Without Batson's efforts, we wouldn't have chance to be thankful
At first glance, you would not think anything extraordinary of the elderly gentleman entering our house. White-haired, hard of hearing, and 85 years of age, he looked like an older version of my sister’s husband, Joe. This day, Thanksgiving of 2019, was his first time in my home. What many did not know that, were it not for this man’s actions 40 years ago, we would most likely not be present to celebrate the holiday.
Billy Batson was born in Fayetteville. His mom was single and operated a beauty salon just off Dickson Street. He made a career in the Air Force flying KC-135 refueling tankers, eventually made a colonel and assigned to SAC, the Strategic Air Command, at Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha, Neb. He was the ranking officer in the underground command post, keeping tabs on the United States’ nuclear arsenal as well as monitoring other countries’ missile status. This bunker was connected to the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD. Some of the time was spent running simulations to defend against different scenarios of nuclear attack, but for the most part it was fairly routine communications exercises. However, the early morning hours of Nov. 9, 1979, were anything but routine.
The mission control officer glanced at his monitor and asked his fellow controller: “Are you running an exercise?”
“No, why?” he replied. “Because I have missile launches!” he yelled.
Sure enough, several hundred missiles were inbound on the officer’s screen. Col. Batson ordered the bunker to secure all exterior doors, basically sealing in all personnel. Coded messages were sent to major bases around the country with orders for fighter pilots to board planes and get into the air. He contacted the Pentagon, asking for verification of what they were seeing on their screens. Replies were mixed and confusing, but indications were that it was not an attack. But the missile control officer yelled out that the number of missiles now inbound was 1,500.
Col. Batson asked his senior officers for input as to what to do next. One officer felt certain it was a computer glitch of sorts. The other officer disagreed, reminding them that procedures called for launching a full retaliatory strike at once. This is what they had been trained to do. While they argued, the estimated time of first impact grew closer.
Batson cut off all argument. He said he thought it was a false alarm. “We will wait until something blows up, then launch a strike.” The first missiles would hit the East Coast in less than two minutes. They called up a secure line at Fort Ritchie in Maryland and provided a countdown for missile impact. If the missile strike was real, then the dead air from Maryland would give them confirmation of an attack.
When zero was reached, the line was still live. Batson and his men relaxed and started breathing a little. But the next wave of missiles was headed for Omaha. The screen showed dozens of arcing tracks headed straight for the base. Their families were asleep in Omaha. Would they ever see them again? As the countdown hit zero, all eyes went to the ceiling. It was intact. No impacts.
A spontaneous cheer went up from the men, and Col. Batson pumped his fist. He yelled out that he wanted answers as what just happened. Hours later, it was determined that a low-level employee had put a training tape into a computer and accidentally broadcast it to the SAC monitoring station. Zbigniew Brzezinski, President Carter’s national security advisor, had been seconds away from alerting the president and recommending a full-scale nuclear attack on the Soviet Union. This night would become an example of user error and technology gone awry. Col. Batson would go on to more heroic exploits, some of which are still classified. He didn’t relate this story to us during his visit, but I learned of them from subsequent conversations with Joe. Not many Americans realize how close we came to a real-life version of the movies Dr. Strangelove and WarGames.
After a long and distinguished career in the military, Billy and his wife
Susie retired and moved to Eureka Springs some years ago. Susie passed away earlier this year after a long illness, and he now resides in Peachtree Village of Holiday Island.
It was difficult to imagine that this unassuming elderly man, sitting quietly at our dinner table, could have made the decision to plunge the world into a nuclear war. Because he trusted his gut instincts, and did not blindly follow protocol, we could enjoy Thanksgiving Day as we have for many years. Colonel Billy Batson, retired USAF officer, was very appreciative for inviting him to our home. The honor was ours, and Thanksgiving was a little more thankful this year.
— Devin Houston is the president/CEO of Houston Enzymes. Send comments or questions to devin.houston@gmail.com. The opinions expressed are those of the author.