Crash

‘The AFIP wants me to observe an autopsy up in Riverside tomorrow.” said the San Diego Naval Medical Center’s forensic pathologist.  “An Air Force jet crashed on a training mission near a populated area and the pilot did not have a chance to eject. They found his body amidst the wreckage. I’m leaving at 6:30.  Wanna ride shotgun?” he asked.  Instantaneously a “HELL NO!” response formulated at the top of my skull, working its way down my brain, through my throat and mouth, and by the time it exited across my lips, sounded something like, “Sounds great, I’d love to.”

What was then known as the Armed Forces Institute of pathology, or AFIP, Now known as the joint pathology center, or JPC, is the premier pathology reference center for the federal government,  Some have called it the “Mayo Clinic of military pathology.” It is also where the department of forensic pathology for the military is located.  The Naval Hospital had the closest military forensic pathologist to the crash site on staff, hence, the reason for the assignment.

Early the next day on that late summer 1994 at 6:30, we left with me in the passenger seat of the forensic pathologist’s pick up truck for the two-hour drive from the San Diego Naval Medical Center to Riverside, California. Upon our arrival at the coroner’s office, after brief introductions, the autopsy began. As the charred remains of the pilot were burnt beyond visual recognition, dental record comparison was required to identify the body.  The records supplied by the Air Force matched, fortunately for us, unfortunately for the pilot.

Next, we looked through the pilot's personal effects that were found on and near the body at the crash site. Small fragments of fire resistant flight suit material, a portion of a metal belt, a cracked helmet visor, the sole of a boot were all articles that survived the inferno partially intact. Of special interest to me, a wallet, which contained partially melted credit cards, a driver’s license, and a picture with charred edges.

Of this whole autopsy experience, seeing that picture is what moved me the most.  The picture  showed a young, happy, loving family.  The pilot, about my age, with a blond, military haircut and a twinkle in his steel blue eyes that seemed to say, “Life doesn’t get any better than this.”  His young, attractive, brown haired wife, with her big beautiful, infectious smile seeming to say “I love my life.” Their son, a blond towheaded boy of maybe five or six with a big tooth missing grin, seemed so happy to be nestled in between his mom and dad.

As I looked at the picture, I imagined this likely being their most recent family photo, one they never expected to be their last.  I imagined the wife, answering the knock on the door to find two Air Force Officers present to inform her there had been a plane crash and she was now a widow. I imagined I heard her scream "NOOOO!", and saw her collapse in their arms.  

I imagined the look on the little boy’s face when told dad was not coming home...ever. Not even hearing his death was heroic, by not ejecting himself to safety, rather, steering the doomed plane away from populated areas, saving countless civilian lives, sacrificing his own, could soften the blow of the knowledge “Daddy” was never coming home.

As I recount this episode in my life, the significance of this moment became evident. In the picture I saw myself, my family, at the beginning of our journey, ready to start our adventure, not sure what was to come, but hopeful. In the pilot I saw myself in command of my vehicle, his, the plane, mine, the body.  For some reason, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to steer the plane to safety.  Now, thanks to Multiple Sclerosis, like him, no matter how hard I try, the best I can hope for is a heroic effort.