Steel, Stripes, and Spirit The Journey of Arvil Conner

Steel, Stripes, and Spirit

 The Journey of Arvil Conner

Courtesy of Larry Bailey

July 28, 2025, marked the 72nd anniversary of the signing of the Korean War Armistice. Boyd County native Arvil Conner served our country as an Army tank driver. He and other American soldiers joined their Russian counterparts in maintaining peace along the German border. Conner recently spoke with me about those memories.

The Korean Veteran hat, with its colorful insignia, greets visitors and reveals its owner’s accomplishments during the “Forgotten War.” It stands at ease, resting on a hook while proudly displaying a metal United States flag pin with its bright red and white stripes. White stars—laying safely against a blue background—flow on Old Glory as if a wind was gently swaying.

Just a step away, sitting comfortably in his recliner, is the hat’s owner, 89-year-old Arvil Conner. The former Army soldier has called Boyd County home nearly all his life—save for his three years serving his country.

He is a homebody, having lived in the Catlettsburg Creek area until a few months ago when the dreaded illness of neuropathy forced him to get a little help in his everyday movements. These days, the King’s Daughters and Sons Assisted Living Home is his new residence.

Rocking in the tall white chairs on the front porch with friends brings comfort, as he and his new neighbors discuss many topics. The simple, serene beauty of the blooming flowers, singing birds, and trees in the front yard offers peace and tranquility.

It’s truly a different world from what he encountered as a teenager some 70-plus years ago when the United States was still recovering from the Great Depression and mending its wounds from two world wars. Yet another conflict brought unrest on the Korean Peninsula.

“Because of the war, I couldn’t find a job but maybe digging ditches or mowing yards,” he recalled. “No one wanted to hire a young man knowing that we’d probably be drafted, and the business owners would have money and time invested in us just to see us leave.“Then they’d have to hire someone else only to have to let them go once we came back.”

Not waiting to be drafted, he and childhood friend Dave Phelps decided to enlist in the Navy instead of having Uncle Sam and the Army call the two into action. Their plans for the Navy, however, did not pan out.

“We went to enlist in the Navy and we were told there was a six-month waiting list,” he explained. “So that pretty much ruined those plans.”

After being effectively turned away by the Navy, the two friends walked to the Ventura Hotel (located where Burger King and Starbucks now call home). It was agreed during that short walk that they would enlist in the Army the next day.

He and his father, a World War I veteran, had previously discussed Arvil’s desire to join the armed forces.“He told me it would do me some good,” he said. “It wasn’t that I was getting in trouble or anything like that. I didn’t give Mom or Dad any problems.”Not everyone in his family agreed with his decision.“Mom didn’t want me to go,” he said. “But I figured I would be drafted, and I didn’t want to wait.”

It was in the heat of a sunny July day when he and Phelps made their way to the Army recruitment office. The duo soon grew to three as another good buddy, Curt Stewart, also decided to enlist.

With such a serious decision looming, Conner and Phelps still found time to have some fun at their friend’s expense.

“Curt signed first, and Dave and I had it planned that we would tell him we changed our minds and act like we were leaving,” he laughed. “Curt didn’t think it was too funny.”

Soon, Conner realized that the joke was on him. By enlisting, the young men signed up for a three-year tour, but had they waited to be drafted, Uncle Sam would have required only two years of service. “I had no idea that’s how the draft worked,” he said. “It was funny when Mom sent my draft notice in one of her letters.”

After taking the enlistment oath, Army officials wasted no time, and the friends found themselves at the hotel, taking written tests so Uncle Sam would have an idea of where they could best serve their nation. Soon after, they were split up, traveling to different bases for specialized training. “That’s when they told me I was going to learn to drive a tank,” Conner said.

Initially, he didn’t know what to think about driving such a behemoth killing machine. He soon discovered what tight quarters truly meant as he and four other soldiers shared the inside of what was known as the “metal coffin.”“We were shoulder-to-shoulder,” he said, “but I figured it was a whole lot better than walking.”

Each of the 27-foot-long, 11-foot-wide tanks carried Conner, who was the driver; an assistant driver; a commander; an artillery loader; and a gunner. Five tanks composed the unit whose main job was to make sure peace prevailed along the German border. Russian tanks were also part of the peace initiative.

Despite the toils of war, Conner still found some time to have fun—if it was possible to have any pleasure on the battlefield.

“Our guys would be dug in foxholes, and a few times I would drive my tank right over them,” he laughed. “I knew how to drive over the foxholes without the tank going into the holes. I’d tell the commander that I didn’t see them.”

The irregular driving wasn’t the only change of pace for the young man from Appalachia, where he had taught himself some mechanic skills from tinkering with cars.

“There was a red light in each tank that we were taught in tank school that if the light came on, the tank needed to stop immediately for fear something could cause damage,” Conner said.

The red light just so happened to come on during an occasion when Conner and his buddies found themselves in the middle of a group of female German well-wishers. A somewhat long, much-needed break quickly drew the ire of an Army leader who wanted to know why the tank was not in duty.

“I had rigged the light to come on, but I couldn’t tell the captain that, so I explained how we had to stop in order not to damage the tank. He ordered the tank back into service as soon as possible. I acted like I fixed it, knowing exactly what to do since I had rigged it in the first place.”

Despite being decorated for several achievements while serving his country, there was one incident that could have ended his career and his honorable discharge. Surprisingly, the event occurred after a promotion from his Specialist 4 standing.

The commander, who was Conner’s tank leader, had been called back to the States for a family emergency. With only a couple of months left in his service, the Army decided his return was not necessary.

“I was called in by the unit commander and told I was going to be my tank’s leader and that I was being promoted to sergeant,” he said. “I asked him if I could just get another stripe (for a Specialist 5) instead of being a sergeant.“When he asked me ‘why?’ I told him that when we did get to eat together, the sergeants would sit and have their food served to them while the rest of the soldiers went through the line. I wanted to be with the soldiers and not have any special privileges.”

After agreeing to his request, Conner was sent to sign paperwork associated with his new title and as the tank’s new “owner.”

Uncle Sam not only wanted his signature but also his agreement that he was solely responsible for the tank.

“I was responsible for the tank, tools, ammunition, and anything else relating to that tank,” he said. “We always had someone sleep in the tank and I knew why—so no one would steal it.”

After signing his final promissory notes, Conner and a few friends went into town to celebrate his new stripe and title as tank leader. That’s when his good fortune came to a screeching stop.

One drink led to another, which led to yet another, and somehow fists began flying. The happy gathering turned into a donnybrook, with Military Police having to intervene. With an MP escort, Conner and his friends found themselves returning to their unit and a very unhappy commander.

“Needless to say, I could have been kicked out of the Army,” he said. “I had to appear before the commander who had just promoted me a few hours earlier. He quickly took back my stripe, but it could have been a lot worse.”

Conner kept under the radar for the rest of his time overseas and soon found himself on a ship bound for home. He had survived his three years and—just like his two friends who also came home safely—the train ride to the Catlettsburg Depot could not have been fast enough.

He had not told any family members about his return. He anxiously anticipated seeing his mother, whose many letters helped ward off the loneliness and homesickness Conner felt on foreign soil. A twist of cruel fate, however, delayed the homecoming.

“I got into a cab, and wouldn’t you know it, we had a flat tire,” he said. “There was a lady driving it, so I changed the tire myself!”

It must have been a mother’s intuition, as Conner’s mom quickly ran to meet him as soon as the cab stopped in the driveway.“Guess she was looking for me,” he said. “I never was so happy to see her—and my dad when he came home from work.”

Conner would soon follow in his father’s footsteps again, retiring after spending 33 years at Armco Steel. He has never married, and despite his leg problems, he remains ready to serve his country once again with pride. But make no mistake of labeling him anything but a God-fearing American.

“Let’s make it clear that I am NOT a hero,” he said in a serious voice. “There’s a World War II vet in here down the hall… now that’s a hero. I salute him when I see him.”

In a world that often forgets the quiet strength of ordinary men who bore extraordinary burdens, Arvil Conner reminds us that true patriotism lies not in fanfare, but in the quiet endurance of duty, humility, and brotherhood. His story, like the tanks he once drove, is forged in steel—unyielding, steadfast, and built to last. Though he refuses the title of hero, his life speaks otherwise. In the peaceful stillness of a Boyd County porch, one can hear echoes of a time when young men stood watch for freedom—and when one of them, Arvil Conner, drove forward not for glory, but for country.