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

Band of Brothers

Date: 26 March 2008
Location: USS Nimitz, East of the Mariana's Island Chain, Western Pacific

Dear Friends and Family-

Deep in the desert of Arizona is an aircraft graveyard . Relics of past eras of aviation sit row upon row upon row for literally miles and miles. Scrapped 747s next to gutted B-52 bombers, what were once state of the art F-14s next to ancient DC-3s. A virtual timeline of technology is evident , and the march of ever increasing obsolescence apparent. For an aviation enthusiast, it is a cornucopia of history embedded in one location. Yet, if you want their real stories, you need only go to any number of VFW's around the country and talk to the men who flew them. Some piloted piston driven prop behemoths amidst flak storms in Germany, some single engine jets over the clear skies of Iraq. But one and all, they are men who, in the words of Robert Heinlein, "voluntarily stood between the desolation of war and civilization."

Though the ages passed and innovations evolved, the daring spirit of the men (and in modern times, women) has remained the same regardless of the technological changes around them. It is the conscious choice of thinking men that makes Heinlein's statement possible, not the massing of industrial might and technological marvel.

I recently read an article in a conservative magazine entitled "The Military We Wish We Had." It laid out a laundry list of future technologies that the author, a former undersecretary of Defense for President Reagan, believed were a requirement for future success in projecting American power. New ships, new airplanes, new network integrated body armor, all while extolling the virtues of recent acquisitions of high cost items like the MV-22 Osprey and the F-22 Raptor, both aviation related, gold plated projects that have yet to find a modern practical use (my opinion, of course, but yet another discussion for another day). It was not an unsurprising view, and a few years back, I would have wholeheartedly agreed. Indeed, the conventional wisdom is that bigger, better, more costly widgets makes for a better military. But experience is the greatest teacher, and something changes when you actually deal with the people behind the rhetoric. Perhaps the piece should have instead been entitled "The Armed Forces Defense Contractors and Congressional Contributors Wish They Had."

This is not to say that I am opposed to technological advancement, as indeed the platform I fly in on a daily basis is equipped with the latest and greatest in whiz-bang technologies, providing situational awareness that would otherwise not be possible. Its ease of use and effectiveness is far beyond what was available to even an aircraft one generation prior. But it is to say that for far too long, and in too many defense circles, technology, versus people, has been the silver bullet. This mindset, though increasingly entrenched, is increasingly too one-dimensional. This is one of the obvious conclusions to be drawn from the protracted conflicts in both Iraq and Afghanistan; for a time, insurgents with little more than homemade explosives nearly drove the most expensive military in the history of the world away. Ingenuity and necessity defeated technology, and only when we turned to the human element, emphasizing interaction and personal engagement while reassessing what mere science could accomplish, did the tide begin to turn.

Being onboard the quintessential artifice of American hegemony, a nuclear powered aircraft carrier, has given me a unique view of the benefits of technology in the military world. But even more importantly, it has shown me that at the heart of it all lay the souls and hard earned efforts of men. Every day when I walk in the ready room, I am reminded subconsciously of an adage uttered by one of my favorite philosophers, the late Col. John Boyd: "Machines don't win wars, men do. And they use their minds to do it."

This was made apparent to me at a recent all officers meeting (AOM…we love our acronyms). As is the tradition at the beginning of these sessions, the junior most aircrew stands before the assembled wardroom, and gives us a bit of squadron history. VFA-41 has a particularly rich past, dating to the Korean War. Throughout it's over 50 years of commissioned service, the Black Aces have flown nearly every type of fighter aircraft in the Navy's inventory. Such venerable platforms as the F-4 Phantom, the F-14 Tomcat, and now of course the F/A-18 Super Hornet have carried the emblem of the Ace of Spades. But when we talk about where our squadron has been, it is always about the men that carried the torch before us, not the machines they flew.

On this particular day, Flounder (the aforementioned junior aircrew) gave a presentation on a young lieutenant (j.g) (the rank I am now) who just checked into then VF-41 in the mid-1960s. Soon after reporting aboard, he was sent on a combat mission into the heart of North Vietnam, and was shot down. He spent the next several years of his life in captivity, finally being repatriated to the US at the end of the war. His words after his release can be summed up in the pride he expressed at having served his country honorably next to brethren of equal character and fortitude. This man was no longer just a statistic or number, but his story was now part of my story. It was the horrors he endured and the spirit of returning with honor that defined his role in the squadron, not the effectiveness of his bombing during that fateful mission. At first, I thought it a rather depressing way to begin the AOM, but as I sat and pondered this, it became apparent that while somber in nature, it was the Truth, a history that really was. This business isn't just Dress Whites and setting our hair on fire going mach 2. The very imperfection and potential for tragedy of the profession is what makes it real and challenging. And even for those who did their cruises uneventfully, it was their willingness to stand at the precipice of potential calamity and do so because they believed in something greater than themselves. All their individual stories, both happy and sad, are an element to the spirit of the squadron, all a vital part of what gives us the bond that keeps us sane amidst the dreariness and difficulties of cruise. It is what has made me, after only six weeks in their midst, an integral and unquestioned part of this family.

While each squadron has its own lore and history, this one is particular to ours. A fierce sense of pride and competition that has been honed over the past six decades of service. The strange thing about this is that I will never know 90 percent of the people who have sat in the chairs that make up the rows in the ready room, but their esprit de corps is ever present. They are the giants, most hardly known beyond their friends and family, whose shoulders we now stand upon. Their prior service, whether it be in wars popularly supported or not, effectively carried out or not, is what gives us the basis for the present which we have inherited. Their machines took them where they needed to go, but the men who coerced them into flight were and remain the deciding factor in making usefulness out of electrons and finely shaped metal. The lessons learned, and rules literally written in blood, are what makes us the Black Aces of today.

To be sure, this is not just a characteristic among aviators or even a single squadron, but one that is prevalent in every branch of the armed forces. The modern Marine and those who stormed the halls of Montezuma, the Soldier and the forces at Thermopolae or Valley Forge, even the Aegis ship-bound warriors and the seamen aboard John Paul Jones' wooden frigate during the Revolution have a common heritage that transcends time and innovation. The tools of their trade may have changed, but their spirit and warrior ethos have remained steady for millenia.

One of my dear friends asked me, "what are the men who you serve with like?" Perhaps the most relevant answer is that the men I interact with on a daily basis are not infallible, and as such far from what recruiting ads portray (save the Marines), yet their ordinariness is what makes them special. In some ways they are the most human of men. They make mistakes that have consequences, sometimes seriously life altering, and have successes that go to their heads. They are prone to emotional and physical stressors. There are brilliant men and those missing more than a few screws. Some are aggressively arrogant, and others silently humble. Some are devious pranksters, some dourly serious. Some want to lead men, others only care about flying. Most of their ambitions end at some stream at the foot of a spectacular range of mountains fishing for trout. They can and do lose, but pursue victory as tenaciously as any professional athlete. Being away from their families and loved ones saps their strength, and most good military men have mastered the art of complaining about this. Most just want to be home, but press on anyway. In all these things, they are a reflection of our greater society. They all have stories as varied and fascinating as the characteristics they encompass. Most of them are vastly different than me in temperament, ambition and intellectual pursuits, but it is this variety that makes them representative of the country and philosophies that they are defending.

Most significant, however, and the thing that sets them apart, is the character of citizen soldiers still doing their jobs after months at sea and cancelled port calls, with rumors of extension. Missed anniversaries, birthdays and constant disappointment from an always fluid schedule mark their days, yet here they are, voluntarily, day after day. As CAG put it during our Line Period Awards a few weeks ago (be sure to add a curse word between every other word!) – "This sucks, we know it sucks, but when it comes down to it, you guys made it happen, when the men at the top were watching, despite everything else going on, and you did it flawlessly." And it is quite true – even when morale hits rock bottom, these men suck it up and do their jobs anyway, often very well.

Thus no matter what tools or equipment Congress may or may not see fit to acquire for them, it is these Americans who are the heart and soul of our military. Our Skipper's command goal for this cruise is stated as such: "To bring every sailor and airplane back home safely…in that order." Take away the airplanes, and you still have a fighter squadron. Take away the men, and you have heaps of very expensive metal, nothing more. People are everything, the rest is just details.

I continue to do well, if not occasionally weary of daily life on the ship. Thanks for all your well wishings on this most intriguing of adventures.

Yours ,

ben

Day of Days

Date: 12 March 2008
Location: USS Nimitz, off the coast of Okinawa

Family and Friends-

Sometimes this job is just ridiculous. Like the attached picture (which has nothing to do with this story, but is still pretty cool, our squadron jet keeping up – quite unexpectedly -- relations with the Russians !). You look back on the day you just had, not really comprehending it actually happened. It seemed so real, TOO real, at the time, but when you sit down in the comfort of your own room (and you don't really appreciate the comfort of your own room, even if it is shared with 5 other dudes, until a day like today) to sit and ruminate over it, you can only imagine that it must have been a dream. And thus I write to understand it.

The day started out normally enough. Get up, grab some chow, roll into the ready room an hour before the brief. A few changes that we weren't aware of – namely that this would be the first time I would be flying the re-tanking jet so I could get familiar with the systems involved in air-to-air refueling. We were scheduled to do a low level, section (2-plane) bombing mission against a random point in the ocean. From the outset, we realized this probably wasn't going to happen, because a quick glance outside showed that there are broken and overcast cloud layers at about 2000 feet, and this means we don't have our requisite weather minimums.

We launch anyway as scheduled to get the tanking familiarization out of the way, and maybe practice some GPS guided munitions practice up high. Before we launch, the actual tanker who launched 45 minutes before us comes over the radio with a pilot weather report and tells all concerned that there are very few pockets of clear air between the deck and 23,000 feet.

The launch, however, goes off as planned, and we are the first off the deck. We had initially briefed to rendezvous with my lead aircraft at 16000 feet, but passing that altitude and still in the clouds, we audible a rendezvous at our backup of 23k. Finding this clobbered as well, and knowing our mission is probably not going to happen anyway, we keep climbing to see how thick the clouds are. We finally break out on top at 31k. When we get up there, I amusingly tell my WSO, "Wow, this is the highest I've ever been before…" He later relates that once he hears this (he being a LtCmdr with 15 years in various jets), silently tells himself, "oh, boy its gonna be one of those days…"

We finally locate our lead and surprisingly enough, he has found a patch of clear air about 40 miles from the ship in the mid teens, so we make it over there and rendezvous with him. On the way over, a flight of three Hornets from the Marine squadron pass in front of and below us, which didn't seem odd at the time, but later we would unexpectedly be meeting up with them in a place far from the boat. Anyway, we manage to get my re-fueling tanker stuff out of the way, dive through the layers to see if anything below is workable, and unsurprisingly, it isn't.

Checking in with the ship's approach controllers, they marshal us Case III, which means that the weather is pretty bad near the ship, and stack us at unusually high altitudes. They did so thinking there was clear air for us to hold in while we waited about 30 minutes for the launch before us to complete. This was not the case, and we start hawking our wing lines and canopy to ensure ice isn't accumulating on the jet (ice can only form where moisture is present, and this is especially true at higher altitudes where the temperature is below freezing and in clouds). Fortunately, we push at our assigned time, and make our way down.

When descending out of the Case III marshal stack, the controllers use two discrete frequencies depending on where we are from the ship. As we got closer and further down, they requested the usual switch. We went to the frequency we were directed to, and all hell was breaking loose. My windscreen was awash in rain, and even though it is 2 in the afternoon, I have to dim my displays and put up my tinted visor because it is so dark. Both of our precision approach methods are down, so the pilots coming aboard are being directed over comms as to where they are on glideslope and azimuth. Additionally, the ship keeps turning to chase wind such that the direction of our runway literally keeps moving in a circle. You are on centerline one moment, and the next instant an invisible line drawn from you to the ship (granted 10 miles away) has you coming at it perpendicularly.

Anyway, I've never seen conditions this bad. Over the freq we hear guys ahead of us with the dreaded "CLARA SHIP" call when they are on final approach to the boat. Clara, in naval aviation terms, means you don't see something. A simple "clara" means you don't see the ball telling you where you are in terms of altitude, and is somewhat common. The Landing Signals Officers (LSO) can talk you back into a position to see the ball, and execute a landing. Clara Ship means you cant see the ship. At all. You are three quarters of a mile (in todays case, even closer), flying 140 mph, descending into the unknown, trusting only the instruments in front of you and the calming voice of God coming through your headset. Imagine driving in the worst thunderstorm you can imagine, and you cant even see the lights of the cars in front of you. That's pretty much what it is, except three dimensional, with that third dimension (altitude) being the most critical element. But like I mentioned, Paddles (our nickname for the LSO's, from the days when they literally used to wave paddles around to let pilots know where they were on glideslope – which is why we call their job "waving a pass"…anyway), is talking us down as he can see our lights cutting through the rain and mist.

My first attempt at this I get waved off (meaning I have to go around) as soon as my WSO calls CLARA ship. The winds were out of limits for landing, so they just sent me around. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but since I'm flying a tanker platform, and oh by the way we are carrying the unexpended practice bombs and their associated rack too, the amount of fuel I have is a lot less than it usually is (we have a max weight with which we can land at, and the more things you put on the jet, the less fuel you can have when you land, as the weight of fuel is the only variable that can be altered. You start out with a lot more fuel, which is nice, but in the end there is always a tradeoff). So basically, the next pass its either trap, or divert to a nearby Air Force base.

The guy ahead of us got waved off as well, and he makes it around. He happened to be on of the Marines earlier mentioned. Except at the last minute, they change the final bearing on him by 30 degrees. Imagine coming into a commercial airport and all of a sudden the runway shifts to the right. He manages to make it over to his perceived center line in time, and has a great approach going, considering he cant see anything. We can hear Paddles telling him in their most relaxed voice, "you're on glideslope, a little come left, on glideslope, on centerline…" and then an exasperated, but calm "waveoff, waveoff, winds." The guy had the approach suitcased, and then bam, at the last minute, he gets sent away. From Tower: "311, you signal is Divert." They aren't even bothering with in flight refueling at this point because the weather is so bad, so they just send him off to the Air Force base 150 miles away.

And then it is my turn. This is the point at which the out of body experience begins. They talk about training taking over, and you don't really appreciate that until it actually happens. Your body just does what it has been seasoned to do time and again. It felt eerily like a simulator, except we never hear the reassuring "okay, you're on freeze now, you can come on out," Anyway, I admit I really didn't consciously know what was going on. My hands just moved. I tip over at 3 miles, and descend. The controller tells me to take 600 feet (in retrospect, this was a bad move, because as the later talk on indicates, when I heard the first low call, I became spring loaded to put on power when I didn't necessarily need to). I descend. The instruments that give us instant lineup and glideslope are still down, so Im doing this all based on rough numbers. My heart is racing, but I am consciously trying to control my breathing and wiggle my toes, which actually really helps. The controller tells me to call the ball. My WSO responds "CLARA ship" again. I hear the paddles talk on. "You're LOW…you're LOW coming up…good correction…you're a little high…lined up left, right for lineup…call the ball when you have it…you're a little high…right for lineup…" "Ball." I have a ball, but I cant see line up…for all I know Im going to hit the Paddles shack on the left side of the ship or the superstructure on the right. "Roger ball…a little high, easy with it…EASY with it…come left…right for lineup" (at this point I can hear the collective silent prayers as I see the ball zoom off the top of the lens and I desperately try to will it back on – a stable ball means you will more than likely trap)…"power back on, bolter bolter bolter. ARRGGH!!! I missed all the wires.

"113, your signal is divert, take heading of 120, climb at your discretion, contact Strike." I guess I actually expected that to happen, and whaddya know it did. I was going to Japan.

The only time I had done an emergency profile was in the simulator in a jet that was relatively clean of external stores. This time I had a lot of extra drag, and a 100 knot headwind at altitude. We are at a fuel state of 4,300 lbs, burning 7,000lbs per side per hour during the climb. I know that we will make all this up when we eventually descend, but it's a bit scary to see your fuel march down, with most of the distance left to travel. We make it to 40,000ft (a new altitude record again!) bring the power back to idle (fuel flow, 800lbs per side, whew!) and descend. That part was uneventful except for the icing we got and the associated caution which makes life exciting, but soon enough we were back into warm air, the air base was right as advertised, and we landed uneventfully. We landed with 2000 lbs of gas, and after flying out at the ship for so long, being at an airfield with 12,000 feet of runway as opposed to the 850' we have to work with felt extremely strange, and luxuriously long. Two of the Marine hornets were there, as well as another Navy hornet who had tried to tank, didn't get any flow from the hose after numerous plugs after miraculously finding some clear air to do so in, and made the quick decision to call uncle and head our way. He landed with 800lbs of gas. That, to a jet guy, is pretty much the scariest thing ever. We also had a Prowler land after us.

Of course, the Air Force wouldn't give us gas at first because we didn't have our credit card or authorization in hand to get fuel. I kid you not. It took an hour of haggling to finally convince them we were who we said we were, we didn't have any documentation because we planned to land on THE BOAT!, and at one point they even hooked up our jet, started fueling it then promptly stopped because higher authority wanted something in writing. I mean, we are on the same side right??? Defense appropriations are for the whole DoD, right? (I know better than this, as indeed the whole pie approach is about as far from the truth as the truth lies, but its fun to hassle the Air Force for being quintessentially and painfully bureaucratic every time they get the chance).

We eventually get our gas and take off for more excitement. Its somewhat telling that I actually feel more comfortable in the cockpit than I do on dry land at this point. Maybe it's a sense of control, or reverting to what we know we can handle. I dunno, but it was a very brief and interesting feeling that came over me. We check in with the boat, and they want to recover us right away. I guess the weather had gotten so bad, they canceled all the other launches for the day, so the deck was clear for us to land. This is a surprise to us, as we expected to wait for about an hour. We zoom down from 33k to 2k in a matter of minutes, dumping about 9000lbs of gas (about 1,500 gallons…i.e. about 9 months worth of rent for me, yet somehow when you work for the government, all concept of money seems to go out the window) on the way to get below max trap (wouldn't that extra fuel have been nice to have, say three hours ago…but water over the dam at this point, one of the many ironies of this job).

The first time around the second try is again a repeat of the last fiasco, except we finally have the misnamed "needles" (a boat controlled vertical glideslope and horizontal lineup indicator, which is actually a little circle that looks like a target, and its counterpart "bulls eye" which are no kidding needles, go figure), and the comm channels are silent with only us out there, which is a blessed respite from the cacophony of sound that made up the last recovery. Thank the Good Lord!!!! Something is finally going right finally. Now I actually know where I am in relation to the ship. Still cant see the darn thing until in close (maybe 1000ft from the back of the boat), and its still raining like you read about but I get to a good start and Paddles talks me down.

I see the ball…and can see the ship, but have no idea where centerline is, once again.

"Little right for line up..come left…good correction, on centerline."

One ball high, need to bring it down, but keep it energized, oops not enough power off

"a little high, Easy with it."

Right before I touch down, I think, ive got this. The ball is two balls (of five) high and ever so slowly trending down.

A slight tug, then unbelievably I see the end of the ship approaching and its not slowing down…YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!! I race off the end.

"Bolter bolter bolter, hook skip."

I later find out my hook came down EXACTLY on top of the three wire (the ideal wire to catch) and knocked it around a bit, dragging it for about 10 yards, then slipped off. Literally two inches either fore or aft and it either would have landed before the three and caught it, or just beyond it and grabbed the four. This is just not my day.

Regardless, I am in the air again. Food is down there. And suddenly I'm not nervous anymore. Probably because I used up all my adrenaline in the past three attempts, and have none left to spare. This last attempt starts out the same as the others, CLARA everything until the last few moments, a few in close lineup calls as I still cant see centerline until im about to touch down, and then that blessed blessed deceleration. The world has stopped moving around, I hear a "nice pass, dude" from my WSO, and as has only happened on the carrier, my left leg is shaking so bad I can hardly control the brakes and nosewheel steering the legs movement is responsible for.

An hour later, we are down at chow, as the other pilots gather around to hear our story. They want all the details. They add their own complaints about the ridiculousness of the Air Force. They talk about craziness behind the boat and commiserate. And for a few moments, Im the new guy who got aboard, who everybody wants to hear from. I talk more in that hour than I have probably my entire time here. I slap the back of the Marine who diverted with us when I see him in the officers mess, and Slugz, my WSO, gives me a surreptitious high five, and another "well done." I guess this is how a ready room becomes cohesive, the accomplishment of difficult tasks successfully.

I read somewhere yesterday ("Moneyball", actually, great book) that commercial airline pilots and baseball players crave places of sensory depravation. This now makes sense to me. I'm pretty sure all the boredom associated with this job is to compensate for the moments of mind-boggling action doing things that shouldn't be possible, but are done anyway, because they have to be. Crazy.

Hope you all are well…I truly miss you all, and as I put each of your names to this letter, truly and fondly remember the impact each of you have had on me. I love these guys, and this profession, but there really is no place like home.

Yours,

ben

Heroes

*DUNHAM, JASON L.

Rank and Organization: Corporal, United States Marine Corps

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as Rifle Squad Leader, 4th Platoon, Company K, Third Battalion, Seventh Marines (Reinforced), Regimental Combat Team 7, First Marine Division (Reinforced), on 14 April 2004.

Corporal Dunham's squad was conducting a reconnaissance mission in the town of Karabilah, Iraq, when they heard rocket-propelled grenade and small arms fire erupt approximately two kilometers to the west. Corporal Dunham led his Combined Anti-Armor Team towards the engagement to provide fire support to their Battalion Commander's convoy, which had been ambushed as it was traveling to Camp Husaybah. As Corporal Dunham and his Marines advanced, they quickly began to receive enemy fire. Corporal Dunham ordered his squad to dismount their vehicles and led one of his fire teams on foot several blocks south of the ambushed convoy. Discovering seven Iraqi vehicles in a column attempting to depart, Corporal Dunham and his team stopped the vehicles to search them for weapons. As they approached the vehicles, an insurgent leaped out and attacked Corporal Dunham. Corporal Dunham wrestled the insurgent to the ground and in the ensuing struggle saw the insurgent release a grenade. Corporal Dunham immediately alerted his fellow Marines to the threat. Aware of the imminent danger and without hesitation, Corporal Dunham covered the grenade with his helmet and body, bearing the brunt of the explosion and shielding his Marines from the blast. In an ultimate and selfless act of bravery in which he was mortally wounded, he saved the lives of at least two fellow Marines.

By his undaunted courage, intrepid fighting spirit, and unwavering devotion to duty, Corporal Dunham gallantly gave his life for his country, thereby reflecting great credit upon himself and upholding the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

Prizes

One of the hallmarks of modern economic research has been in the arena of incentives. What makes people do things? How are they motivated? Unsurprisingly, one of the most effective incentives is in the form of cold, hard, cash.

Ever since I heard of the X-prize -- a $10 million prize given to the first individual or group to successfully build and launch a man and the equivalent of 400kg of baggage 60 miles into the atmosphere twice within a two week period -- it has been remarkable to me that more such incentives havent been offered.

Prizes have been awarded in the past for developing consistent, shipboard navigational systems in the 1700s -- and won by a clockmaker. Charles Lindberg flew across the Atlantic to win a monetary prize. Mathematicians spend countless hours attempting to prove obscure, but remarkable, theories in the pursuit of the prestige gained by winning the prizes associated with each theory.

Especially in the economy we currently have, where innovation drives nearly all profit, it would seem plausible that the government would be the first in line to take advantage of such an opportunity.

Take space travel. Estimates for a government sponsored Mars mission range from between $10 billion to $100 billion. But what if instead of pouring in endless monies to the bottomless bureaucracy known as NASA and the International Space Station, the government offered a $1 billion prize to the first private company to build, launch and land a manned mission to Mars? The expiration date could be set 50 years in the future, and the prize indexed to inflation.

While the technology may not yet be available to complete such a task, the resulting innovation in its pursuit would be remarkable. While only one team ultimately won the X-prize, many more tried their best and came up with some pretty revolutionary and inexpensive models. Some are even contemplating going into the space tourism industry against Richard Branson's winning SpaceShipOne entry.

Its like the American Idol effect. While only one person wins every year, usually the top four or five get record deals. These are talents that would otherwise not have been recognized by the record labels for whatever reason. But now they are -- all in the pursuit of a prize.

The New York Times ran an article today about the recent efforts of NetFlix to develop a new predictive analysis tool for recommending movies to their viewers. At first they failed to develop it in house, but once they offered a prize of $1 million with specific requirements, hundreds of ideas began flowing in. Only one will win, but the software developed by individually motivated actors will likely spur on innovations not before imagined.

The federal government could streamline its federal budget by unleashing the creative talents of millions of Americans. What if instead of pouring out tens of billions of dollars in failed bureaucratic attempts to "fix" education, the federal government offered up a $100 million prize to the group that creates a school system readily adaptable to preparing our youth for the onslaught of globalization? They would still expend money to try their methods of red tape, but once someone created a system to eliminate the need for endless funding -- hopefully in the form of more effective funding -- they would pay out the prize and save billions in the long run.

What if instead of a $1 trillion drug entitlement program, we offered $10 billion to the first pharmaceutical company to create a new way of developing cheap drugs? Let them fight, and innovate, all on their own dime. And it may never be achieved. But tinkering and failure often lead to the most unanticipated results.

The Times article mentions the potential role of prizes in developing alternative fuels. It is no surprise that for all the billions expended in ethanol subsidies and Hydrogen cars, nothing has been created. The incentive to think outside the box isnt there. But if the government said, we will pay $1 billion for the first company to develop a viable renewable energy source, I guarantee that the floodgates of ideas would be opened. Some wouldnt pan out. Others would. And some would lead to solutions to problems that have nothing to do with energy Independence.

This isnt to say the government should cut off funding for status quo grants, and focus only on prizes. But it is to say that with both in combination, once the prize is awarded, it may eliminate the need for those endless, oftentimes fruitless grants.

The beauty inherent in prizes is that they do not micromanage a process. They give requirements, but the paths to that end is not preconceived. The money isnt paid unless there is success. The willingness of people to pursue something that is a passion to them in the hope of a one-in-a-million discovery would surprise most bureaucrats. Which is ironic, considering how many people try to win the lottery every day. We are in a singular position with the technology around us to solve seemingly insurmountable problems. Given the chance, unleashed ingenuity is one of the most unpredictable and powerful elements of humanity.

And ultimately, winning the money associated with the prize is far from the final goal of the innovator. SpaceShipOne cost upwards of $20 million to develop for the $10 million prize it received. Along with the cash, it received endless press, a stake in future commercial space travel, and celebrity status among technologists. It has spawned new excitement in discovering outer space, and companies are looking to develop better versions of their creation.

It is costless to have hundreds, even thousands, of government sponsored prizes. If every dollar of Congressional pork-laden earmarks were devoted to such a scheme, the efficiency of government would be astronomical. Again, unless the technology is developed, no prize is given out. And if the technology is developed, it is likely that its development is worth far more than the prize-foundations expenditure anyway.

It would likely disrupt established bureaucracies and insider deals. But the key to ending corruption is to open a system to the light of day -- and no greater light exists than the collective free will of a group of people in pursuit of prestige and a cash prize. I mean honestly, look at the ridiculous lengths people go to to get on game shows. Lets just take advantage of those selfish impulses and translate them into something beneficial for all mankind!