On December 15, 1944, Major Glenn Miller, leader of The Glenn Miller Orchestra, disappeared over the English Channel on his way to Paris, France to give a performance for American soldiers who had recently liberated Paris from the Germans. There is mystery surrounding his disappearance, and therefore there are numerous legends that have sprung up about what actually happened.
Here is what is supposedly known: His plane departed from the RAF airfield at Twinwood Farm in Clapham, Bedfordshire (no flight plan was actually filed and there were no authorized orders for any such flight) in a single-engine UC-64. The flight disappeared over the English Channel and was never found. It is theorized that inclement weather over the Channel caused the aircraft to crash.
Here is Dad’s story: In the Fall of 1944, after his tour of 35 combat missions in B-17’s, he was assigned as a test pilot at The Depot in England. Here aircraft, mainly P-51 fighters that had been shot up, were repaired. The test pilots would take them up and make sure they held together before being released back for combat duty.
On the night of December 14th, the Chief Test Pilot at the Depot, one of Dad’s superior officers, was involved in a long night of drinking with Glenn Miller which carried over into the early morning hours of December 15th. Miller was scheduled to fly out to Paris in a day or so to meet up with the members of his band to put on a show for the troops there. The decision was made to squeeze in a couple of extra days in Paris by firing up the UC-64 and heading on over for a party. They were pretty drunk and should not have been flying. But they took off into the fog of that early English morning and were never heard from again. A few days later, Dad was assigned as Chief Test Pilot to take over for the missing officer.
Dad on right…next to the Depot’s UC-64
When it became apparent that Miller was missing and the facts of the drinking and party plans in Paris came to light, it was decided that it would be better to let the story be told, in as little detail as possible, that Miller was lost on his way to perform for the troops. An element of truth, but not the whole story.
In 1972, I made my first big sale in the real estate business, resulting in a hefty commission (hefty for a guy who spent the previous two years paid by Uncle Sam). I had bought a 1968 Olds Cutlass Supreme Convertible when I got out of the Army, but I wanted a new car. I went up to the Pontiac/Cadillac dealer in Marietta on Roswell Road near the Square and laid down cash for a new 1973 Pontiac Gran Prix. My first new car.
I had just started dating Michelle and she was in Delta Air Lines Stewardess Training. She lived in the Delta Dorm at the Airport. They had a midnight curfew, so no late evenings for us during her training.
Back to my new Gran Prix. The day I purchased it, I had a date with Michelle that night. My buddy Tim Huggins had a date with one of Michelle’s Delta classmates, June. I don’t remember what we did early that evening, but we ended up at my mom and dad’s house in Vinings, listening to Hank Williams albums on their hi-fi.
I remember looking at my watch and seeing it was 11:00 pm and it took an hour’s drive to get to the Delta Dorm. We all dashed out to our cars, Tim and June in his and Michelle and I in my new Gran Prix. We hauled butt to the airport. I was in front as I pulled onto I-285 off of what I still called the Four-Lane (Cobb Parkway to most of you younger folks). I let my new baby car eat.
I don’t know what the speed limit was back then, but rest assured, I was far exceeding it. Then the blue lights appeared behind me. Yeah, I got pulled over for speeding. I didn’t notice Tim speed by as we were pulled over, but he must have said, “Better him than me.” I wouldn’t have blamed him.
Being stopped for speeding was not the end of the world, but as you can imagine, alcohol was involved in our evening. Not just a little. I was going to jail, I knew. Michelle and I looked at each other, and both of our greatest fear was that being late for curfew at the Delta Dorm might in some way affect her becoming a Delta Stew.
The Cobb County police officer was very polite. He informed me I was exceeding the speed limit, and by the way, “Have you been drinking?” I was dead meat. He pointed out that I had no tag on the car and I told him I had purchased it that day. Of course, the paperwork for purchasing the car was not in the glove box. He took me to the back seat of his cruiser, leaving Michelle in my car. I explained to him our situation and asked if Michelle could take my car and drive to the airport. He said my car was going to be impounded and did I want him to call a taxi for Michelle or let her walk.
It was then that I played the name game. I asked him if he knew Detective Troy Balenger. He stopped writing my ticket and turned around and gave me a hard look. He asked how I knew Detective Balenger. I told him that his wife, Lee, was our Reed Realty secretary for a number of years. He asked me for my business card to make sure I was not making up the Reed Realty part. Then he asked me a couple of questions to determine that I really knew them. After a long silent look, he said, “Detective Balenger has done me some favors over the years, and I’m doing this for him.” He then tore up the ticket.
As he let me out of the car and walked me back to my car, he motioned for Michelle to get out of the car. He told us that Michelle could drive. He also told me that if I came back home this way and he saw me, I would be going to jail. Then we shook hands. He actually smiled at me.
Michelle peeled out and I thought the police officer was going to pull us over again. He probably just sat there shaking his head. Michelle drove like a bat out of hell. As we came to the airport exit on I-285, she missed it. I called out to her that we had missed the exit, and she did not hesitate…she cut hard right, jumped the curb, bounded up the grass incline, jumping the curb again, and onto the exit lane. We actually left the ground a couple of times. She was cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, was frantic for my new baby car.
She pulled into the Delta Dorm parking lot at 11:59 pm and ran through the door at exactly 12:00 midnight. June was waiting for her. Michelle’s carriage, my Gran Prix, did not turn into a pumpkin. I drove home going through downtown Atlanta and I-75 back to Vinings, heeding the words of the officer.
The next day, I stopped by a package store and bought a fifth of Jack Daniels. I drove to the Cobb County Police Department and asked to see Detective Balenger. When Troy came out, I told him the story and handed him the Jack with many thanks.
Detective Troy Balenger saved my butt that night, and didn’t even know it until I told him. Troy is gone, but I am still friends with Lee, and I hope she enjoys this story.
When I was a kid, I was enthralled with snakes. I was not afraid of them (duh). I learned a lot about them in the Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. Be careful with a little knowledge. It can bite you.
Summer of 1960, when I was thirteen years old, our family pretty much lived the entire summer at our cabin on Lake Allatoona. It was an idyllic time for me. I had a ski boat dad let me boat all of the lake with, I fished every day, I found numerous Indian arrowheads, I swam, I water skied, I slept almost every night out on our screen porch, camped out on our dock many nights, would catch ducks by swimming underwater and grabbing them by the leg, and on and on. It was a wonderful time of my childhood.
And snakes…did I mention there were a lot of snakes? Anyway, I was a self-pronounced “expert” on all things herpetology.
One day, a group of the cabin kids in our cove were gathered at the corner of our cabin making a racket. I ran up to find that they had found a snake. It was coiled to strike. I took charge of the situation and had the children back up. The snake finally backed down and did not look ready to strike. I explained to the children that you did not have to fear snakes, but you had to respect them and give them their distance. As we were talking, the snake slowly started to slither away. I then decided to further wow the kids with my expertise and explained how you pick up a snake. You grab it behind the head so it can’t bite you.
I reached down and grabbed the snake. Behind the head. Unfortunately for me, the snake decided to slither along as I grabbed it…about six inches behind the head. I picked the snake up. The snake immediately swung its head around and bit me on my index finger.
I screamed like a little girl, all the while loosening my grip on the snake and shaking it like crazy to get it to let go. It did and promptly slithered away.
As most manly thirteen year olds will do in a situation like this, I ran screaming to my mommy (she had gone to nursing school). She examined my finger and saw the teeth marks on the top and bottom of my finger. She explained to me that I was lucky. Lucky, I said? How could I be lucky by being bitten by a snake? She happened to have some expertise herself in all things herpetology. She explained that I was lucky it was not a poisonous snake. She pointed out that a poisonous snake leaves two fang marks into which it has injected its venom. No fang marks on me, just the even bite marks, disinfected and covered by a Band-Aid. I guess this information reassured me, maybe not just then, but it definitely added to my expertise on snakes. Now I could tell the story of having been bit by a snake. Even though it made me look like the idiot I was as a brilliant self-proclaimed herpetology expert.
The moral of the story: DON’T PICK UP A SNAKE!
(BTW, many years later, I was again bitten by a snake – a Copperhead this time, but that is another story.)
In September of 1964, my dad dropped me off at UGA in the parking lot of Payne Hall where I was an incoming Freshman. I was about to become Joe College. Quite a leap from Campbell High School in Smyrna, Georgia. I had never lived anywhere but home in my 17 years. Payne Hall would now be my home away from home. Payne was an older dorm next to Milledge Hall, the two of which formed a quadrangle in the center. With the nearby Reed Hall, these three dorms were generally recognized as where most of the incoming Freshmen lived. The three dorms backed up to Sanford Stadium. Not a bad locale.
There are many stories that circle around Payne Hall and then Reed Hall, where I lived the second half of my Freshman year, but this is about Payne, and more specifically about the “Phantom Conductor of Payne Hall.”
As mentioned above, Payne Hall shared a Quadrangle center area with Milledge Hall. My room was on the south leg of Payne on the third floor overlooking the Quad. My roommate was one of my best friends from High School, Tim Huggins. Payne was full of a pack of uncivilized primates, some suspect as to how they ever got into an institution of higher learning. I must admit, I bore resemblance to that pack. We were all spreading our wings and learning to fly from the nest. Truth be told, some aspects of home life afforded us more freedom than college life. There were rules at college, some of which could get you kicked out, whereas at home, maybe you were grounded. Anyway, with great freedom, came great responsibility…don’t get caught.
One of my most treasured possessions, which I took to college with me, was my hi-fi stereo record player with detachable speakers. My record collection was in its infant stages at the time, so I “borrowed” some of mom and dad’s albums. My favorite of which was Rhapsody in Blue / An American in Paris with Leonard Bernstein conduction the New York Philharmonic and The Colombia Symphony. I would play Rhapsody every night for Tim and I before going to bed.
One night, I had a wild hair and opened my dorm window and placed my speakers in the window and then cranked up Rhapsody in Blue. This was, of course, not allowed. I was received well, judging from the catcalls and other enlightened comments yelled into the Quad by the many classic music fans living therein. Just for spite, er, I mean back by popular demand, I played it again the next night. This time I actually received some more supportive catcalls. So, I did it a third night. This time there were no cat calls, or for that matter, no calls at all until it was finished, when there was applause filling the Quad. Thereafter, I would play it every night. On the rare night I did not automatically place my speakers in the windows and play the nightly lullaby for my classmates, I would hear calls from dorm windows surrounding the Quad demanding Rhapsody. That pretty much sealed the deal…it was a tradition now.
This continued for the Fall and Winter Quarters of 1964-1965. In the Spring, Tim and I were transferred to Reed Hall and split up as roommates due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with Dean Cannon, Assistant Dean of Men, having to do with illicit use of fireworks (we were innocent, but paid the price anyway…another story for another time).
They, the UGA dorm authorities, never figured out who the “Phantom Conductor” was. But after a short search to determine whom the offending party was, they obviously decided to allow it to continue, probably because of the many vocal supporters of Rhapsody.
I’ll wager that there are old men today who still tell the story of the “Phantom Conductor of Payne Hall” and his nightly concert of Rhapsody in Blue.
Mark Reed
I'm a baby boomer, who came of age in the 40's, 50's, and 60's--a child of the south--and I like to tell stories. Mostly stories that have been told to me by family and friends... and some are my own. Visit my Facebook
Missing the Mark 
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