The Predator's War

This is an article that I wrote for Airman Magazine, the official magazine of the US Air Force.

The Predator's War

In the starry skies over the sparse Mojave Desert — far from the pulsating neon lights of Las Vegas — lurks a nearly silent sentinel. It searches among the yucca cactuses and Joshua trees for a lonely radar station atop a mountain peak. The RQ-1 Predator’s infrared eye pierces the night like an owl, capturing the landscape with dreary shades of white, black and gray — not unlike the surface of the moon. Miles away, the crew of the small aircraft — an unmanned aerial vehicle — watches the scenery unfold on a video monitor while the aircraft methodically closes in on its target.

“To sit in a [ground control station] in one country while flying the Predator and looking at targets in another country hundreds of miles away is mind-boggling,” said Capt. Rob Kinerson, a Predator pilot with the 11th Reconnaissance Squadron, Nellis Air Force Base, Nev. “And knowing that we are now directly involved in determining the outcome of battles — and even the war — makes us realize the importance of our mission.”

Just another day on the job for the men and women who fly and maintain the Predator.

The pesky Predator is a medium altitude, long-range aircraft capable of hanging out above a target for more than 20 hours. Its sensor array permits detailed scrutiny of enemy targets using fixed and adjustable lenses, an infrared lens and a synthetic aperture radar.

To an enemy, the Predator is like the unwanted guest who doesn’t want to leave. “Like the mosquito that you hate to have in your tent at night,” Kinerson said. “Not only are we watching, but we’re ready to strike. The enemy won’t sleep knowing it’s only a matter of time until he feels the bite.”


Strong capabilities

Unmanned aircraft have come a long way from their humble beginnings. In years past, the military used pre- programmed drones for target practice on gunnery ranges. That drone misconception still persists in many Air Force circles. But things have changed.

Just as Brig. Gen. Billy Mitchell crusaded against traditional military thinking regarding the use of airpower, Predator crews are pushing for greater recognition of their aircraft. They want people to know what the aircraft has accomplished in its short operational life and what it’s capable of doing. Traditionally, the Predator’s foremost mission has been aerial reconnaissance, but the Air Force has discovered that the versatile aircraft has other talents. It can direct close air support missions, act as a killer scout on the battlefield and help protect friendly troops.

“Using its new capabilities and missions, the Predator has evolved into a highly sophisticated and battle-proven warrior,” Kinerson said. “No longer do we simply act as slow-speed cheerleaders watching the war; we now have opportunities to quarterback the team to victory.”

A ground crew controls the Predator with line-of-sight data and satellite links. A newly installed ultra-high frequency radio permits communication over the data links, allowing the crew to “talk” to other aircraft. And pilots fly the Predators. From ground control stations far-removed from the front lines, they can maneuver the Predator just like any other aircraft. Pilots can comply with headings, altitudes and airspeeds directed by air traffic control, just as if they were in the cockpit.

Capt. Joe Rizzuto, a Predator instructor pilot, said that’s crucial to the Predator’s success.
“Having a pilot control the aircraft, even remotely, provides the flexibility required to participate in missions previously reserved for manned aircraft,” he said. Another instructor pilot, Capt. Jon Wozniak, agrees. “As other airframes realize the capabilities of the Predator, our training pace has accelerated significantly,” Wozniak said. “Emerging missions demand a rapid training pace so our crews can learn new ways of doing business.”

Wozniak said Nellis is a perfect Predator base. It’s home to Red Flag, the Air Force’s premier combat training exercise. The realistic training involves aircraft from the Air Force and a host of foreign nations. They mix it up over the vast Nevada Test and Training Range. “No other base can provide the diverse weapons systems required for our integration into the combat air force,” Wozniak said.


Afghan operations

The skills Predator crews learned in the Mojave Desert also help America in the war on terrorism during operations in Afghanistan. The previously unheralded star of Operation Enduring Freedom has turned heads all the way to the White House. But for the airmen who work with the Predator every day, it’s no surprise.

Peculiar-looking, spindly and white, the aircraft roamed the skies over the Balkans and Iraq for years providing aerial reconnaissance in airspace too dangerous for manned platforms. The Predator quickly adapted to the emerging demands of Afghan operations. Its missions there now include force protection, and fighter and close air support.

“What I do is important,” said Airman 1st Class Adam Fields, a sensor operator with the 11th Reconnaissance Squadron. “By having my video feed sent to commanders throughout the [theater] and having them make critical and sometimes life-saving decisions based on my video feed, I’m making a vital contribution. I know when I deploy in a contingency that I’m going to save lives, and I know I’ll help determine the course of an operation. There’s nowhere else in the world where I can do this operationally. I don’t ever want to stop.”

The Predator’s emerging popularity is a direct result of its successes in the war on terrorism.
At any given time, a Predator is airborne over Afghanistan shadowing suspected terrorist hideouts. Force protection is one key area where it has proved its mettle, providing intelligence for ground commanders, scouting and even locating a lost patrol of Marines.

Today, many ground forward air controllers don’t want to deploy without a Predator overhead, Rizzuto said. “At first, they didn’t want anything to do with us,” he said. “But when we were able to scout ahead, reporting on enemy positions around the next bend in the road or over a hill, their attitudes changed.”

Rizzuto said force protection missions have been the most rewarding tasks. “Even more so than blowing things up,” he said. “But if we can help the guys on the ground and still blow things up, so much the better.”

Operations in Afghanistan have shed light on the Predator’s other capabilities. In its killer-scout role, the aircraft can operate as an airborne forward air controller locating targets for waiting strike aircraft. Its pilot directs the strike, providing target information, altitude and geographic deconfliction. The Predator also provides attack aircraft run-in and egress headings.

“Killer-scout allows us to strike targets that never would have been hit in the past,” Rizzuto said. “Target approval is now accomplished in minutes, not days.”

After a strike, Predators can provide commanders with instant battle damage assessment. That allows for immediate follow-on strikes if necessary. And what a Predator sees it can easily uplink via satellite to command and control forces. This gives battlefield commanders real-time feedback allowing them to make quick decisions affecting enemy targets. In the past, those targets may have slipped away unharmed long before fighters arrived.

“The Predator has a better perspective of the battlefield than a ground forward air controller,” Wozniak added. “And it can go closer to threats than a manned airborne forward air controller like the OA-10 aircraft.”

This same perspective allowed the Predator to work close air support missions with ground units fighting in Afghanistan. And since it can remain above a target longer than most aircraft, the Predator can direct strikes in proximity with ground forces if needed.


Close air support

The aircraft’s close air support role mirrors its killer-scout role, with the key difference being target determination, Wozniak said. During a close air support mission, a ground commander chooses which targets will be hit. But a killer-scout crew finds the targets. In either case, the Predator coordinates with available fighters and uses them accordingly. Rizzuto said it’s important to identify the correct target because a missed target could have severe ramifications for nearby friendly troops.

What happens when a Predator crew discovers a significant target and there are no fighters nearby? A test at the Nellis range last year proved the Predator can also strike targets. Armed with Hellfire missiles, Predators became hunters and destroyed stationary and moving targets.
Now, a Predator that uncovers an enemy site can identify the target, mark it with a laser and launch its missile long before other strikers converge on the scene, Wozniak said. This is critically important when the target is on the move.

“A Predator strike can prevent its escape before fighters arrive,” he said.

The addition of the Hellfire missile-packing Predator will open a new window of warfare, Kinerson said. It will introduce a truly multirole and unmanned aircraft capable of significantly influencing a war. “With the Hellfire, the Predator can watch a potential target for hours then, single-handedly, eliminate it without ever having to put an aircrew at risk,” Kinerson said. “It’s like combining the best of our reconnaissance and strike assets for a fraction of the cost and almost none of the risk.”

The Predator’s Enduring Freedom successes are paving the way for newer unmanned aerial vehicle systems like Global Hawk, Predator B and the unmanned combat aerial vehicle — the first unmanned aircraft specifically designed for air combat. With every victory, the Predator solidifies the Air Force’s commitment to the unmanned aircraft.

Maj. Gen. Glen Shaffer, the Air Force’s chief of intelligence, said, “Predator operations in Operation Enduring Freedom have had a hugely significant impact to the future of Air Force warfighting. [Predator crews] have fundamentally changed command and control of the air battle.”

The Predator can be best viewed as a pioneer, just like the early biplanes over France in World War I, Kinerson said. And just like the rapid evolution from a reconnaissance role to armed fighters and bombers during that tumultuous war, Operation Enduring Freedom has provided the catalyst for the evolution of the unmanned aircraft.

“It may be just a matter of time before the world’s first UAV ace claims a place among the legendary aviators of the past, racking up kills from a remote ground control station miles from the action,” Kinerson said. “General Mitchell would have been proud.”

The Coming Storm

The tanned grassland swayed like waves of an angry ocean, or at least how George Whitetail imagined the ocean would appear, since the sea was well over a thousand miles away. It was the first cold front of autumn, and a line of storms barreled across the desolate, rolling hills of South Dakota like a runaway freight train. Towering pillars of billowing clouds tinged with blue and black spawned ghostly shafts of rain that inundated the parched grasslands. George watched in awe as wild, agitated veins of lightning danced between the rising mountains of cloud. The long, brutal summer of 1941 would soon be a distant memory, but the coming storm heralded an early winter.

The cold front reminded him of his miserable prospects on the reservation. The Depression had been especially cruel to the Sioux and the coming prosperity that America was eagerly looking forward to would never reach his people. His own plight was especially bleak, ever since his father left home a decade ago. George reluctantly dropped out of school two years ago to help support the family, by selling kitschy trinkets with his mother. Waiting for tourists along the windblown highway to Rapid City was demeaning, but it put food on the table. Besides, his grandfather insisted that it was work, and honest work at that, and that was better than waiting for the government to provide for their needs. George still had his doubts, but what else was there to do for an 18-year-old Sioux man with no high school diploma?

“I guess we’d better pick things up ‘fore it rains, son,” his mother yelled above the wind, her tired eyes watching the shaft of rain inundating the nearby badlands. “Won’t be no more travelers till after the storm passes.”

“Yeah, ma,” George answered as he grabbed a blanket caught up in the breeze. His long, dark hair whipped about his lanky shoulders as he darted after another blanket. “It’ll be dark before long. We might as well go on home.”

“You know we can’t ‘ford to do that yet.”

George silently grumbled as he gathered beaded necklaces into a rucksack. His friends would already be in town, watching the clouds roll in as they tried to forget their dreadful existence. He had hoped to join them earlier than usual in light of the storm.

A strange droning noise drifted across the shouting wind. Large drops of rain pelted his leathery face as he looked skyward and saw a dazzling, yellow airplane descend from the swirling abyss. To his surprise, it lined up on the deserted stretch of highway. It was going to make a landing! George stood transfixed as the aircraft touched down gracefully and taxied to a stop several hundred feet down the highway.

With a whoop of excitement, George ran down the road to lend a hand, but it was doubtful that he would be of much assistance. He had never even seen an airplane, but it had always been a dream of his to fly over the windswept plains like an eagle, twirling through the sunlit skies and around immense columns of bulbous clouds. The irritated shouts of his mother fell on deaf ears as he left her behind.

Two pilots were climbing from the festively colored airplane as George arrived. “Wow, that was great!” he gushed. “Are you having trouble with your aeroplane?” George asked.

“No,” the pilot answered. “We followed a sucker hole into this line of storms on our way to Rapid City and couldn’t find a way out. Captain Shaw figured it would be better to land and let it pass over.”

“I’ve never seen an airplane before. Could I take a look inside?”

“You betcha. Just don’t touch nothing.”

George eagerly climbed onto the wing and peered into the cockpit. He had always imagined that an airplane would look similar to an automobile on the inside, with a steering wheel, choke, clutch, accelerator, brake, and a few gauges. However, there was a dizzying array of gauges, dials, indicators, and switches. “How do you know what all the controls do?” he asked the pilot, who had climbed onto the opposite wing.

“It takes a while, but it gets to be second nature.”

“How did you get to be a pilot?”

“Well, technically, I’m not yet,” the pilot sheepishly admitted. “I’m still a cadet. Once I graduate in a few weeks, I’ll get my wings and be commissioned as an officer. I’ve wanted to fly for as long as I can remember.”

“I’d love to learn to fly,” George said breathlessly, caught in a vision of flying the bright, yellow craft over the plains.

“Uncle Sam is looking for lots of men to fly,” the cadet answered. “My buddy Frank thinks we’re gonna help the Tommies whip the Nazis and I don’t disagree. It’s only a matter of time before we go back and finish what we should of in 1918.”

“Anything would be better than staying here,” George dreamily continued. “There’s not much future on the res.”

“Well, the army takes care of its men. Free room and board, three squares a day, and a little money in your pocket. Plus, women love a guy in uniform. Especially one with silver wings on his chest.”

George asked the cadet everything he could possibly think of about army life and the world of military aviation. He was still going strong when the clouds began to dissipate, revealing a sky in radiant splendor. Beams of reddish-orange light from the fading sun pierced the parting clouds, bathing the badlands in brilliant hues of orange and shadows.

George breathed in deeply as the pilots prepared to depart. There was a sweet freshness in the air that his grandfather had always called nature’s rebirth; it was a cleansing of the earth to remove the contaminants that man had left behind. George knew that he had also been reborn; he would find a life in the army, to learn how to fly as the eagle, and to become a warrior like his ancestors.

He bid farewell as the propeller caught with a growl, shattering the quiet air. It settled into a steady rhythm as the prop wash furiously buffeted the grass like a tornado. Minutes later, the aircraft rolled forward onto the highway. The engine revved to a deep, throaty resonance that ruptured the air, shaking George to his soul. The aircraft lurched forward like a charging bison, leaving the lonely South Dakota plains behind. He watched seemingly transfixed as the plane climbed into the darkening sky, straining his eyes as it dwindled in size until it was lost in the temple of the gods.




“You want to do what?” Johnny Beartooth exclaimed later that night, nearly dropping his beer. A murmur arose from the half-dozen young Sioux gathered behind the white man’s church in Pine Ridge.

“You heard me,” George told his friends. “I want to fly aeroplanes for the army. I’ve got to get off the res. There’s no future for me here.”

“You’re crazy, my friend,” Johnny said. “You’ll never get to fly. The army will put a rifle in your hands and a pack on your back and send you to fight in the trenches.” Approving nods from the others indicated Johnny’s criticism was unanimous.

“I think I can pass the air corps exams. They can’t be that hard.” George had always been a good student and excelled in his schoolwork.

“Why do you want to go to the white man’s world?”

“We can’t do this forever, man,” George angrily replied, tossing his half-empty beer into the darkness. “What kind of life is this? Can’t sell beads and blankets to white tourists all my life! There’s got to be something better!”

“What will your mother think?” one of the others asked.

“What about your grandfather?” Johnny asked before George could answer. “How will he feel? You know what the white man’s army did to him. You want to join the same army that slaughtered our people? They took our land, our way of life, our names, and our religion. What’s next?”

“You’re right, Johnny. But, I will show the white man that we are not beaten. We don’t have to live where they tell us. The Sioux can survive in their world and bring respect to our people. And I will prove to everyone that I can be a warrior like my ancestors. I will make them proud.”

Convincing his friends of his plans had been hard enough, but George did not look forward to telling his grandfather. He knew that the old man would not be happy, and that was an understatement. His grandfather had been a young boy that fateful day when the army arrived at the Sioux’s winter encampment at Wounded Knee. George’s grandfather had only survived because his mother covered him with her body, even as she lay dying in the snow. A fiery-eyed trooper had discovered the weeping nine-year-old boy and leveled his rifle at the defenseless youth, and if not for the timely interruption by a virtuous officer, he too would have died. It was a wound on his soul that still bled to this day.




Four days after his encounter with the airplane, George hitched a ride to an army recruiting station in a nearby town in Nebraska. The smiling sergeant promised him that he would be allowed to take the aviation exams, but if he fared poorly, he would have to join the infantry. George would have to report to an army post in Texas by the end of October. He had less than a month to break the news to his unsuspecting family.

George waited for the right time to tell his family, if there was such a thing. He knew that it would bring great sorrow to his family, and he soon began wondering if he had done the right thing. It was too late to change his mind; he had signed up and that was that. He felt guilty every time he saw his grandfather, since he knew that the old man would take the news harder than his mother would. George delayed the inevitable confrontation until two days before his departure. He decided to tell his mother first, before his grandfather returned from his poker night.

“Ma, I’ve joined the army,” he hastily said during dinner.

“Wow!” his 12-year-old brother, Thomas exclaimed. “Will you be a rifleman?”

“Thomas, go outside!” his mother ordered. He tried to protest, but her stern look sent him scurrying from the table.

“Ma, don’t be angry. There’s no future for me here. I’ve…”

“Do you want to kill your grandfather?” she interrupted, tears filling her eyes. “Why would you do such an insensitive thing?”

“I have a chance to do something with my life. I want to be a pilot…”

“I knew it!” she roared, spooking Thomas from his hiding place outside the screen door. “You were so taken by those soldiers. When you came back, I knew that something had changed, but I had no idea that it would lead to this! You’re just like your father!” She began crying profusely.

“I’m not like my father!” he yelled, his anger boiling. “I want to make something of myself and to make you proud. I will not forget where I have come from like my father has!”

“I will not allow you to do this…”

“I am a man and my decision has been made! There is nothing you can do to change my mind, mama. Besides, I’ve already signed up.”

The rumble of his grandfather’s truck echoed in the distance. A sense of foreboding came over both George and his mother. George turned as the truck’s headlights flooded the living room like a flash of lightning. There was no turning back.

“I will tell him,” George quietly said. “It is my responsibility.”

Fear gripped George as the old man entered the house. He had been drinking, as usual, but George knew that he wasn’t a violent man. He was only afraid for how his grandfather would react, not out of fear for his own well-being.

“Gramps, I have some news.”

“So, you will finally tell me,” the old man knowingly answered.

“What? You know?”

“I know you are leaving, but I don’t know where. I have read it in your eyes for some time. Perhaps, it is time for you to do so. You are a man and you are free to make your own decisions.”
“But, gramps, you don’t know what I’m doing. You won’t approve…”

“Whatever it is, you are my grandson. I will support you.”

“I’ve joined the army. I want to be a pilot in the air corps.”

His grandfather was speechless for several moments. George knew that an outburst was imminent.

“The army?” the old man slowly asked. “That is a surprise.”

“It is the best chance for me to make a living outside of the res,” George explained. He continued about the benefits offered by the army and the opportunity that existed to prove his bravery as a warrior.

Throughout the discourse, the old man’s anger never surfaced. George had seriously misjudged his reaction. Though his grandfather appeared hurt, George knew that he would support his decision.

“Once, I too left the reservation. I was about your age, at the turn of the century, and I found a job in Denver. I stayed for two years, sending money home to your grandmother every week. I knew that I had to prove to myself that I could make it in the white man’s world, just as you are now. When I came back to the Sioux, I married your grandmother and the rest is history.

“I may not agree with your choice,” the old man continued. “But, it is your life and you must decide for yourself. Yet, I must warn you about the white man’s world. There are many things you do not know about their ways. The world is an uncertain place and the white man has many enemies, even if they do not know it yet. I fear that war is coming, and not like the war of our ancestors on the unspoiled plains. You will be fighting their war in a place far from our homeland. I hope and pray that you fight bravely and wisely and come home to us.”

His grandfather smiled weakly, turned, and walked from the room. George and his mother stood speechless.




The next two days passed in a whirlwind. George’s mother gradually accepted his decision, although she would never agree with it. Her father’s approval of George’s enlistment had taken the wind out of her sails. She knew there was nothing she could do about it and further criticism of George’s new life would only drive him farther away.

George packed his bags with an uneasiness he had never felt before. He was leaving the reservation, a place that he had left only twice, including his trip to Nebraska to enlist. It would always be home, but to appreciate it better, he knew he had to leave. After a few years, he would return home, bringing with him the knowledge and skills that would make the Sioux nation a better place.

“It’s time to leave, George,” his grandfather said. “Your bus will be along shortly. Let me help you with your bags.”

His mother began crying as he walked outside. “Be quiet, daughter,” George’s grandfather said. “The last thing he needs to remember is your tears.”

She held back her sobs, but her eyes shimmered in defiance of his order. George hugged her tightly. It was all he could do to hold his own tears back.

“George, I never thought I’d see this day…”

“Hush, mama. I’ll write all the time and I’ll see you when I earn leave time.”

George said goodbye to Thomas, who seemed indifferent to it all. He seemed more interested in the leaves swirling around the front porch than in the fact his brother was leaving. George knew that Thomas was in denial, hoping that George’s departure was just a bad dream.

“Thomas, you’re the man now. Take care of mama for me, will ya?”

“Are you gonna be a fighter pilot, George?”

“I don’t know. But, if I do, I’ll be sure to fly over the house and wave my wings for you.”

“We’d better go,” George’s grandfather said, watching the sky. “It’ll be snowing soon. It looks like a real bear.” A steady wind was blowing from the north and the sky was the color of ashen gray. It seemed as if the entire heavens were frozen in place, an unyielding wall holding back a colossal storm that would unleash its arctic fury onto the chilly northern plains.

George nodded, swallowing the huge knot in his throat. He waved goodbye once again and climbed into the truck. His grandfather started the rusty old Ford and drove off, with Thomas running after them with his arms held aloft like an airplane. George resisted the temptation to turn and watch his home grow smaller, choosing instead to watch the wide expanse of horizon before him, as if facing his uncertain future head on.

When they arrived at the Rapid City highway, the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the deserted blacktop. The storm was growing closer; bitter fingers of bluish cloud and insidious mist were rolling across the plains like a conquering army. The steady wind whistled past the cracked windows, rattling the cans in the bed of the truck, and chilling its occupants to the bone. Tiny flakes of snow flew past them as they sat in silence, waiting for the one o’clock bus.

“I’ve always seen great omens in the sky,” his grandfather said. “A storm is coming, bringing a long, bitter winter. The icy hand of death will strike all that it touches, taking no sides nor granting no favors. The world has never seen anything like what is coming. It will be far worse than the last tempest the world endured.”

“What do you mean, gramps?”

“Just come back to us. I will not rest until I see you again.”

A pair of headlights stabbed across the blustery afternoon sky, announcing the approach of George’s bus. He watched it draw near while pondering his grandfather’s cryptic words. He wished that he had the old man’s insight, but he knew that it would take years of experience before he could understand his gift.

The bus slowed to a stop as the two Sioux stepped into the howling breath of the glacial beast. The furious storm was onto them as the insignificant flurries turned into wet, swollen flakes that pelted them mercilessly. George gathered his baggage and briskly walked to the waiting bus.

“Goodbye, gramps. You’ve been my only father and you’ve taught me well. I will not let you down.”

“Remember your people, George. And remember what I’ve told you today…”

“I will, gramps. Don’t worry. I’ll bundle up when that icy hand of death comes knocking at my door.” He pulled up his coat collar as he spoke.

George stepped onto the bus, paid the fare, and found a vacant seat toward the back of the chilly bus, which was occupied by a dozen or so passengers. The smell of cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, body odor, and heating fumes filled its interior. Plopping into a worn seat, he looked outside as the bus pulled away.

His grandfather stood immutable against the storm, a rock against a sea of white. George watched until the old man was absorbed by the snowstorm and the last remnants of the reservation passed behind him. He swallowed hard against the persistent lump in his throat and faced forward, ready to take whatever the world had to offer. The storm was coming and there was nothing he could do except wait for its arrival and hope that he was prepared for its onslaught.

Heaven and Hell

This was a short story I submitted to The Oxford Review, a now-defunct literary magazine with a Southern perspective; however, this piece was not published. It is based on the daring August 1943 Ploesti low-level bombing raid, in which 177 American B-24 Liberators took off from Libya to bomb the Nazi-held oil refineries in Romania. Operation Tidal Wave, as the raid was officially called, resulted in the loss of 54 Liberators, with 440 men killed and another 220 were taken prisoner; however, the raid destroyed 42 percent of the enemy's refining capacity. Five Congressional Medals of Honor were awarded, three posthumously, the most ever awarded in a single day by the Army Air Corps. One of these medals was awarded to 2Lt Lloyd H. Hughes, Texas A&M Class of 1943, who has been a hero of mine since my cadet days at Texas A&M. My fictional account is dedicated to his memory. His award citation, in part, reads:

"Flying in the last formation to attack the target, he arrived in the target area after previous flights had thoroughly alerted the enemy defenses. Approaching the target through intense and accurate antiaircraft fire and dense balloon barrages at dangerously low altitude, his plane received several direct hits from both large and small caliber antiaircraft guns which seriously damaged his aircraft, causing sheets of escaping gasoline to stream from the bomb bay and from the left wing. This damage was inflicted at a time prior to reaching the target when 2d Lt. Hughes could have made a forced landing in any of the grain fields readily available at that time. The target area was blazing with burning oil tanks and damaged refinery installations from which flames leaped high above the bombing level of the formation. With full knowledge of the consequences of entering this blazing inferno when his airplane was profusely leaking gasoline in two separate locations, 2d Lt. Hughes, motivated only by his high conception of duty which called for the destruction of his assigned target at any cost, did not elect to make a forced landing or turn back from the attack. Instead, rather than jeopardize the formation and the success of the attack, he unhesitatingly entered the blazing area and dropped his bomb load with great precision. After successfully bombing the objective, his aircraft emerged from the conflagration with the left wing aflame. Only then did he attempt a forced landing, but because of the advanced stage of the fire enveloping his aircraft the plane crashed and was consumed. By 2d Lt. Hughes' heroic decision to complete his mission regardless of the consequences in utter disregard of his own life, and by his gallant and valorous execution of this decision, he has rendered a service to our country in the defeat of our enemies which will everlastingly be outstanding in the annals of our Nation's history."

Heaven and Hell

It all started with a fire, an enormous inferno that devoured the sky. It was a towering bonfire of mushrooming flames and thick, billowing smoke that was visible for miles. Explosions rippled through the smoldering column like lightning in a Texas thunderstorm. Small black clouds of flak blossomed like orchids across the summer sky, each blast hurling flaming metal through aluminum, flesh, and bone. Tracer rounds and bullets riddled the sky as every Jerry worth his sauerkraut aimed his peashooter skyward in hopes of bagging one of us. We were at the tail end of 175 B-24s drawn to that fire like moths, scarcely 300 feet above the plains of Southern Romania.

The sky over Ploesti was the color of night, thick with smoke from the already burning refineries. There were actually seven fires, each marking the location of one of our targets. Our group was heading toward the Standard Oil complex, but I didn’t know what the Krauts called it. I figured that if Americans had built the mammoth refinery, then we had the right to shut it down.

The colonel had told us that Ploesti was vital to the Germans. Its vast oil reserves fueled their tanks, enabling the Nazis to continue their ground war against the Russkies. He stressed that if we put the refineries and tank farms out of commission, the Nazi war machine would grind to a halt, allowing the Russkies to push into Eastern Europe. I have no love for the Reds, but it’ll pay dividends when we finally get into the action in Western Europe.

The old man also told us that the Romanians had poor defenses protecting the oil works. I don’t know where he got his information, but it was the worse flak I’d ever seen, and I’d seen plenty over Germany. If he expected the Romanian lackeys to roll over for us, he was barking up the wrong tree.

I was flying in the number two position in our flight, the last flight in our group. We had left Libya with 24 Libs, but six had already fallen to flak, low-lying barrage balloons, and heavy machine gun fire. Our bird, a venerable, sand colored B-24 named Ragtime, had seen 12 missions so far, but none quite as bad as the Ploesti run, and we hadn’t even passed over the target yet. But over 150 other Libs already had, and they’d pissed Jerry off. And he was gonna make us pay.

“Watch out, Tex! You’re draggin’ our ass across the fall harvest,” drawled my carrot headed co-pilot, an energetic young pup from the shadow of Memphis. His momma calls him Robert, but we just call him Hambone.

I nodded appreciatively and muscled the yoke, moving us back into position. Golden waves of wheat passed in a blur beneath us; seconds later we would have destroyed 20 acres in an unplanned, high-speed landing. It was a rookie’s mistake, but after 6 missions, I’m not considered a rookie anymore. I should have known better.

I’m the most senior fellow on my crew and I’m barely 21, scarcely a year out of Southern Methodist U. I joined the air corps instead of waiting to be drafted by the infantry and it paid off. After a whirlwind pilot training course, I was shuttled off to Libya via England and my head still hasn’t stopped spinning. Not bad for a small town banker’s son, if I do say so myself. I’ve got a whole crew of lieutenants and corporals, all under 20 years old, except for the buck sergeant bombardier who rides my ass like a tick on a hound, but at least he means well. Lurch is four months my junior, but he acts like he’s older than the hills.

“Hot damn! Will ya look at that?” Hambone yelled, pointing at the pillar of fire ravaging Ploesti like the Almighty torching the twin cities of sin. “Do we really hav’ta fly through that?”

“Only if we want to hit the target,” I answered.

And before we knew it, we were before the beast, and its fire came for us. Lurch was yelling for aircraft control, but I wasn’t ready for the bombardier to take over just yet. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to take over at all, lest he take us directly into the gates of hell, looking for something to pickle our incendiaries on. As our box climbed to a safe altitude for bomb release, I ignored Lurch’s determined pleas.

“Lead is leakin’ like a sieve,” Hambone said, observing fuel pouring from our wingman’s wing. “If he takes us into that brimstone, he’s gonna buy the farm.”

“No, we’re headin’ to the upwind side,” I said. Lead was damaged, but our tenacious flight leader, Lt Hughes, was no quitter. He’d take us to hell and back to get the job done, and that was exactly what he was doing. Our four-ship lined up on a burning tank farm complex a mile from the towering inferno.

“Pilot, I need the aircraft,” Lurch said. “There’s not much time…”

“I swear, Lurch, you’re drivin’ me nuts. Just drop the bombs when lead does, but I’m not gonna let ya have the aircraft. Now leave me alone!”

Lead’s bomb doors opened as we raced toward the tank farm. I felt a rush of air enter the aircraft as Lurch followed suit. The air was hot and sticky, and heavily perfumed with a scent like burning tires. Instinctively, I donned my oxygen mask and pulled my goggles over my watery eyes.

“There they go,” Hambone said as a trickle of 500 pounders rolled from lead’s belly. Fortunately, each bomb had a 45 second delay fuse built in, allowing the rest of us to safely pass before hell was unleashed upon the already scorched earth. Ragtime lurched upward as our own bombs fell earthward, giving our eager steed a kick in the pants. Relieved of our 4,000 pound burden, we now had a surging racehorse in which to make our escape.

And we didn’t have time to waste. Our bombs were packing a wallop. The whooping of our tailgunner over the intercom seconds later was all I needed to know. We had just made Jerry’s day just a little bit worse.

“Awright boys, let’s get the hell outta here,” I said. “The first round’s on me when we get back to Benghazi.”

“That’s if we get back,” Hambone said. “We still gotta get outta the oven first.”

Directly in front of us, a pillar of smoke blocked our escape. There was no avoiding it. It closed in like a storm cloud and surrounded us with its choking darkness. Fumes penetrated every pore of our aircraft, even through my oxygen mask. Thermals rocked us like the angry breath of a thunderstorm. I’d been unlucky enough to get too close to storms before, but this was much worse. I didn’t think I’d see daylight again.

Just as suddenly as we’d entered the void, we emerged back into the world, but hell had run amok. Hughes’s plane had grown a tail of flame, stretching well over a hundred feet. Pieces of glowing metal dripped from lead as I made haste trying to get away from the flaming arrow before it blew up. A burning crewmember tumbled from the waist position, but the corpse made no attempt to pull his ripcord. Another man jumped from the open bomb doors and managed to open his chute, but it was doubtful that it’d slow him down enough before he hit the earth 500 feet below.

The rest of the crew didn’t suffer long. The right wing burned through and the funeral pyre tumbled into the ground, igniting into a dirty brown ball of flame. And with that fiery crash, I inherited lead’s job. I was now the mother hen.

“Where’s the rest of the group?” Hambone asked with concern. None of the other Libs were visible in the haze and smoke. Our flight of three was on our own.

I turned south even before I asked the nav for a heading. There was time for that later. For now, it was necessary to put some real estate between the fire and us. It would no doubt draw the Luftwaffe to us like Texas turkey vultures to roadkill.

“Better get back on the deck where it’s safe,” Hambone said.

I dropped back down to 300 feet, hugging the subtle curves of the land like a high school kid necking with his girl. Red and white tracer rounds stabbed the sky around us, but we managed to stay one step ahead of the gun crews in the fields below. Ahead in the shimmering heat, I saw a flock of birds circling, twisting and turning beneath the sunlit clouds. For a second, I could have sworn that I was back in Madisonville, watching the buzzards drift on the warm breeze, searching for a wounded rabbit.

The agitated cry of the nosegunner shattered my moment. “Messerschmitts, one o’clock high!” Dumbfounded, I looked again. Those buzzards were Krauts and we were the rabbit.

“They’re after the rest of the group,” Hambone said, pointing out the formation making its escape. “And they’re getting cut to ribbons!”

“Then we’d better not join them. We’ll see them when we get back.”

I turned southeast, selfishly hoping that the fighters wouldn’t notice our three lost birds in the weeds. That hope was short lived as a line of bullets ventilated the top of the fuselage. Dust and shards of glass filled the air of the flightdeck as the bullets made short work of the instrument panel. Seconds later, a Me-109 sporting Iron Crosses passed us, and the top turret chased the sneaky fighter with twin streams of .50 caliber lead. Surprisingly, nobody had been injured.

Jerry’s wingman made a pass of his own, and his shots danced across the right wing. The number three engine shuddered in reply, and fire erupted from its bowels. I added left rudder to compensate as the engineer cursed in anger.

“Number three is burning, boss,” he yelled over the din. “And we have a fuel leak too!”

“Gotta feather the engine and discharge the fire bottle,” Hambone said, although he didn’t have to tell me. If those flames reached the fuel leak, we’d join Lt Hughes’s crew in the Great Hereafter. I numbly confirmed the proper engine and directed Hambone to shut it down.

“That looks like a city ahead of us,” I said, noting medieval towers, gothic spires, and miles of thatched roofs rising from the wheat fields.

“That’s Bucharest,” the navigator answered. “And unless you want to deal with more flak, I’d suggest an alternate route.”

“Gimme a headin’ then, nav.”

The top turret’s discharge interrupted his answer, letting me know that the Luftwaffe was back. They wouldn’t let us go that easy. I flinched as Jerry’s bullets hammered down and a cry of pain echoed over the intercom. Somebody was hit.

“Who’s down?” I asked, hysteria creeping into my voice.

“I’ll take care of it, Tex,” the navigator answered. “It’s Lurch.”

“You hang in there, old man.”

“Just get us out of here,” the nav ordered.

Bucharest passed to our west as we made our escape. The 109s continued their assault, but they eventually either ran out of ammo, or they felt sorry for us and let us go. With the damage that they left us with, we’d be lucky to see the Aegean.

The wide, shimmering Danube appeared across the horizon. We passed a village along its banks, and dozens of kids waved to us as we sped by. Crossing the Danube was a relief, but we were still in enemy territory. Bulgaria had crossed over to Jerry’s team in ’41, which meant we couldn’t let our guard down yet. I was concerned about the fuel leak and the loss of number three, but especially about Lurch. The nav had worked his magic, but Lurch was still losing blood. It was up to God now.

“We’ve got a problem, boss,” the engineer said as the emerald mountains of central Bulgaria passed underneath. “We lost our hydraulic pump when we feathered number three.”

“Then we’ll have to manually lower the gear.”

“Yeah, but that’s the least of our worries. We don’t have the fuel to make it back. We’re going to be about two hours short.”

I needed the navigator for this one, since my geography wasn’t up to speed. “Nav, I need ya on the flightdeck. And bring your charts.”

As we went over our options, I recalled the morning intel briefing. Greece had fallen to Jerry like the rest of the Balkans, so landing there was out of the question. Maybe we could put in on one of the outlying islands, but Jerry was likely to be on any island we could land on. Turkey was neutral, so a landing there meant that our war would be over. Our best bet was a RAF base on Cyprus, but that meant we’d have to overfly Turkey.

The navigator shook his head. “I hate to rain on your parade, Tex, but there’s no friendly territory within reach, so it looks like we’ll have to ditch."

“I don’t like the idea of swimmin’ home,” I said. The Lib didn’t have the best track record for surviving a water landing in one piece. “Besides, we gotta get Lurch help soon. I don’t see any other way around it. We have to go to Turkey.”

“Turkey?” Hambone asked incredulously. “There’s gotta be another option.”

“Not unless you want to spend the rest of the war eatin’ sausage and sauerkraut in a POW camp. It’s the only chance we have.”

“The Turks aren’t gonna greet us with open arms. Haven’t you heard stories of Turkish prisons? I don’t know what they eat in Turkey, but it sure ain’t grits.”

“That’s good, because I never liked grits anyway. You may not agree with me, Hambone, but I’m the boss.” I hated to play the boss trump card, but a decision had to be made. We were going to Turkey.

Hambone let the other birds know our plans as we coasted out over the Greek coast. We morosely watched as they said goodbye and turned for Benghazi. The sun was low in the sky and the Aegean sparkled like gold. The islands I’d read about in college rose from the sea, where Ulysses, Paris, Hercules, and other heroes of Greek mythology had walked upon their shores. Paul the Apostle had even passed through these parts, carrying the Lord’s message to the pagans of Athens and Rome.

As the Turkish coast came into view, we began our last descent toward the hazy cliffs of Gallipoli. The nav gave me a heading to a military airfield near the mouth of the Dardanelles, the strait separating Asia from Europe. It didn’t take long before a hesitant, heavily accented voice came over the airwaves, first in German, then in English. “Unknown aircraft approach Turkish waters, please to alter course. You are near Turkish sovereign airspace.”

I didn’t know how they spotted us, but I knew that Ataturk didn’t take lightly to intruders. Hambone muttered something about an emergency aircraft seeking assistance and that seemed to do the trick. We didn’t hear another thing until we crossed the Dardanelles and reported short final for the dimly lighted airfield.

“Cleared to land runway zero four. Welcome to Turkey.”

After confirming that the landing gear was safely in place, we touched down and rolled to the end of the runway. A delegation of military trucks was waiting, along with several fire trucks, just in case we provided a spectacular end to their day. We taxied clear and were immediately surrounded by several dozen angry looking Turks.

I peered from the cockpit as the armed soldiers waited for us. Bile rose in my parched throat. Had I made the right decision? The looks on the faces of my men told me that they felt I made a mistake. I had turned them over to the wolves.

“We might as well get off,” I told them. “They won’t wait forever.”

As we exited into the cool of the evening, a smirking officer greeted us. “Today, your war is over,” he said, as medics tended to Lurch. “I hope that your stay in Canakkale will be pleasant.”

I didn’t really know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect kindness. They were even considerate enough to allow us time to recuperate before questioning.

I awoke the next morning to a tray of dried fruit, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a pitcher of steaming hot Turkish tea. The Turkish prison we were expecting turned out to be a deluxe officers’ suite, complete with plush furniture, fine artwork, and a porcelain bath with hot water. The only torture we had to endure was the Muslim call to prayer from the local mosque, a ritual that began each day well before dawn. It was a strangely beautiful cry that called the faithful from their slumber and throughout the day.

We were finally hauled in for questioning around ten, but the interrogation I was expecting never happened. They didn’t ask about anything classified; they just wanted to know why we chose to land in Turkey. I guess they figured that the less they knew about the war, the less likely they would be drawn into it. The last time the Turks got involved, it toppled their whole empire.

After two days of cordial treatment, they had a change of plans for us. We left for Istanbul, the famed crown jewel of Turkey. We were assigned a guide, who was a grinning, easy-going Kurd named Kemel. “Istanbul is a fabulous city,” he told us as we boarded our train. “As long as I am with you, you may have the run of the city.”

I’ll never forget the sight of the city as it first came into view. Kemel excitedly explained the landmarks that dominated the skyline: Aya Sofya, the massive domed Byzantine church built in the 4th century; the imposing Blue Mosque and its pointy minarets piercing the sky; the Süleymaniye, the grand mosque where the greatest hero of the Ottomans lies in death; and the Topkopi palace, where the Sultans ruled the empire that once stretched from Budapest to Baghdad and across North Africa.

We moved into a military dormitory overlooking the Golden Horn, where we were reunited with dozens of other American fliers who had also elected to end their war early. The rooms were plain, but comfortable, and our every need was satisfied. Kemel took us to the famous Grand Bazaar, where we practiced our bartering skills against pushy merchants selling everything from carpets, brass, smoking pipes, and chess sets. We dined at street side cafes near the Egyptian spice market and drank at the nightclubs of Galata, where beautiful, raven-haired belly dancers seductively flirted with us. We had died and truly gone to heaven.

“I tell ya, Tex,” Hambone said over a cup of hot apple tea. “This is the life. I know the war is a noble crusade, but I don’t know how much longer I could of taken it.”

“I know what you mean. I feel a guilty about takin’ the easy way out, but Lurch is alive and we’re livin’ in paradise. It’s hard to believe there’s a war still goin’ on.”

“Given the choice between heaven and hell, I’ll take heaven anytime.”

“Amen, brother.”

The mullah’s enchanting cry filtered through the afternoon streets, calling the faithful to their prayers once again. Hambone imitated the priest’s song, singing along in a mocking tone, but nobody seemed to take offense. We’d learned that not many Turks heeded the call to prayer; they’d rather go about their own business. It reminded me of the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple, where I’d been before shipping out for the war. The Turks were the New Yorkers of the Islamic world.

“What’s the agenda tonight, boys?” I asked as Hambone continued to sing.

“How about that döner kabob place by the Bosphorus?” the nav suggested.

“Again?” the engineer asked. “We ate there last week.”

I smiled as the men quarreled. Our biggest concern had become finding a place to eat. The war was over for us, and we’d be confined to our heaven on earth, at least as long as Turkey remained neutral or the war ended. Until then, we’d behave like angels.

Into The Breech

I wrote this memoir when a routine Air Force deployment to the Middle East quickly turned into our nation's first war of the 21st Century.

Into The Breach

It is after midnight when we land and the darkness outside greedily preys on our deepest fears. The 78 soldiers and airmen onboard have come to a place where the line between friend and foe is precarious at most, where a trusted smile might transform into a scowl behind our backs. The engines whine to a stop and the flight attendant opens the heavy aircraft door, allowing the desert breeze into the cabin. A hulking American soldier in full combat gear welcomes us to our temporary home in the Gulf, a bastion of freedom standing firm in the face of tyranny and malfeasance.

When the time comes for us to disembark, we are ushered toward buses for the drive to our camp. Armed sentries stand watch over us like Roman gladiators, ready for battle. Guns protrude from their sides and from atop Humvees, letting us know that our visit isn’t welcomed by all. The interior of the bus is drenched in shadows, its windows covered with thick curtains that block the harsh acetylene lights outside. We are warned not to open the curtains, but diffuse beams of light slip around the edges. A battle of light and darkness plays out inside the bus as we pass streetlights, surging back and forth along the seatbacks and aisle like clashing armies. Soon the glow of the city fades behind us and the battle is over; darkness has won the battle for now.

Eventually, we come to an island of light in a sea of black, and we pass several heavily defended checkpoints. Rows of tents fade into the night and dim, fuzzy faces peer at us from them as we disembark from the bus. It will be hours before our baggage arrives, and sleep tugs at my mind like a persistent child pulling on her mother’s sleeve. It has been 30 hours since we left Las Vegas, and it seems that we are just around the corner. I smell the desert back home blowing in the warm breeze from the Persian Gulf. Has my long voyage just been a cruel hoax?

The coming day flickers over the horizon as our baggage finally arrives. Black turns to azure, then amber as the sun claims another victory in its eternal battle with darkness. As I drag my bags to my tent, the sky is hazy with dust, and all the earth is a sickly shade of tarnished bronze. It is also the color of our tents and our uniforms, and it is a color I already despise. I’ve heard that yesterday’s high was 111 degrees, and I scurry along with the other newcomers into the diminishing shadows like a tardy vampire. I have always burned like tinder in a campfire, so I make a mental note to carry sunscreen everywhere. The interior of my tent is quite cold, thanks to a powerful air conditioner that nearly takes my breath away. I feel as if I just walked off the blazing Las Vegas Strip into Caesar’s Palace in August. All I can think about is sleep, and I quickly succumb to its depths.

My tent mate awakens me with a nightmare. Terrorists have struck the World Trade Center towers with two airliners. A third has crashed into the Pentagon, and a forth has gone down in Pennsylvania. How many other hijacked airliners are out there, waiting to slam into other targets?

I want this to be a horrible dream, but I cannot awaken. It is painfully real; there is nothing that can reverse this appalling tragedy. I feel that my heart has been ripped from my chest, that I have failed in my solemn duty to protect the American people; it is a goal that I have dedicated my whole life to. As an officer and a pilot, I have sworn to defend my nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and I have failed.

The word comes out over the base intercom system: Threatcon Delta, the highest state of readiness. It means that terrorist actions are imminent or in progress, so we hurriedly don our flak vests and grab our gasmasks. The base is locked down. No phone calls, no e-mail, no postal service. Rumors arise about a threat against bases in the region. It is a matter of time before they come for us. They know where we are.

Night comes again, and this time it is more ominous, like the heartbeat of a dragon. I sense evil in the night, biding its time, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. We must face it alone, without any help from the outside world.

My heart skips a beat when a helicopter makes several low passes overhead. Many stop and watch, but it is hidden in the night. I finally catch its profile; it is American. We can sleep soundly tonight, because we are being watched over. I return to my tent.

And then the dream comes. I am a passenger on a hijacked airliner. We sit as sheep being led to the slaughter. I must act.

Taking a fire extinguisher from the galley, I storm the cockpit. Three surprised Middle Eastern men sit at the controls and in the jump seat. I smash the fire bottle into one man’s face, then discharge the foam at the co-pilot before he can reach for his gun. Blinded, they are helpless against my assault. I continue my attack until they are bloody and lifeless.

As I reach for the controls, I check the flight instruments. We are nearing the target; they have programmed the flight management system and hooked up the auto-pilot. As I turn away from their objective, I try to determine the closest place to land and the best final approach speed. An alarm sounds from the overhead speaker, but it sounds far away. It is my alarm clock, and the images of the instrument panel vaporize before my eyes. It is replaced by the shimmering roof of the tent above me, driven by an unrelenting desert windstorm. I groan. If only the dream had been reality, and my waking moments a dismal nightmare.

My daily routine soon sets in: 12 hours of work, and a few hours off for dinner, working out, and watching the nonstop news coverage from the States. The days stretch into weeks as we watch the American military buildup for the impending assault on the Taliban and Al Qaeda. I know that our mission is important as well, as America has many enemies, but the ones I am facing are not responsible for September 11th. I want to do my part, to extract vengeance upon those who have wounded our nation.

And then the day of reckoning arrives. We watch on CNN as the first air strikes are launched over Afghanistan. Despite the moral satisfaction of seeing America’s reply, I want to do more. If only I were flying an aircraft that could hit the terrorists where it hurt. But, that is seemingly not my fate.

Rumors arise that my squadron will be sent forward to join the fight after all. Apprehension is prevalent among most of the troops, especially the younger ones who are away from the States for the first time. After a few days, we are told that the rumors are true. We are moving forward, into the breech, to fight the good fight. We only have three days to pack up our whole operation.

Three nights later, we are ready. Under cover of darkness, the airplanes arrive every hour like clockwork. Six pallets of cargo and a handful of troops are loaded aboard each C-130, and off they go into the night. The heaviest of equipment is saved for the C-141. We push and shove the equipment into the belly of the cargo aircraft with mere inches to spare and watch as another line of troops waddles out to the aircraft, each clad in a heavy flak vest and Kevlar helmet. Bravado runs amok among them; they are going to war and are preparing themselves for battle.

The engines screech to life, the hatch is buttoned up, and the mammoth jet taxies into the night. As a former C-141 pilot myself, I am saddened as it rolls down the taxiway; I have been left behind. I fondly remember the years that I flew the Starlifter, and I envy the crew preparing for takeoff: running checklists, obtaining clearances, and the mounting exhilaration for the moment the aircraft leaps into flight. I watch with pride and subdued awe as it takes off minutes later; as it passes me, its navigation lights suddenly extinguish. It has effectively flown into a black hole, and is gone.

The next evening, my turn comes as well. I suit up in my protective gear and lead the last of the squadron toward a waiting C-130. It is cramped and hot inside, and we barely find room among the cargo. After what seems like an eternity, we are airborne, off to war.

After many long, sleepless hours, we begin our final descent. Dim red lights illuminate the interior as we don our helmets. We must move quickly once we land; the aircraft will only wait as long as it takes to unload the pallets and my troops. If any personal items are left behind, they will be personal no longer.

The smell of burning wood fills the cabin as we prepare for landing. It is faint, yet persistent, and I know that we are close to the ground. I am reminded of a fall hunting trip to West Texas with my father years ago, sitting around a campfire gazing at a countless array of stars glittering like scattered diamonds, their luster diminished only by the glow of the fire. The spell is broken as the aircraft touches down. We have arrived, somewhere, and we have little idea of what to expect.

We have been told many things, but the only thing I’m certain of is that the people here do not like us. Rumors abound of frenzied mobs at the gates, yelling anti-American slogans, burning effigies, and calling for the sky to fall upon us. So, when the last of the cargo is unloaded, and we exit the aircraft, trepidation sets in. It is night, but the sound of four turboprops whipping the smoky air makes for a tremendous wakeup call for the locals.

The immense silhouette of a hangar looms above the horizon, and soldiers emerge out of the gloom like pedestrians on a foggy street. The dim red lights of the C-130’s interior cast eerie shadows across the tarmac, and as its rear clamshell cargo ramp folds up, we are plunged into darkness. Within minutes, it is airborne, and we are prisoners in a forlorn outpost at the edge of the world.

The sounds of a nearby city greet my ears. A lonely train whistle wails like a mournful ghoul, piercing the night with its unearthly cry. Seemingly in reply, the enchanting song of a mullah echoes across the rooftops across the runway, beckoning the faithful from their beds. Every mosque in town joins in, and the air is quickly saturated with the mystic strains of competing Islamic clerics.

We duck into the hangar and discover row upon row of cots stretched across the floor. We are overdressed in our combat gear, as the few soldiers awake are wearing t-shirts and shorts. So much for the rabid hordes at the gates. I take off my bulky helmet and arrange for a ride to my squadron’s camp down the flight line.

As the sun rises, we are in an utterly flat land, broken only by feeble scrubs of trees and bushes. Smoke from cooking fires in the city drifts across the base like fog. The ground is muddy, yet I’m told that it hasn’t rained in two years. The heat and humidity is stifling; the sun bears down on us with unmerciful intensity, and the day has just begun. The buildings are dilapidated and old; it is a forgotten place, unheeded and unused. The electricity is unreliable, the water is contaminated, and there is no air conditioning to take my breath away. But, it is our squadron’s home, and we’ll do the best we can to make it livable.

Within three days, we are ready for war: equipment double-checked, supplies put away, rations and drinking water procured, living quarters cleaned despite the ever-present dust, and the airplanes readied for flight. We cannot afford to have overlooked anything. The nation is depending on us, for tomorrow is the day we strike back.

I wish there was a happy ending to this story, but as long as evil is out there, biding its time in the darkness, waiting to strike again, there will always be a need for men and women to put their lives on hold for the good of the nation. In time, I will go home and others will come to take my place, either here or at the next outpost at the edge of the world. This war will not be over soon, and I will be back, into the brecch, fighting the good fight, so that America will never have to face another September 11th.