By Mrs. Mary Ellen Ray
(expatriate living in Ghana)

“Did he bring the tickets yet?” Blanche asks. “I can make it at any time. AMA
(Accra Metropolitan Association) has blocked our street so the shop will be closed. I’ll
call you back.” An hour later, “Have the tickets arrived?” Blanche inquires. “Not yet
but Fenton just called and he has the tickets. He’ll be by a little later and soon as I
have them in hand, I’ll call you,” I assure her.

The tickets come late Friday afternoon. Tickets to attend the Farewell Ceremony for President Barack Obama and President John Atta Mills to be held “about 6pm” Saturday at the Jubilee Gate of Accra Int’l Airport. Fenton reports on the ticket hassle.

I call Blanche and then Jessica. “Great. What time?” Then I learn two more tickets for me are at the Holiday Inn Hotel, about two blocks from the airport. Jessica wants a ticket for her daughter. She’s up and out about 8:30 Saturday, planning to come to my house for her ticket, go to Holiday for the tickets, go home and prepare to meet us at the Jubilee Gate at 2:30. Traffic’s tight and the few side streets are blocked coming to my house, stuck for over an hour she decides to go to Holiday and get the extra tickets first. Two hours pass, unable to reach the hotel she finally makes it back home, three hours later, with no ticket, exhausted. She tells me, “Too bad, she’ll miss it but I won’t.”

Meanwhile Blanche finally makes it to my house and we start for Jubilee Gate. Arriving about 2:30, we find the road to Jubilee blocked with armed police guards.
When Blanche flashes our tickets we’re permitted to enter the roadway. As we arrive near the Jubilee we’re told by more armed police not to drive in, to park outside and walk to the entrance gates where we’re stopped by a protocol guy who examines the tickets and asks for a photo ID. I’m taken back; I had just removed my passport for safety reasons. Blanche gasps, “Oh darn! I just changed purses and left my passport in the other one.” “We’re American citizens and have been living in Ghana for many decades,” we protest. “Sorry ladies, but there’s no out for this…you must have some photo ID.” Unhappy, dumbfounded, yet determined, we walk back to the car, call Jessica to tell her to bring a photo ID…Jessica has her IDs and is on the way.

Blanche and I live in different parts of the city. I catch a taxi back to my house while Blanche speeds off to her home. Everywhere one looks folks are wearing Obama t-shirts or Obama-Mills t-shirts, small US and Ghana flags are fluttering from cars flying by, posters and huge billboards are displaying Obama, Obama and Mills, Obama and
Michele. Obama-mania is here.

I rush home, get my passport, call a taxi to return to Jubilee. Call Blanche and she’s on the way to Jubilee. We decide to meet at a side street that has been barred by armed guards. After showing our tickets and explaining our plight, we’re permitted to drive down this usually busy thoroughfare but now we/re the only car around, we wind our way back to Jubilee.



As we walk toward the gate’s entrance, there’s two lines of folks and I spy Jessica. “Jessica come,” we shout. points out that one of the lines is packed with Ghanaians and the other smaller line has a bunch of young white Americans. (We later learn they’re the new batch of Peace Corps volunteers). “The Ghanaians are grumbling,” Jessica tells us, “saying no one said to bring photo IDs and why are these white folks not made to stand with us. As usual, we’re at the back again.”

At the gate the same protocol guy throws up his hand, “You have to get back to the line” pointing toward the Ghanaians. “No, I told you we were going back for our passports,” I remind him. “And here we are.” “I can only let in two of you,” he retorts. “But we told you there was one more,” we urge, “and this one (Jessica) is from North Carolina.” “Oh, ok, come on in,” and he inspects Blanche and my passports, picks up Jessica’s ID and we hear him say, “You’re from Texas, so am I. Where in Texas” he asks eagerly.

Finally we inch inside the gates to join a mass of standing folks, packed buses waiting to unload, hundreds of Ghanaian and US armed security\. Facing us are the metal detectors and we line up to pass through

“United States of America’” hits our eyes, emblazoned on the President’s Air Force One gleaming white gigantic flying hotel. We’re momentarily stunned. Blanche and Jessica pull out cameras and start popping, taking turns shooting each of us with the
plane as background. A podium erected a few feet in front of the plane is crowded with media technicians and photographers. Folks are running toward the podium, blocked by waist-high barriers, the area is fast filling up. Its a little after 4pm; at least 2 more hours for Obama’s arrival.

Standing, we’re quickly surrounded as the airfield grows tight with folks. Everyone’s excited, cameras popping, carrying small US and Ghana flags, some stuck in their hair, others pinned on lapels, more t-shirts, colorful African cloth, plenty of laughter, shouts, chants. Now the drummers start their rhythms and singing begins. (Accra is Ga territory, a major tribe; the Ga word for “come” is “Ba”) so they’re singing “Obaba come on.” Old and young, all start dancing as they sing, stomping feet, shaking hips, laughing and cheering. It’s a party and we’re in the middle of it all as the excitement builds. The three of us confess we never thought we’d ever be caught in the midst of such a massive gathering yet here we are, exhilarated.

Chants grow in chorus, “Obama’s coming”. Obama rides up with Atta Mills, approaching
the podium as shouting, cheering, yelling, screaming and cameras explode. America’s national anthem as plays as Obama stands erect with his right hand over his heart, then Ghana’s national anthem rolls out. “Welcome to Ghana,” Mills starts his short speech.
Obama responds, speaks of their visit to the slave castle and its great importance for his family, all “Ghanaians, Africans and the rest of the world.






The short ceremony ends, Obama strolls around those gathered close to shake hands,
grabs Michele’s hand and they ascend the plane’s stairs where they stop at the top,
turn around to wave to us all, then security closes the door.

Air Force One’s engines start almost silently, taxis down the long runway, turns
around, takes off murmuring with an occasional click click from a blinking red
light and soars toward the sky, within seconds disappearing into the clouds. A moment
of silence before returning to normalcy as we trudge out the darkened airfield.

We/ve seen him. We’ve seen President Barack Obama!!

http://www.youtube.com/kojoman75
.

Author & Former Buffalo Soldiers-Korea 1950/51

The Han River Crossing. March 7 1951 The Author, (Front Row, 4th from left) March 7 1951 Usually we would be returned directly to the front from reserve. This time, we were taken by truck convoy to a staging area where we were put through three days of amphibious boat training. Of course rumors were a dime a dozen throughout the regiment, but on the third day our curiosity was put to rest once and for all. We were offcially informed that our objective was the Han River. Vaguely, I recalled the monstrous looking mountain and the then partially frozen over Han River we had observed while on a reconnaissance patrol of the area not long ago. I remembered feeling then that we were destined to see the mountain again. Only this time we'd have to fight our way to its peak. And that would be after crossing the river. The night before we pulled out for the front, we were told our objective would be under ```` twenty-four hours prior to our landing and that 10,000 rounds of armor-piercing artillery rounds would be exploded on it. It would also be under a continuous pounding by our jets’ aircraft rockets and by night bombing. Then would come heavy mortars. But we had attacked after such devastating conditioning before, only to find the Chinese forces had just pulled back to wait out the bombardment in their reserved deep tunnels and bunkers and come out fighting when the barrage was lifted for us, the attackers. I always thanked God that the enemy didn't have the air power we had. March 7, 1951 (twenty days before my 18th birthday), my battalion (the 2nd) boarded two-and-a-half-ton trucks to be transported to within a quarter of a mile of the Han River and our objective. There were thirty of us in the canvas-covered truck I rode in. Of course, that had to be multiplied time the number of trucks it would take to convey a regiment of soldiers. An individual soldier has a very limited view usually, but I imagine the truck convoy was spread out for miles. In the truck in which I rode, there was very little talking. Some of the men tried to get a little shuteye, which was hard to do with the truck hitting potholes every now and then, plus the many starts and stops. Then there would be times we'd travel for miles without stopping. There were wooded areas where branches from trees lining the narrow road would now and then strike the canvas side of the truck, sounding like sniper shots. No matter how many times this happened, each time sounded like the real one, and we instinctively ducked our heads. Sometimes it happened in such rapid succession that we'd think it was machine-gun fire and be tempted to jump from the moving truck. Every hour the trucks would pull over to the side of the road to give all a ten-minute break, during which time we could take care of our body needs or just have a smoke. I think there were two breaks before we reached our destination. At 1600 hours we left the trucks for the last time, fell into formations, and were marched off to a rallying area behind the very hill I, along with other members of my platoon, had scouted weeks before. There, we were organized for hot chow before being issued additional ammunition. Hundreds of commands are necessary to prepare a regiment of combat infantrymen for a major offensive such as the one we were to take part in on the following day. And as always, there were the distant sounds of exploding bombs and long-range heavy artillery that exploded on the distant mountains. The smell of gasoline mixed with exhaust fuel and gunpowder were the prevailing smells lingering in the air, but sometimes a sweet smell of garlic could be distinguished. Later in the evening we would write letters, some of the guys would read their Bibles. After I had written a short letter home I again cleaned my rifle and checked it out. Then, with it cuddled in my arms and ready for instant use, I laid down on the hard cold ground after covering myself with a blanket and poncho. I slept. The following morning I woke at 0430 hours. Looking out from the shallow hole I had slept in, I noticed the shadows of other foxholes to my left and right and knew that each one was occupied by at least two men. After identifying the sentry and sensing that all was well, I quietly drew on my boots, tied the laces, and with my rifle and shovel in hand, I proceeded down the back side of the hill a ways to find a place to make a bowel movement. There were other soldiers about, fulfilling the same body function. "All right, men, rise and shine. We got a war to fight. Let's go, let's go, we'll be moving out in one hour!" Every NCO seemed to scream the same orders at the same time. There was no washing or showers. Some of us might brush our teeth, depending on how we valued the water in our canteen. In two-squad groups, and on command, we would proceed down the back side of the hill with our mess kits for hot chow, then return to our position to eat it. Always our weapons were with us. At 0530 we assembled on the road in company formation. My battalion (the 2nd) would lead. Companies E and F would do the spearheading. I recalled my favorite prayer from Psalm 27: “The Lord is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear?” Such were my thoughts as we advanced toward the thunderous noise of thousands of rounds of artillery exploding on a hunk of mountainous rock that we must all die, if necessary, to seize control of. We were in long columns flanking each side of the narrow road barely wide enough for a tank (or in this case) columns of tanks and half-tracks, with .50 caliber machine guns. Some had 105 mm recoiless rifle mounted on them. There were all kinds of weapons paralleling the river bank. They were pounding the monstrous-looking mountains on the other side of the river with all their fire power. The morning air was heavy with gun smoke.*** Soon we were ordered to leave the road and to take up positions on the Han River bank. There, through the morning mists, we could barely make out the hulking mountain separated from us only by the deadly river that for many of us would be the last body of water we would ever see. Although the top half of the mountain was covered by morning mists, I could see many flashes that appeared a split second before the exploding sounds reached our ears. I refocused my attention on three chaplains who were making their way to each platoon. They were offering us the chance to pray with them,or they with us. I remember thinking that there was nothing they could do for me now. Only God could help me, and I didn't need their help to talk to Him. I again refocused my attention on the river and the mountain we were to fight our way up. Momentarily the morning mist lifted, enabling three F-86 Saber Jets to come in and make a few strafing runs with rockets and napalm bombs, then raking the mountain with machine-gun fire. I wondered how anyone could survive such bombardment, but I know, in spite of the intense annihilation taking place before my very eyes, that many of the Chinese soldiers would be there waiting for us. Then new sounds joined the many others, the sounds of small-arms fire, including 30 caliber machine-guns, bazookas, and light mortars. But above all could be distinguished the sounds of screaming warriors as they charged forward from the amphibious landing crafts they had used to cross the Han River. Then I heard the command I had dreaded. "OK, 1st Platoon, let's move out." We moved forward to the bank of the river where amphibious landing craft sat waiting for us. "Fuck it,” I said to myself. “Yeah, let's go! let's go!” I yelled, more so to relieve the tension in my stomach. I, like the others advancing soldiers, repeated the yell loudly and ran forward to get aboard the craft. The river was about a hundred yards across. Halfway across bullets began striking the side of the landing craft. I heard a scream of pain from somewhere inside our craft. But we were so packed in that I couldn't see who or how many were hit, or how bad. Enemy mortars exploded so close to the craft that water splashed over the side and on us. Finally we reached the other side of the river and, like others before us, charged of the low front end of the craft like mad men, screaming from the pits of our stomachs. We were met by a hail of enemy small-arms fire, mixed with exploding mortars that fell among us. We had to cover at least a hundred yards to reach the base of the mountain that was our objective to seize at all cost. I began to notice dead bodies as we continued our charge forward, bodies of our men. As I ran forward I fired shot after shot at everything or place in front of me that might conceal an enemy soldier. Bullets were whizzing by me, sometimes even glancing o› my steel helmet. There was no place to duck. Every so often, the enemy fire power would be so intense that until someone knocked the particular machine-gun out, we would have to take cover behind or under something, even if it was the body of a fallen comrade or enemy soldier. "Let's go! You men over there, Come on, let's go!" And up we would get and charge forward again, right into the hail of bullets, firing our weapons and yelling like mad men. Glimpsing to my right or left I saw dead or wounded soldiers everywhere, lying where they had fallen, and others like myself still charging toward the base of the mountain. I knew I had to reach there. Then, I noticed a viaduct in front of me and at the same instant noticed movement in it. Dust began kicking up around my feet. I hit the ground pumping shot after shot into the entrance of the viaduct until my rifle was empty. From the prone position I quickly reloaded. While someone left of me continued shooting. From the corner of my eye, I saw it was “Red” (Pvt. Leonard Warden). I removed a hand grenade from my cartridge belt and threw it. It exploded in the mouth of the viaduct. We jumped up and charged into the mouth of the viaduct, firing our weapons all the while, even before the smoke from the hand grenade had cleared. Two of the enemy were dead, and one dying. The last thing he did before we killed him was try to spit at us. The incident began and ended in less than five minutes, but I'll remember the expression on his face for the rest of my life. It was a look of defiance. Red and I were amazed at the way he died. When I die, I'd like nothing better than to die as bravely as he had. So I thought. "All right, keep moving you guys. Move! Move!" Again we charged toward the base of the mountain. There we assembled and began advancing up the treacherous mountain side. We could tell by the intensity of their firepower that they were throwing everything they had at us, and it was having the desired e›ect. Our guys were dropping all around me. I figured any moment would be my last. But when the orders were given to move out, I moved with the others up the slippery mountain side, sometimes advancing six or so paces before being forced by the intensity of the enemy's firepower to take cover and pump round after round at suspected places of concealment. Spread out on the left and right flanks were members of my company; to our front were the enemy. Two-thirds of the way up the mountain the Chinese fire power became so intense that we had to pull back to the base of the mountain. There we took cover while our planes and artillery again pounded the top and forward side of the mountain. From time to time short rounds fell among us, killing and maiming. As soon as the barrages were lifted we again charged forward. This time we reached the top. I saw some of the Chinese soldiers taking off down the forward side of the mountain. They then became the targets. From the prone position in which I lay on the mountaintop, I could see our Corsair single-engine planes dive into the valley in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. I also saw tracers from concealed machine-guns reaching up for the low-flying planes and felt sure that one of the three circling planes had taken a hit before they flew away. Then our forward observers (FOs) took over and began to call in artillery, which raked the valley before us. I collapsed momentarily from exhaustion, drained of energy. "Just ten minutes of rest,” I would think and pray to God for it. "First and Second squads over her,” yelled our platoon sergeant. "Now what!” I grumbled to myself and scurried backwards on my stomach from the ridge line of the mountain where I had lain resting as I watched and waited for further orders.


FREEDOM IS NEVER FREE. OTHERS FOUGHT AND DIED FOR IT. AUTHOR AND ONE OF THE LAST BUFFALO SOLDIERS - KOREAN WAR, 1950/51.

THE WAR:

http://books.google.com/books?id=Qsh_IadOKEcC&pg=PA109&sig=hZnBUBq41jf1wwdJ2IpIGqjM7h4&source=bmap&bkcxt=15&q=%22Ashiya%22#PPP1,M1