This is the story of a Christmas miracle, a snowfall that couldn't be, and a cat named Tuffy, who truly was.Posted on 12/24/2004 1:49:04 PM PST by SandRat
This is the story of a Christmas miracle, a snowfall that couldn't be, and a cat named Tuffy, who truly was.
In the waning hours of Dec. 23, 1941, Richard Wood, then age 9, was fast asleep.
Not far above him, a four-engine bomber with 19 men aboard was silently gliding through the icy air, heading for an emergency landing at what was then called Davis-Monthan Field.
"I assume I didn't hear it because no motors were going," says Wood, who also soundly slept through the ensuing crash - right through the roof of a house less than two blocks away.
Wood, who would grow up to be a meteorologist, figures it was ice on the wings. "It probably iced up on the approach to D-M," he says.
The plane struck two power poles before hitting the four-room adobe house. Its right wing sheared off the upper half of the home, causing it to collapse.
Inside were four people who had just retired for the night: a Mr. and Mrs. Osborne Otteson, a Mrs. T.E. Callaghan and her 3-year-old child.
Here's where the miracle comes in: None suffered so much as a scratch, save for Mr. Otteson, who was treated for minor injuries.
What's more, while several of the crew members had fractures and other injuries, none was life-threatening.
Yet another survivor would be pulled from the still-crumbling home early that Christmas Eve morn: Tuffy, the family cat, rescued by Pvt. David Lindsay, of the 32nd Air Base Squadron.
"I don't know who was scared the most, Tuffy or me," Lindsay would tell Star reporters.
When young Wood woke up that morning at his Midtown home on East Pima Street, he found one more miracle outside his window: snow.
During the night, the first snow of any merit since 1937 had blanketed Tucson.
"We had 2 or 3 inches," says Wood, who spent the day throwing snowballs at his sister and visiting the crash scene.
"It was all roped off," he says. "You couldn't see too much."
Naturally, the next day's papers were filled with stories about the crash. There was also a short story about the snowfall, rather cryptically written.
"(Censored) Blankets Tucson For First Time Since 1937," ran the Christmas Day headline.
Beneath it, all mention of snow also drew the word "censored," along with this explanation:
"Since wartime regulations have inhibited the dissemination of any information regarding the weather, the substance which local residents discovered upon their lawns and housetops when they arose yesterday morning must remain a military secret."
The story went on to describe children "engaging in (censored) fights and building (censored) men."
"It was just three weeks after World War II broke out," says Wood. "I remember asking my mother what war means."
He soon found out - at least on the home front. The next year, the family moved to Southern California, where Wood's widowed mother and brother-in-law found work in the defense plants.
The family later moved to Washington, D.C.
In 1973, Wood returned to Tucson, heading up its National Weather Service office until 1980. Following assignments in Maryland and Albuquerque, he retired to Tucson in 1987.
From 1988 to 1992 he wrote a weekly weather column for the Star, including one, of course, about the censored snow.
Today, Wood, 72, is editor of the Gale Group Weather Almanac, and Weather of U.S. Cities.
A lot of Decembers have come and gone for him. But he's never forgotten Christmas Eve, 1941 - and its many miracles.
Bump.
(censored) and I really (censored) the (censored). Merry (censored).
Double Top Secret Greetings, to you, too.
BTTT
It's a lie! It's a (censored) lie! There ain't no (censored)(censored) in Tucson, Arizona. (myrrhy christmas!)
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.