STORIES MY FATHER TOLD ME – War Stories: Distinguished Flying Cross

Flight crews flying out of England over the European Continent on bombing missions experienced a horror that can hardly be imagined. There have been movies and books, some pretty good, but there is no way to relay how bad it could be. At the time Dad was flying B-17’s in daylight missions over Germany in mid-1944, the casualties and losses from combat operations with crew being killed or wounded, with aircraft being shot down, had diminished somewhat from the early days of 1942-1943, although many were still dying. The stress must have been unbelievable. Dad said that the time leading up to the mission was bearable, because you were so busy getting ready with briefings and the like. During the time you and your crew boarded the aircraft, went through the pre-flight checklist and then the actual taxiing and take-off, and the actual mission itself, you were so busy doing your job, you did not really have time to worry too much. Besides, once the fighters hit you and the flack started, you didn’t have time to be scared. At least that was normally the case.

EARTHQUAKE IN HAITI – Part 5

We packed up our gear for the day’s excursion out into the war zone that was Port au Prince. Before we left, our hosts, the inhabitants of the tarp, served us breakfast. It has always been my experience that no matter where you are in Haiti, or who you are with, that when they feed you, they give you the absolute best that they have, and it would be ungracious to not accept it without a show of thanks. Our breakfast that morning consisted of mac and no cheese, buns with some canned pink salmon inside and a warm Coca Cola! It was wonderful! Maybe they heard we were from Atlanta? Actually, Crawford told me later that he had told Pastor Jean Baptiste some time previously that Coca Cola was invented in Atlanta, he remembered, and they purposely sought out two cokes for us. No telling what they paid for them, but the sentiment was much appreciated.

MOTHER’S DAY

July 5, 1988. That’s the day my Mom left. She was 64 years old. Mom was born May 12, 1924. If she had lived, she would be eighty-nine years old in a few weeks.

Back in 1956 when I was just a ten year old boy, Mom suffered from excruciating headaches. Her doctor prescribed pain medications for her “migraines.” At the same time, she began experiencing vision problems. In the course of a few months, she went to her optometrist several times to get a new prescription for her ever worsening vision.  At her third visit to the optometrist, he said to her, “Jennie, there is something else going on here. There is no way your vision should change this substantially in such a short period of time.” He recommended a doctor in Marietta who was a neurosurgeon. After her visit to this new doctor, he immediately scheduled an emergency brain operation. He told her and Dad that she had a brain tumor, and that it was growing fast and would kill her in a matter of weeks, if not days, unless he operated immediately.

STORIES MY FATHER TOLD ME – War Stories: D-DAY

Most everyone over the age of thirty knows that D-Day refers to June 6, 1944. World War II. The war our fathers and grandfathers fought. Everyone who was in it remembers it still, like it was yesterday. As a child, I always enjoyed hearing war stories. Even now. But Dad did not talk about it that much until I would insist, and really not until years later when I was an adult.

His D-Day story, like many, had a twist. Every aircraft that was flyable was up that day. His B-17 Bomber Group’s mission was to bomb some railway center inland from the invasion front in order to disrupt possible German reinforcements to Normandy. Before they got to the target, his aircraft was pretty well shot up by fighters. With one engine on fire, another out, he dropped out of formation and hit the deck heading back to England with German fighters on his tail. The fighters went after other prey and dad nursed the B-17 toward the English Channel and safety. Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) in these situations was for returning bombers who still had bombs on board, and particularly those on fire, damaged or with possible problems landing, to jettison their load of bombs over the English Channel once clearing the French coast. The only problem with this directive on this particular day was that the English Channel was almost wall-to-wall ships, and would be for days to come. Friendlies. Our guys. It was all boats as far as the eye could see. From his vantage point over the English Channel, he said it looked like you could walk from France to England without getting your feet wet. Dad said it was an unbelievable sight, and at that moment he knew beyond a doubt that we would win the war. Unfortunately, that thought gave him only minimal comfort, since there was nowhere for him to unload tons of high explosives from a burning aircraft. Win the war? Yes. But at this moment, surviving the day, much less the war, was very much in question.

STORIES MY FATHER TOLD ME – War Stories: Headed to Europe

In May of 1944, dad and his crew finished their B-17 combat flight training and received their orders transferring them to Europe. The 8^th Air Force in England to be exact. They were to report to the 544^th Bombardment Squadron (Heavy), 384^th Bomb Group (Heavy), Station 106, at Grafton Underwood in Northamptonshire, England, north of London. In case you are wondering, “heavy” means heavy bombers. In this case, the B-17G, the latest model. The “G” had a distinctive chin turret, which set it apart from earlier models. It had a wingspan of 103’ and was just over 74’ in length. It held 3,600 gallons of fuel, and held various loads of bombs depending on the length of the mission, which were all weight sensitive.

The men who flew the B-17, almost to a man, thought it was the best aircraft ever made. Dad was included in that number. It could be shot to pieces and even lose three of its four engines and still fly and get them home. It held together with damage that it was never designed to withstand. There are tales of B-17’s surviving things it is hard to believe. Dad loved it.

EARTHQUAKE IN HAITI – Part 4

After our 4:15 AM wake-up serenade under our tarp home, it was impossible for me to go back to sleep. Morning comes early in Haiti, anyway, usually around dawn as everyone starts their day in one way or another. There is no such thing as a peaceful, quiet and serene morning in Haiti, at least in my experience over the last 10 years. Our ministries are located in the urban areas of Port au Prince where the population is dense. Add to that the fact that almost everyone is outside, rather than inside their home. Remember, just about every structure in Port au Prince was damaged in one way or another, from visible cracks in foundations, to collapsed buildings. There were many that collapsed due to aftershocks, and more people were killed. Therefore, the survivors were unwilling to enter their homes, even those that looked OK.

I was one of the first out from under the tarp that first morning, since I was not going to sleep, and besides, I had to see in daylight exactly what the destructions around me looked like. Parts of the concrete block walls that surrounded Pastor Jean Baptist’s home and school had fallen down, with large gaps and cracks throughout. The school building and home were basically intact, but glimpsing inside you could see rubble and piles of furniture where they had been tossed around by the earthquake. There were cracks in the walls, but the roof appeared to be in place, although until the rains come, you will not know if they are still waterproof (I doubt it). Remember, the roofs are flat poured concrete slabs laid between structure walls with some rebar for stability. Not enough.

INDIAN ARROWHEADS

In October of 1984, Michelle and I, along with a group of friends, including my sister, Cynthia, my brother, Bruce, and some of his buddies, went camping and hiking for a weekend in North Carolina.  Michelle was about four months pregnant with our first child, Bill.  We were camping at Smokemont campground near Cherokee, North Carolina and the Cherokee Indian Reservation.

On Saturday, the group took off for where the Appalachian Trail crossed the road at Newfound Gap, half-way between Cherokee and Gatlinburg.  From there we started hiking North on the Trail toward Charlie’s Bunion, a good three or four hour hike on a steady uphill climb.  Michelle was a real trooper, but finally decided that she would “punt” and returned back to the car with Cynthia to await our return.

STORIES MY FATHER TOLD ME – War Stories: The Mississippi River and Turkeys

During his training to become a B-17 pilot, there was much classroom time spent in learning everything you could about aerodynamics and the like, and particularly everything you ever wanted to know about a B-17, but forgot to ask. And of course, there was the flying. That was the part all the pilots and crew loved best. 

Learning to fly in formation was probably the most difficult task, but it was stressed that learning to do so effectively would save your life in combat. The closer you could get to your fellow B-17’s in your formation, wingtip to wingtip, the better a concentrated field of fire you could put out to keep enemy fighters at bay. It was stressed that the formations that were the tightest, were the ones the German fighters would avoid. They would look for the looser formations, which were easier game. Dad said if he had a pencil on the end of his wingtip, he could write his name on the plane nearest him. An exaggeration maybe, but the point was not lost on the men flying B-17’s.

Lullaby in Haiti

At 4:15 AM our first morning in Haiti, a baby cried, and a mother sang a lullaby, and everyone under the tarp began to sing…”beni swal eternal” – God is always good! – and “Merci Jesuse” – Thank you Jesus…

SGT REED’S PIZZA

In 1970-71, while in the Army, I was stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok, Thailand. That, in and of itself, should tell you that I had a pretty good war. While my buddies were getting their butts shot off in Nam, I was fighting the “Bloody Bangkok Campaign” as I refer to it. Someone had to do it. My cousin, Cliff, was a Ranger Infantry Company Commander at this time. I got a letter from him asking if I got R&R (Rest and Recuperation), or did I consider myself on permanent R&R…the latter.