One-In-a-Million Mike Moore, Fighter Pilot
I still see Mike as I last saw him... that moon-lit night in conversation with me, heroic, willing himself to live and love his family until he died. He was imbued with the "fighting spirit" and seemed born to fly. I didn't believe then, nor could I know, how soon the final flight of his would be.
I first met Michael Moore, former Navy Fighter Pilot, one year younger, (30) married man with a son, Mikie, the same age as my son, in the Spring of 1984. Mike was a strong, wiry, tough man, my height, mustache sporting, same age, and married with two children.
We each accepted a request from our church sponsored Boy Scouts to be adult leaders. I had recently trained as a police officer for Simi Valley, California. Mike had just been grounded from flying fighter jets off carriers for the United States Navy. A routine physical exam discovered leukemia.It was hard for me to imagine that this no-nonsense energetic former fighter pilot was suffering from a form of leukemia that required frequent blood transfusions at UCLA Medical with no known cure.
Mike Moore was equal to any task, hard charging, and living an apparent normal healthy life. Leukemia didn’t stop him from enjoying hearty outdoor adventures that year. Devoted to his two children Teresa and Michael, Jr. he loved his wife Marilyn with an uncommon devotion. "I loved her from the first moment my eyes laid sight on her," he once told me on a camping trip, then shared their meeting and romance. It was as if Mike was sorting through every memory in search for "meaning" and purpose in his face off with mortality.
“God and guns” types, we tried to avoid talking finalitys. But the reality was that Mike needed to live like life couldn't end, and yet daily consider what an "end" really meant to not just himself, but in every way to a young wife and kids. I watched him in moments of quiet frustration and struggle; the fighter pilot couldn’t give in to a killer without a weapon to fight back with. Like boxing shadows he balanced anger with humor as he seemed to take swings at the phsyical evil robbing him of youthful love and a bright future. I thought that with prayers, Mike would be the one-in-a-million who beat the odds. I regularly offered friendship and the devil-may-care attitude he enjoyed, as I watched real courage confront one word youth can’t process well; “terminal.”
Mike simply lived fully, laughed as hard as he played, and took life one day at a time, without regrets. Once in-awhile, he hinted to his mortality and I would hint back at his immortality.“You’ll probably outlive me!” I often assured. “Well, maybe so – you’re such a wimp, Pratt,” he’d reply grinning. I was observing a man humbled as he found himself powerless to stop the enemy fighting him from within. I also witnessed a man “really living” that year.
Marilyn and her love meant the world to him. He once told me wistfully, “I never get tired of looking at her.” Mike spent all the time he could with her and the kids as he also taught the boys we led to be men. Mike never surrendered to his enemy, not even the last night we talked.
I called ahead to borrow Mike's truck for a move we were making. At dusk I arrived to his pleasant home amid orange trees. A light out back soon revealed Mike stumbling from growing darkness. “Now I know I’m gonna die!” he grumbled. “I can’t even pull the engine out of my car!” he angrily reacted, holding his grease covered hands and arms up in disgust. I was tempted to say, “You’re not going to die, Mike,” but an inner voice whispered to me, “Yes he will. Let him talk.”
I peeled an orange from a tree. We ate the sweet fruit and talked for a half hour. My heart was heavy. I’d never seen Mike so down. “I want to raise my kids! I don’t want someone else to do it!” he insisted. He looked at his hands again, shook his head, and tossed me the truck keys. “Taking my wife to an air show Saturday with a student pilot,” he said. “Should be fun.”
At a stoplight the next afternoon I heard, “Hey, I like your truck! Ugly driver though!” Mike laughed as he passed by taking the family out to the local Sizzler for dinner. “See you Monday!” I chuckled and waved. Twenty-four hours later he hemorrhaged and bled to death in Marilyn’s arms, a student pilot flying them to an air show in central California. He lived with love and passion up to his last breath, and in that Mike never stopped teaching a lesson to others.
From Micheal Moore, I learned to “really live” and love that year. I also learned how a "real man" dies. There are different kinds of courage. Michael Moore would have rather gone down in combat against a fighting opponent, but then he did, didn’t he? Yes, real men can fight, but Mike showed that real men can also love deeply and fully. His wife knew that, so did his now grown kids.
I've been to the children's weddings. I see Marilyn now and then, and realize Mike would still be saying, "I never get tired of looking at her." And once in awhile I wonder if Mike Moore isn't really assigned to missions after all, whether trying to get through to a young fighter pilot today, or whispering in his loved one's ear -- "I'm here. It will be okay. Be strong. Love, laugh, and believe. God is there, and so am I."
I miss Mike. I don't understand why God takes men of courage, skill, and love -- the kind the world really needs when it's in a tough pinch as we are today. All I know is that we haven't seen the last of him. His influence lives. And my faith teaches me he'll be back to hold Marilyn in his arms again, and be the father to his children again, and be once again, the friend every man can count on.
Because Mike isn't with us, let me offer this written memorial: “HOORAH! Mike --your one-in-a-million story of courage and love lives! This last hoorah is for you -- LT. Michael Moore, fighter pilot!*
*When I wrote The Last Valentine in 1997 I dedicated the story to Mike Moore and the love of his life Marilyn. It is a story of a WWII Navy Fighter pilot and the wife he left behind. See http://www.jmpratt.com/ go to "Published Works" and click The Last Valentine.
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