My Friend Mike: Standing Up for the Airman Who Aimed Higher

I just got home, misty‑eyed, after watching the film *The Last Full Measure*. It tells the story of a thirty‑year fight to secure the Medal of Honor for a man’s actions in Vietnam.

All the way home, I kept thinking about my friend Mike.

Mike and I first crossed paths in Power Production. He worked for me as a generator mechanic and electrician. On paper, I was his supervisor. In reality, I was his mentor, his advocate, and one more senior NCO trying to make sure the right people got the right chances.

He made that part easy.

The Airman in the Generator Yard

Mike was the kind of airman you hope for and rarely get. Smart. Hungry. Always squared away—my nod to my Marine friends. He was the definition of a “Firewall 5” on his performance reports, the highest rating you could give in every area: job performance, attitude, appearance, and bearing.

He did things the right way every time, without needing someone to stand over his shoulder. That doesn’t mean he had an easy road. Nobody does. He was dealing with some family issues that caught the attention of the chain of command—nothing he did, but close enough to brush against his career.

The problem was simple to explain and ugly to look at. From the outside, it didn’t present well. From the inside, I knew the truth: Mike was doing everything in his power to distance himself and handle it by the book.

But sometimes, perception tries to outrun reality.

“Change His Evaluation”

One day I got the call no supervisor likes. I was ordered to report to the commander’s office with my first sergeant.

The issue on the table: Mike’s performance report and his request to cross‑train into the Pararescue career field. His family situation had drawn command interest, and now people were looking for paperwork that “reflected how it looked.”

In plain language: I was being asked to shade his evaluation.

Sitting there in that office, I listened to the concern. I understood the pressure. I was also less than six months from retirement, which meant my tolerance for politics was at an all‑time low. They wanted me to modify his performance report to match the optics of the situation, not the reality of the man.

I respectfully declined.

I told them what I knew: Mike’s conduct on duty was spotless. His performance was outstanding. He had done everything required of him—and then some—to handle the family matter correctly. To punish him on paper for something he did not do, when he had followed the rules, would not be honest. And if the evaluation isn’t honest, it’s useless.

The request to deny his cross‑train into Pararescue came next.

Once again, I refused to throw him under the bus. If he had earned that opportunity—and he had—I was going to recommend him for it. Period.

A Sea of Generators and Bigger Dreams

Back in the Power Production yard, we had rows of 750‑kilowatt generators—desert tan beasts chugging out electricity and clouds of exhaust. Every month we ran “hot tests” on them under load. At one point, we were having a recurring problem with resistors blowing at random. We worked through it together, gathering running data for the manufacturer so they could redesign the equipment and fix the issue.

Over the roar of those engines, we also talked about his future.

He told me he wanted more than to be a generator mechanic. He wanted to do more, go farther, test himself harder. He wanted to be a PJ—one of the Air Force’s Pararescuemen.

I told him if that’s what he wanted, I would back him to the hilt. Not because it sounded impressive, but because I believed he had the character and the work ethic to carry that kind of responsibility.

A few months later, I retired and moved on to a new career in IT. Mike stayed in the fight.

Staying in Touch with a Quiet Professional

Years later, I found him on the global email listing and sent him a note now and then.

Because he was in the Special Operations community, I never expected details. I just wanted him to know I still had eyes on him in the only way I could.

My messages usually ended something like this:

> “Mike, I don’t know where you are or what’s going on with you. Just know I’m thinking about you and want you to be safe, wherever that is. You have a dinner coming from me whenever you’re ready.”

To this day, I mean that.

Why I Keep Thinking About Him

Watching *The Last Full Measure* brought a lot of things to the surface: sacrifice, loyalty, and the long fight to see someone properly recognized for who they really are.

I’ll never claim credit for Mike’s accomplishments. He did the hard work. He walked the miles. He carried the rucksack. But I am grateful I was in a position, at one crucial moment, to tell the truth about him when it counted.

Leadership isn’t just about writing reports and enforcing standards. Sometimes it’s about standing in a quiet office, looking a commander in the eye, and refusing to rewrite someone’s story to make the optics look better.

My friend Mike wanted to aim higher. All I did was keep the paper from weighing him down.

If you’ve ever had a “Mike” in your career—a junior person who deserved better than the rumor mill and the easy political answer—do them a favor: tell the truth about them. Back them when it costs you nothing, and especially when it might cost you something.

You never know where they’ll go, or who they’ll save, because you chose not to look away when it was easier to stay quiet.