Yesterday, I took a redeye with my boys to Quantico, Virginia, to witness the final flight of Marine CH-53 Number 21. That helicopter was more than metal and rivets. She was a faithful companion to generations of Marines, carrying us into the unknown, out of danger, and—most importantly—home again.

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It has been nearly 30 years since I last walked up her ramp, strapped into a jump seat, and felt the rush of wind through the gunner’s port. Thirty years since I smelled the hydraulics and oil, tasted the fuel, and heard the relentless hum of that big overhead engine. Those sensations came flooding back the moment I saw her, as if no time had passed at all.

But the day was about more than the helicopter. It was about the Marines who shared those flights, the ones who became brothers through service and sacrifice. Some of them I had not seen in almost three decades. Standing together again, we laughed, we remembered our Corps, and we shed quiet tears for those who are no longer with us. At the end of the day, over beers—as Marines do—I listened to their stories of long careers, of lifetimes spent defending this nation. I felt small in comparison, and I wondered if I should have stayed in that world a little longer. But more than anything, I felt pride. I felt gratitude. And I felt admiration for the men I was lucky enough to serve beside.

Among her many missions, Number 21 will forever be remembered for one in particular: the daring 1995 rescue of Air Force Captain Scott O’Grady in Bosnia. That day, she braved enemy fire, evaded missiles, and carried home not only a downed pilot, but the Marines who went in after him. She saved his life. She saved ours.

And yesterday, nearly three decades later, Scott stood with us once again. It was moving to see him still carrying such admiration for the Marines who risked everything to bring him home. His gratitude was plain, and it reminded me how rare it is to live long enough to stand shoulder to shoulder again with those whose lives became so tightly bound to your own.

It may sound strange to feel emotion for a machine, but those who have served will understand. For us, Number 21 was more than an aircraft. She was possibility. She was relief. She was a bond of trust, tested in combat and proven time and again. She was the bridge between where we were and where we needed to be. She was the sound of salvation in the distance—the faithful guardian who carried countless Marines home.

Now, as she takes her final place among the artifacts of our beloved Corps, I am honored that my boys could stand with me to witness it. Honored to reconnect with the Marines I call brothers. Honored to share the day with Scott O’Grady, whose life she saved. And honored to shed a tear for a helicopter that was never just a machine, but part of our brotherhood.

Rest easy, Number 21. You have more than earned your place in the history of our Corps, and in the hearts of the Marines you carried home.

Semper Fidelis

 

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