American Patriot

by Robert Coram

  Perot wanted the statue placed at the Air Force Academy, where it would serve as a model for generations of cadets. Some claimed that officials at the academy demurred, though Perot denies this. He says the academy always supported the idea. But the truth is that the Air Force prefers dead heroes to live ones. And while it is rare for live heroes to have buildings named after them, it is even rarer for a live hero to be honored with a statue. In addition, Risner was not an academy graduate; in fact he had come up through the cadet program and had only a high school education. Finally, the idea for the statue had not originated at the academy.

  But Perot was relentless, and not only did he succeed in getting the Risner statue placed at the academy but he also ordered the creation of a duplicate cast to stand in front of the Weapons School at Nellis AFB, and a bust made from the statue to be displayed at Randolph AFB.

  But those who know Perot and his relationship with the U.S. military were not at all surprised. One of the great untold stories in America is how Perot, a man frequently criticized and ridiculed by the national media, has spent millions of dollars on the military. He has financed military museums, libraries, research centers, and statues, and has flown dozens of active-duty military people — particularly in the Special Operations community — to Dallas for specialized and expensive medical treatment. Just to identify what became known as the Gulf War syndrome, he spent close to $100 million — every penny against the strong opposition of the Clinton administration, which did not want the government to pay disability to troops affected by this new disease.

  It is safe to say that in the history of America, no private citizen has spent as much money on the military as has H. Ross Perot. (He is an Annapolis graduate who served a tour in the Navy.) And no private citizen is more respected by those who have served. When the POWs hold their reunions, Perot is always there — and when he enters the room, they stand up. Perot can pick up the phone and contact any one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and they will take the call. (In 2005, in the middle of the Iraq war, all of the chiefs came to a Dallas party that recognized Perot’s contributions to the military.) So, in the end, the Air Force Academy could not say no to anything Perot wanted.

  On Friday, November 16, 2001, the Risner statue was dedicated. Bud Day was the keynote speaker. He began by recognizing several dozen former POWs whom he called “my fellow criminals.” After Day’s speech, in which he said the statue was “life-size,” the POWs came onstage and reprised that magic moment from three decades earlier when Day led them in singing the National Anthem. They were old men now and their voices were faltering. But this was a military audience, and the story of the Church Riot was taught throughout the military — it was history come alive.

  The next day, Saturday, was one of those crisp late-autumn perfections that sometimes comes to the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains — a day that is both a remembrance of summer and a hint of spring. The sun was blinding, the air was clean, and visibility was unlimited. Risner and his fellow Yankee air pirates were guests of honor at a football game on Falcon Field, where, as usual, the academy was losing. At halftime, UNLV was ahead by a score of 13–10, and the cadets — rightly, as it turned out — probably figured this was another defeat. They needed something to celebrate.

  Then came the announcement that General Robinson Risner and Medal of Honor recipient Colonel Bud Day were about to lead a group of POWs onto the field. Risner and Day were up front. Like most pilots, they had rarely marched even when on active duty. But Day was calling cadence and had them marching like Marines: shoulders back, heads high, legs swinging in unison. Many in the stands would not notice, but one of the POWs was being helped along by his comrades on either side — he had multiple sclerosis. But he was marching. As they came out of the shadow and onto the field, the sunlight glistened on their white hair, and had they not been so old, you would have sworn there was a touch of swagger in their march.

  THE cadets came to their feet and the stadium erupted in a cheer that must have been heard all the way to Denver. Day marched the POWs to the center of the field, where they halted, pivoted, and faced the cadets. Risner ordered, “Present arms,” and the POWs saluted the cadets. The cadets popped to attention and returned the salute.

  In that frozen moment, nothing was said. But much was understood. Cadets barely in their twenties and long-retired officers in their seventies were joined across a half century. The cadets, every single one of them, must have wondered, If the time ever comes, can I do what you did? Can I bear up? Can I uphold the honor of America? And the POWs, in effect, were saying, Yes! You know what the standard is. Carry on.

  ON the morning of March 6, 2002, Day dressed for the en banc hearing before the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit.

  Day was not unaware of the unique position he held, and he was prepared to use that influence on behalf of the retirees. He reached into his suitcase and pulled out the black case that contained his Medal of Honor. Then he stood before a mirror as Doris reverently clasped the medal around his neck. He again reached into his suitcase and picked up his silver command pilot’s wings, buffed them on his sleeve, and pinned them on the left breast of his suit.

  Day almost never is flustered. But that morning he was as nervous as Doris had ever seen him. This was more than the usual dry mouth before oral arguments. Doris was running late so Bud went ahead by taxi. On the way to the courthouse, he had to stop and have a bowl of soup. Then he broke out in such heavy perspiration that he had to take off his jacket.

  The courthouse was crowded with retirees, some of whom had driven seven or eight hours to be there. They came from all across the eastern side of America, from the South, and from as far west as Texas. They were not as trim as they once had been and most of them had white hair — that is, if they had hair. Many wore glasses. Some were on walkers and crutches. Several carried oxygen bottles. They would have looked like refugees from a geriatric ward had it not been for their eyes. They might have been old geezers, but they were tough old geezers.

  When Day entered the courthouse, stooped over, arm pumping, the Medal of Honor around his neck, it set off a ripple effect. As soon as they saw him, every retiree in the lobby and in the halls and on the stairs stood at attention. They could not stand as straight as they could when they were young men, but they could still get their heels together and hold their heads up. And when Day entered the courtroom, dozens of retirees stood as one. He smiled and nodded and motioned for them to sit. But they waited until he found his table at the front of the room before they sat down. His partner, Tim Meade, was already there.

  Day opened his briefcase and pulled out his documents and his legal pad. He placed his pen atop the pad and looked over his shoulder. His mouth was so dry he could not speak. He needed Doris behind him; he needed to know she was here and to feel her great strength.

  He knew without looking when she entered the courtroom. But the chamber was so packed there was no place for her down front. Robert Geasland asked for two volunteers to give up their seats so Doris and Marilyn Reinlie, wife of one of the plaintiffs, could sit behind Bud.

  Military people rarely volunteer for anything unless it involves sacrifice. Every retiree in the front row stood and offered Doris and Marilyn his seat.

  With Doris behind him, Bud Day was ready.

  He was seventy-seven years old; William Schism was seventy-six and Robert Reinlie was eighty-one.

  The court had a newly appointed judge. One of the judges who had been on the three-judge panel was in a semiretired status but was present. So Day was looking at thirteen judges, one more than planned.

  As the arguments ended, Day prepared to leave the courtroom. But Chief Judge H. Robert Mayer looked at Day and said, “Just a minute.” The judge looked at the government lawyers, looked across the courtroom filled with retirees, and announced, “I have something to say and it has nothing to do with this case.”

  Everyone in the courtroom froze. What was about to happen?

&n
bsp; The judge stared at Day, paused, and said, “Colonel Day, on behalf of everyone in the room, for the veterans in the audience, for the lawyers at both counsel tables, and for every member of this court, I thank you for your great service to our country.”

  For a moment the courtroom was silent. Then almost every person in the audience stood and applauded.

  DAY was happy as he left the courthouse. Even to the most cautious of legal minds, it was clear that, once again, he had prevailed in court. Usually, Day is a reserved man. Now he was babbling away. Day is a man who needs his sleep. But after his court appearance he did not go to bed for twenty-three hours. Doris had never seen him like this. It was just a matter of waiting for the court to hand down its decision.

  OUT in Sioux City, Brendan Burchard, the command chief master sergeant of the 185th Air Refueling Wing, had done a lot of research about Bud Day and was appalled. Small Midwestern towns have few heroes. Anyone of any accomplishment at all from nearby towns in Iowa or Nebraska or South Dakota had been recognized in some fashion. But Siouxland had done nothing for Bud Day. Burchard and Master Sergeant John Sandman decided to change this.

  Many people in the 185th had gotten to know Day over the years, so Burchard figured it was appropriate that any recognition of Day begin with the military. Renaming the airport to “Colonel Bud Day Field” seemed a good idea. But this would take the support of airport officials and the city council.

  Burchard went to the wing commander, Colonel John Janson, and presented his case. Janson was easily convinced and ordered that a video of Colonel Day’s life be put together “that will make it impossible for people to say no” to the renaming idea.

  The fifteen-minute video was so compelling that when it was shown to airport authorities, they sat in stunned silence for about twenty seconds.

  Bud Day was a national hero. Why had his hometown not honored him?

  The city council had the same reaction.

  Word of the video spread, and soon the members of the 185th were showing the tape to civic groups around Sioux City.

  Plans became more ambitious. In addition to renaming the airport, what about a statue of Day to be placed inside the terminal?

  After approval for renaming the airport was granted, members of the 185th began calling Day’s old comrades, Mistys and former POWs, for information and for items they could place in an airport exhibit. They were overwhelmed at the emotion they encountered. Bill Douglass, as usual, wept when he spoke about Bud Day and the Mistys. “You just don’t understand what this man means to us,” he said.

  Among the memorabilia Day sent out to be placed in the airport exhibit was a set of boxing gloves imprinted with a gorilla. Members of the 185th could not figure out their significance, and they were reluctant to ask.

  The airport renaming was on May 25, 2002, and coincided with a NAM-POW reunion in Dallas. Perot piled as many of the former POWs as he could on his corporate jet and flew them to Sioux City, where they taxied up near the speaker’s platform. As the jet approached, word buzzed across the crowd of several hundred people, “The POWs are here.” When the door opened and the men began filing out, they were greeted with a spontaneous round of applause.

  Orson Swindle was there. Jack Fellowes, who had nursed Day after his torture ended in the fall of 1969, was there. John McCain was not, but he sent a videotape in which he said, “I have never known a tougher, more ornery, disciplined leader than Bud Day. Neither have the North Vietnamese.” McCain went on to say that Day had taken beatings for those under his command in Hanoi and ended with, “I have never had a dearer friend and never known a finer man.”

  Perot was the featured speaker. Afterward the media wanted to talk with him. But as is always the case in these events, he would not speak to the press. This event was to honor Bud Day.

  Now Day had joined the ranks of men whose names can be counted on one hand: men who, while still alive, have had an airport named for them.

  The only thing missing was the statue.

  The 185th wanted a bust of Day to be placed in the airport. But preliminary inquiries indicated a bust would cost at least $5,000. The money could not be taken from tax funds, and it was too much for the 185th to raise. It appeared that, other than an exhibit of pictures and POW memorabilia, there would be nothing to represent the man for whom the airport was now named.

  Then one day Colonel Janson picked up his telephone to hear, “Colonel, this is Ross Perot. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” And off he went talking about a nine-foot statue of Bud Day. A conversation with Ross Perot often is not really a conversation; it is a matter of listening while Perot talks. So Janson listened. Dealing with the casting of a statue for a retired officer is not the business of a wing commander. So Colonel Janson delegated to Major Stephanie Samenus, who was in charge of community relations, the job of coordinating all details of the statue.

  Ceilings inside the airport were ten feet, so airport officials were having trouble with the idea of a nine-foot statue, especially since it was to stand atop a four-foot marble base. Clearly something had to give. Perhaps Mr. Perot would consider a smaller statue, maybe a bust of Bud Day?

  Absolutely not. He said everyone in Room 7 was nine feet tall the day of the Church Riot. The height of airport ceilings was irrelevant.

  (The Bud Day statue also had to be nine feet tall because the sculptor used the same mold as he had used for the Risner statue — only a different head.)

  ON November 18, 2002, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit handed down a 9–4 ruling against the retirees that rejected every argument that the three-judge panel had embraced. The judges said only Congress, and not military recruiters, had the power to authorize free medical care.

  For Day it was a stunning and unexpected reversal. What happened? Why did nine judges revolt against a decision by the chief judge? Dissenting from the majority were the same three judges who earlier ruled in Day’s favor. Another dissenting judge had once worked for the Air Force as a civilian lawyer.

  It hadn’t been his argument. Indeed, Day’s courtroom performance had particularly impressed the 235,000 members of the Young Lawyers Division of the American Bar Association. They realized that if Day won it would mean a $15 billion settlement and a $1.5 billion fee. The Young Lawyers named Day “Lawyer of the Year” and presented him with the Fellows Award for the best trial performance of the year.

  So what had happened? How could the court make such a turnaround? Day read the majority opinion and was appalled. His assumption was that judges at this level were masters of abstract thinking; that they were penetrating legal scholars able to pierce to the heart of any issue no matter how complex. Day wondered if the judges had simply turned everything over to young law clerks and if they had seen what went out over their names. Within the majority opinion the absurdities were endless and showed a fundamental lack of knowledge about the military. Day wrote in the margin alongside one comment, “This was written by some nonmilitary draft dodger w/o a clue what these words mean.”

  Day’s beliefs appear to have been shared at least in part by one of the dissenting judges. Justice S. Jay Plager added a telling comment: “Perhaps the problem is that, with the demise of compulsory military service, too few of our citizens today have the experience of knowing firsthand what the military is about.” His remark was a direct slap at eight of the nine judges who wrote the majority opinion — the eight who had no military experience.

  Later, Day researched the biographical sketches of the eight judges and found that most of them were of college age during the Vietnam era. “Hell, they could have been hanging out with Hanoi Jane,” he said.

  Day would ask the U.S. Supreme Court to review the ruling.

  He was not optimistic when he found that the court, as then constituted, had only three justices who were veterans.

  After Day announced he would take the dispute to the Supreme Court, several retirees gathered. One of them mused that with the passage of TRICARE for Life and i
ts accompanying pharmacy program, the retirees had regained almost everything taken from them by Bill Clinton. Why was Bud Day still fighting?

  “Because it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” said another.

  A third man nodded and paused. Then he said, “As far as Bud Day is concerned, the fat lady never sings.”

  AIRPORT officials in Sioux City eventually decided to put the Bud Day statue near the front door of the airport, in sight of everyone who entered or departed. Colonel Bud Day Field is a small regional airport served by six daily flights, all Northwest Airlines feeder flights to and from Minneapolis.

  The statue arrived on December 9, 2002, the day before it was to be dedicated. Coincidentally, Bud and Doris arrived on a flight about the time the flatbed truck pulled up out front, and they watched the statue being placed atop the pedestal.

  The next morning, on the sixtieth anniversary of the day he joined the Marine Corps and a day that Bud celebrates every year, the statue was dedicated.

  Orson Swindle delivered the keynote speech. He told how he and Bud Day met in 1971 when their jailers moved the “bad apples in the barrel” — the Hells Angels — to the terrible prison known as Skid Row.

  The former Marine, then serving on the Federal Trade Commission, alluded to the lawsuit and whether or not it would be heard by the Supreme Court. He closed with a partial verse from “Sir Andrew Barton,” one of the ballads in Percy’s Reliques, published in 1765. Barton had been wounded in battle.

  “Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrew sayes,

  “A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;

  He but lye downe and bleede awhile,

  And then He rise and fight againe.”

  After Swindle’s speech, Day’s daughters pulled away the parachute that covered the statue.

  Perot had inscribed on one face of the pedestal, “Prisoner AT war,” an inscription that caused some confusion; people thought it must be a typo. Perot also insisted that a specific inscription be engraved on another face of the pedestal. The inscription reads, “Never give in. Never give in — Never, Never, Never.” It is attributed to Winston Churchill.