A Vet’s Story – William T. Harris III

Desert Storm hotline manager

The home of Col. William T. Harris III is inviting as the reporter walks onto the well-lighted porch to ring the doorbell. The screen door opens, and the colonel, wearing a t-shirt and shorts on this humid day, lets the reporter in.

The cream-colored carpet offsets the dignified nature of the decorations around. Chinese vases, volumes of thousands of stamps, paintings on the walls, and a lobster trap serving as a coffee table show evidence of his interest in travel. A social cat, named Mrs. Pussycat, purrs around the reporter’s feet, her big green eyes looking up expectantly.

Harris joined the armed forces when he was 23. The year was 1964 and Harris, freshly graduated from Tufts University with a BS in mechanical engineering, was drafted. The Vietnam War was beginning around him.

Harris knew he was going to be drafted when he graduated. “Back in those days, you had the opportunity to go into the reserve system or National Guard,” he said.

“I felt it was my obligation. I wasn’t particularly happy. When I got my letter, I had no choice.” When a man got his draft letter he had only so many days to report.

Harris chose to join the Pennsylvania National Guard because he was working in a prosperous job as an engineer for Mack Trucks, one of the largest truck manufacturers at the time. He decided it advantageous to stay at the job and join the National Guard. Although the Vietnam War officially started in 1961, according to Harris, the actual buildup of troops there began around 1965.

Harris remembers the weekend before he was supposed to begin duty in the reserve. On a Friday night during the weekend before he was supposed to start, his friends and family gave him a going-away party that he had to leave in the middle of..

“It was around 7 or 7:15, and there was a practice alert that very night. So I had to leave the night of my leaving party. That evening while I was at Kutztown my friends were back at home having a good time.”

According to Harris, these alerts were made to prepare the troops to be mobilized in case they were needed.

Harris attended Officer Candidate School for one year beginning in 1967. He learned character building first and foremost. He learned exercises, leadership skills, how to dress “squared away,” and how to make decisions under pressure. He realized early on that nothing anybody in the class could do would put him in a good light in the instructor’s eyes.

“Nobody could win. Everybody’s trained to work under pressure,” he said. Justifying the pressure, he said, “You have to learn from your mistakes, because mistakes cost lives.”

Recounting his experience, he explained that there were little things he learned that made the experience easier for him. For instance, when going to eat and standing in the “chow line,” Harris always chose something easy and quick to eat, like a sandwich. While the officers in training were eating, there were allowed only to do just that: no talking, no looking around, no slouching in chairs. Harris reasoned that the quicker he ate, the quicker he could get out.

Harris remembers standing in the chow line, watching other officers in training take foods like salad and soup, foods that could be really messy, and thinking how much of an upper hand he had and how much unnecessary pressure they were subjecting themselves to.

According to Harris, most quit. The pressure was, indeed, high. According to Harris, it began the moment people got out of their cars.

Out of an original class of 240, only 110 officers graduated. According to Harris, most quit. Harris was one who graduated, “You have to really want it like anything else.”

Around the same time that he was serving in the National Guard and going to OCS, Harris was a reporter for The Morning Call and The Evening Chronicle in Allentown. He worked as a sports reporter for six months, then a general reporter with hospital and police beats. “Those three years probably set the foundation for me in terms of writing. My experience at the Morning Call dictated the rest of my 25 to 30 years in the military,” he said.

Harris got married to his third wife in 1990, the weekend before he had to leave to go to Washington. He couldn’t have a decent honeymoon then and had to postpone it to as much as a year afterward.

Harris explained that his occupations in the military and civilian worlds were very much alike, and he did a lot of writing in each.

After various positions and periods of active and inactive duty, Harris worked a year of active duty at the Pentagon. He was Deputy Chief of Community Relations at the Pentagon during Desert Storm. He was in charge of a toll free hotline that people could call to see if their sons or daughters were OK. The department handled all calls itself.

According to Harris, Desert Storm had 400,000 army soldiers in the “theater of operations,” or the battlefield. Once the war began, Harris said there were 10,000 calls every hour 24 hours a day.

“The lights on the switchboard were lit up all the time. When you were done talking you just had to click and somebody else would already be on the line.”

Harris said the hotline received calls from wives, husbands, and mistresses.

Harris said that most of the people that called just wanted someone to listen to their problems. Part of the job was listening to problems, and part of it was confirming that a soldier was deployed. The hotline was not allowed to reveal where exactly the soldier was for security reasons, but mailing addresses were provided so packages could be sent.

Harris was surprised when callers would tell call receivers information they didn’t know. One woman was told by her husband who was a soldier that some of the military police were getting through the war without body armor.

Both active duty personnel and volunteers helped, but had to go through training before they started. Many a time, a person called threatening to commit suicide. Harris and his staff had to be prepared for such situations. Phone call receivers were allowed to be on the line for a maximum of two hours so as to prevent desensitization to the calls.

Harris said the lines eventually had to be open 24 hours because soldiers fighting in the war were from bases all over the world, including Japan and Germany.

After his 30 odd years in the military, Harris is retired at 62. While he said there is no direct correlation between his hotline experience and his presidency of the Lehigh Valley Military Affairs Council, his experiences during Desert Storm did reinforce his belief that families of soldiers need help.

The idea for the Council was originally Maj. Nathan Kline’s, a World War II veteran. He, Harris, and Maj. Herb Farnsler, a Vietnam veteran, worked together to make the idea a reality. Harris knows that when a soldier is deployed, it’s very rough on the family left behind, both emotionally and financially. Harris said that there are 60,000 veterans in the Lehigh Valley, and he feels it crucial that their achievements be known.

“It's important that the rest of the community should know of their accomplishments and sacrifices, and should be actively involved in supporting them,” he said.

Currently Harris is also on the board of directors of the Allentown Fair. His future plans are to be Gen. Wesley Clark’s public relations aid in the upcoming election year.

Mrs. Pussycat walks back into the room. Purring loudly, she rubs her body in an appeal for petting. All around are the treasures Harris has picked up from his military and civilian travels. His wife of 13 years is heard shuffling in the kitchen, talking on the phone of upcoming plans to vacation with her husband. The merging of his military and civilian lives is evident and a comfortable success.

Kathrin Klenshteyn is a junior at Lehigh University. Her hometown is Los Angeles.