Most of that day was a blur to me at the time.
Oddly, now it lives in my memory as a crystal clear moment by moment instant replay.
I remember calling my wife to tell her that I’d probably be leaving at some point, destination Guam.
I remember sitting at my desk, surfing internet news sites for old stories about plane crashes to
get a feel for where the lines were.
I remember making hotel reservations.
I remember doing telephone interviews with some of the local medical staff about the processes and procedures for responding to large-scale emergencies.
They were professionals who’d seen wholesale tragedy in war zones, at refugee camps, and at the scene of natural disasters from floods to earthquakes.
Some of them had even been on both sides of those kinds of days–I remember a Captain talking about evacuating from Mount Pinatubo’s ashy aftermath.
I wasn’t prepared.
Even now, I can’t think of anything that could have done the trick. There are some experiences that there is no preparation for.
It haunts me now as I think about the young men and women we’ve sent to war.
Fate has been kind to me.
I’ve never had to kill a man because his nation and mine disagree. I’ve never seen a man lose a leg to an improvised explosive device, or had to stop the bleeding of a comrade-in-arms on the worst day of his life.
I’ve only seen the results.
But there are tens of thousands of people who have. Even as the greatest generation slowly slips away, a new generation of combat veterans is being born on the battlefield.
I am grateful to have never seen combat.
My experience with war is limited to fewer than a hundred interviews with men who’ve seen the dark side. There are those who’ve learned the value of their own lives by ending the lives of others.
And each of them says he wasn’t prepared.
There are some experiences that there is no preparation for.
I "ended" the day at a bar, bags packed, waiting for a phone call.
It came just before midnight. Two seats were open on an empty medevac flight headed to Andersen. I finished my root beer, made the "here’s where I’m leaving the car" phone call home ... and boarded the jet with Dan.
I was awake for the entire flight. I still regret that.
There was a very friendly med tech who worked the evacuation flights. I don’t remember his name, not that I’d use it here. But I’ll never forget our conversation.
He’d seen our reports, and enjoyed them, he said. He gave me a tour of the aircraft. I’m sure it’s a medical marvel, really.
He showed me how the gurneys bolted onto the frame. He showed me the state-of-the-art medical contraptions that could keep critical patients stabilized en route to state-of-the-art emergency rooms.
He had the gallows humor that I’ve come to appreciate from environments where death is an everyday occurrence.
He talked about how silly the pre-flight emergency warnings were. "If you’re going down, you’re going down," he told me. He even talked about "why" you don’t inflate your life preserver until after you "de-board" a crashed aircraft.
Common sense, really. If you land on water and your preserver is already full of air, WHEN the plane starts to take on water, you’ll float to the top of the aircraft and eventually drown because you can’t reach an exit.
And on exits–"ever seen a plane crash without breaking? Don’t worry about the exit door. Just go out the closest hole."
Pretty cheery stuff, I guess, on your way to your first airplane crash.
I still don't like to fly.
We got to Guam about 18 hours after the crash. The sun wasn’t up yet. We arrived at the PA office before dawn. It was empty, except for the Tech Sergeant. He was calm, composed, and helpful. Turned out, even though he’d only been at the office for a few days, his experience with aircraft mechanics meant he’d seen his fair share of mishaps. He knew the drill and had 18 years of military experience that proved invaluable over the next few days.
He brought us up to date and offered to drive us to the site. The sun was coming up. The base and the location were on opposite sides of the island. I was struck by how simply gorgeous the island is.
It was August 7th, I’d been awake for slightly more than 24 hours.
And the day was just beginning.
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