Remembering Flight 19

Every year on December 5, at 2 p.m., Naval Air Station Fort Lauderdale Historical Association holds the Flight 19 Memorial Service at Hollywood/Fort Lauderdale Airport in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. This bustling International airport was the old Naval Air Station from which the planes left 55 years ago around 2 p.m. and the base to which they never returned. This service, though recalling the 14 men who were lost, really honors all the men lost during the war from NAS Fort Lauderdale, a total of 92 servicemen.

The memories of Flight 19 are fragile, just as fragile and sparse as the base from which they left. By the year 2000 the sprawling international airport has claimed every inch of the old NAS, leaving only the old link trainer building intact and the old guard post past which all had to travel to enter or exit the base. The old parking ramp is still there, disguised amidst newer asphalt and buildings. Instead of TBM warbirds rumbling over it, fire trucks speed past out of the fire station whose bay doors open onto it.

Flight 19 was no more tragic than other losses at sea during the war. But Flight 19 does have an element that is enduring more than others: its sensational loss during peacetime, without explanation and trace, has kept it in the forefront of memory. The farfetched theories aside, the mundane excuses equally banished, the real Flight 19 can be seen among real faces and friends still alive who remember their comrades departed.

		A call to rise is made for those who were actually at the base at the time.

Mystery it seems is greater and more enduring than glory. Flight 19 will remain with us throughout history, perhaps longer than the heroes they knew at Midway and Savo Island. In a way this immortality is eerie, but it is an immortality that is best served perhaps by remembering that its crews only represent thousands of other kids who were lost in their country’s service. This is at the forefront of those who come to attend the December 5th service. They come to honor and to remember. I was able to attend this last December 5th service. TLC was interested in backing an hour long Special Presentation on the Bermuda Triangle for Springtime release, so Producer Bruce Burgess retained me as his consultant. One of the virtues of being a consultant to a television program is that you are not tied to the set. You are a contact man and advisor, filling an associate producer’s position but without the constant hassle (or pay or title). My duties were, essentially, to get the producer contacts (interviewees), location recommendations and contacts, archival material, historical information, photos, and submit to an interview on my perspective on the Triangle and Flight 19, etc. Out of the 19 day shooting schedule (November 30 to December 18), I would only be needed for 5 days to help with some interviews in the Southern Florida area. (See TLC Behind-the-Scenes.) The 4th of December was a “free day” for me, meaning I was not needed for filming. Bruce and the crew were in a chase plane filming a TBM Avenger coming in from Kissimmee to Fort Lauderdale. (TLC has sprung for the Avenger since Alan was not able to bring one down this year.) For me, my “free day” meant helping Alan at the “base”—the old link trainer building— and helping to prepare for the service tomorrow. Several military planes were coming in for an air show after the service, and our guest speaker was arriving. In between the running around, I did some research, copied some pics, got some contacts, and staid ready for each event we were expecting.

At 1 p.m. we got word that the Cobra was coming in. Each year Alan faxes the Pentagon for aircraft to appear on the tarmac after the ceremony is concluded. In December cold weather clutches most of the country except Fort Lauderdale which remains balmy. Any number of pilots are eager for a jaunt south. This Cobra attack helicopter came from Georgia, an hour ahead of schedule due to a tailwind. We were rushed out to greet it in one of the airport “golf carts.” Gas fumes continued to spit forth from its exhausts as its propellors sluggishly came to a halt.

The Cobra just sat down on a special area of the Jet Center tarmac as the photo was taken. We had to keep our distance from the “wash,” the twisting vortex of its propellors.

Behind this curtain of dancing fumes, its first pilot jumped out and surveyed the scene, reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys to lock up the cockpit. The parking job looked OK. If it wasn’t, who was going to complain? It seemed safe so we closed in. The second pilot slowly unstrapped himself while Alan and I greeted the other. We discovered two marines straight from a John Wayne movie. They were Majors Vinsky and Provost. They removed their helmets, donned their shades, smiled at us and shook our hands.

Provost was shy and talkative, while Vinsky was not shy and talkative. With a facetious smile, he wanted to know if the deal to bring them to the show included any women for them. The glimmer in his eye winked out at a firm negative . . . or perhaps it was was the advice not to sing hymns too loudly in their room tonight.

Alan gets a kick over this: the Marines used the ammo bay for their luggage compartment!

The deadly Cobra was soon looking like a holiday camper. They opened up compartments and retrieved their luggage and stowed their flight gear. They pulled out straps and began to crawl over the chopper to “bed” it down. Afterward, they gathered their papers, phone numbers, and were ready to go to the “base’ with Alan and I.

	“We must at least give the appearance we know what the hell we’re doing.”

	Smile! . . . “Smile on request, not on command.” OK, one more time. Smile, please! All done. We’re ready to go. Left to right, Major Provost, Alan, Major Vinsky.

Nothing brought Flight 19 to life as much as William L. Smith would. He was the guest speaker for the service. He and his wife, Rita, were driving down from Lutz, Florida, this afternoon. The airport told us they would let us know when the Avenger would arrive, being now late by several hours, so we waited at the “base” for Bill and Rita. I had hopes that Bill would be there when the Avenger arrived. It had been 55 years since he had flown one in WWII, 55 years since he had seen his friend, Robert Francis Harmon, whom he was coming to pay his respects to. Bill Smith had been the first pilot Bob Harmon ever knew, and the man who would tell the young boy to straighten out his name with the Navy. Bob Harmon was the alias of George Francis Devlin Jr., a native Brooklynite who wanted to join the Navy, join so badly he took another man’s identity. The 15 year old boy knew a man of draft age named Robert Harmon who didn’t want to go into the service, so the eager Devlin asked for his birth certificate and with this joined up. The soon-to-be 16 year old Devlin took on Harmon’s name and age and found himself in naval aviation training for an Avenger; his pilot: Bill Smith; the radioman: Weldon Richman. This 15 year old was trained to be the gunner in the dorsal turret and apparently had a knack for it. They graduated from Fort Lauderdale in March 1944, and eventually found themselves stationed on the old U.S.S. Enterprise, the last survivor of the carriers that held the Japanese at bay at Midway. Bill and Rita had donated a letter from Devlin, written to him when Devlin was stationed at Fort Lauderdale after the war. I had first read the letter in summertime when I visited Alan during a break in my search in the Okefenokee swamp for any indication Flight 19 could have gone down in there, before the History Channel crew would arrive. (See History Channel behind the scenes) Devlin’s letter was that from a nice kid to an older friend who had taken him under his wing. He expressed his sorrow at how life had gone for him after their team had split up. He found himself not flying regularly. He reminded Bill of their times together, of his singing over the intercom to keep Bill awake on night patrol, and apologizing for his oversleeping. . . .Well, you can read the letter yourself. Devlin, like all the crew, has been an obscure figure. But his letter told me a lot of what a nice kid he had been. He was certainly more gutsy than others to have stolen the identify of a man so he could join up while only 15.

Bill and Rita arrived around 4 o’clock at the link trainer building, Bill to receive a big hug from Alan with whom he had been in touch for so long over donating his letters and pictures to the museum. Bill is now in a wheel chair due to an accident. His manner is calm and unpretentious. He didn’t seem like he had been a hotshot pilot. The nice guy of the letters was still evident, the kind of a guy who would protect a kid like Devlin. (Devlin had been given to oversleeping and needed to be dragged awake. Often Bill and Weldon covered for him and got him out and on duty. )

Squadron 16’s graduation at Fort Lauderdale, March 1944. Top row is Bill Smith, middle is George Devlin, bottom is Weldon Richman. At this time, both Bill and Weldon did not know the boy’s real age or name. Courtesy of Weldon Richman Willian L. Smith as an Ensign and aviation cadet. Courtesy of Bill and Rita Smith.

We soon went over to the Aviator’s Bar & Grill to await the Avenger’s advent on the tarmac outside its windows. In the meantime, Bill and I had a wonderful chat on their times during the war and on the Avenger. They had both seen my segment on the History Channel (which had just premiered 3 days before) and Bill told me how it was possible to throttle back an Avenger. He closed his eyes while he did, trying to remembered the old cockpit and the control positions. He reminisced some more on Devlin, about their flights over Guam and Tinian, and night patrol off the Enterprise, which Bill still recalled with a wince. Night flying had been a scary experience. He recalled that when they took off over the ocean everything was pitch black. George got on the intercom and said “Look, it’s like flying in a fishbowl of ink.” When he had found out that Bob Harmon was really named George Devlin, he immediately advised him to get it straight with the Navy for insurance and discharge purposes. At the time Flight 19 was lost, young George, apparently now of legal age (so he didn’t mind confessing to his age) was in the process of doing so. He had been tired of doing gunnery practice work at the beach and finally got an assignment as an aviation gunner again. His chance came as a squadron was transferred up from Miami in preparation for Miami NAS closing. (Aviator instructors did not train crewmen but were assigned

seasoned air crewmen for their planes.) When Charles Taylor was transferred from Miami to Fort Lauderdale on November 21, 1945, Devlin was assigned as his gunner.

Ironically, Devlin’s experience in night patrol prepared him for the pitch black darkness Flight 19 would find itself in l;ater that night over the Atlantic. What was he thinking? Was he recalling all those night patrols singing to Bill over the intercom? Was Taylor having him keep an eye out to find land or a ship? Rita had become interested in searching the past as well. She showed a knack for finding people by quickly finding Bill’s old radioman, Weldon Richman. He recalled Devlin clearly in a phone conversation I had with him. Both were ratings so they became buddies for their 22 months together through training and the Pacific. He visited Devlin’s home in

Gunner practice at Hollywood, Florida, near the base. Devlin kept up pratice here but was not happy about not drawing flight pay.

Brooklyn about a dozen times when they were in training on the east coast. Here, during his first visit, he heard “Bob” called “George.” Devlin told him what he had done and how old he really was. Weldon kept his secret, and now recalled fondly: “George was a happy-go-lucky kid. He liked to sing any new song he learned. He had the typical immaturity for his age, but then he was only 15 when he joined. I was a few years older.”

When transshipping across the US, George staid at Weldon’s home in Utah and met his family. Of the many pictures taken of them only a few survive, the rest destroyed in a flood. Here George takes Weldon to Coney Island during a stay in Brooklyn on leave. George pours and counts with his fingers as Weldon holds the mug.

Courtesy of Weldon Richman

Buddies at Key West. Left to right, Weldon Richman, Lou Dietz, George Devlin. Courtesy of Weldon Richman

At Nanikuli Beach, Oahu, Hawaii, January 1945

Bill had first heard about Devlin’s loss with Flight 19 from both George Devlin Sr. and Weldon in letters Bill still keeps. George Devlin Sr. would later write a long letter to Bill asking what could have happened. Bill was now a civilian but looked into it as far as he could, but met with the same dead ends that all other families and friends met. The old letters, the black & white pictures don’t tell the whole story. Only the real people today bring Flight 19 to the 21st century. This was made poignantly clear to me when Bill expressed his desire to see the monument tonight. The Avenger was still overdue, and he needed to rest for the big day tomorrow. I accompanied Bill and Rita to the memorial. Bill sat quietly in the dusk while Rita went to get his hat and coat. The wind was getting worse and it was clear more rain was coming. I stood back and left him alone with his memories of George and their days as naval aviators. When Rita returned, I asked if they would like their picture taken with it, not realizing for a moment that Bill would insist on standing up for the shot. His gesture plainly testifies to his fond memories of that boy lost 55 years ago, memories of a face that would never grow old.