The morning sun glinted off the metal barriers, as 73-year-old Margaret Sullivan made her way slowly through the crowd at Davis Air Force Base. Her weathered hands clutched a faded leather satchel containing notebooks she’d carried for 40 years around her. Thousands of spectators jostled for position at the annual Wings of Freedom air show.
Their excitement palpable as fighter jets traced patterns across the Arizona sky, Margaret paused to catch her breath, her knee protesting after the long walk from the parking area. She’d driven four hours from her small apartment in Phoenix just to be here today, just to see the aircraft that had defined her life. The same aircraft most people dismissed as ugly and outdated.
The A-10 Thunderbolt II, affectionately known as the Warthog. Excuse me, ma’am. A sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
A man in his 40s wearing an air show staff vest stood before her, his expression impatient. His name tag read, Bradley Chen, operations manager. This area is restricted for VIP viewing.
General public needs to stay behind the yellow barriers over there. Margaret glanced at the yellow barriers 50 yards away, where crowds pressed together like sardines. From there, she’d barely be able to see the aircraft, let alone the maintenance demonstrations she’d specifically come to watch.
I understand, she said quietly, but I was hoping to get a closer look at the A-10 maintenance procedures. You see, I have some experience with… Ma’am, Bradley interrupted, his tone condescending as he took in her simple cotton dress and worn cardigan. I’m sure you’re very enthusiastic about airplanes, but this area is for industry professionals and special guests only.
We can’t have civilians wandering around asking questions during the technical demonstrations. A younger staff member, Derek, approached with a clipboard. Everything okay here, Brad? Just explaining to this lady that she needs to move along, Bradley said, not bothering to lower his voice.
Probably someone’s grandmother who got lost. You know how these old-timers get confused at big events. Margaret’s cheeks flushed, but she maintained her composure.
I’m not lost, and I’m not confused. I simply wanted to observe the maintenance demonstration, Derek smirked. The maintenance demo? That’s pretty technical stuff.
Maybe you’d enjoy the aerial displays more? They’re doing a heritage flight later that’s really spectacular, though I’d get to the barriers soon if I were you, Bradley added. It’s quite a walk, and at your age. He trailed off meaningfully.
Margaret’s fingers tightened on her satchel. Inside were the original maintenance manuals she’d written. Procedures that had saved countless aircraft and lives.
But these young men saw only an elderly woman who didn’t belong in their technical world. I’ll find my way, she said with quiet dignity, turning away from their dismissive faces. As she walked, she heard Derek mutter to Bradley.
Why do these old ladies always think they understand military aircraft? Probably watched Top Gun once and thinks she’s an expert. Their laughter followed her as she made her way slowly toward the general viewing area. Other staff members barely glanced at her as she passed, seeing exactly what Bradley had seen.
An unremarkable elderly woman out of place among the engineers, pilots, and military personnel who dominated the VIP sections. Margaret finally reached the crowded barriers where families with children pressed against the metal railings. She found a small gap between a group of teenagers and a family with strollers, easing herself into the space with a soft excuse me that went unacknowledged.
From her new position, she could barely make out the maintenance area where crews would demonstrate the A-10’s legendary durability and ease of repair. The very procedures she’d pioneered were about to be showcased, and she’d be watching from a distance like a stranger to her own legacy. She opened her satchel and withdrew one of her notebooks.
Its pages yellowed with age, but the technical drawings still precise. Her fingers traced the diagrams she’d sketched decades ago, innovations that had revolutionized how the A-10 was maintained in combat conditions. That’s some detailed stuff.
A voice said beside her. A young woman in her twenties with grease under her fingernails was peering at the notebook with interest. Are you an engineer? I was a crew chief.
Margaret replied, grateful for the friendly interest. Specialized in battle damage repair and expedient maintenance procedures. The young woman’s eyes widened.
No kidding? That’s amazing. When did you serve? 1970. 3-1995.
Margaret said, I was one of the first women assigned to attend maintenance when the aircraft was brand new. Wow. The woman was about to ask more when the announcer’s voice boomed across the field.
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Morrison in the A-10 Thunderbolt II for our demonstration of close air support capabilities. Margaret’s breath caught. Sarah Morrison.
Her granddaughter was flying today, and she hadn’t even known. Sarah must have been assigned to this demonstration at the last minute. They’d been out of touch for months.