I called James* late on a Friday afternoon. I had a break in my busy, hectic day as a Pentagon staff officer and wanted to catch up with an old friend. We talked briefly about mutual Air Force-related concerns and the conversation quickly transitioned to the personal. We talked of future plans, wives, kids and family activities for several minutes. Then it was back to the grind.
Two days later, my quiet Sunday afternoon was jarred by a phone call. I was notified James was dead from an apparent suicide—a gunshot to the head. In disbelief, I argued over the phone . . .
“Are you sure it was James?”
“Surely he must’ve been murdered?”
“Maybe an accident?”
“Why would he do such a thing? We just talked less than 2 days ago and he seemed so normal–so happy. Planning for the future.”
None of it made sense.
Two days later, I was notified I’d been appointed to escort James’ widow, four children, and his remains to McGuire Air Force Base, New Jersey for the funeral and interment. The new widow had made a by-name request for my assistance.
By the end of the week I was at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport in my dress blues and waiting for the family. I had already retrieved the remains—a simple wooden box with James’ ashes. I spoke with the American Airlines gate agent. We were all permitted to board first. At the end of our flight to Philadelphia, as the flight taxied up to the jetway, the captain asked everyone remain seated while James’ family and I deplaned. As we exited the plane onto the jetway, the entire aircrew was there—captain, first officer, and flight attendants, all standing at attention, rendering salutes.
The next day was the funeral.
A tri-folded American flag was presented . . .
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your husband’s honorable and faithful service.”
Three rifle volleys rang out from the honor guard.
Taps were played.
As the last note of taps faded, a four-ship of 2 C-17s and 2 KC-10s lumbered overhead with one of the C-17s suddenly veering upward, towards the heavens, in missing man formation.
I gave a final salute for my good friend and that was it.
I was one of his best friends and I never saw it coming. The “what-ifs” and “should haves” still haunt me.
* pseudonym
Dash Stories 