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<em>Charles Calvert Benedict</em>, born in Los Angeles, California, December 15, 1921, and named for his father (Class of 1915), was destined for the Army from the moment he opened his eyes.</p>
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At the age of nine weeks he began the trek of the Service junior, proceeding to London, where Major Benedict was serving as Attache for Air at the United States Embassy. Three and a half years later, the trekking, the gay insouciance of childhood ended abruptly at Langley Field, Va. A bright day in May, a flag at half-staff, a wrecked plane and voices telling him that the father he adored would never again throw a football for him to fall on. Vaguely but unmistakably, at that careless age he took upon himself a responsibility toward his younger sister and brother and toward life in general that he never put down. From that day, “It's up to me” was his slogan.</p>
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He grew up in Washington, D. C., with many summers spent on his uncle's ranch in Montana. Out of life he took, whether at work or play, every opportunity to experience and to learn and made the most of it. Learning came easily, so easily that he accomplished two grades a year in the crowded public schools of Washington until his mother, fearing that he would graduate too early, put a stop to such rapid promotions.</p>
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From the beginning he knew what he wanted: to go to West Point; to fill thereafter the niche his father had left vacant. To that end, he arranged his studies. To that end he built his body. Passionately fond of every form of athletics, he tried them all. School and the sports that are part of student life were a means to the end he sought. It was as though he knew that Fate had assigned to him only a brief span and he wanted to crowd in the maximum. No time to waste. Study, sports, homework, to bed at an early hour. No problems, no frustrations. A good day's work well done. A good day indeed to carry him twenty-four hours nearer the great goal. It was natural that such a nature should never experience the "latch-key age". He simply didn’t have time.</p>
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By a fortunate arrangement he had the opportunity of spending his second year of high school in Europe, the time divided between Belgium and Spain so that he could study the languages. In Brussels he attended a native school, where he pursued the regular course except for Mathematics and, at the end of six months, not only spoke French fluently but stood at the head of his class in other subjects.</p>
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In those days, ice skating was the sport of Brussels and the junior champion of Belgium was a classmate at the Institut Dupulche. Charles, who had never before worn skates, seized this opportunity and, through his companionship with the champion and his leisure hours spent at the rink, went to Spain an accomplished performer.</p>
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As was his wont, he adapted himself immediately and eagerly to the new environment on the Island of Minorca. In a school of monastic austerity run by the padres he threw himself into the study of Spanish with the same avidity he had shown with French. Chancing to meet a chief petty officer of the Spanish Navy who wished to study English, he exchanged lessons with him to the benefit of both. Neither his pupil nor any of his school associates would believe that he was only fourteen. His height (at this time nearly six feet) and his mental capacities placed him above his years.</p>
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In late July, 1936, the Spanish Revolution broke out and the Island of Minorca, heavily garrisoned with both Army and Navy contingents, became a trouble spot, cut off from the rest of the world by the Communists, who seized control and promptly murdered the Fascist officers.</p>
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Charles finally left the island on a British destroyer, sent to take off nationals marooned there. During the five-day trip to Marseilles (the destroyer called at other ports on its rescue mission) he did a man’s job with the overworked crew and at night, rolled up in a blanket, slept on the hurricane deck.</p>
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Home by way of Paris and Antwerp. Back again to begin the fall term of his junior year at high school, bearing the fruits of twelve months of cheerful, conscientious effort. French and skating from Belgium, Spanish and tennis from Spain. From both, and from all that lay between, he brought the good, quickly and easily sifted by his unerring instinct from the dross and woven into the pattern of his life.</p>
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Two years more of high school, graduation at the top of his class and eight months of cramming at Millard's before the long-awaited March examination for entrance to the Military Academy. Those who knew him best often said that they hoped he would always want in lite what was worthy as he was bound to get what he wanted. That a congressional appointment was not forthcoming disturbed him not a whit. He went after a Presidential and won!</p>
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The good news was wired to him at the ranch, where he was preparing himself physically for the stresses and strains of Plebe Year by chopping wood, building fences in all kinds of weather, riding horseback and doing odd chores. So eager was he to use every minute that, instead of resting during the noon hour, he would bolt his meal and go off at the double to tend his extended line of gopher traps.</p>
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To him Plebe Year was an experience he had looked forward to all his life as a test. He intended to pass it without scars and he did. He wrote of his trials impersonally and with a sense of humor that left no bitterness. He played C Squad football, ice hockey and baseball and, at year’s end, wore stars.</p>
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In the fall of his Yearling Year, during football practice, he sustained a three-way break in his left arm that eliminated him permanently from the sports he especially favored: football, basketball, hockey and boxing, in which latter sport he had shown unexpected ability. In spite of long residence in hospital and the hindrance of a cast, he studied as usual and earned stars a second time. Having only his right arm to work with, he put in all his leisure at tennis and made the squad.</p>
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Second Class Year saw a change in outlook for the man of ’43. On 7 December, they knew that they would graduate into combat. Changes were hurried through. The class was divided into Air and Ground Cadets and in June of ’42 the Air Cadets were scattered to various A.A.F. fields for training. Charles, as he had planned from childhood, chose Air Corps and went with a few of his classmates to California, where he successfully completed the Primary, Basic and Advanced phases of air training and, wearing wings, returned to West Point in December. On 19 January, 1943, the class was graduated and its members commissioned Second Lieutenants.</p>
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Benny, so named by the Corps as his father had been before him, graduated Number One of the Air Cadets and Number Three in his class. He had worn stars every year, won the prize for highest rating in modern languages presented by the Steuben Society of America, and, even as a Plebe, had coached classmates in every subject. Though honors meant little to him (he had been skinned for neglecting to put on his stars) except as an indication of having attained a goal, West Point gave him what he prized most. He was chosen Honor Representative from his company and then Chairman of the Honor Board. “That”, he said, “means more to me than anything that has ever happened”.</p>
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Now that he was ready for specialization he chose heavies and was ordered to report, at the end of a brief leave, to Hobbs, N. M., for B-17 transition. Graduation leave enabled him to fulfill a desire dating from his last year in high school. His class miniature was accepted by Virginia King Smith, University of California graduate and daughter of Brigadier General and Mrs. Oliver P. Smith (U.S. Marine Corps). Thus, for his life partner, as was his habit in all things, he chose the rare best—character, brains and beauty.</p>
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From Hobbs, orders took him to Pyote, Texas. There he was assigned a crew and proceeded to train them with the conscientious thoroughness he had applied to every task. Military commitments on all fronts were hard to meet. Training had been stepped up. Feeling that to lead a crew effectively he must know the role of each man, he had time for neither Sunday nor holiday. That competent brain of his and his well coordinated body made it possible for him to qualify himself in bombing, gunnery and navigation, along with his own training as a B-17 pilot.</p>
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At the end of May, now a First Lieutenant, he moved with his outfit to Dalhart, Texas, for the final stage of combat training. There he took time out for a forty-eight hour pass and, on the first of June, married Virginia.</p>
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Back to work. Missions day and night during which he would fly as long as seventeen hours on a stretch. “I’ve got the finest crew in the A.A.F.”, he wrote. And those in authority evidently agreed for, in August, instead of being sent overseas as he had hoped, he and his crew were diverted to Dyersburg, Tennessee, to function as “model pilot and crew” in checking out other personnel.</p>
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Benny was “fit to be tied”. He saw himself using all the knowledge and skill he had acquired for combat to prepare others for the job he wanted to do himself. It was heartbreaking. Having heard rumors about the B-29 and finding himself short of gas over Salina, Kansas on a training flight, he landed and used the servicing time to wangle his way aboard the new A.A.F. giant. From that moment he set his heart on flying a B-29 in combat and when he left the field carried with him the T.C.’s applying to the ship. “The biggest thing that flies is what I want”, he wrote.</p>
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In October, as fate would have it, he was ordered to Salina and assigned to the 794th Squadron, 468th Group (V.H.). This unit became part of the 58th Wing, 20th Bomber Command, the first B-29 outfit to be activated, the first to go overseas, the first to become operational—a trail blazer for those that came after.</p>
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The wing was stationed at Karagphur, India, with a forward base at Pengshan, China, and a Hump flight between bases. Crew Nine, which now became “the finest crew of all” settled down to the grim procedures of actual operations. There were not yet enough B-29’s to go around and the junior pilots found themselves working on maintenance and flying cargo ships over the Hump. Before long, however, Crew Nine was assigned a super-fortress, which they christened “Old Campaigner” and spent day and night on its care. Their first raid was highly successful and it is characteristic of the pilot that he wrote of it thus:</p>
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“The troops acquitted themselves like veterans, and I'm proud of every one of them. The Deacon’s (his bombardier) bombing was excellent and it looks as though he will get credit for at least a probable Zero. He’s a good man and cool in action as is the whole crew”.</p>
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In these days he was saddened by the news of the death in action of his roommate, Turner Chambliss. His tribute indicates the bond between them: “I can’t get used to the idea of his death. It hit me right between the eyes. He was an A-l roommate and a wonderful guy in every way. Nothing in this war has brought the whole thing so close to home. I’m going to miss Turner and so is the whole Army in later years. He was a fine soldier.”</p>
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On 18 July, 1944, he was promoted to Captain. Then, with the stepping up of operations, there followed raids on Mukden, Anshan, Yawata, Kaifeng, Hankow, Shanghai, Singapore and credit for more Zeros. On 9 December, he turned in Old Campaigner and, with a new ship. Old Campaigner II, received the honor of flying the lead crew.</p>
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“The new job has a lot of responsibility attached to it but I think my boys can handle it. It was a chance they deserved.”</p>
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It is well to place here beside his comment on his crew a quotation from the last letter received by the mother of the crew’s left gunner: “Mom dearest, I want you to know that we have a swell crew and that Captain B is the best and most careful pilot and gee just the swellest guy—but whatever comes, comes and there is nothing we can do about it”</p>
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It came. On 21 December, 1944, the Colonel chose to take the lead for a raid on Mukden, Manchuria, and Crew Nine flew Number Two position. As they approached the target, Zeros closed in to attack. A Kamikaze, already hit by the guns of Crew Nine, threw itself on them as it fell. The bomb-load exploded. One man, the radio operator, escaped by parachute but Benny and the rest of his crew met death about five miles outside the city.</p>
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After his death it was learned that he had won the Air Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster. He is survived by his widow and a daughter, Gail, whom he never saw. His life was like a river. Not the meandering kind that changes its course for every rock and hummock but a deep, powerful flow, proceeding straight from its clear source in the hills, pushing aside all obstacles, to its inevitable destiny.</p>
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<em>—Dorothy Potter Benedict</em></p>