One of my Dad’s flying stories:

It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in Roswell, NM, circa 1950. My father was enjoying his day off from flying for SAC, while we had a barbecue a few backyards down from ours with some neighbors. Dad was Operations Officer at the local AFB. He had just tilted his can of Pabst up to his lips when, without any warning, one of his B-29's came over the house at no more than 300 ft AGL! It was really low. I still remember that the light seemed to dim around us – the thing blocked out most of the sky it was so low. You could clearly see the seams of the bomb bay and landing gear doors and almost read the small writing and placards on its black belly.

It was over in a couple of seconds, but Dad had dumped his Blue Ribbon all down his front. Before the noise had even subsided he was on his feet heading for our house. Even from three houses away we could hear him clearly "discussing" over the phone to someone at the airbase what he wanted to happen to this particular pilot when he landed. It was a part of my father's personality I had rarely seen. I suspect that the hapless pilot was able to defecate more easily after the reaming out he got when Dad caught up with him.

Bob

Copyright Ó 1998 Robert T. Chilcoat

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