You’ve probably heard of the Blue Star Banners designed to honor your deplolyed troops, and the Gold Star Flags displayed in memorial by families of those who gave all in the service of our nation, but did you know that there is not a flag for your wounded warriors, until now that is.

America Supports You: Silver Star Families Honor Wounded
By Samantha L. Quigley
American Forces Press Service

WASHINGTON, Jan. 26, 2006 – “Silver Star Families of America” has one focus: America’s war wounded.

“Our main mission is to make sure that the wounded of our armed forces are remembered,” the group’s founder Steven Newton said.

Newton, of Clever, Mo., founded the organization April 1, 2005, to establish a service banner that recognizes wounded American servicemembers of all conflicts. The idea was patterned after Gold Star Wives of America and Blue Star Mothers of America Inc. — groups that recognize spouses of servicemembers who die on active duty and the parents of children in the military, respectively.

Newton said he has made strides in initiating legislation to get the Silver Star banner recognized by Congress.

“I’ve been fighting this battle for a couple of years … to get the government to recognize it as an official banner,” he said. “I’ve talked to the military, … but it has to be an act of Congress.”

Learn more about this outstanding movement at Silver Star Families. Sgt Hook out.

Hotel Tango BB.

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This post is filed under: Americana & Heroes

The train pulled into Southampton at 10:18, delayed because of the heavy snow. Her heart was racing with anticipation that Jackie O’Shea had received her message and was waiting at the station. She collected her things, fixed her blouse and primped her hair before stepping off the train into the cold night, eerily quieted from the falling snow. She pulled her jacket collar tight around her neck and walked along the open, but covered, waiting area. No Jackie.

“Damnit!” she said aloud. Climbing back aboard the train after she heard the “all aboard” call from the conductor whose black wool coat was dusted with white snow, Trish felt a wave of disappointment sweep over her as she made her way back to her seat. The loud rush of air releasing the brakes was followed by the jerking forward of the train causing Trish to fall towards the rear of the car into the arms of Jackie O’Shea.

Her heart again racing and her face flushed, Trish looked into his gray blue eyes and said, “Where the hell have you been dream boy?”

“Wandering aimlessly in the snow. How ‘bout you pretty lady?”

The train finally got into gear, chugging along rhythmically allowing Trish and Jackie to take their seats.

“I brought wine,” Jackie said holding up a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and two glasses.

Trish, sitting next to Jackie O’Shea, took his free hand in both of hers, looked into his eyes and said, “I want to thank you for getting me home last week. I was a bit drunk and honestly don’t remember much after falling asleep listening to the melody of your beautiful voice regale me with tales of pirates and maidens and chivalry.”

“But I was talking about how I had dropped out of college…”

She placed her finger on his lips, cutting off his thought. “You regaled me sir, and made sure I was tucked into my castle safe and sound before quietly slipping off to battle more windmills, making the kingdom a safer place.”

Jackie O’Shea was speechless.

Trish Monroe was falling.

He stared into her blue eyes. She into his. They kissed. A wineglass dropped to the floor and shattered. They continued to kiss.

Jackie woke up early, finding his way around the kitchen enough to make a pot of coffee. Looking out at the falling snow, he decided to clear the walkway and driveway as soon as he finished his cup of coffee. “If I can find a shovel,” he thought.

An hour and a half later, Jackie O’Shea walked back into the Montauk house, soaking wet and chilled to the bone, having successfully found a shovel he managed to clear the walkway and driveway but the persistent fall of snow made his hard work all for naught. Trish Monroe was waiting for him in the living room, sitting on the large, blue sofa, sipping a hot cup of tea, wearing only a warm, pink terrycloth robe. “You’re still here?” she asked jokingly.

“Any coffee left? I’m frozen,” Jackie said as he shed his wet coat and boots.

“I’ll get you some,” Trish said, setting down her cup, making her way to the kitchen, unaware of Jackie’s stare as he watched her long, shapely legs slip out of the opening of her robe and her long blonde hair falling to her shoulders as she walked.

“If you don’t mind I’m gonna grab a hot shower,” Jackie said snapping out of his trance.

“Sure, clean towels are on the rack,” Trish yelled from the kitchen.

Seven minutes later, Jackie O’Shea felt Trish slide up behind him in the steamy shower, wrapping her arms around him, feeling her breasts push against his back. “I’ve got your coffee dream boy.”

They grabbed some lunch at Dave’s Grill on Flamingo Road, surprised it was open with all the snow. “So, do you have to head back dream boy?” Trish finally asked, somewhat apprehensively, afraid of what she knew the answer would be.

“Nope. The boss gave me three days off to do some soul searching.”

“And how’s that working out for you so far?”

“Famously,” he said just before taking another bite of his smoked turkey sandwich.

Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Jackie O'Shea

Feeling the effects of the five beers and two Jameson’s, Jackie decided to walk the mile and a half home in the chilly winter evening. Not five minutes into his trek did it start to snow. “Perfect,” he grumbled to himself.

Three minutes later, Jackie saw the flashing of red and blue lights as a Southampton Town Police cruiser pulled up along side him. Stopping in his tracks, his hands stuffed in his pockets trying to keep warm, he turned to face the police car, awash in the colorful flashing lights. “Perfect,” he thought to himself.

“Yes officer,” Jackie said suddenly feeling the buzz from all he had drank earlier.

“You OK Jack?” John Thornton asked.

“Oh, yeah John,” he answered recognizing the officer. “I’m all right, just walking home.”

“You want a lift? Supposed to get real nasty tonight,” the 28 year old police officer offered.

“No thanks John, I’ve got a lot on my mind and the cold air will help clear my head. Thanks though,” Jackie replied.

Leaning over and placing his left hand on the cruiser’s passenger door, Jackie asked, “Hey John, how long have you been a cop?”

“Police officer Jackie, and just over four years. Why?”

“You like it? I mean, what made you decide to become a co… police officer?” Jackie continued the questioning.

“Cause I suck at tending bar,” John Thornton answered jokingly. “You’re serious aren’t you? I joined the police force because I really felt that I should do something worthwhile, give back to my community somehow. I know, sounds kinda corny but here I am, one of Southampton’s finest. You sure you don’t want a lift Jackie?”

“No, thanks John, I’m good. Thanks.” Jackie said and tapped the door twice before returning his frozen hand to his pocket and resuming his long, cold walk home.

Twenty minutes later, Jackie O’Shea walked into his apartment, covered with snow and chilled to the bone. He poured himself a glass of Jameson’s to help warm himself and pushed the flashing red button on his answering machine.

Jackie, Jack, c’mon space cowboy, pick up. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to… beep. He pushed the next button.

Jackie, please give me a call, I’m at the pub. beep.

Jackie…beep. Next button again.

Hello? Jackie, it’s Trish, I um, well, I’m coming out to Southampton tonight, actually Montauk, but was wondering if, well I’ll be passing through Southampton and you left before I could thank you for getting me home safely, and beep.

“Shit.” Jackie said feeling his blood pumping a little faster.

Sorry, I’ll be on the 8:15 train stopping at the Southampton Station at 10:02, hope to see you, but if not I’ll continue on to Montauk. beep.

He looked at his watch, 9:30. He had just enough time to shower and call a cab.

Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Jackie O'Shea

As many of you know, I don’t get too terribly involved in political discussions because as an active duty soldier I consider politics to be out of my lane, and I always stay in my lane, makes for good soldiering. However, when I read that some are encouraging United States Senators to shirk from their duties by not showing up for the vote on Supreme Court Associate Justice Nominee Alito, spending the day visiting your wounded warriors at Walter Reed Army Medical Center instead, I was appalled.

It is unconsionable that some would use America’s heroes to push their agenda in disagreement with the nomination. I’m confident that our fine upstanding Senators in Washington won’t answer such a tasteless call, and will stand fast in the trenches performing the duties they have been duly elected to perform, regardless the outcome of the vote. Still, I’ve a horrid taste in my mouth from those who would even consider treating your Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, Airmen, and Coast Guardsmen in such a manner. Appalled. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 2035 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (3) | Permalink
This post is filed under: Soap Box

Francis Scott Buckley spent most of his time at the Pub, but when he was home he could often be found in his den/office going over the books, worrying about his business venture. He could’ve just as easily lived off of his FDNY pension had he been content to do so, but he had always wanted to open his own Irish Pub and after losing Marilyn to cancer he felt obliged to take the risk and pursue their once shared dream. Now he often found himself wondering if he hadn’t acted impulsively.

The 52 year old widower poured himself a second glass of Johnny Walker Red and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Ray, it’s Francis, you got a minute?” Buckley asked.

“As I live and breathe, Francis Buckley! How long has it been Frank, two, three years? How’s that beauty salon you opened doing out there in the Hamptons?” his brother-in-law asked.

“It’s a pub Raymond and it’s doing just fine, thank you. How about you? Still peeling potatoes and burning coffee for the Army?”

Raymond Marconi had joined the United States Army in 1975 at age 17 with his parent’s permission. When he left his home in Flatbush, Brooklyn to be a cook for the Army, he never dreamed he’d return 27 years later as the Command Sergeant Major of the New York City Recruiting Battalion.

Private First Class Marconi was a pretty good soldier and a damned good cook barely missing service in Vietnam which at the time was a disappointment. After four years of sweating in an Army kitchen, Sergeant Marconi decided to take a break from the heat and volunteered for recruiting duty. Command Sergeant Major Marconi never made it back to the kitchen.

“How are you Frank? And how is Patti?” the old soldier asked with all sincerity.

“I am well Ray and Patti is her own woman now. Marilyn would be proud of her. How are things in the big city? How is your bride Nancy doing?”

“We are just fine, ready to retire in a couple of years, thanks for asking. I’m assuming that this isn’t a call to find out how things are in Flatbush after not hearing from you for two years Francis, what can I do for you?” the savvy old soldier inquired.

“Ray, one of my employees, a great kid who really saved my crazy ass by keeping the Pub afloat, went to join the Army last week but left without signing up.”

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘left without signing up?’ Was he qualified to join but didn’t?” CSM Marconi asked.

“Yes, he was qualified to join, in fact his recruiter said that he had pretty high scores and Jack, that’s the kid, was under the impression that he was very qualified to sign up. Something happened at the processing station…”

“The MEPS,” his brother in law interjected.

“Yes, the MEPS, the way Jack explained it, he passed the physical and everything and spent hours with a counselor trying to find a job but claims he was given the run around and in the end just wasn’t satisfied with what he was being offered, so he left.”

“QNE,” CSM Marconi stated.

“What?” the retired fire fighter asked.

“Qualified, Not Enlisted,” explained Marconi. “If what you’re saying is accurate Frank, and I have my doubts that you got the whole story, your boy was fully qualified but refused to enlist. Normally we lose applicants at the MEPS because they aren’t qualified, test scores, medical problems, etc. Occasionally, we get one that is qualified but gets scared and doesn’t sign up.”

“Raymond, Jack O’Shea is a stand up guy and he isn’t a kid. He’s 25 years old and his father, though not around much, is a retired Navy Chief after serving almost 30 years. I honestly don’t think ‘my boy’ got scared,” Buckley retorted a little more defensively than he had expected himself to. “All I’m asking Ray is that you look into the matter. He’s a helluva good young man and as much as I’d hate to lose him as an employee, I think he’d be great for the service.”

After a long pause, the restaurant owner added, “Plus, he needs to get out of here and make a life for himself instead of pouring draft beers and fancy drinks for the local blue collars and horny divorcees.”

“OK Francis, I’ll look into it, but only if you promise to keep in touch damnit, we’re family.”

“You’ve got a deal Ray, and I’m sorry for not calling sooner. Why don’t you and Nancy come out for dinner some time? We serve a mean lamb stew on Wednesday nights, my treat.”

“We’ll be there Frank. Good to hear from you,” Command Sergeant Major Marconi said before placing the phone in its cradle, breaking off the connection.

Ray Marconi wrote the name “Jack O’Shea” on a post-it-note then had a second thought. Picking up the phone he dialed the Long Island Recruiting Company first sergeant at his home.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered.

“Mark, I’m sorry to call so late, but I need your help with something,” CSM Marconi stated.

“No problem sergeant major, I was just sitting on the couch catching up with the news,” First Sergeant Mark McGowan claimed. Truth was he had dozed off about an hour ago while watching the Fox News Channel. Mark McGowan’s wife had left him five years previously when he was a recruiting station commander in Boston, working extremely long hours and always putting the mission before his family. He never blamed her for taking the kids from him, but he sure did miss them all. “What can I help you with CSM?”

“What do you know about a QNE by the name of Jack O’Shea?”

“O’Shea walked off the floor last week CSM, because he couldn’t get the aviation job he wanted. From what I understand, he was a real ass at the MEPS, demanding an aviation contract with bonus money and station of choice, Hawaii I think it was.”

After a quiet pause, the first sergeant went on, “Why, what’s up?”

Command Sergeant Major Marconi suddenly decided to take a leap of faith and said, “Well, he’s a family member, by marriage, and what you’re telling me just doesn’t add up to what I’m hearing.”

“CSM, we had no idea he was a relative of yours, we…”

“And I don’t want that to be public knowledge first sergeant, you understand?” the sergeant major sternly said cutting his first sergeant off.

“Yes CSM, understood.”

“Good. The reason I’m asking Mark, is that something just doesn’t smell right and I’m wondering if you could look into it for me. I don’t want to put my nose under the proverbial tent, in fact my nephew would be pissed if I did. And if you determine that my nephew is indeed a punk, than so be it, but if it turns out that he isn’t, I’d like to see if we couldn’t salvage him.”

“I’ll give Staff Sergeant Hamilton a call first thing CSM and see what’s going on,” 1SG McGowan replied.

“Hamilton’s the station commander?” Marconi asked but didn’t wait for a reply before continuing, “What I was thinking Mark is that you could take a personal interest in the applicant, get a read for yourself where the breakdown was.”

“Yes CSM,” McGowan replied somewhat annoyed to be told how to do his job.

“Mark, have you seen O’Shea’s qualifications?” the seasoned NCO abruptly asked.

“Yes CSM.”

“And?”

“As I recall CSM, he’s a ‘1A’, top 2% on the ASVAB and overall extremely qualified,” the first sergeant sheepishly answered suddenly realizing perhaps he had dropped the ball on this contract. “I get your meaning CSM, I will personally contact Mr. O’Shea and make this right. I’m terribly sorry CSM, for any…”

“Thank you Mark. You’ll keep me informed on this won’t you?” he asked though it was understood to be an order rather than a question.

“Yes CSM,” the first sergeant replied, feeling his blood beginning to boil. “That gottdamned Hamilton” he thought to himself.

“Good night Mark, again, sorry to have called so late.”

“No problem CSM, I’m glad that you brought it to my attention, I’ll get back with you on this ASAP.”

Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Jackie O'Shea

I’ve been asked more than a few times to post additional segments of the Jackie O’Shea saga so this week is hereby declared Jackie O’Shea week here at Sgt Hook. Jackie O’Shea is a ficitonal character who was living on Long Island, New York when terrorists attacked the United States on September 11, 2001. What follows is a series of events in the young man’s life as he comes to grip with the ever mysterious meaning of said life. And he meets quite a few characters along the way. So if you’ve enjoyed Jackie’s journey thus far, this should be a good week. If you haven’t, I’ll try not to keep things exclusively O’Shea, but you can expect at least one segment a day. For those just tuning in, meet Jackie O’shea- Space Cowboy here, and follow the links to get up to speed. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Jackie O'Shea

My prayers this morning will be dedicated to anchor Woodruff and his camerman Vogt. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: GWOT

The fight in Iraq seems to be taking an interesting turn.

WASHINGTON, Jan. 26, 2006 – The al Qaeda in Iraq network has lost scores of key leaders as the result of anti-terrorist operations and now it’s being attacked by Iraqi insurgents, a senior U.S. military officer told reporters at a Baghdad news conference today.
Al Qaeda in Iraq has had 111 of its leaders killed or captured in the past year, Army Maj. Gen. Rick Lynch, a spokesman for Multinational Force Iraq, said. Jordanian terrorist Abu Musab al-Zarqawi runs al Qaeda in Iraq.

“We indeed have had significant impact on terrorists and foreign fighters, al Qaeda in Iraq, in terms of their leadership,” Lynch said.

In addition, U.S., other coalition and Iraqi security forces, Lynch said, have been getting help from an unexpected quarter in the past several weeks.

“The Sunni rejectionists, if you will, are conducting planned attacks against Zarqawi and his network,” Lynch said. The Sunni Iraqis were favored under now-deposed dictator Saddam Hussein. Some Sunnis are suspected of carrying out a home-grown insurgency against U.S. and other coalition troops in Iraq.

I guess they’re finding out that targeting civilians, women, and children in the long run is counterproductive to the cause.

And “recently we’ve seen significant operations where the local insurgency has turned on the Zarqawi network and forced them out of Ramadi,” he said. Ramadi is an Iraqi town in Anbar province.

Al Qaeda in Iraq’s ability to conduct operations has become degraded, Lynch said. Iraqi insurgents’ actions, he said, are now contributing to this state of affairs.

“Zaqawi’s on the ropes,” Lynch said, noting U.S., other coalition and Iraqi security forces will continue offensive operations against the terrorist leader and his network.

I don’t suppose we’ll get an apology or even a retraction from those who criticized the Commander In Chief of your military for how he and his generals have been prosecuting this war. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Americana & GWOT & Soap Box

In Syria? Sgt Hook out.

Hotel Tango The Military Outpost.

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This post is filed under: GWOT & Know thy Enemy

“Jack, you aren’t working?” they asked almost in unison from the far end of the bar.

Jackie had stuck around after Mr. Buckley left, handing the reins over to George, the other night bartender. He and George exchanged pleasantries, and George provided Jack with a free beer when the Marlboro Men had come in.

William Michaels was in his middle fifties, stood about six feet tall with a medium build and a generally fit look to him. His full head of hair was thick and wavy, albeit mostly grey. He had a tanned face that looked more as a result of harsh weather than a tanning bed. His deep brown eyes were flanked with crow’s feet that gave an impression he had toughness to him.

William Michaels was wearing a tan leather jacket with a large white sheepskin collar, blue jeans and cowboy boots made of rattlesnake. Only the lack of a Stetson kept him from being mistaken for a real life cowboy. A pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes and a Zippo lighter sat stacked in front of him on the mahogany bar.

On the barstool to William Michaels’ left sat his partner of twelve years, Jason Morrow. Jason was two years younger than William and though similarly dressed in blue jeans and cowboy boots, he wore a WWII replica leather bomber’s jacket. He reached for the pack of Marlboro Light cigarettes in his bomber’s jacket pocket, pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips and turned just in time for William to light it with his Zippo. “Thanks love,” he said exhaling a plume of cobalt blue smoke.

“Not tonight guys, taking a little time off to get my head straight,” Jackie replied.

“Oh puhlease,” the older, more masculine of the two replied, “Everyone knows that Jackie O’Shea is the one bartender in town who has his head on straight, no offense George.”

“You look like hell Jackie,” Jason said matter-of-factly.

“Why thank you Mr. Morrow, you look quite dapper yourself this evening,” Jackie replied in jest.

William laughed heartedly, enduring an elbow from his partner and called for George to buy Jack another beer.

“If you don’t mind Mr. Michaels, I’ll have a Jameson’s?” Jackie asked.

“Absolutely Jackie, and gives us two more down here George, please,” William said pointing at his and Jason’s half empty martinis.

William and Jason were known around town as the “Marlboro Men” not because of the brand of cigarettes they smoked, rather, William Michaels had actually been the Marlboro Man in the popular advertising campaign during the mid to late seventies. He could ride a horse, and often did at their Easthampton mansion, and rope a calf from the saddle of a galloping horse, but hadn’t done so in years. The Marlboro Men were financially well off.

“Jackie, have you given any more thought to our offer?” William asked his favorite bartender. He and Jason had stopped into Buckley’s Pub one afternoon after several hours of shopping in Southampton’s posh storefronts. Jackie was behind the bar and after making the couple “the best damned martinis they’d ever tasted” was the recipient of a very generous tip and gained two loyal returning customers who came in at least twice a week.

“Oh, don’t bug him William, can’t you see he’s had a rough day?” Jason chastised his “better half.”

“I’m not bugging, Jackie, we open in two months and really need to hire a manager. We want you,” William said dead-pan looking Jackie O’Shea square in the eye.

“Geez, he really is a cowboy,” Jackie thought to himself. The fact was that he had given their proposition some thought, but decided to not take it. He had been offered the manager position for a new restaurant/lounge the Marlboro Men were opening in Sag Harbor, a position that came with an incredible salary. His decision had nothing to do with the fact that the expected clientele would be predominantly homosexual, nor that Sag Harbor was some 25-minutes away from his apartment, but in part because he felt a sense of loyalty to Mr. Buckley and that the truth be told, he was tiring of the restaurant lifestyle. Picking up his drink, Jackie moved to the barstool next to Jason and sat down.

Jackie O’Shea in all sincerity looked at the Marlboro Men and said, “I’m honored that you’d make such an offer, though I don’t think I’m up to the task, I regretfully decline.” Looking away, Jackie took a healthy pull from his glass of Jameson’s. “Shit, I’m getting drunk,” he thought to himself.

“Jackie, first of all, you are more than up to the task and we didn’t make the offer because you make the best damned martinis in the Hamptons. We did our homework Jack, talking to your bosses and employees. I hope to hell you aren’t all of a sudden homophobic, because from a purely business standpoint Jackie O’Shea, you are the right man for the job,” William Michaels plainly stated.

“No, I’m not a homophobe, and I’ll probably regret not taking this job Mr. Michaels, but lately I’ve been feeling like I need a change. I feel as if my life should have more meaning than mixing drinks and counseling drunks. Hell, I almost joined the Army two days ago,” he said with a chuckle.

“We know Jackie, Mr. Buckley told us, and personally I admire you for that. Fair enough, but if you should ever change your mind, EVER, the job is yours.”

Just then, Patti Buckley walked into the bar, arm in arm with a tall, dark haired handsome man who looked as if he had just stepped from the pages of GQ magazine. Jackie didn’t notice the couple until he felt a tension in the air and looked to the end of the bar seeing Patti locked in a passionate, sloppy kiss with Mr. GQ.

“Perfect,” said Jack under his breath as he stood and walked out of Buckley’s Irish Pub and Grill.

Jackie O’Shea- Space Cowboy
Jackie O’Shea- Barkeep
Jackie O’Shea- Prospect
Jackie O’shea- Space Cowboy (again)
Jackie O’Shea- Dream Boy
Jackie O’Shea- Drop Out
Jackie O’Shea- Recipient

Sgt Hook out.

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