Restoring Honor: The Uniform of CSM Marion S. Howell

“The Radio Never Went Silent” – The Story of CSM Marion S. Howell and the Son Tay Raid

Marion S. Howell’s life was forged in discipline, service, and the unseen language of airwaves—where every syllable transmitted could mean life or death. Born in South Carolina on November 5, 1935, Howell grew up in a nation soon to be reshaped by war. By the time he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force on January 11, 1955, he had chosen a life in which the signal never dropped and the mission always came first.

He began his military career as an Air Rescue Specialist, braving peril to retrieve the fallen. After active duty, he continued in the Air Force Reserve until 1962. But Howell wasn’t done. In 1963, he joined the U.S. Army—a decision that would place him in the heart of America’s most elite and dangerous missions.

Over the next two decades, he would serve with the 1st, 5th, 7th, and 8th Special Forces Groups, deploying to Vietnam in multiple rotations, leading communications operations, and mentoring generations of Special Forces soldiers. He went from jungle operations in Kontum Province to the frozen clarity of a radio panel in the dead of night. But one mission would etch his name into the deeper narrative of American special operations: The Son Tay Raid.

Operation Ivory Coast: “The POWs Are Not Forgotten”

In the early hours of November 21, 1970, Marion Howell was not just a soldier—he was a lifeline. That morning, under the call sign Redwine, a handpicked group of 56 Army Special Forces soldiers and 92 airmen stormed into North Vietnam under the cover of darkness. Their objective: Son Tay prison, just 23 miles west of Hanoi. Intelligence believed that more than 60 American POWs were imprisoned there, held in silence behind enemy lines.

The mission, known as Operation Ivory Coast, was a gamble of the highest order—a joint effort by the U.S. Army and Air Force, planned in secret and rehearsed to surgical precision on a full-scale model of the prison at Eglin Air Force Base. The risk was enormous. The message to America’s prisoners, and to the world, was clear: You are not forgotten.

Howell, now a seasoned Senior Radio Operator, was at the heart of the operation. He was inserted alongside the mission commander into the objective itself. In the moments that followed, what unfolded was a chaos of fire and steel—automatic weapons fire lit up the Vietnamese night as enemy forces responded with ferocity.

Despite the barrage, Howell established the command post’s communications net without hesitation. He operated flawlessly, weaving together the strike team’s movements and calls for support even as enemy troops threatened to overrun their position. At one point, he returned fire himself, suppressing attackers with one hand and keeping the lines open with the other. The radio stayed active. The mission—though compromised—did not fall apart.

But when the raiders reached the cells, they found them empty. The prisoners had been moved months earlier due to flooding. On paper, the mission had failed. In reality, it had sparked a tidal wave of consequences.

The raid forced the North Vietnamese to consolidate POWs into central facilities, improving their conditions and ending their isolation. More importantly, it told every captured American that rescue would be attempted—that they were not invisible.

The Man Behind the Mic

For his extraordinary gallantry during the Son Tay Raid, Sergeant Howell received the Silver Star, the nation’s third-highest award for valor in combat. But medals only scratch the surface of what he gave.

He went on to serve as Chief of Communications for multiple Special Forces groups, deployed again to Vietnam, and later held senior leadership roles in the 25th Infantry Division in Hawaii and the 22nd Signal Brigade in West Germany. He trained at the U.S. Army Sergeants Major Academy and retired as a Command Sergeant Major at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey in 1987.

CSM Howell passed away on May 7, 2007. His uniform bore the weight of a nation’s conflicts, his chest the ribbons of wars fought in shadows and jungles. But perhaps his proudest moment came in the pitch black outside Hanoi—when bullets flew, the mission faltered, and one man refused to let the line go dead.

In the din of war, Howell was the voice that never faltered. The frequency that stayed clear. The signal that meant hope.

“The Threads of Valor: Restoring the Uniform of Command Sergeant Major Marion S. Howell”
By Ghosts of the Battlefield

In a quiet corner of our restoration lab, beneath the hum of soft lighting and the scent of archival cotton gloves, history came home.

It arrived folded carefully in a plain box—dark blue wool pressed but worn, ribbons missing, rank insignia tarnished by decades of service and memory. This was no ordinary uniform. It belonged to Command Sergeant Major Marion S. Howell, a man whose life stitched together the very fabric of American military history—from the jungles of Vietnam to the daring night skies over North Vietnam during the Son Tay Raid.

When Ghosts of the Battlefield received Howell’s Army dress uniform, it came as a responsibility. The weight of his Silver Star, the airborne wings on his chest, the long rows of campaign ribbons and qualification badges—they all told a story. It was up to us to make sure it could still speak.

The restoration process began with reverence, not tools. Before a single thread was touched, our team documented every details of his service record.

Over weeks, we painstakingly cleaned the wool fabric using non-invasive techniques that preserved its structure while lifting decades of dust. Medals and insignia were carefully aquired from correct government sourcess. Each ribbon bar was re-seated in perfect regulation order—Vietnam Service, Vietnam Campaign, Army Commendation, and, most notably, the Silver Star.

As we worked, it became clear this was more than just restoring a uniform—it was about giving voice back to a soldier who had carried the weight of missions we only read about in declassified files and whispered footnotes. Missions like Operation Ivory Coast, the legendary Son Tay Raid, where Howell operated the raid force’s communications under withering enemy fire, never ceasing to call out—never letting the mission die in silence.

Today, the uniform stands proudly in our gallery. Not behind glass to be forgotten, but as a living artifact—a tactile reminder of what duty, courage, and sacrifice look like. Visitors pause in front of it, often struck silent by the sheer gravitas of what it represents.This was not just a restoration. it was a resurrection.

We are honored beyond measure to preserve the legacy of Command Sergeant Major Marion S. Howell—a soldier, a signalman, a hero who never dropped the line, and whose story will echo forever within the halls of Ghosts of the Battlefield.