Milk Run - BAM!

In the business of daylight bombing, there is a distinct advantage over night time bombing under the light of flares. It lies mostly in the fact that you can see outside and generally tell what’s going on. Sometimes, however, you still can’t really know about what’s going on because there’s simply too much going on at the same time! Does that make sense? I’ve tried to let you experience some of what went on in the preparation and roll in to deliver weapons. A lot of stuff.

I forgot to mention that you still have to fly the airplane all the time too. If you forget to fly the airplane, bad things happen. Sometimes when you do the prep, get into the delivery mode and fly the airplane, bad things happen anyway. That was the case for me and my back seater Bill, that early afternoon day in November of ’65.

To digress a bit and set the scene some, there was a lot more going on than just a quick call for some air support or tactical bombing. It seems that intel had received word that a very large shipment of materiel was making its way down the trail to Tchepone (see the entry for September 7th, two blogs back). The area had been under almost constant attack since dawn. This is not good when you are the guys coming for the tenth or twelfth raid on the same target. First, there is no element of surprise left. Second, they are waiting for more folks to come along and bomb them and most importantly, they are really pissed. So there goes Dave and Bill, two first lieutenants, number two in a flight of four, down the slot. We were probably the twentieth group of yankee air pirates to visit that day. They were ready.

The 37mm Anti Aircraft guns and their crews were ready too. The range of that weapon is about 4 kilometers, or about 13,123 feet. In theory, if you stay fifteen thousand feet above the target area, you won’t get hit. Sometimes that doesn’t work, for every now and then, one shell will make it further. The golden BB. The one that got us. (You can click on the pictures to enlarge)

When you get hit by one of these things, an explosive charge goes off and thousands of pieces of lead and steel are propelled in a spherical shaped cloud. The idea behind it is, of course, to rip the airplane apart or in the very least so damage it that it won’t fly. Best of all, for those on the ground, the airplane might disintegrate in a cloud of smoke! Thankfully, the shell that hit us was a partial dud and only the bottom half of the charge went off ("How does he know this?" Sez you, the loyal reader. That's a part of the rest of the story). Even so the noise was very loud (like a cherry bomb at your feet) and the phantom shuddered like nothing I had ever experienced before. We had taken the hit a couple of feet from the leading edge and not far enough back to screw up the left main landing gear. There was a big hole in the left wing. The plane rolled over to the right about 200 degrees and flopped around like it was on the verge of forgetting how to fly. Most of the amber warning lights in the cockpit came on together as if someone had thrown a switch controlling a Christmas decoration you didn’t want to see.

The first thing that came to my mind was to tell Bill, “Don’t Eject!” In a microsecond I also thought, “What if he only hears ‘Eject!’”?

Milk Run - All Shook Up!

The forward air controller talked with flight lead and described the target that he needed us to take care of. To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember what it was. It could have been that almost “invisible” bridge or something else that the FAC could see pretty easily, but we couldn’t, considering our altitude and speed as we circled above. Whatever it might have been, the FAC marked it with a phosphorous smoke rocket and the area of interest became very visible. “Lay the bombs down a hundred yards east of the smoke”, or something like that he’d say. “Your target is under the tree canopy, on a line southeast to northwest beginning east of the smoke and continuing for about a quarter of a mile”.

We followed Willy as he positioned himself on a perch, about fifteen thousand feet up (I really don't remember). It had to be close enough in (that is, off set) and high enough up (distance away, along the off set), to allow the pilot to maneuver into a fairly steep (some thirty to forty degrees) path which paralleled the target’s axis. If you were too far out, the glide path would be too shallow and the bombs would drop short, too close in and the opposite would happen. It took some maneuvering around, but it wasn’t as difficult as it may sound. The “pipper” a depressible, illuminated reticle, (ooops, does everyone know what that is? )

reticle |ˈretikəl|

noun

a series of fine lines or fibers in the eyepiece of an optical device, such as a telescope or microscope, or on the screen of an oscilloscope, used as a measuring scale or an aid in locating objects.

would have been preset to give the correct representation along the path over the ground as to the alignment of the Phantom along the desired run in. So you have these factors to confirm as you fly around positioning yourself on the lead and the other two planes in the flight - altitude to roll in, angle off to get the correct dive angle, pipper setting, arming the appropriate weapon stations, keeping your eye on the target, watching the smoke, airspeed within a few knots of correct release velocity, and listening for lead to be cleared in. Lead rolls in, I follow just enough behind him to give myself good spacing and allow me to recover without worrying too much about where he was going to be.

Ok, everything’s done. Rolling in hot. Good angle off. Acceptable dive angle (can adjust release to compensate). Pull throttles back a bit to maintain speed in the dive (seems like we used about 350-400 knots, but I forget). Watch altimeter. Adjust alignment for a better run in heading. Trim the airplane. Be aware of “G’s”. You want the plane to fly down the chosen path, all trimmed up and smooth as possible. Pipper moving along nicely towards smokey target area (a bunch of tree tops!). Willy’s bombs hit right on the target, my pipper crosses aiming point, I release. There’s only one spot in space that is the correct release point above any particular target. Airspeed, altitude, angle, pipper position all must be correct and perfect. This rarely happens. Most of the time you simply compensate one way or another for what you know to be the anomaly in your “perfect bomb run”.

When all of those bombs leave the plane there is a pretty big mechanical sounding jerky vibration. Over in a half second. You know the bombs are gone (hopefully, all of them).

The fun has just begun. If you’re smart, you’ll begin the 4 G (or whatever you can get) pull up with a hard turn, one way or another. Firewall the power. Follow this with another turn immediately in the other direction. Reverse. Reverse. Reverse again. Go up. Climb. Get the hell out of there! It’s called jinking, basically not setting up a straight line or climb angle for a gunner to get a sight on you. You can look in the rear view mirror to see if you hit anything, but don’t worry about that too much.

We had been briefed that there was no significant anti-aircraft weaponry in the area. They were wrong.

Milk Run - Turning Sour

It's 135 miles from Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base to Tchepone Laos, as the crow flies. You can see from the map at the right, the Ho Chi Minh trail came out of North Viet Nam, into Laos and paralleled the South Viet Nam border all the way down to Cambodia and beyond."It linked North and South Vietnam via the Laotian panhandle, and it was an indispensable source of supplies for communist forces operating below the 17thparallel in the 1960s and early 1970s. Air interdiction and special operations forces slowed but never stopped the flow of matériel. President Lyndon Johnson, primarily for political considerations, would not approve air strikes around Hanoi and Haiphong, which might have been more successful in the overall effort to disrupt enemy activities. Initially opened to support Viet Cong guerrillas in South Vietnam, the Ho Chi Minh Trail was nothing more than a skein of rustic traces through the wilderness in the late 1950s. Dedicated men, women, boys, and girls trudged down its paths bent bandy-legged beneath heavy loads, all but ignored by senior officials in Washington and Saigon because the invoices were unimpressive: a little rice, pitted handguns captured from the French, homemade weapons pieced together like so many Rube Goldberg inventions. The tempo, however, gradually picked up and the consignments increasingly included items such as radios, pharmaceuticals, plastic explosives, recoilless rifles, and repair parts. Ammunition requirements multiplied exponentially after U.S. combat forces hit North Vietnamese Army (NVA) regulars head on in 1965." (from Autumn/Winter 1997–98 / JFQ)

On 16 November 1965, Willie Wells and his flight of four phantoms took about thirty minutes to get to Tchepone. Flight lead contacted the FAC (Forward Air Controller) and began to get final instructions for the mission we had briefed.

It always seems simple enough. The idea is to cut the highway or destroy the bridge serving the highway. The enemy was clever. The "bridges" were built so that they were about two feet under the surface of the water and the road usually divided into a web of roads leading up to the river, and there was another web on the other side.

You really never knew where the bridge was.

Milk Run, Intelligence and the Art of Leaving Town

OK, so maybe it wasn't REALLY Robert MacNamara who walked into the alert shack that afternoon. But it was an honest to goodness minion of his and he had some news about something or other that needed bombing really soon. "Since you guys aren't doing anything to earn a living just sitting around here playing cribbage, take four Phantoms, eight fighter jocks and about 52,000 pounds of bombs over here to this small town in Laos and blow up the bamboo bridge that leads into town." Well, something like that.

The name of the place was Tchepone Laos, (on most maps now, Sepone) about seventy-five miles west of the South China Sea, fifteen miles from the South Vietnamese border and the same distance from the cease fire line of 1954. Oh, did I mention? It was a major intersection of the Ho Chi Mihn Trail. This seemed easy enough we all thought, after all, it was daylight! We were going to be able to see where we were going by looking outside the airplane! It was a typical SE Asia early winter day - scattered clouds probably working their way up to a thunderstorm or two, no strong winds and unlimited visibility. A Phantom Phlyer's dream mission: flight of four, air to ground bombing, possible targets of opportunity after the initial passes, no reported triple A, only a hundred fifty miles from "home", quick and easy, back for dinner.

After the intelligence guy got through with his briefing, my flight leader "Willy" told us what he expected from us and we walked briskly out to the waiting airplanes. As we strapped in, we ran the cockpit check lists. It was designed so that each man had his own things to check and there was little need initially, for cross-checks. Once things were powered up, you’d put on your helmet and begin a brief crosscheck with the guy in back and then wait for start-up time. Firing up the engines was straight forward and then you’d switch to internal power and you’d be ready to go. It was easy to see the other guys, and the flight leader would say “Raven flight, check in.” We answer simply... “two, three, four.” The leader called the tower “Ubon, taxi Ravens.” The tower responded “taxi runway 27 right, wind two seven zero at eight knots, altimeter setting 29.89.” You’d go out to the ramp area and then to the taxiways and see the other guys and fall in line according to your position. It wasn't far to the end of the runway and there was the arming area. The pins on the bombs and rockets and other neat stuff would be removed and the armament would be further checked by ordinance people and made ready to go. I guess I should have mentioned before that initially the pilot just checks to be sure that the bombs, etc. are the ones called for on the mission and that they are in fact, safe to taxi with. He doesn’t pull pins on the weapons in the ramp area, that is the very last thing that is done before takeoff. The ordinance guys show all of the pins to the pilots double checking everything as being ready to go and then the leader will get a head shake from the guys indicating “ready”. He calls the tower, “Ubon, Raven ready for takeoff”. “Taxi into position and hold”. The four Phantoms taxi onto the runway and take their predetermined position, two by two. “Raven flight, winds two eight zero at ten knots, cleared for takeoff.” Willie points his right index finger up in the air and with a circular motion gives the signal to “wind up” the engines. You run each engine up separately (the engines on the F4’s were so powerful that the brakes wouldn’t hold if they were both powered up simultaneously) and check them out one last time. You nod to the leader and he powers up to about 85 percent on both engines, releases his brakes and I begin to count "one thousand one, one thousand two" and at five seconds or so, I release the brakes, apply 100% power, then into full afterburner. It doesn't take long to get to flying speed, airborne, and clean up the jet. As number two in the flight of four, I look for my leader, now turning North. I join him in the turn.

Milk Run, Finally We Get To Fly In The Daytime!

I was priviledged to have as mentor, drinking instructor and flight C.O. a man who had flown in the Korean war. He taught us how to use a black grease pencil to mark on the inside of the canopy to use as a sight and other neat tricks. I think of him most every day and thank him for teaching me so much and being a friend and great leader (in his own cantankerous way).

I can see the guys sitting around, playing cribbage or something, waiting for someone to come in the room and announce that our skills in close air support were needed. Everybody was more or less similar in appearance, having partially prepared ourselves for the fastest exit and take-off possible.
So, you put your G-suit on first, then your survival vest, which had little pockets all over it containing stuff for use if the worst thing happened. There was a first aid kit and I also chose to have one hundred rounds of 357 ammo and some tracer bullets. A shoulder holster with its contents more or less duct taped in was in the next layer. I had purchased a Smith and Wesson 357 magnum with a six inch barrel (my personal weapon). They issued us a puny little thirty eight snub nosed thing of a revolver, but it seemed to me that I could fight my way out better with the magnum. This of course, was just a pipe dream and simply used to bolster my own confidence! Then there was the harness. It was a bunch of straps which went all around your chest, up through your crotch on either side and was all sewn on to a garment that could be said to resemble a vest, of sorts. We would typically get ready to fly by putting on a harness which connected to the rocket ejection seat in the plane. This was good, because everything remained in the plane and you didn’t have to lug it around like you did with the older fighters. This all hooked up to the ejection seat, as I mentioned. It wasn’t really as complicated or weighty as it may sound. It was comfortable, more or less and once you got everything fitted OK, which took some time initially, it was a good outfit and I felt that everything could be used for survival, if you were unlucky enough to be shot down and escape immediate capture.
The aircraft were assigned (in either flights of four or two) and they were all parked on the ramp that was just outside the squadron ops building. We either would walk or get a lift to the plane. Typically all of the planes would be fairly close together or even next to each other, so you could use hand signals for things if you needed to.

A guy from intelligence came in about two that afternoon.

Milk Run, The Briefing

After we had been in Thailand for a couple of months, learning as we flew about strategic targeting, night refueling, long trips to North Viet-Nam and bombing things in valleys under the light of flares, we looked forward to what was called "alert".

Standing alert was almost a treat some days. The term comes from the fact that you weren't scheduled for any particular target or time. You stood by, on "alert", for someone to call in a need for close air support, or a quick response to a new threat discovered by "intelligence". It was a good way to spend an afternoon. Here's why. First of all you got to fly in the daytime! Secondly, the missions were quick, no airborne refueling, in most cases, the whole thing over in an hour or so. The hard part was often being so close to the friendlies - there was real concern over collateral damage.

Our leaders and their aircrews were very well trained, experienced, standardized and knew each other well enough to minimize the briefing required. It often was something like, "takeoff at 1545, this is the target, everything's standard, any questions?" It worked really well, considering the complexity of getting four bomb-laden Phantoms and their eight crew members into the planes, out to the runway, armed and off to fight in as few as twenty minutes or less. In the Deuce (Convair's F102), we made into the air in three or four minutes from a dead sleep, but that was an interceptor's mission, somewhat simpler.

Anyway, sitting on standby alert was a special treat. I can remember an afternoon in November of 1965 when I was on alert.

Valentine's Day - 1945

This is the continuation of a story written by S/Sgt Chuck Walter, the armor gunner on my cousin Rufus' B-26. He is recalling the last flight of their crew and what happened to them after they were shot down.

The picture on the left is of me, age five or six and Rufus when he was still in the Aviation Cadet program at an airbase near our home in El Monte California.

At age twenty, Charles “Chuck” Walter became a member of the U.S. Army Air Corps. He would spend most of the war in a B-26 Marauder as an Armor Gunner attached to the 9th Air Force’s 323rd Bomb Group with the 455th Bombardment Squadron.

The Marauder was a fairly new plane to the Air Force. Ordered as a “twin-engine bomber with great emphasis placed on speed, range and operational altitude,” it was manufactured by the Martin Company. 5,157 planes would be used in the war efforts, including one flown by Jimmy Doolittle in North Africa to prove: “It’s just another airplane. Let’s start it up and play with it.”

The 323rd was first assigned to the 8th Air Force, then transferred to the 9th in October of 1943. In July of 1943 the group began attacking marshalling yards, airdromes, industrial plants, military installations and other targets in France, Belgium and Holland. It then undertook numerous attacks on V-weapon sites along the French coast and attacked airfields, and Leeuwarden and Venlo as part of the Allied campaign against the German Air Force and aircraft industry from 20-25th February 1944.

FEBRUARY 14, 1945
VALENTINE DAY MISSION #25

Flight going well until we encountered heavy flak at about 10:00 A.M. Right engine took heavy hit. We feathered the prop and dropped out of the formation, as we couldn’t maintain speed and position. We started back toward our lines, were met with oncoming flak from the ground. The engine caught fire at about 3500 feet. We did evasive action, trying to avoid getting hit. I was in the tail telling Willie, my pilot, where the shell bursts were, and we would turn away. We weren’t hit again but every time we turned to the dead engine side, we would lose altitude until we were at about 1200 feet.
My pilot rang the “bail out” button and the enlisted men bailed out. I was the farthest away in the tail, but was the second man out. My chute opened and I did one or two swings, being fired at on the way down, having bullet holes in my chute to prove it. I landed real hard on my butt, injuring my back. I also sustained burns from the flames that were coming in the waist window as I bailed out.
The gun crew that was shooting at us picked me up. Their crew chief was a little 5’5” fellow, but he had a P38 pistol pointed at me before I could get to my feet. The radioman, Rouser, was picked up by the regular army and was treated okay. Frank Miller, our engineer, was picked up by the townspeople and was beaten quite badly.
The first 24 hours were the worst because we didn’t know if any of the crew had survived. I was put in a jeep-type vehicle and taken by a private in the German Army to a gathering point. Our planes, fighters, were circling overhead; and every time my captor saw a plane, he would stop and run for the ditch, leaving me in the car. I was sure glad that our fighters didn’t see us. We finally arrived at the outpost where I was thrown in an upstairs bedroom in an old farmhouse, scared to death.
During the next twenty-four hours, planes bombed close enough that as I lay on the floor, I could see the plaster crack above me. The next day we made the outpost where I was joined by my engineer and radioman. While we were there, an ambulance arrived. In it were my pilot, Lt. Rufus Wilson, my co-pilot, 2nd Lt. John Weinstein, and my bombardier, 2nd Lt. James Rudig. Lt Wilson had a broken neck, dying three days later. The co-pilot, Weinstein, had broken bones, but Bombardier Rudig was not injured very much. The three officers had gone down and crash-landed with the plane. The hydraulic system had been shot out, and the doors of the plane would not open. The plane was on fire when it landed and was damaged quite badly.
There was a lot of screaming coming from within the plane when it landed. The rescuers thought that the enlisted men had not gotten out of the plane and were trapped inside by the flames. There may have been some of the enemy on the ground and the plane landed on or trapped them.
The interrogators took our money, anything else they wanted, and one dog tag. We were marched to the next place by one guard—an old soldier in the regular army. As we marched, we met forced laborers from different countries. They told us (sign language) that we would be killed.
We arrived in one town and went to the railroad station. While we were there, a group of townspeople gathered and started yelling. A crowd surrounded us, and we were afraid they were going to hang us. We walked out of the town with our soldier guard following behind. We finally arrived in Wetzler where they took all of our Air Force clothing and issued us plain U.S. Army clothing. Each of us got a long winter coat. We were then sent to Frankfurt on the Main to be questioned.
I was placed in a very small room and asked all kinds of questions about the U.S. Air Force. If we refused to answer questions put to us, the heat was turned up with each refusal. We were told that they didn’t need our answers—they were just trying to verify the information they had. They knew everything. They told me where we were based, the type of plane we flew, the
name of our commanding officer. Since they were getting no answers, they finally gave up and shipped us to Wuerzburg to a camp where we stayed for some time. Wuerzburg was a camp by a small town that held a 20MM gun barrel factory.
Our camp, located on top of a hill, was divided into two parts. One section was for POWs and the other was for the German Army troops. They thought it was a safe location for them, but the British low-level bombers could pinpoint their section and bombed the German part of the camp without touching our section. Every morning, weather permitting, our 26s would come in and bomb their factories. All of the townspeople would race up the hill to our camp for protection.
It was while we were in this camp that we first saw their jet fighters. We saw one of our planes attacked and shot down by their jets. Only three of the crew parachuted.
We arrived in Nuremberg and walked by the station and on to camp. At one time while we were there, the city was under siege for an entire day. The British Air Force took over where the Americans left off and bombed the city the entire night. The next morning there were a lot of new members in our POW camp—mostly British.
At times the British were firebombing. During those raids the Germans would attack the British planes in their night fighters. A direct hit on the incendiary-laden British planes lighted the skies for miles around.
Our Army was now moving in for the kill, so the Germans began moving us out of there to keep our troops from releasing us. There were many thousands of us on the road. The Americans were first in ranks. The British were next. I don’t recall how the remaining POW’s were lined up.
We walked seventeen days, arriving at Moosburg. During the march, we were kept alive by the Red Cross rations that were passed out to us—one package per three prisoners. The food didn’t always serve the whole formation. The captors did feed us at times, but the rations were very poor. But we were hungry so the bugs in the bean soup went unnoticed.
En route we would pass through small towns. If we spent the night, there was a ring of soldiers with guard dogs stationed around us. In the morning the dogs would get us out of hiding. I was the cook, my engineer was the fireman and the radioman was the thief. That radioman could steal an egg from under an old hen without her ever realizing it was gone. We slept in a barn one night and explored and found the farmer had hidden some wheat behind and under the hay. When we left, we had our socks and pockets full of grain. We traded for a coffee grinder and ground our wheat—almost like Cream of Wheat.
We slept one night in a shed of pine boughs. We discovered that the boughs covered ice and the “ice house” was a storage place for the farmer’s potatoes. I spent the night with a stick spearing potatoes. We had all we could carry when we left the next day.
One day while on march, we were going under a train trestle and some P47s dive-bombed it and strafed it while we were under it. Some of our POWs were killed but the planes had cameras synchronized with their guns. When they returned to base and studied the films, they discovered that they were attacking some POWs. From that point on, while we were on the march, we were put to bed every night and awakened every morning by a P51. He would fly beside us on a road fill, wave and smile and give us the ol’ “Thumbs Up”. Each time we stopped to rest, we marked our campsite with a ground sign, “POW”, made of toilet paper. We finally reached Moosburg, staying there some time before we were liberated.
On April 29th 1945 General George Patton overran our camp, releasing us. Our first act was to look for something to cat. We went down the road to a farmhouse, confiscated some tame rabbits and on the way back to camp, picked up some chickens—really traded for them. We took the chickens but left the rabbits in their place.
We were flown out of Germany, then taken by train to Reims, France, on May 8th 1945, the very day the Germans were signing their surrender. We were taken to Camp Lucky Strike near Le Harve, France. After four weeks we boarded the ship, Monticello, for our journey back to the States. The time at Lucky Strike was spent sleeping, eating and getting our strength back.

Memories of War: “I’ll Bring Her In”

This blog entry is about my cousin, Rufus Wilson, 1/LT, United States Army Air Force. The text was written by S/Sgt. Charles H. Walter, U.S. Army Air Corp, 9th Air Force, 323rd Bomb Group 455th Bombardier Squadron. I will conclude the story tomorrow with part two. See the entry on Monday, May 25, 2009 for some background.

Coming back from a mission, we were waiting to land but did not know our nose wheel would not come down. After discovering our problem, we talked to our Commanding Officer and decided that the crew would stay with the plane. We circled until our ship was the last plane aloft. We tried to lower the nose wheel but after opening the hatch, we found the hydraulic line was ruptured and was spewing fluid all over and inside the cockpit. The windows were covered and the pilot could not see out.
Pilot “Willie” opened the side window and “flew her in.” While in the air, the crew decided to go to the rear of the plane to keep the weight far back to help keep the nose of the ship off the ground as long as possible. We would be landing at 130 miles per hour.
I was sitting with my butt behind the bulkhead - my radioman between my legs. We had hardly touched down when he freed himself and jumped out of the waist window. The last I saw of him he was rolling down the runway. I thought he would surely be killed. He survived with not even a broken bone. We landed with a full bomb load. I had to go back and deactivate the bombs before we landed. We continued down the runway to the end and nosed it in.
All of this was being watched and recorded by Associated Press. The crew was later interviewed and the following appeared in the Stars & Stripes.
“Sergeant Walter had very little to say about his recent narrow escape when a crippled bomber came back to the base with the bomb bays still loaded. The bombs had not been released because of the danger to Allied soldiers near the bomb target. Sergeant Walter enclosed the following clipping from the Stars & Stripes the newspaper for men overseas; which gives an account of the perilous flight: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring her in all right,’ Lieutenant Rufus Wilson, 23 year-old Marauder pilot from Corsicana, Tex., radioed the control tower as his plane, its nose shell shot away, circled the field with a full crew and full bomb load.
“Colonel Wilson R. Wood, of Chico, Tex., group commander, approved the crew’s decision to stay aboard and suggested that the explosives be left aboard to hold the tail down. Wilson brought the plane down on its two main wheels and for two- thirds the length of the runway he kept both the tail and nose off the ground. Unable to apply the brakes because of the danger of the ship nosing over, Wilson rode the screeching Marauder off the end of the runway. The nose dipped and propeller hit turf but the plane didn’t tip over.
“Crew members included Lieutenant James Rudig, South Bend, Ind., bombardier; Staff Sergeant Frank Miller, Atlantic City, N. J., engineer; Sergeant Charles Walter, Knoxville, Iowa, tail gunner; Lieutenant Louis Carrington, Houston, Tex., co-pilot, and Sergeant Martin Terrell, Little Rock, Ark., radio operator.”

December 26th
Going to briefing early the 26th. Weather clear and cold. We had already flown 3 missions in 3 days and this would be our second of the day. In the briefing room, we were informed of our second mission of the day. They informed us the target would be heavily defended with 99 guns. There were 52 ships - 3 boxes of 18. Our flight failed to release our bombs on the first run so made a second pass. Lt. Fox and crew were flying Mission Belle on her 149 mission. He was flying on our left wing when the plane was hit by flak and exploded, going down. No survivors.
Lt. Fox was a very good friend of mine. We were also hit and thrown out of control and out of formation, but my pilot regained control. We returned to formation and dropped our load on target., On our way back to the base, I roamed the plane and picked up two handfuls of flak. Luckily, no one was hit. After landing, I counted the flak holes for a total of 129. For this mission my pilot, Lt. Wilson, received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the 323rd Group received the Group Citation.

On his copy of his pilot’s “Flying Cross” memorandum, Chuck wrote: “At this time of this award, Lt. Wilson was missing in action. His plane had been shot down in a raid. His crew were taken prisoners. Lt. Wilson sustained fatal injuries in this crash and died three days later. The crew remained prisoners until the end of the war. Lt. Wilson’s body was returned home in 1950.”

A Fly In A Coffee Cup

What happens when a fly falls into a coffee cup?

The Italian throws the cup and walks away in a fit of rage.

The Frenchman takes out the fly and drinks the coffee.

The Chinese eats the fly and throws away the coffee.

The Russian drinks the coffee with the fly, as it was included at no extra charge.

The Israeli sells the coffee to the Frenchman, the fly to the Chinese, buys himself a new cup of coffee, uses the extra money to invent a device that prevents flies from falling into coffee.

The Palestinian blames Israel for the fly falling into his coffee, protests the act of aggression to the UN, takes a loan from the European Union to buy a new cup of coffee, but uses the money to purchase explosives, and then blows up the coffee house where the Italian, the Frenchman, the Chinese and the Russian are all trying to explain to the Israeli that he should give away his cup of coffee to the Palestinian.

What's Wrong WIth Us?

What has happened to our country? Why do we have a president who is unqualified? His resumé includes instructing in the socialist tactic (community organizer, a la Saul Alinsky). His socialist backing goes back at least to 1996, when he received the endorsement of the Chicago branch of the Democratic Socialists of America [which describes itself as the largest socialist organization in the United States and the principal U.S. affiliate of the Socialist International] for an Illinois state senate seat.

Why do we have a president who is a racist? Obama -- along with such notables as Al Sharpton and Jeremiah Wright -- helped organize the October 1995 Million Man March in Washington, DC, which featuredNation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Said Obama in the immediate aftermath of the March:

"What I saw was a powerful demonstration of an impulse and need for African-American men to come together to recognize each other and affirm our rightful place in the society…. Historically, African-Americans have turned inward and towards black nationalism whenever they have a sense, as we do now, that the mainstream has rebuffed us, and that white Americans couldn't care less about the profound problems African-Americans are facing."

In this century, we are experiencing a sequence of human behavior which not only affects nations, but churches, businesses and other long term entities where founding generations pass on, replaced by those who are unaware of the sacrifices of their progenitors.

A certain zeal and a willingness to sacrifice one's self for a movement or activity characterizes the founders. They are replaced by those who saw from a safe place the formation of the institution; then come those who have only heard about the fight. They develop a certain apathy about it, they are in turn succeeded by a generation whose main characteristic is some sense of entitlement. We are seeing a generation coming up whose whole world view is characterized by "me first". All you have to do is read about what goes on on the college campus. You can see how dissenters from the "new norms" are treated with rudeness and even violence.

Thank God there are men and women who have not been deceived. They are the remnant which will restore the Republic.

Alexis de Tocqueville accurately described the dilemma which now faces our beloved Nation, "The Christian nations of our age seem to me to present a most alarming spectacle; the impulse which is bearing them along is so strong that it cannot be stopped, but it is not yet so rapid that it cannot be guided: their fate is in their hands; yet a little while and it may be no longer."

"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing." Edmund Burke.

Must Read, honest!

If you have a minute left in your day, take time to read my friend's commentary and send it on to folks who love this Nation.

It is important that people understand what's happening. I am not one to go off half cocked, I am methodical and thorough. I believe the Alan Caruba has put our situation down in an understandable way. Please read it as a favor to me.

The Perfect Storm

Thanks.

A Year Has Gone By…

It is exactly one year to the day that I began this blog. I have written more than fifty entries. I was hoping to be more verbose, but so much happened that I feel good about the things I did get to write about.

I am right back to the books of Nehamiah and Acts in my Bible reading program (see "Lofty Pressures", 27 July 2008). This has been a good experience for me. Although I cannot say I have read the Word cover to cover this past year, I can say that I have begun a habit. One I heartily recommend.

Many things gave me a lot of joy in the last 52 weeks. Writing briefly about my family and adventures of my childhood were challenging and I hope to write about many more years of growing up in a most loving home (my Dad DID get the green 1950 Ford Convertible). Some have said that flying adventures might be of interest (did I tell you the one about getting all shot up, but never shot down?). That was in my Air Force days, by the way.

Medical things were important and I suspect that they will remain so for the rest of my life. The best part will be trying to trace the $$$$$ spent by Medicare, DeltaCare and me for that last "procedure". Billed and paid for the first time, they forgot to ask if I had received the service. OOOPS! I hadn't been in their care on those dates and the operation hadn't taken place. KACHING! $$$$. There is no sound to a wired transfer. Let's see if I get to pay for it again, now that I've been under the knife. I've pretty much stopped glowing from the radiation and I'm looking forward to being closer to the grandkids. Prostate symptoms are minimal, but don't forget your Flowmax!

Going to church is fun again, provided we're late. It's good for Jeanie and I to listen to great preaching.

This is what I'm suggesting for this new fiscal year (blogger year?). More of the story for the kids and others who might be interested. An exposé (if possible) of the healthcare situation, at least from my perspective and most importantly my views on what the God of the universe is doing in my life and the situations around the world.

We went to church again this morning. You may recall that I mentioned our desire to begin attending a good, Bible teaching church, where the Pastor knew what he was supposed to be doing. It seems that so many churches these days are trying to appeal to the broader elements of society rather than remembering and performing in the manner described in the New Testament. For starters,

2Timothy 4:2 Preach the word! Be ready in season and out of season. Convince, rebuke, exhort, with all longsuffering and teaching.

And of course,

Ephesians 4:11 And He Himself gave some to be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, and some pastors and teachers,

12 for the equipping of the saints for the work of ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ,

13 till we all come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to a perfect man, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ;

14 that we should no longer be children, tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the trickery of men, in the cunning craftiness of deceitful plotting,

Well, anyway, we found such a place and you may also recall Jeanie and I pledged to support and pray for the staff and others in that family. You may also recall (see "Good News!, Sunday June 14, 2009, on this blog) that I wrote,

"I have come up with our solution. We will go to church late. We will leave the house when church begins and arrive in time for the one (hopefully) quiet contemplative hymn or the modern variation thereof which comes before the sermon. We will not be embarrassed and we will give, love and support this church and never speak of this again. Except in the car, afterwards, having arrived on time for some reason beyond my control."

I have to take back that last. I need to speak of it again.

After a marvelous, well thought out discussion and teaching on Romans 8:28-30, we were all contemplating the beauty of God's eternal plan for those of us in His family by our acceptance of the free gift of salvation through the work of Jesus, the messiah. Praying in our quiet time, arranging thoughts in a manner we hope will please God the Father. Meditating quietly on the depth of the lesson we had just heard. Allowing the joy of that understanding to flood our soul and comfort our very core. A great moment for me, one that doesn't come easily to a person such as I am. Then in this beautiful moment of serenity and closeness to God Himself,

BAM!

The drummer hit the bass drum pedal and the bass guitar player created a riff that would be comfortable at a Grateful Dead concert. I actually jumped and my heart reacted for an uncomfortable minute, pounding away as if I had been in combat (I know, I've been there!). What is up with this? Why do we have performance art in the church? How do the musicians get on the platform during the pastor's closing prayer, his intercession with God on behalf of us in the auditorium? Do they think their music is more important than what the pastor is saying to God on their behalf?

Moreover, if we stopped music like this in the church gatherings, would anyone be there? If we limited ourselves to singing Scripturally based choruses, would someone learn some Bible verses? Heaven forbid! Think of the money we'd save in electricity alone, not to mention the cost of an ambulance to take me to the emergency room.

Annie and Ava - BFF

If "Poppie" ain't around and "Grammie's" far away, then it's "Annie" for Ava Suzanne Thompson.

As we are blessed to watch Ava some days while Noelle or Scotty are busy with other things, all one has to do to get some quiet time and calming down in the house is listen for those words of wisdom from Ava "Watch Annie"!

She goes into Andy's old bedroom and gets the three plastic chairs, brings them to front row center (two feet from the screen). Invites some teddys and doggies to sit down with her, and gives me about fifteen seconds to get it going or it's "WATCH ANNIE!"

We've watched it at least five times this past week. One good thing amongst many is the fact that it is a fairly good movie, with what I call "hummable tunes" (unlike church - another blog entry). To hear Ava sing "Tomorrow" is priceless (even if I am the granpa). The fact that I have only seen five different segments of the movie helps too, I haven't actually sat down with Ava and watched it from start to finish. I should, I guess to get the context of all of these great scenes in my mind.

For me, Carol Burnett steals the show as the alcoholic and "needy" Mrs. Hannigan. With lines like "I never could understand why anyone would want to be an orphan", and "I thought orphans were supposed to be boys!" coming from Albert Finney, the whole movie is worth watching, HMMMM, maybe five times a week.

Ava thinks so.

Father's Day

Well, here we are. I was trying to think of a way to include all of us Wilson fathers so everyone will know where they are headed. Andy is the lucky one, he missed the Wilson nose. What shall we imagine that Isaac and Braden will look like when they are fathers? This post does work as a time machine of sorts to get us to thinking of how we never stop growing, we never stop aging, until we stop. Life is just that cycle, there is nothing new going on, just things going differently.

2 “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher; “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
3 What profit has a man from all his labor In which he toils under the sun?
4 ¶ One generation passes away, and another generation comes; But the earth abides forever.
5 The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, And hastens to the place where it arose.
6 The wind goes toward the south, And turns around to the north; The wind whirls about continually, And comes again on its circuit.
7 All the rivers run into the sea, Yet the sea is not full; To the place from which the rivers come, There they return again.
8 All things are full of labor; Man cannot express it. The eye is not satisfied with seeing, Nor the ear filled with hearing.
9 ¶ That which has been is what will be, That which is done is what will be done, And there is nothing new under the sun.
10 Is there anything of which it may be said, “See, this is new”? It has already been in ancient times before us.
11 There is no remembrance of former things, Nor will there be any remembrance of things that are to come By those who will come after. (Ecclesiastes, chapter one)

If you get a grip on this portion of Scripture, the life you lead will take on new meaning. The only lasting efforts are those designed to accomplish God's purposes for eternity.

Seeds

I made it. Some of the worst is over and I can relax now and hope that the prostate cancer bug is being bugged by my newly acquired radioactive demeanor. I do not glow all that much. The biggest downside to all of this is limited contact with the grandkids and those folks who might become pregnant for one reason or another (hopefully, it's the one reason).

I had a good experience and very limited discomfort. The biggest problem with having things like this done to your body lies between your ears, not your hips. I have posted a picture of what radioactive brachytherapy seeds look like, compared to a penny. Then if it all works good, there's a picture of my very own seeds now in place. Other things are pictured there, as well. The catheter, some bony structures and other mystery parts. This should satisfy those of you who want to look. I'll refer you to the picture.

The hospital folks were most hospitable (as they should have been after all) and they were able to use up paper faster than Delta Airlines did (does). When we left, we had been asked the same set of questions at least four times and each person dutifully entered my answers into the computer and had it printed out somewhere. I would like to have the sticky label franchise for this hospital too. Everything that wasn't bolted to the ground seemed to have a label of some sort on it (often more than one) and anything I brought with me was quickly labeled (myself included). It all must have worked because I left with all of my belonging and some new good stuff to keep.

They gave me a lead-lined bag to put any radioactive materials I may "pass" in. I'm not sure what one does with them then, but there's probably a label stuck to the box the bag came in that tells me in six different languages. Of course retrieval is through the use of a fine sieve. I am committed to "passing" through this device for quite a while now. When this is over, it will make a fine kitchen utensil. OOOOPS! no one will ever enjoy my cream of leek soup from now on.

The catheterization experience is one I'll speak to men about over cigars and brandy. Who invented Vicodin anyway? Enough said.

In case anybody ever reads this, and cares - I'm fine. The cancer is almost sure to be eliminated and good times are on the horizon. Tonight there'll be white wine (did I tell you about grüner veltliner?) and good chinese leftovers.

Oh, and the half life of the radioactive seeds is about ninety days, pretty much the same for the chinese foods.

Stop!

Ok, here's the thing…

DO NOT, repeat, DO NOT, go to the internet and google the name of the medical procedure you are about to have that afternoon. Twice now I have not followed my own good advice. You blog fans may recall that I googled "chemical stress EKG" back in April and came up with much more than ANYBODY would want to know about the chemical part of that search. It turned out to be correct information, but not what was in store for me. I was allowed to get one more sleepless night out of it, thank you very much. The test came out OK, and the Doctor signed the release form and paid his airport fees for the month.

I did it to myself again when I googled "brachytherapy images" Tuesday morning, preparing for this blog entry. Trust me, HEAR? do not do this. Not even if it is "splinter removal". Although come to think of it, that's not a bad idea for some 'cause you might read about what Jesus had to say about it.

41 “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?

42 How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. (Luke 6)

Anyway, I began to look at the images and couldn't make it past the first few before I closed the page. So, forewarned is forearmed, or something like that. Got it? Don't do it.

Good News!

I am most happy to report that Jeanie and I went to church this morning. Yeah! That's right, church. We manifested ourselves to others as a part of the "Big C" Church and worshipped God in Spirit and in Truth. You have to know (if you know me at all) that I was glad to find myself in church with folks who are as interested as I am in finding out about God and most importantly, His Son, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. Alleluia! The message, from the short letter written by Jude (Jesus' half brother) was great and Pastor Dave J. did a wonderful job of relating the Scriptures to our current needs and proclaiming the Lordship of Christ as well. The time spent studying went quickly and before you knew it, it was time to go.

I'm about to drop the other shoe.

Jeanie and I are old (as some may know). We like music of many kinds and listen to some things here at home or at least recognize the good stuff on the wireless or played on the iPod. That said, we still have a hard time coming to grips with having been disenfranchised from our worship experience during the instrument playing/chanting portion of the service in most of the "modern" churches of today. The music (I don't want to call it that, but I can't come up with a more descriptive term) in churches these days seems to be simply performance art. I would guess that fewer than a third of the congregants were singing along with the instrumentalists, however, most gave hearty applause when each song was over (hmmm, I just began to wonder WHY they were clapping). Anyway the loudness of the instrument playing was such that we sat in the back row and I looked at the floor most of the time.

I have come up with our solution. We will go to church late. We will leave the house when church begins and arrive in time for the one (hopefully) quiet contemplative hymn or the modern variation thereof which comes before the sermon. We will not be embarrassed and we will give, love and support this church and never speak of this again.

Except in the car, afterwards, having arrived on time for some reason beyond my control.

Now, I Understand…

An Easily Understandable Explanation of Derivative Markets

Heidi is the proprietor of a bar in Detroit. She realizes that virtually all of her customers are unemployed alcoholics and, as such, can no longer afford to patronize her bar. To solve this problem, she comes up with new marketing plan that allows her customers to drink now, but pay later.

She keeps track of the drinks consumed on a ledger (thereby granting the customers loans).

Word gets around about Heidi's "drink now, pay later" marketing strategy and, as a result, increasing numbers of customers flood into Heidi's bar. Soon she has the largest sales volume for any bar in Detroit.

By providing her customers' freedom from immediate payment demands, Heidi gets no resistance when, at regular intervals, she substantially increases her prices for wine and beer, the most consumed beverages. Consequently, Heidi's gross sales volume increases massively.

A young and dynamic vice-president at the local bank recognizes that these customer debts constitute valuable future assets and increases Heidi's borrowing limit. He sees no reason for any undue concern, since he has the debts of the unemployed alcoholics as collateral.

At the bank's corporate headquarters, expert traders transform these customer loans into DRINKBONDS, ALKIBONDS and PUKEBONDS. These securities are then bundled and traded on international security markets. Naive investors don't really understand that the securities being sold to them as AAA secured bonds are really the debts of unemployed alcoholics.

Nevertheless, the bond prices continuously climb, and the securities soon become the hottest-selling items for some of the nation's leading brokerage houses.

One day, even though the bond prices are still climbing, a risk manager at the original local bank decides that the time has come to demand payment on the debts incurred by the drinkers at Heidi's bar. He so informs Heidi.

Heidi then demands payment from her alcoholic patrons, but being unemployed alcoholics they cannot pay back their drinking debts. Since, Heidi cannot fulfill her loan obligations she is forced into bankruptcy. The bar closes and the eleven employees lose their jobs.

Overnight, DRINKBONDS, ALKIBONDS and PUKEBONDS drop in price by 90%. The collapsed bond asset value destroys the banks liquidity and prevents it from issuing new loans, thus freezing credit and economic activity in the community.

The suppliers of Heidi's bar had granted her generous payment extensions and had invested their firms' pension funds in the various BOND securities. They find they are now faced with having to write off her bad debt and with losing over 90% of the presumed value of the bonds. Her wine supplier also claims bankruptcy, closing the doors on a family business that had endured for three generations, her beer supplier is taken over by a competitor, who immediately closes the local plant and lays off 150 workers.

Fortunately though, the bank, the brokerage houses and their respective executives are saved and bailed out by a multi-billion dollar no-strings attached cash infusion from the Government. The funds required for this bailout are obtained by new taxes levied on employed, middle-class, non-drinkers.

Now, do you understand?