CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER 2 MARCO FLORES
2-285th Assault Helicopter Battalion
Arizona Army National Guard
Phoenix, Arizona
Author’s note: The names of the individuals mentioned in this article have been changed to protect their privacy.
As we waited anxiously outside the Bravo Company commander’s office, my friend, Tim, and I prepared ourselves for the worst — expulsion from flight school. Inside the office, our friend, Zack, was already speaking with the commander and company aviation safety officer (ASO) in private. Although we knew we did nothing wrong, that this was all a misunderstanding, we still had to explain ourselves. Minutes felt like hours until Zack walked out with the kind of expression people get when they are trying to contain good news. With a humble smile, he glad-handed the commander and ASO. They exchanged some quick words and thank yous. The commander then dismissed Tim and me, walked back into his office with the ASO and closed the door behind them. Stunned and speechless, we looked at Zack for an explanation. In his typical smooth, Southern California style, he cracked a wide grin and said, “Guys, we’re getting a safety award.”
One of the first things you do when you arrive at the Army’s flight school is sit through a seemingly never-ending session of briefings. Everything from academic support, family readiness groups, on-post orientation and, of course, safety is covered. Almost 10 years later, there’s not much I remember from those briefings except for a few key points. The lieutenant colonel who gave our briefing drove home two important elements that really resonated with me.
First, he emphasized the importance of finding healthy ways to relieve stress from the demanding academics and the crusty, old instructor pilots (who apparently liked to yell at you for no reason). Second, life always happens during flight school, and although he did not try to dissuade us from consuming alcohol, he did warn us of the consequences if we were irresponsible. He emphasized that the Army’s flight school had a graduation rate of 96 percent — not because it’s easy, but because of the rigorous application process that selects the candidates most likely to succeed. Of the 4 percent that don’t graduate, 90 percent are removed from the pipeline due to student conduct violations, such as DUI-related offenses.
For some reason, those points put the fear of God in me to the extent that I still remember them to this day. I promised myself I would not become another statistic. At the very least, I knew I owed it to the people back home to be safe and responsible by not participating in anything that could render my hard work null and void. Chiefly, though, I knew I could not bear being the cause of someone else’s suffering due to my carelessness.
Weeks passed, flight school was in full swing and the colonel’s safety briefing started proving prophetic. We heard cases of fellow students getting arrested for DUI in Panama City Beach, Florida, and nearby Dothan, Alabama, or even when they tried to enter the installation gate after a night of heavy drinking. On the surface, it was easy to say they got what they deserved, and it’s true. They were warned of the consequences and their actions were reckless. However, some of my classmates and I couldn’t help but sympathize with a few of those cases.
For instance, one of those students was suffering from PTSD, and another was coping with recently being served divorce papers. Additionally, we identified (through personal observation only) there was a major problem with a few designated drivers succumbing to self-imposed or peer pressure once they were at the bars and watching everyone have a good time. Some of my fellow classmates and I wondered if there was anything we could do to simultaneously enjoy ourselves, be responsible and serve our fellow students in hopes of mitigating this perpetual problem. So, we decided to take the colonel’s advice to the next level.
Over a long weekend, 10 of us brainstormed about what we could do. One idea finally snowballed into us purchasing a full-sized, 45-passenger school bus. With some slight modifications to fit our liking and safety, we could securely drive many of our fellow students to local bars and drastically reduce the number of designated drivers required for one outing. We called it Essential Bus One, or EB1 for short, a subtle nod to the TH-67 training helicopter. We designated multiple bus stops for pick-up and drop-off in neighborhoods where many of our fellow students resided. In conjunction, we established bus routes that varied every weekend and serviced different venues and local events. Another benefit we discovered was reducing the number of drivers it would require to take 10-15 students on a weekend trip to the beach cities, keeping them off the dangerous, winding two-lane highways. Once there, we would have no choice but to take a taxi or ride-share service to the bars we wanted to patronize since we all arrived in one giant bus.
In the state of Alabama, operating a school bus with a private driver’s license was legal, so long as it was registered as a recreational vehicle. So, we did exactly that and properly registered and insured it as such. Zack volunteered to open a checking account in his name where the 10 of us could electronically send money and split the costs for insurance, registration and miscellaneous fees. With our bases covered, we felt prepared to take EB1 to the streets, but we were not prepared for the attention this would garner us.
In the months that followed, every weekend was a different adventure with EB1, from DIY upgrades to trips to the surrounding lakes, springs and beaches. It did not take long for word to reach the ears of high-ranking command structures who wanted to put an end to the perceived debauchery. It was only after Zack spoke with the commander that we learned of the nasty rumors circulating around me, my friends and EB1. For the sake of brevity and propriety, I won’t repeat them in this article.
Fortunately, we had an open-minded commander who wanted to hear our side of the story. Zack later told us everything about the exchange he had with the commander and the ASO. In short, the commander just wanted to be assured we weren’t breaking any codes of conduct or student ethics. The ASO was present to confirm we were indeed being responsible and abiding by local standard operating procedures and appropriate laws. Then, the ASO informed Zack we were getting nominated for a safety award.
In hindsight, I now understand the impression a bunch of flight-school students going from bar to bar on a school bus can have on some people. If I could give my younger self a word of advice, it would be not to underestimate the attention EB1 would attract and the perceptions some people would inevitably have. Regardless, we received a lot of gratitude and support from our fellow students. On a couple of occasions, we were even approached by bar owners with offers to hire us to charter their patrons. Financial gain was never the intent, and we respectfully declined every time. We did this because we genuinely wanted to help our fellow students out of empathy, knowing how challenging flight school can be without the added tribulations of everyday life. We felt empowered to do so because we took the colonel’s advice from his safety briefing as tacit approval for our venture and a challenge to find creative ways to relieve stress.
In an area that does not offer a lot of nightlife and off-duty activities for young flight-school students, we created a safe outlet not just for ourselves, but for many of our fellow classmates. We never saw EB1 as a party bus or any of the other derogatory names people gave us. We saw it as an answer.