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.
Posted by Hook @ 0116 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: Jackie O'Shea
Tammi's World linked with
WooHoo!!...
