Bus Ride

Turning my underpowered bus on this Kansas red dirt road, I see the next set of passengers waiting to board.

A mix of folks stand at the stop, awaiting my arrival in the dry, rust-colored summer dust.

I glide the bus to a stop, gently opening the door just as the wheels cease their rotation.

Another masterly stop.

Uniformed soldiers and made-up ladies ascend the staircase as they smile at me.

I don’t want to smile. I want to drive.

They walk past me, filling in the rows behind my seat.

Reminds me of driving back in Memphis, ’cept for the roads here ain’t as good.

A Negro officer and lady take seats in the second row, in front of white soldiers and ladies.

“Son, you’ll have to move back,” I announce to the boy, figuring the woman will move with him.

He looks at me, jaw dropping.

What, ain’t no one ever talked to you like that, nigger?

“You looking at me boy?” I say.

He don’t stop lookin’.

“I am not moving. You see this uniform? You see this bar? You know what they mean? They mean I’m in the United States Army, and I’m an officer at that. You have no right to tell me to move from this seat,” the boy replies.

Back home I’d haul off and slap that boy. Here, well, there’s other ways to deal with the uppity.

“Have it your way, son,” I reply, turning back around to finish the route.

I look back in the mirror at the Negro and his female companion, sitting in the second row.

Ain’t you comfy boy?

A few more stops, we get to the end of the line. I stop the bus in another smooth glide home, parking it right in front of the base hospital.

Before the passengers have a chance to get off, I leave my seat, walk out the just-opened doors, and head over to the nearest Military Police Officer.

“Sir,” I say. “I just suffered insubordination of a young soldier on my bus. Please deal with him accordingly,” as I point to the Negro who was so proud of his little bar.

I’ll show you yet, you uppity boy.

The MP walks with purpose toward the chatting Negro, apprehending him while pushing the woman to the side.

“You talking back, boy?” the MP says as he cuffs the Negro.

“What are you doing? I’ve done nothing wrong,” the boy protests.

“That’s not what I heard, boy. You’re coming with me,” the MP says as he yanks against the cuffs, pulling the Negro soldier with him.

Ain’t no Negro talkin’ back to me.

*****

Jack Roosevelt Robinson became the first African-American to play in Major League Baseball (MLB) in the modern era, but this was not the first time Robinson broke a color line.

In 1942, Robinson was drafted and assigned to a segregated Army cavalry unit in Fort Riley, Kansas. Having the requisite qualifications, Robinson and several other black soldiers applied for admission to an Officer Candidate School (OCS). Although the Army’s initial July 1941 guidelines for OCS had been drafted as race neutral, few black applicants were admitted into OCS until after subsequent directives by Army leadership. As a result, the applications of Robinson and his colleagues were delayed for several months. After protests by heavyweight boxing champion Joe Louis (then stationed at Fort Riley) and the help of Truman Gibson (then an assistant civilian aide to the Secretary of War), the men were accepted into OCS. The experience led to a personal friendship between Robinson and Louis. Upon finishing OCS, Robinson was commissioned as a second lieutenant in January 1943.

Lt. Robinson was an officer with the 761st Tank Battalion. This unit of African-American soldiers - later dubbed The Black Panthers (and Patton’s Panthers) - became famous when they fought for 183 straight days in Europe (including at the Battle of the Bulge). Their motto was Come Out Fighting.

If an eventful bus ride had not sidetracked Jack Robinson during the summer of 1944, the 2nd Lieutenant could have been with his men when they shipped out to Europe and fought in Belgium later that year.  Instead, he faced charges of insubordination, resulting in a court-martial.

On July 6, 1944, Robinson was awaiting results of hospital tests on the ankle he had injured in junior college. He boarded an Army bus with a fellow officer’s wife. Although the Army had commissioned its own unsegregated bus line, the bus driver ordered Robinson to move to the back of the bus. Robinson refused.

The driver backed down, but after reaching the end of the line, summoned the military police, who took Robinson into custody. When Robinson later confronted the investigating duty officer about racist questioning by the officer and his assistant, the officer recommended Robinson be court-martialed. After Robinson's commander in the 761st, Paul L. Bates, refused to authorize the legal action, Robinson was summarily transferred to the 758th Battalion—where the commander quickly consented to charge Robinson with multiple offenses, including, among other charges, public drunkenness, even though Robinson did not drink.

By the time of the court-martial in August 1944, the charges against Robinson had been reduced to two counts of insubordination during questioning. Robinson was acquitted by an all-white panel of
 nine officers.

Kelly

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

Let’s get out of here!

Banking the giant B-17 170 degrees starboard, I put us on a new heading (south by south-east) so we’re in line with Clark Field.

Just as I finish the turn, Money in the top turret calls out, “Fighters 5 o’clock high!”

“Altman, before you get in the bathtub, let Clark know we splashed a battleship!” I order to our radio operator.

“Yes, Cap” he replies.

From multiple points behind the cockpit, the staccato cracks of machine guns clatter as hammers strike the rear end of belted shells, propelling each explosive projectile toward the incoming Jap Zeroes.

Robbins turns his head to look out over his right shoulder toward the incoming flight of Japs, “A whole swarm of ‘em! This is going to get ugly.”

We hit that ship on a mission that might never have happened, so we’re already ahead.

Despite the on-rushing enemy machine gun and cannon shells tearing through the thin skin of my lumbering giant bird, my glove-covered hands steady the vibrations, keeping trim and level flight.

Now we’ll see how much of a flying fortress this bird really is.

Shearing metal, human screams, staccato shell impacts, whizzing streaks of near-missed rounds, and blood-curdling shrieks of plane fragments torn away from the man-made contraption holding me aloft combine to crescendo into a cacophony of impulse overload silence.

Keep the plane flying, just fly the damn plane.

“Delehanty’s down, he’s bleeding,” someone yells into the coms in a voice too excited to be identified.

“You get Delehanty, I’ll cover your gun,” Bean offers over the coms.

He must be talking to the new guy, waist gunner Altman.

“Take out the one with the yellow stripe” Sergeant Altman, now in the bathtub turret, orders in a confident voice, perfectly calm, as if he is walking along a beach rather than fighting for his life and that of our plane.

Two Robert Altmans on my crew, what were the odds?

Keep it steady and fly the plane.

“Where’s the stripe?” Money asks.

“7, he’s at 7 High,” Halkyard, the other waist gunner, replies.

“Got ‘em. Take care of 4 Level,” Money calls out.

“He’s going too fast for me,” Halkyard grudgingly concedes.

“I got 3 low,” Altman offers from the tub.

“Whoa, did you see him go by?” Money asks no one in particular.

“Shut it, only use coms to call them out.” Robbins pipes in, attempting to keep the coms clear for the gunners.

“Engine 2’s hit, CATCHING FIRE!” Money shrieks into the coms.

Shit, a fire in 2. We can still make it back if the fuel doesn’t catch.

“I’m shutting down the fuel to 2 and feathering the props,” Robbins tells me, not looking in my direction.

“They’re breaking off,” Levin calls out from the nose.

“How’s Delehanty?” I ask, hoping new Altman’s got him covered.

Silence.

“Atman, how’s Delehanty?” Money chimes in.

“Money, get down there and check on Delehanty and Altman,” Robbins orders.

After a few moments of silence, Money comes back on the coms, “Delehanty’s dead, Altman’s bleeding Cap.”

Tub Altman comes on the coms, “Engine 4’s leaking, Cap. A dark stream streaking out.”

Engine 4 is leaking fuel. If the fire in 2 touches the fuel from 4, we’re done for.

“Shutting down the fuel feed to 4 and feathering the props,” Robbins informs me.

This bird has a good chance of exploding.

“Japs are coming back,” tub Altman reports on coms.

Summoning an air of gravitas despite my sense of dread, I order, “EVERYONE OUT, NOW!”

“I MEAN IT, JUMP NOW!”

Turning right so my vision is in line with Robbins, I order, “YOU TOO!”

“Someone break me out of here,” tub Altman orders more than requests.

I can’t imagine being stuck in the ball turret, dependent upon someone else in the plane to open the door for me.

Keep her steady.

Robbins starts to get up from his co-pilot seat, pauses for a moment while looking at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Level it off and get out too.”

“I will.”

He folds himself in half, disappearing through the bulkhead.

My hands tremble in rhythm with the jittering plane.

Hold it together girl, we’ll get you home.

A Jap Zero streaks past so close I can see the pilots face.

Keep it steady.

The plane, despite its now violent vibrations, is staying level and steady, offering a perfect jumping platform for my crew.

I flip the switch to engage the autopilot, but when I let go of the steering column the wings bank slightly to port. 

If the autopilot doesn’t work, I can’t get to an exit fast enough before this bird flips over and starts spinning.

One engine on each side, with two feathered, if I put them in sync, even though they are not parallel, they could keep the bird stable.

I reduce the power to Engine 3, so that 1 is dominant.

Ok, that should do it.

Engaging the auto-pilot again, I pause for a moment to observe the plane.

Steady and stable, great!

Lifting myself from the Captain’s seat, my eye catches an incoming fighter at 3 O’clock, fiery bursts streaming from behind his prop.

Get out!

*****

Returning from what they believed to be a successful bombing run against a Japanese battleship, the crew of Captain Colin Kelly’s B-17(c) was jumped by a squadron of Japanese Zero fighters commanded by one of Japan’s most vaunted aces of the war, Saburo Sakai. Captain Kelly held the plane steady long enough for his six surviving crew members to escape before (and sources differ here) it either blew up or crashed. The Japanese fighter pilots could not definitively report which occurred, so a probable kill was split between several members of the squadron. This B-17 was the first American bomber lost in actual combat in World War II. Captain Kelly, a graduate of West Point, died in the loss.

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

The crew that day were:

Pilot Captain Colin Purdie Kelly, Jr. (KIA, BR) Madison, FL

Co-Pilot 2nd Lt. Donald Robbins (survived)

Navigator 2nd Lt. Joe M. Bean (survived)

Bombardier Cpl Meyer Levin, 6975479 (survived) NY

Engineer SSgt William J. Delehanty (KIA, BR) NY

Radio/Bathtub Gunner Pfc Robert E. Altman (survived)

Assistant Radio/Gunner Willard Money (survived)

Gunner Pvt Robert Altman (WIA)

Waist Gunner SSgt James Halkyard (survived)

In the haste to share a small victory with a depressed military and civilian populace still reeling from the attack on Pearl Harbor and the surprise destruction of the U.S. air units at Clark Field the next day, the details of Kelly's sacrifice were confused and exaggerated. Reports of him crashing the bomber into a Japanese battleship, together with other equally false claims, encouraged many Americans to believe he was the first American suicide pilot of the war and deserved to be awarded The Medal of Honor. Kelly was a hero for saving his crew on America’s first bombing mission of World War II. He received the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second highest award for heroism, both for the assumed damage or destruction of the Japanese battleship Haruna but, especially, for the persona sacrifice which saved his crew.

Captain Kelly is considered the first American hero of World War II. Several streets, schools, post offices, and monuments around the country bear his name. His remains are buried in Madison, Florida (his hometown), and a statue in his honor resides in Four Freedoms Park. Kelly was survived by a small child, Colin B. “Corky “ Kelley III. A nation-wide effort, spearheaded by a Tampa newspaper, raised thousands of dollars for a Corky fund to help care for the child. President Roosevelt penned a request to the President of the United States in 1956. In the letter, F.D.R. asked that the airman's infant son get a West Point appointment. Colin Kelly III did attend and graduate from West Point, eventually becoming a priest and serving as an Assistant Chaplain at West Point.

http://airartnw.com/colinkellylegend.htm - To learn more about this mission, and those who were on both sides of it.

http://img834.imageshack.us/img834/9351/boeingb17cflyingfortres.jpg - graphic of early model B-17 (likely in the Philippines)