Prequel to my checkered photography career

Random image: Light The Night Walk,

Corporate Woods.

Random image: Dilapidated Joplin,

Missouri Santa Fe depot.

Random Image: Grandson Jacob Krafft in school per-

formance.

Random image: Old Sears store on the Country Club

Plaza, Christmas 1960

Country Club Plaza holiday lights.

Not a user-friendly winter has this been for Kansas Citians.

Imagine spending it in a car...

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I never saw my dad until I was six years old. He was "in for the duration" of World War II, attached to an Army Air Corps unit in the South Pacific.

I lived with mom, grandma Miller and uncle Roy Miller (yes, I was named after him) on Spruce Street on KC's east side, and every night we would gather 'round the RCA table radio listening to reports of the war from Edward R. Murrow in London, punctuated with the deep baritone chimes of Big Ben in the background. We never knew exactly which small island my dad was on at any given moment. When we would hear of a "fierce jungle battle" or "planes shot down" over some tiny atoll whose name we had never heard before, we held our collective breaths.

But, like all wars this one too was finally over. Dad (a stranger to me, really) returned. For years thereafter this extended family still lived together, getting our lives back.

Then one day an old army buddy of dad's wrote with a business proposition: "Come to Michigan and help me build boats for all this post-war demand. We'll get rich!" Seemed like a good idea at the time, so mom and dad invested their meager savings in this venture, and away we went to Three Rivers Michigan.

Actually, we lived in a tiny cabin on a lake about 25 miles from Three Rivers. There were long fishing docks and boat launching jetties that extended out over the crystal clear water. The water was so clear, so clean in those days that I could shine my Ray-O-Vac flashlight into the depths at night and watch huge Muskies swimming about. That two years we were there was the only time in my life I ever gained weight. It was an outdoor paradise for an eight-year-old and all I did in the sweet summer months was fish, chase butterflies and explore the surrounding woods. And eat. Winter was a different story of course. We had to stock up on everything, laying in at least a two weeks supply from Three Rivers. The road to town was not much of one and the snow plow only came by every so often.

At length, the boat business went belly-up, so we packed all our worldly possessions into the 1939 Dodge and headed back to Kansas City.

It was a bad idea to come home, as it turned out, but probably the best of the alternatives at hand.

We arrived in Kansas City just in time for the tail end of the 1950 flood. Old timers will recall that there were two major floods back then: The one most remembered, and most severe, in 1951, and the one not so well publicized, in 1950.

We had no money. Dad had no job. Mom never worked outside the home and never drove.

So we took up residence in the car in Swope Park. I can pinpoint the exact location of our street camping days: On Gregory, 1,000 yards from the Union Pacific tracks.

Different world back then. No fear of getting caught in a crossfire between two rival gangs or a drug deal gone bad. In fact, the police actually watched over us.

There was no help available from the Red Cross or Salvation Army. All of their resources were stretched to the limit helping flood victims. Just when we thought we might get a break come spring, the 1951 flood hit.

The first part of that summer the temperature did not get above 85 degrees. It was dark, grey, sullen, and drizzled a lot.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but things were desperate. As a kid, it began as kind of a great adventure for me. Oh, it was inconvenient having to walk a few hundred feet to the public restroom and using the creek for a wash tub was a hassle, but overall it seemed, well, rather fun. At first.

The full realization of our plight hit me the day that we had to split a hot dog three ways for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

My dad finally got a job at a filling station on Troost. The building still stands and is sort of a maintenance shed for the University of Missouri at Kansas City. The bad part was, we did not have the money to get an apartment, so mom and I had to stay in the car all day, parked around the corner and out of sight of the owner. Later in the summer the weather turned hot and humid and I had what I now know was heat prostration several times.

This too passed, and eventually we were living once again with the extended family, with three additions. My uncle had married for the second time, so his wife Mary, her girl Cherie and their dog Blackie joined us all in a shotgun house at 1935 North Valley in Kansas City, Kansas. The street featured one of the steepest hills I had ever seen, a dream sledding spot, but really, really tough to peddle to the top in spring and summer.

When I got my own dog (who was constantly being harassed by Blackie), I wanted to take some pictures of him. I received a Baby Brownie camera for Christmas and shot a bunch of rolls of my little fuzzy, treasure pup that I named Spec.

One day I was rushing out of the house to ride my bike to the corner drug store to take my film in for processing. My uncle looked up from reading his newspaper and said "You know, you can process that film yourself."

Screech! Stopped in my tracks. What! I can actually perform this magical process myself? I was amazed, astounded and asked for an Eastman Kodak Tri-Chem processing kit for Christmas. My uncle Roy gave it to me.

Thus began my checkered photography career...

Epilogue: I did not learn for many, many years the reason we did not go to live with

grandma and grandpa Inman in Kansas City after our return from Michigan.

Grandma and mom did not get on well, to put it gently. They hated each other in fact.

Early on, long before the return from Michigan when we lived with grandma and grandpa briefly, she and mom got into an intense

argument which resulted in grandma hitting mom in the back of the head with an iron.

Pretty scary stuff for a kid to watch.

Mom carried the scar the rest of her life. I think that grandma probably did too...

What ever happened to the old-fashioned fire-eating press photographer? 4

My favorite of the New Christy Minstrels.

The group performed at half time of Super Bowl IV

Chiefs quarterback Len Dawson had great protection when

he dropped back to pass. Notice how clean his uniform is

compared to the other players.

Coach Hank Stram and the Chiefs leave

the field at halftime of Super Bowl IV.

One Chiefs fan was so happy she cried.

Or maybe it was because of all the runs

in her stockings...

Final scoreboard shot at Super Bowl IV.

View from the top row of the Sugar Bowl.

Minnesota Vikings mascot and Chiefs cheerleaders

before the game.

Coach Hank Stram was head and shoulders above

everyone else on the field at the end of the day.

The late Steve Kulmus, Star photographer,

always was a natty dresser, even on the sidelines

A Chiefs fan endorsed the prevailing Kansas City sentiment.

Chiefs cheerleaders do their stuff.

The hot air balloon never got very far off the ground at halftime.

In fact, it nearly settled in on the crowd. The long lens compressed the view and

made the lighter-than-air craft seem closer to the masses than it really was.

Although it was close enough to make some people duck.

Part of the photo pack

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"So, what do you have from the game?"

At the moment that Kansas City Times managing editor Bob Pearman asked me that question I had not thought much about my eight rolls of Ektachrome from Super Bowl IV, which the Kansas City Chiefs had won by beating the Minnesota Vikings, 23-7. I worked for Star Magazine and our deadline for my Super Bowl stuff was weeks away. Bob, however, was kinda desperate because most of the film from the other three Star Super Bowl shooters got fouled up in the paper's negative processing machine. I shot trannys for the magazine, not negative film, and had it souped at Custom Color. Consequently, at least I had images. By the way, for you younger readers, the Kansas City Times was (The Morning Kansas City Star).The line of explanation was inserted underneath the Kansas City Star flag on page one, in italics and parentheses.

We set up a Kodak Carousel projector in the tiny magazine darkroom and started clicking through images. I had shot the game with a publication date in mind that was a month or more off, so I concentrated more on non-action images. Let the daily guys worry about that.

Fortunately, I did do some action photos from the sidelines.

As we tediously went through all the unedited photos, there was one that froze my clicking finger in mid-air.

Despite being displayed as it was on the middle-yellow darkroom wall and partially interrupted by my Nikon calendar for 1970, the photo popped out from all the others.

"That's it!" We both said simultaneously.

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Lou Penella was the rookie of the year for 1969, American League, KC Royals. His home was in Tampa, so a writer and I flew down there to do some words and pictures for the magazine. As it turned out, Florida was having one of the coldest January's on record. Shooting Big Lou running on the beach was a bit of challenge. His face kept turning blue.

But we somehow got it all done, the writer went back to KC and I stayed on for a couple more days to catch Lou at the gym and at few other haunts.

Even before I left for Tampa I kept looking at the map and thinking, "Hmmmm....New Orleans is just across the Gulf. Why don't I see if I can talk the Star into letting me hop over and give them some additional coverage on the Super Bowl. Heck, the big game was only a few days away and the home town team, the Chiefs were playing in it again. Seems reasonable to me."

A bit of a digression, but the Chiefs had played in the very first Super Bowl in 1967, losing convincingly to the Green Bay Packers, 35-10. We all hoped for a better outcome this time...

I was a bit surprised actually, when I got the go-ahead to fly over to New Orleans and shoot the game. I had to buy more film and some clean underwear, but otherwise I was more than ready. Chomping at the bit as it were. And, since I was booking my own flight, I went first-class on Eastern. Quite commodious circumstances.

At that late date there was not a motel, hotel room or dog kennel available, so I crashed with a Star photographer John Vawter, and Star writer, Fred Kiewit. Nobody got much sleep. I was too excited, and John and Fred spent most of the time drinking and carousing in the French Quarter.

The big day, January 11, 1970 arrived with showers and temperatures in the mid-sixties. Before the kickoff, the showers stopped. The natural grass field was soft. Clouds remained, which made for better pictures. That direct sunlight was brutal on chrome film.

Half time was, for the era, pretty spectacular. The New Christy Minstrels performed, a hot air balloon didn't rise as it was supposed to, and we sideline photographers enjoyed a hand-delivered, hot meal of crab, lobster, and fixins'. Amazing it was. Never before had I been treated to such delights at a football game. Stale donuts, cold coffee and

At the conclusion, the Chiefs had won, 23-7 of course, and the real grass field was a muddy mess. As fans filed out of the stadium, one local came up and engaged me in conversation. At length, he asked if I had time for a cup of coffee, but I declined, realizing that all the while he had been looking more at my camera gear than me.

At about the same time, I heard my name on the stadium's loudspeaker, "Roy Inman, report to the press box immediately." Oh no, what now...

On the phone was Fred Kiewit. His first question was "Roy, who won the game?"

It seems that Fred had literally been out all night drinking in the French Quarter and missed the game entirely. Problem was, he was supposed to write the page one color story of the Chief's Super Bowl.

So I drained my memory banks and told him everything I knew about the game and the peripheral goings-on. I will say that Fred was one helluva writer and a phenom at taking information over the phone and making it sound as though he was on the spot. A very good rewrite man, as the old time news heads used to say. Good thing, because he would need all of his considerable skills that day. Sure enough, when I read the page one story under his byline, it was as though he had seen it all in person. I did recognize some of my phrases though...I said it in New Orleans and it came out in Kansas City.

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The photo that Bob Pearman and I remarked over the next day was the one at the top of the column. Many of you have already seen it, but for those who haven't, it shows part of the reason the Chiefs won: Quarterback Len Dawson, #16, had great protection, allowing him to throw perfect spirals with precision. The Star used it on page one of the Chiefs Super Bowl special section, which Bob edited.

At the time, the American Football League and the National Football League were separate, competing entities. No one gave the Chiefs much of a chance against the "Purple People Eaters" as the Minnesota Vikings were called by the press.

This game proved to the football world that the AFL had indeed come of age.

What ever happened to the old-fashioned, fire-eating press photographer? 3

Photograph by Dale Monaghen©

Thomas Hart Benton was both crusty and kind. When I photographed him in 1971 I saw both sides.

Writer Jim Lapham and I visited Tom and wife/business manager Rita at their home and Tom's studio in the Valentine neighborhood. It was one of those houses from Kansas City's earlier days, probably build around 1920. Big fireplaces, cozy surroundings. And paintings. Lots of paintings.

Our Star Magazine editor, Howard Turtle (when he introduced himself he always added "Just like the hard shell kind") loved to recreate stories he had done for the daily paper in the 1950's. Howard, God love 'em, was big on sure things. Thomas Hart Benton was a sure thing. But I looked forward to the assignment, since I always thought Benton's work was pretty cool, and I was always in awe of artists.

We went about shooting the conversational stuff, semi-posed (if there is such a thing) portraits, and before we knew it, noon was upon us and we hadn't yet made any trannys (That's film, 120 BTW) of the man working in his studio.

Rita offered to fix everyone sandwiches for lunch, thereby saving us time and allowing us to start right in again after we ate. Both she and Tom were getting up in years, as the saying goes, and I think they wanted to get us out of there so they could relax.

I followed Rita into the kitchen and asked for a glass of water. She pointed to the glasses cabinet and the sink.

Then she said it was kind of dark in the kitchen, pointing to the burnt-out florescent bulb overhead.

"I really don't like Tom climbing up on ladders" she said, and looked over at me.

Eager to help I blurted out, "I will happy to change the bulb for you," replying to her glance and implication. "Where are the bulbs?"

"Oh, we don't have any the right size. But there is a hardware store right down the street, and by the time you get back, your lunch will be ready."

I was getting the feeling that I had been set up, but didn't mind a bit. At that stage in my checkered career, I was quite capable of becoming star struck. And in my book, Benton was a big star.

Bought the bulb, got back, changed the bulb, had lunch and commenced the color shooting in the studio with Tom.

"OK if I shoot while you work?" I asked him. Some artists are touchy about being photographed while they work, so I always ask first.

"Sure, do anything you want. Just make me look young and handsome again." I babbled something about "character lines," but realized pretty quickly that I was on the wrong path there, so I dropped that subject in mid-sentence. In what I like to think of as my approaching golden (and wrinkled) years, I now understand more fully what he was talking about.

So I got a few images, and looking back at them, I wish I would have lit things differently. In those days we had to put light on just about everything we shot inside in color. But at least I had a record of the man himself at work.

Benton had visited the sideline of a Chief's game in November of 1969 and drew sketches of the players. The end result was a bronze sculpture and a 30"x 40" oil on canvas, both titled "The forward pass." He was making clay sculptures for those two projects when I photographed him that day.

Jim and I packed up and left around 5:00 PM. I carried a bunch more equipment than now, and, darn the luck, left an extension cord at the Benton's.

So that evening I had to return to pick up it up. Tom greeted me at the door, extension cord in hand. In the background I could hear the sounds of animated merrymaking of friends around the fire, glasses tinkling. It was an inviting atmosphere, but I was not asked to join.

Instead, he said "Rita told me you replaced the bulb in the kitchen, and thanks. She also told me you paid for it." And with that he thrust a couple of dollar bills my direction. I waved them off and said something like "Don't worry about it. Glad to be of help."

"I can't have you buying my goddamn lights!" he growled, and once again pushed the money my direction.

Realizing I was irritating him and that we were at a Mexican standoff of sorts, I finally was able to muster "Consider it a gift of appreciation from the Kansas City Star." Apparently that satisfied him, and he closed the door with a snort.

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Epilogue:

Some Kansas Citians, intimates of Thomas Hart Benton, proudly acclaim to the fact that they were models for some of his paintings and murals. Crosby Kemper, for example, was a favorite. As was Harry Truman and Lyman Field.

But how many, I ask you, can say that they changed the artist's kitchen light bulb so that wife Rita could fix his dinner?

I may be one of the few, the very few, who can lay stake to such a claim...

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The Thomas Hart Benton Home is now a museum located at 3616 Belleview, KCMO, and is open to the public. There is a small admission fee. To check tour schedules, call 816-931-5722.

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The Photos:

This photograph of the legendary Wes Lyle (more about him later!) photographing Tom Benton at a Kansas City Chiefs game in November, 1969, was created by Dale Monaghen ©, who graciously allowed me to present it here. Benton was doing research for his football mural.

The late Jim Lapham, writer, and Thomas Hart Benton in his studio 1971.

Thomas Hart Benton portrait, 1971. He died in 1975.

Benton at work in his studio on clay sculptures for his bronze "The forward pass." He also created an oil on canvas of the same scene and also titled it "The forward pass."

His studio as it is today.

Tom and Rita.

Tom in the living room.

What ever happened to the old-fashioned, fire-eating press photographer? 2

My dog Spec. He was my absolute favorite dog. Such a sweetie; gentle, affectionate and enjoyed being in the water. He was a water spaniel, so I guess it came naturally. I used the tub hanging up on the wall behind to give him a bath, which he loved. When he was only three months old someone stole him from in front of our house. I had put him on his tether and went inside to get a Coke, heard a bark and ran outside just in time to see an old Plymouth peeling out down the street. Spec was gone from his tether. I was a sad twelve-year-old :(

A 1956 Chevy rolled in an accident on Central Street in KCK one Saturday night in 1960. The driver had been drag racing on slick streets. He was unhurt. A crowd of onlookers from the teen town dance at the church on the corner quickly gathered to gawk.

Shirley Lorton, 1959 KC Auto Show Queen, and yet another Wyandotte HS classmate, perched on the hood of a new Studebaker and the image, IMHO, said a lot about how men fealt about women and cars and about how women react to it all. Notice the little girl in the left foreground who apparently wants to be a "princess" just like Shirley.

Wyandotte HS social hall 1960. Sally Lytle hides from the camera, Glenna Richardson has that deer in the headlight look, and erst wile photo assistant Joe Manley handles the second strobe. 

These three photos are all of  downtown Kansas City, Missouri at Christmas shopping time, 1965. Some called Jim's tamales "Catamales" but I thought they were pretty good.

The Broadway Bridge under construction in 1959

I don't know why I like this photo, but I do. The boy's  name is unrecorded. He was a neighbor's kid and had a moment of reflection, which I appropriately captured with my 120 Reflecta camera. Had a darn good lens for a $15 camera.

Ah, "The Kansas City Kansan". A small daily that somehow survived in the long, tall and powerful shadow of "The Kansas City Star" just across the river. Alas, like many newspapers today, it isn't one anymore. It is an online news screen.

I began my checkered news photography career at the Kansan, when it was a print version that is.

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Went to Kansas City Kansas Junior College when it was on State Avenue. We called it the "World's longest college campus" because State Avenue was also US 50 highway, so in theory KCK JUCO's reach extended half way across America. 

Fortunately, the Kansan was only about four blocks from JUCO, so after classes I walked to my job as part time darkroom boy and occasional shooter. I was making $1.25 and hour when I started and $1.50 an hour when I quit to go to KU. Of course when I shot, I made $2.00 per published picture. I paid for my own film, processing and prints. Put it all together and I had enough to make the payments on my '57 Pontiac and to help out at home.

And as with most newspapers, the Kansan's most interesting days are in the past. Things in America's newsrooms are now sanitized, organized, and not nearly as colorful.

Even though it was a mere gnat on the rump of its big city cousin in Kansas City, Missouri, the Kansan was always a pretty good picture newspaper. It had a staff of two full-time photographers, a couple of writers who were decent shooters, and two part-time darkroom workers: One was an affable, if a bit dry, Wyandotte High School classmate, Bill George (who later became Dr. George). And me.

The Kansan was populated with real Damon Runyon types. Peggy was one of the most...unusual. She wrote the obits, and I suppose by sheer coincidence, she literally looked like death walking. Long, stringy, whitish, yellowish hair that was perpetually unwashed; she had pale, smooth, vampire-like skin; she had no wrinkles, even though she must have been in her 60's. But as she came near, her most overpowering feature was the strong, STRONG aroma of straight Jack Daniels on her breath. Maybe she was really in her 50's. I have heard that being in a more-or-less constant state of inebriation ages a person. Yes, you of the younger generation, many, many writers and especially photographers, drank both on and off the job. Peggy kept her bottle in the bottom drawer of her desk.

Then there was Barney. Soft-spoken, good solid editor, but on occasion had trouble making critical, big decisions.

One time a boy scout photo was accidentally exchanged in the back shop with one from a hospital. The caption under the boy scout photo implied they were operating on each other, or something like that. Whatever the exact wording, the consensus was that the caption and picture could be libelous per se and might result in a lawsuit. Or at the very least, some very angry scouts and their parents. The bulldog edition truck had already left the building and was headed to western Wyandotte County. 

What to do, what to do?

Barney and a couple of writers were walking around and around in little circles agonizing over a decision. Should they try to intercept the truck? Should they just wait and fix the caption for the next edition, which was about to pop in 15 minutes?

At that crucial moment, in walked the managing editor, old Frosty.

"What" he demanded in his usual boisterous manner, "in the HELL is going on!"

When he heard the problem, he immediately said, "Stop that dammed truck!" Which they did, and all was well. At least he could make decisions.

Then there was the tale of staff photographer Chris who was, shall we say, a bit ambitious. He wanted new cars, new cameras, new clothes and new women, in no particular order.

So, when Dirk, one of his photo chums,  wanted to use the Kansan studio to shoot pictures of luminous, pneumatic young females sans clothes, Chris' first reaction was "Don't be silly. If I let you do that I could lose my job!"

"How about if I pay you?" Dirk asked.

Now we all know that when it comes to money, that's different.

"How much?" Chris retorted,  interested now that cash was in the deal.

"How about twenty bucks?"

That was a lot of money in 1959, so Chris, possessing the tendencies noted above, took Dirk up on his offer.

For several months things went along swimmingly. Dirk would pick up the front door and studio keys on Saturday, shoot his young lady that evening and return the keys to Chris on Sunday.

Simple, clean (after a manner of speaking). Both parties benefited from the transaction.

However, one day Dirk's new girlfriend de jour exhibited considerable jealousy over Dirk striking likenesses of unclothed young women. Finally, after considerable badgering, Dirk allowed her to accompany him on the next photo shoot at the Kansan, just to keep watch on things. He said he would even let her apply the overall body makeup. Agreed.

One of Dirk's techniques for getting the model in the mood to pose was to plow her with copious amounts of wine. This approach, while not always getting him the best photos, more often than not got him...well, you know.

On the particular Saturday in question, after several bottles of wine, one thing led to another and now Dirk was photographing two young females, sans clothes. A few photos, according to legend, featured all three. Use your imagination.

Saturday came and went, then Sunday morning, then Sunday evening and Chris had not yet received his keys to the Kansan front door and to the studio. 

When Chris arrived at Dirk's apartment, the front door was unlocked. Chris found him in a rather sorry state on the couch, his girlfriend lying on the floor wrapped like a worm in a cocoon in the bed sheets. Dirk was so far gone that Chris could not rouse him. So he went through Dirk's pockets, found the keys, and as he always did, went to the Kansan to make sure everything was, ahem, tidied up from the previous night's cavorting.

Dirk's favorite spot, after the photography, was the publisher's couch. That Saturday night, which was a bit more intense than usual, Chris realized to his horror that not only was the publisher's couch  involved, but the publisher's desk as well.

It was nearly 3:00 AM when Chris finally left the building. It had taken a case of paper towels and a variety of cleaning chemicals to restore order to the publisher's space.

All was spic and span.

But most unfortunately for Chris, he did not notice the B&W contact sheet that had slipped between the couch cushions. The pictures of course were from Saturday night's photo shoot.

When I came into work after school Monday, the managing editor said that the publisher wanted to see me. Now.

At that moment I had no knowledge of what had transpired the Saturday before. But the publisher knew I was one of only four people who had a key to the studio, aside from a janitor, a couple of editors and of course the publisher himself. 

He waved the contact sheet in front of my face,  just close enough for me to see that the images were of bare flesh, but not close enough to see any detail, then he put the sheet back in his top drawer.

"Do you know any of these people?" he demanded. 

I had never seen Dirk, just heard tell. Likewise I had never seen either of the young women.

"Nope."

"Did you loan anyone your keys?" his second question.

"Nope."

Chris, the other full-time staffer, and my school chum Bill George (who really never would have been a party to such depravity) all denied any knowledge of or association with the incident. As we know, one was lying.

But the publisher was on a mission, like a dog after a bone as it were. He called in the KCK PD crime lab and had the place fingerprinted and searched for evidence.

When three strange sets of prints showed up in the studio, along with a thank you note from Dirk to Chris, apparently written in a semi-conscious state, Chris knew the jig was up.

He, Dirk, and the two young women left rather hurriedly that afternoon for California, where some years later, they set up the nation's first juice bar.

Names have been changed to protect half the world.

-30-

What ever happened to the old-fashioned, fire-eating press photographer? 1

"What ever happened to the old-fashioned, fire-eating press photographer?"

-Sign attached to the heavy wire mesh photo coop at the Kansas City Star, 1965.

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Hard to tell if it was my inner voice or indigestion, but whatever it was it told me to "Inflict some more boredom and tedium upon the world with another blog. After all, the world is pretty chaotic and humans need an excuse to doze off and relax a bit."

So, heeding the mysterious call from within, I am herewith offering from my 50+ years in the photo business a collection of my experiences, recollections and observations, mostly but not entirely true. The phrase a "novel from life" springs to mind; never let the facts stand in the way of a good story I always say.

I know not how many entries there will be. They will varied and not all about me. I do know that the photojournalism life has been so much a part of me as to be indistinguishable and inseparable from the rest of whoever I am.

I will unhesitatingly tell you that it has been, in the main, a fun ride. At times spectacular, actually. While I achieved perhaps ten percent of what I had hoped, and made about an equivalent amount of money, the places I've seen, the people I've met and the things I've done are, in MasterCard terms, priceless.

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This first installment is "The B2 bomber: A Christmas story."

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Some UFO-ologists (self-described students of the Unidentified Flying Objects phenomenon) firmly believe that the advanced technology used in the stealth aircraft of the United States Air Force was cloned from the presumed flying saucer that crashed near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. It took some forty years to comprehend and put into practice what the military weapons brains learned from that other-worldly craft, and from the grey, big-headed, huge-eyed alien pilots' dead bodies, so the theory goes.

In any event, and however the technology was derived, on December 22, 2001 I found myself driving to Whiteman Air Force Base near Knob Noster, Missouri. The purpose: To photograph the B2 Stealth Bombers based there.

Reading the skinny sheet from the New York Times picture desk while I drove (a no-no; I am aware) I picked up the essentials: The plane cost nearly $1 billion to develop, and each of the then 21 aircraft cost more than $700,000,000. Each. The wingspan is 172 feet, a flying wing configuration. Translation: Very pricey airplane, and you don't even get a fuselage, rudder or stabilizer for your money. The generic name of the B2 is "Spirit" and each plane also carries the name of one of the 50 states. The unique shape, construction of the aircraft and the special radar-deflecting coating applied by robots (the stuff has to be put on to exacting tolerances beyond the scope of mortals) help to make it virtually invisible to enemy detection systems.

The obligatory Media Information officer (PR guy) met me and gave me a tour of the base offices (you've seen one Air Force headquarters, you've seen 'em all), painted in the ubiquitous Air Force puke green.

There was, so far, not much of a photo op.

What seemed to me to be at great length, it was time to visit the hangers where the B2 bombers lived.

Now this was more like it!!!

It could very easily have been a frame grab from one of the Star Wars sagas. Because the B2's surface is a light-absorbing grey-black, in order for the ground crew to make proper visual inspections, many lights surrounded the bombers, giving the otherwise plain Jane/Joe hanger a very hi-tech. sci-fi look.

After about an hour of inside hanger and outside tarmac photography, I asked if I could shoot a take-off.

Yep, I sure could; In fact "now is the perfect time" I was told. The B2 bombers ran early morning and early evening test flights. It was 4:00 PM and on this late December day, it would be dark soon.

Traveling along the road that led to the end of the runway, I noticed some house trailers parked a few hundred yards back. I inquired of my PR escort as to why people lived so close to the airfield. He said that the owner of the land had worked out a leasing agreement with the Air Force, and since the land owner was also a US Senator, the military sort of looked the other way. Whatever...

The road stopped on a small rise. Dead ahead lay the 12,000' black runway with a series of yellow dots down the center.

While awaiting the first departure, a boy of about ten joined us.

"Hi. My name's Tom. I just like to watch them take off. They take off every night about this time," he explained to me, obviously pleased at informing the uninitiated.

Silence for another few minutes. I could kind of tell that Tom wanted to talk some more, so I asked him which trailer he lived in.

"The third one down the hill," pointing that away.

"The one with the Christmas lights around the window?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's my house."

"We have a Christmas tree too. It has some big red ornaments. We got no tinsel, 'cause my dad says it costs too much. But my mom loves tinsel. She is real sick and I sure wish I could get her some tinsel."

Then, off in the distance we saw the faint outline of the black, super-beast flying machine hurtling down the runway directly at us. It seemed to stay on the ground an awfully long time, and for an instant I considered ducking, as if that would have done any good.

At what I thought was the last minute, but was probably routine, the B2 lifted off and that now- classic, black, jagged wing silhouette appeared in front of us and a split second later, overhead. Another few seconds and it was out of sight.

Operating in stealth mode, the thing cannot even be heard until it is directly above. But on takeoff, the noise is, I would estimate, five times louder than the last heavy metal concert I shot. The deep-pitched roar was quite literally deafening. My ears ring yet today.

"Wow!" Tom shouted. "Wasn't that great!!!?"

The PR guy and I shook our heads in agreement.

I noticed that the PR guy had been on the radio with the tower just before the plane became airborne. I assumed he was telling them who we were and why we were there.

Almost dark now, and just one more B2 to depart.

Once again, a massive bomber lined up on the runway, its take-off lights shining brighter in the dusk. Once again it came within a few hundred feet of our spot before liftoff.

But this time, immediately after it passed overhead, something began dropping out of the sky. It was long strings of shiny metal. "What is THAT?" I asked Mr. PR guy.

"It's chaff, what some bombers use to help confuse enemy radar and air-to-air missiles," he replied.

I did not see any ATA missiles and had to assume that enemy radar was not an immediate problem.

I then realized that Tom was busy scurrying around collecting the delicate, long strands of shiny metal.

It looked, for all the world, like tinsel.

Hmmmm...quite a coincidence I thought.

No one spoke. Tom rushed back down the hill to his trailer, "tinsel" streaming along behind him.

It was now nearly dark, and getting colder.

I packed up my photo gear and climbed into the PR guy's van. Still, neither of us spoke. As we pulled up to the base offices, he finally turned to me and said, "What the heck, the United States are still the good guys."

I thanked him for his help, bade him a merry Christmas. On the drive back to Kansas City it occurred to me that the story of the day was not the B2 bomber, with its awesome firepower equivalent to 75 ordinary aircraft. It was not even the dedication of the pilots, ground crew and staff.

The real story was the act of kindness of a PR guy, the pilots and the air traffic controllers in the tower, who helped make Christmas brighter for a little boy and his ailing mom. And the upshot was that I had not even photographed it...

I hope the photos are self-explanatory.