On patrol with my Sentry
Dog Tiki, one windy night, a B-52 with battle damage was struggling
to wing home. The huge bomber, which had been shot up with rockets while
making a bombing run, was limping toward base. It made one pass overhead
then made a slow turn over the sea to the down wind side of the base
for another attempt at landing. Most of the bomber's lights were blown
away, or malfunctioned, as he approached on final. I could recall it
like a kid watching a movie of the good guy hanging on. As the pilot
banked and slipped the wounded mammoth in the sky, I was suddenly
aware that I was calling out loud to myself, urging him Up, up left
... left a little more, and so on until suddenly my God she went down in flames. I felt so empty. I don't know any SPs that
had watched her slowly falling that did not feel a part of that tragedy.
Later, I was told the tail-gunner and
one of the pilots were the only two still alive before the crash. I
also heard that one of our guys returning to base went through the debris
and pulled a crewman out. I never knew if any of the crew made it, I
could only hope and pray that they did. I don't care who you are, but
on an Air Base we're all a team. As Security Police, we do our best
in keeping watch over the base and protecting men and aircraft so they
can sleep and work in relative safety and fight the air war.
During the morning hours, as the B-52's
were returning to base, I recall what we called the line up of
B-52's approaching the Air Base from a bombing mission. As they lined
up, one after another turned on their landing lights, and at times you
could see like pearls on a string with as many as seven to ten sky-lit
jewel B-52's approaching. One by one they touched down, as if a new
babe safe in its mother's arms.
