God Told Me I Wouldn’t Die

Colonel Keith Gentile is a tough guy. A former U-2 pilot, TACP ground controller, and combat veteran of Iraq as a commander of MNF-I, he was known by his nickname, “Spike.” He had retired from the Air Force and was working for a high-tech defense contractor. And in the middle of a big death by PowerPoint meeting at the Pentagon, he lost control of his emotions and started crying, causing the general running the meeting to cut it short and end it.

What caused a tough retired officer and combat veteran to lose his composure? It was the memory of a man whose greatness had so deeply touched his life that when the recollection of him came up a decade after his loss, it overcame that stiff Pentagon moment. Everyone who knew him is still emotional about his loss 21 years after he left this earth. Not just this man’s family and friends, but grizzled Special Forces veterans with multiple GWOT combat deployments all lose their composure when they speak of this man who was their dear friend and their brother-in-arms. They are all humbled by the greatness of one of the most unique and special human beings to ever walk on this planet. Dennis Patrick Hay.

I first heard about Dennis Hay years ago when I became friends with one of his fellow Air Force TACP airmen who had served with him in the mid-1990s. Over time, my friend kept telling me how great Dennis was and how much he had mentored my friend as he began his special operations career. I had resolved to write about the life of Dennis Hay, and what started as a conversation with my friend over lunch this summer has become a journey of discovery about a man whose distinction shines brightly over all of the people whose lives he touched in just 32 years.

His mom, Patty Ashcraft, told me, “He was a gift from God.” He truly was. What follows is a remarkable story of an American hero’s achievement, servant leadership, courage, wickedly good humor, adventure, and love.

Dennis Patrick Hay was born on Nov. 9, 1972, the second son of Patty and Barry Hay, a career U.S. Navy submariner. Growing up in a military family, Dennis was an unusual and precocious child from an early age. Extremely outgoing and friendly, he established himself as a loyal and kind youngster at age 5.

Barry Hay had been stationed at the submarine base in Groton, Connecticut, and was PCSing to the Cold War base in Glasgow, Scotland. The Hay family were flying overseas from Newark, New Jersey, and were walking down the crowded airport corridor to the jetway. Suddenly Dennis shouted, “There’s my friend!” and took off running full speed down the corridor.

It was a moment of panic for his mom and dad, who didn’t understand why he was running away. His father took off after him, and after a frantic search through the crowds, he caught up with his small son. Dennis proudly announced to his dad, “Here’s my friend, Derrick!”

It turned out that Dennis’ kindergarten friend in the civilian elementary school was with a family who coincidentally were also PCSing to Scotland and outbound on the same flight as the Hays. The two fathers were stationed on separate ships and didn’t know each other or that their sons were classmates at school. Because of that moment at the airport, Dennis connected the two families, who became supportive friends in Scotland and throughout their Navy careers. Dennis Hay was a friend to everyone he met.

At age 10, Dennis Hay began what became a lifelong quest as an adrenaline junkie, and as an adult he was the ultimate big kid. He began to race motocross motorcycles and showed a tenacity and panache that followed him in every endeavor he attempted. At age 15, he switched to road bicycle racing and, as a junior, had great success not only in winning races, but also in supporting his two teammates. Between the three young bicycle racers, Dennis and his friends would determine who was going to win the race that day and support each other to make it happen on the race course.

At one point during his Air Force career, he and one of his TACP partners careened downhill on their mountain bikes at upward of 60 mph. While Dennis was in the Air Force at Moody Air Force Base, he did civilian parachute jumping, which cost him a horrifically broken leg. Dennis’ lower right leg was dragged across a tree branch, which caused a massive spiral fracture of both his tibia and fibula and also shattered his right ankle.

At the time, Dennis knew that if his injuries were surgically repaired with a metal plate, it would end his special operations career. So he opted for an external fixator to set his broken bones. The bones weren’t healing well, and Dennis’ leg and career were ultimately saved by a civilian doctor who performed surgery using a piece of his hip bone to anchor the broken tibia.

But even a broken right leg and an inability to drive didn’t stop Dennis’ love for speed and adventure. Confined to a wheelchair, Dennis and one of his Air Force buddies built a wooden ramp, which Dennis proceeded to jump the wheelchair off like he was still racing motocross. His wheelchair jumps broke two hospital wheelchairs. Dennis shrugged and told the staff, “Well, they don’t seem to go well on gravel!” Then he told his buddies, “No, we were jumping them!” Ultimately, the staff got Dennis a high-speed off-road wheelchair.

Years later, while Dennis was on his first deployment to Iraq, he and his Army buddies grew bored while hanging around Baghdad Airport with nothing to do. So they explored the airport and terminals looking for trinkets and discovered an abandoned Iraqi Airways Boeing 747 sitting empty and without engines. Dennis and his crew figured out how to climb up to the flight deck and explored the cabin looking for treasures.

Suddenly Dennis had an idea: The 747 is equipped with a flight crew escape hatch and descent lines to get to the ground. “What if we rappelled out of the escape hatch?” Dennis, his close friend John “Doc” Hofstetter, and another Army friend decided to do it. They tested one of the five inertia-reel descent devices by taking it out of the flight deck storage compartment and running down the passenger aisle with the line under tension.

The line seemed to function well, and the guys decided to exit the aircraft. Of course, before going out of the flight deck, they had a “What the hell are we doing?!” moment, which was followed by an exit out of the 747 crew escape hatch a full 30 feet above the tarmac. In front of an audience of fellow Army troopers, the three men successfully escaped the 747 and descended to the ground. Dennis Hay’s love for being an adrenaline junkie led to his service as an Air Force pararescueman and then as an Army warrant officer and helicopter pilot.

After graduating from high school, Dennis Hay worked as a landscaper and hotel doorman in Georgia, and then at age 21 he was off to join the Air Force. It was an emotional moment for the Hay family to drop their son off as he headed to basic training. Immediately, Dennis established himself as a top airman both physically and for his martial skills.

In 1995, he achieved qualification as an ETAC, an enlisted terminal attack controller serving within a Tactical Air Control Party, or TACP. Dennis was at the top of his class at every stage of his development, and his defining characteristics were his intense drive to succeed, his work ethic, and his competitive leadership. Dennis had to be at the top of everything he did, but it was never at the expense of his peers. Rather, he led the way with his hand out to assist his fellow service members in achieving what he did.

While on TDY in Germany, Dennis met up with Keith Gentile, who went out for a morning run with him. Dennis ran so hard it ultimately led to Keith stopping to puke up breakfast. It was a proud moment for Dennis, who announced to all upon his return, “I made the major puke!” Keith pointed out that Dennis’ announcement wasn’t malicious; rather, he was proud of how hard he had worked during his run.

Dennis Hay devoted precious time to mentoring his peers everywhere he went. One of his fellow airmen told me that Dennis helped him succeed as a TACP airman because he mentored him through both Ranger School and Airman Leadership School. Dennis’ mentorship led to his fellow airman becoming one of the first on the ground in Afghanistan and later directing air support during the rescue of Jessica Lynch.

Later, as a pararescueman, Dennis met up with Keith Gentile at Fort Bragg and, during a weekend at the rappel tower, taught Keith all the knots and rigging techniques he had learned as a PJ.

Dennis Hay’s grit and work ethic were unmatched by anyone in the military. As an airman, he took nearly a year to graduate from the Army’s Ranger School, first getting medically rolled from the pre-Ranger course due to severe dehydration during the final 15-mile ruck and then recycled during mountain phase. He never quit, finally graduating in June 1996.

When he was stationed at Pope Air Base, he and a fellow airman took a Saturday to go to the nearby Fort Bragg public pool. But it wasn’t for relaxation. Rather, he and his fellow airman spent time submerged for two minutes at a time working on tying knots underwater. It was quite the scene: In the middle of a crowd of families and kids having fun in the water were two guys in dive masks and snorkels working underwater with ropes.

When the lifeguards questioned them as to what they were doing, they said, “It’s okay! If one of us passes out, we have medical training and can revive our buddy!” Needless to say, the lifeguards weren’t amused. Their knot session was ended by an approaching thunderstorm, and the two airmen ran home in a blinding rainstorm in swim shorts, rucks, and swim masks and snorkels. What a sight.

When Dennis was recovering from a broken leg, he used his wife Rebecca’s girl’s bicycle to get to classes at Airman Leadership School. Before serving as a TACP airman, Dennis initially was a candidate to become a pararescueman. He washed out because his hip flexor muscles failed and he couldn’t flutter kick in the water.

Determined to make it, Dennis worked on his own while serving as a TACP airman to strengthen his hip flexors until they became superhumanly strong. Then he returned to the pararescueman pipeline equipped to be at the top of his class. He couldn’t be kept down, and he found a way to be successful at everything he did in his life.

Dennis served with distinction as a TACP airman in the 17th Air Support Operations Squadron, now known as the 17th STS, which is the unit assigned to the 1st Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield. This unit is responsible for working with the Rangers in the field to direct close air support for ground operations, and the individual airmen work and train with their Army counterparts.

In 1995, Dennis Hay was the youngest TACP airman in his unit. His commander, Keith Gentile, described him as tactically proficient, operationally savvy, and analytical in his approach to his tasks. He was intelligent and humble and made suggestions at the right time and place.

During his time at the 17th ASOS, Dennis deployed multiple times with the 1st Ranger Battalion and earned his German Jump Wings with a jump into a German training area. At Airman Leadership School, Dennis earned the highest award. He was persistent and focused on mastering his tasks, always competing to make himself and his peers better. These traits followed Dennis throughout his time in the military and his home life as well.

Dennis Hay’s time as a TACP airman had run its course, so he was off to the next challenge in his life: returning to the qualifying course to become an Air Force pararescueman, a PJ. Dennis had already been through many of the prerequisite courses to graduate as a PJ, including HALO parachute school, also known as Military Free Fall, along with Survival School and Navy Dive School.

So he quickly went through the process to earn his status as a pararescueman, which rubbed some of his peers the wrong way. Undeterred, Dennis excelled at his training, which included full certification as a civilian emergency medical technician.

When his medical training was completed in 1998, the Air Force sent Dennis to Moody Air Force Base, Georgia, which was known as the black hole of the Air Force because nothing happens there. Not too long after his arrival, that changed.

A ship was disabled by rough seas in the Caribbean, and its captain sustained a serious head injury from being slammed. A helicopter was dispatched to provide aid and rescue the crew, and Dennis was the PJ assigned to the mission. In rough seas and high winds, Airman Dennis Hay rappelled down to the ship deck, provided lifesaving first aid to the captain, and evacuated him to the helicopter above. He aided the other crew members in successfully evacuating the ship and getting back to dry land.

So within the first six months of Dennis’ service as a PJ, he completed a mission that most PJs wouldn’t see in an entire 20-year Air Force career. It was during his time riding in Air Force helicopters as a PJ that Dennis Hay grew to love helicopters, and he began to think about yet another career change.

In early 2001, Dennis Hay arrived home from his job and announced to his wife Rebecca, “I’m resigning from the Air Force and I’m going to join the Army!” He had worked everything out so that when his term of enlistment in the Air Force ended, he’d leave the Air Force and enlist in the Army as a warrant officer candidate with a flight school contract, timing it just right to avoid any career gaps in military service.

Dennis knew that the Air Force wouldn’t take him for flight school because he had no college and wasn’t an officer, but he could join the Army and become a warrant officer. So Dennis took the ASVAB for flight school, and like everything else in his life, he hit it out of the park.

In June 2001, Dennis left the Air Force and became a candidate at the Army Warrant Officer School in Daleville, Alabama. Leaving the world of Air Force Special Operations after eight years of service was a large drop in pay, which was a sacrifice for his wife and their young son.

On Sept. 11, 2001, as Dennis Hay worked his way through Warrant Officer School, the world was forever changed by events in New York, the Pentagon, and Shanksville. The world of Army aviation Dennis was headed to was about to take a serious turn toward continuous combat operations lasting the better part of two decades.

Dennis finished his warrant officer course at the top of his class and headed off to Aviation School at Fort Rucker, Alabama, to learn how to fly helicopters. Dennis graduated at the top of his flight class and was assigned to the 4th Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, at Fort Carson, Colorado. Right away, Dennis made himself a valuable part of the community, helping one of his neighbors who was also new to the base move into his house.

Humor was always a part of Dennis Hay’s personality, and during his time he pulled off some of the most hilarious practical jokes ever. In the mid-1990s, the Air Force Special Operations community was a relatively new field, so it was, as one airman described it, a loosey-goosey world populated by hooligans. “We were fortunate not to end up dead or in jail.”

Dennis had been married just two weeks when he and his partner shipped off to the NTC at Fort Irwin, California, for a field training exercise. While out in the desert, Dennis and his teammate came upon a large porta-potty that someone had installed for the ground troops to use. They called in an airstrike and blew up the porta-potty, totally destroying it with a 500-pound bomb. Thirty years later, Dennis’ battle buddy who described what happened is still laughing about it.

Almost a decade later, Dennis’ Army unit was stationed at Al Asad, Iraq, at a former Iraqi army barracks that had been abandoned by its unit during the initial invasion in April 2003. Not to miss any fun, Dennis rigged the porta-potty sanitary wipes dispenser with a smoke grenade, which let out a huge puff of purple smoke when the next user went to pull one out.

It wasn’t long before one of the troops using the porta-potty triggered the wet-wipe dispenser, sending out a purple smoke cloud that made him run out with his pants down around his ankles, much to the delight of all the observers.

Dennis was a part of many other shenanigans at Al Asad, including launching water balloons long distances at troops using giant slingshots made from plastic funnels and rubber surgical tubing.

But the coup de grâce came in March 2004 as the 3rd ACR was preparing to end its deployment at Al Asad. The incoming Marine unit had stolen the 3rd ACR’s guidon, and Dennis plotted revenge. The base barracks built by the Iraqis had swamp cooler units on the roof to air-condition the building. Swamp coolers are primitive air conditioners and work by using a fan to blow air across a cooling shower of water and into the building interior.

The night before departure, Dennis booby-trapped the swamp cooler, rigging it so that when the next user went to turn it on, it would set off smoke bombs that the fans would send into the building.

Years later, at a Pentagon meeting, Dennis’ squadron commander ran into a Marine officer. They had both been at the Al Asad base, and the Marine officer told a story of how, after arriving at the facility in 2004, someone turned on the swamp cooler, which let out a huge cloud of red smoke that spread into the barracks and got into everything: equipment, clothing, and bedding. The Marines had to get rid of the contaminated clothes and bedding because they couldn’t get the red smoke out of them.

Even after his death, Dennis was still messing with people. Dennis’ friend and partner, Doc Hofstetter, who participated in some of the Al Asad pranks, appeared in a platoon unit picture in which Dennis had a wry smile, making rabbit ears behind his buddy. He always had fun wherever he went and pulled off his hijinks with plausible deniability.

Dennis Hay was one of those unusual human beings who can easily use both brain hemispheres. As a service member, he was extremely logical, but also had tremendous talent as an artist and a vocalist. His Air Force commander, Keith Gentile, still has drawings that Dennis did while working as a TACP airman.

When his son was born in 2000, Dennis painted the ceiling of his infant son’s bedroom as a blue sky with clouds and made little paratroopers with parachutes to hang down from the ceiling. He was a devoted husband and father to his wife Rebecca and to his two children. A deeply Christian man and a strong believer, Dennis avoided using the bad language so common in military circles.

Dennis Hay completed flight school and joined the 4th Squadron, 3rd ACR, in the fall of 2002. In early 2003, the unit rolled over the line of demarcation and flew into Iraq. Dennis still needed flight hours on the OH-58D Kiowa to be fully certified to fly missions and could have remained at Fort Carson to complete his required hours. Instead, he chose to deploy to support his fellow unit members in whatever way he could until he could get into the air.

Dennis rode on patrol missions with 3rd ACR ground troops to better understand what they were facing. He was not afraid to mix it up, which gave him a great deal of respect from the “ground pounders.” Dennis said, “I want to see what they go through.”

Dennis’ experience as an airman came to help his 3rd ACR troop, known as Pegasus, in a way that benefited his unit greatly. In 2003, it was a one-of-a-kind unit, the size of a larger brigade, and, with 60 aircraft, by far the largest Army aviation unit in the Iraq theater. It had three gun troops, two scout troops of OH-58 Kiowas, an attack helicopter troop, and a platoon of CH-47 Chinooks assigned to it from the National Guard.

When Army aviators were downed during combat operations, it was normally the responsibility of the Air Force to conduct search-and-rescue missions. But the Air Force was so overloaded that the task was kicked back to the Army.

Unit commander Colonel Robert Doughit, “RD,” recognized that this capability had to be developed rapidly before deployment. RD turned to Dennis Hay, with his experience as both a pararescueman and an EMT, along with unit physician assistant John “Doc” Hofstetter, who had come to the unit as an 18D Green Beret Special Forces medic.

RD said to John, “We’re gonna figure out how to do this!”

Dennis and John combined their expertise at just the right time and place to create the Immediate Aircrew Recovery capability for the air unit. They developed the TTPs and collected the equipment necessary for items such as a “kick bag” loaded with supplies needed by a downed airman that could be sent out of a helicopter to the ground.

Then they developed a pool of troops and trained them to fill the mission requirements. They worked with the 571st Medical Company’s Black Hawk helicopters to set up recovery missions for any downed airmen. The standard for deployment was to be ready and off the ground within 10 minutes of notification of a downed airman.

They set up procedures for a rescue, and Dennis’ previous communications experience as a TACP was invaluable. He was the epitome of a quiet professional. The two men were the perfect combination and were there at the right time and place.

RD said, “He made us better! … Dennis was a rock star: Dependable, calm under pressure, a fast learner and a willing contributor.”

He was always calm, never flashy, and his experience established his credibility with the ground soldiers. He was an integral part of being able to establish the unit’s rescue capability. RD said that you can’t overstate the difference Dennis’ deep experience added to the recovery team.

Known as DART, the Downed Aircrew Recovery Team remained operational during the unit’s first deployment and beyond. During the 2003-04 deployment, the team was successfully employed to recover a downed pilot in the unit’s area of operation.

During the summer of 2003, Dennis began to run missions on the OH-58D helicopter. Even as a young pilot, he knew tactics and understood warfare. The two Kiowa crew members sat side by side, and the right-seater had the controls as the pilot. The left-seater copilot carried an M4 carbine, and Dennis started his deployment as the copilot.

During one mission, his pilot wanted to change places and be able to fire the M4, so Dennis became the right-seater for the mission. While chasing some bad guys at night, Dennis’ partner had a gun malfunction. He turned to Dennis and said, “Can you fix this? Let me take the flight controls!”

He gave the M4 to Dennis, whose nickname was “Shooter” because of his accuracy with the M4. Dennis proceeded to clear the jam and return the firearm ready to use in a flash. Dennis handled himself extremely well in the stress of combat missions on the Kiowa.

On Feb. 25, 2004, one of the unit Kiowas struck high-tension power lines running across the Euphrates River near the town of Haditha. Dennis, with his PJ experience, landed his Kiowa on the riverbank and assisted the Navy SEALs in the recovery of the bodies of two downed airmen, CW2 Matt Laskowski and CW2 Stephen Wells.

Back at Fort Carson between deployments in 2004, Dennis Hay continued to learn more about flying helicopters. His crewmate said, “He was such a good learner; he was [always] willing to learn. And he just gobbled things up.”

Dennis’ skills as a pilot were so great that he was selected to join the most elite helicopter unit in the Army and the world, the Night Stalkers of the 160th SOAR. He qualified to fly the AH-6J gunship version of the 160th’s Little Bird helicopter. The Night Stalkers told Dennis he needed to accrue more flight time before joining the unit, so after 10 months he went off to his second Iraq deployment with the 3rd ACR.

Once again, Dennis could have avoided deployment in late 2004. But he chose to go, in part because a number of his teammates left to fly for other units, and Dennis wanted to rebuild his squad so it would be an effective force in Iraq.

Before departing for Iraq, Dennis told his mom, “God told me I wouldn’t die.” She didn’t know why he said that.

During July 2005, under the command of then-Colonel H.R. McMaster, the 3rd ACR aggressively went after the enemy, first in the Baghdad area and then moving into the western city of Tal Afar. Operating out of Camp Stryker, the 3rd ACR regularly engaged in heavy combat operations on the ground.

The Kiowas operated in tandem either with an AH-64 Apache or with another Kiowa. Dennis’ wingman, Kevin Stacy, said that during that time the neighborhoods in the city were sharply divided by street, almost like during the gang wars in Los Angeles. They’d fly over one neighborhood and the people on the ground smiled and waved, and then right next door they’d be getting shot at by RPGs and small-arms fire. Kevin said, “It was a gnarly place to fight!”

As a proud dad, Dennis had a big picture of his infant daughter above his barracks cot, and he found a way to show the Iraqi children kindness from the air. Dennis would fly over western Iraqi villages where the kids would come out and wave at the airmen. His church sent loads of handmade stuffed dolls for the kids, so he bagged up the dolls and airdropped them and candy to the children below.

In Tal Afar, the situation grew hot, and the city was just one event from blowing up. On the ground, the al-Qaida terrorists were causing a lot of trouble, killing anyone who might make life better for the city residents. Often they’d kill someone, booby-trap the body with an IED, and leave it on the street, knowing that it would kill the responders who came to bury the dead.

The enemy effort to bring down an American helicopter was so intense that Colonel McMaster kept the aircrews from flying over the main parts of Tal Afar to avoid problems.

On Aug. 29, 2005, that changed. A 3rd ACR trooper was wounded during an intense firefight and was lying in the middle of the street. Enemy fire pinned down the other troopers so they couldn’t get to their wounded brother. Dennis and Kevin Stacy, his Kiowa wingman, responded to assist the troops in contact.

They planned a low, fast, west-to-east flyover, shooting their M4s to distract the enemy and allow the ground troops time to recover their fellow soldier. However, they didn’t realize that between them and their fellow Americans, another enemy squad had laid an ambush hidden in a desert wadi outside Tal Afar. The ambushers were looking to drag a dead airman through the streets like Black Hawk Down.

When they flew over the wadi, the small-arms fire aimed at them was so intense it sounded like a popcorn machine. Then everything went wrong.

Kevin Stacy’s Kiowa was badly shot up, and suddenly he heard Dennis Hay’s copilot, Gabriel Torney, call out, “We need to land!” It took a few moments for Kevin to realize that Dennis’ Kiowa was in trouble. The damaged aircraft lurched with its nose almost straight up in the air and began to autorotate.

Despite being badly shot in the legs, copilot Gabriel Torney was able to regain control of the Kiowa and miraculously get it back on the ground near a friendly Iraqi forward base. Kevin landed his Kiowa near Dennis and Gabriel to provide cover, and then Kevin’s copilot, Bill McKenna, who had medical training, ran over to render aid.

Soon a squad of SEALs arrived in a Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle to secure the ground perimeter, and a medical evacuation team in a Black Hawk helicopter bravely flew through heavy enemy ground fire to evacuate the wounded airmen.

After darkness fell, Kevin was able to fly his Kiowa back to their base at Camp Stryker, and when he arrived, one of the CSH doctors came up to his helicopter and gave him the devastating news that Dennis Hay’s wounds were fatal.

Dennis Hay’s nature as a protector stayed with him until the very end of his life. He had altered the cyclic, the main flight control stick, to make it more difficult to move. It made for more physical work by the flight crew, but if one of them were wounded and disabled, it would also make the Kiowa more stable and easier to get back under control.

This is exactly what happened and allowed his copilot Gabriel Torney to land the helicopter on the ground, saving the aircraft and his own life. Years later, Kevin Stacy realized that when the two crews flew together, Dennis put himself at greater risk of enemy ground fire by flying behind Kevin’s aircraft.

At his memorial service, Kevin said, “Dennis always made me feel I was doing the right thing … His time and development with newer pilots and his willingness to spend time demonstrating and explaining things you cannot learn in books made us great.”

At the Pentagon meeting in 2015, Keith “Spike” Gentile was proposing that the military adopt an AI technology that would predict enemy movements and ground locations to provide aviation mission commanders with better information to avoid problem areas. Keith named the system DENNIS, or the Decision Enhanced Nodal Network Intelligence System.

It was a reference to his dive buddy at Dive School, his rigging mentor, his run partner who had run him into the ground in Germany, and his dear friend.

When Keith referred to Dennis Hay in the meeting, an Army lieutenant colonel sitting at the back of the room started smiling. A little shaken at the incongruity of the moment, Keith stopped the meeting and asked the officer, “Why are you smiling?!”

The officer replied, “Sir, I’m not smiling because it’s funny. I was there as a witness on the ground when Dennis Hay was shot down, and this system would absolutely have saved his life!”

It was a moment that broke Keith, and he just burst into tears at the thought of losing such a precious man and the possibility of being able to have saved him.

Everyone around Dennis Hay who served with him still feels survivor’s guilt. And everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they received word of his death.

Two services were held: the first at Fort Carson, and a later one at Arlington National Cemetery, where he was buried. Men who had served with Dennis came from all over the country to attend his memorial in Colorado, and his family was presented with numerous letters of praise. Dennis’ mom, Patty, said the number of people attending the Fort Carson service was overwhelming.

Twelve years: eight years in the Air Force and four years in the Army. In Dennis Hay’s brief 32 years on earth, he served in two of the most challenging special operations jobs in the military, graduating from its toughest schools, and probably the most difficult job in the Army as a helicopter aviator. He had been selected to join some of the best helicopter pilots in the world.

He made everyone around him a better professional and human being. He made them laugh and led through a unique brand of servant leadership. Dennis Hay was a devoted husband and father and a deeply Christian man. He served God and his fellow human beings with humility.

Dennis was a protector who stood up for others. He had talents as an athlete, artist, and singer. He overcame tremendous obstacles that would have broken most men. When faced with an unfamiliar task, Dennis became a precocious learner whose work ethic led him to learn and then master the challenge.

The world was a better place for his time here on earth and is poorer for his absence. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever replace who he was or what he meant to everyone who knew him. But hopefully we can follow the example Dennis set for us all. He was loved by all who knew him. As the author of this story, I love him too.

Debeo Semper Memoriam: We are morally bound to always remember.

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Stephen B. Lewis is a Connecticut educator and athletic coach with nearly 30 years of experience. He spent much of that time coaching high school and college football, and after seeing many former athletes join the military after September 11, 2001, and return changed, he became involved in veteran advocacy efforts, including the Comfort Walk and CT Run for the Fallen. For The Havok Journal, he writes about veteran advocacy, military matters, and related stories, reflecting a published body of work centered on veterans, service, and remembrance.

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.