A few of years ago, my dad, Richard Klamm, had my stepmother Arlene email me a link to a story about a book that he had recently purchased called “Vietnam Graffiti: Messages from a Forgotten Troopship” by Art and Lee Beltrone. I was a bit confused since dad served in Korea, not Vietnam, which, of course, was the intent of the email because he knew I’d call and ask.

As it turns out, the book is about a military ship, the U.S.N.S. Gen. Nelson M. Walker, which was used for a scene in the movie “The Thin Red Line” starring such notables as Sean Penn, Adrien Brody, George Clooney, John Cusack and Woody Harrelson. The discarded ship had been anchored along with others in Virginia’s James River. The book itself is an excellent pictorial history of the ship and its focus is on all the graffiti left by Vietnam era soldiers on the underside of the canvas bunks. Poetry, drawings, letters and reminiscences cover the fabric undersides of the cots chronicling a separate yet collective history of the men transported on board this ship. I still failed to see the connection to my dad, but eventually he cleared up the mystery.

Although the N.M. Walker was built during WWII and the book is a telling of its Vietnam years, it just happens to be the ship Dad was stationed on when he went to Korea after he was drafted in 1952. And although he was in the Air Force, his two ocean crossings (there and back) were aboard this particular troopship.

Not surprisingly, Dad didn’t talk much about the time he spent in Korea and this was the first I’d heard of the N.M. Walker voyages. If it hadn’t been for a book published by a writer of which I’d never heard, Dad may never have said a word about it.

Dad graduated from Washington High School in Kansas City, KS in 1950. Like many families in the neighborhood at the time, the Klamms did what they could to eek out a living. So the following year, when Dad made the decision to buy a brand new bullet-nosed Studebaker Champion, the thrifty one for ‘51, it was a big deal.

He got a loan from a local insurance agent for the car, but no sooner than the ink dried on the paper, Dad received “Greetings from the Government” in the form of an invitation to join the Korean War effort, in other words, a draft notice for the Army.

Deciding he wanted to have a little control over his destiny, he opted to join the Air Force instead. So one day, he took the Army physical and the next day, he took the Air Force version. He then headed off to communications school, which would soon be followed by an all expenses paid trip to Korea.

But what to do with the car? Unfortunately, his new military wages weren’t going to cover the payments on his beloved Stude. With his hat in his hands, he went back to Cliff Dosier, the agent who loaned him the money, and explained the situation. Cliff, being the stand-up kind of guy he was, told Dad not to worry about it. They’d just refinance the car and he didn’t have to worry about the payments until he got back.

After training at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois, Dad was sent overseas in January 1954. The ship landed at Yokohama and he and the other soldiers were sent by train to Tachikawa AFB, which is located approximately 40 miles northeast of Tokyo.

That first night, dad and the other soldiers who made the trip alongside him slept in tent He said it was the coldest night he has ever experienced in his life.

From Tachikawa, Dad was sent to an AFB in Kunsan located near Seoul, Korea.

He arrived in Korea about six months after the armistice, which was signed on July 27, 1953. So, although he never saw any combat, he was still ill at ease being stationed in a country of such great unrest. He lived in a barracks that was located in a metal Quonset hut and as a communications specialist, it was his job to run up to the top of a hill every morning and night to be sure the communication tower and equipment was working properly.

“We supplied radio and telephone communications to the ROK [Republic of Korea] training base,” he told me.

The barracks was serviced by a houseboy dad referred to as Skosh, although I have no idea how the name is really spelled. Skosh gave dad a picture of himself holding a severed head. He explained it was the head of his friend and in order to get enough ammunition to protect his family, he had to kill his friend and bring back proof to the South Korean government. That proof was his friend’s head. I can only imagine how this added to dad’s uneasiness.

Dad’s stint in Korea was over in December 1954 and he crossed back to the United States once again on the N. M. Walker. He spent the remainder of his time in the Air Force stationed at Fort Walton Beach in Florida and was discharged on October 6, 1956, the same day my older brother was born. In fact, Dad had to get a special pass to get back on base to pick up my mom, my sister and my brother as he was now a civilian.

Dad kept the Studebaker until late 1957/early 1958, when he lost his mind and traded it for a Plymouth. He turned 77 this year and I’ll bet he’d give his right eye tooth to have that car back – me too. But I’m feeling pretty lucky that the publication of a book I may never have read had he not pointed it out lead me to such rich family stories about my dad.

Discovering your past in the most unexpected places

When my dad Richard Klamm of Holdrege, Nebraska visited the Pima Air and Space Museum in Tucson, AZ a few years ago, he found a rather personal surprise in Hanger 3.

“They had a B-25 Mitchell Bomber on display with a plaque that told where it was made,” Dad said, “North American Aviation in Fairfax.”

It just so happens, that Fairfax is a district in Kansas City, Kansas in the area where Dad grew up. Even more coincidental is the fact that both his parents, George and Bessie Klamm, happened to work at North American Aviation building for a time on, of all things, B-25 Mitchell Bombers.

“It also said on the plaque that the plane was modified at the modification plant, which was located just across the parking lot from the bomber building facility,” said Dad, “My older sister Edna Mae worked there.”

Normally very reserved, Dad found himself getting a little choked up when he realized there was a very good chance that three members of his family had worked on the plane in front of him.

“I was flooded with all sorts of memories,” he said. “It was nice to think they had a hand in building the plane I was looking at.”

According to Richard Macias, author of We all had a Cause: Kansas City’s Bomber Plant 1941-1945, “The plant was located on a 75-acre site adjoining Fairfax Airport in the Fairfax Industrial District and the ground breaking ceremony for the plant was held on March 8, 1941. A ceremony on December 23, 1941, marked the completion of the first bomber to come out of the plant with the first test flight on January 3, 1942. There were 1,358 workers at the plant early in 1942.”

By that fall, almost one-third of the workforce at the Fairfax plant was women. When production of the airplane ended in August of 1945, 6,608 B-25s had been built there.

After the war, General Motors eventually purchased the property and used it for automobile production and my grandfather, George Klamm, stayed on to work for the company building Buicks, Oldsmobile and Pontiacs.

Up until World War II, the Klamm family, like many of the families in the industrial districts in Kansas City, lived a pretty meager existence with George making a living at odd jobs such as grave digging. With the building of the bomber plant and the subsequent purchase by GM, the family could rely on a steady income.

Dad, who turned 84 in July, recommends a trip to the Pima Museum whether you just like looking at airplanes or are intrigued by aerospace history. And you just never know, you too could find a piece of your own past hidden amongst planes and exhibits on display there.  

http://www.pimaair.org/

The Walking Tour that is mentioned in the comments section is NOT for this property. It is for another Toole family home in the College Hill Historic District in Maryville. The neighborhood is across the road from Maryville College. Check out their Facebook page for information on this area. Hopefully, they will post something about the tour there. https://www.facebook.com/College-Hill-Historic-District-Maryville-224071501029782/

Writer’s note: Many years ago, I wrote a history column for a local newspaper. One of the topics I was asked about was the farm next to the river on Pellissippi as you are going from Blount to Knox Counties. The place is rumored to be haunted and it is all the caretakers can do to keep people out. I don’t know why they just don’t cash in on the interest, clean it up and make some money on the place. But, hey, they didn’t ask for my opinion on the subject. As of this writing (2015), keep in mind this story is at least a dozen plus years old, so many of the people I interviewed are now dead and I have no idea who owns it these days. And again, let me emphasize it's private property.

Haunting remnant of the past welcomes motorists to Knox County

If you ever find yourself traveling north on Pellissippi Parkway (I-140) from Blount to Knox County in East Tennessee, you may notice a hauntingly beautiful farm nestled into the valley against the Tennessee River. The best time to see it is in the early morning when the sun hits the mist rising from the water and bathes the buildings in an eerie half-light.

The scene is even more memorable if you know the history of the barns and dormitory that were once an extension of East Tennessee State Mental Hospital located farther up-river in Knoxville.

After the Revolutionary War, it was common practice for the fledgling United States government, known then as the Continental Congress, to give land grants to soldiers in lieu of monetary compensation. John Toole was a lieutenant in the Hawkins County Militia for the State of North Carolina. (Later Hawkins County would become Knox County, Tennessee.)

“At that time, the government, still under the Articles of Confederation, wanted to consolidate its western lands,” reads John Toole and his Descendants, “particularly against the French in the Mississippi Valley. Lands were thus opened in the western wilderness and grants were given to the soldiers who had served in the war. In this area they became known as the Nolichucky Settlers [after the Nolichucky River which flows through the upper northeast part of Tennessee].”

In 1788, Toole received one of these grants in the form of 600 acres in recognition of his loyal service. The wooded but fertile land, wrapped in the Tennessee River, was christened Toole’s Bend. Toole’s allotment also included Post Oak Island, sometimes known as Turkey Island, a large expanse of several acres of land in the middle of the water. The island soil was rich with years of sediment and perfect for farming.

Unfortunately for Toole, he was unable to enjoy his bounty for long. In 1792, he drowned in an attempt to rescue a slave from the river. In his will, he left the Bend property to his four children who, in turn, passed it down the Toole family line. One notable descendent, Bart Toole, lived in or near the Bend from 1899 to 1995.

In the early part of the last century, the ground on which the majestic Toole farm sits was purchased from Bart Toole by Mrs. Susong and Mrs. Brabson, two elderly sisters from Newport in Cocke County, Tennessee.

The late Fred O. “Bud” Scott, a longtime resident of the Bend area, said “My grandfather farmed the land for the ladies for $60 a month. That was considered good pay at the time. He was their head man and took care of the day-to-day farm business.”

According to Nelson Green, whose home overlooks the farm, the Newport ladies in turn sold the property to East Tennessee State Mental Hospital (also known as East Tennessee Hospital for the Insane and now called Lakeshore Mental Health Institute). The main campus opened on Lyon’s View Drive in Knoxville with the transfer of 99 patients from the Nashville hospital in 1886.

Eventually, the primary residence would house approximately 3,000 - 4,000 patients, not all of which were technically mentally ill. During Prohibition years there were no special facilities available for alcoholics, so many were incarcerated at state psychiatric hospitals. Then the Great Depression hit and brought with it new problems.

“It was common practice during that time for families, unable to feed all of their members, to commit them to a mental health facility or insane asylum as a way of keeping them alive,” said Eddie Francisco, writer and professor of English at Pellissippi State Technical Community College. “They just dropped them off on the doorstep and wished them good luck.”

As the population at East Tennessee State increased, approximately 50 patients from the main campus went to work the Toole’s Bend farm to help produce food to sustain them all. Those patients who were deemed “sane enough” to function with a lesser amount of supervision were free to wander about the farm as they worked.

There was also a fully equipped dairy on the farm supported by a herd of 100-200 Holstein cows. They dotted the fields surrounding the farm buildings and provided an adequate milk supply to the hospital. In order to maintain the herd, the Eastern State farm patients also tended fields of corn along with the fruits and vegetables for the patients.

The goods produced on the Toole’s Bend farm were transported up-river by barge or private ferry. Making the trip to Knoxville by water was a faster, more efficient way to travel at that time. It would be many decades before the well-traveled Pellissippi Parkway was built and the bumpy, curvy Northshore Drive, known then as Lowe’s Ferry Pike, was difficult to travel with a wagonload of supplies. The farm flourished during the 1930s.

“During Eastern State’s ownership,” Green said, “the farm was tidy and well-kept with a long white picket fence surrounding the property. It looked almost like a country club. Patients kept the bushes neatly trimmed and painted the fence regularly.”

Although patients did much of the work, East Tennessee State employees did such things as plowing and other jobs that required large equipment. They farmed not only the river valley area but also Post Oak Island, which could only be reached by boat

“One spring day a worker spent the morning turning soil on the island,” Green said, “At midday he rowed across the river for lunch. He returned later that afternoon to finish the job.”

At that time, many tractors often had iron cleat wheels and had to be started with a crank located on the front of the machine. According to both Green and Scott, the man struggled with the crank for some time before it sprung to life. Unfortunately, he was unable to dodge the metal monster and he became another of the many tragedies associated with the farm.

Green and Scott spoke of other accidents and deaths including one employee who was struck by lightning. Jack Toole, Bart Toole’s son, recalled witnessing a patient’s body being pulled from the river after drowned trying to escape from the property. Sadly, this was an all too common occurrence.

In the early 1940s, when the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) flooded the area upon the completion of Fort Loudon Dam, the State traded what was left of the Toole’s Bend farm to John Kriess for property located near the main mental health campus at the forks of the French Broad and Holston Rivers. Unfortunately, Kriess too met with an untimely death when he fell through an opening in one of the barn lofts.

The late John Fitzgerald, a lifelong Knox County resident, said, “Kriess was a state trapshooting champion and highly respected in the community. It was such a shock that a guy like that would die so suddenly.”

Kriess’s daughter, Hazel Oliver, then inherited the property and used it primarily to raise turkeys.

In the late 1960s, the United States government issued legislation that changed guidelines for mental health facilities. Patients were no longer allowed to work on farms or dairies like Toole’s Bend. It was thought more humane to lock them inside a facility than have them working outdoors. Also during that time, many patients were released but were unable to cope outside the walls of the place they had called home.

On June 24, 1988, Mrs. Oliver died just six days short of her 84th birthday and the farm passed onto her descendants. Since then, some of the original buildings have burned or been torn down. The skeletal remains of the dormitory no longer houses human occupants and most of the ramshackle barns play host only to rusty equipment. And although the current caretakers plant the fields with hay and other crops, their main job is to keep vandals and ghost hunters off the property.

The tragic stories of the Toole’s Bend farm help to lend an even more unearthly mystique to the place, especially when the fog wraps itself around the buildings at the night swallows them whole. And like its original settler, Post Oak Island has also drowned in the Tennessee River. But in the winter, when the water is low, you can catch a ghostly glimpse of its shadow.

The farm sits quiet now, tucked sleepily into the bend. Gone are the long white picket fence and the troubled souls who tended it. It is now just a curious reminder of days past.  

West Knox County, TN hosts silent reminder of American hero 

Mitch was barely 20 years old when he died. Although in chronological years he was scarcely more than a boy, Sgt. Mitchell Stout accomplished more in his short life than many men twice his age.

But this hero would have been all but forgotten had it not been for the curiosity of a stranger and the determination of a friend.

Just five weeks into his second tour of duty, Sgt. Mitchell Stout was killed in action March 12, 1970 while his Duster unit guarded the Khe Gio Bridge in Vietnam. Stout was in a bunker with members of this searchlight crew when the position came under heavy enemy mortar fire and ground attack.

When the intensity of the mortar attack subsided, an enemy grenade was thrown into the bunker. Stout picked up the grenade, cradled it against him and started out. As he reached the door, the grenade exploded. By holding it close to his body and shielding its blast, he protected the four soldiers with him in the bunker from further injury or death.

Undeniably Stout was too young to die.

Undeniably he died a hero.

The event may have passed quietly into history with no more fanfare, but for a jogger who stumbled across Stout’s grave in 1993.

“I saw the word Vietnam on the upright stone,” said retired Master Sgt, Richard O’Brien. “When I looked down I saw Medal of Honor on the flat stone beneath it. I wanted to find out who this man was, so I started to ask around.”

O’Brien searched but found very little information on Stout. No one seemed to know anything about him. He finally found a slim folder at the East Tennessee Historical Society. Armed with this small bit of information, he went to the Town of Farragut and suggested a walkway at Turkey Creek be named in his honor.

Things moved slowly and O’Brien was frustrated at the lack of interest.

He finally looked to then editor, Michael Holtz, of the Press Enterprise for assistance. After two stories appeared in December 1993 and January 1994, people started to take interest in the little known hero laid to rest in the Virtue Cumberland Presbyterian Church cemetery.

Once such person was James R. ‘Buddy’ White, a friend of Stout.

White, a local businessman had received a copy of The Wall: A Day at the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial by Peter Moyer as a Christmas gift from his daughter. This book and Holtz’s articles gave him the idea to build a memorial to Mitchell Stout in conjunction with a tribute to Tennessee’s other fallen veterans.

“For whatever reason, there are people who would like to visit [the Vietnam Wall] in D.C., but are unable to” White wrote in one of many letters about his vision for a memorial, “but if a memorial was in their state, they could. There is not a state that went untouched by Vietnam.”

A nearly three-inch thick black notebook holds correspondence, blueprints, fundraising ideas, and plans for the memorial. It all came to fruition on March 12, 1995. On the 25th anniversary of Stout’s death and after nearly a year of planning, a ceremony was held to dedicate the Mitchell W. Stout memorial. More than 300 people attended the event. Military dignitaries, Stout’s fellow soldiers and many others were present at White’s invitation. The ceremony was further enhanced as helicopters flew overhead in a missing man formation.

The memorial grounds are laid out like the medal-of-honor – a star within a circle. At the point of each star is a large marble marker commemorating a different event, person or military honor. Along with the Sgt. Mitchell Stout stone, others include a Knox/Loudon Vietnam Wall listing 117 names of soldiers killed in action, a stone honoring all veterans buried at the Virtue cemetery, a veteran’s memorial honoring all veterans in all branches of the service and a Tennessee medal-of-honor stone honoring 34 recipients from the Civil War to present. There are also two other stones outside the formation honoring two Civil War Medal of Honor recipients, Captain Frederick Swift and Sgt. Joseph Brandle.

White didn’t miss a thing.

“I figured if nobody else was going to do it,” White said, “I’d do it myself.”

It’s hard to believe that at the time of his death, with barely two short decades of life under his belt, Stout was a seasoned soldier starting a second tour of duty in Vietnam.

Born in Knoxville, TN on Feb. 24, 1950, Stout grew up in Loudon County with his mother. At the age of 17, the blue-eyed, blond-haired Stout dropped out of Lenoir City High School and went to live with his father in Siler City, N.C.

In Siler City, Stout worked for Siler City Mills Inc., and when his father moved to Sanford, he went to work for the Wilson Feed Company.

Like many a typical southern boy, Stout liked to fish, hunt and camp in the woods and on the waterways of Tennessee and North Carolina. He was 6-foot-1 with an easy grin and liked to eat country ham.

In August 1967, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and was initially stationed in Germany. After serving a one-year tour of duty in Vietnam, he was honorably discharged.

Stout returned to the United States only to grow restless in civilian life. He felt he could be of greater use back in Vietnam and was deeply concerned about young soldiers and their lack of proper training.

He told his friends and family he knew he could help somebody if he returned. In January 1970, Stout re-enlisted and was assigned to Battery C, 1st Battalion, 44th Artillery as squad leader in charge of the Khe Gio Bridge.

According to retired Seattle Attorney, Don Wittenberger, who was at battalion headquarters about 20 miles away on the night of March 12, 1970, “The attack on Khe Gio Bridge was well planned, and the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) had positioned numerous mortar tubes in the surrounding hills. The survivors told me the mortar fire was so heavy, it was impossible to go outside.”

“Mitch and four other guys were sheltering in the bunker when the enemy grenade was throw in,” Wittenberger said, “This is where the ‘maybe I can help somebody’ came into play. He was the sergeant, the squad leader, the senior man. So, he took it upon himself the responsibility of picking up the grenade and taking it outside. You need to understand he had no time to think about it, only react, and that he knew doing it meant he was going to die. Not in some abstract way in the distant future, but right then, right there.”

Of the 14 Americans who fought this battle, two were killed, five wounded and one captured. At that time this action, Stout was only five weeks into his second tour in the Republic of South Vietnam. Also killed was SP4 Terry Lee Moser, of Barto, Pa. 2nd Lt. Gary B. Scull, of Harlan, Iowa was listed as missing in action.

“Rumors started circulating at 1/44 headquarters before the sun had set on the day of the battle that Sgt. Stout would be recommended for the Medal of Honor,” Wittenberger said. “Lt. Col. Myers signed the paperwork and Jack Stout and Faye Thomas went to Blair House in Washington, D.C. on July 17, 1974 during the last days of the Nixon Administration to accept their son’s medal from Vice President Gerald R. Ford. Jack Stout donated it in 1991 to the National Medal of Honor Museum in Hixson, Tenn., where it is on permanent display.”

            “Of the 245 Medals of Honor awarded during the Vietnam War, almost two-thirds of them were given posthumously,” Wittenberger said, “often the soldier got killed doing what earned him the medal.”

            “During that time, the Medal of Honor was awarded to a number of soldiers who were killed by using their bodies to shield others from enemy grenades, as Sgt. Stout did,” said Wittenberger, “What distinguishes Sgt. Stout is that he is the only Army Air Defense Artilleryman in American history to receive the Medal of Honor.”

            Other awards and decorations Sgt. Stout received are the Bronze Star with one Oak Leaf Cluster; Army Commendation Medal with one Oak Leaf Cluster; National Defense Service Medal; Vietnamese Campaign Medal and Combat Infantryman Badge.

            The Mitchell W. Stout memorial is located at the Virtue Cumberland Presbyterian Church cemetery. Visitors can find the memorial by taking Kingston Pike to Virtue Road (on the west side of Farragut) and turning onto Evans Road. The area lies adjacent to the cemetery and is a fitting tribute to the men of honor represented there.

Although thirty-five years have passed since Stout’s death and it has been ten years since the memorial was dedicated, its significance is just as great today. American soldiers in Iraq, Afghanistan and many other countries around the world are continuing to put their lives on the line. Like Stout, they understand the risks involved.



(I wrote this story for a print publication several years ago, but I feel it deserves a lasting place on the internet.)