Seven Hodag Boys: Mike Stockheimer

Seven young Wisconsin soldiers eventually formed a group whose friendship would survive far beyond Fort Carson.

They became known to one another as the Seven Hodag Boys of ’74.

Ski. Norb. Augie. Mouse. Slick. Petey. Poch.

Some had known one another before the Army. Others became friends during their service.

They didn’t all have the same jobs or personalities, but Stockheimer remembers something more important.

They took care of one another.

When Augie married young and money was tight, the others sometimes found ways to make sure he and his wife, Tiny, had something extra to eat.

The gesture was rarely complicated.

Someone would grab an extra hamburger. Then another guy would do the same.

Soon they were arriving at Augie’s apartment with food.

“That was just part of taking care of each other,” Stockheimer said.

For him, that helps explain why friendships formed in military service can be different.

During training and field exercises, the people around you are not simply acquaintances.

“Your life literally depends on who’s behind you or in front of you,” he said.

The seven eventually left the Army and moved forward with their lives, but the connection remained.
Years later, Stockheimer and Augie decided they needed a reunion. All seven made it to the first one.

They originally thought they might gather every five years.

Then Norb died.

The schedule changed.

The surviving friends began meeting more often.

Norb’s death also led the group to create a memorial at The Highground Veterans Memorial Park near Neillsville — a stone honoring the Seven Hodag Boys of ’74.

Stockheimer does not call it a tombstone.

“It’s a memory stone.”

The distinction matters.

To him, The Highground is sacred ground, a place of unity, calm and reflection.

The loss became more personal again when Augie died unexpectedly.

Of all the seven, Stockheimer said Augie had become one of his closest friends.

“He was a true friend for me.”

Augie’s death strengthened Mike’s belief that stories should be preserved while the people who lived them are still here to tell them.

It also changed his feelings about a project we had discussed before — creating a song about the seven friends.

Before Augie died, Mike had been interested but uncertain.

Afterward, he said simply, “This needs to be done.”

The resulting song, “Seven Hodag Boys of ’74,” brought back names, places and memories that had lived for decades mostly among the men themselves.

For Mike, hearing “Mouse” again carried him straight back to the young soldier he once was.

Solid as a rock.

The song has now become part of the family story as well. Mike’s grandchildren know it. One grandson already talks about possibly joining the Coast Guard — which gives the old Army man an opportunity to jokingly question the boy’s choice of service.

But beneath the humor is something much larger.

The story is moving forward another generation.

Protecting the colors.

Stockheimer’s connection to veterans did not end with his own Army service.

For years, he did not believe he belonged on an Honor Flight.

Other veterans, he thought, had done more. Men who had been on the front lines deserved to go first.

A fellow veteran changed his thinking.

The man explained that if he had gone down on the front line, someone else had to be ready to step into his place. Every person in the chain mattered.

Stockheimer took his Honor Flight in October 2024.

The experience changed him.

Within weeks, he told his wife, Joan, that he wanted to volunteer.

“If I can make one person’s day as enjoyable as what my day was,” he told her, “it’s worth it.”

He has continued volunteering since.

One phrase from another veteran has stayed especially close to him.

After learning of Mike’s service, the man thanked him for “protecting the colors until I got there.”
Few words better summarize the continuity Stockheimer sees between generations of veterans.
One group carries the responsibility for a time.

Then another takes its place.

Stockheimer’s own life after the Army followed much the same philosophy.

He and Joan married in August 1980 and raised two daughters on their farm. They farmed for 20 years.
Mike also spent 20 years with the volunteer fire department and approximately 25 years serving on the local plan commission.

Today, Honor Flight provides another opportunity to give something back.

He credits his father, who volunteered with the fire department, with planting that idea long before Mike understood its importance.

The Army reinforced it.

Life continued it.

“Don’t be afraid to give of yourself,” Stockheimer said. “Because the rewards — you will never know when they come back to pay.”

More than half a century has passed since seven young Wisconsin men entered the Army in 1974.

Two of them are gone.

Five remain.

The names are carved into a memory stone. They live in photographs, reunion stories and a song now sung by another generation.

And they remain in the memories of the men who were there.

For Stockheimer, preserving those stories is not about looking backward simply for the sake of nostalgia.

It is about remembering who helped carry the responsibility before us — and recognizing that eventually someone else will have to take it from our hands.

For a while, each generation gets its turn.

Its job is to protect the colors until the next one gets there.

David J. Falkosky Sr. is a U.S. Air Force Gulf War veteran who has lived in Central Wisconsin for nearly all of his life.