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KANSAS CITY'S fighting, flying Lieutenant General Ennis C. Whitehead came home from the Pacific the other -^day. As the general's plane arrived the '^army lashed out from nowhere with formations of Thunderbolts and B-29s. The ^silvery Flying Fortresses circled the field anand dropped softly on the concrete runI "way of the Kansas City Municipal Airport, ml It was a perfect landing and the asi^semblage of silver-winged officers among "Hhe greeting committee commented on the good work of the lieuI tenant colonel who cusI tomarily flies the genpi eral around in the big « plane with three white * stars emblazoned on , I the fuselage. "« General Whitehead kept the welcoming committee, half a dozen or more anxious photographers and a ,^ covey of reporters waiting a moment or two before he emerged from the plane. The charming Mrs. Whitehead and their army nurse daughter gave their pop a succession of hugs he will remember a long time.
The general slowly made his way through the crowd to the official procession, but not until he had shook hands all around. "Hello, Kansas City, I'm glad to be home," the General spoke into a WHB microphone handed him by Dick Smith. It wasn't much to say, but General Whitehead could have said nothing more genuine in an hour and a half. He really meant it.
Probably the calmest person on the lot was General Whitehead himself.
"There's a fighting, two-fisted general, yet he's so darn human and easy to talk to," someone remarked. "No wonder he is head of the Fifth Air Force." Mayor John B. Gage and City Manager L. B. Cookingham overheard the remark and added their enthusiastic dittos.
Pretty soon the procession was screaming away from the airport and things began to quiet down.
Your scribe, always awed by big airplanes, strode over and petted the Fortress like a big, beautiful canary. Just about that time one of the crew members stepped out, stretched, looked around at Kaycee's aeronautical pride and joy. "Boy, this is a real layout."
Your nosey reporter shot the air forces officer a quick, two-minute, one-way quiz, which ended with this remark: "Sir, who was at the controls when you fellows came in? . . . that was one of the finest landings the fellows around here ever saw."
"The pilot?" inquired the lieutenant. "Oh, he always makes good landings. His name is Lieutenant General Ennis C. Whitehead."
BOWLDBITUARY
IT was in Chicago, on North La Crosse avenue, but anyhow, Harold came home one night smelling like a baked potato. And Mrs. Strey stood amazed as Harold wobbled through the back door, with burned embers and soot sticking out of his hair and ears.
She knew it was the old alley speedster's bowling night, and his being late, on top of smelling like an abandoned campfire, was as surprising as the Japanese surrender.
But it all came about this way. Our friend was sneaking home five minutes late from his letter detail at the Main Chicago postoffice, ruminating on how he could hike his average up from 190 to 190^, when all of a sud' den he *smelt fire.
And sure enough, what he saw was a finger-wave of smoke curling out of a window of his favorite maple mausoleum, the Bowlatorium at 1133 North Milwau' kee. He slammed the aging Ponty to a stop, sprinted across the street and