The FOD Walk That Made Us Equals

by Jon Hogland

If you’ve ever lived near an airfield, you’ve probably seen them. A column of folks in coveralls, four or so feet apart from one another, moving in a slow walk down the flightline, eyes to the ground. This is a ritual that occurs at least once a day. If ever there was something sacred on the flightline, it was this.

FOD, or foreign object debris, can be any stray fastener, bolt, tool, or screw left behind by the legion of machines or maintainers that get dragged across the flightline throughout the day. This debris can potentially be sucked down by the vortex of a taxiing aircraft’s engine intake—and if it is, that bird ain’t flying for a hot minute. The damage is absolutely catastrophic, and it’s not unheard of for FOD to cause upwards of millions of dollars in damage. The FOD walk aims to prevent this.

Out of the hundreds of FOD walks I participated in, one lives in my mind rent-free.

It was sometime in December; mornings in Okinawa were cold and dark. The darkness hid the weather, so not many of us expected rain, and very few of us had any of our rain gear on.

The call on the radio went out, “Gather up for FOD walk,” and we all moseyed to the end of the line and waited. TSgt Horner was our expediter for the day—and as soon as he found his place in the center of our column, the rain started.

You could hear the collective groan. Impatient to be out of the freezing downpour, we nearly took off at a run when Sergeant Horner gave the call to start. Those of us toward the center of the column would pass below these concrete awnings, thus shielding us from the rain. They were lucky. The least fortunate among us were at the far edges of the column—not once could they sneak under the barrier to keep out of the rain.

When the rain began, some of the airmen ran to the middle in hopes of avoiding misery. Others, and these were the good ones, quietly resigned themselves to being wet and cold, “embracing the suck,” as we frequently joked. Shout-outs to Kale, Baez-Hernandez, Luster, and others. These are the names of some of the most excellent people I had the pleasure of working with.

I was at a kind of midpoint between the two, right at the edge of the awnings. I didn’t take this position out of virtue; I just didn’t have the fight in me to elbow out those who so badly wanted to stay dry.

Sometimes, though, I’d manage a break from the rain if the wind blew just the right way, but even then, by the midpoint of our walk, I was soaked. The airmen in the center of the column, and TSgt Horner, were downright dry in comparison.

Every five or so “spots,” a wall between the awnings would force the center of our column out into the rain. Still trying to keep as dry as they could manage, the airmen would hug the walls and sprint back under cover. TSgt Horner, in a show of sympathetic camaraderie, moved out from the center of the column and into the rain with the rest of us.

Our FOD-walk route ran beneath a line of concrete awnings for most of the way, but it ended past the last one in open ground. The finish point sat well beyond any cover. When we approached this point, another groan went up from the airmen who had managed to stay dry. Those of us in the rain had given up any hope of relief; we kept marching forward while those in the center hesitated under the final awning. TSgt Horner took note of this.

Eventually, we all came to a stop at the end of the line, each of us now in the rain. Each of us expected TSgt Horner to call an end to the FOD walk, freeing us to duck and cover away from the storm. Those who had yet to be soaked to the bone were especially impatient.

But our expediter had something else in mind.

When we arrived at the end of the line, instead of a quick dismissal, TSgt Horner held us there, in the rain. Those of us who were already soaked were far past minding it. Those who had been giving all their effort to stay dry, meanwhile, began to suffer like the rest of us had.

He held us there for half an eternity. I remember him looking back and forth down our column, gauging us in how waterlogged we were. When those who had been in the center of the column were sufficiently soaked, after five minutes or so, he called a dismissal. Those who thought they’d stay dry complained; those of us who were already soaked loved it.

It was a lesson: when it rained on one of us, it rained on all of us.

I think so often of this lesson that I finally had to write about it. And now, at the risk of preaching, I’ll summarize my takeaway: when it rains on one of us, it rains on all of us, eventually. You can try to avoid it, you might hope to eke out a few more moments of comfort—maybe even at the cost of your fellows; still, and inevitably, it will find you.

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Jon is a licensed funeral director, aircraft mechanic, and Air Force veteran. A lover of all things strange and horrific, Jon currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with his wife and daughter, dreaming of weirdness in this universe and beyond it.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.