The last ride

  • Published
  • By Chaplain (Capt.) David Leonard
  • 36th Wing
ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, Guam --  I handed a coin to the driver saying, "You are taking my brother-in-law on his last ride. I don't want you to forget this."

No one who knew Maj. Philip Ambard will ever forget him. He was born in Venezuela, but loved his adopted country passionately. He joined the U.S. Air Force, quickly moving up the ranks and being selected for senior master sergeant before being commissioned. Phil had five kids, four of who are now serving in the active duty military.

Phil was a foreign language professor at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He deployed to Afghanistan four months ago to help train the Afghan Air Force. His life came to an end in Kabul after a lone gunman opened fire, killing nine Airmen. I suppose I had gotten used to deployments. We are a military family with many deployments to the area of responsibility. None of us ever thought we would have to pay such a high price to defend freedom.

I have officiated dozens of funerals as a military chaplain, but I have never seen anything as profound as what took place during the days that followed Phil's death. His body came into Peterson Air Force Base on a Wednesday. Our family was met by the senior leadership of several surrounding military communities. They knew our names and embraced us with tears. I won't forget the two chaplains who stood beside us as we received his body. Their steadfast presence was calm amidst the storm.

We followed his car in a bus down the 2-mile long corridor of Peterson AFB and out the front gate. It was lined with hundreds of U.S. and allied military, civilians and Patriot Guard riders. A rolling salute followed his remains. I remember distinctly the elderly woman with an oxygen tank standing in the cold, hand over heart, giving honor to Phil as he passed by.

The cadets led his remains through an arch of sabers into the hallowed steel cathedral. His five children, my sister and Brig. Gen. Dana Born (the Academy's dean of the faculty) spoke eloquently of his life. The hundreds of mourners and I shared that moment. We felt a connection to his life and to his sacrifice as only military families can in the face of our fallen.

When I led my family out to the hearse, I remember thinking only of the gravesite, but I was not ready for the drive. The driver, still holding tightly to his coin, looked at me and said, "We are taking a non-standard route to the cemetery. I hope you don't mind."

We pulled out onto the sun-draped Terrazzo where students march and travel to and from class. But today was not a day of coming and going. Today they lined his route. A silent field of blue with proud, slow salutes walked beside us as they said goodbye to their beloved professor. His life and his death would not be forgotten. His lessons will continue.

When anyone dies in combat, we all have suffered profoundly. It is in tragedy that I look for hope in knowing that, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, Jesus stands beside me even when I don't know that he is there.