Veterans Day isn't Memorial Day. Memorial Day is for the ones who didn't come home. Veterans Day is for the rest of us, the ones who served and are still here.
For me, being a veteran is an honor. Not because of anything I did on my own, but because I got to be part of the team. A huge machine of men and women from every corner of the country, every background, every color and creed, all in the same uniform for the same reason: to support and defend the Constitution. That's the oath. It doesn't change based on who's in office. I'm proud to be one small thread in that fabric.
What does "veteran" even mean?
It's a strange word when you've lived it. I was active duty for 10 years and in the reserves for another 10. That's a big chunk of a life. Now it's past tense.
The missions feel almost mystical now, like they happened in the mists of time. But the people don't. I'm still close to a lot of the folks I served with, and I remember all of them, sharply. Enlisted and officers. Pilots, intel officers, navigators. Everybody.
The books I've written help. So did making the Speed & Angels documentary. And writing the video game campaign. I'm constantly dredging my memory for the funny moment, the great call sign, the thing that actually happened, so I can fictionalize it and put it in a story. So the details feel far away, but the experience of being in the military feels like yesterday.
The guys who were there
I don't live in a military town. There aren't many veterans around me. But a couple of the guys I flew with live nearby. One of them is Chig. We flew A-6s and F-14s together, and we're still really close.
We had incredible adventures in both of those airplanes. Now we ski, play golf, and get together as often as we can. And we tell the stories.
It's a different kind of friendship. Ten years of flying means missions, real danger, a few times we came close to not coming back. Those are our little secret stories. They're not really secret. It's just that nobody else can appreciate them, and it often feels uncomfortable telling them to people who weren't there.
So it's good to have someone close by who was. Every once in a while we take those stories out, burnish them, and appreciate them for what they were.
Why "thank you for your service" makes me uncomfortable
People say it more now than they used to. I think it started after 9/11. People felt in danger, and they looked at the firefighters, the cops and the military and saw people putting themselves in harm's way so everyone else could live normally. That gratitude was real.
Twenty-some years later, it's gotten a little threadbare. And honestly, it makes me feel strange.
Here's why. I did it because I loved it. Every minute. The danger, the time away from home, all of it. It was a thrill and a joy, and I feel lucky I got to do it. So when someone thanks me for doing the thing I loved most, I don't quite know what to do with that.
Is that just a pilot thing? I don't know. So I asked Chig what he remembers most. Here's what he said:
"Just the pure happiness and joy of flying 500-plus knots at low altitude over the desert floor. The feeling of pure power and strength, flying into harm's way fully loaded off the ship. Flying in enemy territory, looking left and right, seeing your brothers and sisters in arms, ready to do battle against a common enemy."
Chig, A-6 and F-14
What I miss is the purity of purpose
That's it, right there. Being part of a group with one purpose was deeply emotional and meaningful. There was never any doubt about my point in life when I got up in the morning. I knew what my job was. I knew what my purpose was.
Being a vet reminds me of that.