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I’m a poor correspondent and, historically, a lousy friend. Raised in the Air Force, I moved all over the world, put down roots that were pulled out quickly, before friendship could take hold. I joined in 1978, just two years after my father retired. To my mind, that’s how life worked: temporary friends, temporary conditions, temporary duty. Work hard, play hard, disappear again to a new place. New temporary friends.
This past weekend those assumptions died. I went to San Antonio, where former reconnaissance aircrews gather each year to remember the past, reminisce, and honor those who have fallen. I’m not sure why I wanted to go, and confess that a few days after I booked the trip I had some misgivings. I’d changed in 20 years and assumed they had also.
On Friday morning, we attended a memorial service on Lackland Air Force Base. As part of the ceremony, they read aloud a list of names of people who have passed away this year. I held it together for awhile, tried to, at any rate, but when they called out Ernie’s name, I couldn’t maintain myself.
I flew with Ernie. We lived close to one another in Maryland, and often met in a little bar at the corner of Route 1 and Route 32, near Laurel. He was a quiet, generous man with a whole lot of humor and a brain the size of Detroit. His real name was Charles, but in Greece, where he had been stationed prior to Maryland, he ran the bars with another old friend, and soon enough the twosome became known as “Bert and Ernie.” The monikers stuck. During Desert Shield, Ernie and I hooked up again in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where we flew on different crews. The laughs were a mile a minute, the stories pure and wonderful.
After they read out the names, a tight formation of four F-16 fighters flew overhead. Just as they passed the reviewing stand the number three aircraft pointed his nose to space and departed the group, leaving that slot empty. In the Air Force, it’s known as the “Missing Man Formation,” the perfect metaphor. I pictured Ernie’s skinny frame in an oversized flight suit, lighting a cigarette after a long mission, hair parted in the middle, laughing his ass off about something or other. I could smell the stench of aircraft gas, hear the noises of the ground equipment and the back ramp of a C-130 being lowered. I was where I had to be just then. I had come full circle.
These men are closer to me than brothers. They know more about me than my family does, good and bad. We flew insane missions together, roomed and drank together, calmed each other when troubles came. We knew each others’ secrets, observed each other in the best and worst of situations. We backed each other absolutely, or cornered one another for a little “career counseling” over beer and sighs when something went wrong. We knew how to make the mission work, a mission whose peculiarity lay in the concept that it was better to be known as someone who could competently and consistently perform at the top of his or her potential without regard for rank. It was terribly fraternal, and it was perfect.
Saturday night I was out until 2:30 in the morning with the guys and a pair of very wonderful wives. We laughed and drank, told too many war stories (most of which we’d all heard a thousand times), and had an outstanding visit. I thought of Ernie, and have to admit I was good with him not being there, not this time. If he had been, we’d have gotten back to the hotel a helluva lot later than 2:30. That’s a guarantee.
Rest in Peace, Ernie; your life was temporary, your friendship is forever.
P.S. One last war story. It’s not about Ernie, but he’d have loved it: Hector and I were on the ramp at Patrick AFB, Florida, waiting for a crew bus to come get us. It was a burning hot, humid day in Florida, and we had just logged an eight-hour mission following a night out on the town. I can’t tell you enough how HOT it was. The security police were putting the ropes around the mission aircraft for security reasons, as always, and this maintenance troop comes walking down the flight line looking at all this hubbub over a little old C-130. He gets all the way to Hector and I, and says, “damn, what the hell do you guys have in that -130, anyway??” Hector looks straight at him, and with that deadpan voice of his says, “ice cream, MF.”