Near Tay Ninh, Vietnam, November 4, 1966: A soldier stands amid swirling dust from a helicopter arriving to evacuate the wounded after the 1st Battalion, 27th Infantry, 25th Infantry Division came under heavy Viet Cong fire during Operation Attleboro. KIM KI SAM/STARS AND STRIPES

Members of a rifle platoon ready themselves in the field during the Vietnam War. This is one of nearly 2,000 photographs shot by photographer Charlie Haughey, a member of the Army 25th Infantry division, between 1968 and 1969. When he returned home, the photographs were boxed up for the next 40 years, only now being rediscovered, digitized, and made available to the public. (© Charlie Haughey)

Paratroopers with Chaos Troop, 1st Squadron, 40th Cavalry Regiment, 4th Infantry Brigade Combat Team (Airborne), 25th Infantry Division, move to their assembly area after parachuting into Deadhorse, Alaska, Feb. 25, 2014, as part of the Spartan Brigade’s training for rapid insertion into any environment in the Pacific. This is the first time the Spartan Brigade has conducted operations north of the Arctic Circle.

John Dittmann ©Stars and Stripes
South Vietnam, September, 1967: A soldier from the 2nd Battalion, 14th Infantry pauses during a 25th Infantry Division, 1st Brigade helicopter assault just south of the Ho Bo Woods. Three companies swept north from the landing zone to clear the area and assess bomb damage from a B-52 raid earlier in the day. One of the companies, trailing as a reaction force, was ambushed and engaged in a 45-minute fire fight.

VIETNAM. 1968-1969. Members of a rifle platoon ready themselves in the field. 

Charlie Haughey was drafted into the US Army in 1967, and served a tour of duty in Vietnam with the 25th Infantry Division 2nd Battalion 12th Infantry, as a rifleman. While serving as a point-man for a rifle company, Charlie was commissioned to be the new battalion photographer, and ended up shooting nearly 2,000 poignant photos over the course of 13 months while he served with his rifle company.

Photograph: Charlie Haughey


A Kiowa Warrior helicopter hovers during the United States and South Korean Joint live fire Exercise at Rodriguez Range on April 11, 2014 in Pocheon, South Korea. This is a part of annual joint Combined Forces Command and U.S. Forces Korea training exercise known as Foal Eagle, participated by approximately 7,500 forces, intended to prepare the South Korean defence force for any potential action from North Korea.

Spc. Derrick Penninger, 3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division fires his M240B machine gun during Operation Raider Pillage April 24 on Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, in preparation for the Bronco Brigades upcoming exercise, Bronco Rumble. The IED lanes are used with virtual systems simultaneously to complete full motion exercises. U.S. Army.
photo by 1st Lt. Garrett Nash


Lets start the week with a Bang. 

VIETNAM. 1968-1969. A formation of helicopters from the 116th Division “Hornets”.

Charlie Haughey was drafted into the US Army in 1967, and served a tour of duty in Vietnam with the 25th Infantry Division 2nd Battalion 12th Infantry, as a rifleman. While serving as a point-man for a rifle company, Charlie was commissioned to be the new battalion photographer, and ended up shooting nearly 2,000 poignant photos over the course of 13 months while he served with his rifle company.

Photograph: Charlie Haughey

Soldiers assigned to U.S. Army Alaska’s 425th Brigade Special Troops Battalion airdropped a Humvee on JBER’s Malamute Drop Zone, followed by approximately 60 paratroopers from a C-17 aircraft, Wednesday, April 17, 2013. The paratroopers of the 4th Brigade Combat Team (Airborne) 25th Infantry Division recently completed post-deployment RESET, and are transitioning the brigade to assuming part of the quick reaction force mission for the Pacific theater. (U.S. Air Force photo/Justin Connaher)

IRAQ. Nineveh governorate. Tal Afar. January 18, 2005. Samar Hassan, 5, screams after her parents were killed by U.S. soldiers from the 25th Infantry Division. The troops fired on the Hassan family car when it unwittingly approached them during a dusk patrol. Parents Camilla and Hussein Hassan were killed instantly, and a son Raccan, 11, was seriously wounded in the abdomen. Racan, paralysed form the waist down, was latter treated in the U.S.

Chris Hondros was with an army unit when its soldiers killed the parents of this blood-spattered girl at a checkpoint, and his photo was published around the world. Mr. Hondros was kicked out of the unit, though he soon became embedded with a unit in another city.

The following is an excerpt written by Chris Hondros about his photograph. The writing was pulled from his laptop recovered after he was killed on assignment in Libya. 

“At six in Tal Afar, it isn’t yet quite dark. A gloom hung over the roads and alleys with just a little dark blue light from the sky. No one was out. As we made our way up a broad boulevard, in the distance I could see a car making its way toward us. With all the relentless car bombings in Iraq, groups of soldiers are understandably nervous about any cars that approach them, and they do not allow private cars to breech the perimeter of their foot patrols, particularly at night. 

"We have a car coming,“ someone called out, as we entered an intersection. We could see the car about a 100 meters down but I doubt if it could see us—it would be hard to see this group of darkly camouflaged men in the gloom. That already gave me a bad feeling about what might conspire, so I moved over to the side of the road, out of anyone’s line of fire. The car continued coming; I couldn’t see it anymore from my perch but could hear its engine now, a high whine that sounded more like acceleration than slowing down. It was maybe 50 yards away now. “Stop that car!” someone shouted out, seemingly simultaneously with someone firing what sounded like warning shots—a staccato measured burst. The car continued coming. And then perhaps less than a second later a cacophony of fire, shots rattling off in a chaotic overlapping din. The car entered the intersection on its momentum and still shots were penetrating it and slicing it. Finally the shooting stopped, the car drifted listlessly, clearly no longer being steered, and came to a rest on a curb. I stared at it in shocked silence. Soldiers began to approach it warily. The sound of children crying came from the car, and my worst fears were instantly realized. I walked up to the car and a teenaged girl with her head covered emerged from the back, wailing and gesturing wildly. After her came a boy, tumbling onto the ground from the seat, already leaving a pool of blood. “Civilians!” someone shouted, along with a stream of epithets, and soldiers ran up. More children—it ended up being six all told—started emerging, crying, their faces mottled with blood in long streaks. The troops carried them all off to a nearby sidewalk. It was by now almost completely dark. There, working only by lights mounted on ends of their rifles, an Army medic began assessing the children’s injuries, running his hands up and down their bodies like he was frisking them, looking for wounds. Incredibly, the only injuries were a girl with a cut hand and a boy with a superficial gash in the small of his back that was bleeding heavily but wasn’t life-threatening. The medic immediately began to bind it, while the boy crouched against a wall, his face showing more fear than pain. From the sidewalk I could see into the bullet-mottled windshield more clearly, and even my hardened nerves gave a start—the driver of the car, a man, was penetrated by so many bullets that his skull had collapsed, leaving his body grotesquely disfigured. A woman also lay dead in the front, still covered in her Muslim clothing and harder to see. Body bags were found and soldiers grimly set about placing the two bodies in them. 
 Meanwhile, the children continued to wail and scream, huddled against a wall, sandwiched between soldiers either binding their wounds or trying to comfort them. The Army’s translator later told me that this was a Turkoman family and that the teenage girl kept shouting, “Why did they shoot us? We have no weapons! We were just going home!“
 There was a small delay in getting the armored vehicles lined up and ready, and soon the convoy moved to the main Tal Afar hospital. It was fairly large and surprisingly well outfitted, with sober-looking doctors in white coats ambling about its sea-green halls. The young children were carried in by soldiers and by their teenaged sister. Only the boy with the gash on his back needed any further medical attention, and the Army medic and an Iraqi doctor quickly chatted over his prognosis. "Oh, this will be okay,” the Iraqi doctor said in broken English, roughly pulling the skin on the edge of the wound, causing the boy to howl. “We will take care of him fine.” The unit’s captain, Thomas Siebold, was adamant that the children be kept in a waiting room when the body bags, which were waiting outside on gurneys, were brought through the doors to be taken to the morgue. “They’ve seen enough,” he said. “I don’t want them seeing any more tonight.” I thought of Seibold’s office where I’d met up with him earlier, and the picture of his smiling 5-year-old daughter filling the entire desktop of his computer at his desk.”

Photograph: Chris Hondros/Getty Images