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  Company C-187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team  
   By   Cpl. James G. Wolfe    
  Almost 60 years have passed since those fateful days of 13th, 14th, and 15th of February of 1951. Because those days were seared into my consciousness as if by a hot iron, I thought that the memory of them would remain rather clear even to this day. However, I sense that time and age is beginning to blur what was once crystal clear. With each passing day I realize that death is just around the corner and that one day soon I must go the way of all flesh, and it may some day even take me by surprise. It is with this in mind that I have decided to record, as clearly as I can, what happened to me on those three eventful days, days that changed the direction of my life. I had already been in Korea for about 5 months, but no other three days of my life have affected me in the same way. So if you will bear with me, I will try to take you back in time and share with you the events that changed my life.  
  I remember awakening on the morning of the 13th. I had covered my sleeping bag with a shelter-half because it was snowing when I bedded down the night before. When I slipped out of my sleeping bag, I felt the weight of about four inches of snow on top of me. I shook the snow off of the shelter-half and folded it up. Then I rolled up my sleeping bag and tied it onto my cartridge belt. I always carried my sleeping bag with me because I had learned the hard way that you never knew what the day had in store for you. Twice I had been caught without my sleeping bag and by morning I was nearly frozen to death.  
  I looked around and said to myself, "Another nasty day!" But as it turned out, that was not true. As a matter of fact, it was a beautiful day—about 30 degrees and clear skies. We were in a wooded area and the sun was sparkling off of the snow on the tree limbs. I could even hear some birds singing. It almost felt like spring was in the air.  
  The squad was sitting around a fire munching on C-ration breakfasts and drinking coffee when the platoon sergeant came by and told us that we were to go with the 3rd platoon on a patrol. By "we" he meant the 57mm recoilless rifle squad that I was in. I was the gunner at that time and with those words I checked out my gun to see that it was in good condition. The other men made sure that they had plenty of 57mm ammo.  
  We didn't know it then, but the Chinese had launched a big offensive the night before and had surrounded several of the ROK outfits and some units of the 2nd Infantry Division. They had not hit our positions for some reason known only to them-selves. So off we had to go to see where they were.  
  As I recall, the patrol was made up of the 3rd platoon, with my squad coming along. We also had an artillery observer and his radioman along with us. We left the road at about 09:00 and headed up a draw into the mountains. The rifle squads were in the lead and this put me and my squad at the tail end of the line. Altogether we numbered roughly 45 men.  
  We labored up the steep draw for about a half mile, puffing and groaning. The march stopped suddenly when we heard firing and some grenades exploding up ahead. As the lead rifle squad approached the crest of a ridge, they were fired on by several enemy soldiers. Our boys quickly charged on up and chased the enemy away. Then we all filed on up to the top of the long ridge line.  
  My squad finally reached the ridge line and I stopped beside Lt. Alexander, the 3rd platoon leader. We were all just gawking at a bare hill about 300 yards away. The hill was covered by men just sitting there. There must have been four or five hundred men covering that hill. I looked over at the lieutenant and said, "What do you think, lieutenant? Are they friend or foe?" We couldn't tell if they were Chinese or ROK's.  
  At that moment a burp gun opened up on us. A man in my squad named Fleming, from New Orleans, was standing next to me and a slug hit him in the hip. He immediately fell down and happened to fall forward, sliding about 10 to 15 feet down the exposed snow covered slope. Immediately, without thinking, I and another man jumped down and slid to him. The Chink was apparently not too far from us and was spraying us with his burp gun. I remember that snow was kicking up all around us.  
  The other man, Lupe Contreras, (Ed. Note: Lupe, was from St. Paul, MN, he was recalled back to active duty in Sept. 1950, the same time I, (Leo Kocher) was from Aberdeen, SD.) and I each grabbed a hand and began to slip and slide pulling Fleming up the slope. Meanwhile, our friendly burp gunner was emptying his magazine at us. The bullets were kicking up snow all around us, even between our legs. With each jerk of our hands Fleming would let out a yell because he was flopping on his wounded hip. It seemed like it took about 5 minutes to reach the ridge line again, although it was probably only about 15 seconds. How that Chink missed us, I can't imagine. We were fully exposed and just slipping and sliding and wallowing in the snow, trying to climb up that steep snow-covered bank, pulling up our wounded buddy.  
  Let me digress for a moment. Right here we see one big difference between the Marine Corp and the Army. We received no recognition for this act of courage. Had we been in the Marine Corp, Lupe and I would have received a Silver Star for our actions. After all, we voluntarily without hesitation risked our lives to save our buddy. It was almost miraculous that we did not also get wounded or killed. To the Marine Corp's credit I have to say that they always give recognition to their men for any act of courage that they may do. This is why a Marine division will give out as many decorations as any six divisions of infantry put together. It is not because they are more courageous or do more heroic deeds, but because the Marine Corp believes that recognition of bravery enhances their esprit de corp. And one must admit that the Marines have plenty of that.  
  Please understand that I am not saying that Lupe and I were any more courageous than our buddies, because we were not. I have no doubt that any one of them would have done the same thing if the situation arose for them. I had absolute confidence that my comrades would risk their lives for me if I were ever in such a position. We were bound together by those unbreakable bonds that tie combat men to each other.  
  When I got back up on the ridge line, I saw that the men on the other hill were starting to get restless. Our artillery forward observer began to call in the 105 's and I had my assistant gunner, a young man named Ken Gander, load my 57 and I fired a shot from that opening through the trees on the ridge line. But the shell was deflected by a tree limb as it left the gun and landed and exploded about 50 yards down in front of us.  
  I called Ken and we went to the right of our position on the ridge line into an open saddle between it and another ridge that ran at about right angles toward the hill on which the Chinese men were sitting. He loaded me and I took aim and fired. The round landed right in the middle of some men that were running for the back side of the hill. At the same time the 105's began to arrive on the hill. Then I fired about four more rounds at the running men.  
  All this time some Chinks were shooting at Ken and me who were standing out in the open. The fire got a little too hot, so we decided to go back up on the ridge with the rest of the men. Since all of the Chinese had run to the opposite side of the hill and a 57 is a direct fire weapon, there were no more targets for us. So we high-tailed it for the safety of our ridge line with the rifle bullets nipping at our heels like a pack of wild dogs.  
  The Chinese decided to attack our position and a fire fight broke out. Our platoon machine gunner set up his gun on the ridge line and lifted the latch to load a belt in the gun. Just as he was about to place the belt in position, a rifle bullet smashed the lifted latch to pieces. So there went our machine gun.  
  Our riflemen were all very good shots and the Chinese soon found that out. A friend of mine from Malden, Mass., whose name was Robert Monaghan, killed 12 Chinese soldiers one after the other as they tried to climb up to our position. (If he would happen to read this account, I would love to hear from him. All I can remember now is that he is Irish and loved to kill Chinese soldiers.)  
  Our artillery observer decided to play rifleman and was lying on the ridge line firing at the Chinks when a bullet hit the stock of his rifle, shattering the stock and sending wood splinters into his eyes, blinding him. The bullet also smashed his collar bone. So now we no longer had artillery support. Instead we had a blinded and wounded lieutenant that could do nothing for us.  
  Because a 57 weighs about 45 pounds, I carried a carbine instead of an M1. Since I had no real targets for my 57, I laid it aside and covered our flank, along with a couple of other men. I saw a Chink brazenly walking on the other side of the ridge across the saddle from which I had fired. I took aim and fired at the man and missed. He continued to walk slowly and nonchalantly in perfect view of that master marksman Cpl Wolfe. So in anger I took aim again, knowing that this time I would put him in his grave for sure.  
  Bang, bang, bang! He didn't even flinch. I ranted and raved and tried again. He walked out of sight as though nothing had happened. Perhaps I was shooting blanks. How could I have missed four shots at a man that was walking slowly only about 30 yards from me? I was so embarrassed that I looked around to see if anybody was watching my display of marksmanship. Fortunately, nobody was watching and I kept it a secret lest I would be the laughing stock of the company.  
  Up to now we had only a couple of wounded men. But the Chinese suffered quite a number of dead that we could see and who knows how many wounded. So they decided that they would not continue their attack. They merely stayed their distance and took potshots at us.  
  Lt. Alexander, whom I called Iron Lungs, because his voice was so loud that he didn't need a radio to call in mortar fire, decided to call in 4.2 mortar fire on the Chinks. So he gave them what he thought would be the proper coordinates to hit the enemy and they fired off a round. Fortunately we were all lying on the ground due to the rifle fire because he called in the 4.2 right on top of us.  
  Ker-bam! It landed about 8 feet from me and bounced me about 4 feet into the air. I temporarily lost my hearing in the ear nearest the explosion and was knocked silly for a few moments. A piece of shrapnel hit a tree about 8 inches in diameter and sliced it in two. Another miracle! Nobody was hurt. So Iron Lungs frantically yelled for them to cease firing. It never seemed to occur to him that he could merely have them lift it 50 yards and it would be right on top of the enemy. And being just a corporal I didn't feel that I could tell him what to do. So we no longer had that support.  
  Lt. Alexander decided that we needed some additional men, although it didn't appear that the Chinese wanted anymore of what we had to offer them. At any rate, he sent the platoon runner out to look for the regimental Recon Platoon which he knew was in the area. About fifteen minutes later the runner returned and yelled up to the lieutenant and told him that he had located them and that they would join up with us in a little while.  
  The lieutenant asked if he was OK and he said that he was wounded. He came on up to our position and we saw that his right radius was shattered from a rifle bullet. He couldn't load and fire his rifle, so he was essentially useless. Now we had a blind artillery observer and two helpless riflemen.  
  There was a young man in the 3rd platoon, whose name I no longer remember, but we called him Fag. Now he wasn't a fag by any means but he just looked a little faggish and since he was a good guy and good natured, he never seemed to mind it. I assure you that this fellow did not lack in guts.  
  He was sitting behind three small trees that sprouted from the same spot and he was exchanging shots and obscenities with a Chink who was about 50 yards away. Two or three of us were standing back out of the line of fire watching, listening, and laughing. He would curse the Chink and fire his rifle. Then the Chink would curse him and fire his rifle. They went back and forth like this for four or five exchanges when suddenly Fag was hit in the back. He flopped onto his back and the upper half of his body trembled while his legs remained perfectly still. It was obvious that the bullet had hit his spine.  
  We were all frozen into position for about 5 seconds and then our medic, Bass, a man of tremendous courage, slowly crawled up to him and dragged him back out of danger. Poor Fag couldn't move. He just laid there quietly, saying nothing at all, although he was not unconscious. We just looked at him, feeling rather helpless. He didn't appear to be in pain—he just couldn't move. So now we had one blind man, one walking wounded man, two litter cases, no artillery support, and no machine gun, and with about 45 rifles we were facing about 500 Chinese soldiers.  
  Poor Fag laid there on the frozen ground for about 8 hours with very little complaint. Once or twice he begged us to take him down to the aid station, but when we told him that it was impossible, he accepted it like the real man that he was. I am happy to report that Fag made it to the States and fully recovered. But I will always remember what a macho man he turned out to be. Never let looks deceive you.  
  It was now about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Lt. Alexander was getting antsy because the Recon boys had not yet arrived. So he looked over at me and told me to go look for them. Well—! I can't say that I was one happy camper. I wouldn't have minded quite so much going out with somebody else. But to go alone was not my idea of how to spend a pleasant afternoon. As a matter of fact, it was downright scary.  
  With my insides churning with fear I left our position and started out to find the Recon Platoon. Everything was very, very quiet. I couldn't hear a sound. There seemed to be no more pot shooting.  
  I would go about 25 yards and then kneel down and peer around me looking for friend or foe. I went out for some distance with my heart pounding every step. I saw nothing and I heard nothing.  
  Suddenly I fell on my face and strained my eyes and ears. I could feel eyes on me. They were burning me. I had no doubt that there were one or two Chinese soldiers watching me, waiting for me to get closer. I laid there for about 3 minutes straining my eyes and ears. I still felt those eyes burning into me. But I couldn't see anyone.  
  Finally, I decided to go back. I began to crawl backwards little by little. With every movement I strained to see or hear anything. After I had pulled back about 25 yards into the woods, I rose up and backed farther away. Then I returned to my beloved ridge line with my wonderfully protective buddies. I told the lieutenant that I couldn't find them and breathed a long sigh of relief.  
  Now it was about 3 in the afternoon. We were surrounded as far as we knew and were told by radio to remain where we were until given further orders. The artillery observer asked the wounded runner if he would lead him down to the road and he agreed to do so. Lt. Alexander told them that if they were dumb enough to go alone, the blind leading the blind, so to speak, then go ahead. But he thought that they would be either killed or captured. Still our blind observer and our wounded runner both decided to go back down the draw to the road. The runner took a hold of the observers hand and led him down the draw out of sight. Miraculously, they made it fine. Either the Chinese weren't watching or they didn't want two wounded prisoners.  
  About an hour later the Recon boys found us and joined up with us to wait for orders to come down to the road. Soon it was getting dark and still no orders. We were not happy about the prospect of finding our way down to the road through 500 Chinese in the dark. Finally, after waiting for and expecting the Chinese to attack after darkness came, we received orders to come on down.  
  We loaded our wounded men on litters and started down the draw. We didn't know if we would be attacked while withdrawing but we were very nervous. It was impossible to be quiet going down that gully in the dark. There was slipping and sliding and cursing and falling and clattering. It must have sounded like a herd of elephants coming down that ravine. Maybe that is why the Chinese didn't attack us. Whatever the reason, we made it back without incident.  
  By the time that we arrived back to the company it was about 11 at night. There was a column of tanks waiting for us and we climbed on board. General Ridgway decided to pull us back about twelve miles to Wonju where we would make a stand. Apparently Wonju was the key to the Chinese plans and we, along with elements of the 2nd Division and a Dutch battalion, were going to hold it.  
  All night long we rode on those tanks. Since it was completely dark and we could use no lights, the going was very slow. We would go for five or ten minutes and then we would stop for twenty minutes. It was so very cold, probably about zero or less. We would crowd around the tank engine to get some warmth into our bodies, taking turns so that everybody would share in it. Those eight hours on those tanks were about as miserable as any eight hours we spent in Frozen Chosen.  
  Somewhere around two or three o'clock in the morning of the 14th we stopped again. I don't know why but everybody turned off their engines. Suddenly it was very silent. Then I heard somebody groaning and saying, "Oh, my leg, my leg!" Then he would begin to cry and scream. Some poor dogface laid down to rest and fell asleep with his leg sticking onto the road. A tank ran over it and cut off his foot. I don't know if he was a paratrooper or a dogface from the 2nd Division. I never heard. But I can still hear his screams.  
  The Bible says that there is no rest for the wicked and I have often wondered if hell is like that terrible tank ride that night. It seemed that we would never get where we were going. Often we would fall asleep on those tanks and wake up nearly falling off. Somebody would catch you as you were falling and raise you back up. The cold penetrated deep into our bones and turned us into numbness indescribable. I think that only a combat infantryman can understand what I am saying.  
  After we arrived at our new company position and were assigned our squad area, then we had to dig foxholes in frozen ground because it would not be long before the Chinese would catch up with us. It took us about four hours of constant digging to break that frozen earth so that we would have someplace to be safe from mortar and rifle fire. Finally, after being up for about 36 hours, walking several miles up and down a mountain, riding on a tank in sub-zero weather for about eight hours, hacking frozen earth for about four hours, and having nothing to eat for longer than I wanted to remember, I crawled into my foxhole and crashed.  
  Somewhere around midnight I was awakened to pull guard for two hours. I managed to open a can of frozen C-rations and eat it while on guard. I was so tired that I had to stand and walk around to keep from falling asleep. Finally, I walked over to another squad area to find out the time and came back, woke up my relief, and expired again until about seven in the morning of the 15th.  
  The life of the infantryman is made up of bad news, terrible news, and horrible news. This morning was no different. We were going on a company sized combat patrol. Now there are a lot of stupid things that the army does, but I can't think of anything more stupid than a combat patrol. You go out just to get into a fight---not to take ground or some objective that makes sense, but just to get into a fight. It sort of reminds me of a senseless barroom brawl. And that is what we were ordered to perhaps die for or suffer the loss of an eye or a limb for. Maybe a major or a colonel understands the purpose of a combat patrol but a simple corporal is too obtuse.  
  So the whole company lined up—three rifle platoons, the weapons platoon, four medium tanks from Support-Company, and a unit of 81mm mortars and a couple of jeep mounted 75 recoilless rifles from D-Company. And off we went to find the enemy and pick a fight with him. We marched for about three or four miles before we made contact. The Chinese were sitting on a hill that was about 300 feet high just waiting for us.  
  One of our rifle platoons got into a skirmish line and started across some frozen rice paddies. In the meantime, the tanks, the 75's, and the 81's were plastering the ridge line of the hill. The Chinese put up a little fight but we quickly kicked them off the hill. Of course, they merely ran back to the next hill and set up housekeeping. We got a few of their men and three of our men were killed and several were wounded. And for what?  
  By the time that I got to the top with my 57, the riflemen were lying on the ridge line exchanging shots with the Chinese on the next hill. One of the platoon leaders grabbed me and pointed out a possible target on the hill where our friendly Chinese had gone. So Walter Shearer (Ken was sick that day) loaded me and I fired a few rounds into those positions. Of course, I have no idea if there was anyone there. I merely shot where the lieutenant said.  
  Our company commander, Capt. Daniel Melvin and whoever else was involved in the decision-making process, decided that we should take that next hill also. (Ed. Note: Capt. Melvin and I (Leo Kocher) both served in the 511th PIR in Camp Haugen, Japan, thanks to that acquiescence; he requested that I serve under him in C-Co.187th ARCT.) So a squad of riflemen and my squad were ordered to take up positions on a finger that pointed toward that hill. Once again I must criticize this decision because this finger sloped downward and we were completely exposed to enemy fire with no place to take cover. Once out on that finger the enemy could pick us off easily if they were good marksmen. Fortunately they were not very good shots.  
  We followed the rifle squad down the sloping finger for about 25 yards. We hit the dirt and took what little cover we could find. I was standing up, leaning forward, peering across the open ground at the hill we wanted to take, looking for some target for my 57. It must have been about one o'clock in the afternoon.  
  Suddenly, I was spun around by a hammer-blow to my right forearm. I could actually feel the bone vibrate. The bullet went through my right forearm, cracking the radius and damaging the ulnar nerve. I immediately felt my hand and arm go numb up to the wound. I lost the use of the fingers on my right hand and I got rather excited. I screamed for a medic and somebody told me to calm down. I realized what a fool I was, because there was no way I would die from such a wound.  
  The medic, Bass came running up to me. He ripped up my sleeve and put a bandage on the entrance wound. I was lying down and he was kneeling beside me. I looked up at him and said, "Bass, you better get down or they'll get you." The Chinese were taking some pot shots at us. He laughed and replied, "Hey, they can't shoot me. It's against the Geneva Convention because I'm a non-combatant." The standard joke.  
  Just then I heard a noise, like a splat. I looked up at Bass and he was leaning over with his hands covering his face. He took his hands away and blood came gushing out of his mouth. I immediately yelled for another medic for him. Then somebody made the mistake of yelling for everybody on the finger to start shooting.  
  Well—that was a big mistake because we were wide open. Those Chinks suddenly opened fire on us. I saw little pine sprouts being cut down all around us by the hundreds of bullets being shot at us. Everybody but Bass and I were shooting at them and then SFC Gregg was hit. A bullet went into his forearm and clear up his arm and out his back. Then somebody else was hit.  
  There I was in a hail of bullets and unable to shoot back because I had lost the use of my right hand. I thought to myself, "What are you doing here?" So I jumped up and began to run up slope toward the ridge line. The Chinese must have seen me running and decided to see who could get me. The soil was gravelly and there was a little snow on it and I was running with all I had, kicking up gravel and snow like a snow plow.  
  Little geysers of gravel and snow were being kicked up and little pine sprouts were falling all around me. Literally a storm of bullets was flying around me—but miraculously, I was not hit. Above me on the ridge line my buddies were yelling encouragements to me as though I were a running back heading for the goal line. As I neared the top, I dove over the ridge to safety and my buddies applauded. Now it sounds very funny, but at that time it was life and death.  
  I made my way down to the aid station at the bottom of the hill. A medic asked if I had had a morphine shot and I said that I didn't think so. So he gave me one—but I must have received one from Bass before he was shot because I was soon flying very, very high.  
  I was standing there looking at the dead and wounded. I remember seeing four dead men and about six wounded men, besides us walking wounded. I looked at one young man that I knew rather well. He was lying on the ground in a sort of coma, deathly pale. I asked the medic if he was dead and he said no, but he told me that he was in shock, although he only had a flesh wound in the thigh. I found out later that he died about an hour later.  
  While I was standing there, a platoon walked by me looking very sad. They were going to attack that next hill. By this time I was feeling no pain and I said, "Have fun, guys!" They just looked at me with big humorless eyes. I remember laughing at them and seeing hatred in their eyes. (I'm so sorry fellas, I was drunk on that morphine.)  
  About that time somebody came up to me and said, "Hey, Wolfe, Craft is dead!" I was rather hazy from the morphine and it didn't soak in what he said. So he repeated it. I looked up at the hill and saw two men carrying Cpl. Donald Craft, from Buffalo, NY, down the hill. I watched them go up to a trailer attached to a jeep and toss him in like just so much meat. I collapsed and started to bawl like a baby.  
  Craft! Craft who seemed almost indestructible! He was a giant of a man and as tough as they come, so how could they kill him. Me, yes, but not him. I loved Craft like a brother. I had shared many a hard situation with him—and now I would see him no more. I was crushed. He had been lying on the firing line and a Chinese bullet hit him in the throat and cut his jugular vein. He died within three minutes. It was as though he just went to sleep. He closed his eyes and passed out of this life. In my mind he was a hero of Homeric proportions, never to be forgotten.  
  At that moment my mind was taken away from my terrible loss by the return of that attacking platoon. They had been cut to ribbons. Quite a number of them were wounded. So much for this wonderful combat patrol.  
  It was finally decided that we had hurt them enough with this combat patrol, (ha, ha) and now we had to get out of there. So they lined up the jeeps with their trailers filled with wounded and dead and prepared to race across about 300 yards of open ground on the road back home. There we were, lined up like sprinters ready for the starting gun and the tanks and jeep mounted 75 recoilless rifles ready to go out into the open and hammer the Chinese until we had crossed to safety.  
  Fortunately, I was in a "what, me worry" frame of mind because of the morphine or I would have been quite nervous. But as it was, I thought it was all great fun. At a signal from the captain the tanks and the 75 recoilless jeeps roared out into the open and began to pound that hill. Our convoy burnt rubber and sped across the open ground as fast as a jeep pulling a trailer could. The bullets zinged all around us like buzzing bees. Somehow we made it across that open ground without a single wound. Truly amazing!  
  I was taken back to the regimental aid station and then placed on a C-54 and flown to Taegu and put in the 4th Field Hospital. Three days later I was sent to an army hospital in Osaka, Japan, where a cast was placed on my arm. After the cast was removed, I was given physical therapy because I still could not use my fingers. Then I was placed on limited duty for some time because they didn't know what to do with me. The doctors didn't understand nerve injuries back in those days.  
  While in the hospital at Osaka, I went to the army hospital in Kobe to see an old friend. And who should I see there but my good friend and medic, Bass. The bullet that hit him went through his head without hitting a bone. It entered his left eye without damaging the eye and passed out the back of his head and neck. He healed up and returned to the outfit long before I even got out of the hospital with my arm wound. Will wonders ever cease?  
  Eventually, after almost two years, it was recognized that my fingers would always be numb because of the damage to the nerve and I was given a medical discharge. Thus ended my military career and my combat life. Those three days near Wonju changed the direction of my life.  
  After leaving the service I went to college and then to graduate school and eventually became a professor of physics and mathematics. Ten years later while I was a professor at Indiana State, I had a powerful conversion experience. So for the last 46 years I have been a Christian minister, a foreign missionary and a pastor of a church. And now I am old and spend moments, from time to time, remembering those days and my old friends.  
  Well, this is my tale of three days near Wonju. My tale is no different than that of many others. I just happen to be alive to tell it. On that fateful day of 15 Feb 51, US forces lost 132 killed in action and about 500 wounded. Not the worst day on record in Korea, but bad enough. But for me, I lost one of the finest friends that I have ever had.  
  So I end this tale by saluting Donald Craft and all of the other courageous men that gave their lives in that far away land.  (Ed. Note: the author, James G. Wolfe had previously served in SVC-511th PIR at Fort Campbell, KY, Donald Craft had previously served in C-511th PIR following WWII at Camp Haugen, Japan and in Fort Campbell, KY.  Lupe Contreras was KIA on 5/29/1951 during the battle of Inje in South Korea.)  James G. Wolfe passed away on Oct. 12, 2016.  
  Wolfe's-Big Red
  James is shown here with his second love "Big Red."  After leaving Indiana State, he transported  
  goods across the USA for 10 years with "Big Red," experiencing a high in his life.