A Montana Sky Turns Deadly Serious

Now folks, I’ve seen a lot from my perch in the pines — storms that rattle the Pintlers, hunters who swear they saw somethin’ hairy (and nope, it weren’t me), and the endless hum of planes slicing across Big Sky country. But on September 8, 1952, the skies over Phillipsburg, Montana, turned into the stage for one hell of a close call.

That day, a U.S. Air Force TB-29A Superfortress, tail number 44-62299, was flying a routine training mission from Hamilton Air Force Base in California to Great Falls Air Force Base. Routine, they called it — but ain’t nothing routine when you’re straddlin’ four temperamental Wright R-3350 Duplex-Cyclone engines, known for spitting fire like a drunk cowboy with heartburn.

And sure enough, one of those beasts gave out mid-flight. Fire. Smoke. Chaos. The kind of moment that separates trained airmen from mere passengers. The crew didn’t hesitate — they bailed out over the Montana backcountry. Every last one of ‘em lived to tell the tale, even if two were hauled to the hospital in Phillipsburg with injuries. The plane, though? She kept on flying, burning, then slammed into Mount Stuart four miles northeast of town, exploding into scrap metal and flame.

No ground casualties. No funerals. Just a smoldering wreck and one hell of a story.

The B-29: A Marvel with a Mean Streak

The B-29 Superfortress was a legend of World War II. Pressurized cabins, remote-controlled guns, higher altitude performance — she was the Cadillac of bombers. But like a Cadillac with a bad carburetor, she was prone to breakdowns, especially those damned engines.

The Wright R-3350 was infamous for overheating, leaking oil, and flat-out catching fire. They called it a “maintenance nightmare.” The engine failure that doomed the Phillipsburg bird wasn’t random. It was baked into the design — one of dozens of crashes across the country where the Superfortress proved more fragile than her name suggested.

This particular plane was a trainer variant (TB-29A), no bombs onboard, no gunners at their posts. By 1952, the B-29’s fighting days were over. Instead, she hauled crews around for reconnaissance training, a workhorse in the twilight of her career.

A Squadron in Transition

The plane belonged to the 112th Tactical Reconnaissance Squadron, a unit with roots stretching back to World War I. By the early ‘50s, they were adapting to the Cold War — part of the Western Air Defense Force. Crews trained hard, moving aircraft across the western states, sharpening skills in an era where the Soviet threat loomed larger than the Rockies themselves.

So when this crew lifted off from California bound for Montana, it was just another day at the office. That is, until the office caught fire at 15,000 feet.

When Things Went South: The Bailout

Here’s how it went down:

• Somewhere en route, one of those R-3350 engines quit and caught fire.
• The flames spread fast. Reports say the bomber was already burning as the crew bailed.
• One by one, 12 or maybe 13 airmen jumped out, parachutes blossoming over the Granite County hills.

Now here’s where history gets muddy. A contemporary newspaper report listed 13 crewmen by name, two injured, eleven unharmed. Later accident archives, though, say 12 men total. Which is it? Well, I’ll side with the local paper — they talked to the folks on the ground, they had names, and they had hospital records. To me, that’s as solid as a mule’s kick.

Among the saved were Capt. Hartley C. Dewey and Lt. Leonard J. Bertoli, both banged up but alive. Others, like Sgt. Robert E. Evans and Airman Raymond L. Moody, walked away shaken but intact.

Every last man accounted for. Every last man survived. That’s rare in the annals of B-29 crashes, where fireballs and mass fatalities were tragically common.

The Aftermath: Fire on Mount Stuart

Once the crew floated down, their bird kept flying. Witnesses said she “ricocheted off a mountain in flames and smoke” before gouging into Mount Stuart, where the wreck burned and set off a small forest fire.

Locals and military responders scrambled. The fire got knocked down. The wreckage? Officially, the Air Force would’ve cleaned up. But if you ask around Phillipsburg, you’ll hear whispers that shards of aluminum might still be out there, hidden under moss and pine needles. After all, plenty of Montana crash sites still hold twisted metal, decades after the headlines faded.

Separating Fact from Folklore

Here’s where we need to clear the fog:

• Not the Bleaklow Bomber. That was another B-29, crashed in England in 1948. Same crew number, different continent. Don’t mix ‘em up.
• Not 1959. Some online forums mistakenly peg this crash seven years later. Nope — September 8, 1952, is the verified date.
• Not another Montana B-29 tragedy. Plenty of other crashes happened in Big Sky Country, some with fatalities. This one was the rare exception: a total survival story.

So when you hear barstool tales about a flaming bomber near ‘burg, you’ll know the facts from the fluff.

Legacy of the Phillipsburg Crash

What makes this story worth telling 70+ years later? Simple:

• It’s a survival tale. All men lived through a nightmare.
• It’s Montana history. Granite County folks still whisper about wreckage in the hills.
• It’s aviation history. A reminder that even the mighty B-29 wasn’t invincible.

This wasn’t just another training flight gone wrong. It was a moment where skill, training, and luck collided — and 13 families got to see their sons come home.

FAQ: The 1952 Phillipsburg B-29 Crash

Q: Did anyone die in the crash?
No. All 13 (or 12, depending who you believe) crewmen survived.

Q: Where exactly did the plane crash?
On Mount Stuart, about four miles northeast of Phillipsburg, Montana.

Q: Can you still see the wreckage today?
Officially, the Air Force would’ve cleaned it up. But local lore suggests pieces may still linger in the backcountry.

Q: Why did the plane crash?
Engine failure — the bane of the B-29’s existence. Fire followed, forcing a full bailout.

Q: How rare was it for all crew to survive?
Extremely rare. Most B-29 accidents in the era were fatal for at least some crew.

Wrapping It Up

The crash of TB-29A 44-62299 near Phillipsburg wasn’t just smoke and wreckage. It was a survival story in an era when military aviation often demanded the ultimate price. It showed how training worked, how quick decisions saved lives, and how a Montana mountain bore witness to one of the luckier chapters in Cold War aviation history.

So next time you’re up in the Pintlers and hear the wind howl across Mount Stuart, remember — seventy years ago, it wasn’t the wind howling. It was fire, steel, and thirteen parachutes floating down to safety.

Montana Max, over and out.