I can count on my hands the number of times I've attended an event with the dress code, "Business Attire."
I had thrown my suit into the airplane, thinking it was better to be safe than sorry. Now, spread before me was a sea of dignity. Every military branch was represented. I saw Air Force, Navy and Army service dress. More than a few Marines stood ramrod straight, their uniforms immaculate. The afternoon's ceremony had fittingly included a flyover of B-25 aircraft. Some of the crew filed in, each man wearing a brown leather jacket with the airplane's name painted across the shoulder, similar to what bomber crews wore during World War II. To my either side, reporters trained their equipment, made last-minute phone calls and tested audio.
The ceremony included an evening's worth of dedication and honors. Several dignitaries spoke, including Undersecretary of the U.S. Air Force Eric Fanning and General Mark A. Welsh III, chief of staff of the Air Force. On stage, active duty airmen presented the Doolittle Raiders with awards, wheeled out a wooden display case and distributed the silver goblets.
From the press box, I observed the proceedings with a growing sense of admiration. Every man and woman involved throughout the evening carried a marked sense of formality. There is something truly unique about bearing witness to a military service; the precision and tact with which it is carried out simply cannot be matched in the civilian world.
And then, it was time for the toast. At long last, the famed 1896 bottle of Hennessey cognac would be opened and distributed to the remaining veterans, thus closing a storied chapter of American Military History. For this, the senior vice president of Hennessey arrived onstage to make a few remarks.
Vice President Rodney Williams remarked that his company was honored to have the distinction of producing the "official" drink of the Doolittle Raiders. Many, many years prior, General James Doolittle had been given a bottle of 1896 Hennessey cognac as a gift. The significance of 1896 was that it was the year of Doolittle's birth. Early on, Doolittle declared that when there were two Raiders remaining, they should open the 1896 bottle, toast each other and call an end to the reunions.
Richard Cole, who at that time was just two years shy of his 100th birthday, accepted the well-aged bottle of cognac. The entire delegation fell silent. Although the men had been toasting their group for the past seven decades, a somber air filled the room. Everyone present knew this would be the last time these men met to recognize the daring feat they had achieved so many years before.
An awkward silence filled the room as Cole struggled with the bottle. He seemed to be having trouble, and no one dared breathe. Then, he leaned toward the microphone and exclaimed, "That's really on there." It was all that was needed. The audience chuckled, and Cole was able to open the bottle. Three goblets were filled, and Cole made a dedication to the deceased Raiders, "May they rest in peace."
After the ceremony, members of the press were allowed the opportunity to interview General Welsh and Eric Fanning. I'll admit that I felt a bit star-struck. I am a simple dairy farmer by profession, yet on that weekend in November I stood in the company of true heroes. I met the surviving Raiders. I had the chance to shake the hand of General Mark A. Welsh III, chief of staff of the US Air Force - personal advisor to the president. I even got to ask him a question, which he answered politely, looking me dead in the eyes. All I could think was thank goodness we're on the same side.
And then, it was over. The Raiders, the dignitaries and their respective families hung around for photos while non-distinguished guests like Pat and I were ushered out the door by exceptionally tough-looking military security.
Early the next day, we drove to Dayton International for our return flight home. We approached my 1939 Fairchild. Down the flight line, pilots were readying their ships. I reached up, grabbed the propeller and turned the engine over by hand to clear the cylinders of pooled oil. I pilled the dipstick, kicked the tires and got my hands dirty in the usual way of preparing a vintage bird for flight. Other pilots, in their fancy jets, used iPads to essentially do the same thing.
On our flight home, an interesting topic came up. Both Pat and I noticed a lack of interest among the career media. I was honored and extremely flattered to be a part of such an event. However, the professionals representing NBC, PBS, FOX and the like seemed not to care about the event or its history. While the ceremonies were underway, I actually heard conversations among the professional media like, "Ooh, you covered the riots at the Mall? Here - let me give you my card."
What I considered to be sacred privilege was nothing more than a networking opportunity to the pros. For them, the weekend seemed to be nothing more than a resume enhancer. Not one professional reporter showed up to interview General Welsh.
As the Fairchild roared home, for the first time I felt a little ashamed to be part of the media.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I had thrown my suit into the airplane, thinking it was better to be safe than sorry. Now, spread before me was a sea of dignity. Every military branch was represented. I saw Air Force, Navy and Army service dress. More than a few Marines stood ramrod straight, their uniforms immaculate. The afternoon's ceremony had fittingly included a flyover of B-25 aircraft. Some of the crew filed in, each man wearing a brown leather jacket with the airplane's name painted across the shoulder, similar to what bomber crews wore during World War II. To my either side, reporters trained their equipment, made last-minute phone calls and tested audio.
The ceremony included an evening's worth of dedication and honors. Several dignitaries spoke, including Undersecretary of the U.S. Air Force Eric Fanning and General Mark A. Welsh III, chief of staff of the Air Force. On stage, active duty airmen presented the Doolittle Raiders with awards, wheeled out a wooden display case and distributed the silver goblets.
From the press box, I observed the proceedings with a growing sense of admiration. Every man and woman involved throughout the evening carried a marked sense of formality. There is something truly unique about bearing witness to a military service; the precision and tact with which it is carried out simply cannot be matched in the civilian world.
And then, it was time for the toast. At long last, the famed 1896 bottle of Hennessey cognac would be opened and distributed to the remaining veterans, thus closing a storied chapter of American Military History. For this, the senior vice president of Hennessey arrived onstage to make a few remarks.
Vice President Rodney Williams remarked that his company was honored to have the distinction of producing the "official" drink of the Doolittle Raiders. Many, many years prior, General James Doolittle had been given a bottle of 1896 Hennessey cognac as a gift. The significance of 1896 was that it was the year of Doolittle's birth. Early on, Doolittle declared that when there were two Raiders remaining, they should open the 1896 bottle, toast each other and call an end to the reunions.
Richard Cole, who at that time was just two years shy of his 100th birthday, accepted the well-aged bottle of cognac. The entire delegation fell silent. Although the men had been toasting their group for the past seven decades, a somber air filled the room. Everyone present knew this would be the last time these men met to recognize the daring feat they had achieved so many years before.
An awkward silence filled the room as Cole struggled with the bottle. He seemed to be having trouble, and no one dared breathe. Then, he leaned toward the microphone and exclaimed, "That's really on there." It was all that was needed. The audience chuckled, and Cole was able to open the bottle. Three goblets were filled, and Cole made a dedication to the deceased Raiders, "May they rest in peace."
After the ceremony, members of the press were allowed the opportunity to interview General Welsh and Eric Fanning. I'll admit that I felt a bit star-struck. I am a simple dairy farmer by profession, yet on that weekend in November I stood in the company of true heroes. I met the surviving Raiders. I had the chance to shake the hand of General Mark A. Welsh III, chief of staff of the US Air Force - personal advisor to the president. I even got to ask him a question, which he answered politely, looking me dead in the eyes. All I could think was thank goodness we're on the same side.
And then, it was over. The Raiders, the dignitaries and their respective families hung around for photos while non-distinguished guests like Pat and I were ushered out the door by exceptionally tough-looking military security.
Early the next day, we drove to Dayton International for our return flight home. We approached my 1939 Fairchild. Down the flight line, pilots were readying their ships. I reached up, grabbed the propeller and turned the engine over by hand to clear the cylinders of pooled oil. I pilled the dipstick, kicked the tires and got my hands dirty in the usual way of preparing a vintage bird for flight. Other pilots, in their fancy jets, used iPads to essentially do the same thing.
On our flight home, an interesting topic came up. Both Pat and I noticed a lack of interest among the career media. I was honored and extremely flattered to be a part of such an event. However, the professionals representing NBC, PBS, FOX and the like seemed not to care about the event or its history. While the ceremonies were underway, I actually heard conversations among the professional media like, "Ooh, you covered the riots at the Mall? Here - let me give you my card."
What I considered to be sacred privilege was nothing more than a networking opportunity to the pros. For them, the weekend seemed to be nothing more than a resume enhancer. Not one professional reporter showed up to interview General Welsh.
As the Fairchild roared home, for the first time I felt a little ashamed to be part of the media.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
