By Major (Ret.) Terri Swank, U.S. Army and Ohio National Guard, 1979–2015
We’re thrilled to announce that Army veteran Terri Swank, a longtime and beloved member of the Veterans Breakfast Club community, has been named to the Ohio Veterans Hall of Fame Class of 2025.
The Ohio Veterans Hall of Fame, established in 1992, recognizes veterans not just for their military service, but for their exceptional achievements post-military. Its members include presidents, astronauts, educators, entrepreneurs, and community leaders—each of whom has made a lasting impact in civilian life.
Each year, the Ohio Department of Veterans Services (ODVS) and a volunteer executive committee select up to 20 inductees whose post-military accomplishments have improved lives across the state. This year’s class includes 20 veterans from four branches of service, representing fields as diverse as healthcare, education, conservation, public service, and veteran advocacy. Governor Mike DeWine and ODVS Director John C. Harris Jr. will officially induct the Class of 2025 at the 34th Annual Ohio Veterans Hall of Fame Ceremony on November 6, 2025, at The Fawcett Center at The Ohio State University in Columbus.
Terri’s selection comes as no surprise to those of us who know her. Her tireless work supporting veterans, mentoring others, and sharing her story with warmth and courage have long inspired our community. At the Veterans Breakfast Club, we’ve always said Terri belongs in a hall of fame—now Ohio agrees.
Now, here is Terri Swank’s story—in her own words.
I grew up a shy and quiet kid in Ohio, never imagining I’d spend 36 years in uniform. In high school, I intended to become a medical assistant. During my senior year, a few of us talked about joining the military. We asked a recruiter to come out and talk to us. He gave a great pitch, and by the time he left, we were all saying, “Yeah, we’re going to do this!”
But when it came down to it, only two of us actually enlisted. I was one of them.
The military sounded like a good idea at the time. I wanted to go to college, but my mom couldn’t afford it, and I didn’t have the means myself. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d wanted to be a nurse. The Army offered me a $1,500 bonus—a big deal back then—and a way to pay for school. So, one week after graduating from high school, at 18 years old, I signed the papers. That was June of 1979.
Basic Training was at Fort McClellan, Alabama. Alabama in August is hot, and it was post-Vietnam, so some of our drill sergeants were Vietnam veterans. They were strict, and it was tough.
We didn’t have physical training uniforms like soldiers do today. Our “PT uniform” was our regular uniform, minus the blouse and hat. We’d take those off, fold them neatly on the ground, and run in our boots, pants, and white T-shirts. That’s how we did PT. My feet got broken in, and I got tougher for it.
Basic was coed. Two platoons of women and two of men. We did everything together. The segregated Women’s Army Corps (WACs) had just folded for good the year before. I didn’t think much about being female in that environment. I was pretty naïve and didn’t realize some of the antics going on behind the scenes—18- and 19-year-olds sneaking off together. But as far as training went, we all pulled our weight. The only difference was the PT requirements. Men had to do more reps or faster times. Otherwise, we trained to the same standard.
We were supposed to do a twelve-mile road march near the end of basic, but a hurricane hit. We had to move all the bunks into the center of the barracks, barricade the windows, and ride it out. That’s how I missed my twelve-miler, thanks to Mother Nature.
After Basic, I went to Advanced Individual Training (AIT) at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas, to become a medic. The Army called it “medical specialist.”
That was October or November 1979. Fort Sam was nicknamed “The Country Club of the Army.” It was an open post and more relaxed than most places. We had a midnight bed check on weekdays, but on weekends we were free from Friday to Sunday night. We could go off-post into San Antonio, go to clubs, and have fun. There was still PT and military discipline, but there was plenty of partying too. It was a wild, memorable time.
Many of our instructors, again, had served in Vietnam, and they were tough but professional. We had drill instructors for the company and separate instructors for the classes. We practiced bandaging, splinting, IVs—everything a medic needed to know. You didn’t want to fail, because that meant getting recycled into the next class.
When I graduated, I came home to Ohio and joined the Army National Guard in a medical clearing company, which was three medical platoons and a headquarters section. I was a brand-new private, and I loved it. We trained one weekend a month, two weeks in the summer. The Guard had a reputation then for being a “drinking outfit,” but we worked hard during the day and celebrated after hours.
Our First Sergeant was a Marine Vietnam veteran—a big man with a booming voice who commanded instant respect. He was tough but fair, and he taught by example, pitching in right beside us. He became one of my first great leadership mentors. We also had several other Vietnam veterans in the unit, including an Operating Room (OR) tech and a Licensed Practical Nurse (LPN) who’d served in-country. They were incredible teachers.
Over the years, I rose through the ranks to E-7, platoon sergeant. I think there was only one other female platoon sergeant at the time. I learned to become a leader by being a leader. It was on-the-job training. I learned especially that leading involved listening. Even the youngest private could have the best idea. Leadership isn’t about “my way or the highway.” You have to listen, weigh input, and still make the call.
In 1982, our unit was authorized full-time positions. I applied and was selected, becoming an Active Guard and Reserve (AGR) soldier. Every Guard and Reserve unit has full-timers who handle day-to-day operations. That became my career.
Because I was AGR, I attended active-duty NCO schools—month-long or sixteen-week courses instead of the shorter Reserve versions. I did my Primary Leadership Development Course (PLDC) at Fort Knox, my Basic Noncommissioned Officer Course (BNOC) at Fort Sam Houston during the Gulf War in 1990–91, and my Advanced Noncommissioned Officer Course (ANOC) in 1994. During ANOC, we had a 72-hour field exercise where I was the RTO—the radio operator.
One of my classmates, a beret-wearing 82nd Airborne soldier, underestimated me. I was a woman in the National Guard, two strikes against me. He told us how to operate the old field “PRC” radio, then asked if I had questions. I said, “No, I think I got it.” Out in the field, I handled communications flawlessly—encrypting coordinates, sending reports, sleeping beside the radio for night checks.
When we turned in our equipment, he said, “I’m very impressed. I’d go with you anywhere.”
That was one of those small victories women in the military understand. You must prove yourself through competence, not argument.
While I was an E-7, I went back to college part-time. A classmate mentioned he was studying to become a Physician Assistant (PA). I’d never heard of it, so I asked questions and learned more.
The military had a PA program, so I contacted a medical recruiter, gathered the prerequisites, and started applying. It took me three tries—9/11 caused one board to be canceled—but I was finally accepted.
I attended the Interservice Physician Assistant Program (IPAP) from 2002 to 2004 at Fort Sam Houston. It was brutally hard, the academic equivalent of “drinking from a fire hose.” They said, “Strap the hose to your mouth, turn it on full blast, and don’t spill a drop.”
On top of the workload, I got a “Dear Jane” letter from the man I was dating. But I made it through.
After graduation, I worked at the James Cancer Hospital at Ohio State University, while remaining a traditional National Guard soldier. During PA school, the Iraq War began. I knew deployment was coming, so when a medical unit was tapped to go, I volunteered to transfer so I could choose who I deployed with. That unit deployed to Iraq in 2006–2007.
Our Area Support Medical Company had a treatment platoon, ambulance platoon, and headquarters platoon. I was one of three PAs alongside three doctors and a nurse. We deployed to the Baghdad area—Camp Liberty on Victory Base Complex. It was a sprawling place surrounded by Saddam’s old palaces. Our clinic was a Level II medical facility with pharmacy, X-ray, lab, and 48-hour patient holding capability.
Most days were routine sick call and urgent care. But one day early on, our first casualty came in. A U.S. contractor hit an IED that nearly severed his foot. That was my wake-up call: this was real.
We stabilized him and evacuated him to the Combat Support Hospital (CASH) in Baghdad. From then on, I knew that how I reacted in those moments would set the tone for everyone else. The medics look to the PAs. If I panic, they panic.
Some physicians accepted PAs as teammates. Others saw us as threats. One colonel I worked for disliked PAs and assigned me to night shift. I was a lieutenant, he was a colonel. I took it
Eventually, other doctors advocated for me, and I regained a better position. The PA profession was born in the 1960s from the shortage of primary care physicians. But even in the 2000s, some doctors felt territorial.
We PAs deployed for a full year then, while physicians rotated every 90 days. I chose to stay the full year. I would’ve felt guilty leaving early.
Halfway through, I was reassigned from Camp Liberty to FOB Shield, near Sadr City, a dangerous place. Our small clinic sat inside an Iraqi compound, with Ugandan security guards and civilian contractors providing perimeter defense. Flights were often canceled due to IEDs or aircraft being shot down, but if I needed a medevac, those pilots came. God bless them.
We were there during the Surge, when EFPs (explosively formed penetrators) from Iran wreaked havoc on U.S. vehicles. We heard explosions and saw smoke columns daily. One day, December 7th, a coordinated attack hit Victory Base. A 155mm round landed near our clinic, shaking the building and sending dust raining down from the rafters. The lights swung from the ceiling. Everyone ran to bunkers, which big concrete culverts open at both ends. I actually felt safer inside the clinic. If it was my time, it was my time.
We treated minor shrapnel wounds, like one young female mail clerk who caught a fragment on her neck. It wasn’t serious, but she was terrified. We evacuated her just to be safe.
Then came June 2007, one of the worst days of my life. A 2nd Infantry Division soldier was brought in after being shot in the head by a sniper. We did everything. CPR, airway management, IVs. But he had no pulse. His entire platoon gathered outside the clinic, waiting. I had to walk out and tell his sergeant and lieutenant he was gone. They both broke down crying. I kept it together, but inside I was shaken.
After mopping the blood, wrapping his head, and spraying air freshener to mask the metallic scent of death, I let his brothers file through one by one to say goodbye. Normally they’d never get that chance. When I couldn’t get a “hero flight” right away to take his body, I pushed until one was arranged. His men carried him to the helicopter for his final flight. I’ll never forget his name.
Later, the battalion sergeant major gave me his Second Infantry Division patch, a certificate, and a coin—thanking me for taking care of their men. That meant more than any award.
When it was time to rotate home, I was replaced by a nurse practitioner unfamiliar with trauma medicine. She didn’t know what the intubation drugs were for. My heart sank. I wanted to shake her. “Do you realize where you are?” But I had to let go. My time was over. I’d done my best.
We returned through Camp Atterbury, Indiana. The smell of freshly cut grass was intoxicating. One of those little things you don’t realize you’ve missed. Before we came home, the Family Readiness Group had told our families, “Your loved one will come back a different person.” I was angry. How dare they say that? But they were right. You don’t go to war and come back the same.
I became less patient. In some ways, that was good. The little stuff didn’t matter anymore. Nobody’s shooting at you, nobody’s trying to blow you up, then life is good. I didn’t fear dying. But I did fear being maimed . . . or my mother getting that dreaded knock on the door.
It took me a while to recognize my own PTSD. I’d jump at loud noises, like when a truck hit potholes on the freeway near my new house. The sound mimicked explosions. I had trouble sleeping, vivid dreams that felt like Quentin Tarantino and Stephen King co-wrote them—wild, vivid, disjointed, exhausting. I often dreamed I was back in uniform, always searching for something. My counselor later said that’s common for veterans: looking for something you can’t find.
The VA initially denied my PTSD claim because I didn’t have “nightmares.” I appealed later with additional documentation, including trauma from events in Iraq. I’ve since come to accept it, and even see it as something I can grow beyond. One of my classmates, an infantry PA, once said he was working toward “post-traumatic growth”—learning from the experience to live a better life. That resonated with me.
I retired from the Army and Ohio National Guard after 36 years, both active and reserve, as a full major. I began volunteering with Honor Flight Columbus, which takes senior veterans to Washington, D.C., to visit their memorials. My first flight, in September 2016, was an all-women veterans flight, and I was hooked. I’ve flown almost every mission since. Watching those veterans see their memorials, especially the Vietnam veterans who never got a welcome home, is one of the greatest joys of my life.
I also serve as a docent at the National Veterans Memorial and Museum in Columbus, Ohio. I’ve been there since it opened in 2018. My favorite part isn’t the exhibits—it’s meeting the veterans who walk through the door. I ask what branch they served in, when, where, and what they did. Sometimes, in that moment, they share stories they’ve never told anyone. There’s an unspoken bond among veterans that transcends rank, branch, or era.
I don’t tell visitors that I’m a veteran, but they usually figure it out. When you “speak the lingo,” they know. It’s my way of giving back and staying connected to the military community I love. After retiring, I renewed my medical license for a few years, thinking I might return part-time—but then COVID hit. They called for help, but I wasn’t needed. So now I give my time to veterans instead.
When I first raised my right hand in 1979, I had no idea I’d serve 36 years. I couldn’t even see beyond six. But God had other plans. He placed opportunities before me that shaped who I am today. I wouldn’t change a thing.
If there’s one message I’d give veterans, it’s this: sign up for Honor Flight. It truly is one of the best days of your life. And to those who serve and have served: thank you.
