Remembering the Ghost - a firsthand account

A few years ago, I had the privilege of attending the RENO AIR RACES with Lars Krieglmeier - what an amazing event. This year, my buddy Coma Colmer was in attendance when the tragedy occurred. This firsthand account was provided to me by General (Ret) Mongo Stroud. Read with reverence.

Ten Seconds of Life

by Jim Baxter

It was the culmination of the perfect day at the Reno Air Races, a beautiful late Nevada afternoon, 80 degrees, slight cloud cover and a 10 knot wind down the runway. I had finished my duties for the day and sipped a fresh beer. I decided to take a walk to the box seats where friends of 20 years enjoyed the day; the events that followed are etched into my memory forever.

I was on my way to Box 101, nicknamed the “Voodoo Lounge” after the F-101 Voodoo fighter of the 1960s. One of the long time “owners” of box 101 was friend and fellow fighter pilot, “Magic,” who has made the annual pilgrimage to the races for several years. Magic was a hero in the fighter community, recently retired. He passed away in a Florida plane crash earlier this year much to the pain of the shareholders of box 101. This year would be different, one without the ever optimistic smile of Magic. A somber lone chair stood in the northwest corner of the Voodoo lounge, with an embroidered cover in his memory. Someone had placed an ice-laden bourbon and cola on the chair.

A line of large, white, 30 gallon coolers defined the north edge of box 101. The box was actually joined with the members from box 102; a “you bring the beer, we’ll bring the liquor” type of agreement had been in place for years between 101 and 102. The first order of business each year was removing the canvas dividing the two boxes. The eight coolers, each full of ice, water, and beverages provided fuel for the four days of aviation’s display of American ingenuity and aviation pride. Each racing aircraft, from the self-designed and built sport class, the homemade biplanes, old warbirds, to the testosterone laden unlimited class were each testimony to a passion seldom seen in our world today. This day the coolers would serve another, unforeseen duty, one none of us had ever considered, but may be why some are alive today—they were a barrier which would absorb some of the energy from the violent end of the legendary Galloping Ghost.

I made my way to the box seats with two other friends and escorted them to the boxes so they too could enjoy the exhilaration of the unlimited class boring holes in the sky at 500 mph. I remember thinking to myself that I had only spent a few minutes that day with the friends in the Voodoo Lounge; and how I would make a concerted effort tomorrow to spend more time with these long time brothers in service. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill retired fighter pilots; these were true heroes in the fighter community. The kind of guys who each had claim to fame on how they changed the hardware, software, weapons and tactics of the past two decades of fighter aviation; although they would never boast about it. They would just tell humble stories that started with “remember when” and ended with the sip of a beverage and a smile that is only understood by those who have been there. A smile I would see again from them all that night in the bar. A smile that in this case, simply communicated “Holly crap dude, good to see you alive.”

The first order of business upon entering the box was to make a beverage. Sorting out where to start was difficult since the labels on the coolers rarely coincided with their actual contents. Beyond the front line of coolers was a ten foot wide walkway between the front and back rows of the box seats. The box area stood on the tarmac in front of the main grandstands and were divided by metal poles and colored, red, white, and blue canvas. The vantage point provided an unobstructed view of the races while still well behind the FAA mandated safety distance from the show line. When the wind was right, you could even get a whiff of the exhaust gasses after the beautiful machines streaked by. But moreover, the boxes provided the community atmosphere which was so much a part of why friends, family and businesses spend thousands of dollars each year to be a part of it. The ice crackled as I poured the dark liquid and added an appropriate amount of cola. I would never taste that drink.

It was the third or fourth lap of the Unlimited Class Gold heat, the fastest propeller driven class at the races and by far the most expensive and technical. I heard the race announcer comment that an aircraft had called mayday, the word that meant they had a problem and were removing themselves from the race. This was a common occurrence during the races and well scripted rules guided the pilots on the procedure. Once an aircraft was at a safe altitude, away from the other races and crowd, the pilot and chase pilot would discuss the malfunction and determine the best course of action. Usually, this meant landing on one of the several runways or even dirt prepared surfaces around the 6+ mile track. The design of the course gave pilots a runway to glide to.

I watched the aircraft climb as it headed down what NASCAR fans would call the front stretch. But this time the aircraft wasn’t pulling up straight ahead. The aircraft moved to the right, away from the runway show line and headed over the spectators. From our point of view the plane moved to the left as it climbed since it was pointed our way. The crowd followed the aircraft with noted concern but since it was still headed up and appeared to be under control I did not see a reason for alarm. I almost had the drink to my lips when my attitude changed. The aircraft suddenly made a quick skid followed by a violent roll to inverted where it again made a strange movement we all knew was not normal. It looked like a paper airplane when you throw it too hard and it flips over on its back. I remember thinking, “Come on, get control of it.” Up until now, only the non-pilots were really concerned because the Ghost was still flying the way airplanes fly. But at that moment, realization hit and everyone knew something had gone terribly wrong.

Screams erupted from the crowd as I continued to watch the trajectory of the aircraft. At first it appeared the aircraft would continue over our heads but a few seconds later the flight path changed and I saw no movement of the Ghost against the sky; the indication every pilot is taught the first day of training that defines a collision course. This was the first point the thought, “you gotta be kidding me,” launched through my head, this could actually happen. It’s interesting, the subroutines constantly running in our brains; thoughts that don’t manifest themselves in words we recognize as cognitive thinking but feelings and ideas that only later you can link with words. 3500 hours flying fighters with no mishaps and this could be the way it all ends? At least I had boots on.

The spectators at the apparent impact point had little indication of which way to run. The screams hit a fevered pitch, I chose my direction and turned to run only to find no way out. People were everywhere and it was painfully obvious I could not make it past the back of the box before impact. Somewhere in the time-line my untouched drink hit the ground. With the exit blocked I dove to the ground as my fighter pilot-turned- Special Forces comrade yelled “Get Down!” I was now lying on the tarmac, hands over my head and the aroma of spilled drinks mixing with asphalt hit my nostrils.

Ten seconds had passed since the recognition of the impending impact. I lay on the ground, hands over my head and waited what seemed like several seconds but was actually only about two. There was no screen show of my life, just the slow, surreal silence my mind had created. It was working overtime trying to calculate the impact point from the last flight path I saw the Ghost taking. I figured it would hit maybe a few dozen feet to the north. A feeling of pure helplessness permeated my body; fighter pilots are trained from the beginning to take action, but there I lay making no contribution what so ever to my survival. There was no sound of the Ghost approaching; only in the last second did I hear anything. The sound was deafening. The V-12 engine still screaming producing 3800 hp and a zipping sound of the air it was ripping through. Then it hit. There is no sound I can associate it to. Nothing I’ve ever heard matched the pure destructive sound of 8000 pounds of polished metal hitting 30 feet away at 400 mph; instantly shredding the aircraft into pieces no bigger than a tool box. Those pieces and parts whizzed over my head and body and landed all around. The beautiful, majestic Galloping Ghost, and her skilled pilot, were gone.

You would think euphoria would kick in when I realized I was still alive but it never happened. For the past ten seconds all I was worried about was the impact. I had missed a major factor that I was now aware; a fire. A second after the impact the air I was breathing became thick with the sweet and sickening smell of atomized fuel; the same type of atomized fuel-air mixture the military has used for years as a “fuel-air explosive” or thermobaric weapon if you like details. With the right mixture of fuel and oxygen along with an ignition source an explosion can be produced with incredible force. I was convinced it was imminent. I looked to my right and saw part of the blue canvas divider and attempted to roll up in it thinking it might save my skin if the explosion was of short duration. In reality, I probably buried my face and that is about it.

The thick stench was still in the air, far longer than I anticipated, probably five seconds or so. I could feel the westerly breeze blowing and the realization that people all around me were getting up and running, or attempting to run. I made the decision to uncover and run into the wind hoping that if the fireball did ignite the wind would push it east, away from my direction. Five steps later the fresh air of the late afternoon hit may face. I had escaped.

To my relief, I immediately ran into several patrons from the Voodoo Lounge; standing, moving and with all appendages. But the horror of the situation was yet to hit. There we stood, covered from head to toe with bloody pieces of the people from the box in front of us, their bodies torn to shreds by the flying shrapnel that was, only seconds before, one of the most beautiful machines on earth. Then I looked into box 102 and started to understand the carnage; the mid-section of a person, void of head and legs, lay splayed open almost unrecognizable as human. Arms, feet, legs separated from their owners littered the area. A child’s white sock, stained with blood was perfectly laid out as if waiting to be ironed. A man, without feet tried to get up. The moaning, screaming and emergency sirens eerily filled in the grotesque picture. But even in this moment, the human character was strong.

I walked around the site frantically looking for the friends I had escorted to the box five long minutes ago. The images were horrific but still, the wounded were helping wounded. A woman lay on the ground with her leg missing below the hip. Her family members and friends were at her side applying direct pressure to the wound, holding her and encouraging her. Another man wrapped a shirt around the bones sticking out of a woman’s arm. Others quickly started organizing triage. Behind me I heard a man consoling a weeping older woman saying “He was doing what he loved to do,” I assumed that it was Jimmy’s family. Everyone was helping as they could; and Magic’s chair was still standing.

The entire place was in shock but the seasoned announcer kept talking on the loudspeaker trying to calm the crowd and give them direction. Fire trucks and ambulances arrived to do what they could but for many, it was too late. Their bodies were shredded into a million parts strewn across the tarmac. After ten minutes I came to the conclusion I was of no help to anyone anymore and left the area. I realized I had never inspected myself for injury and took a minute to look myself over. The fragmented body parts on my clothes nearly made me vomit, but I was 100% accounted for.

Later inspection placed the engine impact point 30 feet from the Voodoo Lounge and wingtip 15 feet away. A propeller blade lay in front of the destroyed coolers, slicing one and denting another. My last view of the Ghost was of her inverted and I was surprised when I saw the video showing her upright. If Jimmy had not rolled her over and changed the flightpath a few degrees toward the open tarmac and if the coolers had not been full and where they were, the outcome would have been very different. And why wasn’t there a fire?

I walked away without a scratch. The Lord shined on box 101 and 102 that day and I can’t help but think Magic was there to help.

The box in front was not as lucky. They went from enjoying a great day with family and friends to terror and even watching loved ones suffer and die. Everyone’s life was changed forever and all it took was ten seconds of life.