Lieutenant Colonel Raymond G. McLaughlin Sr.: The Pilot Who

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He began flying in the days when aircraft were basic, dangerous, and unforgiving. The Army Air Corps demanded grit, instinct, and mechanical understanding—not the computer-assisted precision of today. He entered during a time when:

• Aircraft were built of canvas and aluminum
• Engines failed without warning
• Navigation was done with paper maps and dead reckoning
• Weather could kill you just as easily as the enemy
  
  

Most people cannot fully understand the courage required to fly in that era. He flew anyway—because he belonged in the air.

During World War II, he flew gliders and transport missions

The glider pilots of World War II flew what many soldiers grimly called “flying coffins.” Built from little more than canvas, plywood, and metal tubing, these engineless Waco CG-4A gliders carried infantrymen, medics, jeeps, anti-tank guns, and entire supply loads silently into enemy territory. But landing a glider was often more dangerous than any combat jump. Pilots had one chance—no go-around, no second attempt, and no way to pull back up once released. They crash-landed into fields studded with hedgerows, trees, telephone poles, ditches, and sometimes directly into enemy fire. During major airborne operations such as Normandy, Market Garden, and the Rhine crossings, glider units suffered casualty rates as high as 40–50% among pilots and passengers. Many were killed on impact; many more were wounded or trapped inside wreckage. Despite these odds, glider pilots volunteered for the mission and, after landing—often broken, bleeding, and shaken—were expected to take up arms and fight as infantry. My grandfather flew these dangerous missions, serving in one of the most perilous roles of the war, recognized even in a Time-Life Book for the bravery required to fly a combat aircraft that the men themselves knew might very well become their coffin.

Survival depended on skill and luck in equal measure.

My grandfather survived multiple missions.

He later served across the Pacific and Asian theaters, transporting personnel and supplies over vast stretches of ocean, jungle, and mountains. These flights were long, exhausting, and often conducted in harsh weather. He mastered them. He became the kind of pilot other pilots trusted.

When the Korean War erupted, he returned to flying—this time in a world of snowy mountains, limited visibility, and rapidly shifting front lines. Korea was unforgiving terrain for aircraft, but he navigated it with the same calm confidence he had developed during WWII.

By the time Vietnam began, my grandfather was a highly experienced pilot. He flew transport missions, logistics routes, and personnel flights that kept the war effort moving. He wasn’t a gunship pilot or a fighter jock. He was something just as essential—a man who got people and supplies where they needed to be, safely and reliably.

In Vietnam he earned a Bronze Star with Valor, Purple Heart and ,several awards for spot landings.

And he did it so naturally that it became a running joke within his units:

“Give McLaughlin a plane and he’ll treat it like a jeep. He’ll just get in and go.”

In every war, senior officers need movement not just for operations, but for relationships, diplomacy, morale, and sanity. My grandfather became the pilot many colonels and generals chose when they needed:

• fishing trips
• hunting trips
• rounds of golf
• visits to remote posts
• transportation without ceremony
  

He wasn’t selected for his obedience or formality.
He was selected because they trusted him.

When a general wants to fly to a remote lake with fishing gear, he chooses the pilot who can get him there and back without incident. That was my grandfather.

He built friendships with senior leadership across continents not because he sought influence, but because he was the man everyone wanted flying the plane.

He never served in the Pentagon.
He never ran a base.
He never chased rank.

He retired as a Lieutenant Colonel, a rank earned through decades of competence, reliability, and professionalism. His career was not defined by bureaucracy or political maneuvering. It was defined by flight hours, dangerous missions, and a lifetime spent in the air.

He didn’t boast.
He didn’t inflate stories.
He didn’t court recognition.