Authors: Scott O'Grady
At 8:30 that evening, I was told that I had a phone call in the captain’s quarters. In my robe and slippers I shuffled upstairs to the private cabin, eager to speak with my family. After my faith in God, and my belief in my fellow pilots and the forces of NATO, it was my love for my family, and their love for me, that had inspired me to survive. I picked up the phone, wondering if it was my mom or dad I would speak to first.
It was neither. The voice on the other end belonged to President Bill Clinton. I was in shock. We exchanged greetings, and then President Clinton said, “The country was on pins and needles, but you knew what you were doing. The whole country is elated.”
“Mr. President,” I replied, “I just want to say one thing: the United States is the greatest country in the world. God bless America.”
“Amen,” the president said.
Then it was time to call my family, first my dad’s home in Virginia, then my mom in Seattle. My tears flowed freely as I spoke to Dad, Paul, and Stacy. I remembered how, pinned to the ground in some miserable hole-up site, I had been afraid I would never hear their voices again. Now the floodgates opened. For the next ten minutes everyone talked so excitedly it was hard to hear each other. Dad had already received a call from President Clinton, and as exciting and unexpected as that was, he, Stacy, and Paul liked hearing my voice even better. In a matter of hours the news media would be outside my dad’s house. The members of the O’Grady family were about to become overnight celebrities, but for these few moments we cherished our privacy.
Speaking with my mom was just as emotional as hearing from Dad, Stacy, and Paul. My mom told me she had never given up believing that I was alive, but now she wanted to know how I was feeling. I told her I was in good shape physically and mentally, and that made her feel better. Finally, I went back to my ship’s quarters, where I was served a glorious meal of crab legs and strawberry ice cream. I thought I would sleep like a log afterward, but all the excitement kept me on edge. I don’t think I slept for more than four hours. When I woke, for an instant I thought that I was back in my apartment in Montereale Val Cellina, Italy, and that the last six days had been one big, bad nightmare.
A U.S. Navy corpsman brought me a breakfast of French toast, and after more medical tests, I had another debriefing with intel officers. I also met with Leighton Smith, the U.S. Navy admiral responsible for organizing the rescue effort, and we reviewed how the whole process had come together in such a short time. After lunch and a tour of the ship, it was time to say goodbye to everyone on the
Kearsarge.
I was still walking stiffly, feeling every sore muscle, but my spirits were as high as an F-16 can fly. Waving to everyone on the flight deck, I boarded the Super Stallion with my commander, a doctor, and several other Air Force officers, for a quick jaunt to the Italian coast. There we would pick up a Learjet for our leg back to Aviano. Finally, I thought, my life could return to normal.
I was very wrong. My life would never return to anything near normal. Aboard the Learjet I was warned to expect a gathering of friends at Aviano. When I stepped off the plane, a crowd of 500 was standing in a large hangar to greet me. Pilots, wives, officers, enlisted men, children—it was an overwhelming spectacle. I wasn’t sure what I should do or say except wave back. I was led quickly to a car and whisked away to a private reception in a squadron building. Waiting for me there were Wilbur and “T.O.” Wilbur was the first one I hugged. Then
“T.O.” came up and told me that he had been Basher One-One. I was overwhelmed. I let him know that hearing his voice that night was a gift from God. His determination to find me and his ability to keep me calm were a debt I could never repay, I said. As good friends as we had been before my adventure in Bosnia, “T.O.” and I were now bonded for life.
After the private reception I returned to the hangar full of my friends and their families. To honor my return, there was a flyover of sixteen NATO planes representing all different types of aircraft. Turning back to the crowd, I shook a bunch of hands, and a microphone was shoved in front of me. I had never been one for public speaking. Growing up, I was hardly shy about taking risks, and I was good at dealing with people one to one, but crowds brought out almost a shyness in me. I told myself to keep my speech brief, just as Fd done with my fellow Juvats in South Korea.
“The first thing I want to do,” I said, “is to thank God. If it wasn’t for God’s love, and my love for God, I wouldn’t have gotten through it. He’s the one that delivered me here, and I know that in my heart.
“I also want to thank the United Nations, the United States, all the NATO countries. When I was out there, I knew you were all behind me—I could hear you, and I knew it. …”
I said some more thank-yous, received a long ovation, and rejoined my squadron mates and their families for a few quiet moments at the Triple Nickel snack bar.
Minutes later I said my goodbyes and left the squadron building, returning to my apartment for the first time since that morning. Fd left without having my breakfast. To step into my own shower, to throw my feet up on the sofa, to sleep in my own bed … there was nothing more comforting than being back home.
The following morning I felt anxious again. There was a major media luncheon, to be held at the officers’ and enlisted men’s clubs at Aviano. I was to be the big speaker. But I didn’t have anything terribly new to say. And I didn’t have permission from my commanding officers to talk freely about my six days, not until I was fully debriefed. As I walked into the room, I stared at more than a hundred reporters who represented newspapers, radio, and television stations around the world. Sitting next to “T.O.”, Wilbur, and Colonel Wald, we were all surprised when the U.S. Air Force public affairs office began playing a tape of the emotional interchange between Tom Hanford and me, when we had first made contact on that lonely night and he had found me. It was the first time I had heard the tape. Hanford’s voice was clear and determined, while mine sounded frail and tired. Listening to everything, I began to cry, and tried to hide
my face behind a napkin. “T.O.” started to get teary as well. I know some of the press joined us.
Suddenly “T.O.” turned to me and said, “You big jerk, you made me cry on national television.” I began to laugh, and so did “T.O.,” breaking the tension. But when I went to address the reporters, most of them were still choked up, and a full minute passed before anyone had the composure to ask me a question. When the questions did come, it amazed me how much interest my adventure had created in the outside world. And from the questions I was getting, I could see that everyone considered me a hero, no matter what I said to tell them I wasn’t. When I thought back on my life, I had never really had any heroes—except one. It was a pretty big exception. The person who had most encouraged me, stood by me, sacrificed for me, and taught me the importance of self-reliance was my dad. I thought I was the most fortunate kid in the world. And he would always be my hero. Just to keep things in perspective, remember who the real heroes are, I told myself as I finished answering everybody’s questions.
By the end of the day I was feeling almost numb from all the attention. But at least it was over, I thought. I had no idea that, except for my family and relatives, anyone back in the United States really cared about what I had been through.
I flew home the next day on an Air Force C-20, accompanied
by several high-ranking officers, including a colonel in public affairs who would help me with a few media engagements that had been lined up. When we landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland and filed off the plane, I was totally taken by surprise. One of my first sights was a banner held high in the air, and I didn’t even know who had made it.
BASHER 52
AMERICA’S BEEN PRAYING
WELCOME HOME
SCOTT O’GRADY
My throat knotted, and it didn’t loosen any when a military band began to play, or a quartet of F-16s roared overhead to salute my homecoming. I met and chatted with General Ronald Fogelman, the chief of staff of the Air Force, and right behind the general, standing on the tarmac, was most of my family: my mom, my dad, my grandparents, and my brother and sister. I hugged Stacy the longest, so hard that I thought we might topple over. When she finally pulled away, it was to ask me if Fd remembered to wear the special cross she’d given me as a present years ago. I might have forgotten other things on that flight, like my St. Christopher medal and my flight jacket, but not her cross, I assured Stacy. I never took it
off no matter where I went. She laughed with relief. That was how she knew, she said, I would come back alive.
That night, exhausted, I stayed in a downtown hotel and caught up on badly needed sleep. My family and friends partied at a local country club, toasting me and my adventure until the wee hours. I was sorry I couldn’t be there, but I knew tomorrow was not going to be just another day in the life of Scott O’Grady. I wanted to be at my best.
My whole family and I were invited for lunch at the most recognized address in the United States of America: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
L
ike a small, determined invasion, seventeen O’Grady relatives and friends descended on the White House the next morning. Hillary Clinton greeted us and made us feel right at home, particularly my seventy-nine-year-old grandmother, who insisted on telling the First Lady all about my seven-year-old cousin, Zack, and what a great fan he was of the president. While a staff member took my family on a White House tour, I met privately with President Bill Clinton and Vice President Al Gore in the Oval Office. The idea of sitting in the same famous room where our presidents had entertained important dignitaries and heads of states for almost two centuries was almost overwhelming. I remembered all the crosscountry trips I’d taken with my dad, the many historical sites we’d visited, including the White House. Fd never dreamed that one day I would be honored in the Oval Office by the president of the United States.
I felt humbled, and might well have been speechless if my hosts hadn’t been so relaxed and down to earth. I gave the president the squadron patch of the Triple Nickel, to add to his collection of mementos from other visitors more important than I. We talked for an hour about my
experience in Bosnia while he assured me of what I already knew, that he and the people of the United States had not for one minute forgotten me in their thoughts and prayers. Thanking the president, I don’t think I’d ever felt more proud to be an American.
After our Oval Office visit, the president himself led me on a tour of the White House. I was impressed by his knowledge of the history of various rooms and their furniture, especially those with military significance. One rather plain desk had been used for the signing of every U.S. treaty since the Revolutionary War. I stopped to admire it for what it symbolized. Each of our country’s wars, to one degree or another, had been fought over the ideals of political freedom and individual liberties. While alone on the ground in Bosnia, I knew what it felt like to have no freedom and no rights. I would never take those ideals for granted.
A delicious lunch of mixed greens and crabmeat salad, grilled vegetables, and lamb chops was served in a private upstairs dining room. I told the president I hoped he didn’t mind if I passed up my salad. Amid laughter, the president understood that after having to force myself to eat leaves and grass in Bosnia, my appetite for things green had not fully recovered. As we all ate, I listened to the day-to-day stories of the president and vice president. I saw that the job of running our country was the most difficult imaginable—even more difficult than trying to
evade a hostile army for six days. I also thought that President Clinton was doing that job with sincerity and integrity. I was proud to call him my commander in chief.
After lunch it started to rain. The president and I jumped into his official limousine and were whisked off to attend a ceremony at the Pentagon. The event had already been scheduled for outside, so an honor guard hoisted umbrellas over each speaker as he gave his speech. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the secretary of defense, and finally the president addressed the crowd of high-ranking military officers and enlisted personnel. They described how my rescue symbolized a nation’s commitment to the individual men and women who served our country and our allies.
When it was my turn to speak, my words, as usual, were brief and from the heart. They, too, addressed the theme of commitment to the individual, but with a particular emphasis.
“If you’ll allow me to accept all of this fanfare in the honor of those men and women who deserved it more but didn’t get it,” I said, “to those who suffered a lot more than I went through, to those who were POWs [prisoners of war], to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice, both in wartime and peacetime, for their countries. … If you could do that for me now, I accept all of this….”
Loud applause tumbled down, given, I believed, not for me but for all those selfless men and women of whom
I spoke. Overcome with pride and emotion, I turned to the president and raised my fists high over my head, giving my commander in chief the official “snakes” salute of the Juvats.
As incredible as my day had been, I left the Pentagon ceremony feeling that Fd had enough attention. I wanted to unwind now and reflect privately on all that had happened. With a close friend and the public affairs colonel who had guided me through these last few days, I headed for my favorite place in Washington, D.C.: Arlington National Cemetery. Since joining the U.S. Air Force, I had visited Arlington’s rolling grass hills with its endless rows of white crosses many times, but as with my visits to the Vietnam Memorial, on each occasion I was deeply moved. There was plenty of history here to inspire me, from the simple stones for the Civil War dead to the eternal flame marking the grave of John F. Kennedy. All these men and women had given their lives for their country.
But today my emotions were stirred more than usual. Looking at the thousands of crosses, I wondered how many of these brave people had suffered and sacrificed far more than I, yet never received the applause and attention that I had. Most had given their lives quietly, their bravery known only to themselves, their comrades, and their loved ones.