A Lifetime in the Atmosphere: A Memoir of Flight

By Stanley R. Luther and Daniel Alrick

Join Stanley R. Luther, known as Stan, on an extraordinary journey through a life defined by a love for aviation. With over 13,000 flight hours, Stan's passion for flying was ignited amidst the Dust Bowl in the Midwest, propelling him into the skies instead of the fields. From Navy service in World War II to Air Force piloting, including bombers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plumb Creative
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218328481

Stanley R. Luther

As a pilot with over 13,000 hours of flight time, Stanley R. Luther knows his way around an airplane. While growing up during the Dust Bowl in the Midwest, Stan knew he belonged exploring the skies and not tilling the ground like his parents and grandparents. After joining the Navy during World War II and attending the University of Idaho, Stan became an Air Force pilot, flying everything from bombers and transport aircraft to fighter jets and reconnaissance planes in Vietnam. After serving as an attache to Madagascar, Stan retired to the Pacific Northwest where he served as a community college professor, flight instructor, and air ambulance pilot. Stan has spent his golden years in the Rogue Valley of Southern Oregon where he enjoys a view of the local airport, and at the age of 96, still finds ways to take to the skies.

Book preview

A Lifetime in the Atmosphere

STANLEY R. LUTHER

Copyright © 2023 Stanley R. Luther

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-218-28250-9

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-218-31662-4

E-PUB ISBN: 979-8-218-32848-1

FIRST EDITION

Ghostwriting by Daniel Alrick

Editing, Layout & Cover Design by Julie Kanta

Additional Graphic Design by Maxwell E. Mandell

Published by Plumb Creative

www.plumbcreative.com

Printed by IngramSpark

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

By Daniel Alrick

PROLOGUE

On the Brink

I. SLIPPING THE SURLY BONDS OF EARTH

Early Life on the Plains

Migration to Idaho

II. ANCHORS AWEIGH

III. SETTING COURSE

IV. SKYWARD BOUND

Becoming an Aviator

Married Life & the C-124

V. NAVIGATING THE STORMS

Transfer to Bombers

A Leader of Men

VI. THE TIP OF THE SPEAR

Heightened Tensions

Continued Learning

VII. FROM COCKPIT TO CUBICLE

Flying a Desk

VIII. BEYOND BLUE SKIES

Fighter Pilot Training

The Green Demons

5th Air Force

IX. IN PERIL IN THE AIR

X. WINDS OF CHANGE

Attaché to Madagascar

Farewell, Air Force

XI. CHASING CLOUDS

Settling in Spokane

To the Coast

XII. UNCHARTED HORIZONS

New Ways of Life

Vietnam Revisited

Solitude of Space

EPILOGUE

APPENDIX

The Course of Americana

List of Aircraft Flown

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ENDNOTES

Sources & Photo Credits

HIGH FLIGHT

JOHN GILLESPIE MAGEE

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew –

And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

FOREWORD

Flight Log of the Wild Blue Yonder

BY DANIEL ALRICK

Oral histories are always an investigation, a time travel trip; but what I found fascinating working with Stan Luther on his memoir was how much it was an odyssey, not only into the past, but a place of mind. This book began as a straightforward narrative of a military career. It grew in the telling, to borrow from J.R.R. Tolkien, until it became a diorama of American Life over the 20th century and eventually evolved into a rumination coming full circle into the past.

The first thing to consider about oral history is for whom the account is intended and the message of the testimony. For Stan, his telling evolved from a technical military text into the idea of having lived the American Dream, and his thoughts on what that meant in all the contradictions, surprises, and continuing mysteries of that ideal along the way. Ultimately, Stan’s life and career could not recur today.

The primary thing to know about Stan is his love of flying, with a career in the Air Force that spanned from the presidency of Truman to the end of the Carter Administration. And while Stan has such expansive flight experience that few human beings alive today could or will compare to it, that’s only part of his story. It soon became apparent that Stan is also a great storyteller, with a deep well of memories to draw on from having a life well lived. As he told me early on, I’m getting to be the last of the Mohicans.

I have no experience in either aviation nor the military, but it became clear that Stan’s story was less about the technicalities of flight (although his fascination with the details comes through in the text) than about the passion that has always driven him. The fact that his life’s philosophy has been built on patriotism, science, culture, values, honor, and the humor of bumbling through also needs to be conveyed. His story is less about flying, per se, than about a man who pursued his dreams, succeeded at them, and could tell the world what it meant to him.

Stan is a man of great humor and intelligence as an educator and an organized thinker. Upon our visits, I often encountered him working to put just a few more details on his yellow pad. Whenever I got lost or seemed a little overwhelmed, Stan always redirected the conversation back to earth.

One incredible advantage of working with Stan on his memoir was his hands-on involvement and detailed records. He has an extensive collection of writings, photos, and audio and video recordings, all of which he had stored neatly, some for over 80 years. Among his artifacts, I found a newspaper from 1943, splashed with headlines about the ongoing war effort. And this from a man who later told me he had not closely followed the war until he was 14 when the attack on Pearl Harbor brought the U.S. into it.

The unsung hero of Stan’s story is his late wife, Nellie. Stan and I agreed that chronicling his autobiography would have been very different had Nellie been sitting at his side to assist. She was the rock that kept the family on a stable footing and allowed his career, their children, and their happy retirement to have occurred—the opposite wing to the aircraft that was their life together.

I hope in completing this memoir, the reader may reflect not only on Stan’s life but on how too one’s own story can be considered history and what affected the course of their lifetime. What might happen when they step into their own time machine? How we understand ourselves in the present and imagine other people’s lives in our orbit is the destiny that awaits us all in the future.

PROLOGUE

On the Brink

What we do now will shape the history of civilization for many years to come. We have a weary world trying to bind the wounds of a fierce struggle. That is dire enough. What is infinitely far worse is that we have a world which has unleashed the terrible powers of atomic energy. We have a world capable of destroying itself. The days which lie ahead are most difficult ones. Above all, day and night, with every ounce of ingenuity and industry we possess, we must work for peace.

JOHN F. KENNEDY

1946 Congressional Candidacy Announcement

It was a chilly Monday evening, October 22, 1962: Day 7 of the Cuban Missile Crisis. President Kennedy’s voice echoed through the television speakers as he addressed the nation, while the whole country listened with bated breath.

At that moment, I was a 35-year-old Lieutenant Colonel in the 310th Bomb Wing of the United States Air Force, serving as the pilot of one of six B-47 Stratojets on alert at Schilling Air Force Base in Kansas. For eight years, our mission had been to train for bombing runs with nuclear weapons, preparing for the unthinkable possibility of war with the Soviet Union.

At 1900 hours, we gathered in the alert facility around an overhead television in one of the briefing rooms. The gravity of the situation struck us all when the President revealed that the Soviet Union was positioning ballistic missiles in Cuba, posing a direct threat to the United States. We were on the brink of war, and our mission was clear: we were to be prepared for a full retaliatory response.

The silence in the room was deafening as the President’s address concluded. The weight of the information sank in as preparedness went to DEFCON* 3, and we exchanged glances, realizing the immense responsibility that rested on our shoulders. Our aircraft, once tools of military preparedness, were now potential instruments of devastating destruction.

As we left the briefing room without immediate orders, whispers filled the air. Questions lingered in everyone’s minds. Would we be deployed to Russia? Who would strike first? What about our families? My thoughts raced to my wife and our three young children living with me on the base. The fear for their safety weighed heavily on my heart. It wasn’t long before we received some answers.

To safeguard our bombers from a surprise Soviet strike, we were to disperse our alert B-47s to various airfields throughout the northeastern states for a quick route to the USSR. All we had to do was crank up and go. Take off in twelve minutes. The B-47 was famous for its fast starts.

Columbus, Ohio, was our destination, and the sleepy municipal airport had no idea what was about to descend upon it. The arrival of our unit went unnoticed by its residents, unaware of the grave cargo we carried aboard each plane—a thermonuclear bomb primed for action in the event of war. An ordinary telephone at a local fire station would provide our go-code to strike our targets inside Russia.

My life had taken a long and winding path, shaped by seventeen years of military service, first in the Navy during World War II before joining the Air Force. I wasn’t afraid to die. As soon as I received my orders, I would get into my plane and drop that bomb. It was our job and our duty. But none of us liked it.

But now, sitting at that airport, waiting for further instructions, wrapped in a fireman’s blanket to ward off the chill, I couldn’t help but think of my family. Nellie, my devoted wife, and our children, David, Paul, and Tom, remained stationed at Schilling AFB, potentially facing the unimaginable horrors of nuclear war.

The reality of what was at stake became clearer with each passing moment. My time in the military and the pursuit of scientific knowledge had taught me the true cost of conflict, leaving me with a profound understanding that war was a terrible means of resolution. In the back of my mind, I thought, I hope we don’t do this. Isn’t there a better way? How had I gotten here—sitting in a bomber loaded with a nuclear weapon—from being a farm boy in rural Kansas who just wanted to fly…

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* The defense readiness condition (DEFCON) system prescribes five graduated levels of readiness (or states of alert) for the U.S. military. It increases in severity from DEFCON 5 (least severe) to DEFCON 1 (most severe) to match varying military situations, with DEFCON 1 signalling the outbreak of nuclear warfare.

CHAPTER ONE

Slipping the Surly Bonds of Earth

"Oh, the old apple tree in the orchard

Lives in my memory

It reminds me of my pappy

He was handsome, young and happy

When he planted the old apple tree."

OLD APPLE TREE

Traditional Folk

EARLY LIFE ON THE PLAINS

My journey began in the small town of Carmen, Oklahoma. Amanda Berdine Birdie Lee and Leonard Alfred Luther welcomed me, the first of their five children on August 15, 1927. My middle name was in honor of my mother’s brother, Ray. I always go by Stan; Stanley was reserved for when my mother was very serious, and it just didn’t have quite the same ring to it. The doctor had come to the house for the delivery, and although he had used forceps—a common practice in those days—I was a healthy baby, tipping the scales at around 9 pounds.

Our house was near the Lee Hotel, owned and managed by my maternal grandparents: James Doc Lee and Abigail Mathers. Their parents had been part of the Sooners settlers who, in the late 19th century, rushed into the indigenous lands that would become Oklahoma. My mother grew up as one of fourteen siblings, and all family gatherings were held there at the Lee Hotel, where Grandpa Lee would teach us the merry jig dance at parties.

One of my most cherished memories of those years was visiting their home, with Grandpa Lee sitting contentedly in the backyard, his skilled hands whittling away at a piece of wood. My siblings and I would pester him to take us to the local park to play, to which he would respond with a smile, promising to come directly, all the while continuing his whittling. Eventually, he’d give in to our excitement and accompany us to the park. I recall how my Grandma Abigail kept a sourdough starter in a closet next to the kitchen, and I was fond of sneaking in to try some of the dough when she baked bread.

On the other side of the family, my paternal grandparents embarked on separate journeys that led them to South Dakota. Hilda Stevens hailed from England, while John Alfred Luther was born in Switzerland. Fate intervened as Alfred, working on a friend’s ranch, heard whispers of a charming teacher at a nearby country school. Intrigued, he saddled his horse and rode over to meet her. Love blossomed, leading to their union and the purchase of a farm close to Kiowa, Kansas. They were blessed with two sons—my father, Leonard, and his younger brother, Fred.

Despite the family surname, the Luther family wasn’t inherently tied to the Lutheran faith, nor could I ever establish for certain if we were descendants of Martin Luther. In spiritual matters, my parents were devoted to the Church of Christ, a deeply conservative Restoration church. Although my father leaned slightly away from its conservatism, I was a regular attendee during my boyhood days, eventually finding myself leading hymns for the congregation.

Ours was a household resonating with music. My dad, renowned as the singing plasterer, often filled the air with his melodies while working. His talent was remarkable enough to earn him airtime on Boise radio. I remember singing tunes with my dad and Uncle Fred, such as Old Apple Tree, while my grandmother Hilda accompanied us on the piano. My dad had studied music at Bethany College in Lindberg, Kansas, but dropped out without completing a degree. I later went to the same college and graduated with a Bachelor’s in Physics.

When I was about a year old, we moved from Oklahoma to a farm in Kiowa, just a stone’s throw away from the Kansas state border—close to where my grandparents still resided. Shortly thereafter, my father purchased an old farm just half a mile down the road known as the Old Milner Place. The amenities were basic, with a chilly outhouse serving as our bathroom, particularly frigid during the winter months. We made do with pages from a Sears Roebuck catalog as makeshift toilet paper or, in a pinch, shucked corn cobs.

My sister Ramona, only a year younger than me, was a close friend growing up. She was an avid reader, often navigating the pages of a book even while pedaling on her bicycle! My brother Alvin came shortly after Ramona, so he and I bunked together in one of the small bedrooms. Given the absence of heating, we devised our own solution for warmth: a heated brick snugly wrapped in a towel that kept us cozy during the night. Al and I always got along, never letting disagreements escalate into fights or serious conflicts.

Growing up, I was fascinated by flight and would look up at the sky whenever