VFW, SSG Jonathan Kilian Dozier Memorial Post, 2894

06/06/2026

June 6, 1944 the Normandy Invasion.

05/14/2026

Installation of new Post officer for 2026-2027.

03/13/2026

Rest in peace LTC SHAH.

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1DMTzd1A9t/

This decorated soldier survived combat overseas… only to be killed here at home on American soil.

He deserves to be honored, and I’m going to keep sharing his story.

Lt. Col. Brandon Shah was a Professor of Military Science and leader of the ROTC program at Old Dominion University. He served his country in Operation Iraqi Freedom, Operation Enduring Freedom, and Atlantic Resolve, surviving dangerous combat deployments overseas.

He was a decorated American hero whose awards included two Bronze Stars, the Air Medal with Valor, the Defense Meritorious Service Medal, the Meritorious Service Medal, the Joint Service Commendation Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, and the Joint Service Achievement Medal, along with the Senior Army Aviator Badge, Combat Action Badge, Parachutist Badge, and Air Assault Badge.

Rest in peace, Lt. Col. Brandon Shah

03/04/2026

Honor and Remember those who gave the last full member of devotion!

https://www.facebook.com/share/1HmCZinVoy/

02/24/2026

Today's hero from the USAF.https://www.facebook.com/share/183sxwca8o/

On this day, 59 years ago, February 24, 1967, 33‑year‑old Captain Hilliard Almond Wilbanks was flying a slow, unarmed Cessna O‑1 Bird Dog over the rolling hills and tea plantations northeast of Da Lat, South Vietnam, serving as a U.S. Air Force forward air controller for the 21st Tactical Air Support Squadron, 14th Air Commando Wing, when he spotted a large, well‑concealed Viet Cong force preparing to ambush a South Vietnamese Ranger Battalion.

He was based at Nha Trang Air Base, flying visual reconnaissance ahead of the ranger units pushing through the Central Highlands, using his small, two‑seat aircraft to scan the ridges, tree lines, and open clearings for any sign of hostile movement.

That afternoon, the South Vietnamese 23rd Ranger Battalion was advancing slowly through open terrain, their lead elements already exposed in a wide tea plantation with little cover, when Wilbanks noticed telltale shapes and movement along two adjacent hilltops ahead of them.

His intensive search revealed a numerically superior Viet Cong force dug in along the crests, their weapons and mortar tubes carefully concealed, poised to spring a devastating ambush the moment the rangers moved within killing range.

Wilbanks immediately radioed the rangers, warning them of the enemy positions, and then called for helicopter gunship support and additional fighter‑aircraft close air support, knowing that the Ranger forward units were in extreme danger if they walked into the killing zone without warning.

The Viet Cong, realizing their ambush had been discovered and that an observer aircraft was tracking them, opened fire on the small Bird Dog with every available weapon, pouring machine‑gun, rifle, and automatic‑weapons fire into the sky as Wilbanks circled above the ridges.

Wilbanks recognized that the friendly troops were already pinned down by the sudden, heavy fire pouring into the open tea plantation, their movement stopped dead in their tracks, and that arriving fighter‑bombers and other support aircraft might not reach the area in time to prevent the rangers from being overrun.

Fully aware that his aircraft was unarmored, unarmed other than basic signals and small weapons he could carry personally, and easily hit by the intense ground fire, he chose to stay on station instead of breaking off and circling at a safer altitude.

Determined to give the rangers every second they needed to reorganize, he began flying at extremely low level, skimming the tree line and the upper edges of the ridges, maneuvering his aircraft directly into the teeth of the enemy fire.

He fired a rifle out of the side window of the Bird Dog, raking enemy positions along the hilltops, and dropped flares and fired marking rockets to mark the hostile concentrations for the gunships and fighters he had called in, even though this made his aircraft an even more attractive target.

The enemy intensified their fire, heavy machine guns and automatic weapons tracking the slow‑moving aircraft, bullets striking the fuselage, wings, and canopy, yet Wilbanks continued to make repeated, low‑level passes over the advancing Viet Cong, drawing their fire away from the rangers and forcing them to keep their heads down.

His repeated passes disrupted the enemy’s coordinated assault, interrupting their advance, and allowed the Ranger force to pull back from the perilous forward positions, re‑form behind better cover, and avoid being cut to pieces in the open plantation.

On one final pass, flying directly between the rangers and the Viet Cong, Wilbanks was hit by a concentrated burst of antiaircraft and machine‑gun fire, the rounds tearing into the Bird Dog and striking him in the chest or abdomen, his control of the aircraft instantly compromised.

The aircraft nosed down, losing altitude rapidly, and crashed in the broken ground between the enemy and the friendly Rangers, his body and wreckage coming to rest in the zone he had deliberately placed himself to shield the ground troops.

For his actions on February 24, 1967, near Da Lat, Republic of Vietnam, Captain Hilliard A. Wilbanks was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, the United States’ highest military decoration for valor.

02/21/2026

If you did not know his store, you should.

September 29, 1918. The 21-year-old cowboy from Arizona climbed into his fighter plane without permission, ignoring direct orders to stay on the ground.
His commanding officer had nearly grounded him permanently. Too reckless. Too undisciplined. Too likely to get himself killed chasing glory.
But 2nd Lieutenant Frank Luke Jr. didn't care about orders. He cared about hunting.
And what he hunted was floating in the sky six miles behind enemy lines: German observation balloons.
Frank Luke was born in Phoenix, Arizona Territory—before Arizona was even a state. He grew up working copper mines, fighting in bare-knuckle boxing matches, and dreaming of adventure bigger than the desert could offer.
When America entered World War I in 1917, Frank enlisted immediately. He wanted to fly.
By March 1918, at age 20, he earned his wings and a commission as second lieutenant. In July, he shipped to France and joined the 27th Aero Squadron.
His squadron mates called him arrogant. Cocky. A showboat who flew alone and disobeyed orders.
His commanding officer thought he was a discipline problem waiting to happen.
But Frank Luke could fly. And more importantly, he was willing to do what other pilots feared: hunt observation balloons.
These weren't just balloons. They were massive hydrogen-filled targets called "Drachen"—dragons—tethered 3,000 feet in the air, watching Allied troop movements and directing German artillery.
Shooting them down was a su***de mission.
Each balloon was protected by a ring of anti-aircraft guns on the ground and fighter planes in the air. The hydrogen made them explode spectacularly when hit—which looked impressive but also marked exactly where the attacking pilot was, making him an easy target.
Most pilots avoided balloons. Too dangerous. Not worth it.
Frank Luke volunteered for every balloon mission.
He found a wingman who matched his fearlessness: Lieutenant Joe Wehner. The two developed a system: Luke attacked the balloons while Wehner flew protective cover, fighting off German planes.
Together, they became unstoppable.
September 12, 1918. The Meuse-Argonne Offensive begins—the largest American battle of World War I.
Frank Luke starts his rampage.
In one mission, he destroys two balloons within minutes. Then two more the next day.
By September 15, he's shot down eight balloons in four days.
His squadron commander awards him the Distinguished Service Cross. Newspapers back home start calling him "the Arizona Balloon Buster."
But Luke doesn't slow down. If anything, he gets more aggressive.
September 16: Two more balloons destroyed.
September 18: Two balloons and two German Fokker fighters shot down in a single mission.
But that day, disaster strikes.
During the fight, German planes swarm Luke's position. Joe Wehner—his wingman, his friend, his only real ally—is shot down and killed.
Luke is devastated. Enraged. Alone.
He becomes even more reckless.
Over the next eleven days, Luke flies mission after unauthorized mission, hunting balloons with a fury that terrifies his own commanders. He's no longer following tactics or waiting for orders. He's a one-man air force.
September 28: He destroys his 14th and 15th balloons.
His squadron commander has had enough. Luke is too wild, too undisciplined, too likely to get himself killed. After his latest unauthorized flight, he's told in no uncertain terms: You're grounded. No more flying until you learn to follow orders.
Frank Luke has never followed an order he didn't agree with.
September 29, 1918. Evening.
Luke takes off from Verdun without authorization. He's flying his SPAD XIII fighter—French-made, single-seat, wood and fabric biplane with twin Vickers machine guns.
He flies toward the German lines. Alone.
His target: three observation balloons near the town of Murvaux, six miles behind enemy lines.
He finds the first balloon at dusk. Dives through a storm of anti-aircraft fire. Opens fire. The balloon erupts in flames—a massive orange fireball against the darkening sky.
German ground troops are alerted. Every gun in the area swivels toward the sound of his engine.
Luke doesn't leave. He hunts the second balloon.
Finds it. Attacks. Another explosion. Another burning dragon falling from the sky.
By now, eight German fighters are pursuing him. Anti-aircraft shells are bursting all around his plane. Any sane pilot would flee.
Luke spots the third balloon.
He dives again. Through the fighters. Through the flak. Machine guns hammering.
Third balloon explodes.
Three balloons in less than 45 minutes. One of the most audacious single missions in World War I history.
But Luke's plane is hit. Badly. Engine smoking. Controls damaged.
He descends, flying dangerously low—barely 50 meters off the ground—strafing German troops near Murvaux. His guns keep firing even as his plane is falling apart.
Then his plane can't fly anymore.
He crash-lands in a field near the village.
According to witness reports, he climbed out of the wreckage. Wounded. Surrounded by German soldiers who called for him to surrender.
Frank Luke drew his service pistol.
The exact details of what happened next are lost to history. For decades, legends grew: that he fought ten German planes before being shot down, that he killed eight or eleven Germans in a final gunfight.
The truth, revealed through careful research in 2008, is simpler and more tragic: Frank Luke died defending himself against overwhelming odds. The number of enemies he faced, the exact manner of his final moments—these details were exaggerated by well-meaning witnesses and mistranslated testimonies.
What we know for certain: Frank Luke Jr. died September 29, 1918, at age 21, in a field in France, having just destroyed three observation balloons in a single unauthorized mission.
He had been in combat for exactly 17 days.
In those 17 days, he destroyed 14 German observation balloons and shot down 4 enemy aircraft—18 confirmed kills total.
No pilot in World War I achieved so many victories in such a short time.
Eddie Rickenbacker, America's top ace with 26 kills, called Luke "the most daring aviator and greatest fighter pilot of the entire war."
His commanding officer, who had tried to ground him, nominated him for the Medal of Honor.
In May 1919, Frank Luke became the first U.S. aviator to receive the Medal of Honor. The medal was presented to his father in Phoenix.
Luke Air Force Base in Arizona bears his name.
But the real legend isn't the exaggerated stories. It's what actually happened:
A 21-year-old cowboy from Arizona became America's second-highest-scoring ace by defying orders, flying solo missions, and hunting targets that terrified other pilots.
He did it in 17 days.
And he died the way he lived: ignoring orders, attacking impossible odds, refusing to surrender.
That's not mythology. That's Frank Luke Jr.
The Arizona Balloon Buster who became a legend by being exactly what the military tried to discipline out of him: fearless, reckless, and absolutely unwilling to back down.

12/25/2025

Merry Christmas from our Post to you. Thank you for your service and support.

12/18/2025

More on Jay!https://www.facebook.com/share/p/17a4SuxWKJ/

Wounded Warrior and Retired Navy SEAL Jason Redman is a New York Times best-selling author, speaker, entrepreneur, and coach. Jason served 21 years as a Navy SEAL completing five total deployments and two combat deployments to Afghanistan and Iraq. Jason was severely wounded outside Fallujah, Iraq leading his team on a direct-action mission targeting a high value Al Qaeda leader. The team survived the devastating ambush only after calling a Close Air Support mission from an Air Force AC-130 Gunship directly on their position. It would become the closest fire mission executed in the entire Iraq war. Jason became nationally known for the bright orange sign he had on his Bethesda Naval Hospital door which has become a national statement of overcoming adversity.

Jason now teaches how his Overcome Mindset helped him rise above a leadership failure, devastating enemy ambush, life-changing injuries and even a debilitating business crisis. Jason’s incredible story, positive message and vibrant energy make him a highly demanded speaker and coach both nationally and internationally.

Join the Navy SEAL Museum for An Extraordinary Evening at Quail Valley with special keynote speaker, Lieutenant (SEAL) Jason Redman, USN (Retired).

navysealmuseum.org/verobeach

12/18/2025

Our own Jason Redman! Congratulations.
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/17SwyHZ2Sy/

11/29/2025

https://www.facebook.com/share/1AP9LPBxrp/

He was a dentist who became a wall of bullets—and the U.S. government refused to call him a hero for 58 years.
His name was Captain Benjamin Lewis Salomon. And on July 7, 1944, he made a choice that most humans, if we're honest, could never make.
He chose to die so others could live.
THE MAN WHO WASN'T SUPPOSED TO FIGHT
Ben Salomon didn't set out to be a warrior. He was a dentist from Milwaukee, Wisconsin—a man who fixed teeth, not one who took lives. But when World War II called, he enlisted.
By 1944, he was serving with the 105th Infantry Regiment on Saipan, a strategic island in the Pacific where American and Japanese forces were locked in one of the war's bloodiest battles. Salomon wasn't carrying a rifle on patrol. He was running a field hospital—a makeshift surgery tent where mangled soldiers were brought to be saved or to die with dignity.
His job was to heal. The Geneva Convention protected him for that reason. Medical personnel weren't combatants. They were neutral. Sacred, even in war.
But war doesn't care about rules.
JULY 7, 1944: THE DAY EVERYTHING CHANGED
The morning of July 7 started like any other desperate day on Saipan. The field hospital was fifteen yards behind the front lines—close enough to hear the gunfire, close enough to save lives quickly.
Wounded men covered every available surface. Blood-soaked bandages. Morphine shots. Frantic surgeries performed under canvas in tropical heat. Salomon moved between patients, doing what he could with limited supplies and unlimited casualties.
Then the screaming started.
Not from the wounded. From outside.
The Japanese forces had launched a massive banzai charge—a suicidal human wave attack involving thousands of soldiers. They were overrunning American positions. And they were headed straight for the hospital.
Within minutes, Japanese soldiers burst into the tent.
Chaos erupted. Wounded men who couldn't move watched in horror. Medics froze. The enemy was inside the hospital, bayonets drawn, ready to kill everyone—combatants and non-combatants alike.
Ben Salomon didn't freeze.
THE CHOICE
According to surviving accounts, Salomon killed the first Japanese soldier with his bare hands. Then another. Then grabbed a rifle from a wounded American and shot a third soldier who was bayoneting patients in their cots.
But he knew the math. There weren't three enemy soldiers. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, pouring through the broken American lines. The field hospital would be overrun in minutes.
Every wounded man inside would die.
Unless someone bought them time.
Salomon made his decision in seconds. He turned to the medics and gave an order: "Get them out. Now."
Then he did something that violated every principle of medical neutrality, every protection afforded by international law: he picked up a machine gun.
THE LAST STAND
Salomon positioned himself at the forward-most machine gun position—a tripod-mounted weapon about 50 yards in front of the hospital tent. From there, he had a clear field of fire. From there, he could see them coming.
From there, he could hold the line.
The medics scrambled. Wounded soldiers who could walk helped those who couldn't. They dragged, carried, crawled toward the rear positions. Minutes felt like hours. Every second mattered.
And every second, Ben Salomon bought for them.
The Japanese charged in waves. Salomon fired until the barrel glowed red. When they got close, he shot them point-blank. When they surrounded him, he fought hand-to-hand. When they bayoneted him, he kept firing.
He had one mission: keep them away from the hospital tent until every wounded man was evacuated.
He didn't stop. Not when he was shot. Not when he was stabbed. Not when the odds became mathematically impossible.
He fought until he physically couldn't fight anymore.
WHAT THEY FOUND
When American forces retook the position hours later, they found Captain Benjamin Salomon slumped over his machine gun.
He had 76 wounds on his body. Twenty-four bullet holes. More than twenty bayonet wounds. His hands were still on the gun.
And surrounding his position—in a grotesque perimeter—were the bodies of 98 Japanese soldiers.
Ninety-eight.
One dentist with a machine gun had killed 98 attacking soldiers in his final stand. The hospital tent behind him was empty. Every single wounded man had been evacuated.
Everyone under his care survived.
Ben Salomon had traded his life for theirs. One for dozens. And he'd made it count.
THE 58-YEAR WAIT
You'd think the story ends with immediate recognition. A Medal of Honor. A hero's burial. National headlines.
It didn't.
Salomon was initially recommended for the Medal of Honor—America's highest military decoration. But the recommendation was rejected.
Why? Because he had violated his status as a medical officer. The Geneva Convention protected medics and doctors precisely because they didn't fight. By picking up that machine gun, Salomon had technically become a combatant. And the military brass worried that honoring him might set a dangerous precedent.
Never mind that he saved dozens of lives. Never mind that his sacrifice was selfless and extraordinary. The rules said medics don't fight, and the rules mattered more than the man.
For 58 years, Ben Salomon's extraordinary courage went officially unhonored. His family knew. His surviving comrades knew. But the nation didn't.
JUSTICE, DELAYED
In the 1990s, a military dentist named Dr. Robert West learned about Salomon's story and couldn't let it go. He began a campaign to reopen the case. He gathered testimonies from survivors. He compiled evidence. He fought the military bureaucracy with the same determination Salomon had shown on Saipan.
Finally, in 2002—58 years after that July morning—President George W. Bush awarded Captain Benjamin Lewis Salomon the Medal of Honor.
It was presented to his family. Ben wasn't there to receive it. He'd been dead for more than half a century, his remains buried in a military cemetery, his story known to few.
But now, officially, America acknowledged what should have been obvious from the beginning:
Ben Salomon was a hero.
THE MAN BEHIND THE LEGEND
Here's what gets lost in the statistics—the 98 enemy dead, the 76 wounds, the 58-year wait:
Ben Salomon was 33 years old when he died. He had a family. He had dreams beyond the war. He'd trained for years to heal people, not kill them.
But when the moment came—when he had to choose between the person he'd trained to be and the person the moment required—he chose the latter.
He became a killer so his patients could live. He abandoned his medical neutrality so wounded men who couldn't defend themselves wouldn't die helpless.
That's the choice that haunts and inspires: he didn't do what he was supposed to do. He did what needed to be done.
THE LESSON
Ben Salomon's story matters because it reminds us that courage doesn't always look like we expect. Sometimes it's not about following orders or staying in your lane. Sometimes it's about recognizing the moment when the rules don't matter anymore—when all that matters is the person in front of you who needs protecting.
It matters because it shows that heroism often comes with a cost beyond death. Salomon died in 1944, but his sacrifice wasn't recognized until 2002. He never knew if his actions would be honored or condemned. He did it anyway.
And it matters because it asks us a question we all hope we'll never have to answer:
If you were in that tent, and the enemy was coming, and the wounded couldn't run—what would you do?
Ben Salomon already answered.
JULY 7, 1944
He was a dentist from Milwaukee.
He was supposed to heal, not fight.
He was protected by international law.
But when hundreds of enemy soldiers came for the wounded men in his care, he didn't think about rules or consequences or survival.
He thought about the men in those cots who couldn't protect themselves.
So he picked up a machine gun and became their shield.
Ninety-eight enemy soldiers fell before he did.
Every wounded man under his care survived.
And America took 58 years to say what should have been said on July 8, 1944:
Thank you, Captain Salomon.
Your courage didn't fit the rulebook.
But it saved lives.
And that's what heroes do.