ball of flame and showered with glass from the exploding windows,
but no one died. The workers in the operations building were pelted with burning debris, but no one died. The shoppers at
the BX ran for cover. Their cars and forgotten packages suffered some, but no one died. Even the jogger on the road won his
race with death. Its hot breath came so close that his neck was burned but he won. He didn’t die.
What precipitated the event can be analyzed but will never be known for sure. For some reason, as the tanker was approaching
the field, some range of control was lost. Many hours will be spent in simulators and at roundtable discussions trying to
determine what caused the loss. At some point a decision will be made. But no one will ever know for sure what really happened
aboard that aircraft. When the smoke cleared and the wreckage was sifted it was found that only one person on the ground met
death with the ill-fated crew of the stratotanker. Of all the possible observers who might have died, only one was struck
down. And soon it became known that that one was the most unbelievable of all.
The man who died on the ground was the man who should have been on the aircraft that day. It was a young boom operator who
was unable to be with them for the flight. It was his fate to die in the crash with his crew. Fate reached out; death reached
out, to claim its own.
THE GHOST OF CHARLIE FIFTY-FOUR
G UAM was like a gift to me. Even in the face of war I felt I had escaped the snows of upstate New York for the white sand beaches
and tropical breezes of this island paradise. But I found out that there are worse things than snow. It took quite a while
to piece together all the facts of the following story and I’m not sure it’s all entirely accurate. You see, I didn’t meet
Lieutenant Sommers until after his first flight from Guam.
The island of Guam is the most western part of the United States. An American territory since 1950, it lies on the far side
of the international date line. Guamanians are American citizens and, as such, think of Guam as “where America’s day begins.”
The biggest island of the Marianas chain, Guam is still a tiny Pacific island. Thirty miles long from north to south, it is
only four miles wide at its narrowest point.
Small as it is, during the Vietnam War Guam became host to one of the biggest buildups of aircraft and airmen ever seen. The
Pacific headquarters of the Strategic Air Command since 1954, Andersen Air Base on the northeastern tip of the island became
one of the biggest bomber bases ever constructed. At the high point of US involvement in the Vietnam War over 150 B-52s, the
world’s biggest bombers, were stationed at Guam. So much metal was piled on the end of the island, so many aircraft, munitions,
and support equipment, that it was a commonly held belief that one more plane would cause the island to tip over into the
sea. It was mentioned only partially in jest.
With the advent of “Operation Bullet Shot” in 1972 the activity on Guam intensified. The biggest maintenance force ever assembled
at one base worked impossible hours to ensure that the giant aircraft turned and flew constantly. Crews, used to flying two
sorties a month, were flying two to three times a week. Weapon loaders were loading more bombs each day than some bases had
ever seen. The airfield was a maze of activity barely controlled by a maintenance staff ensconced in a tower at the south
end of the field. It was joked that there were more aircraft on Andersen than there were parking spaces. Some bombers had
to be taxied constantly, like a New York car looking for an open spot by the curb.
The crews of the giant bombers found life as hurried as the rest of the personnel. Normal stateside operations called for
a full day of mission planning, three to four hours of preflight, and at least two days of recovery after the mission. Here
in-country, the operation
but no one died. The workers in the operations building were pelted with burning debris, but no one died. The shoppers at
the BX ran for cover. Their cars and forgotten packages suffered some, but no one died. Even the jogger on the road won his
race with death. Its hot breath came so close that his neck was burned but he won. He didn’t die.
What precipitated the event can be analyzed but will never be known for sure. For some reason, as the tanker was approaching
the field, some range of control was lost. Many hours will be spent in simulators and at roundtable discussions trying to
determine what caused the loss. At some point a decision will be made. But no one will ever know for sure what really happened
aboard that aircraft. When the smoke cleared and the wreckage was sifted it was found that only one person on the ground met
death with the ill-fated crew of the stratotanker. Of all the possible observers who might have died, only one was struck
down. And soon it became known that that one was the most unbelievable of all.
The man who died on the ground was the man who should have been on the aircraft that day. It was a young boom operator who
was unable to be with them for the flight. It was his fate to die in the crash with his crew. Fate reached out; death reached
out, to claim its own.
THE GHOST OF CHARLIE FIFTY-FOUR
G UAM was like a gift to me. Even in the face of war I felt I had escaped the snows of upstate New York for the white sand beaches
and tropical breezes of this island paradise. But I found out that there are worse things than snow. It took quite a while
to piece together all the facts of the following story and I’m not sure it’s all entirely accurate. You see, I didn’t meet
Lieutenant Sommers until after his first flight from Guam.
The island of Guam is the most western part of the United States. An American territory since 1950, it lies on the far side
of the international date line. Guamanians are American citizens and, as such, think of Guam as “where America’s day begins.”
The biggest island of the Marianas chain, Guam is still a tiny Pacific island. Thirty miles long from north to south, it is
only four miles wide at its narrowest point.
Small as it is, during the Vietnam War Guam became host to one of the biggest buildups of aircraft and airmen ever seen. The
Pacific headquarters of the Strategic Air Command since 1954, Andersen Air Base on the northeastern tip of the island became
one of the biggest bomber bases ever constructed. At the high point of US involvement in the Vietnam War over 150 B-52s, the
world’s biggest bombers, were stationed at Guam. So much metal was piled on the end of the island, so many aircraft, munitions,
and support equipment, that it was a commonly held belief that one more plane would cause the island to tip over into the
sea. It was mentioned only partially in jest.
With the advent of “Operation Bullet Shot” in 1972 the activity on Guam intensified. The biggest maintenance force ever assembled
at one base worked impossible hours to ensure that the giant aircraft turned and flew constantly. Crews, used to flying two
sorties a month, were flying two to three times a week. Weapon loaders were loading more bombs each day than some bases had
ever seen. The airfield was a maze of activity barely controlled by a maintenance staff ensconced in a tower at the south
end of the field. It was joked that there were more aircraft on Andersen than there were parking spaces. Some bombers had
to be taxied constantly, like a New York car looking for an open spot by the curb.
The crews of the giant bombers found life as hurried as the rest of the personnel. Normal stateside operations called for
a full day of mission planning, three to four hours of preflight, and at least two days of recovery after the mission. Here
in-country, the operation
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