Springs. Our questions peppered Stan whenever he appeared. And always: 'He's coming along well. He has a strong faith in God which is pulling him through.' And I kept wondering what I would say to Steve when at last he came back to continue his flying, supposing he did come back. Would I try too crudely to express sympathy, which might prompt an emotional response? I couldn't just pretend nothing happened. I've always been inept in such matters, and I didn't relish the thought of seeing him again.
I don't remember when I saw him after that; the memory is fuzzy But I know that our paths rarely crossed for several months until one day when Steve seemed to have been reborn. He was indeed a new Steve. He was sporting a new look. He had tanned a lot, changed his hairstyle, and lost weight. He grinned, laughed, talked, and participated aggressively in the flying and training activities of the unit. He told me that he had decided to put the loss behind him as well as he could and get on with his life. And the new Steve was an extrovert, a favorite personality of our squadron, and a highly respected flier. He led the charge in the difficult conversion from C-130s to C-141s, becoming among the first C-141 aircraft commanders in our unit and the first to become air refueling qualified.
Then word came that he had remarried. His new wife was the TV correspondent who had done a special report on his tragic loss and his subsequent recovery. It was a Christian program that documented Stevens faith as his sustaining factor. He spoke often of her and how his children had taken so well to their new mother.
And as he grew in favor with his comrades, Steve continued to flourish. He landed a trophy job with Delta Airlines, flying 727s out of New Orleans. Steve's life had changed so markedly that it was a marvel both to him and to those of us who knew him. It was pure pleasure and an inspiration just to be around him.
But now, Sledge had brought word that he was gone, that he had been released. It was a time when many were looking for an excuse to get released, but we knew Steve was not among that crowd. If anyone wanted to do his share in this giant operation, it was Steve Watkins. He would not have asked for discharge unless a higher priority called.
It was the children. Airline flying they could accept, but the daily portrayal of war and foreboding on the television had cast them into a grim fear of being orphaned.
Yeah, I knew Steve wanted to fly with us, to see this thing through, to make a long career of the Guard, to remain in the Guard family But his love for his kids was greater. With regrets, he opted out. And we lost a brother.
Visions of Steve's sobbing children still linger in my mind as we land at McGuire AFB, New Jersey. But they are abruptly displaced by more stunning news. Shocked, I hang up the phone at the command post window and turn to break the news to the crew. Their gleeful postflight banter stops as soon as they read the seriousness in my face and voice as I talk with our home base command post.
The wife of one of our flight engineers has committed suicide. No details were passed to me. I didn't know her personally, but I had known the flight engineer many years. He is not on my crew, but I had flown with him often in more placid times. The ride to the billeting office is a somber one; all thoughts are turned homeward.
I've given very little thought until now about how this whole situation is affecting my Ellie. She's running the household, the budget, the kids. That's all nothing new to her, but this not knowing when I'm coming backthe unknowns of the war that lies ahead and my role in ithas got to be taking its toll.
When she married me, she married flying. And she knew it. Over all our years together I don't remember a single complaint, though complaints have often been warranted. She never begrudged a penny of the tons of money I've thrown into airplanes, sometimes money that we needed elsewhere. That simple faiththat trust of herskeeps me coming back; it anchors me. But she deserves better.
One of eleven children, she came from a family of hardworking Kansas Mennonite farmers, all devout, dedicated conscientious objectors. Yet she married a fighter pilot. The family never expressed ill feelings toward me about my job, but some things we just didn't discuss.
After we had married and moved away, I stopped in one weekend on a cross-country proficiency flight. My father-in-law, Harold Esau, and two brothers-in-law came out to the base to pick me up. Yes, the brothers said that they wanted to see the jet, but Harold strolled out to the flight line reluctantly, motivated only by his insatiable curiosity about all things mechanical. While the brothers asked a few questions and marveled at the big camouflage-painted fighter, Harold walked around it slowly, saying not a word, with hands clasped behind his back: a clear body signal of a holding back, a symbolic keeping of his distance. I tensed when he stepped in front of the gun. I'll never forget his expression of sorrow as he paused and stared down the sinister rifled barrel of the 20- millimeter rotary cannon.
Ellie wasn't a natural flier, but she misled me on our second date. I dumped her into the back seat of an Aeronica Champ out at Woodring Airport and put her through a few wingovers and whifferdills. 'Oh, that was fun,' she lied charmingly as we taxied the Champ back in. In the years ahead, flying would be not much more than a quick way from A to B for her, and she would never feel comfortable with it. But most important, she accepted it as my way of life. I could ask nothing more of her.
Surprisingly, she began taking lessons a few years ago. Her excuse was that she wanted to know how to land our plane if I slumped over incapacitated, though I believe she really needed to prove to herself that she could meet the challenge. For one of the biggest events of her life, her first solo, I wasn't there. I was thousands of miles away, flying C-130s around South America, and so I didn't experience it with her.
She soloed only three times. On the third flight the canopy popped open with a loud bang just as she became airborne. Thinking it was an explosion, she declared an emergency with the control tower and landed the Grumman amid a host of speeding, wailing, red-flashing fire trucks. She was terribly embarrassed by the episode despite my reassurance that she had done exactly as she should have done. Instead of panicking, she remembered the prime directive: fly the plane, then work the problem. But that was the end. She never again had the desire to fly alone. I didn't press her. If she accepted my love for flying, then I needed to accept her indifference to it.
I've always tried to be reasonable and discreet about the time spent at the airport. The Grumman always needs to be tinkered with or washed. A short flight is always in order to keep the seals and gaskets lubricated. And it's imperative that I put in occasional hangar talk with the airport crowd. It keeps me in touch with my roots. But one Saturday afternoon, as I was planning to slip away to the airport, Ellie asked a simple question. I was struck by it.
'Are you going to the flying field?' she asked.
It wasn't a pointed or suggestive question; there was no resentment over my proposed pilgrimage to the field. It was a simple request for information. The follow-up was a request that I bring home some milk.
I stopped and pondered the wondrous sound of it. She didn't say airport, nor airfield, nor aerodrome
She never took well to the military lifestyle. The job and the planes were bearable but that abominable officers' wives club, the OWC, was beyond the call of spousal duty. She wanted to be herself. She had little interest in being on the cutting edge of fashion and social life. Keeping the club fashionably decorated and furnished and scheduling highbrow social functions were of no concern to her. And she cared not in the least that fighter pilots had the impudence to wear their flight suits in the dining room and get rowdy in the casual bar on Friday nights. The OWC Gestapo, as the pilots called them, was out to banish such low-bred acts of peasant behavior, and participation in its activities was expected of her. The OWC pecking order was a disgusting reflection of the husbands' chain of command. Ellie didn't fit in. And like her family, she was a pacifist at heart.
Because of her Mennonite family's solid antiwar convictions, I was a little concerned about her reaction to the Persian Gulf situation. A few months after it all started I was home for a few days, burnt out. I had reached the magic 330 hours in ninety days and had been sent home to recoup. While I was there, we watched the antiwar protests and demonstrations on TV. Then we saw a kid burning the American flag somewhere in California. She became enraged at the sight. I had never seen her so mad over a news event. How could anyone do such a thing, she demanded, while brave men and women risked their lives for that flag? I loved her more, as she voiced her anger and rage, than I had ever before. She truly was the air under my wings.
A close friend was once discussing the marriage institution with me over lunch. He had divorced and remarried. When I told him how committed I was to Ellie, he cautioned me never to say never. 'Read my lips,' I told him.
'Never.'
