Letters From War – Little Boys and Flying Dreams

By Don Harward

My earliest recollection of a chance meeting with the “flying bug” happened when I was six or seven years old. My father had taken me to the Baltimore civic centre for some sort of a technology show and some father-son personal time. While we were wandering inside that spacious building, I gazed at the various displays of technological wonder. We turned a corner and there it was right in front of me—a Bell 47 helicopter with its large Plexiglas bubble staring outward like some enormous praying mantis. The rope placed all around it was meant to keep people away, but it did nothing to stop me. I was drawn like a moth to a night-light and it pulled me ever closer.

My dad had apparently lost track of my whereabouts, because he would have immediately called for me to come back out of the restricted area—or perhaps I couldn’t hear any longer because this thing was beckoning me onward. I walked right up to the skid and climbed right up into the cockpit. Without giving it any conscious thought, I plopped down into the seat and grabbed the cyclic. In my vivid imagination, I could see the white and yellow rotor blade spinning wildly and the world slipping below my feet. The pedals were too far away to reach but the cyclic was firmly in my grasp. As I pushed that stick forward, the flight controls made a squeaking sound, and, just like that, I was centre stage. Outside that protective plastic bubble, there seemed to be a thousand eyes staring at me. Dad hopped the rope and was on me in a flash. He smiled and pulled me out of the seat muttering apologies to the onlookers, a couple of whom were probably the owners.

Something happened to me at that moment; a seed was unknowingly planted during that innocent and chance encounter. I wouldn’t know it for many years, but these machines would someday carry me across faraway lands and afford me special views of this planet which few have ever seen.

Years later, as I approached my teen years, I was again out with my father, only this time we were fishing at Atkinson Reservoir, a lake created by the Army Corps of Engineers back in the 1940s. It was a place that gave refuge to largemouth bass, a favourite game fish that are a hoot to catch.

As my father and I worked our ancient spinner baits under a clear summer sky, all at once the thunder came. At first it was just a low rumble but it built quickly. Dad wasn’t looking down at the water any longer but was staring toward the dam that impounded the lake. As the rumble quickly became a roar, I got scared. Then I saw it! Streaking across the lake like a bullet was an F-4 Phantom jet fighter, and that sucker was right on the deck. It ripped past the dam and filled the valley with such a cacophony of sound that it was “felt” rather than heard. I saw every detail of it—its camouflage paint, the angle of its wings and tail, and its twin turbojet engines. It blasted past us in a flash and then pulled up to clear the hill a mile or so distant.

As I watched it pass from left to right, Dad came into my field of view and I saw his eyes fixed on it also. He turned towards me as the fighter pulled abruptly upward, making a distinct ripping sound. I must have looked as if I had seen the second coming—awestruck is not a powerful enough word to describe how I felt. As the jet climbed skyward and the sound faded to a distant thunder, I refocused on my father’s eyes, which were now fixed on mine. With just a hint of a smile, he asked me, “Don, would you like to fly one of those?” The weight of that question was amazing. I was just a boy and flying that Phantom was several thousand miles beyond anything I could imagine just then. I simply answered, “No Dad, I could never do that.” Turning to look toward the now distant thunder he told me, “Yes you can—if you really want to.” If that wasn’t another seed, then it was certainly a healthy helping of fertiliser for my earlier dreams of flying someday.

Many years later, I had a son of my own; I was eventually blessed with three sons but at this time, only number one had arrived. I had named him Don after my father and me, and since everyone always seemed to call me “Big Don,” he naturally became “Little Don.” The Army had posted me to Germany, where my unit made its home at Kitzingen Army Airfield. One chilly late autumn Sunday, Little Don and I had driven into the hangar so I could wash the car inside where there was some precious heat. Just outside the hangar on the apron was a helicopter refuel point. While I busied myself vacuuming and scrubbing on the car, one aircraft after another taxied into the refuel area for a sip of jet gas. I had opened the heavy doors of the hangar a few inches to allow little “D” to get a look at the aircraft while still keeping him safely inside.

As I ran my chamois cloth along the contours of my Pontiac Trans-Am, I heard the snarl and growl of an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter hovering into position to refuel. Finishing the aft quarter panel of the car, I glanced over to check on Little Don, only to discover that he wasn’t where he had been just a moment or two before. I glanced quickly around the crowded hangar looking for him. In one of those moments of clear understanding, I shot a look back towards the hangar door where he had been. As I heard the engine of the Cobra rolling back up to flight, I immediately knew where that boy had gone. Like an Olympic sprinter, I dashed towards the opening in the door. I couldn’t get through it fast enough and one glance toward the snake (slang term for the deadly Cobra) confirmed my fears.

Dividing the street from the flight operations area where the refuel pits were was a five or six foot tall anchor fence. My son was on the helicopter side of it, perhaps only thirty feet away from the running helicopter. I pushed with all my strength and started to part the heavy hangar doors far enough for me to get through. My near-panic began to evaporate as I saw Little Don pinned back against the fence by the full force of the rotor wash from the five-ton Cobra. Despite the noise and windblast, he was still waving his arms wildly and trying to jump up and down. As the Snake came to a three-foot hover, instead of turning towards the runway, it made a ninety degree turn to face my son, nose-to-nose. The nose-mounted cannon—usually kept in a barrel-up position—dipped momentarily in greeting then slewed upward as the ship turned left and took off from the pad. As I ran to reach my son, I remembered the little boy who watched in awe as the F-4 streaked by at treetop level.

Just as my father had done all those years ago, I, too, studied my son’s eyes and when he finally looked at me, I asked, “Son, would you like to fly that some day?” Although he did not answer, I saw a change take place right there in front of me. A spark had ignited a small flame and, thanks to my dad before me, I recognised that event for what it was.

Fast forward ten or twelve years. Now a slightly greying Master Army Aviator, I thought it was time to have the career choices talk with my now teenage son. Sometimes I smile when I realise how everything is carefully orchestrated, but we blind humans still believe in chance or coincidence. By the mid-nineties, my Army career was getting a little long in the tooth, and Little Don—who wasn’t so little any more—was approaching the end of his high school years and thinking about what might lie beyond. I always saw a spark in his eyes when we talked about anything to do with flying. Indeed, aviation had become so much a part of his life through me, that the two were becoming indistinguishable. I felt in my heart of hearts that my son needed to take his place amongst other aviators who would forsake their own lives, if necessary, to defend our great country.

It was a summer evening when I decided to talk to him about his career choices. Sitting in the living room as usual after supper, I asked Don what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. “You know, Dad, I’m just not sure yet.” As fate—or perhaps a slightly higher authority—would have it, just at that moment, the sound of a Blackhawk helicopter began to drone its steady beat. We lived directly south of Fort Campbell, Kentucky where nearly five hundred helicopters reside and one of these was apparently going out for some night training.

Don twisted in his seat on the couch and moved the curtain aside to try to get a glimpse of the approaching Sikorsky. Seeing this, I pressed, “So what is it that you have a passion for; what do you dream of doing?” Again, he said he didn’t know—as he moved the curtain from side to side, straining to see the helicopter. As the sound of the rotors grew ever louder, I asked, “You don’t feel passionate about anything—nothing comes to mind?” The Hawk was flying at about 300 feet and was going to pass right over the house.

Don couldn’t stand it any longer and rushed outside to stand on the front lawn. I hurried out after him and we both looked up as that cargo hook passed right over our heads at a few hundred feet. I watched Don look after the Blackhawk as it passed from view behind a big southern pine tree. He turned and spoke, “Dad, I just don’t know!” Brother, sometimes you just can’t decide if you should laugh or cry or hit them on the head with a big stick!

Little Don did eventually serve his country as a flying enlisted soldier in the Air National Guard, where he flew as an “aeroscout observer” in OH-58 Kiowas.

With some people I have known, that spark of passion could not be suppressed. The best such example I can think of was Jody Egnor. A man of average stature and fairly unremarkable in appearance, he was anything but “average” or “unremarkable” in the dark cockpit of an Army helicopter, where he excelled. I often thought of him like a son and my memories of him are as thick as molasses.

I first met Jody when I reported to my final unit of assignment in the US Army. When I arrived, the company was deployed to the field on a major training exercise and I thought I’d get a couple weeks’ relaxation in the “rear area” while awaiting their return. My hopes were dashed when word came back to have me report immediately to the field site. Reluctantly, I loaded my newly issued gear into a Hummer and was driven out to a muddy, nasty spot on the map called “Golden Hawk.” Who comes up with these names, anyway?

The Hummer stopped on a piece of terra firma—which wasn’t—and we threw my bags out onto some less muddy weeds. As the Hummer drove off, I was standing there wondering where everyone was, when young Warrant Officer Jody Egnor approached me with a big Midwestern smile and shook my hand. “You must be Big Don. You’re expected; let me get your bags.” Jody would have probably carried all of them had I not intervened. I followed him into the tree line and the large tent that was to be my home for the next couple of weeks. After depositing my gear alongside a vacant cot next to his, Jody introduced me around and then disappeared on some errand.

Almost immediately after meeting the guys, I was knee deep in planning an “air assault” mission with the flight lead. The planning went on until after midnight. Throughout the night, Jody—who was too junior to really help out as a planner—kept bringing in coffee, food and everything else we needed. The next morning when I woke up and crawled out of my sleeping bag, he was already gone. He had been out collecting things like fresh coffee and more rolls, and had even made copies of the crew packets we had put together the evening before.

So it always went with Jody. When I became the chief pilot for the organisation, he was seldom further that a couple metres away from anything that was going on and he flew anything he could to get flight time. I started to see him for what he was and, perhaps, what he might become. When young aviators go through flight school, they are told that when they finally get their first flying assignments, they should “tuck up under the wing” of some “crusty” old aviator. While I don’t fancy myself as being crusty, Jody had definitely chosen me. For everything I taught him, he rewarded us with excellent performances of his ever-growing flying ability.

After a year, I had become great friends with Jody and his wife. One Saturday, during a cook-out at their house, Jody sprang his plan on me.

It was common knowledge I had spent a significant amount of time in the Army’s only Special Operations Aviation Regiment; heck, I wore its combat patch boldly on my right sleeve. Jody told me that he wanted to join Special Ops and said he wanted me to teach him everything I could to prepare him.

Fate was hard at work that night. I had just completed creating the first flight lead course for the 101^st Airborne Division—the “Screaming Eagles”—and I was looking at assessing some highly qualified aviators against my training regime. Was Jody ready? Could he even keep up? I decided to give him the chance. It was an unpopular decision, since many more senior pilots would be bypassed by this very junior pilot. I could write a book about Jody, and, perhaps someday, I will, but suffice to say, his performance during the intense training was nothing short of magnificent.

Soon afterwards, on a dark winter night, I knew for sure I had chosen wisely. I was riding in the jump seat while Jody and another flight lead trainee were flying a low level route at about 300 feet in low illumination. Before any of us realised it, we had flown right into a blinding snow shower. When a pilot finds himself in what we call inadvertent IMC (instrument meteorological conditions), the procedure is to climb immediately, transition to instruments and continue in that manner at altitude. Unfortunately, this is not the best tactical option for a military pilot who wants to avoid being seen. Sometime earlier, when Jody and I had discussed the possibility, I told him that in such a situation, I would maintain altitude, execute a 180-degree turn and simply fly out of the weather.

You have to appreciate that I was speaking as a veteran of twenty years and more than eight thousand hours of flying. This night, the two guys in the front had only around a thousand hours each, with Jody being the most junior. It’s times like this when one appreciates one’s own mortality. I was in danger and had absolutely no control of this helicopter! Jody said evenly, “I’m coming right; clear me,” and smoothly turned that Chinook around. With in a minute, we had exited the shower and could see once again. Turning his head toward me, Jody told me that some crusty old pilot had taught him that trick. At that instant, I knew he was the one I had been looking for. I would pour my heart and soul into him, and I knew that in return, he would reward his army and nation many times over. He would become a great aviator and the kind of special leader we all look to in times of need.

During the next year, in which I retired and left the Army, Jody was assessed for and was accepted into Army Special Operations, where he became a flight lead in record time. Although I had left the Army, I continued to hear from Jody every once in a while during the next few years.

Then, one day while I was driving back from the airport where I flew regional jets, I had the radio tuned to the public news channel. With my head still buzzing from the leg I had flown from the Bahamas to Cincinnati, I wasn’t taking too much notice of what was being said. However, when I heard the newscaster announce that the Army had lost an MH-47 helicopter, it focused pretty darn quickly. The regular Army flies the CH-47 (meaning “cargo helicopter”), but the MH-47 (“mission helicopter”) is flown only by special ops guys.

I remember that moment as clearly as if I were looking at a photograph directly in front of me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and uttered a prayer: “Please, God, don’t let it be Jody.” But it was one prayer that would not be answered. After I got back to my apartment, I almost didn’t want to answer the phone when it rang. “Don,” said the voice at the other end, “I have some bad news; it’s Jody…he’s gone.” I still can’t write or talk about it with a clear eye.

Jody’s father asked me to speak at the service to honour his son. It seemed completely surreal to me as I stood there in front of hundreds of people. All around me and at the back of the church stood many comrades of Jody’s and mine, all wearing their decorations, maroon berets and spit-shined boots. I tried to keep my jaw squared and my words even, but I could not, as I spoke of Jody’s love of flying and his desire to serve his nation. I was mindful that the special training I had given Jody had got him into that unit. I felt I had to take some ownership for the very high price my friend and his crew had paid a couple of days earlier.

Standing there at the podium in that very crowded church, even as my mouth spoke the words I had penned straight from my heart, in my mind’s eye, I pictured a little boy watching an F-4 Phantom fighter climbing towards the heavens.

Could anyone ever really divert a passion that is so deeply rooted in a man’s soul? And even if we could, should we try? To what purpose? To save a life, perhaps? I think not. I believe you must make the best of what you have and strive for it with everything in your spirit. Grab life with both hands and don’t let go. If, in doing so, it costs you your very life, perhaps it proves you really lived…To Jody.