by Mike Jenne
After the auditorium filled to capacity, Virgil Wolcott—uncharacteristically wearing a dark gray suit—climbed the four steps to the low stage, stood behind the podium and announced in his Oklahoma drawl, “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention. I would like to welcome you to this awards ceremony to honor former members of the Aerospace Support Project here at Wright-Patterson. Please rise as we welcome the Secretary and Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force.”
In awe, Ourecky jumped to his feet and joined the audience in applauding the Secretary and Chief. Oddly, since the past five years had gone by in such a frenetic pace, this was only the first awards ceremony that he had ever attended in his military career.
Compared to most of the other uniformed men in the auditorium, even though he was a major, he looked like a neophyte to the Air Force. He wore only two ribbons—the red and yellow “Everyman” National Defense Service Medal and an Air Force Commendation Medal for his research work at Eglin—above his left breast pocket. Ironically, the Commendation Medal had never been formally presented to him; it had been mailed from Eglin over a year after he had transferred to Wright-Patt.
As Ourecky sat patiently for over an hour, the Secretary and Chief personally presented formal awards to the men and women who had labored on the Project as military personnel, government civilians or contract workers. The awards were significant; they were easily some of the highest accolades that could be presented in a peacetime environment, but the accompanying citations—which were read in full for each presentation—were noticeably devoid of any specific facts that would explain why the recipients merited such prestigious awards.
Ourecky had heard similar citations in the past, particularly in relation to classified ordnance projects at Eglin. His old boss, Colonel Paster, referred to their cryptic language as “precise vagueness.” The citation was couched in terms that were suitably precise to indicate that the recipient had accomplished something truly momentous, but also sufficiently vague so as not to reveal what the accomplishment was, and in some cases, where or when it happened. Ourecky was sure that more than one spouse would leave the ceremony scratching their head, aware that their significant other had done something tremendously important but not having a clue what it might be.
While most recognized noteworthy achievements, three of the awards were bestowed for bravery. Matt Henson and Steve Baker received the Airman’s Medal, the highest award that could be given for heroism in peacetime. In the same presentation, a scary-looking Army master sergeant—Nestor Glades—received the Soldier’s Medal, the Army’s equivalent award.
The Army green dress uniform worn by Glades bore so many decorations that Ourecky wasn’t sure that there was room for any more. It wasn’t until the vaguely worded citations were read that Ourecky realized that the three men had been instrumental in rescuing him from Haiti.
Finally, the DFC—Distinguished Flying Cross—was awarded to Howard, Riddle, Jackson, Sigler, Carson, Ourecky and Russo. Only four of the seven men came to the stage; the others were awarded posthumously. The DFC’s for Ourecky and Carson were the last awards presented; their citations—virtually identical—read in part: “For heroism and extraordinary accomplishment in flight, for eight special reconnaissance missions executed in an extremely hostile operational environment during the period June 1969 through October 1972. These eight missions were of the greatest strategic significance, resulting in the timely collection of extremely valuable intelligence unobtainable by any other means…”
Smiling to himself as he returned to his seat, Ourecky wondered how he would eventually explain the award to Bea, since she would undoubtedly be curious how a non-pilot could receive such a prestigious award for flying. He reminded himself that since she was unlikely to see him in uniform for at least another year, it wasn’t something he needed to be immediately concerned with. Looking to his right, he saw that Jackson and Sigler—with their two failed missions in orbit—appeared almost embarrassed to be here.
Colonel Seibert, the Project’s former intelligence officer, strolled to the podium and tersely spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the public portion of the awards ceremony. At this point, unless you are seated in one of the chairs bearing a red stripe, we invite you to a reception in the Assembly Hall. If you are seated in a red stripe chair, then we request that you remain in your seat so we can adhere to our timetable for the remainder of the presentation.”
A shuffle took place as most of the family members were escorted out. Once they were gone, another group of attendees entered through a side door. In short order, the seats of the auditorium were filled; the spaces vacated by the Project workers’ families were occupied by high-ranking officers, mostly generals.
Ourecky was astounded at the amount of rank in the room; he hadn’t seen so many stars in one place since he had walked in space almost two years ago.
Security agents in plain clothes moved through the auditorium, verifying invitations and checking identification cards to ensure that the remaining men were authorized to be seated in the red stripe chairs. Ourecky uncomfortably felt as if he didn’t belong here, that he wasn’t worthy to sit in one of these chairs. As he began to stand up, he felt something pushing against his chest, like a massive hand gently nudging him back into the chair. Sitting back down, he could swear he heard “Big Head” Howard’s gruff voice whispering in his ear: “You’ve earned the right. You’ve flown over the line.”
Once everyone was seated and their credentials verified, Colonel Seibert spoke again. “The remainder of this ceremony is classified. The proceedings are not to be discussed outside this forum. While we apologize to the recipients, the awards presented today must be physically returned after this ceremony is concluded, before you exit this auditorium. They will be stored here at Wright-Patterson in classified archives. They will not be disclosed in your official records nor may they be worn in public without express authorization of the Secretary of the Air Force.”
With that said, the Project’s former pilots and Ed Russo were called forward to receive the Air Force Astronaut Badge from the Secretary of the Air Force. Even though they could never wear the wings in public, they were now part of an extremely exclusive fraternity, consisting of the Air Force pilots who had flown on NASA space missions as well as five Air Force men who had piloted the X-15.
Ourecky was the last man called to the stage. The ceremony was being filmed, and the camera crew’s glaring klieg lights made it difficult for him to see. Facing the audience, he took his place beside the Secretary and the Chief, while Virgil Wolcott held a velvet-lined case with two sets of the astronaut wings. He held his breath as the Chief solemnly read the official orders authorizing the wings to be posthumously awarded to Drew Carson, and then the Chief read his citation. “Having met the requisite qualifications by flying in excess of fifty miles above the earth’s surface, Major Scott E. Ourecky is hereby awarded the Air Force Astronaut badge.”
Wolcott grinned, leaned toward the Chief and whispered something in his ear. The Chief smiled, nodded and announced, “I’ve just been reminded that we have a special guest here to make this presentation.” He nodded toward a captain standing beside a curtain. The captain, standing a few feet to Ourecky’s right, disappeared behind the curtain. In seconds, he reemerged, escorting Bea from behind the curtain.
“Bea?” said Wolcott softly, offering her a set of silver wings. “Bea, darlin’, would you do the honors, please?” He leaned toward Ourecky and said, “This is Mark’s doin’. This was his last request. We had to process her for an interim security clearance to pull this off.”
Grinning, Bea fumbled with the wings, pinning them slightly crooked above Ourecky’s left breast pocket. As the audience applauded, she hugged him and softly whispered, “Surprised to see me, dear? You look a bit stunned.”
Flabbergasted, barely able to stand, Ourecky nodded. “Uh, that’s putting it mildly.”
“Look out there, Scott,” she said softly, po
inting back toward the seats. “When Virgil asked me to be here, I told him I wouldn’t come if your parents couldn’t come also. I thought they deserved to see this, too.”
Ourecky shielded his eyes as he looked out over the audience to see his parents seated in the third row. Beaming, his father cradled Andy, barely conscious, in his lap.
As tears came to his eyes, he asked her, “So how much do you know?”
“Exactly enough not to ask any questions,” she replied. “Fifty miles, huh? I suppose Drew’s dinky little T-38 sure could fly much higher than most.”
An athletic-looking man in a dark suit came out from the wings and quietly spoke to the Secretary. The Secretary looked at Ourecky and said “Major, you and your wife need to take your seats.”
“Two minutes,” announced the man in the dark suit.
As they stepped off the stage, Wolcott leaned toward Ourecky, palmed him a tissue, and whispered gruffly, “Your duty day is far from over, pard. You are a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force. Knock off that danged blubberin’ and act like one.”
Ourecky blew his nose and wiped his eyes as he made his way to his seat. Bea sat down beside him. He had just barely regained his composure when the man in the dark suit declared, “All rise for the President of the United States.”
Without the playing of “Hail to the Chief” or any other ceremonial fanfare, the President walked out from behind the curtain. Eyes down, haggard, he walked slowly, as if he were in great pain. Like most of the men in the room, he looked almost exhausted from the demands of the past half-decade. Rumors abounded that he was on the verge of surrendering the reins of the Presidency to Vice President Gerald Ford.
He stepped to the podium and spoke. “Please take your seats. I apologize that I can only be here briefly. I am sure that all of you are cognizant of current events, so you are probably well aware that my Presidency is under siege. So, officially, although I’m supposed to be at Camp David today, gnashing my teeth and wringing my hands as I contemplate certain indiscretions, I have a promise to keep to Lieutenant General Mark Tew, who led many of you gentlemen until his untimely death.”
He held up a handwritten letter. “Just a few hours before he passed, Mark wrote to request my assistance in expediting appropriate awards to recognize and honor the gallantry of two of his officers.
“As I read Mark’s letter, it struck me that we possess few ways to measure or adequately recognize courage in the absence of armed conflict. As I pondered this thought, I was reminded of a story from World War II, one that many of you will recognize.”
Clearing his throat, the President reached into his pocket and drew out an index card. Referring to it, he stated, “Early in 1943, four Army chaplains—-George L. Fox, a Methodist reverend; Alexander D. Goode, a Jewish rabbi; Clark V. Poling, a minister of the Reformed Church of America, and John P. Washington, a Roman Catholic priest—-were aboard the troopship Dorchester, in a convoy bound for Greenland. On the night of February 3, near Newfoundland, the Dorchester was torpedoed by a German U-Boat.
“Rather than seek safety for themselves, the four chaplains helped panicking soldiers into lifeboats and tried to instill calm in an extremely desperate situation. Although it meant their certain deaths in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic, they willingly surrendered their life vests to men who had lost theirs.
“As men of peace travelling on their way to war, three of the chaplains had never heard a shot fired in anger before their vessel was attacked. The fourth, Chaplain Fox, was very familiar with the nature of war. Fox had served in the Ambulance Corps during World War I, where he earned the Purple Heart, as well as a Silver Star and the French Croix de Guerre for bravery.
“As the Dorchester went down, the four chaplains remained on deck, praying for and comforting the wounded. At the very end, as the ship sank below the waves, they joined arms and sang hymns together.”
The President placed the index back in his pocket and continued. “What those four chaplains did, in unison, was profoundly selfless. In their immortal deeds, we should recognize that when faced with dire circumstances that require decisive action, what a man does is not just an abrupt response formed in the moment, but a reflection of character forged over a lifetime. For their shared sacrifice, the four chaplains were posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest award that this nation can bestow.”
The President sipped from a glass of water as he nodded toward the Secretary. The Secretary quietly moved to Ourecky’s side and escorted him and Bea to the stairs. As the three came to the stage, the President wiped perspiration from his chin with a handkerchief.
“I assume that most of you are aware of the details of this event,” continued the President. “For those of you who are not, without delving into the sensitive particulars, when called upon to undertake a high risk mission to rescue a fellow officer, Majors Carson and Ourecky willingly placed themselves in the most dire circumstances that any of us could possibly imagine.”
The President continued. “They did so without hesitation. Moreover, they had over a week to contemplate their actions and the potential consequences before they actually executed their mission, so this was definitely not a situation where they acted in an impulsive manner.
“I would be remiss if I were to imply that it was easy for me to decide upon an appropriate award to recognize their actions. Faced with this challenge, I called on the assistance of my military advisors, and we struggled to determine what award was commensurate with the gallant sacrifice of these two men.
“As a former Navy officer, I am compelled to uphold tradition and heritage, but as an attorney, I look to the past to seek precedent. To this end, I asked my military advisors to assist me in determining what award was most appropriate. In the process, I learned some interesting things about our military’s awards. As an example, let’s consider some misconceptions about this nation’s highest award, the Medal of Honor.
“Since the Medal is routinely referred to as the “Congressional Medal of Honor,” most people assume that it is awarded by the Congress. It is not; although the Congress may recommend that the Medal of Honor be awarded to a recipient, it is awarded by the President on behalf of Congress.
“Most people would assume that the Medal of Honor is exclusively awarded for exceptionally courageous acts during armed conflict against enemies of the United States. This is also not true. In fact, only five years ago, the Medal was presented to Captain William McGonagle for his heroic actions during the attack on the USS Liberty on June 8, 1967. Most of you present are probably aware that the Liberty was mistakenly attacked by Israeli forces.
“Furthermore, the Medal of Honor has not always been awarded for actions during armed conflict. Prior to World War II, the Medal was awarded to 193 men for their heroic actions in peacetime. Virtually all of the recipients were Navy men. Amongst those who received the Medal in peacetime, you might recognize the names of Charles Lindbergh, who was a Captain in the US Army Air Corps Reserve when he flew solo across the Atlantic, as well as Richard Byrd and Floyd Bennett, who were honored for making the first heavier-than-air flight over the North Pole.
“So, as my advisors and I concluded our research, I felt confident that we had established ample precedent for an appropriate award. So without further ado, I call upon the Secretary of the Air Force to read the citations.”
The Secretary cleared his throat and said, “Please rise as these men are honored. Since the President’s time is limited, I will read these two citations as one. Major Andrew M. Carson and Major Scott E. Ourecky are hereby awarded the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of their lives and beyond the call of duty. Upon learning that a fellow airman was seriously ill and trapped at an undisclosed location, they volunteered, without hesitation, to execute an exceptionally complicated and potentially perilous rescue mission in the most hostile of environmental conditions. Not only were they successful in their re
scue mission, but they were also able to concurrently complete the timely recovery of immense volumes of strategic intelligence which otherwise would have been lost. Their extraordinary heroism, selfless devotion to duty, and supreme dedication to their comrade are commensurate with the finest traditions of the military service and remain a tribute to themselves and the United States Air Force.”
As the President draped the pale blue ribbon around his neck, Ourecky was surprised at how heavy the Medal was. He glanced toward Bea; she seemed to be in shock.
“Since he is currently missing and presumed dead in North Vietnam, Major Carson’s award is posthumous,” stated the Secretary.
“Major Ourecky, since Major Carson has no living relatives, would you accept this award on his behalf?” asked the President. The Secretary handed him a blue case approximately the size of a hardback book, which he offered to Ourecky.
“I will, sir,” answered Ourecky, accepting the case and framed citation. He looked down at the closed case; on this day, more than anything else, he wished that Carson could be standing here with him.
As the Secretary presented a bouquet of roses to Bea, the President said, “Mrs. Ourecky, Bea, we honor your sacrifices as well. I’m very aware that the past few years haven’t been particularly easy for you.”
Smiling politely, clasping the flowers tightly as if she was afraid to drop them, she answered, “It has been somewhat of a challenge, sir.”
The President asked, “Is there anything you would like to say, Major Ourecky?”
Before Ourecky spoke, the Secretary leaned toward him and quietly advised, “Son, this is a mixed audience, so tread very lightly. Take caution not to reveal anything beyond what was stated in that citation. Don’t be too specific. Got me?”
Ourecky nodded. For several seconds, he was silent, composing his thoughts, and then he spoke. “Although I feel that I don’t deserve this, I am greatly honored.” Looking directly at Ed Russo, he added, “I hope that I can speak for Drew Carson when I say that we did what we had to do, we did what we thought was right, and that if the circumstances warranted, we would do it again.”