Crafted by Valor

Fast forward about two years. I was back in Germany as a new CW3. Our unit had been ripped to shreds, soldiers receiving orders to transfer left and right. The President was realigning forces across the globe and our Germany based unit was due to close down. Meanwhile, we had a backlog of brand-new flight school graduates, all waiting their turn to fly.

We had two Instructor Pilots: me and Markie D.

He was senior to me, more experienced than me and he had 100 days of use-or-lose leave.

He took it all. At once.

That left me holding the bag for the whole damn battalion. I had two companies full of new guys to fly. So I got to work.

I decided the smartest way forward was to focus on three at a time. Fly three guys a day until they hit RL1 (mission ready), then move on to the next group of three. The command didn’t like it. They said the others were standing around too much while waiting their turn. I didn’t care.

And I was blunt about it.

I challenged the commanders:
“Do it yourself then. Oh yeah, you can’t. You’re not IPs.”

I was the only Instructor Pilot left standing. So we were doing it my way or not at all.

I was working too hard, no question.

But I was determined to get them qualified. I had to. If I didn’t, the unit would fail.

We had upcoming rotations at CMTC. We’d be flying hard and aggressive. I knew how to train these guys. I knew what combat flying looked like. I knew the risk.

And I also knew we lost zero aircraft and zero lives during our 15-month tour in Iraq because of how I made people fly.

Unpredictable. Low. Fast. Aggressive.

That was how you survived, and don’t even try to tell me different.

No one said shit. They let me do what needed to be done.

After months of nonstop flying, scheduling, records, and planning; I was beat down. But no one was ever going to see that. I was on a mission. I was in control.

Only I could make this happen. There was no one else.

One day, I filled the aircraft with a group of crew chiefs, one of them was their trainer. Sitting beside me was a cocky little W2 who needed help with his time-on-target planning. He was given a route the night before. He needed to have it planned to a gnat’s ass for me.

The mission: fly the A66 transition to Wiesbaden, follow the Rhein River, pass a bunch of cool castles, turn west, and navigate to the inbound reporting point for Fliegerhorst Airfield.

Mission complete.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t realize it yet, but there’d be plenty of “enemy action” along the way.

This was his RL1 checkride. He didn’t know that.

But he needed to pass. Because the very next day, he and two of those brand-new crew chiefs were scheduled to fly to the CMTC training area in southern Germany. They had to be RL1 today. Or we didn’t have enough qualified crew for the rotation.

During the flight, we were leaving the Rhein River and approaching the canyon walls.

As we neared the mountain range, we were flying around 1,100 feet above ground. In Germany, there’s a law requiring all U.S. aircraft to stay above 500 feet AGL unless inside a designated helicopter training area. Those didn’t open until much later in the evening. I wasn’t in one of those areas but I figured I’d just stay above 500 feet.

Unfortunately, plans tend to fly out of helicopter windows.

As we got closer to the rocks, my left rear crew chief suddenly began screaming into the intercom:

“Climb! Climb! Climb!”

His voice was shaking. He’d never been this close to the ground before even though we were still well above 500 feet.

I suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of signing this kid off as RL1 without him ever experiencing nap-of-the-earth flying or at least contour altitude.

I told him to relax.

And then I dove to the terrain.

We dropped to about ten feet.

And we flew fast.

The mountainous terrain was incredible, like a natural skate park. I was whooping and hollering, having an absolute blast. But I also felt like I was giving them real training.

I justified it in my head: slight bending of the rules for good intent, getting solid training for a crew that was about to be considered fully qualified.

Within a minute of flying aggressively through this stunning terrain, my middle crew chief, our instructor, suddenly screamed:

“WIRES!”

Just as he yelled, I saw them.

Level with my face.

In less than a second, they would slice the cockpit in half.

I didn’t have time to think.

I ducked inside the cockpit, and when I did, I instinctively dove the aircraft to go under the wires.

As I dropped, I had just enough time to register it:

There were two more wires below. 

Thankfully the Black Hawk helicopter is a flying truck. I banged up the rotor blades pretty bad upon inspection after landing back at home station.

Now I knew it was time to pay the piper.

I had a lieutenant in the second aircraft call our Battalion Commander.

It was time to piss and bleed.

My whole career felt like it was in the toilet.

I had been flying way too low, in an area I wasn’t authorized to. I had broken the regs on purpose.

But I had good intentions. That had to count for something.

Didn’t matter.

I was grounded immediately.

The next morning, I got a visit from the Army Aviation equivalent of the Department of Evaluation and Standardization in Germany—CASS-D.

CW4 Nate W. was knee deep in my ass. He was spelling out the alternate ending.

I already knew it.

I could’ve killed my whole crew.

I felt like shit, familiar territory, but this time, I wasn’t a hero.

That asshole just kept piling it on, thicker and thicker.

And finally I’d had enough.

I came at him. I was ready to deck his ass.

I was already screwed. But I wasn’t going to sit there and take this shit too.

Then CW4 E.T.  stepped in.

He jumped in Nate’s ass. He was part of CASS-D too but this time, he was backing me up.

He pulled Nate off me, yanked him aside, and got in his ass. Then he came back to me and said he could tell I was upset. He told me not to worry he was taking over from here on out.

As time went on, my battalion commander requested a letter of reprimand from the Brigade Commander.

But the Brigade Commander didn’t see it that way.

He wanted to push it to the General Officer level.

Said it was for my own good. Claimed this was the best route. That if the German government tried to sue me, we’d already have punished me, no double jeopardy.

I pretended to understand.

But deep down, I knew what was really happening.

He was just covering his own ass by throwing mine under the bus.

Still, I had taken the action. There are consequences. And this one was going to be negative.

Time to lawyer up.

Eventually, it came time to pay my penance.

My battalion was at the CMTC. I was stuck on Rear Detachment.

The worst fucking thing for a warrior. I was painting offices, cleaning floors, trying to make the place look nice for when the unit returned. I was doing it on my own accord. I needed to stay busy back in the rear.

Everyone hates Rear D. I sure as hell do. And now, I was one of them. I knew I was in deep shit, so I needed to show I was still a team player. I was still grounded, couldn’t fly, so I was no good for the CMTC rotation.

Then I got the call.

There weren’t enough pilots to fly the mission load and take the battalion commander to Division HQ in Wiesbaden to finalize my punishment from the Division Commander, MG Robinson.

I would have to do the flying.

I was grounded. But still good enough to go fetch the boss.

Good enough to fly him so we could stand on the Division Commander’s carpet.

I was being forced to fly myself to my very own execution.

Now isn’t that a bitch?

I did what needed to be done.

Hitched a ride in the back of an aircraft to Hohenfels. Prepped another aircraft. Filed flight plans. Checked the weather. Took care of everything for me and my boss’s boss to go see his boss’s boss.

We landed in Wiesbaden.

I had to change out of my flight suit into BDUs for the formal ass-chewing from the Division Commander.

I was expecting a GOMOR—a General Officer Memorandum of Reprimand.

The end of my career.

We had time to kill, so my battalion commander and I stopped at the food court. Sat there in silence. Watched the news break across Germany:

Hurricane Katrina had destroyed New Orleans.

Then we got up.

And walked to Division Headquarters.

Dead Man Walking.

My boss went in first to see the General.

Eventually, I was told to enter.

I did the whole routine; three strong knocks on the door. Waited for permission. Then I stepped in on jelly legs and walked to stand directly in front of now Major General Robinson.

I stood at attention, rendered a hand salute, and reported:

“CW3 Hastings, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

He put me at ease.

I went to parade rest.

This was the end for me.

MG Robinson started to read the letter of reprimand.

It wasn’t pleasant. It was full of the usual crap: “You failed to…” this and “You failed to…” that.

I was a piece of shit, according to that letter.

But the General was struggling.

He was balking.

His voice cracked. His eyes darted around.

Then he stopped.

He threw the letter down.

He looked me dead in the eye and said:

“I watched you walk into a brigade headquarters in Baghdad. You looked lost. Then you were told you were the lead planner for our first-ever combat air assault.

I watched you tell that Chief to fuck off and then proceed to plan that mission like it was second nature. All of it unrehearsed.

The entire staff was stunned. You single-handedly planned that operation off the top of your head.”

He paused, then continued:

“And I watched the execution of that air assault. You went to your third contingency and still plopped that aircraft into a tiny landing zone exactly when the ground forces arrived.

That false LZ idea? Genius. It worked perfectly.

I can’t even read this shit to you. I didn’t write it and I don’t believe a word of it.”

Then he hit me with this: “I think you are the top air assault pilot in the world.

I want you training hard. I want you avoiding risk aversion.

But I also don’t want you getting into trouble.”

He leaned in.

“So I’m going to put this shitty letter in my desk drawer.

You go and continue being a badass.

But if you fuck up again; I’ll pull it out and put it in your permanent file.”

“You are excused. Colonel, stay here.”

I turned heel and got the fuck out of that office.

I was dazed. I was happy. I was scared.

I was shaking like a leaf in an F5 tornado.

I heard yelling from the office behind me. I heard my boss’s voice loud and sharp: “Yes, Sir!” over and over again.

I stood at attention in the outer office while the secretary watched me like I was something out of a movie.

My boss eventually came storming out and growled at me to follow him.

We walked fast, two-hour pace in a twelve-mile road march kind of fast.

Once we got far enough from Division HQ, he turned to me and asked:

“What the hell just happened in there?”

All he knew was that apparently, I was some sort of protected aviator.

He was pissed. He couldn’t believe what had been written in that letter.

He told me the Brigade Commander was about to get his ass chewed by the General.

And me?

Not only was I relieved, I felt powerful.

That moment confirmed everything.

I had to keep control.

I had to command my units, not the actual commander.

My work ethic, my relentless drive to take the reins had just saved my ass again.

Now I had another General in my pocket.

He’d just given guidance to my commanders two echelons up to leave me the fuck alone and let me train. Let me lead. Let me be a badass.

And I kept it that way. From 2003 until 2012, when I entered the Swedish Air Force.

It became etched into me:
Control equals survival.
Hard work equals reward.
Do it my way, and nobody dies.

We’d succeed against the enemy, and my team would walk away whole as long as I was in control.

But when I saw the end of that career looming…

I had zero control.

And suddenly, all those accolades didn’t mean shit to a promotion board.

I had no choice but to give up control.

But I didn’t know how.

I didn’t know who I would be.
I didn’t know how I would be.

How was I going to support my family? How would I protect them?

I was losing the status, the identity, of being the badass.
I was about to become just… regular.

No power. No ability to control people or outcomes.

And I couldn’t see how that was going to shake out.

That craving for control started to bleed into unwelcome areas.
Like at home.

I never thought I tried to exercise control at home.
I always saw myself as the pushover.
But I didn’t handle this transition well.

I felt it building for a long time. I could feel the storm coming.

Eventually, it led me to that dark place.
The darkest place.
That place where it almost really happened.

It was a twisted form of control.
A way to “handle” the situation.
A way to support my family financially.
A way to protect them… by taking a psycho off the board.

But now I can see the error in my thinking.

Years have passed since I almost pulled that trigger.
But something feels different now.

I realize I was wrong.
I don’t need control.
I don’t need power.

I’ll always plan, hell, I’ll probably always over-plan.
But now I know I can handle the bumps.
I can jump a wake or two and still be okay.

I’ve let go.
I’ve walked away from the grip of control.
And nothing bad has happened.

In fact only good things have happened.

Letting go of control and power has brought something new: Freedom.

And in that freedom, I’m finding more positivity than I ever imagined.
I needed control back then, it was survival.

But now?

Now I can let it go.

And I have.

And I like this version of me much better.

I am already happier than I’ve been in years.
And I welcome this new chapter.