Lieutenant Colonel Raymond G. McLaughlin Sr.

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Raymond G. McLaughlin was born in Framingham, Massachusetts, and entered military service as a glider-pilot trainee in September 1942. He began flight instruction in the Civilian Pilot Training program at Holy Cross College, completing CPT primary training, secondary instruction, and cross-country work before being called into active duty.

He reported for basic training at BCT No. 10 in Greensboro, North Carolina. Afterward, he was assigned to the Central Instructor School at Randolph Field, Texas. In January 1944, he was recalled to glider-pilot training and completed his advanced phases at Bowman Field, Sheppard Field, Lubbock, Texas, and Laurinburg-Maxton Army Air Base in North Carolina. He graduated as a Flight Officer in Class 44-11.

McLaughlin deployed to the European Theater and joined the 79th Squadron of the 436th Troop Carrier Group, flying gliders and serving as co-pilot on C-47 aircraft. He took part in operations that brought the 436th into France, including the movement into Orleans and support of major airborne and ground operations.

When he returned to the United States, he remained in the Army Air Forces and trained as a troop-carrier pilot in glider flying at TC-H, Greenville, South Carolina. In November 1946, he transferred to the U.S. Army, qualifying as a liaison pilot. Over time, he flew nearly every category of Army aviation aircraft—both fixed-wing and rotary wing—and earned full instrument ratings.

He later served in Vietnam as the airfield commander of Phu Loi Army Airfield, a major aviation hub. After nearly three decades of military service, he retired from the U.S. Army in November 1969 with the rank of lieutenant colonel.

Following retirement, he continued flying professionally, serving as chief pilot for F. Jack Allen Land Co. For ten years he flew Cessna 401s and 421s, as well as the Mitsubishi MU-2 series, ultimately logging more than 15,000 flying hours before retiring fully in 1984.

During World War II, he flew gliders and transport missions

The glider pilots of World War II flew what many soldiers grimly called “flying coffins.” Built from little more than canvas, plywood, and metal tubing, these engineless Waco CG-4A gliders carried infantrymen, medics, jeeps, anti-tank guns, and entire supply loads silently into enemy territory. But landing a glider was often more dangerous than any combat jump. Pilots had one chance—no go-around, no second attempt, and no way to pull back up once released. 

They crash-landed into fields studded with hedgerows, trees, telephone poles, ditches, and sometimes directly into enemy fire. During major airborne operations such as Normandy, Market Garden, and the Rhine crossings, glider units suffered casualty rates as high as 40–50% among pilots and passengers. Many were killed on impact; many more were wounded or trapped inside wreckage. Despite these odds, glider pilots volunteered for the mission and, after landing—often broken, bleeding, and shaken—were expected to take up arms and fight as infantry.

 My grandfather flew these dangerous missions, serving in one of the most perilous roles of the war, recognized even in a Time-Life Book for the bravery required to fly a combat aircraft that the men themselves knew might very well become their coffin.

Survival depended on skill and luck in equal measure.

My grandfather survived multiple missions.

He later served across the Pacific and Asian theaters stationed in Japan, transporting personnel and supplies over vast stretches of ocean, jungle, and mountains. These flights were long, exhausting, and often conducted in harsh weather. He mastered them. He became the kind of pilot other pilots trusted.

His career extended into the Korean War, where he served with Armed Forces Far East, flying in Japan before returning to the United States as the commanding officer of the Fourth Army Instrument Pilot School at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

During his Vietnam tour, Raymond G. McLaughlin served as the airfield commander of Phu Loi Army Airfield — one of the busiest aviation hubs in III Corps, home to helicopter battalions, aviation maintenance units, and support elements. The base was a constant target for enemy mortar and rocket fire, and commanders in air-control positions bore the full risk of directing aviation operations under active attack.

It was during one of these attacks that McLaughlin performed the actions that earned him the Bronze Star Medal and the Purple Heart.

One night, Phu Loi came under a concentrated rocket barrage. Enemy 122 mm rockets struck the airfield with no warning, hitting aircraft areas, troop billets, and finally the control tower itself. McLaughlin was inside the tower when a rocket detonated nearby, blasting shrapnel through the control room and injuring him. Despite being wounded, he continued directing the evacuation and movement of personnel, ensuring that soldiers in exposed positions were moved to cover and that aircraft and fuel areas were secured from secondary explosions. His actions directly prevented additional casualties.

For his wounds sustained in the attack, he was awarded the Purple Heart.
For his leadership and lifesaving actions under fire, he received the Bronze Star Medal.

The incident reflects the reality of Phu Loi’s operational environment: commanders and pilots were not behind the lines — they were often the first exposed to incoming fire. McLaughlin’s experience in that tower aligns with multiple historical accounts describing Phu Loi as a frequent target of heavy rocket and mortar attacks, some involving dozens or even hundreds of rounds.

He survived the blast, completed his tour, and continued his career with the same professionalism he had shown in WWII and Korea. But the Phu Loi attack was one of the defining moments of his service — a moment when decades of flying, leadership, and combat experience converged in seconds, and he chose to protect others first.

In every war, senior officers need movement not just for operations, but for relationships, diplomacy, morale, and sanity. My grandfather became the pilot many colonels and generals chose when they needed:

• fishing trips
• hunting trips
• rounds of golf
• visits to remote posts
• transportation without ceremony
  

He wasn’t selected for his obedience or formality.
He was selected because they trusted him.

When a general wants to fly to a remote lake with fishing gear, he chooses the pilot who can get him there and back without incident. That was my grandfather.

He built friendships with senior leadership across continents not because he sought influence, but because he was the man everyone wanted flying the plane.

Two remarkable aerial photographs of the Sanry-sur-Nied train wreck were captured by 1st Lt. Raymond McLaughlin from the 1st Infantry Division’s aviation section (the U.S. Army had dispatched a light aircraft to assist and document). 

Regional outlets like Le Républicain Lorrain (based in Metz) provided extensive local coverage – in a 2017 retrospective article titled “Crash entre deux trains : l’horreur à 20 km de Metz”, the newspaper recounted the horror of that dawn collision, interviewing witnesses and even noting the U.S. Army’s role in documenting the scene (it mentioned Lt. McLaughlin’s aerial photographs and the aid given to survivors).

Today, references to this 1951 collision can be found in historical lists of rail accidents and military archives. The French Wikipedia entry for Gare de Sanry-sur-Nied, for example, notes the tragedy, citing 23 dead (including 6 American servicemen) and about 40 injured, caused by a signal faultfr.wikipedia.org. 

In France, the Sanry-sur-Nied crash remains one of the significant railway accidents of the 1950s, often remembered for its mix of civilian and military victims. In the U.S., it is a lesser-known episode of the Cold War era – a poignant reminder that not all casualties of military service occur in war. 

The cooperative response to the crash (French and American teams working together to save lives) also stands as an early example of NATO-aligned forces collaborating in an emergency.