Combat

“Jackhammer, Spear One Three, One Four checking in, AR complete in Dakota at flight level two three zero requesting clearance to Tango Delta four five for fragged tasking with Knife Zero One.”

We had just come off our first tanker of the day, a large three engined KC-10, the equivalent of a DC-10 used by commercial airlines, replenishing our fuel tanks after the hour long transit from the ship into Afghanistan. Our air wing had been conducting these missions for a little over a week, but even in that short span of time, we were beginning to get a feel for the lay of the land.

Over the primary radio came an unusually urgent reply from the British female who was directing air traffic in the southern portion of Afghanistan that afternoon. Female controllers are always mesmerizing to listen to, especially the ones with exotic accents. Perhaps this is planned – I think we take in what they say and actually respond to it better than a male's voice. This may be why all the emergency voices within the cockpit – “Engine Fire, Engine Fire” “Bingo, Bingo” – are women’s. Anyway:

“Spear One Three, you have been re-tasked to support TIC Echo Mike in Tango Foxtrot Three Five, contact your JTAC, callsign Orion Four, on Indigo Seven Four. Elevator to flight level two one zero for your transit en route.”

A troops in contact situation had arisen, and as a result, the Joint Tactical Air Controller on the ground had requested immediate close air support to assist him in combating local Taliban and insurgent forces. As we looked on our chart, it appeared that the killbox we were directed to, Tango Foxtrot three five, was right on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Only in exceptional circumstances were we authorized to violate the red line drawn on the map.

My heartbeat hastened, and the first thing that popped into my head, much to my surprise as to its vehemence, was “those damn Taliban bastards…” I was leading a flight of two F/A-18 Super Hornets into combat for the first time, with the skipper of our squadron and our training officer on my wing, both evaluating my performance and preparing to help the guys on the ground if need be.

This was certainly not what we had been briefed about, nor was it in an area we were then familiar with. A relatively benign overwatch scenario near Kabul had morphed into a possible kinetic situation with live fire being exchanged between combatants near a politically sensitive international border. I had to take a deep breath as I quickly ran through the procedures for employing the weapons on board, should it come to that.

Ten minutes later, we checked in with Orion Four on our encrypted frequency. We passed him our check-in information, and got the following reply:

“Spear One Three, One Four roger that. This is what we have going on here. About fifteen mikes ago we had a mortar round fired on our position. The suspected target escaped on foot about one and a half clicks into Pakistan into what appears to be a cave. We need you to sanitize the opening and let us know what you see. You are NOT, I repeat, NOT authorized to engage in Pakistan at this time.”

Part of me was relieved as the situation had deescalated somewhat, but the adrenaline was still coursing from the urgency in the voice of the previous controller. Spring-loaded to bring overpowering firepower at one moment, at the next expected to wait while we figured out the situation and took a step back from rash decisions. This would be a tricky nut to crack. Welcome to Afghanistan.

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A few days before we started flying combat sorties, our skipper and Air Wing Commander (CAG) spoke to all the aviators. Nearly a year in training for these few months ahead, it was time for the pep talk. They were pretty short and to the point, but a few things stuck out.

Our Skipper: “Final release of weapons lies with you in the cockpit. When it comes down to it, neither me nor CAG will be in a position to tell you what to do. You will be responsible for ensuring proper hostile intent and identification has been met. You have been trained to make the right decisions, and we trust you. Now go execute.”

CAG: “There are two reasons why we do this and have prepared for this day for over a year. The first is that we have the honor of defending our country and fighting alongside the men and women on the ground who are keeping the people back home safe. Secondly, we do this because each and every day we get to see if we have what it takes, if we meet the standards expected of us. If the trust placed in our judgment and tactical proficiency is indeed deserved. Prove you have what it takes.”

The day began early with the mass brief. A quick update of weather up the Boulevard, our transit route into Afghanistan, and then in country. A tactical update with current operations ongoing in Afghanistan, followed by discussions of what each element of two aircraft was tasked to accomplish that day. Political and cultural descriptions sprinkled throughout, giving context to the missions. Lessons learned from the previous days, and things to watch out for today.

We then broke off into our various sections. The flow was pretty standard: an hour and fifteen minute transit from our carrier operating area to the south of Afghanistan, hit an Air Force refueling platform, provide close air support for an element on the ground for about 45 minutes, hit another tanker, go back for another 45 minute period of CAS, hit our third and final tanker, then make our way back to the ship. All told, over six hours in the air.

As this was only my third mission, I was still trying to figure out a routine in order to ensure I wasn’t forgetting anything when we finally walked to start up our jets. I ran through everything in my mind. ID card and dog tags. Check out a 9mm Sig from the squadron duty officer with associated ammo. Check out my blood chit and evasion maps. Review my game plan if I for some reason had to eject; if I get captured, if I get rescued. Check for an extra survival radio battery. Grab a few Cliff Bars and Piddle Paks. Fill up my water bottle. Get a seat pad. Fuel card and T-handle from maintenance in case we have to divert. Night vision goggles with bracket, just in case we get extended into the night hours. Products the Ground Liaison Officer had given us for each JTAC we were fragged to support that day. Smartpack with answers to nearly everything that may arise in flight. My flight bag was stuffed – I wasn’t sure it would all fit into the cockpit.

I’ve found there is a strange sense of comfort in the snugness associated with strapping into these airplanes. All our survival gear hugging tightly and perfectly fitted to our heads and torsos. Four leg straps, two lap belts, two shoulder harnesses keeping us immobile within the ejection seat. Publications and maps and the necessities for survival stuffed into the cranny just to the right of the seat. During primary flight training, I remember some of the flight instructors who originally flew large airplanes with spacious cockpits brag about their luxuries. I liked having nowhere to move – it was as if the airplane was now a direct extension of my body. A 59,000 pound hunk of metal to be manipulated by a mere 200 pound man. Forty thousand pounds of raw and untamed thrust to be harnessed by mere fingertips and neural synapses. Talk about leverage.

Once we were started, we taxied to the catapult, awaiting the official launch to commence. All of our systems worked as advertised, the check-in with our wingman was uneventful, and we were a full up round. We waited for twenty minutes in silence doing nothing. Hurry up and wait.

I snapped out of a brief daydream to the yellow shirt on my right waving his hands, indicating I need to taxi forward to bring the launch bar into the catapult shuttle. He looked to his right, then his left, then shot his right arm out. Tension.
Throttles mil. Launch bar up, light is out. Flaps full, indicating full. Engine instruments look good, nozzles look good, hyd pressure looks good. Stick forward… aft…left…right…rudders full left…full right. I’m good to go. “I’m set in the back.” Look out to the left, the Shooter pumps his fist into the air three times. Throttles full afterburner. A deafening roar fills my ears, even encased behind the thick glass bubble of the canopy and double hearing protection. I give a snappy salute to the Shooter. He salutes back and touches his left hand to the deck while kneeling down. My right hand grabs the handle on the canopy bow in front of me, my left arm locked keeping the throttles at their maximum setting. A quick breath in, waiting in the instant before the impulse takes effect.

We are plastered to the seat. Instantly you know it’s a good cat shot and we’re going flying. A 59,000 lbs, asym 3 combat shot is simply astounding. Nothing in the world is like it. Your head pressed back against the headrest such that you cannot even move it. Planes and people and flight deck blurs as your vision constricts to the soda straw in front of you. Accelerating from 0 to nearly 200 miles per hour in 2 seconds. Finally released from the acceleration and free of the deck, it takes a moment to come out of the haze, but you do, take a quick check turn to the left, bring the gear and flaps up, and accelerate to 300 knots at 500 feet.

“Spear One Three, One Four you are clear to join.” The Air Boss comes over Tower’s frequency and informs us our wingman has been launched in tandem with us, and is a few hundred feet to our right. There sits a sleek grey jet skimming the blue water on a bright day, slowly snuggling up on my wing. I’m reminded of why I do this.
After those few moments of sheer adrenaline and exhilaration, the next hour is remarkable for its lack of anything remarkable. So too is the land we soon find ourselves flying over.

Pakistan is absolutely desolate. I’ve flown over the expanses of the Western United States, passing over the deserts of New Mexico and rocky vacuum of West Texas, but this is something else entirely. It is the visual definition of godforsaken -- endless sand amidst dark gray rock outcroppings, no water, no greenery. There are washes aplenty where in the rainy season it appears rivers flow, but not now. There are a few oases of civilization, but even these are mere dots of black in a sea of dust. A constant haze layers just...sits over the entire region, and the only time you are out of it is when flying above 20,000 feet. It’s like being over a different planet.

The demarcation between Pakistan and Afghanistan is only on our political maps. The landscape shows no mention of a “border.” One endless sea of barren soil gives way to the next. But psychologically – psychologically there is a shift that takes place. I’m over the Line. This is no longer a training mission over the desert of Nevada, but an incursion into another sovereign nation. Our bombs are real. Our decisions have consequences. There are people who would love to shoot me down.

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“Orion Four, Spear One Three is sensor on that target. Looks to be a cave entrance with surrounding buildings, no movers seen. Confirm coordinate Seventy-Three Delta, Golf Quebec, 9-4-5-2, 2-6-1-3.”

“That’s a good read back Spear One Three, copy that entrance and no movers. Request you search around that area a report back anything suspicious.”

We kept our orbit flowing, skirting the border as close as we could stand without actually going over it. Once again the lay of the land gave no indication that there were different countries. Villages and paths flowed across the dotted black line on our moving map within the cockpit, and outside one mountain gave way to another valley. This was quintessential tribal land, the people and cultures not restricted by international agreements but rather centuries and even millennia of intermarriage and caravans of trade. Here we were, acutely cognizant over a line in the sand, adhering to it while the mostly neutral, and likely hostile, peoples below bore more allegiance to their village elder than either Islamabad, Kabul or NATO Frameworks.
Our enemies and adversaries, after eight years of running and hiding and causing havoc, know how to exploit these political requirements. My WSO, callsign Creature, and I ruminated as we monitored on the fact that the cave this insurgent escaped into likely had numerous exits far from this entrance we were glommed onto. These guys aren’t stupid. Tunneling and underground networks have been used against us to great effect in the past, Korea and Vietnam being the most notable. Run to where we can’t get them after a quick strike. They say in war, never accept a fair fight. Insurgents know this better than anybody.

Three missions in, and we had stumbled upon the classic difficulty of a war such as the one we face in Afghanistan. We are forced to respond to hostile situations rather than shape them to our advantage. Our superior firepower arrived too late to catch fleeing and savvy perpetrators. That and the fact that superior firepower doesn’t really matter in the long run. The bad guys look like civilians. The civilians are suspected of being bad guys. In either situation, months of hard earned trust can be lost from a misplaced perception leading to a misplaced weapon.
A few days later I was supporting a British JTAC, perhaps the most professional I have ever worked with. As we returned from our mid-cycle refueling, we got word from him that they had taken fire from five insurgents who had escaped into a wooded region next to a canal. He was revved up, the normally calm descriptions giving way to a bit of stress and faint sounds of gunfire in the background. We got our sensors into the suspected target area, immediately finding a “hot-spot” with our infrared sensor and what looked to be people running back and forth between it and a building. Artillery fire had been launched into the region; perhaps this was a round that hit something. The JTAC followed with interest. Our suspicions were high, we were ready to go kinetic if need be.

Soon though, things didn’t add up. There were these hot spots all over the place. As the sun set, little red specks popped up outside our cockpit on the darkening land. It turned out they were camp fires. Our suspicions were unfounded. Later on the transit home, in the hour of nothing but straight and level fight, we discussed this within our two man crew. The running could have been kids playing as they are wont to do around campfires everywhere. How do you balance the benign with the threatening? A similar situation a few days ago: one of the guys in our squadron was watching a convoy of Army vehicles transit down a road when all of a sudden one of them exploded as an IED detonated underneath it. Asymmetry at its most poignant.

After spending less than two hours in comms with the Brit, and knowing nothing but his tactical callsign, a bond and kinship was developed that I cannot explain. The protector and protected, seeking to accomplish the near impossible and quell a home-grown insurgency so that security can be maintained for countrymen halfway around the world, many of whom will never understand what is occurring on their behalf. He mentioned he is headed home in a few days after seven months on the ground, glad to be returning to the UK. What I wouldn’t give to spend an evening in some London pub trading stories with him.

It is bitterly ironic that the Twenty-First Century sanitized war of technology (Shock and Awe, Network Centric Warfare, etc) we were promised by strategists and politicians and military industrialists has instead given way to one where a culture far inferior to our own with respect to economics and development is in many ways neutralizing the greatest military power the world has ever known. The War of Necessity is the one we have no idea how to win.

But we are trying. In an upheaval of the Rules of War, it’s a good day when we return back to the ship with all of our weapons unexpended. It means that the troops on the ground had no need to bring a rain of fire from above. In that particular region, on that particular day, the strategy of pacifying a restive population and winning their trust has been accomplished, even if but for a moment. Success is not measured by the number of “kinetic events,” but rather the lack thereof. The easily exploitable political requirements we operate under are, interestingly, the very policies that stand the best chance of defeating this wily foe.

Despite the ambiguities, it’s good to finally be doing something that has been for me over five years in the making. When I’m not flying over the beach, I look on the scheduling board to see when I next get to go. When I’m flying over the beach, there is deep satisfaction in what we are doing, even if the long run portends uncertainty.

So while the debate rages in Washington, and our military and political leaders fight over what should be allocated and who should be supplemented, we fly our daily missions dealing with the ambiguity that nearly incapacitates democracies. Seeing if we measure up to what is expected of us. It is all we can do.

God Bless,
Ben

Liberty Call

This was definitely something I could get used to. High atop the Park Hyatt hotel in Tokyo, I was eating dinner with two of my fellow aviators. Surrounding us was a panoramic view of one of the most densely populated cities in the world, and the points of light beaming from every direction left no doubt as to the statistic’s truth.

The place called itself “The New York Grille,” and while it styled itself after a very upscale western establishment, the characteristics were undeniably Japanese. My friend Fu had invited myself and Chainsaw to accompany him on this excursion (the names are real…), and since I had wanted to see the sights, I readily accepted. Plus, as a single guy with no financial obligations at home and nothing else to spend my money on, a lavish dinner was becoming more of a tradition than anything in port. Some guys liked to drink beers by the pool – a small cadre of us chose the opposite route.

Tasting menus, wine pairings for each course (to be fair, I just let Fu do the choosing – I’m far from a wine bon viviant), white linen tables while a jazz trio hummed in the background. Confident men and their well dressed ladies, business being conducted, celebrations being celebrated. After nearly a month aboard ship, with grease everywhere on the white walls, fried food being the norm, and the same flightsuits worn day in and day out, the contrast was stark. The bare necessities of shipboard life suddenly transitioning into the literal lap of luxury.

Our hotel was in the trendy Roppongi district, surrounded by gaudy displays of the elite of society: Prada, Gucci, Tiffany’s, Rolex. We had an American celebrity at our hotel passing through the lobby when we checked in, to be seen quite a few times during the four day adventure. Ferrari’s, Aston Martin’s, and even the occasional Rolls Royce greeted us in the hotel’s parking each evening.

That aside, it was relaxing and comforting to be in a place where life was normal. From my vantage point near the center of the restaurant, I spied a young couple on some sort of date – they had a table on the edge of floor-to-ceiling windows with a drop of nearly 75 stories. I was intrigued to watch this Japanese pairing – the late twenty something man accepted the check, and with a shy smile and near whisper, his female companion gave the thank you repeated universally throughout the world after an unforgettable evening. Across cultures and languages, it gave me pause to consider the emotions that are unwavering across the human race.

Tokyo was our first stop outside the United States, and perhaps an appropriate one for the mission we are on our way to undertake. The United States military still has a significant presence on the island nation, over sixty years after Japan’s defeat during World War II. I’ve been reading David Halberstam’s “The Fifties,” and I found it interesting that in the aftermath of that war, in what all elements of our society now believe to be effective techniques in nation building, there was significant political opposition to our now heralded saints President Truman and Secretary of State Marshall.

It seems that both sides of the aisle blamed them for “winning the war, but losing the peace.” The War was supposed to end the tyranny of fascism and bring about the democratization of Japanese society. And yet it didn’t go according to plan – at first. It would be hard to argue that Japan ever emulated the American version of democracy. For over fifty years, and until the watershed elections of the past month, the Japanese people were ruled by one party. But they prospered nonetheless, and have charted their own course under our benign occupation.

(As an aside, we arrived days before this momentous vote, and I noticed nothing that would indicate an election was happening. This may have been due my acute foreignness and lack of understanding of the language, but there were no signs, no overt advertisements, nothing like an American race. Perhaps that is the nature of Parliamentary elections, but I think it also was a reflection of the Japanese people themselves, and the subtleness with which they carry on with their society.)

I don’t really believe history repeats itself in an absolute sense, but there are certainly lessons to be learned that can generally be applied. The first and foremost of which is that it takes decades to truly discover the effect of foreign policy decisions, especially those that involve tens of thousands of troops in far off places. I think it would be safe to say that Truman’s stubbornness in the face of shortsighted political opponents paid off in the long run. And had far reaching consequences, both for good and ill, that we are seeing to this day.

The enlightening thing about being removed from your native land is that it provides a degree of perspective, and a wave of possibilities that open up if the traveler is willing to just observe. Moving on from the heady subject of Democracy with Japanese Characteristics, let talk about something a bit more entertaining: Baseball with Japanese Characteristics.

I’ve seen some fanatical sports fans in my life – but nothing compares to the Japanese. Most baseball games in the United States are pretty subdued affairs from the standpoint of fan interaction, except for maybe the World Series. In Japan, every game is like a college football game on steroids.

The first thing that caught our attention was that we could bring beer and food into the stadium. Wally the Beer Man was actually Yukio the cute brunette in a skirt (tasteful…), which was obviously a big hit. As soon as we took our seats, we noticed that the stadium was starkly divided: The Yellow and Black of the Hanshin Tigers along the third base side through left field, and the Blue and Black of the Yokohama BayStars (the home team) from the first base line to right field.

Pandemonium is the best word to describe every half inning. The fans of the team in the field, from the first pitch to the third out, chanted their team slogans at the top of their lungs. Everything was somehow coordinated, and the tens of thousands of fans knew exactly what to shout when. Each team sported a pep band (loud!) and huge flags that were flown in their section of the outfield stands. This went on for nine innings – constant noise and colorful displays. An amazing display of endurance if I’ve ever seen one. And there were cheerleaders. Our XO mentioned in passing that an enterprising junior officer should find out where they went after the games to hang out, but to my knowledge, we never found out…

It was a fascinating microcosm of their culture. Absolute devotion to a particular cause, individualism suppressed to support the common goal. Even amidst the chaos, politeness ruled – there were no violent outbreaks or vulgar feuds between the opposing fans. A culture built on hierarchy and honor. It was somewhat embarrassing as we Americans walked away from our section: littered throughout were the remnants of our evening while the surrounding sections previously occupied by locals were as if no one had even been there.

Tokyo was eclipsed not less than two weeks later, however, by Singapore. There is an old joke comparing Air Force and Navy fighter pilots. It goes on for some time, but the last line has something about Zoomies spending time at home with their wife and kids, while the single Naval aviator picks up the hottest girl in the bar – that bar, of course, being in Singapore. I understand the joke now.

Since I am by nature a political being, I’ll begin from that angle. Singapore is a benign dictatorship with a democratic process that is one of the most economically open and successful countries in the world. Utterly remarkable. I previously mentioned Democracy with Japanese Characteristics – Singapore has its own.

While America rages over health care and every other imaginable issue under the sun, the Singaporean people are apathetic – a native’s word, not mine. I met up with a very close friend of mine from college who I hadn’t seen in over two years, and since he now lives there, was able to see the city from a very unique perspective.

Its economic openness is reflected in the people that inhabit it and the languages it considers official: Chinese, Indian, Malayian and English. Immigration is highly encouraged, although the application process can be somewhat strict and drawn out. The market seems to rule everything, to great effect. Even the lower classes seem to be quite prosperous when compared to the rest of the world, and even American poor. It doesn’t hurt that Singaporeans save at a prodigious rate, and their adversity to risky investments has allowed their economy to miss most of the worldwide financial meltdown.

One party states are able to make decisions that are unpopular, but ultimately good for the society – in Singapore’s case free trade. They are also able to invoke unity that in adversarial democracies like America would never stand – the element that most stood out to me was a poster invoking “national unity to defeat terrorism” on many of the bus stops. Even after having never been attacked! Especially for one who loves the give and take of political discussion, it was interesting to see this single party government produce results without debate.

But autocracy does come with a cost. Laws and punishments that are, to put it bluntly, draconian by Western standards. Death by Public Hanging for drug distribution, caning for various relatively minor offenses. A press that is hardly free, and a society for which libel is frequently invoked by the government. The Wall Street Journal was recently successfully sued for defaming the government when it ran an editorial in its Asian edition critical of the ruling regime. Elections are held, and although there is an opposition, they are routinely routed – albeit fairly it must be said.

In discussing this one party system with my friend while walking down the very affluent shopping district – once again, with the Gucci’s and Prada’s and Tiffany’s and Rolex’s – we ran through the democratic Asian countries that this seems to be the case with. South Korea, up until the late 1980s, was basically an autocracy. So too was Taiwan and the Philippines. We’ve already discussed Japan. China and Vietnam have become increasingly capitalistic, increasing the wealth and prosperity of their peoples remarkably (with admittedly mixed human rights results), while maintaining the single-party grip on power. Prosperity, more than anything else, seems to prevent the inevitable uprising that would occur in America towards a ruling party.

The inclination towards engineering over politics is ever present as well. It was a sight to behold within the central library to see it packed with patrons reading in all corners and along every wall. I was most intrigued by their transportation infrastructure and method of attempting to keep traffic somewhat manageable – clearly with mixed results. To own a car, you must pay an annual fee that is set through an auction system. X number of permits are allocated, and the top X bidders get them for a set time frame. This greatly drives up the price of new autos, but there seems to be no lack of desire to possess them.

Additionally, much like the much publicized London system, there are various corridors throughout the city that cost a given amount of money at particular times of the day. So, for instance, a main thoroughfare may cost $1.00 to transit between 4pm and 8pm, but be free after that. This fee is deducted from a machine on each car that basically operates like a transportation debit card, and is also linked with the parking garage system. Many of the garages have sensors over each spot, letting potential parkers know which garages are full, and signs are posted throughout the city so you have an idea of where to go. All the garages are fully automated, and the debit system tracks when you enter and leave, deducting the appropriate (and remarkably inexpensive) amount.

Their housing plan is also quite intriguing. Public housing makes up a large percentage of living units, but instead of merely subsidizing rentals, the government forces its inhabitants to actually buy their property (subsidized based on income). After five years, they are able to sell it with no capital gains taxes. With the required ownership, public housing, at least what I saw, was remarkably clean and well kept – nothing like the projects that have beset American urban centers. To be sure, there are those that game the system, and make it work to their advantage, but for the most part, it seems to both incentivize responsibility effectively and provide housing to everybody who needs it. Real estate is such a hot commodity, that instead of asking a woman to marry them, a suitor may instead ask “will you buy an apartment with me?” (If you are under 35, only married couples can own real estate). Romantic.

The political, economic and transportation situations being what they are however, Singapore is a must see for any international traveler. The Night Safari, perhaps the only one of its kind in the world, was spectacular – lions, tigers, elephants, giraffes, rhino’s, and all the nocturnal animals from around the world you never get to see awake and active in most Zoo’s. Plus there was something sensual about the Indian woman in the precise British accent who narrated the tram tour that brought everything to life.

Clarke Quay is a mesmerizing array of clubs and shops semi-enclosed by a unique glass roof and boardwalk of the Singapore River. Lots of very late evening were spent exploring this and Boat Quay. The Raffles Hotel, a vestige of British imperialism, stands proudly in the center of the city at a mere three stories, but with a history as rich as any hotel in Europe. For a nation whose self proclaimed pastimes are merely shopping and eating (half the downtown district seemed to be one huge above and below ground interconnected mall), there is certainly a lot to experience.

Soon enough though, it was time to leave and continue on our way. Days within re-embarking, we were informed that our deployment has been extended by two months. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, as the rumor mill was in full force prior to the official announcement, but still gave us a bit of pause.

No doubt more ports will be experienced, but for now we have a new and pressing focus: our first combat missions are mere days away. With that, I bid you all farewell until next time.

God Bless,

Ben

The Transit

Distracted. When my mind came to, that’s the first word that popped into my head. There’s an adage that gets repeated over and over, usually due to personal or near-personal experience: The Boat is always trying to kill you. In some way or another, the only way to keep yourself safe is to stay alert. So being Distracted sounded my internal alarm bells.

Not that I could really be faulted for it. During daylight man-ups, there are moments before each flight that allows for a few minutes of reflection. The Air Boss has yet to call away the start, we are snuggly strapped into our flying contraptions, and relative silence pervades the usually busy steel expanse dwarfed by the endless water surrounding it. There really is nothing to do but…chill.

Last year, when I first got to the squadron, these minutes were spent in fevered review of what was about to transpire. Making sure the jet was started properly. What would we do if something went wrong? And of course, the landing at the end.

But now, all these concerns are pushed to the side as I gaze out of my perch ten feet above the flight deck. I can start this plane in my sleep. I cant remember the last time I looked at the three pages of checklists attached to my kneeboard. If something goes wrong on deck, I just instinctively push the buttons to get to the correct display. Being Distracted isnt helped by the warm and humid weather; the sun high above over the deep blue of open ocean. Nor is it helped by the myriad of people in the rainbow of shirts moving and flowing like coordinated chaos through rows and rows of grey machines.

Yellow shirts walking alongside moving aircraft, the “grapes” refueling just landed jets. Green troubleshooters hooked up via small black cords into the nose of random jets talking to aircrew while the brown shirts prepare the planes for the next event. White safety officers ensuring that nothing untoward is occurring.

My mind thinks about my sister and her new baby. What it was like holding her and smiling when I think of all the work involved in the few hours I spent with her in my arms. Moments with old flames, walking the Mall, driving through the rain in Albuquerque, symphonies in San Francisco. Musing that my view of home is the entire United States: When a weather map of the country was shown on TV a few days prior, my eyes involuntarily flitted between Minneapolis, Lemoore, Houston and Washington DC. But when it snaps back to the reality of now and being Distracted, I convince myself to deal with this moment. My little part in the dance must go right.

Sometimes the innate, and unspoken, teamwork involved in this job stuns me. I remember a few weeks ago, I was the airborne tanker for the largest recovery of airplanes we had experienced thus far on cruise. It was an hour and a half long cycle, which to put it in laypersons terms, means we barely had enough fuel to cover our mission.

It also so happened that the Nimitz was in the middle of running away from a submarine during an exercise, and thus could not turn into the wind to catch airplanes, further extending our flight time. Many of the planes coming back had been airborne upwards of four hours, having refueled from Air Force Big Wing tankers to extend their endurance, but at this moment in time, many were low on fuel. As we were working Blue Water operations, meaning no suitable land based divert was available, my aircraft would be the primary go-to asset for gas if something went wrong and pilots couldn’t land.

Throughout the hour prior to the recovery, I was sweating the numbers to ensure we had enough fuel to give. It wasn’t looking good. The plane wasn’t running as efficiently as we had assumed, and we had to pad our own landing fuel numbers down to complete our primary mission. When we checked back in overhead, we heard the ominous call from our Skipper’s plane: “101 will be tank plus one on the ball.” Meaning that if he got waved off or missed all the wires, he would have to refuel.

Finally, the sub was defeated. The Nimitz turned into the wind, and from our vantage point overhead at 7,000 feet we watched the stack flush. The Case I day Visual Flight Rules, Zip-Lip pattern is something to behold, even on a stressful day like this one. Each squadron has an assigned altitude where they hold overhead, and watch the planes below them cycle down. Ideally, the first section is breaking into the pattern just as the port waist cats have launched the last aircraft from the next cycle. The off-going recovery tanker follows them down, starting from 7k, then going to 5k, 4k, 3k, and finally 2k as all the aircraft below vacate their altitude and break into the landing pattern.

Everything went seamlessly. All nineteen aircraft made it down without a single bolter, and almost no communication. I think I heard three or four words total over the entire 15 minutes it took to land everybody. Our reserve fuel didn’t have to be used by anybody, and we were the last to land. When I finally got on deck, it was an intense relief, but my mind immediately tried to grasp what we had just accomplished. This is just what we do on a daily basis, and so I dont think we always appreciate how complex these evolutions are, but the implicit coordination floored me.

All the aircrew knew exactly what to do and when, and executed to perfection. The ship kept the wind down the deck, and the deck crews quickly got the just landed planes out of the landing area so the next one could land 55 seconds later. One after the other, just like that. There is concern among the national security crowd that China is getting a carrier, and what its implications are for the Pacific – but there is something subtle about the finer points in carrier operations, and the experience of 50 years can’t be bought off the shelf.

But we aviators sometimes get wrapped up in the minutia of everyday aviation. Why are we here? Why do we fight? Does flying really, I mean really, matter in the big picture? Is it better to be executing policy, or making it?

These are the questions that have been burning within me since I first set foot in the Cradle of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, FL three weeks after graduation from college in 2004. They are the questions that make me go back and forth as to whether or not I want to make this a career. No answer is forthcoming.

Afghanistan. That’s where we are headed, even if we do spend weeks transiting the Pacific Ocean en route. The mission there has remained the same since 2001, but our tactical role has changed immensely.

The opening weeks of the war there were open season for our forces. If it moved, it was destroyed. But as the political situation has evolved, our role has necessarily become less permissive. That dreaded word politics gets thrown around, but it is in fact the heart and soul of warfare. Practitioners of our art are in many ways consumed by the movements of battalions, and the minds of generals. We are reluctant to asses the intentions of statesmen, because their decisions are not black and white; there is not necessarily an ideologically “right” answer, and for those trained to close with and destroy our adversaries, this presents a cognitive problem. Yet that is exactly the mindset being forced upon us. It is an appropriate one.

We will be fighting in such a way that our biases will be against employing weapons. It is better to let the bad guy get away than kill a civilian. Our tools are not perfect for this fight. We have jets able to break the sound barrier, evade enemy radars and weapons, link with forces around the world, and our job will be to be as a sentry, orbiting overhead watching. For men and women drinking tea with tribal leaders and building a society from rubble. Aviators may talk a big game, but that’s where the real action is. On the Ground is where Change and Historical Frameworks are being cultivated.

This is the modern face of war, and it is…surprising. Mountains of paperwork, endless legal jargon, new tactics that emphasize subtlety over subjugation. We revere the Chesty Pullers and Pappy Boyingtons with their chestfuls of combat accolades, but Lawrence of Arabia is our forefather in this battle. The guy who went native, and saw history as an interconnected, intercultural storyline not beholden to any one Time or Country. This is the hardest of all personalities to absorb and emulate, but do so we must. And our wartime leadership is beginning to reflect this reality.

Will it work? We shall see.

So during our transit we mix the mundane with the multitude of uncontrollable forces that inform our progress. We dwell on the home we left behind while attempting to shape a country that keeps ours occupied in thought and deed. It is a month that has blazed by, promising a future of unexplored foreign ports, firsthand lessons in international diplomacy, and the possibility of the unexpected every day.

Other than that, life is pretty boring on the ship.

God Bless,

Ben

Lost in Translation

“But to do this he [the mute, invalid M. Nortier] must have spoken?”
“He has done better than that – he has made himself understood.”
-Exchange between M. deVillefort and the Count of Monte Cristo

One of the most difficult things I’ve found as a member of the military is translating what we do, and what we experience, into a form that our civilian peers and supporters can understand. In many ways, we live in a world completely detached and separate from anyone not in the know, and inadvertently further isolate ourselves because of our cultural language and codes of behavior. This does not seem to outwardly bother many of my brethren, but for me, as someone who clings to the concept of the “citizen soldier” (perhaps an anachronism at this point in history) it provides endless contemplation.

The element I now appreciate most about my college experience was my continuous interaction with an incredibly diverse group of individuals. This was most manifest in my fraternity, where aspiring doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, journalists, actors and musicians gathered on a nightly basis to break bread, get into heated arguments, then head upstairs for a friendly game of beer pong or caps (don’t tell IFC!). From this I was exposed to a world of endless possibilities, and one that opened my eyes to the interests that held other people apart from my single-minded pursuit of the military. It gave me an appreciation for the breadth of talent this great nation of ours has on tap.

Yet even amidst this multitude of future professions, I, and eventually my brother, stood out. It was rare at Northwestern to see our type, and as with anything unique to the human experience, people were intrigued. We were the first ROTC guys within our house’s walls in nearly a decade. I remember my first long conversations during the initial rush stages being about why I chose this route, what the future held, what my obligations were. These inquiries continued for the next four years. For someone who had grown up with an inherent understanding of a military future, and obsessed with anything to do with military history, this seemed odd to me.

Slowly I came to realize that what I took to be normal interests were anything but. And the misconceptions surrounding the choice were vast. I was and continue to be intrigued by the gulf between the protectors and protected, figuring out ways to coherently communicate what this culture contains.

Yet for all my professed interest in the military arts, and the undoubted truth that all of my friends and acquaintances would upon asking say I am a military man in body and soul, my own personal view of what I do is much different. The best metaphor I can muster is to say I feel as if I am a deeply embedded journalist. Except that the reporting is not to tell a story to the wider world, but rather to make sense of my experiences to myself and provide a visible window for those not privy to what goes on behind it.

Remarkably, the depth of mistranslation extends well beyond citizens with no ties to the military. This separation of worlds extends even to those civilians, particularly spouses and significant others, who are privy to our daily goings on. This was made evident to me last weekend as I tried to explain a flight I had gone on that morning to the wife of a fellow aviator who I have known since my flight school days.

It went something like this: That morning, I had taken part in an Air Power Demo over the USS Nimitz for the friends and family day cruise that the carrier (also our all too frequent home) was hosting. We flew from Lemoore down to the waters off of San Diego, did our little airshow, and returned back to the Central Valley.
The twist was that instead of a beautiful day with which to wow the crowd of thousands, we had terrible weather with incredibly low ceilings, casting the entire program into virtual chaos. In the end this was for the most part transparent to the crowd below, as we made the required adjustments. But my intention was to relate this adventure to her.

I began by talking about IFR descents, to 2,000 foot overcasts. How our pattern required 3,000 of clear air. I was losing her. I tried to tell her how as soon as we streaked by the ship at 500 knots and my lead broke, he suddenly and unexpectedly disappeared into the clouds, leaving me gasping in shock (trying to do the whole hand thing to demonstrate). An uneasy smile, and simple nod. She was trying, really trying to empathize and understand. It just wasn’t happening. Needless to say, my inability to vocalize what happened effectively brought this line of conversation to an abrupt halt.

I was reflecting upon this on the drive home. Mere hours earlier, I had been hyped up on adrenaline trying to keep track of all the airplanes beneath the low undercast, zooming around a ship with more flashbulbs going off than I had ever seen in my entire life, trying not to let my nerves get to me as I simultaneously tried to push my refueling probe into a bouncing metal basket mere feet in front of me with a slow E-2 trundling less than a mile in front of us as a Hornet coming by at nearly the speed of sound for a “sneak pass” called his position just across the ship from us requiring an immediate spin by us so we wouldn’t collide. Whew. Then remembering the serenity of the transit over where all of southern California and a large portion of the visible Pacific was covered by a fluffy white blanket as my lead little more than a mile away was sending contrails off his jet in mesmerizing streams of vapor. I’m not even sure I would have truly understood this even as a flight school student a few years ago. How was I going to tell those that were curious how my day was?

And so the things we find exhilarating and marvelous and terrifying get stuck in our throats as meaningless mumbles when we try to express what we believe to be seminal events in our lives. Most of the time, a “good” or “fine” suffices when untranslatable moments occur. (that being said, I heard the best description of a night carrier landing the other day: “You want to know what a night trap is like? Walk outside with a friend on the darkest night you can, blindfold yourself, then have your buddy kick you repeatedly in the balls.” Nailed it!)

But there are also those elements that are beyond memorable moments.

One of the more senior officers in the squadron lives about a block North of me, and almost every day I come home from work, I see him outside with his kids. He was the former football player who married the high school cheerleader, then joined the Navy in a fit of occupational uncertainty. We wave as neighbors and colleagues do in cities across America.

Yet that scene of the father playing basketball and throwing balsa airplanes with his little son, shepherding his blond daughter around the driveway teetering on her bicycle, normal to most observers, is filled with something so much more. It is the father squeezing every last moment of time with his beloved offspring before he has to leave again. This time it was two weeks between month-long detachments. The next time it will be ten days. Then a few more weeks home, and then six months away, literally to the other side of the world. After two years of similar workups and back to back deployments. The mother and wife bravely sees her love off, knowing he will be back, understanding why he must go, but deeply pained nonetheless. She too grasps at the fleeting time that all too quickly disappears.

How does one capture that in an understandable way to a society that sees a weekend apart from someone as ruinous? How do you relate that you will have missed your two best friends wedding’s, those you’ve looked forward to since high school and college, because a war is going on? How do you communicate the sense of detached acceptance when the vacation with your whole extended family (many of whom you haven’t seen in six to eight years) you’ve planned for months becomes an impossibility due to a command requirement to be tethered near the base prior to embarking on a combat cruise?

This is not a call for sympathy. All of these individuals made choices they stand by. It is instead the exposition of the realities that encompass the cultural divide that is increasingly widening between our military and our civilian world. A gap, that if left to widen, will invariably lead to a mismatch in priorities between two symbiotic elements of our society.

My mom has a picture of some of our Air Wings airplanes flying over the Nimitz on her desktop at her desk in the front office of my old high school. She gets a lot of comments and questions from passerby’s, and at times has referred them to one story of mine in particular when they inquire what the photo is all about. She tells what one woman told her while reading it:

I was just sitting there, when all of a sudden I heard a shout from the woman who I had sent the story to.

‘Carrie! How could you ever let your son do that? I would NEVER let my son do that; its so dangerous!!!’

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes, and tried to explain, ‘Well, they get a lot of training, and they have lots of good people making sure they get down okay.’
She still couldn’t believe it.

Thus, even after seven years of near round the clock reporting, there remains a lack of understanding between those on the front lines and those in the embrace of Lady Liberty. Especially in a democratic society where volunteers fill our armed forces and are directed by civilian policymakers, it is essential our cultures are communicating, and perhaps even more important, understanding the experiences of the other. Easily said, but the “how” in finding that translation still remains.

Mr. Lincoln

“I wonder where he is looking…?” he thought as he himself stood looking across the Mall. What lay before him was the chill of a bright, cloudless afternoon, shadows long even though it was but two hours past noon. A mid-January day with the breath of Spring.

He stood on his tiptoes, trying to center himself under the massive chair, between the legs of the marble President. The Reflecting Pool, fountains of the Second World War, Washington Monument, Capitol, all in succession. Barren trees scattered on each side and a smattering of pre-inaugural tourists enjoying the spectacle. His eyes straining in the attempt to emulate the perspective of the figure towering above him, gazing off into the unknown.

The answer was not forthcoming. “I wonder if he is looking into the future, or the past maybe?” The solemn yet determined look that marked the long face gave no clue. An enigma, but a guiding light just the same. “What would he do in this crisis?”

It had been inevitable that the young man would end up walking those steps, silently stunned in that sacred cavern charged with the ever watchful vigilance of our Nation’s Capitol. The moments, and even days, leading up to this arrival were all tinged with this unavoidable rendezvous.

The journey took him from one coast to the other, flying over the marvels of human achievement and natural wonders, the latter putting the former to shame in sheer expansive magnitude. The desolation of the Sierras and vastness of Death Valley, over the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead, across the magnificence of the Grand Canyon. From 32,000 feet, the cut of red earth in the panoramic view from a bubbled cockpit taking his breath away and silence seeming the only appropriate response. Making their way across Texas, with windfarms on one side, and oil derricks on the other, the landscape slowly changing from the rugged brown of the West to the green of the East. The Lands of Manifest Destiny giving way to those forged by Patriots and Revolutionaries. Taking off from Houston as the sun set, casting brilliant hues that slowly faded into a purpling, then black darkness. The lights of Memphis, Nashville, Durham and finally Norfolk marking the path of their aircraft through the night and to the completion of their expedition.

Then the drive through Virginia up to DC through the interstate tunneled in the midst of an endless forest. Paying respects to the First President, then the Greatest Generation, but always with the columned temple in the corner of his eye and back of his mind.
The circuit was not a new one, but one that never ceased to inspire awe. In the past, done at night with companionship, and at times alone in contemplation. But always ending at the same place.

Some things take your breath away. Some moments leave you bereft of thought, consumed only with the weight of the present. He was in a rush, even as a tourist with this sole purpose, but after reading only the last paragraph of the words carved in marble on the right side, he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and rooted himself in the middle of the cavern.

The Second Inaugural loomed overhead, chiseled expansively across his vision, and the world’s motion and noises stopped. He read.

“AT this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, urgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

When he was done, and stood there for what seemed like minutes, he found that his mouth was hanging agape, tears running down his cheek. This surprised him, and somewhat embarrassedly and quickly wiped away the evidence. But even more was the great peace within his soul. The understanding that whatever we face, worse has been confronted by generations prior, and that there are Great Men who appear at the beckoning of Providence in moments when we need them most.

So he looked to the author, and tried to see what he saw, appreciating why past Americans had sojourned to that spot seeking solace and advice. No answer to his question came, as of course was the inescapable truth of facing a stone. No answer, that is, but the abiding feeling that the resolution of the choices we have to make are of our own volition, and individual judgment the true exercise of responsible power.

And thus the pilgrimage ended, to be undoubtedly repeated, but presently fulfilled.

Foundations

I sometimes wonder what the Forefathers would have thought of this twenty-first century incarnation of America. How far we’ve come, how much we have stayed the same, how much we have left to do.

As we approach yet another peaceful transition to a new President and his attendant administration, which we so naturally take for granted, I can’t help but reflect on how often and how close it all came to collapse. How precarious it still is. And how each generation of Americans had a chance to see their country spiral into the dustbin of history, give into the impulses of security at the hands of faction and self-interest. Yet here we stand, as divided, and united, as ever.

Our first President chose to leave office after eight years, establishing an unwritten precedent of two terms in office. He could have stayed on longer. He could have made himself dictator for life, or return America to a nation that followed in the path of every other government at the time and revert to monarchy. John Adams, his Vice President and undeniably ardent supporter of democracy, even for a time wanted the President to be referred to as “His Majesty, the President.”

Washington is regarded by many as the best President we have ever had. We all say this, but why? Do we truly understand the significance of his abdication of power? I’ve been reading the 46 Laws of Power, and the lengths and strategies people go to in order to obtain this elusive, yet seductive and addicting aspiration. The ability to influence and manipulate those around us with insinuation, deception, feints. Yet here stood a man, offered lifetime power, who recognized the futility of short-term individual ambition for the good of not only his generation, but those that followed. Fathom that for an instant. The ability to let it all go, and in doing so, gain a lasting fame and influence that resonates far beyond any other political leader. And planting a psychological seed that has blossomed into the rolling over of authority we are frequent witness to.

John Adams was then elected with 71 out of more than 200 electoral ballots cast. Less than forty percent support. He in turn, after being defeated for re-election by his political adversary, yet close friend Thomas Jefferson in one of the most bitter elections in American history (including charges of infidelity, secret children, outrageous slanders put forth by both parties that make our elections look civilized by comparison), handed over the reins of power without a fight. Jefferson received little more than 33 percent of the ballots cast, and only won after the 36th round of voting in the House of Representatives. Democracy in action. Yet for the first time in world history, political power had changed hands from one ideology to another without bloody conflict.

And far from setting a precedent, other now liberalized nations took generations more to realize the benefit of peaceful transition. The French Revolution that proclaimed Fraternity, Liberty and Equality through the guillotine was replaced less than a decade after the Bourbon removal by the scourge of Europe, the Emperor Bonaparte. Our brethrens in revolution spent most of the nineteenth century bloodily waffling between Empire and Monarchy. Even in the midst of a Civil War, we had an election, and the rightful victor remained.

I wonder what they would say to the splendor of the central parts of our Capital. A former swamp bought for a pittance lined with Classically-inspired marble structures, spires reaching high into the sky, cherry blossoms bursting forth every spring. And the motorcades – how different to be surrounded by armed men in black suits than to greet neighbors knocking on the unfinished White House doors as Jefferson did.

Though we live in a time of national plenty, we still face the same dilemmas, and the same historical foibles of human nature. What foreign entanglements to align ourselves with, regional interests in constant competition, political manipulations and transformations. A brutal and merciless press proclaiming the evils of the current administration, publicizing up every sordid detail and twisting every public pronouncement. Blowhard Senators wasting time and money, power hungry staffers salivating at the downfall of a once rising superior. These things have never, nor will they ever, be absent in the field of human political interaction.

And at the very top, the loneliness of command. The fate of the world, literally, laid upon your shoulders. Across generations and party ideologies, there is undoubtedly a bond that these leaders all share, and though their solutions often differ drastically, they alone bear the burden, together. One of the more remarkable photos I had during college was of Presidents Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton all together. Some villains, some incompetents, some transformational, some charmers, but all men charged, for a time, with upholding the tenants of American democracy and the perpetuation of the experiment forcefully designed by Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe.

It is sometimes good to look at where we have come from to see where we are going. Our roots and our evolution from them define the national culture. I think our Founding Fathers would be proud to see what we have accomplished, but fight dearly for what they believed in, aligning against each other with every ounce of their being as they did previously. And from that cacophony of infuriating chaos ensure the continuation of domestic Tranquility, promote the General welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty for ourselves and our Posterity.

Tears of our Fathers

One of the images I remember best from growing up was a picture my mom had in a frame on a bookshelf. It was a cut out from the local newspaper published in the waning months of 1973 and featured two men. The years have faded from my memory its exact details, but this is what I remember of it.

The first man is a handsome, yet somewhat tired looking figure, perhaps in his early to mid forties. He is dressed in the blues of an Air Force officer, with a crutch below his left shoulder, and in the background a throng of people stand cheering. Yet while he was the center of attention for the gathered crowd on the tarmac of the Minneapolis Airport where the scene took place, it is the second, and older, man that catches your eye.

For in his face are the lines of deep joy mixed with long-suffering tears finally welling to the surface. He wears a brown plaid hat tapered near the front with a distinguished crease down the middle and nearly imperceptible ear flaps on the sides. The pattern of his long coat matches that of his hat. Beneath the lenses of his glasses are the tears, and the faint smile of relieved emotion just below them.

The two men are embracing, and an observer is struck by the feeling that he can actually hear the prayer of thanksgiving being extended heavenward as the older man grasps the younger.

A Father sees his son for the first time in over five years. The Son had been off at War, imprisoned in the Hanoi Hilton for the entirety of the period. The plane that brought him home sits near the crowd in the background. The Father kept the faith while he prayed for years on end for his son’s safe return.

The younger man is the husband of my great Aunt, the older his father. My mother is in the middle and high school band amidst the crowd in the background.

These family anecdotes, even if punctuated by a front page photo, don’t mean particularly much to a young boy growing up with baseball, Legos and airplanes to consume his energies and time. Perhaps the intrigue of the Air Force officer being a fighter pilot catches his imagination, but the impact of the homecoming scene that was so monumental evaded his understanding, at least in those formative years.

But even in the absence of understanding, the stories of those years between 1968 and 1973 were told over and over. My Great Uncle left to fight, and in his absence after being shot down and captured, his wife and children moved back to Minnesota to live with his wife’s mother. It was a stately home in Edina, adjacent to the still nascent Highway 100 and bordered by the Minnehaha Creek in the Country Club District.

My Mom and her brothers tell of those early years with amusement, and a tinge of sorrow. They had found new playmates in Frank, Peter, Liz and Bill, but the reason for their arrival was unwelcome at best. They were all children then, and managed to get into trouble, fight, make up, play make-believe. The seriousness of the adult world that plunged them into those circumstances was very real, but I don’t imagine they fully understood it. All they knew was that their Father or Uncle was painfully absent.

Meanwhile, as the children did as children do, the pilot’s wife, as all military wives throughout the centuries have done, waited and worried. She was surrounded by her brother and his wife. She had her mother and father to assist her with the children. She knew the plight of her husband, but was helpless to support him as she had vowed on their wedding day. She did all she could to keep her youthful and energetic family sustained amidst the absence of their father. She was lucky to get one letter a year from her husband. But She kept the faith on the home front.

Soon, a national organization of POW wives was formed, and She began communicating with and befriending the wife of then Captain James Stockdale, the senior American imprisoned in Hanoi. They fought their own government, and made the personal absence of their beloved husbands a national issue. Hearings were held, and even as America erupted into chaos on its college campuses and returning service members were spit upon and harassed, a subtle roar of support for the imprisoned pervaded its way through the national consciousness.

Half a world away, the hundreds of Americans captured by their enemies tried to build a society in the midst of unimaginable depravity and desolation. Their country was bound by concrete walls and iron barred windows. Their cuisine was moldy soup and rotten bread. Their culture created from the philosophers of old. Their character, tested and strained, remained resolutely American.

They devised ingeniously simple methods of communication to maintain human contact with their fellow isolated prisoners. Entire conversations were conducted by merely tapping on a wall – and in some cases the best of them could transmit upwards of fifty words per minute. Their deepest secrets and greatest hopes were passed sometimes between men who had never, nor ever would, meet each other face to face. They refused repatriation except for those cases allowed under the Code of Conduct, and endured terrifying tortures. All of them at one point or another broke, but their brothers were there to build them up slowly, empathizing with them as they too had broken. Some of them died, others went missing. All were physically broken, many mentally and psychologically so.

As only military men can do, they managed to recreate the rigid hierarchy and chain-of-command that they had known their entire lives. They assigned collateral duties to keep the men occupied. The leaders among the prisoners issued orders for conduct and defiance of their captors. The most effective of them were separated from their subordinates and placed in solitary confinement for their innovations. When faced with the prospect of being a propaganda tool for the enemy, their leader cut and deformed his face to such a degree that their captors finally understood their resolve.

At one point, a prisoner managed to sew an American flag out of bits of torn fabric. His brethren said the pledge of allegiance over and over. Upon hearing this, the guards came in, took the artisan and his flag, and nearly beat the former to death. Upon his return to the cell, bloodied and bruised, barely able to walk, the first thing he did was begin to sew another flag.

For a time, sickness ran rampant through the prison. As the prisoners were given only water to wash their cold metal plates with, sanitation was minimal at best. Yet, they devised a means to thwart illness spread through uneaten food. They simply licked their plates clean after each meal, rinsing them afterwards. Amazingly, the transmission of illness through insufficiently washed utensils ceased.

One of their most junior members, derided and then ignored by their captors, was ordered to accept release. He, despite his captor’s perception of him as having no intellectual acumen, had memorized the name and rank of every American in prison –over 750 in all. His return to the United States was the first many families had heard of their missing loved ones – and the extent to which Americans were being held prisoner in unimaginable conditions.

Yet throughout years of such treatment, in some cases surpassing seven and eight, the men kept the faith. And then one day, their unconditional release came. They, representing every branch of the Armed Forces, were headed home.

Even in their release, they gave no quarter to their enemy. Hoping to gain the good will of the world through the image of jubilant prisoners being released, their captors had cameras ready to record their elation. However, the now free Americans remained stoically silent and stone-faced until their freedom bird had lifted from the ground. Once safely airborne, they cheered and cried. They really were, finally, free.

Captain Jeremiah Denton, one of the senior commanders, and prisoner for over eight years, penned the following on the flight home:

"We are honored to have had the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances. We are profoundly grateful to our Commander in Chief and to our nation for this day. God bless America."

Soon after, similar scenes of homecoming as experienced by my family were repeated around the country. The war may not have been won, but the men who fought it and their families who lived it remained faithful to the end.

Lost in the lexicon of civilian life are the tales of bravery and heroism that pervade every corner of military tradition. It is the men that precede us we pay homage to, and to whom we strive to match in standards of integrity and character.
We are an imperfect profession, populated with imperfect people, defending an imperfect nation. But intertwined with this very imperfection are the complimentary traits that lead inexorably to the innovation and spirit of liberty that has perpetuated our nation’s greatness.

It is the very tears shed at the homecoming of our heroes that make valid their sacrifices for our freedoms. Sacrifice is not sacrifice unless borne by the best of what we have to offer. To this, and them, we owe a debt of profound gratitude.

Living History

Date: 25 May 2008
Location: USS Nimitz; between Wake Island and Hawaii, Pacific Ocean

Dear Friends and Family-

When I was a little kid, I was obsessed with World War II, specifically the Pacific theater. I presume this comes as no surprise to anybody reading this, as the contemplation of all things military, Navy in particular, seems to catch my interest and inform my musings. My favorite movie was "Midway," about the eponymous battle in June of 1942, which I must have watched every weekend throughout middle school. My eighth grade history project was on the "Great Mariana's Turkey Shoot" and the recapture of Saipan and Tinian Islands in the Mariana's chain from the Japanese in 1944. Heck, last summer my mom found some of my Kindergarten papers, and on one that asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote "Air Force pilot." (disclaimer – I was unaware the Navy had an aviation arm at the time!)

So throughout my life, these histories have reached almost mythical proportions, only to be reinforced by my current profession and the role Navy fighter pilots played in each. I could point out on a globe where each of these chains were, and the path that was needed to get there by Halsey, Nimitz and MacArthur. But until I actually saw these islands for myself, as I recently did, the full impact of this written history was far from apparent.

In my past three months aboard this ship, the one thing I have come to appreciate more than anything else is how incredibly vast the Pacific Ocean is. We can take off, climb to 30,000 feet, and on a clear day, as far as the eye can see, view uninterrupted shimmering blue water. No land in sight, save a few scattered volcanic specks. Off the coast of Japan, its color takes on a more grayish hue, but its beauty becomes absolutely mesmerizing near Guam and other tropical islands. The deep blue of the deep ocean is just that. Its beauty belies the desolation it represents, but is compelling nonetheless.

Among this vastness are tiny oases of human activity separated by thousands of miles. It is surreal to fly over the island of Saipan, see that it is a mere few square miles of area, then glimpse the light shallows on its Western side. When I first saw them, I almost forgot to keep flying as it suddenly hit me that this was the very coral where thousands of Marines waded hundreds of yards to reach their landing beaches because their amphibious craft didn't have the draft to take them further. The coral upon which the landing and one of the lynchpins of the Island Hopping strategy was almost stopped in its tracks as many were cut down before they ever reached dry land. The coral upon where thousands of GI's, and tens of thousands of Japanese, died for a seemingly small piece of land in the middle of the Pacific.

A week ago, we passed by Wake Island. Unlike Saipan, accompanied by her sisters Tinian and Guam that comprise the major players of the Mariana Islands, Wake is really an atoll, and she is all alone. In what ended up being my last flight of this cruise, we took a section of Super Hornets to check the island out, and discovered that there is exactly one airstrip, and one golf course on Wake. That's it. In her midst was an emerald colored pool that took up most of her land. In my minds eye, I could see the thousands of landing ships surrounding this interruption of ocean, and almost feel the terror of the defenders as they saw the approaching armada on the once perpetually empty horizon.

And tomorrow, we will pull into Pearl Harbor, setting foot on American soil for the first time in months. The Nimitz will have her rails manned around the flightdeck with sailors and officers in whites, rendering honors as we pass the memorials to the sunken Tennessee, Nevada and Arizona. It is fitting that this coincides with Memorial Day, in perhaps the most sacred of all places for the United States Navy.

Yet while this cruise has for all intents and purposes been a peaceful one for us, with the only inkling of actual warfare being the aforementioned living history (and a few cheeky Russian bombers), it is the changes and refining process that I have undergone that will undoubtedly shape me for the rest of my life.

One of the things that continues to be the most significant for me is conversing back and forth with friends from flight school, some of whom I hadn't spoken with in ages, who are on assignment throughout the world. It seems like yesterday that we were all struggling through the same simulators, complaining about the same instructors, and dreaming of the day when we too would be shot off the front of a perfectly good ship. It is one of the characteristics peculiar to myself (I think) that I become closer to people through absence and subsequent reunion. Perhaps the reflection of hardship shared or revelry fondly reflected upon is the thing that solidifies brotherhood in my mind. But it is there nonetheless when I hear about passage through the Straits of Hormuz, operating off the coast of Australia, or making a port call to Marseilles. We may be separated by thousands of miles, and countless time-zones, but the empathy and understanding is universal.

This has not been an easy cruise, psychologically or mentally, by any stretch of the imagination. Especially as a Nugget, I've lost track of how many nights I've gone to bed tossing and turning in my rack, wondering if I will ever cut it. One too many one wires, the frustrations of life at sea coursing through my brain when I know I should be sleeping. After a bad landing at the boat, the hardest thing I have ever done is get up again the next morning, and convince myself to climb in the jet to try it again – wondering what the skipper is thinking still trusting me. Every time taxiing to the catapult at night, musing that I still have a chance to stay on deck – all I have to do is not flip that switch, controlled merely by my pinky, turning on all the aircraft's lights indicating I am ready to be hurled into the darkest blackness I have ever experienced. That's what a sane person would do. Yet every time, I for some reason flick the switch on anyway, meaning that at some point I will have to come back and land – and it will probably be even darker.

Cursing the fate of having nowhere to blow off steam because no matter where you go, I am still on the ship, able to be called back to the ready room at a moments notice. Sometimes the only solace being to close the curtains across my tiny cube of personal space, put on the headphones with a Beethoven Symphony and read through the latest issue (it being from Sept of '07, but still refreshing) of Smithsonian magazine stopping on an article about the homes of the founding fathers – in an attempt to take myself as far away from this place and the Navy as possible.

Then sometimes I get up in the air, things go right, and an unexplainable feeling of euphoria envelops me. The sun setting, orange and reds brilliantly bouncing off the clouds as another section of Hornets passes below me. I catch the three wire on a rails all the way, center ball pass, shut the jet down and smile as the plane captain asks how my flight went, the adrenaline keeping my spirits up at least through midrats (midnight meal). I've once again made the world safe for democracy, and CAG has nothing to be mad about. Yet I still wonder what life is like with trees and plant life, the beguiling smell and saunter of women, and good food. Mythical things we have all heard of, and maybe even experienced at one point in our lives, but seemingly out of reach.

Somewhere, some place, gas prices are apparently going up. Mortgages are being foreclosed on. I even hear there is an election going on, with a barnburner of a campaign and the associated meaningless commentary from self-important talking heads. Universities are graduating a new crop of lawyers, businesspeople, doctors, financers. The things that used to consume my daily life are merely echoes in the reality I occupy on cruise, and somehow they just don't seem that important. One day at a time, one more day, then maybe a time will come once again where life exists outside these metal walls. At least this highly concentrated environment has one up side – it puts into perspective what really matters.

When I first came to meet my squadron in Japan, I remember sitting in the waiting room of Narita airport in Tokyo, looking around, thinking of how great it would be to spend time getting to further know that culture. What it would be like to then spend subsequent years in various parts of the world just learning and living their different cultures. But as this cruise has gone on, and I have had the chance to visit quite a few other places, it has become apparent how much I miss the States and how incredible it really is.

When I fall asleep at night, it is not the rest of the world I dream about, but memories of my home. The rolling hills of Virginia horse country in the summer, exploring and discovering out of the way taverns amidst slowly settling mist. Experiencing the museums of Chicago, and the bustle of Michigan Avenue. Absorbing the magnificence of the Washington Mall at night, seeing Mr. Lincoln on one side and the glowing Capitol building on the other, then solemnly walking the Vietnam memorial as tears slowly well up being in the presence of fallen compatriots. Driving though Bel Air gawking at the mansions and gaudy displays of wealth, but loving the palm tree lined boulevards and falling in love with California. Running the Lakes of Minneapolis and stopping at the Bandshell to hear whatever concert happens to be occurring, then getting a scoop of ice cream from Sebastian Joe's. Driving through the Sierra's to ski Squaw Valley and catch a glimpse of Lake Tahoe shimmering on a cold winters day. Hearing from friends who have just led their first ER operation, taking about the shenanigan's of their kindergarteners, what the first year of married life has held. Most of all, the freedom to do whatever we American's please, whenever we please. The cacophony of opinion, both left and right, the marketplace of religions, the innovation of free markets and free peoples.

I am almost there, and for that I am grateful. My friends are still scattered throughout the globe, and though I will be back for the time being, part of me will remain with them, often in situations and environments more serious than any I faced in the Western Pacific. They will not see home for some time yet, but perhaps the history they are making now will one day inspire a young boy to dream, and see with his own eyes what the history books were really talking about.

Thanks for all your support -- it means the world.

Ben

Leadership

Date: 25 April 2008
Location: USS Nimitz; North of the Mariana Island Chain, Pacific Ocean

Dear Friends and Family:

A few weeks ago, I received a letter via snail mail from a cousin of mine who is in middle school. After relating some of the various adventures that girls of her age undergo, none of which, I might add, I had any inkling of as a shy, nerdy boy when I was her age, she mentioned her attendance at a leadership camp she had been selected to attend. As only a young mind could so eloquently put it, she summarized the experience by noting that "nobody really brought back any mental leadership ideas or effects on people if you will." The moment I read this, I burst out laughing at its precocious honesty. Only Heaven knows the number of leadership courses and camps that I have been to that hardly imparted anything of value to me. Here is someone, as a young teen, who has seen through the bureaucratic morass of the school of thought that believes leadership can be taught through seminars and bookwork.

One doesn't really appreciate this truth until observing the crucible of uncertain situations and how those assigned to leadership positions react. And while the military is obviously well known to have a plethora of crucibles to choose from, I think the same can be said for nearly all professional civilian pursuits as well. An MBA, JD or PhD does not confer upon the bearer's inherent experience that time and again proves to be the greatest teacher. But since a wise mentor once told me to only speak of those things that I am personally knowledgeable about, I will attempt to convey some of my acquired musings within the confines of naval aviation.

The first thing that comes to mind is the position that I hold. It is literally at the bottom of the tactical hierarchy. And even our skipper, who within a squadron is the final arbiter and dictator (in the most respectful sense) of policy, is at best within the middle regions of national policy. To grossly, but still somewhat accurately, simplify things, I am the junior aircrew in a two seat aircraft, the second plane of a two ship section of fighters. Above us is a division lead, in charge of two sections. He is tasked by the operations department who in turn reports to the skipper. Above our CO is CAG, the carrier air group commander, in charge of all the battle group's air assets (typically seven squadrons). He reports to the battle group commander, usually a one or two star admiral, who in turn is tasked by in our case, PACCOM (Combatant Commander for the Pacific Area of Responsibility). He in turn reports to the Secretary of Defense and the President. When one contemplates this organizational chart, I really am just a cog in the machine. But still one piece of many that makes theoretical policy a reality. We jet guys tend to see the world as revolving around us and our particular squadron, but the Big Picture is far from that perceived reality.

One of the unique things about "leadership" in the fighter pilot world is that when we are leading, we are leading other independent operators. It is the ultimate in mission control, where directives are passed down by higher authority, but must be executed without supervision. The most fun flights I have been on are large force strikes, where 20 or more airplanes are in the sky, all with various roles, simulating an attack on a significant target, including air intercept assets as well as the ground attack elements and other players with very important suppression of enemy air defense roles. There is a strike lead in one aircraft, but as soon as the fight starts, he necessarily must immediately delegate general authority to various component leaders. He has given a general directive during the brief, but has to trust that when he sends them on their way, his element leaders will execute appropriately. There are times when all of us are acting independently based on evolving circumstances, making split second decisions without consultation that may affect the entire strike package. Even all powerful CAG can be at the mercy of an inexperienced pilot who chooses the wrong course of action at a pivotal moment (not that this has happened in my case! Thank goodness for the WSO in my back seat…but theoretically… ;-) ). This is in the tactical, dynamic world of combat. Fortunately, we often do not face situations like these for real.

For more day to day operations, the face of leadership, no matter where the directives originate from, is our skipper. If we get news we are extending our cruise, our skipper tells us. He has nothing to do with the orders, but is responsible for their execution. In our case, I will unabashedly say his leadership is remarkable. In the two months I have been here, I have seen more good leadership traits, and nuggets of wisdom, that are worth emulating than in my entire life. This is a man who gets it, especially one who has successfully led men into combat, arguably the greatest test of leadership acumen. This is a man who is spoken of with reverence among both the officers and enlisted, not because of his rank, but because of his example. At the heart of this lies taking responsibility for all actions, and being honest with both successes, and especially, failures. What you see with him is what you get.

Perhaps one of the lessons that has had the greatest impact on me is his mantra that all decisions ultimately originate with a person. This may seem obvious, but we in the military have a tendency to depersonalize things. "The Pentagon is sending us here." " The Nimitz screwed me again." "I can't believe the Navy is doing this." His standard response is, "wait a second guys, lets look at this. Somebody made this decision, not an amorphous entity. If its wrong, blame them personally. If its right, then don't complain."

Most of the guys have been gone from home for 10 of the past 13 months, this current "Surge" cruise accounting for the latter half of that. Complaints have been rampant, understandably, and lots of invective directed towards Big Navy. The skipper sat us down one day, and said, "guys, don't blame this entity 'Big Navy.' If you want someone to blame, lets look at the guy who wanted us here, PACCOM. His name is Admiral Keating. For those of you who know him, you know he doesn't mess around, and knows his stuff. If he says we need to be out here, then we do." For me personally, that was enough. That doesn't mean being away from home is any less stressful, or living on the boat any less uncomfortable, but there is a method to the madness, and someone at the top who knows what he is doing. I personally met Admiral Keating at my brothers commissioning two years ago, and he gained my instant respect for what he said and his impressive track record. There was pretty much unanimous, if somewhat disgruntled, agreement within the ready room. Adm Keating was a fellow fighter pilot, has made more deployments and lived in more places than many of us have years in the military, and can be trusted. End of story. Same with Congress (not necessarily the trust part…)– as an amorphous entity, it doesn't make military appropriation decisions, individual congressmen do and they each have names with personal histories. They may be wrong, but there is always someone responsible, not the impersonal entity.

By the same token, his command philosophy is to make sure people come first. He isn't here to increase retention or drive his troops into the ground. His belief is that anybody who serves has done their part, and a career isn't in the cards for everybody. He just doesn't want anybody to leave because of the squadron atmosphere…leave that exodus to the individuals who set deployment schedules. It is rare to find a leader who knows when to push people to their limits, and when to stand up to higher authority to make sure they his people keep their sanity. When our squadron (sans me of course) was in the Gulf last summer, the skipper rightly drove the Aces to exhaustion by the end because our mission was to employ in combat, supporting the boots on the ground. This time around, our mission is different, and knowing where the breaking point is, he has specifically asked for our squadron to be tasked less. In raw numbers, a CO looking to promote to something higher doesn't do this. But a skipper who knows his people, and holds their welfare as paramount in a non-combat environment, is one that will get the best from them when the flag goes up, and their full devotion is required.

For many in the Navy, there is a prescribed career path, and jobs along the way, that are "highly encouraged" (note: that phrase in militaryspeak means mandatory) to rise to the upper echelons. It is something subtle, but noteworthy nonetheless, that our skipper tells us time and again to make the decisions about our job choice for us, not the Navy. Do what makes us happy, not what the detailer would have us do. This, for me especially, has been a great encouragement. I think it speaks highly of someone who truly wants the best for his subordinates, and gives them as much information as possible to make informed choices.

I was recently reminded of a quote in a speech given by the current Secretary of Defense that I believe is appropriate in describing our Skipper, and has many other general applications as well. It is from the late Air Force Col John Boyd (a man I have mentioned before):

"One day you will take a fork in the road, and you're going to have to make a decision about which direction you want to go. If you go one way, you can be somebody. You will have to make compromises, and you will have to turn your back on your friends. But you will be a member of the club, and you will get promoted and get good assignments. Or you can go the other way, and you can do something, something for your country and for your Air Force and for yourself. If you decide to do something, you may not get promoted, and you may not get good assignments, and you certainly will not be a favorite of your superiors, but you won't have to compromise yourself. To be somebody or to do something. In life there is often a roll call. That's when you have to make a decision: to be or to do."

I believe there are cases where you can both "be" and "do," but are only possible when the latter is the focus, and the former just works out. Anyway, my point is that character counts, and in some commands the party line is encouraged, and in others, commitment to principles is. Ours exhibits the latter.

The philosophy of the skipper trickles down to the rest of the squadron, as the philosophy of any leader, good or bad, tends to do. I'm not sure I have ever been in such a tight-knit group of men, with virtually no personality conflicts. In a group of over 30 highly type-A ultra-competitive personalities, confined to the same piece of real estate for 5 months, this is nothing short of remarkable. Part of it may be the fact that we are the only two-seat tactical squadron in the air wing, are constantly (in good fun) assaulted by the single seat guys in the daily air wing cartoon, and thus band together to defend ourselves, but after so long away from home, it is much more than that.

In large part, I think this overall philosophy comes from his experience as a humble enlisted sailor responsible for waste management maintenance (that's the polite way of putting it...) prior to getting his commission and flying Tomcats and Super Hornets. It was those incremental learning experiences wrought from difficult situations, and many failures, that enabled him to lead what is now a remarkable organization. The squadron isn't perfect by any means, and there are always areas for vast improvement, but there is something significant going on. Experience counts, and those that take it to heart make their subordinates effective in their jobs.

Being in the Navy, deployed, is not the easiest thing in the world. But someone was truly looking out for me when I was quite literally randomly assigned to this squadron. The Department Heads, who have all been in other squadrons before this, are constantly amazed at the environment fostered by the current front office.

The squadron, however, is in for a quick evolution. The core of combat proven and experienced junior officers are all finishing their tours in the next three months. We have had five new jacks (myself included) since last January, with more slated to come once we return home. The current skipper is turning over with our XO in July. Our most experienced department heads are about to leave as well. So as with anything in life, change is on the horizon, and with the advent of a new administration, it will be interesting to see how the culture and atmosphere of our little band of brothers adapts. Chaser (outgoing) and Wimbo (incoming) have known each other for a long time, since going through Top Gun together. But they are very different in their approach to situations and people.

I think it will be fascinating to watch this evolution. Organizational change and cultures have always been an intense observational fascination of mine, and it looks like I will be directly exposed to yet another case study (wow, there comes the uber-analyst in me). I will be at the heart of it, probably taking on more responsibility than I am prepared for sooner than I think. I suppose however, that is where the real learning will occur, and I only hope that I will be able to absorb and implement lessons learned from the mistakes that are inevitable.

As always, I appreciate the thoughts and prayers that have been diligently sent my way. We are (hopefully) on the final leg of our journey, and I can't wait to take some R&R to see some of you in the coming months.

Yours,

Ben