photograph COURTESY SPECIAL COLLECTIONS, UNIVERSITY OF MEMPHIS LIBRARIES
The Millington crash scene on the following morning. It’s hard to believe anyone walked away from this wreckage.
Dear Vance: Several years ago (June 2008), you wrote about the B-25 bomber that crashed in Midtown. When I was growing up in Millington in the 1960s, a military plane crashed down the street from me. What do you remember about that accident? — K.H., Nashville.
Dear K.H.: Just before noon on April 25, 1944, a B-25 suffering engine trouble crashed into a home on North Claybrook, barely missing Tech High School, but killing the plane’s crew and everyone in the house. It was one of our city’s worst disasters, though few people today remember it.
So when I received your query, I picked up my dog-eared copy of Tennessee Tragedies, a compilation of “Natural, Technological, and Societal Disasters in the State,” a fascinating tome published last year, and searched for the plane crash you recall. To my surprise, it wasn’t even mentioned. But how could a big airplane — and you said it was a military aircraft — come down in a residential area without great loss of life?
Well, you can give some credit to a row of pecan trees. Or maybe it was something else entirely …
Here’s what I know, based on newspaper accounts. On the evening of March 15, 1963, a storm-drenched night described as “heavy and misty,” a military transport was bringing passengers to the Naval Air Station at Millington. In addition to the crew and other military personnel, the twin-engine R4-D was also carrying a half-dozen young men who were on a recruiting trip to see the base for the first time. A total of 33 people were on board.
As the plane approached Millington, it suddenly lost power in one of its engines. Newspaper accounts reported, “The pilot had declared an emergency to the control tower. He had informed the passengers of the situation, and they had time to tighten their safety belts. He was making the approach on one engine, flying by instruments, flying blind in the rain.”
But something went wrong. Struggling to maintain control with just one engine, the pilot came in at the wrong angle, and the tower “waved him off,” so he circled the field, for another try. He didn’t make it. In the heavy thunderstorm, the plane lost power and altitude, and at precisely 8:40 p.m. it smashed into the ground behind a row of houses on Hill Street, in a residential section of Millington. The plane struck a massive pecan tree as it skidded along the ground, shearing off one of the wings and tearing a huge hole in the fuselage, before the crippled plane came to a stop and burst into flames.
In most cases, that would have meant a horrible fate for everyone aboard. But here’s just one of the miraculous elements of this story. The rain-soaked ground actually cushioned the crash — so much so that one of the passengers later told reporters that the “whump” he felt when the plane hit the ground was simply the landing gear being lowered. So when the plane came to a stop, the crew clambered out of the cockpit door, and the passengers scrambled out of the ragged hole ripped in the fuselage. When emergency vehicles arrived on the scene to pour foam on the burning wreckage, they carried six men back to the base hospital for minor injuries — mostly cuts and bruises — but there were no serious injuries and no fatalities.
“Looking at the charred and twisted wreckage of a Navy transport plane today,” said a Memphis Press-Scimitar reporter, “it seemed a miracle that the 33 occupants could have got out alive.” The pilot, Commander William McCarson of Millington, was later credited “with both skill and luck.”
Now, what about the homeowners? They had a close call of their own that night. Neighbors along Hill Street had settled in for the evening, watching TV, finishing up late suppers, or even reading in bed. Suddenly, the whole sky erupted in a flash of light. Looking out her window, Mrs. Jack Huffman rather calmly told her husband, “Something’s going on in the backyard.” That “something” was a huge plane that had come to rest, in flames, about 50 feet from their house.
Residents at first couldn’t make any sense of it, because most never heard any sound at all of the crash. Lloyd Pitts, who worked as a carpenter at the Naval Air Station, told reporters, “The whole world had gone topsy-turvy, upside down.” He and his family rushed out into the storm, to try to help anyone trapped in the plane, but discovered no one needed rescuing. Even so, it took Pitts some time to make sense of the near-tragedy: “I keep looking out my backyard to make sure it’s still there. I still feel like I’m dreaming it all. Everything’s going around in a whirl. I can’t imagine that I will ever lead a normal life again.”
At the same time, he ruefully noticed the once-proud line of pecan trees that had bordered his backyard, most of them flattened by the plane, and told reporters, “They were such nice trees, too.” Well, let’s give those trees a share of the credit for saving lives. Investigators later determined that the big pecan — the one that sheared off the wing — swung the skidding plane away from the houses. One of the homeowners, however, felt pretty strongly that a considerably high power was involved. Surveying the damage, she said, “It was the hand of God. The hand of God turned the plane away.”
Even though the plane burst into “a big puff of fire,” not one of the nearby homes was damaged. It was still a mighty close call for the residents, though, and one of them told the Press-Scimitar, “It was the first time I’ve come home to find an airplane in my backyard. And it had better be the last.”
And what about those fresh-faced recruits, flying to Millington to tour the base? “The hell with it,” said a young man from St. Louis, who told reporters he had absolutely decided not to join the Navy. “I’ll go back home on a Greyhound bus.”
Dear Vance: I found an old bookmark for a Memphis company selling “wall mount shoes.” What were these, exactly, and where was the firm located? — D.N., Memphis.
Dear Vance: This was certainly an intriguing item — or maybe I am more easily intrigued than normal people. But as readers can see, it’s a promotional card or bookmark, showing a nice assortment of flowers, but not a single view of a shoe, wall-mounted or otherwise.
It turns out, however, that nothing really unusual was offered by this establishment. After literally minutes of extensive research, I discovered this was just a regular shoe store, operated by two fellows — Robert L. Wall and Carroll B. Mount. So there you have the meaning behind the somewhat unusual name.
The card gives the address: 355 Main. The firm opened in 1890 and remained in business only four years. In 1894, city directories note that Wall “removed to St. Louis,” which seems a curious way of putting it — did he die? — and they don’t list Mount at all. The Wall-Mount Shoe Store building was taken over by a series of different establishments over the years: Kimbrough & Duncan Tobacco, the Memphis Umbrella Company, A.S. Barbaro Liquors, and — for almost three decades — Beasley Clothing and Hatters.
I should explain that 355 Main was the “old” numbering system, where the addresses started at zero in North Memphis around Mill Street and worked south. It really wasn’t a good plan since all too often it didn’t provide space (meaning: new numbers) for new buildings. In 1905 most addresses were changed to a new, and current, system, with Madison serving as the “zero” line, and most north/south streets divided into north and south sections.
What I’m getting at, in my roundabout way, is that 355 Main (old numbering) became 99 South Main (new numbering). But don’t go looking for the old home of Wall-Mount Shoes. That entire block is now occupied by the gleaming new Barbaro Flats Condominiums.