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This article appeared in the July 1991 issue of Code One Magazine.
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Editor's note: Capt. Hunnell of the 347th Tactical Fighter Wing (pictured with his son Wesley) went on to fly thirty-three combat missions, most at night, after the one he describes in his letter. "I was so charged when I wrote the letter that the first draft was twelve pages long and illegible," said Hunnell. He sent the letter to St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Houston, Texas - his hometown. "They had sent me a little prayer book and a medallion," said Hunnell. "I just wanted to thank them and to share an experience."
 There are three prayers that I find I say the most.
The first is a simple prayer: "Lord, grant me a goodly entrance and a goodly exit, and sustain me with your power." A well-balanced, proportional prayer, ideally suited to the mission of a fighter pilot or to any of life's tasks. I learned this prayer just a few weeks ago. Ironically, it came to the Prophet Mohammed from the Archangel Gabriel and is recorded in the Koran. It is amazing there can be so much hate between all the people who worship the God of Abraham, Noah, Lot, and Moses.
The second is the "Pilot's Prayer": "Oh God, don't let me screw up!" Not quite as eloquent as the first, but this one comes from the soul. As a group, American pilots are extremely well trained. We enjoy a tremendous confidence in that training. Every time I fly, I have another F-16 pilot in his jet, flying as my wingman. We depend on each other for mutual support. Mistakes in the air, in combat, can become lethal so quickly. So a prayer for no mistakes is a prayer for success.
The final prayer, and the most eloquent of the three, I have said each time I strap on my jet. This prayer is attributed to Sir Jacob Astley of England before he led his troops into battle in 1642: "Oh Lord! Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me."
My second combat mission was a true test. I saw the prayers of St. Martin's parishioners, my family's prayers, and my prayers answered on that flight.
I was part of a fairly large strike against some factories in the greater Baghdad area. CNN would later report that "the damage was so extensive we know that it was B-52s." I guess I'll take that as a compliment.
When I was some fifty miles out from the target, the first bombs of our strike began to hit. Unfortunately, this gave the Iraqis notice that they should be shooting at us. My radar-warning receiver immediately began beeping and squeaking; the enemy radars were searching for us. We accelerated to ten miles per minute by selecting afterburner. My fuel consumption doubled. Flak started bursting in the skies ahead, just like in the movies, only silently. There are no "combat sounds" or explosions in a fighter jet; just the sounds of your radio, radar-warning receiver, and the low roar of your engine.
We started a weaving ballet of maneuvers designed to make it more difficult to track or shoot us. Suddenly, the intensity picked up. Two missiles were being launched at us. They streaked in front of us to explode in two dirty-brown fireballs--both misses. An F-16 called to report that he was "engaged defensively with a missile." Another missile launch was called, then another blared over the radio. Suddenly the words "Magnum, Magnum" were heard. A friendly aircraft had launched a missile against those sites shooting at us. Magnum, Magnum - such sweet words - I think I will name my next child Magnum.
We continued to scream in upon our targets, raining our bombs, dropping chaff, weaving to the left, launching missiles, weaving to the right, dodging flak and missiles. The threat calls started coming so fast I couldn't keep track of all the missile launches.
My turn came to roll in. I pointed my nose to the ground at over 500 knots. God, tell those below on the ground to duck. Suddenly, my aircraft shuddered, sending a shot of adrenaline through me. Then I realized, no, I had not been hit; it was just the bombs leaving the aircraft. "Oh God, don't let me screw up." As I climbed off the target, I checked my fuel - I had just enough to make it home, not enough for afterburner. My chaff - I never checked it before in flight - I noticed it was gone, all used up. My two best defenses against missiles - chaff and speed - were gone. "Oh Lord! Grant me a goodly exit!"
As I zoomed back to altitude, I began to hear the radio again - I was concentrating too intently on releasing the bombs. I found my wingman, and we turned toward home. But before I could get halfway into the turn, my radar-warning receiver screamed at me, an ear-splitting sound. The electronic hand of a missile had grabbed me and locked onto my jet. I broke hard left in a six-g turn, selecting afterburner. I thought, "I don't have enough gas for this. I can't see a missile. I can't find it!"
Over the warning receiver came three loud beeps. A missile was being launched at me. I double-checked - I was in full afterburner; my fuel flow was four times what I could afford. That last turn cost me 150 knots of airspeed. Another six-g pull. Another 150 knots of speed was gone. The warning receiver went silent - the missile was going to miss. "If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me." I rolled out and accelerated from the virtual standstill I had put myself in, back to a good safe maneuvering speed and canceled afterburner.
The leader of this strike called for everyone to check in. I held my breath--which friends would not be coming home? Slowly, surely everyone counted off--all okay--not even a scratch. We called ahead for tankers and to advise "the world" (i.e., friendly defenses) that we would be coming back higher and slower than planned to save on gas. It looked like a World War II movie with all the contrails streaming home - Jimmy Stewart would have loved it.
That's when the fear set in. When it was all happening, I'd been too busy for it. I still shudder remembering this scene. I never want my children to know this much fear. The bravest thing I ever did was to get back in a jet the next day.
We learned our lesson from this mission. We changed our tactics and have never been threatened like that again.
So, should we be here? Yes, as long as certain inalienable rights are the endowment of all people, not just Americans; then the answer is self-evident.
Please continue praying for me and my comrades. Your prayers are indeed working. Along with your prayers for peace, offer a prayer for the Iraqis; they are indeed suffering.
I never thought it difficult to "remember the Sabbath and keep it holy." However, working round the clock, seven days a week, it is easy to lose track of time. I work when I must, sleep when I have to, and eat when I can, regardless of the time. I didn't even know it was Sunday during the first weekend of the war until sunset. The entire day had passed. "Oh Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me!"
P.S.: Please share this letter with my parents. After all, a son can never write his mother too much.
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