Chapter 1: The Cowboy Starts a New Life

August 14, 1958

The old, olive-drab jeep rolled down Meadowbrook Road. Might have been doing near fifty, I thought. Not bad for this old refugee. Not bad except for the dust. I'd miss this ugly old girl. Quicker than any horse I ever rode. A fifty dollar wonder at an army surplus yard. I spent a lot of hours getting it to go again, but she ran like new. Better than new, some said.

Just a few minutes to town and I'd be at the feed store. Pick up the week's order and head back to the ranch. Wouldn't be doing this much more, I thought. Damned if I knew what I would be doing though. The army would decide that, not me. Long as I was going to learn some trade, that'd be fine. Motor Pool or Engineering Corp. That's what I was gunning for.

Finally done with school after all these years and I can't wait to get more schooling, I thought with a laugh. I made it through my final year with a B average. Pretty good for a cowboy who'd rather wrestle with a near twenty-year-old Jeep than wrangle cattle.

When the draft notice turned up in the mail, it wasn't a big surprise. I'd report and hope for the best. I wanted to learn a trade. I particularly wanted that trade to have something to do with vehicles — maintaining and fixing them. That's who I am, the cowboy with the monkey wrench.

My name is Roderick Franklin Williams. I was born on October 2, 1940, in Cut Bank, Montana, on the family ranch, the W2. My mother gave birth in her bed at our home with a midwife in attendance. I weighed six pounds, four ounces and apparently had a shock of dark hair right from the womb. I was their only child.

I became known as Roddy, and I grew up healthy and active, but was never very big. I attended school in town, riding the twelve miles to and from the ranch on the school bus, and later in my jeep. I loved sports, particularly football, but was just too small to make the team, even in my junior and senior years. At five foot-eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, I settled for the track team and cross-country running.

I am fairly handsome in some people's opinion. My blue eyes and usually unruly mop of dark-blond hair, along with regular features gave me a solid, but not spectacular look. The girls liked me and I liked the girls. I never had trouble getting a date for a dance or a movie, but living as far out as we did and with all the ranch chores, didn't date very often.

My mother and father were proud of me, they said. I am a hard worker, always helping my father and doing my duties without complaining. It was the way I was brought up. My dad, Frank, and my mother, Eleanor, ran the W2 cattle ranch, and although it was modestly successful it didn't earn enough money to send me to state college in Billings. My school work would qualify, but the money just wasn't there for both tuition and my board. Mother in particular was disappointed that they were unable to help me further my education.

I had given my future a lot of thought. It was 1958 and the times were changing. My ambition didn't include ranching. In all likelihood, my parents' land would be gobbled up by a larger outfit someday. I wanted to be involved in the new, more prosperous America, but I also knew I had an obligation to fulfill. Uncle Sam had called. I was healthy, single, and had no reason for a deferment.

I had been reading the recruiting brochures for the services and found something I was confident I would like. The Army Motor Pool was dedicated to keeping their mobile equipment maintained and operating. It was my opportunity to learn a skill and get a chance to fix cars and trucks. I would serve my time and come out ready to join the modern work force with an ability in demand, just as the brochures promised.

I would have to have a physical first, but I doubted I would be found unfit. My cross-country training would have revealed any weakness. It was time to talk to my folks.

"The Army's gonna' get me anyway, so I want to see if I can get into the motor pool. In four years, I'll have a trade and job prospects. I think it's the right thing for me."

My father nodded and smiled. As much as he wanted me to remain on the ranch, he would never deny me an honest ambition. In Dad's eyes, nothing could be more honest than serving your country and learning a trade.

Mom was not so happy. It would mean losing her only child, and that was very difficult for her. She would never stand in my way if it was to better myself, but she would be sad to see me go, not knowing when she would see me again.

Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday, I waved farewell to my parents. I sold my Jeep to one of my high school buddies for two hundred dollars and a ride to the Army recruiting office in Great Falls. Shortly after enlisting I was at Fort Dix, undergoing basic training.

It was said that the Army often assessed men for their talents and then assigned them to tasks with no remote connection to their capabilities. Fortunately for me, that was not the case. When I completed basic training, I was assigned to the 63^rd Engineering Battalion, deployed in Bad Hersfeld, Germany.

However, when I arrived in Germany, and barely had time to look around, I was informed that the battalion would be redeployed again in a few months and I was to be reassigned. Within a month, I found myself with the 15^th Army Motor Pool in Friedberg, near Frankfurt. In a round about way, I had ended up where I wanted to be.

I spent nearly eight years in the Army. I learned a great deal about trucks and armored vehicles and a lot of other machines. I did well and rose to the rank of sergeant. I began my first tour in Germany, and after serving in Alabama and North Carolina, ended my Army career back in Germany.

At the end of July 1966, age 25, I picked up my discharge papers and boarded a C-118 transport for the U.S.A. I was almost a civilian once more and now it was time to put my plan into action. The army had filled me out. I was now a solid, fit 170 pounds. I was ready for the next step.

I hitched a ride on another transport to Omaha, then bought a train ticket to Great Falls. It was time to go home. I had seen my parents only four times in eight years, the most recent was over two years ago. On my last visit, I could see my father's health wasn't good.

I spent two days in Great Falls searching for a suitable vehicle at the right price. I finally found it in the classifieds of the local newspaper. A widow was selling her late husband's truck, a '60 Ford F-100 pickup. It was exactly what I was looking for — low mileage, well cared-for, free of rust and dents. It was never going to be as pretty as a '55, but it would do. I paid the woman cash and took the title. A full tank of gas would get me home in a day.

When I rolled to a stop in the driveway of the family ranch, I sat in the driver's seat for a few moments, taking in the scene. The ranch house didn't look any different, even after eight years. It was quiet, just as it always had been. I looked over at the barn, but saw no signs of activity. I glanced at my watch. It was nearing 6:00 pm. It was supper time.

I stood on the porch, wondering whether I should knock, or just walk in. I chose both. I rapped firmly on the door, then opened it and walked in.

"Hi folks, it's me ... Rod," I called loudly.

I heard the clatter of utensils on plates and the scrape of chairs being moved. My mother appeared first, with a look of astonishment on her face. I wondered briefly if I had forgotten to tell them I was coming, but recalled the telegram I had sent from Omaha.