By Ray Johnson Jr.

Bob Adams and I were two Chico High grads, a year apart, halfway around the world — crossing paths again just before one of us vanished, and the other began to understand how one life can echo through so many others.

Bob’s sister, Mandy, spoke softly during the opening of the Vietnam Traveling Wall ceremony. She remembered what it meant to lose her big brother at 11. And for the next 50 years, to face the grinding reality of what missing in action meant.

She was about two sentences into her opening remarks when my strength drained. I could hardly stand. As her story unfolded, I realized I hadn’t just heard it before; I’d lived it.

On 8 November 1967, Bob’s helicopter launched ahead of mine, but we caught up before crossing the Vietnamese border. They flew on the Laotian side, and we, the Cambodian. At 200 feet above the jungle, we searched for three 5th Special Forces members who were surrounded by hostiles and had called for an immediate extraction.

Less than a football field apart, Bob served as a crew chief aboard a Huey and faced my aircraft as we straddled the border heading west. As we crossed over the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Bob’s ship entered a shallow right turn over the team’s last known location. I followed and saw Bob’s movement as he stoop-stood and aimed his M60 toward the pop, pop, pop sound of AK-47s. A moment later, his Huey’s nose rose. They stopped and disappeared into the jungle.

Three crew members were rescued, but not Bob. We immediately joined the search, frantic to find him before dark. The next day, I crashed, was rescued, hospitalized, and the war moved on.

After her talk, I approached Mindy and she asked my name. I couldn’t speak. We hugged through tears. I mentioned my name, but her words still lingered. “Although we may never understand it, God always has a purpose for our lives.”

The last breakfast Bob and I shared wasn’t our first. We weathered mission briefings and C-Rats for days. My conviction was never to let my parents know my whereabouts. But when Bob and I met, I saw no harm in telling my parents I’d been laughing it up with a Chico kid.

The E-R carried the story that Bob was missing in action. Only then did mom and dad realize I was in the middle of the fight for Hill 875 and Dak To. The press was good at reporting all the gory details, not giving a rip as to how it was making the folks back home, my folks feel.

The morning after Bob crashed, dad picked up the Sacramento Bee and read that nine Hueys had gone down at Hill 875 and Dak To. Sick to his stomach, he walked back to the capital and picked up messages from his constituents. All the while he’s dying inside … one Chico pilot is a POW in Hanoi… now a second Chico flyer is MIA… now nine more pilots have been shot down …

“Where can I turn? I can’t stand any more of this,” dad told me later. On the capital floor, members debated their bills. Then dad received a note. “Urgent call. Return to office.”

His body numbed as he heard his footfalls on the stairs. It was his habit to always take the stairs. Blinded with a shattering heart, he walked into an empty office — his secretary had stepped to the ladies’ room.

“Call Warren Brusie Funeral Home immediately.”

His palms landed on the desk, puddles forming between them. He straightened and clutched his suit jacket tight enough to leave wrinkles. After staggering downstairs to the basement garage, he belted himself into his car and drove straight to Chico, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Johnny, my son, my son.” He called no one and arrived at a church mom had been encouraging him to attend with her.

The pastor listened to dad’s story. Together they prayed for my safety and dad’s newfound faith.

A week later, my letter arrived from the hospital. The Army was sending me home in time for Christmas, and the Brusie call—a dear friend had passed.

That’s my story, and as Mandy said in her closing remarks, “Although we may never understand it, God always has a purpose for our lives.” Spend it well.

You can reach Ray Johnson at rayj@rayjohnsonjr.com