The best part about writing this column is talking to so many amazing service members. The second-best part of the job is hearing from readers. It’s great to know if one of my columns resonated with someone, and once in a while, a reader shares his or her own service story.
Recently, a reader connected me with his friend, 92-year-old retired Air Force Col. Don White. White served in the Air Force for 31 years. Instead of waiting to be drafted in the wake of World War II, he joined the Army Air Corps when he graduated high school in 1946. The C-47 Skytrain, B-25 Mitchell, B-29 Superfortress — White flew them all. He’s even been up in the U-2.
In the late 1940s, as an aviation cadet, White was conducting cross-country, night flight training on a B-25. Departing Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana, White throttled up for takeoff. Taking off in a B-25, he explained, was nice and smooth — the pilot and co-pilot didn’t get rattled around like the crew in the back of the aircraft did. But the B-25’s engines were extremely noisy, especially on takeoff.
“We called [the engines] converters,” White said. “They converted gasoline to noise.”
Traveling over 100 mph, rising off the runway into the air, White felt an impact. He tensed up. Almost instantly, the crew chief, who was further back in the aircraft, “screamed like a mashed cat,” louder even than the roar of the engines.
White was terrified, sure he had hit one of the approach lights at the end of the runway.
“You react to training,” White explained. “No matter what happens or what goes wrong, your first rule is to fly the airplane. If you forget to do that, you’re a dead man.”
After stabilizing the aircraft, White turned control over to his co-pilot and headed aft with a flashlight.
“I expected to find a dead man back there,” he said.
The crew chief was a mess, blood all over his chest. It was horrible.
Then, the crew chief began to breathe normally. He finally opened his eyes. That’s when White noticed something peculiar.
“Crew chiefs don’t have feathers,” he mumbled.
Feathers were all over the man and floating around the cabin. A pelican had crashed through the glass front of the plane and smashed into the round metal parachute release on the crew chief’s chest.
“Were you relieved to know the man was OK?” I asked.
“Oh, good grief, yeah,” White said with a sigh.
It took a week to clean the pelican mess out of the airplane, and the crew chief thereafter refused to fly with cadets.
Three years later, White had been promoted to first lieutenant. He was stationed in Japan as an aircraft commander flying the amazing B-29 Superfortress. He was introduced to his new crew and saw a smiling crew chief eager to greet his new commander. Incredibly, it was the same crew chief from the flight with the pelican incident.
“His chin dropped down to his chest when he saw me. He almost passed out,” White said.
Lt. White laughed. He offered to switch the man to a different crew. But the man refused and remained on White’s crew for the rest of the tour. There were no more pelicans.
Col. White and I talked on the phone for over two hours, swapping stories, laughing, and at times struggling a little with our emotions. Over half a century and a lot of rank separate White’s service from mine, but we both remarked at how much our experiences have in common. Col. Don White served in the dawn of the Air Force and the beginning of the Cold War, a remarkable time for America. He’s a very remarkable man.
*Some names in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
