R.I. Bong Air Force Base

Contents

1. Overview
2. Etymology
3. Cultural Impact

For the original location of the Bong Air Force Base name, see Fairchild Air Force Base .

Airport in Kenosha County, Wisconsin

Richard I. Bong Air Force Base

Remains of Bong AFB, April 2024

Location of Richard I. Bong Air Force Base

IATA : none
ICAO : none

Summary

Airport type Military Owner United States Air Force Location Brighton, Kenosha County, Wisconsin Elevation AMSL 803 ft / 244 m Coordinates 42°38′14.62″N 88°8′56.81″W / 42.6373944°N 88.1491139°W / 42.6373944; -88.1491139 Interactive map of Richard I. Bong Air Force Base

Runways

Direction	Length	Surface
	ft	m
15/31	12,900	3,932

The Richard I. Bong Air Force Base stands as a monument to strategic indecision and the ephemeral nature of military planning. It is, perhaps more accurately, an unfinished Air Force base, a concrete ghost of what might have been. Named in honor of the distinguished World War II aviator, Major Richard Ira Bong , a veritable ace from Wisconsin , this ambitious project was originally envisioned as a critical air defense fighter base. Its primary mission: to shield the bustling urban centers of Chicago and Milwaukee from the looming threat of Soviet bombers during the tense early years of the Cold War .

The concept for this expansive installation first took shape in the nascent 1950s, with shovels hitting the ground in the mid-1950s. However, the ink on the initial blueprints had barely dried, and construction had only just commenced, when the base underwent its first significant strategic pivot, being abruptly transferred to the purview of the Strategic Air Command . This shift hinted at a changing threat landscape, or perhaps, simply a changing bureaucratic whim. Ultimately, the base was deemed obsolete, a redundancy in a rapidly evolving military landscape. Air Force officials, with their characteristic foresight (or lack thereof, depending on your perspective), concluded that existing installations in the vicinity would soon possess ample capacity to accommodate additional units, rendering Bong superfluous. Consequently, this multi-million dollar endeavor was unceremoniously abandoned in 1959, with its assets and land disposed of the following year. A swift, decisive ending to a project that never quite found its footing.

It is important to note, for those with a penchant for precise historical detail, that this ill-fated venture should not be conflated with an earlier, equally intriguing plan. There was a proposal to rename Spokane Air Force Base, Washington , as Bong Air Force Base. That particular renaming was intended to honor the same decorated aviator. However, fate, or perhaps just bureaucratic inertia, intervened when General Muir Fairchild passed away while on active duty in 1950, thereby ensuring that “Fairchild” would forever be etched into the name of the current Fairchild Air Force Base , preempting any Bong-related nomenclature in that corner of the country. One might almost call it a pattern of near-misses for the name “Bong” in Air Force nomenclature. [1]

History

Plans for the layout of the base Map of the Bong Air Force Base construction in progress when project was halted 1962 Topographical Map of Abandoned Bong Air Force Base

Major commands to which assigned

Aerospace Defense Command (1954–1957)
Strategic Air Command (1957–1959)

Base operating units

Operational history

The genesis of an air force base dedicated to the defense of the Chicago metropolitan area emerged in 1951. At that time, prescient (or perhaps just observant) officials recognized that the burgeoning air traffic at O’Hare International Airport was on a collision course with oversaturation, threatening to overwhelm existing air traffic control facilities. In response, the United States Air Force issued a directive to the Air Defense Command , tasking them with a study: identify a suitable location for a base that could house two fighter-interceptor squadrons, ideally situated within a 70-mile radius of the city. The overarching objective, a stark reminder of the era’s anxieties, was to establish a formidable defensive shield for both the Milwaukee and Chicago areas against any potential aerial incursions by Soviet bombers.

A diligent survey team, after presumably much deliberation and map-gazing, ultimately pinpointed a site south of the unincorporated community of Kansasville, Wisconsin . On August 30, 1954, the Air Defense Command , with newfound purpose, formally requested the necessary funds for the site’s development. The 56th Fighter-Interceptor Group was already penciled in to relocate to this new facility as soon as its construction reached completion. [2]

The chosen locale encompassed a sprawling 5,160 acres of agricultural land nestled in the northwest corner of Kenosha County , with an additional 360 acres spilling over into neighboring Racine County . Construction, as mentioned, commenced in 1956, but had barely scratched the surface of the earth when the Air Defense Command began to harbor serious doubts regarding the suitability of the selected site. By this juncture, the base had already been christened, bearing the distinguished name of the celebrated aviator, Major Richard Ira Bong , a quintessential Wisconsin World War II flying ace.

Colonel Charles E. Lancaster, the newly appointed commander of the command, was among those who articulated these growing concerns. He astutely highlighted that the base’s proposed location would inevitably exacerbate existing air traffic control challenges rather than alleviate them. Furthermore, he pointed to the fervent public outcry from the community of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin , a mere 18 miles to the west, which had vehemently protested a prior proposal to locate the United States Air Force Academy there. Lancaster’s recommendations were clear: abandon the current site and instead select a new location north of Milwaukee . Such a move, he argued, would offer synergistic benefits, serving not only the needs of the Air Defense Command but also the Strategic Air Command , which was, at that time, slated to be the base’s primary tenant. One has to wonder how many times such “ideal” locations are chosen only to be re-evaluated moments later.

By the middle of 1957, the progress on the site remained minimal; only the drainage system was actively under construction, and the crucial process of land acquisition was still incomplete. The projected date for the two squadrons’ relocation was, unsurprisingly, pushed back to mid-1960. Then, on June 5, 1957, another significant realignment occurred: the base’s major command designation was officially transferred to the Strategic Air Command . The two squadrons initially earmarked for the base, those fighter-interceptors, were now relegated to tenant status, a subtle but telling shift in strategic priority. As advancements in technology accelerated, the Air Defense Command found itself in a position to reduce its aircraft inventory while paradoxically maintaining, or even enhancing, its defensive capabilities. This technological evolution had direct consequences for Bong’s initial purpose; one of the O’Hare squadrons was eliminated entirely in 1958, while another was subsequently transferred to K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base .

Throughout 1956 and 1957, the Strategic Air Command embarked on a comprehensive program designed to disperse its units across the nation. The rationale was simple, if grim: a wider distribution of assets would, in theory, mitigate losses in the event of a direct enemy attack. Bong, despite its nascent state, was designated as one of these dispersal bases. Consequently, the 4040th Air Base Squadron was activated on August 1, 1958, with the rather unenviable task of maintaining a base that was still largely theoretical. The base was also assigned to the formidable Eighth Air Force . The planned tenants for this evolving facility were now envisioned as a bomber wing and an air refueling wing, a far cry from its original interceptor role.

However, the bureaucratic pendulum swung once more. On January 1, 1959, responsibility for the base was transferred from the Eighth Air Force and its skeletal 4040th Air Base Squadron to the Second Air Force . At this point, the 4040th consisted of a grand total of two servicemen, a testament to the base’s largely unoccupied status. It was around this time that the Air Force, in a moment of clarity that perhaps arrived years too late, realized that the units planned for Bong could be perfectly accommodated at other, already existing bases. The writing, it seemed, was finally on the wall.

Recognizing that the base would no longer serve a vital purpose, the Air Force made the fateful announcement on October 1 that Bong would be closed. On that very day, a mere three days before concrete was scheduled to be poured over the meticulously prepared 12,900-foot (3,900 m) asphalt runway, all construction activity was abruptly halted. The 4040th, which had by then swelled to a robust 12 servicemen (still no civilians, mind you), was formally discontinued on December 1, 1959. [3] The decision to pull the plug was primarily driven by the realization that newer aircraft, specifically the advanced B-58 Hustler , could be integrated into other operational bases more efficiently, particularly by accelerating the phased elimination of older B-47 Stratojet units. The Richard I. Bong Air Force Base was officially declared surplus on August 23, 1960, a casualty of strategic shifts and technological progress.

Secretary of the Air Force James H. Douglas, Jr. later offered a rather succinct, if somewhat delayed, explanation for the base’s cancellation, stating:

“Finally we realized that by 1961–62 when Bong would be ready, we would have several other medium bomber bases empty of squadrons & we really don’t need Bong.”

A perfectly logical conclusion, one might say, if only it had been reached several years and millions of dollars earlier.

In a twist of irony, the only military activity that ever genuinely graced the unfinished runways and fields of Bong was the training of Special Forces units, who utilized the desolate landscape for exercises before deploying to the distant battlefields of the Vietnam War . A place built for one conflict, briefly serving a very different one.

Chronology of events

Colonel Charles E. Lancaster, base commander, is shown looking at the heating plant and POL tank farm, some of the few above ground structures built on the cancelled Bong Air Force Base. The project was cancelled a week after this photo was taken.

February 18, 1955 – The Racine Journal Times reports that the Air Force, in a sudden burst of interest, was exploring the possibility of constructing a base in southeastern Wisconsin . [4]
April 20, 1955 – Congress is approached with a request to appropriate a substantial $16.5 million ($138 million when adjusted for inflation as of 2017) for the proposed base. The Air Force, ever secretive, still refused to divulge its precise location.
July 1, 1955 – The U.S. Senate formally authorizes $16 million for an ambitious $83 million jet base project in the Kansasville, Wisconsin area. It is officially slated to be named in honor of Major Richard I Bong .
September 15, 1955 – Air Force Brigadier General William Wise informs a gathering of 800 residents from Dover and Brighton that the exact location of Bong, despite prior authorizations, remains an elusive secret.
February 28, 1956 – Air Force officials, in a move that surely brought joy to local farmers, confirm rumors that the commencement of construction would be delayed. The official reason: an “inability to use the runway plan on a 24-hour basis in all kinds of weather.” Farmers are, somewhat ironically, told to “go ahead and plant.”
July 10, 1956 – Congress, apparently undeterred by the previous delays, grants authorization for the acquisition of land. A revised appropriation now allocates a staggering $30,660,000 ($302 million adjusted for inflation as of 2017) for construction.
September 8, 1956 – The Air Force finally reveals that, with the exception of a small parcel of land in Racine County , the entire base would be situated within the Town of Brighton , Kenosha County . The estimated cost for land acquisition alone is $1.7 million, with an additional $2 million earmarked for the relocation of state highways and utility lines. [4]
September 12, 1956 – The Air Force announces that the base would require 5,400 acres of land. This figure is subsequently expanded to 5,500 acres when a decision is made to extend the runway from 11,500 feet to an impressive 12,300 feet.
November 14, 1956 – The Air Force confirms it has authorized the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to commence land purchases.
December 12, 1956 – Property owners in the designated area report being contacted by government representatives eager to acquire their land.
March 5, 1957 – Landowners, feeling short-changed, stage their third public meeting, vehemently protesting the government’s appraised prices for their properties.
March 22, 1957 – The Air Force, in another strategic shift, announces that Bong would also be utilized for Strategic Air Command bombers, broadening its mission profile.
June 5, 1957 – A call for bids is issued to construct a drainage ditch, marking the official “first step” in actual construction. [5]
June 27, 1957 – An Appleton, Wisconsin , firm is awarded the inaugural construction contract for off-base drainage facilities, valued at $50,040 ($420,000 adjusted for inflation as of 2017). [6]
October 3, 1957 – The Air Force, seemingly adept at generating delays, announces further postponements in awarding the first major construction contract, which was originally scheduled for August.
November 13, 1957 – The Corps of Engineers informs highway department officials in Racine and Kenosha Counties that sections of County Trunk J and Highways 43 and 75 would need to be abandoned by January 1, 1958.
January 31, 1958 – The Air Force finally authorizes immediate advertising for runway bids, a crucial step forward.
June 6, 1958 – Minneapolis firm S.J. Groves & Sons secures a substantial $13,606,998 contract for the construction of the main runway and taxiways.
June 7, 1958 – Colonel Charles E. Lancaster is officially named commanding officer of Bong Air Force Base . [7]
June 25, 1958 – Allen J. McKay, vice president of S.J. Groves & Sons, unveils plans for their 120 ft x 60 ft steel shop and a 60 ft x 30 ft frame office building, to be constructed at the intersection of Highway 43 (which is present-day Highway 142 ) and county trunk B. McKay projects peak work crews numbering between 400 and 450 individuals. [8]
June 18, 1958 – Construction officially begins, finally. [9] Simultaneously, State Representative Henry Reuss petitions the Senate Appropriation Committee to reject an $18.5 million allocation for Bong Base, citing concerns about the base’s potential impact on civilian aircraft operations in the Chicago -Milwaukee airspace.
July 1, 1958 – Resident Army Engineer Major General George L. Shumaker issues an emergency request to close several town, county, and state roads, including state highways 75 and 43 (present-day Highway 142 ), county trunks B and LM, Brighton (Center) Road, and Rhodes Road, an immediate disruption for local residents. [10]
July 25, 1958 – Bong Base survives a critical House vote. Representative Charles A. Boyle of Illinois attempts to strike the appropriation from a military construction bill, highlighting the collision hazard that military jets posed for commercial aviation and advocating for further study of the base’s impact on the already congested air corridor. [11]
September 20, 1958 – Bids are opened for an additional $2 million in construction, covering roads, sewers, a water system, and an electric substation.
October 23, 1958 – Korndoerter & Salvano Inc. and Henry Nielsen Iron Works are awarded these contracts.
January 4, 1959 – Representative Gerald Flynn ominously suggests that the Bong Air Force Base would be obsolete within 5 to 10 years of its completion. It would later be revealed, after the base’s cancellation in October of that year, that Flynn had participated in a secret meeting in the fall of 1958 concerning the advent of missile technology and its impending impact on air base operations. [12]
March 26, 1959 – Representative Henry S. Reuss echoes Flynn’s concerns, stating, “It is perfectly possible that the Bong Base may be obsolete only a few years after its completion. Under the circumstances, it is not too early to start thinking about what might be done with this $83 million airport when the air force does not need it any more.” [13] A rather prescient, if ignored, observation.
March 30, 1959 – Minneapolis firm S.J. Groves & Sons secures another contract, this time for $7,845,434, to construct hangars, a refueling system, fuel tanks, access aprons, and various support facilities.
April 29, 1959 – The Air Force announces its intention to open bids on May 20 for a potential $14.8 million contract for the construction of 900 homes for base personnel. The very next day, an Air Force spokesman clarifies that bids would be accepted for an even larger number: 1,390 units.
May 13, 1959 – Colonel Lancaster confidently informs a Manufacturers Association group that the Richard I Bong Air Force Base would become the equivalent of Burlington in terms of size and retail services, painting a picture of a thriving military-civilian hub.
May 18, 1959 – Representative Henry S. Reuss publicly charges that Bong is a waste of taxpayer money, rife with “frills.” He specifically criticizes plans for bowling alleys, a hi-fi shop, a steam room, and even a squash court, questioning their necessity for a military installation.
May 23, 1959 – Representative Gerald T. Flynn of Racine publicly denies that Bong contained such “frills.”
June 17, 1959 – Plans are announced to solicit bids for a 50-bed hospital, with an estimated cost of $1.8 million, indicating further expansion of the base’s amenities.
June 24, 1959 – The Five Boro Construction Co of New York is identified as the apparent low bidder ($3,447,367) for the construction of dormitories, a mess hall, a service club, and two-story officers’ quarters.
September 26, 1959 – Air Force officials conduct a visit to the air base. [14] The Burlington Standard Press is contacted by government officials requesting they process some 32 pictures taken by the seven VIPs touring the Bong Air Force Base . These photos are subsequently dispatched to the Pentagon and the White House . [15]
October 1, 1959 – The Burlington Standard Press prepares a story provocatively titled “What’s Brewing at Bong Base.” Colonel Lancaster, “up north” at the time, intervenes and prohibits them from running the story. [15]
October 2, 1959 – The Bong Air Force Base project is officially cancelled. Burlington Standard Press editor Vern Wolf is present on the base when the fateful call comes in to Lt. Colonel Stanley Wilber, informing him that the base had been “shot out from under him.” [15] A rather dramatic end to a rather dramatic project.
October 19, 1959 – Vice President Richard Nixon publicly denies an allegation, leveled by state Representative Gerald Flynn , that he exerted pressure on the Air Force to cancel the project. [16]
November 4, 1959 – Bong opponent Representative Charles A. Boyle , described rather colorfully as the “arch-foe” of Congressman Flynn , dies tragically when his car collides with an “L” pillar in Chicago . “He was a familiar sight with his big limousine and eight children in and around Burlington,” [17] the town just six miles west of the Bong Air Force Base . Boyle was 52 years old and driving alone at the time of his death. Police theorize Boyle either fell asleep at the wheel or was cut off by another motorist. [18]
December 1, 1959 – The 12 Air Force personnel assigned to the 4040th Air Base Squadron are reassigned to other Strategic Air Command bases. Colonel Charles E. Lancaster, the base’s only commander, is reassigned to Clinton County Air Force Base in Ohio. [19]
December 2, 1959 – Colonel Charles E. Lancaster formally announces the base’s official deactivation. Remaining officers and enlisted men are ordered to other bases by December 15 of the same year. [20]
January 7, 1960 – Colonel Charles E. Lancaster receives the Air Force Commendation Medal for his service as the solitary commander of the cancelled Bong Air Base. [21] The accompanying citation reads, in part, “Colonel Lancaster demonstrated outstanding leadership and professional ability in successfully accomplishing the function of his inherent responsibilities.” [22] Newspaper editorials subsequently publish positive responses, commending his affability, dedication, and the immense adversity he faced due to decisions entirely beyond his control. [23]

With an estimated $15 million ($125 million adjusted for inflation as of 2017) already sunk into the Bong project, it was grimly estimated that an additional $15 million would be required simply to “close the door” on the entire episode and extricate the government from existing contracts. [citation needed ] A rather expensive way to walk away from a mistake, wouldn’t you say?

Cancellation factors

The decision to cancel the Richard I. Bong Air Force Base was not a singular, isolated event, but rather the culmination of several interconnected factors, each contributing to the project’s ultimate demise. It was a perfect storm of fiscal concerns, logistical nightmares, and a rapidly shifting geopolitical landscape.

Cost

On May 18, 1959, Representative Henry S. Reuss took to the floor of the House of Representatives to voice his profound conviction that the Bong project was “shot thru with waste, frills, and extravagance.” [24] He didn’t mince words, urging the House to “put the brakes” on what he considered “non-essential” Air Force expenditures at the nascent base. Among the line items he particularly assailed were a proposed massage room (because nothing says military readiness like a good rubdown), squash courts, a hi-fi shop, and a bowling alley. He argued, quite reasonably, that given Bong’s close proximity to nearby Racine and Kenosha , and the short drive to either Milwaukee or Chicago , such elaborate recreational facilities were entirely unwarranted. “If Bong were being built in the middle of a great desert, or atop a mountain, or in some inaccessible place far from civilized centers,” he posited, “these grandiose plans might be somewhat justifiable.” But it wasn’t. It was in Wisconsin , a place with perfectly adequate bowling alleys already.

Secretary of the Air Force James H. Douglas , addressing a gathering of 200 individuals at a hearing in the Racine County Courthouse on October 8, 1959, offered another compelling fiscal justification for the cancellation: the soaring costs of missile development. Previously, missiles had been viewed primarily as a research and development program, a futuristic endeavor. However, by that point in history, missiles had transitioned into operational status, and their associated costs were escalating at an alarming rate. Citing this fundamental shift in military priorities and expenditures, Douglas explained that the reallocation of funds stemmed from “an effort to do the most important things and to do the things we must militarily have.” [25] He further conceded that the Air Force hadn’t reached its cancellation decision sooner due to “the natural strong reluctance to turn around when we had proceeded so far.” A polite way of saying no one wanted to admit they’d made an $83 million mistake until it was absolutely unavoidable.

Air traffic congestion

The very geographic advantage that initially made Bong’s location appealing—its strategic placement between two major urban centers—also proved to be its Achilles’ heel. While ideal for defending Chicago and Milwaukee , positioning a jet fighter interceptor base there meant introducing a substantial volume of military aircraft into an already notoriously busy air corridor for commercial aviation. O’Hare International Airport was, even then, considered one of the busiest airports in the world. The prospect of further complicating these congested skies with high-speed military jets was, understandably, not met with widespread enthusiasm.

A particularly contentious debate erupted in the House in July 1958, when an additional $18.5 million was requested for the air base project. Representative Melvin Laird vociferously objected to the base’s location, declaring, “Here is an example where the Air Force bullied its way through the Civil Aeronautics Administration and went ahead and got into this construction program in a very improper location.” [26]

During that same heated debate, Representative Charles Boyle famously characterized the placement of the airfield, a mere 40 miles from O’Hare and 16 miles from Mitchell Field (now General Mitchell International Airport) , as “the height of folly.” He went on to exclaim, “How in the name of heaven can you go ahead and throw into a project that is obsolete before it leaves the drawing board?” [26] Concerned with the perilous proximity of civilian air hubs and the very real possibility of in-air collisions, he advocated for the base’s cancellation over a year before the broader consensus finally aligned with his astute, if unheeded, view.

Private airlines, as one might expect, expressed considerable apprehension, fearing that the base would necessitate rerouting flights eight or ten miles out over Lake Michigan to accommodate the military airspace. [27] The Air Force, in an attempt to mollify these concerns, indicated that “intensive flying exercises” would not, in fact, take place at the base. [28] However, Major General W. P. Fisher, in a letter that seemed to contradict this assurance, affirmed that the air base would be “fully combat capable and remain on constant ready alert.” The inherent tension between these statements was, to put it mildly, difficult to reconcile.

Roger Sekadlo, the manager of Mitchell Field, openly expressed his relief following the announced base cancellation, stating, “Now we will have no intermingling of military jet bombers and passenger planes. That is definitely a better situation for commercial airlines.” [29] Newspapers, ever keen to weigh in, echoed these sentiments. The editorial board of the Milwaukee Journal added its own critical voice: “Vainly did The Journal and others protest that bombers and tankers – if a new base was needed – ought to be ‘dispersed’ to areas where they would not invite attack on already attractive targets and where military planes would not interfere with heavy commercial air traffic nor be interfered with.” [30]

Representative Flynn went so far as to accuse then-Vice President Richard Nixon of having directly influenced the base’s closure, allegedly pressured by private airlines. Nixon, along with his aides, vehemently denied any involvement in the decision. Nixon told a reporter in Chicago , “I know nothing whatever about this matter and I had nothing to do with it.” [31] It’s worth noting that Representative Melvin Laird would later serve as President Nixon’s Secretary of Defense from 1969–1973, perhaps indicating a deeper, if unacknowledged, connection to this particular bureaucratic saga.

Obsolescence

In January 1959, Representative Gerald T. Flynn , with remarkable foresight, predicted that Bong would be obsolete within 5 to 10 years of its construction. He correctly surmised that the airfield would become redundant once ballistic missiles were more widely adopted for national defense. His vision for the abandoned facility? A conversion into a Milwaukee metropolitan area airport. “When the base becomes obsolete,” he declared, “it undoubtedly will be offered for sale as surplus government property.” [32]

Later that year, in March, Representative Henry S. Reuss publicly reiterated this concern, stating, “It is perfectly possible that the Bong Base may be obsolete only a few years after its completion. Under the circumstances, it is not too early to start thinking about what might be done with this $83 million airport when the air force does not need it any more.” [13] The warning signs, it seems, were plentiful, but largely ignored.

When the base was initially conceived in 1954, the Air Force was operating under a directive to rapidly expand its manned aircraft operations. The ambitious goal was to establish 137 air wings across the United States by 1957. However, by 1959, the very year Bong was cancelled, the Air Force had only managed to achieve 103 air wings, a clear indication of a disconnect between aspiration and reality.

The Bong Air Force Base was envisioned as a jet fighter interceptor base in 1954. Coincidentally, that same year marked the construction of the first Intercontinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) . This simultaneous development underscored a profound and rapid shift in military technology. The lightning-fast pace of missile advancements fundamentally altered America’s strategic defense doctrines, creating considerable uncertainty surrounding the future viability of manned bomber operations. The Bomarc missile was making its debut, and America’s first long-range missiles were being deployed to the Strategic Air Command at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. The writing was, quite literally, on the wall, etched in the trajectory of a missile.

When pressed for the underlying reasons behind the base closure on October 8, 1959, Secretary of the Air Force James H. Douglas offered a candid, if somewhat belated, assessment: “The facts are, if we try to simplify the problem, our highest priority weapons development – intercontinental ballistic missile – is the start of a chain of events that leads to a change of plans that has eliminated Bong.” [25] A stark admission that an $83 million project was rendered irrelevant by the inexorable march of technological progress.

Ideal target

A significant concern, and one that was not easily dismissed, was the chilling possibility that the air base, far from being a deterrent, might actually transform an already attractive enemy target into an even more desirable one. The strategic placement of the base meant that anything within a 600-mile radius was considered to be in a direct line of fire from a missile launched from Russia . [27] In March 1959, Colonel George Carnachan, co-chairman for Civil Defense in the metropolitan Milwaukee Target Area, indicated that the presence of the Bong Air Force Base could potentially elevate the entire region to a “#1 rating” in the grim scenario of an enemy nuclear strike. “There’s little doubt strategic bomber base like Bong would be the first thing you’d go for if you were the enemy,” [33] he stated, a rather sobering assessment of the base’s strategic liability.

Bong’s location forced Civil Defense planners to fundamentally rethink their evacuation strategies for the cities of Kenosha , Racine , and the southern portion of Milwaukee County . Previously, residents in these lakeside communities were advised to head west into Walworth County in the event of an enemy attack. However, with the air base now situated directly between the lake and this designated refuge area, evacuees might find themselves forced to drive directly through the base’s blast zone, with no viable alternative routes available. It was a logistical nightmare for a scenario no one wanted to contemplate.

A mock nuclear bombing raid, part of the nationwide Operation Alert, was conducted by Civil Defense on April 17, 1959. [34] Residents of southeastern Wisconsin were chillingly informed that an imaginary one-megaton bomb would “explode” over the Bong Air Force Base . Officials, in their grim simulation, claimed that under such a scenario, the nearby city of Racine would experience minimal blast damage, but would be blanketed by a lethal dose of 100 to 3,000 roentgens of radioactive fallout. They further elucidated that a mere 450 roentgens was sufficient to cause severe sickness or death for anyone exposed to the fallout. [35] Not exactly a comforting thought for those living nearby.

Representatives Henry S. Reuss and Charles A. Boyle had, in fact, taken their concerns directly to the top, writing a joint letter to President Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1958, explicitly questioning the advisability of placing a Strategic Air Command bomber base between Milwaukee and Chicago . According to Reuss, “we urged the President to halt spending at Bong and to order a full investigation of the project.” [36] Another ignored warning, it seems.

Missile base claim

Representative Gerald T. Flynn , after a hearing on October 8, 1959, made a rather sensational claim: he and Representative Henry S. Reuss had attended a secret briefing in the fall of 1958 where “eight colonels and two generals” allegedly explained that the base’s primary function would not be that of a bomber base. Instead, he alleged, once the bomber was rendered obsolete as an instrument of nuclear weapons delivery, Bong would seamlessly transition into a missile base. “They told us what the missile would consist of, how it would be fired, and why it was essential to have such a base in that location as a link in the midwest defense,” Flynn asserted. [27] He went on to offer his statement under oath to any governmental investigation committee, a dramatic challenge. Flynn further claimed that the Air Force harbored plans to install an underground facility featuring a 20-foot deep shaft specifically for missiles. [37]

Secretary of the Air Force James H. Douglas , however, rather dismissively brushed aside Flynn’s comments at the hearing, stating, “I think that Mr. Flynn misunderstood the briefing, and this isn’t a very difficult thing to do sometimes.” He offered a more benign explanation: the briefing in question was merely intended to inform congressmen of the future strategic shift from manned bombers to missiles. “There was no definite plan to use Bong as a launching site for ballistic missiles,” [25] Douglas insisted, sticking firmly to the official narrative.

Reporter Robert W. Wells of the Saturday Evening Post later probed a Pentagon official, John M. Ferry, about the practical feasibility of converting Bong into a missile base. Ferry’s response was instructive: “Missile sites are dispersed around — not necessarily on — existing Air Force bases. The personnel commute between the sites and the parent base. At Bong there wasn’t yet a completed base on which missile installations could be centered. Besides, there are special problems in converting a base for missile use. The water table is important. The silo for a missile goes down 185 feet below ground.” [38] This practical assessment effectively cast doubt on Flynn’s more dramatic claims, highlighting the complex engineering challenges involved in missile site construction, challenges that a partially built bomber base was ill-equipped to handle.

Abandoned airfield

Construction had been underway for approximately a year and a half when the cancellation order finally descended. Several key aspects of the base were already taking tangible form, emerging from the earth, only to be abruptly scrapped mid-progress. It’s a rather stark illustration of sunk costs in concrete and steel.

Runway

A truly colossal volume of material—1,642,600 cubic yards (1,255,900 m 3 ) of aggregate base, meticulously laid four feet deep and tightly compacted—had already been put in place for the primary runway and its associated taxiways. [39] The impressive 12,900-foot (3,900 m) asphalt runway was, in a final ironic twist, just three days away from having its concrete surface poured when the cancellation orders arrived. S.J. Groves and Sons, the primary contractor, had completed a staggering 71% of the air field work, in addition to 19% of the work on alert taxiways, hangar units, and various airport supports. [40] The Assistant Secretary of Defense indicated that the primary runway alone had cost $750,000 (approximately $6 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) in federal appropriations. [41] Other substantial costs included a $3,000,000 ($25 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) operational apron, a $1,150,000 (nearly $10 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) hangar apron, a $1,500,000 (nearly $13 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) maintenance dock, $2,400,000 (about $20 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) for jet fuel hydrants, and a $700,000 (about $6 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) ordnance storage facility. It remains unclear precisely how much of these individual components were actually completed before the entire base was summarily abandoned, leaving a scattered legacy of half-finished infrastructure.

Navigational Aid Facility

The crucial air navigation aid, or TACAN , was situated south of the primary runway at 42°37′20.6″N 88°9′22.7″W / 42.622389°N 88.156306°W / 42.622389; -88.156306 . Information regarding this specific structure is, perhaps fittingly, scarce. However, its presence is clearly indicated on a map [42] supplied by the General Services Administration (GSA) , as well as on a map held within the esteemed collection at the Wisconsin Historical Society . [43] Furthermore, it remained visibly discernible in aerial photography up until 1970, a silent sentinel of a forgotten purpose. The Assistant Secretary of Defense reported that the navigational control station alone incurred a cost of $40,000 (roughly $340,000 adjusted for inflation in 2017) in federal appropriations. [41]

Receiver building

The receiver facility, another vital component of the base’s communication network, was positioned west of the primary runway at 42°37′37.7″N 88°11′14.27″W / 42.627139°N 88.1872972°W / 42.627139; -88.1872972 . Similar to the TACAN facility, detailed information on this structure is limited, a common theme for abandoned projects. Nevertheless, it is clearly marked on a map [42] provided by the GSA and also appears on a map within the archives of the Wisconsin Historical Society . [43] Aerial photography confirms its existence up until 1970, though by that point, it appears to have been stripped or partially dismantled. The foundation itself was likely destroyed or buried sometime after 1980, erasing another physical trace of the base. The Assistant Secretary of Defense noted that the communications receiver cost $35,000 (approximately $300,000 adjusted for inflation in 2017) in federal appropriations. [41]

Railroad spur

A $600,000 [44] ($5 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) Soo rail spur, meticulously constructed in 1958, was left to rust into disuse. Its intended purpose was to efficiently transport jet fuel and other critical supplies into the sprawling base. [45] This five-mile railroad line branched off from the main Soo line south of Burlington and entered the western extremity of the base before curving southeast of county trunk B. From that point, the single track ingeniously split into three parallel rail lines, designed to serve the batch plant. Despite its careful construction, and a single locomotive running the track once upon its completion, the spur never saw a single payload of supplies moved along its length. [46] A rather expensive piece of unused infrastructure, wouldn’t you say? The line was ultimately dismantled for salvage in 1974, a final act of concession to its utter redundancy. [47]

Water distribution system

A comprehensive water distribution system, comprising 3.75 miles of varying sizes of class 150 cast iron pipe, had been meticulously installed prior to the abrupt termination of construction. This network included 400 ft of 6-inch pipe, 3,500 ft of 8-inch, 14,800 ft of 12-inch, and 1,300 ft of 18-inch pipe. Upward of 25 fire hydrants, silent sentinels of a community that never was, dotted the prairie landscape, awaiting a fire that would never come. [48]

Sanitary sewer

The sanitary sewer system, another essential utility, remained incomplete, yet a significant portion—some 13,500 feet of 8-inch to 21-inch-diameter lines—had already been laid beneath the earth.

Storm drainage

An extensive storm drainage network, stretching approximately 29,500 feet (9,000 m), or about 5.5 miles in length, had been installed by 1959. Urban explorers, decades later, would refer to this collection of large concrete pipes as “the tunnels,” a testament to their enduring, if unintended, presence. A substantial 60-inch-diameter (5 ft) storm drainage system had been constructed, culminating in a massive 96-inch (8 ft) diameter storm sewer outflow directed towards Peterson Creek on the southern boundary of the property.

Most of the 26-inch-diameter manholes or catch basins that punctuated this system have long since been sealed, either by bulldozers pushing dirt over them in the 1960s or by more deliberate metal plates in the early 2000s. The depths of these manholes varied considerably, ranging from 5 ft to a considerable 21 feet (6.4 m). An inventory conducted in 2001 revealed that upward of 120 manholes still existed across the landscape, though many could only be located through the painstaking use of a metal detector, having been completely entombed in earth.

Water treatment plant

Plans for both a sewage and water treatment plant were drawn up, to be located in the north-central area of the base. The sewage treatment plant was designed as a two-story structure, incorporating an office and laboratory, collectively spanning some 1,800 square feet (170 m 2 ). The water treatment plant, a more substantial facility, was slated to cover 6,800 square feet and would feature a 500,000-US-gallon (1,900,000 L; 420,000 imp gal) ground storage reservoir. A massive 140-foot-diameter (43 m) clarification tank , a crucial component for water purification, was submerged into the ground north of Highway 142 at 42°38′20.4″N 88°8′26.9″W / 42.639000°N 88.140806°W / 42.639000; -88.140806 , but it was never actually put into use. [42] Over the decades, this tank has slowly deteriorated, gradually transforming into a rather peculiar, artificial pond.

An additional million-gallon elevated steel tank was planned for the north side of the base, near the residential section, to ensure adequate water pressure for the future community. [49] The sewage and water treatment facilities were being constructed by the C & C Construction Company of Fort Wayne, IN, and were approximately 14% complete when the cancellation order abruptly halted all work. [40]

Heating plant

The deserted heating plant and POL storage tanks during the first winter after the base was cancelled.

A substantial 3,500 horsepower central heating plant had been erected, a testament to the scale of the planned installation. [50] This facility was constructed by the H.R. Reger Company of Chicago throughout 1958 and 1959. [51] The plant was estimated to be 72% complete when the fateful cancellation order came down, leaving it as a partially finished shell. [40] The Assistant Secretary of Defense indicated that the heating plant alone cost $250,000 (roughly $2 million adjusted for inflation in 2017) in federal appropriations. [41]

Tank farm

Three colossal POL (propellant, oil, and lubricants) tanks, with a combined capacity to hold 70,000 barrels of jet fuel and 20,000 US gallons (76,000 L; 17,000 imp gal) of gasoline, stood vacant and unused. [50] This storage facility comprised two 20,000-barrel tanks, one larger 30,000-barrel tank, [52] and an additional underground 2,000-barrel tank. [53] The H.R. Reger Company of Chicago , having secured another contract, was responsible for the construction of this impressive, yet ultimately redundant, facility. [51] The tank farm was strategically located just south of present-day Highway 142 at 42°37′55.4″N 88°8′01.9″W / 42.632056°N 88.133861°W / 42.632056; -88.133861 , occupying a five-acre parcel of land.

Following the base’s closure, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers made a concerted effort to lease these substantial tanks, [53] presumably to recoup some of the investment. However, despite these efforts, they were ultimately never utilized, standing as silent monuments to an unforeseen future.

Electrical substation

An electrical switching station, vital for power distribution, also sat idle, a testament to the base’s advanced state of incomplete readiness. The station was equipped with three 1,667 kVA oil bath transformers and two 6-amp oil circuit breakers. The input for these transformers was rated at 26.4 kVA, with an additional 10 kVA allocated for a three-circuit 120/240 V system. [48] All the pieces were there, but the power was never fully turned on.

Army engineer’s office

The Keno Construction Company of Highland Park, Illinois, had erected a $100,000 (nearly $1 million adjusted for inflation as of research in 2017) corrugated office building at the intersection of present-day Highways 142 and 75. This 32 ft x 128 ft prefabricated Butler-style structure, featuring a sheet steel exterior, was constructed during the fall of 1958. This office served as the operational headquarters for Major General Shumaker and his dedicated United States Army Corps of Engineers staff. [54]

Remarkably, the engineer’s office was not only the very first building to be erected on the base but also the last to be torn down. This resilient structure later found a second life as a school house, serving the local community for many years, before finally being razed in the early 21st century. Its demolition marked the end of the only above-ground Air Force base structure to survive the base’s subsequent conversion into a recreation area . A humble, yet persistent, survivor of bureaucratic folly.

Hospital and dorms

The Borough Construction Company of New York had completed approximately 10% of their work on a planned base hospital before the entire project was cancelled. Similarly, construction on a dormitory complex was only 3% complete when the plug was pulled. [40] Concrete footings had been poured for the dormitories but were later covered over. Some of these foundations are, remarkably, still visible today on the Brighton Dale Links golf course, located at 42°38′40.9″N 88°7′21.9″W / 42.644694°N 88.122750°W / 42.644694; -88.122750 , a subtle reminder of what might have been. Underground storm sewers were also installed in this area, another layer of forgotten infrastructure.

Roadway disruption

The ambitious base project had necessitated the severance of several county and state roads, a significant inconvenience for local residents. Highway 43 (present-day Highway 142 ) was effectively cut off where it traversed the base property. By 1961, residents, utterly fed up with the prolonged closure of Highway 43 between Burlington and Kenosha , took matters into their own hands, battering down the air base gates and unofficially reopening the road. [55] A clear demonstration of local frustration overriding federal decree.

Prior to the base’s cancellation, Highway 75 was slated for a rerouting, envisioned as a two-lane highway extending north through the town of Brighton itself. Upon reaching Highway 43 , it was planned to expand into a four-lane road continuing north. These ambitious plans, however, were summarily scrapped once the additional lanes intended for air base traffic were no longer deemed necessary. Instead, Highway 75 was rerouted north from a fork just above Klondike, running along the former air base’s eastern boundary until it reconnected at the intersection adjacent to Brighton Elementary. [56]

Impact

“Stunned southeastern Wisconsin residents today were accusing the Air Force of creating a 15 million dollar desert in their backyards in cancelling building of Richard Bong Air Force Base .”
— Kenosha Evening News, October 3, 1959 [57]

The sudden cancellation of the Bong Air Force Base project left a profound and lasting impact on the local community, transforming landscapes, displacing families, and eroding trust in governmental processes. It was, for many, a deeply felt betrayal.

Displaced people

The land designated for the base had once been a diverse landscape, roughly half-covered in forest with a verdant prairie at its heart. Potawatomi, Menomonee, and Ojibwa Native Americans were known to have hunted and lived on this land for generations. [58] European settlers arrived around 1830, initiating a process that displaced the indigenous peoples and irrevocably altered the natural prairie ecosystem. Arrowheads were sometimes found afterward, subtle echoes of a prior existence, and a trail created by the indigenous people once traversed the property in a north–south direction, situated to the east of the pioneer cemetery. All traces of this ancient trail were, however, systematically erased by the base’s construction, as it occupied the very area cleared for the runway, taxiway, heating plant, and POL storage facility.

Rhodesdale farmstead house is moved off base in 1958

The area was first cleared for agricultural purposes by the Thomas Rhodes family in 1842. [59] Their farm, Rhodesdale, represented possibly the largest of the government’s land purchases, and was a venerable 115 years old in its final year of 1957. Brothers Frank and Clarence, fourth-generation farmers who were born on the homestead and had lived there their entire lives, were informed that they would have to vacate their ancestral home by November 1957. Collectively, the Rhodes family owned a significant 10% of the land deemed necessary for the government’s ambitious construction plans. The original farmhouse, located at 42°38′42.5″N 88°7′46.7″W / 42.645139°N 88.129639°W / 42.645139; -88.129639 , was, remarkably, relocated three miles to the northeast corner of County Trunks J and BB, along with one barn, on March 29, 1958. [60]

In total, 59 farm families were uprooted and displaced from their homes and livelihoods. [61] An incomplete list of these displaced residents includes the Gruinwall, Ratlidge, Sheahan, Kirkman, Meyer, Wiener, Muller, Ward, Rhodes, Schaefer, Theobold, Vacins, Ericks, and McEtridge families. Many of their homes, the very foundations of their lives, were summarily razed during the initial construction phase. Farmers were compensated at a rate of $220 to $300 per acre [62] ($1,952.06 to $2,661.90, adjusted for inflation in November 2017). However, many farmers felt that the government’s appraised price for their land was far from fair. Some attempted to protest, seeking assistance from nearby residents or resorting to litigation to halt the process. Others tried to relocate to nearby land, only to discover that property prices had skyrocketed in the wake of real estate developers and speculators, who saw an opportunity in the government’s land grab. The majority of families, facing an insurmountable challenge, eventually sold their properties and moved away. About a dozen families, however, steadfastly refused to accept the prices offered to them and were ultimately forced off their land under condemnation proceedings. [63] Adding insult to injury, these displaced farmers were unable to plant their 1957 crops and found themselves too late to cultivate new crops at other locations, compounding their financial losses.

For a complex variety of reasons, these families were unable to return to their original properties even after the base’s cancellation, and the land was subsequently declared governmental surplus. [64] The air base project, in its brief and destructive existence, stripped away 14 million cubic yards of rich farming soil, rendering 2,000 acres of once-prime agricultural land utterly useless for farming after the project’s abandonment. [62] A permanent scar on the landscape and a lasting wound for the community.

Lost cemetery

A tombstone from Brighton’s “lost cemetery.”

A small, 1/4-acre pioneer cemetery, located on the 40-acre Gill farm and dating back to 1887, was disinterred and relocated in June 1958 [65] by Earl Spencer. [66] Officials initially anticipated moving eight marked graves, with the possibility of additional unmarked graves. [67] Lois Stein diligently conducted the research necessary to identify those interred in the graveyard.

Ultimately, nine graves were marked, but a total of 22 bodies were relocated. W. Eddy, Patrick Patterson, and one additional unidentified body were transferred to Salem Mound Cemetery in Silver Lake. Nineteen other deceased individuals were moved to the Forest Home cemetery in Milwaukee , including Walter Reynolds, Suky Reynolds, Caroline Benson, Jane C. Benson, and Roby Sheldon. [65] All identifiable graves dated back to the mid-19th century, a tangible link to the region’s early settlers. [68]

The cemetery itself was originally situated off the southeast corner of the former County Trunk LM and Brighton Road at 42°37′32.5″N 88°8′56.3″W / 42.625694°N 88.148972°W / 42.625694; -88.148972 , positioned precariously between the planned runway and taxiway, just south of the operational apron. Today, the abandoned air base’s 8-foot-diameter storm sewer rather disturbingly runs directly through the historical site of the cemetery, a final indignity to the displaced dead.

Relocated pioneer cabin

A log cabin, originally constructed in 1845 by Matt Wallrich, was unexpectedly discovered when bulldozers arrived to raze structures for the runway. The cabin had been hidden for decades beneath 20th-century cladding, a forgotten piece of history. It was meticulously dismantled piece by piece and then carefully reassembled by Seabee Unit 9-46 and the Kenosha Historical Society , ultimately finding a new home in a park in nearby Silver Lake. [69] However, the subsequent years were not kind to the relocated structure. Vandals, fire, and rot eventually deteriorated the cabin to the point that it had to be torn down entirely, a mere 35 years after its initial rescue. Some of the original timbers and the historical plaque were moved back to Brighton and placed near the ball diamond at Wack Park. Today, only the plaque remains, attached to a stone, the old wooden timbers having long since rotted away, a fleeting echo of pioneer life. [70]

Topographical alteration

“When we fought Japan and Germany and devastated their areas, we went in with American dollars and rehabilitated them. They have devastated us as much as if they had bombed us.”
— Rep Gerald T. Flynn (D-Wis) [71]

The land itself bore the scars of the abandoned project. Trees in the southwest corner of the tract were ruthlessly removed using a slash-and-burn method, a rather aggressive approach for a domestic project. Stumps, rocks, concrete rubble, and demolished building debris were unceremoniously deposited into designated dumping grounds within the same area. The precious topsoil was systematically skimmed from the areas slated for the runway apron, central heating plant, and POL tank farm, and then stockpiled in the northwest corner of the base. Essentially, the entire southern half of the site had been drastically flattened to create an unnaturally even grade for the runway. According to a report prepared by the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources in 1978, a stark conclusion was reached: “Returning this land to agriculture was considered impossible as the topsoil had been stripped.” [39] A permanent alteration, rendering the land unusable for its original purpose.

The majority of the former roads that once crisscrossed the site were never restored, and it would take years of local effort to reopen Highway 43 (present-day Highway 142 ). Locals, growing increasingly frustrated with the prolonged closure of Highway 43 , which served as the quickest route between the towns of Kenosha and Burlington, eventually took matters into their own hands. Someone, in an act of civil disobedience, rammed open the gates erected by the Army Corps of Engineers , and motorists, ignoring the stern “US Government – Keep off” signs, defiantly reclaimed the road. [55] Prior to the base’s cancellation, Highway 75 was intended to be rerouted as a two-lane highway north through the town of Brighton itself. After reaching Highway 43 (present-day Highway 142 ), it was planned to expand into a four-lane road running north. These plans were, of course, scrapped once the additional lanes intended for air base traffic were no longer needed. [56] Highway 75 itself would not be restored until four years after the air base was cancelled. Even then, it would not follow its original route. The new Highway 75 now split off the old highway at Klondike and ran north along the eastern edge of the site until it reconnected to the old highway at Brighton Elementary. [72]

Economic disruption

Map showing the proposed location for the never-built Upland community and re-routing of Hwy 75

A staggering $29,000,000 (equivalent to a quarter of a billion dollars adjusted for inflation in 2017) [73] had already been expended on the base when construction was abruptly halted. The human cost was also significant: 59 farm families had been displaced, their lives upended. The town of Brighton suffered a 23% loss in its tax valuation, and the local school district saw a crippling 27% reduction in its tax base. [74]

The prospect of a massive Air Force base had, predictably, attracted numerous entrepreneurs to the surrounding area, all eager to capitalize on the anticipated commerce generated by the new installation. Motels were hastily constructed, including one outside of Union Grove, Wisconsin , rather uncreatively named “Bong Motel.”

The base itself was slated to include 900 Capehart housing units, designed to accommodate military personnel and their dependents. Officials even projected that additional housing would be necessary by 1962, requiring an estimated 490 more units to handle the overflow. [75] Private interests, naturally, were chomping at the bit to capitalize on this impending construction boom.

An ambitious 1,800-acre property development, optimistically named “Upland,” [38] was already in the works. This proposed community was to be built between Kansasville and Union Grove. The Evanston, Illinois, developers envisioned a sprawling new city, complete with 3,000 privately owned houses, 300 rental houses, 192 apartment units, a 33-store shopping center, a 92-unit motel, a golf course, parks, two elementary schools, a high school, and numerous churches. [76] [38] The base cancellation, in a cruel twist of fate, was announced the day before Scope Associates, Inc. [77] had intended to begin purchasing land for this monumental undertaking. Had it been completed, this new city was projected to house a population of 12,000 to 15,000 residents and incur a cost of $55,000,000 (nearly half a billion dollars adjusted for inflation as of 2017).

Even smaller entrepreneurs felt the sting. A drive-in theater was erected by Ted Kostro, a Milwaukee house painter who borrowed heavily and even sold his own house to build “the Bow and Arrow” on the approach road to the base. The base cancellation was announced on the very day of the drive-in’s grand opening. [77] [78] A rather devastating opening night, indeed.

Distrust of the federal government

The acquisition, radical modification, and subsequent abandonment of eight square miles of private land irrevocably reshaped the public’s perception of government agencies, particularly among the residents of southeastern Wisconsin . A wave of shock and incredulity swept across the region in response to the base’s sudden cancellation. [57] “I think it is rather tragic that the government should spend so much money for no good purpose,” lamented Edward J. Ruetz, president of the Kenosha National Bank. [79] Demands for a congressional investigation quickly mounted. [80] Local politicians, naturally, railed against the government’s decisions, criticizing not only the closure itself but also the glaring lack of foresight that preceded it. Representative Henry S. Reuss charged, “From the beginning, a rank amateur would have been hard-pressed to select a more incongruous location for a strategic bomber base – in the middle of the most congested air traffic corridors in the nation, and in the heart of an already vital target area for any enemy.” [81]

Compounding matters, the Air Force, after abandoning the project, refused to complete essential construction, such as roads, utilities, and the power plant. Had these items been finished, the property would have held significantly more appeal for private investors eyeing the base for industrial or commercial development. Residents took deep offense to the government’s initial willingness to lavish money on the project before its cancellation, and its subsequent refusal to spend “one thin dime” to make the site attractive to prospective buyers. As a direct consequence, locals were more than eager to “get the federal government out of the picture.” [82] The memory of the government’s profound mishandling of the project would linger, serving as a bitter reminder for Wisconsin residents over the next two decades, as numerous plans for the abandoned base were considered, and bureaucratic red tape consistently barred any swift resolution. [83]

This deep-seated distrust of the federal government would later, and perhaps inevitably, transfer to the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (DNR), the state agency that eventually acquired 5,190 acres of the former air base after over a decade of arduous legal wrangling. In 1978, Brighton town chairman Lawrence Olsen gave potent voice to this animosity at a public hearing held at Westosha Central High School regarding the DNR’s plans for the area. “This has always been a town of Brighton problem. Why weren’t we involved in the planning? Why weren’t the planning meetings held in Brighton?” He went on to charge that officials had “no consideration of those who lost the most.” The DNR, at that point, had not yet acquired a remaining 480 acres of school forest land under a managing agreement. Olsen pointed out how the town stood to lose yet another $12,000 a year from Brighton’s tax base. Olsen was hardly alone in his disposition. Frances Jaeschke, representing the League of Women Voters , described the abandoned air base as “one of the worst fiascos of government bungling.” John Vanderwerff, a Brighton supervisor, vehemently opposed additional land acquisition, stating, “How will the town of Brighton survive? The truth is the DNR doesn’t give a damn about the town of Brighton.” [84] A rather candid assessment of local sentiment.

Post closure activity

After the official closure, the Bong Air Force Base transitioned from a failed military project to a sprawling, desolate landscape, ripe for various, often unexpected, post-closure activities.

Surplus

Following the cancellation, considerable efforts were made to lease, salvage, or sell as surplus the remaining parts and facilities left over from the base’s incomplete construction. It was a rather desperate attempt to recover some value from the monumental waste.

H. Turner and Son Boscobel found themselves with a substantial inventory of unused materials: 14,600 lineal feet of 6-inch cement pipe, 700 linear feet of concrete pipe, 95 frames and grates for manholes, and 14 cast-iron tees and crosses, all left sitting on the abandoned base. [85]

C & C Construction, another contractor, also had a significant amount of leftover equipment: over 10,000 feet of 6-inch and 10-inch insulated pipe, a 325 GPM water softener, various sewage plant equipment, 72 tons of reinforcing steel, and a miscellaneous assortment of other items, all stranded on the base. [86]

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers itself embarked on an effort to sell off an even larger array of surplus materials: 16,372 feet of 3-inch electrical fiber duct and fittings, 34,000 pounds of number 4, 5, 6, and 8 reinforcing bars, miscellaneous fabricated cages, forms, metal grates, and manhole covers, 1,420 ft of 8-inch diameter Helcor pipe, various concrete paving supplies, miscellaneous airport paving forms, 2,400 linear feet of corrugated metal pipe of 6-inch and 36-inch diameters, 700 linear feet of corrugated metal pipe of 12-inch and 15-inch diameters, 15,200 linear feet of black seamless coated pipe of 2-inch and 10-inch diameters, miscellaneous fittings for black seamless coated pipe, and eight large 50,000-gallon steel tanks. [87]

Several imaginative, if ultimately unsuccessful, attempts were made to repurpose the air base. These included proposals for its use as a commercial park, and even serious consideration as a civilian airport, circling back to its initial purpose in a twisted way. Above-ground structures, such as the heating plant and the POL tank farm, were eventually torn down. The railroad spur, deemed a total loss, was removed in 1974 once it became painfully clear that no industrial park would ever materialize on the grounds. The vast majority of the land, however, sat largely dormant and unused for years, a barren expanse, until its eventual designation as a state park in 1974.

Airdrop exercises

Despite its unfinished state, the military occasionally found a use for the abandoned airfield, transforming it into a temporary training ground for various exercises.

One such exercise took place on July 1, 1961, when the elite 82nd Airborne Division conducted airdrop practice maneuvers over Bong. A contingent of 240 soldiers from Company C of the 1st Airborne Battle Group, 503 Infantry, parachuted into the desolate landscape as a crowd of 25,000 spectators watched, presumably marveling at the spectacle. Six C-119 Flying Boxcars flew in at an altitude of 2,300 feet, each dropping 20 men per pass, with each plane making two passes with troops. Winds were gusting at a considerable 20 mph, causing some of the paratroopers to drift into the wooded area in the northern part of the base, leading to three minor injuries. Following the troop drop, the C-119s proceeded to deliver two jeeps and a 105mm howitzer from the air. A helicopter carrying seven additional skydivers from the 82nd Airborne was, however, unable to climb to the necessary 7,200 feet for a planned delayed-opening jump, a minor hitch in an otherwise impressive display. [88]

The legendary Green Berets conducted a mass paratrooper jump exercise over Bong on March 16, 1968. A force of 190 paratroopers from the US Army Reserve’s 12th Special Forces Group joined members of the Air Force Reserve’s 928th Tactical Airlift Group in a simulated combat airdrop. The troops once again flew on C-119 Flying Boxcars out of O’Hare International Airport . Fortunately, no one was hurt during this particular jump. [89]

Another exercise unfolded on August 3, 1968, when the 440th Tactical Airlift Wing flew out of General Mitchell Field in Milwaukee on a “corridor mission.” The C-119 Flying Boxcar was tasked with dropping jeeps along with 55-gallon drums of water, simulating fuel. However, high winds once again intervened, leading to the cancellation of the mission, proving that even abandoned airfields have their meteorological challenges.

Biernat slaying

The base, in its state of disuse, became a desolate, forgotten space, a perfect backdrop for more sinister activities.

Four years after the base was cancelled, the body of Kenosha businessman Anthony J. Biernat was discovered on the north side of the abandoned base, the victim of a brutal gangland killing. [90] Biernat, a jukebox distributor, was reportedly beaten to death after a Chicago syndicate allegedly ordered the Milwaukee mob to muscle in on his lucrative Great Lakes Naval Base revenue and Wisconsin jukebox operations.

A mob source, in a rather uncharacteristic act of civic duty, reportedly called the police with a tip, stating, “If you want to find Biernat’s body, look in the basement of an empty house in an abandoned area in Kenosha County.” When pressed for more specifics, the informant added, “Well, you can be sure of one thing, it (the body) ain’t going to fly away.” This cryptic, yet helpful, hint led local authorities and the FBI directly to Bong. [91] Deputy Bob Cantwell eventually spotted a bloody handprint on a board covering a cellar entrance of the former Rutledge residence. Two grueling hours of digging with trenching tools would ultimately reveal Biernat’s body, his hands tied together with a white, plastic wire, a grim testament to the base’s dark, unintended legacy. [90]

Transfer of land

The saga of the Bong Air Force Base did not end with its cancellation; rather, it entered a protracted phase of bureaucratic wrangling and eventual repurposing, a testament to the enduring power of real estate and public need.

Alternate usage

Numerous imaginative ideas were proposed to salvage the considerable work already completed on Bong, attempting to transform a colossal failure into something useful. These included ambitious proposals for an international jet airport (a rather ironic return to its original purpose), an industrial center, a planned community, a prison, a national cemetery, and even, somewhat fantastically, a facility for NASA . [92]

Park land and forest preserve

Ultimately, nearly 1,000 acres (400 ha) of the site were transferred to the Kenosha County park commission and four local school districts. A 360-acre parcel in the northeastern corner was handed over to the county parks. Below that, 160 acres were transferred to the Salem Central High District, and 24 acres were deeded to Brighton Elementary School District No. 1, located at the intersection of present-day Highways 142 and 75. The very southwestern 120 acres of the base were turned over to the Kenosha Unified School District No. 1 School Forest. The western 320 acres of the base, lying within Racine County , were deeded to the Burlington Area Joint District and Wilmot Union High School, respectively. A rather piecemeal distribution, but at least it found some public use.

School

The $100,000 (nearly $1 million adjusted for inflation as of research in 2017) corrugated Army Engineer’s office, situated at the corner of Highway 142 and 75, was acquired by the Brighton Joint School District for a symbolic sum of $1. It opened its doors as Brighton School No. 1, holding its first classes on September 6, 1960, with 124 students spread across four classrooms. [93] An entirely separate building would later be constructed in 1975 to house additional classrooms and a gymnasium. [94] The original former air force base structure, affectionately known simply as the “metal building” by local residents, subsequently served as the school’s cafeteria and the town hall office until its eventual demolition in the 2000s during extensive renovations to the main school building. A true phoenix from the ashes of military miscalculation.

Golf course

The northeastern portion of the base, once envisioned as a hub of military activity, was transformed into Brighton Dale Links, a sprawling golf course. Prior to any Air Force involvement, this 360-acre tract was home to the Evans, Hulett, Dixon Wagner, and Rhodes families. The Air Force had initially intended to develop this section into airmen’s dormitories, a dining hall, a service club, an officer’s open mess, Bachelor Officer Quarters, and a multi-story 50-bed hospital. Mercifully, relatively little construction activity actually occurred in this area before the base’s abrupt cancellation, sparing it from more extensive scarring.

The golf course officially opened to the public on July 1, 1972, initially featuring three nine-hole courses: the Red, located north and west of the clubhouse; the White, to the south and east; and the Blue, to the south and west. [95] Today, it has expanded into an impressive 45-hole course, a verdant testament to a very different kind of strategic planning.

Bong Corporation

Governor Knowles unveils the sign marking the site of what would become the Bong Memorial Recreation Area

The abandoned base was ultimately transferred to the General Services Administration (GSA) in 1959. In a parallel move, the Wisconsin legislature, perhaps in an attempt to salvage some semblance of control, created the Wisconsin Federal Surplus Property Development Commission, later more simply known as the Bong Commission. Its mandate: to find a productive use for the affected area and to guide the disposal of the property. Three individuals were appointed by Governor Gaylord Nelson to this crucial group: George Schlitz from nearby Wheatland, who served as Wheatland town chairman and former chairman of the Kenosha County board; William Beyer of Racine , chairman of the Racine County board; and Professor Jacob Beuscher of Madison, from the University of Wisconsin School of Law . [96] This commission subsequently established a dummy corporation, the Wisconsin Federal Surplus Property Development Commission, which, confusingly, also came to be known as the Bong Corporation.

The Bong Corporation’s sole purpose was to assist the Conservation Department (which would later evolve into the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources in 1966) in transforming the remaining 4,515 acres (1,827 ha) of the site into a comprehensive recreation complex. [97] This ambitious undertaking was to be financed through the issuance of bonds.

A 960-acre (390 ha) parcel was acquired from the GSA using funds provided by Herro and Associates. In a complex arrangement, Herro and Associates, in turn, granted a 10-year lease with an option to purchase these 960 acres at cost, while also establishing a trust to secure the corporation’s bonds. Herro and Associates harbored their own plans, intending to convert the abandoned air base into an industrial park. The same firm also held first rights to acquire an additional 1,591 acres of adjacent land to the west, earmarked for a new urban development that would ingeniously incorporate the former runway and taxiway. This intricate deal would eventually place the Bong Corporation in direct conflict with contracts already extended to private interests.

The Wisconsin legislature, in a decisive move, enacted Chapter 646, Laws of 1965, specifically to remove the air base property from the jurisdiction of the Bong Commission. This legislative action effectively nullified all contracts that had been signed by the Bong Commission. Consequently, the 960-acre parcel was transferred directly to the Conservation Department, immediately triggering a legal battle between Herro and Associates and the Bong Corporation. The case, a testament to the complexities of land ownership and contractual agreements, ultimately ascended to the Wisconsin Supreme Court . The court, in its ruling, determined that contracts entered into between Herro and the Bong Corporation could not, in fact, be unilaterally nullified. However, in the same ruling, the court affirmed that the state possessed the power of condemnation, provided that Herro and Associates were justly compensated for their losses.

The Conservation Department’s successor, the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (DNR), initiated condemnation proceedings in 1973. This resulted in monetary awards to Herro and Associates in the Circuit Court of Kenosha County . Herro was to receive $293,000 for the 960-acre parcel, and an additional $15,851 for the rights to the 1,584-acre parcel. Dissatisfied with this outcome, Herro appealed the ruling to the Wisconsin Supreme Court and filed a substantial $1.4 million claim. The higher court, however, upheld the lower court’s decision, and the title for the land was finally turned over to the Wisconsin DNR , bringing a protracted legal battle to an end.

The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources went on to acquire an additional 1,971 acres of land that had been specifically designated by the federal government for wildlife conservation. The GSA, in its deed, stipulated that this parcel would be “continuously used only for the conversation of wildlife.” Should the department fail to meet these stringent requirements, the land would revert back to the federal government. A rather strict condition, but one that ensured the land’s ecological future.

Richard Bong Recreation Area

White Xs mark both ends of the never-completed runway to warn pilots that the 12,500-foot strip is closed.

After years of sitting desolate, becoming a notorious hotspot for biker gangs and various criminal activities (because where else would you go for such things?), the state of Wisconsin finally purchased the 4,515-acre (18.27 km 2 ) site in 1974. It was then, with a stroke of environmental foresight, transformed into a park, officially named the Richard Bong State Recreation Area . It proudly held the distinction of being the state’s very first recreation area, a rather fitting, if ironic, legacy for a failed military installation.

A man-made lake was created on the eastern end of the property, formed by damming an old irrigation ditch that once passed beneath the former Brighton Road on its way to Highway 75 . Both of these submerged features are, remarkably, still recognizable from the air. The two large holes that contributed to the creation of this lake are remnants from the original air base construction, excavated as workers desperately tried to reach bedrock to support a planned refueling station.

Today, the remains of the asphalt runway, once destined for bombers, are now utilized for model and remote-control aircraft flights, offering a much more peaceful form of aviation. The area also hosts scheduled events for model rocket enthusiasts and hang gliding, transforming a symbol of Cold War anxiety into a haven for recreational pursuits. [98]

Geography

Bong AFB is situated at 42°38′14.62″N 88°8′56.81″W / 42.6373944°N 88.1491139°W / 42.6373944; -88.1491139 (42.637394, -88.149114), [99] resting at an elevation of 810 feet (246 m) above sea level .

The air base, in its original grand design, was intended to occupy a sprawling 5,160 acres, which translates to 8.063-square-miles (20.88 km 2 ). The subsequent recreation area, however, encompasses a slightly smaller total area of 7.055-square-miles (18.27 km 2 ), a subtle reduction from its military aspirations.