Thoughts on Ye Olde Pub

Note: there are challenges inherent from writing an outsider’s perspective on a complex issue. Any errors are my own and, once identified, will be promptly addressed for accuracy.

It is moments like those experienced Saturday in Bowling Green, Kentucky, which justify my interest, effort, and commitment to the past and what it means for the future. At the same time, the recent tragic crash of a B-17 in Connecticut – operating in the same capacity as the old bomber we traveled to assist – which illustrate the challenges inherent to not only preserving the past in a working fashion but the finite nature of such experiences.

My son and I were invited to assist the ground crew with the day’s activities focused on ground tours and/or flights in the Liberty Foundation’s B-17 – Ye Olde Pub – as well as their P-51D. Sean O’Brien, their tour coordinator, eagerly met us first thing in the morning and the growing crowd put both of us to work – coordinating flights, selling merchandise, crowd control, passenger safety briefs, and – most importantly – being part of the overall experience for everyone who came out that day.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that the story of Charlie Brown and Franz Steigler’s 1943 encounter was familiar to both young and old who came out that day. Of course, the Foundations’ repainting of their bomber to honor the story of the American bomber which was escorted through harm’s way by a German fighter may have had something to do with it. Refreshingly, the stories of compassion – even between established enemies – still resonate with those enamored by military history.

The personal stories and motivations for braving the early autumn heat proved to be even more inspiring. One of the passengers on the P-51 – the only female passenger that day – had attended the funeral of her father, Roy Simmons Jr., earlier that morning. During the Second World War, he had been a F-6 Mustang pilot with the 111^th Reconnaissance Squadron in North Africa, Southern Europe, and Germany. I watched as she purposefully mounted the P-51 with her family proudly supporting and documenting the event; upon return, I also noted the ecstatic smile which might have also been tinged with the epiphany of gaining a new perspective about her late father. Another woman proudly described a flight years before where she rode in the radio compartment of a different B-17 – the same location her father had occupied in the air during the war. She had brought several items of his along for the flight, either for closure, connection, or understanding.

The crew which had brought both warbirds to Bowling Green had probably heard similar stories many times before in their years of bringing history to the far corners of the map. Their humble commentary denoted a quiet pride in facilitating appreciation of the history both aircraft represented as well as how the genuine feedback from the families of veterans compelled them to return to the road year after year – some heading to the next destination in the aircraft, while others plodded along the interstates with the maintenance support trailer in tow. It is the support crews, often a mere handful of dedicated folks with an insatiable fascination for the inner workings of these warbirds, who perform the labor of dedicated maintenance sections exponentially larger and better supplied than current nonprofit organizations.

Almost everyone I spoke with that day reinforced a common theme: that many of the men who returned from the Second World War were reluctant to speak about their experiences until much later in their lives. Perhaps those who served and saw combat wished not to burden their children with the horrors of their experiences. They came from a different generation and more than likely their fathers had returned from the nightmares of the First World War with little to say about what they saw, felt, and endured. It is such interpretations of the men who fought long ago which carries weight for the generations to follow in gaining a comprehension of what it means to enter into armed conflict on such an immense scale.

History has a future, when it comes to the experiences brought by tangible and operational artifacts from a time long gone. However, efforts like those presently undertaken by organizations large and small share similar challenges. Financial dilemmas in procurement, maintenance, daily operations, and insurance continue to attract only the most determined and fiscally viable aviation history enthusiasts.

All of the more popular aircraft from the Second World War are obviously no longer manufactured; as a result, the initial purchase price is merely the beginning of a very pricy adventure. Today’s market range from $500,000 for a 1940 Hawker Hurricane, to $3 million for a 1945 Grumman Bearcat. Maintenance is another considerable factor – as with any vehicle, preventive and unscheduled upkeep on parts which are no longer readily available has forced many operators into cooperative efforts to ensure continued and safe flight.

The airshow circuit places demands on the crews and logistics needs far greater than any current military deployment. Over the space of eight hours in Bowling Green, Ye Olde Pub ventured into the air four times on 20-minute routes; a rough estimation of $3,000 per flight hour seems optimistic when considering that any excess income generated on a good-weather day must cover not just the flights for the day, but the trip to the next location as well. Along with this, finding the pilots and maintenance personnel with the required experience and flexibility poses challenges in today’s competitive aviation world. Finally, the practical issues of insurance requirements for the crew and passengers stands as a considerable entity on its own, for the coverage would address the hazards in storage, ground operations, flight, and those not directly involved in the operation of the aircraft.

Functional history, in the case of warbirds, has a price and a potential for risk. It didn’t take long for an article to surface which brings into question the long-term viability for airworthy “living history” exhibits like the ill-fated Nine-O-Nine. Ironically, one of the points I stressed to my son is that there is a very real possibility that, in his lifetime, he may see an end to many of such exhibits due to the scarce resources and/or prohibitive costs associated with keeping these aircraft operational. While it is a disturbingly potential reality, in retrospect I realized that by making such a dire statement, I fanned the spark of interest which has kept these aircraft operational much longer than could have ever been anticipated by those who built them decades ago.

Folks like the ones I met in Bowling Green fully understand the impact of their efforts. They see it in the awe of the teenagers they meet – mirrors of the awkward history nerds they once might have been. They see it in the fond memories of those who spent their youth taking these machines for granted as the artifacts they would eventually become. They see it in the comprehension of what their spouses, parents, uncles, and grandparents knew as a reality in both profession and peril. And they see it as their charge to act as curators for a practical understanding of the past – the noise, the clumsy discomfort, the dangers, and the humanity of events and conflicts often dryly recorded in print, grainy photographs, or incomplete video.

History does have a price when it comes to keeping it alive, but the imagination and inspiration which generates a driving sense of solemn curiosity for the men and machines of the past is truly priceless.