When he was 15, my father and his father took a single engine sightseeing airplane ride during a family vacation to the Jersey Shore. From then on, he wanted to be a pilot. He learned to fly in the Navy, got a job in the airlines, married, and raised a family. He would have turned 70 on August 3, but he died a few years ago. Later, because you always want to know more, I filed a request with the National Archives for his military files. The response arrived in the mail a few months back. I was nervous. I took the envelope up to the attic where I could be alone. There were about 30 pages. And here’s what they said:
He enlisted on June 16, 1965 just outside of Philadelphia. He had a half-inch scar on his right knee, a quarter-inch scar under his chin. He had blue eyes, brown hair. He was 5-foot 8-inches tall and 160 pounds. He learned to fly a P-3 Orion turboprop and crisscrossed the North Atlantic looking for Russian submarines. While given high marks as an aviator, “his most valuable asset is his deep concern for the welfare of his men,” one performance review said. “On numerous occasions, through his leadership and counseling, he has been able to help his men who had difficult personal problems.” The records summed him up this way: “He is quiet, often unassuming, while possessing a very individual forcefulness and direction of purpose.” And it’s true, that’s exactly how he was. // Jim McElhatton
