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.
TWELVE
Like 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.
When I was trying to survive in Bosnia, I had felt incredibly unlucky. My plane
and I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But having survived and been rescued, I was suddenly in the right place at the right time. The Great American Celebrity Machine wanted to make me a hero. As I’d tried to explain to so many people, I wasn’t really a hero, I was a survivor—but the label seemed to stick anyway. As my gaze swept over the hallowed hills of Arlington, I knew who our country’s true heroes were.
My last stop in the vast cemetery grounds was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Approaching the steps leading up to the Tomb and the Memorial Amphitheater behind it, I watched silently with the rest of the crowd as the lone honor guard marched back and forth in front of the large marble crypt. The sun reflected off his visor, and the only sounds you could hear were the click of his boots and his palm slapping against the butt of his rifle. Inside the crypt were the remains of four unknown servicemen, one for each major war that the United States had fought in the twentieth century: World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and the war in Vietnam.
Receiving special permission, I stepped over the chain to the tomb itself and knelt before the crypt. This tomb symbolized the ultimate sacrifice. Not only had these four individuals given their lives to protect the freedoms of generations unborn, they had given their identities. No one could mourn them personally, no one could give them a parade or make a speech about their lives. But in giving everything and asking nothing in return, theirs was the highest honor of all.
CAPTAIN SCOTT O’GRADY has accumulated more than 1,300 military flying hours, including over 1,000 in the F-16 for the U.S. Air Force Reserve. He is the author of the New York Times bestseller Return with Honor, published by Doubleday Books.
MICHAEL FRENCH has written several books for young readers, including the adaptations of Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley with Ron Powers, and Born to Fly by Shane Osborn with Malcolm McConnell. Michael French lives in New Mexico.
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Copyright © 1997 by Scott O’Grady
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eISBN: 978-0-307-76496-6
Reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday Books for Young Readers
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