Insight: Strength through Truth

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Before being reassigned from The Pentagon to a new duty assignment in the U.S. Air Force in 1981, I received word that I would be attending the Defense Information School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Lawrence, Indiana.

Ed Pierce's class of military journalists gather for a photo
prior to graduation from the Defense Information
School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana in 1981.
COURTESY PHOTO

It was a Department of Defense training site for enlisted military journalists from the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Air Force, U.S. Marine Corps, DoD civilians and the U.S Coast Guard. Never having been to Indiana before, I drove there in late August and upon arrival, I was assigned a room in the barracks and found out where DINFOS, the acronym for the Defense Information School, could be found nearby.

I quickly made friends in the barracks with three other U.S. Air Force airmen who were in my DINFOS class. Tim Wyatt and Chan Peter were both studying print journalism like me, and Rick Kerns was going to become a broadcast journalist. Tim was from Texas, Chan was from New York and Rick was from Virginia.

Because I had my own transportation, the four of us would make the short drive to Indianapolis to go to the movies, go out for dinner or sometimes just to get away and explore rural Indiana. After two or three road trips to the countryside, I came away convinced that Indiana farmers worked some kind of magic to grow pigs as large as they did. Some seemed as large as Volkswagen Beetles from the highway.

During the first DINFOS class, the instructor asked us all to write a 1,000-word essay about a television show and what we liked or disliked about it. The purpose was to identify the top writers in the group and have them serve as editors for four mock-up class newspapers.

After thinking about it, I chose to write my essay about the TV show “Dynasty,” not because it was my personal favorite, but because I could focus on the conflict between the show’s characters and the complex story plots. After reviewing all the essays from the class, four of us were singled out as editors and the remainder of the class were assigned to four separate teams under the direction of the editors. The teams were balanced out between experienced and novice writers, and I was directed to lead the first team as an editor.

Each weekday as military print journalists, we received training in how to conduct interviews, write articles and headlines and photo captions. DINFOS also provided us with lessons in how to design newspaper pages. Military broadcast journalists had separate DINFOS training for radio and television production.

Some training sessions were combined between print and broadcast journalists when certain topics overlapped, such as journalistic ethics or involving media relations.

Over the next two and a half months, we had extensive training in reporting about military exercises and deployments, fatal military accidents, and military protocol. We practiced gathering details and turning that information into news stories.

As print journalists, each of us had to complete an assignment for the afternoon daily newspaper “The Indianapolis News.” My assignment was to cover a speech on Veteran’s Day in 1981 made by Herbert Allison, 99, one of the last surviving veterans in Indiana of the Spanish-American War. It posed a significant challenge for me. 

As Mr. Allison was helped up to the podium to speak, torrential rain began to fall and his microphone failed. The speech was called off as the crowd gathered for the occasion ran to their cars. Soaking wet from being in the audience, I followed Mr. Allison to a tent nearby and asked someone from the Indiana Veterans Home if I could interview him for the newspaper.

They gave me a quizzical look and introduced me to him. I asked him what he had planned to say during his speech and he leaned in close to me and whispered, “I hope you all have a good day. Have a good supper.”

For the newspaper article, I focused on Mr. Allison’s military service in 1898, and his subsequent life working for a dairy and plugged in his quote at the end of the story. It was published with my byline the next afternoon.

The following week, my DINFOS team wrote enough articles to fill a four-page mock newspaper. Our top story covered a scoreless tie in a flag football game between two Army units assigned to Fort Benjamin Harrison. The most difficult part of this training for me was not being able to write articles for our mock newspaper. As an editor, my work was to edit articles produced by other military journalists, write the headlines and to design the newspaper.

On the next to last day of our training, all the teams attended a review of the mock newspapers by the DINFOS instructors. Our team’s newspaper received low marks for topic selection but was praised for accuracy and overall layout.

Two days before Thanksgiving, we graduated from DINFOS as military journalists, took one last group photo, said our goodbyes and exchanged contact information. I was headed to my new duty station in Arizona after a month off at home on leave.

At DINFOS, I learned that among military journalists, the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. <

Andy Young: Seventy-six very long years

By Andy Young

A study on centenarians conducted by the Chobanian & Avedisian School of Medicine at Boston University revealed there were 89,739 Americans aged 100 years or older in 2021. If they all lived in the same community, it would be America’s 400th-largest city, bigger than Danbury, Connecticut; Ogden, Utah; and Bloomington, Minnesota, but not quite as large as Santa Fe, New Mexico.

However, America’s total population when that study was released was 336,997,624, meaning a miniscule 0.027 percent of Americans, or about one out of every 5000, will live 10 decades or more. The chances of seeing 100 candles atop one’s birthday cake are slender, but they’re even longer for certain people.

Like, for example, those residing on death row.

Francis Clifford Smith was three months shy of his 102nd birthday when he died this past June. He had been convicted of killing a security guard during a botched robbery in 1949 and was subsequently sentenced to death. The state of Connecticut set an actual execution date for Smith eight times. On each occasion he got a reprieve, although the last one came a mere two hours before he had been scheduled to be strapped into the electric chair.

At the time of his death, Smith was living at the secure nursing home to which he had been paroled. All told, he spent more than 76 years of his 37,187-day life incarcerated. That’s a very long time, particularly if he didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of, which seems likely to have been the case.

Frank Smith was hardly a model citizen. He was sent to reform school before he turned 12. Later, while doing time at a youth reformatory, he escaped and assaulted a guard in the process. That earned him a four-year prison term. When he got out, he toiled as a numbers runner for some racketeers involved in illegal gambling.

On July 23, 1949, two men broke into the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich, where they were surprised by Grover Hart, the night watchman. One or both robbers shot the 68-year-old, but before he died Hart told the police one of the burglars was wearing a bandanna, a bit of attire Smith was known to favor. He and his accused accomplice, George Lowden, were arrested for the crime, but Lowden subsequently made a deal, pleading guilty to second-degree murder and saying his partner did the shooting. Smith was convicted and sentenced to death.

Smith steadfastly maintained his innocence, and several post-trial developments suggested he was telling the truth. Lowden refused to testify at Smith’s trial, and three years after the conviction, a Connecticut-born inmate serving time in an Alabama prison for armed robbery confessed that he had been Mr. Lowden’s accomplice and was the actual triggerman.

The State Police Major who had interrogated Smith after he was arrested became convinced of his innocence, but Smith’s appeals were all denied. He never got another trial and was never exonerated, living out his remaining 76 years in confinement, eating meals that cost Connecticut taxpayers approximately $3 per day. He was haunted by dreams of dying in the electric chair. 

“It cooks you,” he told interviewers on more than one occasion.

Connecticut no longer has a death penalty. Nor, for that matter, does Maine, but 27 states still do. Proponents of capital punishment accurately point out that state-sponsored executions eliminate the possibility of violent criminals reoffending, but those opposed to permanently dispatching convicted murderers have what many would consider a more compelling argument: there’s no way of unkilling someone who’s been put to death for a crime they didn’t commit. <

Insight: ‘The Not Knowing’

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

That Tuesday morning started like any other day for me. It was a day off and I had called the previous week and finalized arrangements to bring my 1996 Pontiac Firebird to the dealership in Cocoa, Florida for service.

I had booked an appointment for 8:30 a.m. to minimize my time in the dealership’s waiting area. I needed an oil change and wanted the mechanics to complete the 50,000-mile maintenance checkup.

At the time, I was the only customer sitting in the waiting area and because it was so early, I wasn’t interested in purchasing a snack from the vending machine or looking at the stack of Car and Driver magazines piled up next to the chair I was sitting on. The service technician asked if I wanted to watch television, I said yes and he turned it on to Good Morning America and took my keys to the shop for the mechanic assigned to my car.

I was half-heartedly paying attention to GMA hosts Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer when it happened. And the events of that day are something I will never forget as long as I live.

As I sat and watched the dealership’s television, America was under attack as hijacked jets crashed into the World Trade Center towers in New York City killing thousands. I immediately thought about my late father and how as a sophomore in high school he was listening to the radio on a Sunday afternoon in early December 1941 and had learned about the attack on Pearl Harbor leading to America’s entry into World War II.

One by one, I was joined in the dealership’s waiting area by the auto sales manager, several mechanics, another customer and the service technician. When it started to sink in what had happened, I looked around and saw faces of astonishment that terrorists would devise a plan of hijacking and crashing airplanes to kill innocent Americans.

Soon the waiting area was standing room only as most of the dealership’s employees were crowded in there with me watching the live coverage. I looked away from the TV screen briefly to see if any of my family had called me and I suddenly looked up when a newscaster reported that another plane had crashed into The Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

Having been stationed at The Pentagon in the U.S Air Force from 1979 to 1981, I sympathized with those who worked there and what they were going through and was profoundly saddened by the lives lost in that attack.

I sat and watched at the dealership when each of the World Trade Center Towers fell and ended the lives of so many victims. By then my Firebird was ready, I paid the bill and drove home, listening to the car radio.

My emotions were those of sorrow and anger. I couldn’t believe what had just happened to the nation that I had worn the uniform of at home and overseas and had pledged to defend. I wanted those responsible for the tragedy caught and punished for their crimes.

Back in my apartment, I heard about Flight 93 which had been hijacked and was headed for another Washington, D.C. target when passengers fought the terrorists and forcibly crashed the plane in a Pennsylvania field.

As time passed that morning and on into the afternoon, I called my mother to check in and let her know I knew about the events that day.

She asked me if I knew anyone still working at The Pentagon and I told her that after 20 years, I probably didn’t but I was devastated about the people who died there in the attack.

When I hung up with her that afternoon, the world for all of us had changed. We were at war, lives had been lost and many others were about to be.

I believe we all had some sense of personal safety removed from us that morning. Those who went to work at the World Trade Center in New York City did not know what was about to unfold that fateful day, and neither did the flight crews, passengers, airport workers, people at The Pentagon or news reporters across America. 

What I do know is that countless phone calls were made that day to family members and friends expressing their love for one another.

None of us knows exactly how much time that we are given in life and it certainly all could end in an instant. It could come for us on the way to the grocery store, on a hike in the woods or simply sitting by the window reading.

The “not knowing” is certainly part of what makes life difficult and the events of 9-11 reinforced for me the stark reality that we are all subject to death coming for us at any time.

Yet, if there is anything positive for Americans to have emerged from that terrible day, we all learned we are not alone and we worked together to rebuild our future.

We also learned that family and friends and expressions of love matter. And Americans overcame the tragedies of 9-11 and survived, just as the nation will overcome future threats and challenges. <

Rookie Mama – Keeping it real with all the fall vibes

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end” – Semisonic

And just like that, we’re sprinting headfirst into autumnal transition; a whirl of reds and golds, soccer balls and crockpots.

Truthfully, the swap from summer sun to fall fun has quickly become one my favorite times of year. It marks the return of scheduled structure – We need those early bedtimes so we can take a beat – but autumn also presents a bit of a settling down and hibernation’s subtle beginning despite the frenzied swing of back-to-school things with a pumpkin-spiced dash of anticipation.

Sure, we pack up camp for the season; we bid farewell to pool noodle battles in the lake, to dueling banjo style fireworks battles across the banks of the beaches.

We whisper goodbyes to Christmas in Julys – rocking Noel in 80-degree-temps never felt right with me anyway – so we can prepare for the real Yuletide season that’s now sooner ahead of us and more distant behind us.

Fall is the shoulder season upon which I rest my head; whereas spring is a mad dash – less pumpkin-spiced and more espresso shots-times-twelve – of preparation for all things garden, waking up camp, putting all the final touches on carefully laid road trip plans of summer, doing all the school things before it’s a wrap, and spring sports.

The ultimate wake-up call, indeed.

It’s no secret that I much prefer the soccer mama style of fall in the crisp air under my husband’s warm “Class of 2000” fleece blanket, rather than the slight cringe of watching my high-school-aged baby play lacrosse of spring, a contact sport heavy on hitting–and being hit– with poles. I cheer proudly at all the games, but there’s no relax in LAX – It’s not for the faint of heart, friends.

The air turns a bit in an indescribable way at the end of August, with the slightest of cool coasting among the deciduous leaves as they prepare their swan song.

Our boys giddily hang the autumn leaf garlands across the hutch and windows in our home – I’d bought them on Michael’s clearance years before the babes were born.

We begin to creatively dream about Halloween costumes and play our favorite Monster Mash radio remix.

And in between, we crock on with yummy slow cooker roasts and stews and cozy up with Halloween-themed movie favorites rented from our public library. 

Truth be told, the anticipation of seasonal traditions to come often eases the goodbye to a season that is ending.

Our family had a fantastic summer with memories made as we splashed our best cannonballs and traveled more adventurously than we had before – After all, with all kiddos having long been potty-trained, there was nothing that could stop us.

But we’ll bottle up the giggles and ice cream cones, and outdoor movie nights among the singing crickets for now.

Sure, back to school routine is an adjustment.

But we look forward to those reds, those golds, those one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple Monster Mash tunes.

To slowing a bit down as we gather our harvest and spend a day making sauce from tomato abundance, or blanch beans and prepare for winter’s meals ahead – after all, growing our own produce is one of the best money-saving techniques for our large family.

There’s plenty to look forward to, as we set that mild hibernation into motion and put our gardens to bed.

Because before you know it, that dash of pumpkin spice will quickly become dashing through the snow.

And that’s the dashing season that marks my very favorite and anticipated of all.

So, until then, get your kids to hang your Michael’s-clearance-fall garlands, cue up “Casper,” fire up that slow cooker, and crock and roll.

Falleluia.

­­– Michelle Cote lives in southern Maine with her husband and four sons, and enjoys camping, distance running, biking, gardening, road trips to new regions, arts and crafts, soccer, and singing to musical showtunes – often several or more at the same time!

Andy Young: Cheryl and Joe

By Andy Young

When late summer arrives each year, I inevitably think of Cheryl and Joe.

Many years ago, coincidence plunked Cheryl down in a seat next to mine at an informal end-of-semester get-together of a dozen or so University of Connecticut resident assistants at a local Chinese restaurant. Although we hadn’t met previously, as a typical (shallow, immature, and utterly self-absorbed) 22-year-old male, the first thing I noticed was her eye-catching good looks.

But it quickly became evident there was more to Cheryl than just an attractive outer shell. Her thoughtful and thought-provoking contributions to the ongoing conversation(s) made it clear she was a good listener with a sly sense of humor. More tellingly though, was her understated genuineness. Anyone can grin by turning up both sides of their mouth, but Cheryl could smile with just her eyes.

I later learned she had been valedictorian of her high school class, though she herself never mentioned it. Truly quality people rarely talk about their accomplishments, regardless of how impressive or numerous they may be. The best way to learn about extraordinary individuals is to hear others sing their praises, or better yet, interact with them.

Nearly everyone who attended that evening’s affair graduated a week later, but I didn’t. I was still at UConn two years later when I met Joe through a mutual friend who was also named Joe, a bit of serendipity which made it easier to remember both their names.

My initial reaction to the new (to me) Joe was the same as everyone else’s was the first time they met him: I instantly liked the guy. He was quick-witted, imaginative, outgoing and generous, but most of all he was fun! Joe was one of those rare individuals who could light up a room just by showing up. But unlike many other natural extroverts, Joe radiated an inclusiveness that I later figured out was part of his DNA.

Even though he could have been the center of attention in just about any situation, it never took him long to shift the flattering spotlight onto someone else who was nearby. Joe not only helped others enjoy themselves and their surroundings, he also had the knack of making people realize that they mattered, and who doesn’t appreciate having that acknowledged every so often?

I graduated before Joe, which wasn’t overly impressive, given that my college career had begun when he was a ninth grader.

Decades flew by, but I never stopped looking forward to someday renewing acquaintances with Cheryl and/or Joe. I knew for certain each was going to be a huge impact-maker. In the interim both remained frozen in my mind looking like they did when I’d last seen them: as always-smiling, upbeat, super-energetic 21-year-old spreaders of goodness. 

But on the second Tuesday in September 25 years ago, Cheryl Monyak and Joe Lenihan each reported as usual to work at New York City’s World Trade Center.

Neither one ever came home.

A full quarter-century after the terrible events of Sept. 11, 2001, I’m still struggling to understand the rationale behind concluding the lives of Cheryl, Joe, and far too many others that day. I suppose it would be nice to be forever remembered as gracious, humble, energetic, kind, attractive and intelligent, but would anyone willingly trade another potential 40 or so additional years of life on Earth just to attain that eternally lofty status?

But beyond that, I still cannot fathom how a person of any religion, race or creed could even for a moment think of slaughtering thousands of random innocents on a sunny September Tuesday would ever improve anyone’s lot in life. <

Insight: A Genuine Leader

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

There was no shortage of heroes to emulate when I arrived for duty in the U.S. Air Force at The Pentagon in January 1980.

Ed Pierce, left, is congratulated on his promotion to the rank
of sergeant in the U.S. Air Force by his unit commander,
Col. Gerald Bronnenberg at The Pentagon in 1980.  

While being given a tour of the building and floors where I would be working, I passed by the office of retired General of the Army Omar Bradley, who was the first-ever chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I also got to meet the U.S. Secretary of Defense at the time Harold Brown, and four-star General Lew Allen, the U.S. Air Force Chief of Staff who went on to lead NASA’s investigation into the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion in 1986.

But one leader stood out above all the rest for me when I served at The Pentagon. That would be Col. Gerald E. Bronnenberg, the commander of my unit, the 2044th Communications Group.

I had never met anyone quite like him before. He embodied leadership like nobody I had served under before. It was evident that he cared about everyone who served under his command and he went out of his way to lead by example.

Staff members of our unit worked three shifts around the clock and at any given time of day or night, Colonel Bronnenberg would show up with food or free tickets to Washington Redskins football games, Baltimore Orioles baseball games or Washington Capitals hockey games. He knew everyone’s name in a unit of more than 400 personnel, but not only did he remember their names, he also would know their spouse’s names and the names of their children.

During meetings, Bronnenberg asked tough questions and expected thorough answers. He purposely established unit policies to create a sense of teamwork and accomplishment.

No idea was too far-fetched for him, and he would sit at his desk and listen patiently while being pitched with potential volunteer activities that the 2044th Communications Group could undertake to serve the community. One of those ideas was to film a television promotional spot encouraging Air Force members to volunteer for United Way events.

Bronnenberg was there when the spot was filmed and offered feedback when he was shown how it turned out. He even suggested that we use music from Lionel Richie’s song “Still” during a segment about volunteering to assist the blind.

He personally met with each new member of the unit when they first reported for duty and outlined his expectations for them. During my meeting with him, he asked what I like the most about writing and what I thought about my new unit.

The next day I was summoned to his office, and Colonel Bronnenberg told me that he wanted me to be the unit’s new Public Affairs representative and my mission was to promote the achievements and activities of the 2044th Communications Group.

That was a huge challenge for me as an E-3 Airman First Class. I had to be creative yet tactful, persistent and knowledgeable. I had to interface with Air Force officers and enlisted personnel and to remain positive about my duties all the time.

The colonel also wanted me to create events and initiatives that instilled pride in younger airmen and would give them a broad perspective of what it meant to be a part of our unit. To demonstrate unit commitment, I set up a “Stripe and Bar” exchange in unit headquarters, where Air Force members would find used rank insignia at no charge rather than having to buy them brand-new when they were promoted.

We also started a monthly luncheon for unit members and guests that included a sit-down meal and a guest speaker of interest. I was able to bring in Ernest Green as a speaker during Black History Month. He was the Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Labor Department under President Jimmy Carter but also had been one of the “Little Rock Nine,” a group of black students who integrated Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas following the U.S. Supreme Court’s “Brown versus Board of Education” case ordering desegregation of American schools.

Another guest speaker was Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force Jim McCoy. To ask him to participate, I walked to his office and introduced myself. He agreed to speak only if he could purchase lunch that day for every airman who attended the event.

I learned in January 1981 that Colonel Bronnenberg had nominated me for Pentagon Airman of the Year for 1980 and he helped me prepare for questions I would be asked by the committee choosing the award recipient. When asked for my opinion of women serving as fighter pilots, I answered that they should be allowed to do that because I thought it was the right thing to do from a gender equality standpoint. I was later told my answer is what separated me from others being interviewed that day.

A few days before the presidential inauguration, I was presented with The Pentagon’s “Airman of the Year” award by one of Colonel Bronnenberg’s friends, Medal of Honor winner and retired General Jimmy Doolittle.

Much of my Air Force success was the result of Col. Bronnenberg’s trust in me. When I think about great leaders, his name is always at the top of my list.

Andy Young: When cleaning the breadbox, waste not, want not

By Andy Young

When I grew up my siblings and I were given two bits of motivation regarding the importance of finishing everything on our dinner plate. The first was that there’d be no dessert for anyone unable or unwilling to finish their beets, cabbage, or Brussels sprouts. The other: the intimation that failing to eat every morsel of food would somehow lead to some innocent child in China, India or Africa expiring due to starvation, and how would we like having that on our conscience?

Recently I decided to clean out the breadbox in my kitchen, a chore I faithfully perform, whether it needs it or not, every four years or so. Under all the crumbs, old twist ties, and an envelope of wax bean seeds were a variety of random papers which had inexplicably found their way to the breadbox’s bottom, including some old take-out menus, the warranty from the microwave I purchased ten years ago, and a cellophane-like paper with the words “Sushi Nori” printed on the front and “Best before July 21, 2022” on the back.

Upon closer inspection, that cellophane was actually a slender package of roasted seaweed sheets which are used for constructing one’s own sushi rolls. I myself have never built a sushi roll, but apparently one of my children did, or at least had planned on trying to do so prior to moving out several years ago.

Assuming sushi wrapping is itself edible, I ripped off a postage-stamp-sized piece of a green sheet and tentatively began nibbling at it. It took some time, but with a sense of purpose and determination I managed to swallow it, even though it tasted like a seaweedy wad of paper.

At that point my “waste not, want not” DNA involuntarily kicked in. Not wishing to feel guilt over causing a starving child on another continent to expire due to my cavalier attitude about food, I dutifully folded up the remaining 55 square inches of the sheet, stuck it between my teeth, and resolutely began chomping.

Consuming a 4-year-old sushi wrap is harder than it sounds. For a while it seemed I had literally bitten off more than I could chew, but despite thoughts of headlines reading ‘Local Man Succumbs to Organic Seaweed,” I steadfastly kept munching. Finally, after several tense moments I was able to choke down the entire vile green mass.

My ordeal wasn’t over, though. Hurrying to the bathroom for an aftertaste-eliminating drink of water, what I saw reflected in the mirror was a mouth that would have embarrassed even the most dental-hygiene-averse tobacco-chewing hillbilly.

It looked like I’d been subsisting solely on spinach, parsley and kale for the previous decade. Also, due to the surprising adhesive qualities of expired seaweed, the looming chore of restoring my smile seemed like a Herculean task that would require a Brillo pad and/or a sandblaster.

However, since I wanted to retain the enamel on my remaining teeth, I spent the next half-hour vigorously employing an industrial-strength toothbrush and several yards of dental floss. When I finished the brush looked like it had been used to clean a toilet rather than the inside of a person’s mouth.

But one “waste not, want not” problem remained: what to do with the remaining sheets of 4-year-old Sushi Nori?

Thankfully, my subsequent research indicated that seaweed isn’t just biodegradable; it also makes excellent fertilizer. I buried those three sheets in my compost pile near the spot where I plan on interring the bean seeds next spring. With luck, something will come up that I can send to an undernourished child in China, India, or Africa. <