Army veteran extends a lifeline of faith and urgent care for children and adults at the edge of life and death

Joe Eble, far right, a pilot for IU Health LifeLine helicopter and a member of Immaculate Heart of Mary Parish in Indianapolis, poses for a photo with the aircraft’s medical crew at the Downtown Indianapolis Heliport. In the front is Chris Monroe, a critical care trauma nurse. Kneeling is Andy Bullock, a neo-natal and pediatric nurse. In the back row with Eble are Noah Holland, left, an emergency medical transporter, Amanda Mobley, a respiratory therapist, and Dan Meyer, an emergency medic. (Photo courtesy of IU Health)

By John Shaughnessy

The memories of flying an armed U.S. Army helicopter during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan call back powerful and painful images for Joe Eble, including scenes of soldiers getting injured and dying in the service of our country.

Still, the emotion hits him on an even deeper level when he talks about the edge-of-life-and-death moments he experiences now as an IU Health LifeLine helicopter pilot—especially when he flies premature babies and children in need of urgent, critical care to Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis.

“That’s the hardest part—when you see kids having trouble,” says Eble, a father of four. “I’d seen enough when I was down range in Iraq and Afghanistan that it was not unfamiliar for adults to be injured. But the kids break your heart. When they are hurt, they don’t understand that. But getting them to Riley is the absolute best care they can get. Our crews are highly specialized. They’re just awesome at what they do.”

Whether he’s transporting a baby struggling to live or an adult at the edge of death following a horrific traffic accident, Eble always makes time for a personal ritual as he races a patient to Riley or Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.

“I try to say a prayer for every person I pick up,” says Eble, who is 53 and a member of Immaculate Heart of Mary Parish in Indianapolis. “Depending on how busy it is, you could get a Memorare or you could get a Hail Mary.”

As he prays, one thought is often in his mind.

“I hope it’s not the case, but sometimes when I’m praying for someone in route, I’m conscious that I may be the last person who could pray for this person. And maybe that’s why I’m there—that God put me in this place for those people.”

‘I thought that would be cool to do’

As intense as his work is, there is also a combination of satisfaction and joy for Eble, an Indianapolis native.

“Being a hometown kid and being able to fly over my hometown and help my hometown people, it’s very satisfying to me,” Eble says. “I’m very blessed.”

He grew up on the east side of the city in Our Lady of Lourdes Parish, attending its school and later graduating from Father Thomas Scecina Memorial High School in 1989. He also grew up with a love of aviation, especially military aircraft—a passion flamed by his father, Charles.

Yet after his high school graduation, he enlisted in the Army as a soldier—a choice that worried his mother, Diane. He assured her that he wouldn’t be in danger, that 15 years had passed since the United States was involved in a war, the one in Vietnam. That reassurance dissolved in 1991 when he was a soldier on the ground in Iraq, part of Operation Desert Storm, a military action led by the United States against Iraq for invading Kuwait.

That war ended quickly, but it led to about 300 American deaths. Soon after, Eble fulfilled his tour of service and returned to Indianapolis, where he enrolled in Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis (IUPUI), seeking to find a direction for his life. Nothing clicked, but one memory from those days is still fresh.

“When I was at IUPUI, I’d see the early LifeLine birds flying to the roof of Methodist,” he says with a smile. “At the time, I thought that would be cool to do.”

Around that time, in 1998, a friend who was flying Cobra helicopters for the Army—and who knew Eble’s interest in aviation—encouraged him to return to the Army to fly that aircraft, too.

After 18 months of training as an Army helicopter pilot, Eble was flying to Germany, where his life would be changed in more ways than one.

‘I’m blessed I got to help my country’

“When I finished flight school, I wanted to go to Europe and see the world,” he recalls. “I thought that’s where my future was. I didn’t know Ute was waiting for me.”

Eble met Ute Bornhauser, a German college student, through friends. He was drawn to her, but he soon had to leave for a six-month tour of duty in Kosovo. When he returned, they started dating in late 2002. Then in early 2004, Eble was deployed to fight in another war against Iraq. It was a 9 1/2-month tour that made him realize that life doesn’t give any guarantees about the amount of time a person gets, a tour that made him think seriously about his future with Ute.

“I got home on October 31, 2004,” he says. “We got engaged while I was home on leave.”

The next 16 years in the Army led to a move to Alabama for the married couple, then to Hawaii, then to Germany, back to Alabama and again to Hawaii—with a return to the wars in Iraq and in Afghanistan during that time.

Those years also led to their four children: Michael, Annika, Katja and Joshua.

By 2020—after nearly a combined 25 years of military service to his country—Eble knew he needed a change.

Looking back on his military experience, he says, “It was easier to do as a single guy and harder to do with a wife and kids. I’m blessed that I got to help my country out when they needed it the most because we were at war for almost 15 years. I was able to help my brothers on the ground. But toward the end, I was ready for a change. It was time.

“You don’t know how much sacrifice your family is doing. You’re just thinking about the mission all the time. I thought the family needed me more than the Army really needed me. I told Ute, ‘I just want to be home every day. I want to get my hands on the kids and see you all every day. Have an influence on them.’ ”

In the summer of 2020, Eble resigned from the Army and the family moved to his hometown in Indianapolis. Returning home, Eble still wanted to fly. He still remembered his days in college when he saw the LifeLine helicopters in the sky and thought how cool it would be to pilot one. On the day he applied for the job that summer, he was offered the opportunity to live that dream.

‘The golden hour’

In the military and LifeLine endeavors, there is a common connection called “the golden hour.”

“You try to get them to the best care you can within an hour,” Eble says. “That’s our focus—how we can quickly and safely do that.”

To prepare for the golden hour, he starts his shift at the Downtown Indianapolis Heliport by checking the helicopter, looking at the weather forecast and making sure the medical crews he works with have all the equipment and supplies they will need for whatever emergency situation arises.

“There’s always a sense of urgency,” says Eble, who prays a rosary before or during every shift. “When I walk out to the aircraft, I’ve already saved as much time as I could possibly save. From then on, it’s got to be the same way every time, so you never miss something.

“There are two kinds of missions you can get. The majority are where you’re picking up a patient from one hospital and bringing them to another one where they can get the best care in the state—Riley and Methodist, where the specialists are.

“The other 15 to 20 percent are trauma, injury, accident scenes. You never know what you’re going to get. There was a motorcycle accident in the middle of the night on I-65 near Edinburgh. I landed on I-65 with my rotors running. Our crew picked him up, and we took him straight to the hospital.”

Some emergencies strike close to the heart.

“When you see kids that aren’t much different from your kids, it hits you,” he says. “Michael is 17. I picked up a 16-year-old. They were like the same size. They looked similar. When you see your kids in other people’s kids, it’s hard.”

So are “the golden hour” flights involving babies and children struggling to live. When he gets them to Riley and the medical crew springs into action again, racing them to doctors, Eble often reaches for his phone.

“That’s when I call Ute if it’s one of those days,” he says. “Ute knows that if I call her and I’m at work, I’m usually at Riley. She asks if I’m doing OK, and I say, ‘I just want to talk.’ ”

He takes a deep breath and adds, “You see some challenging things. Every once in a while, I’ll ask my crew, ‘Hey, remember that baby we dropped off a few days ago, did you hear anything more about that?’ They ask if I want to know. I say, ‘Yes, please, it would do my heart good.’ They make backdoor phone calls, medical crew to medical crew. We never talk specifics. We just want to know if someone is OK.”

A thank you to God

On some Sunday evenings, when his shift that day extends beyond the usual 12 hours, Eble races from the heliport in downtown Indianapolis to nearby St. John the Evangelist Church in Indianapolis for the Mass at 7 p.m.

He slips into a pew, focusing his attention on the Mass and the homily while also asking God to look after the people his crew has helped that day and their families.

On those Sunday evenings when he’s rushed to get to Mass, he sometimes doesn’t have time to change out of his LifeLine uniform. As hard as he tries to not bring any attention to himself, the uniform doesn’t make it easy, and people sometimes come up to him after Mass, thanking him for what he does.

“I’m not a spotlight kind of guy,” Eble says. “When people see a helicopter and a helicopter pilot and they know it’s a LifeLine crew, they all want to high-five the pilot. But the people who really make the mission happen are my crew.

“My heroes are my nurses and my medics and my respiratory therapist. The things I see them do and the effort that I see them put into it remind me of being in the service and selling out for whatever it takes to make it happen. And being a part of that is rewarding.”

That feeling stays with him as he heads home to his wife and his children, wanting to be immersed in their lives, knowing how precious life is, and thanking God for leading him to a place where he tries to help people at the edge of life and death.

“I’m fortunate that I get to do what I’m doing,” he says. “I’m grateful that God has put me in that place.” †