(Originally published September 2014)

I originally penned this during my son’s first overseas deployment to a war zone. I was rummaging through the old vault of “Logbook” articles and came across it. Memories of that night came flooding back, and I felt it should be posted up. Better late than never I guess might be appropriate. God bless our young men and women in uniform…they are indeed special.

“FINAL FLIGHT”

Like every working human, those of us who are blessed to be aviation professionals have good days and bad days. Also, like everyone else, we experience the close cousin to those days; they’re known as the “easy” day and the “tough” day. They may seem the same, but they are actually quite different. Let me explain what I mean.

A good day in my world could mean anything from a duty period filled with no issues to a day filled with nothing but issues. Things like thunderstorms, mechanical problems, and passenger headaches, down to just plain old Air Traffic Control delays. Even though it may have been a “tough day,” it can still be a good one. Many a day has ended with me lying my head on the hotel pillow, reflecting on the day, and thinking, “You know, Herr Captain, you took everything that was thrown at you today. You made good decisions, acted professionally at all times, and provided the customer with a safe product. Although it was tough today, it was still a good day. You earned your keep, used skills that 4+ decades of aviating have taught you, and, in the end, you brought your ‘A game,’ and it was good.”

See, good does not always mean easy.

Yesterday, however, would prove to be one of the toughest days I have had at work in a very long time.

Calling it a “day” is a misnomer, for we were tasked with flying the midnight departure from Anchorage through the dark night over Canada, with our destination the sprawling metropolis of Minneapolis/St. Paul. The flying machine for the mission was in superb shape (Mr. Boeing’s 757 on its worst day is still better than most airliners on their best), the cabin crew was top-notch, the weather in Anchorage was benign, the ride at flight level 350 (or 35000′) was mostly smooth, and except for a beautiful lightning show (from thunderstorms north of our course over Regina), the flight was completely uneventful. It was what I would refer to as a “no-brainer.”

(What several hundred miles east of Anchorage looks like from 35,000 feet.)

So, what made the night so bad?

The answer is very simple: it was tough due to a single passenger (and his companion).

So, what was the issue? Was he drunk? Was he loud and obnoxious? Was he rude and annoying? What exactly was the problem with this one person, the guy who made your night so miserable, Captain BBall?

The issue was simple. He was silent, perfectly motionless, and headed home. He was 19 years young — and he was a fallen hero. His companion (his best friend) was adorned in his Army Class A uniform and was respectfully seeing that his life-long best friend, his “brother,” made it home.

After I was informed of my special charge while at the gate in Anchorage, my thoughts immediately turned to my son. He proudly wears the single silver bar of a United States Army officer and has been “in country” in Afghanistan for the last three months. We are fortunate to talk to him regularly, and each time I (or my wife) hear his voice, our eyes light up, our hearts rejoice, and we smile from ear to ear. Whatever is on the docket for that day suddenly becomes wonderful. To say that talking to him from the other side of the planet makes our day brighter is like saying there are stars in the sky. Words simply cannot do it justice.   

As we readied ourselves for the launch from gate B6, I was too busy to let my mind wander and begin the mental gymnastics of what lay ahead of me that night. Later, after the many tasks required to take a 100-ton flying machine from motionless to 500 knots in low Earth orbit had been accomplished, we settled in for the five-hour leg to Minnesota. It was only then that I had time to think about the young man lying below deck in my cargo hold. I could not stop picturing his shocked and grief-stricken Mother and Father, siblings, aunts/ uncles, and all the friends he had made growing up. I know it sounds cliché as hell, but their nightmare of pain was coming home to roost. Below me lay a young man, not even in his second decade, and he had stopped being. He had no wife to love, no children to raise, no grandchildren to spoil, and his legacy to be written for all of time was that he fell serving freedom and democracy.

(The business end of Mr. Boeing’s B757-251…here on the ramp in Saipan.)

I began to wonder, as a young man, whether he was a curious person. Did he love sports, or did he lean toward the introverted side? Did he love to toss the pigskin around, or did he spend hours with the likes of young Mr. Potter or Frodo and company? My son was both as a young man. He excelled in sports and was quite comfortable being alone with his books and novels. He had his moments (doesn’t every teenager?), but all in all, he was a joy to parent.

Bumper sticker slogans mean little to me. Chances are high that this young person fell in the company of his friends and possibly lost his life defending them. I would guess that his last thoughts were not of country and politics but of his home and loved ones. Thinking of these things in the dark, quiet cockpit, I would feel the tears begin to well up, and I found a way to squelch them. I concentrated on the machine, the flight plan, the fuel burn, and (later) the lightning show outside my cockpit window. But as much as I forced my mind to obey, it continued to wander back to the cold compartment below me and the sacred cargo I carried.

As the parent of a child in harm’s way, trust me when I say your days are filled with apprehension, worry, and even what I can only describe as “terror thinking.” You do not allow yourself the luxury of something as simple as counting the days until their return. The fear that doing so might somehow jinx the journey is very real. Did this young man’s mother and father experience the same feelings as my wife and I? Did they live on pins and needles as we do, and did they count the days? Are they counting them even now? I’m guessing they were simply counting the hours until he was home.

The Lead Flight Attendant provided me with information on this soldier and his Honor Guard for my planned P.A. address, asking passengers to respectfully remain seated after we arrived at the gate in Minneapolis. This would allow the young man in uniform to deplane first and join his friend on the ramp, ensuring his companion was offloaded promptly (and respectfully) and thus ensuring his escort duties were met. I wondered if I would be able to speak to the passengers without becoming emotional; it would, in fact, be hitting far too close to home. I did what any good commander would do…I delegated the duty and asked the First Officer to make the announcement. He graciously acknowledged that he would do it, thus cementing his place at the top of my “New Favorite First Officer” list.  All kidding aside, I was glad that he understood my situation, and I was grateful for his help with this task.

One hundred and fifty nautical miles northwest of Minneapolis/St. Paul, I began our descent for landing as the eastern horizon was beginning to glow orange, signaling another beautiful Minnesota Fall sunrise. I briefed the F/O on the approach to runway 30L, and since the hour of the day (0500) meant we were the only target on the radar screen, the ATC folks cut us loose early and cleared us for the “visual approach.” Shortly after that, they cleared us for landing, and I knew that my time with the young hero was drawing to an end.

(One of the many hundreds of sunrises these eyes have seen from six miles above the Earth.)

I knew I had to give him something, but what? I had but one thing to offer, and I vowed to make the smoothest approach and landing this old airline pelican could muster, for I felt like I owed him at least that. Our 60-knot tailwind and the close ATC vectors had us a bit high on the descent profile on our downwind leg, but with aggressive use of the speed brakes and/or earlier-than-normal flap extensions, we turned a five-mile final approach right on speed and on the glide slope.

The speed looked good, the descent was perfect, and at the exact moment called for, I closed both thrust levers and gently rolled the main wheels onto the pavement. Gingerly lowering the nose landing gear to the runway, I pulled the thrust levers into reverse, and we slowed to a comfortable speed to exit the runway. It was the smoothest landing I had made in years, and as we taxied toward gate G22 and the First Officer began his P.A. announcement, my mind began to think of his grieving family again. He was almost home, and my contract with him and his loved ones was nearly complete. The tears were fighting to come back, but I had no time to think of that now, for I had to concentrate on one last task… getting us to the gate quickly, smoothly, and safely. I was very proud of my 180 passengers, for once at the gate, to a person, they remained respectfully in their seats, allowing the young Army Specialist to deplane first. Perfect strangers came together on a long, dark night over western Canada, pooled their humanity, and honored a young man they had never met.

My part of the agreement was to get him home.

His part, well, he had already done his part.

My chosen career allows me scant opportunity to do what might remotely be considered “honorable,” but last night, I was afforded that opportunity.

It was a tough night but a good one.

From a grateful father and grateful nation — thank you, Private — God bless you.

“Rest in peace, soldier; your time on the wall is done.”

BBall