thedrifter
05-24-09, 11:14 AM
Son finds new link to father who died
BILL MCCLELLAN
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Sunday, May. 24 2009
— This is the first of two columns about the Grubb family; Bill's second column
will run Monday.
Bill Grubbs was raised in Overland. His father was a carpenter who became a
developer. When Bill graduated from Ritenour High School in 1938, he joined his
dad's company as a carpenter. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, he joined the Marine
Corps. He became a fighter pilot.
After finishing flight training in Pensacola, Fla., he came home and married
his high school sweetheart, Bernice Hyde.
As befits a young man who joined the Marine Corps, he wanted to go overseas.
But he was assigned to stay in this country as a flight instructor. He taught
other young men how to fly the Chance Vought F4U Corsair, the fighter that
helped turn the tide in the Pacific.
The war ended, and Bill came back to St. Louis and returned to carpentry. But
he did not want to give up flying. The local Marine Corps reserve unit at
Lambert had Corsairs. So Bill joined the unit. The unit was called to active
duty for Korea. Bill wanted to go.
But he was once again assigned to duty as a flight instructor. One of his
friends received orders to Korea, and the two requested to switch assignments,
but the Marine Corps is not about making people happy, and Bill's friend went
to Korea, where he was to die in a few months, and Bill went to an air base in
El Toro, Calif.
By then, Bill had two children, a son and a daughter. In November 1950, the
son, Ron, was almost 4. His sister, Billie, was 5 months old. The family lived
on the base. From their backyard, they could see the Santa Ana Mountains and
the imposing Santiago Peak.
On Nov. 18, Bill was one of four Marines aboard a transport, a twin-engine
Beechcraft SNB-5. According to military records, Master Sgt. William Follmer
was the pilot. Bill was listed as the student pilot. Perhaps he was being
trained on new instrumentation and radar. The day was overcast — foggy with
rain and strong winds.
According to family lore, another aviator's wife stopped by and asked Bernice
if Bill was flying. "Yes, I am a widow today," she reportedly said. There was
nothing ominous about it. It was a phrase the wives used when their husbands
were flying, the way a golfer's wife might call herself a golf widow. Still,
Bernice never forgot her words.
The plane approached El Toro, but there were problems with the landing system
and the pilot was instructed to go into a holding pattern. When he was finally
cleared to land, there was no response. Three days later, the wreckage was
located on the western flank of the mountains, not far from Santiago Peak.
Bill had just turned 30. His body was brought down from the mountain, and the
family accompanied his casket back to St. Louis on a train.
Ron remembers little of the trip.
"I have a lot of memories of my father, especially during our time at El Toro,"
he told me. "Strong memories, too. I remember him kissing my mom when he'd come
home from a day of flying. You'd think I'd remember the trip home, and the
funeral. There was a 21-gun salute, and a Marine gave me the flag from my dad's
casket. But no, I don't remember it."
As he grew up, he heard stories. One of his father's friends told him that his
dad was a fantastic pilot. That's why he was a flight instructor, the friend
said. The actual details of the crash were sketchy — fog and a mountain.
Ron's mother eventually remarried. Her new husband, Jerry Breck, had been the
best man at Bill and Bernice's wedding.
"He was a phenomenal guy," Ron said. He was the sort of stepfather who was not
intimidated by the memory of Ron's father.
Ron had plenty of photos of his father. He also had his dad's leather pilot's
jacket. He always wondered if he'd ever be big enough to wear it, and then one
day, he tried it on and it was too small.
Ron became a developer, and he also had a career as a radio ad salesman.
Three months ago, he was at a wake. The talk was about family and death, and
Ron mentioned that his father had been killed in a training accident in the
Korean War. A man began asking him questions. "Was it military? Where were they
flying out of?" Ron answered as best he could, and then the man said, "I think
I just read about that."
Ron was flabbergasted. The accident was almost 59 years ago. The man said he
was a pilot. He said there was a website dedicated to aircraft wrecks. Ron went
home and got on the Internet. He found the site.
His father's photo was on the home page. He contacted the man who ran the
website. The man could not have been nicer. "Would you like to visit the crash
site?" he asked.
Monday — Ron goes to the mountain where his father died.
Ellie
BILL MCCLELLAN
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Sunday, May. 24 2009
— This is the first of two columns about the Grubb family; Bill's second column
will run Monday.
Bill Grubbs was raised in Overland. His father was a carpenter who became a
developer. When Bill graduated from Ritenour High School in 1938, he joined his
dad's company as a carpenter. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, he joined the Marine
Corps. He became a fighter pilot.
After finishing flight training in Pensacola, Fla., he came home and married
his high school sweetheart, Bernice Hyde.
As befits a young man who joined the Marine Corps, he wanted to go overseas.
But he was assigned to stay in this country as a flight instructor. He taught
other young men how to fly the Chance Vought F4U Corsair, the fighter that
helped turn the tide in the Pacific.
The war ended, and Bill came back to St. Louis and returned to carpentry. But
he did not want to give up flying. The local Marine Corps reserve unit at
Lambert had Corsairs. So Bill joined the unit. The unit was called to active
duty for Korea. Bill wanted to go.
But he was once again assigned to duty as a flight instructor. One of his
friends received orders to Korea, and the two requested to switch assignments,
but the Marine Corps is not about making people happy, and Bill's friend went
to Korea, where he was to die in a few months, and Bill went to an air base in
El Toro, Calif.
By then, Bill had two children, a son and a daughter. In November 1950, the
son, Ron, was almost 4. His sister, Billie, was 5 months old. The family lived
on the base. From their backyard, they could see the Santa Ana Mountains and
the imposing Santiago Peak.
On Nov. 18, Bill was one of four Marines aboard a transport, a twin-engine
Beechcraft SNB-5. According to military records, Master Sgt. William Follmer
was the pilot. Bill was listed as the student pilot. Perhaps he was being
trained on new instrumentation and radar. The day was overcast — foggy with
rain and strong winds.
According to family lore, another aviator's wife stopped by and asked Bernice
if Bill was flying. "Yes, I am a widow today," she reportedly said. There was
nothing ominous about it. It was a phrase the wives used when their husbands
were flying, the way a golfer's wife might call herself a golf widow. Still,
Bernice never forgot her words.
The plane approached El Toro, but there were problems with the landing system
and the pilot was instructed to go into a holding pattern. When he was finally
cleared to land, there was no response. Three days later, the wreckage was
located on the western flank of the mountains, not far from Santiago Peak.
Bill had just turned 30. His body was brought down from the mountain, and the
family accompanied his casket back to St. Louis on a train.
Ron remembers little of the trip.
"I have a lot of memories of my father, especially during our time at El Toro,"
he told me. "Strong memories, too. I remember him kissing my mom when he'd come
home from a day of flying. You'd think I'd remember the trip home, and the
funeral. There was a 21-gun salute, and a Marine gave me the flag from my dad's
casket. But no, I don't remember it."
As he grew up, he heard stories. One of his father's friends told him that his
dad was a fantastic pilot. That's why he was a flight instructor, the friend
said. The actual details of the crash were sketchy — fog and a mountain.
Ron's mother eventually remarried. Her new husband, Jerry Breck, had been the
best man at Bill and Bernice's wedding.
"He was a phenomenal guy," Ron said. He was the sort of stepfather who was not
intimidated by the memory of Ron's father.
Ron had plenty of photos of his father. He also had his dad's leather pilot's
jacket. He always wondered if he'd ever be big enough to wear it, and then one
day, he tried it on and it was too small.
Ron became a developer, and he also had a career as a radio ad salesman.
Three months ago, he was at a wake. The talk was about family and death, and
Ron mentioned that his father had been killed in a training accident in the
Korean War. A man began asking him questions. "Was it military? Where were they
flying out of?" Ron answered as best he could, and then the man said, "I think
I just read about that."
Ron was flabbergasted. The accident was almost 59 years ago. The man said he
was a pilot. He said there was a website dedicated to aircraft wrecks. Ron went
home and got on the Internet. He found the site.
His father's photo was on the home page. He contacted the man who ran the
website. The man could not have been nicer. "Would you like to visit the crash
site?" he asked.
Monday — Ron goes to the mountain where his father died.
Ellie