June 14, 2004
Flying ace
Sunday is Father's Day, and I miss my dad. He died six years ago of cancer at age 75. I thought of him last week as the History Channel showed footage of B-17s flying over the English Channel during the invasion of Europe. The program paid tribute to American servicemen on the 60th anniversary of D-Day.
Had the war started a few years later Dad might have been on one of those bombers. A lover of airplanes, Stanley King enlisted in the Army Air Corps during the final stages of World War II to fly B-17s. When he was informed the Army had a surplus of pilots Dad opted for bombardier school. He never was called for combat duty although his B-24 crew nearly perished during a training flight over Texas.
Dad was marking his bombing target when the pilot grabbed the controls and made an evasive maneuver, narrowly avoiding a mid-air collision with another bomber. Dad looked up in the glass nose of the plane to see the other plane's tail wing miss by a few feet.
Doolittle survived thirty seconds over Tokyo, my dad thirty seconds over Texas. Both missions were heroic in my opinion. While rummaging through a closet as a kid I discovered his dated bombardier manual, marked "Top Secret." I also tried on his aviator hat, which hung below my ears.
After the war Dad dreamed of flying commercial airplanes but settled for a career as a telephone company engineer. He got his aviation fix by building and flying radio-controlled model airplanes. He'd spend hours in our basement building these gorgeous balsa-wood airplanes with wingspans taller than I was. He was a seasoned "pilot," but not every mission was successful. One time his plane lost the radio signal and landed on a freeway in Portland, Ore. Another time it crashed into a refreshment stand. Dad would pick up the pieces and disappear into our basement. A few weeks later another gleaming airplane would emerge. I have a picture of Dad flying a model plane while Mount St. Helens erupts in the distance, belching ash miles into the sky (see below).
I loved My dad. He was a kind, gentle spirit. My only regret was that I was unable to connect more with him emotionally before his death. We were opposite personalities. He was private and reserved; I was outgoing and emotional. Like the movie Field of Dreams, I never had a catch with my dad. He wasn't interested in sports. I spent the early years of my journalism career as a sports writer. But Dad expressed his love for me and my younger brother Brian in other ways. He'd get home late from work then walk the neighborhood and sell tickets to some Cub Scout event while the Cub Scout – me – was in bed asleep.
As I watched the D-Day tribute, it hit me: I never thanked Dad for his military service. I never told him how proud I was of him. Last April during a vacation trip to Southern California, my wife Alisa – whom Mom and Dad adored and welcomed as a daughter – bought me an A-2 leather bomber jacket, the type issued to World War II airmen. I wish Dad were alive so I could surprise him with one. I'm sure he wore one like it as a young man when he climbed into the belly of a Flying Fortress. In my eyes Stanley King will always be a flying ace.
