TIGHT

“Hey Jaf,” he heard the pilot-in-command ask in a tinny voice through his headset.

“Yes sir?” Jaf replied clicking the little button with his left thumb as he spoke and releasing it as soon as he finished.

“Ask the team chief to come up here and take a look at this LZ, I wanna make sure it’s correct.”

So Jaf yelled into the ear of the Special Forces Captain and led him up to the cockpit handing him a spare headset so that he could talk with the PIC. The good Captain confirmed the LZ and returned to his seat in the cabin with the other seven members of his team.

“OK guys, this is gonna be tight, I’ll bring it to a hover and we’ll take a look at it from head on and see how we can get these guys in there,” the PIC announced confidently.

The LZ was a small patch of rock surrounded by a thick clump of evergreen trees atop an 8,700-foot mountain. Just as the PIC was going to ask Jaf to get the Captain again to discuss an alternate landing zone, Jaf keyed his mike, “Sir, I think if we slide the ass end around and back her in we can do a “two-wheel” and I can get the ramp lowered enough to get these guys off. They don’t have a lot of heavy shit, should be quick.”

After a momentary pause to think it over, the PIC agreed and swung the large tail of the CH47D around so that only the aft landing gear were hovering directly over the bald spot on the mountain. “OK Jaf, call me in.”

Jaffy lowered the right cabin door, usually only used as an entrance and exit by the crew when on the ground, layed on his stomach, and hung out of the aircraft in such a way that he could see the aft gear as they floated in air some twenty-feet above the ground. He quickly glanced straight down and could see forever into the valley below.

“OK sir, I’ve got the aft gear off twenty,” he began his call. The PIC was on the controls and could see only the next mountain range a dozen miles away and he too could see the valley floor 8,000 plus feet below. Holding this hover was difficult enough without any reference points, now he had to let his flight engineer be his eyes and slowly bring her down onto a patch of earth he trusted Jaf to make sure was there.

“Looking good sir, continue down fifteen…down ten…hold it steady sir, you’re drifting aft, come forward two, down eight…looking good, down five, hold your forward, down three, good…down two, one, aft left wheel contact…looks like a slight slope sir, ease your aft right down one, aft right wheel contact,” Jaf could feel the sweat pooling on his back.

“Looking good sir, how’s it feel?” Jaf asked.

“Good, let’s get ‘em off loaded, quickly,” he replied.

“Go Kevin,” Jaf told his crew chief who had already began lowering the ramp and pumping his arms for the team to get moving. They did, jumping off the edge of the ramp in succession until all eight were safely on the mountaintop.

Jaf kept his eyes glued to the aft wheels while their precious cargo disembarked, occasionally giving a word or two of encouragement to his pilot, “hold her steady,” “looking good,” “ right there,” etc.

“PAX are off, ramp’s up,” Kevin announced.

“Let me know when you’re ready Jaf,” the PIC said fighting the urge to lurch into flight.

“Sir, there is a large tree danger close to our aft right rotor blades so when you come up veer left a little…we’re ready in the rear,” Jaf said.

The crew felt their stomachs rise to their throats as the large Chinook helicopter lept into flight nearly blowing the soldiers they left behind over with its rotor wash. Jaf looked back as they departed and couldn’t help but wonder, “What the hell those guys were going to do up there for the next week or so?”

“That was tight,” Kevin proclaimed over the aircraft intercom system. All nodded in agreement but had nothing to add to the crew chief’s astute observation. Sgt Hook out.

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IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

Ahmad left Kabul early on Friday afternoon; he wanted to get to his weekend hideaway south of the city in time for dinner. It’d been a long week for Ahmad and he looked forward to a home cooked meal prepared by his wife and relaxing in his modest home in the country away from the hustle of the big city. He watched the poor villages pass by the window of his white Hyundai SUV as his driver expertly navigated the single lane highway that connected Kabul to Qandahar. He was considered affluent by current Afghan standards though he nowhere near held the riches of the warlords that ruled his country. Nevertheless, he was paid well for his skills as a bomb maker.

Ahmad walked through the front door of his home wearing an impeccable gray silk suit consisting of pants hemmed just above the ankle and a long sleeve loose fitting shirt that hung low over his thighs; typical dress for the successful Afghan man. He feasted on a delicious home cooked meal of pilau, a meat and rice mix and nan, the traditional unleavened bread of the region. After his meal, Ahmad enjoyed a cup of green chai, or tea, and a strong Turkish tobacco cigarette while watching the sun set over the mountains to the west. He spent the next several hours on his cell phone talking business before retiring for a good night’s sleep after the long hard week he’d worked.

Ahmad awoke abruptly to a loud thunderous noise. Feeling his house shake he immediately thought that it was an earthquake though his mind told him that was impossible this far south. Through the incessant loud roar coming from outside he could hear the windows being peppered by blowing sand wondering what kind of tempest had suddenly hit his home. He saw nothing but darkness as he peered through his bedroom window.

Ahmad flinched only a little at the explosion just prior to his front door crashing in. “The Americans,” he whispered suddenly understanding what was happening. Two-dozen heavily armed soldiers entered the dark house, methodically searching behind doors, around corners, and under furniture while making their way to the bedroom.

Ahmad stood rigid as his captors entered the room, offering neither resistance or flight. But hed did fight. He fought with his every fiber to hide tje fear swelling inside. Fear of what these storm troopers might do to him if they knew how many Americans have died as a result of his work. Resigning to his fate, he said nothing as his hands were bound with plastic ties in front of his midsection. An interpreter was saying something to him as he was led out of his home into the dawn of a new day and the wind of the morning tempest.

Ahmad was amused to learn of the source of the incredible noise, vibrations, and winds that had interrupted his slumber. It was one of the American twin rotor helicopters they called “Chinook.” He thought that this behemoth must have been the chariot for his captors and wondered would it also be the chariot to carry him from his home and to his destiny. It would.

Ahmad felt the firm grasp of the soldier on his right as he grabbed his elbow, preventing his fall, as he stepped into the beast of a helicopter, the Chinook. He walked passed another American soldier wearing a strange helmet and speaking into a microphone words that could not be heard above the now even louder, almost deafening noise. That same soldier helped to buckle his seatbelt as his hands remained bound and then placed a headset upon his ears to muffle the loud noises. He sat between two silent storm troopers. He was still dressed in his gray silk suit.

Ahmad would make no more bombs.

Ahmad is not his real name.

Sgt Hook out.

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JAFFY

Joseph Andrew Foxx stands five feet nine inches tall and weighs 168 lbs. Joseph Andrew Foxx, “Joe” to his friends, “Jaf” or “Jaffy” to his fellow crewdogs, “Joey” to his mom, is a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army. He’s been a Soldier for just over eight years and has been a crewmember on the Army’s CH47D Chinook helicopters for six of those eight years. He’s logged a thousand and change hours of flight serving his country in eleven different countries across the globe. He’s now flying through the skies of his twelfth, Afghanistan.

“Hey Kevin!” he called up to his crew chief who was sitting atop the aft rotor head some 22 feet above steel beach, pre-formed steel pieces that have been interconnected and laid out to form an aircraft parking area. The PSP is used by engineers to hastily set up a temporary runway and has been around since the Second World War. Steel beach has been there for almost three years. “Hurry up! Pre-flight in twenty-minutes,” Jaf yelled.

Kevin, his face barely lit by a flashlight precariously laying on the spar of the rotor head, looked down from his perch, straddling one of the three rotor blades at the point that it connects to the rotor head, with a quart can of oil in one hand and a funnel in the other he replied, “I’m on the last one. Be done in a jiff Jaf.” He chuckled knowing how much his flight engineer hated him saying that. They’ve been crewing together as a team for a little over six months and Kevin was glad he was assigned to old Jaffy. He knew a lot and though he was a hard ass, he shared what he knew with his chief. Jaf had high standards and held him to more than some of the other crew chiefs were held to, but their aircraft also had a reputation as the best in the unit. At least among the senior pilots it did.

“All set Jaffy,” Kevin announced as he stepped up onto the ramp and into the illuminated cabin of their aircraft. Jaf was looking through the logbook making sure all of the scheduled maintenance inspections had been completed.

“You lock wire the plugs to standard Kev?” he asked his young crew chief.

“Yep,” replied the cocky 19-year-old six feet tall native of Upper Michigan. “Best damn lock wire job you’ve ever seen.”

Handing his crew chief the logbook, Jaf said, “six pack?”

“You’re on.”

“Make sure the book is straight, I’ll be right back,” and Jaf, flashlight in hand, climbed up the side of the fuselage, deftly stepping in the small inlaid steps that led the way to the top of the large Chinook, to check the lock wire job.

“Gottdammit!” the flight engineer’s voice could be heard from above.

Standing at the base of the steps with his one-piece desert tan flight suit tied around his waist Kevin grinning broadly said, “And none of the cheap shit, I want green bottles.”

“Yeah, well you’ll have to wait ten months, but I owe ya. Good job Kevin,” Jaf said as he stepped back down onto steel beach.

“Ten months? Make that nine months Jaffy. In nine months from yesterday I’ll be back home with my baby! I’m gonna take Julie out for a night on the town and then back to my place for a little hanky panky and then…”

“Don’t kid yourself Kevin, you wouldn’t know what to do with a woman. You Canadians’ idea of a night on the town is the drive thru at Sonic for a chilidog and then to the lake to watch the submarine races. Only problem is, you’re really looking for some damned submarines to bet on,” Jaf joked with him.

“I’m not from Canada, I’m from Michigan. Upper Michigan,” Kevin said with an exaggerated tone of pride in his voice, standing a little taller, chin up and chest out.

“Its OK Kevin, your secret is safe with me. I know you swam that great lake, which one was it? And snuck into the US undetected though I don’t know how a skinny guy like you made it all that way. Wasn’t the water cold?” he chided him.

“Ha, ha Jaffy,” was all Kevin could come up with. “What’re you gonna do when we get back Jaf? You got big plans in NINE months from now?”

“I guess I’m going to spend a fortune on green bottles of beer for all the six packs I’ll owe you. C’mon, Vince and Larry will be here in a few for pre-flight.”

Grabbing one of the blade ropes to turn the large 375 lb rotor blades into position so as to remove said ropes prior to their flight Kevin asked, “why do you call all the pilots ‘Vince and Larry’? I don’t even think we have a Vince or a Larry in the unit.”

“Well Kev, back when you were still just a sparkle in your momma’s eye and your daddy took her to the lake to watch the submarine races, we used to have these public service announcements on TV reminding us to buckle our seatbelts when driving. They used a pair of crash test dummies named ‘Vince’ and ‘Larry’ to get their point across, so am I.”

And they both laughed as they finished prepping their beloved aircraft for the mission.
“Rub her belly?” asked Jaf.

“Yep,” replied his crew chief. “Rubbing her belly” was something Jaf did prior to every flight. It took Kevin two months to build up enough nerve to ask his flight engineer why he performed the strange ritual. “You take care of her chief, and she’ll take care of us,” was his reply. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Kevin discovered that his flight engineer was actually cleaning the Doppler antennae located on the belly of the aircraft. He felt kind of foolish, but prior to their next flight asked if he could have the honors and Jaf let him. He found that though he was cleaning the antennae, he felt that he actually was rubbing her belly and wondered if all crewdogs were superstitious.

“She ready Jaf?” asked the pilot-in-command as he walked up to the aircraft carrying a bulging green helmet bag over his right shoulder and a brown leather Jepson case stuffed full with maps and IFR sectionals in his left hand.

“Yes sir.”

“OK, let’s knock out the pre-flight, then we’ll brief on the ramp. Take-off is at first light,” the PIC said. And so the mission day began. Sgt Hook out.

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MISSION DAY

The sun remained below the tall majestic mountains that protect the airfield leaving the crew standing in the dark at the tail end of their CH47D helicopter. It was 0330 hours local time. The pilot-in-command stood straight with a notepad in his hand addressing the other four crewmembers who were haphazardly arranged in a loose circle around him, three standing, one kneeling on a single knee with his arm across his thigh, his hand holding a helmet. He seemed to be looking at his boot as he listened to the PIC. Clicking on a small flashlight attached to his gloved finger, the notepad momentarily lit up allowing the pilot to read his notes briefly before clicking off again the light and looking up at his crew.

“We’re chaulk three of five, the Apaches, chaulks four and five, will remain aloft providing cover while we’re on the ground,” the pilot-in-command spoke softly as he looked each man in the eye.

The scene was repeated behind two other CH47Ds parked down the line in the long row of aircraft on the apron affectionately known as “steel beach.” A light would flick on, momentarily outlining a group of soldiers wearing one-piece flight suits, then off again and words were spoken to the small circle of crewdogs intently listening to the crew brief. Some smoked a last cigarette before take-off, another fiddeld with his gear, and still others listened in silence. The occassional chuckle could be heard in response to no doubt a sarcastic comment made by one of the crewdogs. Flyers typically have a biting wit and a dry sense of humor.

“Are there any questions?” asked the PIC?

There were none and the huddle broke with each crewmember moving to his assigned position in a seemingly choreographed manner. The co-pilot conducted his “walk around” making a final check to ensure all cowlings were secured while the PIC strapped into the left seat of the cockpit. The flight engineer spoke briefly with his crew chief giving him some further instructions not covered by the PIC’s brief. The FE has logged well over 1500 flight hours while the crew chief just broke 100. They both put on their nomex gloves and strapped on their survival vests, the fasteners clicking in the quiet of the dark morning.

The peaks of the rugged mountains turned orange as the sun crept over the distant horizon, rays cutting through the jagged edges of rock eventually landed on the few clouds sporatically floating above turning them too orange in hue. Watching the sky wake, the door gunner thought, “It’s going to be a hot one.”
“Intercom system check,” the pilot-in-command’s tinny voice was heard in each crewmember’s headset.

“I’m up,” replied the co-pilot.

“Cabin door,” came the flight engineer announcing his position while acknowledging he had comms.

“Gunner,” from the left door gunner.

“Ramp’s up,” was the response from the crew chief standing outside of the aircraft, his headset connected to a long cable that allows him to move about while maintaining comms.

The PIC then said, “Let’s get going. Chief, APU clear to start?”

“APU clear to start,” replied the crew chief as he took a few steps back from the aircraft holding a red, 5 lb fire extinguisher at the ready should anything go wrong with the start-up procedure.

The quiet calm of the Afghan morning suddenly erupted with the loud pitch of the whining auxilary power unit as it came to life. The noise only increased as chaulks one and two started their turbine APUs just seconds later. And so the mission day began. Sgt Hook out.

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ANOTHER DAY

The CH47D Chinook helicopter is a big, ugly, beautiful tandem-rotor aircraft that is undoubtedly the workhorse here in Afghanistan. Almost daily we get more mission requests than we have aircraft and crews available. With the rugged terrain of this place the way it is, a Chinook is sometimes the only way to get where you want to go. We don’t complain because we came here to fly, and that is precisely what we’re doing.
Not too long ago we had a mission to fly supplies out to some of the forward operating bases (FOB), a somewhat routine mission for us. Early in the morning, the crew loaded a bunch of equipment, along with several passengers who needed to get to one of the FOBs for a missoin of their own, and took off. Most people nod right off several minutes into the flight from the rhythmic vibrations caused by the five large transmissions as they turn keeping the aircraft flying smoothly. Crewdogs often joke about the “sleep switch” hidden in the seats that put passengers to sleep just minutes after take-off. This particular mission seemed to be no different.

Joe had been a crewchief for just under six months and though he didn’t come to Afghanistan with a lot of experience, he certainly brought with him a lot of drive. As the Chinook departed the airfield, Joe took his cue from the flight engineer and began his “in-flight” checks of the cabin to make sure all was secure for the mission. He noticed several of the passengers had fallen asleep, “typical” he thought, and went about his checks. Something didn’t seem right to Joe though and after pausing for a moment, called the more experienced flight engineer asking for advice.

One of the passengers was laying across the lap of another sleeping Soldier and was very much asleep himself. So much so that Joe was alarmed that perhaps the guy was not asleep, but something worse. His flight engineer suggested that he attempt to wake him up. So Joe tried several times to wake the guy and really started to get scared when he got no response. Looking closer, the young man’s face seemed ashen and clammy so Joe reported to the flight engineer that something was “seriously wrong here.”

Fortunately, one of the other passengers on board was a doctor and Joe remembered talking with him prior to the flight. He quickly found the doc, woke him up, and yelling over the whining of the transmissions, explained the situation. The doctor unbuckled his seat belt and moved forward in the cabin to check on the young “sleeping” Soldier.

He wasn’t breathing. As the doc went to work on restoring air to the young man’s lungs, the pilots nosed her over increasing the airspeed to 170 knots for the nearest FOB. A radio call was then made ahead requesting an ambulance meet the aircraft on the landing pad while Joe and the doc struggled with the now breathing Soldier who was having a seizure.

An ambulance met the Chinook as it landed, taking the patient immediately from the aircraft to the nearest medical facility which undoubtedly was nothing more than a tent with a large red cross painted atop it. We later learned that the Soldier was OK, and that he had been given 5-liters of fluid for dehydration. Joe and the rest of the crew completed their mission without any further excitement. Just another day in the Stan. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 1444 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
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RANGER CHUCK

Baldilocks takes the Los Angeles school system to task for comments made critical of military recruiters and insulting to all who have served our country in uniform.

“This is a conscious plan on the part of the government to drive our students out of the schools and drive them into the military to take part in the death and destruction,” Suarez del Solar said.

Her reply is worth clicking over for a read, but if I had to summarize…

In short, the military doesn’t want your crack/meth babies…

I had an oppurtinity to serve as a recruiter for the Army a few years back in central Maine and know all too well the resistance and sometimes rude attitudes our recruiters face when telling the Army story and trying to fill boots. Recruiting duty wasn’t something I sought out, but when a Soldier is told to do something, he/she does it. So I did the duffel bag drag up to Maine and started filling boots.

There is an element of sales to recruiting, and yes, recruiters have specific goals to reach each month, but as Baldilocks pointed out, finding “qualified” young men and women willing to defend the Constitution was the real challenge. After reading her post, I was reminded of the day a young man came into the recruiting office with his uncle.

It was snowing out, as it often did in Waterville, and I had just returned from working the coast about an hour east. No sooner had I sat at my desk to check email messages, did the door open and in walked Chuck.

Chuck was a handsome young man with jet black hair who looked like a running back for his high school football team. He was trailed by his uncle who I later learned was retired from the Army, SF. Uncle Jack shook my hand and explained, “Chuck here would like to join the Army, he’d like to be a Ranger.”

Well, how about that! It isn’t often an applicant walks into your office and says he/she would like to join the ranks and has the support of his/her family. Things were looking up.

We sat down and I started building rapport with both Chuck and Uncle Jack. We eventually got around to talking about how difficult it is to get a Ranger Contract, but that as long as Chuck met the requirements I thought it very possible. That’s when Chuck said that he was ready to join NOW. That he wanted to drop out of high school and get a GED and a haircut and ship out. At the time, the Army was accepting GEDs, and I had no doubt I could’ve got Chuck a pretty good contract, but there was NO way he could go Ranger. High School Diplomas only.

So I smiled at Chuck, and looking at Uncle Jack said, “I’m sorry Chuck, I won’t put you in the Army with a GED. You need to stay in school and get your diploma.” Uncle Jack smiled and nodded holding back an “I told you so.”

I explained to Chuck that although it was possible for a GED to enlist, he wouldn’t be able to become a Ranger without a diploma and that there would be a lot of obstacles in his way. It was obvious to me that Chuck was a very bright boy, probably too bright as he seemed bored with school and tended to get into trouble, and I thought he’d not only make a great Soldier, but a damned good Ranger as well. I matter of factly told him that he’d have to find another recruiter if he insisted on dropping out, that I wouldn’t be a part of it.

So, we agreed that he would stay in school and graduate. I processed his application and Chuck enlisted into the Delayed Entry Program with a guarantee of Ranger school providing he finished high school on time.

The ensuing eight months included my having to bail Chuck out of jail for fighting, talking his high school principal into not expelling him, finding him an apartment because his mother threw him out of the house, meeting with his father enlisting his help to keep Chuck on track, meeting with his guidance counselor to talk about his failing grades, calls to Uncle Jack trying to find Chuck’s whereabouts, getting Chuck enrolled in a different school after he eventually was expelled, attending his high school graduation ceremony, and convincing the local Sheriff not to chase down the bus that was taking Chuck to the airport to catch his flight to Fort Benning, GA. Chuck was a royal pain in the ass.

Chuck is today an Army Ranger fighting in the Global War On Terror and his mother sent me a letter recently thanking me for sticking with her son when others hadn’t, herself included, and helping him to become the man he is today. She wrote that she never thought she would see the day that she and her husband would be proud of their son Chuck. They are immensely proud of him.

To Mr. Suarez del Solar of Los Angeles I’d say that not only is he wrong about our “conscious effort to drive our students out of the schools,” but he’s free to say it because of young men and women the likes of Ranger Chuck. This We’ll Defend. Sgt Hook out.

UPDATE: Uncle Jimbo at Black5 has a post re: recruiting you might like to read.

Posted by Hook @ 0430 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (13) | Permalink
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The USO tour traveling through Iraq visiting our brave men and women in uniform had along with them as part of the entourage three special guests who lost loved ones in the September 11th terrorist attacks in New York.

Christy Ferer whose husband Neil Levin was the Director of the New York Port Authority.

Ginny Bauer who lost her husband David.

Jon Vigniano, a former marine who lost his only sons Jon, a firefighter, and Joe, a policeman.

Christy wrote a very moving article for the Air Force News that you must read. Excerpt:

But this time I was shaking because I was to present the recovered WTC steel to Gen. Tommy Franks (U.S. Central Command commander). I quivered as I handed him the icy gray block of steel. His great craggy eyes welled up with tears. The sea of khaki fell silent. Then the proud four-star general was unable to hold back the tears which streamed down his face on center stage before 4,000 troops. As this mighty man turned from the spotlight to regain his composure I comforted him with a hug.

Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0656 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
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A couple of weeks ago I posted an entry with some thoughts on taking responsibility and our propensity to blame others for our own shortcomings which lead to a thread (rhyme intended) in the comments that was a little off subject. A reader upset about our involvement in Operation Iraqi Freedom and the extended tours our servicemen and women are having to fulfill asked this question:

Are their deaths just the price to be paid for liberating a country that clearly doesn’t want us there?

To which I answered, Yes.

I’ve lost some good friends in this war on terrorism and I have still many more in both Iraq and Afghanistan who tell me that the people there are immensely grateful to America for liberating them. I’ve been to other countries where the PEOPLE, the oppressed, the suffering, the yearning, could not convey enough how thankful they were for our assistance. My trust in my comrades coupled with my own experiences, give me pause when I read, a country that clearly doesn’t want us there?

Clearly, the contrary is true.

Of course the mainstream media for the most part focuses on comments made by unhappy soldiers who have been separated for long periods of time from their loved ones and political statements criticizing the decision to go to war in the first place, instead of reporting on the war itself and the battles being won daily.

After traveling through Iraq with the Deputy Secretary of Defense, Paul A. Gigot of the Wall Street Journal discusses this issue far better than I ever could. Its worth reading the whole article, but the closing paragraphs really caught my attention:

The one word I almost never heard in Iraq was “WMD.” That isn’t because the U.S. military doesn’t want, or expect, to find it. The reason, I slowly began to understand, is that Iraqis and the Americans who are here don’t think it matters all that much to their mission. The liberation of this country from Saddam’s terror is justification enough for what they are doing, and the main chance now isn’t refighting the case for war but making sure we win on the ground.

“So I see they’re giving Bush a hard time about the WMD,” volunteers a Marine colonel, at the breakfast mess in Hilla one morning. “They ought to come here and see what we do, and what Saddam did to these people. This was a good thing to do.”

I’m sure I’ll get some arguments to the contrary on this just as Lt Smash has so in the spirit of pre-emptive strikes, read what the Lt has to say in response to such criticisms.

The decision was made to fight, to defend, to liberate. Nearly EVERYBODY was on board with that decision. It is too late to criticize, especially if you voted Yay. The battlefield is still tumultous and the focus needs to be on seeing this mission through to the end, for if we don’t, 8, 10, maybe 12 years from now we’ll be having the same conversations. It is quite clear that the Iraqi people want us there and they want us to finish what’s been started. Let’s get it done right and keep America safe. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0657 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
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Catching up on reading through my favorite blogs (see blogroll) I noticed some discussion about the use, or misuse of cell phones that piqued my interest. It started here and then I read this which led to another post that provided a link to this hilarious site about a couple of guys who go around and grab cell phones from abusers and smash them right in front of the shocked and awed. And there’s video of their antics!

Several years back, before everybody had a cell phone, I was in a restaurant in northern Italy enjoying a meal, wine, and good conversation with some friends when suddenly a commotion broke out a couple of tables away. It seems that a patron was first choking on his meal, and then went into cardiac arrest. As fellow patrons hurriedly worked to keep the poor bastard alive, one of the guests frantically ran to the table next to ours and asked to use the cell phone that one of the diners was using at the time. Why he was calmly sitting at his table chatting away while the rest of us were standing and looking on at the events unfolding before us was a mystery.

The man, obviously of great importance as he was the only fellow in the place with a cell phone, ignored the request and kept chatting away. The frantic guest became a little more animated explaining that a medial emergency necessitated that he use the cell phone to call for an ambulance (which if you’ve ever lived in Italy you know is more of a taxi with a blue light and siren than it is a life saving vehicle). The improtant one again ignored the demand and kept chatting away. Finally, out of anger and frustration, the good samaritan snatched the cell phone from the important one’s hand and dialed 911.

A moment later he removed the phone from his ear, looked at it increduosly, then at the important one disbelievingly, then at the crowd of onlookers and blurted, “It’s a toy! It’s a fucking toy phone!” He threw it on the important one’s table and stormed out of the restaurant in search of a real phone. Everyone’s attention turned from the poor bastard battling for his life to the poor bastard who was suddenly not as important as he thought. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0512 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
This post is filed under: Reconstructed

It’s official. The terrible twos commence today. Happy Birthday to my youngest swashbuckler, Castaway Conner. He came into this world three-weeks early while a teary-eyed Sgt Hook watched as mother and son met face to face (or face to breast) for the first time after so many months of hanging out together.

He’s changed so much since that day in June of 2001, and so have I. Today though, we no longer refer to Castaway Conner’s age in months, from here on out, his age will be counted in years (of course “halfs” will be used until his teens I’m sure). Much to the chagrin of the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook, he’s not a baby anymore. Happy Birthday son- I love you. Sgt Hook out.

Posted by Hook @ 0510 zulu | Comments & Trackbacks (0) | Permalink
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