“Miles and miles of miles and miles”, is an often used, yet apt description of the state of Texas and one that has allowed the occupants of that part of our country to talk of its immense size. Of course, Alaska would later be admitted to the union and become the leader in total land area. But Texas is big. Consider that it is over 800 miles east to west from Texarkana to El Paso and close to 900 miles from the northern panhandle border to the southernmost city of Brownsville. El Paso is generally thought of as the city at the westernmost point of Texas, but there is another 20 miles of Texas territory northwest of El Paso.
It was there in 1956 near the town of Anthony that my uncle served as the warden of the LaTuna Federal Prison. This large complex was located in the high desert flatland common to the southwest. Having previously visited my Uncle Bob on this site, I was taken by its huge size and the fact that the surrounding fertile farm land was used by the tightly controlled and supervised inmates in producing most of the food that was consumed within the prison. My uncle was nearing the end of a long governmental career, most of which was spent working within the federal prison system.
At this time, I was stationed at Luke AFB, near Phoenix, Arizona. A fellow pilot and I were assigned a straightforward mission. We were to ferry two Republic F-84G fighter jet aircraft from Luke to an airfield near Dallas, Texas for what was know as an IRAN. IRAN (not the country which in those times was our friend) is an acronym standing for Inspection, Repair As Necessary. Ray Bishop and I were given the simple task of flying the single seat jets to Dallas, drop off the pair, and return to Luke with another two that had completed the inspection and repair. Ray and I were buddies, both young Lieutenants, having recently returned from a tour of post-war duty in Korea. We lived in the same apartment complex with our wives and shared many hunting experiences in the Arizona territory in our off-duty time.
El Paso International Airport, roughly half-way to our destination, was a planned refueling stop on our flight east. With this in mind I phoned my uncle at his prison complex and advised him of our plans to make a stopover, and coordinated a time so he could visit us at the airfield. Ray Bishop led us on an uneventful two-ship formation flight from Luke to El Paso and rendezvous was made with my uncle. We had a pleasant visit and lunch and proceeded to say our goodbyes. It was my turn to lead the two-ship formation and as we taxied out for takeoff I recall Uncle Bob leaning against the retaining fence as he observed our departure.
With the 4000 feet above sea level elevation of El Paso and the high summer temperature of the day our takeoff roll was long and used a majority of the 9,000 feet of runway. We had planned our departure by taking the normal twelve second spacing between aircraft. I was airborne and making my climb out when the control tower shocked me with the call, “Your wingman did not make it!” With barely enough altitude to begin a turn I looked over my shoulder and saw a large cloud of dust swirling off the end of the runway. I continued my turn and could observe the F-84 aircraft lying flat in the dry, sandy loam as the surface wind slowly began to clear the area. Fire emergency vehicles were speeding down the runway to the site. No fire was evident and as the area became more visible the control tower called to say they saw the pilot out from the aircraft. Much to my relief, I could then see that Ray was away from the disabled aircraft and seemed to be all right as he viewed the broken craft. The large dust cloud that had engulfed the scene slowly disappeared.
As I circled the site I conversed with the control tower and agreed that my friend was fine. The feeling of relief then led me to wonder what I should do next. As much as I wanted to make a return landing at El Paso, logical thought prevailed and I decided that it was simply not practical to do so. A quick heavyweight landing with a full fuel load on the runway from which I had just departed was not a prudent course of action. I also came to realize that the field would be closed for a period of time due to the accident. Therefore, I made a farewell circle over my buddy, rocked my wings as a “see you later” gesture, and headed east to Dallas.
My part of the mission was completed when I got to Dallas, and picked up and returned another aircraft to Luke. Ray Bishop returned to Luke via commercial airlines, in good physical shape, but disheartened by the experience. The cause of the accident was never, to my knowledge, concretely determined. A loss of power due to an engine malfunction at a critical phase of flight, or a power reduction caused by enough throttle creep as Ray’s left hand retracted the gear after lift off which could allow the aircraft to sink back to the runway, were possibilities. At least in the final analysis no determination of pilot error on Ray’s part ever became a matter of record.
It was interesting, however, when some three months after the accident I was confronted by a Major assigned as part of the follow-on investigation. With little introduction as to who, or what he was after, he thrust a copy of the flight plan filed for that particular flight, El Paso to Dallas, in my face and asked, “Is that your signature?” Reviewing the document, I said, “Yes.” It was required procedure to compute a takeoff roll figure for all cross country flights and to put that figure on the flight plan. The Major asked if that figure looked valid for the conditions of that flight. I considered the takeoff weight of the 18,500 pound F-84G and the high altitude and temperature condition of the day and replied that the computed figure of 5,100 feet looked close, but that I would desire to make an actual computation of conditions of the time. I could sense that he was about to make that request in any event. When I computed the figure of 5,450 feet, some 350 feet on the short side, the good Major left with the feeling that I was about to be hung up as the prime reason for the accident back in El Paso, since my signature appeared on the flight plan as the pilot in command of the two ship formation flight. Such are the responsibilities of a military pilot. I figured if I should be held liable for a six percent error in this computation, even though I was not flying the particular aircraft that had the accident, there was something amiss with the system.
Fortunately, I heard nothing further regarding this investigation and went ahead with my Air Force career, but with an increased awareness of what I signed in the future. I had indeed signed that El Paso flight plan but Ray had computed the takeoff roll, something I was not about to relay to the investigating Major.
Ray Bishop and I would serve another four years together as gunnery instructors at Luke before receiving separate assignments. I would go to England in an F-100 Squadron while Ray went to Clark AFB in the Philippines. While there in 1963, I was advised via a mutual friend that Ray had his last flight during a typhoon weather recall. Flying an F-100 on a final approach to Clark in bad weather he crashed and was killed, leaving a wife and three kids. As a good friend and fellow aviator, Ray Bishop shall not be forgotten.
My Uncle Bob, shortly after the El Paso accident, retired from government service but led an active life to the age of 96. His mental alertness in his golden years was worthy of emulation by all. We would later talk of the dust cloud at El Paso and he relayed that he had witnessed the total incident and, since he did not know who had taken off first, was not aware of who was standing in the sand until Ray was returned to the terminal by the crash response team.
Wings Over Cumberland 