There are some very good reflections in here - I enjoyed it.... This is a condensed version of a speech Brig. Gen. Mark Welsh gave to cadets at the U.S. Air Force Academy on Aug. 26: Over the years I've been asked to talk about Desert Storm, and not long ago I was asked to give a presentation on lessons I learned in that conflict. I sat down to make a list of all those great lessons I wanted to pass on to future generations. When I finished I only had about 15 items, and I realized that none of them were lessons learned. Every one was a person, or an event or just a feeling I had. But I have never forgotten them, and never will. Every kind of combat is different. Aerial combat happens at about 1,000 miles an hour. It's hot fire, cold steel, instant death and big destruction. Ground combat is not that way. Those of you who have heard infantry soldiers talk know that ground combat is endless time, soaking fear, big noises and darkness. Either way, your first combat is an intensely personal experience. Today I'll tell you some of the things I remember. One week before the Desert Storm air campaign actually started, we were flying missions to northern Saudi Arabia to practice dropping simulated bombs at night on targets in the desert, so those of us who didn't routinely fly night missions would be ready if the war started. On this particular night, when we were done with our run, we hit a post- strike tanker to gas up and then headed back toward the base. I climbed up to about 42,000 feet, plugged in the afterburner, put on the autopilot and leaned back in that tilt-back seat to stare at nature. It was a gorgeous night. Then, out on the horizon, I saw something I had never seen before and haven't seen again. It was a beautiful, huge white halo that went all the way around the moon. I'll never forget that halo. I also won't forget that when I landed that night, my assistant operations officer met me at the bottom of the ladder to tell me we'd lost an airplane. The pilot was a young captain named Mike who had joined us only two weeks before because he'd stayed back in Utah to get married. He was on his second night ride. We think that somehow Mike got a light on the ground confused with his flight lead's rotating beacon. He hit the ground going 600 miles an hour-- he died relaxed. I don't think dying relaxed was good news to his wife when I called and spoke to her after we'd confirmed he was in that smoking hole, or to his mom and dad when I called them. I'll never forget those phone calls. And I'll never forget looking at his airplane, the helmet with his name on the visor, his spare G-suit hanging under the wing, and his crew chief saluting the jet while bagpipes played "Amazing Grace" in the background. Every fighter pilot on base had on big stupid sunglasses so nobody would know he was bawling. And I won't forget thinking, How many more of these are we going to have when the war starts? The night before the war, we gathered our squadrons together at about 5 p.m. to give them their first briefing. Then I did what I thought was a real "commanderly" thing--I told them to go back to their rooms and Write a letter to their families. In that letter they were to shed all of the emotional baggage they'd otherwise take into combat. I told them they didn't fly until I got that letter. Now, if you haven't had the pleasure of sitting down and thinking about your family, of telling your children you're sorry you won't be there to see their next ballet recital or Little League game, that you'll miss their high-school graduation, won't meet their future spouse or get to know your grandkids, you should try doing it on a piece of paper at midnight, from 9,000 miles away. If you haven't had the pleasure of telling your parents how important they were to you, or told your wife how the sun rises and sets in her eyes, then you haven't lived. I'd recommend it. I won't forget writing that letter. The next morning we got up at about 1:30 because we had a 2:15 a.m. briefing. All my guys met in the chow hall, and then we jumped in cars to drive down for our mass briefing. As we drove down the road parallel to the runway, two things happened. The first was that Col. Tom Rackley's 421st fighter squadron lit its afterburners as part of the first launch of the Gulf War. At 20-second intervals they lifted off, accelerating to about 400 miles an hour and disappearing at the end of the runway. I suddenly realized that it was the first time I'd ever seen airplanes take off without lights. We were blacked out for combat, and it was pretty sobering. Then, as we were about halfway down this road, one of the guys in the car pointed. On the right was the base's tent city. Thousands of people-- all those who weren't working that night--had come out of their tents when they heard the afterburners. They were in uniforms, in jeans and cutoffs; they were wearing underwear, pajamas--everything. But not one of them was talking. They were just watching these airplanes take off. Also, each person was somehow in contact with the next. They were holding hands or arms, or they had an arm around a neighbor's shoulders or back or they were just leaning on each other. These people didn't even know each other. But they were all Americans. They were all warriors. And they were all part of the cause. I will never forget their faces in our headlights. Later that morning, after our initial briefing, we went to the life-support trailer where all the flying gear for my squadron was located. Now, anybody who's been in any kind of flying squadron knows that life support is a pretty raucous place. You're giving people grief; you're arguing about who's better at what--something is always going on and it's fun. That morning there wasn't a sound, not a whisper. I dressed listening to zippers as people pulled on flight gear. As each one left I wondered if he'd be coming back that afternoon. I'll never forget watching their backs disappear into the darkness. During Desert Storm, Father John was our squadron chaplain. Father John was popular because he was the first guy to buy you a whiskey, the first guy to light up a cigar, the first guy to start the party and the last guy to leave. We knew Father John well and he fit in great with a fighter squadron. The first day of the war, as I walked to my jet, I noticed that he was standing right in front of the nose. "Hey, I thought you might like a blessing before you go," Father John said. I immediately hated myself because I consider myself fairly comfortable in my religion, but I'd never thought of that. So I knelt down on the cement and Father John gave me a blessing. As I was getting ready to climb up the ladder, I noticed all these guys running out of the darkness; my other pilots had seen me and wanted Father John to bless them, too. So he did. And when everybody came back safe from the first sortie we decided: "That's it, Father John has to bless everybody." And from then on it didn't matter if you were Jewish or Baptist or Muslim, Father John gave a blessing. Later on, talking to Col. Rackley, I found that Father John did the same for his guys. And every time I landed from a combat sortie, every single time my canopy opened, I'd first shake the hands of my crew chief, Sgt. Manny Villa, and then I'd climb down the ladder to Father John, who'd bless me and welcome me home. When I came back from Desert Storm, I ended up returning to Hill Air Force Base in Utah a couple of days after my squadron. When I pulled into the parking spot, folks were waiting out front, including Father John, my wife, Betty, and a couple of my kids. I'd written to Betty and told her about Father John and his blessings, and do you want to know how cool she is? When my airplane stopped and the canopy came up, Manny Villa climbed the ladder and shook my hand, and when I walked down the ladder, Betty told Father John, "You first." Father John walked over and blessed me and welcomed me home. A year and a half later, Father John dropped dead of a massive heart attack. Too much whiskey, too many cigars and too many parties, I guess. By the week week after he died, 16 of the 28 pilots who flew in my squadron in Desert Storm had contacted his family in Stockton, Calif. They called from Korea, Europe, Australia and all over the U.S. to tell his family about Father John, and to bless him and ask God to walk him home. I'll never forget Father John. Early in the war, we attacked a barracks complex in northwestern Iraq. There's a guy I want to tell you about who had a lot to do with a number of holes in that barracks' ammunition storage bunkers. His name's Ed. Ed left for the desert while his wife, Jill, was pregnant with their first child. Obviously, he couldn't go home for the birth. One night, my exec woke me up and told me I had a call at the command post. It was my wife, calling from Utah, who said, "Mark, I'm at the hospital in Ogden, and Jill is in labor, and she's having problems. Is there any way we can get Ed on the phone?" We went and rousted Ed, and brought him down to the command center. And as he held the phone with one hand and talked to his wife, I sat in front of him in a chair and I held his other hand. I could see the happiness in his eyes every time she talked back to him. And I could see the worry and the pain in his eyes every time another contraction started and he heard her gasp or scream. I saw him smile when he heard his son, Nate, cry for the first time, 9,000 miles away. I'll never forget Nate. Twelve hours after Ed hung up that phone, he was in a 12 ship of F-16s that hit those bunkers. It was the best battle-damage assessment we had in our squadron during the war. Ed went from a caring, loving father and husband to intense, indomitable warrior in just 12 hours. I'll never forget watching the transformation. One of the most important things about combat is sound. Anybody who's been there will tell you that the things you hear are the things you remember the longest. I want to tell you about two things I heard that I'll never forget. The first one was during one of our missions in the Baghdad area. An F-16 from another unit was hit by a surface-to-air missile. Over the strike common frequency, we listened to the pilot and his flight lead talk as he tried to make it to the border so that rescue could get to him. He'd come on every now and then and talk about how the oil pressure was dropping and vibrations were increasing. Then his flight lead would encourage him to stick with it. This went on for about 15 minutes. Finally he said, "Oil pressure just went to zero." And then, "My engine quit." And then, "That's all I got. I'm outta here." There wasn't another sound on that radio for another 15 minutes. . . and the silence was defeaning. I'll never forget those 15 minutes. The other thing I heard was when the ground war actually started and an F-16 pilot was shot down in the middle of the retreating Republican Guard. A call went out asking if there was anyone with the ordnance and fuel who could go to him. A lot of people responded, but the first one I really paid attention to was the voice of an Army Chinook helicopter pilot, who came on the radio and said, "I've got this much gas, here's my location, I can be here in this many minutes. Give me his coordinates, I can pick him up." Now, everybody knew where the Republican Guard was, and everybody knew he was right in the middle of them. And you need to remember a Chinook is about the size of a double-decker London bus with props, and it doesn't have guns. We kid around a lot about interservice rivalries, but I guarantee that I would follow that Army helicopter pilot into combat. I'll never forget her voice. One of the last things I want to mention is the Highway of Death. This road leads north out of Basra, and was a retreat route for the Republican Guard until they were cut off. What's significant is that I killed people there. Me. Combat is an intensely personal thing. I'd killed people before this war, but this time I saw them. I saw the vehicles moving before the bombs hit. I saw soldiers firing up at me, then running as I dropped bombs to make sure they wouldn't get away. War is a horrible, horrible, horrible thing. There is nothing good about it. But it is sometimes necessary. So somebody had better be good at it. I am. You better be. I'll never forget the Highway of Death. As I was flying back with Col. Rackley's squadron to the East Coast of the U.S., we checked in with the first U.S. air-traffic control site of the entire route. Col. Rackley said something along the lines of "This is Widow flight; 24 F-16s coming home." And the air traffic controller responded "Welcome home, Widow." And then at regular intervals for the next five to six minutes, every airliner on that frequency checked in and said something. "Welcome back." "Good job." "Great to have you home." "God bless you." About 10 minutes after that I got my first glimpse of the U.S., the coast of Massachusetts. I sat in my cockpit and I sang "America the Beautiful" to myself. I'll never forget how bad it sounded, or how proud I was when it was over. Take a look at this flag, folks. Those white stripes indicate the integrity that you represent here at the Air Force Academy and that you had better carry with you into our Air Force. Those stars are the courage of all the people who have gone before you. They belong to you now. And that red is for Mike and for the millions more like him who died serving their country. And in the not too distant future, one of you is going to be standing up here talking about your experiences in combat to the classes of 2015, or '16, or '17. This is who you are. And this is what you face in the United States Air Force. You are damn good. You need to get better. All these people I just talked about are counting on it.