LT Steven Zilberman

Ed. Note: This post has been a long time overdue. Steve was a close friend of mine as are our families. He died while I was deployed and had hoped to run this story on the one year anniversary, but couldn’t make it happen. I thought it better to be a little late and remember him properly than to rush it.

Lt. Steven Zilberman, 31, based in Norfolk, Virginia, was at the controls of an E-2C Hawkeye as it returned from a mission in March 2010 over Afghanistan, heading toward the aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower in the North Arabian Sea. One engine lost oil pressure and failed. Due to the circumstances of the mechanical failure, the plane could not maintain controlled flight. Since there are no ejection seats in the Hawkeye, the only survivable option is to “bail out”, or jump out with a parachute on your back. Again, due to the nature of the engine failure, someone had to remain at the controls to enable the crew a steady platform to bail out from. Without hesitation, Steve chose to do just that. He stayed at the controls, fighting to keep the plane airborne, and ordered his three crew members to bail out. Time ran out before he could follow. The plane crashed 5 miles from the Eisenhower. All three crew members were recovered safely, but after several days of searching it was determined that Steve did not survive. For his heroism, he was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

A simple Google search will turn up pages and pages of news results on the incident, but I’d like to spotlight some things about the Steve I knew. We met while we were both in flight training in Texas. When I signed the logbook asking for time off for the High Holidays, I noticed that two other Jews had beat me to the punch. In a place where I was sure my wife and I were the only Jews, it turned out we had our own little shtetl in base housing. We all shared Shabbat dinners and holiday celebrations during our stay there, and since each of our three families saw the arrival of our first children while we were there, we all became particularly close.

Steve was an absolute mentsch in every sense of the word. He was an all around nice guy, always willing to help out a friend; whether it be with studying for a flight or cooking dinner for us with one of his many kitchen gadgets. His callsign back then was “Spaz”, mostly because he was always so concerned about getting everything right in the plane and always seemed so excited about everything he did. This was all good enthusiasm though, and I never saw him more excited about anything than the birth of his son Daniel. After we all left Texas, we stayed in touch and even visited a few times in Norfolk. We were all excited for a reunion again in Florida, where we all had orders to. It was three months into my own deployment, and just one month short of the end of Steve’s, that he went down in his plane. At the time, all I could do was say some memorial prayers for him at our own shipboard congregation, but as I shared his story I know all those in attendance were humbled by his actions.

Unfortunately, I have lost several friends to military aviation and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but none touched me quite the way Steve’s loss did. It’s not that Steve and I were particularly close, but maybe since our families had followed similar paths it was so easy to put myself (and my family) in his shoes. Once the wave of tragedy and heartbreak subsides, we often search for answers to the questions of why and how? As the details came out and showed that Steve selflessly gave his own life so that all of his crew would make it home to their own families, the wave of pride and respect almost washed away the one of heartbreak. His actions that night are the definition of heroism and selflessness. While his family and friends mourn his loss, I know that we all feel honored to have known and been touched by such an amazing person.

Steve’s mother wrote a letter to Steve that was published in the Virginia Pilot this February in honor of Steve’s birthday.

Feb. 20 is the happiest day of my life. You were born, my dear son. We celebrated that day with our whole family in Kiev, Ukraine. We celebrated it in Columbus when you were a student at Bexley High School. We celebrated it in Texas when you received your gold wings and became an aviator.

You were the center of our lives. Our plans, trips, all of our family celebrations were around you. I visited you before your departures to give you a hug. I visited you to share your happiness at the officers’ ball while babysitting your children, Daniel and Sarah, and enjoyed looking at you and your beautiful wife, Katrina. In February we also celebrated Daniel and Sarah’s birthdays.

Last February, you were on the carrier Dwight Eisenhower. I sent you a package with nuts, sunflower seeds and chocolate — everything you loved. You shared it with your friends on your 31st birthday. I was so happy when you called me from Dubai; we were on Skype, and I selfishly did not let anybody else near the monitor. I did not want to miss even one minute of looking at you. It was the last time I saw you.

On March 31, my phone rang. It was Katrina. Her voice sounded strange. She told me that your plane crashed in the Arabian Sea on the way from Afghanistan, and they could not find you. Your father was not at home. I was running from room to room, screaming. I could not believe it. I was begging God to give my son back to me. Please God, do not take my only child; please give him back to me. That’s all I want.

On April 8, we were almost insane. We were stunned from grief when we attended the ceremony in your honor … without you. Your sacrifice and bravery were awarded with the Distinguished Flying Cross, the highest honor in the Navy.

You highly valued friendship, and you made your choice. You saved your crew, your friends. Later, they told me how, in a matter of seconds, you ordered them to leave the crashing plane. With all your power you kept the plane from falling to give your friends time to jump out. But the time you would have needed to save yourself was gone. I dream of you every night and wake up every morning with one thought: What glory it would be if you were here!

I would like to grow to your unreachable heights of devotion and love that saved the lives of three people. I want to have the strength and courage to grow to your level, my son, my pride. You always put everyone’s interests ahead of yours. That’s why you saved the lives of your friends, and now three mothers can still gloriously hug their sons.

I will work really hard to be able to share their happiness, and maybe someday, somehow, to find that lost piece in my soul. Until then and forever more, on Feb. 20, I will say: Happy birthday, my dear son.

Steve, you will be missed, but your legacy will live on in all of those that knew you and you will continue to be an inspiration to us by your actions in life as well as those in death. May your memory be for a blessing.

Steve is survived by his wife Katrina and his two children, Daniel and Sarah. If you would like to donate to support the family, please consider the VAW/VRC Memorial Scholarship Fund.

Here are two local newscasts that tell Steve’s story. The first is from the memorial service and the second is from the one year anniversary.