I have always been fascinated by aviation, and this book has deepened that fascination. Scott O’Grady, the book’s author, was a fighter pilot who accumulated more than 1,300 military flying hours, including over 1,000 in the F‑16 with the U.S. Air Force Reserve.
He belonged to the Triple Nickel fighter wing, patrolling the skies over Bosnia. Their job was to monitor the military pulse of the warring factions at that time—the Serbs, the Muslims, and the Croatians. “Basher‑Five‑Two”—Scott’s call sign—described their mission simply as pushing hostile aircraft out of the skies so they couldn’t strike each other. Thus, a sort of “no‑fly zone” was enforced.
Neither the Serbs, the Muslims, nor the Croatians wanted the Triple Nickel there. Yet NATO didn’t care about their wishes, and the pilots welcomed the opportunity to keep the F‑16s in motion and themselves sharp. Before Scott O’Grady reached the climax of his narration—his being shot down—he dwelt on aircraft details, flying habits, and technique. For me personally, the book’s core lay in that particular part. All those “petty details,” usually hidden in the devil’s identity, were brought to the forefront thanks to Scott’s courtesy.
Take G‑force, for example. If you’ve ever wondered how it feels, you’d learn that on a roller coaster, during a steep plunge, it’s possible to experience three Gs. In an F‑16, however, rapid acceleration and sharp turns can mean pressures up to nine Gs. If someone weighs 100 pounds normally, under 9 Gs it’s as if he weighed 900 pounds. Picture this—and you may start barfing right away.
Another fascinating fact: every fighter pilot carried a special note from the U.S. government, printed in eleven languages (including Serbian and Serbo‑Croatian), promising payment to anyone who hid a downed pilot from the enemy.
The hour of reckoning dawned upon Scott when fate struck at Aviano time. Basher‑Five‑Two suddenly found himself in somebody’s deadly sights. Either a projectile or a missile—insert the inventory in question—hit the aircraft. To skip the lamenting, it’s enough to say it was like being rear‑ended by an 18‑wheeler with a rocket tied to its grill. Basher‑Five‑Two had nothing left to do but PULL THE EJECT.
An average reader hardly knows that an F‑16 catapult rockets you through the sky at 500 miles an hour, tossing you into 100‑mile‑per‑hour gale‑force winds. The G‑forces you pull, which can run up to twenty, might damage your spinal column; you could lose a leg or an arm if not sitting properly when you eject; or the canopy might fail to open above you. To survive the ejection is only to be halfway out of the woods.
Next, the narration recalls Rambo’s adventures in the outskirts of Hope—iodine tablets to purify dirty water, finding a good hiding spot (or “hole‑up” site, as the military called it), short “combat naps,” and food like squirrels and birds just out of reach.
So, read the book, live through it, and enjoy the happy‑ending SAR (search‑and‑rescue) procedure performed by the U.S. Marines. Scott was struck by how young they were—their average age was nineteen.
I repeat: just try to zone out, jam all hostile radars and other distractions, and enjoy reading the book.