Air Force
These Days… my angels in the sky are visible…
It seems my life has become sort of this song… I have this background music sometimes in my life. Always been this way as long as I can remember. I remember the day my Daddy Jim passed away when I was just a little girl. I was standing out in the yard at Hungry Hill (Mamaw’s house on Wisteria Street in Gulfport) crying and thinkin’. The song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played in my head as I looked far into the sky looking for a plane that would not be there because he was killed in that plane. In those days, all military planes could have my Daddy Jim in them. I was to have started the first grade in Indiana that year. It was summer, July. We were stationed at Bunker Hill A.F.B., but, since Momma was pregnant with her fourth child, Daddy Jim had left us in Gulfport with Mamaw so she could help with Momma and us kids. He had to go on alert or maneuvers, whatever they called it. But, when his B-58 killed him, we had received the news down there in Gulfport. The men from the Air Force showed up at Hungry Hill in their dress uniforms all formal. The chaplain was there. The grown ups around me had fallen apart, hands over their faces, tears in their eyes. Momma got sick and took to the bed in the front bedroom. It was hot, as Mississippi summers can be in July.
I went outside to get away, to be by myself. Someone else, a kid, was with me, but, I never remember who it was. My sister? We stood and looked in the sky because I knew if Daddy Jim was dead or alive, he was going to be up there in the sky one way or another. I see a rainbow in the sky in this memory. Was that real or imagined? These days I tend to question if I wanted to see a rainbow, so I did. I was so very close to my Daddy Jim, being quite a bit older than my siblings he had spent so much time with me while Momma tended to my siblings. And now, the main person I had loved and bonded with so much after he adopted me as his child when he married my momma, before the other kids came along… he was gone??? He was my hero, my Daddy Jim.
So, these days, I have been outside a lot gardening, walking two miles a day for my health – I have lost 70 pounds over the past year or so – but, anyhow, these military planes are frequently in the sky as I go about my life. There have always been, but, for many, many years I chose to tune them out, try to ignore them, at times even hated them for the presence in my life when I just wanted to put that whole thing in the past. Yes, I went through a phase in my life when I even could not stand the thought of the military at the same time I was probably one of the most patriotic, do-the-right-thing kinda gal supporting our military because my Daddy Jim had given his life for it. This conflict, this annoyance, this necessary denial to be able to go on with life and try to forget my Daddy Jim because it always still hurt to have lost him. A daughter never outgrows the need for her father in her life. Never. Even after they grow up, and their daddy is long gone, there are times in life you still need that big hug and snuggle. The pain never lessons or goes away.
I think, in my case, because I never had the support or help to overcome that loss, it has crystallized into that long ago memory for me of standing in the yard alone, self soothing with the music in my head, the soft Southern breezes on my face as the tears rolled non-stop down my face and I am stuck there. I don’t know how to go on. This affects how I deal with all the losses in my life. I have gone on, covered up and buried the losses because I did not have the time or support I needed to heal. I just went on, kept dealing with life, family, work, whatever to forget the bad stuff and go forward. But, each time there is a loss, it just piles up onto the rest of the the tragedies in my life. Now, at this late stage in life I find myself putzing in the garden or out walking in the woods and the thoughts filter through the books I have chosen to listen through on my cell phone and the thoughts pop up. I like to read biographies, memoirs. Last week I was listening to one of Oprah’s audiobooks and the week before I had listened to Senator John Lewis’ book. Those books started me really opening up this box I’d stored away in my heart and mind. This time in my life, I believe, will be what my life has brought me to examine. That little box of hurt and treasures. Good and bad, but, a box of healing. I am getting old now. And there is time for this venture. And I am embracing it.
So, these damn military planes are on their maneuvers these days flying over and around my house here in Western Wisconsin. Like pesky flies they blast their mach noises into my heart. I don’t want them there at first. Then, one day, I look up and kind of had a flash back of sorts. I picked up my right arm and saluted that military plane as it flew so low over my yard and home. I started crying as I lifted that arm and held my hand up to my brow, not to keep the sun from my eyes, but, this time, I realize I am saluting that military plane almost feeling my Daddy Jim’s hand over mine, shaping my hand into that salute he taught me to do when I was little. I felt it, it was him, standing behind me, holding my hand into that salute position. And it was the most wonderful feeling! He was there with me and we were watching the planes just as we had at Bunker Hill Air Force Base in Indiana the year before he died.
A healing began that day, the planes passing over my home here in Hixton, Wisconsin. I am so grateful to those planes passing over my house so low this summer of all summers. I hear the sounds and I know where to look in the sky because of the mach phenomena – they are always seen before the sound, not after. I salute them, this little girl inside of me salutes them and this is my way of overcoming so much of that pain of loss even all these years later – 60 years later the healing has begun.
I ordered myself a t-shirt online that says “Military Brat” and one that has “Keesler Air Force Base” for the time I spent there as a military brat at day camp and at the medical facilities, the commissary, the Officer’s Club holiday meals, the life and times I continued even after Daddy Jim’s death, until I was 18 years old and was deemed a military brat. Well, I had have never outgrown that title. I denied it for years, but, that title will always be true. It is part of my family history and it is me. I can no longer deny these things and I am embracing them as Daddy Jim’s legacy. I am proud of that legacy.
These days I am saluting the planes in the skies over my life with a deeply heartfelt gusto as never before. And I cry. I cry my heart out. And it feels good even through the hurt, it feels good. I get an excitement in my heart when I hear the planes up there. They keep me company – I feel they are my support I needed all those years. I live in a rural area that is somewhat isolated compared to many folks. I have come to think of these military planes as my special angels and they are there to remind me of how special I was to my daddy. I am so grateful to them for their presence. It is hard to describe this transformation in my life, but, I’ve done the best I can here in this blog that morphs from one thing to the next.
This is healing… this is welcome at this time in my life. Amidst a global pandemic of COVID-19, I can stand on my country home grounded, all alone, and yet feel protected and loved by some damn military planes in the air space above. It is an incredible feeling and an amazing gift from above. I can see and feel a mighty presence in those skies. They are MY angels as they always have been.
With much appreciation and love from a little military brat grounded for life, at an early age, in the knowledge she is loved by somebody in the sky. Faith, hope and love comes in many different forms for all of us, right? These days, my old heart smiles at the “Wild Blue Yonder” and “off I go”! I am not alone. Strategic Air Command has always been there for me, not just for the United States, but for me personally. Thank you for being my angels watching over me all my life!
———-
These Days
I don’t do that much talkin’ these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to
I don’t think I’ll risk another these days
These days
These days I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
But it’s just that I have been losing so long
Count the time in quarter tones ’til ten, my friend
And now I believe I’ve come to see myself again
Count the time in quarter tones ’til ten, my friend
Please don’t confront me with my failures
I’m aware of them
Dundee Pioneer Charles Blow A Hero at 94 Years Old
The Rock Island Argus
July 18, 1913
Page 9
***
HUSBAND, 94, SAVES WIFE FROM FLAMES
Stairway Crashes as Aged Man Bears Helpmate Away from Burning House.
***
Muscatine, Iowa, July 18
Heroism which parallels that of genuine fiction was exhibited by Charles Blow, 94 years old, from possible death in a fire which totally destroyed the residence of Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Contriman at Fruitland yesterday.
The aged people were in the home alone at the time of the fire. They have been guests at the Contriman home for the past several weeks, coming here from their home at Elgin, Ill. Their daughter, Mrs. Contriman was out in the pasture while Mr. Contriman was in the field.
The fire was discovered by Mr. Blow just as he had descended to the kitchen preparatory toward securing his breakfast. Considerable headway has already been made by the fire, a gust of flame enveloping him as he opened the kitchen door. Staggering from the noxious fumes he pluckily made his way upstairs where his wife was dressing. The aged woman was almost prostrated by the smoke which filled the upstairs portion of the dwelling and her husband practically carried her down the flight of the stairs. The passageway was dense with smoke and the two old people were compelled to fight their way to safety blindly. Flames singed the hair of both although neither was otherwise injured.
Barely a minute after they reached fresh air, the stairway crashed in.
The home was burned to the ground in its entirety. Nothing was saved. The loss to the furniture is estimated at about $1,500, while to the dwelling about $1,2000. The house was owned by Theodore Drake, a well known Muscatine Island resident. But a small amount of insurance was carried. The dwelling had recently been remodeled but since the improvements the insurance had not been increased.
Mr. and Mrs. Contriman had made their home in Fruitland since last February coming here from Chicago.
daughter of Charles BLOW
son of Maria Elizabeth BLOW
daughter of Frederick Judson “Fred” HOAGLAND
son of Helen Marie HOAGLAND
Me, the daughter of Frank Hunt BOSWORTH
Mr. Charles Blow and his wife, Lucy Flude Knott, are my 3x great grandparents.
Submitted by Tenderly Rose-Robin Melissa Bosworth Reininger
Some Family History for My Daddy Jim, Capt. James Peter Estrada, Child of Spanish Immigrants
My Daddy Jim, was born James Peter Estrada to James and Angela (Franquet) Estrada in New York, USA, on May 7, 1934. In 1940, a U. S. Census shows a five year old James Estrada living with his parents, the only child. The census shows little James’ 31 year old father, a diamond setter in the jewelry industry, as having been born in France, and his 30 year old mother, Angela, a dressmaker in the dress manufacturing business, having been born in Spain. The couple rented the home at 172 111th Street in Queens, New York.
I know he attended Georgia Military Academy.
I don’t know how he and my mother, Janie Morris, met. I do know they were married at a chapel on Keesler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Harrison County, Mississippi.
I have had trouble finding documentation for Daddy Jim’s life events and accomplishments other than the newspaper articles and information I collected for his death.
About Daddy Jim’s parents and grandparents:
From this point forward for the sake of simplicity, I will refer to my Daddy Jim as “Jim” and his father as James Sr. I know from family history told to me by my Grandma Angela that James Sr. was born of a Spanish family that had migrated to Paris in the jewelry trade. I recall spending much time with both of my adopted grandparents, the Estradas, in Houston, Texas, where my Grandpa Jim Estrada had retired after years in the oil industry.
At some point, James’s father went to work for Gulf Oil in Venezuela, but Jim stayed behind in the United States to attend military academies. In Venezuela, a sister, Beatrice, was born. I found passenger records of Jim having traveled to Venezuela for visits to his parents.
James, Sr. was born Dec. 19, 1908 in Paris, France. James, Sr., died in Houston, Texas, July 13, 1967, of multiple myeloma (cancer) at the age of 58. I remember when he passed away. He was buried at Southern Memorial Park in Biloxi, Mississippi, near his son, Capt. James Peter Estrada. He wanted to be buried by his son. James, Sr., migrated to New York with his parents as a young child. He spoke French and Spanish.
My Grandma Angela (Franquet) Estrada’s Obituary
ESTRADA
Angela Franquet Estrada, beloved wife, mother and grandmother went home to be with the Lord on July 8, 2006. She was born in Valencia, Spain on November 10, 1909. Preceded in death by her parents; two sisters and two brothers; her husband, James Estrada; and son, Captain James Peter Estrada. Survived by her daughter, Beatrice Hood and husband Dean; grandsons, Alan Hood and wife Lorie, and Douglas Hood of Houston; and daughter-in-law, Jane Estrada of Gulfport, Miss.; grandchildren, Tenderly, Angela, Alison, James P. Estrada and wife Jan; five great-grandchildren; and one great great grandchild. She retired from Esther Wolf and Everitt Beulow.
A Memorial Service will be held at Grace Bible Church, 13700 Schroeder Rd., Houston, TX on Wednesday, July 12, 2006 at 3:00pm. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Still Creek Ranch, 6055 Hearne Lane, Bryan, TX 77808, or Vitas Hospice, 4828 Loop Central Dr., Suite 890, Houston, TX 77081.
James, Sr.’s father was named James “Jaime” Estrada. He was born July 25, 1888 in Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain, and died in December of 1970 in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I met “Yiyo” the nickname for him. He had flown up to Gulfport to see us. I recall he had a pistol in his luggage, which greatly concerned my mother, and he had a “youth tonic” he drank every morning involving honey and lemon juice. He had a good disposition and spoke only Spanish and French, I think. James, Sr., was a jeweler-having been in business in Paris before establishing himself in New York as a jeweler.
James, Sr.’s mother was named Conchita Torres. Conchita Torres, James, Sr.,’s mother, was born May 21, 1886 in Puebla de Castro, Spain. I don’t have records for her death.
According to documentation, both Jaime and Conchita’s arrival dates were 1911 and 1912, respectively, from Paris, France.
In 1920, James “Jaime” and Conchita (Torres) Estrada, along with their son, James lived at 298 East 77th Street in Manhattan Assembly District 14, in New York, New York. “Jaime” was listed at a jeweler and he was listed as “Papers submitted”. In 1930, they still lived at the Manhattan address above listed as and Conchita was listed as “Alien”. Jaime was listed as “First papers”. By 1940, at the same Manhattan address, “Conchita” was listed as having “First papers”.
I have not found documentation for the parents for Jaime or Conchita at this time. That information would be in Spain, I would presume, and I have no access to those records. I am still looking, though.
Here is just one of the documents I had found in support of the family history I am working on for Daddy Jim’s genealogy:
Having had two fathers in my life, I grew up without either one. I was born to Capt. and Mrs. Frank Hunt Bosworth. My mother was Janie Morris. They divorced soon after I was born, and as the story was told to me, my mother met and married Jim Estrada. They were married when I was about two years old. Jim adopted me as his child. I was raised as Jim Estrada’s child and he is the one I have the most cherished childhood memories any child could ever dream of. I have hung onto those memories-they are as clear as if they happened yesterday.
The Estrada family shared their love with me as if I was a child born with their blood. I cherished them, especially my Aunt Bea-Bea. I grew up with the Estrada name and was always very proud of it. I am forever grateful for the time I spent with them and the advantages that went with being part of their family. Every summer I can remember, my siblings and I were packed up and sent to Houston to have extended visits with our Texas Estradas. This included the Hood family my Aunt Bea-Bea eventually married into. We had very good times! We swam in the icy cold rice wells in Katy, Texas, at Uncle Dean’s sister’s farm – the McIroys, I believe were their names. Uncle Dean always had to win at Monopoly and Aunt Bea-Bea made the most delicious food. One dish I remember was some sort of Mexican casserole. The houses in Ponderosa Forest, a subdivision of Houston were amazing to experience. My Uncle Dean had been a builder of some of those houses. Aunt Bea-Bea was a teacher and one of the most positive influences in my life. I can hear her laughter as I write this.
My Grandma Angela, “Granny Annie”, as we called her in the 60’s always made sure we had beautiful dresses and swimwear from Esther Wolfe, the store she worked at, and she provide tennis lessons for us at one of the townhouse developments she lived in. We had a blast with her. She was a very fastidious and clean housekeeper and we were expected to make our beds every day or we couldn’t go swimming at the pool if we didn’t. It just was really the best of time when we went to Houston. I wanted to live there.
It was always so exciting when Grandma Angela speed down the “freeway” heading to downtown Houston. She would holler out, “Get out of my way, you old fossil!” if she had to pass a car. We always giggled because the person in the other car appeared to be her age. I remember one trip to the Galleria for shopping. I had never seen a shopping mall quite like that one. It was new when I was there. She took me to an art gallery because she knew I loved art and always encouraged me. When she got much older, she took painting classes and produced some pretty impressive artwork herself. I was so proud of her!
As a family, we spent many holidays in Houston with the Estradas. The Christmas lights were just fantastic. The trips we made in the car were long and kind of miserable. We traveled with six of use in the car. Momma drove, Mamaw (her mother) rode shotgun and four of us kids had to sit in the back of the station wagon along with ice chests filled with food and luggage. We did take breaks at rest stops and that helped. When we got to Houston, it was all worth it.
The 1962 Death of My Daddy Jim – a Strategic Air Command B-58 Hustler Pilot in the 364th Bomb Squadron of the 305th Bomb Wing at Bunker Hill Air Force Base
This first newspaper article was sent to me a couple of years ago from the wife of one of the pilots, John T. Burch, who was in the plane when the accident occurred.
I have no copy of Page 11, Column 5…
July 17, 1962
The Anderson Herald – Anderson, Indiana
Bomber Blast Kills Crewman
PERU, Ind. (AP)—An explosion described as minor and unexplained killed a crewman on a B-58 Hustler bomber Monday as the supersonic craft flew a test mission about 35,000 feet.
The incident occurred after the bomber attached to the 364th Bomb Squadron of the 305th Bomb Wing at Bunker Hill Air Force Base had been in flight an hour.
The craft was en route from Nashville, Tenn., to Lafayette.
Bunker Hill authorities said the victim was 1st Lt. James P. Estrada, 28, the planes’ defensive systems operator. He was the son of Mr. and Mrs. James Estrada, Houston, Tex.
Base officials gave this account:
Maj. Leonard V. Sullivan, Fresno, Calif., commander and pilot, sensed a loud report, felt a yaw to the right and detected depressurization trouble in the tandem seated craft’s three chambers.
He checked with the other two crew members and received acknowledgement from Capt. John T. Burch, Cleveland, Tenn., navigator, but none from Estrada.
Sullivan returned to Bunker Hill and landed.
He and Burch found Estrada unconscious and rushed him to the base hospital where he was dead on arrival.
The Vidette Messenger
Valpraiso, Indiana
July 17, 1962
Plane Explosion Investigated by AF Officials
PERU, Ind. (AP) – The Air Force was trying today to determine the cause of an explosion that killed a crewman as a B58 Hustler bomber was flying a test mission.
First Lt. James P. Estrada 28, Houston, Tex., defensive systems operator on the supersonic bomber, was killed Monday as the plane flew above 35,000 feet enroute from Nashville, Tenn., to Lafayatte.
Base officials said the plane had been in flight an hour when Maj. Leonard V. Sullivan of Fesno, Calif., commander and pilot, sensed a loud report, felt a yaw to the right and detected depressurization trouble.
Checks With Crew
The plane carried a three-man crew. Sullivan checked with the others, received acknowledgement from Capt. John T. Burch of Cleveland, Tenn., navigator, but not from Estrada. He headed for Bunker Hill Air Force Base and landed.
Sullivan and Burch found Estrada unconscious and rushed him to the base hospital, where he was declared dead on arrival.
The plane is attached to the 364th Bomb Squadron of the 305 Bomb Wing at Bunker Hill. Base officials said it had undergone major modification prior to the flight and had passed all tests.
Estrada had been in the Air Force almost five years. His wife and their three daughters have been living in the base housing area.
July 17, 1962
Star-News, Pasadena, California
Blast Death Probed
BUNKER HILL, Ind.—UPI—Air force [sic] officials today began an investigation into a “minor explosion and depressurization” which caused the death of a crew member aboard a B-58 Hustler jet bomber enroute to Lafayette.
It was believed the explosion occurred yesterday in the right inboard engine, part of which ripped off and tore through the plane as it flew at 35,000 feet on a test run from Nashville, Tenn.
Bunker Hill information officer Maj. Glen A. Proffitt said the engine piece hit and killed 1st Lt. James P. Estrada, 28, defense systems operator of the jet.
August 05, 1962
Nevada State Journal – Reno, Nevada
Jet Explosion Inquiry Starts
BUNKER HILL, Ind. (UPI)—Air Force officials Saturday began an investigation into a “minor explosion and depressurization” which caused the death of a crew member aboard a B-58 Hustler jet bomber en route to Lafayette.
It was believed the explosion occurred in the right inboard engine, part of which ripped off and tore through the plane as it flew at 35,000 feet on a test run from Nashville, Tenn.
Bunker Hill information officer Maj. Glen A. Proffitt said the engine piece hit and killed 1st Lt. James P. Estrada, 28, defensive systems operator of the jet.
KOKOMO (Ind.) TRIBUNE
Sunday, Dec. 30, 1962
Bunker Hill AFB Airmen Killed in Accidents
B-58 Tragedies Took Costly Toll; Value of All Property on Base Rises to Nearly Billion Dollars
Three accidents, which took the lives of five Air Force officers, involved B-68 Hustler bombers at the Bunker Hill Air Force Base near Kokomo during the year now closing.
On April 12 one of the powerful Hustlers lifted on a normal take-off from the south runway, then suddenly yawed to the left and plummeted groundward, exploding into a fiery ball.
Miraculously, two of the crewmen, Capt. William F. Hale and Lt. George P. O’Connor, were uninjured after landing with only partially-opened parachutes.
Capt. Duane D. Dickey, 29, Orosi, Calif., was not so fortunate and perished with the aircraft.
In an investigation of the crash, searchers found the cause to be a defect in the flight control system. All aircraft were grounded until the Hustlers could be modified, further insuring the safety of their crews.
On July 16 at about 35,000 feet over southwestern Indiana the freak disintegration of a starter on another B-58 sent a small fragment of metal hurling through the fuselage of the plane, taking the life of First Lieutenant James P. Estrada.
Estrada, the 28-year-old defensive systems operator of the aircraft, was pronounced dead on arrival at the Bunker Hill AFB hospital. The bomber, piloted by Maj. Leonard V. Sullivan and navigated by Capt. John T. Burtch, was able to put down at Bunker Hill without further mishap.
The third and most tragic crash occurred on Sept. 14 near Butlerville, taking the lives of three crewmen. Found in the mangled wreckage of the plane were Lt. Col. John J. Trevisani, Capt. Arthur I Freed and Capt. Reinardo P. Moure. Trevisani was commander of the 366th Bomb Squadron.
Flying at supersonic speeds greater than Mach II (twice the speed of sound), the Hustler literally disintegrated, strewing wreckage over about a 16-square-mile area. Since the Butlerville crash the 58’s have been grounded from any supersonic fight.
While the loss of five officers was a tragic chapter in the history of the base, the big military installation continued to grow. Its total value rose to $906,405,000 during the year.
Land, facilities and added aircraft, represent a $156,000,000 increase since June. Most of this figure is accounted for by the additional aircraft, although security does not allow disclosure of the exact number added.
Military personnel on the base number 5,000 with 300 civilian employes [sic] and about 5,000 dependants [sic]. Last year the base payroll was $5,557,000.
The year’s fiscal expenditures for food, maintenance and military purchases were approximately $34,000,000.
Among new construction were the refinishing, inside and out, of airmen’s dormitories and the personnel building; a revamping of the swimming pool; addition of 14 “Hustler Huts” to house B-58 bombers; new banks of runway lights; a blast ramp at the end of one runway; and repair to the concrete work of the runways.
Officials and personnel at the base continued to show a friendliness and co-operation with residents in the communities surrounding the base and recently exemplified this feeling in the large donations presented to the United Fund campaign in the area. Howard County’s share was $1,815.
Thursday, June 15, 1967
The Kokomo Tribune – Kokomo, Indiana
Vol. 117—No 286 Page One
…
Jet Was Stationed at BHAFB
Inquiry Begun in Crash of B-58 And Death of Plane’s Navigator
DARROUZETT, Tex.—The crash of a B-58 Hustler from Bunker Hill Air Force Base and the death of the plane’s navigator were being probed Thursday by a board of inquiry from Clinton-Sherman Air Force Base.
The board from Clinton-Sherman, the Strategic Air Command’s nearest facility, was called to the crash scene near the Texas Oklahoma border after the 305th Bomb Wing plane plummeted to the ground about 5:30 p.m. Wednesday.
The supersonic bomber crashed west of Darrouzett in the northeastern corner of the Texas, Panhandle. Cause of the crash was not known.
Officials at Bunker Hill identified the dead crewman as the navigator, Capt. William R. Bennett, 31, Lakeland, Fla.
The survivors were identified as the aircraft commander, Maj. Clinton R. Briesendine, 38, Dallas, Tex., and Capt. Gary M. Cecchett, 26, the defense systems operator of Irmwin, Pa.
Bunker Hill spokesmen said the aircraft was on a routine mission and carried no nuclear weapons.
A witness to the crash, James Cook, who farms the land where the plane went down, said the bomber completed an air refueling with a tanker when the crash occurred.
An Air Force spokesman at Clinton-Sherman, AFB, Clinton, Okla., said he doubted the report of a refueling, however.
The Clinton-Sherman spokesman said the inquiry could take two months.
Cook said the plane crashed about a mile from where he was standing, and he helped the pilot from his ejection capsule.
“He (the pilot) had a little scratch on his head and the other one didn’t have anything.” Cook said.
“We hunted for more than an hour for the other (third) guy—his ‘chute didn’t open,” Cook said, adding the body was about 200 yards from the wreckage.
Last radio contact with the bomber was with the Federal Aviation Administration office at Gage, Okla. A spokesman there said the pilot reported a flameout and was trying to land at Gage, but then told the FAA the crew was ejecting.
All three crewmen lived on the base at Bunker Hill.
Bennett was married and had two children, Briesendine is married and has three daughters, while Ceccett is single.
Wednesday’s crash marked (continued on Page 2, Col.1)
The Kokomo Tribune – Kokomo, Indiana
Vol. 117—No 286 Page One
Inquiry (Continued from Page One)
The 13th fatality attributed to accidents involving B-58s deployed at Bunker Hill.
On Dec. 12, 1966 all three crewmen of a B-58 were killed as their aircraft crashed into a rocky hillside near Hustonville, Ky. Killed were the aircraft commander, Maj. Richard Blakeslee; navigator, Capt. Floyd Acker; and DSO, Capt. Clarence Lundt.
Capt. Manuel Cervantes Jr. was killed Dec. 9, 1964, when he ejected from a B-58 shortly before it crashed on a runway at Bunker Hill AFB. Two other members of the crew escaped the burning wreckage.
Two crewmen, Capt. William M. Bergsdail and Maj. William L. Berry, died of burns received when their aircraft caught fire while taxing along a Bunker Hill AFB runway. The incident, which occurred on Aug, 27, 1963, was the only B-58 on record involving an aircraft equipped with a nuclear device. Although some radiation reportedly contaminated the immediate area of the plane, base officials said there was no chance of a nuclear blast.
On July 16, 1962, 1st Lt. James P. Estrada, a defensive systems operator died when an engine broke loose from the plane and a portion of metal pierced the B-58’s fuselage.
On Sept, a B-58 disintegrated over Southern Indiana near Butlerville killing Lt. Col. John J. Trevisani, Capt. Arthur I. Freed and Capt. Reinardo P. Moure.
Capt. Duane D. Dickey, a navigator, crashed with his plane as it yawed and went down south of a Bunker Hill AFB runway April 13, 1966.
Airman Second Class William R. Gwilliam, died of head injuries after he was accidentally ejected from the cockpit of a B-58 being prepared for a training mission in a “Hustler Hut” on the Bunker Hill base. He was blown through the roof of the metal building.
Other B-58 mishaps, not involving the loss of life, included a B-58 which burned on the runway on July 22, 1965 after its three man crew escaped.
Gwilliam lost his life in the same cockpit seat from which Capt. Charles Nash had ejected on Nov. 15, 1955, after he lost radio contact with the other two crew members when the aircraft began to yaw. The pilot landed the aircraft safely at Bunker Hill and Nash was later found in a cornfield near Logansport, suffering only from a stiff neck.
To date, Nash, Briesendine and Ceccett are the only three Bunker Hill crewmen to eject uninjured using the B-58 ejection capsule, which completely encloses the pilot and his seat before it parachutes to the ground.
Two other incidents were recorded in 1953, when on April 23 and Aug. 14, B-58s veered off runways causing only slight damage to the aircraft.
Excerpt from “TALL MAN 55” – John T. Burch’s Account of the Accident…
The pictures shown below are of my crew being congratulated for accomplishing the “Best Score” during an Operations Readiness Inspection not too long before the incident that I’m about to describe.
PILOT – Len Sullivan
Navigator – John T. Burch
My pilot, Len Sullivan, Defensive Systems Operator Jim Estrada and myself had drawn the duty this day of a “test-hop” of an aircraft that had experienced heavy maintenance, including a routine change of all four engines. This was normally required to ensure that the aircraft was fully back together and functional, ready to perform it’s wartime mission. It was to be a short flight of only about two hours, during which we would put the aircraft through its paces, exercising all electrical and mechanical systems and documenting that it was airworthy. Because of the short duration of the flight, we carried no external fuel pod and made a very spectacular climb as we left the runway.
After takeoff, we had climbed to an intermediate altitude of about 10-15,000 feet and cycled the gear up and down several times while gently turning back and forth to check all of the flight controls. The pilot had flipped open the refueling slipway door and closed it successfully. We then climbed to about 28,000 feet and readied the aircraft for a supersonic flight that would take us to 50,000 feet and Mach 2 speed (about 1,350 mph).
When all checklists were complete, the pilot advanced the throttles to maximum afterburner. As the airspeed increased to 600 nautical miles an hour (described as “knots”) , the pilot pulled the nose up and began a steep climb, aiming toward our scheduled maximum altitude of 50,000 feet. All went normally until our speed reached 1.7 Mach as we passed through 47,000 feet. At that point, we couldn’t tell exactly what happened, but there was a loud explosion and the air in the cockpit suddenly “fogged”, indicating an explosive decompression. At the same time, there was a terribly loud whistling air noise that was coming over the intercom into our helmets.
This made it difficult to converse, but we each checked with the other over intercom to see if all were OK. Jim Estrada didn’t answer the call and we could hear a low, long groan, just once over the noise on the intercom .
The pilot had no other indications of trouble with either engines or airframe, but turned immediately toward home base as we decelerated to subsonic speed and dove toward the field. I told the pilot that I was going to slip out of my seat and crawl aft to Jim’s cockpit, about six feet behind me, but he told me that he needed me to help guide us to the runway. Fortunately, we were only about 100 miles from the base when the incident occurred and within ten minutes we were on the ground.
Fire and rescue crews were alerted within moments of our inflight explosion and had already positioned themselves by the runway to assist. As we rolled to a stop, still on the runway, firefighters immediately foamed the aircraft. We hadn’t known in the air, but the forward main fuel tank was streaming fuel like Niagara Falls.
The moment that we had stopped on the runway, I slipped out of my seat belt and crawled aft to see about Jim. What I found was that he had been killed almost instantly by a wedge of starter turbine blade that left the number three engine, came through the forward main fuel tank, penetrated the right side of Jim’s cockpit, pierced Jim’s heart and lodged in the left sidewall of the cockpit. Just as in the 43rd Bomb Wing’s incident, our starter turbine had engaged, oversped and disintegrated. This time, it resulted in a tragic fatality. The Air Force had lost a fine officer and each of us a good friend.
Since I had left my cockpit hatch closed as I went aft to see about Jim and I exited through his hatch, anyone looking at the damaged aircraft could see the navigator hatch closed and the first and third hatch open. The word got out initially that I had been the one killed. It was a sobering thought.
As we stood there, stunned at Jim’s death, it occurred to me that word might soon reach my wife, Betty, about the accident and I wanted to talk to her first. Since I normally called her immediately upon getting back from a flight, I used the Operations Officer’s car phone to give her a quick call, saying as I usually did, “Hi, Honey, I’m on the ground and will be home in a little while. ”
I expected to have the usual maintenance debriefing for about an hour and then get home to explain in person exactly all that had happened. Jim Estrada and his wife, Jane, were good friends and I didn’t want Betty to hear that news from others. What I didn’t know is that there is much more involved following an aircraft accident. Besides a much longer and more complex maintenance debriefing, the pilot and myself had to undergo a standard and complete flight physical. It was to be hours later that I finally got home.
In the meantime, friends who knew what had happened and also knew that Betty did not know, “dropped by” for a visit at home. It was Lee & Sarah Thomas and Gene & Melvene Wallace from church. Lee was in charge of the Flight Control maintenance shop and Gene was a crew chief on the B-58. Because of their Air Force duties, they knew all the details about the accident, but they didn’t say anything about it to Betty. They just engaged in “chit-chat”, while waiting for me to get home. All four of them knew that she would be quite upset if she got the word before I reached there and they wanted to protect her from that.
If Jim Estrada’s wife had been in town at the time, Betty would probably have known about the accident within a few minutes. As it was, Jane Estrada had been visiting her mother in Mississippi that week. The Air Force normally notifies the families of missing, injured or deceased members by personal visit… usually by a commanding officer, a chaplain and/or a casualty affairs officer. Because Jane was far from home and away from a military community, someone in the chain of command chose to notify her by phone. She got that shocking news that her husband had been killed, but very little information about what happened. She then had her brother call Betty for more news and to see if Sully (the pilot) and I were OK.
When the phone rang and Betty answered, it became clear immediately to Lee Thomas that this was Jane Estrada’s family asking if Sully and I were OK. Betty didn’t understand anything he was saying and was very flustered for a moment. Lee stepped in at once and took the phone from her, giving Jane’s brother the information that they wanted and letting them know that Betty did not yet know what had happened. It was a marvelous example of friends looking out for friends, but I was in the doghouse hours later when I finally dragged in from all of the official questions. It was also a good example of the choices we face daily. We try to shield those whom we love, but it doesn’t always work out like we plan.
There was a side story to this series of events. Jane Estrada had stayed in Mississippi and Jim’s body was flown there for burial. We knew that she would return to Bunker Hill AFB soon to take care of gathering her personal things before returning permanently to Mississippi, but we didn’t know when.
Betty and Sara Thomas had a pleasant shopping trip planned to nearby Indianapolis, some 60 miles south of the base. I had insisted that Betty go, because this would be good therapy for her. It was an event they enjoyed together several times a year and we often laughed about it becoming such a ritual that we could predict at any moment exactly which shop where they would be and the restaurant afterward .
Lee Thomas and I had been left to keep the children that day and there was a big outing planned to the park for a picnic and playtime. Then I got an unexpected phone call that Jane Estrada was planning to fly in to Indianapolis that afternoon. She asked if I might be able to pick her up at the airport.
Wanting to do everything that I could to help Jane, I immediately conferred with Lee Thomas and he volunteered to handle the park outing alone and to take care of our children, Sharon and John, who were about six and four years old. I then drove to Indianapolis to find Betty and get to the airport in time for Jane’s arrival.
Like clockwork, I walked into the usual restaurant where the wives ate and wound down before driving home, just in time to catch Betty and inform her of our change of plans. We made it to the airport just in time to meet Jane.
When we got home, I dropped Betty and Jane off at our house, then took Sara home. A few minutes later, when I stood at their door, Lee held our four-year old John in his arms and began to apologize profusely for letting him break his arm on the “jungle gym” at the park. Lee felt much worse than John did, I’m sure. John was sporting a brand-new cast that he was quite proud of at the time. I worked far harder at calming Lee Thomas than I did at soothing son, John.
Lee told us that it was heart-warming to see all of the commotion he had caused when he called the hospital late that day to get treatment for John’s arm .When the base doctors learned that it was the son of “Capt . John Burch who was a survivor of the B-58 accident,” they fell all over themselves to take care of them. Several of the doctors even left a formal dinner and still wore their formal mess dress uniforms while applying John’s cast. The Air Force truly does take care of it’s own! John couldn’t have gotten better care anywhere in the world !
Not wanting to worry Jane and certainly not wanting her to feel any responsibility that John’s injury was in any way her fault, we whisked John off to bed where he wouldn’t arouse any questions, at least for the night. As we tucked John into bed that night, he held up his little casted arm with the proud words, “the doctor told me that if it turned blue, the cast was too tight. ” Fortunately, the arm appeared normal for the trauma it had experienced. And John had the pride of a new badge of honor for his age group. In the days ahead, it was well-autographed and I’m sure he was glad when he at last was able to remove it, but for now, it was a prize. Now that I think about it, perhaps this was the first influence that led John to become the orthopedic surgeon that he is today. (A side story to the side story… We recently cleaned out a closet and found in a long-forgotten box… the very cast that John had worn then!)
I had no idea that the news of our accident would get outside of our little community, but I was surprised to find that it had made the national news. Something which meant a great deal to me at the time was a call from my college roommate, Myron Rogers from Tennessee, to see if I was OK. Myron and I had been through grade school, High School and College together. It was really good to hear from him. Though I thanked him at the time for his call, I don’t think he ever knew just how touched I was that he was concerned.
Copyright © 2001 by John T. Burch. All rights reserved.
And lastly, my commentary…
Lately, there has been much talk of nuclear missiles coming from the White House (“Fire and Fury”) and it just dredges up the past and places our future in question… I can’t bear to think of more fighting and war, more children and families losing loved ones. People in power must consider the costs to all of us as human beings. Most importantly to me personally is the cost of military actions on the children of our nation, and our planet, and the futures they may face. The reality for me is my father flew in a plane with a nuclear weapon, almost as large as the aircraft itself, attached to the fuselage of that plane.
Having had two fathers in my life, I grew up without either one. I was born to Capt. and Mrs. Frank Hunt Bosworth. My mother was Janie Morris. They divorced soon after I was born, and as the story was told to me, my mother met and married Jim Estrada. They were married when I was about two years old. I was raised as Jim Estrada’s child and he is the one I have the most cherished childhood memories any child could ever dream of. I have hung onto those memories-they are as clear as if they happened yesterday. My mother named our dog, a Boxer, “Mach Von Hustler” for my daddy’s plane.
At the age of six years old, my mother and my Daddy Jim had two little sisters for me and momma was pregnant with my little brother when the following tragedy occurred to our little family. We had been living in base housing at Bunker Hill Air Force Base in Indiana. This base is now called Grissom Air Force Base. At the time of Daddy Jim’s death, my mother, two sisters and I were staying with my grandmother, Rosie Smith Morris in Gulfport, Mississippi while daddy went on maneuvers. I was old enough to know that this was a regular part of my daddy’s job. I was a daddy’s girl. We were buddies and I missed him so much when he would go away. He always brought me a present, like strawberries from Tennessee, so it was fun when he came home.
So many happy times with my family in Indiana are crystalized in my soul. I went to kindergarten there and my mother taught school there. My Daddy Jim planted tulips in the flower bed in front of the little duplex we lived in. I spent so much time with my daddy while momma tended to my sisters at home. He took me everywhere with him–even onto one of the B-52s he flew before the B-58s. We watched drills together of the air force base airport emergency crew practicing for possible tragedies like the one my daddy had. To this day I am obsessed with those planes. I have vivid memories of life on the base, our family and the friends we’d made during our time there. About a year or so ago, I had the opportunity to reconnect with Mrs. Burch, one of our neighbors whose husband flew with my Daddy Jim. She sent me some newspaper clippings she had kept all these years of the tragic event that shocked and horrified all of us involved. I’ll share them with you, along with the ones I had saved over the years of research I’ve done about the event.
At the age of 60 years old, the day my family learned of Daddy Jim’s death is one forever fresh in my mind and heart. There has never been what folks call “closure” and there has never been healing. The wound is fresh. I share this episode in my life as a reminder to those who might not know the pain of the loss of a father to a six year old child when their father serves in the military. The wreckage left behind of a widow giving birth after her husband’s death, raising four children on her own having to fight the United States government to keep the benefits her husband paid for with his life just never gave any chance for healing of our family. As a Gold Star widow, my mother was brave, we all were brave. It seems hard to watch through the years as more and more children lose their daddies in the military. We never, ever, heal. We just go on.
I would ask that every time a daddy is lost in the military, special attention is given to those children left behind. There were no considerations for the kids in my family. We were supposed to be proud of our father’s service. We grew up without our fathers like it was expected of us. Sure, folks told us our daddies were heroes. I would have rather had a daddy than a dead hero. I always thought if someone ever asked me, I would have rather have my daddy back than to have lost him to our country. Nobody ever asked me. I needed my father. I used to cry standing in front of the oil painting we had of him in our living room. I would pretend his eyes followed me. That he was watching over me. If I was happy, I’d share that with the painting of Daddy Jim. If I was scared or sad, I talked to him. Always alone, when nobody else could see my private conversations. He has always been my own private angel. People didn’t used to consider the mental health of the widows and children left in the wake of military tragedies. I hope things have changed. Back then, the kids were lost in the shuffle of funeral preparations and coping mechanisms of their surviving parent. Much of it was not healthy or good.
Children can be proud of their parents’ service and loss of life to the country we live in. I was. The down side to that thinking is I tend to expect more of our country than it sometimes delivers. I could never express ungratefulness. I do admit to holding a higher standard when it comes to politicians and our government. After all, my frame of reference was always, in my mind, my father had paid for our country’s everything with his life, right?
Remember, the grown ups in life make the decisions we children have to live with our whole lives. Children have no choice. I think of this every time I hear of military kids losing parents in service. I wish everyone would. I think of this when more troops are deployed. I think of this when our President mentions use of weapons of mass destruction or dismisses national security issues as real and present dangers. My Daddy Jim’s plane was strapped to a nuclear bomb. This is real.
Daddy Jim was made a USAF Captain posthumously… In the Wild Blue Yonder…
I still miss my Daddy Jim…
The Tenderly Rose Collection 