Lieutenant Iain McConnell

If it were up to me, I would've been flying helicopters in Sitka, Alaska, last summer. But I didn't qualify as an aircraft commander, so my planned transfer fell through. Upset and disappointed, I settled in for my fourth year at the Coast Guard's air station in Clearwater, Florida.

If I'd had my way, I would've been more than 3,000 miles away from where God wanted me last August.

Prelude to Disaster
Though much of the nation was watching as Hurricane Katrina swerved toward the Gulf Coast, I was not. My air station crew had been prepared to fly our aircraft out of the way of the storm, but by Saturday, Aug. 27, with the storm no longer threatening Clearwater, I was told that wouldn't be necessary. I stopped monitoring Katrina and went about my fun weekend.

It was early Monday morning, Aug. 29, when my Current Operations Duty Officer called to tell me to stay home that day. "Rest and pack a bag," he said. "We might use you for something later." I didn't know that Hurricane Katrina, a Category 5 storm at landfall, was smashing into New Orleans and a stretch of the Gulf Coast as we spoke. But I would soon see her devastation firsthand.

On Tuesday, at 4 a.m., we flew to the Coast Guard Aviation Training Center in Mobile, Alabama, which became our base of operations for Katrina relief. At one point there were 18 H-60 helicopters (the type I fly) located there, donated by many air stations. From there, helicopters and crews were matched with missions. Our goal was to keep five H-60s airborne on missions at all times, around the clock.

We arrived in the affected areas before any news crews, and what we saw was shocking. We hadn't had the benefit of watching news to prepare ourselves for the devastation.

Peering down at the Mississippi coastline, I saw that many miles of train track running parallel to the ocean had been pushed inland 15 feet off its gravel bed—my first clue that something terribly powerful had surged over this region. We stopped to help three people who had weathered the storm in their houseboat, which had been tossed onto U.S. Highway 90. One of them was injured, so we flew her to the hospital in Slidell, Louisiana. I had gone to high school in Slidell, but what I saw from 500 feet looked nothing like the town I remembered.

Dangers, Toils, and Snares
About 28 miles north of New Orleans, cryptic snatches of other Coast Guard helicopter radio conversations crackled in and out about hoisting people and pregnant ladies on roofs. My crew and I looked at each other questioningly, trying to put the pieces together. What's going on over there? we wondered.

As we approached the city, suddenly I could see a distinct edge between the Gulf Coast, which was leveled but dry, and New Orleans, which was standing but drowning. How many people are still down there? I silently wondered, as a heavy sadness settled over me. In 11 years of service with the Coast Guard, I had never seen such utter destruction.

Within minutes of arriving in the city, we saw one or two people waving white sheets from an apartment balcony. As we circled overhead, looking for a safe place to hover, more and more people poked their heads out of the windows. What we assumed were two people in the building turned out to be 100.

Our rescue swimmer, Scott Rady, went down and brought individuals into the water so they could be hoisted up. By 11:57 a.m., we had hoisted 11 people, mostly kids and senior citizens, and delivered them safely to the Superdome helipad.

One man whom we rescued from a rooftop told us he had been unable to get his wife out of their house fast enough and she had drowned. That was the first time I heard of people actually dying because of the flooding. Until that point, I assumed that the water had risen slowly; apparently, I was wrong.

Lord, how many people are trapped here? I prayed. Please help us to find them in time.

After that first day, the rest of my missions were flown at night with night-vision goggles. While there were fewer helicopters to share airspace with, the missions still were full of white-knuckle, adrenaline-surging moments of maneuvering around power lines, airborne debris, and other helicopters. As we hovered over roofs, loose shingles, trash, and pieces of vinyl siding blew up all around us. Another crew's rotor caught an empty trash bag flying in the air, causing an imbalance. Their aircraft vibrated so violently that the crew called "Mayday" and made an emergency landing. They were pretty shaken—as was my crew. We had hovered over identical buildings, and we knew full well that it could have been us. The constant threat of danger kept me humble and mindful of God.

During events like Katrina, some people question the existence of God. How could a benevolent Creator allow such a tragedy? they ask. In my line of work, however, it's exactly then—in the midst of tragedy and chaos—that I'm most thankful for God's presence.

Seeing the Bigger Picture
On our first three missions, we saved the lives of 89 people, three dogs, and a cat. On the fourth mission, to our great frustration, we saved no one—but not for lack of trying. The dozens we attempted to rescue refused pickup!

Some people told us to simply bring them food and water. "You are trying to live in unhealthy conditions and the water will stay high for a long time," we warned them. Still, they refused. I felt frustrated and angry, since we had used up precious time and fuel, and put ourselves at risk during each rescue attempt. I felt like they were ungrateful. But, in truth, they did not know how desperate their situation was. In some ways, it's similar to the way we all are before we realize the severity of our sinful condition and our need for a divine rescuer. Just give me the basics and I'll make it on my own, we seem to say. But without Christ, we're doomed.

While my role was to help the survivors, they also helped me. I was forced to practice and stretch a weak aspect of my faith—compassion. Of all the different prayers I sent up during that time, I prayed the most not for my safety but for compassion to show love to the survivors. I wanted to feel their pain. I wanted to help shoulder the burden of their loss.

It was a privilege to be part of such a massive humanitarian effort. Saving lives is the main reason I joined the Coast Guard in the first place.

A former classmate's wife reminded me later that if I had made aircraft commander, I would've been sent to Alaska and wouldn't have been sent to New Orleans. She's right. It reaffirmed to me that God has a plan for my life, that He can use me to serve Him and others in ways I never imagined. I simply need to trust Him.

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