Face of Defense: Damage Controlman Develops Next Generation of Warfighters

June 1, 2026 | By Marc Lindsay, Navy Recruit Training Command |

Meet Navy Petty Officer 2nd Class Crystal Avila, an instructor assigned to Navy Recruit Training Command in Great Lakes, Illinois, the service's only boot camp.

Navy Petty Officer 2nd Class Crystal Avila

Job: Damage Controlman and Instructor

Stationed: Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes, Ill.

Unit: Navy

Hometown: Waukegan, Ill.

A native of Waukegan, Illinois, Avila joined the military 11 years ago looking for opportunity and a way to build a more stable future for her family. 

"I joined the Navy for the educational opportunities and the chance to travel and experience different cultures," Avila said. "It's also given my family financial stability and allowed my children to benefit from the unique experiences that come with military life." 

Building on her desire for learning and growth, Avila gained experience while serving aboard the aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, the amphibious assault ship USS Essex, the destroyer USS Sampson and at Afloat Training Group Pacific Northwest in Everett, Washington. Across those assignments, she developed technical expertise in damage control and shipboard firefighting — skills that now shape how she trains the Navy's newest sailors. 

Avila said one of her earliest defining moments came during her first underway period aboard a carrier, when she experienced the scale and rhythm of life at sea for the first time. 

"I had been on the ship for a few months, but my first time going underway was completely different," she said. "Watching everyone prepare to be gone for a month made me realize how much there was to learn. I also hadn't realized how many people an aircraft carrier can hold. By the end of that underway, I understood what I needed to prepare and even started to appreciate how peaceful it can be in the middle of the ocean." 

'Every Sailor Is a Firefighter' 

Inspired by stories from her recruiter, Avila chose the damage controlman rating — one that quickly revealed its importance to the safety of every sailor at sea. 

"The sea stories my recruiter told me about damage control had a big impact," she said. "Being a damage controlman, you really learn how important our equipment and training are. It also gave me the opportunity to train other sailors to control or mitigate casualties so everyone can make it home to their families. At the end of the day, every sailor is a firefighter." 

At Navy Recruit Training Command, Avila serves as both an instructor and testing proctor, responsible for teaching and evaluating recruits on required academic material and tactical combat casualty care assessments. 

"My job is to make sure recruits understand the material they need to succeed in boot camp," she said. "Whether it's an academic test or a [tactical combat casualty care] assessment, attention to detail is critical. Those habits carry over into everything we do in the Navy." 

Instructor of the Year 

Avila's dedication to instruction recently earned her recognition as the Naval Education and Training Command Junior Instructor of the Year — an honor awarded to instructors who demonstrate exceptional performance, leadership and mentorship in developing the next generation of warfighters. 

"Being named Junior Instructor of the Year didn't change me — it reassured me that the way I teach is making a positive impact," she said. "Teaching isn't just about delivering information. It's about making sure sailors understand it and retain it, because everyone learns differently." 

For Avila, the most rewarding part of her role comes from watching recruits grow in confidence throughout the training process. 

"In the beginning, many recruits are shy or unsure of themselves and don't want to participate," she said. "But as they get closer to graduation, you see their confidence grow and the way they start working together as a team improves. Being a sailor means being part of something bigger than yourself and learning how to work together toward one mission." 

Like many instructors, Avila said balancing time constraints while ensuring recruits fully understand complex material can be challenging. 

"One of the biggest challenges is figuring out how to tailor certain topics so recruits understand them while still staying within the time we're given for each lesson," she said. "It's made me more efficient and adaptable as a result." 

Inspired by Family 

Avila credits her family for instilling the values that have helped her succeed throughout her naval career. 

"My family taught me accountability, discipline and respect," she said. "My mom always emphasized taking responsibility for your actions and giving your best effort. The support from my husband and kids has also helped me stay resilient throughout my career." 

Outside of her professional role, Avila enjoys spending time with her family and pursuing creative hobbies. 

"When I have free time, I enjoy crafting on my [design machine]," she said. 

Looking to the future, Avila is motivated to pursue further growth, both personally and professionally. 

"My goal is to earn my bachelor's degree," she said. "In the next five years, I hope to either commission as an officer or be selected for chief." 

In all, Avila's efforts ensure that the Navy's mission continues through the recruits she prepares, equipping them with the knowledge, discipline and confidence to succeed in the fleet. 

Navy Recruit Training Command boot camp lasts approximately nine weeks, and all enlisted sailors begin their Navy careers at the command. More than 40,000 recruits train there annually.

Maintainers Honor Flying Tiger Heritage With Aircraft Paint Restoration

June 1, 2026 | By Air Force Senior Airman Savannah Carpenter, 23rd Wing |

Among rows of gray A-10C Thunderbolt IIs on the flight line at Moody Air Force Base, Georgia, one Thunderbolt aircraft commands attention before its engines even start.

Sweeping camouflage stretches across the aircraft while a bold blue fuselage stripe and the unmistakable Flying Tiger emblem cut through the gray backdrop of modern airpower. More than heritage paint, the aircraft serves as a tribute to Army Air Corps Brig. Gen. David Lee "Tex" Hill, the legendary Flying Tigers and the combat legacy carried on today by the 23rd Fighter Group stationed at Moody. 
 
Hill was a member of Claire Chennault's American Volunteer Group, famously known as the Flying Tigers, said William Godwin, 23rd Wing historian. He flew P-40 Warhawks with the 2nd Pursuit Squadron as a flight leader and was credited with 12 1/4 aerial victories during his time with the World War II group.

On July 4, 1942, the group disbanded, and the 23rd Fighter Group was activated. Hill joined the 23rd FG as a major and was the first commander of the 75 Fighter Squadron; he took command of the 23rd a year later. Hill would go on to fly the P-51 Mustang with the 23rd and raised his total number of aerial victories to 18 1/4. 
 
Aviation history runs deep on base. Hill served as a commander within the American Volunteer Group, whose combat missions in the China-Burma-India theater became legendary during the war. After the group was disbanded, its mission and fighting spirit lived on through the 23rd Fighter Group, with the 75th Fighter Squadron continuing that lineage.

Today, that heritage is reflected not only in the aircraft's design but in the airmen who brought it to life. Behind the scenes, 11 airmen assigned to the 23rd Maintenance Squadron dedicated an extended amount of time to transform the jet. The project demanded technical expertise, coordination and attention to detail, ensuring the finished aircraft honored both the squadron's heritage and the airmen who carried that legacy forward. 
 
"First, it was just another project to us, but once we got into it, we realized it was something different," said Air Force Senior Airman Memphis Waller, maintenance squadron aircraft structural maintainer. "It gave us a chance to learn new techniques and be part of something we knew people would remember. The process itself was a lot of work."

The team sanded the aircraft and cleaned up the old paint, then wiped everything down to ensure the surface was ready for the legacy design. After that, they had to prepare the plane and track down where every stencil belonged so they could repaint each one correctly.

"The [painting] process was different from what we usually do, so there was definitely a learning curve, but seeing it all come together made it worth it," Waller said. 
 
The aircraft's story began long before the camouflage pattern and Flying Tiger insignia took shape on the Moody flight line. Following an asset transfer from South Korea, maintainers at Moody accepted and processed the A-10 before taking on the extensive restoration project.

What started as a routine transfer quickly became something more, an opportunity to transform the aircraft into a visual reminder of the squadron's enduring history. For the airmen involved, the project carried meaning beyond restoring an aircraft. 
 
"When people see the heritage aircraft alongside the P-40 in the air park, they can immediately connect the history," said Air Force Staff Sgt. Tucker Lee, maintenance squadron noncommissioned officer in charge of corrosion control. "It's a continuation of the Flying Tigers legacy, and that's something this wing takes a lot of pride in. We just hope to keep carrying that tradition forward. 
 
"If the original Flying Tigers hadn't been successful, we wouldn't be here today carrying that name and history," he continued. "The shark teeth that people associate with the A-10 started back with the P-40s, and now they've become part of what makes the Warthog iconic. Keeping that heritage paint scheme and the nose art reminds us [of] where we came from and pushes us to continue that legacy of success." 
 
That pride was reflected in every stage of the project. From carefully matching historical details to working long hours as a team, maintainers ensured the aircraft would stand as a faithful tribute, reinforcing a shared connection between generations of airmen, past and present. 
 
Now complete, the aircraft serves a dual purpose: it remains a fully mission-capable platform while also standing as a visible reminder of the squadron's heritage. Each time it takes to the skies, it carries forward a legacy that began with the Flying Tigers, proving that while technology evolves, the spirit of the mission endures. 
 
"[The] American Volunteer Group and the 23rd Fighter Group set the standard for the Flying Tigers for future generations," Godwin said. "The American Volunteer Group, in 1941, were told they would not last two weeks. Eighty-five years later, the Flying Tigers are still going strong. The men and women of the 23rd Wing are standing on the shoulders of giants and leading the way with close air support and combat search and rescue."

Medal of Honor Monday: Army Pfc. Charles N. DeGlopper

June 1, 2026 | By David Vergun, Pentagon News |

Army Pfc. Charles N. DeGlopper served as a paratrooper during World War II in North Africa and Italy. However, it was for his selfless actions in France, three days after D-Day, that earned him the Medal of Honor posthumously.

DeGlopper was born in Grand Island, New York, Nov. 30, 1921, to Charles and Mary DeGlopper. He grew up on a cattle farm and was the youngest of his siblings: John, Robert and Lillias. DeGlopper attended a one-room school until eighth grade, then graduated from Tonawanda High School in 1941.  

He didn't play sports in high school; instead, he joined a bachelors' club for cooking and sewing with his childhood friend Harold Long, according to Long during a 2022 interview with Niagara Frontier Publications.  

"We had a great time. The teacher always said, 'We've got to teach you sewing.' But we wanted to cook. That's how I got to know Charlie," Long recalled. 

DeGlopper enlisted in the Army in November 1942 when he received his draft notice. It was difficult to fit the 6-foot-7-inch-240-pound private in uniform, since he wore size 15 boots. Following basic training at Camp Croft, South Carolina, he boarded a ship in April 1943, serving with Company C, 325th Glider Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division.

On June 9, 1944, after crash-landing his glider near the Normandy town of Sainte-Mère-Église, France, he was advanced with the forward platoon to secure a bridgehead across the Merderet River at La Fière, France. 

"At dawn, the platoon had penetrated an outer line of machine guns and riflemen, but in so doing had become cut off from the rest of the company. Vastly superior forces began a decimation of the stricken unit and put in motion a flanking maneuver, which would have completely exposed the American platoon in a shallow roadside ditch where it had taken cover," his Medal of Honor citation reads. 

Detecting this danger, DeGlopper volunteered to support his comrades by firing his automatic rifle while they attempted a withdrawal through a break in a hedgerow. 

With disregard for his own safety in a concentration of enemy automatic weapons fire, he walked from the ditch onto the road in full view of the Germans. He sprayed the hostile positions with assault fire. 

"He volunteered to cover the movement of his buddies to more advantageous terrain. Standing at 6'7" tall, it was hard for him not to be conspicuous. He certainly knew that he would be an easy target for the Germans, for the Nazis. Yet, with remarkable bravery, he acted above and beyond the call of duty to protect his fellow soldiers and accomplish the mission," said Army Maj. Gen. David Conboy, who served as the guest speaker during a 2024 ceremony to dedicate a park to DeGlopper in his hometown.  

Although wounded twice, DeGlopper continued firing. Kneeling in the roadway, weakened by his wounds, he leveled his weapon against the enemy and fired burst after burst until he was killed.  

He was successful in drawing the enemy action away from his fellow soldiers, who continued the fight from a more advantageous position and established the first bridgehead over the river.  

In the area where he made his intrepid stand, his comrades later found the ground strewn with dead Germans and many machine guns and automatic weapons.  

On March 10, 1946, DeGlopper's father received the Medal of Honor from Army Maj. Gen. Leland S. Hobbs at Trinity Evangelical United Brethren Church in Grand Island. 

Hobbs had commanded the 30th Infantry Division at Normandy. 

"He did all he could. We did all we could. Nothing more could be done. Charles DeGlopper did not fear fear. He admitted it. It should be a lesson to all of us," said Hobbs at the ceremony, according to the March 11, 1946, newspaper "The Buffalo News."

His legacy lives on in his hometown and throughout the Army. 

On Dec. 3, 1947, the Army Transport Englin Victory was renamed the Pvt. Charles N. DeGlopper at the Brooklyn Army Base in Brooklyn, New York. A road at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, is named for him, and in January 2015, the Fort Bragg Air Assault School was dedicated and renamed the DeGlopper Air Assault School.  

The Army Reserve Training Center in Tonawanda, New York, is named the Charles DeGlopper Center. On June 9, 2024, 80 years after he paid the ultimate sacrifice, his hometown dedicated the DeGlopper Memorial Park with a rifle salute and a military helicopter flyover. 

DeGlopper is buried in Maple Grove Cemetery in Grand Island.

Gunsmiths Play Essential Role in Winning Revolutionary War

May 29, 2026 | By David Vergun, Pentagon News |

During the American Revolutionary War, gunsmiths were essential to the patriot cause, providing, repairing and maintaining firearms for the Continental Army, Navy, Marine Corps and state militias.

Operating in small shops, they created American-made, handcrafted rifles, pistols and muskets.  

While some parts were imported, gunsmiths often made complete firearms from scratch, including custom iron barrels and wooden stocks. Each gun was hand-filed and fitted, making every weapon a unique, one-of-a-kind piece.  

Unlike the guns of today, parts were not interchangeable, a huge drawback. Soldiers could not cannibalize parts from broken weapons on the battlefield to fix their own. Because parts were hand-forged and unique to each gun, there was no quick fix for a broken internal part. 

Only bore size, aka caliber, was somewhat standardized so that soldiers could use the same size lead balls.

In the heat of battle, black powder residue called fouling, broken flints, or mechanical failures would often render a significant percentage of a unit's muskets useless after just a few shots. 

A flash in the pan occurred when the priming powder in the external pan ignited, but the spark failed to travel through the main charge in the barrel. This resulted in the gun making a puff of smoke but not firing. 

Flints typically lasted for only 20 to 30 shots before they became too dull to produce a spark. The hammer would strike the steel, but no spark would fall into the powder. 

Black powder is highly sensitive to moisture. Even high humidity could turn the powder into useless sludge. The flint would spark, but the damp powder would fail to catch fire.

The heavy spring that drives the hammer forward was under immense tension. If it snapped, the hammer would simply hang loose, making the weapon completely inoperable. 

Sear spring failure is the smaller internal spring holding the hammer at half-cock safety or full-cock, ready to fire. If it broke, the gun might fire prematurely or fail to stay cocked. 

The wooden stock was thinnest at the wrist where the soldier grips it. Dropping the gun or using it too forcefully in a bayonet charge often caused the wood to splinter or snap entirely. 

Broken hammers were often a weak point and could shear off at the neck after repeated use.

If the gun's firing mechanism broke, it was still an effective 5-foot spear with the bayonet affixed. 

A gunsmith was as much a craftsman as a manufacturer. They had to be capable carpenters, blacksmiths and engravers to produce their rifles. A single rifle could take weeks or even months to make, depending on the desired quality and access to needed materials. Wood was plentiful in the dense forests of Colonial America, but materials like steel and the proper tools had to be obtained from cities or even Europe.

In most cases, a master gunsmith would have several apprentices who would spend years learning the trade. Once they were deemed sufficiently trained, usually after completing a weapon entirely by themselves, the apprentice would craft a set of their own tools based on the master's and set up their own shop.

The most difficult, but most valued, step was rifling the barrel. Rifling is spiral grooves inside the barrel. It increases the ball's range and accuracy. While this was done by hand with a specialized drill at first, later gunsmiths were aided by the invention of rifle-boring machines, which greatly eased the process.

Until the Industrial Revolution of the late-1800s, the gun manufacturing process remained largely the same. The advent of interchangeable parts increased gun manufacturing as pieces could be made individually and replaced as needed. Parts could also be swapped, meaning a person could have two barrels for the same gun and switch them as they needed.

Prior to this, if a gun was damaged, the gunsmith would often need to spend days crafting a replacement piece specifically for that weapon. 

Now parts are stamped from sheets of metal or cast into molds that can be used repeatedly. This ability to produce intricate, delicate mechanisms from tiny, machined parts enabled the invention of automatic firearms.

Modern soldiers carry spare parts, cleaning kits, firing pins and other supplies. Revolutionary War soldiers carried almost nothing for repairs except extra flints. 

A modern armorer maintains and repairs firearms with factory-provided parts, ensuring the unit's weapons meet technical standards for combat readiness.  

A gunsmith is a skilled artisan capable of everything an armorer does, as well as custom fabrication and machining. 

Double-Amputee Paratrooper Trains for Historic Jump Into Normandy

May 29, 2026 | By Leslie Herlick, Fort Rucker Public Affairs Office, Pentagon News |

Fourteen years after an explosion in an Afghan village took both of his legs and nearly his life, former 82nd Airborne Division paratrooper Jon Harmon is preparing to step into the door of a World War II‑era C‑47 over Normandy, France, and jump again. 

For Harmon, 32, the moment will mark more than a return to the sky. It will mark a return to himself. 

"Normandy's everything," Harmon said. "That's where our guys made their history, and to be able to jump in those drop zones, in front of the men who actually dropped there, is the greatest honor of my life." 

Joining the Ranks 

Harmon grew up in Cedarville, California, raised on stories of his grandfather's service and inspired by the paratroopers of World War II. 

"'Band of Brothers' came out, and then I learned who [Army Maj. Gen. Jim] Gavin was," he said. "I started reading books and researching. I thought, 'This is incredible.'" 

Harmon enlisted in 2011 — a couple of months out of high school — as an airborne infantryman. He arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, as a teenager with a beret still in the post exchange bag. 

"I got immediately destroyed by one of the airborne females who picked me up because I didn't have a beret yet," he said with a laugh. "The next day, we were doing a 20K. It was everything I expected, and more." 

A year later, he deployed to Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, with the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division. 

Harmon was a 19‑year‑old private first class on his first deployment as part of Task Force Fury, when his life changed in an instant, June 7, 2012.  

He said the mission that day began as a routine patrol and key leader engagement with village elders, about a mile and a half from their strongpoint. Harmon was serving as a machine gun ammo bearer at the time. The platoon had been in a firefight in that exact location on a previous mission. 

It was midafternoon when the maneuver element began moving into the village. Harmon and his gunner set up the support‑by‑fire position. He gave his gunner sectors of fire, checked his angles and stepped to the side of a low wall and berm, where the machine gun was positioned. 

"And that's when I stepped on it," Harmon said.  

"It" was an improvised explosive device; the blast threw Harmon into a cloud of dust and debris. 

"It was a total brownout," he said. "I kept trying to stand up. I didn't understand why I couldn't, until I looked down and saw my [tibia and fibula] sticking out." 

Army Pfc. Brandon Goodine, who was positioned near Harmon, stepped on a second device moments later. 

As medics fought to save Harmon, Goodine and multiple other casualties, a stretcher team carrying Goodine triggered a third IED. 

"They carried him right over me," Harmon said. "And then, the stretcher team stepped on another plate. It was … it was bad. It killed Brandon instantly." 

Harmon remained conscious throughout the evacuation, giving himself aid and applying his own tourniquets. His unit suffered nearly a dozen casualties during the mission.  

"It was like something out of 'Apocalypse Now' — just a pile of guys in the Blackhawk. The last thing I remember was the American flag on the ceiling as they pushed me into the surgical unit," he said. 

Everything has Changed 

Harmon woke up days later in Germany. He had undergone surgeries in Afghanistan, Germany and finally, Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, where doctors amputated his left leg above the knee.  

His right leg was already gone. 

At Walter Reed, Harmon found himself surrounded by soldiers who had survived similar wounds, including his former squad leader, Army Staff Sgt. Travis Mills, a quadruple amputee. 

"He came bopping into my [intensive care unit] room on his little shorty prosthetics," Harmon said. "Seeing him made it impossible to lose yourself." 

Another noncommissioned officer, a double below‑knee amputee, showed Harmon what was possible. 

"He lifted his pant leg and said, 'It doesn't end here.' From that moment on, I wanted to be like him," Harmon said. 

Harmon not only recovered. He became the 82nd Airborne Division's first double above‑knee amputee soldier to return to active-duty service through the Army's Continuation on Active Duty program. 

"They actually gave me for that when I retired," he said. "I was the first person to ever do it." 

He spent years at Walter Reed as the XVIII Airborne Corps liaison, helping wounded soldiers and their families navigate the hardest days of their lives. 

"It was the greatest job I ever had," he said. "I got to inspire and motivate my paratroopers every day." 

Harmon eventually left the Army to continue his education after nearly eight years of service. 

Answering the Call 

He thought his static-line parachuting days were over. However, that changed when Dominic Mancuso, a fellow combat infantryman from his time in service, called with an unexpected question: "Would you want to jump into Normandy?" 

Mancuso told Harmon that Army 1st Sgt. Ramon Alvarez was recruiting veteran paratroopers to take part in a commemorative event. 

Alvarez and Mancuso had been deployed to Afghanistan together. Now stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, Alvarez is the cofounder and executive director of a nonprofit organization that provides resources, support programs and life-improving opportunities for veterans and their families. 

"Eight months ago, if someone said that was possible, I would've laughed them out of the building," Harmon said. "But once it became a possibility, it was mission mode — how do we do this? What prosthetics? What padding? And then it was off to the races." 

Harmon trained with the Liberty Jump Team, a veteran-led, all‑volunteer commemorative parachute organization based in Corsicana, Texas. The team preserves airborne history by performing World War II‑style, static‑line jumps at historic sites and memorial events. Harmon tested short prosthetic legs, specialized feet and relearned the mechanics of parachuting. 

He is believed to be the first double above‑knee amputee to complete a static‑line parachute jump. He has completed three jumps, bringing his total to 10, and said he has no plans to stop. 

When Harmon stepped into the door of a C‑47 Skytrain aircraft in March, for the first time since 2012, he said something clicked. 

"I grabbed the door and thought, 'This is so cool,'" he said. "When I landed and stood up, I just broke down crying. I couldn't believe I walked away unscathed." 

His wife, Carmen, encouraged him to jump again. 

He said, "As soon as my wife saw how insanely happy it made me, she said, 'Yeah, you need to do this.' And after I came back from [basic airborne refresher], she told me, 'You need to keep doing this. I haven't seen you this happy in years.'" 

Reminding Others

For Harmon, returning to jumping isn't about proving something to himself; it's about reminding other amputees who they are. 

"If I can use what I'm doing to help my guys, so they're not hurting themselves, I'll do that for the rest of my life," he said. "I want young paratroopers to know you can go into battle [and] get hurt, and life is not over; you can keep doing incredible things." 

On June 7 — 14 years after the day that changed his life — Harmon will jump into Sainte‑Mère‑Église, the same drop zone where the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment and the 82nd Airborne fought on D‑Day. 

"The fates always have an odd sense of irony in my life," he said. "Jumping on my 14th alive day — into the drop zone [that] my 508 guys jumped — it's surreal." 

During the jump, Harmon will carry Goodine's necklace, lent to him by Goodine's daughter and his original Army ID card. The grandfather who served in the Korean War and told him stories about this time as an infantryman died recently. Harmon will also carry some of his ashes. 

"I'll be jumping with all my guys," Harmon said. "Every paratrooper who came before me." 

Harmon hopes his story reaches two distinct audiences: young paratroopers and fellow wounded warriors. To those currently serving, his message is a call to appreciate the unique nature of their mission. 

"Stay airborne," Harmon said. "It's the greatest place on Earth." 

To his fellow wounded warriors, he offers a reminder of the identity that remains, regardless of injury. "Life isn't over; you can still do insane things," he said. "You just need someone to remind you who you are."

Harmon is a paratrooper who refused to let the worst day of his life define the rest of it. As he looks back on his journey to the drop zone in Normandy, his thoughts return to the legacy of the 82nd Airborne Division and the predecessors who paved the way. 

"I hope I'm making them proud," he said. "General Gavin, the World War II guys — all of them." 

Stay tuned for a follow-up story following Jon Harmon's historic jump into Normandy, France, next month. 

Jury Convicts Former National Guard Task Force Member for Illegal Firearm Possession Offenses That Came to Light During an Investigation into Leaks of Sensitive Operational Information

SACRAMENTO, Calif. — A federal jury on Tuesday found Ruby Celly Uribe, 37, of Sacramento, guilty of unlawfully possessing a machine gun and possessing an unregistered short‑barreled rifle, U.S. Attorney Eric Grant announced.

With certain exceptions, federal law prohibits the possession of machine guns and unregistered rifles with barrels shorter than 16 inches.

According to court documents and evidence presented at a trial, Uribe was assigned to the logistics shop at the California National Guard Headquarters in Mather, California, and was a member of the Counterdrug Task Force (CDTF). The CDTF supports local, tribal, and federal law enforcement entities in the interdiction of drug trafficking organizations. While assigned to this unit, Uribe leaked information about upcoming drug raids to a person she knew to be involved with drug dealing. Text messages recovered from Uribe’s and the drug dealer’s phones revealed she shared sensitive information about upcoming operations, including the date and location and the number of military vehicles and aircraft involved.

A federal search warrant of Uribe’s residence resulted in the discovery of a short-barreled rifle. The firearm had been modified to fire in full-automatic mode as a machine gun. In addition, it was a privately made firearm with no serial number, commonly referred to as a ghost gun. A search of Uribe’s cellphone revealed that she was also engaged in trafficking other non‑serialized, short-barreled machine guns, including to a coworker on July 20, 2022.

During preparation for trial in this case, the FBI learned of another illegal firearm that Uribe sold in August 2022. The FBI safely recovered that firearm, which is also a machine gun and short-barreled rifle. 

The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives conducted the investigation with assistance from the California Military Department. Assistant U.S. Attorneys Adrian T. Kinsella and Nicole M. Vanek are prosecuting the case.

Uribe is scheduled to be sentenced by U.S. District Judge Dena Coggins on Sept. 11, 2026. Uribe faces a maximum statutory penalty of 10 years in prison and a $250,000 fine. The actual sentence, however, will be determined at the discretion of the court after consideration of any applicable statutory factors and the federal Sentencing Guidelines, which take into account a number of variables.

This case is part of Operation Take Back America, a nationwide initiative that marshals the full resources of the Department of Justice to repel the invasion of illegal immigration, achieve the total elimination of cartels and transnational criminal organizations, and protect our communities from the perpetrators of violent crime.

44th Medical Brigade Integrates Drones Into Medical Resupply Operations

May 29, 2026 | By Army Sgt. Brandon Hocson, XVIII Airborne Corps Public Affairs |

Soldiers assigned to the XVIII Airborne Corps' 44th Medical Brigade are expanding battlefield medical support capabilities by integrating unmanned aircraft systems into medical resupply operations.

Army 1st Sgt. Fisamuel Reggans and Cpl. David Sanchez, both dental specialists assigned to the brigade's dental company area support element, recently graduated from the unmanned aircraft systems course at Clemson University's Drone Academy.

The eight-week online program provided training in drone operations and expanded the unit's ability to support medical resupply missions during field training exercises and deployed operations.

The program supports the Army's modernization efforts. It highlighted the need for medical units to adapt to sustain operations in contested and austere environments where traditional resupply methods may be delayed or restricted.

Reggans said UASs provide the unit with the flexibility to quickly and effectively resupply soldiers, keeping them in the fight. He added that it also enhances soldier safety, allowing commanders to mitigate unnecessary risk.

"We would rather send out a drone than a soldier," he said.

The new capability allows medical personnel to rapidly transport critical supplies necessary for patient care and treatment while reducing the manpower and risk associated with traditional ground resupply methods. Unmanned systems can improve response times, extend operational reach and reduce exposure for soldiers operating in hazardous environments.

The training also encouraged medical personnel to think beyond traditional medical roles and develop technical skills that support future battlefield operations.

Reggans said one of the most valuable aspects of the course was learning how to operate the systems manually, providing additional flexibility if automated systems fail during operations.

Sanchez said that with medical operations, there will always be a need for supplies. This capability not only makes resupply easier, but it also reduces delivery times.

The graduates said unmanned systems can significantly improve continuity of care by delivering supplies more quickly and efficiently while reducing the need to place additional personnel in dangerous operational areas.

The training also provided opportunities for collaboration across multiple warfighting functions while expanding operational knowledge beyond traditional medical specialties. Leaders within the brigade said emerging technologies, such as unmanned systems, will continue to play a growing role in future medical operations by improving speed, flexibility and survivability across the force.

Moody Air Force Base Installs Refueling Probe, Improves Efficiency

May 27, 2026 | By Air Force Airman 1st Class Rachel Howell, 23rd Wing |

Airmen assigned to Moody Air Force Base, Georgia, installed the base's first air refueling probe on an A-10C Thunderbolt II subsonic attack aircraft, enhancing its ability to support combat search and rescue and close-air support operations.

The adapter allows A-10 pilots to use probe-and-drogue refueling instead of boom-only systems, increasing refueling options and allowing the aircraft to refuel from HC-130J Combat King II aircraft at lower altitudes. It also increases operational flexibility and reduces the need for aircraft to climb to higher altitudes for refueling support.

Maintainers began preparing for the modification in late April.

According to Air Force Tech. Sgt. Brent Vargas, a fuels craftsman assigned to the 23rd Maintenance Squadron, they received the probes May 11 and began installing them on the first of two aircraft two days later.

Installation typically takes approximately four hours to complete, though the team faced challenges during the process.

"We did encounter an issue while installing the modified mount bolts that caused the nut plates to cross-thread, leading to the removal of the refueling receptacle, costing us several hours," Vargas said.

Air Force Tech. Sgt. Wesley Zell, an A-10 refueling probe installer assigned to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona, worked alongside Moody's maintainers to complete the installation. Although the installation process is generally straightforward, removing existing aircraft hardware and correctly installing the mounting components proved to be one of the most difficult parts of the modification.

"There's been a lot of issues getting these bolts removed so we can put the probe on," Zell said. "These screws and bolts hardly ever come out anyway, so doing this is the time-consuming part of it. Once we get that part up, the install of the probe is very simple."

Following the installation, pilots assigned to the 74th Fighter Squadron conducted familiarization flights with the new capability. For Air Force Capt. Ron Wayman, the flight marked a milestone for Moody's A-10 community.

"It was a cool experience; something we've never done before," Wayman said. "Getting to do it with the HC-130s from Moody was a pretty cool experience."

The new refueling capability enables A-10s to receive fuel below 10,000 feet from HC-130J Combat King II aircraft, keeping pilots aligned with combat search and rescue operations while improving mission efficiency. The system also allows two A-10s to refuel simultaneously, unlike traditional refueling methods with KC-135 Stratotanker aircraft.

"It gives the A-10 a different way of being able to refuel with the HC-130s," Zell said. "Now they can go low-level — below 10,000 feet — refuel with the HC-130 and stay in the [combat search and rescue] mission."

Wayman said the added capability provides aircrews with greater operational flexibility for future missions and deployments.

"It's a good capability for us," he said. "It'll give us more options when we're in future fights and during things as simple as moving across country or transoceanic crossings; it's another capability that can help us."

The installation effort also demonstrated the technical expertise and adaptability of Moody Air Force Base's maintainers, who executed the modification at the flight line level.

"It highlights our talents at the functional level, relying entirely on high-level capabilities of flight line maintainers, rather than specialized depot-level facilities," Vargas said, adding that subject matter experts from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base also demonstrated how to implement the modular pack-out kits provided, to sustain the new capability downrange and reduce reliance on traditional supply chains.

The effort reflects a broader push across the Air Force to rapidly integrate emerging capabilities and prepare airmen to operate in evolving environments. Building on previous integrations completed downrange and at other A-10 units, teams collaborated to familiarize maintainers with the installation process and improve operational readiness.

The addition of the refueling probe marks a significant step forward in Moody Air Force Base's combat capability — expanding the A-10C Thunderbolt II's ability to support combat search and rescue and close-air support operations. By integrating the system before deployment, Moody airmen increased operational flexibility, extended mission endurance and reinforced the Air Force's commitment to rapidly adapting combat capabilities for future fights.

Medal of Honor Monday: Army Pvt. Henry Johnson

May 25, 2026 | By David Vergun, Pentagon News |

Army Pvt. Henry Johnson, an infantryman, served in France in 1918 during World War I, which was then called the Great War. 

Johnson was born July 15, 1892, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. His name at birth was William Henry Johnson. There are conflicting accounts of who his parents and sister were, but it is thought that they worked in the tobacco fields. 

After the family moved to New York City when Johnson was a teenager, he worked various jobs, including as a porter at Albany's Union Station. 

On June 5, 1917, Johnson enlisted in the Army and was assigned to Company C, 369th New York Infantry Regiment, known as the Harlem Hellfighters. 

In December 1917, the 369th landed at Brest, France. By March 1918, the regiment began training under French command, as replacements were needed due to a high casualty rate. The 369th never served under American command during the war. 

Later in 1918, the 369th Infantry Regiment was ordered into battle. Johnson and his unit were brigaded with a French army colonial unit in frontline combat.  

In the early hours of May 15, 1918, Johnson and Army Pvt. Needham Roberts were on sentry duty at a forward outpost in the Argonne Forest, France, when they were attacked by a German raiding party of about 12 soldiers. 

His Medal of Honor citation reads in part: "While under intense enemy fire and despite receiving significant wounds, Johnson mounted a brave retaliation, resulting in several enemy casualties. When his fellow soldier was badly wounded and being carried away by the enemy, Johnson exposed himself to grave danger by advancing from his position to engage the two enemy captors in hand-to-hand combat." 

Wielding only a bolo knife and gravely wounded, he continued fighting. Johnson defeated the two captors and rescued the wounded soldier. Displaying great courage, he held back the larger enemy force until they retreated after suffering heavy casualties, leaving behind a large cache of weapons and equipment and providing valuable intelligence.  

Without his quick actions and continued fighting, even in the face of almost certain death, the enemy might have succeeded in capturing prisoners and the outpost. 

When French reinforcements arrived, they evacuated Johnson and Roberts to an aid station behind the main lines. During the battle, Johnson sustained 21 wounds. It is estimated that he killed four Germans and wounded 10 to 20 others, according to the National Park Service website. Johnson's actions on that day earned him the nickname "Black Death," according to the National Museum of the United States Army website.  

According to the website, when describing the battle, Johnson said that he did not consider himself a hero: "There wasn't anything so fine about it. Just fought for my life. A rabbit would have done that." 

For his battlefield valor in May 1918, Johnson became one of the first Americans to be awarded the French Croix de Guerre avec Palme, France's highest award for valor. By that summer, Johnson and the regiment were fighting in the Champagne-Marne Defensive and the Aisne-Marne Offensive. 

Subsequently, the Harlem Hellfighters saw combat during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, which began Sept. 26, 1918. 

After the war ended, Johnson sailed home from France as a sergeant in February 1919, and led his unit in the New York City victory parade.  

Because of the severity of his wounds, he was unable to return to his pre-war porter position. He died July 1, 1929, and is buried in Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia. 

On June 2, 2015, Johnson was awarded the Medal of Honor by President Barack Obama in a White House ceremony. Army Command Sgt. Maj. Louis Wilson accepted on behalf of Johnson, since he had no known living relatives. 

"The least we can do is to say, 'We know who you are, we know what you did for us. We are forever grateful,'" Obama said during the ceremony.  

Johnson was also awarded the Purple Heart in 1996 and the Distinguished Service Cross in 2002.

One Day for the Dead

May 25, 2026 | By Army Maj. Wes Shinego, Pentagon News |

The loudest place in American sports knew when to be quiet. 
 
At Charlotte Motor Speedway in North Carolina, the Coca-Cola 600 was everything it is supposed to be: horsepower, heat, noise and 600 miles of punishment. It was also something harder to stage and easier to cheapen. It was remembrance.

Charlotte Motor Speedway and NASCAR did not hide Memorial Day in a program note or a patriotic graphic between green flags; they built it into the race. Each car carried the name of a fallen service member. The Gold Star family luncheon — an annual feature of the race for years now — brought surviving families together with drivers, military leaders and guests. At the race's halfway point, the engines shut off, the grandstands went still and thousands of people were asked to stop long enough to remember why the weekend exists. 
 
For Jane Horton, one of those names was not a name on a windshield. It was her husband. 
 
Army Spc. Christopher David Horton, a sniper assigned to the Oklahoma Army National Guard's 45th Infantry Brigade Combat Team, rode with Ty Dillon's No. 10 Chevrolet. He was 26 when he was killed Sept. 9, 2011, in Zormat district, Paktia Province, Afghanistan. He left behind parents, siblings, friends, soldiers who loved him and a wife who has spent nearly 15 years refusing to let his life become a slogan. 
 
Gold Star families are families of service members killed in combat operations. And Jane Horton knows how easily America turns sacrifice into ceremony without letting the ceremony change anything. 
 
"I haven't [been featured in] a Memorial Day article in years," Horton said during race weekend. "I used to go on the news all the time and talk about Memorial Day, because it would drive me nuts that the American people don't know what it is." 
 
Then she put the day into one sentence. 
 
"364 days out of the year is about you, and we could never do enough for you," she said. "But this one day is for the dead."

Even at the speedway, Horton kept looking for Gold Star badges. She watched lanyards, shirts and lapels the way others watched pit road. When she saw a family wearing that mark, she went to them. She traded contact information and exchanged phone numbers; not to network and not to be seen, but because she knows what it feels like to carry a loved one's death into a crowd. She wanted them to know their families had an advocate. She wanted them to know their fallen would not fade. 
 
That is what she does. At the Pentagon. In Congress. At Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. At a racetrack. On the phone at 1 a.m. 
 
"I'm just an advocate for them," Horton said. "If they need something, they'll call." 
 
That sentence sounds small only to someone who has never needed the call answered. 
 
Horton has spent her adult life making sure the government remembers that casualty assistance is not a process. It is a family standing in a doorway after the worst knock of their lives. It is a child who wants to follow a parent into service. It is a spouse who needs a fellowship in government service, a mother who needs answers, a father who needs someone to say his son's name without looking away. Horton has championed education benefits for surviving spouses, Gold Star family fellowships, survivor policy changes in defense legislation and initiatives that give families direct access to senior leaders. More recently, she has helped lead Gold Star family efforts from inside the secretary of war's office, where policy becomes real only if someone forces it to touch people. 
 
She learned that work first through Chris. 
 
Jane met him when they were 18 and 19 at a small school in New York City. They talked about America, government and politics. He was from Alabama and Oklahoma, a military school kid from seventh through 12th grade, a civilian shooter, a man who would become a sniper. 
 
He was not warm and fuzzy. 
 
"He was more like a warrior," Horton said. "He was stoic, but he also had a huge heart."

When he brought Jane to Oklahoma, his family was stunned. They never expected Chris to marry young. Then he sold his guns to buy her engagement ring. 
 
"Yes, Chris, the trained sniper, sold his guns," Horton said.

They married in 2009. War bent the calendar. He left for pre-mobilization in February 2011. They believed he would come home because he was good at what he did, because he had trained for war the way a surgeon trains for an operating room, because young couples have to believe the future belongs to them. 
 
Seven months later, he was dead. 
 
Two days after that, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, Jane stood at Dover to receive the flag-draped casket of the man she had expected to grow old with. The war that began when America was attacked had taken him. His final flight home was not the one either of them imagined. 
 
Years later, Jane made the flight Chris never could take alive. 
 
In 2016, she traveled to Afghanistan with then-Marine Gen. Joseph Dunford, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, serving as a special assistant and ombudsman to the troops. She went not for closure. Closure is too clean a word for grief that never leaves. She went to see the land where Chris fought, bled and died. She went because the soil there held part of her life. She went because terrorism had killed her husband, but would not define his story. 
 
It was not her last trip. Horton eventually made six trips to Afghanistan in different official capacities, traveling with senior U.S. leaders, meeting Afghan officials and seeing the country not as a headline but as a people. She later served as congressional and military liaison for the Embassy of Afghanistan in Washington, where she helped connect the embassy with Congress, the Pentagon and the military community. 
 
Her work there was not just abstract diplomacy. 
 
She hosted hundreds of fellow Gold Star families at the Afghan Embassy so Afghanistan could become more than the place their loved ones died. She bought Afghan silver and lapis for the daughters of fallen heroes so they could hold something beautiful from the land where their fathers' blood remained. She told families about girls going to school, women serving in parliament and children building robotics teams. She wanted them to see that the sacrifice had produced life, that something good had grown in the hard ground. 
 
In 2017, she went outside the wire to Afghanistan's Presidential Palace. Afghan women she worked with helped her prepare, even warning her against the red lipstick she wore almost every day. She passed through layers of security and saw Afghan soldiers drilling in ceremonial uniforms. Former Afghan president Ashraf Ghani thanked her for the sacrifices of America's fallen and their families. 
 
The weight of that moment never left her. 
 
Neither did the weight of what came later. 
 
When Kabul fell in 2021, the country where Chris died collapsed before the eyes of Americans who had spent years not looking. For Horton, the withdrawal reopened wounds, not because she had mistaken Afghanistan for easy, but because she had seen the people who would pay for American forgetfulness. She had held Afghan children. She had met Afghan women who believed in the future they were promised. She had sat with troops and families who had given pieces of themselves to that mission. 
 
"Nobody paid attention to Afghanistan until it was over," Horton said. "They didn't. Nobody cared." 
 
After the withdrawal, she wrote that the fall of Afghanistan broke her in a way Chris' death had not. She saw his picture and the pictures of other fallen Americans thrown back into public debate under a cruel question: Did they die for nothing? 
 
Her answer demanded more from America than sympathy. 
 
"When I sent my husband to war, he was no longer mine," she wrote. "He was ours. He was America's." 
 
That is the line Americans should carry into Memorial Day. Not because it absolves the country, but because it indicts the country. If America sends its sons and daughters to war, America does not get to forget the war while they fight it. It does not get to discover Afghanistan only when the last C-17s are leaving Kabul. It does not get to thank a widow and avoid the harder question of whether she understood what her husband was ordered to do. 
 
And that is why the Coca-Cola 600 matters when it is done right. 
 
A race cannot repay a life. A luncheon cannot erase a knock at the door. A name on a car cannot bring Chris Horton home. But a racetrack can force a crowd to learn a name. A driver can carry a story. A speedway can make the living sit still with the dead. A family can walk into a room and be treated not as a prop for patriotism, but as part of the American story.

At Charlotte, Horton accepted the gratitude but kept redirecting it. 
 
When she saw police escorts and VIP treatment, she did not confuse it for something she earned. 
 
"That's for my husband," she said. 
 
That is the thread through her life. Turn it back to Chris. Turn it back to the fallen. Turn it into action. Hold people to their words. 
 
"I hold people's feet to the fire that say they care about Gold Star families," Horton said. "Thank you for saying you care, but how do you actually turn that into action?" 
 
It is a fair question for Memorial Day. 
 
There is room this weekend for joy. Horton believes that. Chris would want people to live. Go to the race. Take the trip. Fire up the grill. Laugh with your children. Enjoy the freedom bought for you by people you may never meet. 
 
But do not confuse enjoyment with ignorance. 
 
Patriotism is not a hand wave. It is not a rubber stamp. It is not a flag emoji, a furniture sale or a thank-you delivered without understanding. It is informed gratitude. It is knowing where America sent its troops, why they went, what they endured, who did not return and which families still carry their names. 
 
"Gold Star families are strong," Horton said. "We're serving as well in different roles and different capacities, and the best way you honor the fallen is by living the best life you can." 
 
She has done it the hard way. By answering calls. By walking the halls of power. By going to Afghanistan. By standing at Dover. By finding families wearing Gold Star badges in a crowd and giving them her number. By making sure Chris Horton's name is not trapped in a casualty report or a widow's memory. 
 
This Memorial Day, one of those names is Army Spc. Christopher David Horton. 
 
Say it. Learn it. 
 
Then learn another. 
 
And when the engines restart, when the crowd stands again and the noise returns, remember what the silence was for. 
 
One day is for the dead. 
 
The rest is what we do with what they left us.

We Remember: A Masonic Reflection on Memory, Service, and the Symbols on Military Tombstones

Across the rolling hills of America’s military cemeteries stand endless rows of white marble stones. They are uniform in shape, equal in height, and disciplined in arrangement. Yet carved into those stones are different symbols—crosses, stars, crescents, wheels, and emblems representing the many faiths and philosophies of the men and women who served beneath one flag. Among them rests another symbol quietly recognized by the United States Department of Veterans Affairs: the Square and Compasses of Freemasonry.

These symbols are more than decoration. They are final declarations of identity, belief, and moral aspiration. They remind the living that the dead were not statistics or abstractions, but individuals who sought meaning, duty, and purpose according to their own convictions. On Memorial Day, as Americans pause before these markers of sacrifice, the Masonic emblem offers a profound meditation on how we remember, why we remember, and what remembrance ultimately demands from the living.

Military cemeteries embody one of the deepest lessons taught in Freemasonry: the principle symbolized by the Level. In the lodge, the Level teaches equality—not equality of talent, ambition, or achievement, but equality before mortality and moral accountability. In death, rank disappears. Wealth loses its authority. Titles fade into silence. Generals and privates lie side by side beneath identical stones. The cemetery becomes a visible lesson in humility, reminding us that time ultimately places all men upon the same plane.

This is not meant to diminish accomplishment. Rather, it purifies our understanding of it. Memorial Day forces the living to confront the uncomfortable truth that legacy is not measured merely by power attained, but by character displayed while power was held. The rows of white stones quietly proclaim what Freemasonry has long taught through symbol and ritual: no man outranks eternity.

The VA-approved list of emblems carved upon military tombstones also reflects another principle deeply aligned with Masonic thought: unity without uniformity. The republic does not erase the beliefs of those who served it. Instead, it preserves them. A Christian cross may stand beside a Star of David, an Islamic crescent beside the Wheel of Dharma, and beside them all the Square and Compasses. These symbols testify that Americans of many beliefs fought, suffered, and died together in common cause.

Freemasonry has historically sought to create a similar harmony. Men of different faiths, backgrounds, professions, and political perspectives meet upon the level within the lodge, united not by theological sameness but by shared moral obligations. The military cemetery becomes, in many ways, a solemn extension of that principle. Beneath the silence of the flag and stone rests a vision of national brotherhood that transcends sectarian division.

Among these symbols, the Square and Compasses carry a particularly reflective message. The Square represents moral conduct measured against principle rather than convenience. It asks whether a man’s actions remained upright when pressure, fear, or self-interest tempted him to bend. The Compasses symbolize restraint—the discipline required to govern passions, desires, and impulses from within. Together, the emblem represents the lifelong labor of building character.

Placed upon a military tombstone, the symbol acquires even greater weight. It quietly declares that the life beneath the stone was viewed not merely as existence, but as construction. Freemasonry teaches that each man is both builder and stone, shaping himself through discipline, sacrifice, reflection, and service. The emblem suggests that the deceased understood life itself as moral labor—a continual effort to transform the rough stone of human nature into something more worthy, more useful, and more aligned with virtue.

This connection between military service and Masonic philosophy is not accidental. Both traditions emphasize duty above selfishness, fidelity to obligation, and the willingness to sacrifice personal comfort for a higher cause. Throughout American history, many military leaders who carried these virtues were also Freemasons. George Washington embodied disciplined restraint in both war and governance. General Douglas MacArthur spoke repeatedly about duty, honor, and country as moral imperatives rather than slogans. Audie Murphy, among the most decorated soldiers in American history, represented courage joined with humility and service.

The relationship between military virtue and Masonic virtue lies in a shared understanding: freedom survives only when individuals willingly subordinate impulse to principle. Neither the soldier nor the Mason is taught that liberty means the absence of restraint. Instead, both are taught that self-government is the foundation of all lasting freedom.

Freemasonry also approaches death itself with a distinct philosophy of remembrance. In Masonic funeral traditions, the evergreen acacia symbolizes immortality and enduring hope. The unfinished Temple represents the reality that every human life remains incomplete. No man perfectly finishes the work upon himself. Yet Masonry teaches that dignity lies not in perfection attained, but in sincere labor performed.

Memorial Day reflects a similar idea at the national level. The ceremonies, flags, flowers, and moments of silence are acts of collective memory. They resist the erosion of gratitude. They declare that sacrifice will not simply vanish into history unnoticed. A nation remembers not only to honor the dead, but to preserve the moral meaning of their sacrifice for the living.

And yet remembrance itself faces danger in the modern world. Societies increasingly consume history as information rather than inheritance. Wars become distant events stripped of personal consequence. The names engraved upon stones risk becoming anonymous. Memorial Day can easily dissolve into a long weekend disconnected from reflection.

Freemasonry warns against this kind of forgetting because memory is essential to moral orientation. A civilization that forgets sacrifice eventually forgets responsibility. Tombstones are not merely markers of death; they are markers of values. The symbols engraved upon them silently ask the living: What principles governed this life? What obligations did this person believe were worth defending? What kind of character was being built before time ran out?

The answer differs from stone to stone, symbol to symbol, faith to faith. Yet beneath every emblem rests the same sacrifice: a life surrendered in service to something larger than self.

On Memorial Day, the American flag waves above rows of white stones stretching toward the horizon. Some bear crosses. Some bear stars. Some bear the Square and Compasses. Their meanings differ, but their presence together tells a larger story about memory, freedom, and human dignity.

The Masonic emblem among the fallen carries a particularly quiet lesson. It reminds us that before death comes the work of construction. That integrity matters most under pressure. That character is built slowly through discipline and sacrifice. And that the final measure of a man is not what he possessed, but what he became.

Memorial Day is not only about those who died for the nation.

It is about whether the living remain worthy of their sacrifice.