He was just 25. A small-town country boy from West Virginia. Brilliant. Handsome. Full of promise…full of hope. He had attended WVU and wanted to fly jets. He enlisted as an officer in the Air Force and went to Arizona for flight school. Everyone loved him and were so proud of Sonny.

My grandparents, my great-grandparents and an aunt drove to Arizona to see my uncle get his wings. My aunt had worked in San Diego, but the others had never been so far from home. It was the trip of a lifetime for them. Grandma kept scratchy black and white photos in scrapbooks along with postcards, napkins and matchbooks from restaurants, and the program from the ceremony. This was truly the story of a country boy done good.

After the required training, Uncle Sonny was shipped to Germany to Landstuhl AFB. He had quick assignments in Africa and surrounding countries, but it was peace time in 1955 and his work was routine. The pilots had a daily flight schedule for continuing education and keeping their skills sharp. They had to put in a certain number of flight hours.

May 5, 1955 dawned with a cold, thick fog. Sonny arrived on the flight deck as scheduled but the plane he was supposed to fly was grounded. There was another plane available. It was older and was actually en route to become a static display. It had had three engines replaced in as many days, but someone made the decision to send the young pilot up for his required flight time.

The preflight check was accomplished and the airman was aloft when he noticed the plane seemed sluggish. He wasn’t gaining altitude as expected. He circled the airfield but the groaning engines just would not lift him higher. He knew he was going to have to set it down, but he was rapidly approaching the barracks and administration buildings filled with staff. It was against his nature to eject and let the plane crash, especially if it risked injuring innocent people. He noticed to his right, a freshly plowed field and headed there. He nearly made it, when his right wing clipped a tree and caused the plane to cartwheel out of control. My sweet Uncle Sonny…the man who carried me high over his head when he rejoiced my birth…was found still strapped in his ejection seat in the mud of a German potato field, mortally wounded.

The news came in a telegram. “We regret to inform you…” The family collectively died that day. It was a couple of weeks before he came home in a flag-draped coffin. Grandma kept smelling his wallet, relieved there was no smell of smoke. It was a time of brokenness that was far reaching. It affected everyone, including us littles as we were being raised in the shadow of profound grief.

When Mr. Virgo died, I was handed the folded flag from his coffin, just as he received the one from his father and I from mine. We live these free lives of ours on the backs of such great men as George Chadock, Daniel McKinney II, Daniel McKinney III, and Olin Roush. May they forever be remembered for their sacrifices. May they forever rest in peace in the arms of their Father.

❤

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

John 15:13 NIV