The Screwdriver

Bob Burns flew through flak and fighters and described it, decades later, in measured prose. But one of the few moments he called petrifying happened at the wheel of a car, looking helplessly across one lane of highway at his own small daughter.

Two Cars to Washington

The family was moving from Norfolk — where Bob had just finished the Armed Forces Staff College — to Washington and his Pentagon tour. They drove in two cars: Ruth leading with the children, Bob following close behind. Somewhere on the road, he looked ahead into the car in front of him and his blood ran cold.

The Blade in Her Mouth

“At some point, I realized that Sue was lying on the shelf above the rear seat. And she had gotten a screwdriver also up there and had the blade in her mouth. I was petrified by knowing that if Ruth suddenly braked, Sue was a goner.”

His toddler was stretched out on the rear window shelf of the car ahead — no seatbelts, those days — with the steel blade of a screwdriver in her mouth. One sudden stop, one tap of the brakes by a wife who couldn’t see what he could see, and it would be over. And he was in a different car, unable to reach her, unable even to shout.

Wave Them to Slow

He did the only thing he could: pulled alongside and signaled.

“So I drove along side them and waved them to slow. When we got stopped, I explained the situation and the matter was closed — but I will never forget the depth of fear that I had until we did get stopped.”

It is the rank stripped clean off the man. No machine, no control, no chain of command — just a young father in the next lane, carrying a fear that any parent will recognize instantly: seeing the danger your child is in, and being for a few endless seconds unable to do a single thing about it. He got them stopped. He never forgot the wait.