memory

The quiet hum of Facebook notifications often serves as a backdrop to the mundane, a digital stream of puppy photos, philosophical musings, and snapshots of domestic contentment. Yet, for Stephen Rodrick, a seemingly innocuous post on November 2023, shared within a veterans’ group for his father’s former squadron, VAQ-135 "Black Ravens," shattered this normalcy, jolting him back to a profoundly personal tragedy and igniting a contemporary debate on military action. The post proposed a controversial act of remembrance: that a bomb destined for Iran, in the context of escalating tensions, be inscribed with the names of four airmen lost in 1979, including his father, Commander Peter Rodrick. This unexpected resurgence of a decades-old loss, amplified by the immediacy of social media and the shadow of a potential new conflict, compelled Rodrick to confront the enduring legacy of his father’s death and its intricate connections to the present.

The Unfolding Tragedy of November 1979

The year 1979 was a period of heightened geopolitical tension, particularly between the United States and Iran. The Iranian Revolution had concluded earlier that year, and the subsequent seizure of American hostages at the U.S. embassy in Tehran in November marked a significant escalation, plunging relations into crisis. It was within this volatile environment that Commander Peter Rodrick, leading VAQ-135, a squadron operating sophisticated EA-6B Prowler electronic warfare aircraft from Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, Washington, found himself deployed.

For young Stephen Rodrick, then an eighth-grader, his father’s absence was a constant, a palpable void in his young life. Commander Rodrick was on extended deployment aboard the USS Kitty Hawk, a departure that had already cost him significant family milestones, including his thirteenth birthday. The promise of a reunion, a planned visit to Honolulu on December 10th to meet his father and travel back to San Diego on the carrier, offered a beacon of hope. The "Welcome Home" signs, already prepared and awaiting assembly, stood as silent testament to this anticipation, nestled in the garage beside his father’s MGB convertible.

However, this eagerly awaited reunion was abruptly canceled. In a late-night call from Subic Bay in the Philippines, Commander Rodrick informed his wife and son that the USS Kitty Hawk was rerouting to the Persian Gulf as a show of force against Iran. The dream of a family reunion dissolved, replaced by the stark reality of continued separation and the looming threat of conflict. For Stephen, it meant returning to the routine of school, homework, and time with his mother and younger sisters.

Two weeks later, at the Roller Barn, the mundane setting for a physical education class, the news of unimaginable loss arrived. A teacher, her eyes visibly welled with tears, summoned Stephen. There, seated beside him, was his father’s best friend, clad in his dress uniform, his white hat clutched in his hands. The somber demeanor and the gentle pat on the knee signaled the gravity of the moment. His father’s plane was missing.

A Father Lost, A Nation’s Unspoken War

The words "The helos are looking for them" hung in the air, a grim indicator of the unfolding situation. Even at twelve years old, Stephen understood the unspoken implication: twelve hours of searching without a confirmed find strongly suggested that rescue was unlikely. His intuition proved tragically accurate. The helicopters eventually located not survivors, but a vast expanse of black oil shimmering on the blue sea. The wreckage of the EA-6B Prowler was discovered 63 miles east of Diego Garcia, a remote island base in the Indian Ocean, a location eerily close to where Iranian missiles had been deployed in March of that year.

Later, the probable cause of the crash was pieced together: a low-level flight, radar altimeters disengaged, a banking turn executed perilously close to the sea’s surface. A miscalculation, a wingtip touching the water, and the aircraft disintegrated. It was November 28, 1979, a date etched forever in Stephen Rodrick’s memory. His father, Commander Peter Rodrick, along with his crew – Lieutenant Commander William Coffey, Lieutenant Bradley Brown, and Lieutenant John Chorey – became some of the earliest casualties in what would become a protracted, undeclared war with Iran, a conflict that would span decades and claim countless lives on both sides.

The Resonance of the Past in the Present

Decades later, as the United States grappled with another period of heightened tension with Iran, Rodrick found himself navigating a landscape where the past and present converged with unsettling force. The news of President Trump’s "undeclared war" on Iran, and the rhetoric surrounding America’s potential withdrawal from a conflict initiated in 1979, brought the echoes of his father’s death crashing back. The digital realm, often a source of distraction, became the catalyst for a deeply personal and public confrontation with this history.

The Facebook group, "VAQ-135 World Famous Black Ravens Past and Present," became the unexpected stage for this confrontation. It was there that a former squadron member posted an email request addressed to the Office of the Secretary of Defense. The request, detailed and poignant, sought a formal act of remembrance for the four airmen lost in November 1979. The author argued that these men were "the very first American service members to give their lives in what has become the War on Terror," and proposed that a piece of ordnance destined for operations against Iranian-backed threats be marked with their names.

This proposal, while rooted in a desire for remembrance, ignited a visceral reaction in Rodrick. His immediate impulse was one of profound anger and rejection: "Fuck off. Please do not drop a bomb in my father’s name in an unsanctioned war that has already killed hundreds of kids." He felt the weight of history, the futility of further violence, and the inherent injustice of such a symbolic act.

However, the subsequent comments on the post revealed a complex tapestry of emotions and perspectives. Many viewed the proposal as a fitting tribute, a way to honor fallen heroes. One of the widows of Commander Rodrick’s crew, a woman who had endured the unimaginable pain of raising an infant son who would never know his father, expressed her support: "Thank you for remembering. I think this would be great." Her words, born from deep personal grief and a primal need for acknowledgment, resonated with Rodrick, forcing him to confront the conflicting desires for remembrance and the abhorrence of further violence. He also acknowledged the "tens of thousands of innocents murdered by the Iranian regime," a stark reminder of the human cost on all sides of this protracted conflict. Ultimately, he remained silent on the thread, wrestling with the profound implications of the proposal.

A Journey Through Memory and Shared Loss

The weight of these unresolved emotions prompted Rodrick to embark on a road trip with his son, Peter. This journey was not merely a geographical excursion but a pilgrimage through his own past, a deliberate attempt to bridge the gap between his experiences and his son’s understanding. He had previously explored his father’s legacy in his book, "The Magical Stranger," which chronicled his two-year deployment with Commander Rodrick’s former squadron, flying in a Prowler and spending time in the Middle East. This immersive experience had offered him a profound, albeit indirect, connection to his father’s world, even as he contemplated the fragility of life at sea, the ever-present threat of Iranian aggression.

His son, Peter, born on November 28th, the very day of his grandfather’s crash, was now twelve years old, the same age Rodrick had been when he lost his father. This age, a significant marker, fueled Rodrick’s desire to share his story and ensure his son understood the man he would never meet and the context that fueled such a controversial proposal.

The trip included a visit to NAS Whidbey Island, a place he had largely avoided, to see the Prowler Memorial where his father’s name was etched. He acknowledged that the concept of "closure" was perhaps an illusion, but the urge to share this part of his heritage with his son was undeniable.

Echoes of Rescue and Resilience: The Danielson Story

The backdrop to Rodrick’s personal journey was the unfolding drama of a recent military operation. An F-15E fighter jet had been shot down in the Iranian mountains, resulting in the rescue of one crew member and the ongoing search for the other. This event, echoing the perils of combat and the desperate efforts to save downed airmen, resonated deeply with Rodrick and his companion, Brian Danielson.

Brian Danielson, a retired Navy commander, had become a close friend of Rodrick’s after they met during the research for Rodrick’s book. Danielson’s own story was one of profound loss and enduring resilience. His father, Air Force Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Danielson, had been shot down over Laos in December 1969 during the Vietnam War. Brian, an infant at the time, grew up with his father listed as Missing in Action (MIA), a status that would later be reclassified to Killed in Action (KIA). The search for his father’s remains had been a decades-long ordeal, involving expeditions to Laos and the eventual recovery of a shoulder bone, later identified through DNA. This arduous journey culminated in a somber funeral in 2007, a poignant echo of the grief Rodrick had experienced.

Listening to Danielson recount his father’s story, particularly the harrowing details of the search and recovery efforts, brought Rodrick to tears. The parallels between their experiences – the loss of fathers in combat, the lingering questions, the relentless pursuit of answers – were striking and deeply moving. Danielson’s description of searching for his father’s remains in the Laotian jungle, a physically and emotionally taxing endeavor, underscored the profound human cost of war and the enduring quest for reconciliation with the past.

Confronting Grief and the Nature of Remembrance

Driving through his childhood neighborhood with his son, Rodrick pointed out landmarks: the Roller Barn where he received the news of his father’s death, the street where he played football, the house where the base chaplain had delivered the devastating news. He grappled with the paternal dilemma: was he burdening his son with his grief, or was he offering him a vital understanding of his family’s history and the complexities of conflict?

The visit to the Prowler Memorial at NAS Whidbey Island was a quiet, somber affair. The memorial, featuring a mothballed EA-6B Prowler and the engraved names of fallen aviators, served as a stark reminder of the sacrifices made. Rodrick pointed out his father’s name: CDR. Peter Rodrick VAQ-135 28 NOV 1979. As they left, Rodrick and Danielson discussed the recent rescue mission, a stark contrast to their own fathers’ fates. Danielson, despite his own loss, expressed a profound appreciation for the value placed on a single American life. "This country is so torn up, but we still value one American life," he stated, highlighting a core tenet of national identity and military ethos. He further elaborated on his stance regarding Iran: "Fuck the mullahs," a sentiment rooted in his understanding of Iran’s role in supplying lethal IEDs that killed American soldiers during the Iraq War.

The conversation then turned to the controversial Facebook post. Danielson offered a nuanced perspective, acknowledging the human need for action, even if misguided, and the role of ego in such public displays. He suggested that while such actions could be "annoying as fuck when it involves your own life," genuine care often manifested in quieter, more impactful ways. He concluded with a poignant observation: "No one is going to understand what we have been through."

A Father’s Legacy, A Son’s Understanding

The trip concluded with a shared experience of NCAA basketball, a moment of normalcy and connection between father and son. As they watched the game, Rodrick scanned news headlines, President Trump’s inflammatory rhetoric about burning Iran to the ground a stark counterpoint to the simple joy of the game. He recognized that no amount of anger, no political pronouncements, could bring his father back.

His son’s simple declaration, "Dad, I got to miss a day of school. It wasn’t hard. I’m proud of you," offered a profound sense of validation and connection. When asked why, his son’s unadorned "I just am" spoke volumes, a testament to the enduring power of familial bonds and the quiet understanding that transcends words.

The journey, though fraught with the weight of the past, had offered Rodrick a path toward a deeper understanding of his own grief, the complexities of remembrance, and the enduring impact of loss. The shadow of his father’s death, once a source of profound sorrow, had become a lens through which to view the present, a reminder of the human cost of conflict, and the quiet resilience of the human spirit. The desire to drop a bomb in his father’s name might be a misguided expression of grief and anger, but for Rodrick, the true legacy lay not in vengeance, but in shared memory, enduring love, and the quiet understanding that binds generations.