BANJO

SERVICE RECORD

BANJO grew up in the hills outside Beckley, West Virginia, picking a banjo on his grandparents’ porch before he ever touched a control stick. That drawl and that grin got him further than he probably deserved — recruiters, instructors, and eventually squadron mates all found out fast that telling BANJO no was a lot harder than it should’ve been. Somewhere between basic and flight school he traded the porch for a cockpit, and CVW-0 picked him up when word got around that a mountain boy from coal country could put a GAU-8 through a target the size of a mailbox and still have the whole room laughing by the time the debrief started.

Flying the A-10C with the Abyss Hogs suits him just fine — low, slow, loud, and close enough to see the whites of the enemy’s eyes, which is about the only kind of flying BANJO ever cared to do. He still keeps an actual banjo in his gear bag, and more than one debrief aboard the Leviathan has ended with him picking out a tune while the rest of the squadron argues over who’s buying the next round. Impossibility is just an obstacle — and BANJO’s never met one he couldn’t charm, out-fly, or out-drink his way past.

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