Our B-29 Test Flight crew had the responsibility of checking every crippled Bomber in the 2nd Air Force. Most of the men and machines who bombed Japan were trained under the auspices of this Command. Whenever a training flight resulted in any damage to the plane; engine, structure, armament or control, we were called.

As a result, our crew of experts were transported to wherever the repairs were made to the aircraft in question, and we had to fly it and determine the plane's condition to return for training and eventual overseas disposition.

In our Flight Test Crew, there was much more than camaraderie; there was a special bonding because we had to have extra reliance on each other. We constantly were challenged with a machine that had malfunctioned, and could very well break down in an instant. In an emergency situation, every one of our lives depended upon the skill and control of whoever had the expertise to get us safely back to the ground.

There were no military rank differences between our crew members while we were flying, and only a thin veneer evident when we were on the ground in a military environment. As an illustration of our relations: When we were called to board a transport plane for a flight to test a downed B-29, we each carried an extra uniform.

When we arrived at our temporary destination, a few inquiries at Base Operations determined which was the better place for a party. The Officer's Club or the Noncommissioned Officer's Club. I guess it was just a sign of the times, but every Air Base had a distinct difference in the fun possibilities between the two, at least the scuttlebutt always indicated such a situation.

Once we learned which was the designated place to go, those spare uniforms were worn to allow us all to look like officers or NCO's, so we could carouse together as the tight knit group we were.

Of course, this uniform trading was something we did not chance when we were off Base. For instance; when we were in Houston, Texas one afternoon following a harrowing experience in Galveston.

We had arrived and ground checked the airplane, which had a tail number I'll never forget — 605. By late in the morning of a hot humid day we taxied down the runway and were airborne in proper order. That takeoff was the only part of our program that worked. We were just off the ground when the left outboard engine blew up.

With all members of the crew nursing the crippled plane, we traveled over the water for another 75 miles before enough altitude and speed was attained to allow the pilot to turn around and head back to the landing strip. The actual landing was an easy one, and we knew the damage to the engine would take at least 24 hours to repair. After exiting old 605 we each actually kneeled and kissed the ground. We left the Base and took a bus to Houston. As soon as we got off the bus we headed for the bars in the big Texas town, and within a couple of hours had all consumed several more drinks than we should have.

Herb Beale was a fine young man, but at a certain point the ?Demon Rum? had a nasty effect on his personality. He became intensely belligerent. We decided to have our steaks at a Supper Club, and when we walked in, the one side of the dining area was set up for cleaning. The host greeted us as we came in from the bright sunlight and heat of summer outside, and entered the cool dimly lit interior of the restaurant. The greeter said, “Gentlemen, I'll fix a table for you in just a moment.”

That's when Beale walked over to the other side and started to remove the chairs that had been placed upside-down on the tables for cleaning the floor. The host said, “I'm sorry, Captain, but you can't sit there because we still have to finish cleaning.” The answer came, “No Texas Son-of-a Bitch is going to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

At that moment two Houston Patrolmen walked in and observed the developing problem. One of them said, “Come on, Sir. Just move over to the other side, sit down and enjoy a good ole' Texas T-Bone.” Again, the booze spoke for our Captain. “I am not going to move across this damn room, and if you civilian bastards want to talk to me, get yourselves some Military Police.”

It was almost miraculous, because in an instant, two of the biggest MP's we'd ever seen appeared and grabbed the Captain by the elbows, lifted him off the floor and said, “You're going to the Dog Pound with us, Sir.” As the ensemble headed toward the door, Lt. Miller cried out. “He's my Captain, and where he goes, I go, even if its through the gates of Hell.” The one MP turned and stated a fact. “Come right along Lieutenant, we have plenty of room for you too in our sobering cell.”

The next day, our commander by default, Lt. Utes, called Galveston's Maintenance Section and inquired about the crippled 605 plane. Parts were not available and he was informed it would be another 24 hours at least before necessary repairs could be made. By this time all of the rest of us were gathered in the Lt.'s room and were tickled to learn we would have another day to revel in the friendly jewel of the Lone Star State.

There were a series of conversations regarding how we each might have “made out” during the preceding night's encounters with the opposite sex. Then, the incident in the Supper Club was recalled with plenty of hilarity concerning how Beale and Miller had spent their first night in Houston. No one in particular suggested that the two sinners should spend another night in durance vile, it was a scenario that just seemed to happen.

Lt. Utes called the Houston Police station and was informed that the Services had a drunk tank where any soldier, sailor or marine pulled in for intoxication was placed until released by his immediate superior. He was switched to the Military Police Sgt. in charge of the facility. Then came the unkindest cut of all. He said, “This is Colonel Utes speaking, and I want you to keep Capt. Beale and Lt. Miller until nine tomorrow morning. They need to learn a lesson about how their Commanding Officer feels about public drunkenness.”

When the two lost sheep finally rejoined us, we all laughed them out of their anger, and by the time we did fly a repaired 605 successfully almost everything had been forgiven.