Upon meeting Middle Tennessee resident and U.S. Army combat helicopter pilot veteran Stan Corvin Jr., he immediately struck me as the kind of guy you’d want as your next-door neighbor. His amicable demeanor and cordiality suggested a kindness that goes well beyond obligatory pleasantries, while at the same time, a rare and intriguing sort of wisdom revealed itself through his eyes, and in the way that he carried himself. The story behind the man dwarfed my simple little initial assessment.

During our time together, I was hoping to gain a greater insight into his military career and war experience, in preparation for paying tribute to the sacrifices of war heroes that afford us our daily freedoms on Veterans Day, observed each November. Instead, we spoke about life. We spoke about struggles and triumphs. We spoke of how our greatest weakness can be used to pave the way for our greatest strengths. We spoke of humanity, spirituality, compassion and love. By the end of our lunch, I felt more like I’d attended a church service than spent time in the presence of a war hero. Before we parted, he’d kindly offered me a signed autobiography that he’d written about his life in the military, and I decided that, if I was going to write an appropriate veteran’s tribute about this man, I’d have to read it first.

While in some ways, it is obvious that the man I’d met and the man in the book are one and the same, in other ways they are worlds apart. I realized that by having now met both, I’d been given a great insight into the resilience, determination, courage and vulnerability of being a United States soldier, and the extraordinary amount of redemption that grace can offer.

Stan Corvin Jr. is fearless. When other people are heading away from danger, he runs straight to it. He doesn’t do so lightly, or with delusions of grandeur. He doesn’t think about the glory, or the cost. He only knows what’s inside of him, and he has a remarkable ease in translating it.

In his book, Vietnam Saga: Exploits of a Combat Helicopter Pilot, Corvin tells that he began serving his time in the Vietnam War in a unit called the Rattlers. This assignment’s primary mission was in delivering food, ammo and mail for troops living on fire support bases. During that time, he’d noticed a company of helicopters that were part of a hunter/killer group called the Warlords. When he asked about them, all the pilots agreed that their type of flying was “the most dangerous type of flying in Vietnam.” Shortly thereafter, Corvin convinced the commanding officer to request his transfer into that unit. Corvin had had a relatively safe job “flying slicks,” and yet, despite attempts to convince him how dangerous and difficult the missions were, he’d personally petitioned to enter into the deadliest position available. Because two of the only three pilots in the company that were qualified to continuously fly the Hunter/Killer missions had died, they were in need of recruits, and so the transfer was made.

Much of the rest of the book is an exquisitely poignant recollection of the experiences and escapades that culminated from this intrepid resolve. Corvin communicates tales of the grotesque depravities of humanity that skim the surfaces of hell, to lighthearted anecdotes that give much-needed comic relief amidst the harrowing atrocities. In one instance, a deep insight into his psyche is unveiled as he appropriately quotes Aldous Huxley while recounting with a sickening horror the brutality he witnessed in the aftermath of an entire village of American sympathizers who had been treacherously tormented and mercilessly massacred for their treason. He states that the only description that he can accurately muster is to describe it as, “Satan’s playground: straight out of hell!” Then, when you’re at the height of anxiety, Corvin changes gears and coaxes the tears to laughter as he explains the “friendly fire” award he received when he once flew very close to the ground, firing upon a rocky area and sustaining heavy damage to his aircraft as the resulting ricochets of the bullets he’d fired rebounded back onto his craft.

He disillusions us from embracing Hollywood movies such as Predator, in which he disqualifies specific maneuvers as “fantasy” with the kind of matter-of-fact attitude that can only be relayed by someone who truly knows the difference. I thought about this distinction as I read his book, realizing that this guy Corvin is a real-life Rambo. He is the kind of guy that inspires movie scripts and the re-telling of stories. What seems unrealistic to me at times in movies—the seemingly impossible odds, the resonating resilience and the untouchable resolve—these characteristics truly do have human faces behind them, and Stan Corvin Jr. is their poster child.

This story wouldn’t be complete without mentioning what happened between the man in the book and the man that I met. So how did the man from the book, this great American War Hero who fearlessly flew in the face of adversity come to be this well-adjusted man I’d met? Well, if you’ll recall, the lunch I shared with Corvin was conspicuously free of many details of war. Sure, he’d mentioned it, but not with the same passion and tenacity that he expounded upon in his book, and with good reason. He’s closed that chapter.

In June of 1980, Stan had been a civilian for many years, was a single father, was a successful businessman and found himself with a bottle-of-gin-a-day habit. Although he’d never been religious, he decided to get down on his knees one evening and pray for help. The ghosts of his past were haunting him, whether consciously or subconsciously. This great war hero who could stare into the eyes of evil without flinching was having a difficult time adjusting to healthy civilian life. He’d used alcohol sporadically throughout his life to desensitize himself to his demons, which had worked for a while but was now causing him to self-destruct, a luxury a single father couldn’t afford. He recalls that evening how he’d gotten on his knees and prayed to God for help. A simple prayer. Nothing happened. He got up, finished the rest of the bottle of gin he’d been drinking, and went to bed. Less than a week later, his world was turned upside down as concerned friends staged an intervention and he found himself in rehab. He wasn’t happy about it, and he tried to fight it for a few days. However, one day, he was sitting in the chapel, wondering how things had gotten to this, when he recalled earlier that week having gotten down on his knees to ask for help. Immediately, he felt the warmth of the love of God pour out on Him and he was changed in an instant. He never drank again, nor ever desired to. Slowly, his life began to turn around, and today he helps other veterans who struggle with alcoholism to learn about the peace that can be found in surrendering to the truth of God’s love.

His story is a roller coaster of tragedy, triumph, victory, defeat and redemption. He has left his testimony of the past in the past when he wrote his Vietnam Saga, which is why you won’t meet the same man from the book when you meet him in person. While that person still exists somewhere in the recesses, he has laid him to rest. He now reveals with certainty that his mission is to love his wife and other people.

I think about Stan, and his valiant life, his noble sacrifices and the exorbitant cost of liberty. I think about how Americans now have an entirely new generation coming into adulthood who weren’t alive at the time of the Sept. 11 attacks, and whose ideas and perspectives of war are typically only experienced through the lens of history books. I realize how very important these war stories and heroes are. I realize how truly blessed we are as a nation. I have a broader reverence for words that I’ve always treasured, spoken many years ago by Benjamin Franklin: “Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” And I now understand why Corvin has both.

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