I think it appropriate to re-post the following given the significance of today, Memorial Day…
No Tears In Heaven
The four Soldiers sat around an olive drab painted footlocker playing cards. Actually, the group was comprised of three Soldiers and one Marine, all wearing desert camouflage uniforms, their blouses removed exposing brown t-shirts, not because they were hot, rather it was just more comfortable to have them off.
“Let’s go for six Top,” the Marine Captain said to his partner.
“Six it is then Sir,” First Sergeant McNeely agreed. Julian McNeely was from Newark, New Jersey and had served in this man’s army for just over 17 years. He took a lot of shit for his first name while coming up through the ranks, especially while at basic training, but only his brother got away with ribbing him about it in recent years.
Julian McNeely’s partner in this game of spades was Captain Mike Williams from Sarasota, Florida. Private First Class Williams attended the United States Marine Corps Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia and graduated as Second Lieutenant Williams on September 9, 2001. He enjoyed playing cards with Top McNeely and the men, it kept his mind off of missing his wife and daughter.
Sergeant Booker B. Washington grew up in Montgomery, Alabama before enlisting in the Army the day after he graduated from Robert E. Lee High School in May of 2002, where his picture still hangs as the All-American quarterback who took the Generals to the state championship two years in a row. Booker B. Washington turned down several scholarship offers from colleges and universities like Notre Dame, Syracuse, Clemson, and the most tempting, the University of Alabama’s Crimson Tide. In his 18 year old heart, young Booker knew he was to be a Soldier first, before anything else.
“I can go three myself sergeant,” Private First Class Brian Velleux of Newport, Maine told his partner, Sergeant Washington.
“OK, we’ll go five and set them ‘V’,” the sergeant said confidently.
Brian Velleux disappointed his parents by joining the Army a little over a year ago. He was supposed to play professional hockey and make a ton of money and buy his parents a house in Florida and have fake teeth and bad knees and a BMW. He never really liked playing hockey; the early morning practices, the long ass drives to play 90-minutes of “chase the puck,” and the never living up to his father’s expectations on the ice. Brian Velleux loved being a Soldier had aspirations to one day be a noncommissioned officer like Sergeant Washington.
“Damn.” Captain Williams said, throwing his cards down onto the makeshift table after being set by the younger team. His partner grinned slightly, knowing the young officer had bid bigger than he had in his hand.
“We ought to start making our way to the station,” the first sergeant announced looking at his watch.
Captain Williams reflexively asked, “We got someone coming in Top?”
“Yeah, we got another Soldier comin’ home,” McNeely answered as he placed the deck of cards dead center of the footlocker and put on his blouse.
“Let’s go greet him ‘V’,” Sergeant Washington announced standing up, likewise putting on his blouse.
As the train pulled into the station, Corporal Carmen Sanchez marveled at the number of people awaiting their arrival, waving banners and holding signs all welcoming them. When she stepped off the train, Corporal Sanchez was greeted by Captain Williams and First Sergeant McNeely first, with a firm handshake and a pat on the back.
“Welcome home Sanchez,” McNeely said with all sincerity as he gripped her hand with his right, his left hand on her shoulder, and his eyes looking into her soul.
Carmen Sanchez joined the Army three years ago to the day in El Paso, Texas though she was originally from Honduras. Her parents immigrated to America when she was 13 years old, determined to give their daughter a future filled with freedom, liberty, and opportunities.
The melodic sounds of a band playing patriotic music caught her ear as she passed by countless numbers of people welcoming and thanking her, when Corporal Sanchez realized that she was the only Soldier on the train. Though there were other civilians disembarking, the “welcoming party” was solely for her. Tears welled in her dark brown eyes.
The original group of four received Corporal Sanchez as if they had known her forever. The card games continued, rotating Carmen into the mix while the “odd man” out took care of keeping score and maintaining refreshments. She quickly noticed that it didn’t seem to matter who partnered with Captain Williams, his team never won a game.
On her third day at home, Devlin Thomas, a tall blonde haired reporter in his mid to late twenties from New York, New York, who had taken the train with Corporal Sanchez, stopped by to see her.
“Hey Devlin,” Carmen Sanchez said looking up from her cards held in a fan with her left hand in front of her.
“Hi Carmen, how are you managing?” the reporter somberly asked.
“Fabulously! And you?” she responded slapping down the Queen of Spades, trumping that hand.
Devlin Thomas, junior reporter for the New York Times, just kind of shrugged in response, staring off into the distance, longing to be someplace else.
“Would you like a soft drink or some bottled water sir?” Private First Class Velleux asked, interrupting Mr. Thomas’ trance.
“Ah, no thank you,” Thomas answered. “Where are you from Private Velleux?” he asked the young Soldier.
“I’m from Maine sir,” replied Brian Velleux.
Devlin Thomas then slipped into his reporter persona asking harder hitting questions of the young private, “Why are you here? Is it worth it? Aren’t you angry?” Private First Class Velleux refused to answer.
A little later, Sergeant Washington was the “odd man” out and found himself talking with Devlin Thomas who took a bit of a different approach.
“You married sergeant?” he asked with a sincere tone to his voice.
“Yep, to my high school sweetheart; she’s a runway model. Well, she is when she walks up and down our hallway. She gave me three beautiful babies, two girls and a boy and truth is I miss that woman, and them kids,” he added quickly.
“Well, aren’t you angry with the Army, the government, for taking you away from them?” Thomas asked.
“Angry?” Sergeant Washington asked, confused by the question. “Why in the hell would I be angry? I’m here so that they can live safely there. I want my kids to grow up tasting, smelling, and breathing freedom, not misery, not oppression, not shackled. I’m happy that I’ve helped to make that happen for them in my own small way.”
Devlin Thomas seemed to take offense to the answer, angrily arguing, “But you’ll never see them again! They’ll never see you again! You’re dead!! We’re all dead and why in the hell are you all so damned happy about that?!?!”
A hush fell over the card game as all four players focused their attention on the angry reporter when First Sergeant McNeely slowly stood up.
“Mr. Thomas, you are correct, we’re dead, but there are no tears in Heaven. We’ve each given all that we had to give for our country, what is it you would like to know sir?” the salty old NCO asked.
“Well, I mean, isn’t anyone else besides me pissed off that their lives have come to an end?” he asked incredulously.
Captain Williams spoke up, “Top, sit down please, you too Mr. Thomas and you too Sergeant Washington. We’ve got plenty of time to play cards,” a slight smile crossed the first sergeant’s face. “Let’s talk awhile,” the officer offered.
“Devlin,” Carmen Sanchez began, “I’m not angry at all and I left behind a little boy. Ernesto is three and a half years old; he lives with my momma now. I used to miss him terribly, especially at night, lying on my cot in the tent at FOB Mercury just outside Mosul, but since I’ve been here my sadness is gone. I’m so happy that he’s safe and free that my heart no longer aches for him, instead it swells with pride.”
Devlin Thomas, unmarried and with no children, could not fathom Corporal Sanchez’s reasoning and said as much. “Well, what about you Captain?” he continued, “Don’t you miss your wife and little girl? Aren’t you mad that you had to die in a fiery helicopter crash depriving Chrissy of her daddy?”
“I do miss my wife Mr. Thomas, I miss her every time I’m away from her, that’s called love. Likewise, I miss my daughter Chrissy, she’ll be six next week by the way, but I must say, emphatically, that she has not been deprived of her daddy. I am her daddy and when she thinks of me, speaks of me, dreams of me, I’m overwhelmed with joy that she’ll know I’m in Heaven continuing to watch over her and her mother. This isn’t about my death Mr. Thomas, it’s about my life, and just as with my comrades here, my life ended for a purpose, for a greater good.”
“How do you know that she knows you’re still her daddy, her protector? How do you know that she knows your in Heaven?” the reporter pressed. “And by the way, you call this Heaven?”
A few smiles appeared on the faces of those who had been there for awhile before Captain Williams responded, “I know, Mr. Thomas, because each night I hear my Chrissy’s prayers, one of the perks for being here, and no, I don’t call this Heaven, this is the port of embarkation, Heaven is over there, through those gates,” he said pointing to his left.
“Then why are you here, and not there?” the reporter snipped pointing at the very gates Captain Williams had.
“We volunteered to be here sir,” First Sergeant McNeely flatly explained. “You see, no Soldier, Marine, Sailor, Airmen, or Coast Guardsmen ought to arrive to Heaven without a proper greeting. It’s the least we can do considering their sacrifices. And I’d like to add, that through those gates are at least a thousand others who have volunteered to take our place here.”
After a few moments of silence, Devlin Thomas tried again asking, “What about you Private Velleux? Surely you see the travesty in dying at such a young age, your life wasted?”
Brian Velleux felt his face flush with anger but held it in check after a reassuring look from Sergeant Williams. Taking a deep breath before answering, the young Soldier said, “With all due respect sir, my life was not wasted. My life was spent defending your right to publish articles in your newspaper criticizing my life. My life made a difference in providing the very freedoms you take for granted to a group of people who still don’t understand what freedom means. My life ended while saving a school full of young Afghan girls from an IED that was meant to kill them all. My life was not wasted sir.”
Several moments passed before a word was spoken. “I’m sorry Private, excuse me, Brian, I didn’t mean to offend you and I was out of line, the truth is, I respect what your life represents,” Devlin Thomas sheepishly replied. Turning to the entire group he asked, “If I might, I’d like to ask just one last question but before I do, I’d like to say how honored I am to be here among this group and I apologize if I came off antagonistic.”
“If you were offered your lives back, a second chance if you were, to leave Heaven and go back, would you take it?”
All five answered yes and the New York Times reporter felt that he had found the thread that would validate his original position when First Sergeant McNeely said, “And I’d go back to Iraq to finish the job I started.”
“I would too,” Corporal Sanchez offered.
“Same here,” Sergeant Washington added, “my Soldiers need me.”
“As would I,” added Captain Williams.
“And I’d go back to Afghanistan, in a heartbeat,” pronounced Private First Class Velleux.
Seeing that Devlin Thomas was stunned by their replies, First Sergeant McNeely offered, “Mr. Thomas, we don’t belong in Heaven, we belong on the battlefield, on the front lines defending America and our way of life, but we’re here, our missions complete, we only pray that there will be others to follow our paths so that those who follow your path can continue to publish newspapers, and our kids can continue to ride buses free from fear. It sucks to be dead Mr. Thomas, but it is truly blissful to know that America remains free. Rest assured sir, there are no tears in Heaven, no tears.”
Speechless, Devlin Thomas stood in awe of these people for what seemed like a very long time when First Sergeant McNeely broke the silence.
“We ought to start making our way to the station,” the first sergeant announced looking at his watch. “Care to join us Mr. Thomas?”
Sgt Hook out.
You can read more here.
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This post is filed under: Fiddler's Green & Heroes
For one week each month, my unit has a 9-soldier detail, including riflemen and a bugler, trained and ready to don their class ‘A’ uniforms complete with all awards, standing by to provide military honors to veterans who have passed away in our area. Sadly, each time we’ve pulled this detail (6 consecutive months), we’ve conducted funerals nearly every day of the week. I recently had the opportunity honor to participate in one of those ceremonies…
I stood in the almost green again grass, just off the edge of the narrow winding road, a few yards from a dark blue awning that provided shade for a dozen chairs, all facing a freshly dug rectangular hole in the earth. The sun was out, the birds singing.
Dressed in my Class ‘A’ uniform, complete with all awards and decorations, I found the slight breeze refreshing as I waited among hundreds of heroes from times past. Off to my right, some 20-yards distant stood a young soldier, also dressed in her Class ‘A’ uniform, a bugle held tightly by a white gloved hand, tucked into her right side as she seemed to stare into another world.
The silver colored hearse came to a stop just forward of and adjacent to the freshly dug grave. The Noncommissioned officer in charge of the detail stepped forward, turned to his right, facing the rear of the hearse and commanded, “PRESENT ARMS.” The six soldiers (pallbearers) standing in formation to his right executed a slow, solemn hand salute in unison, as did he, as did I. We held our silent salute for 3-seconds and then again in unison dropped our hands, standing rigid at the position of attention. The NCOIC methodically opened the doors of the hearse while the pallbearers moved into a position of two ranks, facing each other. The NCOIC proceeded to slide the flag draped casket from the hearse, slowly, step, by step. To a man, each soldier stepped to the casket, grasping the rails simultaneously in one smooth motion, moving methodically until the casket was clear of the hearse.
“FORWARD FACE” commanded the NCOIC and all six turned sharply, prepared to carry one of America’s heroes to his final resting place. I felt my heart pound as I stood at the position of attention, watching with reverence.
Step, stop. Step, stop. Step, stop. The pallbearers moved slowly, precisely until positioned over the grave while family members and friends watched, wiping away tears.
“CENTER FACE” came the command and all six turned, facing each other before easing the casket onto the pre-positioned supports.
“PRESENT ARMS.” All rendered honors with the hand salute.
“ORDER ARMS.” After the salute was dropped, all turned and quietly marched off to the distant, joining the bugler.
The Chaplain presided over the graveside services, speaking eloquently about the man, the soldier, the husband and father, the Korean War veteran, the grandfather, and the hero about to be laid to rest. As soon as the Chaplain finished, the 7-man firing party, without command, took up arms and rendered three volleys of a 21-gun salute. Immediately following the salute, the firing party presented arms and the bugler played taps. I stood solemnly, saluting the flag draped casket of a hero, my heart aching for the family’s pain while swelling with pride for his service to this nation.
After taps, the firing party stacked arms and six of them marched back to the casket, again taking up positions on either side.
“RETRIEVE COLORS.”
The flag snapped as all six stood upright. They then meticulously began the process of folding the flag into a tight, triangular shape ready for presenting to the family. The NCOIC saluted the flag before taking it from the folding party. He then turned to face me whereby I saluted the flag before receiving it in my arms. I then marched solemnly to where the family sat, turning sharply to the widow and stated, “Ma’am, I present this flag on behalf of a grateful nation as an expression of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your husband, our sergeant major.”
After handing her the flag, I saluted, turned, and walked away with teary eyes, honored to have had such an opportunity.
Taps
Sgt Hook out.
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This post is filed under: Fiddler's Green & Heroes
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Memorial Day 2007.
Or: WHAT I DID LAST WEEKEND by Sgt Hook
THURSDAY-
I awoke at my normal time on Thursday morn, my bags packed the night before, ready to make my way to the nation’s capital for the annual Milblog Conference 2007. The Lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook graciously drove me to the nearest airport from our current undisclosed location, dropping me off a good two hours before my scheduled flight. As I waited, the skies seemed to darken and I noticed rain begining to fall. To make a long story short, my flight was delayed by almost an hour. Still we took to the dark skies. I was a bit concerned, however, as I had a connecting flight to make now only 10-minutes from our revised arrival time.
Doing my best OJ Simpson run through the airport in an attempt to make my flight, convinced that there was no way my bag would make it even if I did, I found my gate, already closed. My heart sunk, unsure as to when the next flight to D.C. was, certain that it would not be until the following day. No big deal as the first event of the conference wasn’t scheduled until Friday evening right? Wrong.
Two days before, I received an email from Mrs. Greyhawk who informed me that my old friend whom I’ve never met, Greyhawk would not be able to attend the conference as he was flying out for a mission Friday morning, but would be in town Thursday evening if I could make it. She invited me to join them and a group of other Milbloggers at the Macaroni Grill Restaurant in Arlington, not far from the hotel. I wanted desperately to make it.
Turning from the closed gate I found a woman adorned in a dark blue skirt, dark blue vest, light blue pin striped shirt and a gold nametag that read, “Jenny, Fly Me.”
Me: “Hi Jenny, It seems that I missed my connection to D.C., is there another flight out tonight?” I asked.
She: “No sir, I’m sorry,” she replied.
Me: “Well, when can I get out? The weather delayed my first leg,” I explained.
She: “Um, it looks like flight 3386 to Washington, D.C. will be departing in about 90 minutes,” she replied, looking up from her computer screen.
Me: blink, blink, blink
She: smile, blink, smile, blink
Me: “I thought you said that there was not another flight out tonight to D.C.?” I asked somewhat confused.
She: “There isn’t.” blink, flick of hair, sigh.
Me: “Maybe I should start over again slowly Jenny,” I calmly began. “My original flight was delayed by an hour and I was supposed to connect to D.C., when can I do that considering the weather and delays Jenny?”
She: “Mr. Hook, you are confirmed on flight 3386 departing in about 90 minutes and I am sorry for the delay, the weather has really been difficult today.”
Me: “Where’s the bar?”
I arrived to the airport formerly known as National 2-hours later than planned, made my way to the Metro and managed to find the hotel without much fanfare. I checked in quickly, dropping my bags into the very plush digs and running back down to catch a cab to the Macaroni Grill. Paying the ridiculous fare of $28 bucks for a 6-minute drive, I stepped up to the front entrance of a restaurant that actually looked closed. I hesitantly pushed on the front door and was pleased to find it open, so I proceeded in.
The place was surprisingly dark, and instead of being greeted by a hostess, I tripped over someone laying on the floor. Just as I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and what the hell my nose was smelling, spot lights coupled with shouts of “Police, on the floor, hands on your head or you’ll be shot!” shocked the shit out of me.
To again make a long story short, the aforementioned restaurant turned out to be a crack house and I was caught up in a police raid. Thrown into a cell with almost 50 other thugs I again felt my heart sank. Hearing a deep voice singing, “Swing low, sweet chariot…” I turned to see a large man in a red shirt sporting a gray beard sitting in the corner belting out the melancholy song, my spirits started to lift. A few moments later, a group of four were released having made bail, the crooner included. I was again starting to slip into the darkness of depression when the jailer walked down the hall, stopping in front of me on the other side of the bars.
He: “You Hook?”
Me: “Why, who wants to know?”
He: “Oh, you some kind of tough guy,” and he turned to walk away.
Me: “That’s right pal, I’m a tough guy!” I yelled. Then felt the room closing in on me, actually it was a handful of big sweaty crack heads closing in on me I think and yelled, “I’m Hook! I’m not that tough!”
He: Stopping, turning, out of the corner of his mouth said, “You’ve made bail.”
A few moments later, walking the lonely streets of D.C. my cell phone rang.
Me: “Hello.”
She: “Hook? This is Sherri, I’m at the rock bottom…”
Me: “As am I Sherri, as am I…”
She: “No, the Rock Bottom is a pub just around the corner from the hotel and there are some folks here I think you might like to meet.”
Me: “Oh, OK, and I sure could use a drink.”
Long to short, I made my way to the Rock Bottom and ordered a Weizen draught and walked around the crowded, smoke filled pub wondering who in the hell I was supposed to meet suddenly realizing that I’ve never actually met a blogger (save one) before, when I came across a table of several loud, cheerful, drunks, one of whom I thought I recognized but not sure from where.
Me: “Hi, is this the blogger’s table?” I asked.
They: “Who the hell are you!?”
Me: “Uh, I usually go by Hook.”
They: “No Shit!?!”
And all was well. Mrs. G had a lot of questions to answer regarding the whole restaurant/crack house thing, and I managed to meet Greyhawk, unfortunately he was passed out in the back seat of a limo, his fingernails adorned with bright red polish and it looked as if he was wearing lipstic. Still I was very happy to have finally met for the first time this gang of thieves…
Of course I have no idea who any of them are, but I’m pretty sure that I recognize some of them from the *ahem “Macaroni Grill.”
Next up- Friday. Sgt Hook out.
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This post is filed under: All Things Blog
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A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The MilBlog Conference
