An Anthology of the Crew and a WWII B-29 Bomber,
named "For The Luvva Mike"

Click to enlarge image.

This crew photo has in the front row, left to right, Edgar Wilson: Crew Chief, Ken Edscorn: Waist Gunner/Observer, Louis Magrini: Airplane Mechanic, Leonard Van Driel: Radio Operator, Alvin Bostom: Airplane Mechanic, Bob Tiffany: Tail Gunner, Danny Krawetz: Flight Engineer. Back row, left to right Joe Nau: Co-pilot, Justin Cougat: Navigator, Chuck Miller: Aircraft Commander, Al Ham: Bombardier, Stan Nightingale: Radar Officer, Jim Vios: Waist Gunner/Observer and Michael Baye: Assistant Crew Chief.

It began one wintry day at Harvard, Nebraska late in 1944. The day I was introduced to my crew. There he stood all 6 foot 4 of him, my co-pilot, Joe Nau. I thought "my God, I'm going to break my neck having to look up at him all the time." Then there was Cogut, my Navigator, Justin the Gambler, Justin, the brains of the crew. Then little Al Ham, our Bombardier. I thought my God a child drafted into service, and Stan Nightingale at Radar, Danny Krawetz to handle our engineering problems, and Lenny Van Driel turning the dials on the radio, then Bob Tiffany to take care of the stinger in the tail, with Kenny Edscorn and Jimmy Vios to keep an open eye on the engines.

Man, what a crew! Two Jews, a Frenchman, a Pole, and a Dutchman and a Greek and to my knowledge the rest were just All-American mixture. What a melting pot. But, By God! We became good!

Sure we had a few comic disagreements and the worst was who's' turn it was to clean the "relief pot". Through it all, we made it back in one piece.

We griped and moaned about the P--- pool - airplanes we had to fly in training. Eight, count them, eight consecutive aborts with engine failures. I was beginning to feel that the plane was designed to fly on just three and that the fourth was a spare. I have never forgiven the engineering dept. for releasing an aircraft that we had aborted in because of an engine over heating while trying to climb to 30,000 ft. No matter what Danny tried to do it would run hot. The crew too was a little hot at me for aborting because we would have to fly it all over again. Engineering released that plane as flyable and on its' next outing it took the lives of Lt. Vince Levora and all of his crew as he attempted an emergency landing at Alexandria, La.

There were some laughs in training such as the time we were flying a round robin and were at 30,000 ft. over Boston Harbor and some moron got on the radio and shouted, "Gee! Look at all the ships in Boston Harbor". We all laughed and wondered if Hitler's boys were listening in. We were supposed to keep radio silence. There were the "crazy eight's" games in the club and some great bridge, and the walk to Joe Nau's through the hip deep snow to catch a ride to the base. I sat through the first hour with a wet behind. We learned to land the B-29 in a tunnel of snow and on ice in preparation for warfare in the Pacific. Amazing the minds of some of the planners.

There is the haunting memory of the flight to Jamaica for maneuvers when we lost our number three engine just out of Galveston, TX. and I made the decision to continue on to Jamaica on three rather than try for an emergency landing at night on a strange base. We had an engineering officer aboard as a passenger and he kept insisting that we turn back, and I finally had to tell him that he knew where the back door was and he could leave any time he chose. As we approached Jamaica, we radioed a "Mayday" request for emergency clearance and were informed to use caution, as there was another B-29 on the approach with an engine out. Just S.O.P., I guess. We were informed of a 45-degree cross wind gusting to 30 knots. What we didn't know about in these days was "wind shear"; this term came along years later. Just as we were about to break the glide, we got blasted by a wind gust that ballooned us off to the left of the runway approach and over a jungle of trees. Oh how many times I have thanked my Primary Flight Instructor for teaching me how to slide slip the little PT 22. I have relived this approach thousands of nights, cross controlling with full left aileron and full right rudder and we slid right back over the landing pad - just clearing the wreckage of the plane in front of us as it had crashed strewing the runway with parts.

It was at this time that I made our C.O., Col. Boyd Hubbard, an unfriendly leader. After taxiing off and parking the plane, Col. Hubbard drove over and was giving me the "What kind of an approach was that, Miller?" routine when two Generals came over to me and shook my hand and congratulated me for a great piece of flying. There went Hubbard's chewing out and thus was the beginning of a long time bit of negativism between the two of us.

There was fun at Jamaica; we toured the island a bit. There was the little Village of "Gimme a Bit" on the edge of the base, and there were all the bicycles parked behind Col. Hubbards quarters, because he had the best looking maid and she lived in the hut behind him. I really don' t know if he ever figured out what all the bicycles were doing behind his place. Cogut's luck ran out and he lost all of our funds until the last day when he recouped some and we made a last minute scramble to buy some rum and souvenirs. My it was good to get back to Harvard.

The time had arrived to get our flyaway. A brand spanking new Big A-- Bird to call ours. We had some bad luck with it from the start. A refueling truck ran into the left wing and did some slight damage. With only 4 hours on it, it wasn't new anymore.

Now that it was repaired, we had our first test flight and she would pull off to the left on take-off and there was a tussle to hold the left wing up on landing. I wrote up the problem and engineering altered the trim on it with no help. Wrote it up again and they re-rigged the trim, still pulled off to the left. They were trying to convince me that I didn't know how to fly. They didn't have to try too hard because I had learned earlier that all the great flyers had feathers, and they had more sense than we had because they knew enough to stay on the ground in bad weather. We continued on out to Kearney, Nebraska for staging and I again wrote up the strange phenomenon, and they said they had it corrected, but on take-off we proved them wrong. She still took of to the left.

On to Mather Field in Sacramento, Ca., where we had all our gear impounded and awaited orders for movement to our destination. The last shot at the local belles, some good food and great Martinis. It was here where we fell prey to the hustlers, two Master Sergeants peddling 3 Feathers or Schenley Black Label Bourbon, real rock gut for $55.00 a case. Thanks to Cogut's mastery of the cards, any of the crew could borrow enough to buy a case. Strange how they found room to load all that booze on board. I often wondered what happened to the mail that we were supposed to be carrying overseas.

Mnt Fuji: a landmark used by all going to bomb Japan

Finally we got our orders and we were off on our first leg over the Golden Gate Bridge where I thought of Major Al Titensor flying under the bridge on the way out; at least the scuttlebutt said that he did. We were to fly at 8000 ft. but it was so rough I decided to climb over Air Traffic lanes and went up to 17,500 ft, it was smooth as glass and everyone settled back to their own thoughts and reminisces. Mine were on the wonderful time I had in New York City when we had an engine failure and had to set down at Mitchell field on Long Island. We were at 30,000 ft. over Allentown, PA when the engine went out, so, I started a slow descent and asked for clearance for an emergency landing at New York and then advised clearance to Mitchell. I guess they didn't know the runway was not long enough to take a B-29 and I didn't think to ask. It was a thrill! First a B-25 cut us off on the approach and ducked in front of us and then as we were running out of runway, I had to do a slow ground loop to miss going through the fence. Everybody and everything were out to greet us except Mayor LaGuardia. At operations I asked the Pilot of the B-25 why he cut in front of us when we were on an emergency approach. He apologized saying that they were on the verge of freezing. They had been without heat for almost 2 hours.

After securing the Aircraft we wired Harvard of our plight and received orders to stand by at Mitchell Field for further instructions. Wow! We had 8 days of the greatest Hospitality I have ever received. Cogut's family lived in Forest Hills, Joe Nau and Edith Nau were from Long Island, Al Ham had time to get home to New Haven and Danny Krawetz and Lennie Van Driel made it to Pennsylvania for a visit home. This was my first and only visit to New York and its' lifestyle. The magnificent apartment of Cogut's parents, as many rooms as my parent's home in North Hollywood, only they were all on the l2th floor. I will never be able to thank them enough for their generosity and hospitality. What style! What Class! And the afternoon at Joe Nau's in laws where the Swedish afternoon snacks, the herrings and cheeses and the Akavit sure headed us out for a night on the town. Everyone bought you drinks and I got lost on the subway trying to get back to Cogut s home. Thanks to two sailors who woke me before the train headed for the barn.

As we spotted Diamond Head, I could feel a slight surge of excitement within, like I was entering a foreign land. Little did I realize what excitement I had stirred up. When I changed altitude, I picked up a 100-knot tail wind and we arrived over an hour earlier than our flight plan called for, and they called an alert until we could be identified. Upon landing the big bird did her usual except it was a little more pronounced and I came close to stalling out on the left side.

I again wrote up my problem, but this time we got lucky. A Major who headed engineering got a transit out and took fixes of the wing alignment. The results showed that the right wing was 3 degrees lower than the left, and the right horizontal stabilizer was 3.5 degrees lower than the left, thereby causing me to get lift on the right side first. Congratulations to Martin-Marietta for the rip-off. I guess "Rosie the Riveter" really blew the job or else was hung over that day.

A test flight was scheduled for the next day and I was to bring along only the necessary crew, radioman, engineer and scanners. We met with a full bird Colonel who was the test pilot, and as I sat in the right seat next to him, I said, "better watch her on take-off Colonel, she'll kick off to the left on you". You should have seen the look he gave me. The very silent glare spoke loudly as if to say 'don t tell me how to fly an airplane.' As we started down the runway, we were suddenly on the taxi strip and that is what we took off from, and as we became airborne we were in a bank to the left. The Colonel's startled statement was, 'Jesus Christ! This plane is dangerous!' At this point, I regained my confidence and felt I really new how to fly and no one was going to get into my brain again.

The following day a decision was made to class 26 our plane, junk it. I refused to release the plane to the staff at Hickam and they were going to pull rank on me, so I pulled out my orders that were signed by Gen. H.H. Arnold and asked to get someone to out rank him.

So it was aloha to Hawaii and on to Johnson Island and Kwajelein and to Guam where we received the usual welcome from Tokyo Rose, greeting us by name, as we were about to set down upon the cliffs of Northwest Field with the big dip in the center.

The Seabees were still working on the runways and they did an awesome job, that is all but the engineer who probably had a hangover when he used the transit on the runways. It seems that after the dip in the center of the runway, there was a slight uphill grade that kept banging into our nose wheel on take-off, but it was always a perfect place to land.

Now we were trucked to our living area, and what a shock. Do you remember all the guys that went on ahead of us in order to establish living quarters and operational facilities? Seems like they spent their time at the transient Naval Officers Club with the 20-cent highballs while the Navy swiped the jeeps.

We were dropped off some fifty yards from the swamp that surrounded our latrines and showers and told to go to supply and draw a tent. Some living quarters they prepared for us! At least Joe Nau and I were able to make our hovel somewhat livable, with scrounged bomb crates for closets and moonlighted tarpaper for a floor we were able to construct a tent tall enough for Joe, and allow the rats room to pass under while we kept high and dry from the torrents of rain squalls. Yes, I still have the pictures of what we called "Hubbard' s Hovel" and the mud we waded through to get a shower and some times aborted because there wasn't any water left when we returned from a mission. It seems that those that sat on their "duffs" at the base would use it all up while we were out on a mission. Nice chaps! I still get a chuckle out of recalling our Chaplain whittling the sharp edges off a latrine seat with his pocket knife so he could sit in comfort without the edges cutting in to his behind. Each time he would complete one, someone would use it first, so he would continue the process on another until at long last he had whittled all of them into blissful smoothness. It was then that we moved to a new area with barracks and new latrines and they shut down the old latrines. Alas! Love's labor was lost!

I will never forget that first night mission over Truk. Our first baptism under fire. God! It was spooky! The celebration of our surviving that first one was with warm bourbon, Schenley's Black Label, (Black Death), and warm pineapple juice for a chaser. Boy was I one sick cookie! I could have sworn that I was "barfing" out of our tent only to awaken to find that it all went into my flight bag and all over my gear. Whatever happened to the ice machine we bought and paid for before we went over? Remember our one-time mess officer smugly doling out that ration of one beer or one coke a day while he chomped on that ugly cigar? All the while our ice machine was sitting on Tinian, and Col. Hubbard refused to let us go after it. They say that rank has its' privileges, well it also had a refrigerator and ice cubes. How vividly I recall the sight of them having cold high balls with ice clinking inside. Finally the ice machine arrived, and thanks to an un-remembered sergeant, formerly an engineer with Lockheed, we had it up and working and guess who was put in charge of the project. Right! Yours truly got to be the honcho of the ice machine. One helmet- full per man. We built an ice chest to store our beer and coke and snacks while Jim Norton said it wouldn't work, only to find himself wrong and boycotted from its' use.

Then the next fiasco with our club officer and the mess officer. After they were discharged, Col. Hubbard volunteered me for the job. Little did he realize that it would be a snap, for I had Justin Cogut, the most capable navigator, best pants salesman, best Gin and Bridge player, best hustler on the island as my most able sidekick. Together we put together a new mess hall club facility constructed and equipped courtesy of the US Navy Seabees. We found an unlimited beer and coke supply through a cousin of Mike Berdan. This cousin just happened to be the chief supply clerk for the Seabees and for a bottle of bourbon he could open more doors to goodies than a Genie.

This job did have some fringe benefits as the T.O. said we were authorized a weapons carrier for use on the job. Sure was a great way to get around the island. Beat hitch hiking all to hell.

I remember the softball games with Ken Tipps, Mike Berdan's bombardier, and fireballing the pitches at the opposition. There was little chance for any of us to make an error because nobody could hit his pitching.

Unfortunately not all of the planes returned.

I also remember that it wasn't all fun and games, and these memories still haunt me after some 46 years. I remember the flights over Kawasaki and the green radar light that caught us on the start of our run. Twelve minutes of terror that seemed an eternity. Looking at each other in the cockpit with our ghastly green complexions from the light watch the tracers coming up from the ground and the feeling of the flack bursting under us and Al Ham, our Bombardier, calling out the enemy gun placements until we finally had to shut him up. Finally it was over, Bombs Away! and we got the hell out of there. When we arrived back at Northwest Field, we were examining the "Luvva Mike" for flack holes. Nary a one. Guess who caught all of our flack? Lucky Dan Garret, He was just behind us and feeling sorry for us catching the green light and all the fire only to find out that they missed us and hit him. C'EST la Vie!

Then there was that horrible storm that caught us on a return flight. We were tossed around like popcorn in a skillet. Up 3500 feet, dropped 5000 feet wings bowing like a flapping pigeon. We tried to get under it but it was all the way down to the sea. We tried to get over it, but at 45,000 feet we were mushing and still not out of it. It was then that I asked Danny Krawetz, our able flight engineer to lead the prayers because he was the only one that went to mass. There is a God! He was with us this night as He was so many times. All of the emergency gear in the aft portion had torn loose and was being thrown around and no one dared to unfasten a seat belt lest he be tossed around with the gear. Thank your dear God! We made it back. Then there was the landing fiasco when we returned to Northwest midst a violent rain squall. We were instructed to circle and hold until the squall passed over. Finally we were cleared to land but the holding pattern had grown so large with all the returning aircraft that there was a scramble for clearance in. We had made 3 go arounds when our number 3 engine began throwing oil and our prop would not feather but kept running away. We "May Dayed" the tower for emergency clearance but whoever was on the approach in front of us would not pull up and go around. There was only one thing left to do as there could be no more go arounds for us, so I put the Luvva Mike in a dive, flew below the cliff at the end of the island and came up in front of the other plane and we landed safely.

The following morning at the Colonel's de-briefing session I recall him gibing Mike Berdan on his landing, and suggesting that he take his crew out and take 4 hours of landing practice; when Lt. Col. Kunkel confessed that he had made the landing and not Berdan, and the Colonel's words were "let's watch it John". Next it was my turn and it came as "what kind of an approach do you call that, Miller"? I answered, "one of necessity, Colonel"; to which he asked what I would have done if I had lost another engine and I could only reply that I would have slept in this morning and missed this meeting. Nothing was ever said or asked of the pilot who refused a "May Day" recognition and to give priority to a plane in distress. God again was with us this day.

There was also an abort when we had an electrical fire under our flooring in the cockpit, and as we dumped our bombs on Rota and approached the base we were aware that our alternators were out and that meant no Alternating Current, no radio. We had gotten some flaps down but weren't sure of the landing gear. We buzzed the tower and got a green light to land, but we decided to come in hot in case we were without locked landing gear, if we touched rubber we would cut the throttles and get on all the brakes we had, if not, we would continue flying and find a beach to set her down on. Again the Lord was on our side, we had wheels and we sure sent the brakes to Hell and back.

Yes, there are many memories, the good ones we wouldn't trade for anything, and the bad ones we can't give away. Well, wouldn't you know that even the war could not end without some "snafu's". It was August 8, 1945 and the scuttlebutt was that Japan had surrendered after Hiroshima. Gees, there was some drunken celebration going on. I believe 22 guys went to the hospital after riding on a water tank truck drinking and celebrating when it crashed into a tree. That was more casualties than the Japanese inflicted on us. Alas, as all scuttlebutt goes, so went this false peace and we were scheduled out again.

I know I for one did not relish going on one more if the war was over and I am sure many more shared my feelings, but we did get briefed that we might get called back if there was an armistice. All the way out we were glued to the radio hoping for the call back. Planes were returning and I was almost sure that we had missed the call, and I kept after Leonard Van Driel, our radio operator to keep monitoring. The war was not over, the returning planes were homing after a daytime raid. It was not until about an hour before landing, approximately 8:00 A.M., that we received the good news. I would like to insert here a small tribute to our Bombardier, Al Ham, "Old Eagle Eye". While heading out on a mission some four hours out, A1 spotted some life rafts off in a distance. We could not see them from the cockpit and thought that Al was having delusions, but he kept insisting so we followed his directions and there they were. Some guys had hit the drink and they had tied their rafts together. We dropped down to about two hundred feet and began flying "Dumbo" over them. We broke radio silence and gave our position and before 30 minutes had passed they had rescue craft picking them up. We were supposed to get mission credit if we flew "Dumbo" and we would be allowed to return home, but this time, rescue was so fast that they ordered us to continue on the mission and there went our Dumbo credit. If it had not been for Al's keen eyesight and his insistence, those guys might not have made it.

But then again there was another side of the ledger, like the time that we came off the target and when we checked the bomb bays, we had one hung up on one shackle in the forward bomb bay. It was the Bombardiers' job to kick out any hung up bombs, but when Al got back there he froze and we had to get him out and I had to go back and kick out the bomb. If you have ever stood over an open bomb bay at 10,000 feet looking into endless blackness, you will understand why he froze. I still dream of this night. Then there was that last mission over Hokkaido when Al begged to make the bomb run. Well! Murphy's Law set in. Stan Nightingale, our Radar Officer, called for 3 degrees right correction and we banked to the left. He again called for 3 degrees more right, and again we banked to the left. Stan called out that he couldn't kill the drift when we finally realized that in the intensity of the bomb run Al was moving the secondary clutch of the bomb sight to the right which would cause the gyro to make the correction to the left, so off went the auto-pilot and a manual correction was made. We hit the target but at the wrong heading, and again I inspire the query from Col. Hubbard, what the hell kind of heading were you on, Miller?" I had no answer for that one.

Thank goodness that this was the last combat mission we had to fly.

We were at peace, but much was yet to be done. It was time to fly the POW Missions. This meant heading out to the Philippine Islands to pick supply parachutes. Florida Blanca, a place that God forgot. The native girls waiting around the tents for their guys to get off duty, the little kids at the chow line begging for what was left in your mess kit. Makes you wonder if the people at home ever realized how fortunate they were to miss the exposure to war.

Now it was back to Guam and then to Tinian to load the supplies. Here on Tinian we were brought lunch which consisted of a case of fruit cocktail for each man on the detail. We had 14 cases of fruit cocktail. We left 13 and a fraction along the tarmac. Later that night there was a ruckus out side of our barracks, it was Jim Norton arguing with his crew. He had 12 cases of fruit cocktail and they wanted one, but he insisted that these were his and they could have had all they wanted if they didn't take them they were out of luck. Needless to say Jim tried to store some of his open fruit cocktail in our ice chest and it spilled on our beer cans. Have you ever seen some one short sheeted with fruit cocktail in between the sheets? It can be done.

Aerial photo of POW camp. Remember the TV show called BaBa Black Sheep or the Black Sheep Squadron... This is who they were talking about.

The drops over the POW Camp were exciting at 200 feet watching those poor guys on the ground shouting and waving while being bombarded with cans of food, pallets of clothing and many of the chutes not opening. It was here at Camp Amori that the first word of Pappy Boyington's survival came to light. Painted on top of a barracks was "PAPPY BOYINGTON'S HERE", Stan Nightingale got a great picture of this and it was published in the 20th Air Force Magazine. I still have the enlargement of it and it is the proof that God was with many of us.

He was even with the Japanese this day as Col. Hubbard missed the drop zone and his supplies hit the public streets, and from 200 feet you could see all of the civilians on foot and on bicycle scurrying to get their share of the booty.

Poor Col. Hubbard after he volunteered the 501st BG to stay on for police action and was put down, his popularity really waned. Serpentine dances were carried on outside his quarters together with some unfavorable chants and some smoke bombs were tossed. After Col. Hubbard requested a transfer, Col. Bud Orpen who was quite popular and well thought of replaced him.

It was now time to go home and the points were being counted. I was sure to be on the going home list, 85 points, but as usual the Army Snafu's, they lost me! After much complaining and explaining, they found me and put me on the list, but not where I belonged in the order, they put me on the bottom because some clerk did not want to type the whole thing over again.

Back to headquarters and a compromise transfer to the 314th where I was to go home on their routing pool. I found block long Quonset huts with hundreds of cots in rows and waiting crewmen steaming and sweating waiting for a way out.

Finally my break came, a War Bond flight home on the City of Hershey. I was to fly this ship to Hershey, PA for which the pilot named it after his hometown. Ironically, he was a passenger aboard his own plane. When we arrived stateside at Mather Field, I suggested that it would be stupid for me to go on to Hershey, Pa. as I lived on the West Coast and would be discharged there, and the hometown hero could sell more war bonds if he took the plane home himself. It seemed logical to those in charge, but Washington had to clear it.

Needless to say the boy from Hershey was quite put out with me, as he didn't want any involvement with a war bond drive. All he wanted was O.U.T. After a day long back and forth communiqué with Washington, word came at 5:00 P.M. to scrub the mission. The City of Hershey, Pa. did not have an airport with runways long enough to handle a B-29.

And so the odyssey ends, I finally become a civilian again; I became a true believer in God and I learned eternal gratitude to all the guys who helped us make it through, to Joe Nau. Justin Cogut, Stan Nightingale, Al Ham, Danny Krawetz, Lenny Van Driel, Kenny Edscorn, Jimmy Vios, Bob Tiffany and all off the ground crew that kept the bird flying Edgar Wilson, Michael Baye, Alvin Bostom, Louis Magrini and of course Ed Rapp.

What a crew.... Love you guys!

Here We are 50 years later" back row left to right: Ed Rapp, Jim Vios, Chuck Miller, Justin Cogut front row left to right a friend standing in, Bob Tifany and Dan Krawetz		Dan Krawets, Suzanne Nightingale Daughter of Stan Nightingale Chuck Miller and John T. Nightingale son of Stan Nightingale

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