The Favorite Christmas Gift

Over the past four plus years now, my wife Leslie and I have been teachers in the Primary Organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints.

Those unfamiliar with the organization of our Church, let me present I short tutorial. The Church does not have a paid ministry. Members are asked to serve in the various organizations that comprise each local congregation, which we call Wards.

There is the Primary, for children from 18 months to 11 years. Then the Young Men’s and Young Woman’s organizations for the 12 to 18 year olds. There are youth and adult Sunday School programs as well as Priesthood Quorums for the adult men, and The Relief Society for the adult women.

So back to the story… Each week we prepare a 40 minute lesson on a particular gospel subject. This year we have the eight going on nine year olds, and the topics have been from the New Testament. As Christmas has been rapidly approaching, I thought I would ask the children to share with the group their favorite Christmas presents of all time. Not too difficult I assumed for 8 year olds.

As we went around the room, each child mentioned things like bicycles, video games, some girlie things I forget now. I know, I’m a guy!!

But one sweet young girl mentioned the birth of Jesus as her favorite Christmas gift. That definitely helped set the tone for our lesson.

After each child had a chance to respond, somehow in unison it seems, they asked us to share our favorite presents. I was caught a bit off guard, as I hadn't considered my own answer to the question.

I must admit, numerous, fondly remembered presents, came to my mind. There was the artillery cannon that my grandpa Marsh had given me at the age of seven. It shot 5 inch plastic balls and was great fun to shoot at my older sisters, until I was forced to take it outside to shoot. Then there was the electric train set, that was replaced by the slot car set, and so on, and so on.

But what was my favorite gift of all time….the thought eluded me.

Fortunately, Leslie went first, which would give me a bit more time to consider the question.


But then she mentioned something that caught me entirely off guard, and caused me to reflect, and I must admit tear up a bit: Something you don’t want to do in front of a bunch of eight and nine year olds, and yet I seem to do all too often.

She explained to the children that she had inherited a piano, which belonged to her grandparents.

Not long after we were married, her grandfather Cheever passed away, and the Cheever family piano was given to Leslie. As a child, while her mother recuperated after back surgery, she and her younger sister Deanna lived with grandma and grandpa Cheever. The piano held special memories for her, because of the many hours she spent at her grandmothers side practicing her lessons.

The piano was with us in our second apartment, then it made the move to our first home and again found a spot in the family room of our new home in Riverton.

On December 23rd, 1996, just eighteen months after moving into our brand new home, the house was destroyed by fire.



Phone calls brought Leslie and I home from work.  Our family watched helplessly, and in tears, as the firemen worked to exhaustion in an effort to extinguish the flames. After several hours and four alarms, the men finally brought the fire under control.

Everything we owned was in the house.  Gazing into the broken out windows of what was once the family room, we discovered the floor had collapsed.  All of our possessions, that just hours before, had been safely situated in that room were now literally floating in about four feet of water in the basement. The Christmas tree and all the decorations, the stockings for Santa to fill, the old White treadle sewing machine, and yes, even grandma and grandpa Cheever's piano was floating upside down in the murky water.





> Over the course of the next few weeks, we salvaged what we could out of the house. Clothes that smelled of smoke were washed numerous times. Photographs that we found in the frozen water of the basement were carefully dried. Even the old piano was lifted out of the basement using a forklift attachment on a friend’s tractor. With a great deal of effort, and peril of life and limb, it finally exited the basement tomb through the family room window!




What remained of the fire damaged structure was eventually torn down and the home rebuilt. New furniture and appliances were purchased, and slowly life returned to “normal”.



Except there was no piano, the one item needed to perhaps make us whole again.




I was determined to restore the piano, and took every precaution to hide that fact from Leslie. The wood that had suffered water damage beyond repair was replaced, or re-veneered. A decal was made that replicated the original manufacturer’s decal on the key board cover. .
The original quarter sawn oak was sanded and everything was sprayed with a clear varnish. The ivory that had fallen off the keys from their soak in the water were glued back into place. The felt on the hammers was also reattached.
Several pennies were found in the piano. One dated close to the year the piano was made, one about the time Leslie lived with her grandparents, one about the time when Leslie inherited the piano, then I added one for when the repairs were completed. These were glued near the keyboard as a reminder of all the memories associated with it.I had successfully kept the restoration of the piano a secret from Leslie, and at our annual family Christmas party, with the aid of a few of Santa Helpers, it resumed its old place in the family room.


To say she was surprised is an understatement!! Tears were shed that day too, but they were tears of happiness!

Returning once again to the lesson in our Primary class; Leslie shared with the children that the return of her piano that Christmas, was the best present she had ever received. I hadn’t realized that it meant so much to her, but again, I’m a guy!!

As she recounted the story about the return of her piano, the memories of that one very bad day flashed back into my mind.


I was at work when I got the call that the house was on fire. As I turned onto our street after racing home, the scene was surreal. Fire trucks blocked the street, hoses strung down the road, neighbors on the street watching as the flames and smoke seemed to exit from every window and door, and fire fighters doing their best to contain the fire. My wife and children huddled together in tears as friends and family comforted them as we all watched.




As I mentioned, everything we owned was in our now burned out home.




Darkness and the cold night air soon forced us leave the scene. After watching the news coverage of the fire at a neighbor’s home, we found our way to a hotel room many miles away. In shock we all sat stunned at what had happened. In the course of a few hours we had lost the majority of all things near and dear to us, and everything related to our Christmas that was to be celebrated two days later.




Leslie and I wondered just what would become of Christmas.
Well, the word got out. Soon there was a knock at the door of the hotel room. Some of Leslie’s co-workers brought us a 12 inch Christmas tree with all the trimmings.




One family gave up their Christmas stockings so Santa would have something to fill at our adopted “home”. We have that tree and stockings to this day, and each year they are gratefully displayed as part of our Christmas celebrations.







Another knock brought a member of our Ward (as you recall, that’s what LDS people call their congregations). He had an envelope full of cash and checks. Members of the Ward had gathered together, went door to door throughout the neighborhood, and collected money in our behalf so we could purchase the children something for Christmas. Leslie's co-workers at LDS Hospital, made the rounds that night collecting as well.




Leslie spent Christmas eve shopping for clothes, and shoes, and coats so the family could have the necessities for Christmas. As people at the stores heard the story of what had happened to us, many offered to wrap the “presents” at no charge. She literally stopped shopping when the malls closed.




I have a friend who at the time was a Captain with the Salt Lake City Fire Department. When the men on his crew heard our story, they insisted we join them at the firehouse to share their Christmas Eve dinner. It is a truly wonderfully special memory.



Christmas day came and went, shared with family and friends. Over the next days, weeks and months, people continued to come to our rescue. One family friend took our smoke filled clothes to their house and washed them numerous times to remove the smell. When I say numerous, I mean well over a hundred loads.




Others helped us salvage what we could from the remains of the house, and pitched in with the rebuilding of the new home. While the house was burning, a neighbor who is a fire fighter, and was off duty at the time, saw the smoke and came over wearing his spare gear and using a pike pole, saved our dining room table, my desk and computer, before the fire destroyed the room they were in.




So many people came to our rescue that at the time there were simply no words to express our gratitude.




I first saw “It’s a Wonderful Life” as a teenager, and yes back then, I thought it was pretty corny, but as I have matured, its timeless message has caused it to become one of my favorite Christmas movies. Long before the fire, it was a tradition to watch it every Christmas, and I will admit the end still gets me a bit teary eyed.




I mentioned that a member of the Ward had brought an envelope full of donations in our behalf. We waited until he had left to open it, and as we let the contents of the envelope fall onto the bed, I felt a lot as George Bailey must have, at the end of the movie as friends and neighbors filled the basket with money, we truly had angels, in the form of friends, watching out for us. And I would like to believe that a deserving “Clarence” or two got their wings that day.





So what did I tell the Primary class was my favorite Christmas present?




In a much abbreviated explanation than is recounted here, I explained, that as I think about it now, the best Christmas gift I ever received came out of that one very bad day. It was not a physical possession, but a spiritual gift.




For you see, I learned that home truly is where the heart is. We were together as a family in a strange hotel room, and yet it was made a home by family, friends and even strangers as love and charity was sent our way.




I learned that God does have angels here on Earth, and even the smallest acts of kindness come from on high.




I learned that earthly possessions can be gone in an instant. But friendships and memories last forever.




I learned that the old adage “it is better to give, than to receive” is true, but that there are times we must gratefully receive. And in so doing, we can truly understand what it means to give to others. Many of those who came to our rescue have since mentioned how good it felt to help as they were able.




And I was reassured that Heavenly Father never leaves us alone when we have faith in him, and His love for us will get us through any trial or tribulation.




That Christmas, I truly felt “The Christmas Spirit”.



And that is the greatest Christmas present I have ever received.

He really lived.......

Ken Guthrie was a remarkable man!!

Such is the opinion, of all who were in attendance at his funeral, in the small community church near Ken’s home in Cougar Washington.

The gloom of the low hanging clouds, and constant drizzling rain on that Saturday in October, seemed to punctuate the feeling of loss felt by all in attendance.

Words of tribute were spoken; there was laughter as the humorous moments of Ken’s life were remembered, and tears at the realization that further memories with Ken in this life, would never be realized.

Ken Guthrie was also a dreamer, and a big dreamer at that. Unlike most who dream big, Ken made the majority of his dreams come true.


A man of humble beginnings, at the age of six, he and his brother were dropped off at an orphanage by their mother. At twelve, he was sent to a "boy’s ranch" which was essentially indentured servitude. Running away at sixteen, he made his way to America, eventually working construction in California, selling Real Estate in Texas, and drilling oil in Colorado.

He even worked on Marilyn Monroe’s home in Beverly Hills!! When asked if there was any hanky panky between he and the starlet, he responded by saying “ no, but she had her chance”.


He became a US citizen, learned to pilot fixed wing aircraft, purchased a fixer-upper helicopter, self taught, he flew it a couple times, but realized he needed professional training to fly it safely and get a commercial rotor-craft rating. He went on to accumulate over 15,000 flight hours in numerous models of helicopters.


He flew tourists over and scientists to, Mount St. Helens after the eruption. Using Sky Crane helicopters, he lifted lumber out of the forests of the Pacific Northwest, dropped water to extinguish forest fires all over the United States. With a fleet of thirteen helicopters, his company moved everything from Christmas trees to sections of buildings, nothing was impossible for the Sky Crane and Ken as it's skilled pilot.


He told me flying from sun-up to sunset, then staying up late into the night or in some cases the wee hours of the morning, making repairs to the aircraft, to do it all again the next day, never seemed like work to him. He loved it that much.

He hired many locals to work for him, and at the memorial service, one young man expressed how grateful he was for that, as he had been unemployed for a time. But Ken expected a full days work for the money paid, just as he had given to others all of his working life.

Flying helicopters was a lucrative business, earning Ken and his wife Suzanne a very good living. Retiring in 2000, he and Suzanne began collecting automobiles, eventually replacing the helicopters in his hanger to well over 100 collector cars. Cars from the 20's, 30's and early 40's were represented. There were the “best of the best” models from the 50's, 60's and 70's. Hotrods, customs, low mileage survivors, all found a home in their collection.



Car clubs and rod runs would visit the hanger, and were always welcome. Ken drove his favorites to weekly lunch dates with friends, and errands about town, not to mention the parades, car shows and cruise nights he and Suzanne participated in. Ken even owned his own roll back tow truck, to retrieve one of his babies, just in case it broke down at one of these events.

I became acquainted with Ken, when he decided it was time to sell the collection. One random email, informing me of a few of the cars, sparked enough interest that I made the 1650 mile round trip from my home in Riverton Utah to Cougar Washington, in June of this year.
As impressive as my first few steps into the hanger, as the row after row of beautifully detailed cars came into view were, my initial meeting with Ken was even more so.

Over the course of my career restoring antique cars, I have met many owners of large collections. Most are the suit and tie or stylish casual types, who have earned their fortunes in real estate, energy, construction or high tech industries.


Not that there is anything wrong with that, but Ken was different, wearing a fleece lined denim jacket, blue jeans and a well worn ball cap with his company logo, there was no pretense to the man. What you saw, is what you got, a man who valued hard work and kept at it his entire life.


To occupy his time, at that moment he was working on the ground up restoration of a 26 Chevrolet to “keep his butt off the couch just watching TV”.

Being the blue collar type as well, I could relate to Ken, and came to truly admire the man and his accomplishments.

Over the next few months, two more visits were made to Cougar to show the collection to interested parties. On one visit, Ken and Suzanne treated me to “Taco Tuesday” at the local café, before having to leave for home. I observed that other patrons at the café greeted Ken and Suzanne, with respect and friendship. In a whisper, he told our waitress he would cover the tab for a young family, who I could tell were struggling financially.


He trusted me enough to let me drive his pickup down to town to get back to my hotel.


On my third trip, my son Jason accompanied me to Cougar. Being an aviation fanatic, I wanted Jason to meet Ken as well. Again, we were made to feel at home, sharing a Bar-B-Q, with Rick White and his family. Rick is a close friend to Ken and Suzanne, and was asked by Ken to represent him in the liquidation of the collection.

Ken and Suzanne lost a son in a motorcycle accident in 2010. I was told the motivation for selling the collection was partly due to that loss. From my three visits, I came to the conclusion that Ken had also decided to move on to the next stage of his life and the responsibility of maintaining such a large number of cars had become burdensome.

He would never be done collecting cars, just a smaller number. In fact he was interested in building a full size version of a Franklin Mint model called the “Coupe Simone”. A beautiful art deco rendition based on a long wheel based Duesenberg chassis. Yes, Ken dreamed big. The project would be a dauntless and expensive task, and funded by the proceeds of the sale of his collection.
He had hinted that he wanted me involved in the project, and I began researching and planning the project, by contacting the designers and creators of the model. They informed me that several others had expressed an interest in building the full size version, but the project had never taken flight. My excitement for the project grew, knowing Ken was just the person who could pull it off.

Once at a car show, after a gentlemen had spent a great deal of time carefully studying one of my photo albums, and after discussing the circumstances of the project with me. He made the statement that I didn’t just restore antique cars, but that I “made dreams come true”.

I have never forgotten that encounter, and as I reflect on the many "impossible" projects I have completed, and the amazing people I have been fortunate enough to work for, I suppose that I really have made a few dreams come true. Having the opportunity to work on some truly one of a kind projects has also fulfilled many of my own dreams.

As I was driving home after the funeral, I called Shanna, my youngest daughter to congratulate her on completing her first 5K marathon. In the course of our conversation, she asked me why I had traveled so far to attend the funeral of a man I hardly knew. My initial response to Shanna, and not wanting to go into great details on the cell phone while driving was; that I felt “I needed to”.

Upon reflection, with hours of time on the road driving home, to think about it, I truly did need to be there.


First to say goodbye to a man whom I had come to respect and admire. Second to express my sympathy to his widow Suzanne, and to Rick White and his family who were so close to Ken.

And lastly, a more selfish reason. To say goodbye to a dream. Kens dream to build a one of a kind automobile, had become my dream as well. Someone may at some time in the future build the Coupe Simone, but for me that dream has passed with Ken.

Funerals are not held for the dead, but for the living. Funerals bring closure to family and friends at the loss of a loved one. The long trip from my home, to the Pleasant View Community Church near Ken’s home in Cougar, then standing with family and friends in the constant rain at the small Yale Cemetery, helped bring a bit of that closure to me as well.

I firmly believe, that throughout the course of our lives, we are truly fortunate when someone comes along who leaves a positive impression upon our being. Coming to know Ken Guthrie has been one of those treasured contacts and has renewed my desire to live large, and dream big.

I hope all who read these words may be inspired by my experience with Ken Guthrie, and strive to do the same.

The Old Hunting Knife

It is just an old hunting knife. Handmade with a finely shaped steel blade, a brass guard, and a layered handle with alternating clear and brown Plexiglas, capped with a hand shaped aluminum butt. I was told that it was made by my father’s brother, my Uncle Dick.

When it was crafted is unknown, the keepers of that bit of family history are all gone now. But I do remember dad saying it was given to him before he left home after his enlistment in the Army Air Corps in 1941. I would like to believe that dad carried it through his twenty-seven combat missions over Germany and France in 1944, but that is pure romantic speculation on my part.

Regardless, the knife is now mine and has become a treasured keepsake. Just when the knife was given to me by my father, I cannot recall. It wasn't a monumental ceremony, a passing of the torch by any means. Just one day it was mine.


I have come to believe that the knife held special meaning to my father, because his name is neatly engraved in the blade. Unlike myself, he was never one for collecting things, other than the stack of once read Wall Street Journal’s that would accumulate on the top of his antiquated paper cutter, which sat at the front of his little print shop in our garage at home, as if the information contained in that mountain of back issues may at some time in the future, be of immense value.

Dad was not a hunter. Not that he condemned the practice; he just chose not to participate. Mother told me it was due to the near miss incident with a shotgun, while duck hunting along the tailings pond near their home in Magna Utah, with my Uncle Dick. In addition, Dad was not one for roughing it in the outdoors. His idea of camping was in the comfort of a motor home.
In retrospect, I believe, that dad had seen enough shooting and killing while in Europe during the war. He never fully elaborated that fact, but given my father’s kind nature, I am confident that played a large part in his choice.

My love for hunting was fostered at an early age by another uncle, and a cousin. I was fortunate to spend many of my summer breaks from school, at my Aunt Jalna and Uncle Karl’s farm in Shelley Idaho. Elementary school children way back then, were not subjected to the torture of year round school, we actually had the whole summer to be kids.

My cousin Reed and I took advantage of those carefree summer days. We swam in the canal, rode bicycles, which eventually transitioned to motorcycles, up on the butte, and explored the lava rocks around the edge of "the project", which was the section of ground Uncle Karl farmed with his three brothers.

The lava rocks are the natural home for “Rock Chucks”, a furry varmint, who love eating the crops planted along the edge of the "lavas". Rock Chucks are perfect game for a couple of young boys with 22's trying to perfect their hunting abilities. Timid little buggers, at the sound of anyone or anything approaching, they slide undetected into their dens in the jagged rocks. To successfully dispatch this nuisance to farmers, one must learn the art of stealth, a silent stalk is required, as well as patience. Working ones way into position on the high rocks above their habitat, then waiting, for what seemed like hours, for the critter to emerge from their hidden home. Then POW, let him have it!!

Of course practice was required to develop that "dead eye" necessary to quickly dispatch any desired target. Hours upon hours, and box after box of ammo, were spent with BB guns, then 22's and eventually shotguns.

My love for hunting was firmly established, when Reed and I became old enough to accompany my Uncle Karl on my first pheasant hunt. The anticipation, as we heard the opening of the gun cabinet, and saw the box of 12 gauge shells sitting on the kitchen counter. Leaving the warmth of the house, for the crisp fall air, well before sunrise. My cousins Weimaraner , Smokey knew what was ahead, and was waiting at the back door.

It seemed to take forever for the morning light to greet the fields, we would have to wait until 1/2 hour before sunrise, for the season to officially open. Smokey crisscrossed the cut grain field, nose to the ground, then stiffened, with tail at a point. The command to "get him out" was given, and Smokey jumped! I jumped, as the field seemed to erupt, with the startled bird heading skyward in a straight up flight, then away from the danger, only to fall lifeless to the ground as Karl shouldered, than shot. It was amazing for a young man to see!

A few years and some needed growth were necessary before Reed and I could handle the recoil of the 12 gauge, but we soon joined Karl on the hunts. Bruised shoulders from shooting box after box of shells, and tired legs and feet, did not dampen our enthusiasm. Over the course on many trips to Idaho, that scene would be repeated, as Reed and I took to the ditch banks and fence rows.

As a senior in High School, the lure of the mountains called to me. With some buddies from school, and a 30-06 borrowed from my neighbor Mr. Keiser, I went on my first deer hunt. Being successful on that first hunt affirmed my enjoyment of all things hunting.

It wasn't until after I was married, and out of the house, that I purchased my first firearm, as dad did not allow guns in our home. It was a Model 70 Winchester, in 270 Caliber. I was invited by my father-in-law, Richard Cheever, to join him at his favorite hunting area. I suppose it was a gesture of acceptance into the family, and I enjoyed many years and have fond memories hunting everything from rabbits to deer with him and his sons Scott and Joe.

With a move to our first home, I met Talmadge Robinson, and his son Lane. Both shared my love of hunting, and for 27 years now, we have hunted both deer and elk together, in the mountains of Utah. And enjoy a special friendship forged from our trips to the mountains each fall.
So what does this long monologue have to do with an old hunting knife?

As I mentioned, the how and when of my coming into possession of dad's hunting knife has faded from memory. I imagine he felt that because of my love of the hunt, I should possess the treasured implement, handmade, and given to him as a gift in love from one brother to another.

Each fall as hunting season arrives, the knife comes out of storage with the rest of the hunting gear. Initially, I wore the knife on my belt, in the sheave that has held it since new. As the leather has aged, the possibility of it tearing, and becoming lost in the woods, has caused me much concern. I now carry it, protected from loss, in a fanny pack with the other essentials required for a day in the woods.


The old knife has been an essential part of those fall trips into the wild. It has been used to cut rope, to hack away branches obscuring the view of the perfect hillside that some unsuspecting animal my cross, to cut up food for dinner, and even whittle sticks around a shared evening camp fire. And yes, to do the necessary cleaning and skinning of a freshly dispatched animal. Yes, essential.

But for some reason this year it meant more. I arrived at Elk camp a day or two later than the others. It was late afternoon; three of our party had spent the day chasing elk, and had returned to camp tired and hungry. We seldom hunt on our own, generally we stay together and work as a team, looking for animals, and directing each other as necessary.

Being late afternoon, and feeling fresh and ready to go, I decided to drive to a favorite look-out spot, that after a relatively short hike up a ridge line provides an unobstructed view of three different canyons. In years past, with the assistance of a good pair of binoculars, we have spotted elk from this vantage point, allowing us to "put them to bed" in hopes of locating them the next morning. That was my intent when I left camp.

Given the lateness of the day, I had not planned to really "hunt', so I traveled lighter than usual. Leaving things like rope, extra water and snacks behind.

I paused and caught my breath after cresting the ridge line and began scanning the surrounding hill sides. It was difficult this year because the leaves on the aspens and oak brush have stayed much longer than usual, providing dense cover for skittish animals. After several minutes, and seeing no movement, I switched to a second canyon, again with no success.

The third and closest canyon I reserved for last, as it is the canyon I had just driven up. After just a few minutes of watching, to my surprise I saw movement, a quick look through the binoculars confirmed it was a spike elk. Surprisingly he was alone, as elk generally travel in herds.

As any hunter of large animals will confirm. Hunting is fun, right up until you drop an animal. The fun ended!! Knowing it would soon be dark, I quickly went about the process of field dressing the animal. Over the years of harvesting elk, the process is much easier when done with assistance. This would not be the case, as I was alone on the mountain, and help was still awhile away.

Opening my pack, like a trusted friend, there it was. The old knife that had accompanied me for so many years. Knowing I needed to quickly get to the unpleasant but necessary task at hand, I was alone in my thoughts as I unbuttoned the sheath.

As I pulled the blade from the aged leather, and read my father’s name engraved there in the blade, I was struck by those feelings of loss for a departed loved one, that seem to always come at the most unexpected moments.

I was on the side of a mountain, with a dead animal that required my attention, as I thought about my father, and how much I miss him. I chucked through my tears at the irony of it. All I could do is wonder what my Dad and my Uncle Dick would think of me putting the approximately 70 year old knife to its intended use, while reminiscing about them.

Perhaps my father entrusted me with his hunting knife, knowing I would think of him fondly from time to time. Or perhaps not…. But either way, this year it worked Dad.

I am not sure yet, who will be the caretaker of the simple hand-made hunting knife, once I am gone. It's not like passing on the family fortune, but I intend to instill upon whoever it might be, just how special it truly is, and that they will be the keeper of its history and a charge to pass it along as well.

I hope that with its use, they remember the legacy of my father, and perhaps a fond memory, or two, of me as well.......

Returning to thoughts of Newell Anderson

As we approach the 4th of July, I thought I would share my story of a Utah native, whom I've come to admire.

The clouds hung low, barely 300 feet of ceiling, that Sunday over Station 131, a US Army Air Base at Nuthampstead Hertfordshire England. Typical of Air Bases built throughout the United Kingdom to support long range bombing efforts in stopping Nazi Germany. Station 131 consisted of three runways, with taxiways surrounding the perimeter of the base and dispersal areas where individual Squadrons prepared aircraft for their deadly missions.

Today’s mission for the 55th Fighter Group was to provide protection for 151
B-17 long-range bombers, dispatched to hit the Focke-Wulf plant at Posen, Poland and the Heinkel plant at Warnemunde, Germany.

A flurry of activity encompassed the base that morning, ground crews loaded Newell Anderson’s P-38J Lightning with 2000 rounds of ammunition, to feed the four Browning 50 caliber machine guns. Equipped with one Hispano 20 mm cannon, an additional 150 rounds were loaded, to arm that deadly gun. For this day’s long-range mission, two drop fuel tanks, each holding 150 gallons, were attached to the bottom of the wings. This procedure was repeated for the many P-38’s flying this day.
Two Allison liquid-cooled turbosupercharged V-12 engines, rated at 1,725 hp each, powered the P-38J that Newell piloted. When introduced to the European Theatre of Operation in September of 1943, it quickly became an imposing adversary for the German Luftwaffe. With top speeds of 443 miles per hour and a effective range of 1300 miles, the P-38 required a skilled man to pilot effectively.
Newell was such a man, at the age on 22, in April of 1943; he graduated from the Advanced Flying School at Williams Field, Arizona. Using his new skills, he joined the 338th Fighter Squadron April 12, 1943, and was appointed Flight Officer of the Army of the United States. Assigned to the 55th Fighter Group by August 1943, the personnel had finished with their stateside training and began the preparations for the trans-Atlantic deployment to England.

On 4 September, the group embarked on the HMS Orion. This ship could normally carry 1,500 persons across the ocean. For this trip, 300 officers and 3,200 enlisted men made the voyage. The Group arrived in England and was posted to Nuthampstead.
Quite impressive for a young man from central Utah. His paternal grandparents, converts to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day-Saints, immigrated to Utah from Sweden in the 1860’s. Born 1921 in Glenwood Utah, he was the eighth child of ten born to Parley and Hattie Anderson. His youth was spent in Burrville, a small farming community in Sevier County, where many of his mother’s family had settled. Graduating from Richfield High School in 1939, he worked as a mechanic and truck driver prior to joining the Utah National Guard in 1941.
It is now June of 2006; I had traveled to Nuthampstead for a commemoration and memorial service of my fathers Bomb Group, the 398th HV. In addition to the 398th memorial services a new marble memorial was dedicated to the “Little Friends” of the 398th, the 55th Fighter Group. At the dedication, a booklet was provided, with the names of the men of the 55th who had lost their lives. Reading each account I came upon the following:

“Lt. Newell Anderson (338th FS.)
O9th April 1944

Lt. Newell “Dandy” Anderson was born in Utah on 16 March 1921 and died just 24 days after his 23rd Birthday. He was taking off on a combat mission when one engine failed and he crashed with belly fuel tanks on near Gypsy Corner Farm, just North East of airfield. He was buried with honors at Cambridge American Military Cemetery and Memorial, Colton, Cambridge, England. After the war he was buried in Annabella Cemetery, Annabella, Utah.”

As a Utah native, I had to learn more about Newell. My first search was on FamilySearch ™ the genealogy resource for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day-Saints. I was both excited and saddened by what I discovered in Newell’s family history. In researching his parents I discovered that his mother Hattie, at the age of 61, passed away April 4th, 1944, just 5 days before Newell was killed. I suspect that Newell had not been notified of his mother’s death, prior to his crash. An additional irony, his father Parley, at the age of 67, died April 25, 1944, just two short weeks after his son.

In 2007, while attending an annual reunion of the 398th Bomb Group in Phoenix Arizona, I was fortunate to meet Frank Birtciel, a Pilot who flew with the 55th Fighter Group. I inquired if Frank had known Newell Anderson. The expression on Frank’s face noticeably changed, as if sixty plus years had suddenly disappeared. With a surprised tone to his voice, he asked how I knew of Newell. As I related my experience in England, and my subsequent search for information about the day Newell was killed. Frank put his hand on my arm, and said “let me tell you about Newell Anderson”. He began to relate the story of that day in April, 63 years earlier. I quote:

“As for Newell Anderson's crash it was one of those things that really made an impression on both Don Porter and myself. April 9, 1944 was a bomber escort mission. The weather that day was bad with a low overcast sky with the cloud base at around 300 to 400 feet above the terrain at Nuthampstead.

The 343rd Squadron was the last squadron for takeoff and Don Porter led the element. I was flying his wing as the last man. We had moved along the perimeter track and parked on the inactive East West runway and made our engine checks before moving on to the North East South West runway for takeoff. Newell had reported an engine out earlier and all of a sudden his P-38 popped out of the low overcast and was headed right straight into Porter and myself. His 150-gallon drop tanks were still attached to the ship and he managed to pull up over us and crashed just a moment later with a large explosion and black smoke. The entire event taking just a matter of seconds.

We completed the mission and talked of the accident. Porter and I both thought we were going to be killed that day.”

A second account related by Malcolm Osborn, who lives near Nuthampstead, and has studied the wartime history of the base, revealed some additional insight.

Newell’s P-38 had two drop tanks filled with fuel, and the standard procedure in this type of emergency would be to drop the tanks. An experienced pilot, Newell chose not to do that, because of the dense cloud cover, he could not see the ground and did not want to drop them on anyone who might be below him. When he came around the airbase to make an emergency landing, finally breaking through the cloud cover, he saw Porter and Birtciel on the runway. He used what power he had remaining with one engine to pull up to miss them and the plane went off the runway crashing into a field. A young resident of Nuthampstead was working in the field near the crash and ran to give assistance to Newell. When Newell saw him approaching, he waved the boy away, just as the plane exploded.
And so it is that Newell Anderson was truly a hero. Had he dropped the tanks, his life may have been saved, because of the dense cloud cover, he chose to protect unseen humans on the ground instead. His skill as a pilot prevented a collision with two other aircraft on the runway, sparing the lives of two other pilots. Fully aware of his circumstance he waved off a young man coming to his rescue.

John Chapter 15, verse 13 records: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
I was overwhelmed by the story; Newell was now far more than a name on a Marble Memorial. To me Newell was a hero, a man who not only left home and family to serve his country, but also gave his life protecting others. As I pondered this sobering account I felt haunted by the unanswered question of what happened to Newell’s family? Did they know of his courage that day? I was compelled to learn more of his life and try to find the answers.
While continuing my research, I stumbled upon a Blog of the Anderson and Ogden families, posted by Brad Ogden, a great nephew of Newell. I was fortunate to contact Brad, and related the details of Newell’s last mission. In response Brad wrote in an email:
Kevin,
I just finished reading your article. I had tears in my eyes as I read of the details that I had not known. I just hate to get emotional (but once every few years it happens). My mother (Newell’s niece) was only a young teenager when he died, but he left quite an impression on her and she held him in very high esteem throughout his life. I really don’t think that the family ever knew of the details of that last mission, which might be explained by the turmoil created by the death of the parents so soon before and after Newell’s.”
…Thanks again for your work and for brightening my day.
Brad
As Brad observed, perhaps due to the circumstances of his parent’s death, or because of the urgency of the war effort. Specific details of that April day in 1944, never reached the family. Continuing research on Newell led me to a poignant discovery—one that haunts me to this day. The telegram about Newell’s death arrived while arrangements were being made for their father’s funeral. Imagine the trauma to the surviving children of this devoted family to lose their parents and a brother in a three-week span of time. The family responded by holding a joint memorial for father and son.
Newell’s short and courageous life was always an Anderson family legend, now he can be remembered as a true American hero as well.
I’m saddened this story has remained untold for so many decades, but grateful that I play a small part in bringing it to life. These many years after Newell's tragic death, my life is richer for having been touched by his. His story needs to be told, for Newell Anderson is an unsung Utah hero.

D-Day remeberances 65 years later

I mentioned in an earlier post that 2009 is the 65th anniversary of Dad's service in England during WW-II.Today being the 65th Anniversary of the D-Day invasions on Normandy, I thought I would include an excerpt from the history of Dad's service record. Dad flew June 5th, June 6th and June 7th as part of the D-Day offensive. One item of interest, Dad told me once that the Bomb Crews did not know that this was the "big" invasion, until after they had returned to base. Also the June 7th mission, he commented that there were so many watercraft in the English Channel, that it looked like "ants on the ground" from flying at 22,000 feet. Can you imagine being awakened at midnight for briefing, engines running at 4:00 am, taking off a 4:30 in the morning, into the darkness, forming up as a formation, using ground beacons and the lights from the other B-17s, then flying wing tip to wing tip across a dark sky over the English Channel to deliver your bomb load near Juno Beach 19,000 feet below. All in preparation for the Canadian troops to make their heroic invasion onto French soil.These men were and are hero's, and I hope we never forget what they did for our freedoms. Thanks Dad..we love you.

8th Combat Mission 6/5/44 1 5:45
Trouville France, Costal defenses at Trouville 37 aircraft, no losses, not known at the time but was in preparation for D-Day invasion.

From Journal of S/Sgt Ellsworth Wright, Ball Turret Gunner.

Mission #8 – June 5, 1944
Trouville, France. Hrs. 5:00. Alt. 27,000 ft. Target Gun Emplacements. No flak or enemy fighters. Bomb load 12 – 500 GP bombs.

9th Combat Mission 6/6/44 D-Day 1 6:00
Courselles France, 39 Aircraft preparing the beachhead at Juno Beach for Canadian forces to land, take off was 0430, all aircraft completed their mission and returned to base.

From Journal of S/Sgt Ellsworth Wright, Ball Turret Gunner.
Mission # 9 – “D-Day” June 6, 1944
Courselles, France. Hrs. 6:00. Alt. 19,000 ft. Target – Transportation and road center. Woke up at midnight for important Briefing. Started engines at 4:00 a.m. Heavy clouds obstructed any observation of operations. Sky constantly filled with bombers and fighters. No flak. Bomb load 38 – 100 lb. GP bombs. All available planes were flying today. We bombed through clouds.

10th Combat Mission 6/7/44 1 7:30
Kerlin Bastard France, 36 Aircraft, no losses and landed late at night.

From Journal of S/Sgt Ellsworth Wright, Ball Turret Gunner.
Mission #10 - June 7, 1944
Kerlin Bastard, France. Hrs. 7:30 Alt. 22,000 ft. Target – Air Base. Light but accurate flak. One hole in left wing. No enemy fighters. Great fires seen. Target completely destroyed. Bomb load 12 – 500 lb. bombs.

A fighter pilot remembers D-Day

I received this email from Frank Birtciel, a fighter pilot with the 55th Fighter Group. Frank is a wonderful gentlemen and a true WW-II hero!!

Hi Kevin,
Coincidence, I also flew on the 5, 6, 7 plus the 10th. Had a front row seat in my P-38 as they shelled the coast and formed up the invasion craft and made the run in to the beaches. Quite a sight from 2,000 feet and thought about taking pictures with my gun camera but did not. Have kicked my butt ever since for not doing it. We knew it was the invasion due to the stripe being painted on our aircraft and the base being locked down. All of us had waited a long time for the occasion, but did not envy the grunts who rode the ships and made the trip on to the beaches.

Regards,Frank

Shanna graduates from the U of U!!

Today was a great day!! And I wanted to share just a portion of the days events. Our youngest daughter Shanna, graduated from the University of Utah, College of Humanities, with a degree in Communications and a minor in Business Management. She has worked hard to accomplish this milestone, and graduated with honors, having consistently made the Deans List, and was just a fraction of a GPA point from being Cum Laude. Not bad for being married and working full time. She did this all on her own, and we are very proud of her accomplishments.

Shanna has always set her goals high, and worked hard to achieve them. In High School, she would turn in her assignments well ahead of their deadlines, and yes, she did not get that trait from me. One fond memory I have of her High School experience, is the day we went down to the DMV to get Shanna a drivers license. She began filling out the form.....Last Name.....Marsh......First Name......Shanna.....Middle Name......Nicole.......Title.....Title? "Dad, what does Title mean?" I explained that "Title is if you are a Junior or a Senior." She completed the form, and without my review, cause gee, it seemed so easy, she returned it to the gentlemen behind the counter.

He began his review, going entry by entry to assure accuracy,.... .....Last Name.....Marsh......First Name......Shanna.....Middle Name......Nicole.....I observed a slight smile in his expression as he read....Title.......Sophomore!!!!! He nonchalantly crossed out sophomore, and continued.....Eye Color....Blue......Hair.....Blond....to which he placed a large circle around Blond!!!

Well, needless to say, this little incident has been fodder for teasing, for many years now.

Today's commencement ceremony consisted of the traditional long winded introductions of Dignitaries, Faculty and honored Alumni. Awards were given for Faculty receiving emeritus status, Alumni who have shown distinction in their respective fields, each introduction seemed longer than the last. Eventually, the candidates receiving Doctorates were honored, and embellishments added to their robes. Next, those obtaining their Masters Degrees were recognized, and finally the Baccalaureates were to be presented. After the required speech, the graduates were presented, from two sides of the arena, row by row, they negotiated the stairs to the arena floor. Presenting a card with their names, they were announced over the public address system, each name followed by varying degrees of applause, whistles and shouts of approval.

We watched patiently trying to find Shanna as she made her way to the floor. Eventually we spotted her, and in spite of her greatest fear, she made it down the stairs to the arena floor, without tripping. There were hugs shared with two of her friends, a quick pose for photographs together. And finally she presented her card to the professor, who with great distinction, was reading the names of each graduate. Shanna seemed to take some time explaining the writing on the card, we soon heard him say ....Shanna......Nicole.....Myers.........Sophomore!!!

Our tears of pride and happiness were now joined by laughter, and a delayed round of applause, cheers and "woo hoos", as we realized.....Shanna had just gotten the last laugh!!!

We are so very proud of her, and blessed that she is a part of our family....Well done Shanna!!!!Love from Mom and Dad....

Check out Shanna's side of the story at www.adamandshanna.blogspot.com