Reflections From the Road

We rarely get outside the P-N Dubyah, but we did manage to take the van east recently.  A fitting direction as I just heard the news that Murph, a Gunship pilot I used to fly with, headed east permanently.  So many Ghostriders are gone and the list keeps growing.

So it was good to get out of the woods and catch up with one of my old crew dawgs.  We got to stop and see a gunner I was fortunate enough to serve with on several deployments, a guy who made every trip worthwhile.  When you're doing that job, competence is required, but a sense of humor is almost as valuable and this gunner always had laughs on tap.  Hadn't seen him in fifteen years since I ran into him on the River Walk out of nowhere and he showed me some humorous memes on his phone that made me say, "dude, WTF is wrong with you..."  He was easier to spot this time as we pulled up to a place to grab some lunch.  He didn't blend in with a crowd of "Messicans" this time.  Met him at the door, delivered all the niceties that are required in today's day and age ("I just want you to know that I see you and your lived experience as a person of color," etc) and then we ordered some drinks.  Times have changed since we last saw each other so I just wanted to make sure I was doing it right.

Back in the day, before I realized that my skin color made me bad and him good, he was just a bad ass gunner on my crew.  A gunner who used to wake our loadmaster up by putting his sack on his forehead in the morning.  There are a lot of strange customs in the gunner world, it's almost as confusing as the DEI nonsense of today, but far more entertaining.

He sipped his tequila and we ordered some food and we talked a bit about the old life.  I didn't bring up the time we nearly got hit by a mortar next to our fully loaded Gunship and how the explosion rocked us all, nor how he was laughing as we headed into the nearby bunker.  I also didn't mention the time while we were shooting the 105mm that one explosion was so violent it cracked our plumbing and pissed out our utility hydraulic system so that we had to abort our mission and land without niceties like nosewheel steering, and how all the responding emergency vehicles made a light show upon our arrival on the dark runway in Iraq, and how we had to flee the aircraft under a predictable mortar attack, tromping through the UXO laden field.  I imagine he remembered that, and likely also remembers saying "hey pilot, catch" as he cracked a chem light and threw it at me during the adventure.

When doing that job with its lack of cubicles and a coffee machine, it's important to have a healthy view when it comes to death.  It's the kind of physical courage that goes well with the moral courage this old gunner also had in spades, as he risked his retirement (while sporting more Air Medals and more combat time than any other enlisted aviator in the Air Force) by refusing the unlawful experimental drug he was ordered to take, letting the cards fall where they may, but walking out unscathed just like on those mortar attacks.  Retired after twenty years of phenomenal service.  "Missed me."

We finished up lunch, I grabbed the check, he threw a wad of cash on the table making the check meaningless (and made the waiter's week) and we walked out of yet another locale still breathing.

But no amount of competence or work or humor can defeat time itself and it seems like the passing of those we served with is now a regular occurrence.  So it was good that the wife and I got to meet up with my old pal.  Three Ghostriders enjoying some laughs once more as we each await our turns on the ultimate fini-flight.

RIP Murph.