Guardians at the Gate:
Nearing A Century of the U.S. Border Patrol
Welcome to a journey through a century of the United States Border Patrol, an organization that has stood as a guardian at the gates of our nation. This page, generously provided by Mr. Joseph Banco, Chairman of the Board of Directors for the Fraternal Order of Retired Border Patrol Officers, offers a deep dive into the history, experiences, and camaraderie of the Border Patrol officers. As we approach the 100th anniversary of the U.S. Border Patrol in 2024, we reflect on the words of former Chief Nick Collaer and the legacy of the Border Patrol. The stories may change through the years, but the fellowship and camaraderie continue. We invite you to explore this rich history and gain a deeper understanding of the men and women who have dedicated their lives to uphold the honor of our nation.
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As we look forward to the celebration of the 100th Anniversary of the United States Border Patrol in 2024, I thought it would be appropriate to reflect on the words of former Chief of the U.S. Border Patrol Nick Collaer from May 28, 1949, as we were preparing to celebrate the 25th Anniversary of the United States Border Patrol.
Reading his words published in the U.S. Immigration-Naturalization Officer’s Association’s quarterly magazine Guardian At The Gate, I cannot but help feel that he was foretelling the 1978 birth of our esteemed organization, the Fraternal Order of Border Patrol Officers, and the stories told as we gather together at our annual conventions or numerous sit downs across this Great Nation when a few of us break bread and hoist a toast to friends past and present. Of the bonds and experiences that we share as part of this family we call the United States Border Patrol. The stories may change through the years, but our fellowship and camaraderie continue. As our Articles of Organization state, FORBPO is an organization created in order to preserve the unique spirit of the Border Patrol, and to perpetuate the loyalties and friendships which accrued to us during our active service. Thank you for being a part of this great Legacy! Joseph Banco Chairman, Board of Directors Fraternal Order of Retired Border Patrol Officers |
Guardian at the Gate, May, 1949
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Nick Collaer's Reflections: A Tribute to the U.S. Border Patrol Legacy
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It was most thoughtful of the officers of our association to dedicate the May issue of the Guardian of the Gate to honoring the "outfield" of the Immigration and Naturalization Service enforcement team. I like to think of our Service as a great ball team.
The opportunity afforded me to reminisce a little in writing upon the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the BORDER PATROL (as presently organized) is appreciated. If we could but assemble those thousands of officers who so capably performed duty in the "outfield" between 1904 and May 28, 1924 - the Mounted Inspectors, Mounted Watchmen, Mounted Guards and Immigrant Inspectors and since 1924, Patrol Inspectors -- in one large group at, say, a steak-fry in Arizona; a fish-fry in the State of Washington; a Chinese pheasant roast in Dakota or at a venison feast in the Maine woods, what an interesting group of individuals it would be. What interesting conversations one would hear. It would most certainly be a field day for any writer who avidly seeks the interesting, venturesome, romantic, spectacular, humorous and the tragic! |
Nicolas Donald Collaer, 7th Chief of the Border Patrol, 1948-1950
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On such a day all things official would be left outside the confines of the picnic grounds. All things contributing to the merriment of the occasion would be brought in, even before the chow-line formed. We could walk from group and listen to stories, many of which would be difficult to match-up with the official reports from present files or from those long since buried in the archives.
Upon call of the toastmaster, we would doubtless see old men and young stand rigidly at attention in silent tribute to those forty absent teammates who lost their lives on their last patrol at the hands of border and other outlaws, as well as those who otherwise have passed over the Great Divide.
The true spirit of the Service team prevails at this gathering; that "team spirit" which has made history for our enforcement in the Federal Enforcement League. Some of the players are apparently over the age for sustained physical exertion such as is required for most positions on the team, but upon inquiry we learn that they are now of the management or are trainers of rookie players. Their past practical experience in playing many positions on the team ideally qualifies them for such duties. Others are engaged in securing replacements, securing necessary equipment, digesting the rules of the game and other important activities, all related to the winning of games.
As we walk from group to group at this huge picnic, we hear many anecdotes related with such preambles as: "I had to laugh...," "That reminds me...," "Do you remember the time...," "You missed a lot of fun when...," "I'll never forget the time...," "You should have been with us...," etc., etc.
One celebrant - of Mounted Watchman, Mounted Guard or early Patrol Inspector vintage - is heard to relate: "We took after the Cadillac with our old Model T, hoping against hope that he would run out of gas and believe it or not he did!" Another relates a keen disappointment, winding up by stating: "We were plenty sore when all four of our tires went flat - that... had thrown about ten pounds of roofing nails on the road." Another spoke up, "I know how you felt. We were chasing a smuggler once who went through a cattle fence and placed a chain and padlock on the gate as he went through. He got away that time but we caught him later and he laughingly asked me who had the padlock, that he still had the key." Not to be outdone a younger man then relates: "We landed the Stinson close to where we'd seen them. They hid in some thick brush and we couldn't find them. So, I told Jim to hide and I'd act as though we were flying off. When the plane got out of sight, here they come and Jim grabbed them. They were surprised." Another then tells of outwitting 'El Airoplano,' a Mexican smuggler who earned his nickname because of his sprinting ability: 'El Airoplano' used to cross in plain sight of the international bridge about noon each day. He never wore any clothes and was he fast! The spotters were so efficient that we could not nab him. At that point on our side of the river there was a pipe from which warm water from a laundry ran into the Rio Grande and the hoboes used to go there from the nearby railroad yards to wash up. 'El Airoplano' never paid no mind to those hoboes so we let a couple of the fellows work nights until they had pretty good beards, put them with bundles on a freight train west of town and had them go to the river ostensibly to wash up. It was funny to see 'El Airoplano' pass right by them and watch them nab him. For a long time no smuggler would cross there while anybody was washing up."
Other remarks overheard would probably go something like this: "He covered his license plates with oil and sprinkled dust on them so we could not grab his number," "It was Six-Shooter Nell's load," "You should have seen his face when we went up to him after he hit the spiked board," "He had his hand on a handkerchief on the front seat beside him and when John told him to put them up--open--and grabbed the handkerchief, sure enough there was the 38 automatic cocked with the safety off." "The only thing that saved me from getting it in the belly was his not knowing how to take the safety off that Luger."
In a corner by themselves sit three older officers one of whom is telling a story as we arrive: "Bert never had a chance. As I pulled the car up beside where they had stopped, and as Bert was stepping out, he got it through the head - the bullet striking immediately above the center of the car door. Jose Estrada (they called him 'Firpo') was driving and Fidel Ortega (who claimed to be an Oklahoma Indian) sat with 'Firpo' on the front seat. We learned later that Jose leaned forward while Fidel laid his carbine across his back and shot Bert. I did not see the rifle protrude from the car and I'm sure that Bert didn't either. I fell out of the car on the opposite side and stepped around the back from where I could 'pour the soup' to them as they drove down Piedras. I did not know until later that one of my shots through the back of the cap had killed Firpo, another had gone through Fidel's head but did not kill him and that others sprinkled Ramon Rico (who was in the back seat with the liquor) with fragments from the car body. He thought that he had been shot with bird-shot and sure looked it." We recognize this as a succinct narration of the murder of Patrol Inspector Bert G. Walthal, one of forty of our teammates who lost their lives at the hands of border underworld characters.
Moving closer to the chow-line we hear a youngish officer ask one graying around the temples: "Was the smuggler who killed Lon Parker ever caught?" The laconic reply is, "Not at that time – he died later of heart failure." Another officer, identified as an old Mounted Guard, is telling a story about getting a letter of commendation from the Central Office: "I was complimented for not shooting a smuggler. Jake took one side of a dry wash while I took the other while trailing this fellow. I decided to 'cut sign' across his trail to be sure we had not passed him. When I rode through the brush to the wash there, he stood with rifle ready. He had heard me as I came through the brush. I didn't have time to turn my horse Smokey and get under cover so I kicked Smokey in the ribs and jumped at the smuggler, kicking him in the jaw as I went by. Later another fellow heard him tell a fellow prisoner while in line entering court at Tucson, 'Gee that fellow (pointing at me) has a terrible wallop,' at the same time holding up his right fist. 'He never knew what hit him and the Central Office never learned that the only reason I didn't kill him was because I was too busy at the time.'
While we stand in line with our paper plates and cups, we get a good laugh with one of the old patrol inspectors who states: "I had never been outside New York City when I reported for duty. I knew nothing about animals except alley cats, dogs and a few broken-down horses. Since my early education consisted mostly of what I had learned trying to help make a living for the family, there was a lot I had not read. When John pointed to one ranch and said, 'they raise goats on that ranch and sheep on the other over the hill,' I felt that he was trying to impose on me and replied, 'Don't kid me cowboy, just because I'm an Easterner – I know that a goat is a male sheep.' Another former rookie spoke up with, 'Yeah, that reminds me of the time that Frank informed me that his horse 'broke in two.' I thought for a long time that he was one of the fanciest liars I had ever met.
Yes, we are having a field day! As we get up to the grub, an officer from Maine asks for tea. One from Texas asks that all three paper cups he is carrying be filled with black coffee and says to the tea drinker, 'I don't see how in hell you can ever catch anything drinking that stuff.' He gets the reply, 'partner, a spot of hot tea is nothing to be scoffed at when you're out in twenty-below on snowshoes with forty miles to go.' Another, from Arizona, speaks up: 'Hell, Carl knows what good coffee is – they don't have Palo Fierro (Iron Wood) to cook it over down in the Rio Grande.' Such good-natured banter is constant. One tells about a kicking horse: 'Why, the critter could kick twice before you hit the ground.' Another says, 'I was whistling 'Little Joe the Wrangler' or some other tune and he was humming some tune from an opera – he sure liked opera – when wham! They started busting caps at us.'
As we choose a place to sit to eat, those ahead of us in the chow-line are already going strong. We arrive at a group just in time to hear, 'The boss told me to stop all street cars returning from Juarez, for most of the 16 smugglers had run to this side after Melton was killed. I went through each car, and from one, a fellow who looked suspicious jumped off the front end as I got on the back. He was making knots for Mexico when I yelled to the bridge toll-collector, 'stop that man' and just about that time the smuggler ran into a piece of pipe which the toll-collector conveniently held in his hand. It was of course all the smuggler's fault that he got hurt. He should have watched where he was going. His head was cut so we took him to the police surgeon who shaved his head and sewed the cut. He then gave the smuggler a glass full of Epsom salts saying, 'I just gave you a dose of truth-telling medicine. When you get him to the Chief tell him this fellow in about a half-hour will think he is going to die, but he won't, and that is the time to get the truth out of him.' It worked! The smuggler was not in the gang that killed Melton, he had smuggled a load of liquor the night before and had to admit it.'
We empty our paper plates and return to the line for seconds. The food sure is good! One of the boys who is serving is telling another about a rookie who failed to make the grade – was dropped during his probationary period: 'I never saw such a fellow. He ate three-fourths of the food in camp, wasted half of the water in the canteens and was always busy combing his hair, polishing his fingernails or shaving when there was wood to get, cooking to do or dishes to wash. He was a deadbeat of the first water. When we were laying on the line, he'd cough if he thought anything was coming across. He thought that he was God's gift to women. After he was dropped, I learned he could REALLY sing. On many long nights since then around the campfires I have wished that I had passed him and kept him as a pet – just to sing to me.' Another said, 'Yes, that reminds me of the one who knew he was failing to make good and used the threat of a 'little black book' to try'n keep the fellows from making bum reports about him. Of course, the Chief learned about his big talk and asked him about the 'black book' but he'd nothing to say. The Chief also told the district director and after he was dropped the D. D. asked him about it. He said, 'you know, those men go to Mexico and follow the smugglers into the United States and catch them.' The D. D. said, 'You don't say; do they always take them into custody in the U. S.?' To which he replied, 'Yes, but it's unfair to those smugglers,' whereupon the D. D. told him: 'What do you know about that, twenty-five years ago when I worked the line we did the same thing and it worked and to think that some of the same tactics still work today is simply marvelous! He went on his way feeling that he had been 'let down' but he had merely been 'let out.'"
While we walk around picking our teeth, we pass close to one group of about twenty-five men, old and young, and note that most of them had competed in the pistol matches earlier in the day. We recognize among this group individuals and groups of officers who have made shooting history in competition with the best hand-gun and rifle shots in the United States. It would be very interesting to learn from the lips of these sportsmen about some of the outstanding shoots in which they have, with credit to their entire team, participated, but we note that it is getting late and that some of the boys are beginning to leave. Many hold important positions in their communities in church, civic, fraternal, and military organizations.
As we go home, we realize more fully than ever how privileged we are to serve on such a splendid team with such forthright, wholesome, and loyal MEN. We realize why the thousands of enemy aliens could have been transported and guarded under such supervision without a single escape through World War II. We realize the mettle of these men who patrolled from July 1, 1924, to June 30, 1948, close to one hundred and eighty-six million miles along the borders of our great country, night and day, rain and shine. Eight million four hundred thousand of the miles were covered afoot, over desert sands, through mud, swamp areas, or on snowshoes. We realize more fully the importance of their work; the contribution made by them to the overall welfare of their country, when we consider that during these twenty-four years, they took into custody nine hundred and thirty-eight thousand, four hundred and eighty-four law violators - about nine hundred thousand for violations of our immigration laws and thirty-eight thousand for violations of other federal, state, and municipal laws. We realize too that these dry statistics do not tell of the murderers, cattle rustlers, robbers, and other dangerous criminals taken nor of the number of lives saved from fires, accidents, death from thirst in the deserts, or from freezing in northern blizzards. No, the story of the Border Patrol, the "outfielders" of the U. S. Immigration and Naturalization Service enforcement team - has never been and probably never will be told in its entirety.
As you may suppose, Tom, my reminiscences have brought to mind many, many interesting people and events. It has been fun!
Before closing, please permit me, through the medium of the Guardian of the Gate, to send greetings to all those who are playing on our "team," as well as to the team alumni, all of whom form a grand fraternity brought about through close association in playing a most interesting game and in sharing the difficulties and personal dangers associated therewith.
To the Border Patrol "rookies" I should like to say, "Welcome to probationary membership in the finest law-enforcement organization in this or any other country! You have cleared several hurdles so far in demonstrating your qualifications for permanent membership; a few still remain. If you have the intestinal fortitude which all your teammates hope and believe you possess, you will succeed. If for any reason whatsoever you should feel that it will be difficult or impossible for you to live up to the high standards of the Border Patrol - best exemplified by its chosen motto or watchword HONOR FIRST – resign now, for it will be but a matter of time until you are separated. On the other hand, if you feel that you can and will make good, you will find all of your teammates ready and willing to extend to you a helping hand. Every success to you in your chosen field - the 'outfield' of the USI&N Service team!
With best wishes for the continued success of yourself and other officers of our Association.
Sincerely,
NICK D. COLLAER
Upon call of the toastmaster, we would doubtless see old men and young stand rigidly at attention in silent tribute to those forty absent teammates who lost their lives on their last patrol at the hands of border and other outlaws, as well as those who otherwise have passed over the Great Divide.
The true spirit of the Service team prevails at this gathering; that "team spirit" which has made history for our enforcement in the Federal Enforcement League. Some of the players are apparently over the age for sustained physical exertion such as is required for most positions on the team, but upon inquiry we learn that they are now of the management or are trainers of rookie players. Their past practical experience in playing many positions on the team ideally qualifies them for such duties. Others are engaged in securing replacements, securing necessary equipment, digesting the rules of the game and other important activities, all related to the winning of games.
As we walk from group to group at this huge picnic, we hear many anecdotes related with such preambles as: "I had to laugh...," "That reminds me...," "Do you remember the time...," "You missed a lot of fun when...," "I'll never forget the time...," "You should have been with us...," etc., etc.
One celebrant - of Mounted Watchman, Mounted Guard or early Patrol Inspector vintage - is heard to relate: "We took after the Cadillac with our old Model T, hoping against hope that he would run out of gas and believe it or not he did!" Another relates a keen disappointment, winding up by stating: "We were plenty sore when all four of our tires went flat - that... had thrown about ten pounds of roofing nails on the road." Another spoke up, "I know how you felt. We were chasing a smuggler once who went through a cattle fence and placed a chain and padlock on the gate as he went through. He got away that time but we caught him later and he laughingly asked me who had the padlock, that he still had the key." Not to be outdone a younger man then relates: "We landed the Stinson close to where we'd seen them. They hid in some thick brush and we couldn't find them. So, I told Jim to hide and I'd act as though we were flying off. When the plane got out of sight, here they come and Jim grabbed them. They were surprised." Another then tells of outwitting 'El Airoplano,' a Mexican smuggler who earned his nickname because of his sprinting ability: 'El Airoplano' used to cross in plain sight of the international bridge about noon each day. He never wore any clothes and was he fast! The spotters were so efficient that we could not nab him. At that point on our side of the river there was a pipe from which warm water from a laundry ran into the Rio Grande and the hoboes used to go there from the nearby railroad yards to wash up. 'El Airoplano' never paid no mind to those hoboes so we let a couple of the fellows work nights until they had pretty good beards, put them with bundles on a freight train west of town and had them go to the river ostensibly to wash up. It was funny to see 'El Airoplano' pass right by them and watch them nab him. For a long time no smuggler would cross there while anybody was washing up."
Other remarks overheard would probably go something like this: "He covered his license plates with oil and sprinkled dust on them so we could not grab his number," "It was Six-Shooter Nell's load," "You should have seen his face when we went up to him after he hit the spiked board," "He had his hand on a handkerchief on the front seat beside him and when John told him to put them up--open--and grabbed the handkerchief, sure enough there was the 38 automatic cocked with the safety off." "The only thing that saved me from getting it in the belly was his not knowing how to take the safety off that Luger."
In a corner by themselves sit three older officers one of whom is telling a story as we arrive: "Bert never had a chance. As I pulled the car up beside where they had stopped, and as Bert was stepping out, he got it through the head - the bullet striking immediately above the center of the car door. Jose Estrada (they called him 'Firpo') was driving and Fidel Ortega (who claimed to be an Oklahoma Indian) sat with 'Firpo' on the front seat. We learned later that Jose leaned forward while Fidel laid his carbine across his back and shot Bert. I did not see the rifle protrude from the car and I'm sure that Bert didn't either. I fell out of the car on the opposite side and stepped around the back from where I could 'pour the soup' to them as they drove down Piedras. I did not know until later that one of my shots through the back of the cap had killed Firpo, another had gone through Fidel's head but did not kill him and that others sprinkled Ramon Rico (who was in the back seat with the liquor) with fragments from the car body. He thought that he had been shot with bird-shot and sure looked it." We recognize this as a succinct narration of the murder of Patrol Inspector Bert G. Walthal, one of forty of our teammates who lost their lives at the hands of border underworld characters.
Moving closer to the chow-line we hear a youngish officer ask one graying around the temples: "Was the smuggler who killed Lon Parker ever caught?" The laconic reply is, "Not at that time – he died later of heart failure." Another officer, identified as an old Mounted Guard, is telling a story about getting a letter of commendation from the Central Office: "I was complimented for not shooting a smuggler. Jake took one side of a dry wash while I took the other while trailing this fellow. I decided to 'cut sign' across his trail to be sure we had not passed him. When I rode through the brush to the wash there, he stood with rifle ready. He had heard me as I came through the brush. I didn't have time to turn my horse Smokey and get under cover so I kicked Smokey in the ribs and jumped at the smuggler, kicking him in the jaw as I went by. Later another fellow heard him tell a fellow prisoner while in line entering court at Tucson, 'Gee that fellow (pointing at me) has a terrible wallop,' at the same time holding up his right fist. 'He never knew what hit him and the Central Office never learned that the only reason I didn't kill him was because I was too busy at the time.'
While we stand in line with our paper plates and cups, we get a good laugh with one of the old patrol inspectors who states: "I had never been outside New York City when I reported for duty. I knew nothing about animals except alley cats, dogs and a few broken-down horses. Since my early education consisted mostly of what I had learned trying to help make a living for the family, there was a lot I had not read. When John pointed to one ranch and said, 'they raise goats on that ranch and sheep on the other over the hill,' I felt that he was trying to impose on me and replied, 'Don't kid me cowboy, just because I'm an Easterner – I know that a goat is a male sheep.' Another former rookie spoke up with, 'Yeah, that reminds me of the time that Frank informed me that his horse 'broke in two.' I thought for a long time that he was one of the fanciest liars I had ever met.
Yes, we are having a field day! As we get up to the grub, an officer from Maine asks for tea. One from Texas asks that all three paper cups he is carrying be filled with black coffee and says to the tea drinker, 'I don't see how in hell you can ever catch anything drinking that stuff.' He gets the reply, 'partner, a spot of hot tea is nothing to be scoffed at when you're out in twenty-below on snowshoes with forty miles to go.' Another, from Arizona, speaks up: 'Hell, Carl knows what good coffee is – they don't have Palo Fierro (Iron Wood) to cook it over down in the Rio Grande.' Such good-natured banter is constant. One tells about a kicking horse: 'Why, the critter could kick twice before you hit the ground.' Another says, 'I was whistling 'Little Joe the Wrangler' or some other tune and he was humming some tune from an opera – he sure liked opera – when wham! They started busting caps at us.'
As we choose a place to sit to eat, those ahead of us in the chow-line are already going strong. We arrive at a group just in time to hear, 'The boss told me to stop all street cars returning from Juarez, for most of the 16 smugglers had run to this side after Melton was killed. I went through each car, and from one, a fellow who looked suspicious jumped off the front end as I got on the back. He was making knots for Mexico when I yelled to the bridge toll-collector, 'stop that man' and just about that time the smuggler ran into a piece of pipe which the toll-collector conveniently held in his hand. It was of course all the smuggler's fault that he got hurt. He should have watched where he was going. His head was cut so we took him to the police surgeon who shaved his head and sewed the cut. He then gave the smuggler a glass full of Epsom salts saying, 'I just gave you a dose of truth-telling medicine. When you get him to the Chief tell him this fellow in about a half-hour will think he is going to die, but he won't, and that is the time to get the truth out of him.' It worked! The smuggler was not in the gang that killed Melton, he had smuggled a load of liquor the night before and had to admit it.'
We empty our paper plates and return to the line for seconds. The food sure is good! One of the boys who is serving is telling another about a rookie who failed to make the grade – was dropped during his probationary period: 'I never saw such a fellow. He ate three-fourths of the food in camp, wasted half of the water in the canteens and was always busy combing his hair, polishing his fingernails or shaving when there was wood to get, cooking to do or dishes to wash. He was a deadbeat of the first water. When we were laying on the line, he'd cough if he thought anything was coming across. He thought that he was God's gift to women. After he was dropped, I learned he could REALLY sing. On many long nights since then around the campfires I have wished that I had passed him and kept him as a pet – just to sing to me.' Another said, 'Yes, that reminds me of the one who knew he was failing to make good and used the threat of a 'little black book' to try'n keep the fellows from making bum reports about him. Of course, the Chief learned about his big talk and asked him about the 'black book' but he'd nothing to say. The Chief also told the district director and after he was dropped the D. D. asked him about it. He said, 'you know, those men go to Mexico and follow the smugglers into the United States and catch them.' The D. D. said, 'You don't say; do they always take them into custody in the U. S.?' To which he replied, 'Yes, but it's unfair to those smugglers,' whereupon the D. D. told him: 'What do you know about that, twenty-five years ago when I worked the line we did the same thing and it worked and to think that some of the same tactics still work today is simply marvelous! He went on his way feeling that he had been 'let down' but he had merely been 'let out.'"
While we walk around picking our teeth, we pass close to one group of about twenty-five men, old and young, and note that most of them had competed in the pistol matches earlier in the day. We recognize among this group individuals and groups of officers who have made shooting history in competition with the best hand-gun and rifle shots in the United States. It would be very interesting to learn from the lips of these sportsmen about some of the outstanding shoots in which they have, with credit to their entire team, participated, but we note that it is getting late and that some of the boys are beginning to leave. Many hold important positions in their communities in church, civic, fraternal, and military organizations.
As we go home, we realize more fully than ever how privileged we are to serve on such a splendid team with such forthright, wholesome, and loyal MEN. We realize why the thousands of enemy aliens could have been transported and guarded under such supervision without a single escape through World War II. We realize the mettle of these men who patrolled from July 1, 1924, to June 30, 1948, close to one hundred and eighty-six million miles along the borders of our great country, night and day, rain and shine. Eight million four hundred thousand of the miles were covered afoot, over desert sands, through mud, swamp areas, or on snowshoes. We realize more fully the importance of their work; the contribution made by them to the overall welfare of their country, when we consider that during these twenty-four years, they took into custody nine hundred and thirty-eight thousand, four hundred and eighty-four law violators - about nine hundred thousand for violations of our immigration laws and thirty-eight thousand for violations of other federal, state, and municipal laws. We realize too that these dry statistics do not tell of the murderers, cattle rustlers, robbers, and other dangerous criminals taken nor of the number of lives saved from fires, accidents, death from thirst in the deserts, or from freezing in northern blizzards. No, the story of the Border Patrol, the "outfielders" of the U. S. Immigration and Naturalization Service enforcement team - has never been and probably never will be told in its entirety.
As you may suppose, Tom, my reminiscences have brought to mind many, many interesting people and events. It has been fun!
Before closing, please permit me, through the medium of the Guardian of the Gate, to send greetings to all those who are playing on our "team," as well as to the team alumni, all of whom form a grand fraternity brought about through close association in playing a most interesting game and in sharing the difficulties and personal dangers associated therewith.
To the Border Patrol "rookies" I should like to say, "Welcome to probationary membership in the finest law-enforcement organization in this or any other country! You have cleared several hurdles so far in demonstrating your qualifications for permanent membership; a few still remain. If you have the intestinal fortitude which all your teammates hope and believe you possess, you will succeed. If for any reason whatsoever you should feel that it will be difficult or impossible for you to live up to the high standards of the Border Patrol - best exemplified by its chosen motto or watchword HONOR FIRST – resign now, for it will be but a matter of time until you are separated. On the other hand, if you feel that you can and will make good, you will find all of your teammates ready and willing to extend to you a helping hand. Every success to you in your chosen field - the 'outfield' of the USI&N Service team!
With best wishes for the continued success of yourself and other officers of our Association.
Sincerely,
NICK D. COLLAER
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