MARCH AIR RESERVE BASE, Calif. – The Air National Guardsmen who operate
Predator drones over Iraq via remote control, launching deadly missile attacks
from the safety of Southern California 7,000 miles away, are suffering some of
the same psychological stresses as their comrades on the battlefield.
Working in air-conditioned trailers, Predator pilots observe the field of
battle through a bank of video screens and kill enemy fighters with a few
computer keystrokes. Then, after their shifts are over, they get to drive home
and sleep in their own beds.
But that whiplash transition is taking a toll on some of them mentally, and
so is the way the unmanned aircraft’s cameras enable them to see people getting
killed in high-resolution detail, some officers say.
In a fighter jet, “when you come in at 500-600 mph, drop a 500-pound bomb and
then fly away, you don’t see what happens,” said Col. Albert K. Aimar, who is
commander of the 163rd Reconnaissance Wing here and has a bachelor’s degree in
psychology. But when a Predator fires a missile, “you watch it all the way to
impact, and I mean it’s very vivid, it’s right there and personal. So it does
stay in people’s minds for a long time.”
He said the stresses are “causing some family issues, some relationship
issues.” He and other Predator officers would not elaborate.
But the 163rd has called in a full-time chaplain and enlisted the services of
psychologists and psychiatrists to help ease the mental strain on these
remote-control warriors, Aimar said. Similarly, chaplains have been brought in
at Predator bases in Texas, Arizona and Nevada.
In interviews with five of the dozens of pilots and sensor operators at the
various bases, none said they had been particularly troubled by their mission,
but they acknowledged it comes with unique challenges, and sometimes makes for a
“It’s bizarre, I guess,” said Lt. Col. Michael Lenahan, a Predator pilot and
operations director for the 196th Reconnaissance Squadron here. “It is quite
different, going from potentially shooting a missile, then going to your kid’s
Among the stresses cited by the operators and their commanders: the
exhaustion that comes with the shift work of this 24-7 assignment; the
classified nature of the job that demands silence at the breakfast table; and
the images transmitted via video.
A Predator’s cameras are powerful enough to allow an operator to distinguish
between a man and a woman, and between different weapons on the ground. While
the resolution is generally not high enough to make out faces, it is sharp,
Often, the military also directs Predators to linger over a target after an
attack so that the damage can be assessed.
“You do stick around and see the aftermath of what you did, and that does
personalize the fight,” said Col. Chris Chambliss, commander of the active-duty
432nd Wing at Creech Air Force Base, Nev. “You have a pretty good optical
picture of the individuals on the ground. The images can be pretty graphic,
pretty vivid, and those are the things we try to offset. We know that some folks
have, in some cases, problems.”
Chambliss said his experience flying F-16 fighter jets on bombing runs in
Iraq during the 1990s prepared him for his current job as a Predator pilot. But
Chambliss and several other wing leaders said they were concerned about the
sensor operators, who sit next to pilots in the ground control station. Often,
the sensor operators are on their first assignment and just 18 or 19 years old,
While the pilot actually fires the missile, the sensor operator uses laser
instruments to guide it all the way to its target.
On four or five occasions, sensor operators have sought out a chaplain or
supervisor after an attack, Chambliss said. He emphasized that the number of
such cases is very small compared to the number of people involved in Predator
Col. Rodney Horn, vice commander of the 147th Reconnaissance Wing at
Ellington Field Joint Reserve Base near Houston, said his unit went out of it
way to impress upon sensor operators the sometimes lethal nature of the job. “No
one’s walking into it blind,” he said.
Master Sgt. Keith LeQuire, a 48-year-old sensor operator here, said the 163rd
asks prospective sensor operators whether they are prepared for the deadly
serious mission. “No one’s been naive enough to come in to interview but not
know about that aspect of the job,” he said.
Unlike Soldiers living together in the war zone, the Predator operators do
not have the close locker-room-style camaraderie that allows buddies to talk
about the day’s events and blow off steam. But many Predator operators at Creech
employ a decompression ritual during the long ride home, said Air Force Lt. Col.
Robert P. Herz.
“They’re putting a missile down somebody’s chimney and taking out bad guys,
and the next thing they’re taking their wife out to dinner, their kids to
school,” said Herz, a Ph.D. who interviewed pilots and sensor operators for a
doctoral dissertation on human error in Predator accidents.
“A lot of them have told me, `I’m glad I’ve got the hour drive.’ It gives
them that whole amount of time to leave it behind,” Herz said. “They get in
their bus or car and they go into a zone – they say, `For the next hour I’m
decompressing, I’m getting re-engaged into what it’s like to be a civilian.'”
Col. Gregg Davies, commander of the 214th Reconnaissance Group in Tucson,
Ariz., said he knows of no member of his team who has experienced any trauma
from launching a Predator attack.
Himself a Predator pilot, Davies said he has found the work rewarding. The
Arizona Air National Guard unit flies Predators in both the Iraq and Afghanistan
war zones. It has often provided protection for American convoys, and its
personnel have seen insurgents planting roadside bombs.
“If we can have an effect there where we can take people out, that’s a real
plus in terms of saving American lives,” Davies said. “Our folks look at it as
they’re in the fight, they’re saving lives. They don’t feel too bad about that.”