Deployed Summer Nights
Deployments are always an adventure. They are made or broken by the quality of the people on your crew, leadership, and the impact of the missions you execute while you are in theater.
In the summer of 2007, I was deployed to Southwest Asia (SWA), flying missions in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF). This was my fifth summer deployment in this part of the world, and it was hot. The plane I was flying had less-than-stellar air conditioning and technology dating back to the 1960s. Despite all those shortcomings, I loved deployed flying. Being able to “Hack the Mish” and support the joint force every night was what I signed up for many years ago when I joined the USAF.
Looking back, this deployment would be my most enjoyable. My entire crew was squared away. They knew their jobs, and they did them well. I knew I wouldn’t have to question their advice and that, if something went awry, we would be able to bring the plane home safely. We were so good at our jobs that we were awarded the Ross G. Hoyt Award, recognizing the best air refueling crew in the USAF, for 2008.
Takeaway:
- Take time to assess the present while keeping the future in mind. Happiness may be right in front of you, but you may be too focused on an unclear future goal to see it. That summer was a turning point in my career that I completely missed because I couldn’t get past myself and some ill-defined goal I had for my life. I would spend the rest of my career trying to get back to this moment, only to fall short.
"Learning the System"
I started my flying career at Pope Air Force Base, flying the mighty C-130E. I was part of Air Mobility Command (AMC). I spent roughly four years in that command, deploying four times in support of multiple operations throughout SWA. These experiences afforded me the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of personnel and cargo movement throughout multiple areas of responsibility. This knowledge would prove useful as my crew worked to depart the theater in 2007.
Find Your Own Way Home
As our time to depart grew closer, our deployed unit received a new commander who happened to be our squadron Operations Officer back at our home station. When he arrived, I asked him how he wanted us to get back to our home station when our time in theater was complete. Normally, there are rotators—contracted aircraft that take you home—available to move the masses. However, those rotators only have certain designated stops, and none of those stops were anywhere near where we were trying to go. Rotators are essentially “cattle cars” for humans, and flying on them is a miserable experience.
Since there were no rotators available, my new boss told me, “Go over to the AMC terminal and see if you can work something since you know the system.” In not so many words, he was telling me to figure it out myself, as there was no plan to get us out of the theater. This added to my “deployed angst.” Though mission hacking is fun, the heat, dumb rules related to wearing PT gear, and wearing reflective belts grind on your nerves over time.
Pause for Some Randomness
On that note, here's a side story. In 2006, I was deployed to the same spot, flying the same airplane. My copilot was an animal. An ultramarathon runner with two Western States 100 finishes and a run along Hadrian’s Wall in the UK, this kid was a fitness nut. I, on the other hand, liked to work out but not to the extent of this guy.
He and I would go out and run at night into the early morning, just about every day. We lived on the backside of the clock, meaning our day started when the sun went down, and we went to bed as it came up. Even if we’d flown that night, we’d hit the gym and the road. So much so that he convinced me to run my first marathon when I returned home later that year.
There was a time, early in OIF, when the clothing you wore for PT didn’t matter. Unfortunately, the “Fun Police” arrived in late 2003 and mandated that everyone wear service-specific PT gear in deployed environments. The clothing was awful, built by the lowest bidder, scratchy, and made for people with the body of a light pole. It was styling. All of us hated it. I would love to use colorful language to describe it, but there may be young eyes reading this, and I don’t want to be that guy who forces parents to explain that sort of language is inappropriate for use outside of your head.
On top of the “high quality” of this gear, the USAF elected to place a giant reflective target on the back of the shirt, making running along the fence line at night more than a little unnerving. It gets better: somebody along the way decided that the target on your back wasn’t enough and mandated that we all wear reflective belts during the hours of darkness. They enforced this rule by turning people away from the chow hall at night if they didn’t have their reflective belts on. That position was normally held by someone on the higher-ranking enlisted side who “needed” a deployment to make it to the next senior rank. That’s right, folks: only the highest-quality people get promoted. Being a “reflective belt enforcement officer” is a true sign of the ability to “perform duties in the next higher rank.”
Getting to the Point…Maybe
So, where am I going with this? Back to my copilot and our nightly fitness routine. We always finished our routine by running to the chow hall and catching breakfast before we went to sleep for the day. My copilot liked to run with his shirt untucked. No big deal. It was his choice, and he wasn’t hurting anybody. There wasn’t anything unprofessional about it, and before we faced the “Reflective Belt Enforcer,” he’d tuck it in, and we’d grab breakfast.
Well, about halfway through that deployment, a new sheriff came to town, and it just so happened that he drove to breakfast every morning around the same time we were finishing our run. As he drove his big white Ford pickup truck to the chow hall, his “Tucked Shirt” radar was on “High Sensitivity.” Without fail, he would pass us, see my copilot, and yell, “Tuck your shirt in!” Both of us wanted to punch that dude in the face. I am sure he turned those occurrences into some sort of fancy bullet on his performance report. Stupid rules exist because dumb people enforce them. Whoever you were, I certainly hope you got whatever promotion you needed after that deployment. I feel sorry for anyone who had to work for you, as it is blatantly obvious that you put your priorities on the wrong things.
Takeaways:
- I’m going to contradict myself here and tell you that small things matter. If you don’t take care of the small stuff, big things will fall apart. However, you must thoroughly assess which small things really matter. There’s a need for good order and discipline, but unless one is trying to cut down on drag during a race, an untucked PT shirt does not harm the masses.
Back to the Story
Back to the adventure of getting home at the end of our 2007 rotation. One day, after a short night mission, I drove over to the AMC terminal on the base and spoke with the sergeant in charge of passenger movements into and out of the theater. I told him I needed to move eight passengers and their bags out of the theater and back to the UK, where I was stationed at the time. The individual was super helpful and provided me with a couple of options, all of which terminated in Germany rather than the UK. Happy with that information, I went back to my boss and told him what I had learned at the terminal. He told me, “If you can get your crew to Germany, the unit can generate a line to come get you.” With that direction, I went back to the terminal and coordinated our departure.
Whenever you depart from or arrive in a new theater, your bags must be inspected. The depth of these inspections varies greatly from location to location. The equipment requirements for deploying during that period were robust, requiring an aircrew member to travel with no fewer than four large bags and a Pelican case or two. Upon arriving at the terminal that night, the inspectors made us completely unpack everything we had so they could go through all our stuff. The bags that had taken us hours to pack were unceremoniously dumped on the floor. The whole process added to the angst I mentioned earlier. Though I wanted to blow up at the inspectors, I knew they were doing their jobs, and no amount of conflict would halt the process. Unfortunately, people tried to take things home, like pieces of aircraft, blown-up vehicles, and bottles of sand. Thus, we all suffer for the sins of a few, and the rules that follow are designed to compensate for the lowest common denominator.
Takeaway:
- Leaders, don’t forget where you came from. You know the rules that annoyed the heck out of you when you were coming up through the ranks. Lead your people in such a way that those rules become irrelevant. It will save time and angst at multiple levels.
Homeward Bound
Once our bags had been inspected and repacked, my crew and I took our seats in the terminal and awaited the arrival of the large cargo aircraft that would take us to Germany. Around midnight, the plane arrived, and we waited our turn to board. We were flying “Space Available,” meaning we could only get on if there was room for us after the primary load was on board. This aircraft was set up for MEDEVAC and was full of individuals in need of care unavailable in the main theater of operations. Unfortunately, on this trip, there were a large number of casualties on board. Thankfully, there was just enough room for my crew and me to squeeze on with our stuff. To this day, I am appreciative of the lead doctor on board for allowing us to ride along.
Sitting on the sidewall and looking around the cargo compartment, I watched the flight nurses, medics, and doctors provide comfort to the injured service members. Directly in front of me was a younger-looking “kid” with metal bars sticking out of his arm, designed to stabilize a break. I didn’t have a chance to chat with him, but I assumed the injury was the result of a roadside bomb or a direct hit from a high-caliber weapon. Throughout the rest of the cargo area, there were others in worse shape than him, fully bandaged, with tubes and monitors attached to their bodies. I took a second to say a short prayer for the wounded on board and then settled in for the flight “home.”
I awoke to the sound of the engines changing pitch as the pilots began their descent for landing. In the time I’d been asleep, the sun had come up, and light was coming through the once-dark windows on the plane. The head doctor had told me at the beginning of the flight that he wanted my crew and me to move as fast as we could to unload our stuff so he and his team could unload the patients quickly. I woke my crew up, and we prepared ourselves for a quick exit. Once on the ground and parked, we sprang into action, moving all our stuff to the side of the aircraft under the wing. We then stood and watched as large buses outfitted for patient transport pulled up to the plane and began to receive the rest of the passengers.
This process was interesting to watch. As the patients were being offloaded, the hospital staff would clap and cheer, welcoming the injured home. I thought it was a nice touch for the folks on the plane. Each individual’s journey back to a level of “health” would be different. But, for that brief minute or two, they could feel like heroes as the rest of the team cheered for them.
Takeaway:
- Celebrate small victories. For those folks on that plane, they may have felt like they’d lost because they had been hurt. However, they could celebrate the fact that they’d made it off the battlefield and to a place where they could heal. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
You Said You’d Come Get Us
With the ambulance buses gone and the plane empty, there we stood. The crew had not called a bus for us, so we had to figure out how to get off the flight line. One of the navigators on my crew walked over to the terminal, coordinated a pickup, and we were off to the base hotel. We’d been awake for twenty-four hours at this point, and it was time to shower and take a nap. However, I had a phone call to make before I went to bed. My job as the Aircraft Commander wasn’t over yet; I had to get my crew the rest of the way home.
Once settled in my room, I called back to our home station and told them I’d done my part by getting the crew to Germany. I asked when the plane would be in town to pick us up. The answer I received was not what I was expecting. The voice on the other end told me that the boss wanted us to come home via commercial means and ride the bus back to base. I told them, in not so many words, “That’s a dumb idea. I’ll call you back with a better one.” I hung up the phone and went to sleep.
After getting some good rest, I woke up, found my way to a restaurant near the hotel, and grabbed breakfast. This was the first real meal I’d eaten outside of an on-base chow hall in months, and it was delicious. Fresh biscuits and eggs, with no threat of a mortar falling on your head, are always enjoyable. I took some time to savor the moment because I knew I had a fight on my hands regarding the travel arrangements from our current location back to the UK. I told the crew to go out and have some fun while I worked the issue, but not to go far in case I needed to recall them quickly. They found their way to the golf course, and I walked over to the Air Terminal Operations Center (ATOC).
The ATOC, back then, was where the USAF processed cargo movements into and out of combat zones. Made up of highly capable Airmen from around the world, its personnel compiled cargo into manageable pallets that could easily be loaded onto cargo aircraft and moved efficiently. Prior to my current assignment, I’d worked with this organization, moving people and stuff around the world. I knew they could easily help me build a pallet and process our oversized cargo for movement home. I worked out a plan with one of the Airmen within the organization. All they needed was a processing authorization from my home base. Thinking I’d cracked the nut and figured out how to get us home, I called back home and told leadership my plan.
I’m Telling You This Won’t Work!
Much to my surprise, the plan was immediately shot down by my leadership. I was directed to bring both my crew and our stuff home using commercial means. Despite emphasizing the fact that we had multiple large cases weighing well over 100 pounds that I knew airlines wouldn’t carry, I was directed to go to the airport anyway. Beyond frustrated at this point, I hung up the phone, thanked the Airman for his time, told him I would not be needing his services, and walked out of the building.
At this point, we were less than forty-eight hours away from when I was initially told there would be a plane available to come get us. The fact that the leadership back home was not willing to work with me and the crew was super frustrating. Chewing on this thought, I walked over to the “Official Travel” office on the base to coordinate travel for my crew and me. I needed eight tickets to get us and our stuff home, and I wanted to maintain crew integrity. Ironically, the earliest available departure was the next day. Thinking I had gained the last bit of information I needed to force the hand of my leadership, I called them with the timeline and highlighted the fact that if they’d let us hang out for twenty-four more hours, they could just come get us. Unfortunately, this information caused my leadership to get more annoyed, and I was verbally disciplined for dragging my feet.
Once I’d coordinated travel for everyone, I called base transportation and scheduled a bus to pick us up in the morning. The ride from the base to the airport was approximately an hour, and given the amount of crap we had to move, we’d need a vehicle of ample size to help us out. We’d also need to leave quite early to meet our required timeline.
“You’ll Have to Take That to the Cargo Terminal, Sir”
The next morning, a large white bus with more than forty passenger seats pulled up in front of the hotel. Between our own bags, our excess equipment, and ourselves, we filled roughly eighty percent of the seats. The sight of the situation grated on my nerves, and I knew we were in for it once we stepped up to the check-in counter. I settled into my seat and prepared myself for the frustrations to come.
The drive to the airport was uneventful. I watched the German countryside go by under a cloudy sky and tried to imagine what it might have looked like during WWII. I was sure the rolling hills and green fields had a much different feel to them all those years ago as the Allies fought against the Nazi regime. The landscape of the war I stepped out of versus the landscape I saw out the window of the bus was vastly different. However, I knew both were equally dangerous for the men and women who walked it, both then and now. War is hell no matter where you are, and I have the utmost respect for those willing to run toward the sounds of the guns when the nation calls. Fighting from the relative comfort of an aircraft flight deck makes things a little easier.
I snapped out of my daydream as the bus pulled into the passenger terminal. The noise of the police whistles as they directed traffic, along with the honking of horns as others attempted to get drivers to move or grab the attention of those they were trying to pick up, brought back the stark reality of the frustrations I knew were coming. The crew and I unloaded ourselves and our stuff and proceeded to the counter.
There were multiple spaces available at the check-in counter, so my crew and I lined up and attempted to check in. As predicted, the second my flight engineer set one of the large cases of gear on the scale for checking, the woman behind the counter said, “Sir, that is too heavy to check. If you want to move it and your other cases, you’ll have to work with our cargo operations.” Though furious beneath the surface, I knew this wasn’t the attendant’s fault. I calmly asked her where the cargo terminal was located and directed my crew to step back from the desk.
One of my navigators had an international-capable cell phone. I used it to call back to our home station and tell them that what I had predicted had come to fruition. Then I made one of the biggest mistakes of my entire USAF career. Instead of telling them what my plan was to fix this issue, I asked them, “What do you want me to do?”
Takeaway:
- Always, always, always have a plan for your next step. Doing so will allow you to maintain control of your situation. The second you call back without a plan and ask for guidance, you lose control of your situation and are at the mercy of another person.
- Make sure the plan you come up with has at least two to three courses of action (COAs). This will allow you to match these COAs against the circumstances and make an informed decision about your next step.
- Having COAs allows you to have a discussion with your leadership if you do make a call back. It shows them you have the capability to think on your own rather than needing someone to think for you.
The leadership’s answer to my question was, “Leave two crewmembers behind, and bring the rest of the crew home.” This answer didn’t sit well with me. I wanted to keep the crew together and get them home to their respective families. I replied, “That’s a dumb idea. I’ll call back with a better one,” and promptly hung up the phone.
I directed my crew to grab our gear and head back out of the terminal. We were going to haul our gear to the cargo terminal, palletize it, and get home. Given the amount of stuff we had, each one of us had to hail our own taxi. Upon arriving at the cargo terminal, we worked with an attendant to build a commercial pallet full of our stuff while also rescheduling our flight back to the UK. Once all this coordination was complete, I called back and told them the revised plan and requested that a bus be waiting for us when we arrived at the airport. The crew and I hailed another set of taxis, rode back to the main terminal, checked in, and boarded our flight.
The Saga Continues
I knew I was in trouble as I boarded the plane. During the last conversation, the voice on the other end had advised me to watch my tone when dealing with people who outranked me. I was aware of how “sideways” I’d gotten with the leadership, and I knew it would not end well when I got home. Between the plane and bus rides, I had about three to four hours to think about my actions and prepare for the posteriors being chewed out by my leadership. It was dark at this point, so I could detach and daydream as I had earlier in the day.
When the bus finally pulled up to the squadron, families were waiting for us to get off. It was nice to see the smiling children, “Welcome Home” signs, and some members of the unit. As I walked off the bus, my wife came up and gave me a big hug and a kiss, welcoming me home. Though I was happy to see her, I couldn’t completely enjoy the moment because my commander, who was also present, requested my presence in his office. Giving my wife a quick rundown of the events of the day, I told her to “hang out for a minute while I go get yelled at.”
Following my boss into his office, he closed the door and told me to have a seat. I was surprised, as most “counseling” sessions of this nature happen with the individual standing up. He took a seat at his desk and asked me why I hadn’t followed the direction of the leadership within the organization when we arrived in Germany. I proceeded to tell him that his Director of Operations, or second-in-command, had told me, “If you can get your crew to Germany, there is a unit sortie we can use to pick you up. Sir, I followed that guidance, did my part, and waited for the unit to come get us. It made no sense for us to load our combat gear on a commercial platform and attempt to fly home if our own aircraft was available.”
My commander replied, “I couldn’t justify leaving you and your crew in Germany for two days while your families waited for your return.”
I replied, “Given the cost of plane tickets, taxis, and the pallet we had to build, I am sure it would have saved a considerable amount of money. Also, sir, I must drive back to Heathrow tomorrow to get that pallet, since my name is on it.”
Upon hearing that, my boss offered to recruit someone to ride with me to the airport the next day to help carry the bags. I accepted his offer and requested permission to go home. He obliged, and I thanked him for his time.
Teaching Point
It’s been almost twenty years since this scenario played out, and I still get disgruntled when I tell it. I get mad because of my own failures as a leader. Initially, I laid the blame on my leadership for not following through on their word as we worked to depart the combat zone. The thing is, however, that I should have seen the sticking points before they manifested themselves. I needed to map out plans for each point along the way so I could have called my leadership with COAs designed to spark discussions rather than requesting guidance. Not doing so caused me to lose control of the situation at a critical point and tarnished my image as someone my leadership could count on to make the right choice when the heat was on.
I understand this was more of an administrative scenario, but it still grinds my gears all these years later. Since that time, I’ve used the story above to teach rising leaders to think three to four steps down the road as they work through problems, highlighting the fact that they need to come to their superiors with solutions or options for problems rather than requesting direct guidance. Senior leaders are busy working the “up and out” of their respective organizations; they need their people to be able to effectively handle the “down and in.” When this flow gets interrupted, the resulting turbulence hurts everyone and, at times, creates unnecessary friction within the organization.
