Among the most difficult aspects of military service is notifying the next of kin of the passing of their loved one. It’s a sacred duty born from military culture and loyalty. I’ve only done it once…but it was for my best friend and roommate, Lieutenant Mike Hodge, who was also a fellow Air Force C-141 Starlifter pilot.
On July 12, 1984, Mike was piloting a C-141 from Sigonella NAS, Sicily, to Nairobi, Kenya. Just the week prior, Mike and I had partied at a 4th of July party on the beach. This day, Mike was flying a Navy support mission loaded with equipment and, unbeknownst to the crew, hazardous cargo.
On takeoff and climb out, Mike’s C-141 experienced a catastrophic multiple-engine failure. Immediately after takeoff, the aircraft's #3 engine experienced an uncontained engine failure. Debris from the #3 engine caused the #4 engine to also fail. Two engines on the same wing. Still flyable though.
However, engine parts were thrown through the fuselage and into the aircraft’s cargo compartment, starting a fire in a pallet containing paint. The cargo fire produced thick poisonous smoke. The smoke and toxic fumes hindered the crew's ability to control the aircraft. Very quickly, they were overcome. The plane entered a steep bank and impacted the terrain. Eight crew members and one passenger were killed.
At 7 AM Eastern Time in the U.S., that same morning, my phone rang. I’d just woken up to fly a Special Operations low-level training mission that morning. The U.S. Air Force informed me of Mike’s crash. I was stunned. It was the last phone call I ever would’ve imagined. You always know it could happen, you’d even known guys who’d crashed, but I never imagined it would be me…or Mike.
The next phone call came from my wing commander. “Buzz, we want you to go to Sicily and bring Mike home. We’ve taken you off the schedule today.” “Sir,” I said, “I’d be proud to. And I’ll tell his parents and his girlfriend.” I was operating on autopilot.
My first stop was Mike’s girlfriend. She lived in the same apartment complex, and she was expecting Mike to propose. The Air Force chaplain came to stay with her while I drove to Columbia, South Carolina, to inform the parents. I’d known them for years. Super sweet couple, and Mike was their only child. They were devastated, of course. An Air Force chaplain from Shaw AFB, a representative from the Air Force’s Survivor Assistance Program, and a mortuary affairs officer were there as well. It was impossible for me to deny it. This was real. I’d never lost a friend before. Sadly, I’d lose a few more.
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Later that night, I flew to Dover AFB, Delaware, and jumped on a C-5 going direct to Sigonella. The crew was fantastic and very sympathetic. At Sigonella, I met with the outgoing C-141 crew, and we arranged for Mike’s casket to be boarded onto the jet. And we were on our way back to Dover for the Dignified Transfer of remains.
A few weeks later, we laid Mike to rest at the Beaufort National Cemetery in South Carolina. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon with just a breeze and not the normal August humidity. I swear that as we laid Mike into the ground, a gust of wind picked up and ruffled the flags. I presented a flag to his mother.
I drove back to Charleston, forever changed. And I realized the absolute necessity of our military taking care of our own. A young pilot, fairly confident in my abilities, left with the realization that flying is inherently risky and sometimes it will kill you.
Goodbye, Mike. Gone but not forgotten! RIP brother. We had some times.
