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HIGH-FLYING STANDARDS
An aviator's salute to an American hero The Memphis Belle rolled wings level at 1000 feet above the ground over the "Initial Point," an irregular patch of red Piedmont clay amid the new green of spring, on our run-in line to the target. The late afternoon sun in our eyes reduced visibility to a mile and a half as we stared intently through the windshield, searching for memorized landmarks. The target was nine miles away and we were traversing a mile every twelve seconds, leaving no time to consult a map. Flying into the sun instead of coming out of it violated normal rules of engagement, but this was not a bombing run, nor was it World War II…and this Memphis Belle was not a B-17. It was an aviator’s memorial salute in a B-1B bomber and the objective was to be seen clearly from the ground.
Somewhere up ahead a crowd of grateful citizens assembled
in a cemetery behind a little country church in western North Carolina. They
were there to honor an American hero. Thomas Ferebee, the Enola Gay bombardier
It was an extraordinary providence that put this writer in that cockpit on such a momentous occasion. I’m a fighter pilot from another era, a veteran of 268 combat missions in an F-100 in Vietnam. By the grace of God and generosity of the Georgia "Bones" (that’s B-1 without the hyphen), I was getting an orientation flight in one of America’s best peacekeepers. As bombers go, the Bone is just a big, fast, nimble fighter, complete with control stick between the legs. We were less than thirty seconds from the target now and recognition would have to be instantaneous. "Cunni" and "Buckit," our offensive and defensive systems officers, called out course corrections over the intercom from their battle stations filled with a dazzling array of electronics, all beyond the comprehension of old vets like Thomas Ferebee and me. Then, out of the haze, a meandering country road materialized with cars parked bumper-to-bumper, right on the nose. We passed over the mourners at a respectfully slow funeral pace—300 knots—with wings spread like a gliding goose. Then Blinkie tapped the afterburners, pulled the nose up, banked to the right, and that thoroughly modern Memphis Belle spiraled upward above our departed brother-in-arms as if our supersonic angel were transporting his soul to heaven. Invisible and insignificant as my role was, chills ran up my spine.
It was over, but the world is still a dangerous place and the citizen-soldiers of the Georgia Air National Guard had a critical mission to practice. We swept the wings back again and flew off on a simulated strike sortie. Blinkie and the boys put that beautiful Bone through its paces and I experienced first-hand its amazing capabilities, a mighty comforting memory in the middle of the night. This Memorial Day, while gratefully acknowledging the enormous debt we owe heroes like Thomas Ferebee, thank God for the living ones as well. The price of freedom is patriots willing to die for God, duty, honor and country, citizens willing to spend their free time as Reservists and National Guardsmen, and honest political leadership willing to use these living, breathing national treasures prudently. America has always been blessed with courageous men in the first two categories who meet a demanding code of conduct. We would most honor them by holding our elected officials to the same standards. Pray that this year America might elect a leader who could say with authority and clear conscience, as Paul said to the Corinthians, "…imitate me."
Thomas Ferebee
(1919-2000) was buried near Mocksville, NC on March 24, 2000.
Another hero of WW II
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