Dennis Scully

December 12, 2018 

ETA 1964 – 1965

Dennis J. Scully (March 28, 1945 – December 12, 2018) 

Dennis was a true American hero.  As I related to his family, the fraternity symbols Service, Brotherhood and Trust epitomized Dennis.  It is mentioned in the eulogy that he participated in the Haiphong bombing raids at the end of the Vietnam War.  Dennis and I had lunch shortly after his retirement from the Air Force and he mentioned this was one of his proudest moments which was not the dropping of bombs but that this event served to hasten the end of the war. Note: twenty three generals attended the service for Dennis. – Submitted by Brother Joe Grillo

The following eulogy was delivered by Dennis’s daughter, Elizabeth Scully.

My mother, sister and I would like to thank all of you for coming today to celebrate the life of my father, Dennis Scully. I know many of you have travelled from distances far and wide, and your presence means so much to our family.

While we certainly wish we had more time with my father, my family has found some peace through the fact that when my father passed he did so with the knowledge that he lived a full and good life. He was deeply loved by his family and friends for his generous and kind spirit. Words are insufficient to describe the indelible impact he had on our family’s lives. My father was a man of significant accomplishments, but was more often heard proudly speaking of the accomplishments of my mom, my sister and me, and after my son was born regaling all with the latest and greatest Declan story. So today, it is my turn to proudly share with you more of my father’s story.

My father was a first generation, Irish Catholic American. He grew up in Hillside, New Jersey and was the second born child, first born son of Jim and Sally Scully. Both his Irish heritage and his Catholic faith were of great importance to him. As an Irishman, he loved the company of good story tellers, and grew up in a home where his mother and father were always singing and harmonizing with each other. As the son of an Irish immigrant, he learned at an early age the importance of hard work and perseverance. From a young age he excelled in sports. In high school he lettered in baseball and football. Thanks to the support of his high school baseball coach, Roland Massimino, aka to the Villanova grads in the room as “Rollie” Massimino, my father obtained a scholarship to play baseball in college and forever changed the trajectory of his life.

My father and mother met in college in New Jersey in 1964. My mother was a freshman and my father a sophomore. My mother was instantly enamored with the handsome college baseball player, Dennis Scully, and was anxious to get his attention. She heard from some of her girlfriends that Dennis liked blondes. My mother, however, had long brunette hair at the time. No problem, she thought. All it took was one bottle of hydrogen peroxide and voila, she became a blonde. Arriving on campus with her new long bleach blond tresses, my father came up to her and asked “What have you done to your hair?” This was certainly not the reaction she was looking for, but on the positive side, it seems he had previously noticed her. My mother was devastated. She went home that night and proceeded to cut her hair into an extremely short hairstyle. When she next saw my father he said—“Now what have you done to your hair?”

Much to my grandmother’s chagrin, this all occurred, shortly before my Aunt Katie’s wedding in which my mother was the maid of honor. As a result, my mother’s short-lived spell as a blonde is forever memorialized in the wedding photographs. My mother certainly got my father’s attention and he quickly fell head over heels for her. As my father shared with me, my mother was the only girl he ever brought home to meet his parents. She was the love of his life, and they were quite the couple. They were married just shy of 49 years and as devoted and supportive partners in their marriage they set a wonderful example for my sister and me.

Over the years my father has repeatedly joked, that upon graduation from college he would have loved to have been recruited by the Yankees, but Uncle Sam recruited him instead. My father entered the Air Force in November, 1968. After completing Officer Candidates School, he went to flight school in Lubbock, Texas and became engaged to my mother. In 1969, he was assigned to Pleiku Air Force Base in Vietnam for his first tour of duty flying C-47s. When my father was deployed, my mother and father’s planned wedding in New Jersey had to be postponed, but not for too long. Half-way through my father’s first Vietnam tour, my parents were married in Hawaii in January 1970 during my father’s R&R leave.

Unbeknownst to my mother at the time, in order to sleep through the bombing raids on base at night, my father had placed under his bed a blow-up raft and a reel to reel audio tape deck with over 20 hours of Frank Sinatra tape recordings. When the air raid sirens would go off, my dad had a set routine. Rather than leave the shelter of his room, he would simply get under the bed, put his headphones on and quickly fall back to sleep to the crooning sounds of Frank. So along comes my parents honeymoon in Hawaii, and at the end of the night when the ceremonial blowing out of the tiki torches occurs with booming Hawaiian drums, my father out of habit wakes up half asleep and rolls off the bed, much to his sleeping bride’s surprise. While my father’s love of Frank Sinatra music never ceased, I know he was happy upon his return from the war to sleep soundly through the night on top of and not under his bed.

When my mother was eight months pregnant with me, in June 1972, my father was deployed for his second tour of duty. At this point my father was flying B-52s as an aircraft commander. During his second tour, my father participated in Operation Linebacker II, which is also known as the 11-day war. The operation lasted from December 18 through December 29, 1972. During those 11 days, 150 B-52 bomber pilots, including my father, flew a total of 729 sorties. Each sortie was 12 to 18 hours long under heavy attack. The operation brought about the final ceasefire and end to the Vietnam war with the eventual release and return of 591 American prisoners of war. At the end of the war, my father had logged just under 2000 hours in combat flight. Among his military honors, he was awarded twice with the Distinguish Flying Cross in recognition of “his heroism and extraordinary achievement while participating in aerial combat flight operations.”

Happily, my father returned home safely from Vietnam. The peace continued and several base assignments later, my father was overjoyed that he could be present for the birth of my sister, Marguerite four years later in Phoenix, Arizona.

When my sister was born my father had transitioned from the Strategic Air Command to the Tactical Air Command, and was flying F-4s. He participated in Red Flag on Nellis Air Force base in Las Vegas, Nevada. For those who do not know, Red Flag is the Air Force’s elite advanced aerial combat training program that is the equivalent of the Navy’s Top Gun program. My father, I am proud to say, was the top fighter pilot of his Red Flag program. In the F-4, he flew twice the speed of sound, aka “Mach II,” which seemed an appropriate license plate when he finally traded in his Dad mobile for his red corvette in 2000.

As a pilot, my father’s daily uniform was a flight suit that my sister and I loved since we could always find a stash of lifesavers or tic tacs in one the many zippered pockets. We could easily go through a roll of lifesavers within a matter of minutes. My dad in an attempt to preserve his lifesavers for his flights, would often challenge my sister, mother and me to a contest to see who could keep the lifesaver in their mouth the longest. Just when we thought we had him beat, my Dad would hold at his tongue and there would be the smallest sliver of a life saver you have ever seen—he won every time. 

In the Summer of 1984, we moved to Northern Virginia as my father was assigned to the Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon. With unrest in the middle east, developing a solid strategy for a desert conflict was a top priority for the military. My father’s team within the Office of the Joint Chiefs designed the plans the Command, Control and Communications department used for Operation Desert Storm, and my father briefed the then Secretary of Defense, Caspar Weinberger, on those plans. Operation Desert Storm was deemed a success. I will never forget how important it was to my father that our family attend the Welcome Home Victory Parade that was held in Washington D.C. in the Summer of 1991 to honor the return of the first Gulf War Veterans. It was the largest parade held to honor returning troops since World War II, and stood in sharp contrast to the negative public reception that was received by my father and other returning Vietnam veterans. That moment forever crystalized for me the importance of honoring the sacrifices that are made by the brave men and women that put their lives on the line for the freedoms we enjoy every day.

As I was getting ready to enter my senior year of high school, my father for the benefit of our family decided to retire from the Air Force after 22 years of service so we could stay in Northern Virginia. He bravely started an entirely new career as a consultant. He ended up working for another 20 plus years with Booz Allen & Hamilton. For many years my father’s primary project at Booz was leading the team that redesigned the Royal Thai Air Command. He travelled regularly to Thailand and I believe still holds the record as the longest staying guest at the Shangri-La Hotel in Bangkok. My father loved everything about Thailand, from the kindness of the Thai people to the exotic spices of their food.

With all of my father’s career accomplishments, what mattered most to him was his family. As a father there was no one better and he took his role as a grandfather to a whole another level. My father made our family his number one priority, and loved us with all of his heart. He was there for not just the big moments, but all the important little moments as my sister and I were growing up. He taught us both to swim and dive, ride our bikes, and eventually drive a car. He patiently helped with math homework and science projects. He manned countless car washes and delivered phone books as part of our high school fundraising activities so Marguerite and I could travel in the Summers to Europe with our madrigal group. He was at every choir concert and performance my sister and I had growing up, even when it meant returning home early from a trip to Brazil—although truth be told, I believe my mom was responsible for that one. He proudly celebrated our accomplishments and could always be counted on to thoughtfully listen and lend just the right advice in the face of a challenge.

Raising two daughters who both preferred to perform on a stage, rather than on a field, my father shared with us a love of music, movies and live performances. In one of my last visits with my father at the VA Hospital, he and I happily sang along to his all-time favorite song, Hey Jude, while watching James Corden’s carpool karaoke with Sir Paul McCartney. My mom had heard about the episode and I am so glad she suggested we put it in on in the hospital that day, because he loved it and we were able to forget for a moment where we were.

My father wisely made the most out of his life. He saw and enjoyed a diverse range of concerts, plays and shows, ranging from an unforgettable night seeing the Boss at FedEx field to a breathtaking performance of Madame Butterfly at the Sydney Opera house. He loved to travel and had the exuberance of a kid in a candy shop as he prepared for each and every trip he took with my mother. He travelled across 6 of the 7 continents. He went scuba diving in the Great Barrier reef, rode camels in Egypt and elephants in Thailand, flew in a hot air balloon over the Masai Mara National Reserve in Kenya and in helicopters to see the waterfalls and volcanos of Hawaii, cruised around Cape Horn, traversed a portion of the Great Wall of China, and played the Old Course at St Andrews—just to name a few of his many adventures.

When my son, Declan, was born, my father got his long-awaited chance to share his athletic prowess and love of sports with his grandson. They had a special bond from day one. Declan and my father spent countless hours batting and playing catch together, shooting hoops in front of my parents’ house and the mini-hoop in our kitchen and jumping waves at the Jersey shore. They loved to tell each other tall tales and would often be found together in our kitchen laughing uncontrollably at their latest antics. It was a sound of pure joy and one that I will never forgot and always cherish. He was a husband, father, and grandfather like no other, and our family will forever miss his kind heart, sweet smile and twinkle in his eyes when sharing a story.

Before turning the microphone over to my sister, I wanted to share with you the words of my father’s favorite poem. It is titled “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. who was a Royal Canadian Air Force pilot. The poem beautifully captures the serenity that some pilot’s experience in flight and the peace and joy I hope my father will have eternally.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth and danced the skies on laughtersilvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of –

wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hovr’ ring there. I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air . . .

Up, up the long delirious burning blue 

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace where never lark, or even eagle flew –

And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.