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His name was Tom. He and I were the smallest kids in our all-boy class—and so we were sort of a “set.” He stepped out of the style of the group by wearing these oversized Ray-Ban shades that made him look like General MacArthur. So we stuck him with the nickname “General” and sometimes we’d even laugh and come to attention when he stepped in the room. But his shock of blond hair belied that image and made him look angelic.
The general’s real name was actually William, but he preferred his middle name, Tom. Talk about bonding. I mean we were all pretty tight with each other back then. Heck—we even danced together one night. Truth be told, I’d have put my life on the line for him, and I know he would have done the same for me.
Once we spent an entire afternoon just “treadin’ watah” as he put it. I was starting to believe I was unsinkable and could bob across the ocean after that.
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And that accent! I suppose accents are relative, but to this Yankee, his southern drawl set his words into a soft slow-dance. The dirty language of boys certainly flowed, but the sharp syllabic edges were gently rounded as each word gracefully flowed into the other. I suppose he could have been insulting my grandma, and I’d have loved it on some level simply for the gentle rhythm of his delivery.
As an aside, there was another other kid in our class—a Jewish boy named Greg. He had a thick Brooklyn accent that had the opposite effect. Hearing Greg took me home. Every time he spoke, I smelled onion bagels.
Tom and I spent a lot of time in the water. We bonded over our fishy natures. Once we spent an entire afternoon just “treadin’ watah” as he put it. I was starting to believe I was unsinkable and could bob across the ocean after that. Another day, our class went parasailing, but with no wind, most of the class just stood on the deck in the hot sun grounded by gravity. In fact, out of about thirty boys, they only managed to get the two most slender kids aloft—me and Tom. “Ahm a buhd!” he shouted. Yes, he was a bird. We all were.
When we graduated, Tom and I ended up in a small “graduate” group of six. The curriculum was intense, and we bonded even more. You just don’t get through this school on your own, and loners drop out quickly. But all the schooling turned us into tough little packages in green suits. We were all buhds and ready to go.
The last that anyone heard from Tom was on January 18, 1991. He was piloting his A6E Intruder with Flight Officer Charles Turner over Iraqi military targets in the first wave of strikes when two ejection signals were picked up. I was a reserve naval officer with a carrier detachment at that point—waiting to be called into the arena—when I got the word that Tom’s plane never made it back to the USS Ranger in the Persian Gulf. The Pentagon was playing its information close to the vest, so despite being in operations, I was stuck watching CNN like everyone else. As the Iraqis trickled out a stream of videos showing captured soldiers it intended to use as human shields, I was just hoping for a glimpse of Tom.
As we wave the flag over our heads this Memorial Day, it is worth a moment to remember those who wore it on their shoulders and never came home.
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I didn’t see Tom, but I don’t think I will ever forget those other faces looking back at me on the TV screen. It was as if I had x-ray vision and could see past the blank expressions at the fear and shock inside their heads. That “is this really happening to me?” nightmarish moment they were experiencing. Being brave does not mean not being afraid. Being brave means doing your job when you ARE afraid.
I was soon to learn that Tom and Charlie ejected after being hit on a mission over the heavily defended Iraqi port city of Umm Qsar. An unverified eyewitness account stated that a pilot survived the ejection of a damaged plane but was butchered by an angry knife-yielding mob. The witness recalled that the pilot was in a green suit with an American flag sewn on his shoulder. On March 12, fourteen allied dead were handed over to the US by the defeated Iraqi army. Among them was Tom.
I suppose as we argue over what our country should do for us, it is worth a moment to remember those who stepped up and asked what they could do for our country. As we wave the flag over our heads this Memorial Day, it is worth a moment to remember those who wore it on their shoulders and never came home. And as we seek our fortunes and focus on building our upsides while minimizing our downsides, it is worth remembering those who stepped into a situation that promised little upside and a whole lot of downside. Because freedom is not free.
My friend Tom. LT William Tom Costen, USN. You are a buhd. You are an angel. You are remembered.
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