Farewell, General Yeager

Brigadier General Chuck Yeager, the first American to purposefully break the sound barrier, has slipped the surly bonds of Earth.

Like many in my generation, Chuck Yeager was the reason for my career choice. Tom Wolfe’s “The Right Stuff” — the book and the movie — were the touchstone works of our generation, a window into a life and world of purpose, heroism, and adventure. Yeager was the larger than life Zeus of a pantheon of post World War II aviation heroes that inspired our careers and lives.

Many of us were fortunate to live in an era where we could engage with these heroes in person. As a young student at the Air Force’s Test Pilot School — the non-negotiable crucible to embark on a career in flight test — we had the amazing fortune to meet Yeager and many of his fellow aviation pioneers. The first time I met him I was taken by his gruffness, his minimal tolerance for buffoonery. He’d started his career as a gruff outsider, and had surprised many by unexpected wisdom in his later years. I remember someone asking him straight up “can women be good test pilots?” The question was loaded and uncomfortable — my Test Pilot School classmate Jackie Van Ovost stood next to me, and both of us dreaded a possible tasteless response. His answer floored us with blunt, profane perfection: “Your skill as a pilot has nothing to do with the shape of your private parts.” Jackie is now General Van Ovost, the first woman in charge of the Air Force’s Mobility fleet. Yeager must’ve known something all along.

I crossed paths with General Yeager throughout my career in flight test and was wildly fortunate to do so during my final tour in uniform. From 2010 to 2012 I had the best job in the world — second only to being an astronaut or a rock star — as the Commander of the Air Force Test Pilot School. The role combines the best parts of commanding a military flying unit, acting as the Dean of an engineering school, and owning your own Monster Garage. It is arguably the hardest flying program in the world: in eleven months, the joke goes, students spend eighteen months in Graduate academics, twelve months flying twenty different aircraft, and eight months of hard science research. My job was to teach young men and women the secrets that Mother Nature hides in the sky, and prepare them to risk their lives to wrest those secrets and bring them back — all so that others may live.

The hallway that brings students from the parking lot passes a gallery of graduates lost during flight test, followed by a wall with every Commander since the school’s inception. The wall is a monument to aviation heroes: Buzz Aldrin was Commandant after the moon landings, as was Guy Gardner after retiring as shuttle astronaut — and so was Yeager. My first day back — this time as the commander of the unit — one detail floored me: Chuck Yeager was the Commander of this very unit the year I was born. This arc of history made my time “in the seat” that much more special.

As luck would have it, the sixty-fifth anniversary of the breaking of the sound barrier would happen on my watch. We invited General Yeager to be the guest of honor at graduation, combining the honor with his visit to Edwards AFB to recreate the feat, this time in an F-16 flown by my boss, Brigadier General Woody Nolan. Yeager’s routine visits to Edwards were always a challenge since the base justifiably rolled out the red carpet for the aviation hero. I had somehow managed to squeeze in a flight with my deputy — not always easy when you are a Colonel — and were about to brief when a Lieutenant burst into my office.

“General Yeager is coming!”

My first response was admittedly odd. Were we expecting him? I didn’t remember this from the schedule, so something had happened. My office quickly filled up with staff, informing me how they were going to prepare in the few minutes we had left. It turns out that Yeager had always felt most comfortable at the “Schoolhouse”, and had decided — as was his right, dammit — that he was going to have lunch in his old office.

My office.

He walked in with a small entourage and sat down at a small conference table I’d just cleaned off. One of his assistants ordered lunch, as my Deputy gave me the unmistakable look that meant our sortie was now canceled due to force majeure. Yeager made himself comfortable, then started telling stories.

An hour or so later, he bade us farewell. My executive officer had opened up every door to my office, and dozens of the staff stood, silent and transfixed, as an aviation legend shared intimate stories in the place where he felt at home. None of us will ever forget that day.

A few days later we welcomed General Yeager and his wife as our guests of honor during the Test Pilot School graduation ceremony. It was held in a hangar, surrounded by test aircraft, the students resplendent in their formal uniforms, their spouses and proud families dressed to the nines. This was the highlight of my year — sharing with parents and loved ones the sheer impossibility of what their sons and daughters had just accomplished. I took pleasure in sharing what it meant to the Nation and the world that brave young aviators still pursued the ideals of service in one of the most hostile environments known to humanity. The night was personally special, as it enabled my family and me to take a photo with General Yeager in front of the jet that bore my name as Commander.

The night wound down and General Yeager, expectedly, was one of the first to depart. I thanked him profusely for sharing his time with us, when he interrupted me.

He held my hand in both of his, and his blue eyes — eyes that had seen more adventure, and tragedy, and fear than any in my generation ever would — tore into me.

“You’re doing a great job running the school, son,” he said, and my world stopped. “A really good job.” Then he smiled, patted my shoulder, and left.

I’ve been fortunate to serve in uniform, in government, to lead in industry and in my community. No accolade will ever be as powerful as those words from Yeager, in the one role that mattered most to me, and one that likely meant so much to him.

I never saw General Yeager again. His loss today comes as an expected tragedy, surmountable by one thought: Men don’t live forever. But their impact on others is timeless.

Fly safe, General Yeager. You’ll see all of us again.