The flag of our youth
I have been working military charters for most of my career as a flight attendant. My first military charter was in the early 1990s, when such flights usually supported some lightning-strike mission to get some evil dictator out of some unheard-of country. On that first occasion, I went to Rome for three weeks and worked a shuttle delivering soldiers to Saudi Arabia. I was young and single, eager to see the world and happy for another excuse to party in Italy.
Fifteen years later, the military charters continue to fly and, remarkably enough, often to the same area of the world. But it’s not as easy for me to work the military flights these days. The troops seem to be getting younger and fear is rife on every flight. The soldiers have spent months preparing to go to Iraq or Afghanistan, and they’ve spent the last week saying goodbye to their families, but it isn’t until they get on the airplane and take off that the reality really sinks in.
Their expressions tell it all: “How did I get here?†they seem to say. And, “Oh my God, am I really going off to war?â€
True, these soldiers have all volunteered for their service, but I’m sure most of them never believed it would actually come to this. I certainly never did. When I was in the military, back in the 1980s, my job was to play the trumpet in Germany. I couldn’t afford college, and the Army was the only way I could get a degree. But I never feared for my life. After all, nobody was going to mess with the United States of America. War? I never gave it a second thought.
Times change, and now I find working these charters get tougher with every journey. Not physically, for the flights are in fact very easy. No alcohol is served, the soldiers are very polite, and most of them just want to sleep. It’s the mental and emotional strain that weigh me down. I recently completed another military charter, and I returned with a heavy heart. The young men and women filed onto the airplane wearing their fresh, new uniforms and brave faces. But underneath they harbored those looks of disbelief.
A 19-year-old boy pulled me aside.
“Is this like another Vietnam conflict?†he asked me. “What do I do if I am not up to this?â€
I tried to reassure him, but I had no clear-cut answers.
Remarkably, I also ran into a friend and fellow Army bandsmen on that flight. I did a double take.
“Freddy, is that you?†I exclaimed.
“Wysong? What are you doing on this plane?â€
We talked over old times, about how his trombone got traded in for an M-16 during the first Gulf War. He said the band had changed. It wasn’t like the old days, when we performed at German beer festivals. This was his third and final tour of duty in Iraq; when he was done, he would retire. He mused that I had made the right choice in getting out, but I joked with him not to be so sure, as he was still young and about to retire with a nice monthly check from the Army. At least his CEO couldn’t rob him of his pension like mine did.
It was the only bright spot in an otherwise dreary mission. As we touched down at our destination, the young soldier across from me vainly fought off tears. Soon they were streaming down his face.
I usually look forward to the return trip. It’s so much more gratifying bringing the soldiers home than taking them off to war. But this time there were no troops aboard the return flight — a clear indication that there would be no early end to the conflict.
Not long after I got back, I worked a civilian flight from Germany. Upon boarding, a grumpy- looking First Class passenger insisted on speaking to the purser, who unfortunately was yours truly. From the look on his face, I figured the gentleman was getting ready to complain about something.
“What can I do for you, sir?†I asked, putting on my defensive shield.
“I’d like you to go back to Economy and pick a service member coming back from Iraq and give him my seat,†he said.
For the first time in a long time I was speechless. I actually felt on the verge of tears. Not only was I wrong about this man, but I suddenly felt the greatest admiration for him. I did as he requested, but made sure I kept him amply supplied with First Class wine the entire flight. The soldier who got his seat had a kid-in-a-candy-store smile on his face the whole flight. My heart and my faith were renewed.
No matter what our political views are, the troops need and deserve our support. This Thanksgiving, give thanks to our boys, girls, fathers and mothers who are away in some foreign place so we can be safe in our holiday homes. If you see some soldiers at the airport, shake their hands, pat them on the back, buy them a coffee, and whatever you do, don’t forget to thank them for their service.
Happy Thanksgiving!