From Plow Boy to Bomber Pilot WWII

Editor’s Note: The following was submitted to the paper by Evelyn (Ansley) Fowler, the cousin of DeWayne “Ben” Bennett and is dedicated to all veterans.

On Sept. 23, 1919 at 5:30 a.m. a little boy was born to Harry and Edith (Ansley) Bennett near the little town of Lovilia, Monroe County, Iowa. He was born in a tarpaper shack, during a thunder, lightning and rainstorm and was named DeWayne Bennett. His mother was my father, Alvie Ansley’s sister.

At 6 a.m. the rooster “Old Watch” came out of the hen house, hopped on the fence and let out a roaring “Cock-a-doodle-do.” They say DeWayne came alert, his eyes crossed, his tongue hung out as he tried to imitate the call of “Old Watch.” Later in life, a famous psychiatrist explained to him that he was affected by what is called “The Chicken Syndrome.” Whenever he heard a rooster crow, or saw a chicken spread its wings, he would get the urge to fly.

He had a rather normal childhood – country school teaching through eighth grade and ninth grade in town school, then education at school ended.

It was then he started working on the poor dirt farm as the “plow boy.” He rode behind the mules Tom and Jerry planting the rows, which had to be straight and even in both directions. If the tail of the mules moved a little to the left or right, he knew he was off course and needed to make a correction.

At the age of 21 war clouds were looming and the draft was put in effect. His draft number was 852 and he told his dad not to worry, as his number was so high, they would never get to him. But, the draw was by fish-bowl – first number drawn 22, second number drawn 852, and father was losing his “plow boy.”

With a 10-day notice, he headed to Des Moines, Iowa to the Federal Building. Master Sergeant, behind the desk, without looking up said, “Whaddya want?” He said he would like to enlist in the United States Army Air Corp, and be a pilot. Looking up, the sergeant asked, “What the hell makes you think you’re fit to be a pilot in the United States Army Air Corp. You sure don’t look like much.” He replied, “Well sir, I think I have all the smarts to be a good pilot, and I can read and write.” He was then told he needed to have two years of college or pass the college equivalency test. When asked how much education he had, he said ninth grade. When asked what kind of work he had done, he said, “You might say, I was a ‘plow boy.’”

Another officer entered the room and said, “I don’t want to ever hear you talk to our future pilots like that again, and if any more of the PLOW BOYS come in here, I want to be notified at once.” He proceeded to tell DeWayne about the order he had just received in the mail from his superiors telling him to sign up PLOWBOYS. That document stated, “Don’t get city slickers to do this job. They are too smart to set 10 minutes in a heavy bomber loaded with 2,800 gallons of gasoline, ten 500 pound bombs, 7,000 rounds of 50 caliber ammunition, with aluminum skin that burns with searing hot flames at the drop of a kitchen match. They will manage to evade this duty and it will be legal. Which leaves us only individuals, that in our opinion, fulfills all categories of the requirements; the dumb old farm boys from the farm states. The dumbest ones of all are those with a ninth grade education, whose occupation was driving a team of mules plowing straight furrows for a cornfield. Therefore, we suggest you code name your endeavor ‘Plowboy’ and seek out at least 5,000 of them for test over enemy targets.” Therefore, DeWayne was signed up and sent to Santa Ana, Calif. for initial training.

Then at Dalhart  AAB, Texas he learned to fly formation all over the United States. It was amazing that he was born a natural instrument pilot. He credited that to watching the rear end of the mules when farming, then flipping the tails upside down to watch the plane instrument panel to know why he was flying straight.

After graduating from Dalhart in February, 1944, orders were given to report to Kearney, Neb. On Feb. 24, 1944, he picked up a new B-17 bomber and he headed to Manchester, NH, on to Goose Bay Labrador, then to Preswick Scotland, and then Grafton Underwood, England.

The bombing missions began from 4-10-1944 through 8-3-1944, for a total of 31 missions. They were known as the “Squawkin’ Chicken” crew. The nose art caused German pilots to swoop past them, oxygen masks shaking as they laughed. He never had a hole in his plane, or was ever shot at and became the lead crew on about 15 of the 31 missions. Adolf Hitler had put out his message translated from German to English:

“I want the big dog ‘Screechin Klucker’ bombing making aircraft show down. I will give a million marks to the sauerkraut eating German pilot who is first to observe the shooting.” It never happened!

After the war, he returned to the United States and began flaying cargo planes out of San Francisco, Calif. After his wife and daughter had both died and he had suffered an eye injury, which ended his flying career, he moved to Tucson, Ariz., a place he longed to be.

He worked at the Pima Air and Space 390th Memorial Museum, guiding tours. On one of the tours, he spotted an attractive lady and wanted to impress her with his best John Wayne swagger. There had been some construction and plastic had been laid and he tripped and fell. He decided no lady would want an old geezer who couldn’t walk straight.

He celebrated his birthday every 100 days at McDonald’s with friends. He would tell the tale that he did not like to start the plane engines, as they made a terrible popping noise, so he would either send his co-pilot to start them before he took his seat, or he would put a bandage on his finger with a fake injury to avoid pushing the switches.

DeWayne wrote a book entitled “Stories of a B-17 Pilot by Squawkin’ Chicken Skipper – from Plow Boy to Bomber Pilot.” In this book is a touching story about a dog named Lucky, named by the crew. He was a coal black old dog, had one eye out, one ear chewed off, his tail had been broken and he hopped on three legs. He kept to himself except for the 545th Squadron. He slept outside their barracks and went to mess hall with them, where cooks would drop him some food. He attached himself to Warren B. May, Navigator of Jack Liebert crew and they became inseparable. On July 20, 1944, May took off for Germany and Lucky saw him off, waiting for his return. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Lucky rose to his feet and started moaning deep in his chest. He sat, put his head back, howled and started for the 545th barracks, but was never seen again. And yes, Warren B. May had been killed that day.

In 2000 DeWayne united with four of his nine crew members for a reunion in St. Louis. Mo. In 1993, we had a small family gathering for my dad’s 85th birthday at the Checkerboard Restaurant in Pleasantville, Iowa. DeWayne attended and it was the first time I had met him and my father had not seen his since he was a young boy, so it was a momentous time for our family.

His parents are both buried in the Lovilia cemetery, but in a separate graves as they were divorced. Lovilia is on Highway 5, just north of Albia, Iowa.

The followng message was received by DeWayne Bennett’s cousin Evelyn (Ansley) Fowler through the mail in May of 2007.

Dear Cousin

When you get this message I will have passed away. I will be walking that Lonesome Valley, and you gotta’ walk it all by yourself. Fortunately while I was still able, I wrote this little note to notify you of my passing and try expressing what a great fren you were to me. You were a real meaningful influence, for the better, in my life and I was a better and happier person for knowing you. Don’t shed the bitter tear for me. Laugh and remember the good times. Right now I might be getting measured for those 32 foot white wings. Yer fren Ben

Dewayne Bennett