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.

For Old Guard Soldiers, 'Flags In' Is a Personal Mission

May 22, 2026 | By Courtesy of Arlington National Cemetery  |

Yesterday, in the early morning dawn, soldiers assigned to the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, known as "The Old Guard," marched into the only two national cemeteries managed by the Army, their rucksacks packed with small American flags.  

Their mission: to honor America's fallen heroes by placing a flag in front of each headstone and columbarium column — approximately 250,000 at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, and 13,500 at the United States Soldiers' and Airmen's Home National Cemetery in Washington.  

This tradition, known as "Flags In," takes place annually at both cemeteries on the Thursday before Memorial Day.  

As the soldiers fanned out through Arlington National Cemetery's 639 acres, they placed a booted toe against each headstone and columbarium column before inserting a flag into the ground at their heel, creating a uniform distance for each flag.  

"Getting this right is important," said Army Master Sgt. Jeb Hague, as he turned back to a flag and adjusted it slightly. Hague, who has served in the Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps since 2006, has placed flags in nearly every section of the cemetery. "When I do this, I learn a little bit more each year," he said, adding that different sections have different meanings.  

The Old Guard has been placing flags in front of headstones since 1948, when it was first designated as the Army's official ceremonial unit. Every available soldier in the regiment participates. At Arlington National Cemetery, where service members from the Revolutionary War through today's conflicts are laid to rest, "Flags In" connects today's soldiers to generations of military service and sacrifice — spanning 250 years of American history.  

For many Old Guard soldiers, "Flags In" is also a deeply personal mission.  

Hague is among those with friends and family members laid to rest in Arlington. His great-uncle, Alvin J. Buchanan Jr., who served in the Navy during World War II and the Korean War, is buried in Section 66. His friend Army Staff Sgt. Adam Dickmyer, a fellow Old Guard soldier who served as a tomb guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, was killed in Afghanistan in 2010 and is buried in Section 60.  

"Memorial Day is so special and solemn," Hague said. "But for me, [Flags In] is much more personal. "In the early morning quiet, before the cemetery opens to the public, soldiers can reflect on those who have lost their lives to defend our nation. I make sure to take a few seconds to read the name and remember them," Hague said.  

Later in the day, the tomb guards, also members of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, placed flags at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to honor the three unknowns buried there, along with all unidentified and missing American service members.  

Meanwhile, at the United States Soldiers' and Airmen's Home National Cemetery, veterans residing in the Armed Forces Retirement Home joined uniformed Old Guard soldiers in placing flags.  

By the afternoon, American flags waved across the iconic landscapes of both cemeteries.    

During Memorial Day weekend, visitors and family members will see the results of the soldiers' meaningful mission — one of the many ways the U.S. military ensures that its fallen are never forgotten. For the Old Guard, the day represents, in Hague's words, "a chance to give back" by commemorating all who served and sacrificed throughout the nation's 250-year history.

Songs Inspired Patriotism During American Revolutionary War

May 22, 2026 | By David Vergun, Pentagon News |

Music has a way of uniting people and generations, and the American Revolutionary War was no different, as it was often used to boost morale for both the Continental Army and British troops.

Many of that era's most popular patriotic songs were originally religious hymns adapted for the war effort or original sacred compositions that took on a military character. As America celebrates 250 years of freedom, here is a look back at a few of the many songs that inspired the birth of a nation. 

"Yankee Doodle" 

Perhaps the most well-known song still sung today is "Yankee Doodle." It was originally sung by British military officers to mock the American service members they served with during the French and Indian War.

Written by British Army surgeon Richard Shuckburgh while campaigning in New York, circa 1755, the song was embraced by American troops, who added verses to it that mocked the British and hailed their commander, Continental Army Gen. George Washington. By 1781, "Yankee Doodle" had become a song of national pride among Americans.  

The song begins with/Yankee Doodle went to town/A-riding on a pony/Stuck a feather in his cap/And called it macaroni. 

The term macaroni was used to describe a fashionable man who dressed and spoke in an outlandishly affected and effeminate manner.

The American version was written in 1776 by Edward Bangs, a Minuteman, and was played during the British surrender following the Battle of Saratoga, Oct. 17, 1777, in New York.

"Yankee Doodle" was revived by George M. Cohan to create the patriotic song, "The Yankee Doodle Boy" for his 1904 Broadway musical "Little Johnny Jones." In 1942, the movie "Yankee Doodle Dandy," about the life of Cohan, starred James Cagney, for which he won an Oscar.

The song "Yankee Doodle" was adopted as Connecticut's official state anthem in 1978. 

"Chester" 

The unofficial anthem of the American cause, William Billings' "Chester," was immensely popular during the war. It encouraged the patriots to be strong, because God was standing on their side against the British tyrants, which is heard in these lyrics: 

When God inspir'd us for the fight/ Their ranks were broke, their lines were forc'd/ Their ships were shatter'd in our sight/ Or swiftly driven from our coast. 

Billings, a Boston native, was America's first choral composer. Chester is an old Latin word for military camp. The song was the first truly patriotic song with both the tune and lyrics written by an American in the American colonies. 

"Liberty Song" 

The "Liberty Song" was an early American patriotic ballad composed by John Dickinson, a founding father. It is often attributed as the origin of the phrase: "United We Stand, Divided We Fall."  

The song was one of the first to circulate within the 13 colonies and is thought to have fostered a sense of shared identity and resistance among the colonists. It includes the following lyrics: 

Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all/ By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall/ In so righteous a cause let us hope to succeed/ For heaven approves of each generous deed. 

The 1969 song, "United We Stand" by Brotherhood of Men, was a romantic ballad that took some inspiration from "Liberty Song" with the lyric, "united we stand, divided we fall." Despite the romantic connotations, the song became a rallying cry for the Vietnam War based on these lyrics:  

For united we stand, divided we fall/ And if our backs should ever be against the wall/ We'll be together, together, you and I. 

"Free America" 

Joseph Warren, a member of the Sons of Liberty, wrote "Free America" to the tune of "The British Grenadiers," inspiring many colonists to volunteer for the cause of freedom during the Revolutionary War with the following words:  

Torn from a world of tyrants/ Beneath this western sky/ We formed a new dominion/ A land of liberty/ The world shall own we're freemen here/ And such will ever be/ Huzza, huzza, huzza/ For love and liberty. 

"The World Turned Upside Down" 

The song "The World Turned Upside Down" is a 17th-century British ballad written to protest the Puritan banning of traditional Christmas celebrations. It is thought to have been played by the British Army band when they surrendered after the Siege of Yorktown in 1781, though there is no historical evidence that it actually happened. The lyrics include the following:  

Listen to me and you shall hear, news hath not been this thousand year/Since Herod, Caesar, and many more, you never heard the like before/Holy-dayes are despis'd, new fashions are devis'd/Old Christmas is kickt out of Town/Yet let's be content, and the times lament, you see the world turn'd upside down. 

If the song title seems familiar, it is because the words gained new popularity more than 300 years after they were first written, when Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote his 2015 Broadway musical, Hamilton. 

Near the end of the first act, "Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)" recaps the historic Battle of Yorktown: 

We negotiate the terms of surrender/I see George Washington smile/We escort their men out of Yorktown/They stagger home single file/Tens of thousands of people flood the streets/There are screams and church bells ringing/And as our fallen foes retreat/I hear the drinking song they're singing/The world turned upside down.

At 96, Former Army Tank Driver Reflects on the Korean War

May 22, 2026 | By Army Staff Sgt. Cayce Watson, 7th Infantry Division |

Army Staff Sgt. Stanley Martinez was the last man to step off the truck. It was autumn of 1951, somewhere north of Busan, South Korea, the deuce-and-a-half tactical vehicle he had ridden in from the country's southern tip had been dropping replacements all day: a soldier here, two there, each stepping into a slot another had just vacated.  

Martinez waited for his turn, listening to artillery thump in the dark. 

"You couldn't see anything, but you could hear it going off," he said. 

Now, decades later, at 96, he is one of two surviving members of his local Korean War Veterans Association chapter. He served as a tank driver assigned to the 7th Infantry Division, whose hourglass patch remains worn by soldiers at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington, today. 

Martinez grew up the son of a New Mexico coal miner, one of 10 children: six brothers and four sisters. His mother died when he was six. His father never remarried and raised all 10 by himself.  

He moved to El Centro, California, in 1947 to live with one of his sisters. At that time, gas cost 17 cents a gallon, and Hank Williams was just starting to climb the country charts. He almost enlisted before being drafted. 

He and his childhood friend, Guillermo, walked to the post office, where young men would sign their enlistment papers at that time. 

On the way, a car pulled up alongside them, with a couple of guys inside and cold beer in the back seat. 

"I let [Guillermo] go [in] by himself, and I jumped in the car," he recalled. [He] was shipped to Korea, and soon after was reported missing in action. 

"To this day, they still haven't heard anything from him," Martinez said. "No bones. Nothing." 

Martinez's draft notice arrived months later, signed by President Harry S. Truman. By then, one of his brothers had died during World War II in the English Channel in December 1941, seven months after high school, when a German U-boat sank his ship. Remembering the loss, Martinez said he was proud to be called up, especially since he had been ready to volunteer. 

Within a week of receiving the notice, he was on a bus to San Diego for a physical. Soon after, he went to Camp Roberts, California, a World War II installation the Army was hastily reactivating. 

Sixteen weeks of infantry training followed. After graduating, he took a 13-day voyage to Yokohama, Japan, then traveled by train to Sasebo, Japan, took a ferry to Busan, South Korea, and then endured a long, slow truck ride north.  

Martinez began his military career as an infantryman but did not stay one for long. A few weeks after arriving in South Korea, an officer asked if anyone could drive a truck. Martinez had hauled carrots and watermelons in Southern California, so he volunteered. 

"They put me in a tank," he said. "All they did was show me the gears and the clutch." 

He drove for a four-man crew supporting infantry patrols for about a year. His world narrowed to a 10-inch periscope slit. The crew slept inside the tank while the infantry soldiers slept in foxholes. Hot food was served twice a month; the rest was C-Rations, prepackaged food. Whenever the Air Force struck the hills, Martinez watched napalm explode from a distance. 

"That was some dangerous stuff," he said. "All you could see was the fire. It was white." 

Martinez eventually rotated home, ferrying back to San Francisco. Then he went to Fort Hood, Texas, to finish his enlistment. He had married his wife, Alice, before deploying. Soon they will mark their 75th anniversary. After leaving the Army, he raised a family in El Centro and stayed on his feet until arthritis forced him to use a walker. Only Martinez and his friend Benny Benavides remain in his Korean War Veterans Association chapter. 

Several years ago, he returned to South Korea, on a trip sponsored by the South Korean government. The villages he remembered as rubble had become a metropolis. 

"It's something like San Francisco now," he said. 

When asked what he would advise young soldiers wearing his old patch, Martinez paused. 

"I think everybody should spend a couple of years in the service," he said. "Learn some discipline. It makes a difference."