Behind them, a seated crowd of family members, friends, local politicians, top brass from the Base and three retired, but proud-of-the-moment firefighters – one on a 24/7 oxygen machine, one on a cane – watched in anticipation.
At the podium was Captain Steve McKee, who wasn’t just the emcee of the dedication ceremony, but the man most responsible – even more so than Richards and Turner, both who played a big part in this – for the moment about to occur.
“In honor of Chief Ross’s dedication to the Army, the Air Force and the Wright Patterson Fire Department, Building 4017 is hereby dedicated as the Chief Elmer ‘Bill’ Ross Fire Station 2,” McKee announced.
That’s when Steve and Angie pulled away the red cloth to reveal the historical significance that brought on McKee’s words now had signboard permanence.
Chief Ross – who rose from poverty in the Hog Bottom section of West Dayton to serve his nation in two branches of service – was the first African American firefighter at Wright Patterson AFB.
Not content to just be a footnote, he continued to make strides up the ranks and ended his exemplary 23-year career at the base, as McKee put it, “as the man they called ‘Chief.’”
As that was being celebrated, Ross’s two children in attendance – his other daughter Vickie Williams was back at her home in Texas dealing with health issues – tried to process the memories of their late parents, who were married 65 years.
As Steve turned to shake Turner’s hand, Angie’s tears came and finally she ducked behind the sign to try to compose herself.
“The whole day I was kind of in shock with everything happening,” Steve said. “And when my sister started crying, I leaned back there and said, ‘Don’t start breaking down on me now, Angie.’
“She said, ‘Steve, I really can’t help it!’
“And I said, ‘Alright, do what you gotta do.’ And then I gave her my handkerchief and said, ‘Hold onto this, you’ll be OK.’”
This was a case of a son emulating his father:
Bill Ross was a guy who was good at giving you what you needed.
And that’s what this day was all about.
Sometimes he did it in dramatic fashion, as was the case with him and so many of those who responded to the deadly blaze that destroyed building 262-A on the base on November 21, 1961 and killed two fellow firefighters and injured three more.
The blaze consumed the old wooden building, and it took Ross and the others two days to work their way through the smoldering ruins and recover the bodies of Chief Dale Kelchner and firefighter William Collins.
Then, four days later, as many of his comrades were attending one of the funerals of the fallen men, Bill Ross and the others on duty were called to fight another massive blaze that was whipped by winds and engulfed an old World War II housing complex called Wood City across the road from the remains of 262-A.
The nearby enlisted men’s barracks were kept safe, but the damage still topped $1 million.
Other times in his career, Ross was called out for major incidents including the May 1974 crash of a Boeing B-52H Stratofortess that had been on a training flight and suffered rudder and elevator failure during its landing approach.
“I was told it hit nose first and the front section flew off,” said 74-year-old retired firefighter Fred Cox. “The wings and the rest of it went up in the air and headed toward other aircraft that was parked nearby.”
The debris fell short and the seven crewmen on board the demolished aircraft all survived.
But Ross was honored Saturday, not for these headline incidents, but for those day-to-day dealings in the firehouse that produced the most profound moments of his career.
The three retired firefighters at Saturday’s dedication who had worked with him – Cox; former Chief Neil Mangan, who is now 88; and 70-year-old Randy Hawkins – all attested to that.
“I never saw him back down from anything,” Mangan said. “But (on a personal level) he was also a real gentleman. He knew how to treat people right. He was decent to everybody.”
Mangan then chuckled: “And he was always dressed sharp. Like he was going to a presidential ball.”
No one captured the impact Ross made at Wright-Patt better than former Chief George Speelman, who wrote a letter to the editor that was published in the October 25, 1987 edition of the Dayton Daily News.
McKee read the letter to the crowd Saturday.
Speelman’s effort appeared under a headline: “Integration will strengthen fire department.”
He told how, when he joined the Fairfield Air Depot Fire Department in 1941 which eventually became part of WPAFB complex, the whole unit was white and stayed that way until 1959.
He said that’s when newly appointed Chief Wiliam Payne “startled the department with the appointment of the first black firefighter, Elmer Ross, a city of Dayton resident.
“As a senior fire officer at the time, I, as did others, anticipated that problems of integrating our racially structured unit would occur.
“However, to his credit, Mr. Ross overlooked our inherent biases and gave us an opportunity to accept, to know, and truly love him, as a friend and a fellow firefighter.
“Because of his skills, courage and tact, in a few short years ’Rossi’ was promoted through the ranks to chief officer…
“And I can attest from experience that in times of emergency, the race or gender of a person guarding your life, is totally irrelevant.
“I would remind all cities that there are many Elmer Rosses out there which, if given the opportunity, will enhance immeasurably the city’s fire-fighting capabilities.”
Smokey Joe’s
The Hog Bottom section of West Dayton was one of the most glaring examples of across-the-river segregation in this city.
Today, the area is home to sports-honored Dunbar High School, the former Madden Golf Course, Greencastle Cemetery and the surrounding neighborhood.
Before much of Hog Bottom was razed in the 1950s and early ‘60s, Sinclair Community College African-American studies professor Faheem Curtis-Khidr said the Federal Housing Authority published a report that said the neighborhood was “one of the worst slums in North America.”
Made up of many shacks and shotgun style houses not regulated by building codes, there often was no indoor plumbing, electricity or running water.
There were no street lights, but there were lots of hogs from Jake Bennett’s hog farm.
That’s the area where Bill Ross was raised.
“They called it hog bottom because, well, it’s a…a reference to a pig’s (butt) if you want the truth,” Steve Ross said. “It’s the kind of place where you wouldn’t want to live.
“My grandfather (Bill’s dad) built a house at the corner of Richley Avenue and Randolph (Street). We called it Smokey Joe’s.
“He wasn’t an engineer. There was no sewage system. And the way he built the chimney, it didn’t go high enough over the peak of the house. There was a coal stove and when the wind would blow, all the smoke would come back in the house.
“So, you could be sitting watching TV on a Saturday night and everybody had to hurry outside, and you’d open the door and wait for the smoke to clear.
“In the winter it’d be cold as hell out there.”
Bill went to Dunbar High School, but at 15 joined the Signal Corps. He was 17 when World War II was ending and he enlisted in the Army and was sent to Guam.
He soon was assigned to a firefighter unit and ended up as part of the aircraft crash crew now known as the Aircraft Rescue Firefighting Unit. Eventually, he advanced to a crew chief over a five-man crew operating a Class 155 crash truck.
He later was reassigned to the Tuskegee 332nd Fighter Wing at Lockbourne Air Base.
Returning to Dayton after his honorable discharge, he worked as a hod carrier for the B.G. Danis company.
He married Glenna Hill, a friend from childhood, and they began to carve out a better life. She got her real estate license and had a successful career.
He took the civil service exam in 1959 and was hired at the Base.
The couple nurtured their children with educational opportunities, vacations, worship at the Corinthian Baptist Church and involvement in the social fabric of the community.
The Rosses hosted an annual African Party in their back yard that drew 400 or more people and was part of the inspiration for the Dayton African American Cultural Festival.
Bill also was the drummer for the church choir and had a small jazz band on the side.
Steve was a football standout at Chaminade, played college football at Bethune Cookman, Ball State and Central State and worked for many years in the Dayton Public School System.
When Angie graduated from Hampton, she moved to New York to work for Macy’s, married and has lived on Long Island since.
The family’s successes go on through the next two generations as well, much of which Bill got to experience before his death, at 91, in 2020. Glenna died six years earlier.
He is buried in the National Cemetery.
‘This was far more than I ever expected’
After Saturday’s 45-minute ceremony ended, people gathered in the bay of the firehouse for a small reception that included a display of some of Bill’s mementos from his armed services’ and firefighter careers.
During the festivities Steve Ross said he sought out Captain Steve McKee:
“I just wanted to ask him, ‘Why did you choose my dad?’”
Ross already had plenty of respect and appreciation of McKee: “He’s a fantastic guy! This was all his idea. I can’t take ownership of any of this. I wouldn’t even have thought of it.”
Colonel Richards echoed those thoughts when he spoke to the crowd: “Captain McKee played a key role in making this happen. He was the linchpin for so much of this.”
Steve Ross said McKee saw a picture of his dad, researched his story and then called him to ask permission to get his dad’s military records and try to make this happen.
He was backed by Colonel Richards and embraced by Rep. Turner, who chaired the House Intelligence Committee until January 15 of this year and remains a big supporter of WPAFB.
“Chief Ross overcame the prejudices and biases of the day and improved the lives of his colleagues,” Turner told the crowd. “He is a model for all of us to emulate. I certainly have benefitted from learning his story.”
McKee hopes others, especially young airmen and women who come through the firehouse doors, will feel the same.
He said he wants them to see a man who faced challenges in life – whether it was growing up in Hog Bottom, joining the military when it was still segregated or overcoming preconceived notions when walked through the firehouse doors at Wright-Patt – and emerged as someone you could admire.
That’s why he wants the mementos on display Saturday to become a permanent exhibit inside the firehouse.
You can only hope they add a copy of that 1987 letter to the editor to that collection.
The reality of all this – from recognition of his dad’s past accomplishments to speculation of his future inspirations – attributed to the “shock” Steve Ross said he felt all day:
“This was far more than I ever expected.”
The same thing was said about his dad so long ago.
As McKee read Speelman’s letter aloud and got to the part -- “he gave us an opportunity to accept, to know, and truly love him, as a friend and fellow firefighter,” Angie Weaver sat in the front row.
And though her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, you saw the tears roll down her cheeks.
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