Craig

Craig Mulder was ready to turn in his wings.

I had just taken command, and I was trying to figure out where the company’s pilots were in their career progression. Craig, a pilot with more experience than several of the company’s pilots-in-command, was not a PC.

By regulation, every Army helicopter must have two pilots with access to the controls. There is the PC, and the pilot. Think of the pilot as someone who earned their driver’s permit. They have passed the minimum qualification — in this case, flight school — to fly with someone else who has their driver’s license. The licensed driver is the PC, who has demonstrated maturity and competency. Commanders trust pilots-in-command to safely operate aircraft and make decisions within the commander’s intent.

Craig was mature and competent but hadn’t made progress towards becoming a PC. There were no obvious red flags, and his stunted career progression concerned me.

Before I spoke with him, I waited for Jake — my new standardization pilot — to arrive in Korea. My battalion commander said Jake would be on the ground within two months. Because the standardization pilot is the senior warrant officer advisor to the commander, I knew I needed to wait for him to join me for these tough conversations.

After Jake arrived and had a few weeks to settle in, he and I sat down with Craig to discuss the past — how did we get to this point? — and the future — are you going to make PC?

It was a long conversation, but not because we couldn’t get to the underlying issue. Almost immediately, Craig said he didn’t want to make PC because he valued time with his family.

We went around in circles for quite a while. We didn’t fully understand his position. In part, it felt like an indictment on Jake and me. We were pilots-in-command, and both of us were in leadership positions. Were we not dedicated to our families?

Craig assured us that was not the case. He knew himself, he had seen how much work it took to become a PC, and he had seen how much we asked of our pilots-in-command once we gave them the proverbial keys to the car.

He wanted to do what was asked of him, do it well, and then leave as soon as he could to get home to his wife and two children.

He was uninterested in achieving the career milestones expected of a pilot. He hinted that he wasn’t opposed to switching careers altogether, whether in the Army or as a civilian.

To better understand how committed he was to this position, I closed the meeting with a pointed question to Craig.

“Would you turn in your wings if you could?”

“Yes,” he replied without much hesitation.

Imagine that — a pilot who loved his family so dearly he didn’t care what happened to his career so long as he could spend as much time as he could with them. Craig would have been happy as a burger flipper if it meant he could maximize time with his family.

Craig left the office, and I looked at Jake while taking a deep breath. I exhaled with big eyes and a mouthful of air that made it look like I was smuggling golf balls.

It was going to be a leadership challenge, as they say.

We embarked on a year-long effort to show Craig his assumptions were flawed. Not only did we believe he could be a PC, we believed he should be. We just needed to show him that he could do both — he could be a great husband and dad while also working towards becoming a PC.

This effort was led by Jake, and the other pilots in the company encouraged Craig in his journey.

By the time Jake and I left in June, Craig was nearly ready for his pilot-in-command check ride — the last step in the process. With the support of his new chain of command, he made PC in September.

Soon after, he deployed in a temporary duty status to Georgia to conduct his first aerial gunnery as a pilot-in-command.

On Sunday, October 18, Craig was pronounced dead after his body was found unresponsive in the water at Tybee Beach.

My former first sergeant and battalion commander both called to break the tragic news.

My thoughts were first with his family, who lost a devoted husband and father. I then thought about my former company mates. They lost a friend, a colleague, and a damn-fine attack pilot.

They are numb and devastated. It hurts not being there to provide comfort to them.

I’m grieving differently. After leaving Korea in the summer, I’m now a world away with no artifacts, routines, or physical structures to continually remind me of Craig’s absence. My grief comes in spurts of tears and laughter as I reflect on his life and the joy he brought to those in his life.

His death seems unreal — almost abstract. It’s hard to comprehend that Craig Mulder is no longer with us.

We lost a man who was authentically funny — someone who could bring a smile to your face even if you were frustrated with him.

We lost someone who convinced us that he was worth investing in, even if he lacked confidence in himself at times.

We lost someone who inspired us to love and appreciate our families more.

At Craig’s memorial, his commander told a story from when they previously served together in Alaska.

In Alaska, harsh winters required soldiers to winterize their vehicles to ensure they started. Craig, however, refused to winterize his car. He had a different solution.

Every day, he unplugged his car’s battery, carried it under his arm, and placed it in the office until he was ready to leave for the day.

That was Craig.

Rest in peace, my friend. We will miss you.