On March 30th, 2026, at Arlington National Cemetery, the United States Air Force laid

to rest Colonel Clarence Bud Anderson, a AAA's test pilot combat veteran of three wars, and by

any honest measure, one of the finest fighter pilots this country has ever produced. He was

102 years old. Two flyovers passed over Section 38 that afternoon. The first was a four ship

of F-35s, and the second, a four ship of F-35s and the second, a

four ship of P-51s, two of which bore the name Old Crow. If you know who Buda Anderson was,

then you understand exactly why this matter. If you don't, stick around because this one will be

worth your time. I was fortunate to meet him three times. Hear stories and discuss a little bit

about flying. I'll share that at the end. But first, I want to talk

about Colonel Anderson and his life.

Clarence Anderson Jr. was born January 13th, 1922 in Oakland, California. Friday the 13th. He

had spent a lifetime proving that meant absolutely nothing. He grew up on a fruit farm near Newcastle, a town of about a thousand people in the placer county foothills, just northeast of Sacramento. Apples, cherries, peaches, pears. The family was hit hard by depression. His father lost almost everything. But Bud never really knew that. There was always food on the table. He played football and basketball, a normal small-town California kid. And then two things happened that changed the direction of his life. When

Bud was five years old, Charles Lindberg crossed Atlantic. He later said it kindled a lifelong

interest he couldn't fully explain. Three years later, May 11, 1929, his father took him to

a small dirt airfield on Auburn Boulevard near Sacramento. A pilot was giving rides in a steerman byplane, opened cockpits. Father and son in the front, pilot in the back. They flew over the family farm. The plane rolled up on the side. Seven-year-old Bud Anderson looked straight down at his shoes too afraid to look out. His mother saved the certificate for 50 years. Six months after that ride

at Boeing Trimotor crashed on a ranch less than three miles from their home. All four on board

survived. The next morning, Bud and his friend Jack ran to the wreckage. They examined the cockpit,

touched everything, took pieces home as treasure. He'd laid it right. After that, all we talked

and dreamed of were airplanes and airplanes.

January 1942, a month after Pearl Harbor, Bud Anderson and listed in the Army Aviation

Cadet Program. He earned his wings and commissioned in September of 1942. He was 20 years old.

He was assigned to the 363rd Fighter Squadron, 350-7th Fighter Group, the 8th Air Force based at

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