I was born in 1940, the youngest of six children to Willy and Bernice Thomas. I grew up on a farm in a typical rural family: poor, hard-working, disciplined, but most importantly, in a loving and supportive environment. Attending school was a top priority for me, as was participating in sports. My father was a daily drinker, but he never missed a day's work. He was also highly respected in the community, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute I spent with him. I did well enough in high school in the first three years to meet the state requirements for a diploma, so I skipped my senior year and joined the Navy at 17. I started drinking in high school at 15 and quickly joined the drinking fraternity with my Navy buddies after Boot Camp.
Since my father drank most of his life, the DNA odds were sufficient enough to be a possible cause for my alcoholism. My older brother exhibited the same symptoms throughout his life as my father. But drinking more than socially acceptable amounts never occurred in my four sisters. If it could be speculated that my alcoholism had progressed in the same manner as it did with my father and brother, I may have continued my life as a functional alcoholic. Unfortunately, a significant existential difference separated me from them. As a result of a Navy plane crash, PTSD joined with my inherited alcoholism … and created a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
I was trained as an aircrewman in the Navy and assigned to a reconnaissance squadron based at Naval Air Station Barber's Point, Hawaii. By necessity, we flew our secret reconnaissance missions out of Midway Island and operated in the North Pacific off the coast of Russia. We had a crew of 22. At only 20 years old, I was the senior enlisted Petty Officer supervising a ten-member technical team. Our Team's job consisted of operating top-secret devices capable of detecting and intercepting all electronic radio and radar communications operated by our adversaries, primarily North Korea, North Vietnam, China, and Russia. Unfortunately, they considered us spies. Even though at the time it was called the “Cold War,” our specific presence in their waters was sufficient for them to shoot us down when possible. Due to the nature of our missions, the Navy accepted any plane losses as unavoidable and warranted no disclosure if we were shot down. So, when a plane was lost, it was reported as lost at sea, and there were no survivors.
On January 22, 1961, we had a mechanical problem on a mission and had to return to Midway. We were relieved to make it home. It was 1:30 am. Our plane had to make a low approach over the water to accommodate our need to use the entire runway. However, we were too low; our left main landing gear struck the seawall, severing the main landing gear of the 70-ton aircraft. The wing then struck the runway, and the wingtip fuel tank exploded. The plane continued careening down the runway on fire before hitting a standby firetruck, killing the three men operating it. The crash broke the aircraft into three separate sections. The forward section continued skidding forward; the center section rolled over twice before ending upside-down on the opposite side of the runway, and the back section slid on its side until it stopped. Eight of the forward crew managed to escape with one fatality. All seven crew members in the back section evacuated safely. In the center section, where I was stationed, there were six of us arranged in an irregular circle. I was the only survivor. The other five burned to death.
We had two flights remaining on our deployment, but we had to stand down until the Accident Investigation Board completed its work. Since we weren't scheduled for any flights, we didn’t have to follow the usual drinking restrictions. Naturally, we spent all our free time drinking and playing pinochle. After returning to Hawaii, I began experiencing nightmares. They were occurring frequently enough that I struggled to fall asleep. My pregnant wife became worried about my outbursts, but I insisted the crash reactions were normal and feared seeing a Navy doctor would threaten my reenlistment. I reenlisted anyway, entering advanced electronics school, but the nightmares and drinking worsened. A crash into a power pole led to a disciplinary reduction in rank. I discovered that drinking helped suppress the nightmares, beginning a pattern of heavy alcohol use that lasted 18 years.
After Millington, I was assigned to Quonset Point Naval Air Station in Rhode Island. Drinking dominated life there too. I supervised a shift of electronics technicians, and after work we often went to the Base Club, then local bars until 4:30 a.m.
Home life deteriorated, and during a moment of despair, I attempted suicide. I was taken to Newport Naval Hospital and spent eight weeks in the mental health ward. I had never told anyone about feeling responsible for my crew’s deaths — or the mysterious voice that guided me out of the burning aircraft. I believed no one would understand, and that I would be branded a coward. The guilt and nightmares persisted.
After six weeks I was briefly released for Thanksgiving, the same day President Kennedy was assassinated. Overwhelmed, I stopped at a bar while waiting for the ferry, blacked out, and woke up in Boston — 120 miles away — in a stranger’s apartment. He bought me a bus ticket back. Three weeks later, I was discharged as fit for duty and reassigned to Millington for more training. A few months into classes, I attempted suicide again, was hospitalized, then went AWOL and hid with a Navy buddy in Texas. My sister flew me to Phoenix, where I was admitted to Naval Hospitals in San Diego and Oakland. I received an Honorable Discharge for Aggravated Depression.
From 1964 to 1969, I drifted from town to town, unable to hold jobs and dragging my family with me. The deaths of my crew and a close friend killed in Vietnam consumed me. My drinking worsened, and I was emotionally unavailable to my family. My wife — my high school sweetheart — eventually left with our children and filed for divorce. I spent years homeless, drinking heavily. On June 20, 1979, I took my last drink. My probation officer gave me a choice: a 28-day detox program or a two-year prison sentence. I chose recovery.
The recovery program was held in an abandoned cabin-style motel called The Maverick House, run by local AA members. They used the Big Book and provided a place for drunks to sober up. On my third night there, lying in my bunk and feeling hopeless, I whispered, “God, please help me.” Instantly, the mental obsession to drink disappeared — a turning point I still cannot explain.
I came to accept alcoholism as a disease and embraced AA fully. Over time, relationships with my family healed. The VA had been my provider since 1970, but in 2014 a conversation with my primary care doctor about sleep issues led to a sleep study and, eventually, mental health treatment. Multiple psychologists and psychiatrists diagnosed Delayed PTSD — more than 50 years after the crash. Weekly sessions finally allowed me to confront the guilt and trauma that had driven my nightmares, drinking, and suicide attempts.
The most profound breakthrough came when I read the accident investigator’s conclusion: the crewmen in my section were killed instantly upon impact. There was nothing I could have done to save them. This revelation — along with the memory of a voice calling me by my first name, something no crewman would ever do — convinced me that something divine had guided me out of the burning aircraft.
Now, at age 85, with 46 years of sobriety and ten solid years free from the devastating effects of PTSD, I believe deeply in the need for a Continuity of Care program focused specifically on PTSD. AA gave me sobriety, but working directly on my PTSD allowed me to find true peace, forgiveness, and closure. Many in AA struggle with undiagnosed PTSD, and this program can help them combine professional care with the spiritual principles of the 12 steps — a combination I know from experience can save lives.
