By Carl Sampson
A plain, brown manila envelope arrived in the mail the other day. In it was a spiral-bound book titled The Crash of 44-87741.
The book was about the time I almost died.
I should back up a bit in telling my story.
My father was a career Air Force officer. He was drafted during World War II and remained in the military until 1963, when he retired. One of the many places he was stationed was the island of Guam. That’s where I was born.
“Crash Kills 17,” screamed the headline in the Guam Daily News for Dec. 18, 1953. My parents always kept the tattered clipping among their most important papers.
“Seventeen persons including six children were killed and 14 injured, two critically, when a crippled B-29 limping for an emergency landing plunged out of control just short of the runway and cut a fiery swath through an officers housing area at Andersen Air Force Base yesterday morning.”
It was 7 a.m., and most of the families in the base housing area were still at home. They were eating breakfast and getting their children ready for school.
The B-29 — No. 44-87741 — had taken off from Guam on its way to its base near Mountain Home, Idaho. One of the engines failed about 15 minutes after takeoff and the crew turned around to go back to Guam, which is 3,700 miles west of Hawaii in the Pacific Ocean.
On the final turn before landing, the pilot lost control of the plane, which was fully loaded with fuel. It slashed through the housing area. One by one, the houses — with families inside — were incinerated and ripped apart.
Eight homes were demolished, two were damaged and three more set on fire. Six children died, including an entire family.
“One final piece of flaming debris or the last burning fuel jumped over the next home…. It hit the home of Lt. Preston B. Sampson, his wife Jeanette, and their two sons, Paul, age 4, and Carl, who was only few months old,” the book’s author, Lee Corbin wrote.
Corbin had contacted me about a year ago and asked what I remembered about living on Guam and the crash. He had met a survivor of the crash and wanted to piece together the many loose ends.
Since I was six months old, I don’t remember anything about the crash. My folks told me that they grabbed me and my brother and ran for the door. Our housed was burned to the ground. We lost everything we owned — all of the family photos, furniture and belongings. All we had left were the clothes we were wearing.
Looking back, I realized what happened that day was that many lives became intersected.
The pilot, co-pilot and everyone aboard the plane. The families getting ready for the day ahead. We all collided in a single moment in time. There’s no explanation for why one family died that morning and another was spared.
When I think about it, I don’t know whether I’m lucky or blessed. I don’t know why I’m not dead but 17 others are.
But I’ve decided that because I was spared that morning nearly 60 years ago every day I’m still breathing will be a good day. Whenever I hear the saying, “Have a good day,” I reply, “I always do.”
