These Things We Do, That Others May Live

By Lt. Col. Adam Cade '09

We had been in country less than a week and had assumed the CASEVAC/MEDEVAC alert only 24 hours earlier. At 1 a.m., our crew arrived at the rescue compound on the airfield for the morning intelligence brief and shift change. As the intel officer concluded, a message flashed across the secure tactical chat platform: “9-line, prepare to copy.”

My heart pounded. A brand-new co-pilot, fresh from training and on my first tour in northern Afghanistan, I was eager—perhaps anxious—to prove myself. The next line appeared: “Line 3: 1x Cat A, IED explosion, left leg.” Category Alpha. The Golden Hour. Sixty minutes to deliver the patient to higher role medical care—and the clock had already begun. This was not an hour from pickup; it was an hour from notification.

Then: “Line 1: Tagab Valley, grid XX.”

I did not yet appreciate what that meant. The Tagab River Valley was one of the most hostile corridors in our area of operation—the only flyable northern passage to the fiercely contested Kunar Valley. Afghanistan’s northern mountains rise to 12,000 feet in some areas, altitudes our helicopter could not safely overfly. The enemy knew that. They waited in the valleys, where aircraft were forced low and vulnerable. The Tagab was narrow, predictable—a perfect place for an ambush.

My flight lead met my eyes and, in an unhurried voice, directed me to start the aircraft, bring up comms, and be ready to taxi. I ran to the helicopter with my flight engineer of 18 years and aerial gunner of 10. I, by contrast, had three months in the combat rescue community. I had completed pilot training in May, arrived at the 33rd Rescue Squadron in June, and deployed to Bagram Air Base in August. I could not have been greener.

Blades turning. Engines at full throttle. My flight lead climbed in and, before getting his helmet on, motioned for me to pull forward. We taxied and lifted off into the darkness.

En route, we established comms with the ground team. A three-vehicle MRAP column had struck an IED. One soldier had sustained catastrophic trauma to his left leg. We approached low through the valley, mindful of the terrain and the unseen threats beyond it. Once on the ground, our combat rescue officer (CRO) and pararescueman (PJ) moved swiftly, loading the patient as seconds slipped away.

We departed for Bagram.

Twenty minutes out, the CRO’s voice came across the internal aircraft comms: the patient was unstable. Severe blood loss. Time was running out. My flight lead acknowledged, lowered the nose, and demanded everything the aircraft could give. While I managed radios and navigation, I glanced aft. The cabin floor was slick with blood and strewn with bandages. The CRO’s shirt was nearly crimson. A sight I will never forget. My flight lead looked over at me and, with characteristic calm, asked if I wanted the controls. “Yes, sir. Co-pilot has the controls.” And I flew us home. This was his 7th deployment to Bagram. Many young co-pilots had come before me, and he was all too familiar with the tragic horrors that transpire in the back of the helicopter. He directed my focus to flying the aircraft, removing it from the scarring scene just inches behind me.

We landed at Bagram and transferred the patient to the hospital. He would lose part of his leg—but he would live. After shift change, my flight lead pulled me aside and asked how I was holding up—what I had felt in those moments. We spoke quietly. He commended my composure and asked where I had gone to school.

“Virginia Tech, sir.”

“Aren’t they a senior military college?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “It shows.”

Nearly twenty years ago, I began New Cadet Week as “New Cadet Cade.” I write now as a lieutenant colonel and senior instructor and evaluator pilot, with more than 1,200 hours in the HH-60, deployments to Afghanistan and Africa, and the privilege of leading one of the largest aircraft transitions in the Combat Air Forces while continuing global combat rescue missions. Whatever success I have known in the Air Force traces back to the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets and AFROTC Detachment 875.

In those formative days on Upper Quad, dragging through Brodie Hall as a rat, and then through Rasche Hall as a cadet cadre, I learned teamwork, discipline, precision, attention to detail, professionalism, integrity, and the ability to perform under pressure. I learned to master the fundamentals when no one was watching, so that in moments of crisis they would hold firm. Through the Corps and AFROTC, those principles were refined and tested, then carried into active duty to first pilot training, then into the combat rescue community. The Corps of Cadets taught me the unwavering desire and need to serve, and I chose to do so by flying into combat to save those who put their lives on the line for this great nation. In the motto of this great school, Ut Prosim.

Years later, I returned to Virginia Tech as an AFROTC instructor, entrusted with shaping the next generation of officers and leaders. It has been a profound honor to pass on the lessons forged in classrooms as a new cadet, on the Drillfield as a cadet cadre instructor, and later in the mountains and valleys of Afghanistan half a world away—to prepare young leaders who will serve with excellence, lead with character, and when the call comes, selflessly fly steadily into harm's way. These things we do…that others may live!