tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77953852378820195062024-03-15T18:12:04.622-07:00Tailspin's TalesFirst-person accounts of adventure and history in the skyTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-67067730084350660112020-01-08T17:14:00.000-08:002020-04-14T10:35:24.292-07:00• Random Thoughts On Flight Training<span style="font-style: italic;">None of this is in any particular order, and none of it may be right for you. But, based on over 50 years of accident- and incident-free flying and about 10,000 hours in the air, this is reality as I see it. Your mileage may vary.<br />
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Fly from the airport nearest home, work, or school so it doesn't become a big pain to drive there frequently. Actually, one student I had moved to be closer to the airport (she's an airline captain now pulling down a six figure salary). Starting, but not finishing, is a combination of personality, motivation, economics...and geography.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzACwVfWDI/AAAAAAAAAXk/pdNE3AV8SAc/s1600-h/bk_other.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070138434079643698" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzACwVfWDI/AAAAAAAAAXk/pdNE3AV8SAc/s400/bk_other.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Don't go take a ground school course and then start flying. Ground school is like space travel. Astronomers know a hell of a lot, but it ain't the same as being an astronaut. Book work in a classroom can seem boring and sometimes irrelevant. But when you're flying you'll develop an urge to know and -- ta-rah! -- there it is in your ground school just when you need it. The AOPA's Airs Safety Institute has some great ones. The King Schools video courses are okay, if you can stand their corny, evangelical preacher style. There are some good combined video/computer CD-ROM/online courses. I like Jeppesen, but there are other good ones including ones the aircraft manufacturers have put together. Rod Machado has written some good, and rather funny, training manuals too.<br />
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If you can afford it, consider buying a used airplane and paying an instructor to teach you in it. You'll pay the instructor more per hour than at a school, and buying an aircraft when you don't even know how to fly is a big step, a radical idea, admittedly. But used aircraft, in general, are appreciating. You'll be paying yourself to use it, not including a profit markup to a school. A decent trainer can be found for around $25,000. Get a subscription to Trade-a-Plane or buy a couple of copies from the local pilot shop. You'll find everything from Piper Cubs to 747s, Stearman biplane trainers to F-18 Hornets for sale. I don't recommend 747s and F-18s as your first aircraft, however.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzAkAVfWEI/AAAAAAAAAXs/FoAu95IOtHY/s1600-h/cubfront.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070139005310294082" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzAkAVfWEI/AAAAAAAAAXs/FoAu95IOtHY/s400/cubfront.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
If you can find someone to do it with you, consider learning to fly together in a 4 seater. Slightly more expensive per hour, whether from a flight school or to operate yourself, but you get twice the exposure by watching each other. This approach sometimes creates scheduling problems, but worth the effort.<br />
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There are dishonest salesmen that sell aircraft just like the kind that sell cars (maybe worse), so find someone that really knows aircraft to help you pick a good one. Most of us that fly have the sickness bad enough you won't have trouble finding someone to go shopping with you. Condition and price vary widely for the same model based primarily on airframe/engine hours, radios/equipment, and age/condition.<br />
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Great pilots can be lousy teachers, and vice versa; so find one that works for you. Pick an old one with lots of experience, that communicates with you. Youngsters can teach you stick and rudder skills, but that's the easy part. You fly an aircraft with your head, not your hands. Experience is a hard teacher because the test comes first, then comes the lesson, so learn from an experienced instructor. And pick carefully; there are instructors where the student is important and there are instructors where the instructor is important.<br />
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Nuttin' against young instructors, by the way (I actually was one once too), but one of the paradoxes in the process is that young flight instructors need experience and their knowledge is proportional to the mistakes they've made. Good judgment comes from experience, experience comes from bad judgment--so learn from the mistakes others make. A new instructor just hasn't had the time to goof, but a gray eagle can teach you judgment and share the mistakes...er, experiences. By the way, when you make a mistake, try to make each one a new one so you can learn from it. That said, mistakes are inevitable. How you handle mistakes is what's important.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzA9QVfWFI/AAAAAAAAAX0/zHehuPQW71g/s1600-h/ce_pilots.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070139439101990994" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzA9QVfWFI/AAAAAAAAAX0/zHehuPQW71g/s400/ce_pilots.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Ask yourself, "Who's buyin' and who's sellin'?" It's your money so if the first one or two don't click, fire 'em and get another. If you're unhappy with instructor three or four or five, ask yourself if you really want to learn to fly, maybe the problem is you. Don't be afraid to go to another school, too. If you feel maintenance standards, paper work, bookkeeping or style isn't what you want/expect don't be afraid to try another one. If whoever you use doesn't have a folder of required maneuvers/experience, a list that they use to keep track of your progress, buy one of your own and make your instructor fill it out. I like Jeppesen's best...but that's probably only because they're the ones my instructor used eons ago, and they're the one's I use.<br />
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Once you're comfortable with an outfit and an instructor insist that you fly with the same one. You don't want to have to demonstrate to every new instructor what you know every time you go fly, and you don't want them wasting your money while you re-learn something you already know. A periodic flight check with someone else (usually called a stage check) is a good idea, just for quality control purposes. If your school doesn't offer them (insist on them) find someone and schedule your own check rides for yourself. As a courtesy make sure your instructor knows you're doing it.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzBOgVfWGI/AAAAAAAAAX8/AHeBGivMTd4/s1600-h/bg_other.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070139735454734434" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzBOgVfWGI/AAAAAAAAAX8/AHeBGivMTd4/s400/bg_other.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
You didn't ask, but....they're called charts not maps, aircraft not airplanes or planes (or plains), biplanes not bi-planes or worse yet bi-wings. When you take the keys out of the switch put them on the dash in full view from outside so you'll know the mags are off. Leave the rotating beacon on when you shut down so you can tell from outside when you forget to turn off the master switch (and you will) . Turn the beacon and all lights off before start because airplane batteries are small (to keep them light) so they don't have much juice to crank the starter. Yes, you can push or pull on a propeller if you do it close to the hub (with the switch off), but don't push on the spinner or the prop tips. Always chock your airplane. Never trust a fuel gauge unless it's showing near empty, then assume it's optimistic. When you start the engine keep the RPM below 1000--those first few seconds without lubrication are hard on the machinery that's going to keep you safely in the air. Airplanes, like power boats, produce a wake--watch your prop-wash and don't blast people, airplanes, or fill other people's hangars with dirt.<br />
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Fly the airplane first, then think, then navigate, then talk. If you're doing your job right nothing is going to happen so quickly that a moments reflection is going to hurt anything and it most certainly can help. There are very few situtations that require instant reactions. Your airplane isn't going to suddenly plummet from the sky, for example, if you're a little lost. (Okay, if you're A LOT lost it might become a glider if you haven't paid attention to your fuel. But even then it will glide for quite a long time if you've given yourself lots of altitude and speed to work with.) You and your aircraft are a team. You take care of it, it'll take care of you. Don't depend on that, entropy is an force than will not be denied--things do break--but there are times when if you just let the airplane fly it will do just that while you think about a solution to your problem. And if the worst happens, as Bob Hoover puts it, keep flying until all the pieces come to a stop. As long as you're flying, you have options.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCGAVfWHI/AAAAAAAAAYE/YUPrsgMUEdc/s1600-h/photo_05_A-20G_Havoc_SH_cropped.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070140688937474162" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCGAVfWHI/AAAAAAAAAYE/YUPrsgMUEdc/s400/photo_05_A-20G_Havoc_SH_cropped.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
My Dad learned to fly in 1944, flew A-20s and A-26s in the Pacific during WWII, and for 50 years after that safely flew for business and pleasure. His most valuable piece of advice to me was to always give yourself an out. Always have an option. When you run out of options, when you don't have alternatives, you're in trouble even if everything is working fine at the moment.<br />
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The FAA folks, for the most part, are your friends. Treat them with respect, ask their advice, listen to what they say. (Yes, there are few bad eggs that ruin it for everyone. There are pilots like that too. Note that there are more pilots than Feds.) Next time you're inclined to gripe about a controller's handling of your flight remember that day-in day-out they make far fewer mistakes than pilots.<br />
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An old aviation maxim sez: Fuel in the truck, runway behind you, airspace above you, good weather behind you, and charts in your car are all worthless. All true.<br />
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Bernoulli keeps an airplane in the air? Not true, Newton does. Read <a href="http://www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/how-wings-really-work">this</a> if you (or your instructor) don't believe it. Actually, money is what really keeps an aircraft in the air, but that's a different issue.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCdgVfWII/AAAAAAAAAYM/nOLdp_R-B_w/s1600-h/7055K.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070141092664400002" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCdgVfWII/AAAAAAAAAYM/nOLdp_R-B_w/s400/7055K.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
You'll never know all there is to know about flying. When you start to feel as if you really have this flying thing down pat, watch out! That's when your aircraft, weather, your own stupidity, or some unknown is about to make you humble again. Doesn't matter if you have 100, 1000, or 10,000 hours. Heck, I had almost 10,000 hours and got well and truly lost in deteriorating weather within 5 miles of the airport one day!<br />
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Controller "North American 55 Kilo say your intentions."<br />
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55K "Um...land?"<br />
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Controller "Recommend a ninety degree right turn to remain on the final approach course."<br />
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Subtle, very subtle. Turns out they were in the tower cab laughing at ol' Tailspin Tommy and how he got lost on final. Keeps ya humble, flying does.<br />
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A required part of your training should be a visit to a control tower, a visit to an approach control/center facility, toward the end of your training do some serious flying in a glider, and some aerobatics--especially spins. Even a ride in a high-altitude chamber is a good idea, especially if you're flying something that will get you up high--set it up through your local FAA office. You'll be a much better, safer pilot for all of it. Visit Sun 'n Fun in Lakeland FL (Spring) or EAA Air Adventures in Oshkosh WI (Summer), the National Air Races in Reno (Fall), The National Air & Space Museum in Washington (any time) at least once. The Air Force Museum in Dayton, OH and the San Diego Aerospace Museum are well worth the visit too (so are the three museums at Chino, for that matter). At any museum, by the way, the place to go is the restoration facility and/or the annex. That's where they stash the goodies, in my experience.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCswVfWJI/AAAAAAAAAYU/vuGftZIJpgA/s1600-h/J740x610-3315.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070141354657405074" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzCswVfWJI/AAAAAAAAAYU/vuGftZIJpgA/s400/J740x610-3315.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Try to fly on weekdays so air traffic doesn't cost you so much waiting on the ground or flying in circles waiting to enter the traffic pattern. Yeah, it's all goes in your log book, but when you're learning to fly you want quality time not quantity. Build time after you have your license. Don't let your instructor spend your money jawing with the engine running. Aircraft are for flying. Classrooms, airport cafes, and bars are for talking.<br />
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It ain't gonna be easy. You will find plateaus in your progress that will be frustrating. Try to fly at least twice a week so you don't forget too much between lessons. National average to solo is about 20 hours, to Private Pilot check ride is about 80 hours, last I checked, so don't expect it to happen over night. Especially toward the end it's still hugely fun, but seems to drag on trying to schedule around yourself/aircraft/instructor/weather for the cross countries.<br />
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Don't fall into the trap of quitting right after you solo. Lots of people do because they feel a surge of achievement (often the biggest of their life), but then they look down the road and see several grand in expense and several hours a week in time so they decide they've made it and wander off. The biggest sense of achievement you ever have is after you take your check ride, receive that Private Pilot's License, and take your friend/wife/folks/kids for a flight.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzDCwVfWKI/AAAAAAAAAYc/sOzY_9IX15Y/s1600-h/br_6000.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070141732614527138" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzDCwVfWKI/AAAAAAAAAYc/sOzY_9IX15Y/s400/br_6000.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
'Course that Private Pilot License (PPL the Brits call it) is just a license to start learning and tackling more complex aircraft, learning to fly instruments, traveling cross-country on vacations and business, and a lifetime of experience. But be careful what you pray for, they say, you may get it. Richard Bach's version: "An idea is never given to you without you being given the power to make it reality. You must, nevertheless, suffer for it." That's certainly true about learning to fly. You'll enjoy a whole new perspective, you will literally never be the same again, but you'll have to work for it. All for the better, I say. (Yes, I'm prejudiced).<br />
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Figure with Ray-Ban sun-glasses, David-Clark headset, big watch, flight bag, books, charts, ground school, flight training, and check rides you'll spend $3500-$5500*. Many banks offers loans for flight training, by the way, and the GI Bill will pay for advanced training, once you have your Private Pilot Certificate. There even are some scholarship programs that will contribute to your training. Join the AOPA and the EAA (they have financial programs too). You'll get their outstanding magazines and learn a lot from them. Read voraciously, visit AvWeb and get their twice a week email news, subscribe to Flying, Private Pilot, and Pacific Flyer etc. Cheap education--remember you want to learn from someone else's experiences.<br />
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Sorry this was so long, as mathematician Blaise Pascal once wrote, "I have made this rather long because I haven't had time to make it shorter."<br />
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Go to it! And feel free to e-mail questions, dissenting opinions, or additions anytime.<br />
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*Glenn 'Sky-ho' Daly, a professional friend, professional flight instructor, and professional writer adds:<br />
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Buy a headset. It makes communications much easier and it will protect your hearing. I HATE those overweight, uncomfortable, pea green David Clark headsets. The only reason to buy a David Clark is the fact that they stand by them after purchase. Maybe buy a cheapie $100 Marv Golden to start, then ask to try your pilot friends' headsets so you can find one you really like. You'll pay upwards of $500 for a good noise canceling headset, but then you'll have two, a cheap one for a passenger and a good one for you.<br />
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Also, the $3500-$5500 numbers you quoted are pre-9/11, pre-insurance run-up and pre-fuel run-up. I regularly tell people it'll cost between $6500 - $7500 ... and that's if you fly, as you correctly suggested, around twice a week (I find 3 times a week better, but why quibble.) Figure the costs: 55 hours of airplane at $75/hour = $4125; add 40 hours of instructor at $50/hour=$2000. Add the examiner's fee, currently $350, charts (you're soooo right, not maps), plotter, E6B and books for the knowledge exam add upwards of $200. Don't forget those headsets for $500-$600. AND the written exam fee = $80. Grand total with 55 hours of flying and 40 hours of superior instruction $6855.<br />
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You might wanna look at the page I've done on my website, SoCal Skies. Some of our thoughts are amazingly similar, my friend - probably why I like you so much. Blush.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzD-wVfWLI/AAAAAAAAAYk/3S4ezAnMpaY/s1600-h/417th-A20G-extreme-low-leve.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070142763406678194" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RlzD-wVfWLI/AAAAAAAAAYk/3S4ezAnMpaY/s400/417th-A20G-extreme-low-leve.gif" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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My Dad sent these oldies but goodies:<br />
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There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.<br />
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Truly superior pilots are those who use their superior judgment to avoid those situations where they might have to use their superior skills.<br />
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It's better to be down here wishing you were up there than up there wishing you were down here.<br />
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Speed is life, altitude is life insurance. No one has ever collided with the sky.<br />
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Always remember you fly an airplane with your head, not your hands.<br />
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Never let an airplane take you somewhere your brain didn't get to five minutes earlier.<br />
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Don't drop the aircraft in order to fly the microphone. An airplane flies because of a principle discovered by Bernoulli [and Newton], not Marconi.<br />
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Those who hoot with the owls by night should not fly with the eagles by day.<br />
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An airplane may disappoint a good pilot, but it won't surprise him.<br />
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Any pilot who relies on a terminal forecast can be sold the Brooklyn Bridge. A pilot who relies on winds-aloft reports can be sold Niagara Falls.<br />
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Any attempt to stretch fuel is guaranteed to increase headwind.<br />
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A thunderstorm is never as bad on the inside as it appears on the outside. It's worse.<br />
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A fool and his money are soon flying more airplane than he can handle.<br />
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Remember, you're always a student in an airplane. Keep looking around; there's always something you've missed.<br />
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Takeoffs are optional. Landings are mandatory.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-35293215846925413102019-12-24T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-17T15:02:01.278-08:00• The Shepherd (A Christmas Tale)<span style="font-style: italic;">Pour a Christmas pint mates, and settle in for one of the great aviation tales. Written by Frederick Forsyth and published in 1975, this novella tells of a 1950s RAF pilot trying to fly home to England for the holidays in a deHavilland Vampire. But fate, always the hunter, intervenes. (Vampire images from an early version of Flight Simulator X, the airfield and terrain are actually--well, virtually--Celle, Germany where the story begins</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Born in Ashford, Kent, Forsyth became one of the youngest pilots in the Royal Air Force, at the age of 19, and served till 1958. Becoming a journalist, he joined Reuters in 1961 and the BBC in 1965, where he was an assistant diplomatic correspondent. He is best known for thrillers such as </span>The Day of the Jackal<span style="font-style: italic;"> and </span>The Odessa File<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">This is a book that belongs in your library. And for just 39¢ plus shipping you can have a used paperback copy or for $50 a first edition, first printing collectible </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/0670639699/ref=lp_g_1" style="font-style: italic;">from Amazon resellers.</a><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">(Click images to enlarge)</span><br />
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For a brief moment, while waiting for the control tower to clear me for take-off, I glanced out through the perspex cockpit canopy at the surrounding German countryside. It lay white and crisp beneath the crackling December moon.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH6OeLH6yzI/AAAAAAAABRY/Zy2z_1FmqkA/s1600-h/VampireTOclear.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223769266829577010" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH6OeLH6yzI/AAAAAAAABRY/Zy2z_1FmqkA/s400/VampireTOclear.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 243px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Behind me lay the boundary fence of the Royal Air Force base, and beyond the fence, as I had seen while swinging my little fighter into line with the take-off runway, the sheet of snow covering the flat farmland stretched away to the line of the pine trees, two miles distant in the night yet so clear I could almost see the shapes of the trees themselves.</div>
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Ahead of me as I waited for the voice of the controller to come through the headphones was the runway itself, a slick black ribbon of tarmac, flanked by twin rows of bright-burning lights, illuminating the solid path cut earlier by the snow-plows. Behind the lights were the humped banks of the morning's snow, frozen hard once again where the snow-plow blades had pushed them. Far away to my right the airfield tower stood up like a single glowing candle amid the hangars where the muffled aircraft men were even now closing down the station for the night.<br />
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Inside the control tower, I knew, all was warmth and merriment, the staff waiting only for my departure to close down also, jump into the waiting cars and head back to the parties in the mess. Within minutes of my going, the lights would die out, leaving only the huddled hangars, seeming hunched against the bitter night, the shrouded fighter planes, the sleeping fuel bowser trucks, and above them all the single flickering station light, brilliant red above the black and white airfield, beating Out in Morse code the name of the station CELLE to an unheeding sky. For tonight there would be no wandering aviators to look down and check their bearings; tonight was Christmas Eve, in the year of grace 1957, and I was a young pilot trying to get home to Blighty for his Christmas leave.<br />
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I was in a hurry and my watch said ten-fifteen by the dim blue glow of the control panel where the rows of dials quivered and danced. It was warm and snug inside the cockpit, the heating turned up full to prevent the perspex icing up. It was like a cocoon, small and warm and safe, shielding me from the bitter cold outside, from the freezing night that can kill a man inside a minute if he is exposed to it at 600 miles an hour.<br />
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"Charlie Delta..."<br />
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The controller's voice woke me from my reverie, sounding in my headphones as if he was with me in the tiny cockpit, shouting in my ear. He's had a jar or two already, I thought. Strictly against orders, but what the hell? It's Christmas.<br />
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"Charlie Delta... Control," I responded.<br />
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"Charlie Delta, clear take-off," he said.<br />
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I saw no point in responding. I simply eased the throttle forward slowly with the left hand, holding the Vampire steady down the central line with the right hand. Behind me the low whine of the Goblin engine rose and rose, passing through a cry and into a scream. The snub-nosed fighter rolled, the lights each side of the runway passed in ever quicker succession, till they were flashing in a continuous blur. She became light, the nose rose fractionally, freeing the nose-wheel from contact with the runway, and the rumble vanished instantly. Seconds later the main wheels came away and their soft drumming also stopped. I held her low above the deck, letting the speed build up till a glance at the airspeed indicator told me we were through 120 knots and heading for 140. As the end of the runway whizzed beneath my feet I pulled the Vampire into a gently climbing turn to the left, easing up the undercarriage lever as I did so.<br />
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From beneath and behind me I heard the dull clunk of the main wheels entering their bays, the lunge forward of the jet as the drag of the undercarriage vanished. In front of me the three red lights representing three wheels extinguished themselves. I held her into the climbing turn, pressing the radio button with the left thumb.<br />
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"Charlie Delta, clear airfield, wheels up and locked," I said into my oxygen mask.<br />
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"Charlie Delta, roger, over to Channel D," said the controller, and then, before I could change radio channels added, "Happy Christmas."<br />
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Strictly against the rules of radio procedure, of course. I was very young then, and very conscientious. But I replied, "Thank you, Tower, and same to you." Then I switched channels to tune in to the R.A.F's North-Germany Air Control frequency.<br />
<br />
Down on my right thigh was strapped the map with my course charted on it in blue ink, but I did not need it. I knew the details by heart, worked out earlier with the Navigation Officer in the Nav hut. Turn overhead Celle airfield on to course 265 degrees, continue climbing to 27,000 feet. On reaching height, maintain course and keep speed to 485 knots. Check in with Channel D to let them know you're in their airspace, then a straight run over the Dutch coast south of Beveland into the North Sea. After forty-four minutes flying time, change to Channel F and call Lakenheath Control to give you a steers. Fourteen minutes later you'll be overhead Lakenheath. After that, follow instructions, and they'll bring you down on a radio-controlled descent. No problem all routine procedures. Sixty-six minutes flying time, with the descent and landing, and the Vampire had enough fuel for over eighty minutes in the air.<br />
<br />
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Swinging over Celle airfield at 1,000 feet, I straightened up and watched the needle on my electric compass settle happily down on a course of 260 degrees. The nose was pointing towards the black freezing vault of the night sky, studded with stars so brilliant they flickered their white fire against the eyeballs. Below, the black-white map of north Germany was growing smaller, the dark masses of the pine forests blending into the white expanses of the fields. Here and there a village or small town glittered with lights. Down there amid the gaily lit streets the carol singers would be out, knocking on the holly-studded doors to sing Silent Night and collect pfennigs for charity. The Westphalian housewives would be preparing hams and geese.<br />
<br />
Four hundred miles ahead of me the story would be the same, the carols in my own language but many of the tunes the same, and it would be turkey instead of goose. But whether you call it Weihnachten or Christmas, it's the same all over the Christian world, and it was good to be going home.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1DfDJPI/AAAAAAAABR8/O9hYitY-TOg/s1600-h/VampireCLimb2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223965372985844978" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1DfDJPI/AAAAAAAABR8/O9hYitY-TOg/s400/VampireCLimb2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
From Lakenheath I knew I could get a lift down to London in the liberty bus, leaving just after midnight; from London I was confident I could hitch a lift to my parents home in Kent. By breakfast time I'd be celebrating with my own family. The altimeter said 27,000 feet. I eased the nose forward, reduced throttle setting to give me an airspeed of 485 knots, and held her steady on 260 degrees. Somewhere beneath me in the gloom the Dutch border would be slipping away, and I had been airborne for twenty-one minutes. No problem.<br />
<br />
The problem started ten minutes out over the North Sea, and it started so quietly that it was several minutes before I realized I had one at all. For some time I had been unaware that the low hum coming through my headphones into my ears had ceased, to be replaced by the strange nothingness of total silence. I must have been failing to concentrate, my thoughts being of home and my waiting family. The first thing I knew was when I flicked a glance downwards to check my course on the compass. Instead of being rock steady on 260 degrees, the needle was drifting lazily round the clock, passing through east, west, south and north with total impartiality.<br />
<br />
I swore a most unseasonal sentiment against the compass and the instrument fitter who should have checked it for 100 per cent reliability. Compass failure at night, even a brilliant moonlit night such as the one beyond the cockpit perspex, was no fun. Still, it was not too serious; I could call up Lakenheath in a few minutes, and they would give me a GCA Ground Controlled Approach the second-by-second instructions that a well-equipped airfield can give a pilot to bring him home in the worst of weathers, following his progress on ultra-precise radar screens, watching him descend all the way to the tarmac, tracing his position in the sky yard by yard and second by second. I glanced at my watch: thirty-four minutes airborne. I could try to raise Lakenheath now, at the outside limit of my radio range.<br />
<br />
Before trying Lakenheath, it would be correct procedure to inform Channel D, to whom I was tuned, of my little problem, so they could advise Lakenheath I was on my way without a compass. I pressed the transmit button and called.<br />
<br />
"Celle Charlie Delta, Celle Charlie Delta, calling North Beveland Control..."<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1jxcQvI/AAAAAAAABSE/49M5gKCDanI/s1600-h/VampireEnroute.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223965381652923122" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1jxcQvI/AAAAAAAABSE/49M5gKCDanI/s400/VampireEnroute.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
I stopped. There was no point in going on. Instead of the lively crackle of static and the sharp sound of my own voice coming back into my own ears, there was a muffled murmur inside my oxygen mask. My own voice speaking...and going nowhere. I tried again. Same result. Far back across the wastes of the black and bitter North Sea, in the warm cheery concrete complex of North Beveland Control, men sat back from their control panel, chatting and sipping their steaming coffee and cocoa. And they could not hear me. The radio was dead.<br />
<br />
Fighting down the rising sense of panic that can kill a pilot faster than anything else, I swallowed and slowly counted to ten. Then I switched to Channel F and tried to raise Lakenheath, ahead of me amid the Suffolk countryside, lying in its forest of pine trees south of Thetford, beautifully equipped with its GCA system for bringing home lost aircraft. On Channel F the radio was as dead as ever. My own muttering into the oxygen mask was smothered by the surrounding rubber. The steady whistle of my own jet engine behind me was my only answer.<br />
<br />
It's a very lonely place, the sky, even more so the sky on a winter's night. And a single-seater jet fighter is a lonely home, a tiny steel box held aloft on stubby wings, hurled through the freezing emptiness by a blazing tube throwing out the strength of six thousand horses every second that it burns. But the loneliness is offset, canceled out, by the knowledge that at the touch of a button on the throttle the pilot can talk to other human beings, people who care about him, men and women who staff a network of stations across the world; just one touch of that button, the transmit button, and scores of them in control towers across the land that are tuned to his channel can hear him call for help. When the pilot transmits, on every one of those screens a line of light streaks from the centre of the screen to the outside rim, which is marked with figures, from One to Three Hundred and Sixty the number of degrees in a complete compass. Where the streak of light hits the ring, that is where the aircraft lies in relation to the control tower listening to him. The control towers are linked, so with two cross-bearings they can locate his position to a few hundred yards. He is not lost any more. People begin working to bring him down.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1rW_z_I/AAAAAAAABSM/cljjTlTvpKw/s1600-h/VampireGearUp.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223965383689490418" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9A1rW_z_I/AAAAAAAABSM/cljjTlTvpKw/s400/VampireGearUp.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
The radar operators pick up the little dot he makes on their screen from all the other dots; they call him up and give him instructions. Begin your descent now, Charlie Delta. We have you now.... Warm, experienced voices, voices who control an array of electronic devices that can reach out across the winter sky, through the ice and rain, above the snow and cloud, to pluck the lost one from his deadly infinity and bring him down to the flare-lit runway that means home and life itself.<br />
<br />
When the pilot transmits. But for that he must have a radio. Before I had finished testing Channel J the international emergency channel, and obtained the same negative result, I knew my ten-channel radio set was as dead as the Dodo.<br />
<br />
It had taken the R.A.F two years to train me to fly their fighters for them, and most of that time had been- training precisely in emergency procedures. The important thing, they used to say in flying school, is not to know how to fly in perfect conditions; it is to fly through an emergency and stay alive. Now the training was beginning to take effect.<br />
<br />
While I was vainly testing my radio channels, the eyes scanned the instrument panel in front of me. The instruments told their own message. It was no coincidence the compass and the radio had failed together; both worked off the aircraft's electrical circuits. Somewhere beneath my feet, amid the miles of brightly coloured wiring that make up the circuits, there had been a main fuse blow-out. I reminded myself, idiotically, to forgive the instrument fitter and blame the electrician. Then I took stock of the nature of my disaster.<br />
<br />
The first thing to do in such a case, I remembered old Flight Sergeant Norris telling us, is to reduce throttle setting from cruise speed to a slower setting, to give maximum flight endurance.<br />
<br />
"We don't want to waste valuable fuel, do we, gentlemen? We might need it later. So we reduce the power setting from 1o,ooo revolutions per minute to 7200. That way we will fly a little slower, but we will stay in the air rather longer, won't we, gentlemen?" He always referred to us all being in the same emergency at the same time, did Sergeant Norris. I eased the throttle back and watched the rev-counter. But it too was an electrical instrument, and I had lost the lot when the fuse went. I judged by engine note when the Goblin was turning over at about 7200 rpm, and felt the aircraft slow down. The nose dropped fractionally, so I adjusted the flight-trim to keep her straight and level.<br />
<br />
The main instruments in front of a pilot's eyes are six, including the compass. The other five are the airspeed indicator, the altimeter, the bank indicator (which tells him if he's banking, i.e." turning, to left or right), the slip indicator (which tells him if he's skidding crabwise across the sky) and the vertical speed indicator (which tells him if he's diving or climbing and if so how fast). The last three of these are electrically operated, and they had gone the same way as my compass. That left me with the two pressure-operated instruments, airspeed indicator and altimeter. In other words, I knew how fast I was going and how high I was.<br />
<br />
It is perfectly possible to land an aircraft with only these two instruments, judging the rest by those old navigational aids, the human eyes. Possible, that is, in conditions of brilliant weather, by daylight and with no cloud in the sky. It is possible, just possible though not advisable, to try and navigate a fast-moving jet by pilotage, using the eyes, looking down and identifying the curve of the coast where it makes an easily recognizable pattern, spotting a strange-shaped reservoir, the glint of a river that the map strapped to the thigh says can only be the Ouse, or the Trent, or the Thames. From lower down it is possible to differentiate Norwich Cathedral tower from Lincoln Cathedral tower, if you know the countryside intimately. By night it is not possible.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9BFjLcKHI/AAAAAAAABSU/ffX7b_5yuRQ/s1600-h/VampireMoonSliver.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223965656371439730" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9BFjLcKHI/AAAAAAAABSU/ffX7b_5yuRQ/s400/VampireMoonSliver.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
The only things that show up at night, even a bright moonlit night, are the lights. These have patterns when seen from the sky. Manchester looks different from Birmingham; Southampton can be recognized from the shape of its massive harbour and the Solent, cut out in black (the sea shows up black) against the carpet of the city's lights. I knew Norwich very well, and if I could identify the great curving bulge of the Norfolk coastline from Lowestoft, round through Yarmouth to Cromer, I could find Norwich, the only major sprawl of lights set twenty miles inland from all points on the coast. Five miles north of Norwich I knew was the fighter airfield of Merriam Saint George, whose red indicator beacon would be blipping out its Morse identification signal into the night. There, if they only had the sense to switch on the airfield lights when they heard me screaming at low level up and down the airfield, I could land safely.<br />
<br />
I began to let the Vampire down slowly towards the oncoming coast, my mind feverishly working out how far behind schedule I was through the reduced speed. My watch told me forty-three minutes airborne. The coast of Norfolk had to be somewhere ahead of my nose, six miles below. I glanced up at the full moon, like a searchlight in the glittering sky, and thanked her for her presence.<br />
<br />
As the fighter slipped towards Norfolk the sense of loneliness gripped me tighter and tighter. All those things that had seemed so beautiful as I had climbed away from the Westphalian airfield now seemed my worst enemies. The stars were no longer impressive in their brilliance; I thought of their hostility, sparkling away there in the timeless, lost infinities, of endless sub-zero space. The night sky, its stratospheric temperature fixed, night and day alike, at an unchanging fifty-six degrees below zero, became in my mind a limitless prison creaking with the cold. Below me lay the worst of them all, the heavy brutality of the North Sea, waiting to swallow up me and my plane and bury us for endless eternity in a liquid crypt where nothing moved, nor would ever move again. And no one would ever know.<br />
<br />
At 15,000 feet and still diving, I began to realize that a fresh, and for me the last, enemy had entered the field. There was no ink-black sea three miles below me, no necklace of twinkling seaside lights somewhere up ahead. Far away, to right and left, ahead and no doubt behind me, the light of the moon reflected on a flat and endless sea of white. Perhaps only a hundred, two hundred, feet thick, but enough. Enough to blot out all vision, enough to kill me. The East Anglian fog had moved in.<br />
<br />
As I had flown westwards from Germany a slight breeze, unforeseen by the weather men, had sprung up blowing from the North Sea towards Norfolk.<br />
<br />
During the previous day the flat, open ground of East Anglia had been frozen hard by the wind and the sub-zero temperatures. During the evening the wind had moved a belt of slightly warmer air off the North Sea and on to the plains of East Anglia. There, coming in contact with the ice-cold earth, the trillions of tiny moisture particles in the sea air had vapourized, forming the kind of fog that can blot out five counties in a matter of thirty minutes. How far westward it stretched I could not tell; to the West Midlands, perhaps, nudging up against the eastern slopes of the Pennines? There was no question of trying to overfly the fog to the westwards; without navigational aids or radio, I would be lost over strange, unfamiliar country. Also out of the question was to try and fly back to Holland, to land at one of the Dutch air force bases along the coast there; I had not the fuel. Relying only on my eyes to guide me, it was a question of landing at Merriam Saint George or dying amid the wreckage of the Vampire somewhere in the fog-wreathed fens of Norfolk.<br />
<br />
At 10,000 feet I pulled out of my dive, increasing power slightly to keep myself airborne, using up more of my precious fuel. Still a creature of my training, I recalled the instructions of Flight Sergeant Norris again.<br />
<br />
"When we are totally lost above unbroken cloud, gentlemen, we must consider the necessity of bailing out of our aircraft, must we not?"<br />
<br />
Of course, Sergeant. Unfortunately the Martin Baker ejector seat cannot be fitted to the single seat Vampire which is notorious for being almost impossible to bale out of, the only two successful candidates living lost their legs in the process. Still, there has to be a first lucky one. What else, Sergeant?<br />
<br />
"Our first move, therefore, is to turn our aircraft towards the open sea, away from all areas of intense human habitation."<br />
<br />
You mean towns, Sergeant. These people down there pay for us to fly for them, not to drop a screaming monster of ten tons of steel on top of them on Christmas Eve. There are kids down there, schools, hospitals, homes. You turn your aircraft out to sea.<br />
<br />
The procedures were all worked out. They did not mention that the chances of a pilot, bobbing about in a winter's night in the North Sea, frozen face lashed by sub-zero wind, supported by a yellow life-jacket, ice en crusting on his lips, eyebrows, ears, his position unknown by the men sipping their Christmas punches in warm rooms three hundred miles away that his chances were less than one in a hundred of living longer than one hour. In the training films they showed you pictures of happy fellows who had announced by radio that they were ditching, being picked up by helicopters within minutes, and all on a bright, warm summer's day.<br />
<br />
"One last procedure, gentlemen, to be used in extreme emergency."<br />
<br />
That's better, Sergeant Norris, that's what I'm in now.<br />
<br />
"All aircraft approaching Britain's coasts are visible on the radar scanners of our early warning system. If, therefore, we have lost our radio, and cannot transmit our emergency, we try to attract the attention of our radar scanners by adopting an odd form of behaviour. We do this by moving out to sea, then flying in small triangles, turning left, left, and left again, each leg of the triangle being of a duration of two minutes flying time. In this way we hope to attract attention. When we have been spotted, the air traffic controller is informed, and he diverts another aircraft to find us. This other aircraft of course has radio. When discovered by the rescue aircraft, we formate on him, and he brings us down through the cloud or fog to a safe landing."<br />
<br />
Yes, it was the last attempt to save one's life. I recalled the details better now. The rescue aircraft who would lead you back to a safe landing, flying wing-tip to wing-tip, was called the shepherd. I glanced at my watch; fifty-one minutes airborne, thirty minutes left of fuel. The fuel gauge read one-third full. Knowing myself to be still short of the Norfolk coast, and flying level at 10000 feet in the moonlight, I pulled the Vampire into a left-hand turn and began my first leg of the first triangle. After two minutes, I pulled left again, hoping (without a compass) to be able to judge 120 degrees, using the moon as a rough guide. Below me the fog reached back as far as I could see, and ahead of me also, towards Norfolk, it was the same.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes went by, nearly two complete triangles. I had not prayed, not really prayed, for many years and the habit came hard. Lord, please get me out of this bloody mess... no, you mustn't talk like that to Him. Our Father, which art in Heaven... he'd heard that a thousand times, would be hearing it another thousand times tonight. What do you say to Him when you want help? Please, God, make somebody notice me up here, please make someone see me flying in triangles and send up a shepherd to help me down to a safe landing. Please help me, and I promise... What on earth could I promise Him? He had no need of me, and I who now had need of Him had taken no notice of Him for so long He'd probably forgotten all about me.<br />
<br />
By seventy-two minutes airborne on my watch I knew no one would come. The compass still drifted aimlessly through all the points of the circle, the other electrical instruments were dead, all their needles pointing at zero. My altimeter said 7,000 feet, so I had dropped 3,000 feet while turning. No matter. The fuel read almost one-eighth full say ten minutes more flying time. I felt the rage of despair welling up. I began screaming into the dead microphone.<br />
<br />
You stupid bastards, why don't you look at your radar screens? Why can't somebody see me up here? All so damn drunk you can't do your jobs properly. Oh God, why won't somebody listen to me? By then the anger had subsided and I had taken to blubbering like a baby from the sheer helplessness of it all.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later I knew, without any doubt of it, that I was going to die that night. Strangely, I wasn't even afraid any more. Just enormously sad. Sad for all the things I would never do, the places I would never see, the people I would never greet again. It's a bad thing, a sad thing, to die at twenty years old with your life unlived, and the worst thing of all is not the fact of dying but the fact of all the things never done.<br />
<br />
Out through the perspex I could see the moon was setting, hovering above the horizon of thick white fog; in another two minutes the night sky would be plunged into total darkness and a few minutes later I would have to bale out of a dying aircraft before it flicked over on its last dive into the North Sea. An hour later I would be dead also, bobbing around in the water, a bright yellow Mae West jacket supporting a stiff, frozen body. I dropped the left wing of the Vampire towards the moon to bring the aircraft on to the final leg of the last triangle.<br />
<br />
Down below the wing-tip, against the sheen of the fog bank, up moon of me, a black shadow crossed the whiteness. For a second I thought it was my own shadow, but with the moon up there my own shadow would be behind me. It was another aircraft, low against the fog bank, keeping station with me through my turn, a mile down through the sky towards the fog.<br />
<br />
The other aircraft being below me, I kept turning, wing down, to keep it in sight. The other aircraft also kept turning, until the two of us had done one complete circle. Only then did I realize why it was so far below me, why he did not climb to my height and take up station on my wing-tip. He was flying slower than I, he could not keep up if he tried to fly beside me. Trying hard not to believe he was just another aircraft, moving on his way, about to disappear for ever into the fog bank, I eased the throttle back and began to slip down towards him. He kept turning; so did I. At 1,000 feet I knew I was still going too fast for him. I could not reduce power any more for fear of stalling the Vampire and plunging down out of control. To slow up even more I put out the air brakes. The Vampire shuddered as the brakes swung into the slipstream, slowing the Vampire down to 28o knots.<br />
<br />
And then he came up towards me, swinging in towards my left-hand wing-tip. I could make out the black bulk of him against the dim white sheet of fog below, then he was with me, a hundred feet off my wing-tip, and we straightened out together, rocking as we tried to keep formation. The moon was to my right, and my own shadow masked his shape and form, but even so I could make out the shimmer of two propellers whirling through the sky ahead of him. Of course he could not fly at my speed; I was in a jet fighter, he in a piston-engined aircraft of an earlier generation.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9I4VqlUFI/AAAAAAAABTU/exkORH6ue48/s1600-h/Mossie1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223974225498689618" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9I4VqlUFI/AAAAAAAABTU/exkORH6ue48/s400/Mossie1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
He held station alongside me for a few seconds, down moon of me, half invisible, then banked gently to the left. I followed, keeping formation with him, for he was obviously the shepherd sent up to bring me down, and he had the compass and the radio, not I. He swung through 18o degrees then straightened up, flying straight and level, the moon behind him. From the position of the dying moon I knew we were heading back towards the Norfolk coast, and for the first time I could see him well. To my surprise, my shepherd was a De Havilland Mosquito, a fighter-bomber of Second World War vintage.<br />
<br />
Then I remembered that the Meteorological Squadron at Gloucester used Mosquitoes, the last ones flying, to take samples of the upper atmosphere to help in the preparation of weather forecasts. I had seen them at Battle of Britain displays, flying their Mosquitoes in the fly-pasts, attracting gasps from the crowd and a few nostalgic shakes of the head from the older men, such as they always reserved on September 5th for the Spitfires, Hurricanes and Lancasters.<br />
<br />
Inside the cockpit of the Mosquito I could make out, against the light of the moon, the muffled head of its pilot and the twin circles of his goggles as he looked out of the side window towards me. Carefully he raised his right hand till I could see it in the window, fingers straight, palm downwards. He jabbed the fingers forward and down, meaning, We are going to descend, formate on me."<br />
<br />
I nodded and quickly brought up my own left hand so he could see it, pointing forwards to my own control panel with one forefinger, then holding up my five splayed fingers. Finally I drew my hand across my throat. By common agreement this sign means I have only five minutes fuel left, then my engine cuts out. I saw the muffled, goggled, oxygen-masked head nod in understanding, then we were heading downwards towards the sheet of fog. His speed increased and I brought the air brakes back in.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9k25kHKdI/AAAAAAAABTk/Yzn05Lh-ji0/s1600-h/Mossie2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224004987101063634" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9k25kHKdI/AAAAAAAABTk/Yzn05Lh-ji0/s400/Mossie2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
The Vampire stopped trembling and plunged ahead of the Mosquito. I pulled back on the throttle, hearing the engine die to a low whistle, and the shepherd was back beside me. We were diving straight towards the shrouded land of Norfolk. I glanced at my altimeter: 2,000 feet, still diving.<br />
<br />
He pulled out at three hundred feet, the fog was still below us. Probably the fog bank was only from the ground to 1oo feet up, but that was more than enough to prevent a plane from landing without a GCA. I could imagine the stream of instructions coming from the radar hut into the earphones of the man flying beside me, eighty feet away through two panes of perspex and a wind stream of icy air moving between us at 28o knots. I kept my eyes on him, for mating as closely as possible, afraid of losing sight for an instant, watching for his every hand-signal. Against the white fog, even as the moon sank, I had to marvel at the beauty of his aircraft; the short nose and bubble cockpit, the blister of perspex right in the nose itself, the long, lean, underslung engine pods, each housing a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, snarling through the night towards home. Two minutes later he held up his clenched left fist in the window, then opened the fist to splay all five fingers against the glass. Please lower your undercarriage. I moved the lever downwards and felt the dull thunk as all three wheels went down, happily powered by hydraulic pressure and not dependent on the failed electrical system.<br />
<br />
The pilot of the shepherd aircraft pointed down again, for another descent, and as he jinked in the moonlight I caught sight of the nose of the Mosquito. It had the letters J K painted on it, large and black. Probably for call-sign Juliet Kilo. Then we were descending again, more gently this time.<br />
<br />
He leveled out just above the fog layer, so low the tendrils of candy-floss were lashing at our fuselages, and we went into a steady circular turn. I managed to flick a glance at my fuel gauge: it was on zero, flickering feebly. For God's sake, hurry up, I prayed, for if my fuel failed me now there would be no time to climb to the minimum 500 feet needed for bailing out. A jet fighter at 100 feet without an engine is a death-trap with no chances for survival.<br />
<br />
For two or three minutes he seemed content to hold his slow circular turn, while, the sweat broke out behind my neck and began to run in streams down my back, gumming the light nylon flying suit to my skin.<br />
<br />
HURRY UP, MAN, HURRY.<br />
<br />
Quite suddenly he straightened out, so fast I almost lost him by continuing to turn. I caught him a second later and saw his left hand flash the dive signal to me. Then he dipped towards the fog bank, I followed, and we were in it, a shallow, flat descent, but a descent nevertheless, and from a mere hundred feet, towards nothing.<br />
<br />
To pass out of even dimly lit sky into cloud or fog is like passing into a bath of grey cotton wool. Suddenly there is nothing but the grey whirling strands, a million tendrils reaching out to trap and strangle you, each one touching the cockpit cover with quick caress then disappearing back into nothingness. The visibility was down to near zero, no shape, no size, no form, no substance. Except that dimly off my left wing-tip, now only forty feet away, was the form of a Mosquito flying with absolute certainty towards something I could not see. Only then did I realize he was flying without lights. For a second I was amazed, horrified by my discovery; then I realized the wisdom of the man. Lights in fog are treacherous, hallucinatory, mesmeric. You can get attracted to them, not knowing whether they are forty or a hundred feet away from you. The tendency is to move towards them; for two aircraft in the fog, one flying formation on the other, that could spell disaster. The man was right.<br />
<br />
Keeping formation with him, I knew he was slowing down, for I too was easing back the throttle, dropping and slowing. In a fraction of a second I flashed a glance at the two instruments I needed: the altimeter was reading zero, so was the fuel gauge, and neither was even flickering. The airspeed indicator, which I had also seen, read 120 knots and this damn coffin was going to fall out of the sky at 95.<br />
<br />
Without warning the shepherd pointed a single forefinger at me, then forward through the windscreen. It meant <span style="font-style: italic;">There you are, fly on and land</span>. I stared forward through the now streaming windscreen. Nothing. Then, yes, something. A blur to the left, another to the tight, then two, one each side. Ringed with haze, there were lights either side of me, in pairs, flashing past. I forced my eyes to see what lay between them. Nothing, blackness. Then a streak of paint, running under my feet. The centre line. Frantically I closed down the power and held her steady, praying for the Vampire to settle.<br />
<br />
The lights were rising now, almost at eye level, and still she would not settle. Bang. We touched, we touched the deck. Bang-bang. Another touch, she was drifting again, inches above the wet black runway. Bam-barn-barn-babam-rumble. She was down. The main wheels had stuck and held.<br />
<br />
The Vampire was rolling, at over ninety miles an hour, through a sea of grey fog. I touched the brakes and the nose slammed down on to the deck also. Slow pressure now, no skidding, hold her straight against the skid, more pressure on those brakes or we'll run off the end. The lights moving past more leisurely now, slowing, slower, slower.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9E5PVcM_I/AAAAAAAABTE/Ti0_zn-fsAY/s1600-h/VampireNightFog.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223969842932757490" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SH9E5PVcM_I/AAAAAAAABTE/Ti0_zn-fsAY/s400/VampireNightFog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
The Vampire stopped. I found both my hands clenched round the control column, squeezing the brake lever inwards. I forget now how many seconds I held them there before I would believe we were stopped. Finally I did believe it, put on the parking brake and released the main brake. Then I went to turn off the engine, for there was no use trying to taxi in this fog; they would have to tow the fighter back with a Land-Rover. There was no need to turn off the engine; it had finally run out of fuel as the Vampire careered down the runway. I shut off the remaining systems, fuel, hydraulics, electrics and pressurization, and slowly began to unstrap myself from the seat and parachute dinghy pack. As I did so a movement caught my eye. To my left, through the fog, no more than fifty feet away, low on the ground with wheels up, the Mosquito roared past me. I caught the flash of the pilot's hand in the side window, then he was gone, up into the fog before he could see my answering wave of acknowledgment. But I'd already decided to call up R.A.F Gloucester and thank him personally from the officers mess.<br />
<br />
With the systems off, the cockpit was misting up fast, so I released the canopy and pushed it upwards and backwards by hand until it locked. Only then, as I stood up, did I realize how cold it was. Against my heated body, dressed in light nylon flying suit, it was freezing. I expected the control-tower truck to be alongside in seconds, for with an emergency landing, even on Christmas Eve, the fire truck, ambulance and half a dozen other vehicles were always standing by. Nothing happened. At least, not for ten minutes.<br />
<br />
By the time the two headlights came groping out of the mist I felt frozen. The lights stopped twenty feet from the motionless Vampire, dwarfed by the fighter's bulk. A voice called:<br />
<br />
"Hallo there."<br />
<br />
I stepped out of the cockpit, jumped from the wing to the ground and ran towards the lights. They turned out to be the headlamps of a battered old Jowett Javelin. Not an Air Force identification mark in sight. At the wheel of the car was a puffed, beery face and a handlebar mustache. At least he wore an R.A.F officer's cap. He stared at me as I loomed out of the fog.<br />
<br />
"That yours? He nodded towards the dim share of the Vampire.<br />
<br />
"Yes, I said, I just landed it."<br />
<br />
"Straordinary, he said, quite straordinary. You'd better jump in. I'll run you back to the mess. I was grateful for the warmth of the car, even more so to be alive.<br />
<br />
Moving in bottom gear he began to ease the old car back round the taxi-track, evidently towards the control tower and beyond them the mess buildings. As we moved away from the Vampire I saw that I had stopped twenty feet short of a plowed field at the very end of the runway.<br />
<br />
"You were damned lucky, he said, or rather shouted, for the engine was roaring in first gear and he seemed to be having trouble with the foot controls. Judging by the smell of whisky on his breath, that was not surpising.<br />
<br />
"Damned lucky, I agreed. I ran out of fuel just as I was landing. My radio and all the electrical systems failed nearly fifty minutes ago over the North Sea."<br />
<br />
He spent several minutes digesting the information carefully.<br />
<br />
"Straordinary, he said at length. No compass?"<br />
<br />
"No compass. Flying in the approximate direction by the moon. As far as the coast, or where I judged it to be. After that..<br />
<br />
"No radio?"<br />
<br />
"No radio, I said. A dead box on all channels."<br />
<br />
"Then how did you find this place? he asked.<br />
<br />
I was losing patience. The man was evidently one of those passed-over flight lieutenants, not terribly bright and probably not a flyer, despite the handlebar mustache. A ground wallah. And drunk with it. Shouldn't be on duty at all on an operational station at that hour of the night.<br />
<br />
"I was guided in,“ I explained patiently.The emergency procedures, having worked so well, now began to seem run-o'-the-mill, such is the recuperation of youth. “I flew short, left-hand triangles, as per instructions, and they sent up a shepherd aircraft to guide me down. No problem."<br />
<br />
He shrugged, as if to say <span style="font-style: italic;">if you insist</span>. Finally he said:<br />
<br />
"Damn lucky, all the same. I'm surprised the other chap managed to find the place."<br />
<br />
"No problem there,“ I explained patiently. “It was one of the weather aircraft from R A F Gloucester. Obviously he had radio. So we came in here in formation, on a GCA. Then when I saw the lights at the threshold of the runway, I landed myself."<br />
<br />
The man was obviously dense, as well as drunk.<br />
<br />
"Straordinary," he said, sucking a stray drop of moisture off his handlebar.”We don't have GCA. We don't have any navigational equipment at all, not even a beacon" Now it was my turn to let the information sink in.“This isn't R.A.F Merriam Saint George” I asked in a small voice. He shook his head."Marham? Chicksands? Lakenheath?"<br />
<br />
"No, he said, this is R.A.F Minton."<br />
<br />
"I've never heard of it,“ I said at last.<br />
<br />
"I'm not surprised. We're not an operational station. Haven't been for years. Minton's a storage depot. Excuse me."<br />
<br />
He stopped the car and got out. I saw we were standing a few feet from the dim shape of a control tower, adjoining a long row of Nissen huts, evidently once flight rooms, navigational and briefing huts.<br />
<br />
Above the narrow door at the base of the tower through which the officer had disappeared hung a single naked bulb. By its light I could make out broken windows, padlocked doors, an air of abandonment and neglect. The man returned and climbed shakily back behind the wheel.<br />
<br />
"Just turning the runway lights off," he said, and belched.<br />
<br />
My mind was whirling. This was mad, crazy, illogical. Yet there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.<br />
<br />
"Why did you switch them on?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"It was the sound of your engine," he said. "I was in the officers mess having a noggin, and old Joe suggested I listen out the window for a second. There you were, circling right above us. You sounded damn low, almost as if you were going to come down in a hurry. Thought I might be of some use, remembered they never disconnected the old runway lights when they dismantled the station, so I ran down to the control tower and switched them on."<br />
<br />
"I see," I said, but I didn't. But there had to be an explanation.<br />
<br />
"That was why I was so late coming out to pick you up. I had to go back to the mess to get the car out, once I'd heard you land out there. Then I had to find you. Bloody foggy night."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">You can say that again</span>, I thought. The mystery puzzled me for another few minutes. Then I hit on the explanation.<br />
<br />
"Where is R.A.F Minton, exactly?" I asked him.<br />
<br />
"Five miles in from the coast, inland from Cromer. That's where we are," he said.<br />
<br />
"And where's the nearest operational R.A.F station with all the radio aids including GCA?"<br />
<br />
He thought for a minute.<br />
<br />
"Must be Merriam Saint George," he said." They must have all those things. Mind you, I'm just a stores Johnny."<br />
<br />
That was the explanation. My unknown friend in the weather plane had been taking me straight from the coast for Merriam Saint George. By chance Minton, abandoned old stores depot Minton, with its cobwebbed runway lights and drunken commanding officer, lay right along the in-flight path to Merriam's runway. Merriam controller had asked us to circle twice while he switched on his runway lights ten miles ahead, and this old fool had switched on his lights as well. Result: coming in on the last ten-mile stretch, I had plonked my Vampire down on the wrong airfield. I was about to tell him not to interfere with modern procedures that he couldn't understand when I choked the words back. My fuel had run out halfway down the runway. I'd never have made Merriam, ten miles away. I'd have crashed in the fields short of touchdown. By an amazing fluke I had been, as he said, damned lucky.<br />
<br />
By the time I had worked out the rational explanation for my presence at this nearly abandoned airfield, we had reached the officers mess. My host parked his car in front of the door and we climbed out. Above the entrance hall a light was burning, dispelling the fog and illuminating the carved but chipped crest of the Royal Air Force above the doorway. To one side was a board screwed to the wall. It said R.A.F Station Minton'. To the other side was another board announcing Officers Mess'. We walked inside.<br />
<br />
The front hall was large and spacious, but evidently built in the pre-war years when metal window-frames, service issue, were in the fashion. The place reeked of the expression ‘it had seen better days'. It had indeed. Only two cracked leather club chairs occupied the ante room, which could have taken twenty. The cloakroom to the right contained a long empty rail for non-existent coats. My host, who told me he was Flight Lieutenant Marks, shrugged off his sheepskin coat and threw it over a chair. He was wearing his uniform trousers, but with a chunky blue pullover for a jacket. It must be miserable to spend your Christmas on duty in a dump like this.<br />
<br />
He told me he was the second-in-command, the CO being a squadron leader now on Christmas leave. Apart from him and his CO the station boasted a sergeant, three corporals, one of whom was on Christmas duty and presumably in the corporals mess also on his own, and twenty stores clerks, all away on leave. When not on leave, they spent their days classifying tons of surplus clothing, parachutes, boots, and other impedimenta that goes to make up a fighting service.<br />
<br />
There was no fire in the vestibule, though there was a large brick fireplace, nor any in the bar either. Both rooms were freezing cold, and I was beginning to shiver again after recovering in the car. Marks was putting his head through the various doors leading off the hall, shouting for someone called Joe. By looking through after him, I took in at a glance the spacious but deserted dining room, also fireless and cold, and the twin passages, one leading to the officers private rooms, the other to the staff quarters. R.A.F messes do not vary much in architecture; once a pattern, always a pattern.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry it's not very hospitable, old boy, said Marks, having failed to find the absent Joe. Being only the two of us on station here, and no visitors to speak of, we've each made two bedrooms into a sort of self-contained apartment where we live. Hardly seems worth using all this space just for the two of us. You can't heat them in winter, you know; not on the fuel they allow us. And you can't get the stuff."<br />
<br />
It seemed sensible. In his position I'd probably have done the same.<br />
<br />
"Not to worry, I said, dropping my flying helmet and attached oxygen mask into the other leather chair. Though I could do with a bath and a meal."<br />
<br />
"I think we can manage that, he said, trying hard to play the genial host. I'll get Joe to fix up one of the spare rooms God knows we have enough of them and heat up the water. He'll also rustle up a meal. Not much, I'm afraid. Bacon and eggs do?"<br />
<br />
I nodded. By this time I presumed old Joe was the mess steward.<br />
<br />
"That will do fine. While I'm waiting, do you mind if I use your phone?"<br />
<br />
"Certainly, certainly, of course, you'll have to check in."<br />
<br />
He ushered me into the mess secretary's office, a door beside the entrance to the bar. It was small and cold, but it had a chair, empty desk and a telephone.<br />
<br />
I dialed 100 for the local operator, and while I was waiting Marks returned with a tumbler of whiskey. Normally I hardly touched spirits, but it was warming, so I thanked him and he went off to supervise the steward. My watch told me it was close to midnight. Hell of a way to spend Christmas, I thought. Then I recalled how thirty minutes earlier I had been crying to God for a bit of help, and felt ashamed.<br />
<br />
"Little Minton," said a drowsy voice. It took ages to get through, for I had no telephone number for Merriam Saint George, but the girl got it eventually. Down the line I could hear the telephone operator's family celebrating in a back room, no doubt the living quarters attached to the village post office. Eventually the phone was ringing.<br />
<br />
"R.A.F Merriam Saint George," said a man's voice. Duty sergeant speaking from the guard-room, I thought.<br />
<br />
"Duty Controller, Air Traffic Control, please," I said. There was a pause.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, sir," said the voice, "may I ask who's calling?"<br />
<br />
I gave him my name and rank. Speaking from R.A.F Minton, I told him.<br />
<br />
"I see, sir. But I'm afraid there's no flying tonight, sir. No one on duty in Air Traffic Control. A few of the officers up in the mess though."<br />
<br />
"Then give me the station duty officer, please."<br />
<br />
When I got through to him he was evidently in the mess, for the sound of lively talk could be heard behind him. I explained about the emergency and the fact that his station had been alerted to receive a Vampire fighter coming in on an emergency GCA without radio. He listened attentively. Perhaps he was young and conscientious too, for he was quite sober, as a station duty officer is supposed to be at all times, even Christmas.<br />
<br />
"I don't know about that,“ he said at length “I don't think we've been operational since we closed down at five this afternoon. But I'm not on Air Traffic. Would you hold on. I'll get the Wing Commander (Flying). He's here."<br />
<br />
There was a pause and then an older voice came on the line. I explained the matter again.<br />
<br />
"Where are you speaking from?" he said after noting my name, rank and the station I was based at.<br />
<br />
"R.A.F Minton, sir. I've just made an emergency landing here. Apparently it's nearly abandoned."<br />
<br />
"Yes, I know," he drawled. "Damn bad luck. Do you want us to send a Tilly for you?"<br />
<br />
"No, it's not that, sir. I don't mind being here. It's just that I landed at the wrong airfield. I believe I was heading for your airfield on a Ground Controlled Approach."<br />
<br />
"Well, make up your mind. Were you or weren't you? You ought to know. According to what you say, you were flying the damn thing."<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath and started at the beginning.”So you see, sir, I was intercepted by the weather plane from Gloucester, and he brought me in. But in this fog it must have been on a GCA. No other way to get down. Yet when I saw the lights of Minton I landed here assuming it to be Merriam Saint George"<br />
<br />
"Splendid“ he said at length. “Marvellous bit of flying by that pilot from Gloucester. Course, those chaps are up in all weathers. It's their job. What do you want us to do about it?"<br />
<br />
I was getting exasperated. Wing commander he might have been, but he had had a skinful this Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
"I am ringing to alert you to stand down your radar and traffic control crews, sir. They must be waiting for a Vampire that's never going to arrive. It's already arrived here at Minton."<br />
<br />
"But we're closed down," he said. "We shut all the systems down at five o'clock. There's been no call for us to turn out."<br />
<br />
"But Merriam Saint George has a GCA," I protested. "I know we have," he shouted back. "But it hasn't been used tonight. It's been shut down since five o'clock."<br />
<br />
I asked the next and last question slowly and carefully.<br />
<br />
"Do you know, sir, where is the nearest R.A.F station that will be manning 121.5 band throughout the night, the nearest station to here that maintains twenty-four-hour emergency listening?" The international aircraft emergency frequency is 121.5 megacycles. "Yes," he said equally slowly. "To the west, R.A.F Marham. To the south, R.A.F Lakenheath. Good night to you. Happy Christmas."<br />
<br />
He put the phone down. I sat back and breathed deeply. Marham was forty miles away on the other side of Norfolk. Lakenheath was forty miles to the south, in Suffolk. On the fuel I was carrying, not only could I not have made Merriam Saint George, it wasn't even open. So how could I ever have got to Marham or Lakenheath? And I had told that Mosquito pilot that I only had five minutes fuel left. He had acknowledged that he understood. In any case, he was flying far too low after we dived into the fog ever to fly forty miles like that. The man must have been mad.<br />
<br />
It began to dawn on me that I didn't really owe my life to the weather pilot from Gloucester, but to Flight Lieutenant Marks, beery, bumbling old passed-over Flight Lieutenant Marks, who couldn't tell one end of an aircraft from another ,but who had run four hundred yards through the fog to switch on the lights of an abandoned runway because he heard a jet engine circling overhead too close to the ground. Still, the Mosquito must be back at Gloucester by now, and he ought to know that despite everything I was alive.<br />
<br />
"Gloucester?" said the operator. "At this time of night?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I replied firmly, Gloucester, at this time of night."<br />
<br />
One thing about weather squadrons, they're always on duty. The duty meteorologist took the call. I explained the position to him.<br />
<br />
"I'm afraid there must be some mistake, Flying Officer," he said. "It could not have been one of ours."<br />
<br />
"Look, that is R.A.F Gloucester, right?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, it is. Duty Met. Officer speaking."<br />
<br />
"Fine. And your unit flies Mosquitoes to take pressure and temperature readings at altitude, right?"<br />
<br />
"Wrong, "he said. "We used to use Mosquitoes. They went out of service three months ago. We now use Canberras."<br />
<br />
I sat holding the telephone, staring at it in disbelief. Then an idea came to me.<br />
<br />
"What happened to them?" I asked. He must have been an elderly boffin of great courtesy and patience to tolerate darn fool questions at this hour of the night.<br />
<br />
"They were scrapped, I think, or sent off to museums, more likely. They're getting quite rare nowadays, you know."<br />
<br />
"I know, I said. Could one of them have been sold privately?"<br />
<br />
"I suppose it's possible," he said at length. “It would depend on Air Ministry policy. But I think they went to aircraft museums."<br />
<br />
"Thank you. Thank you very much. And Happy Christmas."<br />
<br />
I put the phone down and shook my head in bewilderment. What a night, what an incredible night. First I lose my radio and all my. instruments, then I get lost and short of fuel, then I am taken in tow by some moonlighting harebrain with a passion for veteran aircraft flying his own Mosquito through the night, who happens to spot me, comes within an inch of killing me and finally a half-drunk ground-duty officer has the sense to put his runway lights on in time to save me. Luck doesn't come in much bigger slices. But one thing was certain: that amateur air ace hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing. On the other hand, where would I be without him, I asked. Bobbing around dead in the North Sea by now.<br />
<br />
I raised the last of the whisky to him and his strange passion for flying privately in out-dated aircraft and tossed the drink back. Flight Lieutenant Marks put his head round the door.<br />
<br />
"Your room's ready," he said. Number Seventeen, just down the corridor. Joe's making up a fire for you now. The bath water's heating. If you don't mind, I think I'll turn in. Will you be all right on your own?"<br />
<br />
I greeted him with more friendliness than last time, which he deserved.<br />
<br />
"Sure, I'll be fine. Many thanks for all your help." I took my helmet and wandered down the corridor, flanked with the numbers of the bedrooms of bachelor officers long since posted elsewhere. From the door of Seventeen a bar of light shone out into the passage. As I entered the room an old man rose from his knees in front of the fireplace. He gave me a start. Mess stewards are usually R.A.F serving men. This one was near seventy, and obviously a locally recruited civilian employee.<br />
<br />
"Good evening, sir,“ he said. “I'm Joe, sir. I'm the mess steward."<br />
<br />
"Yes, Joe, Mr. Marks told me about you. Sorry to cause you so much trouble at this hour of the night. I just dropped in, as you might say."<br />
<br />
"Yes, Mr. Marks told me. I'll have your room ready directly. Soon as this fire burns up, it'll be quite cosy”<br />
<br />
The chill had not been taken off the room, and I shivered in the nylon flying suit. I should have asked Marks for the loan of a sweater, but had forgotten.<br />
<br />
I elected to take my lonely evening meal in my room, and while Joe went to fetch it I had a quick bath, for the water was by now reasonably hot. While I toweled myself down and wrapped the old but warm dressing gown that old Joe had brought with him round me, he set out a small table and placed a plate of sizzling bacon and eggs on it. By now the room was comfortably warm, the coal fire burning brightly, the curtains drawn. While I ate, which took only a few minutes, for I was ravenously hungry, the old steward stayed to talk.<br />
<br />
"You been here long, Joe? I asked him, more out of politeness than genuine interest.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yes, sir, nigh on twenty years; since just before the war when the station opened."<br />
<br />
"You've seen some changes, eh? Wasn't always like this."<br />
<br />
"That it wasn't, sir, that it wasn't." And he told me of the days when the rooms were crammed with eager young pilots, the dining room noisy with the clatter of plates and cutlery, the bar roaring with bawdy songs; of months and years when the sky above the airfield crackled and snarled to the sound of piston engines driving planes to war and bringing them back again.<br />
<br />
While he talked I finished my meal and emptied the remainder of the half-bottle of red wine he had brought from the bar store. A very good steward was Joe. After finishing I rose from the table, fished a cigarette from the pocket of my flying suit, lit it and sauntered round the room. The steward began to tidy up the plates and the glass from the table. I halted before an old photograph in a frame, standing alone on the mantel shelf above the crackling fire. I stopped with my cigarette half raised to my lips, feeling the room go suddenly cold.<br />
<br />
The photo was old and stained, but behind its glass it was still clear enough. It showed a young man of about my own years, in his early twenties, dressed in flying gear. But not the blue nylon suits and gleaming plastic crash helmet of today. He wore thick sheepskin-lined boots, rough serge trousers and the heavy sheepskin zip-up jacket. From his left hand dangled one of the soft-leather flying helmets they used to wear, with goggles attached, instead of the modern pilot's tinted visor. He stood with legs apart, right hand on hip, a defiant stance, but he was not smiling. He stared at the camera with grim intentness. There was something sad about the eyes.<br />
<br />
Behind him, quite clearly visible, stood his aircraft. There was no mistaking the lean, sleek silhouette of the Mosquito fighter-bomber, nor the two low-slung pods housing the twin Merlin engines that gave it its remarkable performance. I was about to say something to Joe when I felt the gust of cold air on my back. One of the windows had blown open and the icy air was rushing in.<br />
<br />
"I'll close it, sir," the old man said, and made to put all the plates back down again.<br />
<br />
"No, I'll do it."<br />
<br />
It took me two strides to cross to where the window swung on its steel frame. To get a better hold I stepped inside the curtain and stared out. The fog swirled in waves around the old mess building, disturbed by the current of warm air coming from the window. Somewhere, far away in the fog, I thought I heard the snarl of engines. There were no engines out there, just a motor cycle of some farm boy, taking leave of his sweetheart across the fens. I closed the window, made sure it was secure, and turned back into the room.<br />
<br />
"Who's the pilot, Joe?"<br />
<br />
"The pilot, sir?"<br />
<br />
I nodded towards the lonely photograph on the mantel shelf<br />
<br />
"Oh, I see, sir. That's a photo of Mr. Kavanagh. He was here during the war, sir."<br />
<br />
He placed the wineglass on top of the topmost plate in his hands.<br />
<br />
"Kavanagh?" I walked back to the picture and studied it closely.<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir. An Irish gentleman. A very fine man, if I may say so. As a matter of fact, sir, this was his room."<br />
<br />
"What squadron was that, Joe?" I was still peering at the aircraft in the background.<br />
<br />
"Pathfinders, sir. Mosquitoes, they flew. Remarkable pilots, all of them, sir. But I venture to say I believe Mister Johnny was the best of them all. But then I'm biased, sir. I was his batman, you see."<br />
<br />
There was no doubting it. The faint letters on the nose of the Mosquito behind the figure in the photo read J K. Not Juliet Kilo, but Johnny Kavanagh.<br />
<br />
The whole thing was clear as day. Kavanagh had been a superb pilot, flying with one of the crack squadrons during the war. After the war he'd left the Air Force, probably going into second-hand car dealing, as quite a few did. So he'd made a pile of money in the booming fifties, probably bought himself a smart country house, and had enough left over to indulge his real passion flying. Or rather re-creating the past, his days of glory. He'd bought up an old Mosquito in one of the R.A.F periodic auctions of obsolescent aircraft, re-fitted it, and flew it privately whenever he wished. Not a bad way to spend your spare time, if you had the money.<br />
<br />
So he'd been flying back from some trip to Europe, had spotted me turning in triangles above the cloud bank, realized I was stuck, and taken me in tow. Pin-pointing his position precisely by crossed radio beacons, knowing this stretch of the coast by heart, he'd taken a chance of finding his old airfield at Minton even in thick fog. It was a hell of a risk. But then I had no fuel left anyway, so it was that or bust.<br />
<br />
I had no doubt I could trace the man, probably through the Royal Aero club.<br />
<br />
"He was certainly a good pilot" I said reflectively, thinking of this evening's performance.<br />
<br />
"The best, sir“ said old Joe from behind me. “They reckoned he had eyes like a cat, did Mister Johnny. I remember many's the time the squadron would return from dropping flares over bombing targets in Germany, and the rest of the young gentlemen would go into the bar and have a drink. More likely several."<br />
<br />
"He didn't drink? I asked.<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, sir, but more often he'd have his Mosquito re-fueled and take off again alone, going back over the Channel or the North Sea to see if he could find some crippled bomber making for the coast and guide them home."<br />
<br />
I frowned. These big bombers had their own bases to go to.<br />
<br />
"But some of them would have taken a lot of enemy flak fire, and sometimes they had their radios knocked out. All over, they came from. Marham, Scampton, Cotteshall, Waddington; the big four-engined ones, Halifaxes, Stirlings and Lancasters; a bit before your time if you'll pardon my saying so, sir."<br />
<br />
"I've seen pictures of them," I admitted. And some of them fly in air parades. "And he used to guide them back?"<br />
<br />
I could imagine them in my mind's eye, gaping holes in the body, wings and tail, creaking and swaying as the pilot sought to hold them steady for home, a wounded or dying crew, and the radio shot to bits. And I knew, from too recent experience, the bitter loneliness of the winter's sky at night, with no radio, no guide for home and the fog blotting out the land.<br />
<br />
"That's right, sir. He used to go up for a second flight in the same night, patrolling out over the North Sea, looking for a crippled plane. Then he'd guide them home, back here to Minton, sometimes through fog so dense you couldn't see your hand. Sixth sense, they said he had; something of the Irish in him."<br />
<br />
I turned from the photograph and stubbed my cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bed. Joe was at the door.<br />
<br />
"Quite a man, I said, and I meant it. Even today, middle-aged, he was a superb flier."<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, sir, quite a man, Mister Johnny. I remember him saying to me once, standing tight where you are before the fire: Joe, he said, whenever there's one of them out there in the night, trying to get back, I'll go out and bring him home." I nodded gravely. The old man so obviously worshipped his wartime officer.<br />
<br />
"Well, I said, by the look of it, he's still doing it."<br />
<br />
Now Joe smiled.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I hardly think so, sir. Mister Johnny went out on his last patrol Christmas Eve 1943, just fourteen years ago tonight. He never came back, sir. He went down with his plane somewhere out there in the North Sea. Good night, sir. And Happy Christmas."<span style="font-size: 78%;"><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-17197069147858194122019-12-23T00:01:00.000-08:002019-12-17T15:07:08.195-08:00• Thank You Santa<span style="font-style: italic;">I've been after Skip 'Gunner' King (US Army, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ret</span>.) for details of this incident since Christmas. It was worth the wait.</span><br />
<br />
Just prior to Christmas 1969, I was one of three people waiting at a remote strip somewhere near <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Phan</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Thiet</span> for a Caribou ride to Cam <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Rahn</span> or Na <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Trang</span>. I was trying to get back to my unit at Lane <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">AHP</span> near <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Qui</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Nhon</span>. Two passengers and an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">RTO</span>.<br />
<br />
We saw a Caribou approaching and assumed it was our transportation, but it initially just flew past. But it turned back towards the strip and landed.<br />
<br />
The first thing we noticed was the painting on the nose, like Rudolf, but it was Santa... about that time the real Santa poked his head out the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">astrodome</span>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SY-c-x767XI/AAAAAAAACHA/YUrEJDBBcA8/s1600-h/SantaBou_04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627888808848754" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/SY-c-x767XI/AAAAAAAACHA/YUrEJDBBcA8/s400/SantaBou_04.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
The aircraft pulled up, dropped the ramp and there was a bar that looked like a chimney, a couple of very attractive elves, Santa and some people in flight suits.<br />
<br />
One of us asked why the aircraft had turned around. A guys in a flight suit replied that this wasn't a scheduled stop, but that when they saw the three of us out in the middle of nowhere, they figured we needed a visit as much as anybody.<br />
<br />
The eggnog was great, the girls were beautiful, and my green and red goody bag hangs on the mantle every Christmas, as it has for the last 39 years.<br />
<br />
I don't think I ever said "Thank You" to the guys in the flight suits. So... "Thank You" for one of my life's most memorable events.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Anybody know who those guys were?<br /></span>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-34753931581666779272019-12-22T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-17T14:54:41.965-08:00• Christmas Cheerby Brian Ford<br />
<br />
This is reckoned to be true, at least by all who tell it. Goes back quite a few years to the late 50s or early 60s.<br />
<br />
A bloke from Sydney flies out to the bush to visit a mate. Its around Christmas, and Christmas here in Australia is the summer - and in the bush its hot, bloody hot, stinking hot, Mate. While visiting, our flyer is talked into doing a favour for his mate. "We're having a bit of a Christmas party this Saturday," says the mate. "Over at the flying club. Y'know, for the kiddies and all. We need someone to dress up as Santa, fly in in the club's Tiger Moth, hand out presents, that sort of thing. Since you're not local, they won't know who you are. Interested?"<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/R2fFcoYK4SI/AAAAAAAABCw/F_8_2qBIA7E/s1600-h/AussieMoth.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145298194959884578" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/R2fFcoYK4SI/AAAAAAAABCw/F_8_2qBIA7E/s400/AussieMoth.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
"Sure," says our flier. "Anything for a mate."<br />
<br />
Our flier is no stranger to the intrepid Tiger Moth, having trained in one and later instructed in one, and amassed a good deal of hours on the type.<br />
<br />
Saturday comes. Our flier is driven to a nearby bush strip, where waits the yellow Tiger and a Santa suit, under the watchful custodial gaze of the local strip's owner. Our hero is to wait until midday, then head off for the short flight to the flying club, buzz the field, land and dispense presents and ho ho hos. He suits up, complete with pillow for suit-front stuffing, wig and a white beard about 5 feet long.<br />
<br />
While waiting, the local strip owner asks "Would you no like a glass of Christmas cheer?" and offers a cold beer. Knowing this is full well against established flying practice, and common sense, but also thinking along the lines of, <span style="font-style: italic;">it's a short flight, its hotter than hell in this suit, God knows I can fly the Tiger blindfolded. What the hell... one or two can't hurt</span>, our hero agrees to imbibe with, "Well, 'Tis the season!"<br />
<br />
Come showtime Santa checks that the toy sack is in the front cockpit, clambers into the back cockpit - no easy feat considering his extra girth with the pillow, and trying to not get fouled in 5' of beard - then with switches on and chocks away, roars off in the direction of the flying club field. The beard, all 5' of it, is proving to be a problem so Santa rolls it all up into a ball and places it on his lap.<br />
<br />
Approaching the field he remembers the instructions to "Buzz the field a bit, mate. Make an entrance. Y'know... for the kiddies."<br />
<br />
Its time for serious lack of clear thinking, thanks the wee dram he had before deaprture. Imagining that the 5' long beard would make a dandy streamer to show his arrival to the waiting crowd that is visible as a tight knot at the end of the field, Santa decides to chuck it out the side of the cockpit. ZING! ZANG! That damn thing is snatched by the 90 MPH slipstream, yanking Santa's head back and to the left, pinning his chin to his left shoulder. To make matters worse the wig is now also stylishly raked across his eyes, obscurring almost all forward vision. Santa is so stunned, the little Tiger Moth dips and begins a shallow descent - aimed right at the waiting group of Mums and Dads and kids.<br />
<br />
Our jolly fat aviator is gripped by panic, and can only think of one course of action - that is to take all hands off the controls, reach out and grab that damned beard and haul it back into the cockpit. Of course, releasing the controls is often deemed a dangerous thing to do when flying low to the ground, and already in a decent. The Tiger's dive steepens, and he's now set to make an appearance like a kamikaze fighter. The crowd stops waving and falls silent.<br />
<br />
A desperate Santa hauls that beard back in, tears the filmy web of fake hair from across his eyes and looks ahead, only to see the ground, and the wide-eyed gape-mouthed crowd, fast approaching. Emitting a short strangled cry, he hauls back on the stick and makes a terrifying low pass across the assembled mob, all of whom are too startled to run for cover.<br />
<br />
The Tiger Moth is seen to zoom back into the sky. It makes a rather shaky circuit, turns final and bumps to a rough landing. After a few moments, as the engine ticks down to be finally still, a shaking and ashen faced dishevelled Santa emerges, muttering a few very half-hearted "Ho. ho. bloody hos".<br />
<br />
Toys are dispensed, kiddies sit on Santa's still shaking knees, photographs are taken. Toward the end of the proceedings, the fliers mate appears and hands Santa a tall glass of cold beer (it is now safe to do so, as due to overwhelming public opinion it has been decided that when Santa leaves, it will be by car). Santa accepts the offered brew and look up into the eyes of his mate. "How close was it, Bruce?" he manages to croak out. His mate scratches his head and seems to consider a reply. "Well," he finally says," The kiddies were okay. But all the bloody adults had to duck."<br />
<br />
Here endeth the lesson.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-42224934298608836082019-12-21T00:01:00.000-08:002019-12-17T15:02:38.042-08:00• T'was The Flight Before Christmas<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RYGYLr1KHdI/AAAAAAAAAGM/kOe-H-dGnLo/s1600-h/pastedGraphic.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5008451587124370898" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RYGYLr1KHdI/AAAAAAAAAGM/kOe-H-dGnLo/s400/pastedGraphic.png" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<br />
<center>
<br />
'Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp<br />
Not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.<br />
The aircraft were fastened to tie downs with care,<br />
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.<br />
<br />
The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,<br />
With gusts from two forty at 39 knots<br />
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up,<br />
And settled down comfortably, resting my butt.<br />
<br />
When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,<br />
I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter.<br />
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,<br />
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.<br />
<br />
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,<br />
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".<br />
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,<br />
The better to welcome this magical flight.<br />
<br />
He called his position, no room for denial,<br />
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."<br />
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,<br />
But a Travel Air sleigh, with nine radial Reindeer!<br />
<br />
With vectors to final, down the glide slope he came,<br />
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:<br />
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!<br />
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he taken'?<br />
<br />
While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head,<br />
They phoned to my office, and I heard it with dread,<br />
The message they left was both urgent and dour:<br />
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."<br />
<br />
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,<br />
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking.<br />
He slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh<br />
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho..."<br />
<br />
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,<br />
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.<br />
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost<br />
And his beard was all blackened from Reindeer exhaust.<br />
<br />
His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,<br />
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.<br />
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,<br />
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.<br />
<br />
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,<br />
And he asked me to "fill it, with hundred low-lead."<br />
He came dashing in from the snow-covered pump,<br />
I knew he was eager to be drainin' the sump.<br />
<br />
I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,<br />
And I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk.<br />
He came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief,<br />
Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.<br />
<br />
And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,<br />
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.<br />
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,<br />
Then he put on his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!"<br />
<br />
And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,<br />
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.<br />
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,<br />
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"<br />
<br />
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,<br />
"Your traffic's a Twin Beech, inbound from the west."<br />
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night,<br />
"Merry Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."<br />
<br />
</center>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-25619131490712642522018-02-20T00:30:00.000-08:002018-02-20T08:50:04.982-08:00• A Day In The Life<i>Don't loose any sleep over it, you'll deal with it fine when it happens.</i><br />
<br />
That's what we'd been told. But we'd still laid awake talking about just what we'd do if one of our six flightseeing airplanes went down. We made every effort to minimize the risks with our focus on pilot selection, training, maintenance, and operation standards. Still, entropy, like Murphy's, is a relentless law.<br />
<br />
Early in our career as barnstormers, friends back East had it happen. One of their plane's went down after an engine failure and someone died. We contemplated getting out of the business right then. But we knew that attitude, taken to the extreme, would mean we'd spend our lives under a bed, quaking in fear of unknown--and unlikely--events.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW-Pg2X0QI/AAAAAAAAAPc/HxZRR5jtekY/s1600-h/P23A08866_3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045648131263811842" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW-Pg2X0QI/AAAAAAAAAPc/HxZRR5jtekY/s400/P23A08866_3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Later, when we decided we needed a longer season than Philadelphia's, we considered a business for sale on Maui. A promotional video showed picturesque but unforgiving twelve foot high sugar cane, volcanoes and lava. We kept looking. The wide beaches in San Diego attracted us from the beginning. Safety isn't an accident.<br />
<br />
One night, out for dinner, we had a dry run. Cell phone rang, and when Kate answered she turned white. She regained some color as she said, "But, wait, we just locked our planes in the hangar." An air traffic controller was calling to say one of our planes had landed on a hillside near the cliffs of Pt. Loma. Turned out it was a Stearman with a big "RIDES" sign on the side. The owners had assured us they bought it just for fun. Turned out they were shooting promotional pictures for a ride business. Turned out they ran out of gas, for crying out loud. We got hit by a ricochet when the news reported: "A vintage biplane operating out of Palomar Airport crashed (sic) today on Pt. Loma while sightseeing."<br />
<br />
So, on a rare Saturday off, about 1:30, when the phone rang in the office at home and a voice said, "This is CRQ tower. One of your biplanes went down over by the power plant," we dealt with it, just as we'd been told we would. I grabbed a jacket and cell phone and headed up the coast. Enroute I called Kate, on the way home from the gym, told her I didn't know anything except we had a plane down. She squeaked, "oh no," regained her composure and said she'd change clothes and call the airport. I had time to wonder where, and how, and what, and if, sorting through options and outcomes.<br />
<br />
Cell phone rang again. Call from the airport said the plane was in the water. Plot sickens, options narrow, start to get the shakes from an overdose of adrenalin. Immediately, the phone rang again saying the plane was on the beach, everyone was fine, not a scratch. Pull off at a beach access spot and try to see it. Orange wings a mile or so away. Nobody here even aware of it. Back in the car.<br />
<br />
North through Carlsbad almost to Oceanside, and after several wrong turns and double-backs find several fire trucks and rescue vehicles parked by some condos on the bluff next to beach access steps. Firemen look bored, see the "Biplane, Air Combat & Warbird Adventures" sign on the car and give me a thumbs up. I flash them a smile--maybe a grimace--and run down the steps to the beach.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW5mQ2X0JI/AAAAAAAAAOk/qQUnKqb99dM/s1600-h/P23A08866.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045643024547696786" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW5mQ2X0JI/AAAAAAAAAOk/qQUnKqb99dM/s400/P23A08866.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
A few people are milling around, some taking pictures. Guy says, "was this a publicity stunt?" Yeah right. See pilot Vic standing with a couple of people and I say "Hey, great job." Two men with him say, "Sure was, smoothest landing I've ever experienced." They say they'd asked Vic as they were headed north how the thing glides and could they land on the beach. Flying back south they learned. One says his Dad was an FAA inspector. Other says something about coming back again for a re-fly.<br />
<br />
Three stories from three different observers on board the aircraft, but they all agree the #2 jug wiggled very briefly and then shot up over the wing and arced down behind them into the ocean. Engine continued to produce a little power. Vic, in his best airline captain voice, announced over the intercom that they probably should land on the beach instead of going back to the airport if that was okay. He checked the beach for surfers and sun bathers, and greased 'er on. Shut down, climbed out, and looked her over. Said he ran out of business cards and could have used a carton of brochures. Ho-hum.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW5xw2X0KI/AAAAAAAAAOs/CHFG92aEw88/s1600-h/P23A08866_1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045643222116192418" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW5xw2X0KI/AAAAAAAAAOs/CHFG92aEw88/s400/P23A08866_1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Exceptionally low tide had left a hard beach smoother than many runways. But the tide would come back in and it was going to be exceptionally high. Mechanic/pilot Skip arrives and we discuss how we're going to get the bird out of here, what we'll need to do to take it apart, etc. Four of us pushed it south a couple hundred yards, and then decided we'd better scout ahead to determine if the ramp where we were headed would work.<br />
<br />
Walked and walked and walked down the beach. No ramp. Walked and walked and walked back up the beach. These boots were NOT made for walkin'. Three o'clock.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW58w2X0LI/AAAAAAAAAO0/qw7TQqSw48s/s1600-h/P23A08866_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045643411094753458" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW58w2X0LI/AAAAAAAAAO0/qw7TQqSw48s/s400/P23A08866_2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Decide to reconnoiter north but by car. Drove along the oceanfront condos, got trapped by multiple "No Left Turns" and one way streets and ended up a long way from anywhere. Discovered a gate and driveway that seemed to lead down to a sand road out to the beach. No response in the call box at the curb. Left a probably incomprehensible message.<br />
<br />
Back to the plane and see Channel 8 cameraman interviewing some animated surfer gesticulating wildly. Obviously the plane plummeted from the sky, practically knocking him off his surfboard while narrowly missing school children, a nearby orphanage, and the nunnery. Vic's standing back looking bored. Says they interviewed him too. It went fine. 11 o'clock news carries it, and he was right. We hear later that the piece was on in Chicago and Columbus, Ohio. Musta been a slow news day. Surfer dude's story ended up on the cutting room floor.<br />
<br />
Kate arrives, breathless. Passengers get a handshake and pilot gets a hug. After giving her bird a careful once over and close look into the crankcase she says she's going to take the passengers back to the airport and their car. On the way back, "I was probably babbling," she says afterwards. She gives them each a logo jacket, offers them a re-fly, any ride they want, and they decide the warbird would be fun. They're so tickled about the whole thing they came back down to the beach to see how things are going. They decided to avoid the limelight and never let on to the camera crew they were the passengers. Petrol Pat, student rocket scientist, ex-gas passer for the FBO, and current hangar rat/plane loader exclaims, "This isn't a job, it's an adventure." Atta boy, smell the roses.<br />
<br />
Skip and Susanne drive up the beach in their 4-wheel drive SUV. He reached through a gate, took one bolt out of the actuating arm of the multi-thousand dollar security barricade, and drove in. We turn the plane around, tie a rope to the tail and trundle up the beach.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW6LA2X0MI/AAAAAAAAAO8/Tbud9lnbXlE/s1600-h/P23A08866_4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045643655907889346" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RgW6LA2X0MI/AAAAAAAAAO8/Tbud9lnbXlE/s400/P23A08866_4.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Over the waterline above the high tide mark, and then up a creek bed to a paved blacktop driveway with a huge looping turnaround. And best of all, no curbs. Couldn't have been easier. Turns out we're at the house with the gate with the driveway with the call box with the unintelligible message. And it turns out that the absent man who lives in the house with the gate with the driveway with the call box with the unintelligible message is a pilot we know from the airport. (He made a fortune from a reflective dog collar--an idea that came to him, he freely admits, sleeping off a drunken stupor on a beach in Baja.)<br />
<br />
How we gonna get this thing outta here? Replace the engine and fly it out? Is it legal? Is it smart? Tow it up to the airport in the wee hours? Can we get it outta here with the wings on? Can we get the wings off and back to the airport without tearing them up? What will we use to move the airplane? Put the tail in a pickup and drag it? Will it fit on a car trailer? Is a flat bed too expensive? Does it matter? Larry calls Chief of Police, a pilot, (nice to have those kinds of friends) and explains the options. Chief sez don't ask me anything to which I have might have to answer no. Safest option seems to be truck it back to the airport, sans wings.<br />
<br />
But how do you take the wings off a biplane with no overhead rafters, hoists or cranes? A host of helpful friends, numerous vehicles, collective thinking, care, and muscle is how. Just like the old days. Skip, and the gathered multitude, plunge into the "loosen everything up" first step, while schemes are hatched for actually removing everything without damage. The sun sets. Plan A is prop up lower wings, remove uppers. But how to reach them with lower wings in the way? Plan B is prop uppers, remove lowers, back pickup under uppers, lift them down. Parts are removed, labeled and neatly laid out for transport to the airport. Oh-oh, forgot to call for a truck. No sweat, be there in 90 minutes.<br />
<br />
More pilots and friends arrive. Beginning to look like a hell of beach party. Matt and Candy arrive with gear and beer. Fun to have a Marine fighter pilot helping take the wings off the ancient relative of his supersonic steed. Full moon rises. Funny how the important things in life turn out to be simple: good friends, a paved driveway, a full moon, hot coffee. Numerous heroes pop in and out of the scene. Nelson from Shimoda Aircaft offers to carry wings back to the airport in his pickup. (His dog Chance--as in Nothing By--pees on the tires for good measure). Donnya, like her eager doggies Rudder and Tailwheel, runs here and there reaching tools, pulling nuts and bolts. Bronco and Biggles arrive after their dogfight flights and add competent advice and muscle. Eric and Mickey pull (and push) their weight. Even a groupie tow truck driver hangs around and offers his substantial girth and strong back.<br />
<br />
Plan B works fine. Scary, propping the wings with a tall step-ladder and couch cushions, knowing the expense of carelessness or bad planning. But the wings (and helpers) remain unscathed. Plane sits forlorn in the moonlight, missing a cylinder, dripping dew, looking ungainly with only a center section hinting at airfoil and flight.<br />
<br />
And so we waited. Seems the flatbed tractor trailer had been called out to retrieve an RV that rolled over on I-15. Their off pavement landing had been much more consequential, apparently. The process of turning it back over, loading it, driving back, and unloading it was slower than estimated. Repeated calls always produce "he'll be there within a half hour." We stand around in the growing chill, growing bored, growing hungry. Enjoying the full moon, thanking our lucky stars. Two wings, flying wires, fairings, and ladders are pickup-trucked back to the airport. Matt and Candy are back with pizza. Amazing how a slice of pizza can cheer you up.<br />
<br />
Finally, a huge diesel tractor pulling an ingenious tilting trailer with sliding wheels arrives. Drivers swings around bouncing through the creek and weeds, backs up, stops, pulls the trailer wheels toward the tractor, neatly dropping the back end on the ground. We rig a bridle to the landing gear. They winch the aircraft onto the trailer, and level the bed. We lift on the two remaining wings and gently nestle them in cushions and blankets and strap them down behind the fuselage. Driver comments the truck will easily go 80 fully loaded. I comment the plane will fly at 40. Helper sez don't worry, he's been driving this big Class A rig for two months. Oh, goody.<br />
<br />
Parade back to the hangar is uneventful, drawing little attention. Odd feeling of skulking back from a crime. Airport is quiet. Cold blue taxiway lights are offset by warm hangar lights and golden moon. The beacon winks, bored, in the background—seen all this kind of thing before. Wings are carefully stacked in the back of the hangar, fuselage looking paraplegic next to her sister ship. Cub nestled in the corner looks on, bemused at the fuss. Lower the hangar door, turn out the lights. 10:15.<br />
<br />
Another day in the life of a barnstormer.<br />
<br />
<i>First posted March, 2007</i>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-88863702164819092562017-08-28T11:45:00.000-07:002017-08-28T11:45:59.108-07:00• Fledgling Days Of American Aviation<i>Over the years I've owned and flown three biplanes built by Travel Air Manufacturing Company in Wichita, Kansas. The principals of the operation were Clyde Cessna, Lloyd Stearman, and Walter Beech, although the outfit was, it turned out, a success thanks to Olive Anne Mellor who later became Mrs. Beech and Chairman of Beech Aircraft. Here's some fascinating background on how other names you know became part of aviation history.</i><br />
<br />
How many of you know that in 1910 the mighty Martin Marietta Company got its start in an abandoned church in Santa Ana, CA? That's where the late Glenn L. Martin with his mother “Minta” Martin, and a mechanic named Roy Beal, built a fragile contraption in which Glenn “taught himself” to fly.<br />
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It has often been told how the Douglas Company started operations in 1920 by renting the rear of a barbershop on Pico Boulevard in Los Angeles. The barbershop is still there.<br />
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The Lockheed Company built its first Vega in 1927 in what is now the Victory Cleaners and Dryers at 1040 Sycamore Avenue in Hollywood.<br />
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Claude Ryan who at 24 held a reserve commission as a flyer, had his hair cut in San Diego one day in 1922. The barber told him how the town aviator was in jail for smuggling Chinese across the border. Claude investigated and stayed on in San Diego to rent the old airfield from the city at $50 a month and replace the guy in the pokey. He agreed to fly North instead of South.<br />
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In 1928, the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company, Transcontinental Air Transport (now TWA) and the Douglas Company chipped in enough money to start North American Aviation, a holding company. The present company bearing the Northrop name came into being in a small hotel in Hawthorne. The “hotel” was conveniently vacant and available because the police who raided it found that steady residents were a passel of money-minded gals who entertained transitory male guests.<br />
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After Glenn Martin built his airplane in the church, he moved to a vacant apricot cannery in Santa Ana and built two more. In 1912 he moved to 9th and Los Angeles Streets in downtown Los Angeles. Glenn was then running a three-ring-circus. Foremost, he was a showman who traveled the circuit of county fairs and air meets as an exhibitionist aviator. Secondly, he was an airplane manufacturer. He met his payroll and bought his lumber, linen and bailing wire from proceeds of his precision exhibition flying. His mother and two men ran the factory when Glenn was risking his neck and gadding about the country. One of the men was 22-year old Donald Douglas who was the “engineering department” and the other was a Santa Monica boy named Larry Bell, who ran the shop<br />
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The third circus ring was a flying school. It had a land plane operation in Griffith Park and later at Bennett's Farm in Inglewood, and a hydroplane operation at a place that's now part of the Watts District. A stunt flyer named Floyd Smith ran it. One of his first pupils was Eric Springer, who later became an instructor and then Martin's test pilot, still later the test pilot for the early Douglas Company, and then a Division Manager.<br />
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Eric and Floyd taught a rich young man named Bill Boeing to fly. Having mastered the art; Boeing bought a Martin biplane, hired Ross Stem, Glenn's personal mechanic, and shipped the airplane to Seattle. Later, when it crashed into the lake and Boeing set about to repair it, he ordered some spare parts from Martin in Los Angeles.<br />
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Martin, remembering the proselytizing incident with Ross Stem, decided to take his sweet time and let Boeing stew. Bill Boeing said, “To Hell with him”, and told Ross Stern to get busy and build one of their own.<br />
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Boeing had a friend named Westerfelt and they decided to form a company and build two airplanes. These two “BW” airplanes bore a remarkable resemblance to the Martin airplane, which, in turn, had been copied, from Glenn Curtiss. There seems to be a moral about customer relations and product support mixed up in this episode.<br />
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During WW-I, a bunch of sharpies from Wall Street in New York got control of the Wright Company in Dayton and the Martin Company in Los Angeles. They merged the two companies into the Wright-Martin Company. They sent a young man named Chance Vought to be their Chief Engineer. Donald Douglas lost no time in quitting and went to work for the U.S. Signal Corp.<br />
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The Wright-Martin Company started building obsolete “standard” biplanes and Hispano-Suiza engines, with the latter under a license agreement with the French Government. Martin told them what they could do with them, and took off for Cleveland, taking Larry Bell and Eric Springer with him.<br />
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Having the backing of a baseball mogul to build a new factory, Martin was soon joined by Donald Douglas who went to work and came up with the design of the Martin Bomber. It came out too late to see service in WW-I, but showed its superiority when General Billy Mitchell made everyone mad at him by sinking the captured German battlefleet. The deathblow to the allegedly Dreadnaught “Osfriesland” was delivered by the Douglas designed Martin Bomber.<br />
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At Cleveland, a young fellow called “Dutch” Kindelberger joined the Martin Company as an engineer. Also a veteran Army pilot from WW-I named Carl Squier became Sales Manager. His name would become one of the most venerable names in Lockheed history. Back in 1920, Donald Douglas had saved $600 and struck out on his own. He returned to Los Angeles, found a backer, David Davis, rented the rear of a barbershop and some space in the loft of a carpenter's shop where they built a passenger airplane called “The Cloudster”<br />
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Claude Ryan bought this a couple years later and made daily flights between San Diego and Los Angeles with it. This gives Ryan the distinction of being the owner and operator of the first Douglas Commercial Transport, and certainly a claim to be among the original airline passenger operators.<br />
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In 1922, Donald Douglas was awarded a contract to build three torpedo planes for the U.S. Navy. Douglas lived in Santa Monica, but worked in Los Angeles. Away out in the wilderness at what is now 25th Street and Wiltshire Boulevard in Santa Monica, there was an abandoned barn-like movie studio. One day Douglas stopped his roadster and prowled around to investigate. The studio became the first real home of the Douglas Aircraft Company.<br />
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With the $120,000 Navy contract, Donald Douglas needed and could afford one or two engineers. He hired my brother Gordon Scott newly over from serving an apprenticeship to the Martinside and the Fairey Aviation Companies in England. Gordon was well schooled in the little known science of Aviation by 1923.<br />
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My first association with some of the early pioneers occurred when I visited my brother Gordon at the barn at 25th Street. I found him outside on a ladder washing windows. They were dirty and he was the youngest engineer. There were no janitorial services at the Douglas Company in those days.<br />
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Gordon introduced me to Art Mankey, his boss and Chief Draftsman, and four of his fellow engineers. There was a towhead guy called Jack Northrop, a chap named Jerry Vultee, and a fellow named Dick Von Hake, a reserve Army flyer. Jack Northrop came from Santa Barbara where he had worked during WW-I for the Lockheed Aircraft Manufacturing Company. The fourth member of the Engineering Group was Ed Heinemann. They were all working on the design of the Douglas World Cruisers. Shortly afterwards, Jack Northrop left the Douglas Company in 1926. Working at home, he designed a wonderfully advanced streamlined airplane. He tied back with Allan Loughead who found a rich man, F. E. Keeler, willing to finance a new Lockheed Aircraft Company.<br />
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They rented a small shop in Hollywood and built the Northrop designed Lockheed “Vega”. It was sensational with its clean lines and high performance.<br />
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In May 1927, Lindbergh flew to Paris and triggered a bedlam where everyone was trying to fly everywhere. Before the first Vega was built, William Randolph Hearst, publisher of the Hearst newspaper chain, bought it and entered it in the Dole Race from the Mainland to Honolulu, which was scheduled for 12 August 1927.<br />
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In June 1927, my brother Gordon left the Douglas Company to become Jack Northrop's assistant at Lockheed. He also managed to get himself hired as the navigator on the “Golden Eagle”, the name chosen by Mr. Hearst for the Vega, which hopefully would be the first airplane to span the Pacific.<br />
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The race was a disaster! Ten lives were lost. The “Golden Eagle” and its crew vanished off the face of the earth.<br />
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With its only airplane lost under mysterious circumstances, a black cloud hung heavily over the little shop in Hollywood. However, Captain George H. Wilkins, later to become Sir Hubert Wilkins, took the Number Two airplane and made a successful polar flight from Nome, Alaska to Spitzbergen, Norway. After that a string of successful flights were to put the name of Lockheed very much in the forefront of aviation.<br />
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At Lockheed, Jack Northrop replaced the lost Gordon Scott with Jerry Vultee. In 1928, Jack quit the Lockheed Company to start a new company in Glendale called Avion. Jerry Vultee then moved up to become Chief Engineer at Lockheed. He hired Dick van Hake from the Douglas Company to be his assistant. A young man named Cliff Garrett joined the Lockheed Company as the driver of their pick-up truck.<br />
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I went to work at Lockheed shortly after the “Golden Eagle” was lost. I became the 26th Lockheed employee. The Vegas were made almost entirely of wood and I became a half-assed carpenter, generally known as a “wood butcher”<br />
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In 1929, Jerry Vultee quit the Lockheed Company to start the Airplane Development Company, which became the Vultee Aircraft Company, a division of E. L. Cord, the automobile manufacturer. He later merged with Reuben Fleet's Consolidated Aircraft Company to become Convair. When Vultee left Lockheed, Dick van Hake became the Chief Engineer.<br />
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In the meantime, Glenn Martin closed his Cleveland plant and moved to Baltimore. His production man Larry Bell moved to Buffalo to found the Bell Aircraft Company. Carl Squier left Martin to tie in with the Detroit Aircraft Company, which had acquired the Lockheed Aircraft Company and seven others. They hoped to become the “General Motors” of the aircraft business! They appointed Carl Squier as General Manager of the Lockheed plant, which moved to Burbank in 1928.<br />
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At this time, General Motors had acquired North American Aviation, which consisted of several aircraft companies in the East. Ernie Breech, formerly with Bendix but now with General Motors, hired “Dutch” Kindelberger away from Douglas to head up the aircraft manufacturing units. “Dutch” took Lee Atwood and Stan Smithson with him. The companies involved were Fokker Aircraft, Pitcairn Aviation (later Eastern Airlines), Sperry Gyroscope and Berliner-Joyce. Kindelberger merged Fokker and Berliner-Joyce into a single company and moved the entire operation to Inglewood, California.<br />
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Thus, a handful of young men played roles, which profoundly affected all of our lives and the lives of millions of other Americans. They changed Southern California from a wasteland with a few orange groves, apricot and avocado orchards and the celluloid industry of Hollywood to a highly sophisticated industrial complex with millions of prosperous inhabitants.<br />
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This technological explosion had some very humble and human beginnings. The “Acorns” took root in some strange places: a church, a cannery, a barbershop, but from them mighty Oaks have indeed come to fruition.<br />
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<i>From a speech given by Mr. Denham S. Scott to the AIA on March 19, 1968.</i><br />
<i>Reprinted from North American Aviation Retirees Bulletin - Summer 2001</i>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-35574653461704033022015-01-07T00:30:00.002-08:002022-01-07T16:37:34.380-08:00• "We've had a little problem..."The quavering voice on the telephone answering machine said, "We've had a little problem, and I'm at Willow Grove. I'm okay, I'll call you later."<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Naval Air Station</span> Willow Grove? In a Cessna 152?<br />
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But the story starts months earlier. After working together for almost a year, Kate pranced into my office, settled pertly in a chair by my desk and announced with a coy smile that it was a great day to go flying. A recent convert to aviation, thanks to a ride in my open cockpit biplane, I thought she was asking to go again. But she knew as well as I did--no, better than I did--that there was work to be done.<br />
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So when I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes in question, she said,<br />
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"What I'm trying to tell you is I'm just back from my fourth flight lesson, and it's a beautiful day for flying."<br />
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As an after-work flight instructor I was eager to hear about her flying experiences. Meanwhile, I pondered what stroke of fate had brought me together with this gorgeous woman who was smarted than I was, had better business instincts than I did, and liked to fly.<br />
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But that was days ago, and the phone message I'd just listened to had me perplexed and worried.<br />
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The 'we' suggested that an instructor had gone with her for some dual, instead of the scheduled solo session. That was easy to deduce because the spring weather was bizarre--snow so hard you couldn't see across the street with thunder followed by crackling clear blue sky and calm air followed by thunderstorm wind gusts followed by white-out snow, rinse and repeat. No competent instructor would send a student out alone in such conditions.<br />
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The 'problem' part, though, was hard to judge. "I'm okay" suggested she might not have been, and that was worrisome. And the fact that she was calling from a Naval Air Station suggested whatever the problem had been was significant enough that they'd had to land at an otherwise not open to the public facility. Strange.<br />
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Weather had to be the problem, I decided; and waited for the call that never came.<br />
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Instead, late in the day, she walked into my office, gingerly closed the door, and sat down as if something might break if she moved quickly. She blinked back tears, her lips quivered.<br />
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"Well, I've had an interesting afternoon," she said.<br />
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As the story unfolded I understood--although I'm not sure she did--that she'd very nearly died.<br />
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When she'd arrived at the rural Pennsylvania airport she was told her instructor wasn't there. The idea, far from a plan, had been a few minutes of dual--as is customary with a low time student--followed by solo practice takeoff and landings. Instead, the guy behind the desk threw her the keys to an aircraft and said,<br />
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"Why don't you go buzz your boyfriends house. The tanks are about half full, but that should be enough."<br />
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No discussion about weather, no admonition about low flying (quite the contrary), no words about doing a careful preflight, no reminder of the old adage that sky above you, runway behind you, and fuel in the gas truck are all worthless.<br />
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During the year we'd worked together we'd had occasion to travel on business in a lovely old G35 Beechcraft Bonanza. She showed an interest that went beyond simple pleasure in a sky-high perspective, so enroute I explained the instruments and controls to her and shared some of the things I'd learned in 25 years of flying up to that time. Fortunately, she remember a lot of what we'd talked about.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcZ294eKxI/AAAAAAAAAa0/kGguJjNOBl0/s1600-h/be35-15.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073051937371204370" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcZ294eKxI/AAAAAAAAAa0/kGguJjNOBl0/s400/be35-15.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
She prudently filled the Cessna with gas and took off, ready to enjoy a few minutes of freedom in three-dimensions over rolling Pennsylvania Dutch country before returning to practice some landings. At least that was <i>her </i>plan. With no training or advice, she had no reason to fear the deteriorating weather.<br />
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"About thirty to forty minutes into my flight," she wrote later to the FAA,"I began to encounter some clouds and snow at 3500 feet. I immediately headed back to Limerick. As the snow got worse I dropped down to 2500 feet to try to get below the snow. It was clear for a while, but the snow got worse again as I approached the airport. I was able to see the runway, though, so I entered the pattern on crosswind and announced my landing. About three quarters of the way down the downwind leg the snow got so bad that I was not able to see the runway. I immediately turned toward the runway hoping to see it, but I couldn't. I aborted the approach and attempted to get back in the pattern. I announced my intentions again on crosswind as visibility was a little better and I was able to see the runway. This time I was in and out of heavy snow on downwind. I was having trouble seeing the ground when I was to turn to base. At a momentary clearing I saw that I had drifted off course so I immediately turned to final at which time I completely lost all visibility."<br />
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This is the point where such stories often end.<br />
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But Kate, above all else, is a woman of determination. Well aware that the 500 foot high cooling towers at the Limerick nuclear power plant nearby, and remembering my admonition that the higher you are the safer you are, she decided to climb.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcU4N4eKtI/AAAAAAAAAaU/SKo16QJlKs8/s1600-h/02365.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073046461287901906" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcU4N4eKtI/AAAAAAAAAaU/SKo16QJlKs8/s400/02365.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
"It felt like the plane was neither climbing or moving," she wrote, "and I feared that the wind was holding me back. On later reflection I suspect that it was the lack of visual cues that caused the disorientation. I looked at my instruments and realized that I was, in fact, climbing so I tried to regain my composure. I announced to Limerick that I had aborted the landing and I did not know where I was."<br />
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While private pilots are given a modest amount of training on how to fly using only instruments, that's part of later stages of the curriculum. What she knew, she confided, was entirely what she'd learned in our few flights together. Her instructor had, so far, only taught her how to drive an airplane, not how to fly one. Worse, she hadn't been given even rudimentary training on the few instruments the aircraft had, or even how to change radio frequencies.<br />
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By happy chance, on one of those recent flights together, I'd explained how an artificial horizon and turn coordinator worked. Essentially I told her, 'Keep that little thing that looks like an airplane level and in the middle and the airplane will fly straight'. I don't remember exactly what I said about the turn coordinator, but it didn't matter. The one in her aircraft, required equipment, didn't work.<br />
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Vertigo, you probably have heard, is what gets you. Staying balanced is accomplished with help from your inner ear, your eyes, and how you body feels. The problem is, when you can't see, your inner ear lies to you and your body gets confused--vertigo takes over.<br />
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In everyday life, gravity pulls toward your feet, it pushes your butt into the seat if you're sitting down. But in an airplane you can create your own G(ravity) forces, and they ain't always down. In a loop, for example, it's perfectly easy to have your butt pushed into the seat just as hard when you're upside down as it is when you flying right-side up. So if you take away visual references you don't know which way's up—literally.<br />
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To complicate matters, there are other G-forces in an aircraft you don't experience in everyday, ground-bound life; and they can really confuse you. Well known to Navy flyers, for example, a catapult shot off a carrier at night can really confuse your senses. Transverse Gs, the forces you feel during horizontal acceleration, perversely, make you feel like you're climbing. So, surrounded by black ocean, it's easy to develop an uncomfortable sensation that you're climbing too steeply. But if you push a little on the stick when you're flying at 100 feet and accelerating through 200 knots, it only takes a split second before you hit the water.<br />
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By the same process, when Kate started to climb the aircraft decelerated, and she felt like she must be descending, so she tried to make the aircraft climb...and it only decelerated more. And this is where the unsuspecting, untrained, pilot often loses control.<br />
<br />
The airplane slows to the point where the airflow over the wing is no longer able to generate enough lift. It stalls (aerodynamic stall--nothing to do with the engine, which is working fine and pulling as hard is it can). The aircraft noses over, usually falling off to one side a bit, and the pilot pulls harder sensing the sudden descent. Noting an increase in airspeed, because of the sound of the engine speeding and wind rushing, the ill-fated pilot pulls harder yet, tightening the turn and increasing the rate of descent.<br />
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Observers on the ground, under such circumstances, report seeing the aircraft come out of the clouds at a steep angle. They say they heard the engine was screaming (overspeed) or making "weird popping sounds," which is exactly the sound an aircraft engine makes when suddenly pulled to idle--a last dash effort when the pilot realizes, too late, what is happening.<br />
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So how do you avoid all this? You get proper training on how to fly using instruments, and how to resist the temptation to believe your lyin' <strike>eyes</strike> ears. Kate had been taught neither, but those few words about "keep the little airplane centered," and her determination to solve the problem, saved her.<br />
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Eventually she flew out of the snow squall. With the airport nowhere in sight, she knew she was lost. Then Murphy stepped in. If things weren't already bad enough, while Kate was trying without success to communicate her plight to the flight school, the push-to-talk button on the microphone broke off and flew across the cockpit.<br />
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Meanwhile, another aircraft, hearing her terse calls saying she was lost, came on the frequency and suggested she contact Philadelphia approach for radar vectors, direction to another airport. By using a fingernail, she was able to make the microphone work, and told the helpful pilot that sounded like a great idea, but no one had taught her how to tune the radio. He patiently explained which knobs to use, and what numbers to put in the radio, and <span style="font-style: italic;">mirabile dictu</span>, she was able to switch frequencies, and hear aircraft talking to Philly Approach.<br />
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Announcing that she was a lost student pilot with less than two hours of solo experience, the approach controller calmly and reassuringly gave her directions to another airport to the east, Wings Field. That sounded like a good plan; her early flights had been at Wings Field before the school's recent move to Pottstown-Limerick Airport. But as she approached the area she could see snow squalls similar to the ones that she had just narrowly escaped.<br />
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She said, no, that didn't look like a good direction to fly and explained why. The controller, realizing that the weather was continuing to get worse, and that the pilot he was talking to was flying an aircraft with less and less fuel, redirected her to Willow Grove Naval Air Station, just a few miles away.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcWPN4eKvI/AAAAAAAAAak/XFbpKnC1lZo/s1600-h/28_1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073047955936520946" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcWPN4eKvI/AAAAAAAAAak/XFbpKnC1lZo/s400/28_1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Approaching at right angles to the runway, at first she had problem seeing it in the distance. Then, almost overhead, she had trouble recognizing it as an airport because, as she said, "It had a really big-ass runway."<br />
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Directed by Approach to switch to Willow Grove tower, she was cleared to land but, "Watch out for the wires at 500 feet," the controller cautioned.<br />
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<i>Oh gees, I'm at 600 feet,</i> she thought. "What wires at 500 feet, I don't see any wires," she asked, leveling out.<br />
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"Land long, land long," another voice said.<br />
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With 8,000 feet of runway ahead of her--the longest and widest she'd ever seen--that would not be a problem, even with a little whoopdeedo in the middle of her approach. As she flared, the 2 inch steel emergency arresting gear cable flashed beneath her wheels. Held 10 inches off the runway by steel springs to ensure arresting hook engagement, it was just the right height to rip the landing gear off a little Cessna. But she missed the cable, made a "pretty good landing, under the circumstance," and taxied to the ramp.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcbHN4eKyI/AAAAAAAAAa8/t-E2zFO5Ez0/s1600-h/p3_orion_photo_one.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073053316055706402" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RmcbHN4eKyI/AAAAAAAAAa8/t-E2zFO5Ez0/s400/p3_orion_photo_one.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Parked between huge Navy P-3 'Orion' sub-hunters, she was intimidated enough. When a Jeep screeched to halt, and Marines with rifles jumped out she almost lost it. When she heard a voice on a walki-talki ask if they needed help bringing her in, she cracked up.<br />
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"Do I really look like a security risk to you?"<br />
<br />
Even the Marine couldn't stifle a grin, and she started to relax a little.<br />
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Walking to the Operations building nursing an overdose of adrenalin and blasted by the cold blustery wind, she started to shiver.<br />
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"Can we run?" she asked.<br />
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"No m'am, if you run I'll have to shoot you." Another grin.<br />
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They walked the rest of the way across the windy ramp. Quickly.<br />
<br />
Inside the Operations building everyone came out to see who the lost lady was...and gave her a round of applause.<br />
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"You sounded very professional on the radio," the controller said.<br />
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"How did you know what to say when I told you I couldn't see the wires at 500 feet?" Kate asked.<br />
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"They blindfold us and put us behind the wheel of a Jeep out on the ramp. You learn very quickly how important clear, calm directions are.<br />
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"We were worried about you, though, 'cause the weather really sucks." the Navy Chief on duty said. "Oh sorry, m'am, that's Navy talk. But it is pretty shitty."<br />
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After writing a short, surprisingly coherent, statement on Navy stationary for the Ops Officer, and certifying in writing that she would hold the U.S. Government, The Department of the Navy, and Willow Grove Air Station "harmless from any damages sustained by me or the aircraft as a result of having landed," she called back to the flight school. After explaining what happened to an apparently unconcerned voice she was told just to fly on home, dear.<br />
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She explained that given her recent ordeal and poor weather she didn't really want to do that. She was told it was probably a good idea to get back on your horsie, honey. Besides, the weather had cleared up some.<br />
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As she protested, the Operations Officer took charge of the situation, asked for the phone and told whoever he was talking to that the aircraft was not leaving the ground unless it was flown by a licensed pilot. "Navy Regulations say so, and I say so. Any questions?"<br />
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Hugely inconvenienced by the whole thing, two instructors drove the hour on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Willow Grove and Kate flew back with one of them.<br />
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"Good thing, too" she said. "It was very bumpy, and even the instructor had trouble landing in the crosswind when we got back. He had to use full control deflection."<br />
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Is there a moral to this story? Well, a couple.<br />
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The first is if you're a pilot, especially a flight instructor, act on your instincts. If I had, Kate would never have been in such jeopardy. She told me once, for example, that she'd asked her instructor why they were doing a certain maneuver and his response was, "Because I told you so." I laughed that off as one of those you-had-to-be-there jokes. But when she later told me that they never used a check list, and he made her feel kinda foolish if she had to resort to one, I should have acted. Later, I found out they never used the shoulder harness (required), they never did a post flight debrief (required), they hadn't signed her off for solo before she went (required), etc. What other shortcuts did they take, say with required maintenance?<br />
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The second moral to this story is if you're a student pilot you unfortunately don't know what you don't know. So don't buy flight training because it's cheap or just because it's conveniently nearby, as Kate did with no other criteria to judge by. Make sure your instructor gives you a thorough preflight and postflight debrief, on the ground not in the airplane. Sure you'll pay for the time, but ground instruction (should be) cheaper than flight instruction. If you don't like your instructor, ask to fly with someone else. A good pilot isn't necessarily a good instructor (but never vice versa). In the military you have to 'hack it' regardless of who's in the cockpit with you. Not so when you're paying good money for training that your and other's lives will depend on.<br />
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I will always be grateful to whatever fate brought me together with this wonderful woman--indeed my days with her have defined my life. I'm even more grateful that she had the determination and luck to find a solution when she 'had a little problem'.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-24548285759975089232014-11-12T12:54:00.002-08:002014-11-12T12:54:29.824-08:00• Pappy Boyington TaleDon't know if you are interested but I met Marion Carl at Stanley Lake, in Idaho probably 30+ years ago. I was camping there with my family as he pulled in, in an Air Stream towed by a Surburban. First Class. He had a friend with him and they were going to fish the lake. I had the Navy MWR pop up tent. He noticed my jacket was Navy with wings on it and introduced himself. I of course knew him by reputation. I invited him over for drinks after he had finished fishing for the day. The interesting part of the conversation happened when I asked him about Pappy Boyington operating out of Espiritu Santo.<br />
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It seem Pappy would get a snoot full and liked to wrestle folks and was very good at it. Marion said when that started he left the so called club. Apparently, Pappy, with this specialty, threw fellow squadron members or others, out the window of the club.<br />
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He said Pappy was competing with Major Bong for kills at the time and was to head home shortly for a Bond Sale Tour. Since he was to leave soon, he asked Carl if he could take his next combat hop. Carl agreed and it was on this flight that Boyington got shot down. Carl said he never saw Pappy again and if he did he thought he might be going out the nearest window. Jerry DempseyTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-22473687706574252772014-11-12T12:53:00.001-08:002014-11-12T12:53:28.496-08:00• The Japanese Zero and how we learned to fight itIn April 1942 thirty-six Zeros attacking a British naval base at Colombo,Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), were met by about sixty Royal Air Force aircraft ofmixed types, many of them obsolete. Twenty-seven of the RAF planes wentdown: fifteen Hawker Hurricanes (of Battle of Britain fame), eight FaireySwordfish, and four Fairey Fulmars. The Japanese lost one Zero. Five months after America's entry into the war, the Zero was still amystery to U.S. Navy pilots. On May 7, 1942, in the Battle of the Coral Sea,fighter pilots from our aircraft carriers Lexington and Yorktown fought theZero and didn't know what to call it. Some misidentified it as the GermanMesserschmitt 109. A few weeks later, on June 3 and 4, warplanes flew from the Japanesecarriers Ryujo and Junyo to attack the American military base at DutchHarbor in Alaska's Aleutian archipelago. Japan's attack on Alaska wasintended to draw remnants of the U.S. fleet north from Pearl Harbor, awayfrom Midway Island, where the Japanese were setting a trap. (The schemeultimately backfired when our Navy pilots sank four of Japan's first-lineaircraft carriers at Midway, giving the United States a major turning-pointvictory.) In the raid of June 4, twenty bombers blasted oil storage tanks, awarehouse, a hospital, a hangar, and a beached freighter, while elevenZeros strafed at will. Chief Petty Officer Makoto Endo led a three-planeZero section from the Ryujo, whose other pilots were Flight Petty OfficersTsuguo Shikada and Tadayoshi Koga. Koga, a small nineteen-year old, was theson of a rural carpenter. His Zero, serial number 4593, was light gray,with the imperial rising-sun insignia on its wings and fuselage. It had leftthe Mitsubishi Nagoya aircraft factory on February 19, only three and ahalf months earlier, so it was the latest design. Shortly before the bombs fell on Dutch Harbor that day, soldiers at anadjacent Army outpost had seen three Zeros shoot down a lumbering Catalinaamphibian. As the plane began to sink, most of the seven-member crewclimbed into a rubber raft and began paddling toward shore. The soldierswatched in horror as the Zeros strafed the crew until all were killed. TheZeros are believed to have been those of Endo, Shikada, and Koga. After massacring the Catalina crew, Endo led his section to Dutch Harbor,where it joined the other eight Zeros in strafing. It was then (accordingto Shikada, interviewed in 1984) that Koga's Zero was hit by ground fire. AnArmy intelligence team later reported, "Bullet holes entered the planefrom both upper and lower sides." One of the bullets severed the return oilline between the oil cooler and the engine. As the engine continued to run,it pumped oil from the broken line. A Navy photo taken during the raidshows a Zero trailing what appears to be smoke. It is probably oil, andthere is little doubt that this is Zero 4593. After the raid, as the enemy planes flew back toward their carriers, eightAmerican Curtiss Warhawk P-40s shot down four VaI (Aichi D3A) dive bombersthirty miles west of Dutch Harbor. In the swirling, minutes-long dogfight,Lt. John J. Cape shot down a plane identified as a Zero. Another Zerowas almost instantly on his tail. He climbed and rolled, trying to evade,but those were the wrong maneuvers to escape a Zero. The enemy fightereasily stayed with him, firing its two deadly 20-mm cannon and two 7.7-mmmachine guns. Cape and his plane plunged into the sea. Another Zero shotup the P-40 of Lt. Winfield McIntyre, who survived a crash landing with adead engine. Endo and Shikada accompanied Koga as he flew his oil-spewing airplane toAkutan Island, twenty-five miles away, which had been designated foremergency landings. A Japanese submarine stood nearby to pick up downedpilots. The three Zeros circled low over the green, treeless island. At alevel, grassy valley floor half a mile inland, Koga lowered his wheels andflaps and eased toward a three-point landing. As his main wheels touched,they dug in, and the Zero flipped onto its back, tossing water, grass, andgobs of mud. The valley floor was a bog, and the knee-high grass concealedwater. Endo and Shikada circled. There was no sign of life. If Koga was dead,their duty was to destroy the downed fighter. Incendiary bullets from theirmachine guns would have done the job. But Koga was a friend, and theycouldn't bring themselves to shoot. Perhaps he would recover, destroy theplane himself, and walk to the waiting submarine. Endo and Shikadaabandoned the downed fighter and returned to the Ryujo, two hundred miles tothe south. (The Ryujo was sunk two months later in the eastern Solomons byplanes from the aircraft carrier Saratoga. Endo was killed in action atRabaul on October 12, 1943, while Shikada survived the war and eventuallybecame a banker.) The wrecked Zero lay in the bog for more than a month, unseen by U.S.patrol planes and offshore ships. Akutan is often foggy, and constantAleutian winds create unpleasant turbulence over the rugged island. Mostpilots preferred to remain over water, so planes rarely flew over Akutan.However, on July 10 a U.S. Navy Catalina (PBY) amphibian returning fromovernight patrol crossed the island. A gunner named Wall called, "Hey,there's an airplane on the ground down there. It has meatballs on thewings." That meant the rising-sun insignia. The patrol plane's commander,Lt. William Thies, descended for a closer look. What he saw excited him. Back at Dutch Harbor, Thies persuaded his squadron commander to let himtake a party to the downed plane. No one then knew that it was a Zero. Ens. Robert Larson was Thies's copilot when the plane was discovered. Heremembers reaching the Zero. "We approached cautiously, walking in about afoot of water covered with grass. Koga's body, thoroughly strapped in, wasupside down in the plane, his head barely submerged in the water. "We weresurprised at the details of the airplane," Larson continues. "It was wellbuilt, with simple, unique features. Inspection plates could be opened bypushing on a black dot with a finger. A latch would open, and one couldpull the plate out. Wingtips folded by unlatching them and pushing them upby hand. The pilot had a parachute and a life raft." Koga's body wasburied nearby. In 1947 it was shifted to a cemetery on nearby Adak Island, and later, itis believed, his remains were returned to Japan . Thies had determined thatthe wrecked plane was a nearly new Zero, which suddenly gave it specialmeaning, for it was repairable. However, unlike U.S. warplanes, which haddetachable wings, the Zero's wings were integral with the fuselage. Thiscomplicated salvage and shipping. Navy crews fought the plane out of thebog. The tripod that was used to lift the engine, and later the fuselage,sank three to four feet into the mud. The Zero was too heavy to turn overwith the equipment on hand, so it was left upside down while a tractordragged it on a skid to the beach and a barge. At Dutch Harbor it wasturned over with a crane, cleaned, and crated, wings and all. When theawkward crate containing Zero 4593 arrived at North Island Naval AirStation, San Diego, a twelve-foot-high stockade was erected around it insidea hangar. Marines guarded the priceless plane while Navy crews workedaround the clock to make it airworthy. (There is no evidence the Japaneseever knew we had salvaged Koga's plane.) In mid-September Lt. Cmdr. Eddie R. Sanders studied it for a week asrepairs were completed. Forty-six years later he clearly remembered hisflights in Koga's Zero. "My log shows that I made twenty-four flights inZero 4593 from 20 September to 15 October 1942," Sanders told me. "Theseflights covered performance tests such as we do on planes undergoing Navytests. The very first flight exposed weaknesses of the Zero that our pilots couldexploit with proper tactics. "The Zero had superior maneuverability only atthe lower speeds used in dog fighting, with short turning radius andexcellent aileron control at very low speeds. However, immediately apparentwas the fact that the ailerons froze up at speeds above two hundred knots,so that rolling maneuvers at those speeds were slow and required muchforce on the control stick. It rolled to the left much easier than to theright. Also, its engine cut out under negative acceleration [as when nosinginto a dive] due to its float-type carburetor. "We now had an answer for ourpilots who were unable to escape a pursuing Zero. We told them to go into avertical power dive, using negative acceleration, if possible, to open therange quickly and gain advantageous speed while the Zero's engine wasstopped. At about two hundred knots, we instructed them to roll hard rightbefore the Zero pilot could get his sights lined up. "This recommendedtactic was radioed to the fleet after my first flight of Koga's plane, andsoon the welcome answer came back: "It works!'" Sanders said, satisfactionsounding in his voice even after nearly half a century. Thus by late September 1942 Allied pilots in the Pacific theater knew howto escape a pursuing Zero. "Was Zero 4593 a good representative of the Model 21 Zero?" I askedSanders. In other words, was the repaired airplane 100 percent? "About 98 percent," he replied. The zero was added to the U.S. Navy inventory and assigned its Mitsubishiserial number. The Japanese colors and insignia were replaced with thoseof the U.S. Navy and later the U.S. Army, which also test-flew it. The Navypitted it against the best American fighters of the time-the P-38 LockheedLightning, the P-39 Bell Airacobra, the P-51 North American Mustang, theF4F-4 Grumman Wildcat, and the F4U Chance Vought Corsair-and for each typedeveloped the most effective tactics and altitudes for engaging the Zero. In February 1945 Cmdr. Richard G. Crommelin was taxiing Zero 4593 at SanDiego Naval Air Station, where it was being used to train pilots bound forthe Pacific war zone. An SB-2C Curtiss Helldiver overran it and chopped itup from tail to cockpit. Crommelin survived, but the Zero didn't. Only afew pieces of Zero 4593 remain today. The manifold pressure gauge, theair-speed indicator, and the folding panel of the port wingtip were donatedto the Navy Museum at the Washington, D.C., Navy Yard by Rear Adm. WilliamN. Leonard, who salvaged them at San Diego in 1945. In addition, two of itsmanufacturer's plates are in the Alaska Aviation Heritage Museum inAnchorage, donated by Arthur Bauman, the photographer. Leonard recently told me, "The captured Zero was a treasure. To myknowledge no other captured machine has ever unlocked so many secrets at atime when the need was so great." A somewhat comparable event took place offNorth Africa in 1944-coincidentally on the same date, June 4, that Kogacrashed his Zero. A squadron commanded by Capt. Daniel V. Gallery, aboard the escortcarrier Guadalcanal, captured the German submarine U-505, boarding andsecuring the disabled vessel before the fleeing crew could scuttle it. Codebooks, charts, and operating instructions rescued from U-505 proved quitevaluable to the Allies. Captain Gallery later wrote, "Receptioncommittees which we were able to arrange as a result ... may have hadsomething to do with the sinking of nearly three hundred U-boats in the nexteleven months." By the time of U-505's capture, however, the German wareffort was already starting to crumble (D-day came only two days later),while Japan still dominated the Pacific when Koga's plane was recovered. A classic example of the Koga plane's value occurred on April 1, 1943,when Ken Walsh, a Marine flying an F4U Chance-Vought Corsair over theRussell Islands southeast of Bougainville, encountered a lone Zero. "Iturned toward him, planning a deflection shot, but before I could get onhim, he rolled, putting his plane right under my tail and within range. Ihad been told the Zero was extremely maneuverable, but if I hadn't seenhow swiftly his plane flipped onto my tail, I wouldn't have believed it,"Walsh recently recalled. "I remembered briefings that resulted from testflights of Koga's Zero on how to escape from a following Zero. With thatlone Zero on my tail I did a split S, and with its nose down and fullthrottle my Corsair picked up speed fast. I wanted at least 240 knots,preferably 260. Then, as prescribed, I rolled hard right. As I did this andcontinued my dive, tracers from the Zero zinged past my plane's belly. "Frominformation that came from Koga's Zero, I knew the Zero rolled more slowlyto the right than to the left. If I hadn't known which way to turn orroll, I'd have probably rolled to my left. If I had done that, the Zerowould likely have turned with me, locked on, and had me. I used thatmaneuver a number of times to get away from Zeros." By war's end Capt.(later Lt. Col.) Kenneth Walsh had twenty-one aerial victories (seventeenZeros, three Vais, one Pete), making him the war's fourth-ranking MarineCorps ace. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for two extremely courageousair battles he fought over the Solomon Islands in his Corsair during August1943. He retired from the Marine Corps in 1962 after more than twenty-eightyears of service. Walsh holds the Distinguished Flying Cross with six GoldStars, the Air Medal with fourteen Gold Stars, and more than a dozen othermedals and honors. How important was our acquisition of Koga's Zero? Masatake Okumiya, whosurvived more air-sea battles than any other Japanese naval officer, wasaboard the Ryujo when Koga made his last flight. He later co-authored twoclassic books, Zero and Midway. Okumiya has written that the Allies'acquisition of Koga's Zero was "no less serious" than the Japanese defeat atMidway and "did much to hasten our final defeat." If that doesn't convinceyou, ask Ken Walsh.INSIDE THE ZERO The Zero was Japan's main fighter plane throughout World War II. By war'send about 11,500 Zeros had been produced in five main variants. In March1939, when the prototype Zero was rolled out, Japan was in some ways stillso backward that the plane had to be hauled by oxcart from the Mitsubishifactory twenty-nine miles to the airfield where it flew. It represented agreat leap in technology. At the start of World War II, some countries'fighters were open cockpit, fabric-covered biplanes. A low-wing all-metalmonoplane carrier fighter, predecessor to the Zero, had been adopted by theJapanese in the mid-1930s, while the U.S. Navy's standard fighter was stilla biplane. But the world took little notice of Japan's advanced militaryaircraft, so the Zero came as a great shock to Americans at Pearl Harbor andafterward. A combination of nimbleness and simplicity gave it fightingqualities that no Allied plane could match. Lightness, simplicity, ease ofmaintenance, sensitivity to controls, and extreme maneuverability were themain elements that the designer Jiro Horikoshi built into the Zero. TheModel 21 flown by Koga weighed 5,500 pounds, including fuel, ammunition, andpilot, while U.S. fighters weighed 7,500 pounds and up. Early models had noprotective armor or self-sealing fuel tanks, although these were standardfeatures on U.S. fighters. Despite its large-diameter 940-hp radialengine, the Zero had one of the slimmest silhouettes of any World War IIfighter. The maximum speed of Koga's Zero was 326 mph at 16,000 feet, notespecially fast for a 1942 fighter. But high speed wasn't the reason forthe Zero's great combat record. Agility was. Its large ailerons gave itgreat maneuverability at low speeds. It could even outmaneuver the famedBritish Spitfire. Advanced U.S. fighters produced toward the war's end stillcouldn't turn with the Zero, but they were faster and could out climb andout dive it. Without self-sealing fuel tanks, the Zero was easily flamedwhen hit in any of its three wing and fuselage tanks or its droppable bellytank. And without protective armor, its pilot was vulnerable. In 1941 theZero's range of 1,675 nautical miles (1,930 statute miles) was one of thewonders of the aviation world. No other fighter plane had ever routinelyflown such a distance. Saburo Sakai, Japan's highest-scoring surviving WorldWar II ace, with sixty-four kills, believes that if the Zero had not beendeveloped, Japan "would not have decided to start the war." Other Japaneseauthorities echo this opinion, and the confidence it reflects was not, inthe beginning at least, misplaced. Today the Zero is one of the rarest ofall major fighter planes of World War II. Only sixteen complete andassembled examples are known to exist. Of these, only two are flyable: oneowned by Planes of Fame, in Chino, California, and the other by theConfederate Air Force, in Midland, Texas. Note: Jim Rearden, a forty-seven-year resident of Alaska, is the author offourteen books and more than five hundred magazine articles, mostly aboutAlaska. Among his books is Koga's Zero: The Fighter That Changed World WarII, which can be purchased from Pictorial Histories Publishing Company, 713South Third Street West, Missoula, MT 59801.
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-85450382460577502872014-10-05T10:20:00.001-07:002014-11-12T12:53:08.436-08:00• Lee Cameron, RIP<i>I can't verify that even one word of what follows is true. But it's aviation history, to be sure. Lee Cameron was one of the principals at Aerospace Products up in LA, the company that did the mods on our C-45H. He flew at Reno (probably), ditched a DC-4 (possibly) and lived to tell about it, and lots more recounted below. His sidekick got caught hauling wacky weed up from Mexico in our bird, so we had a Narc friend bring his dog since we going to be under the FAA's watchful eye, but it was clean. Looks like there were some other 'colorful characters' involved. No clue where what follows came from, looks like a forum on some Beechcraft site.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I bought Lee's AT-11 and his parts inventory. Taigh is going to go over the plane with the proverbial "fine tooth comb". Looking forward to finally get it home and play around with it. We have been looking for almost 3 years for the appropriate family transportation. I hope my patience is rewarded with a reasonable report out of Taigh's shop.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I had considered the gun turret but am afraid that my twin boys would cause too much destuction!!</span><br />
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Charlie<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">congratulations, charlie.., you have bought a very unique airplane. A short story-novel could be written about this beast. FIRST OF ALL LET ME GIVE YOU A PARTIAL LIST ON SOME OF THE PEOPLE-CHARACTERS-LEGENDS who have worked on this at11. Lee Cameron, the creator of the super AT11, retired in 1946 from united airlines to make more money scrapping airliners. He loved his job flying boeing 247's DC3's DC4's internationally known colorful character. In 1979 when lee was 60 yrs young, he ditched a dc4 off the coast of florida .A book was written,an interesting tale about 3 characters, a jew, a scotsman and a pollock that survived in a life raft on a gallon of water, a bag of apples, fighting off sharks, drifting for 9 days, dehydrated and hallucinating, eventually being rescued and dumped in a mexican port, thrown in jail, and conning theirselves out on a promise of a bribe! Phil and Bud brauchler who own wauchula aircraft worked on your AT11 for 14 months to get it ferriable to california, Marine SGT. "BILL ZINK".., sounded like a FOGG HORN" flew a baron all over florida delivering blood during the evening, and worked on the AT11 by day. One of many pilot-mechanics that worked on the plane. bill now travels all over the world doing prebuys on cessna citations. "NEAL" the cfi-mechanic once had a paperwork problem returning in a friends apache from the bahamas and was thrown in jail while the ripples were ironed out! Capt. howard harding, once was an illigitimate dealer in stored obsolete airline avionics, howard currently is babysitting my plane in roosevelt utah, one hell of a talented pilot-mechanic with a scrotum the size of an asian water buffalo! He was chief pilot-mechanic for the jelly-bean airforce, a fleet of 18's, carrying tourists and freight around the hawaiian islands. howards cell in utah 435 724 0539. Cigarette smoking Air Force george, he and his dad used to go fishing with actor james arness, flying up in the sierra nevadas. Lee's most senior employee was "TOMMY", owned his own DC3 out of van nuys flying the nips to the ditch, grand canyon tours. Tommy told me his 135 insurance went from 8K to 32K in one yr so he dropped out becomimg an employee for lee. Sadly tommy passed away 5 yrs ago, worked for Lee until the day he died. He had alot of good stories being an airline capt in the 50's and 60's. Long after lee had retired from united, tommy invited lee and some friends on a chartered flight to europe in a DC6. That was the start of a long friendship. Tommy had a parkinsons problem but always had a glint in his eye and a story, kind of reminded me of my grandfather! "BIG BOBBY" was 400 to 500 pounds of aviation enthusiast, he had an eating disorder but knew alot about building old radials. I saw him consume a gallon of juice and a dozen donuts in 20 minutes. An hour later told he me he hadn't eaten anything, I referred him to a local all U can eat restaurant. Some aircraft mechanics, like pilots and painters have a bottle problem, "JAY" was an ex liquor distributor in nevada. He lived in his motorhome inviting prospective actresses to the mobile casting couch. He was Lee's Grunt willing to do anything, a real nice guy. Movie mechanics Karl Florine and Dennis Twohey, owners of </span><a href="http://beech18.com/" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">beech18.com</a><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> I flew them to lantana florida to help resurrect their tri-gear 18 in 2001 right after general aviation was opened after sept11th. I never file flight plans but karl did the paperwork on that trip. Another very talented pilot mechanic, can't remember his name at the moment, owned a fleet of 18's flying out of hawthorne next to lax. One of his pilots ran an 18 out of gas landing next to whisky pete's. Gas was delivered and the plane flew off without a report written on the incident. His 135 certificate was yanked. he went to work in laughlin nevada, he now is a capt. on the fly by wire stuff for the airlines. Yours truly spent 27 yrs with HONDA,I first met Lee in 89, trading my 182 for an airliner, an 18. ten yrs later, right after I broke my back in 3 places, Lee called me asking me to deliver a wing and 2 985's to florida for your AT11. I stayed with Lee for 3 yrs. I never made much money in the aviation business, but I sure met some interesting people, and flew my plane 3 times more than when I was making a decent living. Never had so much fun in my life. There are more of the motley crew, but these ones stand out. dave wilson fly-by-nite airlines </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 12:21:28 am on 1/3/2006 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">correction, Lee was 69 when he ditched the 4. another one of Lee's AT11 guys was a true artist and one heck of a sheet metal man, "Leonard" was an ex employee of lockheed in burbank for many yrs and was a major supplier of vitamins assisting fellow employees to stay awake for double shifts! He did the sheet metal work on the airstair door, basically building it from scratch. Leonard introduced me to his fellow highschool friend,a tough looking latino motorcycle vato..., "gang banger" also an ex con, who was a star on the movie "BUBBLE BOY" being filmed at whiteman airport. Another movie "Jag" being filmed at whiteman attracted a celeb who noticed the AT11 in the hanger.Charlies angel Jaquelin Smith used the hanger to have her make up technician primp and fuss between shoots! Karl of </span><a href="http://beech18.com/" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">beech18.com</a><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> took some pictures of jaquelin being embraced.., by Dennis Twohey, roadracer bob, and myself in front of the AT11. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 11:22:21 pm on 1/3/2006 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Lee's dad was an automobile manufacturer, one of many in those days. The CAMERON was mostly made of aluminum ! There is a cameron on display at an auto museum in the san fernando valley. Do you remember seeing classical historic footage of charles lindberg preparing to take off in the spirit of St. Louis on the flight to paris france. Lee Cameron was in that send off crowd helping push the plane thru the mud! believe it or not..., sky king</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 8:14:27 pm on 1/7/2006 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">After another briefing with Lee, the correct description of the ditching incident..., nine days of floating in the gulf of mexico with a protestant, a catholic, and a jew. Paul Gunderson was one of Lee's more talented ex 135 owner-pilots that operated a fleet of 18's out of Hawthorne calif. Paul lives in bullhead city and flies a smoker out of vegas to nashville for an offshoot of delta airlines. Lee once told me of an incident with a famous aviatrix. When Lee was 16 and this lady pilot was 28, she landed at cleveland ohio, she needed a lift into town so lee gave her a ride in his car. She told him she didn't have any money so he told her she could give him a KISS! Amelia erhart obliged! Another interesting story was Lee's entry into the 1949 BENDIX AIR RACES. Lee competed without any sponsor flying on his own nickel in his douglas invader, a huge gas guzzling Double engined pratt and whitney R2800's. He figured he could place well as his competitors in heavily sponsored p51's may have mechanical breakdowns!. The other planes would have to make fuel stops and he could do it non stop. He was wrong, most of the planes finished, including Lee. At 95 Lee said he is going to the next auction in phoenix arizona with the STARMAN Brothers to see if he can sniff out a good deal on some aviation goodies, I may go along to accompany him. Lee is completeing his book which should be printed soon, to order yours or the book about the ditching call Lee or larry at 1 800 257 9863 Sky King </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 11:20:02 pm on 1/29/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">MR. TWIN BEECH..., Leland H. Cameron, decided to fly west this past saturday afternoon. Lee suffered a major stroke after having a brief bout with pneumonea. At 96 yrs young, Lee was the oldest surviving United Airlines pilot, retiring as captain on DC4s in 1947! He was still driving his ford taurus and attending the monthly retired united airline pilots meetings. Lee's latest claim to fame was that he was the only man alive who got kissed by Amelia aerhart. Lee told me when she landed in cincinatti she asked if there was a bus or a taxi into town, he offered her a lift into town. She gave him gave him a kiss? Several years ago Lee told me he had more than one stewardess pregnant at the same time. Looking on the internet doing a search under leland cameron I found an interesting document. Dated 1947, Lee was in a court battle with the federal government. It appears that after the bendix air race in his B26, from Poncho Barnes ranch in Mojave california to cincinatti, against P51 mustangs, corsairs, spitfires, P40's, Lee performed a loop and ensuing dive narrowly missing the control tower. His licence had been suspended for 30 days, except for purposes of testing military aircraft. Lee was appealing the courts decision. Lee competed in his own B26 airplane with no sponsors, he told me he could do it non stop without refueling and thought he had a chance at winning as the others had to stop for fuel and were not as reliable! Lee's caregiver is typing up his newest autobiography soon to be released. Lee probably sold more beech 18's privately other any other privateer. Lee was a very colorful character. In 1979, at 68 yrs of age, Lee spent 9 days floating around the gulf of mexico in a life raft after ditching a DC4 35 miles west off the coast of tampa. He also spent 18 months in Lompoc prison on a conspiracy charge. Lee proudly displayed an autographed portrait of him standing next to president Ronald Reagan. A substantial contribution to the republican party lead to his conviction being exponged? I had the pleasure of working for Lee from 1999 to 2001. He sent me all over the country in his ford truck picking up parts and many times sending me in my own beech 18 paying for hotels, meals, fuel and a small paycheck. I did more flying working for Lee than when I was making a decent living as a honda mechanic. I worked with a motley crew of characters restoring about 4 beeches,including the famous AT11 now owned by Dr. C Bogie. I have informed Wayman Dunlap, editor of the Pacific flyer newspaper of Lee's passing. Larry Stahl, lee's business partner and CLAY LACY of lacy aviation are being consulted for a story of lees life. Lee has been cremated and a memorial service is being set up for saturday the 10th at united methodist church on tujunga blvd N hollywood. LEE, thanks for the memories, dave wilson - sky king, fly-by-nite airlines. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (18West)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 2:02:21 pm on 2/1/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Hard to believe. David AND Lee gone within 24 hrs of each. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">So many of the "old guard" gone now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I worked for Lee back in 1962-63. My main job was stripping fabric off of surfaces so Charlie could metal skin them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">There was so much going on there then. Maybe 10 guys working full time on all the mods Lee had developed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Anyway, thats where my love affair for the 18 began.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Lee was one of a kind and bigger then life. Talk about a salesman!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">The last time I saw him was shortly before he moved away from Satsuma Street. Id stopped by to drop off a part or something and ****ed if LEE didnt start trying to sell me stuff.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I finally bought an old beat up Super Cabin seat so he'd let me outta there! :-) That was Lee, all the way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Adios amigo. Tom Leatherwood</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (Baron319)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 12:12:36 am on 2/3/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I thought it was a Rabbi, A Muslim Priest and a Cowboy? LOL </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">With Lee gone I doubt the REAL story about the ditching will ever be known. You have a great heart Dave but your too gullible. Maybe the real story doesnt need to be known, or is too boring. The other variations are certainly more colorful and put Lee in a better light. The latest one told by Lee to Matt Jackson has Lee flying a DC6 to South America single handedly on a DEA sting operation to bust a bunch of Columbian drug lords. After, LEE think, why go home empty handed so he fills the airplane up with pot and off he goes. The DEA gets wind of it and shadows him with a C-130. Lee ditches the 6 and gets in a raft and the DEA leaves him there. Etc etc etc. Now THATS a good story! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Truth is it was probably a Bonanza or a 206. lol </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 3:50:32 pm on 2/6/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Tom, I can't quite picture Lee as a cowboy? Just spoke to Larrt Stahl, lees business partner for the past 40 yrs, probably credited with keeping Lee out of prison for so long! The funeral is planned for this sunday 230 pm at the UNITED METHODIST CHURCH, 4832 Tujunga blvd in North Hollywood between magnolia and Camarillo. The criminal attorney..., brigadere general SYKES of the van nuys condor squadron, a gaggle of at6's, is putting together a FLY BY for Lee. Larry said they're still looking for an 18 to join the formation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (Baron319)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 4:30:36 pm on 2/6/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Dave,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">That was just a bad joke. Lee not a cowboy? Depends in what context you view it. They say that cowboys made their own rules right? Tell me he wasn't a cowboy?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">I wont be able to make the memorial as it turns out. Take a recorder and record as many Lee stories as you can. It would make a hell of a book!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Tom</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 7:06:59 pm on 2/6/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Tom, yes I guess Lee was a real cowboy, the kind of guy that would clean out his ears with a #2 flatblade screw driver. My wife grew to hate Lee, I was having the time of my life, working for Lee and aerospace products, flying and working on 18's for a few years, you just had to count your fingers after a handshake! As we both worked for the same boss, Jack Robertson Honda, I must admit you have done very well for yourself. Owning the most beautiful 18 that was previously part of the astronaut frank bormans aviation collection. Some day you will probably regret selling her. I remember well the biggest west coast 18 reunion at paso robles hosted by you and your lovely wife tina, your truly classic hanger and the auger inn. Meeting your good friend and fellow aviator, Morgan Woodward, I looked up </span><a href="http://woodward.com/" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">woodward.com</a><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> and he has sure done alot of tv, Bonanza, wyatt urp, dallas, cool hand luke, now theres a real cowboy! He still has a hanger at WHP! Is he still flying his WACO, I think he is 81 now. Larry told me that Lee's latest caregiver is typing up Lee's latest autobiography. I still owe you for that emergency hatch that you gave me years ago. No JUNK in Tom Leatherwoods 18 inventory. I haven't afforded my 18 for the past 2 years, howard harding has it up in roosevelt airport utah, check out my comment on 74V at </span><a href="http://www.airnav.com/" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">www.airnav.com</a><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> dave wilson</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (Baron319)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 12:56:57 am on 2/8/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Hi Dave,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Yeah, we had some fun at those fly-ins. Hom many times has there been 4 AT-11's flying formation at YOUR hangar party! We had 13 Beechs at that first one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Sadly, Morgans thru flying himself. The Waco has been sold. He flies around with me given the chance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Miss my Beech? Honestly I don't. There's a time for eveything and it was time to change. Im past that Warbird thing anyway. All the issues, spars, props, etc etc etc made the decision. My T-bone has ZERO issues PLUS a great autopilot! Its faster and cheaper by far.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Nice to hear from you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Did you know I managed Jack Robertsons parts department at the motorcycle store on Tujunga? I also helped them setup the Burbank stores parts dept. This was around 1969-71 ? Jack was a real gentleman and treated me great. The first Honda Cars were coming in and the 750 4 cylinder sounded the death of their Triumph involvement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Tom Leatherwood</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Re: AT-11 (davewilson)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;">Posted: 10:22:47 am on 2/14/2007 Modified: Never</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<br style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px;" />Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-18718554914488432562014-03-30T06:59:00.000-07:002015-07-24T10:31:37.559-07:00• Roger Ball<div style="font-family: Verdana;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/TITwJAoN-2I/AAAAAAAADUc/8l4chPOCHu4/s1600/fsx+2010-09-05+14-50-55-42.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today's personal computer flight simulators are a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> hair's breadth from reality with add-on <a href="http://www.flightsimstore.com/product_info.phphttp://www.flightsimstore.com/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=123&products_id=2197" target="_blank">weather</a> and <a href="http://www.flightsimstore.com/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=92&products_id=1218" target="_blank">terrain</a> packages. Recently I added a <a href="http://www.simviation.com/cgi-bin/syb2.cgi?section=misc&file=aicarriers2.zip" target="_blank">freeware aircraft carrier</a> package to Microsoft Flight Simulator X, and it brought back s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ights and sounds (if not the smells of JP-5, oily steam, or sweat) from forty years ago.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/TIUVZ6ZXFhI/AAAAAAAADVU/k4WJW56wKmc/s1600/fsx+2010-09-06+09-04-13-75-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/TIUVZ6ZXFhI/AAAAAAAADVU/k4WJW56wKmc/s320/fsx+2010-09-06+09-04-13-75-1.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With a couple of mouse clicks I positioned a carrier, <a href="http://flyawaysimulation.com/downloads/files/2618/fsx-aircraft-carrier-uss-nimitz/" target="_blank">flight deck spotted for recovery</a>, ten miles ahead of my <a href="http://www.razbamsims.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=53" target="_blank">Navy/Grumman EA-6B</a>. Into the break at 300 knots, the sight picture brought back a wave of memories.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One indelible memory came from the time the Air Boss called, "</span><a href="http://tailspinstales.blogspot.com/2008/01/and-now-for-rest-of-story.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Keep it flying</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">," as a stiletto Vigilante staggered into to the air, slowly rolled upside down, and disappeared in a noiseless splash.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Or the night, downwind after a bolter, when I heard a whine under my ejection seat and knew it was a hydraulic pump cavitating.Who knows how I knew that, but a calm pilot and the emergency hydraulic system got us back on deck where they threw chocks under the tires with us still in the arresting gear, and then towed us out of the wires, straight-wing, to the consternation of Flight Deck Control with a crowded deck.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today, at the 90 rolling into the groove, I thought, <i>yeah I've seen this picture before</i>. Wide open ocean, tiny huge ship churning away from us. Five thousand hot, horny, hard working souls trying to make it through another deployment.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After almost 45 years </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;">(I learned in college, before joining the Navy) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;">and 10,000+ hours of flying I figured, yeah, I can do this. Carrier ops can't be </span><i style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;"> hard. Especially when the pink bag-'o-flesh called 'me' isn't at risk.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Think again, Non-Flying Officer (as Aviation Week, who should know better, ignominiously once called Naval Flight Officers). Hours and years don't a Naval Aviator make.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">First pass was, "I know there's a ship out there somewhere. Oh, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">there</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> it is. Okay, let's take 'er around and try that again."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next pass was, "No, no, no. Two thousand feet MSL abeam will never work." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;">The Air Boss would have had a conniption if he saw what I did to get back into a reasonable semblance of a 180.</span></div>
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But the picture was, oh, so familiar. "Been there, done this" kept coming to mind.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Prowler, ball, two point six," I tell the LSO so he knows we're an EA-6B, not a similar looking </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Intruder, and so he knows our fuel state.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What are those red lights on the lens? Shit, I'm low, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">real</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> low. Power, power, POWER. Wave off. Boards in, watch the AoA.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Over the ship at PriFly eye-level, I unaccountably hear a flight deck announcement, and am reminded that this is an almost, but not quite perfect, $30 simulator not a $30 million sim, nor a time machine.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yellow shirts move around the flight deck, cranials and mouse ears in place. Low slung tugs, in modern white paint, move among the parked F/A-18s and E-2Ds,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> none of my era's yellow gear pushing A-3s, A-6s, and F-4s,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> reminding me this is the CV-68 Nimitz — CVA-64 USS Constellation, or Connie, has has been retired for years. My kids think it's funny that the San Diego Air and Space Museum has an A-6 with my name on the canopy rail. I think they ought to stuff me when I die, and just let fly west </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">forever right there.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next pass starts out badly, but miraculously turns into a trap. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">LSOs little black book would probably read something like BRFAPPS3: brilliant recovery from a piss poor start, 3 wire.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I wasn't so lucky on the next few tries, including one pass where I got a heart stopping look </span></span><i style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">up</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;"> at the flight deck after pulling off too much power.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I did manage one OK3, at least from my perspective. Paddles probably would have though otherwise. And it wasn't dark, and the deck wasn't pitching, and I wasn't worried about dying, or worse yet, embarrassing myself.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On deck, thumb the boards in, hook up, f</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">laps up, start the wing fold, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px;">taxi clear, yellow shirt gesturing frantically. Taxi toward the deck edge, cockpit hanging out over the water before a turn so the main mounts almost rub the steel curb that (usually) keeps you out of the catwalk. Looking down at nothing but water going by, another flash of recognition. Watch the power as we come around so we don't blow a </span><a href="http://tailspinstales.blogspot.com/2008/08/ive-often-thought-of-men-i-was-supposed.html" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">plane captain</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> in the water or suck someone down an intake. Shut her down, canopies open, no blast of kerosene wind, but the Air Boss is calling for the re-spot in preparation for the next launch.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Another day, another dollar. Only nine months to go, my memory recalls, and it all counts toward retirement.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Honey, dinner's ready," my wife purrs, "You want beer or wine?" The fantasy evaporates, replaced by a dream come true.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe I'd better try some FCLPs tomorrow, before I go back out to the ship?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">UPDATE 1: I was being facetious when I suggested some Field Carrier Landing Practice. Turns out there<i> is </i>an add-on (free) <a href="http://flyawaysimulation.com/downloads/search/?q=flols&cat=" target="_blank">FLOLS</a> trailer that you can place anywhere. So I plunked one down at NOLF Coupeville and went around the pattern a few times. It helped! Just back from a session on the Eisenhower, amidst a bunch of CARQUAL <a href="http://indiafoxtecho.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">T-45s</a> (free and better than many payware aircraft), and did better.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">UPDATE 2: If you've ever bounced at Coupeville you know the picture below isn't quite right. There should be a tiny landing area painted on the left side of the runway, and lights are way too dim. Well, <a href="http://vlso.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">vLSO</a> (as in virtual LSO, and free) fixes all that, and adds a whole bunch more fun.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">What's more. vLSO allows you to put a tanker in an orbit over the </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">ship so you can go get a plug and some gas if things really aren't going well. So far I've managed to hit the basket once. And I mean hit, literally, not plug.</span></span><br />
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</span></span> <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Sometime I'll get up the nerve to try it at night in the clag. Or in a fire-breathing<a href="http://www.vrsimulations.com/FA18EFSX.htm"> F/A-18</a> ($45).</span></span></div>
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Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-74314964036875283942014-03-24T10:24:00.000-07:002014-03-29T19:34:54.668-07:00• Jumpin' jehosaphatNever thought it was a good idea to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Although there are those that do. And, if you ask me, you gotta be kinda goofy to do it. (I wonder what Vmc is for a Twin Beech in this configuration?)<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RqJ_Z6tcSVI/AAAAAAAAAeA/YjsQsq25I4U/s1600-h/beech-18.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RqJ_Z6tcSVI/AAAAAAAAAeA/YjsQsq25I4U/s400/beech-18.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089770612115392850" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-57900314863806640452013-12-12T05:27:00.000-08:002014-01-27T14:24:39.405-08:00• We're Not happy Until You're Not HappyOver the years I've been faced with a severe case of what psychologists call "cognitive dissonance."<br />
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On one hand my experience has been that the folks that work for the FAA are, by and large, earnest, professional people with a real interest in aviation and safety. They've always treated me fairly (not to be confused with leniently). On the other hand I've met pilots and aircraft owners who profess something between mistrust and visceral hatred for the employees of the same agency. They really believe the FAA motto is, "We're not happy until you're not happy."<br />
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If you're among the latter, you can probably stop reading because what I'm going to write won't interest you.<br />
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To be entirely up front, I have to admit that my opinion is that the people who hate the FAA the most are the ones that have played loose and free with the regs the most, they're the people who treat "the Feds" as some kind of low lifes, and they're the people who receive, in return, just what they deserve.<br />
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Now that's not to say there aren't bad eggs in every basket. The apocryphal story of the Inspector who yellow tagged a bird with "Q-tip" props because its propeller tips were bent comes to mind. But consider that the basket of pilots is much larger (650,000) than the basket of FAA employees (50,000). And the number of those folks that you'll actually meet while committing the unnatural act of flight is smaller yet.<br />
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You don't have to be a math genius to figure out there are probably more asshole pilots than there are asshole Feds.<br />
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Yeah, I can hear you arguing percentages; asshole density, if you will. I don't buy it.<br />
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Sit in a parking lot by an airport fence and listen on your handheld, or sit in your cockpit and listen on your David Clarks. Y'all up there in the rarefied air can listen on your anorexic Plantronics too. How many times do pilots screw up? How many times do controllers? And which group is most likely to go into assholes mode when things don't go right?<br />
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Fact is, many of the FAA employees on the front line are pilots with experiences that you'd die to have, maybe even die <span style="font-style: italic;">from,</span> since you may not be as good a pilot as they are. After all, half the pilots out there are worse than the other half. (Why do I hear a chorus from the tower, "More! <span style="font-style: italic;">Much</span> more!")<br />
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But you wouldn't know those people from ATC and the FSDO have the depth of experience they do if you harbor a prejudice against them. That's true of everyone else in life too, come think of it.<br />
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When was the last time you took the time to go up in the cab and find out who the person is that's behind that voice your hear from the control tower? Have you ever figured out where the nearest TRACON is located and scheduled a visit to see what it's like to shepherd fast moving aircraft across a sector, essentially blindfolded?<br />
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All this reminds me of my favorite controller who once announced, when things were really going to hell in a handbasket,"All right, everyone stop right where you are, and we'll get this sorted out." Even the foreign student with minimal command of English flying up the downwind keyed the mike and laughed.<br />
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She's the same controller, I recall, who also told a bush pilot I was flying with in a busy Southern California weekend pattern "You have to do more than nod your head when I call you, 674H."<br />
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Mind you he's a pilot's pilot, an Alaskan 'Man of the Decade' for his selfless rescues, and a personal hero in an era when, as Styx puts it, "All the heroes and legends I knew as a child have fallen to idols of clay." But he's also someone who hadn't talked on a radio in years, except maybe to check in on the HF while crossing some of the wildest water and terrain in the world so his wife would know he's okay.<br />
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Mutual respect is what it's all about, in a phrase.<br />
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Doubts? Go out and drive a car blindfolded while someone talks you through an empty shopping center parking lot. A controller who'd done that, to appreciate the problems of a scared VFR pilot in IFR conditions, saved a woman's life because he understood. She's my wife today, and I appreciate his dedication. She found herself solid IFR in a snow squall on her second solo flight...but <a href="http://tailspinstales.blogspot.com/2007/06/weve-had-little-problem.html">that's another tale</a>.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-84075583813542142862013-11-18T06:29:00.000-08:002014-01-27T15:28:46.365-08:00• Where There's A Will There's A WayOn my first solo flight at K-13, Suwan, Korea, in June 1952, I took off in an F-80 Shooting Star. It was not a combat mission. All I had to do was go up and have fun boring holes in the sky for about an hour and a half. <br />
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Immediately after takeoff, I felt the left wing was heavy and determined that the left tip fuel tank was not feeding properly or not at all. Afraid it might fall off and rupture during landing, potentially melting asphalt on the runway, the tower would not let me land with the full tank. I was instructed to make a bomb run and drop the whole tank. <br />
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Arriving at the bomb range, I set up my bomb-release switches to release the tank. Flying over the impact area, I pushed the button but nothing happened. I tried a second time and again there was no response. On my next pass, I tried the manual release handle but to no avail. Making one final run, I used the button we called the "panic button" because it allegedly released everything hanging on the airplane. It worked as advertised and dumped everything, save my errant left tip tank. <br />
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The tower control officer advised me that if I couldn't get rid of the tank or its contents, I should give them my location, eject and await pickup. Well, pilots really hate to punch out of a perfectly flyable airplane and I figured I still had one option worth trying. <br />
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The canopy of an F-80 can be opened in flight up to about 220 MPH. So I opened the canopy and unholstered my G.I. issue Colt M1911 .45 automatic. Now, liquid fuel will not burn, at least not like vapors, so I aimed for the part of the tank I was sure would be full of liquid. Firing my first shot, I had no idea where the bullet went--perhaps airborne, high-speed physics were at work, or maybe just my nerves. But my next three shots punctured the tank, passing through the fuel and exiting cleanly out the far side of the 24" wide tank. <br />
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For the next thirty minutes, I flew with the left wing down in a series of circles to drain the fuel and slowly return to base. By the time I got to the airstrip the tank was empty. I made a routine landing. As far as I know, I am the only pilot in the Air Force who ever shot his own plane to correct a malfunction. <br />
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Thank goodness for my .45. <br />
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LCol. A.J. D'Amario, USAF Ret. Florida<br />
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Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-53966769095149722002013-07-01T00:00:00.000-07:002013-07-01T14:28:49.363-07:00• Last Flight<div align="justify" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px;">
He was an old man, suffering from serious depression and an incurable illness. His future, such as it was, looked grim. Just a few weeks earlier he had been diagnosed as having Hodgkin’s disease.</div>
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In an effort to cheer their father up, his sons had driven him from Massachusetts to the great air show taking place in Genessee.</div>
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Their dad had been a Navy combat pilot in WWII. He’d often told them stories about his days as a younger man, a man they’d never met and perhaps never really believed existed. But they knew how his eyes would light up when he talked about his wartime experiences. Dad became young again, if only for a moment, as he remembered being strong and healthy, fighting against fascism so many years ago. The boys hoped that being around the old warbirds would lift his spirits for at least a day.</div>
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His sons, loving and attentive, helped him out of the car somewhere on one of the fields reserved for parking. He’d been glancing up more frequently as they got closer to the airfield. With a veteran’s practiced eye, he identified the aircraft as they wheeled and banked over the field or taxied to the parking positions. He’d already told his boys that “his” plane wouldn’t be there. They weren’t saved after the war like the more glorified Flying Fortresses or Liberators. Still, young men by the thousands had flown and fought in “his” type of aircraft, and not all of them had made it home. He knew that the model he flew was only a memory shared by a dwindling band of old men like himself. His own sons had never even seen one of the planes that carried him to war. For the most part, no one knew they ever existed. The old planes, like the old man himself, were fading away.</div>
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Once they had been young, the hope and pride of a nation. But now…no one cared anymore.</div>
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They walked slowly along the crowded flight line. Over the rumble of the engines, Dad gestured for his boys. “<em>That one’s a B-17,” he’d explain, “we had those in the Pacific, too. There’s a P-38 Lightning. You can always tell by the twin tail booms. They were good escorts. They went in with us sometimes. We were glad to have them around</em>.”<br />
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Further down the line they passed a Japanese Zero. The old man glared at it silently for a moment, some strange emotion passing briefly across his face. His sons didn’t know if it was grief, fear, anger, or a combination of all. He turned and without a backward glance continued his slow walk.<br />
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The memories were becoming stronger for him. The breeze carried the scent of rubber, aviation gas, and hot oil, just like his base used to smell. Planes jockeying into position along the line revved their engines, sending gale-force prop wash blowing across the tarmac as people clutched at their hats and leaned into the wind. Overhead was the deep-throated roar of ancient propeller-driven fighter formations passing in review, a sound unlike any other. Air show announcers all over the country call it the same thing: The Sound of Freedom.</div>
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The father and his sons ambled along, pausing occasionally to look up at whatever was flying over. After one particularly low pass by a British Spitfire, the boys turned to remark to Dad and saw him standing as if he were frozen in place. He had walked around the aircraft they’d been looking at and was staring like a man possessed at the next plane in line. A look of incredulous wonder began to spread across his face…</div>
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“<em>My God,</em>” he whispered. “<em>My God, there it is. It’s…someone…how…I never thought that I’d ever…</em>”</div>
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“<em>What is it, Dad? Are you okay</em>?”</div>
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He seemed to stand taller and his shoulders squared. “<em>Okay? Hell yes, I’m okay! THERE’S MY PLANE!</em>”</div>
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It just so happened that “<em>his</em>” plane was also “<em>our</em>” plane. Lockheed PV-2 “<em>Harpoons</em>” were never immortalized by Hollywood like the Flying Fortresses of “<em>12 O’Clock High</em>,” the B-25 Mitchells of “<em>Catch-22</em>” or any of a score of other films. Why this is so remains a mystery, for the missions they flew were some of the most heroic—and harrowing—of the war. Flying out of New York, Norfolk, and Pensacola, PV-1s and 2s scoured the Atlantic for Nazi U-boats. The WWII cliché “<em>sighted sub, sank sam</em>e” is attributed to a PV-1 crew. In the Pacific theater, astonished Navy pilots soon realized that the PV-1 could actually outrun the dreaded Japanese Zeros, a feat unheard of for a medium bomber. The Lockheed’s phenomenal speed saved scores, perhaps hundreds, of American lives.</div>
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With the debut of the heavier and more stable PV-2, Marine Corps pilots and ground crews, as usual, made a few non-standard “<em>field modifications</em>.” This normally meant torching extra holes in the nose and welding in as many .50 machine guns as they could cram into the forward bay. The Marines also tore out the torpedo and depth charge racks in the somewhat pregnant-looking bomb bay and installed hooks for 500 pounders and napalm. As if this wasn’t enough, industrious gunneys even bolted rails under each wing and loaded them with air-to-ground rockets! Aeronautical engineers were appalled when they heard this, but soon reports came back from the combat zones of Harpoons taking on everything from subs and fighters to tanks and heavy cruisers, all with disastrous results to the enemy. The Harpoons could—and did—fight anything. And somewhere amidst the fire and fury, somewhere between the Philippines and the Aleutians, there was a young Navy pilot who would live to be taken to Gennessee, New York by his sons….</div>
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The old man stood at the front of the plane and, after a long moment, simply reached up and placed his hand on the underside of the nose. “<em>I never knew they saved one</em>,” he said softly. “<em>I never thought I’d see one again</em>.” To his sons, the man sounded as if he had suddenly found something priceless that he had lost many years ago.</div>
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One of his boys slipped around to the port side of the harpoon. He’d seen an open hatch and one of our crewmen standing near it. The younger man had decided to ask, plead—beg if he had to—for permission to let his father climb aboard a Harpoon just one more time. Please, please…</div>
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To his surprise and delight, he was informed that we welcome visitors aboard our plane. In fact, we encourage them to climb in and take a look around. It’s no fun having a bomber if you can’t show it off once in a while, right? Besides, we’re maintaining a living piece of American history, and we’re rather proud of that fact.</div>
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The fellow who climbed into the hatch did so with the grace and familiarity of a young naval aviator, not an old man suffering from Hodgkin’s disease. Our crewman offered to show the old gent around and point out objects of interest in the plane, a courtesy we perform for all visitors, but one of the man’s sons tugged at his sleeve. “<em>Dad<br />
knows his way around in here. Can we talk outside for a moment?</em>”</div>
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Our crewman was somewhat bewildered, but he was beginning to realize that something out of the ordinary was going on. He’d seen that eerie look in the old fellow’s eyes and it was plain that these other two guys wanted to explain his behavior. He hopped out of the hatch and listened to them. They told our man about their dad’s crushing depression upon learning of his incurable disease, how they had hoped to just cheer him up a little, and how overjoyed he was to see that a bunch of characters from Indiana were actually flying around the country in a plane that he thought no longer existed.</div>
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Our man knew there was more to it than that. There was a lot of happiness and relief in these men, too. Their mission was accomplished: against all odds, they’d broken the black spell on their father.</div>
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While the old aviator was still merrily poking about in our plane, a couple more of our crew strolled up munching on hamburgers. “<em>What’s up? Anything going on?</em>”</div>
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“<em>Yeah. Wait’ll you hear this…</em>”</div>
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Within minutes, two of our crewmen set out to round up the rest of the gang. The old man was still climbing in and out of the plane, kicking the landing gear and inspecting the bomb bay, when they all arrived. Our whole “<em>away team</em>” shook his hand and took pictures of him and his boys. The old fellow’s joy was infectious, and our guys were glad to be a part of it. Then someone in the crew cam up with a brilliant idea. It was whispered from man to man and a hasty conference was held under the huge wing. Heads nodded all around. Yeah. It was agreed. They had to do this…</div>
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We were scheduled to make a flight the next day for “<em>Aviation Classics</em>” magazine. They wanted some pictures of our rare Harpoon doing its stuff. A photographer had been sent, a swift chase plane had been reserved, and takeoff was set for the following morning.</div>
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As is always the case, every seat available was already spoken for. Despite its size, and not counting the pilots and flight engineer, there are only five seats aboard our plane. She was designed as a combat aircraft, not a passenger plane. Even among the members of our organization, a flight is a rare treat. To be honest about the matter, at a fuel consumption rate of nearly two hundred gallons an hour we can’t afford much joyriding. At air shows, our fuel and other expenses are paid for by the promoters of the show so every time we lift off five lucky people get to take a “<em>free</em>” ride. These seats are always reserved well in advance, usually for our own people who’ve spend countless hours of hard work and a lot of their own money to “keep ‘em flying.” It’s a privilege we all look forward to every summer.</div>
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Our crew looked at the ancient Navy pilot standing beside the Harpoon. He constantly touched the aircraft as if to assure himself that it was really there and not just a dream. There was a haunted look about him, as if he were surrounded by the ghosts of his former comrades. He had survived the Zeros, but there would be no escape from the disease that now had a grip on him. The old veteran was fighting his last battle even as they watched…</div>
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“<em>He can have my seat</em>,” one of our guys said softly.</div>
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“<em>Naw. You haven’t gone up for a while. Let him take mine</em>.”</div>
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Soon there was a near fight among all five over who would give up their seat. It was a point of honor. Besides, people who fly and maintain old warbirds are slightly crazy anyway.</div>
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The argument was settled and, beaming delightedly, the whole crew marched over to the man and his sons. They told him about the photo run that was scheduled for the next day and that we just, ahh, happened to have a spare seat available. Would he like to ride along on the flight?</div>
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The question stunned him. “<em>Are you serious</em>?” He looked from man to man, and their faces answered for them. They were all grinning like idiots and nodding their heads in encouragement.</div>
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The aged Harpoon pilot blinked a few times and cleared his throat. Then, with his sons standing beside him, he lifted his chin and answered. “<em>Yes</em>,” he said. “<em>I’d love to go. Thanks…thank you very much.</em>”</div>
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His sons didn’t comment on our crew’s invitation. For some reason they were suddenly having trouble with their voices. But the way they looked at our people spoke volumes on the subject of heartfelt gratitude. The men from Massachusetts stood with the men from Indiana on an airfield in New York state, and the axiom of a brotherhood among airmen demonstrated its truth once more.</div>
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The old aviator arrived at dawn the next day. Only a couple of our people were up and at the aircraft at that time, groggily sipping coffee and still yawning. One of our guys commented that the veteran pilot looked surprisingly wide awake for that early hour. He replied that most of his combat missions had begun at dawn or even earlier. Besides, he admitted sheepishly, he had been unable to sleep the whole night. “<em>I felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning</em>,” he grinned.</div>
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Someone reached into a tool box and produced a thermos of coffee. The old fellow accepted a cup and sat a package down on the work bench. “<em>I thought some of you might be interested in this</em>.” He carefully unwrapped a tattered and patched photo album.</div>
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“<em>My boys talked me into bringing it from home when we came up here. I’m glad I have it with me now</em>.” He opened the cover.</div>
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Our crewmen took one glance inside and snapped completely awake, nearly choking on their coffee. They stared at the book, then at each other.</div>
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The album was a gold mine. The then-young Navy pilot had taken dozens of black and white photos of his aircraft, both inside and out. Equally important, he’d taken many close-ups of the mechanics at work on his forward island bases. We had only been able to guess at where some of the equipment was mounted in the interior of our plane, and how some of the field-expedient repairs had been accomplished under combat conditions. This book could allow us to rebuild and refurbish our plane to her exact wartime appearance, the goal of all military aircraft restorers. We have a thick manual for the bird, but it’s no longer possible to do everything “by the book.”</div>
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Lockheed hasn’t made parts for this aircraft for over fifty years. We knew that Navy and Marine mechanics had accomplished wonders with baling wire, tin cans, and friction tape: the big question was how? Which backyard repairs could we get away with and which ones could cause a crash? What do you do when a control cable snaps at 12,000 feet or the port engine starts blowing oil or the landing gear jams halfway down?</div>
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Our crewmen suddenly realized that the fellow sipping coffee and looking calmly back at them was not merely an old man suffering from Hodgkin’s disease. He was also a retired United States Navy officer, a combat experienced aviator, and a government-trained expert on Lockheed PV-2 Harpoons. A few hours earlier, they felt as if he needed them. Now it dawned on our crew that they needed him—badly—and the knowledge he had carried for nearly half a century.</div>
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“<em>Sir, when the rest of our people get here, would you consider giving us a, uhh, briefing?</em>”</div>
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He sat his cup down and smiled. “<em>Be glad to</em>.”</div>
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Later that morning they were assembled around the elderly pilot, hanging on his every word. His constant touching and staring at the aircraft had not been the ghostly reminiscences of days gone by, but a careful and professional examination. Instinctively, he’d been giving our Harpoon a pre-flight inspection. He’d been quietly “<em>grading</em>” us on our reconditioning, maintenance, and craftsmanship. He’d noted where we had done well—and where there was need for improvement. Our crew jotted don page after page of memos on everything from how the navigator’s table folded up to which hydraulic lines to inspect frequently. To no one’s surprise, he said that some portions of the manual were nonsense, then went on to tell us how to do things the right way.</div>
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He gave our pilots detailed information on how to crash-land the plane in the event of total power failure. Harpoons are not noted for crash survivability, something we all keep in the back of our minds. His crew in the Pacific had been lucky to have him at the controls. He ran out of fuel once and had to belly in on a beach. The plane was a total loss, but the young Navy flyer saved his crew. Someday—God forbid—we may have to try it ourselves.</div>
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The veteran continued on for some time without any apparent fatigue or effects from his illness. Presently a civilian aircraft noisily taxied up to the Harpoon and braked to a halt. Two men clambered out of the plane, the photographer and his pilot. They exchanged information with our pilots on how the photo flight was to be handled, shook hands, and hopped back in their plane. The Cessna turned and began to taxi back out to the runway.</div>
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Flight line workers began to circle the Harpoon, warning spectators away from our bomber and clearing a path for it to roll out from the parking area. Our pilots and engineer climbed up into the cockpit and began their pre-flight checklist. Two of our people, one at each engine, stood guard outside with fire extinguishers while four more eagerly entered the plane.</div>
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For the first and only time in their lives, the old man’s sons watched him climb into a PV-2 Harpoon. Just inside the hatch, he turned and looked at his boys for a long moment. Something seemed to pass between them for an instant, then he gave them a “<em>thumbs up</em>” and shut the door.</div>
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He never thought that he’d see another of “<em>his</em>” planes and certainly never dreamed he’d fly in one again, if even only as a passenger, but fate had reserved him one more takeoff, just one more time.</div>
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The last flight was under way.</div>
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Our pilot shouted out his window. “<em>Clear</em>!” The ground crewmen stood by with the fire extinguishers, just in case. The number one starter motor engaged the flywheel, causing that eerie high-pitched whine that quickens the blood of anyone who ever heard it. Then the pistons fired, coughed, and fired again, blowing out rapid puffs of smoke as the Hamilton-Standard prop began to spin. The engine smoothed and revved to a high idle, pounding out a sound like nearby thunder. Number two engine whined, backfired, and blew out a great cloud of white smoke. Its prop remained motionless. Doubtless cursing under his breath, the pilot initiated a restart while the ground crew eyed the engine suspiciously, extinguishers at the ready.</div>
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The flywheel built up speed again, the switch was thrown, and this time the mighty Pratt & Whitney radial roared into life, fairly bellowing strength and defiance. The whole aircraft shook visibly as the great 2,000 horsepower engines warmed up. The brakes strained to hold the ship in place while the preflight was completed, then they were gradually released and the bomber started to roll.</div>
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As always, she gained speed rapidly. Halfway down the strip, the barn-door sized tail lifted and the plane seemed to balance on her main gear. Then, with the awesome sound of a warbird—the Sound of Freedom—the Harpoon thundered into the sky.</div>
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They circled the field once, gaining altitude. The chase plane fell into formation with them, the photographer taking advantage of a beautiful cloudless day. The Harpoon banked gracefully, easing back over the airfield. Together the two aircraft made repeated passes giving the cameraman every shot he could wish for. When the photo run was over, both planes slowed and dropped into a landing glide path, flaps and gear down. The smaller plane led the way, touching down well ahead of the big blue Navy patrol bomber.</div>
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It was the moment our crew had been waiting for. The airspace was now clear.</div>
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The Harpoon’s gear went back up and the engines throttled forward. She picked up speed, streaked over the runway at a breathtaking fifteen feet, and rocketed back up in a tight climbing turn.</div>
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One of our ground crew grinned at the old pilot’s sons. “<em>I think your dad is in for a little treat.</em>” The Harpoon was now going in excess of two hundred fifty knots. The bomber stood on one wing, whirled around in a high-stress turn, and dove like a falcon—straight towards the field. Her engines were audible for miles, and the vast crowd of spectators looked up as one. “<em>What the hell are they up to?</em>” Hot dogs and soft drinks were dropped by the score as people snatched for their cameras. The plane shrieked over the flight line, a blue streak above the Mustangs and the Liberators and that thrice-damned Zero. In the wink of an eye they blew past the throng of spectators as babies cried, women covered their ears, and children howled with delight. The slipstream sent hats, programs, and paper cups flying in every direction.</div>
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The plane rocked back on its tail and flew into the sun. The crowd squinted and tried to follow it. Eventually even the sound of the engines grew faint. The plane was gone—but to where? A few minutes passed, then someone shouted, “<em>There! To the north!</em>”</div>
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They’d gone for altitude, and were now diving back in again. But this time something was different. The plan was flying strangely. A teenager asked his father, “<em>Are they in trouble?</em>”</div>
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The Harpoon was dodging rapidly left and right and flinging itself up and down in the dive. Experienced combat pilots—and there are many at air shows—knew at first glance what the Navy bomber was doing. “<em>Jinking</em>” is how pilots are trained to avoid ground fire in combat. The plane was coming in under evasive action and gaining speed at an alarming rate. Two hundred sixty knots, two seventy, two ninety…Then the aircraft straightened and flew with determined precision, seeming to aim itself at a point just opposite from the crowd on the other side of the runway.</div>
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The bomb bay doors snapped open and half dozen dark oblong shapes spilled out.</div>
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Spectators gasped as the objects tumbled and fell, whistling loudly as they came. The missiles hit the field and exploded into a spectacular red and green spray. The crowd sent up a mighty cheer as they realized what they’d seen, and the sons of our passenger laughed and cheered loudest of all.</div>
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Gennessee, New York had just been bombed by a planeload of Indiana watermelons.</div>
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After pulling up from its surprise “<em>bomb run</em>,” the Harpoon slowed to cruise speed, circled, and came back for a final pass before landing. She swooped in low and slow, one wing tipped in salute to the crowd while cameras clicked and video recorders whirred. Then the great flaps lowered, the gear came down, and the tires screeched on contact with the tarmac. The bomber taxied to the parking apron, turned, and rolled slowly to her assigned area.</div>
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Flight line workers held back the crowds who surged in around her, waving, applauding, and holding children on the shoulders. The old aviator’s sons stood with our ground crew, shielding their eyes from a final wind blast as the port brake was locked, the starboard engine revved, and the plan ground-looped perfectly into exactly the same spot she had left. The engines were cut, number two giving its characteristic double backfire, and the props clattered to a halt. The elevator surfaces on the huge tail lowered and thumped softly down to their rest positions. The flight was over, the bomber now silent.</div>
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Our crew formed a semicircle around the hatch, the veteran’s sons standing expectantly in the front. For a long moment the hatch remained closed. Then the handle rotated, the door swung slowly open, and a figure appeared at the top of the access ladder. The sons looked up solemnly, as if seeing their father for the first time, He paused there, returning their gaze. Then the emotion became too great for even him to control, and his loving, joyous smile became framed by streams of tears that rolled down both cheeks. He hopped down the short ladder and into the arms of his boys. Our crew surrounded them as they gripped each other, laughing and weeping, in an impassioned, back slapping, three-way hug.</div>
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The scene was best described to this writer by one of our female crew members.</div>
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“<em>Oh, you should have seen it! These macho guys of ours in the plane came out and they were all crying. They were embarrassed by it, but they had to keep wiping their eyes. The old man was the happiest person I’ve ever seen in my life. He kept on laughing and crying at the same time and asking his boys if they saw the bomb run. They were nodding and hugging him. The ground crew was sniffing and snorting and looking at everything except each other. I finally gave up myself and said ‘What the hell?’ So I started crying too</em>.”</div>
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The aviator told everyone within earshot how happy he was to have been with us, even if only for a short while. Another of our ladies appeared at his side and asked if he would like to join our organization. Before she could even finish the question he exclaimed, “<em>Yes</em>!” She pulled an application out from behind her back and, grinning, handed the old fellow a pen. He quickly read the document and signed it on the offered back of our flight engineer. After handing the paper back, he reached inside jacket. “<em>I have my checkbook with me. I can pay my first annual dues right now and…</em>”</div>
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There was a cry of outrage and our “<em>recruiting officer</em>” steadfastly refused to take a cent. She looked around threateningly at the rest of the team and called for a forum. By immediate and unanimous voice vote, the veteran was made a life member of our crew on the spot, all dues waived forever.</div>
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Addresses and phone numbers were exchanged. The retired naval officer was told that he could expect our first organizational newsletter within a week and that we’d stay in touch by mail, keeping him abreast of developments with the plane. He replied that he had many photographs and notes pertaining to PV-2 Harpoons that he’d send us, as well as personal observations and letters answering any questions we might have in the future.</div>
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After some time, they had to leave for the long drive back to Massachusetts. Our men shook his firm hand for the last time, our wives and girlfriends each gave him a kiss, and it was time to leave. One of the sons kept repeating to our crew, “<em>You don’t know. You don’t know what this has done for Dad. This has brought him back. He’s his old self again. You just don’t know…</em>”</div>
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Well, maybe we don’t. But we have a pretty good idea. We know what he did for us.</div>
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Whatever else life may have in store for him the veteran will always know that one of his planes is still flying, crewed by a new generation. And we will know that we have a friend, our senior member, who we can turn to when the skies grow dark and we need advice.</div>
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Sometimes people ask me why I love air shows.</div>
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I never know what to tell them.</div>
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<em>Ken Ballard</em></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-14410246815903752232013-01-08T09:19:00.000-08:002020-04-18T08:50:10.034-07:00• First-hand view of the Dolittle Raid<div id="AOLMsgPart_2_afe56fe1-550f-4025-981d-87e245b52901">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>This is a really excellent firsthand account, by the pilot of aircraft #13, of the Doolittle Raid off the Hornet in 1942. A great piece of history. </i></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">My name is Edgar McElroy. My friends call me "Mac". I was born and raised in </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Ennis</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> , </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Texas</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> , the youngest of five children, son of Harry and Jennie McElroy. Folks say that I was the quiet one. We lived at </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">609 North Dallas Street</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and attended the Presbyterian Church. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Whenever I got the chance, I would take my girl on a date up to Love Field in </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Dallas</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> . We would watch the airplanes and listen to those mighty piston engines roar. I just loved it and if she didn't, well that was just too bad. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">We were on our way back to </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">California</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> on December 7th when we got word of a Japanese attack on </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Pearl Harbor</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">. We listened with mixed emotions to the announcements on the radio, and the next day to the declaration of war. What the President said, it just rang over and over in my head, "...With confidence in our armed forces, with the un-bounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph. So help us God." By gosh, I felt as though he was talking straight to me! I didn't know what would happen to us, but we all knew that we would be going somewhere now. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Actually it was lucky for us that the Japanese didn't attack the west coast, because we just didn't have a strong enough force to beat them off. Our country was in a real fix now, and overall things looked pretty bleak to most folks. In early February, we were ordered to report to Columbus , South Carolina . Man, this Air Corps sure moves a fellow around a lot! Little did I know what was coming next!</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">In early March, we were all called in for a briefing, and gathered together in a big building there on the base. Somebody said that the fellow who head of this thing is coming to talk to us, and in walks Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle. He was already an aviation legend, and there he stood right in front of us. I was truly amazed just to meet him. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">My dad had an auto mechanic's shop downtown close to the main fire station. My family was a hard working bunch, and I was expected to work at dad's garage after school and on Saturdays, so I grew up in an atmosphere of machinery, oil and grease. Occasionally I would hear a lone plane fly over, and would run out in the street and strain my eyes against the sun to watch it. Someday, that would be me up there! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">After my schooling, I operated a filling station with my brother, then drove a bus, and later had a job as a machinist in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Longview</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> , but I never lost my love of airplanes and my dream of flying. With what was going on in </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Europe</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and in </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Asia</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> , I figured that our country would be drawn into war someday, so I decided to join the Army Air Corps in November of 1940. This way I could finally follow my dream.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">I graduated on July 11, 1941. I was now a real, honest-to-goodness Army Air Corps pilot. Two days later, I married "Aggie" in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Reno</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> , </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Nevada</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> . We were starting a new life together and were very happy. I received my orders to report to </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Pendleton</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Oregon</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and join the 17th Bomb Group. Neither of us had traveled much before, and the drive north through the </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Cascade Range</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> of the </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Sierra Nevada</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> 's was interesting and beautiful. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">We were transferred to another airfield in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Washington</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">State</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">, where we spent a lot a time flying practice missions and attacking imaginary targets. Then, there were other assignments in </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Mississippi</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Georgia</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">, for more maneuvers and more practice.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">The first weeks of the war, we were back in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Oregon</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> flying patrols at sea looking for possible Japanese submarines. We had to be up at 0330 hours to warm up the engines of our planes. There was 18 inches of snow on the ground, and it was so cold that our engine oil congealed overnight. We placed big tarps over the engines that reached down to the ground. Inside this tent we used plumbers blow torches to thaw out the engines. I figured that my dad would be proud of me, if he could see me inside this tent with all this machinery, oil and grease. After about an hour of this, the engines were warm enough to start. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">We flew patrols over the coasts of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Oregon</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Washington</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> from dawn until dusk. Once I thought I spotted a sub, and started my bomb run, even had my bomb doors open, but I pulled out of it when I realized that it was just a big whale. </span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Lucky for me, I would have never heard the end of that! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Then I was assigned my crew. There was Richard Knobloch the co-pilot, Clayton Campbell the navigator, Robert Bourgeous the bombardier, Adam Williams the flight engineer and gunner, and me, Mac McElroy the pilot. Over the coming days, I came to respect them a lot. They were a swell bunch of guys, just regular All-American boys.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We got a few ideas from the training as to what type of mission that we had signed on for. A Navy pilot had joined our group to coach us at short takeoffs and also in shipboard etiquette. We began our short takeoff practice. Taking off with first a light load, then a normal load, and finally overloaded up to 31,000 lbs. The shortest possible take-off was obtained with flaps full down, stabilizer set three-fourths, tail heavy, full power against the brakes and releasing the brakes simultaneously as the engine revved up to max power. We pulled back gradually on the stick and the airplane left the ground with the tail skid about one foot from the runway. It was a very unnatural and scary way to get airborne! I could hardly believe it myself, the first time as I took off with a full gas load and dummy bombs within just 700 feet of runway in a near stall condition. We were, for all practical purposes, a slow flying gasoline bomb! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> On one of our cross country flights, we landed at Barksdale Field in Shreveport , and I was able to catch a bus over to Longview to see Aggie. We had a few hours together, and then we had to say our goodbyes. I told her I hoped to be back in time for the baby's birth, but I couldn't tell her where I was going. As I walked away, I turned and walked backwards for a ways, taking one last look at my beautiful pregnant Aggie. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Within a few days of returning to our base in Florida we were abruptly told to pack our things. After just three weeks of practice, we were on our way. This was it. It was time to go. It was the middle of March 1942, and I was 30 years old. Our orders were to fly to McClelland Air Base in Sacramento , California on our own, at the lowest possible level. So here we went on our way west, scraping the tree tops at 160 miles per hour, and skimming along just 50 feet above plowed fields. We crossed North Texas and then the panhandle, scaring the dickens out of livestock, buzzing farm houses and a many a barn along the way. Over the Rocky Mountains and across the Mojave Desert dodging thunderstorms, we enjoyed the flight immensely and although tempted, I didn't do too much dare-devil stuff. We didn't know it at the time, but it was good practice for what lay ahead of us. It proved to be our last fling. Once we arrived in Sacramento , the mechanics went over our plane with a fine-toothed comb. Of the twenty-two planes that made it, only those whose pilots reported no mechanical problems were allowed to go on. The others were shunted aside. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> After having our plane serviced, we flew on to Alameda Naval Air Station in Oakland . As I came in for final approach, we saw it! I excitedly called the rest of the crew to take a look. There below us was a huge aircraft carrier. It was the USS Hornet, and it looked so gigantic! Man, I had never even seen a carrier until this moment. There were already two B-25s parked on the flight deck. Now we knew! My heart was racing, and I thought about how puny my plane would look on board this mighty ship. As soon as we landed and taxied off the runway, a jeep pulled in front of me with a big "Follow Me" sign on the back. We followed it straight up to the wharf, alongside the towering Hornet. All five of us were looking up and just in awe, scarcely believing the size of this thing. As we left the plane, there was already a Navy work crew swarming around attaching cables to the lifting rings on top of the wings and the fuselage. As we walked towards our quarters, I looked back and saw them lifting my plane up into the air and swing it over the ship's deck. It looked so small and lonely. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Later that afternoon, all crews met with Colonel Doolittle and he gave last minute assignments. He told me to go to the Presidio and pick up two hundred extra "C" rations. I saluted, turned, and left, not having any idea where the Presidio was, and not exactly sure what a "C" ration was. I commandeered a Navy staff car and told the driver to take me to the Presidio, and he did On the way over, I realized that I had no written signed orders and that this might get a little sticky. So in I walked into the Army supply depot and made my request, trying to look poised and confident. The supply officer asked "What is your authorization for this request, sir?" I told him that I could not give him one. "And what is the destination?" he asked. I answered, "The aircraft carrier, Hornet, docked at Alameda ." He said, "Can you tell me who ordered the rations, sir?" And I replied with a smile, "No, I cannot." The supply officers huddled together, talking and glanced back over towards me. Then he walked back over and assured me that the rations would be delivered that afternoon. Guess they figured that something big was up. They were right. The next morning we all boarded the ship. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Trying to remember my naval etiquette, I saluted the Officer of the Deck and said "Lt. McElroy, requesting permission to come aboard." The officer returned the salute and said "Permission granted." Then I turned aft and saluted the flag I made it, without messing up. It was April 2, and in full sunlight, we left San Francisco Bay . The whole task force of ships, two cruises, four destroyers, and a fleet oiler, moved slowly with us under the Golden Gate Bridge . Thousands of people looked on. Many stopped their cars on the bridge, and waved to us as we passed underneath. I thought to myself, I hope there aren't any spies up there waving. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> I set up quarters with two Navy pilots, putting my cot between their two bunks. They couldn't get out of bed without stepping on me. It was just fairly cozy in there, yes it was. Those guys were part of the Torpedo Squadron Eight and were just swell fellows. The rest of the guys bedded down in similar fashion to me, some had to sleep on bedrolls in the Admiral's chartroom. As big as this ship was, there wasn't any extra room anywhere. Every square foot had a purpose.. A few days later we discovered where they had an ice cream machine! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">There were sixteen B-25s tied down on the flight deck, and I was flying number 13. All the carrier's fighter planes were stored away helplessly in the hangar deck. They couldn't move until we were gone. Our Army mechanics were all on board, as well as our munitions loaders and several back up crews, in case any of us got sick or backed out. We settled into a daily routine of checking our planes. The aircraft were grouped so closely together on deck that it wouldn't take much for them to get damaged. Knowing that my life depended on this plane, I kept a close eye on her. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Day after day, we met with the intelligence officer and studied our mission plan. Our targets were assigned, and maps and objective folders were furnished for study. We went over approach routes and our escape route towards China . I never studied this hard back at Trinity. Every day at dawn and at dusk the ship was called to general quarters and we practiced finding the quickest way to our planes. If at any point along the way, we were discovered by the enemy fleet, we were to launch our bombers immediately so the Hornet could bring up its fighter planes. We would then be on our own, and try to make it to the nearest land, either Hawaii or Midway Island.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Dr. Thomas White , a volunteer member of plane number 15, went over our medical records and gave us inoculations for a whole bunch of diseases that hopefully I wouldn't catch. He gave us training sessions in emergency first aid, and lectured us at length about water purification and such. Tom, a medical doctor, had learned how to be a gunner just so he could go on this mission. We put some new tail guns in place of the ones that had been taken out to save weight. Not exactly functional, they were two broom handles, painted black. The thinking was they might help scare any Jap fighter planes. Maybe, maybe not. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">On Sunday, April 14, we met up with Admiral Bull Halsey's task force just out of Hawaii and joined into one big force. The carrier Enterprise was now with us, another two heavy cruisers, four more destroyers an another oiler. We were designated as Task Force 16. It was quite an impressive sight to see, and represented the bulk of what was left of the U.S. Navy after the devastation of Pearl Harbor .. There were over 10,000 Navy personnel sailing into harm's way, just to deliver us sixteen Army planes to the Japs, orders of the President. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> As we steamed further west, tension was rising as we drew nearer and nearer to Japan . Someone thought of arming us with some old ...45 pistols that they had on board. I went through that box of 1911 pistols, they were in such bad condition that I took several of them apart, using the good parts from several useless guns until I built a serviceable weapon. Several of the other pilots did the same. Admiring my "new" pistol, I held it up, and thought about my old Model-T. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> I began to pack my things for the flight, scheduled for the 19th. I packed some extra clothes and a little brown bag that Aggie had given me, inside were some toilet items and a few candy bars. No letters or identity cards were allowed, only our dog-tags. I went down to the wardroom to have some ice cream and settle up my mess bill. It only amounted to $5 a day and with my per diem of $6 per day, I came out a little ahead. By now, my Navy pilot roommates were about ready to get rid of me, but I enjoyed my time with them. They were alright. Later on, I learned that both of them were killed at the Battle of Midway. They were good men. Yes, very good men.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Colonel Doolittle let each crew pick ou</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">r own target. We chose the Yokosuka Naval Base about twenty miles from Tokyo . We loaded 1450 rounds of ammo and four 500-pound bombs... A little payback, direct from Ellis County , Texas ! We checked and re-checked our plane several times. Everything was now ready. I felt relaxed, yet tensed up at the same time. Day after tomorrow, we will launch when we are 400 miles out. I lay in my cot that night, and rehearsed the mission over and over in my head. It was hard to sleep as I listened to sounds of the ship. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Early the next morning, I was enjoying a leisurely breakfast, expecting another full day on board, and I noticed that the ship was pitching and rolling quite a bit this morning, more than normal. I was reading through the April 18th day plan of the Hornet, and there was a message in it which said, "From the Hornet to the Army - Good luck, good hunting, and God bless you." I still had a large lump in my throat from reading this, when all of a sudden, the intercom blared, "General Quarters, General Quarters, All hands man your battle stations! Army pilots, man your planes!!!" There was instant reaction from everyone in the room and food trays went crashing to the floor. I ran down to my room jumping through the hatches along the way, grabbed my bag, and ran as fast as I could go to the flight deck. I met with my crew at the plane, my heart was pounding. Someone said, "What's going on?" The word was that the Enterprise had spotted an enemy trawler. It had been sunk, but it had transmitted radio messages.. We had been found out!</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> The weather was crummy, the seas were running heavy, and the ship was pitching up and down like I had never seen before. Great waves were crashing against the bow and washing over the front of the deck. This wasn't going to be easy! Last minute instructions were given. We were reminded to avoid non-military targets, especially the Emperor's Palace. Do not fly to Russia , but fly as far west as possible, land on the water and launch our rubber raft. This was going to be a one-way trip! We were still much too far out and we all knew that our chances of making land were somewhere between slim and none. Then at the last minute, each plane loaded an extra ten 5-gallon gas cans to give us a fighting chance of reaching China . </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We all climbed aboard, started our engines and warmed them up, just feet away from the plane in front of us and the plane behind us. Knobby, Campbell , Bourgeois and me in the front, Williams, the gunner was in the back, separated from us by a big rubber gas tank. I called back to Williams on the intercom and told him to look sharp and don't take a nap! He answered dryly, "Don't worry about me, Lieutenant. If they jump us, I'll just use my little black broomsticks to keep the Japs off our tail." </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> The ship headed into the wind and picked up speed. There was now a near gale force wind and water spray coming straight over the deck. I looked down at my instruments as my engines revved up. My mind was racing. I went over my mental checklist, and said a prayer? God please, help us! Past the twelve planes in front of us, I strained to see the flight deck officer as he leaned into the wind and signaled with his arms for Colonel Doolittle to come to full power. I looked over at Knobby and we looked each other in the eye. He just nodded to me and we both understood.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> With the deck heaving up and down, the deck officer had to time this just right. Then I saw him wave Doolittle to go, and we watched breathlessly to see what happened. When his plane pulled up above the deck, Knobby just let out with, "Yes! Yes!" The second plane, piloted by Lt. Hoover, appeared to stall with its nose up and began falling toward the waves. We groaned and called out, "Up! Up! Pull it up!" Finally, he pulled out of it, staggering back up into the air, much to our relief! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">One by one, the planes in front of us took off. The deck pitched wildly, 60 feet or more, it looked like. One plane seemed to drop down into the drink and disappeared for a moment, then pulled back up into sight. There was sense of relief with each one that made it. We gunned our engines and started to roll forward. Off to the right, I saw the men on deck cheering and waving their covers! We continued inching forward, careful to keep my left main wheel and my nose wheel on the white guidelines that had been painted on the deck for us. Get off a little bit too far left and we go off the edge of the deck. A little too far to the right and our wing-tip will smack the island of the ship. With the best seat on the ship, we watched Lt. Bower take off in plane number 12, and I taxied up to the starting line, put on my the brakes and looked down to my left. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">My main wheel was right on the line. Applied more power to the engines, and I turned my complete attention to the deck officer on my left, who was circling his paddles. Now my adrenaline was really pumping! We went to full power, and the noise and vibration inside the plane went way up. He circled the paddles furiously while watching forward for the pitch of the deck. Then he dropped them, and I said, "Here We Go!" I released the brakes and we started rolling forward, and as I looked down the flight-deck you could see straight down into the angry churning water. As we slowly gained speed, the deck gradually began to pitch back up. I pulled up and our plane slowly strained up and away from the ship. There was a big cheer and whoops from the crew, but I just felt relieved and muttered to myself, "Boy, that was short!"</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We made a wide circle above our fleet to check our compass headings and get our bearings. I looked down as we passed low over one of our cruisers and could see the men on deck waving to us. I dropped down to low level, so low we could see the whitecap waves breaking. It was just after 0900, there were broken clouds at 5,000 feet and visibility of about thirty miles due to haze or something. Up ahead and barely in sight, I could see Captain Greening, our flight leader, and Bower on his right wing. Flying at 170 mph, I was able to catch up to them in about 30 minutes. We were to stay in this formation until reaching landfall, and then break on our separate ways. Now we settled in for the five hour flight. Tokyo , here we come! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Williams was in the back emptying the extra gas cans into the gas tank as fast as we had burned off enough fuel. He then punched holes in the tins and pushed then out the hatch against the wind. Some of the fellows ate sandwiches and other goodies that the Navy had put aboard for us... I wasn't hungry. I held onto the controls with a firm grip as we raced along westward just fifty feet above the cold rolling ocean, as low as I dared to fly. Being so close to the choppy waves gave you a true sense of speed. Occasionally our windshield was even sprayed with a little saltwater. It was an exhilarating feeling, and I felt as though the will and spirit of our whole country was pushing us along. I didn't feel too scared, just anxious. There was a lot riding on this thing, and on me.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> As we began to near land, we saw an occasional ship here and there. None of them close enough to be threatening, but just the same, we were feeling more edgy. Then at 1330 we sighted land, the Eastern shore of Honshu . With Williams now on his guns in the top turret and Campbell on the nose gun, we came ashore still flying low as possible, and were surprised to see people on the ground waving to us as we flew in over the farmland. It was beautiful countryside. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Campbell, our navigator, said, "Mac, I think we're going to be about sixty miles too far north. I'm not positive, but pretty sure." I decided that he was absolutely right and turned left ninety degrees, went back just offshore and followed the coast line south. When I thought we had gone far enough, I climbed up to two thousand feet to find out where we were. We started getting fire from anti-aircraft guns. Then we spotted Tokyo Bay , turned west and put our nose down diving toward the water. Once over the bay, I could see our target, Yokosuka Naval Base. Off to the right there was already smoke visible over Tokyo . Coming in low over the water, I increased speed to 200 mph and told everyone, "Get Ready!" </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> When we were close enough, I pulled up to 1300 feet and opened the bomb doors. There were furious black bursts of anti-aircraft fire all around us, but I flew straight on through them, spotting our target, the torpedo works and the dry-docks. I saw a big ship in the dry-dock just as we flew over it.. Those flak bursts were really getting close and bouncing us around, when I heard Bourgeois shouting, "Bombs Away!" I couldn't see it, but Williams had a bird's eye view from the back and he shouted jubilantly, "We got an aircraft carrier! The whole dock is burning!" I started turning to the south and strained my neck to look back and at that moment saw a large crane blow up and start falling over!... Take that! There was loud yelling and clapping each other on the back. We were all just ecstatic, and still alive! But there wasn't much time to celebrate. We had to get out of here and fast! When we were some thirty miles out to sea, we took one last look back at our target, and could still see huge billows of black smoke. Up until now, we had been flying for Uncle Sam, but now we were flying for ourselves.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We flew south over open ocean, parallel to the Japanese coast all afternoon. We saw a large submarine apparently at rest, and then in another fifteen miles, we spotted three large enemy cruisers headed for Japan . There were no more bombs, so we just let them be and kept on going. By late afternoon, Campbell calculated that it was time to turn and make for China . Across the East China Sea , the weather out ahead of us looked bad and overcast. Up until now we had not had time to think much about our gasoline supply, but the math did not look good. We just didn't have enough fuel to make it! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Each man took turns cranking the little hand radio to see if we could pick up the promised radio beacon. There was no signal. This is not good. The weather turned bad and it was getting dark, so we climbed up. I was now flying on instruments, through a dark misty rain. Just when it really looked hopeless of reaching land, we suddenly picked up a strong tailwind. It was an answer to a prayer. Maybe just maybe, we can make it!</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> In total darkness at 2100 hours, we figured that we must be crossing the coastline, so I began a slow, slow climb to be sure of not hitting any high ground or anything. I conserved as much fuel as I could, getting real low on gas now. The guys were still cranking on the radio, but after five hours of hand cranking with aching hands and backs, there was utter silence. No radio beacon! Then the red light started blinking, indicating twenty minutes of fuel left. We started getting ready to bail out. I turned the controls over to Knobby and crawled to the back of the plane, past the now collapsed rubber gas tank. I dumped everything out of my bag and repacked just what I really needed, my .45 pistol, ammunition, flashlight, compass, medical kit, fishing tackle, chocolate bars, peanut butter and crackers.. I told Williams to come forward with me so we could all be together for this. There was no other choice. I had to get us as far west as possible, and then we had to jump. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> At 2230 we were up to sixty-five hundred feet. We were over land but still above the Japanese Army in China . We couldn't see the stars, so Campbell couldn't get a good fix on our position. We were flying on fumes now and I didn't want to run out of gas before we were ready to go. Each man filled his canteen, put on his Mae West life jacket and parachute, and filled his bag with rations, those "C" rations from the Presidio. I put her on auto-pilot and we all gathered in the navigator's compartment around the hatch in the floor. We checked each other's parachute harness. Everyone was scared, without a doubt. None of us had ever done this before! I said, "Williams first, Bourgeois second, Campbell third, Knobloch fourth, and I'll follow you guys! Go fast, two seconds apart! Then count three seconds off and pull your rip-cord!" </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We kicked open the hatch and gathered around the hole looking down into the blackness. It did not look very inviting! Then I looked up at Williams and gave the order, "JUMP!!!" Within seconds they were all gone. I turned and reached back for the auto-pilot, but could not reach it, so I pulled the throttles back, then turned and jumped. Counting quickly, thousand one, thousand two, thousand three, I pulled my rip-cord and jerked back up with a terrific shock At first I thought that I was hung on the plane, but after a few agonizing seconds that seemed like hours, realized that I was free and drifting down. Being in the total dark, I was disoriented at first but figured my feet must be pointed toward the ground. I looked down through the black mist to see what was coming up. I was in a thick mist or fog, and the silence was so eerie after nearly thirteen hours inside that noisy plane. I could only hear the whoosh, whoosh sound of the wind blowing through my shroud lines, and then I heard a loud crash and explosion. My plane!</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Looking for my flashlight, I groped through my bag with my right hand, finally pulled it out and shined it down toward the ground, which I still could not see.. Finally I picked up a glimmer of water and thought I was landing in a lake. We're too far inland for this to be ocean. I hope! I relaxed my legs a little, thinking I was about to splash into water and would have to swim out, and then bang. I jolted suddenly and crashed over onto my side. Lying there in just a few inches of water, I raised my head and put my hands down into thick mud. It was rice paddy! There was a burning pain, as if someone had stuck a knife in my stomach. I must have torn a muscle or broke something. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> It was a cold dark lonely night. At 0100 hours I saw a single light off to the east. I flashed my light in that direction, one time. It had to be Knobby! I waited a while, and then called out softly, "Knobby?" And a voice replied "Mac, is that you?". Thank goodness, what a relief! Separated by a wide stream, we sat on opposite banks of the water communicating in low voices. After daybreak Knobby found a small rowboat and came across to get me. We started walking east toward the rest of the crew and away from that Japanese patrol. Knobby had cut his hip when he went through the hatch, but it wasn't too awful bad.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> We walked together toward a small village and several Chinese came out to meet us, they seemed friendly enough. I said, "Luchu hoo megwa fugi! Luchu hoo megwa fugi!" meaning, "I am an American! I am an American!" Later that morning we found the others. Williams had wrenched his knee when he landed in a tree, but he was limping along just fine. There were hugs all around. I have never been so happy to see four guys in all my life! </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Well, the five of us eventually made it out of China with the help of the local Chinese people and the Catholic missions along the way. They were all very good to us, and later they were made to pay terribly for it, so we found out afterwards. For a couple of weeks we traveled across country. Strafed a couple of times by enemy planes, we kept on moving, by foot, by pony, by car, by train, and by airplane. But we finally made it to India.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> I did not make it home for the baby's birth. I stayed on their flying a DC-3 "Gooney Bird" in the China-Burma-India Theatre for the next several months. I flew supplies over the Himalaya Mountains, or as we called it, over "The Hump" into China . When B-25s finally arrived in India , I flew combat missions over Burma , and then later in the war, flew a B-29 out of the Marianna Islands to bomb Japan again and again.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> After the war, I remained in the Air Force until 1962, when I retired from the service as a Lt. Colonel, and then came back to Texas , my beautiful Texas . First moving to Abilene and then we settled in Lubbock , where Aggie taught school at MacKenzie Junior High. I worked at the S & R Auto Supply, once again in an atmosphere of machinery, oil and grease. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> I lived a good life and raised two wonderful sons that I am very proud of. I feel blessed in many ways. We have a great country, better than most folks know. It is worth fighting for. Some people call me a hero, but I have never thought of myself that way, no. But I did serve in the company of heroes. What we did will never leave me. It will always be there in my fondest memories. I will always think of the fine and brave men that I was privileged to serve with. Remember us, for we were soldiers once and young. With the loss of all aircraft, Doolittle believed that the raid had been a failure, and that he would be court-martialed upon returning to the states. Quite to the contrary, the raid proved to be a tremendous boost to American morale, which had plunged following the Pearl Harbor attack. It also caused serious doubts in the minds of Japanese war planners. They in turn recalled many seasoned fighter plane units back to defend the home islands, which resulted in Japan 's weakened air capabilities at the upcoming Battle of Midway and other South Pacific campaigns. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";"> Edgar "Mac" Mc Elroy, Lt. Col., U.S.A.F. (Ret.) passed away at his residence in Lubbock, Texas, early on the morning of Friday, April 4, 2003.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-53661508125258496612012-08-10T13:28:00.000-07:002019-11-14T10:16:52.340-08:00• Falling Through Space"The needs of the Navy" dictate what assignment you're given after flight school, but grades (mostly) and personal preference (some) figure in. Most of the instructors at VT-10 were A-6 <span style="font-style: italic;">Intruder</span> BNs (Bombardier/Navigators), and they all sang it's praises. The mission, they said, was a hoot. Imagine flying at 450 knots up the Grand Canyon. Some fun, that. At night, IFR not so much.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/R8M2Gd2oPCI/AAAAAAAABOk/CD6nqE9T76I/s1600-h/Grand-Canyon.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171036281872333858" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/R8M2Gd2oPCI/AAAAAAAABOk/CD6nqE9T76I/s400/Grand-Canyon.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
So instead of sitting in the back of an brutish <a href="http://www.vectorsite.net/avf4.html">F-4</a> fighter or cocooned in a stiletto-sexy photo-recon <a href="http://www.vectorsite.net/ava5.html">RA-5C</a>, as a licenssed pilot I asked for A-6s where I'd ride shotgun and see what was going on. But I had a enough flying experience to know that while flying low-level could be thrilling, doing it IFR and/or at night would scare you silly, even if the aircraft could do it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RXwXJRG26QI/AAAAAAAAAEc/pZDsBTT9Or8/s1600-h/A-6E.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5006902333707577602" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RXwXJRG26QI/AAAAAAAAAEc/pZDsBTT9Or8/s400/A-6E.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
And it could. The DIANE system (Digital Integrated Attack and Navigation Equipment) used radar to paint a cartoon picture of the vertical terrain ahead on a large CRT in front of the pilot. The radar navigation system, my responsibility, painted a map view of the terrain on two CRTs, one for both of us. The black and green monochrome video displays in the cockpit were state of the art at the time.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/Rs2ksNeXm5I/AAAAAAAAAiE/GmfVjI2GTxI/s1600-h/Cockpit.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101915032318876562" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/Rs2ksNeXm5I/AAAAAAAAAiE/GmfVjI2GTxI/s400/Cockpit.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Slew the cursor to one end of that bright white blob on the screen, the end of a bridge with a known latitude and longitude, hit update and the best guess of the inertial navigation, encouraged by doppler, would be reset to within a few feet. About the same as the dirt simple $99 handheld hiker's GPS today. Ours cost the Navy millions and a full-system capable A6 needed about 240 maintenance hours per flight hour.<br />
<br />
You could couple the autopilot to the system, too, and fly low-level hands-off. Select the soft mode, and it would give you as smooth ride over changing terrain. Select the hard mode and the aircraft would try to go up one side of a barn and down the other. It was physically uncomfortable in mountains, but it would give you the best chance of staying under enemy AAA and SAM radar, and that was the point. Getting shot down, we all knew, would be a lot more uncomfortable. But the aircraft was seldom flown low level except by hand.<br />
<br />
The system had all kinds of fancy modes and weird peculiarities so we flew a lot of training hops through the mountains and along the coast of Washington and Oregon from our base at NAS Whidbey Island, north of Seattle.<br />
<br />
High-loft bombing was the most fun and the least useful. Designed to help you more-or-less accurately deliver an atomic bomb (close counts), the technique was used to help you get away quickly.<br />
<br />
From the initial point (IP) you flew balls-to-the-wall* to a computer generated pull-up point, then start a half-cuban eight from right on the deck. As you passed vertical the bomb would be automatically released, you'd continue to pull through over the top until on the 45 degree down line where you'd roll upright again. You'd continue the dive until you reached a couple of hundred feet above the ground, then boogie out of there as fast as you could while you pulled a special flash curtain down over your head. All IFR and/or at night of course, and with the understanding that your flight plan wouldn't necessarily include a provision for getting home, waiting tankers or other niceties...just away from your target.<br />
<br />
Part of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siop">SIOP</a> atomic retaliation plans, the technique was useless in Vietnam jungles, but fun to practice--at least under VFR conditions. So the whole idea of being upside down in a bomber was anything but novel. Even using more typical laydown bombing techniques, it wasn't unusual to pop up before reaching a target, roll inverted, pull hard to get the nose down on the subject of your attention, and then roll back upright before bomb release.<br />
<br />
So why were we upside down falling out of a loop with zero indicated airspeed at FL230? And why did the pilot just say quietly, "Shit"?<br />
<br />
After a low level hop over eastern Washington in the dark wee hours, we called Seattle center, and climbed into the flight levels to cross the Cascade mountains. Radios quiet at this time of night, bored chit-chat on the intercom turned to the failed altitude reporting mode on the transponder followed by my wisecrack about what our radar track would look like if we did a loop. Which was punctuated by a hard pull into the buffet, the initiation of just such a maneuver.<br />
<br />
Nose up, passing vertical I wondered if Center would, in fact, notice and wondered what they would say. I also wondered why the airspeed was down to the bottom of the scale. As we floated over the top I pondered the adage that you can't stall if you don't have G on the aircraft.<br />
<br />
As we reached the top of the loop, level but inverted, our airspeed was zero. We started falling through space. Not dive. Fall. Junk and grit from the bildge and the pencil on my kneeboard fell past my helmet onto the canopy <i>below</i> me. My feet came up off the floor and my shins whacked the bottom of the instrument panel although restrained with cords designed to pull your toes back out of the way during an ejection.<br />
<br />
The nose remained on the dark horizon and the vertical rate began to increase. I looked at the pilot illuminated in the red instrument lights. His face, covered with an oxygen mask, didn't reveal any emotion. I could see he had the stick back in his lap, so why wasn't the nose pitching down?<br />
<br />
We continued to fall. The nose oscillated up and down a few degrees, but showed no inclination toward a recovery attitude, as we yawed maybe 30 degrees to starboard. I watched the pilot push the stick hard to the left and kick hard rudder. I looked back outside. Nothing.<br />
<br />
As we passed 20 grand the pilot said, "If I don't have this sombitch under control by the time we reach ten we're gonna punch out." My mind flashed through the memorized ejection sequence. I saw an image of myself floating down in a parachute on a cold night over snow-covered mountains. I wondered if the mountains were lower than the 9,000 foot automatic parachute deployment altitude. I even had time to wonder about the odds of being found before we froze in our summer weight Nomex flight suits.<br />
<br />
After a few more oscillations the nose started down. "Wait...wait" he said, "...I think I've got. I've got it. <span style="font-style: italic;">I've got it</span>." We gingerly pulled out of the dive and headed back up to our assigned altitude. "Well, that was fun," says he.<br />
<br />
We flew in silence until Center called, "November Juliet Five Four Zero what's your indicated airspeed?"<br />
<br />
"We're showing point seven eight, sir."<br />
<br />
"Okay. Lost you there for a minute. Contact Seattle Approach two seven zero decimal eight. Have a good one."<br />
<br />
The moral of this story is that a cockpit is no place for impetuous action. As I sit writing, it occurs to me that every time I made a snap decision and tried something I hadn't thought through, usually something I thought at the time would be fun, it resulted in something scary happening instead.<br />
<br />
Blue skies and Tailwinds,<br />
<br />
Tailspin<br />
<br />
PS. Thinking things through is no guarantee the plan will necessarily work, of course. A neighbor and squadron mate punched out of an A-6 one dark night after a complete (all three systems) hydraulic failure. He ended up hanging unharmed from his parachute in a tree with no idea how far it was to the ground in the dark forest. He thought the situation through carefully, and hit on a solution. He dropped his helmet, which immediately went "clunk," so he figured he was down and popped the fittings to release from the parachute shroud lines. He fell 60 feet through the branches, breaking his ankle. The helmet was stuck on a limb.<br />
<br />
* The phrase 'balls to the wall' is a hold-over from WWII when power levers (throttle, mixture, prop) all had round balls at the top, each color coded (black, red, blue). Push the power all the way up, and you'd have all the balls against the firewall—balls to the wall.<br />
<br />
'All nine yards' is also a WWII phrase relating to the length of a belt of 50-cal. machine gun bullets. "Give em all nine yards," and you'd have expended all your ammo.<br />
<br />
You'll also hear that a sports team 'waxed their ass" or 'waxed their tail,' both derived from an excited WWI fighter pilot's report that he was so close behind the Hun during a dogfight he could have waxed his tail.<br />
<br />
Finally, I'm always tickled when I hear some cute young corporate thing proudly announce that's she's going to do a 'dog and pony show' for some bigwig. Little does she know (I assume) that the phrase refers to a XXX-rated attraction that originated in Tijuana, Mexico for nearby San Diego sailors.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-18770576150882599622012-03-15T09:41:00.000-07:002012-04-11T10:51:28.376-07:00•When I Landed the War Was Over<br />
<h2 class="byline" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: oblique; font-weight: 100; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;">by Hughes Rudd</span></h2>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The idea is simple and sound and goes back at least to the American Civil War: to direct artillery fire intelligently, the higher you are above the target, the better. At ground level it’s difficult to tell just how far short or long your shells are falling.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mRFpt0ASf6A/T2CbkeYP8qI/AAAAAAAADiw/l6F35ALaRa4/s1600/5495412092_2275e7cc73_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mRFpt0ASf6A/T2CbkeYP8qI/AAAAAAAADiw/l6F35ALaRa4/s320/5495412092_2275e7cc73_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">In the Civil War they used balloons; in the First World War they were still using balloons, along with airplanes equipped with telegraph keys; in the Second World War the airplane had supplanted the balloon, but just barely. The United States Army of those days was not a hotbed of innovation, and when I reported for training as an artillery spotter pilot at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, in early 1942, there was still an enormous building on the post called the Balloon Hangar, even though no balloons were to be seen.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPGMc1os_3w/T2CcZBFUD7I/AAAAAAAADi4/prYmIm-It00/s1600/Nurse-Balloons-In-Hanger-WWI-AEY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPGMc1os_3w/T2CcZBFUD7I/AAAAAAAADi4/prYmIm-It00/s320/Nurse-Balloons-In-Hanger-WWI-AEY.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">But before that, there was Fort Hays, which wasn’t a fort at all in the 1940’s but a town in western Kansas with a civilian airfield on the outskirts. I had enlisted in the Army Air Corps, hoping, like all nineteen-year-old American male movie fans, to become a fighter pilot, but one eye tested at 20/40, so the Army Air Corps gave me to the <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Army</span> , period, to become what was called a “Liaison Pilot,” meaning artillery spotter. At Fort Hays, the civilians taught us to fly, and it wasn’t easy, for them <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">or</span> us.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PQjN-gpVS3s/T2Cedh9B4kI/AAAAAAAADjA/2Ut-kwNKFYI/s1600/4485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PQjN-gpVS3s/T2Cedh9B4kI/AAAAAAAADjA/2Ut-kwNKFYI/s320/4485.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The airplanes were Aeroncas, tandem two-seater monoplanes with sixty-five horsepower engines. They terrified us but aroused only contempt in our instructors, who were accustomed to heavier stuff. Sometimes, out of sheer boredom at the end of two hours in the air with me, trying to teach me crossroad eights, lazy eights, and all the other primer moves the beginning aviator learns, my instructor would seize the controls and put the lumbering Aeronca through snap rolls at an altitude of five hundred feet. The Aeronca, to him, was not an <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">airplane</span> : it was a sort of tricycle which occasionally found itself in the air. An Aeronca can kill you as well as an F-14, of course, but my instructor obviously didn’t believe that, as witness the aileron-block affair.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Aileron blocks were two pieces of wood joined together with a bolt: when the airplane was through flying for the day, you shoved the bolt forward along the slot between the aileron and the fixed wing, to prevent the ailerons from flopping and banging back and forth in the wind, since that could damage something. A piece of red cloth ten feet long was attached to the aileron block as a warning <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">not</span> to take off with the block in place, since the ailerons control the banking and turning movements of the airplane: with block in place, no bank and no turn, a situation that could, as they said in the Army, ruin your whole day.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Nonetheless, one bright morning, as the first student out on solo in this particular Aeronca, I took off, thought the control stick a bit stiff, glanced out the window, and saw that awful red streamer, standing out stiff from the wing. Death, I thought, and I haven’t even <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">seen</span> a German yet. There was, however, torque, the force exerted by the spinning propeller. Torque tends to turn the airplane, and sure enough, after a wide, wide circle of some twenty-five miles, I found myself lined up with the grass airstrip and landed. I instantly jumped out and threw the aileron block into a ditch before taking off again, but of course my instructor had seen the whole thing. After chewing me out for being just flat-ass <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">dumb</span> , he said, “Well, now you’ll know what to do when they shoot your ailerons out.” To him, clearly, there was nothing to fear in an Aeronca, not even the Luftwaffe.</span></span></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">After about twenty-five hours of solo at Fort Hays, we were shipped to Fort Sill, to the <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">real</span>Army, for sixteen weeks of learning to do the impossible with little airplanes. The “Short Field Course,” it was called. Two hundred hours of instruction in what to expect in combat areas, and it took place in those little olive drab L-4s.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tRJDHb-jTUI/T2CfCYe9QlI/AAAAAAAADjI/D7RJaNg1BWI/s1600/L-4.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tRJDHb-jTUI/T2CfCYe9QlI/AAAAAAAADjI/D7RJaNg1BWI/s320/L-4.2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', 'lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The L-4 was the Army’s version of a Piper Cub: two seats, one behind the other, a lot of Plexiglas all around, so you could see who was coming after you, and a sixty-five-horsepower, four-cylinder Lycoming engine which pulled the airplane along at a snappy seventy-five miles per hour, assuming no headwind. Speed wasn’t the point. The L-4 was made of aluminum tubing with doped linen stretched over it: one man could pick one up by the tail and pull it along behind him. This lightness meant the airplane could land and take off from places unthinkable for <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">real</span> airplanes, and in combat, everybody knew we were going to be in a lot of unthinkable places.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The Army instructors at Sill were a lot tougher than the civilians at Fort Hays. The Army instructors had a terrifying habit of chopping the throttle back just as you lifted the airplane off the ground and then pounding on your shoulder and yelling, “Where you gonna put it? Where you gonna put it?” The answer was, in deeds, not words, straight ahead, even if straight ahead was a tree line. Attempting a turn at low altitude and low speed was <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">wrong, wrong, wrong</span> , and by God, don’t you forget it. On these exercises the instructors would jam open the throttle again just as disaster loomed, and snarl, “All right, take it on up. ” You got to hate people like that, but of course they were right. The Army, I gradually learned, was <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">always</span> right.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-crI6BqLUrck/T2CgQ3ainWI/AAAAAAAADjQ/w2LT4-uplOs/s1600/L-19_Climbs_Over_Barrier6X4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-crI6BqLUrck/T2CgQ3ainWI/AAAAAAAADjQ/w2LT4-uplOs/s320/L-19_Climbs_Over_Barrier6X4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Not all of us at Fort Sill <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">could</span> get it right. Much of the training involved taking off and landing over “obstacles,” which required a certain judgment of height and distance. The obstacles were two upright bamboo poles with a rope tied between them, rags fluttering from the rope, and many a time one saw L-4s staggering through the air, trailing poles, ropes, and rags from the tail wheel. That meant the student had misjudged his take-off: those who misjudged their approach and landing were often saved by two haystacks, one on each side of the obstacle. If the airplane stalled out as the student was trying to slow it down as much as possible, the L-4 fell off on one wing and flopped into the haystack. Since the stalling speed was about thirty-five miles per hour, this was usually not fatal, although it put the instructors into a terrible temper, and people who fell into the haystacks were washed out and sent elsewhere, never to be heard from again. Some 20 per cent went that way, as I recall.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Others went the hard way. The Army did not make it a point to tell us about fatal crashes, and with some two hundred pilots in training it was hard to keep up with everybody, but young men died often enough in those harmless-looking little airplanes, without ever seeing a German or a Japanese. I was sitting in the waiting room of the base hospital one day, waiting to be treated for some minor medical problem, when I noticed a terrible odor. I asked the orderly what it was, and he said the lab was boiling the brain of a student who’d been killed that morning, to see if there was any alcohol in his system. Rumor had it that if you were killed with a hangover, your insurance was canceled. Since we were restricted to the post all during the week, this was rarely a problem.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">On the weekends a lot of us <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">did</span> overdo it in the fleshpots of Lawton, Oklahoma, which has been catering to soldiers since before Custer and the 7th Cavalry were stationed at Sill. We even sang songs, just like soldiers in the movies. There was a song about us, to the tune of the “Artillery Song,” the one where those caissons go rolling along, and so on, only our song went something like this: “Over trees, under wires, to hell with landing gear and tires, we’re the eyes of the artillereeee. We don’t mind the mud and sand, we don’t need much room to land, we’re the eyes of … et cetera. ”</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Those of us who survived the Short Field Course were finally graduated, complete with a ceremony in which wings were pinned on our chests: it was pretty much the way Hollywood had told us it would be, except that we had to sign for the wings, as Government Issue property. That was a letdown, but before I had a chance to brood about it, I was assigned to the 93rd Armored Field Artillery Battalion, no longer a learner but a professional, or so the Army hoped, anyway.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Two pilots were assigned to each artillery battalion, but the other fellow gave me so much trouble I’m going to leave his name out of this. Anyway, the 93rd did not know what to make of two Piper Cub pilots, two airplanes, and a mechanic. The officers of the 93rd thought that L-4s were “vehicles,” with the accent on the first syllable, and while we remained at Fort Sill they were forever after us to grease our vehicles. Since we were only staff sergeants, we would look busy, but you don’t really grease an airplane; you don’t even wash it very often. Still, the 93rd believed in washing all vehicles, including Sherman tanks, so we washed the L-4s. That did not end our stateside misunderstandings with the 93rd Battalion, however. As pilots, we were issued aviator’s sunglasses and leather flying jackets, and the 93rd didn’t like that.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kEy4v-nS_0Y/T2CkV-mrFVI/AAAAAAAADjY/QqH326PFelw/s1600/464px-Lt_Mike_Hunter_22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kEy4v-nS_0Y/T2CkV-mrFVI/AAAAAAAADjY/QqH326PFelw/s320/464px-Lt_Mike_Hunter_22.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The sunglasses were invaluable when you were called into the battery commander’s hut to be reamed over some infraction or other, such as not wearing your leggins (and the word was <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">leggins</span> , not <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">leggings</span> ). You stood there at attention in those dark glasses, your eyes roaming all over the room, avoiding the stern glare of the C.O. with no trouble whatever, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it: the glasses were, after all, Government Issue: G.I.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AZoDKq6W520/T2Ck_RDBI8I/AAAAAAAADjg/mUYhxEt3SsY/s1600/leggings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AZoDKq6W520/T2Ck_RDBI8I/AAAAAAAADjg/mUYhxEt3SsY/s320/leggings.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The leggins were a constant problem for a pilot, since they had little hooks along the sides to hold the laces, and those hooks caught in the exposed rudder cables in the cockpit of the L-4. You could <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">not</span> make an artillery officer understand that, or at least you couldn’t within the continental limits of the United States, or Zone of the Interior, as the Army called it. Once outside the Z.I., the 93rd realized what the L-4s could do, and nobody cared what we wore.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGbd39ok6XI/T2CpJwVkzuI/AAAAAAAADjo/bnPCVDm_eas/s1600/L-4B+G-FINT-thumb-450x278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGbd39ok6XI/T2CpJwVkzuI/AAAAAAAADjo/bnPCVDm_eas/s320/L-4B+G-FINT-thumb-450x278.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">In time, the 93rd Armored Field Artillery Battalion was sent to North Africa. The L-4s were packed into huge boxes like railroad freight cars, and I had my first real intimation that the Army might be asking us to perform out of our league: a manifest tacked to each enormous box said, among other things, “Aircraft, L-4, cost to US Govt, $800; crate, 1942 M-2, cost to US Govt., $1200.” The thought that our airplanes cost less than the boxes they came in was disquieting.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Our ship sailed from Staten Island. We had staged at a camp up the Hudson River, then taken the train for Staten Island, and we arrived at the Battery about five-thirty in the afternoon, just as all those commuters were boarding <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">their</span> trains, to go the other way. The nine hundred members of the 93rd Battalion streamed off our train, each man laden with two barracks bags stuffed to bursting (“place the contents of your A bag in your B bag and now proceed to pack your A bag with the following additional items”) as well as various weapons hung about the person, and one and all suffering a certain nervous anxiety, mixed with equally nervous hilarity. Somehow a feeling swept through us that the ferryboats to Staten Island wouldn’t wait for us—we would miss the war!—and we all started running. Just ahead of me my half-track driver tripped and fell, and lay in full view of all those commuters, pinned to the ground by those two barracks bags and two Thompson .45-caliber submachine guns slung across his chest. As I stumbled past him I saw that Louis, in his nervousness, was, in his supine position, peeing great fountains up through his od’s, and couldn’t free his arms from those barracks bags in order to hide his shame from all those civilians. <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">La Gloire</span> ! By God, we were off to war at last.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Gx1fuwzMio/T2CqnDDmnfI/AAAAAAAADjw/QQXIrkos6UQ/s1600/troop+ship.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Gx1fuwzMio/T2CqnDDmnfI/AAAAAAAADjw/QQXIrkos6UQ/s320/troop+ship.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">At Staten Island, the troopship, a converted banana boat, was modified to carry some eight hundred men. Through some mix-up or other, for which the Army and Navy blamed each other, twenty-four hundred men were at dockside, and all had to be crammed aboard. It was done, of course, (“place the contents of your A bag in your B bag” et cetera). As we stepped on deck, a Naval officer buckled an inflatable life belt around each man’s waist: below decks an officer of the 93rd, trying to shove me and my barracks bags and submachine guns into the topmost tier of an eight-high bunk rack, pushed me so hard the strings on the belt caught, the vest inflated, and I was stuck, half in, half out of the bunk. Somebody finally deflated the vest by puncturing it with a trench knife, and the next thing I knew, we were off.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mmhz5zGz5S4/T2CrQiSFj7I/AAAAAAAADj4/2cHiMktkZ4Y/s1600/mvg_www_deuce_ww2_700_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mmhz5zGz5S4/T2CrQiSFj7I/AAAAAAAADj4/2cHiMktkZ4Y/s320/mvg_www_deuce_ww2_700_02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The term “air section” perhaps requires explanation. It referred to the battalion’s two pilots, the airplane mechanic, the armored half-track driver, and sometimes a 6 X 6 driver, a 6 X 6 being a two-and-a-half-ton truck used to collect gasoline and other supplies from appropriate dumps. The half-track was part of the air section only because we belonged to an armored battalion: its sole function for the air section was to beat down the grass in rough pastures we used for landing fields. We were <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">not</span> a fighting unit on the ground: attacked by German infantry, the half-track would have surrendered immediately, despite the fact it usually mounted one .50-caliber and three .30-caliber machine guns.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfFW4xrUDWs/T2CsKatTAbI/AAAAAAAADkA/uDlW6NxRTss/s1600/183491086_df8268514e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfFW4xrUDWs/T2CsKatTAbI/AAAAAAAADkA/uDlW6NxRTss/s320/183491086_df8268514e.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">As a rule, we were not within range of even the most ambitious German infantry. At first, we located ourselves on farm fields as close to the battalion as possible, but a 105-mm. battalion must be pretty close to the front, since the effective range of the guns is only some ten thousand yards. The sight of L-4s landing and taking off within full view of German ground artillery observers was something those Germans could not resist, and they shelled those forward landing strips with such intensity, once night fell and we could not retaliate, that we learned prudence and stayed back a few miles. The L-4 was not built for night flying: it lacked the instruments and we lacked the training, and directing artillery fire at night is not easy in any case. You can’t find the ground references, such as road intersections or bridges or farmhouses, which correspond to the references on your map. And without those, you can’t tell the guns where to shoot. You did not say, “Jesus! There’s a Panther tank over by the woods! Let him have it!” No, you said, “Baker One Able, this is Baker Three Able. I have a target for you, co-ordinates one niner niner three, six niner two, enemy tank, one round smoke when ready,” assuming those numbers to be the coordinates nearest the Panther tank—or the artillery battery or the column of soldiers or the lone man on the motorcycle or the staff car or whatever it was you’d spotted. There was also the problem of German night fighters.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tFzB2IwCQBA/T2Cx3USEM7I/AAAAAAAADkI/GGRwoeKkT3w/s1600/Piper-L-4-Grasshopper-Cockpit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tFzB2IwCQBA/T2Cx3USEM7I/AAAAAAAADkI/GGRwoeKkT3w/s320/Piper-L-4-Grasshopper-Cockpit.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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The L-4, which we came to call the “Maytag Messerschmitt,” was not a comfortable airplane. You sat with your knees almost up to your chest, the aileron cable rubbed the top of your skull every time you moved the stick to left or right, it was unheated in winter, and you couldn’t smoke because raw gasoline fumes filled the cockpit from the tank, which was right between your knees, just behind the instrument panel with nothing between the gasoline and a German bullet but air and thin aluminum. In summer it was often difficult to get the plane off the ground, because it didn’t perform well in hot air; in winter you had to wipe the frost off the wings or it wouldn’t take off at all.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-20kw5Y-d0D8/T2IbflxHNvI/AAAAAAAADnA/52fS_pq62tk/s1600/L-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-20kw5Y-d0D8/T2IbflxHNvI/AAAAAAAADnA/52fS_pq62tk/s320/L-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 22px;">Unlike the glamorous folk flying real airplanes, we did not give our craft names: we named our jeeps and halftracks, but not our L-4s. They had numbers, not names, and they were expendable: people set fire to them on beaches when it appeared the infantry was not going to hold the beachhead, they ran them into ditches trying to land on narrow roads, they flew them into high-tension wires, at least one ran headlong into a train, another hit the radio aerial on a German command car and barely fluttered back to safety, one collided with an aerial tramway in France, and at Anzio one ran into a 155 shell fired by the pilot’s own battalion. There was even an L-4 that ran into a donkey on take-off, tearing off a wing and upsetting the donkey, without doing him any permanent damage whatever. The pilot in that case—me—was so enraged he ran to the tent for his pistol, intent on doing some damage to the donkey, but by the time he found the .45 in the bottom of his B bag, the creature had fled.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ktq84CpwDa8/T2Czs7YlOwI/AAAAAAAADkQ/VazQtAr3CtI/s1600/tent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ktq84CpwDa8/T2Czs7YlOwI/AAAAAAAADkQ/VazQtAr3CtI/s320/tent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We lived, most of the time, in those tents, the pyramidal model, six or eight of us, and three months without a bath was not unusual. If you somehow went off and got a bath by yourself and then came back, your tentmates were intolerable: either everybody got a bath or nobody got a bath, and you could hardly have an entire air section off having a bath at one time.</span></span></span></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We occasionally left laundry to be done in some village or other, but almost always the war moved on before the laundry was ready, and you moved with it. To this day I must have bundles of long Johns and woolen shirts waiting for me up the length of the Italian peninsula and France, Austria, and Germany.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Monte Cassino: the first time I saw it, from about twenty or thirty miles away, at three thousand feet, it was beautiful, a Disney dream of a mountain, rearing up from the floor of the Liri Valley almost as steeply as Yosemite’s Half Dome. Not quite that steeply, of course: you could hardly make war on the face of Half Dome, but my God, how you could make war on Monte Cassino. It dominated the valley, which broadens at that point to a width of some thirty miles, maybe less. To the south, where the Americans, British, and French were, the mountains were smaller, the valleys narrower. The Germans had fought bitterly to keep us from the broad Liri Valley, which leads to Rome: once arrived at the mouth of that valley, we found ourselves fixed in place, the fierce glare of German observers on that mountain making us as naked and vulnerable as the L-4s made the Germans.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l6EShg54lIM/T2C061g_sWI/AAAAAAAADkY/mBDH_pjD__I/s1600/Montecassino-castle-hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l6EShg54lIM/T2C061g_sWI/AAAAAAAADkY/mBDH_pjD__I/s320/Montecassino-castle-hill.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 22px;">It was truly a beautiful mountain, in the beginning. At the foot, the town of Cassino, a highway intersection, redtiled roofs, a provincial life, farms on the outskirts, and a hotel called the Continental. I did not enter the Continental Hotel until 1967, and by that time it had changed its name and the Tiger tank was no longer in the lobby. For months in 1943, the Tiger was in the lobby, while Americans and Germans fought each other in the rooms upstairs, tossing grenades back and forth, machinegunning each other on the staircases. A sort of Italian Stalingrad.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">But of course as an L-4 pilot I was not obliged to take part in that. Our mission was primarily counter-battery fire: the Germans had amassed large amounts of artillery in the valley, and we fired back and forth at each other, all day, every day, week after week, month after month, while our infantry tried to take the heights around Monte Cassino.</span></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Much has been written about the infantry battle, one of the worst for both sides during the whole war in the West, but from the air, it was episodic: rarely did I have any sense of a planned campaign or even of massive effort. There were exceptions, of course: a regiment of the 36th Division crossed the Rapido River, which joins the Volturno at Cassino.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0oTQBf0G_Y4/T2C23_-l9AI/AAAAAAAADkg/xg-mukgwV50/s1600/USA-MTO-Salerno-p202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0oTQBf0G_Y4/T2C23_-l9AI/AAAAAAAADkg/xg-mukgwV50/s320/USA-MTO-Salerno-p202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Treadway bridge - Rapido River</td></tr>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">A regiment was three battalions of infantry, roughly three thousand men. They crossed at night, on Treadway bridges, which were simple affairs, designed to carry trucks or tanks: two parallel strips of perforated steel planks. The regiment passed through the 93rd’s area, which was just south of Monte Trocchio, the closest fold in the terrain to Cassino (that is, the closest large enough to shield 105-mm. howitzers), and a battery of the 93rd was scheduled to cross at daylight to provide close support, but at daylight all hell broke loose. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WCtt815i5A/T2DCLMfvYnI/AAAAAAAADlQ/tiYYenqnBRM/s1600/pic1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WCtt815i5A/T2DCLMfvYnI/AAAAAAAADlQ/tiYYenqnBRM/s320/pic1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rapido River from Monte Trocchio</td></tr>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 22px;">The Germans shelled and destroyed the Treadway bridges, and when I arrived above the river about 5:30<span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">A.M.</span> , that regiment of the 36th Division was flattened on the bare, naked, hostile ground on the wrong side of the Rapido. There was no cover, not even a bush, much less a ravine, and German artillery and mortar fire was landing on the area incessantly. We fired at dozens of muzzle flashes, but the effect was negligible: the German stuff kept coming, 88s, 105s, 150s, even <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Nebelwerfers</span> , the shortrange heavy German mortars that the infantry called “Screaming Meemies,” because of the fierce howl the projectiles made as they came down.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81EJ49IADzA/T2C3natei3I/AAAAAAAADko/DABiwXETgCU/s1600/nebelwerfer.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81EJ49IADzA/T2C3natei3I/AAAAAAAADko/DABiwXETgCU/s1600/nebelwerfer.gif" /></a></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">It was, for me, and God knows for the GI’s on the ground, a horrible, helpless feeling. The German fire went on all day, and some of the infantrymen of the 36th broke and tried to swim the Rapido. I saw dozens plunge into the water of the river, which was only some fifty feet wide, but I saw none make it to the other bank. The Germans had, with superb military foresight, dumped coils of concertina barbed wire into the river to lie two or three feet below the surface, invisible from the banks. Military barbed wire, of course, is not like the barbed wire you see on an American farm: the barbs are three or four inches long, very numerous, and they seize a soldier’s uniform like steel cactus. I flew back and forth over the Rapido, directing fire all over the Liri Valley, whereever I could spot German batteries in action, and watched those little brown figures jump into the river and disappear. I’m not certain now, but I believe I cried: I was, after all, only twenty-two years old, and the 36th Division was the Texas National Guard Division. I grew up in Texas, and I had childhood friends in that regiment. Three of them never got back across the Rapido.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Oh, Monte Cassino, Monte Cassino! That beautiful, beautiful mountain: flying above Mignano, the destroyed town that dominated the approach to Cassino, the mountain loomed in blue haze, smoky: its peak appeared to be topped with eternal snow, but as one drew closer, the haze cleared and you saw it was not snow, it was the abbey, the abbey of Monte Cassino, white, white, <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">whiter</span> than snow, glittering, pure, high above the grunt and stink and killing of the valley. Founded some fourteen hundred years before our arrival, a marvel, a monument to God and man. Well, that didn’t last long, once we got there.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XPjpucpVJ-s/T2C45SAGQQI/AAAAAAAADkw/lHi0ZGC1Iy0/s1600/USA-MTO-Salerno-p312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XPjpucpVJ-s/T2C45SAGQQI/AAAAAAAADkw/lHi0ZGC1Iy0/s320/USA-MTO-Salerno-p312.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Army supply depot, Mignano</td></tr>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 22px;">After the war there was a great ” deal of argument about the abbey. The Vatican said no German soldiers were ever in or near it, and the Germans said the same thing. Well, that’s bull: on several occasions I saw German machine-gun tracers coming from its northeast corner. The gun was either inside the abbey itself or firing from a position built into the exterior wall. I called fire on the spot each time, and the 93rd responded each time. After months of infantry assaults that broke against the mountain and the town at its foot, the Allies decided they would bomb their way through Monte Cassino. Though rarely mentioned in historical accounts, the first bomb attacks were made by P-40s based at a field near Naples: they dived with five-hundred-pound bombs. I was at three thousand feet, to fire the 93rd at any Germany flak batteries that opened up on the P-40s, and I can still see the fighters diving, their .50-caliber machine-gun bullets sparking on the mountain as they zeroed in, then the steep pull-up, followed seconds later by the geyser of smoke, flame, and dirt of the bomb’s explosion. As they pulled out and away, headed for home and a hot shower, they zoomed all around me in my seventy-five-mile-an-hour machine, so close their slip-stream rocked and jolted the L-4.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NWdgi_JBUgs/T2C-jlRBxQI/AAAAAAAADk4/Ger9XN4c4FY/s1600/Curtiss_P-40Fs_near_Moore_AAF_1943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NWdgi_JBUgs/T2C-jlRBxQI/AAAAAAAADk4/Ger9XN4c4FY/s320/Curtiss_P-40Fs_near_Moore_AAF_1943.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">But that bomb attack didn’t work: the P-40s had concentrated on the mountainside, avoiding the abbey and the town of Cassino itself. They hit fortified German positions on the slopes and provided the Americans with a flood of bomb-shocked German prisoners, driven out of their minds by concussion, but bombing the mountain did not open the way to Rome. When the next attempt came from the air, it was a disaster.</span></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">If I ever knew what the tactical thinking was behind the second attack, I’ve forgotten. In those days, we all thought that heavy bomb raids were demoralizing and so destructive that nothing could survive in the target area, so, somewhere up the chain of command, the decision was made to bomb Cassino town <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">and</span> the abbey with medium and heavy bombers—B-25s, B-26s, and B-17s. I saw those types in the air: there may also have been B-24s, but they didn’t cross my vision. What <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">did</span> cross my vision, floating over the abbey at three thousand feet—assignment: suppress heavy flak—was an oncoming and seemingly never-ending fleet of bombers, approaching from the south. The mediums were at about six or seven thousand feet; the heavies way up there, just silhouettes. </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G7D9R33TooM/T2DAancCBbI/AAAAAAAADlI/ci9EGxAFRWk/s1600/Cassino-bombing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G7D9R33TooM/T2DAancCBbI/AAAAAAAADlI/ci9EGxAFRWk/s320/Cassino-bombing.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The heavy German flak, mostly 88s, went mad: the floor of the Liri Valley was sprinkled with redorange muzzle flashes as the Germans threw everything they had at this incredible number of American bombers, a number seen up to then only over the <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Heimat</span> itself. It must have struck the German flak crews as a splendid chance to get even, but they needn’t have bothered. I saw not one American airplane hit by flak. I did see American bombs exploding all around the compass, twenty miles beyond the target, twenty miles short of the target, twenty miles to the left, twenty miles to the right. A fair number even landed on Cassino town and the abbey, but most landed in Allied territory. To watch a bombing run of that magnitude, involving hundreds of aircraft, was an awesome thing, to put it mildly; those heavy bombs sent up volcanoes of dirt and fire, the air shook, you could see ripples running across the surface of the earth as though an earthquake were in progress, and you felt the concussion even at three thousand feet. But my God, how inaccurate they were! The result of this second raid, which went on all morning, was that the town of Cassino was turned to rubble, making it impassable for American tanks, which were poised to attack, and the abbey also was turned to rubble, even though no Allied soldiers were near it. Fourteen hundred years were blown away that morning.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cO80raCIBqI/T2DAUIUzVdI/AAAAAAAADlA/gzWcKBVoY18/s1600/Montecassino_post_bombing_BR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cO80raCIBqI/T2DAUIUzVdI/AAAAAAAADlA/gzWcKBVoY18/s320/Montecassino_post_bombing_BR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">As I noted earlier, German flak crews were very cautious in shooting at the L-4s, but of course there were times when they thought the odds were in their favor and would let fly. Flak came in various calibers, from the big 88s on down to 20-mm. rapid-fire cannon, often mounted on half-tracks or flat-bed trucks. The 88s usually fired a “ladder” of six rounds, apparently hoping you’d fly into one of the three pairs, and people sometimes did. But the muzzle flash of the 88 was so large and bright that you couldn’t miss it.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N7wHsKNKS5U/T2IM6iraA_I/AAAAAAAADlY/xDXvRNOjyWo/s1600/german88.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N7wHsKNKS5U/T2IM6iraA_I/AAAAAAAADlY/xDXvRNOjyWo/s320/german88.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">In the Vosges in France I was flying near Bitche when six brown bursts appeared off my right wing, not close enough to do any harm. However, I had seen the muzzle flashes from a village across the Rhine, and when I radioed the 93rd’s fire direction center and gave them the coordinates, they poured thirty-six rounds into the village; there were no more “ladders” from that quarter.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">On that mission, I became so intent on watching the effect of the fire that I made the supreme error of not keeping my head moving: you had to keep looking up, down, behind, and on all sides. Although the Luftwaffe was occupied primarily at that stage with the Eastern front, there were fighter squadrons in the West, too. And sure enough, when I finally looked away from the target area, a Messerschmitt 109 was boring straight in at me, about a hundred yards away. I froze, unable to move the controls, and just sat there staring at the enormous, bright red spinner on his prop, certain this was it. But he zipped past beneath me, rocking the L-4, without firing a shot. I assume he was returning from a mission and had run out of ammo.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gh_z4KUBZqU/T2INhKDzuTI/AAAAAAAADlg/nZ9eOx_jV38/s1600/5478999162_d40b8d813c_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gh_z4KUBZqU/T2INhKDzuTI/AAAAAAAADlg/nZ9eOx_jV38/s320/5478999162_d40b8d813c_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">One of the strangest experiences I had with flak occurred near Dijon. The weather was atrocious—a cloud cover at about five hundred feet and misting rain. I was cruising back and forth near a village, at about three hundred feet, when I spotted six small, rapid muzzle flashes from the main street of the village. I depressed the button on the mike to give coordinates, but before I could speak, the six 20-mm. rounds burst around the airplane. I hollered into the open microphone, “Jesus Christ! The bastards are shooting at me!” The fire direction center said, very calmly, “Coordinates please.” Very unprofessional behavior on my part. Anyway, I dropped down and hedge-hopped while I gave the coordinates, the fire direction center radioed, “One round smoke, on the way!”</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VPlPnJYlL80/T2IOdExuuEI/AAAAAAAADlo/1ZlF5ULdfGs/s1600/ch17p8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VPlPnJYlL80/T2IOdExuuEI/AAAAAAAADlo/1ZlF5ULdfGs/s320/ch17p8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I pulled up to three hundred feet again, and the white phosphorus round burst alongside the flak wagon, which in this case was a flat-bed truck. I dived again, told the 93rd to fire for effect, again they radioed, “On the way!” and again I pulled up, to see six rounds of high explosives smother the truck. It’s marvelous to be young and have reflexes which make you push the mike button before the enemy’s rounds even arrive in your neighborhood: alas, those days and those reflexes are gone forever. Nowadays I can’t even tell when a network vice-president is after my ass, until it’s too late to take cover. [Hughes Rudd was a television journalist and CBS News correspondent known for his folksy style, gravelly voice and unimposing sense of humor.]</span></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Our own antiaircraft fire was notoriously inaccurate, partly, no doubt, because the crews had very few targets to practice on, and we often had reason to thank God for that. I think most L-4 pilots were shot at by their own side at least once. The U.S. Navy found it impossible to distinguish between L-4s and German aircraft, and flying anywhere near a U.S. warship during an amphibious landing was a hairy experience. At Anzio, where we sometimes had to fly courier runs from Monte Cassino, there was a rule that the L-4s had to enter the beachhead area precisely at the point where the front line curved down to the sea. This was supposed to tell the Navy that you were friendly, but it didn’t, and the Germans <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">knew</span> you weren’t friendly. The result was a sky filled with carpets of U.S. Navy gunfire, while the Germans below emptied machine guns and rifles into the air. Bill Leonard, who is now president of CBS News, was a gunnery officer on a destroyer during that war, and once when he and I were exchanging war stories, it gradually developed that he had personally shot at me all over the Mediterranean.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HYhRicYsbNI/T2IRBvrhmYI/AAAAAAAADlw/x0iKv57IxpY/s1600/Naval-anti-aircraft-barrage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HYhRicYsbNI/T2IRBvrhmYI/AAAAAAAADlw/x0iKv57IxpY/s320/Naval-anti-aircraft-barrage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The Navy had nothing to do with my most upsetting experience with American antiaircraft, however. We were operating out of a cow pasture near the German village of Frankenhofen, attached to a fresh division whose L-4 pilots were very green. One morning hundreds of German soldiers started trickling out of the surrounding woods to give themselves up, since the war was obviously ending.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q4cEBGV3FoI/T2ISYDPiB9I/AAAAAAAADl4/KLybl6FR42c/s1600/article-2075565-0F35401200000578-582_964x627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q4cEBGV3FoI/T2ISYDPiB9I/AAAAAAAADl4/KLybl6FR42c/s320/article-2075565-0F35401200000578-582_964x627.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We made them sit down in a corner of the pasture and went on flying missions, but at noon a German Red Cross nurse turned up on a bicycle and told us, in French, that an SS armored detachment was in the next village, about ten kilometers away, and the SS did <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">not</span> think the war was obviously ending. In fact, the nurse told us, the SS people were so annoyed by the soldiers who had surrendered to us that they were gearing up for an attack on their comrades and us. I immediately told the inexperienced captain commanding the division air section that we should get the hell out of there, but he pooh-poohed the idea, saying he didn’t think the nurse was telling the truth, so we kept on flying missions throughout the afternoon.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vcTU3rVvlus/T2Ia8Fk3McI/AAAAAAAADm4/7OXKkukiD-8/s1600/2953489848_e0d3e504dc_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vcTU3rVvlus/T2Ia8Fk3McI/AAAAAAAADm4/7OXKkukiD-8/s320/2953489848_e0d3e504dc_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Finally the sun went down, the flying stopped, and I braced myself for a very uneasy night. Then, just before bedtime, the nurse turned up again; this time she said the SS were on the way. Instant pandemonium. Gear was tossed into half-tracks and trucks, the captain pointed out on the map a bombed-out German airstrip to our front and said we’d fly there.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We took off in pitch darkness. Over the radio I heard the other aircraft calling, trying to establish the compass course and warning one another to stay out of the way. These were fruitless instructions, since you couldn’t see any other airplanes. The radio traffic was heard by our battalions, of course, and all the fire direction centers came on the air, demanding to know what was up. We told them they’d get details later and meanwhile to stay off the air. I kept droning along at about two thousand feet, hoping I had the proper compass course and wondering how I would spot the bombed-out airfield even if I <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">was</span> on course. A half-moon came out from behind some clouds, which helped a little: you could see reflections on rivers and ponds, but not much else.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uiH2_ZK8eR0/T2IUVHuD4FI/AAAAAAAADmA/w_fZysqFiPo/s1600/Vynen_aerial_view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uiH2_ZK8eR0/T2IUVHuD4FI/AAAAAAAADmA/w_fZysqFiPo/s320/Vynen_aerial_view.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Suddenly, there was a great burst of orange flame on the ground below us, and what seemed like every antiaircraft weapon in the U.S. Army opened up, spouting tracers in all directions. I dived, hoping my altimeter was reasonably accurate and that there were no high-tension lines in the neighborhood, and hollered into the radio to the 93rd to tell the antiaircraft people to cut that out. A German bomber had unloaded on a bridge that was heavily defended against aerial attack. Presumably he had picked up our L-4s on his radar and had sneaked in under cover of those radar reflections, knowing American radar couldn’t distinguish him from us.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We got past that and actually found the bombed-out German airfield: the concrete of the ruined runways gleamed in the moonlight, and there was just enough left of one of them to put down an L-4. One pilot did get lost for about an hour and called frantically and constantly over the radio for help. Finally the division captain told him we would fire a .50-caliber machine gun and he could home in on the tracers. We fired into the air, and instantly every other .50-caliber in the neighborhood did the same, apparently under the impression that another air raid was in progress. Some of their rounds came quite close to the lost pilot, to judge by the squeaking tone which came from him over the radio, but he finally found us and landed. It was a very busy night, and we never did find out if the SS detachment made a run at our Frankenhofen strip.</span></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">German artillery, tanks, and flak batteries could not avoid giving away their positions as soon as they went into action, of course, but the German infantrymen were wizards at the art of cover and concealment. From the air, they were almost never to be seen, either in attack or retreat, but I do recall one remarkable exception. Flying under a heavy overcast at about five hundred feet in Burgundy, I was astonished to see a column of some fifty German soldiers riding bicycles along the shoulder of a secondary road, not a quarter mile away.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-USHvzVVTCYY/T2IU3Pkuj0I/AAAAAAAADmI/O7LH-Qf_SCM/s1600/German_bicycle_soldiers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-USHvzVVTCYY/T2IU3Pkuj0I/AAAAAAAADmI/O7LH-Qf_SCM/s320/German_bicycle_soldiers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">They must have heard my engine, but there they were, pedaling along at a leisurely pace, rifles slung across their backs. The road ran straight for about two miles, then bent into a horseshoe curve around a small hill. I radioed the coordinates of the horseshoe bend to the fire direction center, adjusted the smoke rounds until they were landing in the bend, then waited for the bicycle column to arrive at that spot. When it did, we fired six rounds from each gun in B Battery, making thirty-six high-explosive shells in all. An officer of the 93rd visited the area the next day and found some twenty mangled bicycles lying alongside the road.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Compared with the Germans, we were prodigal with our artillery ammunition. They had to be rather miserly, but we shot at anything that moved or even looked suspicious. On several occasions I chased solitary motorcycle riders with 105-mm. rounds that cost about ninety dollars each, without ever hitting one, so far as I know. The motorcyclists were considered worthwhile targets because the assumption was they were dispatch riders carrying orders back and forth between various headquarters, so we would pump out dozens of shells at them. I was doing just that one day north of Rome when, with that marvelous peripheral vision granted the young and healthy, I saw a horse run out from the woods with a man hanging on to its bridle, struggling to drag the horse back under cover. I was low enough to see he was wearing <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Feldgrau</span>, so I called for a round of smoke in the woods. It burst, and immediately dozens of horse-drawn artillery pieces, caissons, field kitchens, and wagons came plunging out of the trees onto the road, headed north at full gallop. They had obviously holed up there waiting for nightfall before moving into new positions, but they now found themselves on a straight stretch of road in broad daylight. The horsedrawn column was thoroughly raked, and all because one horse had bolted into the open, driven berserk, no doubt, by the noise of our shells chasing the motorcycle rider.</span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TwrJwP_PsTE/T2IV3hQx4zI/AAAAAAAADmQ/r_hGtz5ziSs/s1600/hgfrt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TwrJwP_PsTE/T2IV3hQx4zI/AAAAAAAADmQ/r_hGtz5ziSs/s320/hgfrt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 13px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">During the week-long battle of Montélimar in the Rhone Valley, I came as close to ground combat as I ever care to get. We were operating from a farm near the village of Loriol. The farm family had fled, leaving the place in the charge of a hired hand, who was clearly not right in the head. The battle had developed when a combat command column of armor, artillery, and infantry had raced northward from southern France along roads paralleling the Rhone, then turned westward north of Montélimar, cutting the main highway. The German 19th Army was trying to go north to support the German defenses in Normandy, so this created a problem. The highway was soon littered with shot-up tanks, trucks, and artillery pieces, burning hulks strung out over ten miles.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-remkOD0yyPg/T2IXAHXawSI/AAAAAAAADmY/nSbMuSDqTN8/s1600/USA-E-Breakout-p278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-remkOD0yyPg/T2IXAHXawSI/AAAAAAAADmY/nSbMuSDqTN8/s320/USA-E-Breakout-p278.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">From the air we could see a German counterattack starting up from the northeast, and since the infantry was heavily engaged along the highway to the west, there was nothing to stop the German attack but artillery. The shooting was frantic and incessant: on one day I flew more than ten hours, landing every two hours or so for gasoline, but the German armored cars and light tanks kept edging closer and closer and by nightfall of that day were within about two miles of our farm. Assuming they would push on during the night, we built a hollow square of hay bales in the barn, and crawled inside it, pulling another bale over the entrance. The idea was that the German infantry, when they came, would go right on by. And sure enough, they did come, Schmeisser machine pistols burping bullets in every direction, but we were perfectly safe in our hay-bale cave.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xr0xvk1TQzs/T2IXiNe2ijI/AAAAAAAADmg/JwB5XNciPPo/s1600/schmeisser1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xr0xvk1TQzs/T2IXiNe2ijI/AAAAAAAADmg/JwB5XNciPPo/s1600/schmeisser1.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Unfortunately, however, we had given that hired hand a cup of instant coffee during the day, the first he’d had since the war began, no doubt, and he chose this moment to come into the barn with a kerosene lantern to thank us for it. In horror we watched the light get brighter through the cracks between the hay bales, then he pulled away the one covering our entrance hole, leaned in, and said, with the beautiful smile of the idiot, “Nescafé est bon!” We waited for the Germans to jump him and us, but they didn’t. By the time the night was over, we were ready to shoot the hired hand ourselves, since he repeated the same stunt four more times. Years later, my mother heard from the mother of our mechanic that he had recurring nightmares in which he woke, shouting, “Nescafé est bon!” and she wondered if my mother could ask me about it. You just don’t need civilians at a time like that.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fF8RlQx_dls/T2IYBUkBBNI/AAAAAAAADmo/0_vX9LggZIE/s1600/3rdID_L4-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fF8RlQx_dls/T2IYBUkBBNI/AAAAAAAADmo/0_vX9LggZIE/s320/3rdID_L4-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">There were exceptions, of course: when I landed my L-4 in a field in southern France, after taking off from an LST which had been fitted with a plywood flight deck, I jumped out of the airplane before it stopped rolling and crawled into a clump of bushes. The situation was, as they say, “fluid,” and I didn’t know where the infantry line was located. Lying there, I heard somebody running in my direction and puckered up considerably, expecting to see a German rifleman. Instead it was a French farmer carrying a bottle of red wine and a smeared glass. He filled the glass, handed it to me, and shouted, “Bienvenue! Bienvenue!” I fell in love with La Belle France on the spot and have remained in love with her ever since.</span></span></div>
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<span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="body" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We went on through France, finally crossed the Rhine near Strasbourg, turned southeast through Germany and on into Austria. Taking off one morning from a field outside Imst, I was astonished to find the roads crammed with German vehicles of every description. Paradise for an artillery spotter! But when I began radioing fire directions, the battalion called back, “Wait.” This happened several times, and I got angrier and angrier, until finally the fire direction center radioed, “Cease all forward action.” When I landed, I discovered that meant the war was over. It was a terrible letdown: I had assumed the war would <span class="typestyle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">never</span> end, or that I wouldn’t be there when it did. According to my logbook I had flown 368 missions and turned a lot of beautiful German hardware into scrap. Aside from falling in love with the perfect woman, nothing has ever seemed so important or exciting since.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XAZXNonsjd0/T2IaO8B05qI/AAAAAAAADmw/rShoCdFRup4/s1600/Page_1_166_France_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XAZXNonsjd0/T2IaO8B05qI/AAAAAAAADmw/rShoCdFRup4/s320/Page_1_166_France_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-43201234386627239782012-03-12T10:22:00.004-07:002012-04-11T10:50:03.129-07:00• Words Fail<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<i><b>An Irish Airman Forsees His Death </b></i></div>
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I know that I shall meet my fate</div>
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Somewhere among the clouds above;</div>
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Those that I fight I do not hate,</div>
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Those that I guard I do not love;</div>
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My country is Kiltartan Cross,</div>
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My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,</div>
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No likely end could bring them loss</div>
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Or leave them happier than before.</div>
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Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,</div>
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Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,</div>
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A lonely impulse of delight</div>
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Drove to this tumult in the clouds;</div>
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I balanced all, brought all to mind,</div>
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The years to come seemed waste of breath,</div>
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A waste of breath the years behind</div>
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In balance with this life, this death.</div>
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~ Yeats</div>
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On March 6, 2012 at 0914 pacific standard time, an Israel Aircraft Industries (IAI) Kfir F-21C2 single-seat turbojet fighter type aircraft, registration N404AX, operated by Airborne Tactical Advantage Company (ATAC) under contract to Naval Air Systems Command (NAVAIR) as a civil pubic aircraft operation, crashed upon landing at Naval Air Station Fallon, Fallon, Nevada. The sole occupant pilot aboard was killed, and the airplane was substantially damaged by impact forces and fire. The flight had departed Fallon at 0752 the same day, and attempted to return following an adversary training mission. The pilot initiated two Ground Control Approach (GCA) radar approaches to Fallon and then attempted to divert to Reno but was unable to land there as the field was reporting below minimum weather conditions. The pilot then turned back toward Fallon and stated to air traffic controllers that he was in a critical fuel state. The pilot descended and maneuvered first toward runway 31, then toward runway 13. The airplane struck the ground in an open field in the northwest corner of the airport property and impacted a concrete building on the field. Weather at the time of the accident was reported as snowing with northerly winds of 23 knots gusting to 34 knots, and visibility between one-half and one and one-half miles.<br />
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Fitting tribute at http://www.atacusa.com/</div>
</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-34897813709064813102012-01-23T10:15:00.000-08:002012-04-11T10:47:04.469-07:00• WWI Flight Training Mystery SolvedWorking on a blog about WWI flying I finally figured out the mystery about my grandfather Norman Dale's flying.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JnGt8z-FDGw/T4W9Utiwn9I/AAAAAAAADnk/IYO8lEtA9Vs/s1600/N+C+Dale.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JnGt8z-FDGw/T4W9Utiwn9I/AAAAAAAADnk/IYO8lEtA9Vs/s320/N+C+Dale.tif" width="184" /></a></div>
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Lots of young men were available...far more than they could train because we couldn't built aircraft fast enough. So everyone went through ground school, which didn't require 'aerial equipment' aka aeroplanes. After mid-year in 1918 there were signs the war might actually end so an increasing number of people were shunted into the Observer program, including Norm. The two certificates we have documented his completion of ground school and observer training.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nue_xzy3mXI/T4W9lUu08QI/AAAAAAAADn0/MYBs-FpXsGQ/s1600/NCDaleObserver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nue_xzy3mXI/T4W9lUu08QI/AAAAAAAADn0/MYBs-FpXsGQ/s320/NCDaleObserver.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But then the armistice was signed on November 18th, 1918—just two months after his graduation, and a few weeks later he was discharged.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SCjVrLEK2Ek/T4W9geS8d9I/AAAAAAAADns/w_4roK_kBxo/s1600/NCDaleCert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SCjVrLEK2Ek/T4W9geS8d9I/AAAAAAAADns/w_4roK_kBxo/s320/NCDaleCert.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>
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The pilot overage skewed the balance between pilots and observers such that, by mid-July 1918, the AEF was desperate for observers. As one member of the AEF Training Section advised the Division of Military Aeronautics Observation Section:<br />
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We desired 200 artillery observers with aerial gunnery, but stated that the full number called for was desired even if all had not such training. You will have to make every effort to send us fully trained men at the earliest possible date, as the facilities in the AEF will not permit of giving anything more than a refresher course. . . . If fully trained material is not available, make up the requested number by the best partially trained men available.</blockquote>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qv4sK-MdiOs/T4W9TVR_o5I/AAAAAAAADnc/cbLI7q98nKc/s1600/Jenny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qv4sK-MdiOs/T4W9TVR_o5I/AAAAAAAADnc/cbLI7q98nKc/s320/Jenny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now, as in wars to come, field commanders castigated stateside training staffs for sending poorly trained airmen, but they then went on to demand manpower at any cost. In this instance, the U.S.-based Training Section notified all ground school graduates that, because of the glut of people awaiting pilot training, no cadets would be accepted into the flying schools for several months, but men could volunteer as observers. Otherwise, they would be forced to transfer to other services, face immediate discharge from the Air Service, or wait until such time as they could be trained as pilots.<br />
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Already enrolled cadets not deemed qualified to be pilots but who were "otherwise desirable officer material" or those who were already qualified as pilots but who were "not at ease in the work" could become bombardiers or artillery observers?' The Air Service was, in other words, forcibly reconsidering its stance that only commissioned officers, not cadets, would be accepted as aerial observers. The dual system of Artillery and Signal Corps observer training had foundered on several levels, not the least of which was the relative trickle of men from the Field and Coast Artillery.<br />
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The Signal Corps therefore decided to recruit its own observers from nonpilot cadet volunteers who would receive special training at ground school and additional training with both the Artillery and Air Service. In August 1918, a new policy directed that aerial observers be commissioned in the Air Service rather than the Artillery, Infantry, or Cavalry. Those lacking artillery experience would be given instruction by the Artillery, and all aerial observers would receive training in aviation schools.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKf43kwikeY/T4W9Qor98aI/AAAAAAAADnU/3QY5NtMnI5o/s1600/DaleOTU.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKf43kwikeY/T4W9Qor98aI/AAAAAAAADnU/3QY5NtMnI5o/s320/DaleOTU.jpg" width="220" /></a><br />
The urgent call for more trained observers continued into the fall. With some heat, Lt. Col. Herbert A. Dargue reminded the Director of Military Aeronautics that "the deficiency in observers in France is liable to cause an exceedingly embarrassing situation, unless every effort is to be put forth in the United States to expand observer schools to the absolute limit and train as many observers as possible." In an attempt to boost the morale of those trainees facing a seeming diminution of status and, no doubt, to impress on more men the worthiness of volunteering, the Chief of Training rallied all commanding officers of the flying schools to the view that "there is no question as to the importance of this work or the fact that it is of the same relative importance and dignity as that of the pilot."<br />
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By October, the Division of Military Aeronautics had increased authorizations at Langley and Post Fields and considered shortening the observers' course from seven to five weeks. Owing to the different backgrounds of the students - whether commissioned in the Air Service or Artillery, whether cadets or officers - the length of the observer course varied considerably over the relatively short period of its existence. Generally the course matched that offered by the Artillery schools, which were themselves different lengths.<br />
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In late 1917, the aerial observer course was six weeks long; it later became ten weeks, equal to the School of Fire for Field Artillery. Later, all three schools gave a seven-week course, and finally, to meet the stringent AEF demands for observers, the observer course was reduced to five weeks for commissioned personnel and ten weeks for cadets. Before going overseas, observers spent three additional weeks in the aerial gunnery course at Selfridge Field.<br />
<br />Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-30453305576353433652012-01-23T10:12:00.000-08:002015-08-29T16:34:07.510-07:00• KA-3B vs AGI<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">A Vietnam War Story (from someone else): </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">The Russian "Trawlers" (Russian AGI) with what looked like one thousand "fishing" antennas plied the Gulf of Tonkin on a daily basis...needless to say, it was a cat and mouse game to see what havoc they could expend towards our two carriers operating there twenty-four hours a day. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">Since the U.S. government had proclaimed the waters of the Gulf of Tonkin three miles off the coast of North Vietnam and Hinan Island, People's Republic of China, to be international waters, American ships in the Gulf were bound to obey the international rules of the road for ocean navigation. This meant that if the Russian ship maneuvered herself into the path of an aircraft carrier where she had the right of way, the carrier had to give way even if she was engaged in launching or recovering aircraft. The navigation officer was constantly trying to maneuver the ship so that the trawler wouldn't be able to get in position to abuse the rules of the road and gain the right of way. Sometimes he was successful in sucking the trawler out of position but the room available for the ship to maneuver was limited by our on-station requirements and sometimes the trawler was successful interrupting our flight operations. The pilots of the air wing were strictly forbidden to take any action against the Russian ship but on this day Commander John Wunche, the commanding officer of the heavy tanker KA-3B detachment, had finally had enough of the Russians' antics. </span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">John Wunche was a big man with bright red hair and a flaming red handlebar mustache. He was a frustrated fighter pilot whom fate and the Bureau of Naval Personnel had put into the cockpit of a former heavy bomber now employed as a carrier-based tanker. Commander Wunche flew the tanker like a fighter and frequently delighted the tactical pilots by rolling the "Whale," as we all called the KA-3B tanker, on completion of a tanker mission. Consequently, John's nickname was "the Red Baron." On 21 July 1967 he proved just how appropriate that name was. </span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">The "Bonnie Dick" had nearly completed a recovery. The Russian trawler had been steaming at full speed to try to cut across our bow and the bridge watch had been keeping a wary eye on the intruder. For a while it looked as if the Russian would be too late and we would finish the recovery before having to give way to the trawler. But a couple of untimely bolters extended the recovery and the Bon Homme Richard had to back down and change course to comply with the rules. The LSO hit the wave-off lights when the "Whale" was just a few yards from the ramp.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">John crammed on full power and sucked up the speed brakes for the go-around. The "Bonnie Dick" began a sharp right turn to pass behind the Russian, causing the ship to list steeply, and there, dead ahead of John, was the Russian trawler. He couldn't resist. He leveled the "Whale" about a hundred feet off the water and roared across the mast of the Trawler with all fuel dumps open like a crop duster spraying a field of boll weevils. The Russian disappeared in a heavy white cloud of jet fuel spray, then reemerged with JP-4 jet fuel glistening from her superstructure and running lip-full in the scuppers. The Russian trawler immediately lost power as the ship's crew frantically tried to shut down anything that might generate a spark and ignite the fuel. </span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">She was rolling dead in the water in the Bon Homme Richards wake, the crew breaking out fire hoses to wash down the fuel, as we steamed out of sight completing the recovery of the Whale. The Red Baron was an instant hero to the entire ship's company.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><i>A Vietnam war story of my own</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;"><i>Two of us, a flight of EA-6Bs, were stooging around Yankee Station in mid-73, war essentially over, waiting to recover.</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We saw an AGI and tanker dead in the water bow to stern with a hose between them—their idea of UNREP (refueling).</span></i><br />
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<i>We made a low pass to 'pay our respects' and I commented on the UHF radio to the other aircraft, "One of these days those Ruskies will learn how to conduct underway replenishment like a real Navy."</i></div>
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<i>Someone keyed their mike and in perfect English relied, "Fuck you, Yankee."</i></div>
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<i>All that "fishing gear" worked pretty good as antennae, apparently!</i></div>
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Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-86268894373609494822012-01-02T00:01:00.000-08:002017-12-22T16:26:05.483-08:00• Know Where You're Going When You Volunteer<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>2011 ended for us on the next to last day of the year with the sale of our Twin </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Beech</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>. We weren't flying her much for physical, financial, and business reasons, so we were happy to have her go to a place in Ohio where she'll be flown and kept in a manner to which she was accustomed.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">In the process we remade our acquaintance with Taigh Ramey, one of a handful of genuine <a href="http://twinbeech.com/" target="_blank">Twin Beech experts</a> around, and a thorough gentleman. His shop is in Stockton California, in the valley east of San Francisco, where we stopped on the way home to San Diego from Oregon where we bought the bird.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;"><i>And all that reminded me of a spiral bound collection of stories, by former military flyers who had flown the Bugsmasher, titled </i>She's A Beech<i>.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">Taigh said he'd heard of it and would give anything to read it, and I knew I had a copy someplace.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">I went home and rummaged around until, sure enough, I found the book. I'd told Taigh I'd share it with him if I found it, and so I started to scan it into a PDF file. But I was brought up short by the line on the title page that said reproduction of the mid-1990s book in any form was prohibited without the permission of the author. I pondered the 17 year copyright expiration issue, but resolved to contact editor Tom Smith regardless.</i></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In 1995 it would probably </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">have </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">een a frustrating and fruitless effort to track him down—and back then I wouldn't have been considering sending the material off as a computer file or finding some way to share it on the Internet, either.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But on the last day of 2011, with help from Google, I found Tom's phone number on a RAFS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Real Aviators Flew Stoofs) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">forum, a Stoof being the iconic Navy/Grumman S-2F 'Tracker'.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And, boy, am I glad I called Tom. Even if you didn't know </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">82-year-old</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> was a Naval Aviator, you could tell </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">by the verbal equivalent of the spring in his step that he'd been to Pensacola. It was clear he still wore his wings of gold </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">with pride</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, if even only metaphorically.</span></span></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was taken just after Tom's initial carrier qualification on the USS Monterey, December 1954.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">We traded a few flying stories, and Tom graciously allowed me to share his book with you and the story below. </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">The details of how he manage to find the stories for the book, and background on the authors, are in the PDF.</i></span><br />
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</i></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">Tom, we salute you for your service and for your effort to preserve the stories that prove, </i><span style="background-color: #073763;">She's A Beech</span><i style="background-color: #073763;">. </i></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This tale, modestly told when you think about what he actually did, is by </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">Colonel Benjamin H. Shiffrin, USAF (Retired).</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">Ben </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">graduated from Army Air Corps pilot training on August 15, 1941. After</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Pearl Harbor, he flew</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> submarine patrol with C-47s, C-46s and <a href="http://www.nationalmuseum.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet.asp?id=346" target="_blank">0-52</a>—the Curtis Owl. People grew up fast in WW2, and just four years later, in January of '43, Ben was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Commander of the 1st Arctic Search and Rescue </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Squadron, based in Greenland. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In '45 he activated and commanded the 44th TC Squadron, flying C-46s </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">with a mission of providing air drops on Japan.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After the war</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> he operated a flying school, fixed base operation, and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an aircraft sales and service business in Bethany, Connecticut. He was recalled to active duty in '47 as a Major</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, was p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">romoted to Lieutenant Colonel in 1951 and Bird Colonel in 1953. Among other prestigious assignments he was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Base </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Commander of Kelly AFB. He retired in 1968 and started a new career as a successful company executive.</span></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: 16px;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">I think you'll enjoy his story, especially for the unusual and historic details in it:</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><b style="background-color: #073763;">KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING WHEN YOU VOLUNTEER</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">In early January of 1943, I was the Officer-of-the-Day for the 103rd Observation Squadron based at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. A teletype message came across my desk requesting a volunteer pilot with multi-engine and ski-plane experience for an urgent rescue mission.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Nothing was mentioned about what and where the rescue mission would be, or what type of aircraft was involved.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Being completely bored with squadron inactivity in wartime following a frustrating year of ineffective antisubmarine patrol in obsolete aircraft, I volunteered immediately. I had never been on skis, on my feet or airplane, and my multi·engine experience totaled 1.5 hours. In a matter of hours I was accepted for the mission.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Two days later I received secret orders. I learned that the mission was to rescue crew members of a B-17 that had crashed on the Greenland ice cap. The B-17 went down while searching for another lost aircraft.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Greenland? Up to now I had always thought of Greenland as a little green island somewhere in the ocean. After pouring over numerous charts and maps, I found the location of Greenland ... and went into immediate shock!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">My orders required me to pick up a new AT-7 (C·45) at the factory in Wichita, Kansas. There I was to undergo a quick checkout in the Beech, and then proceed to the Norduyn Aircraft factory in Montreal, Canada, to pick up pontoon-type skis.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">From Montreal, I was to fly to Presque Isle, Maine; Goose Bay, Labrador; and then to Greenland. At Presque Isle I was to pick up an ex-airline pilot who knew the route to Greenland.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">With orders to proceed with dispatch, we arrived at BW1, (Narssarssuak) Greenland, on 24 January. My co·pilot/navigator escaped at once back to the United States. He probably thought he would be assigned to go on the rescue mission if he didn't get the hell out of there fast.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">I sought out Colonel Bob Wimsatt, Commander of the Greenland Base Command, and the only person who had ever been to the rescue base on the east coast of Greenland, BE-2 (lquteg), and returned. All others who had tried were either lost enroute or were still there.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">It took two days to recruit a crew chief, S/Sgt McDonald, and to collect the necessary survival gear. I checked with every pilot I could find that had flown in Arctic conditions. With their help, I plotted the flight and waited for good weather conditions.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">On the third day, weather forecasters assured me that the weather enroute would be clear. It was probably the last time in my life that I ever completely believed a weather guesser.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">After crossing the ice cap at 10 ,000 feet, we flew over the water along the shore to our destination, an airfield more than four hundred miles north, and sixty miles up a narrow fjord. The further north we flew, the lower the ceiling became. We crossed over the Eskimo village of Angmagssalik, at the mouth of the fjord, with a ceiling of about 1,000 feet.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">There was an American operated radio beacon at Angmagssalik, but not at our destination airfield. We had already passed the point of no return, so our only option was to fly up the narrow fjord with lowering ceilings.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">We were truly flying into a tunnel with towering mountains on both sides, water below and the ever lowering ceiling above. To make matters worse, it began to snow, restricting our visibility. We had calculated the flying time from the beacon at Angmagssalik, and knew we would be in deep trouble if time ran out and we didn't have the airfield in sight.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the time elapsed, we were flying with 500 feet of ceiling and about a half mile of visibility. At that moment I observed the silhouettes of two B-17 bombers on the snowy bank of the fjord. The area turned out to be our destination airfield. But no semblance of a runway was visible from the air. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I executed a hard landing with several bounces on the very rough runway.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">We had to get the aircraft skis out of the cabin before we could exit the aircraft. As we left the aircraft, we were met by Colonel Bernt Balchen, commander of the rescue task force. He threatened to court martial me on the spot for endangering the vital ski·equipped AT-7.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Hell, I was just glad to be alive!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">The six man crew of the crashed B-17 had been awaiting rescue since November 9. They had been spotted on the ice cap by Colonel Balchen on November 24, and had been the subject of an intense rescue effort for more than two months.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">We went to work immediately to install the pontoon· type skis on the AT-7. We worked without a hangar in sub-zero temperatures with little daylight. We succeeded in mounting the skis on the next day and made some taxi tests on the rough and icy runway.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">We learned to our dismay that a hard landing or bounce on takeoff would result in the props cutting the skis. To correct this, Colonel Balchen had the blacksmith shop of the civilian airfield construction crew cut the landing struts and insert metal pipes to lengthen them. The work was completed overnight and taxi tests the next day proved the aircraft to be uncontrollable on the ground—one ski was pigeon-toed and the other, people-toed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">Again the blacksmith shop removed the struts in an attempt to realign them parallel. All their work was in vain. That evening, after all their creative labor, the blacksmith shop burned down, skis and all!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.nationalmuseum.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet.asp?id=1245" target="_blank">The rescue, code-name PN9E</a>, eventually succeeded when Colonel Balchen and a U.S. Navy crew flying a PBY Catalina amphibious plane, landed on the ice cap on its belly. This had never been attempted before, and demonstrated great courage on the part of Colonel Balchen and the Navy flight crew.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">The rescue required two such belly landings. On the second flight an engine failed due to overheating and required the PBY and crew to remain on the ice cap overnight. Repairs made during the night allowed the PBY to takeoff on two engines, but the ailing engine had to be shut down again after takeoff.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oXVixlitKvg/TwHGSUwhpmI/AAAAAAAADhc/Is-LFC0pDFA/s1600/crash191142a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oXVixlitKvg/TwHGSUwhpmI/AAAAAAAADhc/Is-LFC0pDFA/s320/crash191142a.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.warcovers.dk/greenland/crash_list.htm" style="background-color: #073763;" target="_blank">Lt. Spencer and rescue man Sgt. Tatley on board the rescue plane.</a></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.nationalmuseum.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet.asp?id=1235" target="_blank">Colonel Balchen</a>, the renowned Arctic and Antarctic pilot, who had also flown Admiral Byrd across the Atlantic in 1927, wore two hats at this particular time. In addition to being the Rescue Task Force Commander at BE-2, he was also the Commander of the 1st Arctic Search and Rescue Squadron. After leaving these command positions, he led a successful bombing expedition from Iceland to northern Greenland where German weather stations had been discovered by Danish patrols. These stations were providing valuable weather information to German submarines and luftwaffe operations.</span><br />
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</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #073763; color: white; font-size: small;">The complete story of the PN9E rescue effort is told in <i>Hitch Your Wagon - The Story of Bernt Balchen</i>, by Clayton Knight and Robert C, Durham, Bell Publishing Company, 1950.</span><br />
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</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-size: small;"><i style="background-color: #073763;">Click <a href="http://tomharnish.com/wp-content/uploads/She's%20A%20Beech.pdf" target="_blank">here</a> to download </i><span style="background-color: #073763;">She's a Beech</span><i style="background-color: #073763;"> (PDF 3.8Mb) and the rest of the Model 18 stories. This was a tame one, by the way. </i></span></div>
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-65924981516819360602012-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:002012-01-02T06:10:44.283-08:00• Human History Ends At MidnightIf Earth's history was placed on a calendar with each day representing about 10 million years, human history so far would begin at 11:59PM and end at midnight tonight.<br />
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On our <i>Calendar of Earth's Events, </i>from January to March not much happens, our clump of space dirt was hot and dry. But as it cooled and collected <a href="http://wow-really.blogspot.com/search?q=comet" style="color: #5588aa; line-height: 1.6em; text-decoration: none;">water from comet impacts</a> it didn't take long for life to get a metaphorical toe hold.<br />
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The first single cell microbes appear in early April, with small multicellular clumps forming later in the month. Such bacterial mats are still found on Earth (and probably will be found on other planets too, as we may soon find out). Here's an image taken by Johnathan Stott of a <a href="http://www.jstottphotography.com/bacteria_mats_old_faithful_geyser_basin_yellowstone_national_park__photo.php?p=&s=5277" style="color: #5588aa; line-height: 1.6em; text-decoration: none;">bacterial mat</a> found in boiling water at the Old Faithful Geyser Basin, Yellowstone National Park.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RZbJ9Z57HYI/AAAAAAAAAJk/MJRTdeymEUg/s1600-h/dscn1672.jpg" style="color: #5588aa; line-height: 1.6em; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014417291886665090" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NFtqCMIGTKU/RZbJ9Z57HYI/AAAAAAAAAJk/MJRTdeymEUg/s400/dscn1672.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; display: block; line-height: 1.6em; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 4px; padding-right: 4px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
In May—on our year-long Earth history calendar—vertebrates emerge as fish. Slowly life on land evolves into plants and begin to cover the globe in July.<br />
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In mid-September fish crawl up on land and early reptiles preview the dawn of the dinosaur era, which continues through late November.<br />
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Birds and small shrew-like mammals first appear in early November, but are overshadowed by reptilian species until early December, when the dinosaurs disappear abruptly, in a few hours on this scale.<br />
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By late December, the recognizable ancestors of modern mammals make their debut.<br />
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Today, New Years Eve, things start to get busy, but it's not until noon that our first distant ancestors appear. Then tonight, between 9:30 and 10:00 pm, Homo Sapiens migrate out of Africa to populate Eurasia and the Americas.<br />
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At 11:59 pm, one minute before midnight, human history and civilization as we know it begins, and virtually all recorded history occurs in the last 10 seconds. As you watch the Time Square ball go down use the following timeline:<br />
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Dec 31 11:59:00PM - Cave paintings in Europe<br />
Dec 31 11:59:20PM - Invention of agriculture<br />
Dec 31 11:59:35PM - First towns<br />
Dec 31 11:59:50PM - First dynasties in Egypt<br />
Dec 31 11:59:51PM - Invention of alphabet<br />
Dec 31 11:59:52PM - Bronze metallurgy, invention of compass<br />
Dec 31 11:59:53PM - Iron metallurgy, founding of Carthage by Phoenicians<br />
Dec 31 11:59:54PM - Ch'n Dynsasty China, birth of Buddha<br />
Dec 31 11:59:55PM - Euclidean geometry, Roman Empire, birth of Christ<br />
Dec 31 11:59:56PM - Zero and decimals invented, birth of Mohammed<br />
Dec 31 11:59:57PM - Mayan civilization, Byzantine empire, Crusades<br />
Dec 31 11:59:58PM - Renaissance in Europe, voyages of discovery, science<br />
Dec 31 11:59:59PM - Technology, planetary exploration<br />
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As for the future, well:<br />
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Taking a positive view:<br />
Jan 01 00:00:01AM - Life found on planets, genetic engineering, robots<br />
Jan 01 00:00:02AM - Extraterrestrial intelligence, interstellar exploration<br />
Jan 01 00:00:03AM - Artificial intelligence, cyborgs, space colonization<br />
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Taking a negative view:<br />
Jan 01 00:00:01AM - Religious wars<br />
Jan 01 00:00:02AM - Cave paintings<br />
Jan 01 00:00:03AM - First townsTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795385237882019506.post-48425791310838564112011-11-01T14:54:00.000-07:002011-11-01T14:56:02.649-07:00• Rider on the Storm<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div class="byline">by <a href="http://www.damninteresting.com/alan-bellows" rel="external" title="http://www.damninteresting.com/alan-bellows"><span style="color: #5555ff;" title="http://www.damninteresting.com/alan-bellows
CTRL + Click to follow link">Alan Bellows</span></a> </div><div class="content-body single-post"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/f8u.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="entryImage" height="202" src="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/f8u.jpg" title="f8u" width="320" /></a></div>In the summer of 1959, a pair of F-8 Crusader combat jets were on a routine flight to Beaufort, North Carolina with no particular designs on making history. The late afternoon sunlight glinted from the silver and orange fuselages as the US Marine Corps pilots flew high above the Carolina coast at near the speed of sound. The lead jet was piloted by 39-year-old Lt Col William Rankin, a veteran of both World War 2 and the Korean War. He was accompanied by his wingman, Lt Herbert Nolan. The pilots were cruising at 47,000 feet to stay above a large, surly-looking column of cumulonimbus cloud which was amassing about a half mile below them, threatening to moisten the officers upon their arrival at the air field.<br />
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Mere minutes before they were scheduled to begin their descent towards Beaufort, William Rankin heard a decreasingly reassuring series of grinding sounds coming from his aircraft’s engine. The airframe shuddered, and most of the indicator needles on his array of cockpit instruments flopped into their fluorescent orange “something is horribly wrong” regions. The engine had stopped cold. As the unpowered aircraft dipped earthward, Lt Col Rankin switched on his Crusader’s emergency generator to electrify his radio. “Power failure,” Rankin transmitted matter-of-factly to Nolan. “May have to eject.”<br />
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Unable to restart his engine, and struggling to keep his craft from entering a near-supersonic nose dive, Rankin grasped the two emergency eject handles. He was mindful of his extreme altitude, and of the serious discomfort that would accompany the sudden decompression of an ejection; but although he lacked a pressure suit, he knew that his oxygen mask should keep him breathing in the rarefied atmosphere nine miles up. He was also wary of the ominous gray soup of a storm that lurked below; but having previously experienced a bail out amidst enemy fire in Korea, a bit of inclement weather didn’t seem all that off-putting. At approximately 6:00 pm, Lt Col Rankin concluded that his aircraft was unrecoverable and pulled hard on his eject handles. An explosive charge propelled him from the cockpit into the atmosphere with sufficient force to rip his left glove from his hand, scattering his canopy, pilot seat, and other plane-related debris into the sky. Bill Rankin had spent a fair amount of time skydiving in his career—both premeditated and otherwise—but this particular dive would be unlike any that he or any living person had experienced before.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/rankin-on-the-storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="entryImage left" height="243" src="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/rankin-on-the-storm.jpg" title="rankin-on-the-storm" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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As Rankin plunged toward the earth, licks of lightning darted through the massive, writhing storm cloud below him. Rankin had little attention to spare, however, given the disconcerting circumstances. The extreme cold in the upper atmosphere chilled his extremities, and the sudden change in air pressure had caused a vigorous nosebleed and an agonizing swelling in his abdomen. The discomfort was so extreme that he wondered whether the decompression effects would kill him before he reached the ground.<br />
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As the wind roared in his ears, he gasped up oxygen from his emergency breathing apparatus while resisting the urge to pull his parachute’s rip cord; its built-in barometer was designed to auto-deploy the parachute at a safe breathing altitude, and his supply of emergency oxygen was limited. Opening the chute early would prolong his descent and might result in death due to asphyxiation or hypothermia. Under normal circumstances one would expect about three and a half minutes of free-fall to reach the breathable altitude of 10,000 feet. The circumstances, however, were not normal.<br />
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After falling for a mere 10 seconds, Bill Rankin penetrated the top of the anvil-shaped storm. The dense gray cloud smothered out the summer sun, and the temperature dropped rapidly. In less than a minute the extreme cold and wind began to inflict Rankin’s extremities with frostbite; particularly his gloveless left hand. The wind was a cacophony inside his flight helmet. Freezing, injured, and unable to see more than a few feet in the murky cloud, the Lieutenant Colonel mustered all of his will to keep his hand far from the rip cord.<br />
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After falling through damp darkness for an interminable time, Rankin began to grow concerned that the automatic switch on his parachute had malfunctioned. He felt certain that he had been descending for several minutes, though he was aware that one’s sense of time is a fickle thing under such distracting circumstances. He fingered the rip cord anxiously, wondering whether to give it a yank. He’d lost all feeling in his left hand, and his other limbs weren’t faring much better. It was then that he felt a sharp and familiar upward tug on his harness–his parachute had deployed. It was too dark to see the chute’s canopy above him, but he tugged on the risers and concluded that it had indeed inflated properly. This was a welcome reprieve from the wet-and-windy free-fall.<br />
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Unfortunately for the impaired pilot, he was nowhere near the 10,000 foot altitude he expected. Strong updrafts in the cell had decreased his terminal velocity substantially, and the volatile storm had triggered his barometric parachute switch prematurely. Bill Rankin was still far from the earth, and he was now dangling helplessly in the belly of an oblivious monstrosity.<br />
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<img alt="" class="entryImage left" height="224" src="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/320x224xcumulonimbus-anvil.jpg.pagespeed.ic.Or455pqvJ0.jpg" title="cumulonimbus anvil" width="320" /><br />
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<span class="caption left" style="width: 320px;">A cumulonimbus “anvil” cloud.</span>“I’d see lightning,” Rankin would later muse, “Boy, do I remember that lightning. I never exactly heard the thunder; I felt it.” Amidst the electrical spectacle, the storm’s capricious winds pressed Rankin downward until he encountered the powerful updrafts—the same updrafts that keep hailstones aloft as they accumulate ice–which dragged him and his chute thousands of feet back up into the storm. This dangerous effect is familiar to paragliding enthusiasts, who unaffectionately refer to it as <i>cloud suck</i>. At the apex Rankin caught up with his parachute, causing it to drape over him like a wet blanket and stir worries that he would become entangled with it and drop from the sky at literally terminal velocity. Again he fell, and again the updrafts yanked him skyward in the darkness. He lost count of how many times this up-and-down cycle repeated. “At one point I got seasick and heaved,” he once retold.<br />
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At times the air was so saturated with suspended water that an intake of breath caused him to sputter and choke. He began to worry about the very strange—but very real–possibility of drowning in the sky. He began to feel his body being peppered by hailstones that were germinating in the pregnant storm cell, adding yet another concern: that the icy shrapnel might shred his fragile silk canopy.<br />
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Lt Col Rankin was uncertain how long he had been absorbing abuse when he began to notice that the violence of his undulations was ebbing. He was also beginning to regain some sensation in his numb limbs, indicating that temperatures were warming. And the rain—which had previously been splashing him from every conceivable direction—was now only falling from above.<br />
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Moments later the moist Marine emerged from the underside of the cumulonimbus cloud amidst a warm summer rain. Below was a flat expanse of North Carolina backcountry, with no immediate signs of civilization. But Rankin’s parachute was still functional, and he was just a few hundred feet from the ground, so all seemed relatively well. But the storm had one last parting gift. As Rankin neared the ground a sudden gust of wind whisked him into a thicket. Helpless, he was pushed into the branches of a tree where his parachute became ensnared, and his momentum caused him to plow headfirst into the trunk. Fortunately his flight helmet kept his brain box from taking any serious damage.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" class="entryImage" height="320" src="http://www.damninteresting.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/rankin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="rankin" width="221" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lt Col William Henry Rankin, U.S.M.C.</span></td></tr>
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Bill Rankin removed himself from the troublesome tree and assessed his situation. The time was 6:40 pm. Bill’s brutalized body had spent around forty minutes bobbing around the area of atmosphere which mountaineers refer to unfondly as the <i>Death Zone.</i> Applying his Marine training, Rankin started walking in a search pattern until he located a backroad. He stood at the roadside and attempted to flag down the automobiles that occasionally passed, but it took some time to find a passerby bold enough to brake for a soggy, bleeding, bruised, frost-bitten, and vomit-encrusted pilot. Finally an obliging stranger stopped and drove Rankin back to a country store in the nearby town of Ahoskie, NC where he used the phone to summon an ambulance. While he awaited its arrival he took the luxury of slumping to the floor for some much-needed rest.<br />
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In the aftermath of his ordeal Lt Col William Rankin spent several weeks recovering in the hospital. His injuries were surprisingly minor, however, consisting of superficial frostbite and a touch of decompression shock. He eventually returned to duty, and the following year he chronicled his perilous adventures in a now out-of-print book entitled<i>The Man Who Rode the Thunder.</i><br />
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No human before or since Bill Rankin is known to have parachuted through a cumulonimbus tower and lived to tell about it. Lt Col William Henry Rankin passed away on 06 July 2009, almost exactly 50 years after his harrowing and history-making ride on the storm. Cue epic organ solo.</div>Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682476305241175707noreply@blogger.com1