Photo By Christopher Wilson | Master Sgt. Ricky Dunn, a pararescueman with the 920th Rescue Wing, lands on the beach...... read more read more
COCOA BEACH, Fla. (July 12, 2025) — On a sun-drenched Saturday morning, July 12, the roar of aircraft overhead mixed with the crashing surf as thousands gathered along the shoreline for the annual Cocoa Beach Air Show. Just offshore, two swimmers fast-roped from an HH-60G Pave Hawk into the Atlantic, followed by five pararescuemen leaping from a C-130 Hercules overhead. Two of them landed directly on the sand, trailing a massive American flag between them. The remaining three splashed into the surf nearly 200 yards offshore—swimming their way in, waves breaking around them, precision meeting purpose.
For most in the crowd, it was a stirring display of Air Force heritage and heroism—a rare chance to witness Air Force Reserve Combat Search and Rescue in action up close. From the precision of the parachute landing to the grit of the swim-in, it was the kind of demo that left kids wide-eyed and veterans nodding in respect. But for 12-year-old Jackson Posch, standing barefoot near the water’s edge, it was more than impressive. It was personal.
His father, Master Sgt. William Posch, was a highly decorated pararescueman with the 920th Rescue Wing, based at Patrick Space Force Base. On March 15, 2018, Posch was one of seven Airmen killed when “Jolly 51” crashed in western Iraq near the Syrian border during a troop transport mission in support of Operation Inherent Resolve. The call sign, once just a mission identifier, has become a reverent symbol of sacrifice throughout the rescue community.
Pararescue is a rare brotherhood—an elite and tightly bonded world where less than 500 serve as active pararescuemen at any time. These Airmen, known as “PJs,” are trained to go into the most hostile and remote environments to save others, often at great risk to themselves. That risk is understood, but the loss still reverberates.
“This community’s small—we don’t just work together, we live together, train together, bleed together,” said Lt. Col. Jim Sluder, a pararescueman who served alongside Posch for years. “When Will died, we lost one of our own. And Jackson? He’s ours now, too.”
Jackson doesn’t remember every detail from that day in 2018—but he remembers what came after. The calls. The visits. The familiar faces who kept showing up when the crowds went home. The 920th Rescue Wing didn’t just grieve; they regrouped. They leaned in. Teammates who had fought beside William turned their focus to his son—not out of obligation, but out of loyalty to a brother. Birthdays, school milestones, weekend fishing trips—whatever it was, someone was always there. Quietly, consistently, they made a promise. And more importantly, they kept it.
That promise has taken many forms over the years: standing in at school events, helping with milestones, teaching Jackson how to fish and surf. It’s in the quiet moments too—calls on tough days, jokes only PJs would understand, high-fives after jump demos like today.
Jackson isn’t trying to be his dad—he’s becoming himself, shaped by the men who stood beside William. Known around the 920th as a walking aircraft encyclopedia, he can identify jets by sound, rattle off their specs, and talk tactics with anyone willing to listen.
“They’re like my uncles—they teach me a lot,” Jackson said, eyes skyward as a fighter roared overhead. “I love planes. I want to fly for the Air Force someday. I already know all the jets that flew today—speed, weight, everything. I just really like being around them.”
For William Posch’s teammates, staying connected with Jackson isn’t about ceremony—it’s about continuity. It’s about living the same standard William set for them every day.
“One thing about William—he never did anything halfway,” said SMSgt Matt Williams, a pararescueman who served with Posch in combat and now takes Jackson fishing at least once a week. “He was the reason I joined this community. He made being a PJ look larger than life. And now, Jackson… he’s like my little brother. Being around him is like having a piece of Will still here.”
Capt. Rory Whipple, a flight commander with the 920th, said Master Sgt. Posch didn’t just represent the pararescue motto—he embodied it in everything he did.
“That Others May Live isn’t just something we say,” Whipple said. “Will lived it. On every call. In every mission. On and off duty.”
That level of commitment set the tone for the entire team. His drive was contagious.
“Will never slacked,” said MSgt Ricky Dunn. “He was always training, always pushing us—to run farther, fight harder, be sharper. You didn’t want to fall behind Will, because he wouldn’t slow down.”
But it wasn’t just about work ethic. William had a gravitational pull—an ability to draw people in and show them what this life was really about.
TSgt Creighton Trott, one of Posch’s closest friends and former roommate, still remembers the first time they met—back when Trott was just a beach lifeguard on Florida’s east coast.
“We just clicked,” Trott said. “We surfed, we skated, we talked about the job. He’s the one who pulled me into the PJ world.”
All of them agree on one thing—William was the lynchpin. The center of gravity in the team room. The guy who brought people in, lifted them up, and never let them settle. And always, always, he talked about Jackson.
“He brought him around all the time,” Trott said. “Workouts, training drills—Jackson was part of the team before he could even do a push-up. Will loved his son more than anything in the world.”
That kind of connection isn’t unique to William—it’s baked into the fabric of pararescue, and into the Air Force Reserve as a whole. For the 920th Rescue Wing, taking care of their own isn’t just tradition—it’s part of the mission.
“We don’t just rescue strangers,” Whipple said. “We take care of each other. Always.”
Even years later, that creed is more than words—it’s a way of life. “These things I do, that others may live” isn’t just a closing line; it’s a constant guidepost. For the pararescuemen of the 920th Rescue Wing, honoring William Posch means doing exactly what he did: placing duty before comfort, service before self, and showing up—again and again. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct. Out of loyalty. And out of love.
Master Sgt. Posch’s resume reads like a legacy carved into stone: deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, rescues during hurricanes Katrina, Harvey, and Irma, and service on the NASA Joint Task Force for space shuttle contingency operations. In 2013, he was named one of the Air Force’s 12 Outstanding Airmen of the Year, one of the service’s highest honors.
But ask anyone who knew him, and they’ll tell you—it wasn’t the medals that mattered. It was the man.
“He was strong, humble, hilarious. The kind of guy who’d jump into fire for a stranger,” Williams said. “And then be home folding laundry or taking Jackson to the skate park. That was Will.”
As the final jumper today made landfall and jogged past the shoreline, soaked with seawater and adrenaline, Jackson met him with a grin and a high-five. The flag rippled in the breeze behind them, bright against the Florida sky.
There were no words. There didn’t need to be. That one high-five said everything: the mission continues, the bond holds, and Jolly 51 is still here—alive in every step, every swim, every hand that reaches back.
| Date Taken: | 07.12.2025 |
| Date Posted: | 07.16.2025 12:09 |
| Story ID: | 542928 |
| Location: | COCOA BEACH, FLORIDA, US |
| Hometown: | INDIALANTIC, FLORIDA, US |
| Web Views: | 40 |
| Downloads: | 0 |
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