Recall that had not Conoco jumped in to provide a plane to take their family to Arlington and to cover the costs of hotel and meals in a high-cost, expense-account location, attending the funeral of their youngest son would have been an overwhelming financial burden. While the Air Force would have eventually reimbursed them for their own travel, the cost of flying Jason’s brother and sister and their respective spouses would not have been picked up by the military. As it stood, Jason’s grandparents were unable to afford the trip, and there was no more room on the Conoco jet.
The financial burden on the Cunningham family is not unique to relatives of servicemen and -women who die for their country. Little more than a year after Brig. Gen. John H. Folkerts had to personally notify Theresa Cunningham of her husband’s death, he was faced once more with the onerous task. An HH-60G helicopter from the Moody-based 41st Rescue Squadron crashed in Afghanistan, killing all six on board. The helicopter had been on the most righteous of missions, flying with another HH-60 to medevac two small, seriously injured Afghan children, when it went down in bad weather.
A memorial service was scheduled for all six crewmembers at Moody Air Force Base near Valdosta, Georgia. Again, the Air Force could help reimburse the costs of transportation for next of kin, but as General Folkerts said in an interview after the service, “One family had eleven people that needed to fly from Michigan to Valdosta. We have to draw the line somewhere.” He’s not being unsympathetic; just realistic.
But what if the solution existed outside the government? Here’s how the problem could be solved: All the airlines that received bailout money in grants or loan guarantees, and all the airlines that accept government contracts to fly troops or cargo should be required as a condition of receiving those grants, loans or contracts, to fly at no cost the close relatives of those killed in combat or who have died as a result of combat wounds or injuries, to any funeral, official memorial service, or posthumous medal award ceremony. “Close relatives” does not limit it to legal next-of-kin or beneficiaries. It means what it says. If the funeral, memorial service or medal ceremony is held at or near a military base, housing accommodations should also be made available at no cost to close relatives.
Consider Operation Iraqi Freedom. There were fewer than two hundred coalition deaths as a result of that war. If each of those who died for their country had ten people who needed tickets, the airlines would have had to provide two thousand seats. Given the load factors on airplanes since 9/11, that would hardly be a burden—even on financially strapped carriers. Besides, they owe it to the country. This is an idea that should receive bipartisan support in the Congress. All it requires is for some of the lawmakers who have served in our military to take the lead.
In late winter at Moody Air Force Base, Brigadier General Folkerts had insisted that his squadron commanders in the 347th Rescue Wing role-play a mass casualty scenario. Reluctantly, they humored the boss and went through the exercise.
Less than three weeks later, the flags at Moody were lowered to half-staff. Thirty Lowndes County Sheriff ’s Department cruisers, their blue lights flashing, formed cordons outside both of Moody’s gates, demonstrating the solidarity of the people of greater Valdosta with the Air Force community mourning its loss. And inside the largest hangar on the base, close to two thousand people had come to pay their respects to the aircrew of Komodo 11, Lt. Col. John Stein, Capt. (Select) Tamara Archuleta, S.Sgt. Jason Hicks and S.Sgt. John Teal, as well as pararescuemen M.Sgt. Mike Maltz and SrA Jason Plite. Once each of them had been eulogized by a colleague, and the formal service ended with the playing of “Taps,” an informal ritual began. Hundreds of people lined up to walk silently and alone to a makeshift shrine at the front of the hangar, behind which stood a large portrait of each of the deceased, and upon which were symbols of their profession—an aircrew helmet, a maroon PJ beret. On the table, or in baskets in front of it, the mourners left a gift. Women most often placed a single white rose in the basket, while those in uniform or wearing flight suits would remove one of their unit patches, or in the case of the PJs, the metal “flash” from their berets, and leave it front of their buddies’ photos. The procession to the front of the hangar lasted nearly an hour.
Later that evening, more than a hundred men and women—aircrew, PJs, wives, friends, even groupies—showed up at the home shared by PJs Soup Campbell and Ben Harris for a traditional PJ wake. The invitation said, Come send off our fallen brothers! Celebrate their lives PJ style tonight after the memorial service! So bring great stories and your drinking boots!
Jews sit shiva, a seven-day mourning period that begins after the burial. Catholics have somber wakes before a burial and feast afterward. Mourning rituals have evolved to suit the ethos and needs of the particular group involved. In the case of the pararescuemen and the CSAR aircrews, the wake following the official memorial service was not a time for tears, but for the kind of laughter that hides the pain. There would be time for tears in the days ahead, when many of those in attendance would be called upon to serve as pallbearers at the funerals of their colleagues.
Soup Campbell called the ritual toasting a “PJ roast.” And while some, like helicopter pilot Maj. Chas Tachney, were respectful as he raised a bottle of bourbon and toasted the flying skill and demanding standards of Lieutenant Colonel Stein, others told stories that ranged from ribald to riotous. SrA Jason Plite was remembered as a chick magnet, able to walk off with women who had already committed to spending an evening with one of his fellow PJs. M.Sgt. Mike Maltz, who had a reputation as a workout fanatic who often finished his sessions in the gym by pummeling the heavy bag, then knocking it off its moorings and sending it flying, was lionized as the scourge of PJ trainees. One younger pararescueman told the story of going to breakfast at four in the morning with several other trainees. They were not supposed to be talking as they walked from dormitory to the dining hall, but often did. One morning, as they were chattering away, they heard a strange noise. A rope came flying off the roof of the building they were passing, and Maltzy came rappeling down, shouting that he’d caught them talking, and ordering them to drop and start pumping out push-ups. Earlier, someone had shown a video of Maltz doing an inspection of dormitory rooms, finding things unsatisfactory, and throwing everything in the room including the mattress out the window to the ground below. At the end of every bit of testimony, the bottle would be raised, a healthy swig taken, and the assembled crowd shouted a lusty, “Hooyah!”
Among those at the roast was Sr.M.Sgt. Bill Sine, who’d won the Distinguished Flying Cross for his jump mission to the minefield in Afghanistan. In early 2003, Sine put in the paperwork for retirement, ending a twenty-eight-year career as a pararescueman.
A number of the pararescuemen who had served in Operation Enduring Freedom, as well as elements of the 71st Rescue Squadron (HC-130) and 41st and 66th Rescue Squadrons (HH-60G), were reassigned to bases in the Middle East in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. By the day Saddam’s statue in Baghdad was toppled, Air Combat Command PJs had been credited with “emergency exfils” of compromised ground teams, saving fourteen soldiers; they’d rescued two Navy pilots who ejected over the Iraqi desert after the engine on their F-14 Tomcat strike fighter failed; and they’d done two severe casualty evacuations. ACC PJs flew numerous other missions which, at this writing, they’re not permitted to discuss.
Pararescuemen belonging to the supersecret 24th Special Tactics Squadron out of Pope Air Base, North Carolina, were part of the special operations force that rescued Army POW Jessica Lynch from an Iraqi hospital.
As the one-year anniversary of the death of Jason Cunningham approached, Barbara Tyler, wife of Maj. Don Tyler, wrote a letter to Jason’s mom.
Dear Jackie,
It has been nearly a year since Jason passed and I just wanted you to know that he is still in our prayers and thoughts daily. Our family remembers him and continues to be grateful to him. We also remember you, his girls, Theresa, and his siblings. We think of your loss
and we pray for all of you.
Don has finally retired from active duty. He continues his physical therapy. Although his shoulder will never fully recover we are happy he was able to retire and begin a new phase of his life.
It’s important that you know our children will always remember what Jason did for their dad on that cold mountainside. They will pass that on to their children. Jason’s life has affected them and he will be remembered for many years to come.
We are deeply grateful to all of you.
Barbara
I asked Barbara Tyler to tell me how life had changed for her family in the year since Don was injured in the Ditka 03 crash in Afghanistan. This is what she had to say:
Dear Mike,
Don retired from the Air Force on 1 Dec 2002. We celebrated his retirement at Disney Orlando as a family. First his injury, the quality of his life has been greatly limited by this injury. I have known Don my entire life and never do I remember him not being a “jock.” He has always jogged (almost daily), played sports like golf, tennis, basketball. He no longer golfs (a big passion of his); he can’t throw the ball up to serve in tennis. He has constant stiffness and pain in his shoulder and occasional pain in his knee. This has impacted his enjoyment in life greatly. It’s very difficult for me to watch him struggle; a few weeks ago I saw him try to trim a limb off a tree and he just kept struggling because it was over his head. Watching things like that makes me so sad; it’s painful to watch him do his therapy and work so hard to do things that were once very easy for him. I’m heartbroken to see him struggle and to know that his pleasures in life are now difficult and painful. There isn’t much I wouldn’t give to see him free of pain and discomfort and able to enjoy the pleasures of his life, like golfing.
As for our family, yes, you do “get over” something like this. It’s a long time of healing. We all miss how things used to be. Even something as simple as a hug is now different for all of us. Time will hopefully help us all heal and have full acceptance of Don’s limitations. On the upside, we often remember just how blessed we are to have Don here with us. A few weeks ago the Lotto was $50 million and my daughter and I were talking about it. I told her I would buy a ticket or two, but I said to her, “We already had our Lotto; I think you only get one in your lifetime.” She agreed. It’s still pretty emotional for all of us. Don has just completed a year of physical therapy. Through sheer determination he has gone further than it was ever expected, but he was deeply disappointed that he didn’t recover more use of his arm.
We didn’t celebrate the anniversary of the crash. We were home as a family. Earlier in the day I stopped to see George’s wife. The minute she saw me she began to cry. I was concerned about her because George is back in the theater again. I was quite unnerved on that day. A year earlier I was as tough as nails. I had two kids looking to me to show them I wasn’t afraid and that everything would be okay. I also had to set the “tone” with our extended family and friends. Then when Don came home I stayed very strong because he needed someone to carry the ball. I didn’t really let myself become emotional about all of this until the fall of 2002. So on the anniversary I was angry, sad, grateful, and blessed. All those emotions at the same time. I would be lying if I said we are only grateful and blessed; however, I hang on to those the most. We thought of Jason as we do every day, and said a prayer of thanks to him. Don, on the other hand, was probably more concerned with my reaction to that day; for him, as he said, “I live with that accident every day. I don’t need a calendar to remind me.”
Today Don is working with a defense contractor. We have secured a builder and we should be breaking ground on our new home within days. The children continue to grow and are well. Life does not stop. We still have tae kwon do, track, riding lessons, work, school, church, homework. Life goes on; it’s just different. It’s also lived with more gratitude, more love, and a dash of sadness.
Barbara
Rob’s been shot.
That was the subject of an e-mail one night in mid-April. My heart sank. Rob is Air Force pararescueman Rob Disney, a twenty-five-year-old staff sergeant I’d gotten to know during late-night cigar-smoking sessions outside the HAS at Jacobabad, Pakistan. I’d stayed in touch with Rob, and at his request had called his parents, Barbara and Bob Disney, in Bethany, Illinois, when I returned home from the war zone. The e-mail was from his mother. She had some details; I dug up others.
Rob and two other PJs, along with an American special-ops team, had been aboard a Russian-built troop-transport helicopter flying in the tribal area of southern Pakistan, somewhere between Jbad and the Afghan border. An Australian news report said they were on a mission to survey gas pipelines. Rob says they were going out to do some “land navigation and GPS training.” The area is one to which thousands of Taliban are thought to have fled from Afghanistan. Desolate though it may be, it’s a refuge for Al Qaeda and Taliban because the Pakistanis won’t permit American troops to cross their border from Afghanistan in pursuit.
The helicopter was flying with the rear clamshell doors removed. Disney was sitting on the ramp, tied in with his three-foot-long cowstail tether, as they came in to land. About fifty feet above the ground he heard a pop that sounded like a flare being discharged. He turned around and looked into the cabin and saw that everybody’s eyes “were really big.” Apparently, they’d flown right into an ambush.
“Everybody on board was looking at me, and I yelled, ‘Hey!’ and I grabbed my weapon and I put it on my shoulder and charged it. And while I was looking at them, I got hit.” The AK-47 round entered the back of his neck and knocked his sunglasses off as it came out his face, to the right and below his right eye. At almost the same time, a second bullet shattered the forearm of PJ Craig Fitzgerald, who had been seated to Disney’s right, lodging in his chest. Another round slammed into the body armor of the American flight engineer, bounced off, and lodged in his arm.
Shouting, “I’m hit,” and bleeding like a stuck pig from a wound that had left cheekbone, nerves, and muscle tissue exposed, Disney jammed the stock of his rifle against the gash to establish a cheek-weld so he could begin returning fire, and dropped to the floor of the helicopter because he expected it to crash—he’d already been in one helicopter crash and knew that getting onto the floor would minimize the chance that he’d be thrown around upon impact.
Experiencing a rapid amount of blood loss, he began to feel funny, and he thought to himself, “So this is what it feels like to die.” When he recognized that the crash hadn’t happened and the helicopter was gaining altitude, he put his weapon on safe, flung it aside, and began stripping off his combat gear so he could check himself out. That’s when he saw his right leg covered in blood, yet it didn’t dawn on him that it was his own. He was certain that someone else had taken a round.
“I did a head-to-toe on myself and I found my own open wound. I pressed my hand to it, and at that moment Ross [PJ Ross Funches, a former Army Ranger] came to me and I told him I’d been shot in the face—I didn’t realize I’d been shot in the neck.
“He said, ‘You’re not that bad, Diz, you’re not that bad.’ He grabbed a Kerlex bandage out of my ruck and put it on my face and I continued to hold pressure on it.” Funches went back to continue treating Fitzgerald and the flight engineer, while Disney, obviously agitated, moved from seat to floor and back again, trying to find a comfortable position. Finally, he ended up on the floor, his legs elevated to prevent shock. Funches started an IV, and a lieutenant colonel on board held the IV while giving Diz sips of water from his Camelbak. “Water was all I wanted in the whole world.” During the half-hour flight back to Jacobabad, Funches administered two units of blood to Fitzgerald.
At some point during the flight, Disney decided that he wasn’t going to die. Lying on the floor, he momentarily closed his eyes, and recalls that Funches looked over at him, saw his eyes closed, and screamed, “DIZ!”
“I looked at Ross, saw blood all over his face, and yelled, ‘I’m fine. It’s o
kay.’ He said, “Don’t fuckin’ do that. I love you, man.’ He was awesome. He triaged, treated, packaged ready-to-go three patients with what looked like critical injuries in thirty minutes’ time.”
As soon as the helicopter landed, Funches ran off and began shouting for people to come help. Two people got Rob to his feet and he was able to walk off, aware of his surroundings enough to actually snap a salute to the shocked base commander. As they put Rob in a Humvee, he told the waiting flight surgeon that he needed morphine, blood, and antibiotics, “And I need it now!” (You’ve probably figured out if you’ve read this far that PJs have control issues.)
All three casualties were medevacked to Al Uedid Air Base, Qatar, where the pararescuemen based there for Operation Iraqi Freedom immediately swarmed them. One of the first doctors to see them was told that the casualties were PJs, and he leaned over Disney, took a look, and then turned to the medical team and shouted, “Hey, everybody, listen up. This is high-priced real estate. Let’s take good care of ’em.” Disney says, “I needed to hear that.”
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