Is defined by the Army, and holds true for all branches of the armed forces, as “putting the welfare of the nation, the Army, and your subordinates before your own.” The men and women wearing the different uniforms of not only the armed services, but of our civic first responders as well, do so with an incredible dose of selfless service. Our reward- an incredible amount of pride in knowing that we are a part of something greater than ourselves.

Reflecting on the merits of having reporters embedded in our tanks, helicopters, and foxholes has caused me to notice that a shift in the public perception of the soldier is occurring throughout the mainstream media and presumably other sectors of our society. The American people are seeing first hand what it means to serve selflessly and the sacrifices our servicemen and women make to this nation on a daily basis.

What they don’t see, however, are those that sacrifice even more than our soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, and coastguardsmen- their families. Military spouses and children give more to this nation than any other group that I can think of, and ask nothing in return. They send their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers into harms way to defend our way of life, sometimes never to be seen again. Their reward- a country ripe with freedoms and liberties for all its inhabitants.

My heartfelt thanks to the families of those serving this nation for their selfless service and a special thanks to Mrs. Hook and my four little pirates for their many sacrifices made for this great country of ours. You are my heroes. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0403 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
This post is filed under: General

FLEAS ON A DOG’S ASS

It was a slow day at work, a Friday, no missions scheduled, so we were concentrating on “housework” with the hopes of getting off a little early to begin our weekend plans. Some of us planned to barbeque at my house, and others were heading down to Venice with their wives to do a little shopping along the canals.

The call came in just before lunch on that sunny lazy day. An Air Force F-16 had crashed into the Adriatic Sea, and the pilot was missing. Time seemed to freeze as what had been a relaxed atmosphere in the flight platoon ready room turned into an energetic frenzy as we scrambled to launch two helicopters in an effort to rescue the downed pilot.

It takes quite a bit of preparation to perform an over water rescue. Preparation that normally takes two hours. Preparation that was completed in just fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes after the call, we had two of our CH47D Chinook helicopters airborne, flying search and rescue patterns over the coordinates of the crash site. Pieces of the jet could be seen floating in the aqua marine sea, but no immediate sign of the pilot was evident.

We were wearing heavy orange survival suits over our flight suits as we deliberately conducted our search. The “mustang” suits, as they are called, are worn because even though the outside air temperature may be warm and balmy in the Italian spring weather, the water temperature is considerably colder; cold enough to bring on hypothermia in a matter of minutes. We were all painfully aware of this fact and felt our hearts race a little faster with the knowledge that Air Force jet jocks don’t usually wear the mustang suit, each of us privately hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time the pilot did. If not, maybe he inflated his survival raft and was floating along inside of it. Too many maybes.

The inter-service rivalry that exists between Air Force flyers and Army aviators suddenly vanished and was replaced by a sense of brotherhood for the kindred soul who was depending on us to save him. We dreaded having to go back for fuel after our first five hours of searching.
Refueled and back at the search, I wondered what was going through the minds of my crew, and of the crew in our sister aircraft flying patterns some fifty miles to our south. It was unusually quiet on the intercom system, no doubt because of our deep concentration and some stray thoughts concerning our own mortality, thoughts that would be pushed aside so as to focus on finding our fallen brother.

Another five hours and we returned to home base in complete darkness, with heavy hearts, having found only scraps of metal belonging to the F-16. Another two crews launched just as we landed, continuing the search throughout the night knowing full well that the chances of finding him in the darkness were slim to none. Not even the commander in chief could have prevented them from trying though.

The next morning, my crew and I were back in the air with renewed hope as the previous night’s search produced the pilot’s flight helmet. Our adrenaline flowing, we energetically flew patterns crisscrossing just fifty feet above the calm seas, fighting back the knowledge that survival under these conditions was unlikely at best. That adrenaline waned as we limped home with the sun setting and still no rescue. It was our turn to sleep while the night crews stubbornly continued the search. Sleep did not come easy however; as we kept hoping our counterparts would fly in with a soaking wet, but grateful, jet jock.

Sunrise, coffee, silence, and a shift in our moods. I’m not sure when the shift actually occurred, I suspect sometime during the night, but here it was Sunday, and still nothing. What had been kept in the back of our minds for the past 48 hours had slowly crept to the front as we went back out for a third day of searching. Just before taking off we had received news that the pilot’s raft had washed ashore, empty and without a trace of him having used it. Though no one said it, we all felt it; we were now searching for a body. We were now searching for closure, not for us so much as for his family. The search was called off upon our return that evening and we were sent home.

Home to face our feelings, our thoughts, and our fears. Some of us drank a little too much beer or wine, some played with their kids longer than usual, some gave into exhaustion and slept, and others made passionate love to their wives, all having just faced their own mortality, painfully aware that we’re nothing more than fleas on a dog’s ass, and sometimes that dog is gonna scratch.

Three days later, we were flying over that same ocean enroute to the war torn country of Croatia, ever vigilant of our mission at hand, without another thought given to the jet jock lost at sea. This We’ll Defend. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0528 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (6) | Permalink
This post is filed under: General