From the editor: A bucket full of dreams

Does a bucket list consist of dreams or goals?

I suppose it depends upon the person creating said list. I might reasonably say that one day I hope to see another 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner Superbird in passing on some rural highway. The last time it happened was a surprise—a big shark-nosed, big winged hemi-powered beast parked at a gas station in the wilds of a Chesapeake Bay peninsula.

On the other hand, for me to jot “own a Superbird” on my bucket list … well, that defies reality. First I would have to claim several million in lottery winnings, another line item on my account. Somehow counting on one to ensure the next violates the spirit.

So I cannot say that riding in a B-17 was something I planned to achieve in my lifetime. Climbing inside a “Flying Fortress” and taking to the skies, standing in the waist gunner’s spot pretending to scan for Messerschmitts or kneeling over a Norden Bombsight … yeah, right.

You must understand I spent a couple decades immersed in the study of American military history. I have read a good chunk of all writing on the subject, both primary and secondary. I have also traipsed over the fields of Antietam, Gettysburg, Bastogne, Waterloo and nameless sights along World War Two’s Eastern Front. Come to think of it, I’ve even fired a German rifle one of my uncles brought home after a year of combat.

Missed the target, of course. Who knows where the bullet fell.

With just over a dozen B-17s still in operation and the ticket prices for a ride on one of the famous bombers closing in on $500, however, the chance of someone like me ever bouncing along on a Fortress floor through the frozen stratosphere ...

OK, so I’m borrowing language from the 1944 documentary “The Memphis Belle.” The 45 minute film, which quickly became a hit, focused on a mission over Wilhelmshaven, Germany, the final run by a bomber of that name. In that short span of time, audiences endured fear, watched death and saw the damage done on enemy facilities and American men. As one B-17 tumbles from the sky, crew members in the “Memphis Belle” are heard in the film to urge their comrades to “get out of that plane.”

On Monday afternoon, however, I slouched in the belly of a B-17 as it took off and crisscrossed the sky over Denver. Across from me sat veteran Frank LaBlotier, who flew several missions in similar craft during World War Two. Twice he rode all the way to Berlin and back.

As the big bomber taxied, he pointed at the tiny ball turret, protecting the underside of the B-17. The gun position is so cramped only an Olympic gymnast of tiny size might be able to wedge themselves into the space. As Randall Jarrell wrote in his poem “Death of a Ball Turret Gunner,” read by many a student in my generation, “when I died they washed me from my turret with a hose.”

According to LaBlotier, many ball turret gunners quickly became alcoholics. Often, he claimed, they would give the men oxygen to sober them up.

The ride was arranged for members of the media in order to promote the plane’s visit to Denver. One who rode along, Denver CBS 4 morning news anchor Alan Gionet, marveled at the bravery of men who climbed into the beast during the war.

“We think it’s cool,” he said.

That may have been one of the most thoughtful juxtapositions I’ve heard in a while. You see, I have a friend who reenacts everything from World War Two battles to cavalry skirmishes in the Wild West. He devotes his life to these reenactments. To do so—to play act scenarios from the past—is very cool for those addicted to history. It’s the only way we can taste a bit of the past.

Or at least we think so.

Guys like LaBlotier were not pretending. They were not trying to recapture images from black and white. They lived it.

Flying in a B-17, landing on some Normandy beach during D-Day … well, none of that was on any bucket list at the time. That’s left for us dreamers who just want a taste.