"It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over!"
And these immortal words by Yogi Berra were never more true than during this election, where once again American politics have our allies, foes, and even insignificant little pissant third world nations laughing at us.
Though neither candidate is very remarkable, I have to say that Al Gore has demonstrated the lengths that he is willing to go to in order to win (?) the presidency. But, hey. What the hell, right? Isn't this the new "American Way?" If you can't actually earn it, just sue for it! So the bottom line here is that we all just have to wait and see which candidate has the better team of lawyers.
But, that's not what I want to write about today. Today is Veterans' Day. Today I would like to salute all those that have served and/or are serving in the armed forces. In particular, I would like to raise a toast to the warrior.
I had an email from an old army buddy in which he enclosed an excerpt from a speech made by Brigadier General Mark Welsh to the US Air Force Academy's graduating class a couple of years ago. I'd like to share it with you here in honor of Veterans' Day.
"Not long ago I was asked to give
a presentation on personal lessons learned from my experiences in combat during
Operation Desert Storm. I spent about an hour and a half just thinking and
thinking: What great lessons have I learned that I want to pass on to future
generations?
When I finished, I realized that none
of (the items on my list) were lessons learned. Every one of them was about a
person, an event or just a feeling I had. Every kind of combat is different.
Aerial combat happens at about 1,000 mph. It's hot fire, cold steel, instant
death and big destruction. Ground combat's not that way. Those of you who've
heard infantry soldiers talk about it know ground combat is endless time,
soaking fear, big noises and darkness. Either way, your first combat is an
intensely personal experience. One week before the Desert Storm air campaign
started, we were flying missions to northern Saudi Arabia to practice dropping
simulated bombs at night on targets in the desert, so those of us who didn't
routinely fly night missions would be ready if the war started. One night after
we'd "destroyed" our target, we hit a post strike tanker and headed back
to our base almost 400 miles away. We climbed up to about 42,000 feet, put the
auto-pilot on and I leaned back in the seat and stared at nature.
It was a gorgeous night. Out on the
horizon, I saw something I'd never seen before: a beautiful, huge white halo
that went all the way around the moon.
I'll never forget that halo. I also
won't forget that when I landed that night my assistant operations officer met
me at the bottom of the ladder and said, "Boss, we lost an airplane."
The pilot was a young captain named Mike who had joined us in the desert only
two weeks earlier, because he had stayed back in Utah to get married. He was on
his second night ride. We think that somehow Mike got a light on the ground
confused with his flight lead's rotating beacon. He hit the ground going more
than 600 mph, nose low, inverted and in full afterburner. He died relaxed. I
don't think "dying relaxed" was good news to his wife or to his mom
and dad. I'll never forget those phone calls, and I'll never forget Mike. And
I'll never forget sitting at the memorial service two days later, looking at
this airplane with Mike's name on the canopy rail, the helmet with his name on
the visor cover, his spare G-suit under the wing, and his crew chief saluting
the jet while bagpipes played Amazing Grace in the background. I won't forget
staring at that airplane thinking, "How many more of these are we going to
have when the war starts?"
The night before the war started, we
gathered our squadrons together at about 5 p.m. and gave them their first
briefing.
Then I told them all to go back to
their rooms and write a letter to their family. In that letter, I wanted them
to shed all of the emotional baggage they would otherwise take with them into
combat. I told them they didn't fly until I got that letter. If you haven't had
the pleasure of sitting and thinking about your family the night before you
think you may die; if you haven't tried to tell your children that you're sorry
you won't be there to see their next ballet recital or watch them play little
league baseball, or high school football, or graduate from college, or meet
their future spouse or get to know your grand kids, you should try doing it on
a piece of paper at midnight, from 9,000 miles away. If you haven't told your
parents, brothers and sisters what they mean to you or told your wife how the
sun rises and sets in her eyes, you haven't lived. I won't forget writing that
letter.
The next morning we got up at about
1:30, because we had a 2:15 briefing. As we drove down the road parallel to the
runway, two things happened. The first was that Col. Tom Rackley's 421st
Fighter Squadron lit its afterburners as part of the first launch of the
Persian Gulf War. At 20-second intervals as we traveled down that road, planes
lifted off, accelerating to about 400 mph and disappearing at the end of the
runway. I suddenly realized that this was the first time I'd ever seen
airplanes take off with no lights on. We were "blacked out" for
combat, and it was pretty sobering. When we were halfway down this road, one of
the guys in the car pointed to the right, where the base's tent city was. On
the right side of the road were thousands of people. All those who weren't
working that night had come out of their tents when they heard the
afterburners. They were in uniforms, jeans, cutoffs; they were wearing
underwear, pajamas-everything. But not one of them was talking. The other thing
I noticed immediately was that each person was somehow in contact with the
next. They were holding hands or arms, or they had an arm around a neighbor's
shoulders or back, or they were just leaning on each other. These people didn't
even know each other. But they were all Americans. They were all warriors, and
they were all part of the cause. I will never forget their faces in our
headlights. Later that morning, we went to the life-support trailer where my
squadron's flying gear was kept. Anybody who's been in any kind of flying
squadron knows life support is a pretty raucous place. You're giving people
grief; you're arguing about who's better at whatever; something's always going
on, and it's fun. That morning there wasn't a sound. I dressed listening to
nothing but the whisper of zippers as people pulled on flight gear. As each of
my guys left, I wondered if he'd be coming back that afternoon. I'll never
forget watching their backs disappear into the darkness.
The first day of Desert Storm, I got to
my jet and standing right in front of the nose was Father John, our squadron
chaplain. He said, "Hey, I thought you might like a blessing before you
go." I immediately hated myself, because I consider myself fairly
comfortable in my religion, and I'd never thought of that. So I knelt down on
the cement and Father John gave me a blessing. As I was getting ready to climb
up the ladder, I noticed all these guys running toward me out of the darkness.
My other pilots had seen this and were coming over to get Father John to bless
them, too. So he did. And when everybody came back safe from the first sortie,
we decided: "That's it, Father John has to bless everybody." From
then on, it didn't matter if you were Jewish or Baptist or Islamic, Father John
gave the blessing for our squadron. Later on, talking to Col. Rackley, the
commander of the 421st Fighter Squadron, I found out Father John did
the same for his guys. I don't know how he did it, but he did. Every single
time I landed from a combat sortie, I'd shake hands with my hero and crew
chief, Tech Sgt. Manny Villa. Then I'd climb down the ladder to Father John,
who would bless me and welcome me home.
When I came back from Desert Storm, I
ended up returning to Hill Air Force Base in Utah a few days after my squadron.
When I pulled into the parking spot, folks were waiting for me, including
Father John, my wife, Betty, and a couple of my kids. I'd written Betty and
told her about Father John and his blessings. When my airplane stopped and the
canopy came up, Manny Villa climbed the ladder and shook my hand. When I
climbed down to the bottom of the ladder, Betty told Father John, "You first."
Father John walked over and blessed me and welcomed me home. A year and a half
later, Father John dropped dead of a massive heart attack. By the week after he
died, 16 of the 28 pilots who flew in my squadron during Desert Storm had
contacted Father John's family. They called from Korea, Europe, Australia and
all over the United States to bless him and ask God to welcome him home. I'll
never forget Father John.
Early in the war, we attacked a complex
of ammunition-storage bunkers in northwestern Iraq. There's a guy I want to
tell you about who had something to do with the number of holes in these
bunkers. Ed left for the desert with his wife, Jill, pregnant with their first
child. Obviously, he couldn't go home for the birth. Late one night, my exec
woke me and told me I had a phone call in the command post. It was my wife, and
she said, "Mark, I'm at the hospital with Jill. She's in labor and is
having problems. Is there any way we can get Ed on the phone with her?" So
we went and rousted Ed and brought him down to the command center. As Ed held
the phone with one hand and talked to his wife, I sat in a chair in front of
him and held his other hand. I could see the happiness in his eyes every time
she spoke to him. And I could see the worry and pain in his eyes every time
another contraction started and he heard her gasp. I felt him squeeze my hand
every time he heard her scream. And I
saw him smile when he heard his son, Nate, cry for the first time, 9,000 miles
away. I'll never forget that smile. Twelve hours after Ed hung up that phone,
he was part of an F-16 strike package that hit those ammunition-storage
bunkers. It was the best battle-damage assessment we had in our squadron during
the war. Ed went from a caring, concerned, loving father and husband to an
intense, indomitable warrior in just 12 hours. I'll never forget watching the
transformation.
I want to tell you about two things I
heard that I'll never forget. The first one was during one of our missions in
the Baghdad area. An F-16 from another unit was hit by a surface-to-air
missile. Over the radio, we listened to the pilot and his flight lead talk as
he tried to make it to the border so rescue forces could get to him. He'd come
on every now and then and talk about how the oil pressure was dropping and
vibrations were increasing. Then his flight lead would encourage him to stick
with it. This went on for about 15 minutes.
Finally the pilot said, "Oil pressure just went to zero." And
then, "My engine quit." Finally he said, "That's all I got. I'm
outta here." The silence was deafening. I'll never forget those 15
minutes. Rivalries go unforgotten in combat. The other unforgettable thing I
heard came after the ground war had started. An F-16 was shot down in the
middle of the retreating Republican Guard. A call went out asking if there was
any aircraft with ordnance and fuel who could go to him. A lot of people
responded, but the first one I really paid attention to was an Army Chinook
helicopter pilot, who came on the radio and said, "Look, I've got this
much gas, here's my location, I can be there in this many minutes. Give me his
coordinates. I can pick him up." Now, everybody knew where the Republican
Guard was, and everybody knew the downed pilot was right in the middle of them.
And you need to remember that a Chinook is about the size of a double-decker
London bus with props, and it doesn't have guns. We kid around a lot about
inter-service rivalries, but I guarantee that I would follow that Army
helicopter pilot into combat. I'll never forget her voice.
One of the last things I want to
mention is the Highway of Death. This road leads north out of Basra and was the
main retreat route for the Republican Guard until they were cut off. What's
significant is that I killed people here. Me. Combat is an intensely personal
thing. I'm sure I'd killed people before during the war, but this time I saw
them. I saw the vehicles moving before the bombs hit. I saw soldiers firing up
at me, then running as I dropped my bombs to make sure they wouldn't get away.
War is a horrible, horrible, horrible thing. There is nothing good about it.
But it is sometimes necessary. So somebody better be good at it. I am. You
better be. I won't forget the Highway of Death.
On my trip home from the Gulf, I flew
with the 421st Squadron on the way to the East Coast of the United States. The
first U.S. air-traffic-control site we talked to was Boston Center. Col.
Rackley said something along the lines of, "Boston Center, Widow Flight,
24 F-16s coming home." The air-traffic controller responded, "Welcome
home, Widow." And then at regular intervals for the next five or six
minutes, every airliner on that frequency checked in and said something.
"Welcome back." "Good job." "Great to have you home."
"God bless you, Widow." About 10 minutes after that, I got my first
glimpse of the U.S. Coastline. It was the coast of Massachusetts. I sat in my
cockpit and sang America the Beautiful to myself. Take a look at this flag,
folks. Those white stripes represent the integrity that you cherish here at the
Air Force Academy and that you better carry with you into our Air Force. Those
stars are the courage of all the people who have gone before you. They belong
to you now. And that red is for Mike and millions more like him who died
serving this great country."
This is just one of many stories, speeches, memoirs, or whatever that tell the tales of men and women who have given themselves in selfless service to our great nation. This speech embodies not only sacrifices and hardships endured, but the true root of the warrior ethos, honor. Something I'm sure our politicians could use a lesson or two in.
So, with this in mind, I ask that you divert your attention from the nation's current embarrassment and honor those that really deserve our attention, America's veterans.
Coincidentally, the guy who sent me this, Chad "Bulldog" Balwanz, has an interesting story of his own that is worth the read...
"Death Trap in Iraq" by George C. Wilson
Happy Veterans' Day,
Mike