He sat on the edge of his cot, sweaty and dusty and shaking a little as the adrenaline finally started to taper off. The company medic, “Doc,” had patched up his shoulder and declared him fit for duty. He held her picture in his trembling hand, wondering if he should call her.
Her eyes opened with a start, surprised to see him laying in her bed. She was immediately angry and disappointed with herself for having one glass of wine too many. She answered the phone.
He asked if he had waked her.
She told him no. She lied.
He apologized for waking her.
She repeated that he hadn’t, lying again. She asked how his day had been, whispering so as not to wake her bedmate.
He told her it went well. He lied. He asked her what she did over the weekend.
She changed the subject. Not wanting to tell him. She asked if he had gone out on another convoy.
He told her that he had.
She asked if all had gone well.
He replied that it had, lying again. Not wanting to worry her about his injury. He asked if she had gone out with her friends.
Again changing the subject, not wanting him to know that she’d been drinking lately, she told him that she had a handsome man in her bed.
“What?” he asked not sure that he had heard her correctly over the international connection.
“I’m sharing my bed with a very handsome young man,” she repeated. “And he’s got your eyes.”
“Well when he wakes up, tell him that he’s the man of the house and that I expect him to take care of his mom,” he countered.
“He’s only 4!” she protested.
“Then tell him that I love him and miss him and that I’m damned jealous of him.”
She said that she loved him and couldn’t wait for him to come home.
He felt his throat tighten and eyes water but managed to tell her that he too loved her and that she had better kick that other man out of his bed before he gets home.
For a brief moment, they were able to escape their fears. They were able to laugh and love and hope for a brief moment.
She asked if he was going out on a convoy tomorrow.
He said that he wasn’t. He lied.
The phone weant dead, the connection was lost.
He went back to his cot and looked at her picture once more.
She reached for the half empty glass of wine after softly kissing her other man.
They are determined to survive.
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 2329 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (14) | Permalink
This post is filed under: The Soldier
SpouseBUZZ linked with
I love you too....
Or put it another way, whooda thunk it?
WASHINGTON, Sept. 28, 2006 – The Iranian government is behind shipping components used to make improvised explosive devices to Iraqi insurgents, a senior intelligence official in Iraq said yesterday.
Labels on weapons stocks seized inside and outside Iraq point to Iranian government complicity in arming Shiite militias in Iraq, Army Maj. Gen. Richard Zahner, the deputy chief of staff for intelligence with Multinational Force Iraq, said at a news roundtable.
“Iran is definitely a destabilizing force in Iraq,” Barbero said during an Aug. 23 Pentagon news conference. “I think it’s irrefutable that Iran is responsible for training, funding and equipping some of these Shiia extremist groups and also providing advanced (improvised explosive device) technology to them, and there’s clear evidence of that.”
Zahner said Iran is funneling millions of dollars for military goods into Iraq. He noted that labels on C-4 explosive found in Baghdad make it clear where the munitions came from. “You’ll find a red label on the C-4 printed in English and will tell you the lot number and name of the manufacturer,” he said.
In 2002, the Israelis seized a small ship bringing military supplies to Hezbollah. “Compare the labels on the military C-4 in that and tell me if they’re not identical,” Zahner said.
He said British, Iraqi and American officials in Basra also have found blocks of C-4. “You will see the same red label for each and every one of those,” he said.
I’ve said it before, but it warrants repeating, beware the Persians. Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 2301 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (1) | Permalink
This post is filed under: GWOT & Know thy Enemy
From 1992 to 1997, my address was 39 Via Piante, Aviano, Italy. Via Piante was a narrow street with houses lining both sides, in a very rural area of northern Italy, the Friuli region, a place filled with vineyards that produced the most wonderful tasting wines. Like most streets in Italy, the houses along Via Piante were two stories high and sat right on the edge of each side of the street, no curbs, no sidewalks, just houses and street. Number 39 was no different.
From the outside, number 39 was, like the neighboring houses, not much to look at. The outside walls were white stucco, though no longer white having withstood years of damaging weather and exhaust from passing vehicles. The windows were adorned with well worn, three-inch thick wood shutters that actually closed and latched, undoubtedly designed for providing security against an attack from the Huns to the North. There was not a door into the house from the street, rather two large wood barn doors that stood each ten feet in height, five feet in length, and like the shutters, three inches thick. The rustic doors opened into a vast courtyard with a very old, majestic tree standing in the corner, providing ample shade in the daytime. The walls of the house were made of stone, expertly placed by skilled artisans who had learned their trade from their fathers, who learned it from their fathers before them. The large stones were held together with mortar, placed just so as to make a wall three feet thick, keeping the place cool in the hot summer months and frigid in the freezing winter months.
Number 39 Via Piante was well over a hundred years old.
Just inside the entrance door of the house was a small foyer from which a vine grew out of a hole cut in the floor and through the thick outside wall back out into the courtyard wrapping itself around a wire run for just that purpose. The vine produced beautiful wide, green leaves in the spring and large bunches of deep purple grapes that were picked each summer and made into a delicious red fragola wine ready for drinking by late fall.
Number 39 Via Piante was tucked away at the base of the Dolomite Mountains in the sleepy little town of Aviano.
I recall the first time I met him; I was in my little kitchen throwing together the ingredients for my Sunday supper when I heard a knock on the street side window. Apprehensively I approached the window and pushed open the wood shutters to find an older, dark skinned gentleman, with thick black eyebrows and a thick black mustache, seemingly of Arabic descent, dressed in his Sunday best, though they seemed to be a little worn and tattered, standing tall and dignified.
“Bon giorno,” he said. “May I speak with the lady of the house Sir (translated from Italian)?”
Being the polite American that I was, I replied, “Bon giorno, I’m afraid that there is not a woman of the house (these were my pre-lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook days), only me. Can I help you (again translated from my version of Italian)?”
Hesitating momentarily, he pulled a large, bulky duffel bag from his shoulder and began emptying the contents, laying several items on my kitchen window sill.
“Do you need a kitchen towel, a table cloth, a dust mop, a genuine Moroccan trinket?” he offered.
Realizing that this older gentleman was a traveling salesman, living in Italy and probably trying to make enough money to send home to family, undoubtedly working for a “boss man,” I decided to go ahead and buy a kitchen towel for twice the asking price and certainly five times the worth.
That was the first Sunday of many that I found myself spending a few minutes at my kitchen window exchanging pleasantries with my own personal traveling salesman from Morocco. I never quite understood his name, he called himself what sounded like “brujang,” so I resigned to calling him “Mr. Bo Jangles.” After amassing dozens of dish towels, I stopped buying the over priced items and started just slipping him a few bucks, figuring he could still sell the merchandise elsewhere.
We’d usually talk for several minutes, our mastery of the Italian language each improving over time, and I learned that he was indeed from Morocco where he had left his wife and two children, hoping to make enough money in Italy to return one day financially secure. He seemed to miss his family.
“Hook, you have cigarette?” Mr. Bo Jangles asked one day.
“Yes, would you like one?” I replied.
He accepted a Marlboro and a light and seemed to enjoy his smoke. I always kept a carton of Marlboros in my glove box just in case I was pulled over by Italy’s elite Carabinieri. I found that they were much more pleasant during their interrogations if smoking an American cig, and if I let them keep the pack, well let’s just say that I was not cited once in my five years living in Italy.
“Thank you Hook, this is good cigarette. American?” he asked.
“Yes, would you like to keep the pack Mr. Bo Jangles?” I offered.
He stared at me with a look of unbelievable appreciation and nodded repeatedly thanking me for such an offer. He gave me a free pair of socks and wished many blessings upon me and my family and any children that I might someday have.
I was the only American living on Via Piante, while many of my fellow servicemembers and their families lived in the surrounding community as there was very little housing on the base. At about the same time that I had met Mr. Bo Jangles, there was a rash of break-ins, targeting primarily homes occupied by American military and I remember thinking it somewhat remarkable that I, a single soldier, rarely at home, had not fallen victim to the thieves.
After a couple of years of Sunday afternoons with Mr. Bo Jangles, providing him cigarettes, talking over a glass of beer, and buying the occasional Moroccan trinket, on an October Sunday, he refused my offers.
“No?” I asked curiously.
“No, I cannot have beer or tobacco for Ramadan,” he explained.
I told him that I understood and slipped him a few bucks instead.
He shook my hand and said that he would not return for many months as he was going to make a Hajj to Mecca and hoped to see his family along the way. He explained how he had saved enough money to catch the train south to Sicily, then a boat to Tunisia, and then on to Morrocco by bus before making his pilgrimage to Mecca.
“Good for you Mr. Bo Jangles,” I said sincerely while shaking his hand, “have a safe trip.”
“Thank you Hook, thank you for all, you make my Hajj possible with your many generosities,” he struggled to say, squeezing my hand tightly and tearing up slightly.
I never saw Mr. Bo Jangles again and often wondered how his trip had fared. I did see the occasional Moroccan salesman walk down Via Piante, a large, bulky duffel bag draped across his shoulder, but wondered why not one ever stopped at number 39. I later discovered from a savvy Italian friend of mine, that outside and just below my kitchen window, was a unique, barely discernable mark on the not so white stucco wall, most likely placed there by a traveling salesman. The mark was sort of a code meant to ward off all other salesmen and would be thieves, where other homes might be marked to indicate them to be a good place to rob. Mr. Bo Jangles had long ago marked my house as one to leave alone. I always felt as if I owed him one after learning what he had one, then maybe he felt the same way about me.
If you should happen to run into Mr. Bo Jangles, tell him Hook says “hi,” and “thanks.” Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 1106 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (8) | Permalink
This post is filed under: La Vita Dolce
Afghanistan’s President Hamid Karzai while visiting the Pentagaon was asked if he had a message for your Soldiers. His answer…
“I was yesterday in the Walter Reed hospital. Ma’am, I was — let me find the right word — I was taken by emotions there, to put it in simple terms, of wounded soldiers and of a lady officer who had worked in Afghanistan, having six children, six boys. She was still helping the Afghan people.
“So my message for the American soldiers in Afghanistan is that they have liberated us from tyranny, from terrorism, from oppression, from occupation into a country that is now moving towards prosperity, that is once again the home of all Afghans. I don’t know if it resonates with you. It’s a very important thing for Afghanistan. Afghanistan was not the home of all Afghans. Today it is. Everybody’s back in that country with a parliament, with a constitution, with a market economy, with a free press, with all that.
“Also, that the presence of the American soldiers in Afghanistan, while helping Afghanistan, is also providing security to the rest of world by fighting terrorism. It means also security for America and for Europe.
“Therefore, the continuation of this fight in Afghanistan, in which all of us participate, is actually working for all of us around the world and in Afghanistan, for which we are grateful.”
I’m not sure if it resonates with the vast majority of our society, but it’s good to know the Afghans appreciate our efforts. Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 1954 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (2) | Permalink
This post is filed under: GWOT & The Stan
This is an outstanding initiative that quite frankly hasn’t received enough attention.
FORT SAM HOUSTON, Texas (Army News Service, Sept. 21, 2006) – More than 200 wounded warriors, veterans and family members explored job opportunities and honed interview skills with job recruiters at a Hiring Heroes Career Fair on Fort Sam Houston Sept. 19.
Forty-five recruiters from Department of Defense and federal agencies and private sector companies set up shop at the Sam Houston Club to entice wounded Soldiers and their families with job offers.
The Hiring Heroes program is in its second year and thus far has helped more than 1,000 of your wounded warriors and/or their family members connect with potential employers.
At the Northrop Grumman booth, Rutherford said the company is looking to support both the servicemember and family. “If a servicemember can’t work, then we’ll hire a spouse or primary caregiver. We hired a father not long ago.”
I applaud those companies that are participating in this initiative and hope that more will jump on the band wagon. Former soldiers make great employees and those wounded in defense of our way of life deserve fair consideration for employment.
“These service members have had their lives turned upside down,” Hannah said. “At first their biggest fear was being wounded. Then, when Soldiers begin to recuperate, their biggest fears become: ‘Can I get a job? How will I support my family? Who will hire me now?’”
Hannah said she has no doubt that the career fair can help ease those fears. “The employers here today are willing to hire people and train them. Every servicemember has skills – a gunner has been taught how to train others, team-build and organizational skills. There’s enough there to get an entry-level job.”
In addition to Northrop Grumman, I understand that Bell South, IBM, ZEP, and Cingular are also hiring your heroes. I suspect that more companies would follow suit if they were aware so what say we help get the word out regarding the Hiring Heroes initiative.
Hiring Heroes is co-sponsored by The Office of the Secretary of Defense, DoD’s Military Severely Injured Center and Monster.com, a networking hub for current and former military people, defense workers and their families.
For more information about Hiring Heroes events, call Hannah at (888) 363-4872 or e-mail her at Karen.Hannah@cpms.osd.mil.
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 1150 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (1) | Permalink
This post is filed under: Americana & Heroes
