I was thinking about my father today. My dad was a Naval Aviator who flew a PBY Catalina. It was a big multi-engine plane that could land on water. It was used to land commandos behind the lines in the Pacific, to rescue downed pilots, and to conduct anti-submarine bombing patrols. I lost him in 1996 followed this year by my mom. Both of them spent their lives helping others and especially me. My mom would want me to reflect on my dad's service this weekend and to share a little of what he taught me about service to others, in his own quiet way.
Neil Brislawn was already an Ensign, stationed in California, when Pearl Harbor was bombed. The previous year he graduated from Aviation Cadet and Flight School (1940.) There were a number of guys from the Seattle area who did so as well, some of whom I have met.
On December 7, 1941, my dad was on his way to church. As he approached the Shore Patrol station at his base, a jeep careened past him. He pulled up to the gate, asked what that was about, and the SP at the gate blurted out "Sir, the Japanese just bombed Pearl Harbor." Dad whipped his car into a U-Turn and went to the hanger, fired up a PBY, and he and his crew were in the first patrol bomber to take off to see if an invasion fleet was coming…
My dad flew at the Battle of Midway. He flew in the Aleutians. He flew across Iceland, North Africa, and hunted German submarines from England. He never really talked very much about the war or about the friends he lost. He did tell me one or two humorous stories that occurred during the war – at least to me, an Army veteran. My favorite was the time he was asked to take a very unpopular flight surgeon on a check ride while stationed in England. This was required in order for the good doctor to collect flight pay, and apparently he hated flying but liked extra pay. Dad took him up in a two seat biplane, a Sopwith Camel like Snoopy flew in Peanuts.
My dad, the Squadron Executive Officer, decided to help the doctor gain new understanding about being a "Flight Surgeon." He took off, but started doing loops, barrel-rolls, and Immelman Turns, which essentially made the poor guy lose his lunch. But then, out of the sun, my dad spotted a Focke-Wulf 190, a feared and top-end German fighter. In his slow and unarmored plane, he was a goner. But he dove for the dirt, flew through the trees, dodged and weaved, and successfully stayed out of the German's gun sights. He figured that the German would have shot him down if he could, but the guy was low on fuel and so discontinued the "sport." My dad observed him wave, waggle his wings, and turn his plane in the direction of his home base across the English Channel.
There were other stories, more somber, such as a bombing run on an unknown submarine that was in his patrol area. But my father hated thinking about the war. He said they were all "just kids." While he did "what he had to do" it took a toll on him, and to his dying day he was haunted by all the death he saw but kept to himself. His commitment to his sailors was total. Even when his own father passed away, he only briefly took leave to come home and make sure his mom was okay, then he went back to his sailors to lead them through the war. He remained in service until 1949 or so and retired from the Reserves as a Lt. Commander (P) just shy of being promoted to Commander.
My dad inspired me to serve. I ultimately deployed as a Regular Army Infantry Officer (Ranger Airborne) for seven years, then left active duty for another eleven years or so in the Reserves. During that time I spent three years overseas working in NATO and a number of foreign army units, then following some advanced schooling spent my last three active years in the US. During that time I spent two of those years deployed to various deserts which allowed me to serve with an inspiring group of men and women, both enlisted and Officers. I worked a bit with the Marine Corps (Force Recon), the Air Force, and the Navy, mostly Seals. They were all dedicated, selfless professionals.
While I served during several conflicts such as Grenada, Somalia, Desert Storm, I never deployed into the combat our young service members see every day in Iraq and Afghanistan. It's a dangerous business being in the military and I saw soldiers die even in training, and lost friends during their combat deployments. Today I think of our young people serving today around the world, but mostly in Iraq and Afghanistan. These young people are just like my dad, his friends and fellow officers and the sailors they were honored to lead.
The military is an unusual group of people. Training orients service people to execute their mission, but the close bonds they form with each other means they think first of their buddies, to do their duty, and only then to worry about themselves. That is what it means to be a SERVICE member…
I think my dad's gentle example about what service meant to him was honed in the horrors of war. He was an Eagle Scout and that meant a lot to him, and he encouraged me to become one, too. It took many years for me to realize that my dad was simply a quiet hero. You see, it was not about medals or a rank. To my dad, it was about caring for his sailors and his duty to his country. He risked himself for all those he loved… including me, who did not come along until ten years after the war ended.
This Memorial day we should remember to actually say "thank you" to those people who put their lives at risk for us. I mean our First Responders (Police, Fire, EMTs, SAR Volunteers) as well as our military service members. Every one of these folks chose to serve because they care and they want to make a positive difference in our community and for our country.
I thank the good Lord that they do. These are the best America has to offer. And we have a lot to thank them for.
To all who serve, thank you. To those who have fallen, we remember and honor you. We are all very proud of you and thankful for what you did and still do at great risk to yourselves and your own families.
Rangers Lead the Way.
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