The Jacket

It hung in the closet. In the quiet darkness it waited. He would take it out from time to time, lightly touching the familiar leather, outlining the now-faded patches. This was part of him; it embodied lifelong dreams and aspirations. The wings on it brought forth pride and reflection that only a select few would understand, representing a time not forgotten, a war not forgotten.

For her, there was a different association. It had been part of him all her life, the texture and scent were ingrained in her memory. She could tell you, with her eyes closed, exactly how it looked on him, how it felt to hug him while he wore it, how heavy it felt to her little girl shoulders when she tried it on. Its true meaning, however, would be lost on her for years.

All his life he had dreamed of flying. He had been around World War II Marine Corps fighter pilots as a child, and the dreams that were born then carried into his adult life. These pilots had forever left an indelible impression on the boy, virtually guaranteeing that the child’s future would belong to the Corps.

He had visions of serving his country, honorably, dutifully and giving everything he had, modeling those whom had gone before. He learned of warriors from the past, fighting for our freedom, the cost of that freedom and the glory and righteousness of that fight. It was that dream and those images that eventually led him to the doorsteps of the United States Marine Corps.

The day he earned his flight jacket was more exciting than graduating college. The jacket mean that he had ARRIVED! T-28’s, carrier quals, CH-46’s, the Eagle, Globe and Anchor. God. Country. Corps. He was now a Marine PILOT.

He flew out of Marble Mountain in DaNang, saving lives, rescuing Marines. He belonged in the sky. He was at home in that cockpit. His babies were the helicopters of HMM-265, tail sign Echo Papa, and the men of 265 his brothers. Years and years have passed and yet the jacket remained, always symbolizing his love for the Corps and his fellow Marines. He would never forget them, and his memories of flying would never dim.

She was a baby when he earned the jacket and the wings. The leather wove their hearts together in a special bond that would never fade. Every childhood memory of hers was somehow laced with that dark brown jacket – the crush of it against her face as she hugged her daddy, the way the leather would stiffen when it was cold outside, the sight of him wearing the jacket when he flew hot air balloons. She watched him all her life, and always there was the jacket neatly wrapping up her love and devotion. He was more than a pilot; he was her hero.

As I grew up, I wanted to know more about this chapter in my father’s life, this chapter that was closed and would not be discussed. I studied and researched, learned of the pain, the tragedies, the heartache, the heroism. I finally began to understand the pride, the tradition, the spirit of the Corps. I tried to walk in his footsteps, even though they will always be more than I can fill.

I have been fortunate enough to sit in the same cockpit that he once sat in. I have seen the glorious phroggs in flight and have been at a change of command for his old squadron. I have toured the halls of HMM-265 and peeked into the Ready Room. Being married to my beloved – an active duty Marine – has kept my life linked to the Marine Corps after all these years.

My children also know of our proud heritage and our deep roots in the Marine Corps. We will foster that knowledge and treasure the experience. My father is now not the only one in our family who knows and understands this priceless devotion. He has successfully bestowed his love of the Corps to his children and we will continue to pass it down to his grandchildren.

This Christmas, he gave me the surprise of my life.

“Camille, come with me for a minute. I have something for you.”

I follow him, wondering what he’s up to.

He goes to a closet. It hung in the closet. In the quiet darkness it waited.

He carefully takes out the jacket and looks at it one more time. I notice the wistful expression. He would take it out from time to time, lightly touching the familiar leather, outlining the now-faded patches.

He hands it to me, fighting the lump in his throat, “I want you to have this.”

I stop breathing. I take it gently, gingerly, trembling. Instantly the tears come, silently flowing over my cheeks. She could tell you, with her eyes closed, exactly how it looked on him, how it felt to hug him while he wore it, how heavy it felt on her little girl shoulders when she tried it on.

“Dad, are you sure?” I can hardly speak; my knees are weak and I can barely stand. I understand what this means to him and am humbled that he found me worthy of such a gift.

He felt a momentary tug at the loss of his jacket, but simultaneously knew that he had done the right thing. H wanted me to have this beautiful, tangible article of pride and tradition. He was sure.

Dad, you have given me your most treasured earthly possession, and I will forever be grateful for your trust. I will always care for this symbol of your life’s passion.

Years later, I touch the wings on one of the patches, tracing over the gold embossing. His name and rank are as clear as the day he got it.

I still cry.

He was a PILOT.

In his heart, in the echoes of his memories, he is still

WW SHAW

LT USMC

Semper Fi, Marine. Semper Fi.