THE CRASH OF 21493
                        By  Mike Burroughs
                        September 28, 2002

For most of us, there are certain dates that we remember
vividly such as the day President Kennedy was killed and the day
the astronauts first landed on the moon.  For me, one of those
dates is 25 April 1969.  At the time, I was a young Air Force 1st
Lt, assigned to the 554th Reconnaissance Squadron at Korat Royal
Thai Air Force Base, Thailand, having arrived in early July 1968. 
My tour was more than three-quarters over, and I was anticipating
the day when I could return to the land of the "Big BX."

My roommate, 1st Lt Charles (Chuck) Butt was the co-pilot on Crew
39.  His wife, Jean Ann, had flown over from the States to visit
for a couple of weeks, so whenever Chuck wasn't flying, he and
Jean Ann were downtown spending time together.  I remember that
on that day, 25 April, I walked into the Officers' Club dining
room for lunch and found Jean Ann sitting by herself, eating. 
When I asked about Chuck, she told me that he didn't feel well. 
I told her I hoped he would feel better soon and thought very
little more of it.  Crew 39 was scheduled to fly that afternoon;
as nearly as I can remember, the take-off time was about 1600. 
Later, back in my room, I walked out onto the sidewalk and saw
Capt Ray Kidd, CICO for Crew 39, walking toward the crew bus
area, wearing his flight suit and carrying his flight bag.  I
wished him a good flight, and thought no more of it.  Later that
afternoon, it began to rain severely.

The rain stopped after awhile, and as I was walking down the
sidewalk, I saw Maj Samuel J. (Joe) Boles, from the 553rd.  He
asked me, "Did you hear that you lost one?"  I didn't understand
what he was asking, and when I told him so, he told me that
Batcat 21 the call sign for the aircraft that Crew 39 was
flying had crashed.  I stood there, stunned and absolutely numb. 
Something in me wanted to say, "You're joking," but something
else told me from the look in his eyes that he was serious and
that this was no joke.  I thought about Chuck and Ray.  Then I
thought about 1st Lt Andy Marsh, the junior navigator and a good
friend.  I thought of some of the NCOs on the crew whom I
knew SSgt Paul Faulk, TSgt Jim Belflower, and others.  I had
flown with them a few times, substituting for Ray Kidd.

I rushed over to the squadron operations center.  The picture of
Crew 39 had been removed from the wall, and the names of the
members erased from the scheduling board.  This was done pending
verification of who actually was on board and notification of
next-of-kin.  Then I thought of Jean Ann.  How was she going to
handle this situation?  Back in my room, however, Chuck's flight
bag was still there, which meant that he wasn't flying, as he
never flew without it.  Yet I still wasn't sure.  Why didn't he
fly that day?  I did remember that Jean Ann told me earlier that
Chuck wasn't feeling well.

As the day passed, I learned that there were 18 men on board and
that all were killed.  Apparently, the thunderstorm was one of
the most severe ones that the area had seen in about 50 years. 
In the meantime, I had tried to get in touch with Jean Ann at the
hotel where she was staying, but to no avail.

That night, I went over to the officers' club, and there was Maj
Eston (Rip) Fox, who worked in scheduling.  Ordinarily, Rip was a
joking, crusty kind of a guy, but this time, though, he was very
somber and distressed, and several others were sitting with him. 
As it turned out, my roommate, Chuck, had been grounded earlier
in the day because of food poisoning.  That flight had two other
pilots scheduled, and another flight later that afternoon had
four.  So Rip asked his friend, Maj Tom Brandom, a pilot who was
on the flight with four pilots, if he would like to change
flights, to balance the pilot load and have an opportunity to get
more flying time.  So Maj Brandom agreed and was changed to the
flight that subsequently went down; Rip was blaming himself for
his death.  Those of us who sat with him tried to assure him that
he had no control over things and that it wasn't his fault. 
Although he probably realized that, it was still extremely
painful for him.

The next day, while sitting in my room, in walked Chuck and Jean
Ann.  I was never so glad to see anyone, and I told him so!  I
was so thankful that Chuck was safe, but 18 other men were dead. 
Lt Col Emerson Heller was the aircraft commander on that mission;
ironically, the man in the right seat at the time of takeoff was
the wing flying safety officer, Maj Paul Lunsford.  Lt Col Heller
was ready to retire.  In fact, a day or so after that flight, he
was to have departed for Travis AFB to retire at port, and his
wife was already in San Francisco waiting for him.

The results of the accident investigation determined that when
the aircraft took off, the severe weather forced it down, and it
never gained more than a few hundred feel in altitude.  The
aircraft, tail number 21493, had made a pretty good belly
landing, but as it began to hit trees, it broke up, and with a
full load of fuel, it caught fire and exploded.  Although I never
saw any of the wreckage, I got some descriptions from
investigating officers, and it was horrible.  Those guys never
had a chance.  The crash was attributed to pilot error, as the
technical manual specified that when thunderstorms were within
five miles of the airfield, takeoffs and landings would not be
attempted.  Two questions that have plagued me for 30 years are
(1) why the aircraft commander requested permission to take off
in such severe weather, and (2) why the air traffic controller
did not recommend that he delay takeoff until the storm had
passed.  There was some speculation that since aircraft
commanders were under so much pressure to be on station on time,
Lt Col Heller decided to go ahead and take off and be done with
it.

That day, the reality of war confronted me and many others in the
553rd and 554th.  For the most part, the war for us had seemed to
be something fairly far away; we were well insulated from it. 
But now 18 men were dead someone's sons, someone's husbands,
someone's brothers, someone's fathers.  The youngest was 19; the
oldest, 46.  I lost some friends that day, and except for a fluke
of nature, I also would have lost a roommate.  On the other hand,
had Chuck not become ill and been grounded, Maj Brandom probably
would have remained on the other flight, and his life would have
been spared.  In retrospect, I suppose that many times in our
lives, we all brush closely by death without realizing it, and
one little change in time, space, or sequence could cause us to
cross that line that separates life from death.

Now, more than 33 years later as I remember that day, 25 April
1969, I also remember the strange numbness I felt the very next
time I took off for a mission.  Could this happen again?  I held
my breath and prayed.  Death had come so close, yet was so far
away.  Those 18 men perished in a faraway land, and their names
have finally been added to the Vietnam Wall together with more
than 58,000 others who also perished in a faraway land. 
Sometimes today I think, "There but by the grace of God . . . ."