Rattler/Firebird Association



A veteran – whether active duty, retired, national guard or reserve – is someone who, at one point in his life, wrote a blank check made payable to “The United States of America,” for an amount of “up to and including my life.”

“Like the book said, we may be through with the past but the past is not through with us!”


Our last newsletter contained a story by Wally Honda that ended with “part two to be in the next newsletter”. It seems the newsletter editor erred and put the entire story in the previous edition. He has been reprimanded by himself!

The new address directory will be mailed on August 15th. There will not be another one mailed until 2018. Please submit any address, phone or email changes you have to the Association no later than August 7th.


Marriott DFW Airport South, site of the 2016 Reunion

Another successful reunion, our twelfth, is history. The experiment of having it in the same place two times in a row to help with not having to move all our memorabilia very far did not turn out so well. Our “hardcore” veterans were there with us but overall attendance was down about 30%.

The favorable contracts that we are able to sign are negotiated based on past numbers sold, i.e. room nights, banquet meals, alcohol consumed and such items. When you have a 30% drop in attendance you have to look at doing something different.

In 2010 we were at Nashville. Two weeks prior to the reunion the town flooded. It was one of the best attended reunions in several years however. We would like to go back to Nashville in 2018 if we can get a decent contract. Maybe we can actually see the unflooded Grand Ole Opera and museum and take the General Jackson Paddleboat tour this time.

Ray Casey at MRI has told us that since 2010, Nashville has become a tour hotbed, much more than in the past.

At our business meeting at the reunion it was noted that the possibility exists that not all of our helicopters will make the trip. We plan on taking them right now but in two years we may feel different about it.

During the business meeting it was explained to everyone how much expense is involved in printing and mailing our address directory every year. This cost is around $2,000. A motion was made and seconded to only print the address directory following a reunion, or every other year. This motion passed and will go into effect this year. Address corrections, phone

corrections and email corrections will be printed in the MAY NEWSLETTER of the off year.

Former Secretary of the Army Pete Geren
Guest Speaker former Secretary of the Army Pete Geren

Many have suggested that we email the address directory. If this was done, our list would end up in the hands of a vendor who would sell this list to who knows what for commercial purposes. So the list will not be emailed.

Two new members-at-large were added to our Board of Directors. They are Doug Hopkins (OF 65-66) and Gene Waldrip (EM 69-70). They replaced Tom Griffith (OF 65-66) and John Wiklanski (EM 68-70) who had reached their term limits. Our thanks to these men for their service.

At the Saturday night banquet following the meal the drawings were held for the five prizes in our raffle. Rich Lohman was the first winner and chose the tail rotor chain bracelet that has a value exceeding $1000 in todays market. Terry Igoe was second and chose a $200 Visa gift card. Deb Hiler was third and chose a $200 Visa gift card. Fred Smith was fourth and chose the “Kay Seabolt Award” which was a beautiful bronze statue of a Vietnam era aviator donated by Bill DiDio of LZNam. Bob Ratliff was fifth and took the $100 Home Depot card.

These awards were then given:

Our Reunion Chairman Vic Bandini (WO 68-69) then introduced our guest speaker, former Secretary of the Army Pete Geren. A great speech was enjoyed by all and we were honored to have someone of this caliber appear at a “company level” reunion.


The Association has been notified of the following deaths since our last newsletter:

Hoosier Vietnam War POW: Why did I make it?'

Jessie Higgins, [email protected] 6:03 a.m. EDT May 29, 2016

Dennis Hammond’s death came with little warning.

The Marine staff sergeant lay on his bamboo mat beside the other American prisoners of war one evening in the spring of 1970. James Pfister, an Evansville native, found him the next morning.

Hammond was still.

Pfister shook his friend. When he didn’t move, the Army staff sergeant screamed at Hammond to get up. Kicked the bunk. Grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over.

A cluster of flies shot out of Hammond’s mouth.

Hammond was the eighth man to die in that Vietnamese prisoner of war camp in less than two years.

“I still have this dream where I see the faces of the guys I buried. They’re right there,” Pfister said, holding his hand up just in front of his face. “Just their faces. I often wonder, why did I make it and they didn’t? I was sick just like they were. What’s the reason behind it?”

More than 40 years after Pfister left that prison camp and returned home to Evansville, he still thinks of those eight men every single day.

This, and every, Memorial Day, Pfister thinks of all those who gave their lives. Though, for the eight men he buried, he doesn’t need a hoilday to remember.

“I carry them with me every day,” he said, sitting in his Carmi, Ill., home. “I want them to know I’m with them. They will never be forgotten.”

Through Pfister and other survivors their stories can be told.

U.S. Marine Dennis Hammond, died as a POW in Vietnam in 1970.

Dennis Hammond always wanted to be a Marine, since he was a little boy in Bremond, Texas.

“He was smart,” Hammond’s older brother Bill said this month from his Detroit home. “Smart as a whip. People would always ask him what he wanted to be, and he’d say, ‘a Marine.’ And they’d say, ‘OK, what else?’ and he’d say, ‘a Marine.’ ”

Young, athletic and handsome, Hammond enlisted, knowing he’d be sent to Vietnam.

The story of Hammond’s capture has become something of a family legend, according to his nephew, Charles Baker.

It was Feb. 8, 1968. With just two weeks left in Vietnam, Hammond’s patrol was attacked by Viet Cong during the Tet Offensive. The radio man called for help, but he couldn’t get a signal.

Hammond and another young Marine, Joseph Zawtocki, from Utica, N.Y., volunteered to run back to camp for reinforcements.

“His radio man said, ‘What are you doing? You’re two weeks from being out, ’ ” Baker said. “Dennis said, ‘I got to. I ain’t done nothing since I been here.’ ”

Jim Pfister at the New Orleans Reunion in 2012
Jim Pfister at the New Orleans Reunion in 2012

That was the last time anyone from their unit saw them.

Hammond and Zawtocki were captured by Viet Cong soldiers and marched to a crudely built prison camp deep in the jungle.

When they arrived, Hammond found a scrap of paper.

“Dear Mom and Dad,” he wrote. “I was captured. I am not wounded or sick. They say that sooner or later they’ll release me. I know (you're) worried sick about me. But please don’t. I’ll be OK. Please take care of yourselves. I’ll be home before you know it.”

He wrote the letters small, to fit as much as possible, though it made little difference. He had no way to send the letter.

Survivors who spoke to the Courier & Press said there was little order within the camp, though the natural leaders quickly emerged.

Early on, that leader was Richard Frank Williams. The first sergeant — a Korean War veteran from San Leandro, Calif. — was the highest ranking of the prisoners. At 41, he was the oldest by more than a decade.

He became a role model to the frightened younger prisoners — young men like David Harker, who was captured with Williams when their unit was ambushed in January 1968.

“I just remember how selfless he was,” Harker said recently. “We were on the trail to the prison camp and he had to stop and rest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out this C ration of hot chocolate. I mean, what’s more American than that? Hot chocolate. That was important, we were all starving. And he shared it with all of us. He didn’t have to do that.”

It set the tone. Long after Williams died, the prisoners maintained his altruistic spirit — always sharing and striving above all to keep each other alive.

They quickly realized, staying alive would not be easy.

They had freedom to move around their camp but not beyond it. Their shelters were poorly constructed huts that offered limited protection from weather — or mosquitoes. The guards gave them little food; they had to scavenge for most of what they ate. Beatings were common, and there was no medical care.

After a few months in the camp, the prisoners were weak, malnourished and starting to whisper plans of escape.

One day in April 1968, five of the prisoners set out with a few guards on their weekly search for yucca root, which made up the bulk of their meager diet.

“We had to walk over this rough mountain terrain to get this root,” Harker said. “We’d gather the root and bring it back in these primitive baskets. But carrying 60 pounds through the mountains when you’re already malnourished is tough.”

By midafternoon that day, all but one of the guards went to a nearby village, Harker said. Pvt. Earl Weatherman, of Orange, Calif., took his chance. He asked the remaining guard for water and as the man reached for the canteen, Weatherman snatched his rifle and hit him hard across the back of the head.

The guard fell.

Most of the other prisoners wanted no part of the plan. They sat on the jungle floor waiting for the other guards to return. Only Dennis Hammond joined Weatherman.

“They took off,” Harker said. “Weatherman had the rifle. But it was broad daylight — noontime. They were two Americans in North Vietnamese countryside. They had no plan.”

The returning guards soon sounded the alarm.

“They summoned the villagers,” Harker said. “They had this system where they beat on drums. It got every (villager) in the area, it seemed.”

Hammond and Weatherman crawled into the thick underbrush. They were found within hours.

A villager shot Weatherman in the head, then turned his gun on Hammond. Hammond ran for his life. The bullet hit his leg.

Hammond was brought back to the camp in shackles. The villagers beat him for hours, then threw him in a bamboo cage.

“They kept him that way for weeks,” Harker said.

He was barely fed and had nowhere to defecate besides his hand. Every day, the villagers came to the camp and beat him more.

No one tried to escape again, the survivors said.

Instead, they fell into a new pattern of life. For a time, that life was somewhat predictable. The men bonded, and found their sense of humor.

“I played jokes on people,” said Pfister, who was a prisoner in the camp nearly five years. “One day a friend and I were sitting on our bamboo bed together. I said, ‘Holy smokes! I think I just saw the biggest chicken I ever saw in my life.’ ”

His friend didn’t believe him, but the two set out after it anyway. A bird like that would make a great meal. Pfister made his way toward a bamboo grove near the camp’s latrine. The bird was in there, he told his friend, and pushed his way in.

Pfister was too busy maneuvering through the bamboo to see the giant leopard crouching just beyond the grove.

“Suddenly I’m staring face to face with a leopard,” Pfister said. The staff sergeant was out of the grove and running up the hill before he could see where the leopard went.

Of course, no one believed him.

As Pfister plotted his practical jokes by day, by night Hammond regaled the men with ghost stories.

“Here we are in the middle of the jungle and he’s telling ghost stories,” Pfister said, with a chuckle. “He was something else.”

Humor and good stories helped pass the time, but there was never enough food. Many of the men arrived at camp with injuries, and even those who weren’t injured soon came down with jungle illnesses — parasites, malaria, dysentery. And by the fall of 1968, less than a year in camp for most, they began to die.

Richard Williams was the first to go. He was shot in the hand during his capture — a wound that was never properly cleaned or treated. Within weeks, the wound was rank with infection. Within months, it was crawling with maggots. And within a year, it killed him.

“We thought he was dead,” Pfister said. “I looked down and his finger was moving.”

For a brief moment the young men were overcome with relief — Williams was still alive.

“But it was just the maggots crawling in the wound,” Pfister said. “They were moving his finger.”

Francis Cannon, a tough-as-nails Army specialist from Phoenix, died a few days later. He was captured with Williams in January 1968. He arrived at the camp with holes in his neck and back from shrapnel. Early on, his captors took him up to the main hut to “clean the wound.”

“They ran this rod up and down those holes — up and down,” Pfister said. “He let out this bloodcurdling scream. When he came back down he told us, ‘That’s the last time they get a peep out of me.’ And next time they did that, he didn’t let out a peep. He was just hard-core, this guy.”

In the next four months they buried four more. Robert Sherman, a Marine from Danville, Ill., suffered a mental breakdown. He died that November. The same month William Port, an Army sergeant from Elizabethtown, Pa., who was captured after jumping on a grenade to save his friend, died.

Next was Edwin Grissett, a Marine from San Juan, Texas. He died in December 1968 after he was brutally beaten for trying to eat the camp cat.

Grissett “gave up,” Pfister remembered. “He said, ‘I don’t want to play this game anymore.’ ”

Finally, Fred Burns, from Merrick, N.Y., died in January 1969. Burns was barely 19. He had been in Vietnam a few weeks when he was separated from his unit on a patrol and captured.

That winter, the prisoners developed a system for when one became deathly ill. They washed the man’s clothes as best they could, made him as comfortable as possible. Then they took shifts sitting with him, so he wouldn’t be alone.

After Burns, the survivors said no one died for about a year, until the end of 1969. By then, most of the men had been prisoners about two years. They’d had no contact with the outside world. Neither the U.S. military nor their families knew if they were alive.

It took a toll on the families.

Hammond’s parents were notified shortly after his capture that he was likely a prisoner of war. His mother, Opal, wrote countless letters to the War Department inquiring about her son. She even tried to send letters to the North Vietnamese government, asking when she might get him back.

“It almost killed my mother,” Hammond’s older brother Bill said. “It tore her up pretty bad. We knew we’d be lucky to get him back.”

There was a moment of hope in late 1969 when the North Vietnamese announced they would release some of their prisoners from South Vietnam.

Back in the camp, the men were elated. Finally, they thought, they were going home.

But only three were released. The rest were hastily packed up and moved deeper into the jungle to avoid detection.

Hammond must have guessed the released prisoners would lead the Americans back to their old camp, so he left his letter home in a book hidden beneath his bunk. American soldiers found it when they arrived at the camp and sent it home to his mother.

By then, Hammond and Zawtocki, with whom he had been captured, were weakening. Zawtocki, especially, was quite sick.

“Joe was such a hard worker,” Harker said. “It was like he was fine, and the next thing I know, he was dying.”

Zawtocki’s once-powerful Marine body had shrunk to about 75 pounds. Beneath his clothes, he was little more than a skeleton.

Harker and another prisoner took turns carrying Zawtocki to the new camp. When they arrived they washed his clothes, laid him out on a bamboo mat and took turns sitting with him.

On Christmas Eve 1969, Zawtocki stirred for the last time. Pfister, who was sitting with him that moment, knelt down and took his friend’s hand.

“Jim,” Zawtocki whispered. “Wake me when it’s over.”

Then he died.

Hammond was the last man in the camp to die. His death hit the other prisoners hard.

“Denny was so strong,” Harker said. “If anyone was going to make it out, it’d be Denny Hammond. It was unsettling when we buried him. I started to think, maybe I wasn’t going to make it.”

Most of the men were released three years later, with little fanfare. They said their goodbyes, boarded planes and went home.

It was the first news their families had of them in five years.

Pfister returned to Evansville and was greeted with a parade. Reporters lined up to ask him questions, the mayor gave him a key to the city. Everywhere he went, Pfister was a celebrity.

Once the celebration was over, Pfister remained in the Army for several years. After he was discharged, Pfister bounced from job to job before eventually landing at the Department of Veterans Affairs in Evansville, where he helped veterans apply for benefits. The job was rewarding, Pfister said, but he could never shake the memory of the eight men who died. The eight men who didn’t come home.

By the mid-1980s, the U.S. government sent out special teams to Vietnam in search of the remains of those still missing. And by the mid-1990s, they had found and returned all of the men who had died in Pfister’s camp — save for Dennis Hammond.

Jim Pfister
Jim Pfister
Photo: DENNY SIMMONS/Courier & Press

Hammond’s parents were long-since dead. The family believes the stress of Hammond’s capture killed them.

But Hammond’s siblings and the surviving prisoners of war from his camp all wanted him brought home. Pfister settled into a habit of calling the Department of Defense once a month to see if they’d found him.

Finally, in 2004, Pfister got the call that they had. Hammond’s remains were found buried beneath a tree in an area that was once a POW camp. His carved name and an arrow pointing toward his grave were still visible.

Later that year, Hammond’s remains were returned to his family’s home in Bremond, Texas. He was buried again, this time beside his mother and father.

Pfister made the 11-hour drive to attend his friend’s second funeral.

“I put both my hands on his casket and I said, ‘Hey, Denny, this is Jim. I’m here for you,’ ” Pfister said. “And I just lost it.

“Thirty-four years — it just hit me like a brick. I never had a feeling like that. All of a sudden it was like a 500-pound weight fell off my back. He was the last guy who died in my group, and he was the last one of us to come home.”

Follow Evansville Courier & Press reporter Jessie Higgins on Twitter: @ECP_Higgins

Former POW James Pfister of Carmi, Ill., spent nearly five years in a North Vietnamese prison camp after his helicopter was shot down. Pfister, a native of Evansville, Ind., returned home in 1973.


By Ron Seabolt

Many of you have heard this story without names. The two men involved in the story are now deceased and I will relate the story as I remember it.

In February, 1995, I was searching for you guys like a man on fire. Our first big reunion was coming up in three months and there was no time to waste. One night I did a SS number search on Captain James H. Arnout. His last known address came up as Anchorage, AK. Using my set of CD Rom phone disc, I quickly had a phone number on him, just like I had done many times before.

I placed the call and changed some lives. When Jim answered and found out who I was and what I was doing, he immediately asked me if I had a guy named David Bascle located. A quick look showed I did not. Jim then told me this story.

David Bascle was his crew chief in Vietnam and when they returned to the states they were both assigned to Fort Campbell, KY. After a time had passed, one day David’s wife walked out on him leaving him with three kids with the oldest being a five year old boy. Jim and his wife adopted this five year old.

With military transfers and what have you they lost contact with each other. Jim told me that lately his son had been wondering whatever happened to his sibilings.

I told Jim that with a name that uncommon, I had a good chance of finding him and would get back to him ASAP if I did.

Using the phone disc again, I found only one listing for David A. Bascle. It was in Louisiana. I placed the call and reached David’s wife who was so thrilled she could hardly speak. David was a tugboat Captain on the Mississippi and would be home the next day if I would please call back.

By now my blood is pumping pretty good on this as I called the next night. When David answered he told me that when he gave that boy up for adoption, he felt that he lost all rights to look for him. But he had prayed every night for years and years that he would hear some word of his where-abouts and I had answered that prayer.

I gave both parties each other’s information and they agreed to meet at our Dallas reunion in three months. They asked that this be kept private.

David’s son went back to Louisiana with him for a couple of weeks to catch up on his brother and sister. I believe the sister lived in Ohio and was coming down during this time.


While at the reunion, Gene Waldrip’s wife Liz happened to pass by me and said, “There’s no telling how many times we’ve told the story of the night you called Gene!”

Probably about the same amount of times I had told it. On the night in question, as usual I ran a SS number. This night it was on “Wally” and using the CD Rom disc I got a number on him in Flagstaff, AZ. When he answered I quickly assured him of who I was and what I was doing. Then I asked him if there was anyone he would really like to know where they were. He told me there were two men. George Hardeman and Michael Curry. I told him I knew Jim Hardeman well. He said you’ve got the wrong guy. I told him, I’ve got the right guy. You called him George because he was from Georgia. His name is Jim. Gene said he never knew that and I gave him Jim’s number. I asked, what was the other guy’s name and he said, Michael Curry. I scrolled back up on the computer screen and said Gene, you’re not going to believe this, but Michael Curry lives in Flagstaff. I gave him the address and phone number and he said it was about a mile from him.

When he called Curry, Curry asked him if he was just passing through. Gene told him no, we’ve lived here for fourteen years. They belonged to the same health club.

Just another night when I went to bed with a smile on my face.


By Michael Rierson USMC

As some of you know, I spent a year flying a helicopter in Vietnam. I saw a lot of combat, received two very minor wounds, but had crew members severely wounded and one person on the aircraft killed during my time there.

Like many of the guys that I flew with, I had many close calls. A number of times I had people tell me that I had no right to be alive. The round that hit the engine should have knocked it out, or the round through the wind screen only missed you by a fraction of an inch, before hitting someone in the back of the aircraft. When you're 22 and 23 years old, you don't think much about those near misses.

You shake it off and move on. Later it leaves you wondering why you survived and what it all means. I can only say that I was one of the fortunate few, learned to be a good pilot and was fortunate to have a good crew.

There were always four of us on board, two pilots, the crew chief and the door gunner. The crew chief and the door gunner were always manning the guns and talking to us about what was happening beside, behind and below us.

Our job was to get into and out of those sometimes hot, but almost always difficult LZs. When the guys on the ground called for help, we went, regardless of the conditions and the amount of fire coming in.

We always tried. It was our job and we were trained to be smart, but not hesitant. The two guys on the guns were our protection and while their two M-60s didn't provide a lot of fire power, they did instill confidence that we were more than a target. We knew that we also had a little sting and the guys in the back were not afraid to take on a target.

The door gunners were all volunteers. They had to have served at least 9 months on the ground, in a line unit, prior to applying for the job. They also knew that it required them to extend their tours by at least six more months. It took a special person to take on that job and everyday was an adventure. In our unit and probably in most, they helped the crew chief maintain the aircraft and when we were back at base camp, also pulled guard duty every other night.

Sometimes it was all they could do to stay awake, but they always did. They were often bitching about the chicken shit Army and the people who were not sharing the load, but they were always ready to go. They were invaluable to our success and our coming home alive. If they didn't respect you, they would refuse to fly with you and they didn't tolerate pilots that wouldn't put their lives on the line to help their friends on the ground.

They didn't necessarily look like the warriors you see in the movies, but had seen combat up close on the ground and were keenly aware of what we needed to do to help those that fought there.

They were typically unafraid and wouldn't hesitate to jump off the aircraft to help carry a wounded soldier on board. Once there, they became the nurse that took care of those wounded warriors until we got them back to the hospital. Most were 18 or 19 years old!......


A little history most people will never know

Interesting Veterans Statistics off the Vietnam Memorial Wall.

There are 58,267 names now listed on that polished black wall, including those added in 2010.

The names are arranged in the order in which they were taken from us by date and within each date the names are alphabetized. It is hard to believe it is 57 years since the first casualty.

The first known casualty was Richard B. Fitzgibbon, of North Weymouth , Mass. Listed by the U.S. Department of Defense as having been killed on June 8, 1956. His name is listed on the Wall with that of his son, Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Richard B. Fitzgibbon III, who was killed on Sept. 7, 1965.

There are three sets of fathers and sons on the Wall.

39,996 on the Wall were just 22 or younger.

8,283 were just 19 years old.

The largest age group, 33,103 were 18 years old.

12 soldiers on the Wall were 17 years old.

5 soldiers on the Wall were 16 years old.

One soldier, PFC Dan Bullock was 15 years old.

997 soldiers were killed on their first day in Vietnam.

1,448 soldiers were killed on their last day in Vietnam.

31 sets of brothers are on the Wall.

Thirty one sets of parents lost two of their sons.

54 soldiers attended Thomas Edison High School in Philadelphia . I wonder why so many from one school.

8 Women are on the Wall, Nursing the wounded.

244 soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honor during the Vietnam War; 153 of them are on the Wall.

Beallsville, Ohio with a population of 475 lost 6 of her sons.

West Virginia had the highest casualty rate per capita in the nation. There are 711 West Virginians on the Wall.

The Marines of Morenci - They led some of the scrappiest high school football and basketball teams that the little Arizona copper town of Morenci (pop. 5,058) had ever known and cheered. They enjoyed roaring beer busts. In quieter moments, they rode horses along the Coronado Trail, stalked deer in the Apache National Forest . And in the patriotic camaraderie typical of Morenci's mining families, the nine graduates of Morenci High enlisted as a group in the Marine Corps. Their service began on Independence Day, 1966. Only 3 returned home.

The Buddies of Midvale - LeRoy Tafoya, Jimmy Martinez, Tom Gonzales were all boyhood friends and lived on three consecutive streets in Midvale, Utah on Fifth, Sixth and Seventh avenues. They lived only a few yards apart. They played ball at the adjacent sandlot ball field. And they all went to Vietnam . In a span of 16 dark days in late 1967, all three would be killed. LeRoy was killed on Wednesday, Nov. 22, the fourth anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination. Jimmy died less than 24 hours later on Thanksgiving Day. Tom was shot dead assaulting the enemy on Dec. 7, Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day.

The most casualty deaths for a single day was on January 31, 1968 ~ 245 deaths.

The most casualty deaths for a single month was May 1968 - 2,415 casualties were incurred.

For most Americans who read this they will only see the numbers that the Vietnam War created. To those of us who survived the war, and to the families of those who did not, we see the faces, we feel the pain that these numbers created. We are, until we too pass away, haunted with these numbers, because they were our brothers, friends, fathers, husbands, wives, sons and daughters.


Jim Adams
Jim Alsop
Greg Arndt
Norman Bair
Vic Bandini
Mike Beaumont
Fred Biermann
Hal Bowen
John Bracken
Stewart Brooks
Mike Callahan
Chuck Carlock
Jim Collins
Danny Conn
Carl Coyan
Bob Dewey
Pete Dolbee
Dick Ehrich
Dave Ellingsworth
Dale Engel
Jerry Fairfield
Gary Fischer
Wendell Freeman
Jim Fulbrook
Bob Gardiner
Larry Gillespie
Chuck Gross
Dennis Hand
Mike Hansen
Bill Hennigan
Johnnie Hitt
Roger Hobbs
Bill Holgerson
Doug Hopkins
Clark Hopper
John Hoss
Dave Hunter
Terry Igoe
Steve Israel
Wes Johanson
Gordon Johnson
J.T. Johnson
Mel Jones
Lynn Kazmierowski
Bruce Kelly
Don Kleiber
Tom Knapp
Ralph Kuhnert
Mark Leopold
Rich Lohman
Bill London
Bill Lurvey
Don Lynam
Jim Malek
Chico Marcano
Tony Marinaro
Ed Maryliw
Sonny Massner
John May
Kelly McHugh
Kerry McMahon
Jerry Meader
Butch Meche
Jim Miller
Ed Mills
Jim Moore
Dave Nottingham
David O'Quinn
Dick Parcher
Bill Patrick
Archie Pitts
Larry Plumb
Erick Ragsdale
Bob Ratliff
John Reis
John Rennie
Jerry Richardson
Pat Riley
Richard Rodriguez
Mike Rogers
Scott Runyon
Marsden Sanford
Ron Seabolt
Tom Silva
Fred Smith
Larry Smith
Paul Spencer
Carl Stanat
Dick Stanley
Doug Starkey
Paul Teelin
Randy Thomas
Atty Van Hamel
Ervin Wade
Gene Waldrip
Terry Wasson
Dave Weber
Gary White
Shirley Whitehead
Ken Wiegand
John Wiklanski
Jay Wilhelm
Ben Williams
Les Winfield
Doug Womack
Bob Wright