Marshall Ramsey

Avenger pilot and friend of Guy Brown, Jr. Dean Boyer walks away from a TBM Avenger like he flew in World War 2. Boyer had just flown for the first time in an Avenger in 70 years.

“He’s not at the top of the ladder, but he’s climbing.” Quote at the bottom of Guy Brown, Jr.’s yearbook photo

Names are carved on a cold stone. Each name has a story behind it. But when the people who know those stories die, the stories are lost. History fades.  Time marches on. And the names become only a barren list like from a phone book.

On the World War 2 Memorial in Vicksburg there is a name of a forgotten hero. His name is Guy  McElroy Brown, Jr. Brown died a week and a half before the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His parents, who were broken hearted, died five years later 10 days apart. And with their passing, Brown’s story faded away. He became another name on a list.

That is until Clinton Body Shop owner John Mosley decided to buy a World War 2 U.S. Navy bomber called a TBM Avenger.  When Mosley decided to paint the plane like a Mississippi pilot’s plane, he discovered Guy Brown’s name.  And thanks to exhaustive online research done by Anne Claire Fordice, Brown incredible but short life revealed itself like invisible ink rubbed with an onion.

Guy Brown, Jr., born on June 15, 1917, was the only child of Guy M. Brown, Sr. and Clara Boyd Brown. He grew up off Claremont Street in Vicksburg, Mississippi.  He was both gifted athletically and academically and was president of his Junior Class at Carr Central High School.  He possessed Hollywood good looks. When Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941, Guy did what every red-blooded American did — he enlisted in the Military. Soon he was training in Pensacola, Florida to become a Naval Aviator.  He’d be the pilot and crew chief the Navy’s latest bomber, the TBM Avenger, named to avenge Pearl Harbor.

All the while, his mother kept a diary of his service on a tongue-and-grove wall in their basement.  He repeatedly flew his plane and its crew into the hellfire of the Japanese antiaircraft fire. Two Distringuished Flying Crosses prove he had the right stuff.  His parents were rightfully proud.

While serving on the aircraft carrier USS Shangri La, Brown proved himself to not only to be an expert pilot but also a light-hearted prankster. According to his wingman and friend Dean Boyers, when in port, Brown would be the first to pickup the dates and the last to board the ship. When he’d come aboard, he’d flip up his sleeping shipmates bunks and then use his athleticism to escape, laughing all the way.

On July 28, 1945, Guy Brown made his final flight. His torpedo group was tasked to remove anti-aircraft artillery in a harbor in Japan. He scored a direct hit on his target but at an altitude between 5,000 and 8,000 feet, a Japanese anti-aircraft shell hit its mark. Guy’s wingman saw the Brown’s plane and her crew of three plummet into the sea in two pieces.  Charles Edward Smith Jr. and William Harry Winn were also on board.  There were no survivors.

John Mosley visited Guy Brown’s old home and met the owners, who were out in the yard.  When he told them Brown’s story, they said, “well that makes sense. We have a diary from the war on our wall.”  Fellow aviation enthusiast Dan Fordice arranged to have that part of the wall cut out and replaced. The wall diary that his mother so lovingly and then tragically kept now sits in the Southern Heritage Aviation Foundation museum At the Vicksburg-Tallulah airport.  It’s worthy of seeing.

Guy Brown’s story lives on thanks to John Mosley’s decision to buy a classic warbird. It also lives on because of the hard work of Ann Claire and Dan Fordice. As long as the Mosley’s TBM Avenger takes flight, Guy Brown, Jr. won’t be just another name on a stone.

Seven years ago tomorrow, I had a big career-change moment. It put me in fight-or flight-mode — and I’ve been in it ever since. While it hasn’t been easy at times, I will say that it has been the best thing that has happened to me. I won’t say that it has been all victories and I have shot my fair share of foot bullets, but I am still doing what I love to do. I have a great relationship with my coworkers at The Clarion-Ledger. I’ve enjoyed learning how to do radio and television and am fortunate to work with my friends over at MPB. I’ve produced successful books and have cherished speaking to so many of you. This page gets lots of readers, too. My motivation went from “my dream” to taking care of my family.

That was important.

But I can do better. Any limitation on my success has been because of one person — me. I have made numerous mistakes and have struggled at times, mentally and physically. I’ve had to work on my attitude. And my effort. I still need to.

You are either winning or learning. I’ve done both.

I’ve learned that great things come out of some of your worst moments. Angels come dressed in strange clothing. And sometimes you have to be kicked in the butt to get your out of your comfort zone.

I also know that my success depends on you reading, watching and listening.

So the point of all this? Thank you.

P.S. It goes without saying I would not have been able to hustle like I have without my family. Amy has been a rock, held the family together and worked her butt off while I’ve been out hustling. The boys, too, are awesome. I live for them.

The deck of the aircraft carrier pitches due to the rough South Pacific swells. You are a 19-year-old but have experienced enough hell to be 70. The hum of the starter gives way to the giant radial engine in front of you firing to life. Above you is a gunner who is crammed into a ball turrent like a sardine. You are too big to take his place. In the front seat is a 23-year-old “old man” who will fly you to your destination. It’s a place with a foreign name that you never heard as a child. The smell of exhaust wafts into where you are sitting. You look ahead at the gauge for the hydraulic pressure — it’s at 1400. Good, it’s working. Flaps and landing gear are important. Landing is important. If you survive the day, of course.

The engine roars.

Then, before you can say “Pearl Harbor,” you’re roaring off the deck. The pilot has timed takeoff to the rise of bow of the aircraft carrier so you have as much clearance over the water as you can have. You’ve lost three friends whose plane lost its engine at takeoff. You’ll lose many more that way.

You pray you stay out of the water. You’d like to make 20.

Speaking of that water, you’ll spend hours over it. You have two small windows on the side. One behind you. You have a job to do. You are to drop the bombs on the enemy. But the enemy will throw every fighter plane and antiaircraft shell at you. God, fate, luck, a couple of machine guns and your aircraft commander are your defenses. You pray as the shells begin to pepper the plane. Your gunner begins to fire his guns. Only thing that protects you from death is a thin layer of metal. You grab a small cross you carry in your pocket.

It’s time to drop the bombs. Your country has put so much responsibility in your hands.

I thought of the brave men who flew the Navy’s TBM Avenger during World War 2 yesterday as I bounced down the runway. I was strapped into the same seat I just wrote about. I looked at the switch to drop the bombs. I was thankful we were flying over land. I was thankful we weren’t taking off a carrier. I was glad I didn’t have to bomb Flora and that Flora wouldn’t shoot back.

And I respected the men who sat in that seat during the war.

They had a job to do. A hard job. A damn near impossible job. They flew in a plane designed by Grumman and built by GM. It was a truck. But it was a reliable truck. It brought many of them home.

I’m honored to have at least a small sense of what their service was like. Thank you John E Mosley. And thank you to every veteran who has served our country.

Next Sunday, I’ll be addressing Phi Kappa Phi’s induction ceremony at Ole Miss. Phi Kappa Phi is the nation’s oldest, largest and most selective honor society. That means that I will be talking to a room of full of people who are both talented and driven. Let’s just say that I won’t the smartest person in the room.

So that’s my challenge. What do I say to a group of really bright and ambitious students?

I could give them a lecture on success.

Um, no. My advice about success would most likely ring hollow. I would bet the farm (if I had one) that they have the success thing pretty much figured out. For most of their academic career, they’ve been acing tests, crushing term papers and moving the needle when it comes to good grades. I’m not sure anything I could tell them would impress them.

“Do your best, kids!”

“Um, Mr. Ramsey, we have. That’s why we are being inducted into Phi Kappa Phi.”

Silence.

That’s when I realize that some of the people in the room can probably bend forks with their minds.

I could talk to them about failure, instead.

Right.

Teaching brilliant people about screwing up doesn’t sound like a good idea (at least on paper.) “Hi Mom and Dad, I want your kiddos to take a new road — the road to failure!  And students, just take your hands off the wheel and step on the gas. Seize the nap!”

That would go over like a cowbell in the Grove.

But when I say failure, I don’t mean blowing off a test or plagiarizing a paper. No, I mean the kind of failure that sometimes happens when you push beyond your comfort zone. The kind of failure that ends up giving you a doctorate in success.  I learned that first hand my junior year in college.

My academic faceplant moment was Accounting 2. After a miserable semester, I limped into the final with an big fat F. Panic ensued. I had never failed anything before — heck a B was a bad grade to me.  But at 3 a.m. the night before the final, I had a caffeine-driven ephipany: You can’t spell “My Fault” without an F. I took responsibility, took the final, got a 92 and passed the class. The professor saw me later and said, “Why didn’t you do that all along?”  I told him I had to fail first to learn my lesson.  I’m proud of that D. To me, it stands for Determination.  It was a lesson I had to learn a couple years later when I was working as a custodian instead of a cartoonist. Walls crumble when faced with a determination and personal responsibility.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the students to make a bad grade. But I do want them to break out of their academic safe places and try everything new that they can.  My classes in college gave me a solid education. My actitivies outside of the classroom gave me a career. My work at the student newspaper launched my cartoonist career.  My job as a custodian made me want my dream really bad. Maybe I could speak about that.

Or I could  just beg them to stay in Mississippi.  I’m not too proud to grovel, you know. And Lord knows we need them here.

I’ll plead with them to stay here after graduation to make this state better for all of us. I’ll ask them to stop the brain drain.  I’ll suggest they grow their leadership in native soil.  They are the best of the best. If they choose to stay in Mississippi (as in, if they find the kind of opportunities that fulfill their dreams), they will make our state a better place to live. I’m all for that.

So that’s what I’ll talk about. Because an idea like that will make me the smartest person in the room — for a moment.