HERITAGE WARS — WORLD WAR II
01 — INTRODUCTION TO HERITAGE WAR – History remembers the battles, the airplanes, the generals, and the dates.
Heritage Wars remembers the people.
This is the story of Ervin William Reed, a young American whose remarkable memory, love of aviation, and sense of adventure would eventually carry him into the skies over Europe during World War II.
But Ervin’s story is about much more than combat.
It begins with family, childhood adventures, and a World War I aviator named Captain Jamie, who introduced a young boy to the wonder of flight.
It continues through training, friendship, bomber escorts, dogfights, and evenings at an English pub called The Red Lion, where Ervin and his fellow airmen gathered after missions.
Around those tables they laughed, played jokes, remembered home, and told stories.
Some of those stories reached far into Ervin’s past. Others were being created by the men sitting beside him. And some belonged to friends who would never return to tell their own.
Along the way we’ll meet pilots, bomber crews, Native American Code Talkers, faithful companions named Sweet and Jackie—and a group of wartime friends who created something called The Turtle Club.
Some of what follows is history. Some is family memory. And some has undoubtedly improved considerably in the telling.
Because around the Red Lion, there was always one rule worth remembering:
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
Welcome to Heritage Wars. The stories are just beginning.
02 — THE LONDON BLITZ — 1940 — Before America entered the war, Britain was already fighting for survival. Night after night, German bombers crossed the English Channel and attacked London and other British cities.
The campaign became known as The Blitz.
Beginning in September 1940, London endured fifty-seven consecutive nights of bombing. Homes, factories, rail stations, and entire neighborhoods were destroyed.
Yet Britain refused to surrender.
While civilians sheltered underground, Royal Air Force pilots fought the Luftwaffe in the skies above England.
For Ervin William Reed, the war was still an ocean away. But the events unfolding over Britain were shaping the world he would soon enter.
03 — PEARL HARBOR — DECEMBER 7, 1941 — On a quiet Sunday morning, Japanese aircraft attacked the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.
Battleships burned. Aircraft were destroyed on the ground. Thousands of Americans were killed or wounded.
The attack shocked the nation.
The next day, the United States declared war on Japan. Germany and Italy soon declared war on the United States.
America was now fully involved in World War II.
For Ervin William Reed and thousands of other young Americans, the war was no longer something happening far across the ocean.
It was their war now.
04 — ANSWERING THE CALL — 1942 — After Pearl Harbor, America mobilized for war.
Young men from every corner of the country stepped forward to serve. Factories shifted to wartime production, families watched sons and brothers leave home, and communities prepared for an uncertain future.
Ervin William Reed was among those who answered the call.
He already knew airplanes. He had been flying since he was young, taught by Captain Jamie and shaped by years around Reed Airfield.
Now those skills would be put to a very different purpose.
Ervin was going to war.
05 — BASIC TRAINING — 1942 – Before Ervin could become a pilot, he first had to become a soldier.
Basic training introduced him to an entirely different world.
There were early mornings, inspections, marching, physical training, military discipline—and plenty of shouting from instructors who seemed convinced everything had to be done faster.
Ervin learned quickly.
His remarkable memory helped him remember instructions, procedures, names, and details after hearing them only once.
But there were some things no memory could make easier.
Long marches were still long marches.
Like thousands of other young Americans, Ervin learned to wear the uniform, follow orders, work as part of a team, and depend on the men around him.
The Army was preparing him for war.
But whenever an airplane passed overhead, Ervin’s eyes still went to the sky.
He hadn’t joined simply to march.
He had come to fly.
And soon, the Army Air Forces would give him that chance.
06 — FLIGHT TRAINING — 1942 — At last, Ervin was back where he belonged. In an airplane.
Army flight training was very different from the quiet lessons Captain Jamie had given him at Reed Airfield.
Everything now had a military purpose.
Ervin practiced takeoffs, landings, navigation, formation flying, emergency procedures, and the precise maneuvers expected of an Army pilot.
His earlier flying experience helped.
So did his memory.
Once Ervin understood a procedure, he could picture the sequence in his mind and repeat it almost exactly.
But his instructors demanded more than memory.
A military pilot had to make decisions quickly, stay calm when things went wrong, and understand what the airplane was telling him.
That sounded familiar.
Years earlier, Captain Jamie had taught him much the same lesson.
Know your airplane. Think ahead of it. And never stop paying attention.
Ervin had come to the Army already knowing how to fly.
Now he was learning how to fly the Army’s way.
And the next step would bring him closer to what he really wanted—fighters.
07 — FIGHTER TRAINING — 1943 — Now Ervin began training for the airplanes he had dreamed about flying. Fighters.
They were faster, more powerful, and far less forgiving than the airplanes he had flown before.
Fighter training taught Ervin much more than simply how to handle a high-performance aircraft.
He learned aerial gunnery, formation tactics, combat maneuvers, rapid climbs and dives, and how to recognize enemy aircraft from almost any angle.
That last skill came naturally.
Ervin studied the silhouettes of German fighters until he could recognize them almost instantly.
His instructors taught him another important lesson:
Know your airplane. Know the enemy’s airplane. And never fight the other man’s fight.
It reminded Ervin of Captain Jamie.
As training continued, the exercises became harder and the decisions faster.
There was little room for hesitation.
Soon these wouldn’t be practice maneuvers.
Somewhere over Europe, another pilot would be trying to get behind him.
Ervin was no longer simply learning to fly.
He was learning to fight in the sky.
08 — EAST ANGLIA — HOME OF THE 8TH AIR FORCE — Ervin’s training eventually carried him across the Atlantic to England.
He arrived at an airfield in East Anglia, part of the vast American air campaign being waged from Britain.
The countryside looked peaceful—green fields, small villages, narrow roads and old churches.
The airfield was anything but peaceful.
Bombers and fighters filled the sky. Engines roared from dawn until dark. Ground crews worked constantly to keep aircraft ready for the next mission.
This was no training base.
This was war.
For the first time, Ervin saw what combat flying really required.
Aircraft returned damaged.
Sometimes men returned wounded.
And sometimes an airplane simply didn’t come back.
But there was also friendship, humor and the remarkable bond that develops among people who face danger together.
Before long, Ervin would meet the men who would become some of his closest friends.
And not far from the airfield was a little English pub called—The Red Lion.
09 — INTRODUCTION TO THE RED LION — Not every important part of Ervin’s war happened in the sky. Some happened around a table.
Not far from the airfield stood an old English pub called The Red Lion.
It became a favorite gathering place for American airmen after their missions—a place for a warm meal, a drink, some laughter, and a few hours away from the war.
One evening, Ervin was introduced to the men who would become his regular companions.
There was Captain Walt Hollis, a bomber pilot.
Jack “Red” Callahan, an outgoing fighter pilot.
Tommy Bennett, quieter than the others but always ready with a dry remark.
And Eddie “Lucky” Larson, who rarely allowed a serious moment to remain serious for very long.
Ervin was the newcomer.
That didn’t last long.
Soon there was a chair for him at their regular table.
Between missions, the five men talked about airplanes, home, close calls—and anything else that helped them forget the war outside.
Before long, they began asking Ervin about his own life.
And that was how some very old stories found their way to The Red Lion.
10 — THE RED LION: WHERE THE STORIES BEGIN — After a while, the fellows at the Red Lion discovered something about me. I remembered things.
Not just the important things.
Names. Faces. Conversations. Places. Small details most people forgot years ago.
One evening, Walt leaned across the table.
“All right, Reed. You’ve heard enough of our stories. How did you learn to fly?”
That question took me a long way from England.
Back to Kentucky.
Back to the Reed Estate.
Back to a grass airfield, a little airplane, and a World War I aviator named Captain Jamie.
Jamie had introduced me to flying when I was young, long before anyone imagined I would someday be flying fighters over Europe.
As I began telling the story, the war outside seemed to disappear.
The Red Lion became more than a pub.
It became the place where we told stories about where we’d come from, the people we’d known, and the adventures that had brought us together.
I looked around the table.
“Gentlemen, if you really want to know how I learned to fly, we’d better start at the beginning.”
And so I did.
11 — GROWING UP AT THE REED ESTATE — Once I started talking about Captain Jamie, the fellows wanted to know where I’d grown up.
“The Reed Estate was a pretty good place for a boy who had trouble sitting still.”
Nearly three thousand acres gave me plenty of room for adventure—fields, woods, horses, a creek and pond, and our own Reed Airfield.
Then there were my companions.
Sweet, our stubborn donkey, and Jackie, our little Jack Russell Terrier, who believed every adventure belonged to him.
Captain Jamie was part of that world too, and I followed him everywhere—especially when airplanes were involved.
Red stared at me.
“You had an airfield, a World War I pilot—and a donkey named Sweet?”
Lucky grinned.
“I have a feeling we’ll hear more about that donkey.”
I smiled.
“You can bet your sweet ass you will.”
The Red Lion erupted in laughter.
12 — CAPTAIN JAMIE TEACHES ME TO FLY — By then, everyone at the Red Lion knew where my story was headed.
Red pointed at me.
“All right, Reed. When did Jamie finally put you in an airplane?”
“Not nearly as soon as I wanted him to.”
Captain Jamie believed learning to fly started long before flying alone.
He taught me about weather, wind, the controls, and how a good pilot always thinks ahead of his airplane.
Then came hours of practice at Reed Airfield.
Takeoffs. Landings. Climbs. Turns. Stalls.
Jamie would demonstrate something, then say:
“Your airplane, Ervin.”
My memory helped, but Jamie always reminded me:
“Knowing it and doing it are two different things.”
So we practiced.
And practiced.
Until one day Jamie climbed out.
“Take her around.”
I stared at him.
“By myself?”
Jamie smiled.
“Unless you plan on taking the dog.”
Back at the Red Lion, everyone laughed.
“Gentlemen, that was the day I discovered an airplane feels considerably bigger when you’re the only person sitting in it.”
13 — THE STORM AND THE HAWK — CROSS-COUNTRY TEST FLIGHT — My cross-country flight had been carefully planned. Reed Airfield to Westford Airfield—about one hundred miles.
The flight began smoothly.
Then the sky changed.
Dark clouds gathered, turbulence bounced the airplane around, and rain struck the windshield.
I was alone.
Then I noticed something off my wing.
A hawk.
The bird wasn’t fighting the rough air. It adjusted its wings, rode the moving air, and continued on.
Suddenly I remembered Captain Jamie’s lessons.
Don’t fight the sky. Understand what it’s telling you.
I adjusted my flying and continued toward Westford.
Eventually the weather cleared and the airfield appeared ahead.
When I returned home, Jamie simply put his hand on my shoulder and nodded.
Back at the Red Lion, Tommy raised his glass.
“To the hawk.”
We all raised ours.
“To the hawk.”
Some flying lessons come from instructors.
Others come from the sky itself.
14 — COLLEGE GRADUATION & THE STEARMAN — Flying remained an important part of my life through college.
When I graduated, Mother and Father surprised me with a graduation present I never expected.
A Stearman biplane.
When I first saw it sitting at Reed Airfield, I could hardly believe it was mine.
The Stearman was bigger, more powerful, and very different from the airplane Captain Jamie had taught me to fly.
Naturally, Jamie made certain I learned to respect it.
Back at the Red Lion, Lucky stared at me.
“Wait. You graduated from college and your parents gave you an airplane?”
I nodded.
Red shook his head.
“I got a fountain pen.”
The table erupted in laughter.
That Stearman gave me valuable experience with a larger, more powerful airplane.
None of us knew how important that experience would eventually become.
War was coming.
15 — BOEING B-17 FLYING FORTRESS — At East Anglia, I finally got a close look at one of the airplanes carrying the war directly into Germany. The B-17 Flying Fortress.
One of the bomber pilots invited me aboard and showed me through the airplane.
I saw the cramped crew positions, machine guns, bomb bay—and just how little separated those men from the enemy outside.
It changed the way I looked at bomber crews.
They weren’t simply airplanes we escorted.
There were ten men inside each one.
Later at the Red Lion, Walt asked:
“So what did you think of our Flying Fortress?”
I smiled.
“Big target.”
Walt stared at me.
Then Lucky laughed.
“He’s got you there, Walt.”
I raised my glass.
“That’s why you fellows need us fighter pilots.”
Walt raised his.
“And that’s why we buy you drinks when you bring us home.”
After that tour, escort missions meant something different.
I knew exactly who we were protecting.
16 — CONSOLIDATED B-24 LIBERATOR — The B-24 Liberator was another workhorse of the American bomber force.
It could carry a heavy bomb load over long distances, but nobody was likely to call it beautiful.
The first time Tommy and I got a good look at one, he studied it for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
“Still ugly. Looks like a mosquito.”
I laughed.
Pretty or not, the B-24 had a serious job to do.
Its crews flew deep into enemy territory through flak, fighters, freezing temperatures and long hours in the air.
Like the B-17 crews, they depended on fighter pilots to help protect them.
And we depended on them to accomplish the mission.
Later, whenever a B-24 appeared overhead, Tommy’s description usually came back to me.
Still ugly. Looks like a mosquito.
Years later, those words would remind me of something far more important than an airplane.
They would remind me of Tommy.
17 — REPUBLIC P-47 THUNDERBOLT — The P-47 Thunderbolt was impossible to mistake. It was big, powerful and rugged—more brute strength than elegance.
The first time I walked around one, a pilot grinned.
“Not exactly delicate, is she?”
No, she wasn’t.
The Thunderbolt was heavily armed and could take punishment that might send a lighter fighter home—or worse.
Later at the Red Lion, Tommy asked what I thought of it.
“Big,” I said.
Walt laughed.
“Coming from the fellow who called my B-17 a big target, that’s rich.”
I raised my glass.
“The difference is, this big target can chase you.”
Tommy smiled.
“I like it already.”
Every fighter had strengths and weaknesses.
A good pilot learned both.
Because knowing your airplane could be what brought you home.
18 — P-51 MUSTANG — The P-51 Mustang was the fighter I had been waiting for.
Fast, powerful and built for long-range escort, the Mustang could accompany our bombers deep into enemy territory—and still have the performance to fight when we got there.
The first time I climbed into one, the cockpit felt remarkably natural.
I studied the instruments, controls and procedures until I could picture everything in my mind.
Captain Jamie’s old lesson came back to me:
Know your airplane.
Before long, the Mustang felt less like a machine I was operating and more like an airplane I understood.
19 — INSIDE THE COCKPIT — Inside the cockpit, everything had a purpose.
Every gauge, switch, lever and control mattered.
Before every mission, I checked the cockpit carefully and pictured where everything was.
My memory made that easier.
But memory wasn’t enough.
A fighter pilot had to know the airplane so well that reaching for a control became almost automatic.
At the Red Lion, Lucky once asked:
“Do you actually remember where every switch is?”
“Pretty much.”
He shook his head.
“I have trouble remembering where I left my drink.”
The fellows laughed.
But every pilot at that table understood.
Getting into the fight took skill.
Getting home took everything you had.
20 — MESSERSCHMITT BF 109 — The Messerschmitt Bf 109 was one German fighter every Allied pilot learned to recognize quickly.
Fast, maneuverable and dangerous, it had been fighting since the early days of the war.
We studied its silhouette, strengths and weaknesses before ever meeting one in combat.
Captain Jamie’s old advice stayed with me:
“Know your airplane. Understand what you’re facing. And don’t fight the other man’s fight.”
Then one day, the Bf 109 wasn’t a picture in a training manual.
It was trying to kill me.
We twisted through the sky, each pilot trying to gain position.
The G-forces pressed me into my seat.
For a moment, the German fighter disappeared beneath my wing.
I couldn’t see him.
But I remembered exactly where he should be.
And I knew what I had to do next.
21 — THE DOGFIGHT — FIRST KILL OVER EUROPE — The Bf 109 disappeared beneath my wing. I couldn’t see him—but I remembered exactly where he should be.
I pulled around, lined up the gunsight and fired.
Smoke and coolant streamed from the German fighter.
“Hot dog, I got him!”
Then I spotted another American fighter nearby.
It was John.
Had he fired too?
Back at the airfield, I even asked the intelligence officer to hold my victory claim until I could talk to him.
I found John at the officers’ club, ready to accuse him of stealing my kill.
Before I could say anything, he shouted:
“Reed! That was the greatest shot I have ever seen!”
I stopped.
“That was just a lucky shot!”
John laughed.
I turned around and headed straight back to the intelligence officer.
I had my first confirmed victory.
And apparently, it wasn’t John’s.
22 — BABY ERVIN — One evening at the Red Lion, the conversation turned to childhood.
Lucky looked at me.
“Were you always this serious, Reed?”
I laughed.
“According to Mother, I started studying the world before I could talk.”
I was born March 25, 1917, and apparently I noticed everything.
Faces. Voices. Places. Conversations.
Once something caught my attention, it had a habit of staying in my mind.
My family didn’t think much of it at first.
That was simply Ervin.
Years later, doctors would describe my memory as extraordinary—almost photographic.
Tommy shook his head.
“So you remember everything we’ve said at this table?”
I nodded.
Lucky looked worried.
“Gentlemen, we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
The table erupted in laughter.
But that unusual memory would someday become more than a childhood curiosity.
It would help keep me alive.
23 — NURSE KAYLEE & YOUNG ERVIN — One of the first people to realize there was something unusual about my memory was Nurse Kaylee.
When I was young, she would sometimes test me.
“Ervin, what did I tell you yesterday?”
I’d repeat it back.
Then she’d ask about something I’d seen days earlier.
I could usually describe that too.
To me, there was nothing remarkable about it.
I simply remembered.
Back at the Red Lion, Lucky stared at me.
“So that’s why you remember every embarrassing thing we’ve ever done?”
I nodded.
“I remember those especially well.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Years later, that same memory would help me recognize aircraft, remember procedures and make decisions quickly in combat.
But Nurse Kaylee had noticed it long before anyone else.
24 — GROWING UP ON THE REED ESTATE — Growing up on the Reed Estate meant there was always something to do.
There was always somewhere new for a boy to explore.
There were fields, woods, animals, farm families, a creek and the pond it flowed through.
And, of course, there was Reed Airfield.
I learned by watching everything around me—people working, animals behaving, weather changing and airplanes coming and going.
At the Red Lion, Tommy shook his head.
“Three thousand acres and you still managed to find trouble?”
I smiled.
“Tommy, give a boy three thousand acres and you’ve given him three thousand acres of places to find it.”
Lucky raised his glass.
“Now we’re finally learning something useful about Reed.”
But I rarely explored the estate alone.
Two companions were usually somewhere nearby.
Sweet and Jackie.
25 — SWEET & JACKIE — FAITHFUL COMPANIONS — Two of my closest childhood companions were Sweet and Jackie.
Sweet was our donkey.
Jackie was a little Jack Russell Terrier who seemed convinced he belonged everywhere Sweet went.
The two became inseparable.
Jackie could often be seen riding on Sweet’s back as they wandered around the Reed Estate.
Back at the Red Lion, Lucky stopped me.
“Wait. Your dog rode your donkey?”
“Quite often.”
Red laughed.
“And the donkey’s name was Sweet?”
I nodded.
“That’s right. Sweet was my ass.”
The table exploded with laughter.
I couldn’t have known it then, but Sweet’s name would eventually inspire one of the most important—and ridiculous—traditions we ever created at the Red Lion.
But that’s another story.
26 — FOCKE-WULF FW 190 — GERMANY’S FORMIDABLE FIGHTER — The Focke-Wulf Fw 190 was another German fighter we learned to respect.
Fast, heavily armed and dangerous, it could punish a pilot who wasn’t paying attention.
One day Tommy and I were flying together when I spotted one moving into position behind him.
“Tommy! Break right!”
He reacted immediately.
The German fighter flashed past, and Tommy escaped its guns.
Later, safely back at the Red Lion, Tommy raised his glass.
“Reed, I owe you one.”
I shook my head.
“Just buy me a drink.”
Tommy smiled.
“Make it two.”
In combat, we watched out for one another.
Sometimes you saw the enemy first.
Sometimes your friend did.
Either way, the important thing was getting each other home.
27 — SUPERMARINE SPITFIRE — Every American fighter pilot wanted a close look at the Supermarine Spitfire.
An RAF pilot finally gave me the opportunity.
The Spitfire was sleek, fast and graceful—but its reputation had been earned the hard way.
During the Battle of Britain, Spitfire and Hurricane pilots had fought to keep German aircraft from controlling Britain’s skies.
I looked over the airplane carefully.
“Beautiful airplane.”
The RAF pilot smiled.
“She had to be more than beautiful.”
He was right.
Later at the Red Lion, I told the fellows about it.
British pilots had been fighting long before we arrived.
They had been holding the door open for us.
Now it was our turn to help finish the job.
28 — HAWKER HURRICANE — The Hawker Hurricane didn’t get quite as much attention as the Spitfire.
An RAF pilot once told me:
“You Americans are always talking about the Spitfire. There’s another airplane you ought to meet.”
The Hurricane wasn’t as glamorous.
It looked more like a working man’s fighter—strong, dependable and built to do its job.
And during the Battle of Britain, it had done plenty of fighting.
Later at the Red Lion, Tommy asked what I thought of it.
“It doesn’t seem interested in being pretty,” he said.
I laughed.
“Neither are you, Tommy.”
Lucky nearly spilled his drink.
The Hurricane reminded me of something important.
Not every hero needs to look impressive.
Sometimes showing up and doing the job is enough.
29 — ANOTHER DAY OVER EUROPE — The next morning, we were back at war.
Tommy and I were escorting bombers deep into enemy territory.
After seeing the inside of a B-17, I no longer looked at the bombers as machines.
I saw the men inside them.
Tommy’s voice came over the radio.
“Quiet today.”
I answered immediately.
“Don’t say that.”
Sure enough, enemy fighters appeared.
During the fight, Tommy suddenly called:
“Reed! Behind you!”
I broke hard as a German fighter swept past.
This time, Tommy had saved me.
Back at the Red Lion, I raised my glass.
“I believe that makes us even.”
Tommy shook his head.
“Not a chance. You still owe me a drink.”
Another mission was over.
And once again—we had made it home together.
30 — MESSERSCHMITT ME 262 — Then we encountered something none of us had seen before. A German fighter with no propeller.
The Messerschmitt Me 262 was powered by jet engines—and it was fast.
Very fast.
The first time I saw one streak across the sky, I called over the radio:
“Jet!”
Trying to chase it in level flight was pointless.
We had to use altitude, timing and opportunity instead of trying to match its speed.
Later at the Red Lion, Red asked:
“How fast was it?”
I shook my head.
“Fast.”
Then I added:
“Very fast.”
I couldn’t help thinking about Captain Jamie.
He would have wanted to fly one.
So would I.
Propellers had carried aviation through most of the war.
But when that Me 262 flashed past me—the future had arrived over Europe.
31 — FLYING ACE — 28 CONFIRMED KILLS — The victories began to add up.
Five confirmed victories made a fighter pilot an ace.
Eventually, my total reached 28 confirmed kills.
People sometimes asked which victory I remembered best.
At the Red Lion, Lucky finally asked:
“Come on, Reed. Twenty-eight of them. Which was your favorite?”
I thought about it.
The dogfights were exciting. My memory, training and the Mustang had served me well.
But those weren’t the missions I valued most.
I looked around the table.
“The best missions were the ones when everybody came home.”
For once, Lucky didn’t have a joke.
Twenty-eight victories looked impressive on paper.
But the real victory was landing safely and finding your friends sitting around the same table that night.
32 — THE BOY WHO REMEMBERED EVERYTHING — One evening at the Red Lion, the conversation returned to my unusual memory.
Red asked:
“Reed, do you really remember everything?”
“Not everything. But once I understand something clearly, it usually stays with me.”
As a boy, I noticed details other people seemed to forget—faces, conversations, places and things I’d seen only once.
Sometimes that made me slower than the other children.
I wanted to understand something before moving on.
That was one reason the other kids started calling me—“Turtle.”
Lucky laughed.
“So our fearless fighter ace started out as a turtle?”
I smiled.
“A turtle doesn’t have to be fast. He just has to keep moving.”
None of us realized it then, but that childhood nickname was about to become part of Red Lion history.
33 — ARE YOU A TURTLE? — THE CLASSROOM, 1923 — I started school in 1923, when I was six years old.
Because I sometimes took my time answering questions, a few of the other children started teasing me.
“Are you a turtle, Ervin?”
Before long, Turtle became one of my nicknames.
It didn’t bother me much.
I learned early that if you could laugh at yourself, other people had a lot less ammunition.
Some of those same children later became friends and visited the Reed Estate, where we climbed trees, fished the creek, played with Jackie and occasionally tried to convince Sweet to cooperate.
Back at the Red Lion, Lucky grinned.
“So people have been asking you if you’re a Turtle since 1923?”
I laughed.
“Something like that.”
None of us knew that an old childhood joke was about to find a completely new life—at the Red Lion.
34 — THE CHOCTAW CODE TALKERS — THE CLASSIFIED MISSION — One day I was called into a briefing and told the mission was classified.
It involved something remarkable—the use of the Choctaw language to help protect military communications.
The idea had roots in World War I, when Choctaw soldiers had used their native language to transmit messages the enemy couldn’t understand.
Because of my memory, I was asked to help with details that were better remembered than written down.
Names. Locations. Procedures. Signals.
I committed them to memory.
What impressed me most was the men themselves.
A language passed from generation to generation had become a weapon the enemy couldn’t easily defeat.
And because the mission was classified, there was one place I didn’t talk about it.
The Red Lion.
Some stories had to wait until the war was over.
35 — WARRIORS OF TWO WORLDS — The classified mission introduced me to men whose service represented something larger than the war itself.
They were American soldiers, but they also carried the language, traditions and heritage of the Choctaw people.
A language passed down through generations had become something the enemy couldn’t understand.
I came to think of these men as—Warriors of Two Worlds.
They served their country while carrying the heritage of their ancestors with them.
Years later, when the secrecy surrounding such missions began to disappear, their contribution could finally become part of the larger story.
At the Red Lion we talked often about courage.
These men reminded me that courage comes in many forms.
Sometimes it flies a fighter.
Sometimes it faces enemy fire.
And sometimes—it speaks in the language of its ancestors.
36 — THE NIGHT WE “RESCUED” BOOMER THE MASCOT — One quiet evening, boredom got the better of us.
Someone discovered a friendly mascot named Boomer and decided he deserved better company.
Lucky objected to calling it stealing.
“We’re not stealing him. We’re rescuing him.”
And so began Operation Boomer.
Before long, Boomer was proudly introduced at the Red Lion.
Lucky announced:
“Gentlemen, meet Boomer. He’s defected.”
Then Boomer disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a large hunk of meat he had appropriated for himself.
The cook was not amused.
Lucky immediately came to his defense.
“He’s not stealing it. He’s requisitioning supplies.”
Even the cook had trouble keeping a straight face.
War gave us plenty of serious memories.
Fortunately, the Red Lion gave us some ridiculous ones too.
37 — A RAINY NIGHT AT THE OFFICERS’ CLUB — Rain grounded us one evening, which left a group of fighter pilots with nothing to do.
That was usually dangerous.
The conversation turned to clubs, fraternities and their strange traditions.
Lucky raised his glass.
“We ought to start our own club.”
Red laughed.
“And what exactly would we call it?”
Tommy looked across the table at me.
“We’ve already got a Turtle.”
Everyone turned toward me.
Lucky grinned.
“The Turtle Club!”
The name was ridiculous.
Naturally, everyone loved it.
Then Walt asked the obvious question.
“If we’re going to have a club, shouldn’t we have a password?”
For some reason, my thoughts went all the way back to Kentucky—and a stubborn little donkey named Sweet.
I smiled.
“Gentlemen, I think I’ve got one.”
And that was how a rainy night and a bored group of airmen started something that would last far beyond the war.
38 — THE TURTLE CLUB IS BORN — Once Lucky suggested The Turtle Club, there was no stopping us.
We immediately began inventing rules, traditions and an initiation.
Then Lucky turned to me.
“All right, Reed. Are you a Turtle?”
I knew exactly where my answer was coming from.
Back in Kentucky, there had been a stubborn donkey named Sweet.
I raised my glass.
“You bet your sweet ass I am.”
For a moment, everyone stared at me.
Then the room erupted in laughter.
Lucky slapped the table.
“That’s it! That’s the password!”
And just like that, The Turtle Club was born.
What started as a joke among wartime friends became something more—a tradition built around humor, friendship and never taking ourselves too seriously.
We didn’t know how far it would eventually travel.
That night, we were simply a group of friends laughing around a table.
And proud to be Turtles.
39 — ARE YOU A TURTLE? — THE PASSWORD — Once the Turtle Club had a password, naturally we had to use it.
Any Turtle could challenge another by asking:
“Are you a Turtle?”
There was only one proper answer:
“You bet your sweet ass I am.”
But there was a catch.
If you couldn’t give the answer—perhaps because you were standing beside a commanding officer, at a formal dinner, or in polite company—you owed the challenger a drink.
Tommy once caught Red at exactly the wrong moment.
“Are you a Turtle?”
Red looked at the proper British lady standing beside him.
Then at Tommy.
He sighed.
“I’ll buy you the damned drink.”
Tommy smiled.
The Turtle Club had found its most important tradition.
Friendship, laughter—and knowing exactly when not to give the password.
40 — THE OFFICIAL TURTLE CLUB RULES — Once we had a club and a password, naturally we needed rules.
Nothing too complicated.
A Turtle should have a sense of humor.
A Turtle should be able to take a joke—and give one.
A Turtle should never take himself too seriously.
And most importantly, Turtles looked after one another.
Tommy raised his glass.
“A Turtle never leaves another Turtle behind.”
For a moment, the table grew quiet.
Then Lucky added:
“And don’t forget the rule about buying drinks.”
That brought the laughter back.
What began as a wartime joke had become a bond between friends.
We didn’t know where life would take us after the war.
But wherever we went—once a Turtle, always a Turtle.
41 — THE MISSING MAN — TOMMY’S EMPTY CHAIR — One day, the aircraft returned from another mission.
One by one, we watched them land.
But Tommy didn’t come home.
We waited.
No more engines appeared in the distance.
That evening at the Red Lion, Walt, Red, Lucky and I sat at our usual table.
Tommy’s chair was empty.
Someone ordered his usual drink and placed it in front of the empty chair.
For a while, nobody said much.
Then Lucky quietly raised his glass.
“To Tommy.”
We raised ours.
Red finally smiled.
“Remember what he said about the B-24?”
I did my best Tommy imitation.
“Still ugly. Looks like a mosquito.”
We laughed.
And then we told Tommy stories.
His chair would remain empty.
But his story never would.
As long as someone remembers your story, part of you still has a seat at the table.
42 — VICTORY IN EUROPE — MAY 8, 1945 — On May 8, 1945, Germany surrendered.
The war in Europe was over.
Across England, people poured into the streets to celebrate. Flags waved, church bells rang, and crowds cheered.
That evening, the Red Lion was packed.
Lucky raised his glass.
“To the Turtles!”
We raised ours.
Then I looked toward Tommy’s empty chair.
Walt noticed.
He lifted his glass again.
“And to the Turtles who should be here.”
For a moment, we remembered the friends who hadn’t made it home.
Then Red looked at me.
“What now, Reed?”
I thought about Kentucky.
The Reed Estate. Captain Jamie. Reed Airfield. Mother and Father. Sweet and Jackie.
I smiled.
“I suppose I’ll go home.”
Outside, the celebration continued.
The war in Europe was over.
But my story wasn’t.
In many ways—it was just beginning.