was the brother who taught me how to skip stones on the Mississippi River. He showed me how to throw a football when the trees in the front yard glowed brilliant yellow in the autumn sun. Once, when I cried because I’d broken a favorite kaleidoscope, my brother took it apart to show me how pieces of colored glass and mirrors made the mysterious patterns. I carried those bits of stained glass around until I lost them through a hole in my pocket, leaving a trail of rainbow colors behind me.
Each member of my family has dealt, or not dealt, with Roger’s death in his or her own way, choosing the memories carefully.
In the wisdom and arrogance of my middle years, I thought that I had finished grieving. I reasoned that time had long ago sutured the gaping wound left by my brother’s death.
Yet, some 30-odd years later, there was still something that provoked me to seek out McCarty.
On a drive through southern Minnesota, the land stretches flat as far as the eye can see. The lines on the highway roll beneath the car at a hypnotic pace. What should have been a relaxing car ride had me in a silent panic.
McCarty and I had talked several times by phone. We’d exchanged e-mails. But I started worrying that I hadn’t checked out the details enough. What if he was some crazed vet living in a tent in the woods? What if his home was a half-buried bus filled with war memorabilia?
I turned on the radio. The talk was about the price of cattle and wheat. I looked at the directions McCarty had given: “Drive about five miles to the three-mile mark.” It wasn’t too late to make a U-turn. But I didn’t. Eventually, I came to a quiet cul-de-sac with several modest homes surrounded by woodlands.
McCarty met me at the front door and introduced me to his wife. She left us alone to talk. We pulled chairs up to the kitchen table.
”What do you want to know?” he asked.
”I’m not sure,” I said nervously. This is not the way reporters typically begin interviews, but I was being honest.
McCarty told me the story he had told already on the phone.
”We were guarding a fire base about the size of two football fields,” he began.
It was nothing but dirt and dust and ammunition. About 125 young soldiers waited, tense and edgy all day and into the starless night. At 1 a.m., the firing started. Bullets and bombs stirred a choking cloud of dust.
”You couldn’t see two feet in front of you,” McCarty said.
The fighting lasted until dawn, when U.S. planes flew over and bombed what remained. As the sun rose on a new day, more than half the guys were gone: Fifty or more were dead; another 30 or so were injured and air-lifted out. The rest were left trying to make sense of what had happened.
McCarty sought out his five friends. He found two alive.
”I unzipped 35 body bags looking for your brother,” McCarty said, his voice breaking. “I never found him.”
My brother was missing in action for one day. McCarty was being treated for his own injuries when they found Roger and shipped him home.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. McInerny,
I extend my most profound sympathy to you on the recent loss of your son, Private First Class Roger J. McInerny Jr. who died in the service of his country on April 1, 1970. On the morning of April 1, Roger and his Company were securing Fire Support Base Illingworth in the vicinity of Tay Ninh, Republic of Vietnam, when Roger was mortally wounded at approximately 4:30 A.M. It may afford you some comfort to know that death came quickly and he was not subject to any unnecessary suffering.
Respectfully,
George K. Hobson
CPT, Infantry
Commanding Officer
Some people told us we should feel angry at the government for sending him to war. Everyone said that, with time, we would get over it, as though grief were a bump in the road. But the loss of my brother was more like a forced detour on a family drive, a winding, rugged road through strange territories that led everywhere but home.
There are thousands of families going through the same thing now in the United States, Iraq, Afghanistan—all over the world. When the battles, bombs and terrorist acts are forgotten and their reasons for being—right, wrong or misguided—have faded from popular memory, the rippling effects continue, not for a while, but forever. Maybe 30 years down the road you hang on to your kids a little longer than you might have otherwise. Maybe your kids’ kids will tell the story of their great-uncle who left a hole in the heart of their family.
I worried that wanting to meet McCarty fed a morbid curiosity, that I might be wallowing in past sadness, stirring up forgotten feelings and subjecting my family and myself to “unnecessary suffering.” I worried that I was courting chaos.
But sitting at his kitchen table, listening to the stories of a tough young soldier who became a good man, a man my brother never had a chance to be, I knew this was the right thing to do. I felt as if I were reassembling that broken kaleidoscope of my childhood. Fragmented bits of life, like pieces of colored glass, make no sense without reflection. Reflection allows us to see the ever-changing patterns, slightly different with every turn.
I sought out McCarty without an idea of what I wanted. But when I asked him what he hoped to get out of our meeting, he was clear.
”I want you to know that your brother was not alone. He had friends,” McCarty said. “I want you to know that I think about him every day. I think about them all.”
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Fire Base Illingworth
Another Point of View
by Paul D. McInerny
Comments on p. 227, from the book Fire Base Illingworth, by Philip Keith
This recently released book prides itself as "an epic true story of remarkable courage against staggering odds" regarding the battle at Fire Base Illingworth in the Republic of Vietnam. I had anxiously awaited the arrival of the book, having placed an order a month before it was due for release.
As most of you are aware, the McInerny family has a personal and powerful connection with Fire Base Illingworth and this book chronicles the circumstances surrounding the battle of April 1, 1970.
This was the battle in which Roger J. McInerny, Jr. fought valiantly to his death. For his specific and determined actions, he received (posthumously)the Silver Star, our nations 3rd highest Award for Valor.
I was aware that Roger was mentioned in the book, so when it arrived, I immediately went to the index, found his name and page he was referenced to. I turned to the page, expecting to read about his courageous act of valor. Instead, here is what I found:
Private First Class Roger J. McInerny, Richfield, MN, August 17, 1950-April 1, 1970: Roger McInerny was in Vietnam eighteen days, had been in Charlie Company less that twenty-four hours, was only nineteen years old, and was blown away by a rocket on his first day of combat duty. Could there be a more sorrowful coda to this conflict?
I re-read the entry two more times to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Where was the mention of Roger running to the perimeter to repel the enemy, firing his weapon until it jammed and then engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat? And then the anger began to swell in me. There was no mention of Roger being awarded the Purple Heart, Bronze Star and Silver Star. What source of information did the author seek to determine that Roger had been "blown away by a rocket?" I cannot describe the anger I felt at such a disrespectful and insensitive choice of words as "blown away."
I immediately went on Amazon.com and left a review expressing my anger and displeasure. The author, Mr. Keith, responded with the following:
In all cases where it was possible, I requested and received copies of the Army's official records in these matters, and such was the case with PFC McInerny. The records still could be wrong, of course, as a number were ultimately proven to be; but, absent eyewitness accounts (there were none to Private McInerny's death that I could find) it is the best information available to a researcher. It seemed clear to me that PFC McInerny's death was the result of wounds received from rocket and/or mortar fragments. I am sorry if I used a term that seemed in-artful when I said "blown away." I certainly did not mean to be insensitive or to cause anxiety. Frankly, it was a term that the men themselves used to describe the unfortunate deaths of some of their comrades. Nevertheless, nothing should take away from the legacy of bravery and honor created by this fine young man. If I offended anyone by my use of the term, I am deeply apologetic.
Mr. Keith was sorry if he "used a term that seemed in-artful" Oh, "blown away" was in-artful? While it may be a term men used to describe the unfortunate deaths of their comrades, Mr. Keith was not quoting an eye witness to Roger's death. Mr. Keith was not at Fire Base Illingworth, therefore, not a comrade of Roger. His stance that it is used by men in combat falls short of a plausible explanation as to why he, a Harvard educated author chose the phrase to describe Roger's death. At best, it is a slang phrase and only the most most insensitive among us would not consider its impact on surviving family members reading the book.
My brother Maurice and sister Vivi have also written critical comments regarding Roger's entry in the book. Mr. Keith, not surprisingly, has dug his heels firmly into the ground and has pushed back. He cites The Wall, an Internet cite that provides all the names inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. In Mr. Keith's defense, it does indeed list Rogers death as being caused by, "Artillery, rocket, or mortar." There is no mention of Roger's Silver or Bronze Star.
Since Mr. Keith apparently used the Internet as a research source, I suggested he visit the web page virtualwall.org. Located on Roger's memorial page are icons of Roger's medals on display. One would think, if researching material for a book, the presence of the Silver Star, the nations 3rd highest Medal of Valor, would prompt additional research. What did this young man do to warrant such recognition? Mr. Keith took a short cut and decided "blown away" would be a most appropriate description of Roger's death. After all, he certainly did not mean to be insensitive or cause anyone any anxiety.
Obviously, Mr. Keith is not going to re-write his book. Roger's entry is but one paragraph and there are other stories being told. As an author and veteran himself, I thought he would be more cognizant of the impact the written word could have on his readers. As a Harvard educated man, I held the presumption of a writer with a vocabulary cache of descriptive and powerful words at his disposal. As a researcher, I anticipated a more thorough and complete examination of the subjects he mentioned by name in his book. In short, I expected substantially more than what I read.
I was wrong.
Finally, Mr. Keith's insensitive and disrespectful description of my brother's death could never detract from Roger's deliberate and heroic actions. Our family has always known, but my purpose in writing a review to Mr. Keith's book was to let potential readers know there was more to the Roger J. McInerny, Jr. story and that Roger fought gallantly to the very end.
by Paul D. McInerny
Comments on p. 227, from the book Fire Base Illingworth, by Philip Keith
This recently released book prides itself as "an epic true story of remarkable courage against staggering odds" regarding the battle at Fire Base Illingworth in the Republic of Vietnam. I had anxiously awaited the arrival of the book, having placed an order a month before it was due for release.
As most of you are aware, the McInerny family has a personal and powerful connection with Fire Base Illingworth and this book chronicles the circumstances surrounding the battle of April 1, 1970.
This was the battle in which Roger J. McInerny, Jr. fought valiantly to his death. For his specific and determined actions, he received (posthumously)the Silver Star, our nations 3rd highest Award for Valor.
I was aware that Roger was mentioned in the book, so when it arrived, I immediately went to the index, found his name and page he was referenced to. I turned to the page, expecting to read about his courageous act of valor. Instead, here is what I found:
Private First Class Roger J. McInerny, Richfield, MN, August 17, 1950-April 1, 1970: Roger McInerny was in Vietnam eighteen days, had been in Charlie Company less that twenty-four hours, was only nineteen years old, and was blown away by a rocket on his first day of combat duty. Could there be a more sorrowful coda to this conflict?
I re-read the entry two more times to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Where was the mention of Roger running to the perimeter to repel the enemy, firing his weapon until it jammed and then engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat? And then the anger began to swell in me. There was no mention of Roger being awarded the Purple Heart, Bronze Star and Silver Star. What source of information did the author seek to determine that Roger had been "blown away by a rocket?" I cannot describe the anger I felt at such a disrespectful and insensitive choice of words as "blown away."
I immediately went on Amazon.com and left a review expressing my anger and displeasure. The author, Mr. Keith, responded with the following:
In all cases where it was possible, I requested and received copies of the Army's official records in these matters, and such was the case with PFC McInerny. The records still could be wrong, of course, as a number were ultimately proven to be; but, absent eyewitness accounts (there were none to Private McInerny's death that I could find) it is the best information available to a researcher. It seemed clear to me that PFC McInerny's death was the result of wounds received from rocket and/or mortar fragments. I am sorry if I used a term that seemed in-artful when I said "blown away." I certainly did not mean to be insensitive or to cause anxiety. Frankly, it was a term that the men themselves used to describe the unfortunate deaths of some of their comrades. Nevertheless, nothing should take away from the legacy of bravery and honor created by this fine young man. If I offended anyone by my use of the term, I am deeply apologetic.
Mr. Keith was sorry if he "used a term that seemed in-artful" Oh, "blown away" was in-artful? While it may be a term men used to describe the unfortunate deaths of their comrades, Mr. Keith was not quoting an eye witness to Roger's death. Mr. Keith was not at Fire Base Illingworth, therefore, not a comrade of Roger. His stance that it is used by men in combat falls short of a plausible explanation as to why he, a Harvard educated author chose the phrase to describe Roger's death. At best, it is a slang phrase and only the most most insensitive among us would not consider its impact on surviving family members reading the book.
My brother Maurice and sister Vivi have also written critical comments regarding Roger's entry in the book. Mr. Keith, not surprisingly, has dug his heels firmly into the ground and has pushed back. He cites The Wall, an Internet cite that provides all the names inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. In Mr. Keith's defense, it does indeed list Rogers death as being caused by, "Artillery, rocket, or mortar." There is no mention of Roger's Silver or Bronze Star.
Since Mr. Keith apparently used the Internet as a research source, I suggested he visit the web page virtualwall.org. Located on Roger's memorial page are icons of Roger's medals on display. One would think, if researching material for a book, the presence of the Silver Star, the nations 3rd highest Medal of Valor, would prompt additional research. What did this young man do to warrant such recognition? Mr. Keith took a short cut and decided "blown away" would be a most appropriate description of Roger's death. After all, he certainly did not mean to be insensitive or cause anyone any anxiety.
Obviously, Mr. Keith is not going to re-write his book. Roger's entry is but one paragraph and there are other stories being told. As an author and veteran himself, I thought he would be more cognizant of the impact the written word could have on his readers. As a Harvard educated man, I held the presumption of a writer with a vocabulary cache of descriptive and powerful words at his disposal. As a researcher, I anticipated a more thorough and complete examination of the subjects he mentioned by name in his book. In short, I expected substantially more than what I read.
I was wrong.
Finally, Mr. Keith's insensitive and disrespectful description of my brother's death could never detract from Roger's deliberate and heroic actions. Our family has always known, but my purpose in writing a review to Mr. Keith's book was to let potential readers know there was more to the Roger J. McInerny, Jr. story and that Roger fought gallantly to the very end.
Friday, June 7, 2013
The Cripple Creek Shooting
The Cripple Creek Shooting: June 7th, 1980 (revised October 2020)
From the time we are born, we begin to form our values; what we believe in and what is important to us. Parents, religion, friends, work and family environment are some of the many variables that help create who we are today. Just when we think we have it all figured out, events happen in our lives which can challenge, change or reinforce those beliefs. One such incident occurred early in my law enforcement career.
I began my career with the Garden Grove Police Department as a reserve officer in January 1977 and went full time 2 years later. As a former reserve officer turned full time, I had a special place in my heart for the reserve officers of Garden Grove. I had become especially close to Reserve Officer Dwight Henninger. He was the stereotypical California male. He was a blond haired, blue eyed young man, tanned and good looking, but Dwight was also a young, college educated gentleman who carried himself with quiet confidence. As a new reserve officer, he was required to ride with a full-time officer until he accrued enough hours and experience to ride solo. For some reason, he and I hit it off as partners, and he chose to ride with me whenever he could. I remembered vividly my positive training experience with the officers who trained me; Mike Walker, Jeff Raupp and Frank White. I was determined to treat Dwight with the same respect I was afforded and to train Dwight to the best of my ability.
You get to know a person when you ride with them ten hours a day. You have a tendency to talk about family, life, religion, and many other topics that are not police related. Consequently, you know the person as more than just a fellow employee. As police officers, you develop a sense of responsibility toward each other. With Dwight, I was the teacher and he was the student. While assigned to me, he was my responsibility. As his Field Training Officer, it was my responsibility to teach Dwight how to handle calls for service, how to write a police report, and how to handle the many aspects of being a police officer.
The Garden Grove Police Department had what was called a Warrant Service detail. One full time officer was assigned as the "Warrant Officer," to locate and serve arrest warrants. Larry Davis, an experienced officer who was also a sniper on the SWAT team was designated as the Warrant Officer. Because serving an arrest warrant had the potential for danger, reserve officers were assigned to work with Larry. When I was a reserve officer, I worked with Larry on many occasions as we drove throughout Orange County serving warrants on suspects who failed to appear in court on various charges. As a reserve officer, Dwight Henninger had also worked with Larry on warrant service details.
On Saturday, June 7, 1980, I was assigned to the swing shift and our ten-hour shift began with a 4:00 pm briefing and ended at 2:00 am in the morning. As Dwight and I sat in briefing, Sergeant Gary Walker distributed a flyer on a suspect by the name of “Mink,” also known as John George Brown and also known as Gordon Lee Mink. Mink had a narcotic warrant for his arrest based on a case that involved one of our narcotic officers, John Robertson. The flyer indicated Mink was a member of the Hessian outlaw motorcycle club. A photograph of Mink, as well as a vehicle description and partial license plate was also listed on the flyer. As I studied the flyer, Dwight told me we should try and find Mink. Earlier in the week, he and Larry Davis had gone to an address in Garden Grove where Mink was known to frequent. They did not locate Mink, and Dwight told me Mink was one person who needed to be taken into custody. I assumed Dwight was referring to the fact the flyer it indicated Mink was probably armed and would run or resist to avoid being taken into custody. When briefing was over, Dwight and I decided to go to the residence to see if we could locate and arrest Mink.
We drove to the north alley of Woodbury, east of Dawson, and found Minks car parked in one of the carports. We looked in the car and saw it was unoccupied. I obtained the full license plate of the vehicle, and we parked our marked patrol unit in the alley east of Minks vehicle. I ran the license plate and it did not come back registered to Mink, but had a notation there was a new owner and to contact Sacramento Department of Motor Vehicles for further information. Technology at the time did not allow for immediate access to new owner information, and it was not unusual to take hours for the updated information to return. We decided to sit and see if Mink would enter his car and drive from the apartment complex. We would then make a traffic stop on the vehicle and take him into custody for the warrant. We had done it many times before without incident.
Because it was Saturday night, the radio was active. Calls for police service were beginning to dominate the airwaves, and I made the decision we should go back in service. We left the alley with Minks vehicle parked where it was, and we would try to come back later if activity in the city subsided. We went back into service and handled radio calls without any incidents worth mentioning.
Later during the evening, we were called to come back to the station to meet with Sergeant Gary Walker. Sgt. Walker had spoken to the Fountain Valley Police Department regarding an incident that occurred in Fountain Valley. They asked us to check the roller rink located in the southeast corner of Beach and GG Blvd. for a vehicle that had been involved. Sergeant Walker asked Dwight and me to handle the call and let him know if we located the vehicle.
We drove to the roller rink, which was located directly west of the Cripple Creek Bar. The roller rink was a popular spot for everyone on the weekend and there were many cars in the parking lot. The Cripple Creek Bar was a cowboy bar and equally as popular on the weekend. I decided to drive into the parking lot of the Cripple Creek Bar to begin our search for Fountain Valley’s vehicle. As I drove south bound into the parking lot from Garden Grove Blvd., Dwight immediately saw Minks vehicle parked and pointed it out to me. Because his vehicle was parked so close to the bar, we surmised that Mink was probably inside of the Cripple Creek and decided to investigate further. Our assignment for the Fountain Valley Police would have to wait.
I parked the police unit and called for an additional unit to respond and assist. Originally, Officer Steve Sanders was assigned the follow, but Officer Don Reed and his Reserve Officer partner Glen Overly were closer to our location and said they would handle the follow. When they arrived, they parked in the parking lot with us and we all met at the hood of one of the patrol cars. I showed Don and Glen the flyer with Mink’s photograph.
There were two sets of doors on the west side of the bar and Dwight and I decided to enter the north doors, just south of Garden Grove Blvd. Don and Glen entered the bar at the south doors, which were located about center of the west side of the building.
As Dwight and I walked into the bar, we were greeted by someone who checked and made sure no one under 21 entered. Jokingly, they asked if we had ID and I replied something to the effect of, “Not tonight,” and continued into the bar. A live band played country music and people were on the dance floor. I looked in the southwest corner of the bar, and saw Mink as he sat by himself. I recognized him immediately from his picture on the flyer. He wore a white cowboy and Dwight and I began to walk toward Mink. Don and Glen rendezvoused with us near the northeast portion of the raised platform where Mink sat. They too had seen Mink and Mink evidently saw us. He stood up and began to walk northbound from his table. I glanced around to see if any bar patrons were with Mink and it appeared that he was alone. Dwight and I walked along the east side of the raised platform, which had a small, 2-3-foot-high barrier around it. As I walked, I constantly scanned the interior of the bar to see if it appeared anyone would come to Mink’s aid. I took the lead, while Dwight walked behind me.
Don and Glen walked toward the door, which was located between the raised platform and the bandstand. They were going to intercept Mink before he had a chance to walk out the door. As I stepped onto the platform, I looked behind me and saw Dwight was no longer with me. I glanced toward Don and Glen and saw Dwight had gone to join them. The three of them stood by the door and waited for Mink. I was alone.
Mink was north of his table and I did a quick glance at his table and the surrounding area to make sure Mink didn’t have any associates in the bar that were following. When it appeared no one was going to come to his aid, I began to follow Mink. I constantly glanced to either side. This was a bar after all, and I was worried some of the more inebriated patrons may want to challenge us. I maintained a distance behind Mink and watched as he stepped off the platform and was met by Don, Glen, and Dwight. I was approximately 10 feet away and continued to walk toward Mink and the officers. The four of them were standing by the door where Don and Glen had entered the bar, and Don reached over and touched Mink by the elbow. He leaned into Mink and appeared to be saying something into Minks ear. Don had to lean into Mink because they were standing directly by the band. I found out at the trial that Don told Mink he wanted to talk to him outside and Mink appeared to be cooperating.
Mink, Don, Glen, and Dwight then began to walk toward the door. As Mink and the other three officers reached the door, I continued to look around to make sure none of Minks friends or any bar patrons would follow us outside. Alcohol has a way of making people act abnormally and I certainly did not want some drunk challenging us as we attempted to arrest Mink. As I reached the end of the platform, I heard what I thought were firecrackers exploding inside of the bar. My first impression was that some drunk bar patron thought it would be funny to set them off with the cops inside the bar.
I stepped off the platform and tripped on someone’s leg and fell to my knees. I looked down and saw that Glen was lying on his stomach and I was kneeling on the back of his calves. A quick glance revealed that Don and Dwight were also face down on the floor. There was a moment of confusion and I thought to myself, “Why are they on the floor and where is Mink?”
I saw a small, pool of blood as it began to form on the lower left back of Glen’s light blue uniform shirt and I suddenly realized that he had been shot. I grabbed my radio and put out a “998” which means an officer had been involved in a shooting and we needed help.
After I had put the call out, Don, Glen, and Dwight and I struggled to our feet and went out the door. By the time I followed, Don had collapsed onto his left side and Glen had propped himself in a sitting position against the building, just south of the door.
I went over to Don and rolled him onto his back and I saw his face was completely covered in blood. I was confused, because the excessive amount of blood gave me the impression he had been hit with a shotgun blast. The shots in the bar seemed like firecrackers, indicative of a small caliber weapon…but, where did all the blood come from? I told Don to hang on and help was on the way.
I looked around and saw Dwight kneeling by a car with his right arm dangling helplessly at his side. He had his revolver in his left hand. I ran to him and I asked him if he had been hit. He said he had been struck in the right arm. A small, trickle of blood was making its way down his right arm and I told him to stay put and said we’re “out of this,” meaning we would wait for help to arrive. As I spoke to Dwight, Don turned toward Glen and said something to the effect of, “I’m not going to make it.”
I ran back to Don and when I looked at him again, his eyes had glazed over and his lifeless eyes stared into the Saturday evening sky. He was gone. I was stunned and felt absolutely helpless.
I was brought back to focus when Glen yelled he too had been struck. I told him we were going to wait for help. Mink was nowhere to be found. Bar patrons tried to leave the bar, but Glen’s quick thinking kept witnesses from leaving. Originally, bar patrons began to run out the door where Glen had leaned against the building. Glen realized the patrons were possible witnesses and dragged himself over to the door and propped himself against the door, which prevented people from opening the door. The patrons who did manage to leave the bar screamed there were additional shooting victims in the bar.
Other officers arrived, as well as paramedics and a search for Mink continued. Mink was able to fire eight rounds from a handgun, and all eight rounds found victims. Police officers from Garden Grove, Westminster, Anaheim, California Highway Patrol and other agencies poured into the area. Garden Grove paramedics quickly arrived on scene and began to render first aid to Glen, Dwight and two bar patrons. Don Reed was pronounced dead at the scene.
When other officers arrived and secured the scene, a sergeant assigned me the responsibility of making sure no vehicles entered or exited the parking lot. Glen and Dwight had been taken away by ambulance. I couldn’t have been more than 50 feet from Don’s uncovered body. I tried not to look at Don and I wondered how Dwight and Glen were doing. During the course of the next hour or so, people would yell and curse at me from their car, because they wanted to leave the parking lot. In the meantime, my mind was a collage of emotions as I tried to come up with an approach that would not have resulted in a shooting. What had I done wrong? I was responsible for this entire incident. Don had died, Glen and Dwight were shot and as I was to discover later, Mink’s bullets had struck two bar patrons.
Eventually, my lieutenant, Stan Knee, arrived at the scene and had another officer assigned to my position. Stan and I then drove back to the police station. The ride back was eerily silent compared to the chaos at the shooting scene. Stan had turned off the police radio in his car and we sat in silence. I actually heard Stan breathing in and out as we drove east bound on Garden Grove Blvd. After what seemed like an eternity, he told me, “You did everything that you could have.” At that moment, nothing anyone could say or do would convince me what he said was true. This was my fault. I was alone with my thoughts. If Stan said anything else during the ride to the station I either did not hear it or I blocked it out. I have no recollection of any other words being said.
I didn’t leave the station until sunrise and drove home. That day was spent without sleep and I sat in a chair staring blankly at nothing in particular. Then, without warning, I would begin to cry, sometimes with uncontrollable sobs. When the crying subsided, I stared silently straight ahead until the crying started again. It was a vicious, repetitive cycle that occurred for nearly two days.
Added to the guilt of feeling responsible for what had occurred, was confusion. This isn’t how it was on TV or the movies. TV or movie cops shoot people and then go out dancing or go home to family and kids as if nothing happened. They went to bars and had drinks with fellow cops and would toast a fallen officer. Nobody cried. Nobody felt guilty. I was convinced that I was losing it. I was going crazy. I wasn’t cut out to be a cop after all.
I recall vividly my visit to Dwight in the hospital as he recovered from his wound. I was his FTO (Field Training Officer) and although Mink pulled the trigger, I could not help but feel responsible for Dwight’s injuries. Seeing Dwight in the hospital bed was a difficult encounter for me. I felt completely uncomfortable and out of place, for I should have been in that bed, not Dwight. I was responsible for Dwight and the other officers. I constantly wondered what I could have done differently to prevent the shooting.
I experienced what is referred to as “survivor’s guilt.” My brother Roger was killed in Vietnam, but I finished my tour in the army without a scratch. Then, while trying to walk a wanted suspect out of a bar, one officer was killed, two officers and two bar patrons were critically wounded, yet, I escaped without a scratch.
Everything I had ever learned from TV and movie cops was thrown out the window. A police psychologist, Dr. Blum helped me to realize I was not alone in my feelings and that many officers involved in shootings or other traumatic incidents experience the same feelings I had encountered. It was natural he assured me, and something I needed to deal with. I was not going crazy. I would survive.
Eventually, I was able to work through the guilt with the assistance of fellow officers and Dr. Larry Blum. One fellow officer, Gene Favilla, told me to stay away from alcohol and told me about his shooting. I followed his advice. It was a most difficult time in my life, and one that changed my law enforcement personality. I am glad I was with a police agency so far from Minnesota. I cannot imagine the anguish my parents would have endured had they known how serious the event was. Ten years earlier, they had lost Roger in Vietnam. I’m probably being a little dramatic, but I wonder how close they came to losing me June 7, 1980.
Paramedic Willie Dumas, a good and dear friend, later told me Don had been struck by two bullets and one had nicked his aorta. He said even if they had been on scene immediately after Don was shot, it was unlikely they would have been able to save him.
Glen had been struck by three bullets; two to the upper body and one to his hand. Dwight had been struck in his right arm, but fortunately, he was left-handed. One bar patron was stuck between the eyes and another in the buttocks.
As was procedure for a homicide of this magnitude, Garden Grove Police Detectives responded to the scene and established a command post in a bank parking lot located on the east side of the Cripple Creek Bar. Patrons of the bar were escorted from the bar and interviewed at the command post. Most patrons did not witness the actual shooting, while others provided bits and pieces of information. At approximately 1:30am, detectives interviewed a witness who saw Mink duck into some bushes located near the n/e corner of the bar. The detectives had officers check the bushes for possible evidence and found Mink hiding. He still had the weapon, a .22 caliber Ruger with him, but had not reloaded.
Mink was convicted in 1982 of murder and sentenced to death. His conviction was overturned on a technicality and in 2000, he was retried and once again found guilty and sentenced to death a second time.
Don was buried with full police honors, and Don, Glen, and Dwight were awarded the Garden Grove Police Department Medal of Courage for their actions that evening. Dwight and Glen remained alert and vigilant, not knowing if Mink would return. They did not panic and remained calm and professional, even though they both had been shot.
In the end, I believe I became a more empathetic and effective officer. Dr. Blum suggested Garden Grove Police Officer Fred Aiken and I visit other police departments to share our experiences. Earlier in Fred’s career, a sniper had shot and seriously wounded Fred. Although our experiences were uniquely different, the feelings and emotions we dealt with later were very similar. Our stories would provide insight into what officers might experience if they were involved in a traumatic event. As time went on, our incidents became ancient history and were replaced with more recent officer involved shootings and our visits to other police departments came to an end.
The down side to my involvement with Fred and visiting other departments, was I developed a reputation for being a “sensitive” type of person. To be labeled a “sensitive” cop can be a career ending title and it followed me throughout my career. I suppose it didn’t help when approximately two years after the shooting, I became a member of the Hostage Negotiation Team and eventually the supervisor.
It was a chapter in my police career never to be repeated. As officers, we were trained for worse case scenarios and looked forward to the day when we would be tested. I was no different. I wanted to be tested to see if I would remain calm and take control. To see if I had what it took to face the very worst of police work and survive. Well, I had been tested; I passed and never had nor desired to take the test again.
Glenn and Dwight recovered from their wounds and had successful careers in law enforcement. Glenn became a full-time officer after graduating with honors from the police academy. He was an officer and an investigator for the Garden Grove Police Department before transferring to the Orange County District Attorney’s Office as an investigator.
Dwight became a full-time officer with the City of Irvine and was hired by the Laguna Beach Police Department as a Lieutenant and eventually promoted to Captain. At the time of this writing, he was serving as Chief of Police for Vail, Colorado.
Brown was sentenced to death in Orange County on June 11, 1982 for the murder of 27-year-old Garden Grove Police Officer, Donald F. Reed.
Epilogue: July 7, 2019: SAN QUENTIN – According to the CDCR, condemned inmate John George Brown, 71, was found unresponsive in his prison cell on July 7. The medical staff performed CPR but were unsuccessful. He was pronounced dead at 6:47 p.m.
* * * *
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Star Touring, Chapter 230
Not to terribly long ago, I was in the market for a motorcycle. Not just any motorcycle, but a Harley-Davidson Road King Classic. The Road King Classic was the nearest thing to what I rode to California with good friend Jim Miller back in the mid-70's. Another good friend of mine, Scott Hamilton, had been riding motorcycles pretty much none stop for as long as I have known him. Scott was my Lieutenant during my years in Administration and again when I was assigned to the Traffic Unit. I turned to Scott for advice and opinion. Another friend, Mike Johnson, helped search the Internet until I found the bike I eventually purchased: a 2005 Road King Classic.
Scott asked me to consider joining a riding group he belonged to. He said it was a family oriented group - very friendly. I decided to give it a try. Riding by yourself can get old and so I met up with Scott's group for one of their monthly rides. In order to be considered for membership, an applicant must participate in 3 monthly rides. These rides are usually 200+ miles and last most of the day. After you fill out the waiver form and they confirm your motorcycle endorsement and that you have valid insurance, they assign you a "Shepherd." A shepherd is an experienced rider who will partner with you for the day to evaluate your riding skills. It may sound silly or insulting to some riders, but group riding is entirely different than riding by yourself or with 3 or 4 friends. When you ride with 30-40 other motorcycles, safety is paramount.
I completed my 3 rides and was voted into the membership. I am now a proud member of Star Touring Chapter 230.
Star Touring is actually a Yamaha motorcycle based group, but they welcome all makes of bikes. Chapter 230 has Yamaha's, Honda's, Victory's and Harley-Davidson's.
Please check out Chapter 230 web page for additional information.
http://www.star230.com/index.html
Scott asked me to consider joining a riding group he belonged to. He said it was a family oriented group - very friendly. I decided to give it a try. Riding by yourself can get old and so I met up with Scott's group for one of their monthly rides. In order to be considered for membership, an applicant must participate in 3 monthly rides. These rides are usually 200+ miles and last most of the day. After you fill out the waiver form and they confirm your motorcycle endorsement and that you have valid insurance, they assign you a "Shepherd." A shepherd is an experienced rider who will partner with you for the day to evaluate your riding skills. It may sound silly or insulting to some riders, but group riding is entirely different than riding by yourself or with 3 or 4 friends. When you ride with 30-40 other motorcycles, safety is paramount.
I completed my 3 rides and was voted into the membership. I am now a proud member of Star Touring Chapter 230.
Star Touring is actually a Yamaha motorcycle based group, but they welcome all makes of bikes. Chapter 230 has Yamaha's, Honda's, Victory's and Harley-Davidson's.
Please check out Chapter 230 web page for additional information.
http://www.star230.com/index.html
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