[note: Lois' original message follows]

My big brother, 2nd Lt. Howard George Weinberg, a bombardier, (427th Melvin Alderman Crew) was lost on his first mission, to Leipzig on April 6, 1945. There was a horrific mid-air collision on the way to the target, and both B-17s went down, both crews were killed. Howie was 23 years old. In one month the war in Europe would be over.

I was 11 at the time of his death, the baby of the family. My next brother was 7 years older than I, my sister 10 years older, and Howie 12. Of all of them, it was Howie I adored. Howie was sweet, funny, gorgeous, sentimental, slender, 6'5-1/2" tall, athletic, popular, a charmer with the girls, the perfect son, the perfect brother. When he was home, our house was barely big enough to hold him. There was always noise, the radio turned up loud, music playing, his big friends dropping by. When I had to be dragged off to bed at night, the house would still be ringing with jollity, my lullaby.

We were blessed with parents who not only loved each other and were each other's best friends, but who loved us and were our best friends as well. They were happy, we were happy. It was truly a magical household. When I went to the movies, I thought those happy families up there on the screen were like my family, and not the other way around.

Before we were prepared for it, war came to our house. Howie left Columbia University to join up. He wrote, "Dad, I enlisted today. I want to finish the job you started in 1917." Imagine. My sister accelerated at college, spending even her summers there, to finish in three years; my other brother was sent to a naval prep school (Dad arranged that, hoping he would go from there to Annapolis, which would draw out the time before he might have to serve overseas). I was alone. No more lullabies.

For the next couple of years, we lived in a sort of limbo, waiting for the war to come to its climax. As young as I was, I knew as well as anybody what might happen to Howie. And then the telegram arrived bringing the terrible news. Our lives had changed forever. Our family never recovered from losing Howie. I can't imagine how my parents dealt with it; they never talked about Howie's death in my presence. My sister escaped her grief by getting married and moving as far away as she could from home. My remaining brother completely dissociated himself from the family; I don't even know where he lives today. Mother remarked to me once that he was as much a victim of the war as Howie. I imagine now she meant he was struggling with a penetrating guilt that Howie was the one taken, not he.

A few years ago, after my own children were educated and out of the house, my husband and I bought my family's old summer property. In restoring it, I began remembering things that I had not thought about in years, events that bound me emotionally to the place. I wrote down these remembrances, and I published them in a national magazine. Strangely, there was a huge hole in the text, the part about having had two brothers and a sister.

I began to realize that Howie's death actually had shattered our family. I decided that would be my next big writing project, but having been so much the youngest, and not having been allowed in on anyone's grief, I simply did not understand enough. Both Mom and Dad had died. My remaining brother had disappeared. And my sister had nailed shut the door to her past. So I turned to Howie. I had all of his old letters, and in transcribing them into my computer I was able to witness his transformation from a carefree young collegian into a serious soldier. With the help of my U.S. Senator, I collected packets of material from various military archival sources. I learned exactly how Howie died, that he was buried and dug up twice near where the two B-17s went down, and that he was interred with honor in Liege, Belgium at the military cemetery there. [My young husband and I visited Liege in 1955. When we were conducted to Howie's grave and left alone there to ponder, I cried -- not only for missing Howie, but because no one in our family had witnessed the ceremony that had laid him to rest.]

I have two sons who are intensely interested in my quest for Howie. One of them discovered the 303rd web site. I believe the day will come when someone will post a picture of Howie's fated crew. I wonder, will Howie appear serious, or will he be giving that sly smile of his that always meant he was up to something. Perhaps someone in the 427th remembers Howie, though he was in England only a few days before his mission. I sign this, Howie's little sister, Lois Brown

I am on the Board of Trustees of the 16th Cavalry Association, a group of WWII veterans, members of the 16th and 19th Cavalry Regiments of Pattons 3rd Army in Europe. My father is one of them. I am a volunteer from the DC area that assists them. Great news! We are having our reunion in Washington at the same time that you are having yours! We are at the same hotel! You WWII Memorial Service is on Saturday morning and ours is at 3PM in the afternoon. Our President is Rudy Dovale. I hope that our President can have the honor of meeting your President and possibly having a drink together during the reunion. We are now a small, but spirited group. At this event we have about 20 Cav vets and 30 family members. We look forward to bumping into you over the weekend and maybe swapping a few war stories! Sincerely, Bob Chadwick

Dear Dad,

Remember when you took me on my first airplane ride? We flew across Oregon in a DC-3. I was only 9 years old and will never forget that special time with you and my brother. I didn’t know then it was a DC-3, but figured it out years later. It was a bumpy ride that was new to me and I’m sure you recall how I made good use of the barf bag.

Remember the 15 cent hamburgers at Dee’s Drive-in? Once in a while you would take the family out for a cheap meal and I always complained about not getting enough to eat. Once you said, “We’re not leaving until Gary has had enough.” As I finished a hamburger, you’d give me 15 cents to go buy another. I ate 5 hamburgers that day and you had the money out for a 6th, but I couldn’t do it. I never complained about being hungry again.

Remember when I was 15 years old and asked you if I could have that old, battered leather jacket you kept in a plastic bag in the basement closet? I didn’t know then that it was an A-2 and that it was so valuable to you. You reluctantly agreed and I proudly wore my new jacket out that evening. As I walked home, I remember thinking that I have no business wearing this jacket. There was something special about it and it needed to be saved. When I got home, I returned it to you. That was one of the few smart things I did as a teenager. That jacket is now preserved for the ages in the Hill Air Force Base Museum.

I am sure you remember the corner on the back road behind the Salt Lake Airport that you named “Gary’s Corner.” It was there I learned the hard way that you cannot turn a square corner at 40 miles per hour. That was memorable driving lesson, for both of us. Sadly, “Gary’s Corner” is gone now due to the expansion of the airport, but it remains famous in Moncur lore.

I remember you usually called our driveway at home the “runway.” Remember when I drove in pretty fast and crooked as a teenager and you told me it looked like I had come is for a Chinese Landing? I laughed, but had no idea what you meant. It was 35 years later when I learned a Chinese Landing was “One Wing Low.” I still smile at that.

Remember the time that I .... no, lets not remember that one. Some things are best forgotten.

I remember when I realized you were human and were not perfect. You were afraid I would think less of you, but it was just the opposite. I admired you even more and was even more proud to be your son. We became even closer after that.

Remember the long talks we had about Mom and the strange ways she was acting? We didn’t understand what was going on, but you stood by her. It was some time after you were gone that we discovered the medical problems she had been facing for years. Now we all understand and forgiveness is easy. Thanks for not walking away and for keeping the family together.

Remember climbing through the B-17 Sentimental Journey with me and my son Matthew? Matt was only 11, but we both remember it clearly. You were so weak and frail and we were so concerned. The tears in your eyes as you looked into the cockpit spoke volumes. It was only 4 months later that we lost you.

Thanks for the countless rides to the airport to watch planes take-off and land. Thanks for instilling in me your love of airplanes. Thanks for talking about some of your experiences during the war. I know it was difficult for you and maybe more difficult for Mom. There were a lot of bad memories mixed with the good. Thanks for your service to our country. I am very proud to be the one son who also served his country.

A lot has happened since you’ve been gone, but I am sure you are aware of it all. You have a large posterity that you can be very proud of. That simple little journal you kept of your 28 combat missions started an avalanche of records and information now available to the entire world. Sometimes I think you are more involved in preserving the history of the 303rd Bomb Group than you were in helping to make it.

Remember when you said your life history could be written inside a match book cover? Oh how wrong you were! For that I am eternally grateful.

I love you Dad and miss you very much and I know that we will all be together again. And someday, in the Lord’s due time, we’ll all have another grand 303rd Bomb Group reunion. The bonds of love and friendship formed in this life will last forever.

Love, Gary