THE FLYING SUPER FORTRESS


When I was ten years old, my mother told me a true aviation story. It increased my appreciation of airplanes and flying. She explained how WW II had changed her life drastically when she was twenty-four years old. On May 11, 1945, at approximately 1 a.m. in Guam, half a world away, a flight of B29s departed North Field. They were on a bombing mission to Japan. Two minutes after one particular plane lifted off, most of the airborne B29 crews, and anyone at the airfield, saw two huge explosions in the dark sky. Altitude estimated at 750-1,000 feet above the ocean. The two-mile long runway at North Field was 600 feet above the warm pacific waters. The hard surface with its brightly painted centerline ended at the top of a steep cliff. Once airborne, pilots of overloaded planes would trade altitude for airspeed. They tried to avoid a dreaded stall. To lose an engine on lift-off, often meant there would be no survivors.

Maximum authorized take-off weight for the B29 was 129,000 pounds. Many flights calculated at 133-135,000 at take-off. On that fateful night, the B29 in question was 4 miles from Guam. It flew in formation with other B29s over the vast open ocean towards Japan. Unexpectedly, in the blink of an eye, the unfortunate B29 and everything onboard disappeared in a gigantic fireball. Aircraft in the vicinity felt the tremendous shockwave. The once dim moonlit sky became, in that region and for an instant, as bright as the sun. Tons of bombs and thousands of gallons of fuel had contributed to an unforgettable moment in time. Several crews witnessed the blinding flash that night. The next morning at first light a second and more thorough search found the co-pilot floating in the warm waters, wearing his life vest. He had not survived. As the days passed, no debris appeared on the ocean surface or washed up on Guam’s lonely shore. The entire aircraft disappeared in 500 feet of calm water and all of the brave, young crewmembers enroute to face the enemy perished; destiny changed everything. The flight engineer, my mother’s high school sweetheart and loving husband, was on that plane. It was his crew’s first mission. The next morning, mission completed, all other aircraft returned.

In 1980, I placed an ad in Air Force magazine. From it, I made contact with a man who was an Army Air Force mess sergeant in WW II. He was on duty that night at the Guam airfield. He told me that aircrews ate a meal before their ten-hour flights to Japan. While dozens of men stood in the chow line, he heard and watched as a young crewmember, on the ill-fated mission, jokingly told his buddies, “Eat up fellas, this might be our last meal.” Less than ninety minutes later, his innocent comment in jest became their tragic reality. The mess sergeant told me he’d thought of that night and what the young man had said many times.

Thirteen years after my mother’s terrible loss, and while she told me what had happened, I saw tears in her bright blue eyes. She finished her story, turned and walked away quietly. Some of the photos of her and her husband, Jack, named John R. Robinson, Jr. were visible in their partially filled album. They, or their friends, took several pictures of them within and around the training base in New Mexico. Their marriage, which took place on the base and by the chaplain who married many others in the same circumstance, was shattered after only four months. Two of the months, they were many miles apart. The album was open and on the table. Four months prior to his death, my mother and the other young wives of the men on that fateful flight, along with a hundred or so other wives arrived to live with their husbands for up to two months. The flyer’s departure date was not yet established; the War Department in Washington made those decisions. The tiny, drafty tarpaper shacks, known as “Hutments” which housed each married couple were located on a B29 training base in Alamogordo, New Mexico. On windy days, desert sand would accumulate in their coffee cups stacked within the cupboard. Tumbleweeds would block the front door. Jack would climb out a window and pull them away. Their uncertain days passed quickly. All too soon, the aircrews departed for Guam. The wives rode the train or one of the many busses to their homes. They lived throughout the U.S. After the war, my mother stayed in touch with two of the wives for several years. She stood in front of me, unable to tell me more. Then, she went into her bedroom and closed the door. She didn’t come out for half an hour. I had never seen her do that. She remarried but, I think her one true love died in that B29.