Originally posted on April 13, 2003.

Off we headed to the next town, little did I know that the next town wasn’t to be for quite some distance (Canada is huge!). It was nice to have someone to share a portion of my trip with though, someone to talk to. I formally introduced myself and told her of my plans to visit Jack in Michigan. She seemed pleasantly surprised that I was an American and said that her name was Marlena. Marlena was an attractive woman who looked to be about 25-years old. When I asked her what she was doing out here on the side of the road, she silently looked at me making it clear that she didn’t want to talk about it.

I offered her some food and water, she took only the water. We drove on in silence for another hour, when she turned to me with those damned eyes and said, “Thank you for stopping.” I don’t know why, but I felt like hugging her and telling her that everything was going to be OK. Another hour went by filled with nothing but the sound of the Beatles on the radio; seems it was an all-Beatles weekend on the only radio station I could pick up.

Laughing at my horrible singing along with John, Paul, George, and Ringo, her silence was finally broken.

“How far along?” I asked.

“Any day now,” she answered.

The fear that immediately coursed through my veins must have registered on my face because she quickly added, “Don’t worry, not yet.” I wasn’t convinced and slowly eased my foot a little further on the accelerator so as to get to the elusive next town as soon as freakin’ possible.

It was beginning to get chilly so I turned on the heat. Jeeps may not afford the most comfortable of rides, however, their heaters work famously. She flashed those green eyes and said, “Thank you.” After another few awkward moments of silence I was about to demand to know her story, when she very matter of factly volunteered, “My boyfriend dumped me on the side of the road this morning.” I bit my tongue refraining from offering any opinion. “The baby isn’t his,” she continued looking down at her feet.

I replied, “Are you all right?” Again the eyes answered for her telling me that I had responded perfectly and that yes, she was all right, or was going to be.

Not ten minutes later all hell broke loose. Marlena suddenly went into some kind of fit, breathing heavy, yelling at me to “Stop the cursed Jeep,” as she held on to the oh shit bar on the dash in front of her with a death grip. “Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!” I thought, “She’s having the baby, now!” I pulled over to the side of the road into a small clearing. Taking out my sleeping bag, I unrolled it on top of a bed of pine needles, and gently laid her on it. I knew nothing about delivering babies so I asked her if she did, to which she said that she did not.

“Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!” If that wasn’t good enough, it started to rain. I looked up to the heavens after the first drop hit me on the head as if to say, “What are you doing to me?” when the next raindrop hit me in the eye (how’s that for an answer?). That’s when I started to laugh much to Marlena’s dismay.

“What the hell is so funny!” she snapped.

I made sure that she was as comfortable as a woman about to have a baby in the middle of nowhere could be, and went to the Jeep pulling out my little tent and began setting it up. Within minutes I got her inside just before the first flash of lightning and crack of thunder- the first of many. The wind picked up and the deluge hit, making me glad that I had set the tent up. I spent the next six or eight or ten hours holding her hand and listening to her hate filled opinions of men, while thanking me for being so kind in between outbursts. Not taking any of her expletives personally, I kept trying to listen for a car, preferably a police car, hoping it would pull up and save me, save us, to no avail. Those green eyes flashed again, this time making it painfully clear that the baby was coming, NOW!

Marlena gave birth to a healthy baby boy that was, I thought, destined to be a rock singer given the way he screamed, and without me having to spank his bottom. I’ve seen enough episodes of Rescue 911 to know that I needed to clean the baby and mother. Luckily I had a tub of Baby-Wipes packed in my rucksack that I always take camping with me.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the bond form between mother and child, a bond that started with an umbilical cord some months ago, and now they finally meet, face to face (or face to breast). It was just after midnight when I thought to ask Marlena if she felt up to traveling, but she had fallen asleep with baby in arms. I carefully took the boy, wrapped him in a blanket, and laid him next to his mom.

“I don’t know your mother’s story little guy,” I said, “but I do know that she will need you to take care of her one day, can you do that for her?” As if understanding me, he launched into a fit of crying that took me all of thirty minutes (believe it or not my rendition of “Hey Jude” did it) to calm; all the while Marlena slept from exhaustion. I felt pretty good just then, though I too was exhausted. Life can be so fucking incredible sometimes!

In the morning Marlena woke and while she fed her son I packed everything up after making coffee on my little propane stove. The three of us climbed into the Jeep and continued our journey to the next town. Mother and child spent the bulk of the trip getting to know each other; I spent the bulk of the trip contemplating the meaning of life (answers to which will be published at a later date). Upon our arrival at the hospital, Marlena said that she wanted to name her son “Hook” but that she could not because coincidentally the boy’s father’s name was Hook (figure the odds) and she hated him and didn’t want to attach that stigma to her son.

She said, “So would you name him for me Hook?” Looking into those incredibly beautiful eyes, mine again welled, and I answered, “How about ‘Jack’ after my grandfather and brother?”

“Jack it is,” she happily declared.

That was the last I ever saw of Marlena and little Jack.

I finally arrived at my brother’s house, a couple of days late. Not feeling like getting into the whole story in answering his question as to why it took me so long to get there, smiling I replied, “I picked up a pregnant hitchhiker who gave birth to a baby boy on the side of the road in my tent whom she named ‘Jack’ after you.”

“You are so full of shit,” he said handing me a beer and laughing, “You probably hooked up with some hot waitress along the way and spent a couple of nights with her.”

I chuckled and then thought, “Well, she did call me honey.”

Sgt Hook out.

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Editor’s note: It has been awhile, but archives are in need of reconstructing so I offer this entry originally posted on April 12, 2003.

I’ve been thinking about my brother Jack a lot today. I haven’t seen him in almost two years, he’s in the United States Coast Guard, drives boats, rescues people, breaks ice, stops smugglers- he is a true hero. I was thinking that it’s high time I visited he and his wife but they are a few thousand miles away and I have to be back to work on Monday. After calling to say “hi” and getting only a metallic, nasal sounding, whiney, computer generated voice mail message, I remembered the last time I went to visit him and am now having second thoughts.

Having just returned from three years of hard, down and dirty, soldiering in the Republic of Korea, affectionately known as “the ROK,” I decided to take a little trip. I had been visiting my parents in Maine for a couple of weeks, and at twenty-eight years of age one’s parents can be just so much fun, so I thought of going out to Michigan to see my brother. Jack and I had become closer in recent years, not that we were ever very far apart, but growing up with only eighteen months separating us, we had our differences of opinion from time to time.

Korea had taken its toll on me. We worked hard and partied hard knowing that at any moment the Communist Hordes could come across the line and be in our backyard before the alarm went off. I flew an unprecedented 350+ hours my last year on the ROK and most of them were between midnight and dawn. I was on the verge of burnout. A cross-country drive would do me some good. I was in no hurry as I still had almost three weeks before I had to report in at my next duty station; Italy.

Taking my Jeep out of dad’s garage, I did all of the pre-roadtrip checks ensuring that I didn’t get stranded someplace. As I was changing the oil, it occurred to me that I might want to drive through Canada on my way, as a chance to see a different country, have some new experiences. I rationalized my idea by remembering that mom did not yet have a souvenir spoon from our neighbor to the north and I could stop and get one for her. The decision made, I got out the maps and went down to the bookstore to purchase an English-Canadian dictionary. Boy, was I embarrassed.

I awoke from a deep slumber to the blaring of an alarm some idiot had set for 4am, momentarily thinking, “its just my brother, I can see him in a couple of years when I come home from Italy.” After forcing myself into the shower, and gulping down a hot cup of java, I was ready to hit the road. Excitedly I drove off into the early morning darkness singing along with Neil Young on the radio; one of the few artists with whom I can get away collaborating; he and Bob Dylan.

A few hours into my trip across the very large and forested state of Maine, the sun began to climb above the horizon from somewhere behind me. I marveled at the changing of the sky from black to purple, then streaks of dark orange mixing in turning the purple to pink, next a brighter orange until daylight. There I was, alone on the road with nature and all of her splendors.

Arriving at the border of Canada, I was accosted by a none too trusting customs agent. He seemed to think that I was smuggling Americans across, presumably underneath some of the camping equipment I had packed just in case I decided to stop for the night along the 20-hour route. I felt like telling him that the Vietnam War ended some time ago and few Americans wanted to run away to Canada today. Instead I politely cooperated with the officer as he rifled questions at me concerning the 3-pack of condoms he discovered after dumping the contents of my shaving kit onto the hood of the Jeep. The Mountie was apparently determined to nail my ass (no pun intended). I waved as I drove away noticing in my rearview mirror that the prick had his hand on his revolver, staring at me as if I were on the FBI’s ten most wanted list. How I wished three or four people would’ve popped up from under all my crap, just to see the look on his face, and of course, to see if the gun was loaded.

Undaunted, I continued down the single lane highway breathing in the fresh northern air, filling my nostrils with its piney crispness. I thought, “life isn’t so bad after all.” I pulled into a diner for lunch and was surprised that Canadian diners were very similar to American ones, down to the middle-aged waitress wearing an all too revealing pink outfit, fish net stockings, black pumps, and bright red lipstick. She was even smacking her gum when she asked, “what’ll you have honey?” I leisurely ate my moose burger and sipped my beer when I suddenly became aware that Nancy, the waitress, was hawking me. I wondered if the customs cop had called ahead warning her of the contents of my shaving kit. Discretion being the better part of valor, I quickly swallowed the rest of my Molson Golden, paid the tab, and left a generous tip for Nancy. After all, she did call me honey.

Back on the road, heading west, I was soaking in the beauty of the autumn landscape when a woman on the side of the road frantically waving her arms snapped me out of my tree-hugging, nature-loving trance. I wondered what a pregnant woman would be doing standing alongside of this desolate road, miles from anything resembling civilization. Fighting the instinct to stop and render assistance, I kept driving and chastised myself the instant I passed her. She looked sad, desperate. Glancing in my rearview mirror I watched her grab her swollen belly and double over falling to the ground landing on her buttocks. This time the overwhelming urge to stop and help took over and I proceeded to turn around. I felt my heart race as I hurriedly returned to where she sat. Jumping out of the Jeep, I half expected her to pull a gun out from under her pillow stuffed dress saying, “you stupid motherfucker, give me your wallet and keys!”

My chivalrous half prevailed, however, and I asked her if she was all right. Slowly she lifted her head and looked at me with the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen. “Yeah,” she said. “Could you give me a ride?” she asked. This time without thinking I said, “of course, come on” and helped her off the ground and into the Jeep. Climbing in myself I asked, “where to?” To which she responded, “next town please” and those green eyes seemed so sad…

Sgt Hook out.

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HAPPY FATHER’S DAY COMMANDER… (June 15, 2003)

The young Ensign was excited to be heading home that April day in 1967, after finishing his maiden voyage as an officer and a gentleman in the United States Coast Guard. He had been assigned to the United States Coast Guard Cutter (USCGC) Sassafras right out of officer candidate school (OCS) and after months of re-fitting along with numerous other mundane dry-dock preparations performed under the watchful eye of the commanding officer, he and the crew finally “set sail” on a three-week aids to navigation tour.

The USCGC Sassafras is a 180 foot/1000 ton buoy tender who’s primary role was to set and maintain navigational buoys along the eastern seaboard from the Jersey shore up to the coast of Maryland, including Chesapeake Bay.

The young Ensign was not really all that young as he would turn 23 in three weeks, having already served 6-years in the Coast Guard as an enlisted man rising to the rank of Petty Officer First Class before putting in his OCS packet. Still, it was his first voyage wearing the bars of an officer and he knew his metal would be tested. And tested it was.

While returning to their homeport of Cape May, New Jersey on the afternoon of April 27, 1967 the USCGC Sassafras received a severe weather warning that gave pause to her skipper. The forecast called for severe winds of up to 80 knots (70 mph) and seas rising close to 50 feet high. Any Captain worth his salt knows that the confines of a port was no place for a seafaring vessel in weather like that. The skipper of the Sass ordered her to turn about and head for sheltered water at the foot of the Delaware River to ride out the storm. The Captain was well aware of the impact such a decision would have on the morale of the men who had been at sea for three weeks already, but he also had a responsibility to save his ship, and moored alongside a dock in foul weather could certainly destroy it. The Captain was not aware that his young Ensign was looking forward to getting home that day to celebrate his son’s three-year birthday, not that it would’ve changed his decision.

The young Ensign kept busy supervising his men making ready the ship for the oncoming tempest. There were hatches to be battened and mainsails to be secured. Actually, I don’t think that the buoy tenders had mainsails, but they probably had to secure the booms or something. During his preparations, the young Ensign discovered a small electrical fire in the forward area of the ship and with the help from a damage control team quickly extinguished it.

Though he was disappointed at the prospects of missing his son’s birthday, the young Ensign allowed himself a little satisfaction for doing something of merit. This, after all, beat supervising the swabbing of the deck and the scraping of barnacles from the hull; little did he know just how much he and his crew would meritoriously accomplish that day.

The mayday call came in just after sunset. A 90-foot fishing trawler, the Mockingbird, was taking on water and sinking quickly with her crew of five. Numerous Coast Guard rescue boats attempted to make the rescue, but the seas were just too high- 50 feet at their crest- for the smaller vessels and they had to be turned around. Monitoring the radios, the Captain of the Sassafras decided to lift anchor and attempt a rescue himself, reasoning that his larger ship might be able to handle the heavy seas more easily than the smaller rescue boats. The young Ensign wasn’t as convinced, as he witnessed waves cresting overtop of the 36-foot tall control tower and crashing onto the deck of the buoy tender. Yet he knew those men on the Mockingbird needed help, and quickly.

It took the better part of that night for the Sass to reach the sinking fishing vessel, and in that time, the conditions had worsened. It was virtually impossible to maneuver any ship close enough to attempt a rescue of the sailors on board the Mockingbird. Then again, you couldn’t find a Coastie who wouldn’t try as the alternative of watching a ship sink and her crew drown was out of the question. Arriving just after midnight, the crew of the Sassafras immediately attempted to send life rafts across turbulent seas to the sinking trawler but were unsuccessful due largely to the tremendous winds.

Facing near impossible odds with the wind, rain, and salty waves crashing in their faces, the men of the USCGC Sassafras tightened their lashes and moved in for the rescue. And moved away from the rescue. And again, moved in but had to pull away. The storm was taking its toll on the men who had not slept now for more than 24 hours.

Finally, at dawn the Captain of the Mockingbird ordered his crew to abandon ship. They hurriedly donned life jackets and bravely jumped into the raging sea, tethered to one another by a 1″ nylon rope.

Moments later the Mockingbird stood up on her stern and sank into the depths of the dark, angry sea. As she went under, the remaining air that was trapped in her hull suddenly escaped, rushing out in a chilling scream that all aboard the Sass felt in their souls; a scream that burned into the memory of the young Ensign as the sound of a dying vessel.

The Captain of the Sassafras knew that time had run out. He deftly maneuvered the large buoy tender as close to the men in the water as possible. Lookouts announced that there were now just four fishermen within reach, as the skipper of the Mockingbird had vanished. The young Ensign, lying on the deck, his feet held by members of the crew, extended a hand to the exhausted fishermen who were too weary to reach up and grab the outstreatched hand. Ignoring the cold water that soaked his clothing, while riding the rise and fall of the swells of the waves, the Ensign tried to inch out a little further hoping to grab a collar or a life jacket or something, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a Coastie leap into the sea.

The ship’s Chief Boatswain Mate had jumped into the water and one by one raised the arms of the now near hypothermic men so that the Ensign and his crew could pull them onto the deck of the Sassafras. It didn’t take long for the Chief himself to become exhausted to the point where he could not raise his arms. The exhausted young Ensign, still laying on the deck of the Sass, reached out one last time and grabbed hold of the Chief’s life jacket until help came from the crew, dragging the old Coastie aboard.

The Captain of the Mockingbird was then spotted and subsequently rescued. With five very grateful, albeit cold and wet, fishermen safely aboard, the USCGC Sassafras made for home- Cape May, New Jersey.

Traditionally, U.S. Navy Destroyers would strike a corn broom to the yardarm of the ship announcing to all that they had completed their mission with a “clean sweep” of the enemy. Loosely following tradition, the Captain of the Sass ordered a corn broom be struck from the yardarm of the Sassafras as she pulled into port.

The young Ensign’s wife was eagerly awaiting his return having followed the story on the local television news, and his son having just turned three-years old, waved as the buoy tendered moored dockside.

The five fishermen who had been rescued would not leave to return home to Virginia until they had bought every Coastie in town a drink. Unfortunately for them, Cape May was the Coast Guard’s main training center on the east coast.

The young Ensign spent a total of 26-years in the United States Coast Guard eventually retiring (kicking and screaming) as a Lieutenant Commander. More importantly, he is my dad, my hero. He taught me how to be a man, a husband, a father, and believe it or not, a Soldier. I can’t think of a better birthday present than the saving of 6 lives on the very day I was born. Thanks Pop. I can only hope to be half the hero to my sons as you have been to me. Happy Father’s Day Pop- Semper Paratus. Sgt Hook out.

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At General Sanchez’s CENTCOM briefing to reporters following the Aces of Clubs and Hearts Operation in Mosul, Iraq yesterday, a reporter asked the following question:

Q: Thank you. General, I’d like to try and see if you could address more of the first question which we had from our colleague up front. The Americans are specialists in surrounding places, keeping people in them, holding up for a week, if necessary, to make them surrender. These guys only had, it appears, AK-47s, and you had immense amount of firepower. Surely, the possibility of the immense amount of information they could have given coalition forces, not to mention the trials that they could have been put on for war crimes, held out a much greater possibility of victory for you if you could have surrounded that house and just sat there until they came out, even if they were prepared to keep shooting.

There is a reason that senior officers like General Sanchez handle these press conferences and NOT First Sergeants.

A: Sir, that is speculation. General Sanchez’s.

A: Stand up Mr. Reporter and follow me (leading him out of the briefing tent and looking over shoulder), the rest of you are welcome to join us. Stand right here if you would Sir. If everyone else could step to the side please. Thank you. Tom, would you bring me an AK-47? Thanks. (walking 25 meters away from reporter) Mr. Reporter, Sir, this is “just” an AK-47, it fires a 7.62 mm round at some 3,000 rounds per minute. (leveling the weapon at the reporter) I’m now going to shoot it at you, don’t worry, I’ve very good aim, I won’t hit you. If you’d be more comfortable laying behind those sandbags feel free. When I’m done, I’d like you to ask me your question again, I don’t think I heard you properly.

Like I said, you rarely see dusty old First Sergeants fielding reporters’ questions ; ) Sgt Hook out.

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Drill Sergeant Blue was a tall man with a serious look who when wearing his big brown brimmed Sam Bowie hat looked even more foreboding.

Billy Baxter was a young troubled kid who thought the Army might bring him normalcy, hope and stability, but instead brought only more trouble.

I was in 3rd Platoon of Charlie Company, Billy Baxter was in 2nd Platoon and Drill Sergeant Blue led 4th Platoon, still it was a small company and everyone knew everyone.

Drill Sergeant Blue was tough. He didn’t take any crap from anyone and demanded 100% from all of us all the time. Even when you thought you were on top of your game, Drill Sergeant Blue found the one fault with your uniform or the seemingly small step you missed in completing a task. He was professional. He was hard. He was fair.

Billy Baxter had been at Fort Eustis longer than any of us. He had almost graduated from the previous class, but because of some serious trouble he had gotten into, was recycled and started over with our class. He was a smart kid. He did stupid things. He was self-destructive.

The hand grenade range was always a source of worry for the drill sergeants. Drill Sergeant Blue was the range safety for my lane at the hand grenade range and was very serious about how we were to handle our explosive pineapples. He made our group practice throwing baseballs, over and over and over again before even considering allowing us to draw our hand grenades from the ammunition issue point. We sat on a bench behind a three-feet thick brick wall that had a small glass shrapnel proof window built into it to allow for viewing down range.

“Next Soldier!” commanded Drill Sergeant Blue.

I walked out to the pit with my two hand grenades firmly held in their carrying pouches, wearing a flak vest and the Army’s new Kevlar helmet which was much more comfortable than the steel pots we used to wear all through basic training. The pit was situated behind another three-feet thick concrete wall that stood about waist high. There were two sumps dug on either side of the wall and another pit was directly off to the left and rear of where I stood at the ready to launch my hand grenade. Drill Sergeant Blue positioned himself between the second pit, and myself standing behind me with one hand on my left shoulder.

“Secure grenade,” he gave the command. I secured one of my hand grenades in my right hand, my heart racing as my breathing increased.

“Ready,” he said next. I assumed the proper throwing position with the grenade held tightly in my right hand leaning back, left leg forward, at the ready.

“Pull pin.” Looking down at the grenade, I moved my left hand to the pin, squeezed the clip, and pulled the pin.

“Ready,” he said again. I extended my right arm back, still firmly holding the grenade, while pointing my left arm in the direction of the target ready to throw.

“Throw.” I did. As it sailed over the waist high wall I assumed the crouch position that we had tryingly rehearsed feeling Drill Sergeant Blue leaning over me making sure we were behind cover and heard my pineapple explode hoping it hit its mark, or at least got close.

Tapping me on the helmet, Drill Sergeant Blue said, “again.” And we repeated the process.
“Next Soldier!” I heard him yell as I was walking back to the bench behind the spectator’s wall passing Billy Baxter as he walked out to the pit with that happy go lucky look he always had on his face.

I was still pumped with adrenaline as I sat down and watched Billy Baxter go through the motions. Something was wrong.

“Pull pin.” “Oh shit.” “Down Gottdammit”

We all looked on with our eyes wide and jaws agape, and as if in slow motion Billy Baxter dropped his grenade inside the pit after pulling the pin. He started looking for it on the ground when Drill Sergeant Blue grabbed Billy Baxter and threw him like a rag doll into the second pit to the left and rear of the hand grenade pit, then he turned, looking down, and kicked the live grenade into one of the sumps before throwing himself on top of Billy Baxter who was then trying to get up. The grenade exploded just as Drill Sergeant Blue landed on Billy Baxter knocking him back into the dirt. The rest of us instinctively flinched at the explosion, but quickly restored our stare, anxiously awaiting the dust to clear. Shrapnel peppered the spectator’s wall.

The next thing we heard was Drill Sergeant Blue’s voice yelling every obscenity in the book, and some not yet published, at Billy Baxter demanding he surrender his second hand grenade and berating him as he sulked off the range.

Two weeks later while watching television in the day room on a Friday night, one of the guys from 2nd Platoon ran in and said that Billy Baxter was drunk and had gone AWOL, jumping out of the second floor window. We agreed to help find him before the drill sergeants did. We thought we could talk some sense into him before he got into any more trouble.

I walked up on Billy Baxter just as Drill Sergeant Blue did. He lay face down on the sidewalk with a Military Police Officer’s foot on his head and his hands cuffed behind his back. I was too late. My heart sunk.

“Get your foot off my Soldier’s head,” Drill Sergeant Blue ordered.

“But Drill, we caught him…” replied the MP.

“And take the handcuffs off him, now,” cutting the MP off in mid-sentence.

Picking Billy Baxter up, Drill Sergeant Blue quietly said, “C’mon Private Baxter, let’s go.” I watched as they walked into the darkness, waiting to hear Drill Sergeant Blue’s voice violently explode into a seething ass chewing. It never did.

Billy Baxter, three weeks later, was a civilian with that happy go lucky look on his face.
Drill Sergeant Blue taught me more than he realizes. Sgt Hook out.

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Twenty-four hours after walking across the parade field of Fort Dix, I found myself in a Greyhound bus, recovering from a hangover while on my way to Fort Eustis, Virginia where I was to begin my Advanced Individual Training. The Army sends all its Soldiers to AIT for training in their specific skill, or military occupation specialty. In my case I was to attend the Army’s CH47 heavy lift helicopter mechanic’s course, which is approximately four months in length.

Unlike basic training where we had three drill sergeants assigned to our platoon, only one was assigned to us at AIT and much of the duties and responsibilities previously performed by a drill sergeant, were now delegated to us, the students. There were four student squad leader positions who answered to the student platoon sergeant who was accountable to only the drill sergeant. Following a wall locker and room inspection on just my second day in the platoon, the drill sergeant fired his student platoon sergeant and named me in his stead. I was surprised and nervous as hell.

I hadn’t been issued any Patton Pills or read any “How To” books that would transform me from a private first class to a platoon sergeant, a leader. I did the next best thing and called one of the greatest leaders I knew, my dad my hero the Commander.

“Don’t worry son, you’ll do fine. Have faith in your old drill sergeant and trust your instincts,” he said.

“But dad…” I pushed.

“Son, I wish I had some magic formula for making a good leader, but I don’t. Be accountable for your missions and take care of your men and everything else will fall into place.”

One of my duties as the student platoon sergeant was to manage and post the names of those who have earned a weekend pass. Soldiers were given a weekend pass from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon providing that his grade point average exceeded 80 percentile. So, each Friday I collected the GPAs from the drill sergeant and compiled the pass list posting it in the platoon area before 1600 hours.

On one particular Friday afternoon early in my career as the student platoon sergeant, Private First Class Santiago was unhappy that he wasn’t on the pass list and wanted to discuss the matter with me. As I was walking down the hall in his direction, he stepped in front of me stopping my progress, grabbed me by my uniform blouse and shoved me into a nearby room. As I fell into the room, his sidekick, Private Medina gut punched me and pushed me up against a wall locker as Santiago closed the door behind him. Before I knew what was going on, the unhappy Santiago was holding a knife under my chin demanding that I rework the pass list this time including his and Medina’s names.

Though my initial reaction was to fight, my instincts told me to stay calm so I said, “If you want me to add your name to the pass list Santiago, why don’t you come to study hall in the evenings and get your grades up?”

Fire erupted in his dark brown eyes as he launched into a tirade speaking Spanish calling me every name in the book while his short dumpy weasel of a sidekick snickered.

Feeling my Scottish blood beginning to boil I thought to make my position clear and in a way Santiago would understand, “Look you mother fucker, you either put the gottdamned knife away and stop the bullshit or we’re gonna go at it and at least two of us are gonna bleed all over this fucking room and I gottdamned guarantee one will be your fat little friend here because he’s really pissed me off.”

After a long moment of staring, he backed away and stowed his knife. I walked out of the room without another word. I’m sure that Santiago waited for me to tell the drill sergeant about the incident, but I never did. Several weeks later in the school cycle, he became one of my staunchest supporters and eventually earned his way onto the pass list. Sgt Hook out.

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“Put the gottdamned canteen away Private Hook!” yelled Drill Sergeant White.

Drill Sergeant White was a quiet man who stood about 5’8” and weighed 200lbs, all muscle. He had muscles on top of muscles. He never said much other than what was needed to get his point across and he very rarely yelled.

“Who in the hell told you to drink water Hook?” he continued yelling.

Soaked with sweat I stood there screwing the cap back on my canteen with what must’ve been the dumbest look on my face ever as I could not muster a reply.

“What makes you better than the rest of the platoon Hook? You gottdamned special?” he went on.

Dumb look turned to guilty look as I shook my head “no” feeling a knot form in my stomach for betraying my brothers who I was sure were also exhausted and undoubtedly dehydrated from the 15-mile forced march we had just completed.

It was range week. The platoon had marched out to the multi-range complex at the farthest end of Fort Dix, where we were to spend the next week learning to become marksmen on our M16A1 rifles. We started at sun-up and arrived to our bivouac area at dusk. Our first order of business was to set up our shelters. Each recruit was issued a canvas shelter half and three poles so that two recruits can combine their halves, insert their three poles screwed together on either end of the shelter to form a pup tent large enough for the two. My ranger buddy forgot to pack his half. He and I spent the next two hours in the front-leaning rest position doing push-ups until our arms gave out at which time we rolled over and did crunches until the drill sergeant’s stomachs got tired all the while listening to a lecture on the importance of not forgetting any of “your gottdamned equipment” and how ranger buddies are supposed to “check each other’s shit.”

By the time our lecture was over, we had missed dinner. Bobby and I slept under the stars that night. Bobby was from Boston. We were awfully tired.

We spent the week receiving classroom instructions on the principles of basic rifle marksmanship, which was new to many of us who had never handled a weapon of any type in our youth. We broke the M16A1 rifle down into its many pieces, cleaned them, and then reassembled them at least a hundred times that week. We placed dimes on the barrels and practiced squeezing the trigger so as not to cause the dime to fall. We were coached on our breathing as if in a Lamaze class and we cleaned our weapons. By day five we still had not been given any ammunition nor fired our rifles.

Instructions, rehearsals, and cleaning continued until finally the day came we were allowed to put some lead downrange. The loud pop of the retort rung in my ears as my nostrils filled with the ammonia like smell of an expended round as I fired at the little green silhouette of Ivan wearing a red star on his helmet taunting me from 150 meters away. The Cold War was still on.

By the end of the week we had all qualified with our rifles, all but two. One of our guys shot a perfect score of 40 hits and was allowed a pizza from Domino’s and Coca Cola as a reward. I felt bad for the two guys who failed to hit enough targets to be considered qualified. In order to graduate from basic training one had to be qualified on his weapon and these two privates were in jeopardy of not graduating. We were told that they would be given additional training to make sure they could get over this hurdle before the end of our training cycle. Every Sunday instead of enjoying a few hours of down time to write letters home or wait in line for hours to use the phone for minutes, they got up early and headed out to the range to try again. Every Sunday they came back from the range still unqualified. Time was running out.

Just four days prior to our graduation and earning the title “Soldier,” our two non-shooting brothers were heading out to the range again. This time we decided to take matters into our own hands. Two other guys switched uniforms with them and went out to the range, shooting damn near perfect scores and thereby ensuring the whole platoon would graduate together four days hence. The senior drill sergeant suspected something was amiss when he saw the scores and started asking questions. Our deception was quickly uncovered and the four culprits were brought up on charges under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

The remaining twenty-nine of us approached the senior drill sergeant and said that we thought it was unfair for the four to be punished and that if charges were to be filed they should be filed against the whole platoon. We spent the entire night doing rifle drills in the pouring rain many falling in the mud or from exhaustion wondering if this was how our military careers was to end. At around 0200, the senior drill sergeant paid us a visit, accompanied by the battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel. The colonel gave us a brief rest from our rifle drills as he spoke in the driving rain.

“You recruits have surprised even this old Soldier with your loyalty to one another. I applaud that. I cannot, however, condone undisciplined behavior such as you’ve displayed.”
“A pity men, we’ve never had a platoon make it through a cycle with 100% strength, 4th platoon was the closest we’ve come.” He paused. “Then again, we’ve never had an entire platoon wash out either.” He turned and walked away into the dark, wet, miserable night. I felt sick to my stomach.

Three days later, Alpha Company, First of the Thirty-ninth Infantry Regiment, 4th platoon graduated thirty-three Soldiers from basic training and into the United States Army. Charges were never officially filed and our two non-shooting privates qualified on their own accord on the eve of graduation.

As I marched across the parade field of Fort Dix, the band playing and flags waving, my parents sitting somewhere in the bleachers watching me smartly dressed in my class A green uniform, I thought that of the hundreds of things I’d learned over the previous eight weeks, and the numerous changes I had experienced physically, emotionally, and spiritually, none had meant as much as the lesson I learned on discipline. Somewhere deep down in my kool-aid pumping heart, I discovered just how gottdamned critical discipline was to the entire Army. And there was something else. Something I felt but didn’t understand until years later, I began to understand leadership, good leadership. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Army Times & Reconstructed

I originally posted this two years ago under the title Seventeen Years of Soldiering . In my continuing effort to rebuild the archives, now seems like the perfect time to reconstruct this series.

I joined the Army on May 21, 1987 and honestly, haven’t looked back, until now…

“Hello ladies, welcome to Alpha Company, First of the Thirty-Ninth Infantry Regiment, Fort Dix, New Jersey,” he calmly said with a warm smile and caring eyes.

We were thirty-three young men from all walks of life and all parts of the country, all with shaven heads, packed into the light blue school bus each with a duffel bag full of stuff that had been issued to us just hours before. It was hot inside the steel bus as we nervously sat, all eyes on the tall black man with the pencil thin mustache and wearing a very large brimmed brown Sam Bowie hat standing in the front of the bus, forward of the yellow line. He had stepped inside through the folding doors as the bus came to a stop in the mostly empty parking lot. He leaned on the bar closest to the front most seats as he spoke.

“We have a lot of work to do today ladies so I’ll ask for your complete attention and we can get these things taken care of quickly,” saying again with a warm smile.

“Now, once you get off the bus I’ll need you to line up in the parking lot so we can conduct an inventory of the stuff you got there in those bags and then we’ll introduce ourselves and explain some of the do’s and don’ts around here. After that, we’ll get you settled into your dormitory rooms and see if we can’t get some food in you,” he outlined pleasantly. “Are there any questions?”

“Yeah,” came a voice from somewhere behind me, “where’s the bathrooms man?”
“Uh oh,” I thought. I’d seen enough military movies to know that this is where they drag the kid out of the bus and beat him senseless for asking stupid questions.

To my surprise the answer came, “that’s a good question young man, for a couple of reasons.” “First off, we don’t say ‘yeah’ around here, we prefer to use the word ‘yes.’ We also like to be addressed by our titles; ‘Drill Sergeant’ will do for my staff and I, and we’ll address you all as ‘private.’ Lastly, here in the Army we call the ‘bathroom’ a ‘latrine’ and once we get outside we’ll explain to everyone where the latrines are.”

“If there are no further questions gentlemen, follow me,” he announced, turned sharply and disappeared down the steps and out of the bus. Conversations started as we stood and threw our duffel bags over our shoulders, some were laughing and others were expressing relief saying, “this isn’t going to be as bad as I thought.”

“What in the gottdamned hell are you ladies doing?! I said to follow me did I not?! You now have exactly ten seconds to get off my gottdamned bus and line up outside in the parking lot. Ten, nine, eight…”

All hell broke loose and we scrambled to comply with Mr. Hyde’s, correction, Drill Sergeant Hyde’s, orders. As I stepped off the bus I was accosted by my very own drill sergeant who was walking beside me, the big brown rim of his hat was barely an eighth of an inch away from my forehead and his dark eyes burning a hole right through me as he screamed into my face with the meanest southern drawl I’d ever heard.

“What in the hell is your major malfunction private?! What are you doing here private? Who said you could be a sojur in my Army private? You insult me and all the sojurs before you who’ve worn the uniform private! You ought to go home to your momma private!” And then he was gone to scream at someone else.

I stood as straight as I could with the duffel on my back standing in line next to the rest of my now sweating bald buddies. There must have been fifteen drill sergeants swarming around us taking turns yelling and barking at us. At one point I noticed out of the corner of my eye a short recruit off to the left, a Korean boy I had met the day previously, he was standing rigid while three drill sergeants worked him over. Then he dropped down onto the ground doing push-ups with his big duffel bag still on his back. Then back up on his feet. “Too slow Kim, get back down!”

“What are you looking at Private Hook?!” My head snapped back to the front only to find yet another drill sergeant in my face. “You think this is funny Private Hook?” he barked.

“No.” I said.

“No what?!”

“No, Drill Sergeant!” hoping I got it right this time.

“Well gottdamn Hook, you seem so darned interested in what’s going on with your buddy Kim why don’t you join him. Get your ass on the ground and do some push-ups NOW!”

And so it went for the better part of an hour though it seemed like six. We eventually shook out our gear and completed the inventory, all of us too scared to say a word. The senior Drill Sergeant came out to address the platoon. Drill Sergeant Velasquez was Hispanic and had a very thick accent that was difficult to understand. At the end of his speech he apparently announced that we were to grab our bags and bring them to the second floor of the barracks building behind him to obtain our room assignments. Nobody understood and we all remained standing, motionless, none daring to ask for a repeat.

We were saved by another Drill who started yelling at us “mo-rons” for standing there like “lumps on logs” and to get moving. We ran up the stairs and into our rooms. The rooms were long and narrow with the shiniest floors I had ever seen, they were like glass. Gray, metal wall lockers lined the walls, fourteen in all. We stood around talking about the activities of earlier, some tested the mattresses, and others picked out wall lockers. A Drill Sergeant I hadn’t seen before stuck his head into the room and said, “You’ve got 30 seconds to secure your gear and get back outside in formation,” and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Remembering the pain from the bus we moved quickly, most of us throwing our duffels into a wall locker and running down the stairs and out the door. We fell into formation pretty smartly for our first day and a collective sigh of relief came from the group. We were starting to get the hang of this. So we thought.

Duffel bags began flying out of the second floor windows and landing on the ground in front of us with loud thuds. The sky filled with a flock of green duffels soaring majestically through the hot New Jersey air. In a matter of seconds the grass was covered with duffel bags piled knee high and Drill Sergeant Velasquez stuck his head out a window yelling down at us something undoubtedly important but totally incomprehensible.

“You heard him gottdammit, pick up your gottdamned duffel bags and secure them in your wall lockers now you mo-rons! Now! Let’s go, go, go!” came the translation from another Drill.
I thought, “It isn’t going to be easy to be all I can be.” Sgt Hook out.

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LAND HO

“What is that noise?” asked the pilot in command over the helicopter’s intercommunication system to nobody in particular.

“Sounds like a fast-mover flying overhead,” replied the co-pilot.

Jaf leaned out of the cabin door, fighting the wind rushing past at 160 knots. “Negative contact on any fast-movers sir,” he spoke into the microphone pressed firmly against his lips. They had just crested over a mountain top and were now flying through a valley at about 300 feet AGL. Jaf could see people moving about outside of their adobe-like dwellings. The river running down the middle of the valley was nearly dried and green grass grew for only about 100 meters on either side of what really couldn’t be called a river, a stream maybe.

Still hearing the strange rushing sound Jaf turned his attention inside the cabin and immediately saw its source.

“Sir, we need to land and right now!” Jaf stated firmly, making it clear there was no time for discussion. “Kevin, unhook and get your ass up here now!” he continued. Feeling the aircraft drop beneath him, he quickly started looking for a suitable landing site, cognizant of the dangers growing inside the cabin.

Jaf had discovered that the noise was a result of hydraulic fluid leaking from a line somewhere near the aft transmission in the rear of the aircraft. When he had looked back toward the ramp, he saw a huge cloud of red mist floating in the air and moving forward toward the front of the helicopter. All CH47D crewmembers were well aware of the dangers of misting hydraulic fluid after the tragic accident in 1983 when a similar cloud of hydraulic fluid had ignited, sending a huge fire ball through the cabin and into the cockpit killing the crew chief and seriously injuring both pilots. The flight engineer escaped being burned because she had been knocked out of the cabin door, hanging by her safety tether, affectionately known as a “monkey harness,” when a passenger pushed her out as he jumped 1500 feet to his death rather than facing the flames.

Jaf looked down, briefly wondering if it was too high to jump. It was. “Sir, I’ve got a landing spot at your two o’clock, looks like a small farm,” he said and looked back at the growing red cloud hoping nothing would spark a fire.

The aircraft continued to make its descent turning slightly to the right, lining up for a landing to the site Jaf had picked out.

“We’ve got a major hydraulic leak sir, it’s misting on the ramp,” Jaf got in a brief explanation. “Kevin, close the NVG curtain to the cockpit and get ready to land,” the flight engineer instructed thinking to try and protect the pilots just in case a fire did erupt.

“We’re going to mess up some farmer’s crops if we land there,” the co-pilot stated in almost a protest.
“If it’s cultivated it isn’t mined,” the pilot-in-command snapped before Jaf could chime in his reason for selecting the site.

“I’ve got us off forty sir, you’re clear on the right side, thirty, twenty,” Jaf called over the ICS.
“Clear down left,” announced Kevin now leaning out the left door gunner’s window. The door gunner, Joe, was sitting in a seat feeling somewhat helpless during the intense situation.

“Looking good sir, off fifteen and clear all barriers, clear to land, ten, nine, eight, seven, steady, your off five, four, good, two, and one. Aft gear contact, forward clear down, and forward gear contact.” He noted to himself that there was no explosion upon touching down, a good sign. “Let’s get her shut down sir, quickly but not emergency shut down.” Jaf said.

“Roger that Jaffy,” replied the PIC who went through the shut-down procedures quicky but without the normal routine of reading the checklist to his co-pilot who would ordinarily then perform the tasks. He knew that Jaf didn’t want to follow the proscribed procedure of pulling the emergency shut-down handles as it would preclude them from starting up again until the engines were serviced.

As the aircraft’s powerful turbine engines wound down, Jaf started preparing for the next step. “Kevin, I need you and Joe to get on these guns and be ready to shoot any bad guys that even look like they might hurt us. Don’t be jumpy, just ready. Sir, I’m gonna find out what the fucking problem is, if we can keep the auxilary power unit running, let’s, just in case we have to get out of here in a hurry.”

As Kevin kept a watchful eye on the growing crowd of onlookers arriving to the edge of the farmer’s field, Jaf gingerly walked through a slippery puddle of deep red hydraulic fluid. The flight engineer quickly found the problem, a pinhole leak in one of the return lines for the Number 2 hydraulic system. He isolated the Number 2 side and checked the Number 1 system to make sure it was good. It was. “OK sir, let’s get the hell outta here.”
Jaf and Kevin spent an extra four hours cleaning the hydraulic fluid from the inside of their aircraft that night.

“Hey Jaffy, what’re you gonna do on your R&R leave?” Kevin asked as he sprayed the ramp down with soapy water from the large wash cart the maintenance team had towed out to them earlier.

“Worry about you chief, worry about you,” replied the now exhausted flight engineer.

Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed & The Stan

THANKS FOR THE HELP

“You the one they call Jaf?” asked Sergeant First Class Williams standing on steel beach looking at the soldier’s back.

“I’m him,” replied Joe from atop the engine work platform. He spoke without turning around, concentrating on the engine oil filter he was replacing on the Lycoming turbine engine.

“They told me you were the guy to talk to. Were you on a flight last week, Monday, out to the eastern province?” the tall, dark haired soldier asked.

“Maybe, why?”

“I’d like to talk to you for few minutes if you were.”

“Look, I didn’t find any gear and if I had I would’ve turned it into the TOC immediately after the flight,” Joe said somewhat exasperated.

“Sergeant Foxx, My name is Sergeant First Class Williams and I’d like you to come down here so I can talk to you for a moment please,” the senior NCO said sternly.

The tone of his visitor’s voice told Jaf not to press it. He stopped work on the filter and hopped down to steel beach, his desert tan flight suit tied around his waist in a feeble attempt to keep cool in the 104º degree weather. “Shoot.”

“This isn’t about any lost gear sergeant, were you flying up the valley just east of Ghazni last Monday, early morning?” he asked again.

Jaf thought about it and remembered that he had flown Monday in that area. It seemed a pretty routine flight, two CH47s and one AH64 out to an FOB to drop off supplies and pick up PAX (passengers and equipment).

“Yeah, I think so. Not sure exactly which flight you’re asking about, but sounds like I was on it.”

“You recall seeing a convoy stopped on the side of the road heading up the valley?” SFC Williams asked.

Now Jaf was sure of it. He had seen the convoy and notified his pilots, stating that he thought it was halted, maybe having trouble. The pilot-in-command called back to the AH64 Apache attack helicopter flying trail and asked him to fly by and check it out. Jaf watched as the soldiers on the ground waved at the Apache while it swooped over their location. “Sir, I think I’ll send a text message back to the rear, they might be having a maintenance problem. You got a grid for me?” Jaf asked his pilot.

Shortly after sending the text message, the Apache linked back up with the flight and they proceeded on with their mission making a note to check the spot on their return leg.

“Yeah, that was me. What’s up?” Jaf asked.

“Well, I’d like to shake your hand, you saved our ass Jaf,” Williams announced holding out his hand.

Jaf took it with a puzzled look on his face. SFC Williams went on to explain that one of their vehicles had a flat tire so they stopped to change it. He placed a security detail in a hasty defensive perimeter to make sure nothing funny happened while the tire was being changed. Sure enough, a squad of enemy fighters was spotted coming down the hilltop to their south maneuvering a .50 caliber machine gun into position to engage the stranded convoy. They were sitting ducks without anything large enough to return effective fire.

“Them sombitches took off running up and over that hill after your Apache came screaming by,” he proclaimed almost laughing. “We were hoping you had seen them, but were just glad to have them high tail it out of there so we could get back on the road.”

Jaf was surprised but glad they were able to unknowingly help out.

“That’s not all,” SFC Williams continued. He went on about how after almost thirty-minutes, the enemy fighters returned, again setting up their large caliber machine gun while his guys frantically worked to change the cumbersome tire on the large two and a half ton truck.

“Sure as shit, just as they got into place, here you came again back down the valley and they scrambled the hell out of there, leaving the gun this time. We finished up and got out of there ourselves. We owe you a big thanks for saving our hides Jaf,” Williams offered with a tone of sincerity in his voice.

“Hey, I’m glad we helped but damn sure wish we would’ve known about them, our 64 could’ve taken them out for good,” Jaf said.

“No sweat man, I think we got them a couple a days later. Well, thanks again,” Williams said before he turned and walked down steel beach.

Jaf climbed back up onto the work platform to tackle the oil filter on the Lycoming turbine engine. Sgt Hook out.

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