The Letter:
Dec 18 19:33:54 1996
Subject: From another Son of Satan's Angels
I don't know if you're called Bob or not. I do know that after having visited every single corner of your web page, I feel like I've known you for decades.
I was an F-4 GIB in the 433rd TFS from September of '67 to May of '68.
At some point, I must have taken a Phantom into battle which had your fingerprints on it. I have the deepest respect for every one of you marvelous men who sent us into combat with flying machines which, in my case at least, brought us back home all in one piece. I flew 125 missions, including 100 over North Vietnam, and 31 of those into Route Pack VI. It occurs to me that I - and a lot of other aviators like me -owe our lives to you.
I want to express to you my profoundest gratitude and best wishes for God's richest blessings. You certainly deserve it.
Again, thank you for a long career of devoted service to your country.
I hope to hear from you in the near future.
--
The Answer:
As I read this letter, the beleaguered events of three decades past flashed vividly through my mind. Then... the tears started to slide down my cheeks as the words slowly etched their way into my brain. I remembered those dark times, the terrible hard work, the endless hours on the flight line, the sacrifices we all made, ...for one thing, ...THE MISSION.
So long ago, were those days, now tucked neatly in to a remote memory bank somewhere
within my mind. In a flash, ...all returned, so far away, yet...so real! One can really
never truly forget!
Things back then moved at a never ending pace and most of us "maintenance
troops" seemed lost in the everyday shuffle of the war. The challenge of just keeping
up sometimes seemed an insurmountable task in its' self. The 12 plus hour shifts, the heat
and sweat, bad food, no sleep, the no days off, the endless frag, day in day out, week in
week out, month after month, through it all we just grinned, endured, and did our best to
insure a Code1 jet with 100% weapons was ready for the drivers when they came to take
charge of their gallant steeds and fly off to the fierce air battles then taking place
over the north.
We all had a quiet respect and affection for these courageous men and what emanate dangers
they faced in the skies beyond. We never shared in their glory, nor did we ask to. Our
glory went beyond all that, for we all knew how to tame the beast, cure it's ails, and
have it ready to fight again in the next go. We patched her wounds, armed her guns and
bombs, fixed that always unfixable radar, poured countless thousands of gallons of JP-4 in
to her seemingly always empty tanks, and dripped our sweat upon her skin in the always too
hot Asian sun.
We didn't ask for medals, nor glory, just seeing the drivers safely step down from the
cockpit , with a smile on his face after a successful mission, was enough for us. For
then, we all knew we had done our job.
I read the letter again and then knew this was not just written just to personally thank
me, but to thank all those countless guys and gals that "tamed the beast," not
just during the Vietnam war, but every day, and at every air force base through out the
world.
Ours always has seemed like an endless and thankless job, always has, probably always will
be, but still it is our job. A most important job. Our reward, a successfully completed
mission, the safe return of the pilots, and the safe return of our precious flying machine
so generously loaned out for the days fray in the skies above.
