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Thomas W. Chittum Archive


Contingent of Dutch Dirty Dozen, plus one Yank, dressed in snow smocks and assembled for recon patrol; author is second from right.


. . .Foreign volunteers who fought for Croatia in her struggle against Serbian aggression were known as "Internationals." What follows is an account of the misadventures of one Yankee International, myself. Noms de guerre have been employed to protect the innocent, the guilty and the downright silly.

. . .In the fall of 1991, I linked up with a rather mysterious Dutch organization I'll call NKW (its acronym) that was recruiting men to fight for Croatia. After hearing about them on Cable News Network. I had made a few phone calls and had gotten accepted. So I packed up the tools of the trade and headed for the airport.
. . .Why did this 'Nam vet want to return to battle, you ask? Well, the initiated will understand. As for the "Where have all the flowers gone?" crowd, they don't care for my sort and the feeling is entirely mutual. I don't give a cosmic damn if they like me or not.
. . .Anyhow, I didn't see much chance of landing a straight gig just then. Times were tough in New Jersey — the Mafia was laying off judges while pimps were driving Volkswagens.
. . .I was met at the Amsterdam airport by NKW organizers. A few days later, two Dutch volunteers and I departed for Croatia in a van. The next evening we arrived in Zagreb about midnight and were met by two likely looking fellows decked out in camouflage, berets and combloc sidearms.
. . .One was Croatian and the other was the Dutch combat leader of the NKW, "Wild Bill." Swaggering up to me gunfighter-style, Wild Bill asked in English, "Are you the American?"
. . ."Yup," I replied.
. . ."Are you a Vietnam veteran?"
. . ."Yup," I replied again with my usual hillbilly eloquence.
. . .Wild Bill's eyes beamed up to the size of searchlights. He commenced to wave his arms about with all the grace of a monkey fornicating a football and yelling, "I don't want no cowboys or Rambos in my outfit — just normal guys! No cowboys — no Rambos! No cowboys — no Rambos!"
. . .Being a Vietnam veteran, I’m accustomed to this sort of reaction. Thanks to the baloney sandwiches served up by Hollywood, we've gained a reputation that would make the Waffen SS puke.
. . .Wild Bill and the Croat un-assed an old black Opel with upwards of a dozen bullet holes in its body and windshield courtesy of the Yugo army — and we followed them in the van to a shabby bar; a real back-to-the-wall merc hangout, where we upended a few local brews. Yup, I was home.
. . .The Croat's name was Evisa. As scout and interpreter for the Dutch group. Evisa was in his early 30s and spoke a little broken English. Physically he looked rather wimpy, like a waiter in a cheap Italian restaurant. His eyes, however, were the real clue to what kind of guy he was. They radiated courage, humble self-confidence, depth of character and open, unfeigned friendliness toward all — a depth of character than can only come from countless generations of peasant ancestors. There wasn't an ounce of swagger or bullshit in him, as opposed to Wild Bill. Of all the guys I bumped into in Croatia, I came to respect Evisa the most both as a man and as a soldier.
. . .Later I was to find out that Evisa's parents had been "ethnically cleansed" by the Chetniks (Serb irregulars). The Chetniks cut the old folks' throats, threw the bodies into the couple's own house and Zippoed it up — charming fellows! Needless to say, this gave Evisa something of an attitude problem.
. . .We soon left the bar for Evisa's house, where his wife graciously served us cold cuts with liquor that would rot the hide off a buffalo. It was rakija, the piss-colored national drink made from plums, of which I was to become uncommonly fond.
. . .The next morning we set off for Perusic, arriving about midnight. We pulled up to a large iron gate outside a cluster of barracks surrounded by a chain link fence. The Perusic military base was to be my home for the next three months. Did I say home? "Lunatic asylum" would be more like it — except the inmates were running the joint. They all had assault rifles and were usually roaring drunk in the bargain. I never saw any rust on the Dutchies: they were always well-oiled.
. . .We entered one of the barracks and a squad of young Dutch guys in camo greeted us with smiles, backslaps and bottles of rotgut brandy. My immediate impression: I had been time-warped into some Waffen SS unit. Mostly they were blue-eyed blondes, and the constant jabbering in Dutch sounded German to me.
. . .The base itself was about two blocks long. Most buildings had broken windows and were pockmarked with bullet holes acquired at the start of the war, when the Croats hosed them with small-arms fire from the cemetery, located most symbolically across the street. The Yugo army garrison (about 60 soldiers) had thrown their gats down and their hands up. When the Yugo army commander realized he had surrendered to only 20 ragged Croats armed mostly with homemade shotguns, he committed suicide with his pistol. I assure you, gentle reader, that even if I'd been caught by a farmer in his sheep pen with my pants down, I would not have been that embarrassed.
. . .Perusic was a one-horse town, or rather had been 'til some contemptible swine ate the horse. The population was around 2,000 and the main drag was three blocks long — the kind of place where they roll up the sidewalks at sunset. About half of the people had fled; some shops were open and some boarded up. Most buildings had gaping holes half-clogged with blown snow — these gave Perusic the depressing aspect of a mini-Stalingrad.

On front near Gospic, a Croat "regular" mans Yugoslav 82mm M60 recoilless gun. Enemy Serb tanks are approximately 2 km away.

. . .The Serbs were a few klicks away across no-man's-land, just on the other side of a range of low, snow-covered hills to the east. Most were lightly armed Chetniks, Serbs who lived in Croatia and had formed themselves into guerrilla bands at the war's outbreak. The rest were regular Yugo-army studs equipped with the usual heavy weapons: tanks, arty and other cheerful stuff. These were punctual fellows who usually lobbed a few gratuitous rounds into the base and into Perusic itself at 1600 sharp. The Croats would crank the air raid siren up to a shriek. We simply hunkered in the barracks when shelled. The walls were made of reinforced concrete several inches thick and would stop anything except direct hits.

Windmill Whackos Roll Call

. . .I was the only non-Dutch citizen among the Dutch volunteers, who were employed primarily as a recon group. Guys came and went, but the average strength of the 1st Dutch Volunteers (the unit's official name) was about a dozen. They all spoke English and were as jolly a crew of pirates as ever set sail. If you think of the Dutch as cute and cuddly little guys, well ... read on. You would be well-advised to put them right at the top of your list of those not to be fucked with. Most would rather hear a bayoneted Serb scream than a pretty girl sing. All, with the exception of Crazy Joe were Dutch army vets. They were:
. . .Wild Bill: The field commander of the 1st Dutch. Wild Bill had been an NCO in the Dutch special forces, but was encouraged to leave due to a drinking problem. He was a crack shot, a born combat leader and a natural athlete. He was also a stone killer and a gun for hire who didn't give a rat's ass who the enemy was, as long as there were plenty of 'em. His resume also included desertion from the French Foreign Legion, but not before he'd seen some action in Africa where he bagged 17 restless natives, mostly just for target practice. If you don't like my opinion of Wild Bill, try the Chetniks' on for size: They buried their dead and put a price on his head.
. . .Brains: The second-in-command of the 1st Dutch and a former NCO in the Dutch army. A good soldier whose only social transgression was constantly plotting illegal get-rich-quick schemes, Keep an eye on this shifty character: It's dollars to doughnuts that one day you'll see his mug on the front page of every Dutch newspaper ... if they catch him.
. . .Stormtrooper: A skinhead bully boy fresh out of the slammer for bank robbery. Basically an alimentary canal with a foghorn mouth at one end and all the instincts of a sewer rat. He made no secret of his politics, which were three goose steps to the right of Ernst Rohm, and was forever bragging about his three uncles who had fought for the Nazis on the Russian front. The rumor mill also had it he was hiding out from some unamused Amsterdam dope dealers he had ripped off at gunpoint. Not the sort of chap you'd invite to high tea with the queen, but a dead shot with an RPG and thus a handy ace in the hole worth tolerating.
. . .Preacher: A Moluccan studying to be a monk, currently AWOL from his monastery. Obviously not playing with a full deck — admitted to me once that he was a virgin. I'm not generally partial to four-eyed Bible thumpers, but he was a good soldier who had wasted two Serbs. Maybe that was his way of sending souls to God via the fast lane; beats me,
. . .Joker: A clever, muscular fel1ow and self-admitted murderer, steroid popper, burglar, dope peddler, speed freak, con man, — black marketeer, arsonist, barroom brawler, counterfeiter, paperhanger, vandal and compulsive thief with a history of assaulting police officers. Otherwise, he was a sweet guy.
. . .Knuckles: Ex-French Foreign Legion; did a tour with the South African police. A buddy of mine, even if he did seem to be eternally on his way to the Hatter's for tea. He was ejected from the 1st Dutch for excessive fighting and drinking. Later, he drifted down to Bosnia and took an AK round through the neck.
. . .Tripper: A mellow hippie, hopelessly adrift somewhere in space/time. He was shot through an arm and leg in a firefight, but came back for more. Always ready for mischief, he was a tight buddy of mine.
. . .Romeo: A sulky malingerer whose only interests were soccer and composing passionate love letters to lady friends back in Tulip country. Another buddy of mine, he had to leave to stand trial in Holland for stabbing an Arab who rudely refused to yield his seat on a train to Romeo. (Would some kind person please send this guy the latest edition of Miss Manners' etiquette handbook.)

. . .Mad Max: An industrial-strength maniac with the personality of a hyena on laughing gas. On the lam for car theft in Holland and rumored to have murdered a Croat in Dubrovnik. Another deserter from the Frog Foreign Legion — didn't like the food. Claimed to have worked as a hit-person for the Cali nose-candy cartel and for the Neapolitan Mafia, and also to have fought for the Kurds in Iraq. You could always tel1 when he was lying — his lips were moving. We never did find out the real name of this mysterious drifter, because he didn't have a passport or any sort of ID. He entered Croatia by cutting his way through a chain-link border fence by night. He was thrown in the Klaverin (military jail) for threatening me with a pistol while smoking locoweed. That's what comes of packing your pipe too tight, I suppose. We settled our differences one rakija-soaked night and became blood brothers with the assistance of an AK bayonet.
. . .Crazy Joe: He was a man who didn't know the meaning of the word fear. Unfortunately, he didn't know the meaning of much of anything. Crazy Joe was the village idiot of the 1st Dutch, who had been rejected by the Dutch army due to a low mental score. If his IQ had been one point lower, we would have had to stick this loser in a pot and water him twice a day.
. . .Sir Lunch-A-Lot: A 250-pound blimp reportedly on the run from the law for beating a guy half to death. He collapsed on his first patrol, was sent to a hospital and was never seen again.
. . .Chugalug: A huge linebacker of a fel1ow, our demo man and a non-stop alcoholic. Needless to say, prudent soldiers took cover when he defused booby traps with his alcohol-shaky hands. A decent guy when (rarely) sober. He was expelled for going AWOL, threatening to blow up a disco with a hand grenade and for being a rummy.
. . .Snake: A scowling psychopath; a former mental hospital inmate and outlaw biker with a broken nose. We became mortal enemies and I hung the sucker out to dry. I reckon he'l1 think twice before he messes with any Yanks again.
. . .Hans: A bored Dutch businessman who "just wanted to see what war was like." The only Dutchie not running from the law, or mentally bent, downright psychopathic, dim-witted, or actively pursuing a criminal career; also, the only Dutchie whose conduct did not necessitate an assumed name to avoid embarrassing his kin. The other Dutchies, given a choice, would rather strangle a chicken than eat an ice-cream cone. How he got past the NKW selection process is a mystery to me.
. . .The Yank: Brain-damaged 173rd Airborne vet; ex-Africa merc; the ultimate Rambo; defender of Western Civilization; upholder of truth, justice and the American way; blah, blah, etc., etc. — you get the picture.
. . .A neat cocktail, eh? I don't know if these mixed nuts scared the Chetniks or not, but they damn sure scared me.

Tiptoe Through The Minefield

. . .As I noted earlier, the 1st Dutch was employed primarily as a recon unit; we ran a patrol into no-man's-land maybe every three days, searching for snipers, mapping areas, etc. Those of us not AWOL, drunk or in the Klaverin would sardine ourselves into a Land-Rover, drive to the front and kick off our diddybop by picking our way through the minefield in front of the Croat bunker line, tiptoe through the tulips-style.
. . .The terrain comprised snow-covered hills much like America's East Coast, if you subtract a few trees and add a few boulders. We moved through no-man's-land in single file, on the alert for ambushes, enemy patrols, trip wires and all the other nasty surprises that can ruin a soldier's day. Often as not, our mission was to creep up to the Serb lines and mark their bunker locations on a map.

Burned-out buildings are part of devastation in the city of Gospic, about 20 klicks from Perusic.

. . .The Dutch had been in several firefights with the Serbs before I arrived, By then, they had killed seven Serbs while sustaining only one wounded themselves — a score they can brag on at any water hole where soldiers gather to bend elbows. I was only fired at twice during my 90-day "Tour of Rakija" with the 1st Dutch: once when we were sniped at without effect. and again when we attempted to make a surprise raid on the Serb lines. The surprise was entirely on us — we had to skedaddle with MG rounds snapping the tree branches over our heads. Such is war.
. . .None of the Dutch left after those initial firefights, even though they were eligible to as foreign volunteers. I think this impressed me more than anything about the Dutchies. Many wannabe Rambos leg it home to Mama after they get their cherry popped in a real firefight and find out it ain't quite as antiseptic as the Hollywood version. Again, the initiated know. These gutsy Dutch guys went back for more, and I salute 'em for it.
. . .The conduct of the 1st Dutch in the field was damn good. I'd rate 'em a B-plus, maybe even an A-minus, allowing a wink or two at some of their tactical indiscretions.
. . .Their conduct off duty was another matter — certainly not best described as "Onward Christian Soldiers" — "Animal House" would be right on the money. Now, I'm a member of the David Hackworth school of military philosophy, which realistically expects soldiers to act as soldiers, not altar boys. The Dutchies, however, would give the late Pancho Villa and his banditos a run for their pesos.

Days Without Beginning
... Or End

. . .A typical day had no beginning or end that you could focus on, as the Dutch, ever a casual lot, did not believe in reveille, duty rosters, barracks police, lights out, inspections or any such silly chickenshit. They woke whenever the previous night's hangover faded, generally around 1000.
. . .The Dutchies always had a hot breakfast — coffee and a cigarette — followed by nothing until lunch in the mess hall at 1300. Drinking commenced immediately afterward. Beer was the juice of choice, but brandy or rakija were more common as they packed more bang for the dinar and were easier to smuggle past the guard at the gate.
. . .Afternoons generally consisted of runs to the liquor store to replenish our severely taxed rakija supply, the usual GI bull sessions, or playing pranks on Crazy Joe. The favorite was loosening the joints on his bunk so it collapsed when the oxygen waster sat on it. Other torments included packing his cigarettes with match heads and gunpowder so they exploded; super-gluing his enormous "Rambo survival" knife in its sheath; tying his socks in knots; emptying out his foot powder and replacing it with flour; smearing spit on the lens of his camera to ruin his pictures; disassembling his G3 and hiding the parts, or sending him off on wild goose chases — like having him to report to the Croatian base commander to be measured for a body bag.
. . .I used to think every living creature had a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Misers, for example, make splendid ancestors, while lions are the solution to Christians. The reason for Crazy Joe's existence, however, would baffle a Zen master.
. . .After dinner at 1800, serious drinking commenced and there was a party every night. Anything could happen and usually did.
. . .One event designed to sharpen soldierly skills was drawing a nude lady on a door and commencing fire with everything from bayonets to pistols, with points awarded for hitting various anatomical features. Disassembling claymores and constructing booby traps to kill the Croatian commander were popular competitions. Smashing chairs and such was always good for a giggle; once we had to evacuate the building when Joker set the Christmas tree on fire and we were smoked out.
. . .Sometimes the girls from the mess hall would drop by the Dutch barracks to party and often as not ran out shrieking, half-disrobed. These festivities were always accompanied by rock 'n' roll thundering from the cassette player at max volume. Wrestling matches were another favored diversion. Bunks were demolished and the ammo locker often overturned, with hand grenades rolling out on the floor as the enthusiastic grapplers gyrated about the room.
. . .At other times we'd turn the radio to the Serb frequency and invite them over for a homosexual orgy, complete with graphic descriptions of the delights they would encounter. All we ever got by way of reply was the repeated "fuck you" from our friends on the other side of the hills. Empty rakija bottles were routinely smashed against the walls. When sufficiently schnockered, the Dutchies pried open MG cartridges and grenades and flashed off the powder/semtex to get their jollies. Puking was not uncommon and only considered faux pas if you hit somebody's bunk. Like I noted, we were a jolly bunch and I think you get the picture.

At the firing range, Dutchies demonstrate comradely feelings toward their Yankee buddy by using a crude drawing of author as a target, with points for hitting his CIB and jump wings. Sniper rifle was taken from Serb no longer in need of it, due to terminal case of Dutch lead poisoning.

. . .Anything not embedded in concrete, lashed down with log chains, or guarded by rabid pit bulls was judged abandoned property by the frisky Dutchies and was promptly stolen if fancied or smashed if not. Items liberated by the 1st Dutch included one dog, at least two pistols, several kilograms of semtex, detonators beyond counting, a quantity of "spare" parts from automobiles, petrol siphoned from Croatian POVs, upwards of three dozen hand grenades, some claymores. sundry "souvenirs" from abandoned houses and several tasty chickens.

Bottom-Feeding Diversions

. . .Off-base R&R featured such bottom-feeding diversions as hosing down abandoned cars with AKs, fishing with hand grenades, bar fighting, firing gats into the air bandito style, or pursuing the local jailbait disco ladies. What the Dutchies went for in the way of horizontal amusements I can only guess at, but I'm certain it would put a Turkish prison to shame.
. . .The most damnable thing about the merry boys from Windmill Land was their inability to clear a weapon without discharging it. Every fornicating time it went the same nightmare way. Here, for your edification, is the Dutch army drill for unloading a weapon; (1) point gat any which way, sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes not; (2) forget to remove magazine; (3) pull charging handle back to eject chambered round; (4) allow charging handle to fly forward, chambering a round from magazine: (5) dry-fire weapon to uncock it.
. . .What's that you say? There's a small glitch with step 2? You got it, Sherlock — the firing pin encounters a seated round, not an empty chamber, resulting in Kaboom! and yet another hole in the ceiling. I stopped counting the holes when the score exceeded a dozen and only one overhead light remained unbroken. Preacher, Wild Bill, Chugalug, Crazy Joe, Joker and Stormtrooper all discharged their weapons in this manner, some of them multiple times. We had holes from G3s. AKs, various pistols, Scorpions, and a World War II-era German submachine gun. The sight of one of 'em taking a round out of the 90mm antitank bazooka was enough to send me into cardiac arrest. Never a dull moment with the wooden shoe crowd.
. . .The 1st Dutch had three friendly-fire casualties, two of them minor affairs from lead ricocheting off the ceiling. The third and most serious one bears relating in detail. Wild Bill, our fearless leader, had hosed down a Serb officer in an ambush and claimed his Scorpion pistol. That Scorpion was his pride and joy; he carried the silly toy at all times. Once he riddled his wall locker while trying to unload it, drunk on rakija. But Wild Bill was to surpass even this act of shooting-iron incompetence.
. . .One fine evening the entire group was invited to dinner at the house of a prominent local Croatian. It was indeed a feast. I'm proud to testify that the boys were on their best behavior — although several eyed the silverware, none actually pocketed any ... I think.
. . .We noisily cleared the table of everything edible in record time, impressing our wide-eyed host with our capacity if not with our upbringing. Then, over cigarettes and fine Croatian wine, we settled back to telling war stories punctuated by belches. Wild Bill, fearing Chetnik assassins that I fear were entirely imaginary, was packing his damn Scorpion. Not having a proper holster, he "secured" it by sitting on it — with a round chambered and the safety off.
. . .Murphy's Law prevailed. He (or Mad Max sitting next to him) reached down to adjust his chair, touched the trigger and — Kabang! The round went through Wild Bill's leg and embedded itself in the wall about a foot from me, not far from where the children of our hosts were playing some rug-rat games. At normal dinner parties, jackets and ties are proper attire. If you invite the Dutch Dirty Dozen, flak jackets are recommended.
. . .As we were packing Wild Bill off to the hospital, Steff, the Croatian base commander, arrived and confiscated the Scorpion (Thank God!). Steff was a teetotaler, and flinty as a bank examiner. .He was long since fed up with the drunken antics of the Dutch bunch, and this latest screw-up ultimately resulted in our expulsion from Perusic. Wild Bill got his sweaty hands on another pistol while in the hospital and managed to accidentally discharge it as well. Upon release, he and a Croatian lady friend set up light housekeeping in a private room in our barracks — another act reflective of the delightful informality of the Dutch army, but frowned upon by the conservative Croatians.
. . .We were all lower than whale shit in Steff's opinion, so Wild Bill called a meeting that all might speak their minds, with the object of getting things back on the rails. I straightaway accused Snake of running semtex back to Holland. He said damn straight he was, adding he was selling it to some gentlemen acquaintances who were gainfully employed in the bank robbery trade. Why risk your life for a soldier's pay, Snake reasoned, when you could make big bucks without breaking a sweat?
. . .What precisely, I wondered, did this psycho have in mind? Maybe a storefront in Amsterdam with a huge neon sign: "Snake's Discount Bomb Outlet — Terrorists Welcome — Major Credit Cards Honored." In any case, Snake wasn't bright enough to pull it off, so it could be hard time for all of us as a result, not that I cared a fig about the Dutch misfits.
. . .Enough! I said it was criminal, plain and simple, adding that Snake should be ejected right then and there. We got into a shouting contest. The creep imagined that he was at least three beaks up in the pecking order from me and couldn't believe that I was standing up to him, as he could certainly take me apart, no problem. I resolved to gun him down the first firefight we got into, Vietnam-style. He was doubtless planning the same; I could read it in the paranoid bastard's eyes.
. . .Well, the group resolved to clean up its act, but it was too late by a day's march. Soon after this we got a subtle hint that we were no longer welcome when someone hosed our barracks with AK fire one night. Some said it was Steff. In any case, the next day Steff gave us 48 hours to clear out of the base.
. . .While we were packing, Snake went out of his way to provoke me into punching it out. I declined and decided a little backstabbing was in order. What's that, you say? It's not manly?! Damn straight it ain't, Sherlock; my mama didn't raise no fool. Mess with me and I'll sneak around at midnight and poison your dog, One of the guys told me he saw Snake stuffing 14 hand grenades into his car — jackpot! Just what I was hoping for.
. . .Most of the guys figured the party was over and returned to Holland. I headed for Zagreb to request transfer to another unit. When I got there, I presented myself at the German Embassy and passed the wide-eyed krauts a note detailing Snake's innovative export business, along with his car's license plate number. I was hoping he'd be caught at the German border, as opposed to liberal Holland.
. . .I was on a roll. Not only had I escaped the Dutch nut-cases, but I was off to new faces and new adventures. I headed for a bar where the Internationals hung out and spotted a squad of redcoats.
. . ."Mind if I join y'all?"
. . ."Bugger off, Yank."
. . ."I'll buy a round."
. . ."Pull up a chair, mate. Always happy to bend an elbow with a bloody colonial."
. . .I spent the next two months with the 83rd Battalion at Vinkovci, mostly hanging out with the Brit Internationals. They train 'em right in 'Er Royal Majesty's forces, they do, and I never saw any of the redcoats fire his weapon unless he intended to.
. . .Later, word came down the grapevine that my dear friend Snake had been arrested in Holland with two pistols and several frags in his possession. Adios amigo, and have fun doing the jailhouse rock.
. . .All in all, I'm proud to have been with the 1st Dutch, and count them all, with the obvious exception of the entrepreneurial Mr. Snake, as my friends and comrades arms. Certainly they weren't the sort of fellows I'd recommend anyone to wash their canary. They deserved to be expelled and were. Still, one can't help but admire their undeniable courage and zest for adventure.
. . .There has been an attempt by elements of the Dutch press to vilify them with the usual shoveling of manure familiar to 'Nam vets. The Dutch, celebrated for their propensity for efficient self-indulgence, would be well-advised to honor these heroes whose concept of the purpose of life extended beyond peddling a bicycle to the nearest orgy.
. . .As for myself, I'm back in Joisey and pondering new adventures. I'm considering building a raft and sailing across the Pacific or looking for work as a combat photojournalist. Anyone interested in this scheme or any other crackpot idea is encouraged to write me, care of SOF. Kindly note that any letters containing felonious plans will be promptly forwarded to the FBI. See ya' in Saigon.

. . .Tom Chittum is a Vietnam veteran seeking a publisher for his "Great American" Vietnam novel.

. . .SOF Editor's Note: Croatia has officially abolished the "International Brigade" and volunteers are no longer actively being sought.

. . ..An independent military analyst and intrepid social critic, Thomas W. Chittum is the author of the enduring right wing classic Civil War Two: The Coming Breakup of America and the satire on the New World Order and America's misadventures in the Middle East titled Sgt Skull's Field Manual for the Practical Modern Warrior. Both are available as ebooks from America First Books.

Flag carried by the 3rd Maryland Regiment at the Battle of Cowpens, S. Carolina, 1781

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