CHENNAULT AIR FORCE BASE
#129 - Having explored the perimeter of the base, we knew of a low spot under the fence near the train yard where we could drag ourselves and our bikes underneath, hopefully unseen by the guards at po
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CHENNAULT AIR FORCE BASE
To me, we had moved into an air force town. Never mind the port, or the oil fields, rice paddies, and cattle that spread out in all directions.
Memorial Day was big. Being Chennault Air Force Base, there were all manner of aircraft on display for the public to look at. It was hard to pick a favorite.
The airbase was named for Major General Claire Lee Chennault. He headed the “Flying Tigers,” a squadron of P-40 Warhawk fighter planes with the shark teeth painted on their noses. During early WWII in China and Burma, these planes were successful against superior Japanese air forces.
The base was home to a squadron of B-47 Stratojet Bombers, the backbone of the Strategic Air Command’s nuclear deterrent during the Cold War.
They were beauts. Fast, sleek, high flying, and modern. They influenced the design of today’s jet airliners.
I remember going once with the family but also being there on bikes with friends.
It was always a full day on the base with the exhibits and planes to explore. You could sit in the pilot’s seat and put your hands on the controls of some of the aircraft.
A local club offered free airplane rides, and I was determined to get one. They had a piper cub, or a Cessna, I don’t remember which. A 20-minute trip up over and around the port on the river and back. It would be my first airplane ride.
With enough money to buy a hotdog and a coke for lunch, I was ready to wait all day for my name to be drawn out of a hat.
The day wore on but finally my name was called. I got my ride.
We flew just below and through the whiteout of low-level of cotton ball clouds and felt the air currents lift and drop us at will. Like being on a rollercoaster.
At the turnaround over the port, the whole town lay before us. The downtown, the airbase, the subdivision where we lived, and to the south, Prien Lake, and then down across Big Lake almost to the Gulf.
And I was hooked on planes. My collection of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling of the bedroom I shared with my two brothers quickly became cramped for ‘airspace.’
I knew I wanted to be in the Blue Angels.
The airbase had a pool. Most of my neighbors were air force people. They had IDs and got in free. Sometimes they invited me and friends to go along.
But if they didn’t, we had a way to get in.
Having explored the perimeter of the base, we knew of a low spot under the fence near the train yard where we could drag ourselves and our bikes underneath, hopefully unseen by the guards at post fifty yards away. If we could make it to the boxcars, we felt safe from discovery.
How could some kids so easily just sneak onto a jet airbase?
It dawned on me one day that, surely, those guards had to have seen us and just let us go. No harm, let the kids have fun.
Reminded me of me and my dad playing chess. I used to beat him often enough, feeling so proud and smart. Then, on another day, it dawned on me that he had let me figure out how to win by purposeful misplay. I couldn’t help but smile. That was my dad, all right. I love that man.
We got in a few extra days at the pool. It was a great summer.
The base was only a couple of miles from my house. Getting out to the end of the runway was only another couple of miles out in the boonies on the dirt and gravel East Prien Lake Road.
Along the way was the only house in the area that we thought of as being haunted. It was to us, anyway. It had an aura about it. No one lived in it from what we could see. It sat alone but for a few houses in the distance back toward town.
Set well back from the road, the two-story gabled house was overgrown with bushes and trees. Out in the middle of nowhere with the cattle. It had no trespass sign but had a real ‘STAYAWAYNESS’ to it.
We promised ourselves we would check it out one day.
Down the road a bit, and perhaps the reason why that house was empty, was the end of the runway.
The runway ended about a quarter mile from the road with jets and other aircraft crossing the road at low level. The 47s sounded as if all the noise in the world was piled into one spot. You had to hold your ears and at the same time, your head, to steady it from the reverberation. What a rush.
One afternoon after we had been there, a 47, doing touch and goes, crashed on takeoff at the end of the runway. The four aboard died.
A couple of years later, another 47 caught fire before takeoff. The fire destroyed the plane and the nuclear bomb on board. “All contamination was limited to the wreckage.”👀 They said. And nothing more was said about it after that.
A few years later, security and strategic considerations changed, and the squadrons of planes and jets moved to other bases in the US and territories.
The airbase property returned to the city of Lake Charles and is now a thriving home to businesses, schools, trade schools, flight schools, and aviation mechanics, testing, and repair.
Up and through my preteen years, the world was my oyster; afterwards, not so much.
Thank you for reading Before I Forget . . !
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Image by DALL-E 3
Claire Chennault is one of America’s unsung heroes. At least they named an Air Force base after him.
When I was a kid, I read everything I could find about him and his American Volunteer Group in China before the bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s official entry into the war.
His Flying Tigers helped slow down Japan’s invasion of China and were true heroes. Somewhere, I have an old copy of a book written by one of his pilots, “God is My Copilot.”
Awesome! I’ve been also fascinated by planes, but it came much later in life when we met our neighbor in CA who is an aviation artist (and pilot). He took me to Edwards where Mike painted a mural in the museum of legendary planes tested there. I share your love for these machines.