I am the son of an Army Air Corps navigator who frequently spoke of his respect and appreciation for the “Red Tails” who protected him during World War II.
The Red Tails were the all African-American 332nd Fighter Group that flew 15,550 sorties as bomber escorts in the P-51 Mustang, and eventually flew combat missions.
My father was a first lieutenant with the 460th Bomber Group, flying B-24s out of Spinnazola, Italy. He was trained as a bombardier/navigator but ended up doing mostly bombardier duty over Europe. He lived a long life, dying in 2010 despite a major stroke in the 1960s that left lingering aphasia.
Despite the speech problems, dad was able to communicate the esteem and admiration he and others in his crew had for the pilots who flew bomber escort in 1944-45.
He and the others in the 460th knew their protectors as “those Red Tails,” single-seat fighters that joined up with the bomber on their raids. Dad said he had seen many bombers go down when attacked by Axis fighters during earlier bombing missions. Each bomber lost meant that 10 friends and fellow aviators weren’t coming back that day. Dad said there were some missions when multiple bombers were lost.
When a mission was over and the bombers returned to Spinnazola, the absence of a lost crew was obvious. Seats were empty in the dining hall. Commanders or friends were tasked with packing up the belongings of the missing. If command determined that the missing aviators were killed, those friends and commanding officers penned letters to families back home.
All in all, the loss of men was traumatic to the survivors. For months, many American men had been lost to enemy fighters, anti-aircraft artillery, or to in-flight mishaps. Dad said the stress was almost unbearable.
That loss contributed to how the fliers in the 460th felt about the Red Tails. Speaking haltingly but clearly, dad would describe how the bombers would form up in the air in preparation for their mission. They had been told in the pre-flight briefing that at some point along the flight path they could expect to meet up with fighter protection; aircraft that came up from a different location, tasked with providing aerial cover from enemy aircraft.
Dad said crew members would keep an eye on the sky to see who was coming to protect them. Shouts could be heard when they saw them. “It’s the Red Tails,” dad said, and that was good news. He said the Red Tails were their angels. At times, dad said he and others on the bombers got a chance to wave at the fighter escort when they got close.
I don’t know if it’s a fact, but dad said the Red Tails had never lost a bomber to an enemy fighter. After months of trauma, the bomber crew members found great joy in seeing those Red Tails arrive. The Red Tails meant dad and the others might be alive to sit down for dinner that night back in Spinnazola.
Dad flew more than 50 missions in Europe.
Dad had grown up in Wynnewood, Oklahoma. Born in 1916, he was called ‘the old man’ in his crew. After the war, dad earned his BS at the University of South Carolina and his MSW at Tulane University School of Social Work. He was a member of the Academy of Certified Social Workers, specializing in problems of alcoholism.
At the time of his stroke, dad was chief social worker at the Alcohol Rehabilitation Center in Swannanoa, North Carolina.
Dad had four children; I am the youngest. They all survive. One is a theater professional. Another retired from military service. Another earned a masters degree in library science. I am a lifelong journalist and editor.
Grandchildren include a graduate of Emory Law School who is a legal aid attorney.
There are also great grandchildren.
Would any of this have happened except for the work of the Red Tails? Would I have happened? Would I be here to enjoy seeing my grandchildren? I don’t know, but Dad felt as if he knew. He felt he owed tremendous thanks to the Red Tails.