B-24 pilot remembers

Antipodean Andy · May 1, 2008

World War II pilot still lives in the winds, with love on his wings - Farmington Daily Times - nice pics at link

A brisk breeze sends the backyard decorative windmill into a frantic spin, while snow-capped Rocky Mountains loom in the distance on this sunny spring day upon the tall bluffs of Crouch Mesa.
Around in the front yard, an American flag high atop its long pole unfurls itself to reveal all of its Old Glory.

But that windmill, in the backyard, that's where National Public Radio paid a visit here several years ago to do a story about the hantavirus disease in the Four Corners region.

"The radio guy liked the way it sounded turning in the wind," its owner fondly recalled.

Isaac Terrell Spivey, or Terry, has seen quite a few winds in his 87 years.

He's also done his fair share of interviews with the media over the years. That's because Terry Spivey is a real, bona fide World War II hero, and simply put, there just aren't that many of them around anymore.

So while other stories come and go, like the years-ago apprehension about hantavirus or the discovery of new oil and gas fields in the neighborhood, Terry remains as perhaps the best-told story all in himself.
His memories are something that the winds never seem able to blow away.

Terry flew 50 missions in World War II, most of them in the pilot's seat of a B-24 Liberator bomber fondly nick-named the "Red Headed Woman."

He jokes that when his wartime girlfriend-future wife, Jessie, heard the plane's name, she dyed her hair red and hasn't changed it since.

Jessie sits quietly in the corner when he says this, not sure of what will come from his mouth next regarding their 1940s courtship.

But Terry has done something right.

He and his wartime beauty remain a happy couple, surrounded by close friends and family.

"That guy has lived a lot in his lifetime, I can tell you that," says good buddy Ted Dennard, who with his own lovely bride of 50 years, Joyce, brought Terry and Jessie a fresh tray of banana pudding for the couples to share during an afternoon visit.

Terry and Jessie looked together at a photo taken of them soon after they met. They made quite the handsome couple.

"I met her at the ticket booth at a theater in Albuquerque," Terry said. "Everyone wanted to meet her, and all the guys would ask her out, so she gave everybody a different name. She told me it was Janice."

Jessie wasn't so sure Terry was anything more than a fly-by-night fellow interested only in a one-night stand, but when he continued to show interest, she decided to share her address for him to write her when overseas.

"I thought, well, if he really cares, I'll hear from him," she recalls.

She heard from him.

Two of those 50 missions Terry flew stand out above the rest.

They earned him a Distinguished Flying Cross, one of the highest decorations given to aviators serving the American military.

Such an honor has to be earned, and Terry earned his one July afternoon in 1945.

The United States desperately was looking to end the war, and the dropping of two atomic bombs a month later would lead to that. But before the bombs were dropped, American military planners were looking for every advantage possible in trying to destroy the Japanese war machine. Many fully expected that only by invading Japan would the war end.

Stationed on a South Pacific island, Terry and his crew were given the assignment to fly one of only two B-24s over the French Indochina city of Saigon, which is in the nation known today as Vietnam.

There were oil refineries in Japanese hands there, "and it was the first time in years that we had flown over to get pictures of them," Terry said.

They caught the Japanese completely by surprise.

There was almost no resistance offered by the defenders, and after many hours of flight in which Terry believes was the longest flight mission of the war, the airmen successfully returned with their high-valued photos.

"But when we got back, the gunner dropped the film, it rolled all the way down the hill and exposed it all," Terry said, still grimacing at the thought. "We had to go back the next day and do it all over again."

This time, the Japanese were waiting.

"There were fighter planes everywhere," he said. "One of our guys counted 45 fighters.

"They would pass you and come in from 12 o'clock high," he said. "They would pass you so close, you could see their eyeballs and their gnashing of teeth."

Two things, however, were in Terry's favor.

The Japanese were flying old, poorly conditioned planes, and they must have had young and inexperienced pilots because of the war's toll on Japanese airmen. Otherwise, Terry does not think he and his crew would have stood a chance.

Fighter after fighter dove at them in the air, guns blazing, with the B-24 guns firing back.

"They didn't know how to shoot," Terry said. "But my gunners couldn't shoot any better than they could."

The plane had a large chunk shot away, but it safely took its crew home, completing a rigorous, heart-pounding 2,500-mile round trip that was just as dangerous because of the threats of weather and running out of fuel as it was for enemy fighters.

Although the Saigon mission was the one that got Terry a medal penned to his chest, he actually qualified for another decoration after earlier combat action.

"We were coming up on a ship we thought was a transport," he said. "I saw the ship and smoke coming from the side of it. I said, Ah, man, that's not a transport. That's a battleship!' ''

The enemy ship was shooting at his plane, and a shell burst nearby, sending pieces of metal shrapnel into the aircraft. A round pipe about the size of a flashlight handle tore through the plane and into Terry's leg. He still has the piece of shrapnel.

"Here, smell this," he said, handing it to his guests.

The inside of the pipe was clogged, and it still carries the unmistakable smell of burned gunpowder.

Terry was at home on leave, visiting Jessie, when word came that the U.S. had dropped the A-bomb, and soon after Japan surrendered.

He has no qualms whatsoever about the decision to use nuclear power to end the war.

"We'd have lost a million people," he said of any invasion attempt on Japan.

Jessie said she tried not to worry.

"Everybody was over there," she said. "There were so many."

Terry gets up and walks his guests to the backyard, where the windmill is still turning round and round and round, make its continuous flittering sound in the steady breeze.

His home is next to a tall cliff, and from the heights of Crouch Mesa, he can see for dozens and dozens of miles along the horizon in almost every direction.

It's hard to say what the next story will be from someone like Terry. He's scanned open horizons like these for the better part of a century.

But standing next to his most dedicated co-pilot in Jessie, it's clear he's not ready to give up his wings just yet.

"How often would you write her?" he was asked.

"About once a week," he said.

"Ah, he exaggerates," she said.

They stand outside and wave as their guests drive away.

The flag, still waving high in the front yard.
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