Welcome to the Civil Air Patrol America 250 series, in which we profile members whose idea of a quiet retirement involves more radios, cadets, and emergency management than most people encounter in a lifetime. Fifth installment: Maj. Gary Lewis of the Missouri Wing, a man who treats near-death experiences like minor scheduling conflicts.
June 10, 1969, remains seared into Lewis’s memory with the same intensity as the shrapnel that tried to redecorate his insides during a North Vietnamese rocket barrage in Quang Tri province. “That day changed my life,” the Purple Heart recipient observed, which is the sort of understatement one expects from someone who has spent decades proving that “almost dead” is just another Tuesday.
His entire biography is a greatest-hits compilation of dedicated service mixed with what he calls Divine Providence, a force that apparently has a soft spot for ham radio operators who keep volunteering for the next dangerous assignment.
Beginnings: Fleeing St. Louis One Enlistment at a Time
In 1962 a 16-year-old Gary Lewis wanted out of St. Louis with the urgency of someone whose home life had already filed for divorce. The Cuban Missile Crisis provided the perfect excuse to supercharge his escape plan, except the Marines still required him to wait a year. He enlisted anyway.
At 13 he had already become a licensed ham radio operator, because talking to strangers across the ether was the 1960s equivalent of an exciting night out. He pictured himself as a radio operator on transport aircraft. The Navy had other ideas. High scores on mechanics and electronics tests plus “good diction” earned him an assignment as an air traffic controller. “I had no idea what that was,” Lewis recalled. That accidental career lasted more than three decades, interrupted only by a small conflict in Southeast Asia.
Vietnam: When the War Movies End and the Rockets Begin
Lewis started in a Marine Air Traffic Control Unit keeping planes from colliding over Quang Tri, Dong Ha, and Khe Sanh. He helpfully notes that the Americans succeeded where the French had failed at Dien Bien Phu because they possessed Ground Control Approach radar and therefore could actually resupply their own people. Take that, 1954.
In February 1969 he volunteered to become a helicopter gunner. More than 300 missions followed, hauling supplies, troops, and casualties because driving was considered impolite. “It was a way to give back,” he said, as if getting shot at constituted community service. Full-time medevac came next, along with the timeless military insight: “When the enemy is in range, so are you.”
The first mission was uneventful. The second introduced him to the concept that other human beings actively wanted him dead. He got scared. Subsequent flights included being shot down and running out of fuel, because variety is the spice of combat. Then came the night of June 10.
It was hot, sticky, and filled with incoming rockets. Sleep in the hooch was optional. A rocket detonated 35 feet away. Lewis, who had accepted Christ at a 1963 tent revival, waited for the tunnel of light or at least a cameo from Jesus. Nothing. The first sense to return was hearing, specifically the screams of his friend Jim Miller five feet away. Miller survived a year of hospitals. Lewis survived, returned to duty, and continued holding dying soldiers. Commanders kept selecting him for medevac runs because, they explained, he was “so lucky.” Lucky Gary: the man rockets could never quite finish.
After the War: Because Sitting Still Is Apparently Illegal
Lewis left active duty as a chief warrant officer, joined the Marine Corps Reserves, and has now spent 16 years in Civil Air Patrol. He also serves as emergency management director for Kimberling City and assistant director for Stone County. He helped resurrect the Table Rock Lake Composite Squadron, which now boasts 60 cadets. He is the Missouri Wing’s assistant director of communications plus the squadron’s search-and-rescue officer and commander’s advisor.
Lt. Col. Raun Hamilton describes him as dependable, humble, faithful, and possessed of a servant’s heart, which is CAP-speak for “the guy who never says no and actually knows how the radios work.”
A 2008 trip to Israel included a stop at the Parthenon, because even unkillable veterans need vacation photos. Health permitting, Lewis may yet return to Vietnam with college students. He has already completed an Honor Flight to the Washington memorials.
Standing in line for the return flight, a coordinator thanked him for his service. Lewis replied, “You’re worth it.” The woman had never heard that before and proceeded to describe her husband’s PTSD from the less-than-warm homecoming Vietnam veterans received. Lewis’s philosophy remains simple: people are worth the effort, even when they are thanking you.
Not a Rocking Chair Guy, Obviously
Asked why he still serves, Lewis was refreshingly blunt. “I’m kind of a driven individual. I’m not the kind of guy who can go fishing and sit on a rocking chair. I gotta be involved in stuff.” Structure matters for cadets and adults alike. Personal life, spiritual life, all of it connects.
His hoped-for legacy: that he was firm, friendly, and fair, and that he loved the Lord with all his heart, mind, soul, and strength. Standard issue for a man who once got a farewell ride in an F-15D after decades of radar work.
Civil Air Patrol’s adult members come from every background, including veterans who apparently never received the memo that wars eventually end. Lewis’s communications skills remain in high demand for the official civilian auxiliary of the U.S. Air Force. Hands-on training, mentorship, and emergency services await anyone who would rather not spend their golden years in a rocking chair.
To learn more, visit gocivilairpatrol.com and locate the nearest unit. They probably have a radio that needs checking.