Boeing B-29 Superfortress

The original specification for a large four-engine bomber to succeed the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress was issued by the U.S. War Department in January, 1940, but it was considerably modified some months later to incorporate increased armament and load requirements.

The contract for these XB-29 prototypes was placed with the Boeing company on August 24, 1940, and a service development order for 13 YB-29s in the following May. With America's entry into the war, a vast production program for the B-29 was initiated, involving five main production plants and hundreds of subcontractors.

The first XB-29 prototype built at Seattle flew on September 21, 1942. The first YB-29 built at Wichita flew on April 15, 1943, and the first Renton built B-29 was delivered in December, 1943. The B-29 in which Bubba was killed, serial number 44-69770, was built in Wichita in 1944.

The B-29 was first reported in action on June 5, 1944, in an attack on railway yards at Bangkok, Siam, and on June 15th, the first raid was made on Japan from bases in China. Since that date, attacks on the Japanese mainland were steadily stepped up, mainly from bases in the Marianas and on Guam, with forces of up to 450 and 500 Superfortresses.

On August 6, 1945, a B-29, the Enola Gay, under command of Col. Paul W. Tibbits, Jr., took off from the tiny island of Tinian and dropped the first atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima and life on this planet would never be the same.

SPECIFICATIONS:

Wing span: 141'3"

Overall length: 99'

Engines: Four 2,200 HP Wright R-3350-23 eighteen cylinder, radial air-cooled engines, each engine with two exhaust-driven turbo-super chargers.

Cruise speed: 220 mph

Maximum speed: 365 mph

Service ceiling: Over 31, 850'

Low Level Fix

Alvene, It is my firm belief, based on transmittals from the Air Force, my knowledge of the aircraft Bubba was flying, and a fair knowledge of hurricanes, that the aircraft did obtain low level fix as shown in the following diagram:

An observer, positioned in the port side blister, would observe the wave action of the sea and direct the pilot to keep the aircraft in a position which would place the wind at a 90-degree angle to the longitudinal axis of the aircraft's flight path. Since the radar was inoperable, this was strictly a visual flight.
After penetrating the eye of the storm, the entire crew must have been jubilant beyond description. Then, circling in the calm eye, obtaining as much information as they could, they penetrated the southwest quadrant to exit the storm for their flight to Clark Air Force base, Luzon, Philippines.

It is my firm belief that the WB-29 underwent major stresses upon the wings and flight control surfaces which are controlled by steel cables and that they again had radio problems.

It probably took both the pilot and copilot to keep this craft on a correct heading while flying very close to the phenomally high seas. I believe many of the crew members vomited while strapped in their duty stations, due to the violent turbulence.

After they exited the storm and approached the island of Leyte, within sight of the native fighermen who were themselves heading for safety of harbor, they climbed to a higher altitude and I believe the control cables to the ailerons snapped and the aircraft went into an uncontrollable roll and before anyone could bail out, the aircraft plunged into the sea while its crew was still strapped into their work stations, and quickly sank.

Last Radio Contact

Last radio contact inside Typhoon Wilma, 320 miles east of Leyte, Philippine Islands, October 26, 1952.

"we are in severe turbulence...near the eye...radar inoperative...attempting low-level fix."




One day, while riding on a train headed for Liverpool, England, I read a letter from daddy. There was something about this letter that caused me to save it for later as I worked on the flight line. Daddy had great penmanship, almost calligraphic in style, but this letter was sloppy, as if it was written in haste. He came right to the point, "Bubba is missing!" on a WB-29 weather reconnaissance aircraft of the 54th Strategic Recon Squadron stationed at Anderson Air Force Base, Guam, Marianas Islands at 3:30 a.m. October 26, 1952 on a 14-hour over-water flight to obtain information about conditions exsting in a typhoon southwest of Guam designated Typhoon Wilma. Upon completion of the flight, the aircraft was to proceed to the Philippine Islands and land at Clark Air Force base, Luzon. During early portions of the flight, radio communication difficulty developed, but this was later remedied. At 8:20 a.m., when approximately 320 miles east of Leyte, Philippine Islands, a weather message was received from the plane. The report stated that the B-29 was in severe turbulence nearing the eye of the typhoon, that the radar had burned out, and that they were descending to obtain a low-level fix. This was the last contact with the aircraft and although immediate search efforts were initiated, the crew was reported missing when the aircraft failed to arrive at Clark Air Force base at 10:00 p.m. October 26, 1952, the estimated time of fuel exhaustion.

Weather conditions: Reports received during previous penetrations of the typhoon indicated surface winds up to 125 knots, 144 mph, category 5, and that entry into the northwest quadrant at low level would have been extremely hazardous and the sea was phenomenally high and rough. (A category 4 hurricane as measured today is the same intensity as Hurricane Andrew which hit Florida in 1992 or Hurricane Hugo which devastated the Carolinas in 1989). I felt as if someone had yanked out my guts without giving me the mercy of death. A few days later, I received another letter. "Information was received indicating that on October 26, 1952, native fishermen had witnessed a four-engine aircraft plunge into the sea and quickly sink into the water six to eight miles off San Ricardo Point, the southern tip of Leyte Island. Interrogation of the natives revealed that no parachutes were observed and concentrated efforts to recover wreckage or debris in the reported crash area were unavailing. The evidence further reveals that in all probability, the accident occurred off the southern tip of Leyte and that the plane sank intact.


Bubba (Airman First Class Alton Beverly Brewton Jr. AF17279893) and the following other brave airmen were killed:

Major Sterling L. Harrell - Aircraft commander
Captain Donald M. Baird - Weather observer
Captain Frank J. Pollak - Navigator
1st Lt. William D. Burchell - Navigator
1st Lt. Clifton R. Knickmeyer - Pilot
M/Sgt. Edward H. Fontaine - Radio operator
A/1C William Colgan - Flight mechanic/scanner
A/1C Anthony J. Fasullo -Radio operator
A/3C Rodney E. Verrill - Weather equipment operator

In September 1953, Lieutenant General Emment O'Donnell Jr., Deputy Chief of Staff, Air Force Personnel, informed daddy that the nation's highest award of appreciation, "the Accolade," signed by the President of the United States, Dwight David Eisenhower, had been awarded posthumously to Bubba and the other crew members.

Bubba and the crew of the B-29 were never found. We will never know what happened.

Six months later, Bubba was declared dead by the Air Force and a mock funeral was held August 1953 in Detroit by Air Force Personnel Affairs headquarters, 575th Air Defense Group, Selfridge Air Force Base, Michigan.

Bubba was my teacher, my big brother, mentor, and hero. No matter how many years go by, I still find it difficult to say goodbye. It would be unthinkable being black in America without a "Bubba" and I don't have to believe he is dead if I don't want to.

The eye of the storm

A radar altimeter and a radio altimeter would direct radar pulses or radio waves to the surface below. They automatically calculate the distance above the water.

The radio altimeter can be read on a screen by one of the metro's assistants. The screen is black and the altitude reading is seen on it as a green line that wiggles as the plane bounces or changes altitude. You can understand why this altimeter is called the "green worm."

When the plane got close to the storm, the pilot ordered everyone to fasten their seatbelt. All crewmen were to put on their life vests. Everything on the plane was tied down so the men would not be injured by objects flying about inside the plane as the flight got rougher. As the turbulence increased, the men in the pilot's area had to work harder to keep the plane steady and on its course.

Eventually, the space between two cloud bands disappeared and it was necessary to drop down under the clouds to keep the water below in sight. The metro's bubble window was the only one of any used. Up front, the pilot and copilot could see only the heavy sheet of rain surging down over the windows. They guided the plane partially by reading the dials on their instruments, but mostly they were kept on the right course by the voice communication with the radar officer and the metro.

Every 30 seconds the pilot could hear the metro's assistant give a "green worm" altitude reading.

"Green worm, seven fifty" (indicating 750 feet above the water).

Then the radar man followed with, "Your heading is good; eye wall bearing zero three zero degrees, thirty miles ahead."

"Green worm, six hundred" and the pilot would let him know he had heard and understood:

"Roger."

Then from the navigator: "Drift two two degrees right."

At this point, the rain that surrounded them became so heavy that the radar officer told the pilot, "I've lost the picture. I no longer have the eye wall. Recommend metro take the conn." (Take conn means to take over telling the pilot which direction to turn.)

The metro's voice came through: "Roger, I have the conn."

The pilot said: "Roger, metro has the conn."

This was punctuated by: "Green worm five fifty."

By now, the pilot had turned the switch that allowed everyone on the plane to hear what was being said by those controlling and guiding the plane. Those men who had no duties to perform during this tense period when they were entering the eye felt more comfortable knowing what was going on.

"Green worm, five hundred."

"Roger."

"Increase power 100 rpm."

"Roger" from the flight engineer. "Power increased 100 rpm"

"Roger."

Flight metro recommends coming port two zero degrees, surface winds, two two zero degrees ninety-five knots.

"Green worm four fifty."

"Your escape heading is one zero zero degrees." This came from the navigator.

"Roger, one zero zero degrees."

The metro helped the pilot keep the plane headed directly into the center of the storm by seeing that the wind was always blowing straight in toward the plane on its left side. This is because the winds inside the storm blow in a counter clockwise direciton. If you could stand outside the eye, facing the center of the storm, the wind would always be blowing against your left side. Using this information, the metro could tell the pilot when they were drifting off course by watching the wind action on the water below.

"Metro has lost sight of the water. Drop down. Green worm, four hundred. I have surface contact now. Green worm, steady at four hundred."

Up front, the sounds of the engines were drowned out by the thunderous noise of the unbelievably heavy rainfall. the plane was tossed about as they flew just over the water. Since the pilot's chair is adjustable, it is not very steady, and it jiggled as the plane vibrated. So it was very difficult for the pilot to read the dials on the instrument panel. At one time or another, the motion caused some of the crew members to become air sick. Each of them had a plastic-lined paper bag close at hand. If a man got sick, he used the bag and then resumed his work. The voices continued over the intercom.

"Green worm, four hundred. Steady on flight. Surface winds two eight zero degrees at one hundred ten knots. Green worm, three seventy five. Roger, green worm."

Suddenly, the turbulence ceased. The plane had broken through the eye wall. The pilot could hear the engines again and see out the windows. The instrument panel was clearly readable. The plane was out of the rain. They were no longer in the storm, but they were surrounded by it. They were in the eye of the hurricane.

The men were aware of rivulets of perspiration that covered them. Their flight suits were made of a special flame-resistant material for safety's sake and were normally very warm to wear. But today, they were warmer than usual. Perhaps because of the tenseness they felt while coming under the eye wall of the storm.

The metro's job now changed. He no longer was needed for guiding the pilot under the clouds. Now he had to see that the weather information was collected accurately and sent back to the ground station.

Next, the plane flew back and forth across the center of the storm to find the spot of the lowest air pressure. This was also marked on the map and radioed back with other readings from the meteorological instruments.

They circled close to the eye wall, the bank of clouds that had presented such a challenge flying in. It was a boundary line between them and the wild winds of the hurricane. Looking below, the pilot could see under the bank of clouds, back into the turbulent area they had just come through. The surface of the water was frothy there, like whipped egg whites. Inside the eye, the water surface danced in small peaks.

There were almost always birds inside of the eye of the storm. Perhaps they were caught there and swept along with the storm, or maybe they were blown in before it became so severe. At any rate, they were not strong enough to escape. It they could have crossed the eye wall, the winds and hard rains on the other side would have destroyed them, so they just flew around in the eye. Sometimes they collided with airplanes there. It was impossible for the pilot to maneuver the plane as to miss them. He could only hope one wouldn't crash through the front windshield or damage an engine or tail section.

You might expect the crew to feel a lift in spirits, relieved at having the most dangerous part of the mission over, and they did feel the tension go as they performed routine tasks inside the eye. But they knew their orders called for leaving the eye and entering the storm a second time that day.

Because of the courage and dedication of these men, weather forecasters back on land would be able to give information to the public that could save many lives.

Hurricane

The crew takes readings from their weather instruments and radios the information back to the ground station. The meterologists at the National Meterological Center in Washington, D.C., use the information to help them make weather predictions.

There are several instruments that hang down from the underside of the back part of the plane. One of these uses infrared light rays to sense the temperature of the water below. This temperature is recorded inside the plane.

The temperature of the water below the surface of the water can be measured by a BT which stands for bathythermograph. The BT is dropped from the plane and floats on the water. A thin wire carries a temperature-sensing element down through the water at the rate of 300 feet per minute. Inside the BT, the salt water from the sea starts a battery that supplies power for sending radio signals back to the plane. This radio signal changes according to the temperature of the water below. After the temperatures are taken, a water-soluble seal on the BT dissolves and the BT fills with water and sinks.

A machine inside the plane collects all data, i.e., when the reading was taken, which direction the plane was heading, at what speed, wind speed, wind direction, the air pressure, the air temperature, description of the clouds, and transmits back to the ground station.

The flight meteorologist, or metro as his teammates call him, keeps the pilot and crew informed as to the changing weather conditions. He and his assistants make reports to be radioed back to the ground weather station. If they don't receive a report from the plane every half hour, they send a message to the plane. If they get no radio response, they try other radio frequencies. If an hour and a half should go by without hearing from the plane, a search and rescue mission is planned.

When they were close enough to the storm, the plane's radar equipment gave them a good view of the cloud pattern around the eye of the hurricane. The pilot, navigator, and radar officer studied the pattern and decided which would be the best way to enter the eye. The reflection of the radar showed an almost clear eye surrounded by a circle of clouds. The picture on the radar looked like a giant donut.

Hurricanes have two kinds of motion. In the northern hemisphere, winds within a hurricane always blow around an area of low pressure in a counter-clockwise direction. This gives the storm a circular pattern. In addition, this storm mass as a whole moves across the water. The direction of this motion is not always the same. In order to predict the path of a storm, Air Force or Navy planes fly into the eye of a storm every six hours and locate the point of lowest pressure. By marking this spot on a chart, they are able to follow its direction. Using this information, meteorologists can make a good guess as to where the storm will go next. They can warn ships at sea to stay clear of that area. They can warn people on land to be ready for possible severe winds and rains that can destroy property and take lives.

They decided the best path on which to fly into the storm would be between the trailing cloud bands. The clear space between the bands would not be so rough to fly in. They could stay at a higher altitude and still see the water. After they flew closer to the eye, they would run out of clear space between the clouds and have to drop down under the clouds. Once the pilot made the decision to go ahead and enter the storm center, it was the metro's job to guide the plane safely in.

NOAA

The National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) of the Department of Commerce cooperates with the Air Force and Navy to watch for hurricanes and tornadoes and to study them. The information gathered is used by the national weather services to forecast weather conditions to warn us of impending danger. Today it is done by satellites.

The following is an actual flight of a United States Navy Hurricane Hunter, circa 1965:

The pilot was busy turning switches on and off, his eyes reading dials, his ears listening to the sound of engines and the voice of the co-pilot as he started to read a list of things that had to be checked before takeoff.

Co-pilot: Flight instruments?
As he called off each item, he received an answer from the flight engineer (who sat behind him), or from the pilot, or he answered the checkpoint aloud himself. Sometimes all three men answered.

Pilot: Checked and set.

The checklist was printed on a small scroll that was in a black box mounted on the instrument panel in front of the co-pilot. Each time the co-pilot received an answer, he would turn the knob on the side of the box to bring into view the next item to be checked. Nothing was left to memory.

Co-pilot: Radio altimeter?

Pilot: Set.

Co-pilot: Radio IFF and radios?

Pilot: Set.

Co-pilot: Set.

Co-pilot: Crew briefing?

Pilot: What do we weigh?

Flight engineer: 132 (meaning 132,000 pounds).

Pilot: O.K. If we have to dump, we dump (fuel) to 110 (meaning 110,000 pounds), come back around, and land.

Flight engineer: Roger.

There was a before-starting checklist, another was a list to be called out before taxi time, another that was checked while the plane was waiting at the end of the runway, and finally, a list to be checked out during take off.

Co-pilot: Lift off speed?

Pilot: 116 to 121 knots.

Co-pilot: Wing flaps?

Pilot: 60 percent set.

Co-pilot: 60 percent set.

Co-pilot: Wndows and doors?

Pilot: Closed.

Flight engineer: Closed.

Co-pilot: Closed.

Co-pilot: Master RPM control?

Flight engineer: Full increase RPM.

Reading the list and checking by the crew continued until the co-pilot called out over the roar of the engines, "before take off checklist completed," and heard the double echo of "before takeoff checklist completed, before takeoff checklist completed," from the pilot and flight engineer.

The crew members were satisfied that the plane was in good shape. Their bodies vibrated with the almost deafening noise of the engines as the plane moved down the runway. In a few moments, they were airborne.

All of the attention to the condition of the plane before and during flight results in an amazingly good safety record. The Navy has flown more than 70,000 accident-free hours while investigating storms in the north Atlantic. There has been only one plane lost since 1943. That was on September 26, 1955. Lieutenant Commander Graver B. Windham and his crew of nine left Guantanamo, Cuba, in a Navy Neptune aircraft. They, with two newsmen from the Toronto Star, planned to enter the eye of Hurricane Janet. They reported their position just as they were going to enter the eye of Janet and they were never heard from again, nor was any sign of them found. No bodies, no wreckage. They just disappeared.

Every year since then, on September 26th, the Navy flies over Windham's last reported position and drops a wreath of flowers in memory of those who disappeared.

Hurricane Hunter - Into The Wind

After basic training, Bubba went to the Spartan School of Aeronautics in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to study aircraft and engine mechanics. On completion, he went to Sheppard Airforce Base, Wichita Falls, Texas, for a specialized course in B-29 mechanics and from there he went to Chanute Airforce Base in Illinois to study to become a flight engineer. Then he went to Randolph Field Texas, near San Antonio for his flight training and from there it was overseas to his duty station, the 54th Strategic Reconnaissance Squadron (Weather) at Andersen Airforce Base, Guam, Marianas Islands, flying as a flight engineer aboard a WB-29 Superfortress hurricane hunter.

The mission of a hurricane hunter was to simply fly into a hurricane, monitor, and report. But this was a dangerous assignment; up until 1943, no man had flown into a hurricane and lived to tell about it.

Violent, circular windstorms that form over the western part of the north Pacific Ocean are called typhoons. In Australia, such a storm is called a willy-willy. In the Philippines, it is called a baguio. The people who live around the Indian Ocean and the Bay of Bengal call them cyclones. All of these are the same kind of storm as a hurricane. When they hit land or when ships at sea get in their way, they can be destructive.

The first man to fly a plane into a hurricane was Colonel Joseph Duckworth, one of those early pilots who believed he could take an airplane through any kind of weather. "If I can get off the ground and land again," he often said, "I can fly through anything." That first flight was made in an AT-6 single engine advance trainer made by North American Aviation. He described that flight through the tremendous winds of the hurricane as "tossed around like a stick in a dog's mouth."

As a student pilot, Bubba had warned me to "always avoid thunderheads and black clouds." But now his duty as an airman was to fly into the eye of a typhoon.

We would write each other often and he would tell me how the B-29 would be tossed like a leaf in the wind as they rammed through the outer turbulence surrounding the calm sky of the eye. "The plane would shutter and shake and the wings would flap as we pushed into the violent storm." He told me, "upon post-flight inspections, the crew chief and mechanics would often find popped rivets on the wings of the craft due to stresses from the wind."

Bubba at age 18 was having a good time over Horseshoe Lake practicing aerobatics, but now I could detect a profound respect for the forces of nature.

England

After going to France, then Germany, I finally ended up at Burtonwood Airforce Base outside of Warrington, England, assigned to the 7559th Aircraft Repair Squadron of the 8th Air Force.

When I first reported to Sergeant Griggs, the top sergeant of the repair squadron at Burtonwood Airforce Base, he was having a coffee break with the other mechanics who were all white except Corporal Robert Board from Beckley, West Virginia. As I sat down to drink some coffee, an African civilian worker came into the room. He had tribal marks on both cheeks and he went up to Sgt. Griggs and asked the question, "Who called me Sambo?" in perfect English.

I quickly placed Sgt. Griggs in a pigeonhole marked "bigot." Sgt. Griggs was a fat career airman, sloppy in uniform, and tacky. The African told him that he would report him to the base commander if he was ever called out of his name again. Afterwards, Sgt. Griggs tried to get on my good side, but I kept him at arm's length.

Some of our mechanics were as sloppy as our leader, Sgt. Griggs, sloppy in workmanship. We had worked on a Boeing B-29 Superfortress which had many bombing missions in Korea without any problems. We changed a couple engines. As I remember, we worked just about all night. The next morning, I was awakened by loud banging sounds as a B-29 was making its final approach to landing. My hut was close to the runway and I went to the window to see a B-29 bomber with engine number four on fire and engine number two backfiring, and in the process of "feathering" its propeller. (Feathering is the process of altering the angle of the propeller to prevent it from turning in the airstream upon engine shut down in flight.)

I recognized the serial number on its vertical stabilizer as being the aircraft we worked on the night before. I jumped from the bunk and went to the flight line with Bob. It took us, along with the other mechanics and Sgt. Griggs, the full day to find the problems and replace the engines.

The problem with engine number four was that someone had wrapped a kink in a fuel line with color code tape, rather than replacing the fuel line. It burst in flight and the engine caught on fire. I forget what was wrong with the number two engine. However, Captain Brown, our test pilot and base commander, called us all together and said, "from now on, every fucking airman will ride on the birds when I test fly them." "You will fly with me even if I have to load your asses in the bomb bay."

Sgt. Griggs was shipped off and things improved at Burtonwood.

Bob Board and I would go to Liverpool, England, for rest and relaxation (Air Force terminology for sex and sex). We went into a lounge and headed for the men's room as the band played to a large crowd of black airmen and Army guys. We approached the facilities, past a very beautiful English lady who was sitting alone.

Bob walked past her without a word, intimidated I guess. I looked at her and raised my right hand, as if to lightly slap her. She became insulted. She told me "if you even touch me, I'll have every black yank in this place jump you." Quicker than a flash, my hatred rose for that "white thing" that says "I'm better than you," "blacks worship white women." I slapped her so hard with my backhand that she spun in her seat. I told her that, "you may have every black yank in this joint wrapped around your pretty little finger, but this is one that you don't." The music slowed, some yanks looked our way, then the music returned to normal. Bob asked, "why did you slap that pretty lady for?" I told him that he wouldn't understand.

This woman chased me for as long as I was stationed at Burtonwood, but I never gave in to her advances. Most of my friends called me a fool, but if she had said "some" of the black yanks would come to her aid, I probably would have laughed. She said "ALL yanks" and that included me.

The white airmen of World War II had spread their hatred and bigotry of blacks to England prior to my service and the English had learned well. Many of them would check to see if we had tails, or would try to rub the color from our hands. Needless-to-say, we had many fights in England.

I was made a temporary crew chief when I was a corporal and all of the mechanics working for me were white. Taking orders from a black was a major problem for one of them and I made his life difficult because of his attitude. One day, as I was walking under a Boeing B-50 (a more powerful version of the B-29), I noticed the plane was rocking, as if someone was inside, as I waited for an inspection. I called into the hatch, "get out of the aircraft" or something to that effect. the airman with "the problem" came to the ladder and said "damn you and damn this airplane." I waited until he was off the ladder before I popped him in the head with my fist. He ran crying into the office and told the captain. When the captain called me into the office, I immediately told him that this airman cursed me when I told him to exit the airplane as I was waiting for an inspection and that any man who cursed me would be hit, up to and including President Eisenhower, saluted, and walked out and told Bob what had happened.

A month later, the captain called all of his mechanics together and promoted me to sergeant with full crew chief responsibilities. He then told the group that "you will check your hatred outside of the gates of Burtonwood. Lieutenants will obey the orders of captains, sergeants will obey the orders of lieutenants, corporals will obey sergeants, and privates will obey everybody...dismissed!" I never had anymore problems with white airmen.

I never saw a B-36 Peacemaker again except flying overhead at 40,000 feet. However, I worked on just about every airplane in the Air Force's inventory of that day, including the famous B-17 Flying Fortress of World War II fame.

Pudgie

I'll never forget Pudgie, our family dog, a white Spitz with his tail curled over his back. Pudgie loved the whole family and would protect us all in danger. But Pudgie worshipped me. I guess because I would spend a lot of time with him teaching him many tricks since Cookie and I acquired him from a young white couple when he was six weeks old.

I got off the bus at Delmar and Vanderventer and headed for our house a few doors down the street. Pudgie was on the front lawn looking in my direction. I was dressed in full Air Force uniform with an overcoat. Pudgie leaped up, hesitated, then yelped as he ran towards me. I dropped my duffle bag as Pudgie jumped into my arms, whining, trying to bury his head in my chest, urinating from excitement in spurts all over my uniform. I have never before or since received such a wonderful welcome from man, woman, or animal.

Bubba was home for the holidays as were many of our friends from high school. Herman Peoples was a paratrooper, Booker Thomas was with the 24th infantry, and so was Wellman Williams.

Christmas was alright, but not the same without mama. Saying goodbye to the family was tearful, but saying goodbye to Pudgie was painful. I would talk to him like I talk to humans, and he understood. I told him that it would be a long time before I would return and that he should give his love to another.

We met sergeant at the bus terminal and headed back to Texas. After completion of A&E school, I was selected to attend B-36 long-range heavy bomber school, the first intercontinental bomber and the largest aircraft in the world in 1951.

I first met Airman Charles (Chuck) Whittle Jr. of Brooklyn, New York, at B-36 school. Chuck and I were to become as close as brothers. Chuck and I are friends even today.

Upon graduation from B-36 school, I was shipped to Fort Dix in New Jersey for processing for overseas duty in Europe. It was while at Fort Dix that I was rushed to the hospital for an appendectomy. The family had moved to Detroit during this time and I was given a two-week convalescent leave. Cookie was having the same problem with our stepmother. Knowing that he liked sweets, I told him that Air Force chefs made the best pancakes I had ever tasted, maybe he should think about joining the service and he could finish his schooling there.

Wilbert and I would spend a lot of time canoeing at Belle Isle, fishing and talking, mostly about the Air Force. I had been promoted to corporal by this time and loved my duties and fellow airmen.

Pudgie was left behind in St. Louis with the people who were buying our house. I was informed that Pudgie was in a fight with his natural enemy, Dan, a brute of a black and tan coonhound owned by our neighbor Rev. Felix Sheppard, and he lost his will to live and died. Once again, I said goodbye to the family and headed back to base.

Basic Training

During basic training, I was the second squad leader of flight 5110. We had one bad egg in our group named Walters, also from St. Louis. This white boy caused our group to be placed on punishment many times because he wouldn't take a shower and his uniform was always a mess. I even remember this kid's Air Force serial number AF17279664 because it was one digit in front of mine.

Sergeant Brown and his little mean corporal would take turns running him around the parade field with a broom handle. Everytime he slowed down, they would beat him with the stick until he started to run again, but Walters became more distant and refused to wash or iron his wrinkled uniform.

Sergeant Brown would punish our entire group for the nonconformity of Walters. One day Sergeant Brown called me and the other three squad leaders together and told us that if Walters wasn't clean in the morning, we were going to pay the price. That night the four of us got naked, one of us had a large bar of soap, another had a large stiff brush, and together we pulled Walters from his bunk and dragged him into the large shower room. While two of us held him down, another would apply soap while the other airman would scrub. We scrubbed him until he was raw. Flight 5110 became one of the best training groups at Lackland after we solved the Walters problem.

On completion of basic training and promotion to Private First Class, I went to see Bubba and told him I was to report to Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas, for aircraft and engine mechanics school. I had finally been accepted to a school to study aeromechanics. He informed me that he was to be assigned to flight engineers school at Chanute Air Force Base in Illinois.

Aircraft and engine mechanics school was exactly what I had wanted to attend. Similar to the facilities at Hadley Technical in St. Louis, I attended classrooms filled with instruments, propellers, engine test rooms, and I learned to start up and run my first jet aircraft, a Lockheed F-80 Shooting Star. A single seat Interceptor which replaced the Lockheed P-38 Lightning, it was America's first operational jet aircraft. To my pleasure, I started up and ran a B-25 Mitchell Light Bomber, the same airplane that I had seen in "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo"
the story of General Doolittle's raid on Tokyo starring Van Johnson and Spencer Tracy.

It was during A&E school that we were allowed to spend a week at home for Christmas, 1950. A white sergeant from St. Louis, two of his friends, and I shared the expenses of the trip home. Enroute home, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I had my first encounter with blacks eating in white restaurants. We were all in uniform and I was the second ranking airman of the group. We pulled into this restaurant for dinner. As we entered, I noticed everyone staring at our group. As we sat down to this large table, for some reason the waitress kept ignoring us, even though other diners that entered after we did were being served.

Our sergeant, whose name I am sorry to say I have forgotten, put his cigar down, stood up on his chair, and yelled at the top of his lungs, "I want someone to wait on this table of United States Airmen before I tear this fucking place apart!"

A hush fell over the dining room. A black cook peeped around a door, some diners dropped their forks. Then a young white waitress holding a pad in her trembling hand rushed to our table after she was pushed by what appeared to be the manager.

From Tulsa to St. Louis, we talked of the war raging in Korea and were hoping that the war would be over before we finished school. Sergeant dropped us at the bus station and told us to meet him for the return trip at a certain time on a certain date. He said "Merry Christmas" and drove off.

Bubba and the PT-19 Crash

Bubba told me that he and his girlfriend flew his PT-19 to Greenville, Mississippi (her hometown), by following the Mississippi River, to see her parents. They flew under the Eads Bridge between St. Louis and East St. Louis at the start of their trip.

Upon landing at the local airfield to refuel and tie down for the night, he overheard this young white boy say to his father, "daddy, I didn't know niggers flew airplanes." Bubba said the man jerked his boy so hard that he started to cry. Rather than leave his plane at the airfield, he decided to fly to her farm. Fearing that someone would tamper with the airplane overnight, and taking on a full tank of gas, they flew on to the farm. Bubba told me of a picnic that her father gave for his daughter the following day. He told me that all of the nearby farmers came over to see up close an airplane for the first time. He told me that the barbecue was so good that he wanted to stay forever in Mississippi.

The next morning Bubba, using a farm field, gave her family their first ride in an airplane. Her father, a very large man, wanted to fly. Bubba said the man was close to 300 pounds in weight and wanted to tell him no, considering the full load of fuel he had on board. He decided to try anyway. Bubba said he taxied to the very end of the field, headed into the wind, held his brakes and applied full power, dropped his flaps, and released his brakes and started to roll. At midfield with its tail up, the 19 hadn't reached takeoff speed and the trees bordering the field grew closer. The 19 raced towards the trees as she became airborne, but Bubba realized that clearing the trees was impossible, so he cut his power, turned the magneto switch to off, and told the passenger to "bend over and cover your face." Ten feet off the ground, the 19 flew into the trees, both wings ripped off, and the nose dug into the soft dirt as the propeller broke off and went flying. They were lucky that neither were killed and the plane didn't catch fire.

Part Three, The Changing 50s

Alvene, as you know, our mother died in October 1948. She was an elegant lady from Alabama and it was through her efforts that kept the Brewton family well fed and clean throughout the depression years when most of us were born. She was a miracle worker.

Daddy remarried less than a year later and it was our sister Earline (Lena) that kept most of the family together. Daddy gave some heavy responsibilities to her at age 17. All of us are indebted to her.

I was in my senior year at Washington Technical and due to graduate in June of 1950 when Cookie and I had many arguments with our stepmother and the son she brought into our family. One of the things that caused me to join the Air Force was was the woman wrapped our refrigerator with a chain and padlock. She claimed we ate too much food. Bubba and daddy talked in the living room regarding the chain and lock and it was removed. I was too young to understand that level of greed, still can't. I decided to leave home on graduation and join the Air Force. Daddy had to sign for me to enter the service on June 27th, 1950, because I was seventeen at the time. Daddy gave me a ten-word lecture on life, "Don't mess with any girl you don't plan to marry" and off I went. I left St. Louis a private in the Air Force and headed for Lackland Air Force Base for basic training. President Harry S. Truman ended segregation in the armed forces with executive order 9981 in 1948.

It was there, at Lackland while marching down the road, that I saw a column of new recruits headed in our direction, still dressed in civilian clothes. Among them, out front of the second squad, was Bubba.

"Bubba!" I yelled. "Big Shot!" was his reply. Talking while in ranks was forbidden in the military, but here, hundreds of miles from home, was my brother. "Bubba" I yelled again, "when did you join?" As our columns grew closer, Sergeant Brown my drill instructor and his little mean corporal, were both running in my direction. I was expecting the worst of the worst when sergeant Brown asked me, "Is that your brother?" "Yes sir" I said. "Did you know he was in the Air Force?" "No, Sir" I said. "You want to see him tonight?" Yes, Sir!"

Sergeant Brown took me in his jeep to see Bubba and said that he would be back before lights out (9 p.m.). Bubba and I had a lot to catch up on. He told me that he had failed the Air Force test for pilots by two points and crashed his airplane. That's why he joined the service, July 17, 1950.

NAACP versus Board of Education

The NAACP filed a suit against the board of education on our behalf on September 13, 1949, and following a story about us in the St. Louis Post Dispatch with our address, the hate mail followed. Entrenched bigots upholding the unearned supremacy of white people used all manner of foul language and threats of death to force us to drop our case.

You may read articles from the St. Louis Post Dispatch and read the Supreme Court decision to draw your own conclusions as to how the Board of Education and their lawyers denied blacks their constitutional rights.

When the final decision was handed down from the Supreme Court on November 13, 1950, both Bubba and I were being trained as aircraft and engine mechanics in the Air Force.

Rather than allow us to attend Hadley Technical or install aeromechanics at Washington Technical, the school board decided to eliminate aeromechanics at Hadleys. Thus, still "separate" and now "equal." Very creative bigots huh? White people are able to fake sincerity and lie convincingly.

Alvene, your brother, led by your father and the NAACP, played a major role in the fight for educational opportunities in our public school system and you and all of our children should be 'against forgetting' the struggles of the past which are still with us today.

In 1954 when the landmark court case of Brown vs Board of Education ended segregation in the public schools of America, I was working for Republic Aviation, Farmingdale, Long Island, New York as a senior aircraft and engine mechanic on their F-84 Thunderstreak after my honorable discharge from the Air Force. Cookie was an engine analyzer in the Air Force, serving the 92nd Heavy Bombardment Group (SAC) at Fairchild Air Force Base, Spokane, Washington, and Bubba had been killed.

The Shotgun Braves

Cookie, Alphonso Jones, Stanley Smith, Pete, Crow, and I formed a gang called the Shotgun Braves. We would hunt rabbits together in the woods near Riverview Gardens outside of St. Louis where our friends Herman, Harry, and Earl Peoples lived. When the rabbit season ended, we would hunt white boys.

Running fast was a "born with" talent for St. Louis youth in the 40s. We would put on our jackets with the name Shotgun Braves and walk the streets in search of white boys. Some we caught and some we didn't, but those we caught paid the price for the ones we missed. It is amazing to me how the animal instincts and habits could be used by man against man. We would hunt white boys like wolves hunted deer. We would position ourselves about 50 yards apart along Enright Avenue, a street where mostly whites lived. The plan was to chase the white boy as fast as you could within your 50 yards. If he eluded you, the next person would take up the chase for his 50 yards and so forth. Without rest, our prey was usually caught by the second man in the string.

I'll never forget this one kid. He seemed to run faster as a new person picked up the chase. Crow was the next to last person in the chase and he missed. If Stanley, our anchor man, didn't catch him, he would be free. Stanley was within a few yards when, unfortunately for the "prey," he tripped on a flaw in the sidewalk and went tumbling on the pavement. Like wolves, we were upon him.

To further anger the blacks in general, and the Shotgun Braves in particular, in the summer of 1949 the city of St. Louis overnight decided to open the swimming pool at Fairgrounds Park to all races. A few blacks tried to go swimming in the public pool and were savagely beaten with baseball bats. This made headlines in the Post Dispatch. The photographs drove us to new depths of anger.

The Hodiment Trolley had a rather strange route near our house on Delmar. It would run down an alley, make a slow sharp turn, then return to the main street. Where it made the 90-degree turn in the alley, we planned our ambush.

In the summer, the trolley cars were very hot and air conditioning was not part of their equipment, so the passengers would open the windows and rest their arms on the ledge as they traveled along their way. The alley was black and dark and the bright lights inside the trolley made it impossible for the passengers to see us waiting in the dark. We waited with our knives as the trolley slowly negotiated the turn, then we attacked any white arm seeking a cool breeze during that long hot summer. My violent behaviour was governed by memory.

There were a few saloons for white people along Vanderventer Avenue and many times white drunks would use the vacant lot next to our house to sober up. Daddy would ask them to go home many times, but they wouldn't listen. One night, as one was trying to sober up, we offered him this large bottle of "wine." This wine was urine collected from Wilbert, Stanley, Pete, Crow, Booker, and me. He took one large swallow and said, "this is warm and smells like piss." We never saw him again.

Not only were there black vs white confrontations, there were white vs white, and black vs black. You were never safe unless you provided your own protection in your own group, in your own neighborhood. There were many gangs in St. Louis and some of those I remember are the Barracudas, the Crusaders, the High Tops, the Jokers, the Alley Rats (they would throw bricks at you and called the bricks "alley apples"), and of course, the Tin Cans.

During these years, when we weren't gang fighting, we would get on the Vanderventer bus with our shotguns and head for the country to hunt rabbits. Imagine a group of blacks with shotguns and rifles getting on a Seattle bus today. In those days it was legal so long as they were unloaded.

It didn't take us long before we used our skills as model builders to construct .22 caliber zip guns. Stanley took a water pipe and made a 12-gauge shotgun. We would arm ourselves and walk the streets of our neighborhood looking for trouble. One day outside of our neighborhood unarmed, we found trouble aplenty as we left a downtown movie in an area controlled by a gang called the Tin Cans. A group of perhaps twenty boys confronted us near the train station on Market Street about two miles from home. Unarmed and outnumbered, we ran. I ran track in school and I thought I was fast. But Cookie, Alphonso, Stanley, and Crow were out in front. Someone hit me on the head with what felt like a blackjack as I ran into the traffic of Market Street. There was a white policeman standing on the next corner. Cookie, Alphonso, Stanley, and CRow ran past him as he stood leaning against a building. I was in the rear followed closely by the Tin Cans. As I approaced the policeman, I yelled, "We're a long way from home and the Tin Cans are chasing us." He looked at me and said, "You got long legs, nigger, run!" as the gang approached.

Denied a proper education, living with a step-mother I didn't like, chasing gangs, running from gangs, and now denied police protection, I headed for our house and my shotgun. I ran through our front door, past Bubba as he sat in the parlor, ran to my room and got my 20 gauge shotgun, filled my pockets with shells, and headed downstairs. Bubba stood at the door. For the first time in my life, I yelled at my brother. Bubba grabbed me and said that he was going to hold me until daddy got home. I settled down and told Bubba what had happened.

St. Louis at this time was getting on my last nerve. Our step-mother brought into the family a boy who she had raised, Douglas, and I grew to hate her and Douglas because she would play favorites between Douglas, Cookie, and I. Daddy didn't know of these dealings and would always take Douglas' side in any dispute. Once, we were in a second floor bedroom arguing with daddy about Doug and daddy lost his temper and came after me. I ran down the hall and ran out the front door. Daddy was still running after me as I headed up Delmar. I told him that I was running away from home. He told me that if I did to never come back, but those words from my father somehow made me grow up. I walked back to where he was standing and face-to-face told him as soon as I graduated from high school, I was going to join the Air Force and kiss this city called Saint goodbye and that I could take any beating that he wanted to give me, as the rain washed the tears from my eyes. Daddy just stood there as I returned to the house and this ended my delinquent years.

Unequal education

Alvene, Bubba, Cookie, and I wanted to study aeromechanics rather than auto mechanics. However, that course of study was not offered to black Americans in the school system of St. Louis in 1949.

It was the law of Missouri that the schools must be "separate but equal" meaning, segregated by race, but they must be equal in educational opportunity.

Booker T. Washington Technical High on Franklin Avenue was the school for blacks and Hadley Technical was the school for whites. At Washington, we had, among other things, a course in auto mechanics. At Hadley Tech, not only did they have auto mechanics, but they had a course in aeromechanics.

Daddy was well known in the city of St. Louis and was active in anything for the advancement of black youth. He contacted people of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), a vanguard civil rights organization, and they suggested that we should file suit against the board of education in that we were deprived of equal educational opportunities in violation of the 14th amendment of the United States Constitution.

Bubba tried to enroll in Hadley Technical and was denied admission because he was black. I don't remember Cookie actually trying to enroll in Hadley because he was still in grade school, but I remember what happened when I applied as if it were yesterday.

I walked the few blocks from our house to Hadley in the summer of 1949 just prior to the beginning of the fall semester.

I entered Hadley through a large building which just happened to be one of the buildings used by the aeromechanics department. I stood there in complete awe while looking at the equipment these white kids used in their study. I counted nine complete airplanes which filled a building the size of a mini-mall. I could not believe my eyes. There were three Piper Cubs, A T-6 Texan Trainer, and a few more. Around the perimeter of the building were classrooms filled with propellers, hydraulics, landing gear, instruments, control surfaces, a sheet metal shop, a fabric shop, and a room used to test (actually operate) engines after overhaul. Out front of one classroom, there were many aircraft engines mounted on stands which rolled. I stood there and just looked.

Sounds like something from a fairy tale huh? There in fovea vision were nine flyable aircraft. I froze as I focused on this magnificent school with its unlimited wealth of equipment.

Before sunset that day, I would forever know there was a chasm between black and white. Separated by law, but it was devastatingly clear that these schools were not equal by the law, not by definition given in the Oxford English Dictionary.

I lost all sense of race and "place" and made my way to the admissions office. This was the school where I wanted to study.

At Washington Technical, in our auto class, we had a room used for welding, a small classroom with a blackboard, a hydraulic lift for cars, a few hand tools, valve grinder, and a few other tools, all of which was housed in a building about the size of daddy's garage, and he had more tools. If we wanted "hands-on" autowork, we would repair cars for the public for free if they bought the parts. Otherwise, we sat in the classroom and learned by lecture.

I made my way to the administration office and asked the receptionist if I could fill out an application for admittance in the fall semester starting in September, 1949. She looked at me as if she didn't understand, so I repeated my request.

She said, while looking rather bewildered, "I don't think we allow colored people to attend this school, but I'll check." She went to the principles office, stuck her head in the office, looked back at me and said, "I'm sure we don't allow colored people to enroll."

I went out the way I came in, through the large building. I walked past the Piper Cubs, past the T-6 Texan, past five more airplanes, past the classrooms filled with equipment, past the engine test room, and past the engines mounted on stands. As I slowly walked towards the door, the reality of the situation shook me. Something was morally wrong in America. An unearned advantage of one race over another. Why? Going against all that my father had taught me, I let my soul give birth to a deep hatred towards white people as tears dropped from my eyes.

I was 16 at the time and the reality of "equal" education for blacks in the late 40s gave me a rude awakening. I walked aimlessly, thinking about Scott, a white friend of ours when we lived on Kennerly. I had seen daddy give fruit and produce to poor white people from our farm in Blackjack. Then I thought of Fritz, another white fishing friend our ours who lived a couple doors from us, and I thought of Midge, the owner of the airport, and I thought of the young white couple who gave us Pudgie, our dog, as we played marbles in front of their house. I thought about Grandma Wesley, sending me to have her shoes repaired at a white-owned shop with a note stating, "I am white," which would always give her a low price. Then I thought about that crowd of white people chasing me when I was a child, and I fucking hated them all.

My last flying lesson

Bubba met this young lady, Dorothy, and she and her sister double-dated us the day I was to practice my steep turns. The four of us went to Lakeside and after Bubba gave each of them a ride, we took off to practice steep turns. After we were airborne and over Horseshoe Lake within sight of the clubhouse, where aerobatics were performed, Bubba asked me if my seat and shoulder harnesses were tight. It was always standard procedure to do that before we taxied from the apron, so I looked back at Bubba and nodded affirmative. "Make sure, pull on them to make sure they are tight," he said. I yanked, pulled, and looked back at his smiling face.

Bubba applied full power to the 175 hp Ranger engine and dropped the nose until it was headed for the lake, then pulled the nose up towards the sky. Horseshoe Lake was now over my head and the sky was where the lake should have been. I closed my eyes and grabbed the side of the cockpit with all of the strength a boy of 16 could muster. I felt my weight transfer from my bottom to the shoulder harness. Shortly thereafter, my sensations returned to normal and I looked at Bubba. "How did you like that?" he asked. I learned a lesson about truth telling that day. I figured if I nodded affirmative, he would not do it again and I could save face. My head was still nodding "yes" when I heard the Ranger 175 hp engine roar and could feel the nose drop. I held on so tight, I thought I was going to break my fingers.

Coming out of the loop, Bubba let the craft slowly ascend until the nose stood still in the sky. The nose suddenly dropped and the earth started to spin. Bubba pulled the nose up and applied more power. Then we slowly rolled over and flew inverted. Yes, this was a show for the ladies. I looked at Bubba and shook my head from side to side. Bubba returned to normal flight and said, "take over and return to base leg" (that portion of a landing pattern just prior to final approach). The only thing that I could think of was if he was trying to impress this lady, why not take her to a movie and buy her a five cent bag of popcorn. Why scare the hell out of your brother?

Bubba made the final approach and allowed me to "S" turn back to the clubhouse. Alvene, Bubba's plan worked because as soon as the propeller stopped turning, this starry-eyed female ran to her man in a flight jacket, helmet, and white silk scarf.

This was my last flight with Bubba and the end of my flight training.

My first flying lesson

One day as I was washing airplanes, this young girl, I think she was Midge's daughter, was telling everyone that she was going to parachute from an airplane for the first time later that day. After she had made her jump, everyone applauded. Arthur said that he wasn't going to let a woman best him so he checked out a parachute with the understanding that if he used it, the cost would be fifteen dollars for repacking. Midge took him up in the Piper Cub. As the Piper flew overhead, the right wing dipped toward the ground and we could see arthur fall from the craft, his chute opened and we all applauded. Upon landing, Arthur broke his ankle. When Midge landed, he taxied up to our clubhouse and told us that Arthur changed his mind at the last moment, so he did a sharp bank and Arthur fell out. We took him to the hospital for his injuries and he could not stop talking about his feat. We were proud of Arthur. He walks with a limp even today.

Bubba had a talent for flying aerobatics in his PT-19. He would put on a show over Horsehoe Lake most every Sunday, after which he would fly over the field inverted. Once he flew less than 50 feet and was grounded for 30 days by Midge.

Bubba's favorite landing technique was to side slip on his final approach; that is, to lose altitude rapidly by flying sideways and downward along the lateral axis.

When I was 16, Bubba wanted to teach me to fly. At the time, I had never driven a car, but I was ready. I purchased me a used flight jacket, a pair of goggles, a flight helmet, and a pilot's logbook. I wasn't ready for the white scarf.

I had already passed various tests on the link trainer so I was ready for the PT-19. Bubba showed me how to pre-flight inspect the aircraft and how to properly wear a parachute. Bubba would check the aircraft before each flight. He would start with the magneto switch, making sure it was off, check the gas tanks on both wings, then we would start at the propeller, pull it through to assure the engine was free to rotate and wasn't "oil locked," check for gas or oil leaks, loose nuts, and then walk around the aircraft checking for torn fabric, leaks, movable control surfaces, and flat tires. Then he showed me how to crank start the aircraft. He would climb into the rear cockpit and yell to me "switch off."

I would check to see if anyone was near the propeller and yell to him "clear!" then crank the engine a couple of revolutions, prime the engine with gas, and yell "contact!" Bubba would turn the magneto switch to on and reply "contact," I would crank the engine until she started. Then I would stow the crank in its compartment and climb into the front cockpit (student) and strap myself in.

Bubba would increase power until we started to roll from the apron to the taxi strip. He would "S" turn (for straight ahead visibility) to the runway. At the end of the runway, Bubba would hold his brakes, increase power, and check out all engine functions, check out control surface movements, reduce power, and look for other aircraft on their final approach to landing. Most small airfields didn't have control towers as we have today and it was the pilot's responsibility to check for incoming aircraft. With no incoming traffic, Bubba would pull to the runway, lower his flaps, and apply full power. After we were airborne, we would exit the landing pattern and head toward Horseshoe Lake.

Bubba was able to communicate with me through this tube attached to my helmet at the ears. I wasn't able to communicate with him except by using hand signals. Each cockpit had its own set of flight controls and instruments.

Bubba gave me my first instructions; "Place your feet on the rudder pedals and take control of the stick, fly straight and level, keeping the same compass heading." I grabbed the stick as I jammed my feet on the rudder pedals. The PT-19's nose suddenly rose into the air and its right wing dropped as we headed for another compass course. "Big shot!" he yelled. "Let go of the controls." "Relax" he said, "this airplane will fly itself," "you don't have to hold it in the air." "Look at me" he said. I looked back and Bubba was holding both of his hands in the air. My first reaction was "My God!" "Who is flying this plane?" Again he said, "This plane will fly itself." "As a pilot, you can change its direction, altitude, attitude, and speed; otherwise, it will fly till it runs out of gas. Then it will glide back to earth. Now, take over the controls, gently, hold the stick with your fingertips as if it was an egg, keep the nose and the wing tips in line with the horizon" he said.

"Remember this, we are not alone in the sky. We share this air space with other airplanes so keep on the lookout. Look above, below, behind, and to both sides always."

We returned to the airport and I entered one-half hour in my logbook with the notation "straight and level, scan the sky, and hold the controls gently."

During the next few lessons, I learned gentle left turns, gentle right turns, climbing right and left, gentle dive turns left and right, gliding and practiced landings on clouds. Bubba would point to a cloud and instruct me to pretend that it was the runway. We would always be approximately 1000 feet above this cloud and it would be located at about 11 o'clock low relative to the aircraft. I would make a 45-degree turn to the left and look for other airplanes in the downward leg of this imaginary landing pattern. Gentle right turn into the downwid leg. While descending, I would fly beyond the cloud before I made a left turn into the base leg. "You're too high, lose altitude" Bubba would say. "Don't forget your carburetor heat. If you ice up, you're dead" with the cloud off my left wing. I would turn towards it on final approach while trying to lose altitude. "You're too high, go around again." After a couple more patterns, I started to feel more relaxed, but needed more practice. Bubba told me that I was ready for "steep 360 degree and 720 degree turns." "Okay, take the controls" he would say. "Upon my command, I want you to make a steep turn to the right." "I want your wing to be at least 45 degrees to the ground." "Keep your nose on the horizon until you've completed 360 degrees on the compass." "Understood?" I nodded affirmative. "Okay, execute." I dropped the wing about 10 degrees and went into a right turn. "Get it all the way over" he said, and I could feel the pressure he was applying from his set of controls. "Your nose is dropping." "Follow the horizon." "Get your foot off the rudder." "Watch your compass." "Straighten her out, you're past 360 degrees." "Okay, now let's try it again." Upon landing, I entered 360-degree and 720-degree turns. Not too good.

Delmar Blvd 1947

Alvene, in 1947 we moved to Delmar Blvd., a beautiful neighborhood with its whitewashed trees lining the street. You were at least nine or ten years old and some of these things you will remember. The house you should remember had nine bedrooms, the large ones were used by our family and daddy rented out a couple. There were three baths, a living room, dining room, parlor, and a full basement. The vacant lot next door would soon be converted into our "airfield."

Daddy, along with the CAP, convinced the owner of the airport, a man I can only remember as "Midge" to allow them to build a clubhouse because much of the flying was done in the winter time due to the more stable air conditions.

The clubhouse, when finished, was no more than a large room with a picture window overlooking the airfield and tie-down area for the Piper Cub owned by the CAP, a restroom, and a large potbellied stove for heat. Out front was a long bench which we used in the summer.

Inside the clubhouse, we had this contraption called a "link trainer." This piece of equipment was a plywood aircraft simulator used by cadets to familiarize themselves with hand and foot coordinations upon control surfaces used in flight. Basically, an inexpensive way to train student pilots prior to actual flight. Link trainers of similar design were used by the Army Air Corps in training their pilots.

Most of our Saturdays and Sundays were spent at Lakeside. I took a part time job washing airplanes for Midge. Bubba was flying aerobatics in a Stearman PT-17 doing loops, slow rolls, stall spins, and inverted flight over Horseshoe Lake a few hundred yards from the field.

In 1948, at age 20, Bubba wanted an airplane of his own like most kids of today want a car. He would ride his bike out to Lambert Field to look at surplus Air Corps trainers. One day he came home and told daddy about this Fairchild Primary Trainer, PT-19, that was for sale for $600 and needed some repairs.

Bubba took daddy, Cookie, and I to take a better look at the airplane. The aircraft mechanic on duty told daddy that the main wing spar was weak and that it would take at least $1,000 to make the ship airworthy. Daddy gave the owner a deposit, signed some papers, and the deal was set. Bubba would have his own aircraft ready for flight in about a month.

Bubba was working in a toy manufacturers shop molding small toys and he was saving every penny that he could to help daddy pay for the 19.

Bubba, in anticipation of his first flight in this open cockpit aircraft, went to an Army surplus store and purchased a brown flight jacket with a sheep's wool collar, a leather flight helmet, a pair of goggles, and a white silk scarf. He would pose in front of our bedroom mirror, proud of himself, and would say, "I'll be a Mustang pilot someday." I would tease him and say, "You'll get an FW-190 on your tail, then what?" We would spend the best part of the next hour arguing, Mustang versus Focke Wulf, with Cookie plugging the Thunderbolt.

Bubba took delivery of the bright green PT-19. He and Mr. Johnson were to fly the aircraft from Lambert Field to its new home at Lakeside. Dressed in his flight jacket, leather helmet with large goggles, and a white silk scarf around his neck, he was ready to fly. Daddy, Cookie, and I drove to Lakeside so that we could take a ride.

Contemporary flying of today with closed-in cockpits is no comparison to flying in an open cockpit airplane with a small windshield in front of you, strapped with seat and shoulder belts, you could feel the wind in your face. Needless-to-say, we burned a lot of fuel that day.

Bubba formed a flying club called the "Flying Wolves" and a few of his high school friends joined to share the expense of maintaining the aircraft. I remember Arthur Johnson the most, a tall lanky fun-type fellow whose family owned a barbecue joint near our high school.

Civil Air Patrol

One of Bubba's Civil Air Patrol officers, Mr. Johnson, a licensed black pilot, taught Bubba how to fly in a Waco Bi-wing plane and the Boeing PT-17. They flew out of lakeside airport, a small air field for private pilots near Collinsville, Illinois, a short distance from St. Louis.

Bubba was 17 when he received his single engine pilot's license, certificate number 691822, dated August 29, 1946, from the Federal Aviation Administration becoming one of, if not the youngest black pilot in America and a Flight Corporal in the Civil Air Patrol. He was a senior at Booker T. Washington Technical High School enrolled in their auto mechanics course.

Bubba was born to fly, as were many black Americans from St. Louis who were among the Tuskegee Airmen who had an influence on Bubba's life. They were his heroes.

When I was twelve years old and in my final years of grade school, I remember celebrating "Captain Wendell O. Pruitt Day" proclaimed by the major of St. Louis. Bubba and his Civil Air Patrol squadron attended the celebration at city hall.

Captain Pruitt was a fighter pilot with the 99th Pursuit Squadron. During the war, he had shot down in aerial combat three German ME-109 fighters, shared with another black pilot the sinking of a nazi destroyer, and destroyed eight airplanes on the ground. Captain Pruitt was killed in a plane crash on returning to America at Tuskegee in April 1945.

There were many other pilots from St. Louis in the 99th and 302nd. They were:
Lieutenant John F. Briggs Jr.
Captain Henry R. Peoples
Captain Charles L. White
Captain Clarence H. Bradford
Lieutenant Earl Carey
Captain James McCullin - Captain McMullin died in the Battle of Pantelleria Island in July 1943, the first battle fought by the Tuskegee Airmen and the first battle in U.S. history won by air power.
Lieutenant Charles V. Brantley - This pilot shot down one of the first jet aircraft, a German ME-262 on March 24, 1945.
Captain Hugh J. White
Lieutenant Norvell Stoudmire
Lieutenant John W. Squires

Bubba was now obsessed with flying and most ofhis spare time was spent in the air or talking about flying. Every movie about flying and airplanes or the men who flew them was attended by Bubba, Cookie, and I.

I credit the St. Louis Argus and the Pittsburgh Courier, both black newspapers, with keeping the black community informed about the heroic black pilots. The white newspapers, with the exception of the Post Dispatch, did not consider information about blacks important, but daddy was a proud black man who made available to us anything about black history in the making.

This is a replica of a P-51C Mustang flown by then Captain Clarence Oliphant of the 302nd Fighter Squadron, identified with his wife's name, returning from a long-range escort mission to Berlin, Germany in 1944. Retired Major Oliphant is a resident of Seattle, WA., who I had the honor of meeting in 1990.

Part 2 Rude Awakening, by Wes Brewton

Alvene, you were perhaps two years old when I remember daddy talking to his customers about a battle being fought over the skies of Great Britain. The thing that I remember the most about those conversations was airplanes called Spitfires and Hurricanes.

Cookie and I would run around the yard with our crossed sticks, chasing each other, and trying to see if we could spit fire. Bubba would laugh at our play and did his best to explain that airplanes with the name Spitfire were engaged in the Battle of Britain with Germany. Cookie and I would ignore the teachings of Bubba and continue to play. I am sure our neighbors thought the Battle of Britain was being fought in our backyard. I was nine years old when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941 and can still remember the newspaper boys selling an "extra" edition of the St. Louis Post Dispatch as we were driving in the downtown section of St. Louis to look at the Christmas decorations in the department stores.

After World War II started, Bubba joined the Civil Air Patrol, a federal agency similar to the boy scouts for young men interested in flying. One of the projects they would participate in was building small, scale-model military aircraft which were used by the United State Army Air Corp in training pilots in aircraft identification. As I remember, these models were five to six inches long and were always painted grey so that their shapes became important.

We became very good at aircraft identification at an early age and could identify many of the airplanes flying over our neighborhood. Massive flights of Boeing B-17 Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators, flocks of high-whining Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, squadrons of super fast North American P-51 Mustangs, and occasionally we would see that brute of a fighter, the Republic P-47 Thunderbolt. We became so good that we could identify all aircraft by the sound of their engines. One day while playing in our garage, we heard an aircraft which none of us could identify by the weird sound of its engine. The sound was unlike any we had ever heard. We ran outside and in the sky was this strange-looking plane. The horizontal stabilizers were forward of the cockpit. Its wings were aft and the propeller was where the tail should have been. It had the look of flying in reverse. The next day we were amazed to see a photograph and description in the newspaper of an experimental fighter, the Curtiss XP-55 Ascender.

The XP-55 was a tail-first single seat fighter, the development of which began at the St. Louis plant in the spring of 1939. It was first flown at Scott Field, Illinois on July 13, 1943. The Ascender was one of a number of fighter types built experimentally for the Army Air Corp which did not go into quantity production.

Bubba fell in love with the P-51 Mustang because many black airmen from the 99th Pursuit Squadron of the 332nd Fighter Group used this aircraft in combat over the skies of Germany during World War II. It was for this same reason that Cookie fell in love with the P-47. Somehow, I was convinced that the German Focke Wulf Fighter FW-190 was the most beautiful airplane in the world. We would argue constantly about which airplane was the best. Some of our arguments were so loud daddy would yell to us that his "black belt" was the "baddest" and all war activity would cease.

We moved to Kennerly Street across from Cora Elementary School and their playgound, with its smooth asphalt, became an airfield. In the summer, we would take a quarter, buy a model airplane kit, build it, then have fun flying the craft. Inevitably, it would crash into trees or a utility pole. Then we would spend some time repairing the model and then back to the "airfield" we would go. When we were tired of the model, we would sell the finished craft to the hobby shop for as much as two dollars. We would then buy another twenty-five cent kit and start all over again and use the profits to go to the movies. Sometimes, we could go all summer long on the original quarter.

I entered a model building contest sponsored by the Catholic church which was very prominent in our lives at that time at the French Sisters Sacred heart Center on Saint Ferdinand Street. Most of the boys who entered were Bubba's age, but at 14, I was a pretty good model maker, so I chose my favorite airplane to build, the FW-190.

Everything was going good until the night before the contest. The main landing gear wouldn't bond in its proper position and I must have stayed up past midnight trying to construct it properly.

Building models did a lot for me. At a very young age, it taught me how to read plans and to follow step-by-step instructions. There was a personal satisfaction in starting with a pile of balsa wood and ending up with something that flew.

The next morning, I took the FW-190 to the center where most of the boys had made P-51s, P-40 Flying Tigers, P-38s, and a few had built the standard boxy type models.

I placed my FW on the end of the exhibit table and took a seat. The counselors gave praise to all who entered, but the FW took the first place blue ribbon home. I will never forget the pencil holder, shaped like a sailboat, that I received as a prize. I was proud and today I am still fascinated by the Focke Wulf 190.

Jake - Part 1 The Innocent Years (conclusion), by Wes Brewton

Jake Bruton, our paternal grandfather, was half black, half Choctaw Indian and to tell the truth, I was always afraid of Jake. He was a tall black man and looked identical to the profile on the Indian head nickel. Jake was not a talker and I always avoided him.

I remember Jake, daddy, and I going to a slaughter house and shoveling "free meat" into large pails. The meat was mostly hog heads and internal organs, neck bones, pig feet, and tails. This meat was on the floor of the slaughter house and was free for the taking in those days. Times have changed. Today that food is sold in some of our finest markets.

We were living for a time on a government program called "relief." I don't remember too much about the program, but I do remember the government gave most of the children what we called "long johns," a one-piece underwear that covered you from neck to ankle, with a buttoned flap at the buttocks to facilitate toilet use.

When I was six or seven, I was in a physical education class with both boys and girls. We would do simple exercises, but it required us to removed our shirts. All of the other boys removed their shirts. Some had newer "tee" shirts which placed their family in a higher economic status. I stood in shock, still wearing my shirt, not willing to reveal my long johns to the class and establish my poorness. The teacher insisted that I remove my shirt and needless-to-say, I was devastated by my classmates with their laughter. It took me a while before I wanted to return to school and I would tell momma that she could save the nickel it would cost for lunch if I stayed home. Sometimes this worked for me because she could prepare dinner for under a dime in those days.

There was one thing that I commend the fathers of St. Louis for and that was the outdoor opera in Forest Park. It was free and remembering those Sunday evening affairs brings back warm memories to me. I don't remember the names of the cultural events, but the music and the scenery was good.

Our family would fill an entire row with our baskets of food, jugs of lemonade, and Herbert Sanders, a young man much older than us, but a part of the family none-the-less. Herbert lived with us because he didn't have a family and daddy would take in anyone in trouble. He worked with daddy in the garage until he went off to war during World War II.

~ Tomorrow, Part 2 Rude Awakening

Daddy's Garage - Part 1 The Innocent Years (Cont), by Wes Brewton

Daddy's Garage was large enough for us to have our own play area with a large pot-bellied stove to keep us warm during the winter. It was here that I first remember Bubba building and flying a model airplane. Unlike pylon racers, these models were boxey in configuration with long slim wings. To power the model, Bubba would use thinly cut strips of discarded inner tubes from daddy's garage.

After winding its propeller, he would launch the model into the wind and it would fly like a bird. The first time I saw this happen, I thought Bubba had some magical powers and would chase the plane until it glided back to the ground.

Cookie and I would tie two sticks together, like a cross, and throw these contraptions into the air hoping ours would fly, just to see them fall like rocks to the ground.

Sometimes Bubba's plane would fly into our large sycamore tree and crash. Like a doctor, Bubba would mend his model with balsa wood and glue, cover the broken part with tissue, and the plane would be flying again just as gracefully as before.

Daddy's garage was well equipped with tools of all sorts and so was our area. As I remember, we always had a jig saw, circular table saw, drill press, wood turning lathe, hand tools, and work benches.

As I look back into our past from the vantage point of today, I can say with certainty that we were poor, comfortable, but poor. Poor, but not humble, but there were others much poorer than we were.

I remember a poor white family on St. Ferdinand Street who lived in a "shotgun house," i.e., you could look straight through the house and into the backyard if the front and rear doors were both open. As I remember, there were no curtains or shades on the windows and I still remember this single light bulb in the hallway which appeared to always be lit. They ate mostly beans and I can remember daddy giving them food when we returned from our farm in Blackjack, Missouri.

It was when we lived on Taylor that I first became aware of Rattus Norvegicus, commonly known as rats. Daddy would nail discarded tin can lids over the large holes in the baseboards of our kitchen and I would watch him sitting in the dim light of the kitchen with a flashlight taped to the barrel of his .22 caliber rifle waiting for rats to come out at night. he told me that rats were something to fear and to be killed.

St. Louis is, or at least was, a city with a large amount of alleys, a right-of-way between streets where garbage and trash men would drive their wagons and trucks to remove the city's trash and to empty ash pits. Ash pits were where people stored ashes from the coal-fired furnaces of that era. Rats lived, thrived, and multiplied in the soft ground under these pits, and their food was as convenient as the garbage cans nearby. As the population of the rats increased, they would come into the basements of houses and live in the warm walls. At night, when they became active, you could hear them playing in the walls and between the ceilings. These were large creatures, fat from garbage. Some were at least two pounds and 14 inches long. Later in my life, I would purchase my first rifle to kill rats.

Trash Day - Part I The Innocent Years (Cont), by Wes Brewton

"Trash Day" was a phrase which caused Bubba, Cookie, and I to jump for joy. Daddy would buy a truckload of lumber scraps to heat our house whenever he couldn't afford coal, and the day when it was delivered became known as "Trash Day."

Whenever we heard daddy tell mama that trash would be delivered, we would all get "sick." Attending school on trash day was like spending a day in jail.

When we heard the large Mack truck pull into the driveway, we would jump from our sick beds and run from the house. Our imaginations would be racing with projects we could build from the pieces of wood, even as the scraps were falling from the truck.

It was our chore to remove the lumber pile into the basement and store it in the coal bin. The choice pieces we would store in the garage for future projects and finding a large piece of soft white pine was like finding a nugget of gold because it was so easy to work with.

Alvene, another thing happened to me while we lived on Taylor and for years it affected me as a child. I remember daddy and another man standing on the corner of North Market and Taylor, a few doors from our house. Standing next to daddy, I was looking at this large ball-peen hammer he was holding as he stood shouting at a crowd of white people. I was frightened and bewildered as to why these people, women and men, were shouting at us from across the street.

Years later, when I was fourteen, while hunting alone, a colony of poor white people living alongside the railroad tracked sicced their dog on me. As he ran down the hill growling viciously, I aimed in front of him with my shotgun and fired. The poor animal rolled in a ball as if shot, jumped, and ran back towards the shacks. I told the people that I would kill him if he came at me again. As I continued on my hunt, I finally realized why I had those bad dreams about being chased by a large group of white people. It all came back as if it had just happened.

I went across Taylor Street to play with some kids down the block on North Market. I was no more than five at the time and kids playing was always an invitation for another kid to play. As we played, I remembered this woman running from her house yelling at me, shouting words which had no meaning to me, but I could feel that they weren't pleasant. She was joined by other women and men, and something deep inside told me to go home.

As I was walking home, the crowd grew larger behind me and I started to run. I ran into daddy's garage and as best as I could, told him that people were chasing me. He and this other man went and confronted this large group of people.

After that day, if I wasn't playing with our cat or Cookie, I would play alone until the others came from school.

~ Tomorrow, "Daddy's Garage"

September, 1990 - Seattle, Washington - Part One, The Innocent Years

"INTO THE WIND" by Wes Brewton

To my dear sister Alvene:

This is about Bubba. His story needs to be told. My visit to Seattle was to relax, reestablish family ties, and perhaps do a little fishing before I started the next chapter in my ever-changing life after leaving Pawtucket, Rhode Island.

I was amazed to learn just how little you know of our family's history struggling for human rights in this land called America, so I decided to postpone fishing and relaxation to document our family history because the two most lasting bequests we can give our children that are meaningful and priceless are roots and wings...our father gave us both.

There was a ten-year separation between you, the youngest child out of seven, and our oldest brother Bubba (Alton Jr.). What follows is all I know of his life.

As far back as I can remember, our father, Alton Beverly Brewton Sr. (Daddy, Black Eagle) loved airplanes, automobiles, and engines. He was an expert auto mechanic and many of his customers were wealthy. Daddy ran his auto repair business, called Black Eagles Garage, in a large building behind our house at 2414 North Taylor in St. Louis, Missouri.

It was while living on Taylor that daddy would take us to many cultural events, among them being the outdoor St. Louis Opera in Forest Park and to Pylon Air Races held at Lamberts Field outside of St. Louis. Pylon races were popular during what is known as the "Golden Age of Aviation." When I was four or five, in 1936 or 1937, we would pile into the family car and daddy would drive to Lamberts Field and park off the road under a large shade tree. We would have a picnic and watch the air races. It was free and it was fun.

The aircraft used in these races were small, fast, loud, brightly colored airplanes. They would race around pylons, set about a mile apart, forming a rectangtular course, barely 100 feet off the ground. The racers would go round and round, sometimes wing tip to wing tip. I can still see Bubba and daddy yelling for "their" plane to win the race..."come on Red Devil!" daddy would yell, followed by Bubba's, "catch him yellow jacket!"

I was more interested in mom's (Bessie Earline Genia Vestima Wesley) cool lemonade and the good things she had prepared in her picnic basket while I played with "Cookie" (Wilbert), "Lena" (Earline), and "Sis" (Elizabeth). Nancy was the baby of the family during these years prior to your birth.

It was here, at the air races, that Bubba's love for flying was born and became an obsession.

~ tomorrow, "Trash Day" ~

October 26, 1952

In the early hours of October 26, 1952, ten airmen of the 54th All Weather Squadron, Andersen AFB, Guam, Marianas Islands, boarded WB-29 44-69770 "Typhoon Goon II." Their assignment was a 14-hour over-water "chase" to obtain information about Typhoon Wilma, a category 5 hurricane. Their names were:

Maj Sterling L. Harrell
Capt Donald M. Baird
Capt Frank J. Pollack
1Lt William D. Burchell
1Lt Clifton R. Knickmeyer
MSgt Edward H. Fontaine
SSgt Alton B. Brewton
A1C William Colgan
A1C Anthony J. Fasullo
A3C Rodney E. Verrill


I was seven years old. My only memory of that time was waking up the following morning to find our house filled with people and chaos. Someone, I don't remember who, told me that my father's plane was missing. There was a candle on a table in the corner with people standing around watching the flame. I was told there is an old Philippine legend that says if someone is missing, a candle spark will fly in the direction of where they will be found. I saw a spark fly from the candle, watched it go to the left, and wondered frantically and silently why no one was following that spark.

The Air Force spent the next three months searching for any sign of the plane or crew. I spent the rest of my life waiting for my father to come home. After 20 or 30 years, the wait became a search for other family members, a search that was largely thwarted by the government which would not give me a list of the crew members, citing "policy." I put an ad in the Air Force newspaper requesting any information from anyone who remembered the disappearance of the aircraft. I was amazed at the result! From all over the United States, I received letters, often just a sentence or two, from men who had been stationed on Guam and either participated in the search, or just remembered the incident. Several men sent a list of the missing crew members. I had my names.

However, my efforts to locate other family members failed. Remember, this all had to be done by letter or ads in papers. Where to begin, where to write. I knew nothing but names. Then, I discovered the computer world and things started happening. On September 17, 2005, I put my father's name into a search engine and landed here: http://www.awra.us/gallery-may05.html

There was my father's name on a memorial site. I immediately sent an email to the author expressing my delight and appreciation at finding his site. Later that same day, he telephoned and gave me a great deal of information. For one thing, there is an entire website devoted to the 54th AWS http://www.awra.us/

One of the names he gave me was Wes Brewton, the brother of Alton B. Brewton, "Bubba," who was flight engineer on Typhoon Goon II. After 53 years, I was about to become acquainted with my first (and so far, only) family member and was astonished to learn that he lived in my own state of Washington! We are separated by a few hundred miles and a range of mountains. So far we have corresponded only by mail and phone. We hope, come spring and the snow melt, to finally be able to meet in person. I look very much forward to that time.

In 1952 Wes was already a grown man and an Air Force recruit himself. He and his brother corresponded frequently about their jobs in the service. When his brother was lost, Wes began a long search for information about the plane, Typhoon Wilma, and any other information he could find. He trusted me enough to send all that material to me because up till then, I knew very little. Included in the box are photographs of the actual airplane, copies of books written by other people knowledgeable about the plane and the 54th AWS, B-29 operating instructions, the aircraft accident report, "Flying the Weather," by Otha Spencer and "The Fireballs" (unpublished as far as I can determine) by Robert A. Mann. Also included was the draft of a book Wes was writing to honor his brother.

Wes has kindly given me permission to write his book in this blog. I give it to you now, the way he wrote it and without apology or explanation. It is a story about love and sacrifice, rejection and approval. It is Bubba's story, Wes's story, and the story of another time and place. Wes is concerned that the other crew members' stories would not be heard. We would like to correct that, but for now, I think their stories are really part of Wes' story. We all came from different beginnings, but we also merged our lives together on that one fateful day, October 26, 1952. I feel honored, and by extension, I feel my father honored, to be associated with a man who has spent much of his life trying to learn the truth and trying to gain recognition and appreciation for the sacrifice made by all those men in an effort to protect lives by determining the path and destructive capabilities of Typhoon Wilma.

Wes asked only two things; that we continue to make every effort to locate any family members of that lost crew - time is growing short, and to make a plea that the name "Wilma" never again be used to identify violent storms. Let the name be put aside and buried, just as those 10 brave men, whose bones now rest beneath the sea.

Photo taken by Ray Brashear - Operations Officer in the 54th WRS 1951-52

Information provided by Bob Mann, author of "The B29 Superfortress"





I found this photo, and a great website, at this address:
http://mywebpages.comcast.net/b29sinthekoreanwar/b29koreanwar.htm

Coming up, in installments, Wes's story:

Into The Wind
The Brewton Brother's True Story, by Wes Brewton