"Good morning, have you signed in yet?" Sarah smiled sweetly as Pat and I approached the press table. Already, other media personnel were obtaining their badges as commencement for the event drew nearer.
I approached the table, "Pat Weeden and Dan Wegmueller signing in for Monroe Publishing and ..."
Sarah Swan, of the Museum's Public Affairs Division cut me off. "I remember you - we spoke on the phone the other day. You were going to fly to Dayton - did you have a nice flight?" She asked as she handed us our credentials. I was flattered - it is always touching to be remembered, especially from something as innocuous as a phone conversation. With all of the exchanges she must have had in the weeks leading up to the event, the simple greeting made me and Pat feel less like the fish out of water we portrayed.
We gathered our materials, Pat with his camera gear and me with my note bag, and stepped aside as others queued. Since we had made incredible time getting there, Pat and I had some time to kill before the ceremonies began.
If you've never had the pleasure of visiting the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio, I would highly recommend doing so. Appropriate to the event we were about to attend, we ducked into the World War II exhibit.
Upon entering the gallery, Pat and I were immediately separated as we gawked. I will never dress up in Star Wars garb, I am not a sports fanatic, and I could not care less about pop culture celebrities, but I will wholeheartedly admit that I am a nerd when it comes to classic aviation. Transfixed, I gaped at my own reflection in the shiny aluminum skin of the B-29 Superfortress, "Bockscar." That same skin carried a crew of men on a famous and pivotal mission in 1945, now here it was - on display and looking as though she was ready to fly again.
Further down the gallery were countless aircraft and material chronicling the development of weaponry and their devastating impact. Nowhere was that more evident than the P-47 display. One of the most famous fighters of World War II, the P-47 Thunderbolt or "Jug," as it was named for its portly design, served as an exceptional ground attack fighter. Jug pilots were assigned to attack enemy troop columns, bridges, and supply lines in advance of Allied ground forces.
Operating from forward air bases, P-47 Thunderbolts would dive screaming from the sky, hug the ground, and actually have to pull up to avoid colliding with the very bridges they were attempting to destroy. Regularly, the Jugs would return to base with tree limbs, branches, and bits of grass imbedded in the cowling and wing fairings. Pilots performed such runs, skimming rivers and kicking up dirt, while flying hundreds of miles per hour.
And, the P-47s were tough. Pilots wrote about dogfights with the enemy, and on multiple occasions would fly home with multiple cylinders blown off the engine.
"Hey, there you are - I think it's time to start." The sudden announcement startled me, but Pat was right; time to make our way outside. I blinked in the bright sunshine, and joined a growing crowd milling about the Museum's main entry road. All along the route, Boy Scout troops, military personnel, and civilians like me and Pat were gathering for the Grand Arrival. I was heartened - U.S .flags, patriotic signs, and hand-made posters offering gratitude and encouragement waved in the breeze, held up by little and big hands alike.
Just after 1 in the afternoon, a motorcade arrived. The dull murmur of the crowd erupted into applause, cheers, and calls of thanks. Three men - each in his 90s - rolled down the boulevard in separate cars. They were Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole, Lt. Col. Edward J. Saylor, and Staff Sgt. David J. Thatcher. There was a fourth man, Lt. Col. Robert L. Hite who, due to health concerns, was unable to attend.
These four men were the last remaining members of a truly remarkable American legacy. Originally, there were 80 of them. They came from all walks of life, from all corners of the U.S. The four that remain offer a glimpse into the larger picture - one a Texan, another from Washington, the others from Tennessee and Montana.
One served as the copilot to one of America's premier aviation pioneers and was a guest of Madame Chiang Kai-shek. Another was imprisoned, tortured for 40 months, and nearly died before being liberated by American troops. Still another crash-landed in the ocean and evaded capture while hidden in a Chinese junk. Thatcher, from Montana, was briefly knocked unconscious when his aircraft crash-landed. Injured, he helped bandage the more serious wounds of his crewmates.
A wave of applause and cheers followed the men as their motorcade rolled past. As I paid my respects, I couldn't help but smile. I was surrounded by patriotism, gratitude, and genuine love of country. I felt proud, as did the men, women, and children of all ages lining the route.
Up next, we would convene in the memorial garden for a series of speeches and flyover of World War II aircraft. I've never felt so honored - not to mention humbled - to be included in such an event.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I approached the table, "Pat Weeden and Dan Wegmueller signing in for Monroe Publishing and ..."
Sarah Swan, of the Museum's Public Affairs Division cut me off. "I remember you - we spoke on the phone the other day. You were going to fly to Dayton - did you have a nice flight?" She asked as she handed us our credentials. I was flattered - it is always touching to be remembered, especially from something as innocuous as a phone conversation. With all of the exchanges she must have had in the weeks leading up to the event, the simple greeting made me and Pat feel less like the fish out of water we portrayed.
We gathered our materials, Pat with his camera gear and me with my note bag, and stepped aside as others queued. Since we had made incredible time getting there, Pat and I had some time to kill before the ceremonies began.
If you've never had the pleasure of visiting the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio, I would highly recommend doing so. Appropriate to the event we were about to attend, we ducked into the World War II exhibit.
Upon entering the gallery, Pat and I were immediately separated as we gawked. I will never dress up in Star Wars garb, I am not a sports fanatic, and I could not care less about pop culture celebrities, but I will wholeheartedly admit that I am a nerd when it comes to classic aviation. Transfixed, I gaped at my own reflection in the shiny aluminum skin of the B-29 Superfortress, "Bockscar." That same skin carried a crew of men on a famous and pivotal mission in 1945, now here it was - on display and looking as though she was ready to fly again.
Further down the gallery were countless aircraft and material chronicling the development of weaponry and their devastating impact. Nowhere was that more evident than the P-47 display. One of the most famous fighters of World War II, the P-47 Thunderbolt or "Jug," as it was named for its portly design, served as an exceptional ground attack fighter. Jug pilots were assigned to attack enemy troop columns, bridges, and supply lines in advance of Allied ground forces.
Operating from forward air bases, P-47 Thunderbolts would dive screaming from the sky, hug the ground, and actually have to pull up to avoid colliding with the very bridges they were attempting to destroy. Regularly, the Jugs would return to base with tree limbs, branches, and bits of grass imbedded in the cowling and wing fairings. Pilots performed such runs, skimming rivers and kicking up dirt, while flying hundreds of miles per hour.
And, the P-47s were tough. Pilots wrote about dogfights with the enemy, and on multiple occasions would fly home with multiple cylinders blown off the engine.
"Hey, there you are - I think it's time to start." The sudden announcement startled me, but Pat was right; time to make our way outside. I blinked in the bright sunshine, and joined a growing crowd milling about the Museum's main entry road. All along the route, Boy Scout troops, military personnel, and civilians like me and Pat were gathering for the Grand Arrival. I was heartened - U.S .flags, patriotic signs, and hand-made posters offering gratitude and encouragement waved in the breeze, held up by little and big hands alike.
Just after 1 in the afternoon, a motorcade arrived. The dull murmur of the crowd erupted into applause, cheers, and calls of thanks. Three men - each in his 90s - rolled down the boulevard in separate cars. They were Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole, Lt. Col. Edward J. Saylor, and Staff Sgt. David J. Thatcher. There was a fourth man, Lt. Col. Robert L. Hite who, due to health concerns, was unable to attend.
These four men were the last remaining members of a truly remarkable American legacy. Originally, there were 80 of them. They came from all walks of life, from all corners of the U.S. The four that remain offer a glimpse into the larger picture - one a Texan, another from Washington, the others from Tennessee and Montana.
One served as the copilot to one of America's premier aviation pioneers and was a guest of Madame Chiang Kai-shek. Another was imprisoned, tortured for 40 months, and nearly died before being liberated by American troops. Still another crash-landed in the ocean and evaded capture while hidden in a Chinese junk. Thatcher, from Montana, was briefly knocked unconscious when his aircraft crash-landed. Injured, he helped bandage the more serious wounds of his crewmates.
A wave of applause and cheers followed the men as their motorcade rolled past. As I paid my respects, I couldn't help but smile. I was surrounded by patriotism, gratitude, and genuine love of country. I felt proud, as did the men, women, and children of all ages lining the route.
Up next, we would convene in the memorial garden for a series of speeches and flyover of World War II aircraft. I've never felt so honored - not to mention humbled - to be included in such an event.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
