Tailspin's Tales

• WWI Flight Training Mystery Solved

2012-01-23T10:15:00.000-08:00

Working on that blog about WWI flying I finally figured out the mystery about my granfather Norman Dale's flying.

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.

But then the armistice was signed on November 18th, 1918—just two months after his graduation, and a few weeks later he was discharged.

Some details:

Training to Fly: Military Flight Training, 1907-1945
As indicated, quotas for observation pilots continued to be met fairly smoothly; not so with observers. The pilot overage further 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:

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.

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. 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. 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.

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."

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. 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.

KA-3B vs AGI

2012-01-23T10:12:00.000-08:00

A Vietnam War Story:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

• Know Where You're Going When You Volunteer

2012-01-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

2011 ended for us, on the next to last day, with the sale of our Twin Beech. We weren't flying her much for physical, financial, and business reasons, so we were happy to know she'll go to a place in Ohio and be flown and kept in a manner to which she was accustomed.

In the process we remade our acquaintance with Taigh Ramey, one of a handful of genuine Twin Beech experts around, and a thorough gentleman. His shop is in Stockton California, in the valley east of San Francisco, where we stopped on the way back home from Oregon when we bought the bird about eight years ago.

While reviewing the log books on our dining room table, here near San Diego, Bob Parmerter's wonderful, authoritative, and exhaustive book Beech 18: A Civil & Military History came up.

And that reminded me of a spiral bound collection of stories by former military flyers who had flown the Bugsmasher titled She's A Beech.

Taigh said he'd heard of it and would give anything to read it, and I knew I had a copy someplace.

So after their departure

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 as an author myself, I was brought up short by the line on the title page that 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, and then resolved to contact editor Tom Smith regardless.

In 1995 it would probably have been 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.

But on the last day of 2011, with help from Google, it was a matter of connecting a few dots and I found Tom's phone number on a RAFS (Real Aviators Flew Stoofs) forum, a Stoof being the iconic Navy/Grumman S-2F 'Tracker'.

And, boy, am I glad I called Tom. Even if you didn't know the 82-year-old was a Naval Aviator, you could tell 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 with pride, if even only metaphorically.

This was taken just after Tom's initial carrier qualification on the USS Monterey, December 1954.

We traded a few flying stories, and he graciously allowed me to share with you this story (that we'll get to eventually), and the attached PDF.

The details of how Tom manage to get the stories in the book, and background on the authors, are in the PDF. Tom, we salute you for your service and for your effort to preserve the stories about the C-45 that prove, She's A Beech.

This tale, modestly told when you think about what he actually did, is by Colonel Benjamin H. Shiffrin, USAF (Retired).

Ben graduated from Army Air Corps pilot training on August 15, 1941. After Pearl Harbor, he flew submarine patrol with C-47s, C-46s and 0-52—the Curtis Owl. People grew up fast in WW2, and just four years later, in January of '43, Ben was Commander of the 1st Arctic Search and Rescue Squadron, based in Greenland. In '45 he activated and commanded the 44th TC Squadron, flying C-46s with a mission of providing air drops on Japan.

After the war he operated a flying school, fixed base operation, and an aircraft sales and service business in Bethany, Connecticut. He was recalled to active duty in '47 as a Major, was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in 1951 and Bird Colonel in 1953. Among other prestigious assignments he was Base Commander of Kelly AFB. He retired in 1968 and started a new career as a successful company executive.

I think you'll enjoy this story, especially for the unusual and historic details in it:

KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING WHEN YOU VOLUNTEER

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.

Nothing was mentioned about what and where the rescue mission would be, or what type of aircraft was involved.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. I executed a hard landing with several bounces on the very rough runway.

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.

Hell, I was just glad to be alive!

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.

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.

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.

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!

The rescue, code-name PN9E, 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.

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.

Lt. Spencer and rescue man Sgt. Tatley on board the rescue plane.

All members of the B-17 crew survived.

Colonel Balchen, 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.

The complete story of the PN9E rescue effort is told in Hitch Your Wagon - The Story of Bernt Balchen, by Clayton Knight and Robert C, Durham, Bell Publishing Company, 1950.

Click here to download She's a Beech (PDF 3.8Mb)

• Human History Ends At Midnight

2012-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

If 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.

On our Calendar of Earth's Events, from January to March not much happens, our clump of space dirt was hot and dry. But as it cooled and collected water from comet impacts it didn't take long for life to get a metaphorical toe hold.

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 bacterial mat found in boiling water at the Old Faithful Geyser Basin, Yellowstone National Park.

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.

In mid-September fish crawl up on land and early reptiles preview the dawn of the dinosaur era, which continues through late November.

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.

By late December, the recognizable ancestors of modern mammals make their debut.

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.

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:

Dec 31 11:59:00PM - Cave paintings in Europe
Dec 31 11:59:20PM - Invention of agriculture
Dec 31 11:59:35PM - First towns
Dec 31 11:59:50PM - First dynasties in Egypt
Dec 31 11:59:51PM - Invention of alphabet
Dec 31 11:59:52PM - Bronze metallurgy, invention of compass
Dec 31 11:59:53PM - Iron metallurgy, founding of Carthage by Phoenicians
Dec 31 11:59:54PM - Ch'n Dynsasty China, birth of Buddha
Dec 31 11:59:55PM - Euclidean geometry, Roman Empire, birth of Christ
Dec 31 11:59:56PM - Zero and decimals invented, birth of Mohammed
Dec 31 11:59:57PM - Mayan civilization, Byzantine empire, Crusades
Dec 31 11:59:58PM - Renaissance in Europe, voyages of discovery, science
Dec 31 11:59:59PM - Technology, planetary exploration

As for the future, well:

Taking a positive view:
Jan 01 00:00:01AM - Life found on planets, genetic engineering, robots
Jan 01 00:00:02AM - Extraterrestrial intelligence, interstellar exploration
Jan 01 00:00:03AM - Artificial intelligence, cyborgs, space colonization

Taking a negative view:
Jan 01 00:00:01AM - Religious wars
Jan 01 00:00:02AM - Cave paintings
Jan 01 00:00:03AM - First towns

• The Shepherd (A Christmas Tale)

2011-12-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

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 Flight Sumulator X, the airfield and terrain is actually, well... virtually that is, Celle.)

Born in Ashford, Kent, Forsyth became one of the youngest pilots in the Royal Air Force, at the age of 19, where he served till 1958. Becoming a journalist, he joined Reuters in 1961 and the BBC in 1965, where he served as an assistant diplomatic correspondent. He is best known for thrillers such as The Day of the Jackal and The Odessa File.

This is a book that belongs in your library. And for just 39¢ plus shipping you can have one a used paperback copy or for $50 a first edition, first printing collectable from Amazon resellers.

(Click images to enlarge)

-=-

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Charlie Delta..."

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.

"Charlie Delta... Control," I responded.

"Charlie Delta, clear take-off," he said.

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.

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.

"Charlie Delta, clear airfield, wheels up and locked," I said into my oxygen mask.

"Charlie Delta, roger, over to Channel D," said the controller, and then, before I could change radio channels added, "Happy Christmas."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Celle Charlie Delta, Celle Charlie Delta, calling North Beveland Control..."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"When we are totally lost above unbroken cloud, gentlemen, we must consider the necessity of bailing out of our aircraft, must we not?"

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?

"Our first move, therefore, is to turn our aircraft towards the open sea, away from all areas of intense human habitation."

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.

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.

"One last procedure, gentlemen, to be used in extreme emergency."

That's better, Sergeant Norris, that's what I'm in now.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

HURRY UP, MAN, HURRY.

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.

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.

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.

Without warning the shepherd pointed a single forefinger at me, then forward through the windscreen. It meant There you are, fly on and land. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

"Hallo there."

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.

"That yours? He nodded towards the dim share of the Vampire.

"Yes, I said, I just landed it."

"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.

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.

"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.

"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."

He spent several minutes digesting the information carefully.

"Straordinary, he said at length. No compass?"

"No compass. Flying in the approximate direction by the moon. As far as the coast, or where I judged it to be. After that..

"No radio?"

"No radio, I said. A dead box on all channels."

"Then how did you find this place? he asked.

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.

"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."

He shrugged, as if to say if you insist. Finally he said:

"Damn lucky, all the same. I'm surprised the other chap managed to find the place."

"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."

The man was obviously dense, as well as drunk.

"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?"

"No, he said, this is R.A.F Minton."

"I've never heard of it,“ I said at last.

"I'm not surprised. We're not an operational station. Haven't been for years. Minton's a storage depot. Excuse me."

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.

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.

"Just turning the runway lights off," he said, and belched.

My mind was whirling. This was mad, crazy, illogical. Yet there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.

"Why did you switch them on?" I asked.

"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."

"I see," I said, but I didn't. But there had to be an explanation.

"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."

You can say that again, I thought. The mystery puzzled me for another few minutes. Then I hit on the explanation.

"Where is R.A.F Minton, exactly?" I asked him.

"Five miles in from the coast, inland from Cromer. That's where we are," he said.

"And where's the nearest operational R.A.F station with all the radio aids including GCA?"

He thought for a minute.

"Must be Merriam Saint George," he said." They must have all those things. Mind you, I'm just a stores Johnny."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

It seemed sensible. In his position I'd probably have done the same.

"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."

"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?"

I nodded. By this time I presumed old Joe was the mess steward.

"That will do fine. While I'm waiting, do you mind if I use your phone?"

"Certainly, certainly, of course, you'll have to check in."

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.

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.

"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.

"R.A.F Merriam Saint George," said a man's voice. Duty sergeant speaking from the guard-room, I thought.

"Duty Controller, Air Traffic Control, please," I said. There was a pause.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the voice, "may I ask who's calling?"

I gave him my name and rank. Speaking from R.A.F Minton, I told him.

"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."

"Then give me the station duty officer, please."

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.

"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."

There was a pause and then an older voice came on the line. I explained the matter again.

"Where are you speaking from?" he said after noting my name, rank and the station I was based at.

"R.A.F Minton, sir. I've just made an emergency landing here. Apparently it's nearly abandoned."

"Yes, I know," he drawled. "Damn bad luck. Do you want us to send a Tilly for you?"

"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."

"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."

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"

"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?"

I was getting exasperated. Wing commander he might have been, but he had had a skinful this Christmas Eve.

"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."

"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."

"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."

I asked the next and last question slowly and carefully.

"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."

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.

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.

"Gloucester?" said the operator. "At this time of night?"

"Yes, I replied firmly, Gloucester, at this time of night."

One thing about weather squadrons, they're always on duty. The duty meteorologist took the call. I explained the position to him.

"I'm afraid there must be some mistake, Flying Officer," he said. "It could not have been one of ours."

"Look, that is R.A.F Gloucester, right?"

"Yes, it is. Duty Met. Officer speaking."

"Fine. And your unit flies Mosquitoes to take pressure and temperature readings at altitude, right?"

"Wrong, "he said. "We used to use Mosquitoes. They went out of service three months ago. We now use Canberras."

I sat holding the telephone, staring at it in disbelief. Then an idea came to me.

"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.

"They were scrapped, I think, or sent off to museums, more likely. They're getting quite rare nowadays, you know."

"I know, I said. Could one of them have been sold privately?"

"I suppose it's possible," he said at length. “It would depend on Air Ministry policy. But I think they went to aircraft museums."

"Thank you. Thank you very much. And Happy Christmas."

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.

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.

"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?"

I greeted him with more friendliness than last time, which he deserved.

"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.

"Good evening, sir,“ he said. “I'm Joe, sir. I'm the mess steward."

"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."

"Yes, Mr. Marks told me. I'll have your room ready directly. Soon as this fire burns up, it'll be quite cosy”

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.

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.

"You been here long, Joe? I asked him, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

"Oh, yes, sir, nigh on twenty years; since just before the war when the station opened."

"You've seen some changes, eh? Wasn't always like this."

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"I'll close it, sir," the old man said, and made to put all the plates back down again.

"No, I'll do it."

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.

"Who's the pilot, Joe?"

"The pilot, sir?"

I nodded towards the lonely photograph on the mantel shelf

"Oh, I see, sir. That's a photo of Mr. Kavanagh. He was here during the war, sir."

He placed the wineglass on top of the topmost plate in his hands.

"Kavanagh?" I walked back to the picture and studied it closely.

"Yes, sir. An Irish gentleman. A very fine man, if I may say so. As a matter of fact, sir, this was his room."

"What squadron was that, Joe?" I was still peering at the aircraft in the background.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

I had no doubt I could trace the man, probably through the Royal Aero club.

"He was certainly a good pilot" I said reflectively, thinking of this evening's performance.

"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."

"He didn't drink? I asked.

"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."

I frowned. These big bombers had their own bases to go to.

"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."

"I've seen pictures of them," I admitted. And some of them fly in air parades. "And he used to guide them back?"

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.

"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."

I turned from the photograph and stubbed my cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bed. Joe was at the door.

"Quite a man, I said, and I meant it. Even today, middle-aged, he was a superb flier."

"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.

"Well, I said, by the look of it, he's still doing it."

Now Joe smiled.

"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."

• Rider on the Storm

2011-11-01T14:54:00.000-07:00

by Alan Bellows

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A cumulonimbus “anvil” cloud.“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 cloud suck. 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.

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.

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.

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.

Lt Col William Henry Rankin, U.S.M.C.

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 Death Zone. 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.

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 entitledThe Man Who Rode the Thunder.

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.

• Do One More Roll For Me

2011-07-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

Jerry Coffee

by Capt Jerry Coffee, USN (Ret) [a Vietnam POW]

One night during a bombing raid on Hanoi, I peeked out of my cell and watched a flight of four F-105s during their bombing run.

As they pulled up, it was obvious that lead was badly hit. Trailing smoke, he broke from the formation and I watched the damaged bird until it disappeared from sight. I presumed the worst. As I lay there in my cell reflecting on the image, I composed a toast to the unfortunate pilot and all the others who had gone before him.

On New Year's Eve 1968, Captain Tom Storey and I were in the Stardust section of Hoa Lo (wa-low) Prison. I whispered the toast under the door to Tom. Tom was enthralled, and despite the risk of terrible punishment, insisted that I repeat it several more times until he had it committed to memory. He then promised me that when the time came, and we were again free men, he would give the toast at the first Dining-In he attended.

Tom Storey

For you civilians, a Dining-In is a dreary formal affair with drinks, dinner, and forced joviality and comradeship where officers get to dress up like the head waiters in "The Merry Widow" -- that's the American version; I've heard that the Brits, who created the damn things, have a rollicking good time.

Tom's first assignment following release in 1973 was to the U.S. Air ForceAcademy. During that same year the Academy hosted the Annual Conference for General Officers and Those Associated Dining-In. The jovial clinking of glasses accompanied all the traditional speeches and toasts. Then it was Tom's turn. Remembering his promise so many years earlier, he proposed Jerry's "One More Roll." When he was finished there was total silence.

We toast our hearty comrades who have fallen from the sky,and were gently caught by Gods own hands to be with him on high.
To dwell among the soaring clouds they have known so well before,from victory roll to tail chase at heavens very door.
And as we fly among them there, we're sure to hear their plea:Take care, my friend, watch your six, and do one more roll for me.

A toast to all our comrades -- POWs, missing in action, living or dead, whatever their duty, whatever their war, whatever their uniform.

• Hunting Hugo

2011-05-14T08:34:00.000-07:00

In September of 1989, a NOAA hurricane hunter airplane intercepted Hurricane Hugo as it approached the Caribbean islands, just before Hugo's destructive rampage through the Caribbean and South Carolina. The crew of the airplane were the first people to encounter the mighty hurricane--and very nearly became its first victims. The mission remains the most harrowing flight ever conducted by the NOAA hurricane hunters. I served as flight meteorologist on that flight, and feel fortunate indeed to be able to tell the story.

Dr. Jeff Masters
Chief Meteorologist
Weather Underground, Inc.

click to enlarge

Pre-flight

The hot tropical sun beats down on me as I cross the tarmac at Barbados's Grantly Adams field. I look to the northeast, scanning the sky for signs of Hurricane Hugo's outer cloud bands, but see only the puffy fair weather cumulus clouds typical of a tropical summer morning. I continue to the waiting aircraft. The flight engineers and maintenance crew are already hard at work, fueling the airplane and completing their pre-flight inspections. I climb the ladder and step into one of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's (NOAA's) P-3 Orion "Hurricane Hunter" aircraft--NOAA 42, affectionately called "The Princess", my partner in many memorable missions.

The interior of the aircraft buzzes with activity. Our electronic engineers stride about, powering up computers, checking scientific instruments, and tinkering with delicate circuit boards. Five scientists from NOAA's Hurricane Research Division huddle together, pointing at charts spread out over a table, and talk intently about today's mission--the Hurricane Energetics Experiment, designed to study the mechanisms responsible for hurricane intensification. I cut through the crowd and make my way to the flight director's station, located just behind the cockpit. Sitting down, I dig out the essential items for today's flight--aviation charts, flight plan, instrument calibration tables, today's passenger roster.

With practiced efficiency, I power on the computer monitors, radar displays, and scientific instrumentation located at my station, then sit down and query the on-board main computer about the status of each of the approximately 50 meteorological instruments we carry. My preliminary check shows everything working as expected, so I proceed with my next task--checking with each crew member to determine their state of readiness. I step into the cockpit and greet the cockpit crew.

Lowell Genzlinger is Aircraft Commander, a veteran of 249 hurricane eye penetrations. There is no better pilot in the business. My pre-flight tension wanes just a bit, seeing him in the cockpit, in charge. We work well together, having just completed a three month-long winter storm project in Maine.

Co-pilot is Gerry McKim, a relative newcomer to hurricane flying, but a Navy P-3 pilot for 20 years before coming to NOAA. This is his second year flying hurricanes. He is working towards becoming an aircraft commander, and will be the pilot during today' s eye penetrations.

Rounding out the flight crew is flight engineer Steve Wade, also in just his second year of hurricane flying. His job is to monitor engine performance, fuel consumption, and other critical aircraft functions.

The cockpit crew have no complications to report, so I proceed to the middle of the aircraft to confer with our electronic engineers. They have the demanding task of keeping the three radars, three computers, and over 50 scientific and navigation instruments running on an airplane pounded by the worst weather on the planet. They do a phenomenal job keeping the instruments and data collection hardware (which they custom designed themselves) running, and I never cease to be amazed at their ability to rapidly trouble-shoot and fix problems during missions.

Veterans Alan Goldstein and Terry Schricker hold down the fort today, along with newcomer Neal Rain. They are having some problems with the lower fuselage radar, but the rest of their systems are go. Terry thinks he can have things working well enough by take-off, so I promise to check back in a few minutes.

I continue my rounds, checking with navigator Sean White and radio operator Tom Nunn. They report no problems, so I head to the back of the aircraft where the five mission scientists work on last minute details of the flight plan.

The science team is a veritable "Who's Who" in the science of hurricane research. The director of NOAA's Hurricane Research Division (and future head of the National Hurricane Center), Bob Burpee, leads the science team. The rest of the team consists of Frank Marks, Jr., Hugh Willoughby, Pete Black, and Peter Dodge. Frank is lead mission scientist today.

We converse briefly about today's mission, a two-aircraft research mission into newly-formed Hurricane Hugo. The high altitude aircraft, NOAA 43, will fly at 20,000 feet and circle the periphery of the storm, and will study the hurricane's large scale environment. Our aircraft, NOAA 42, will repeatedly penetrate the eye at the lowest safe altitude, and gather detailed information on the low-level storm environment and air-sea interaction. No hurricane hunter aircraft have penetrated the storm yet--we will be the first humans to see Hurricane Hugo!

I feel excited and nervous about our upcoming flight--the view inside the eye of a mature hurricane's eye at low altitude is an incredibly spectacular sight. The only catch is that in order to get there, we must fly directly through the hurricane's strongest winds and most violent turbulence--the dangerous eyewall.

Today, we are pushing the limits of safe hurricane flying by going into the eyewall at 1,500 feet, the altitude where the hurricane's winds and turbulence are at their worst. It is my prime job as flight director to ensure the safety of the mission from a meteorological perspective, and call for a climb to a higher, safer altitude if I judge that the storm is too dangerous. Frank and I agree to determine what altitude we will penetrate the storm at once we get airborne and get a good look at Hugo with our weather radars.

The ground crew is not quite done fueling the airplane, so I take the time to talk to our guest from Barbados. Today's victim is Janice Griffith, a reporter with the Barbados Sun newspaper. My boss, Jim McFadden, along for the ride today as an observer, walks over to join in the conversation. Janice has just received her pre-flight safety briefing from Lowell, the Aircraft Commander. The briefing covered important items like how to use the life preservers and life rafts, how to fasten the heavy duty lap and shoulder belts needed during turbulent flight, and where the barf bags are located.

She looks wide-eyed and excited. No doubt, though, she is wondering about the wisdom of hopping a ride with a band of nuts that would deliberately fly into nature's most ferocious storms.

"Where are the parachutes?" she asks, when Lowell finishes the briefing and asks her if she has any questions.

Lowell and Jim and I look at each other, and smile. Same old question.

"We don't carry parachutes," Lowell answers. "Where we're going, a parachute won't do you any good."

Jim cheers her up by saying, "Hey, it can be dangerous, but we haven't lost an airplane yet, in over 30 years of flying."

While we talk, ground crew chief Burt Kinney appears beside me and interrupts.

"Hey, we're all fueled up and ready to go down there. You got the pink sheet?"

"Right here!" I reply, holding out my clipboard with the pink roster sheet attached to it. "Hang on, let me do a final body count, and check with Alan and Terry one more time."

I trot over to the radar station and check with Terry and Alan.

"You guys ready?" I ask.

"Let's go!" replies Terry. "We've got the radar working."

"Excellent!" I reply. Quickly, I stride to the front of the aircraft, then to the back, counting each person as I go, making sure 16 people are on board. When I reach the sixteenth person (myself!), I head over to the door where Burt awaits.

"Sixteen souls, and no stragglers," I say, handing the pink roster sheet to him. Should we not return, the pink sheet will be used to notify our next of kin. I feel a queasy sense of anxiety, as I always do, when I see Burt disappear down the ladder with the pink sheet clutched in his hand.

Terry hauls up the ladder, shuts the door, locks it down, and gives me a thumbs up. Time to go. The first people to see Hurricane Hugo, and at low altitude! Excitement, tempered by an undercurrent of anxiety, energizes me as I stride up to the cockpit. I step in, hold up a thumb to Lowell, Gerry, and Steve.

"OK, the door is shut and the crew is ready to go!" I yell.

"Roger! Prepare to start engines!" replies Lowell.

I take my seat, fasten my seat belt, don my headset, and prepare for takeoff.

Takeoff

At last, take off. The familiar roar of the engines shake the aircraft as the thrust of take off pushes me back into my seat. The lush greenery of Barbados rushes past, then falls away as the big plane lumbers into the air. We cross the coast, the spectacular turquoise-blue waters of the Caribbean sparkling up at us in the intense tropical sunshine. The tranquillity and beauty of the scene make it difficult to believe a huge, destructive hurricane lurks a mere hour's flight away.

We climb to 10,000 feet and level off, heading northeast. I check the lower fuselage radar display. The bright reds and yellows of Hugo's outermost spiral rain bands have already appeared. It is a huge storm, over 400 miles in diameter.

"Look at that radar presentation!" I exclaim over the intercom.

"Yeah, that's a pretty good looking storm," replies Frank Marks, lead scientist. "Looks like it has its act together."

Radar reflectivity plot of Hugo from the lower fuselage radar.
"Hey Jeff, what kind of track do you want?" interrupts Gerry, from the cockpit.

"Let's go with a track of oh-seven-oh until we start getting near the outer spiral band," I reply.

"Turning to oh-seven-oh!" says Gerry.

Gerry banks the airplane to bring us to a heading of oh-seven-oh degrees, and levels us out. I begin studying the lower fuselage radar display to gauge Hugo's intensity and position in more detail. Suddenly, a blank screen meets my gaze.

"We just lost the radar system," I hear electronic engineer Al Goldstein say over the intercom, before I have a chance to report the problem. "Terry's got the circuit boards pulled, and we're checking things out."

This is not good. Loss of the radar slung under the lower fuselage and the Doppler radar located in the tail severely limits our ability to estimate the strength of the hurricane and determine a safe altitude to fly at. Moreover, the radar data is critical to the experiment we are conducting. The science team may want to delay the mission while repairs happen. I unbuckle my seat belt and walk to the rear of the aircraft, where the scientists are already discussing the problem.

"Frank, do you want to orbit here while Al and Terry work on the radar?" I yell over the noise of the engines, when I arrive.

"No, let's hold this heading and see if they can get it fixed while we ferry to the storm," Frank replies. "Terry and Alan can do some pretty amazing repair jobs--I'm betting they can get it fixed soon. We'll re-evaluate in about 20 minutes."

Nodding, I head back up front, take my seat, and inform the crew of the plan. I think it is a wise one--Terry and Alan are the best in the business. Odds are, they will get things fixed in time to perform the entire mission as planned. We drone on towards the now-invisible storm.

As the next 20 minutes pass, I check my data displays, snap a few photographs out my window of the distant storm clouds, and wait restlessly for radar display to reappear. It is an uncomfortable feeling, flying blind towards a huge hurricane of unknown intensity. We are the first hurricane hunter airplane to intercept the storm, so we have only satellite estimates of how strong the hurricane is--and satellite estimates are notoriously unreliable. This is why the National Hurricane Center relies heavily on the information provided by hurricane hunter aircraft to issue accurate hurricane forecasts and warnings. An Air Force airplane is scheduled to fly a reconnaissance mission today, but we will beat it there.

Finally, just five minutes from our planned descent point and only fifteen minutes from Hugo's first spiral band, the radar display flickers back on.

"It's back--for now," Alan tersely informs us.

"Great work, Alan and Terry!" responds Frank Marks.

Immediately, I lean in close to my screen and study the newly restored radar display. Hugo has an impressive symmetry, with two major spiral bands and a 12-mile diameter eye--pretty tight by hurricane standards, and difficult to orbit inside should we get in trouble and need to stay in the eye. I've been in several other hurricanes with eyes this small, and both were rough, intense storms undergoing rapid deepening. Hugo may be doing the same. I look closely at the eyewall--a tight ring of bright orange and red echoes surrounding the eye. Checking the echo intensity scale at the side of the display, I find that the radar information looks consistent with this morning's satellite estimates of Hugo's intensity--winds of 130 mph and a central pressure of 950 millibars, a strong category three storm on a scale of one to five.

My examination of the radar display is fairly hurried, and I fail to notice that the strongest echos from the radar display are off scale. Typically, one of us takes the time during the ferry to a hurricane to properly scale the radar reflectivities, but no one has done so this time, because of radar system's failure during approach.

Frank appears at my station, and I remove my headset to talk.

"Looks like an impressive storm!" He shouts above the noise of the four engines. "We need to do the mission at an altitude that's low, but no so low that its real rough and we get bad radar data."

"Well, Hugo's definitely getting his act together," I shout back. "Do you still want to try it at 1,500 feet?"

"Well, we got away with it in Hurricane Gabrielle last week, and Hugo looks like it's about the same strength. Let's try the first penetration at 1,500, and if it's too rough, we'll climb to 5,000," he answers.

"OK, 1,500 it is!" I yell back. As Frank disappears back into the cockpit to take the chief scientist's seat, I get on the intercom.

"Lowell, they want to go in at 1,500 feet. How do you feel about that?" I sound and feel nervous about this choice.

"Fifteen hundred, hey?" he responds. I can tell by his tone of voice he feels none too comfortable with this choice, either. "I'd be happier at 5,000."

"Yeah, me too. But we got away with it last week in Gabrielle, and if it's rough on the first penetration, we can do the rest of the mission at 5,000."

"All right," sighs Lowell. "We'll take her down to 1,500 and see how it goes. Are you happy with this track?"

"Looks OK for now, we may want to adjust a bit when we get down to 1,500. Standby, we're almost at our descent point."

I wait a minute until we arrive at our planned descent point, then give the command, "OK, let's descend to 1,500 feet at 1,000 feet per minute."

"All right, here we go!" replies Lowell.

Approach

The big plane noses down into its descent. My stomach flutters from the brief sensation of weightlessness--and the knowledge that we are now only a few minutes away from our rendezvous with the eye of Hurricane Hugo, at 1,500 feet!

I look out my window, and watch the ocean grow closer. Powerful wind gusts of 40 to 50 mph drive crescent-shaped white-capped waves over the ocean surface. A thin haze of high cirrus clouds dims the sun; the water sparkles a dull blue color. We cross over several hurricane feeder bands--tall heaps of piled cumulus clouds arranged in picturesque lines that spiral into the eyewall. Ahead, the first major spiral band--an ominous dark mass of forbidding cumulonimbus clouds--blocks our path.

"OK, leveling out at 1,500 feet," calls out Lowell. "How does this track look?"

I study the radar display and wind readings for a moment and respond, "Let's hold this track through this spiral band, and see what things look like when we pop out on the other side."

"OK, sounds good," he replies. "We're getting pretty close now, time to button things up."

"SET CONDITION ONE!" Lowell's voice crackles over the aircraft's loudspeakers and intercom. When announced by the Aircraft Commander, Condition One requires all hands to return to their seats and prepare for turbulence. Throughout the airplane, the crew stashes away flight bags, clip boards, and other loose items that could turn into dangerous missiles in severe turbulence. I buckle my heavy-duty seat belt, but don't bother with the shoulder harness. The turbulence in a spiral band is never too bad. I give a thumbs up to navigator Sean White across the aisle from me.

Twilight falls. Thick grey clouds engulf us. The winds jump to 85 mph. Minor turbulent wind gusts bounce and bump the aircraft, and a new sound joins the ever-present roar of the engines--the clatter of heavy rain lashing the fuselage.

Two minutes later, the sky lightens and the turbulence suddenly stops. We emerge from the spiral band into the clear. A typical spiral band penetration, no big deal. I note the position and strength of the spiral band winds in my log, then turn my attention to the wind readings. The wind has dropped to 50 mph, with a slight shift in direction. Good. With a wind this low between the spiral band and eyewall, it is unlikely that Hugo is more than a category three storm. I check the lower fuselage radar display again. Look at that eyewall! The glowing red donut of the eyewall is closer, only ten minutes away now, and much more impressive. I suppress an urge to call for a climb to 5,000 feet.

I adjust my radar display to zoom in on the eye. The bright oranges and reds of the eyewall lie before us, growing closer and more ominous with each sweep of the radar. The eyewall looks frightening, impenetrable, now just seven minutes away. I suppress another urge to chicken out and order a climb to 5,000 feet. The intercom is silent, but I feel the unspoken tension of the crew. I wait for either Frank or Lowell to order a climb to 5,000 feet. Neither of them do.

Three minutes from the eyewall, now, still time to order a climb to 5,000 feet. I check my wind readings. Winds are well below hurricane force--a mere 60 mph. This is remarkably low, so close to the eyewall. Hugo may not even be a category three storm! I make my final decision not to order a climb to 5,000 feet. We're going in at 1,500! I look out my window at the approaching eyewall, a tall dark wall of forbidding thunderstorm clouds. "Foolish mistake!" I imagine the threatening voice of Hurricane Hugo saying to me.

Into the Eyewall

We hit the eyewall. Darkness falls. Powerful gusts of winds tear at the aircraft, slamming us from side to side. Torrential rains hammer the airplane. Through my rain-streaked window, I watch the left wingtip flex down a meter, then up a meter, then down two meters through the gloomy dark-grey twilight. My stomach is clenched into a tight knot. The ride is choppy, uncomfortable.

I grab the computer console with both hands, trying to steady my vision on the blurred computer readouts. I don't like what I see. The winds are rising too quickly, the pressure falling too fast. Hugo is far more powerful than expected. The aircraft lurches and bucks in severe turbulence.

Thirty seconds in, a minute and a half to go. The turbulence grows worse, second only to the incredible turbulence we encountered in Hurricane Emily in 1987 as it made landfall on the mountains of Hispanolia. During that flight, we hit the highest G forces ever encountered by our P-3.s in a hurricane--three G's--and had to abort the flight when the extreme turbulence caused a dangerous resonant vibration in the wings.

Hugo is stronger than Emily. I am very concerned. We should not be at 1,500 feet!

I fumble for the intercom switch, find it. "Winds are 135 mph, surface pressure 960 millibars," I say. "Hugo's at least a category 4."

Frank breaks in. "Lowell, Jeff, this ride is way too rough! Let's climb to 5,000 when we finish this penetration."

"Roger!" is Lowell's terse reply. Both he and Gerry must wrestle with the controls of the airplane. The turbulence is so violent that one pilot alone cannot stay in control. There is no possibility of climbing now; the pilots need the full power of the engines just to keep the airplane flying straight and level.

One minute in, one minute to go. The intercom goes silent as everyone hangs on and the pilots concentrate on getting us through the eyewall. I watch the winds and the track of the aircraft to ensure we are on course to the eye. Gerry does a great job fighting off the turbulence and keeping the airplane on track. I don't need to order any course corrections. Winds are now 155 mph, still rising. Pressure 955 millibars, dropping fast. The turbulence grows extreme. Hugo is almost a category five hurricane.

A fierce updraft wrenches the airplane, slams us into our seats with twice the force of gravity. Seconds later, we dangle weightless as a stomach-wrenching downdraft slams us downward. Clipboards, headsets, and gear bags spill loose and slide across the cabin floor.

Another updraft, much stronger, grabs the aircraft. I regret forgetting to fasten my shoulder harness, as I struggle to keep from bashing into the computer console. Seconds later, a huge downdraft blasts us, hurling the loosened gear against walls and floor. Gerry and Lowell are barely in control of the aircraft. Grimly, I hang on to my console against the violent turbulence and watch the numbers. A 20 mph updraft. A 22 mph downdraft. Sustained winds now 185 mph, gusting to 196 mph. Pressure plummeting, down to 930 millibars. Hugo is a category five hurricane, and we are in the eyewall at 1500 feet! One strong downdraft has the power to send us plunging into the ocean. We have no options other than to gut it out and make it to the eye, where we can climb to a safer altitude.

A minute and a half gone, half a minute to go. A colossal 45 mph updraft seizes the airplane. A shower of loose gear flies through the cabin as the airplane lurches violently. Gerry fights the updraft off, keeps the airplane level and headed towards the eye. We're almost there!

"Looks like it's lightening up out there!" Lowell's relieved voice breaks the intense silence. Sure enough, the sky lightens, the clouds thin, the rain abates. We are at the edge of the eyewall. A big smile of jubilation erases my anxious frown. We got away with a penetration at 1,500 feet in a category five storm!

Then Disaster

Thick dark clouds suddenly envelop the aircraft. A titanic fist of wind, three times the force of gravity, smashes us. I am thrown into the computer console, bounce off, and for one terrifying instant find myself looking DOWN at a precipitous angle at Sean across the aisle from me.

A second massive jolt rocks the aircraft. Gear loosened by the previous turbulence flies about the inside the aircraft, bouncing off walls, ceiling, and crew members. Next to Terry Schricker, our 200-pound life raft breaks loose and hurtles into the ceiling. Neil Rain fends off screwdrivers, wrenches, and his airborne toolbox with his arms. The locked drawers in the galley rip open, and a cooler loaded with soft drink cans explodes into the air, showering Alan Goldstein with ice and 12-ounce cans. Hugh Willoughby watches as invisible fingers pry loose his portable computer from its mounting, and hurl it into the ceiling, ripping a gash in the tough ceiling fabric. At the radar station, Peter Dodge shields himself and the Barbados reporter from two flying briefcases. Next to them, Bob Burpee grabs two airborne boxes of computer tapes, but has no more hands to grab a third box of tapes that smashes against the ceiling, sending the tapes caroming through the cabin.

A third terrific blow, almost six times the force of gravity, staggers the airplane. Clip boards, flight bags, and headsets sail past my head as I am hurled into the console. Terrible thundering crashing sounds boom through the cabin; I hear crew members crying out. I scream inwardly. "This is what it feels like to die in battle", I think. We are going down. The final moments of the five hurricane hunter missions that never returned must have been like this.

The aircraft lurches out of control into a hard right bank. We plunge towards the ocean, our number three engine in flames. Debris hangs from the number four engine.

The turbulence suddenly stops. The clouds part. The darkness lifts. We fall into the eye of Hurricane Hugo.

The Eye of Hugo

WE'VE GOT FIRE COMING OUT OF NUMBER THREE!" Terry's urgent cry shatters the stunned silence on the intercom.

"And I see something hanging from number four," adds Sean, his voice sounding strangely calm.

For several eternal terrifying seconds, I watch the massive, white-frothed waves below us grow huge and close. I wait for impact, praying for survival. With two engines damaged, both on the same wing, I know that our odds are not good.

But my prayers are answered by the cool, professional reaction of the cockpit crew. Gerry snaps us up out of the right-rolling dive, a perilous 880 feet from the water. Steve Wade hits the kill switch on engine number three, and the 30-foot long flames shooting out of it die as the flow of fuel chokes off. Lowell and Frank take charge of keeping us in the eye, scanning the inside to size up where our path should take us.

A dark mass of clouds lies directly ahead, seconds away. Is it the eyewall? Or merely harmless low scud in the eye? There is no time think, no time to plan the best flight path. We must turn now to avoid the clouds. If we hit the eyewall again at this altitude, the storm will surely kill us. We must stay in the eye.

"It's clear to the right!" Lowell shouts out. Immediately, Gerry throws us into a hard right roll. I look at my radar display, and quickly compute our position. A right turn is the wrong choice! We popped into the eye off-center, on its right side, and now must trace out an almost impossibly tight four-mile diameter circle to stay in the eye. The dark clouds that Gerry turned us from were merely harmless low level scud in the eye. We should have turned left! It is too late to call for a course change, though. We are committed to this turn.

Tense seconds pass. I watch the wind speed indicator as the winds slowly increase--30 mph, 40 mph, 50 mph. The eyewall grows closer, a huge ominous wall of seething dark clouds spinning past my window. Gerry has us banked over as far as he dares, at a 30 degree angle. The airplane cannot sustain a tighter turn without its number three engine.

I can see only a blurred, white wall of clouds, frighteningly close, out my window. I lean out into the aisle to see the view out the cockpit window. The view is the same--a white wall of turbulent clouds spinning by at a dizzying speed. I see Frank standing up, craning his head towards the right upper window, straining to see where we are headed. "Keep on coming!" I hear him call out to the pilots. The left wingtip is now just a few hundred feet from the eyewall.

A fist of clouds protrudes out from the eyewall, blocking our path. We penetrate. Turbulence rocks the aircraft. The winds jump to 75 mph, hurricane force. We are in the eyewall. Gerry banks us even harder right, a 35 degree roll. We are dangerously close to stalling. An eternal few seconds later, we emerge into the eye again.

"Keep on coming!" I hear Frank say, once again.

Again, eyewall clouds grab at the airplane, shaking us with frightening turbulence. Another eternity later, we pop out in the clear as Gerry maneuvers us out of the clouds, keeping us barely within the eye. We are now fast approaching the deadly part of the eyewall where we originally entered the eye. Our turn is nearly complete.

"That's it, you've got it!" I hear Frank exclaim.

Gerry relaxes the steep bank, and heads us into the center of the eye. A few seconds later, he puts us into a left roll that will keep us comfortably in the eye for as long as we want to circle. He brings the nose of the aircraft up, and we begin a steady spiraling climb. The immediate danger is past.

Awesome, Terrifying, Supernatural

I look out my window, and behold the eye of Hurricane Hugo in its full fury. It is awesome, terrifying, supernatural. the eyewall, a towering prison of blinding-white, boiling, virulent clouds, rings us on all sides. We are so low that I can see beneath the ragged bottom edge of the eyewall clouds, where Hugo's 160 mph surface winds whip the ocean surface into a greenish-white blur. Below us, the ocean churns in a frightening chaotic frenzy of colliding 50-foot high waves.

I watch with fascinated dread as white masses of tortured clouds bulge in and out along the eyewall, the whole structure slowly rotating around us.

"You are not welcome here," I imagine the fearsome voice of Hurricane Hugo saying, "and I may well destroy you for your insolence, for you must penetrate my eyewall one more time to escape." I angrily curse myself for failing my primary duty, ensuring the safety of the mission from a meteorological perspective. My job today is done. It is now up to Gerry and Lowell to get us out of the crisis I got us into.

Lowell's voice comes on the intercom: "OK, we're going to circle in the eye as long as we can and climb to our maximum altitude before we attempt to punch out through the eyewall. Is anyone injured back there?"

Jim McFadden's shaken voice responds, "We're all OK back here, but the cabin is a mess!"

"All right," Lowell continues, "Number three engine is shut down, and it looks like we got the fire fully extinguished. Can anyone back there take a good look at number four and tell us what it looks like?"

Across the aisle from me, Sean looks out his window and responds, "It looks like it might be a dislodged de-icing boot."

"Well, let's hope it doesn't tear of and get caught in the propeller," says Lowell. "We need to lighten the plane up as much as possible to gain altitude, so we'll be dumping fuel. I'll want all communications equipment and electrical gear that could cause a spark powered off."

A new voice, that of Dave Turner, commander of NOAA 43, breaks in: "NOAA 42, this is NOAA 43, come in."

"Dave, we can't talk now!" cries Lowell. "We've got a serious emergency on board! We're in the eye with only three engines, have damage to another, and are preparing to dump fuel."

"Oh my!" says Dave. There is a pause as the seriousness of our situation sinks in. "Okay, we'll come into the eye and look out for you. I'll also advise the Air Force airplane of your situation, they are closer to the eye than we are."

"Thanks Dave, we're going to dump fuel now, so this will be our last communication for about 15 minutes. We'll give you a call when we're finished. Please advise Miami of our situation. Four-two out."

"Good luck, four-two! Four-three out."

Everyone on NOAA 43, I know, is feeling tremendous concern and empathy for our plight. They know the hazards of hurricane hunting. Now, some of their own are living a hurricane hunter's nightmare.

I leave my seat, and step into the cockpit to confer with Lowell. Pete Black is there, too.

"So what's the plan, Lowell?" I ask.

"We've got to stay in the eye and lighten the aircraft up as much as possible," Lowell responds. He does not look up from the controls as he talks. He sounds very worried, but is focused, in command. I look across the cockpit at Gerry. He is concentrating intensely on flying, keeping the airplane safely within the eye and steadily climbing. Between Lowell and Gerry, flight engineer Steve Wade intently eyes the engine gauges, and keeps a particularly close eye on the #4 engine's temperature gauge, which hovers near the red zone.

"The cockpit G-meter shows we took five and half G's up and three and half G's down," continues Lowell, now sounding really concerned. "The P-3 is only rated to plus three and minus two G's, so we may have some serious structural damage. We'll have to climb as high as we can and find a part of the eyewall to exit through with a minimum of turbulence."

"Five and half G's!" I exclaim, looking at Pete in amazement and trepidation. No hurricane hunter aircraft has ever taken more than three G's. We are lucky to be alive.

A sudden thought comes to mind. I turn to Pete.

"Hey Pete! How many AXBTs do we have on board, and how much do they weigh apiece?" For this mission, we had planned to drop a bunch of Air Expendable Bathythermographs (AXBTs), which radio back measurements of water temperature and ocean current speed.

Pete looks at me, and realizes what I have in mind.

"Twenty-two, and they weigh 30 pounds apiece!" he answers enthusiastically.

"Let's chuck 'em overboard, that'll lighten us up another 660 pounds!" I say.

"Every bit will help!" adds Lowell. He contacts Terry over the intercom and gives the order to launch all the AXBTs. Over the next few minutes, Terry fires all 22 of the probes into the ocean.

While Terry launches the AXBTs, Alan works to power down all the communications and electrical equipment that could potentially cause a spark and ignite the fuel. When we're done, the only equipment running are the essential Inertial Navigation Units, and the engines themselves. Alan also leaves on the main data computer to collect data, with the hope of being alive someday to analyze it.

"Lowell, we're ready back here for fuel dumping," says Alan over the intercom. "Everything is powered down."

"Roger, we'll begin dumping now," replies Lowell.

I watch as a stream of jet fuel squirts out into the air through a three inch wide tube slung under the left wing. It will take about 15 minutes to dump 15,000 of our 50,000 pounds of fuel. As we dump fuel, Gerry will keep us steadily climbing.

Deadly Scenarios

I unfasten my seat belt and walk to the back of the aircraft. I take one look down the aisle, and gawk in amazement. The inside of the airplane is trashed. Jim McFadden is there, organizing clean up efforts.

"So no one back here got hurt?" I ask him. As I look in his eyes I see my thoughts and fears mirrored. We both know these may be our last minutes left to live.

He shakes his head, "No, and it's a damn miracle, too. Look at the life raft!" I look to where he motions. Sitting in the center of the aisle is our 200-pound life raft. Jim points to a one-inch dent in the inch-thick steel handrail that runs the length of the ceiling. "The raft hit the ceiling so hard, it put that dent in the handrail. We're lucky no one got killed by the thing!"

I survey the scene of destruction with awe and dismay. No NOAA hurricane hunter aircraft has ever been trashed like this. I step over the life raft, a portable computer with a snarled mass of computer paper bunched around it, and a pile of computer tapes, and survey the galley. It is piled knee-high with an amazing collection of trash, food, utensils, and other gear. The contents of our toilet grace the floor. Alan stands there, surveying the mess.

"Who had the honor of sitting back here?" I ask him.

"I did," he answers gloomily. "The locks failed on all of the drawers back here. It was all I could do to fend off all the soda cans that came flying out of the cooler at me."

I help Jim, Alan, and other crew members pick up the debris and strap things down. It is important to get all the loose gear stowed away, so we don't have a repeat of the dangerous flying missile experience during our next penetration. As we work, we talk about the incredible turbulence we just survived. We talk about the damage to the engines. We don't talk about our odds of survival. When I look anyone in the eye, I see the same sick fear, the same sort of deadly scenarios playing through their minds that are playing through mine: We penetrate the eyewall. Another engine fails. We ditch into the raging seas below. We deploy our life raft, and die one by one as Hugo's 50-foot waves and 160 mph winds capsize our boat and send us to a watery doom.

We put things away as best we can. The things we can't figure out what to do with, we stuff into the bathroom and close and lock the door. We sweat as we work. The air conditioning has been turned off for the fuel dumping operation, and the cabin temperature is 85 degrees.

I return to my seat and look out at the eyewall of Hugo again. It is awesome, fearsome, impenetrable. I feel trapped, helpless, and despondent. To cheer myself up, I snap a series of photographs of the eyewall, hoping that someday I will be able to use them to relate the incredible story of the near-disastrous first encounter with Hurricane Hugo.

The flow of fuel out the fuel dumping pipe slows to a trickle, then stops. I hear Gerry's voice over the intercom. "Okay, we're all done dumping fuel. You can turn back on any equipment you turned off."

Terry and Alan turn the communications equipment back on, and Lowell immediately contacts the TEAL 57, the Air Force C-130 reconnaissance airplane sent into the storm by the National Hurricane Center to provide information on Hugo's position and intensity.

"NOAA 42, this is TEAL 57," radios the voice of Lieutenant Commander Terry Self, aircraft commander of TEAL 57, and veteran of 10 years of hurricane flying. "NOAA 43 has advised us of your situation. Can you give us your position and altitude, and update us on your status?"

"Roger," relies Lowell. "We are circling the eye in a left orbit at 5,000 feet. We've lost the number three engine, and have damage to the number four engine. We'd like you to come fly by and take a look at our number four engine, and inspect us for any other damage we can't see."

"Sure thing, NOAA 42," says Self. "We'll penetrate the west eyewall and come down and have a look at you. TEAL 57 out."

"Ten-four. Thanks, TEAL 57! NOAA 42 out."

The next five minutes we wait anxiously for the Air Force airplane to penetrate the eyewall. They are definitely sticking their necks out for us--I have never heard of an Air Force airplane penetrating an intense hurricane at an altitude less than 10,000 feet. Only the foolish NOAA airplanes risk going in hurricanes at altitudes below 10,000 feet! Finally, the radio crackles back to life with the voice of Commander Self.

"NOAA 42, we are in the eye. We got a terrific pounding going through the west eyewall coming in, but are still in one piece!"

My heart sinks at this news. What chance did we have of making it through the eyewall with only three engines?

"We'll come take a look at you now," continues Self. "What is your current position and heading?"

Lowell gives him our current position and heading, and the two aircraft commanders proceed to coordinate a close fly-by in the eye of Hugo. Fly-bys are dangerous operations in the best of conditions; great caution must be exercised to avoid a mid-air collision. The fact we are circling in the tight and shrinking eye of a category five hurricane makes this an extremely difficult and dangerous maneuver.

But these pilots are the best in the business. They pull off the fly-by, and I watch as TEAL 57 zooms past overhead. I see the faces of TEAL 57's crew looking out the window, and I find myself forlornly wishing I am one of them.

"NOAA 42," reports Self, "we got a good look at your top side and number four engine. There is no obvious damage, other than what appears to be a dislodged de-icing boot hanging from the number four engine. Would you like us to make another pass underneath you to check out the underside of your aircraft?"

"Roger, TEAL 57, let's coordinate another pass so you look at our underside. Thanks!" responds Lowell.

A few minutes later, our pilots pull off another difficult fly by, and TEAL 57 zooms past underneath us.

"NOAA 42, we didn't see any visible damage on the second pass," reports Self. "We're going to exit the eye now through the east eyewall and see how rough it is for you over there. We'll continue penetrating the eyewall until we find a soft spot for you."

"Roger TEAL 57, that'd be greatly appreciated!" replies Lowell.

I say a huge silent THANK YOU to the brave crew of TEAL 57. They are risking their lives for us. The extreme turbulence in Hugo's eyewall almost killed us, but they are willing to brave it multiple times in order to find us safe passage.

They leave their comm link open as they penetrate, and we listen in as Hugo's awesome winds give them a terrible beating.

"Better not try the east eyewall!" Self ruefully informs us, after they finish their penetration. "We'll circle around to the south now, and come into the eye through the south eyewall."

Gerry keeps us circling the eye, but has now pushed us as high as our three engines will take us. We are at 7,000 feet. Any further attempts to climb bring the temperature needle on the overtaxed number four engine into the dangerous red zone. We must exit Hugo's eye at 7,000 feet.

Dave Turner, aircraft commander of NOAA 43, gives us a call.

"NOAA 42, this is NOAA 43. We've just penetrated the eye at 15,000 feet through the west eyewall, and now have sight of you. If can make it up to 15,000, the ride through isn't too bad!"

"Thanks for coming in to check on us!" Lowell replies. "But it looks like we are now at our maximum altitude. We'll have to exit the eye at 7,000 feet. The Air Force airplane is doing penetrations at our altitude to try and find us a soft spot."

"OK, we'll just stay up here at 15,000 and look after you. Four-three out."

As I sit at my station, staring out the window and brooding, my boss Jim McFadden walks up and addresses me:

"I've been talking to NHC on the radio, and they want a vortex report," he says.

I turn to look at him, and angrily reply, "What does it matter? They have the center fix from the Air Force airplane, and all our data will tell them is that it's a category five storm that will destroy whatever it hits." I am irrational, scared, and furious at myself for getting us into this situation.

Jim glowers at me, and I finally mutter acquiescence and fill out the form for the Hurricane Center on Hugo's position, maximum winds, and other data. I walk back to Tom Nunn, the radio operator, and hand him the report. He will radio the data back to Miami.

Sitting next to Tom, I see the reporter from Barbados. I meet her wide-eyed, alarmed gaze, and think I should smile to reassure her, but don't have it in me. She is probably the least frightened among us. For all she knows, this situation is routine on hurricane flights!

I return to my seat to look out on the eyewall and brood some more, and wait for the next penetration of TEAL 57.

A few minutes later, the intercom crackles to life again with the voice of Commander Self.

"NOAA 42, the south eyewall was just as bad as the east eyewall. We're going to take our center fix now and exit through the northeast eyewall, we'll let you know how it goes."

"Roger, TEAL 57, thank you," responded Lowell. "We're going to have to leave the eye soon, though. We are getting low on fuel."

"Ten-four, NOAA 42, we'll try and find you a soft spot."

I look out the window at the fearsome, roiling eyewall of Hugo, hoping it won't be my last sight. We will have to leave the eye in just a few more minutes, regardless of whether the Air Force airplane can find a soft spot. I say a prayer for our safety and the Air Force airplane's crew. I check the area around my station, making sure everything is securely stowed away. I wait. We have been in the eye of Hugo almost an hour.

Finally, the intercom comes to life again.

"NOAA 42, this is TEAL 57. We have just penetrated the northeast eyewall, and it wasn't too bad! You might want to give it a try. If you look on your radar display, you should be able to see where a weakness has developed in the northeast eyewall."

I look over at my radar display. Sure enough, an area of weaker echoes has developed in a narrow section of the northeast eyewall. If we can hit the soft spot just right, the ride might not be too rough. I wonder how long it will take us to maneuver to get lined up for a shot at it.

Not long, it turns out. Gerry's voice, terse and determined, comes in over the intercom:

"Okay, we're going to follow the Air Force airplane out now. Make sure all gear is stowed away. Set Condition One!"

The klaxon sounds overhead, warning of upcoming turbulence. The big plane suddenly rolls out of its steep turn and levels out, headed for the northeast eyewall. The huge, imposing wall of white boiling clouds rushes towards us at high speed. I buckle my shoulder harness, hang on the table with both hands, and pray for safe passage.

We hit the eyewall

Darkness falls. Intense blasts of turbulent wind rock the airplane. Torrential rain hammers the fuselage. The winds shoot up to 170 mph, gusting to 190. The three remaining engines whine and roar as Gerry fights off a powerful updraft. The turbulence is rough, but survivable. We cross the inner eyewall without hitting any incredible jolts like nearly knocked us from the sky on our way in.

Half a minute gone, one minute to go. The turbulence lessens. The updrafts and downdrafts diminish, the winds drop to 150 mph. We are definitely in a weak region of the eyewall! The radar display shows yellows and greens surrounding us, where before there were only the strongest reds and oranges.

One minute gone, half a minute to go. The airplane is barely shaking now, the turbulence is so light. It is hard to believe we are in the eyewall of Hugo! We are not ready to celebrate yet, though. Hugo is not to be trusted. The big plane lumbers on towards the edge of the eyewall.

Finally, SUNSHINE! YES! We made it! The sullen dark clouds of the eyewall slip away, and the suns shines down at us through a thin veil of high cirrus clouds. A huge smile of jubilation replaces my worried frown.

The sun never looked so good. We are alive! We survived the eyewall of Hugo a second time! I can hear cheers ringing out from the crew in the cabin behind me.

"Nice flying, Gerry!" I call out over the intercom.

"That wasn't too bad," Gerry replies, matter-of-factly.

"We made it!" The first view of the sun is a welcome sight as we head home.

View of the stopped #3 engine just outside Hugo's eyewall. NOAA 43, at upper left, escorts us home.
Lowell contacts the Air Force airplane.

"TEAL 57, we have just penetrated the northeast eyewall with no problem, right where you said to go. Thanks for finding a route for us! You guys really saved our butts!"

"Great news, NOAA 42, glad you made it! Do you require further assistance?" radios back Captain Self.

"No, we'll be heading back to Barbados with NOAA 43 to watch over us.

Good luck with the remainder of your mission. Have a safe flight!"

"We'll do that, NOAA 42. Good luck with the remainder of your flight. TEAL 57 out."

I say a prayer of safe passage for the Air Force airplane, and bid them a big silent "THANK YOU!" They put their lives on the line for us, and I owe them my life and eternal gratitude. Hail to the brave crew of TEAL 57!

Now well clear of the eyewall, we turn and head for Barbados, an hour and a half away. NOAA 43 appears out the right window, hovering protectively over us. The sight of our sister aircraft feels very reassuring. I still feel unsafe in our aircraft, fearing some unseen damage from the incredible forces we have encountered.

I unbuckle my seat belt and shoulder harness, and head back to the galley. Most of the crew are gathering there, trading stories on what we've just been through.

"It feels a little better now, outside the eye!" Bob Burpee exclaims.

"I would have been OK if I hadn't seen us lose number three," a jittery Terry Schricker adds.

"What happened to number three?" asks Hugh Willoughby.

"It exploded!" Terry exclaims. "Flames were shooting 30 feet aft of the airplane. I swear I could feel the heat of the fire through the wall!"

"You probably did!" I remark. "That thing puts out a lot of heat!"

Terry looks at me with dark, frightened eyes. "I'm all done flying," He says emphatically. "At least, flying into hurricanes. This is my last flight!"

I look at him and think to myself, "Amen, brother!"

Epilogue

Hurricane Hugo smashed through the Caribbean and Southeastern U.S. with incredible fury over the next week, killing hundreds and causing over $9 billion in damage--the most destructive hurricane in history, at the time. Most of the crew of NOAA 42 flew in Hugo again, on our undamaged sister aircraft. But for Terry Schricker and myself, the nearly disastrous first penetration of Hurricane Hugo's eye was our last flight. Terry stayed on in a non-flying role, and I quit the hurricane hunters a few months later.

NOAA 42 spent a month on Barbados undergoing a thorough check of its structural integrity before it was cleared to fly back to Florida, where it received a three-month long maintenance overhaul. No hurricane-related damage to the aircraft was found, except for the missing de-icing boot on the #4 engine and a failed fuel control sensor on the #3 engine. The instrument that recorded the amazing G-forces the aircraft encountered was found to be accurate, and engineers analyzing the data could only conclude that luck and the toughness of the P-3 airplane saved us from destruction. The aircraft continues to fly into hurricanes to this day. Later analysis of the data taken during our amazing flight into Hugo revealed that we hit a tornado-like vortex embedded in the eyewall when the hurricane was at its peak intensity. These eyewall vortices had been suspected but never before observed, and ongoing research suggests that similar vortices may be responsible for some of the incredible damage hurricanes can inflict when they strike land. When the next mighty hurricane threatens our coast, the Hurricane Hunters will be in the storm to learn more.

• A Fighter Pilot's Story

2011-01-18T10:30:00.000-08:00

The dead chicken was starting to smell. After carrying it for several days, 20-year-old Bruce Carr still hadn't decided how to cook it . . . without the Germans catching him. But, as hungry as he was, he couldn't bring himself to eat it. In his mind, no meat was better than raw chicken meat, so he threw it away.

Resigning himself to what appeared to be his unavoidable fate, he turned in the direction of the nearest German airfield. Even POW's get to eat. Sometimes. And aren't they constantly dodging from tree to tree . . . ditch to culvert. He was exhausted!

He was tired of trying to find cover where there was none. Carr hadn't realized that Czechoslovakian forests had no underbrush until, at the edge of the farm field, he struggled out of his parachute and dragged it into the woods.

During the times he had been screaming along at treetop level in his P-51 'Angels Playmate' the forests and fields had been nothing more than a green blur behind the Messerchmitts, Focke-Wulfs, trains and trucks he had in his sights. He never expected to find himself a pedestrian . . far behind enemy lines.

The instant antiaircraft shrapnel ripped into the engine, he knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble. Clouds of coolant steam hissing through jagged holes in the cowling told Carr he was about to ride the silk elevator down to a long walk back to his squadron. A very long walk.

This had not been part of the mission plan. Several years before, when 18-year-old Bruce Carr enlisted in the Army, in no way could he have imagined himself taking a walking tour of rural Czechoslovakia with Germans everywhere around him. When he enlisted, all he could think about was flying fighters.

By the time he had joined the military, Carr already knew how to fly. He had been flying as a private pilot since 1939, soloing in a $25 Piper Cub his father had bought from a disgusted pilot who had left it lodged securely in the top of a tree. His instructor had been an Auburn , NY , native by the name of 'Johnny' Bruns.

"In 1942, after I enlisted," as Bruce Carr remembers it, "we went to meet our instructors. I was the last cadet left in the assignment room and was nervous. Then the door opened and out stepped the man who was to be my miitary flight instructor. It was J-o-h-n-n-y Bruns!

"We took a Stearman to an outlying field, doing aerobatics all the way; then he got out and soloed me. That was my first flight in the military.

"The guy I had in advanced training in the AT-6 had just graduated himself and didn't know a damned bit more than I did," Carr can't help but smile, as he remembers: "which meant neither one of us knew anything. Zilch!

"After three or four hours in the AT-6, they took me and a few others aside, told us we were going to fly P-40s and we left for Tipton , Georgia . We got to Tipton, and a lieutenant just back from North Africa kneeled on the P-40's wing, showed me where all the levers were, made sure I knew how everything worked, then said : ' If you can get it started . . go flying,' just like that !

"I was 19 years old and thought I knew everything. I didn't know enough to be scared. They didn't tell us what to do. They just said: 'Go fly!' so I buzzed every cow in that part of the state. Nineteen years old and 1,100 horsepower, what did they expect? Then we went overseas."

By today's standards, Carr and that first contingent of pilots shipped to England were painfully short of experience. They had so little flight time that today, they would barely have their civilian pilot's license. Flight training eventually became more formal, but in those early days, it had a hint of fatalistic Darwinism: if they learned fast enough to survive . . . they were ready to move on to the next step.

Including his 40 hours in the P-40 terrorizing Georgia , Carr had less than 160 hours flight time when he arrived in England .

His group in England was to be the pioneering group that would take the Mustang into combat, and he clearly remembers his introduction to the airplane.

"I thought I was an old P-40 pilot and the P-51B would be no big deal. But I was wrong! I was truly impressed with the airplane. I mean REALLY impressed! It flew like an airplane. I just flew the P-40, but in the P-51 I was part of the airplane. And . . . it was part of me! There was a world of difference."

When he first arrived in England , the instructions were, 'This is a P-51. Go fly it. Soon, we'll have to form a unit, so go fly.' A lot of English cows were buzzed.

"On my first long-range mission, we just kept climbing, and I'd never had an airplane above about 10,000 feet before. Then we were at 30,000 feet and I couldn't 'Angels Playmate' believe it! I'd gone to church as a kid, and I knew that's where the angels were and that's when I named my airplane: 'Angels Playmate.'

"Then a bunch of Germans roared down through us, and my leader immediately dropped tanks and turned hard for home. But I'm not that smart. I'm 19 years old and this SOB shoots at me. And I'm not going to let him get away with it.

"We went round and round. And I'm really mad because he shot at me. Childish emotions, in retrospect. He couldn't shake me, but I couldn't get on his tail to get any hits either.

"Before long, we're right down in the trees. I'm shooting, but I'm not hitting. I am, however, scaring the hell out of him. But I'm at least as excited as he is. Then I tell myself to calm down.

"We're roaring around within a few feet of the ground, and he pulls up to go over some trees, so I just pull the trigger and keep it down. The gun barrels burned out and one bullet, a tracer, came tumbling out and made a great huge arc. It came down and hit him on the left wing about where the aileron is. He pulled up, off came the canopy, and he jumped out, but too low for the chute to open and the airplane crashed. I didn't shoot him down, I scared him to death with one bullet hole in his left wing. My first victory wasn't a kill ; it was more of a suicide."

The rest of his 14 victories were much more conclusive. Being red-hot fighter pilot, however, was absolutely no use to him as he lay shivering in the Czechoslovakian forest. He knew he would die if he didn't get some food and shelter soon.

"I knew where the German field was because I'd flown over it, so I headed in that direction to surrender. I intended to walk in the main gate, but it was late afternoon and, for some reason, I had second thoughts and decided to wait in the woods until morning.

"While I was lying there, I saw a crew working on an FW 190 right at the edge of the woods. When they were done, I assumed, just like you assume in America , that the thing was all finished. The cowling's on. The engine has been run. The fuel truck has been there. It's ready to go. Maybe a dumb assumption for a young fellow, but I assumed so. So, I got in the airplane and spent the night all hunkered down in the cockpit.

"Before dawn, it got light and I started studying the cockpit. I can't read German, so I couldn't decipher dials and I couldn't find the normal switches like there were in American airplanes. I kept looking, and on the right side was a smooth panel. Under this was a compartment with something I would classify as circuit breakers. They didn't look like ours, but they weren't regular switches either.

"I began to think that the Germans were probably no different from the Americans in that they would turn off all the switches when finished with the airplane. I had no earthly idea what those circuit breakers or switches did, but I reversed every one of them. If they were off, that would turn them on. When I did that, the gauges showed there was electricity on the airplane.

"I'd seen this metal T-handle on the right side of the cockpit that had a word on it that looked enough like 'starter' for me to think that's what it was. But when I pulled it, nothing happened. Nothing.

"But if pulling doesn't work . . . you push. And when I did, an inertia starter started winding up. I let it go for a while, then pulled on the handle and the engine started!"

The sun had yet to make it over the far trees and the air base was just waking up, getting ready to go to war. The FW 190 was one of many dispersed through-out the woods, and at that time of the morning, the sound of the engine must have been heard by many Germans not far away on the main base. But even if they heard it, there was no reason for alarm. The last thing they expected was one of their fighters taxiing out with a weary Mustang pilot at the controls. Carr, however, wanted to take no chances.

"The taxiway came out of the woods and turned right towards where I knew the airfield was because I'd watched them land and take off while I was in the trees.

"On the left side of the taxiway, there was a shallow ditch and a space where there had been two hangars. The slabs were there, but the hangars were gone, and the area around them had been cleaned of all debris.

"I didn't want to go to the airfield, so I plowed down through the ditch and then the airplane started up the other side.

When the airplane started up . . . I shoved the throttle forward and took off right between where the two hangars had been."

At that point, Bruce Carr had no time to look around to see what effect the sight of a Focke-Wulf erupting from the trees had on the Germans. Undoubtedly, they were confused, but not unduly concerned. After all, it was probably just one of their maverick pilots doing something against the rules. They didn't know it was one of OUR maverick pilots doing something against the rules.

Carr had problems more immediate than a bunch of confused Germans. He had just pulled off the perfect plane-jacking; but he knew nothing about the airplane, couldn't read the placards and had 200 miles of enemy territory to cross. At home, there would be hundreds of his friends and fellow warriors, all of whom were, at that moment, preparing their guns to shoot at airplanes marked with swastikas and crosses-airplanes identical to the one Bruce Carr was at that moment flying. But Carr wasn't thinking that far ahead.

First, he had to get there, and that meant learning how to fly the airplane. "There were two buttons behind the throttle and three buttons behind those two. I wasn't sure what to push, so I pushed one button and nothing happened. I pushed the other and the gear started up. As soon as I felt it coming up and I cleared the fence at the edge of the German field, I took it down a little lower and headed for home.

"All I wanted to do was clear the ground by about six inches, and there was only one throttle position for me . . . full forward!

"As I headed for home, I pushed one of the other three buttons, and the flaps came part way down. I pushed the button next to it, and they came up again. So I knew how to get the flaps down. But that was all I knew.

"I can't make heads or tails out of any of the instruments. None. I can't even figure how to change the prop pitch. But I don't sweat that, because props are full forward when you shut down anyway and it was running fine."

This time, it was German cows that were buzzed, although, as he streaked across fields and through the trees only a few feet off the ground, that was not the intent. At something over 350 miles an hour below tree-top level, he was trying to be a difficult target as he crossed the lines. But he wasn't difficult enough.

"There was no doubt when I crossed the lines because every SOB and his brother who had a ..50-caliber machine gun shot at me. It was all over the place, and I had no idea which way to go. I didn't do much dodging because I was just as likely to fly into bullets as around them."

When he hopped over the last row of trees and found himself crossing his own airfield, he pulled up hard to set up for landing. His mind was on flying the airplane. "I pitched up, pulled the throttle back and punched the buttons I knew would put the gear and flaps down. I felt the flaps come down, but the gear wasn't doing anything. I came around and pitched up again, still punching the button. Nothing was happening and I was really frustrated."

He had been so intent on figuring out his airplane problems, he forgot he was putting on a very tempting show for the ground crew.

"As I started up the last time, I saw our air defense guys ripping the tarps off the quad .50s that ringed our field. I hadn't noticed the machine guns before. But I was sure noticing them right then.

"I roared around in as tight a pattern as I could fly and chopped the throttle. I slid to a halt on the runway and it was a nice belly job, if I say so myself."

His antics over the runway had drawn quite a crowd, and the airplane had barely stopped sliding before there were MPs up on the wings trying to drag him out of the airplane by his arms. They didn't realize he was still strapped in.

"I started throwing some good Anglo-Saxon swear words at them, and they let loose while I tried to get the seat belt undone, but my hands wouldn't work and I couldn't do it. Then they started pulling on me again because they still weren't convinced I was an American.

"I was yelling and hollering. Then, suddenly, they let go, and a face drops down into the cockpit in front of mine. It was my Group Commander: George R. Bickel.

"Bickel said, 'Carr, where in the hell have you been, and what have you been doing now?' "

Bruce Carr was home and entered the record books as the only pilot known to leave on a mission flying a Mustang and return flying a Focke-Wulf. For several days after the ordeal, he had trouble eating and sleeping, but when things again fell into place, he took some of the other pilots out to show them the airplane and how it worked. One of them pointed out a small handle under the glare shield that he hadn't noticed before. When he pulled it, the landing gear unlocked and fell out. The handle was a separate, mechanical uplock. At least, he had figured out the important things.

Carr finished the war with 14 aerial victories on 172 missions, including three bailouts because of ground fire. He stayed in the service, eventually flying 51 missions in Korea in F-86s and 286 in Vietnam , flying F-100s. That's an amazing 509 combat missions and doesn't include many others during Viet Nam in other aircraft types.

There is a profile into which almost every one of the breed fits, and it is the charter within that profile that makes the pilot a fighter pilot . . . not the other way around. And make no mistake about it, Colonel Bruce Carr was definitely a fighter pilot.

Flight magazine, 1996. Author unknown

Here's a picture of Angel's Playmate parked under the Eiffel Tower, according to the caption. Is that true? If so I'd love to know the story behind that! [UPDATE: Yup, it's true. Details and more pictures here.]

And here's a video from 1945 of Carr manning up, and starting Angel's Playmate

• The Great Santini's Eulogy

2011-01-10T11:11:00.000-08:00

COL Donald Conroy USMC

by his son, Pat Conroy

The children of fighter pilots tell different stories than other kids did.None of our fathers can write a will or sell a life insurance policy or fill out a prescription or administer a flu shot or explain what a poet meant. We tell of fathers who land on aircraft carriers during pitch-black nights with the wind howling out of the China Sea. Our fathers wiped out anti-aircraft batteries in the Philippines and set Japanese soldiers on fire when they made the mistake of trying to overwhelm our troops on the ground.

Your Dads ran the barber shops and worked at the post office and delivered the packages on time and sold the cars, while our Dads were blowing up fuel depots near Seoul, were providing extraordinarily courageous close air support to the beleaguered Marines at the Chosin Reservoir, and who once turned the Naktong River red with blood of a retreating North Korean battalion. We tell of men who made widows of the wives of our nations' enemies and who made orphans out of all their children.

You don't like war or violence? Or napalm? Or rockets? Or cannons or death rained down from the sky? Then let's talk about your fathers, not ours. When we talk about the aviators who raised us and the Marines who loved us, we can look you in the eye and say "you would not like to have been  America 's enemies when our fathers passed overhead". We were raised by the men who made the  United States of America the safest country on earth in the bloodiest century in all recorded history.Our fathers made sacred those strange, singing names of battlefields across the Pacific: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima,  Okinawa , the Chosin Reservoir, Khe Sanh and a thousand more. We grew up attending the funerals of Marines slain in these battles. Your fathers made communities like Beaufort decent and prosperous and functional; our fathers made the world safe for democracy.

We have gathered here today to celebrate the amazing and storied life of Colonel Donald Conroy who modestly called himself by his nom deguerre, The Great Santini. There should be no sorrow at this funeral because The Great Santini lived life at full throttle, moved always in the fast lanes, gunned every engine, teetered on every edge, seized every moment and shook it like a terrier shaking a rat. He did not know what moderation was or where you'd go to look for it.

Donald Conroy is the only person I have ever known whose self-esteem was absolutely unassailable. There was not one thing about himself that my father did not like, nor was there one thing about himself that he would change. He simply adored the man he was and walked with perfect confidence through every encounter in his life. Dad wished everyone could be just like him. His stubbornness was an art form. The Great Santini did what he did, when he wanted to do it and woe to the man who got in his way.

Once I introduced my father before he gave a speech to an  Atlanta audience. I said at the end of the introduction, "My father decided to go into the Marine Corps on the day he discovered his IQ was the temperature of this room." My father rose to the podium, stared down at the audience, and said without skipping a beat, "My God, it's hot in here! It must be at least 180 degrees."

Here is how my father appeared to me as a boy. He came from a race of giants and demigods from a mythical land known as  Chicago . He married the most beautiful girl ever to come crawling out of the poor and lowborn south, and there were times when I thought we were being raised by Zeus and Athena. After Happy Hour my father would drive his car home at a hundred miles an hour to see his wife and seven children. He would get out of his car, a strapping flight jacketed matinee idol, and walk toward his house, his knuckles dragging along the ground, his shoes stepping on and killing small animals in his slouching amble toward the home place.

My sister, Carol, stationed at the door, would call out, "Godzilla's home!" and we seven children would scamper toward the door to watch his entry. The door would be flung open and the strongest Marine aviator on earth would shout, "Stand by for a fighter pilot!" He would then line his seven kids up against the wall and say, "Who's the greatest of them all?""You are, O Great Santini, you are.""Who knows all, sees all, and hears all?""You do, O Great Santini, you do."

We were not in the middle of a normal childhood, yet none of us were sure since it was the only childhood we would ever have. For all we knew other men were coming home and shouting to their families, "Stand by for a pharmacist," or "Stand by for a chiropractor."

In the old, bewildered world of children we knew we were in the presence of a fabulous, overwhelming personality; but had no idea we were being raised by a genius of his own myth-making. My mother always told me that my father had reminded her of Rhett Butler on the day they met and everyone who ever knew our mother conjured up the lovely, coquettish image of Scarlet O'Hara. Let me give you my father the warrior in full battle array. The Great Santini is catapulted off the deck of the aircraft carrier,  Sicily . His Black Sheep squadron is the first to reach the Korean Theater and American ground troops had been getting torn up by North Korean regulars.Let me do it in his voice:"We didn't even have a map of Korea. Not zip. We just headed toward the sound of artillery firing along the  Naktong  River . They told us to keep the North Koreans on their side of the Naktong. Air power hadn't been a factor until we got there that day. I radioed to Bill Lundin. I was his wingman.'There they are. Let's go get 'em.' So we did."I was interviewing Dad so I asked, "How do you know you got them?""Easy," The Great Santini said. "They were running-it's a good sign when you see the enemy running. There was another good sign.""What was that, Dad?""They were on fire."

This is the world in which my father lived deeply. I had no knowledge of it as a child. When I was writing the book The Great Santini, they told me at Headquarters Marines that Don Conroy was at one time one of the most decorated aviators in the Marine Corps. I did not know he had won a single medal. When his children gathered together to write his obituary, not one of us knew of any medal he had won, but he had won a slew of them.

When he flew back toward the carrier that day, he received a call from an Army Colonel on the ground who had witnessed the rout of the North Koreans across the river. "Could you go pass over the troops fifty miles south of here? They've been catching hell for a week or more. It'd do them good to know you flyboys are around." He flew those fifty miles and came over a mountain and saw a thousand troops lumbered down in foxholes. He and Bill Lundin went in low so these troops could read the insignias and know the American aviators had entered the fray. My father said, "Thousands of guys came screaming out of their foxholes, son. It sounded like a World Series game. I got goose pimples in the cockpit. Get goose pimples telling it forty-eight years later. I dipped my wings, waved to the guys. The roar they let out. I hear it now. I hear it now."

During the Cuban Missile Crisis, my mother took me out to the air station where we watched Dad's squadron scramble on the runway for their bases at Roosevelt Rhoads and  Guantanamo . In the car, as we watched the F-4's take off, my mother began to say the rosary. "You praying for Dad and his men, Mom?" I asked her. "No, son, I'm praying for the repose of the souls of the Cuban pilots they're going to kill."

Later I would ask my father what his squadron's mission was during the Missile Crisis. "To clear the air of MIGS over  Cuba ," he said. "You think you could've done it?" The Great Santini answered, "There wouldn't have been a bluebird flying over that island, son."

Now let us turn to the literary -- to the book, 'The Great Santini.' Some of you may have heard that I recorded some serious reservations about my father's child-rearing practices. When The Great Santini came out, the book roared through my family like a nuclear device. My father hated it; my grandparents hated it; my aunts and uncles hated it; my cousins who adore my father thought I was a psychopath for writing it; and rumor has it that my mother gave it to the judge in her divorce case and said, "It's all there. Everything you need to know."

What changed my father's mind was when  Hollywood entered the picture and wanted to make a movie of it. This is when my father said, "What a shame John Wayne is dead. Now there was a man. Only he could've gotten my incredible virility across to the American people."

Orion Pictures did me a favor and sent my father a telegram; "Dear Col. Conroy: We have selected the actor to play you in the coming film. He wants to come to  Atlanta to interview you. His name is Truman Capote." But my father got the joke and took well to  Hollywood and it’s Byzantine, unspeakable ways. When his movie came out, he began reading Variety on a daily basis. He called the movie a classic the first month of its existence. He claimed that he had a place in the history of film. In February of the following year, he burst into my apartment in Atlanta , as excited as I have ever seen him, and screamed, "Son, you and I were nominated for Academy Awards last night. Your mother didn't get squat."

Ladies and gentlemen, you are attending the funeral of the most famous Marine that ever lived. Dad's life had grandeur, majesty and sweep. We were all caught in the middle of living lives much paler and less daring than The Great Santini's. His was a high stepping, damn the torpedoes kind of life, and the stick was always set at high throttle. There is not another Marine alive who has not heard of The Great Santini. There's not a fighter pilot alive who does not lift his glass whenever Don Conroy's name is mentioned and give the fighter pilot toast: "Hurrah for the next man to die." One day last summer, my father asked me to drive him over to  Beaufort  National Cemetery . He wanted to make sure there were no administrative foul-ups about his plot. I could think of more pleasurable ways to spend the afternoon, but Dad brought new eloquence to the word stubborn. We went into the office and a pretty black woman said that everything was squared away.

My father said, "It'll be the second time I've been buried in this cemetery." The woman and I both looked strangely at Dad. Then he explained, "You ever catch the flick, The Great Santini? That was me they planted at the end of the movie."

All of you will be part of a very special event today. You will be witnessing the actual burial that has already been filmed in fictional setting. This has never happened in world history. You will be present in a scene that was acted out in film in 1979. You will be in the same town and the same cemetery. Only The Great Santini himself will be different. In his last week’s my father told me, "I was always your best subject, son. Your career took a nose dive after The Great Santini came out."

He had become so media savvy that during his last illness he told me not to schedule his funeral on the same day as the Seinfeld Farewell. The Colonel thought it would hold down the crowd. The Colonel's death was front-page news across the country. CNN announced his passing on the evening news all around the world.

Don Conroy was a simple man and an American hero. His wit was remarkable; his intelligence frightening; and his sophistication next to none. He was a man's man and I would bet he hadn't spent a thousand dollars in his whole life on his wardrobe. He lived out his whole retirement in a two-room efficiency in the Darlington Apartments in  Atlanta . He claimed he never spent over a dollar on any piece of furniture he owned. You would believe him if you saw the furniture.

Dad bought a season ticket for himself to Six Flags Over Georgia and would often go there alone to enjoy the rides and hear the children squeal with pleasure. He was a beer drinker who thought wine was for Frenchmen or effete social climbers like his children. Ah! His children. Here is how God gets even with a Marine Corps fighter pilot. He sends him seven squirrelly, mealy-mouthed children who march in peace demonstrations, wear Birkenstocks, flirt with vegetarianism, invite cross-dressers to dinner and vote for candidates that Dad would line up and shoot.If my father knew how many tears his children had shed since his death, he would be mortally ashamed of us all and begin yelling that he should've been tougher on us all, knocked us into better shape--that he certainly didn't mean to raise a passel of kids so weak and tacky they would cry at his death. Don Conroy was the best uncle I ever saw, the best brother, the best grandfather, the best friend, and my God, what a father. After my mother divorced him and The Great Santini was published, Don Conroy had the best second act I ever saw. He never was simply a father. This was The Great Santini. It is time to leave you, Dad. From Carol and Mike and Kathy and Jim and Tim and especially from Tom. Your kids wanted to especially thank Katy and Bobby and Willie Harvey who cared for you heroically.

Let us leave you and say good-bye, Dad, with the passwords that bind all Marines and their wives and their children forever. The Corps was always the most important thing. Semper Fi, Dad. Semper Fi, O Great Santini.

Robert Duval as The Great Santini

• T'was The Flight Before Christmas

2010-12-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp
Not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tie downs with care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.

The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
With gusts from two forty at 39 knots
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, resting my butt.

When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.

He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.

He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Travel Air sleigh, with nine radial Reindeer!

With vectors to final, down the glide slope he came,
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he taken'?

While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head,
They phoned to my office, and I heard it with dread,
The message they left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."

He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking.
He slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho..."

He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was all blackened from Reindeer exhaust.

His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.

He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And he asked me to "fill it, with hundred low-lead."
He came dashing in from the snow-covered pump,
I knew he was eager to be drainin' the sump.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
And I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk.
He came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief,
Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.

And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,
Then he put on his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!"

And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"

He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Twin Beech, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night,
"Merry Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."

• Pride of the Yanks

2010-10-08T12:32:00.000-07:00

From a friend:

My dad, Vernon 'Bish' Bishop, was a B-17 Engineer and top turret Gunner in the 94th Bomb Group. This is part of his story and the stories of three of his crew members after they bailed out of their airplane when shot down by another B-17 clearing it's guns over the coast of France.

(Click to enlarge)

All crew members are gone now so, even at the off chance that one of their family members might read this, it's all in there. Personally, I think the intimate parts are what make the stories, even with the hard times they had fun, they were funny and human.

Max Bishop
Mesa AZ

One 94ther's Story
(taken from 94th Bomb Group Newsletter)
by Vernon Bishop, Engineer and Top Turret Gunner

Thanks much for finding this Lost Soul and sorry you couldn't have found me sooner! Would have very much liked to have been a member sooner and gotten in touch with the old crew members sooner. If you talk to Charlie Slater, give him my heartfelt thanks for all the info he has sent me until I get a letter off to him. I'm not much of a letter writer, so will probably take a while after I get word off to Tom Bond, Art Stecher and Bill Belluomini.

My wife and I visited Al Spindler and his family when they lived in Springfield MA back in August of 1951. Kept in touch every Xmas until Dec. 1956 when we received a shocking letter telling us that Al had died of a massive coronary. We can't remember the date.

Al's story -- after bailing out, he was immediately taken in and hidden by the French and stayed there until liberated when the Allied troops got there. He fought with the French underground, blowing up bridges, vehicles, etc. Al could speak French quite well so he got along with the French very well. Hope this little info helps.

I wasn't with the 94th very long. Went down on my 6th mission, and of all things, by friendly fire NE of Dieppe, France. We did have a short leave to London once with the crew, and always had a rip roaring time together.

We had a new "first" pilot from another crew by the name of Melton, his radio operator, Claude Brown, and Melton's bombardier with us. I don't remember the bombardier's name. Their first mission was sad for them.

The aircraft we were flying had already flown more than 50 missions, "The Pride of the Yanks." It must have blown up after I bailed out because a farmer that helped me took me out in a field and showed me parts of the plane in a thousand pieces.

(early picture with another crew)
B-17G-15-DL Fortress 42-37804 c/n 8590
8th AF, 94th BG, 333rd BS
Lost May 9, 1944

I arrived at Bury St. Edmunds on the 9th or I0th of April, 1944. They kept us real busy flying practice missions all over England the rest of the month.

We bailed out on 9 May 44 and that's when we all lost contact, except Warfel and Schmaling who were together, and Belluomini, Melton and Brown were together. Since I was the last one out of the plane, we figured it was about 20 miles from the time the first person hit the ground and I landed, so I didn't see any other chutes in the air after I went out. I guess I was too busy trying to put the fire out, and my intercom went out when the fire started -- just like a blow torch blowing across my feet right on to the hydraulic pump. I didn't see a soul when I finally turned around, so decided I may as well leave too.

I had no contact with people until the afternoon of 10 May because I was only moving after dark. Went to a farmhouse and the lady fixed me a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of wine. Then I moved on along hedges that evening to a farmer's barn. Then I got thirsty for some milk, so the farmer came with about six glasses of milk. Sure was better than the wine.

Slept in a haystack on 11 May. Finally a pretty young French girl found me and told me to stay there and she would be back later. Early evening she came back with a well dressed gentleman with a complete change of clothing and shoes. I asked them what I should do, so they showed me about where I was on the escape map I had, and told me to head toward Paris. At least get out of the Coastal Defense Area, and told me what direction and rail line to follow.

They gave me food and more wine so I was off on my own again, in a strange country with Germans all over the place. Early evening I found the railroad and headed toward Paris. Went by two villages and Station Masters always spoke something, and I would say "Hi."

I thought I was doing fine until that evening about 10 PM I ran into two soldiers who asked for identity cards. They took me to their commanding officer. This was a trainload of Panzers parked for the night. The captain asked me for identity card, name, etc. Finally had to tell him I was an American flyer. He said, "For you the war is over." They set me in a corner of the office with about six or seven German officers and they all proceeded to get drunk. They asked me no questions and I sat there all night.

Next morning a Gestapo officer came and took me in a car to Rouen which took about an hour. At Gestapo HQ many questions were asked. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it, but they had a large book listing every air crew with all the groups, squadrons, where each man came from, mother's, father's, sister's, brother's names, etc. All they needed was confirmation on what crew it was.

I stayed there in Rouen Prison for about five weeks in solitary confinement. Lost about 70 pounds, but knew on the fifth of June that the invasion was going to start on the sixth from the other French prisoners. Sure glad to hear the big guns and see all the planes in the air after the invasion.

But lo and behold, the same Gestapo officer that had brought me there came and drove me to Paris to Fresnes prison where I was in a cell with a "Scotty Sisson," a Mosquito pilot, and two other officers for about six weeks. The Allies were advancing too fast, so the Germans thought we ought to be taken to Germany. There were about 10,000 there in Paris -- English, Canadian, Polish, American, etc.

They took us Americans to Oberursel where we all officially became POWs. Sure great to get good food and lots of it again, compliments of the American Red Cross. Forgot to mention we were in Frankfort on Main a couple of days for interrogation prior to POW camp.

After a couple of weeks in Oberousel we were to start a new camp at St. Wendel, but guess the Allies were getting too close again after about three weeks, so they loaded us on a train again, about 40 or more to a car, and headed north to Poland. I'm not sure, but think it was near Czluchow, but thought everyone pronounced it Grostischow; Stalag Luft 3.

We stayed there until February '45, then we started a forced march across northern Germany, ending up on the Elbe River where we were finally liberated. I think that was at Lauenburg, and marched down to Luneburg to be flown to Brussels, Belgium, arriving there the day the war in Germany was officially over.

We sure had a hell of a celebration, which put me on the sick list for many months. From there to Namur then to the field hospital at Camp Lucky Strike near Omaha Beach.

Lost many weeks there not caring whether I lived or died, then off to the good old U.S.A. on shipboard to Boston for a couple of weeks, then by train to Battle Creek MI, Fort Custer, where I entered the service. Didn't get well enough to go home on leave until another month passed. Mustered out from there on 18 Nov. 45. Married on Sep. 29, 1945.

That was quite an experience and I sure couldn't make it again. Being stationed at Fort Custer Army Hospital opened my eyes to my good fortune because that was an amputee hospital, and so many more of the guys had it much worse than I had to endure.

I've tried to give you the experience as best remembered from so many years back. The story was never told to anyone except close family, Al Spindler and Richard Warfel. Even my seven children have never heard it because I have never wanted to tell anyone.

There were three members of our crew who were not with us on 9 May 44: Lewis E. Reeder, co-pilot; Arthur Stecher, bombardier; Morris Mitchell, radio.

We understand that Richard C. Warfel might have moved from Cleveland OH to Florida. We heard Ernest Schmaling might have died, but this could have been his wife. He was 35 years old before going overseas. We never have heard anything from Bruce Waddell.

Max explains:

As for Dad being sick, he was on a forced march from France to Poland much of his time as a POW and went from 160 lbs to 90lbs over the year of his capture. After they got to Poland, the German guards turned everybody around so, if necessary, they could surrender to the Americans and Brits and avoid capture by the Russians.

One morning on their way back through Germany, they got up and most of the German soldiers were gone. They were told to cross a bridge where they find a British unit waiting to repatriate them. Unfortunately, being so emaciated, Dad's body was probably not yet ready for all the good food and drink that they got as soon as they were rescued and he got very sick. He said he was very jaundiced (yellow) so it could have been a severe case of hepatitis, but he wasn't sure.

He always said though, that he was glad to have been stationed his last several months at Ft. Custer. It was an amputee hospital and he was grateful that he suffered so very little compared to the many others who returned with missing limbs, eyes, parts of faces or with brain damage.

What isn't in any of his story is what happened to him and those around him while he was a prisoner. We never heard any of it while were growing up or until many years later when he wrote that letter. My brother was the same way with his Vietnam experience, and I didn't hear any of that until a few years ago. I could tell you more of what happened to Dad but some of the rest isn't very pleasant...

Al Spindler's story

Westover Field Massachusetts
2nd July 1945

Dear Bish,

Words just can't say how happy I am to get your letter and to know that at last you're almost home. Damn but it was a long time! Before I start with my end of the tale, I'll get some of these other details taken care or, for instance the addresses. Of the ten of us, 7 were saved by the Underground, making you, Tom, and the radio operator, Brown, PW's. The rest of us were liberated in France on September 2nd, 1944.

S/Sgt Bruce A Waddell: Brookline (Upper Darby) Pa.
(That's his address. He's in B-29 training somewhere in the South. He volunteered for it!)
Last military address (May 3rd) Sqdn 'S', 3704th AAF BU,Keesler Field, Miss.

T/Sgt Morris Mitchell: Sqdn 'P' Bks 1625, Truax Field, Madison,Wis.
Home Address: Brooklyn, N,Y.

Lt. Wm E. Belluomini: Bakersfield, Cal.
Last Military Address: Branch 4, Box 4301 Ellington Field, Texas.

S/Sgt Earnest E. Schmaling: Santa Rosa, Calif.

S/Sgt Richard C. Warfel: Cleveland, Ohio.
June 1st: AAFCH Don Ce Sar, St. Petersburg, Fla,

Lt, Thomas L. Bond: c/o Mrs, Ray P. Collins, Jackson, Miss.
(That's his married sister with whom I've corresponded ever since I got back. I don't know his folks' address) in Weir, Miss.

I've lost all track of Reeder, and Stecher is home in California. I don't have Stecher's address but either, Ernie or Bill could give it to you.

And then here's the last addresses: S/Sgt Vernon M. Bishop, USPOW 4187, Stalag Luft 4. Tom was in Stalag Luft III, Germany.

Belluomini is, or was an unoccupied officer waiting for a job. I think he was to be put to work as a navigation instructor last I heard. Stecher goofed off as much as he could. After we went down he went to the hospital for almost six months, Then they finally were more stubborn than he was and he had to fly some more missions around Christmas time. Then we heard in February that he was on his way home.

That dopey bombardier, Walters, applied for another tour with the 94th as soon as he got back to England. Reeder had finished and left the group, when we got back to it, Mitchell was there, though, and we got plastered for two weeks without drawing a sober breath. Mitch finally made it home right around Christmas time. He's now finishing up the last part of a special instructor radio operator course.

Warfel met this French girl that he had intended to marry. She taught English in a French high-school., and remained a virgin all or her thirty years(until she met Warfel), Then the latest is that Warfel goes home on a furlough and meets some babe for the first time, and marries her, after he had made elaborate plans to bring Eliane all the way from France, What a dope! Dick got as far as that rest home in St, Pete and played a damned good game of politics and managed to get himself a job as permanent party there. He plays with the dance band several nights a week and picks up about an extra $60 a month. During the day he's a life-guard. What a racket.

Ernie, is of course damned near home. He finally is happy now that he has Hazel with him. He lives at home and commutes to work in his newly bought '39 Plymouth,

Waddell almost got married to his girl while he was home but he was damned if she could see being denounced by her church for marrying a "non-Catholic." So he applied for another tour of combat via B-29's,

As for myself, I have the racket or all rackets. I work about half a day every day pounding a typewriter, and fly once a month to collect flying pay. I get every sixth day off, or five days off a month and manage to get home for three days about once a month, I'm married now, and living here in Northampton. I've got the nicest wife and the best damned place you've ever seen. A '37 Pontiac sedan helps me to get places in a hurry, If you want a good deal and a pretty soft racket if you must remain in the Army, just ask to be transferred to Westover, near Springfield, Mass, It's slightly CS, but less so than almost any other post. PW's get an extra food ration, I understand, and also their choice of any AAF field in the country to be permanently stationed on, Shortly we hope to be training men on A-26's here, or we'll still be training' B-24 crews at a new address. I hope ours is the first bargain. In the meantime I'm blissfully happy.

Bill writes me quite often , and so does Earnie, Mitch is fairly good about writing and I hear about once a month from Warfel. Waddell crashes through twice a year.

I guess that this is all I can say about current events, and now back to May 9th, 1944, 0845. I've given your mother quite a complete account of my version, but in case she hasn't the letter, here it is again, Incidentally I wish you would apologize to her for me. She wrote me of your liberation, and I don't think I ever answered her letter, I hardly write at all these days,

We had just crossed the Channel and were over France, I was in the ball turret looking things over, I'd never felt more confident of any mission than I did of that one,

There were just a few light scattered clouds, and a slight haze but otherwise perfect visibility. Altitude was believed to have been 19,000 to 22,000. Belluomini claims 22, and Warfel and the rest claim 19, will you straighten us out on that, Bish?

Without,any warning at all, came the "bail out" order, given slowly and carefully three times, but sounding as though Tom was crying or had smoke in his eyes. I couldn't believe the first one and quickly whirled around looking at all four engines. The plane was straight & level and four engines were just purring. At the second call, I decided to poke my head into the waist and see what was going on.

I was hastily summoned up by Warfel, (who felt it his duty to see that I jumped safely), At the third call I was on my way out, I had one foot out and the other in the turret when Tom dove it straight down for 500 feet or so to get it out of formation, thereby making it safe for us to bail out.

At the bail out order, Dick turned to inform Ernie and found both Ernie and waist door already missing, Poor Brown was struggling with his flak suit and when I saw him no one was giving him too much attention. He was scared to death! Warfel got his chute, and I got mine, and at that time it seemed that either Bishop (yea you) or , Warfel were helping him. I looked out the waist door and my mind said "Hell, no.'"

Then you came crashing through the bombay, and quickly shut the bombay door, because as you opened it a flash of red flame about ten feet long just lashed out!

There was a little scramble in the waist, and someone was either looking for an extra chute for you, Bish, or they were looking for a fire extinguisher. I'm still trying to remember whether I saw you in the waist or not. Please let me know if your reserve chute burned or not. Did you have to use that extra seat pack? I neglected to mention that the waist was a bit hazy with smoke.

I jumped out and all went well for a split second, and then slip stream hit me and boy did it hit me! I turned ass over teakettle until I assumed the position of rigid attention, I twanged! I counted to 25 twice and still decided I was too high to pull the rip cord. Something had impressed me not to pull that thing until the very last minute. So about 500 feet off ground I pulled and thought I had hit a brick wall, My feet swung out to the right and as they passed dead center I was on the ground. My knees gave in on hitting and I fell on my belly, not even bruising me, I hit the only square patch of -green grass for miles around. I then looked at the sky, lit a cigarette, and urinated.

About that time I was debating whether to join the others as they landed or whether to remain alone. I finally decided on the latter figuring that we had a better chance being alone. I immediately began to burn identification papers in my wallet. (I still had my wallet & all my possessions I had just burned my driver's license and social security card when I looked around and was being regarded by 20 year old farmers. They stood their distance, about 50 feet and looked me over, I don't know who was more scared, the French or myself. I didn't know if I was in Holland, Belgium, France or Spain. I remembered some of the three years of French I took in school, and mumbled in miserable French, "I'm an American, will you help me?" They repeated the phrase a couple of times and then light dawned. They lept at me and kissed me firmly time and time again, screaming at the top of their lungs that I was an American who spoke French. They asked about my chute, and I promptly produced it. I had hidden it in the meantime and they were a little dubious as to how I had arrived. I was led to a farmhouse amidst 20 to 30 Frenchmen from 2 to 90 years old. They tried to make me relieve myself in the barn, but I was too modest with such a big audience. I finally reclined on the hay and they brought me some cookies & some cognac. An hour later I was led to the next farmhouse & met Doug Melton, co-pilot. They had taken him for a German, and I don't think I ever saw anyone so scared in all my life. They were discussing what to do with him and brought me to identify him. Of course I had never seen him before in my life. He finally convinced me, and I kidded them all a while and later told them that he was all right

He acquainted me with the fire in the cockpit. The accepted version is that something set off a flare right next to your turret, we personally think that it was another B-17 test firing into us. The flare ruptured the hydraulic line which burst and the accumulator came on just pushing it out to add to the flame, Then the oxygen went to add to it, and the turret stand became red hot, and later white hot. Doug went to the nose for an extinguisher but when he got there the nose was empty and the hatch gone. He went back to get his chute and saw Tom coming out with his. Tom insisted that he go first, because the pilot of the ship should be the last to go. Doug finally pushed him out. Neither Pinky nor Bill knows who pushed out the nose hatch. Pinky went to bail out and it was gone. We still think that you pushed it out, Someone stuck their head into the nose & said "Bail out!" was that you, Bish? Because it wasn't Doug or Tom.

Waddell's tale is a little funny. He had been having trouble with interphone and didn't hear the order. All of a sudden he saw a waist door go winging past, And then he saw Ernie going past horizontally with that typical grin on his face. About that time he started to get alarmed. Next I came by, and when as he looked at the waist he saw Warfel leave, About that time he said, "Waddell, just what the Hell are you doing here?" and he left pronto, via the tail hatch. When Pinky bailed out he had forgotten to fasten his chest clip on his harness. The back of his harness consequently got stuck on the door, and he was just hanging there in mid air suspended unable to help himself hoping that the explosion would blow him free. Then Bill came along and said "why you dirty so & so," And gave him a boot in the fanny and out he went. Tom's procedure was to dive the plane, flick on Auto-pilot which was already set, head the plane for Berlin and bail.

I guess Brown was the last one to leave, because no one saw him go, or did you see him? We later heard that he had been picked up by the underground not far from us, but when we arrived at the group we were informed that he was a PW. That's the last I've heard of him.

When we got back to England, we got a detailed map, plotted our landing points. They were in a straight line, just as straight as they could be, running from about 340 to 160 degrees, 20 miles long.

To make a long story short; we were housed in about seven or eight different homes in three or four different towns. Doug & I started together, moved to Waddell's town, a few doors from him (but never saw him till after Liberation), and three weeks later Bill joined us, The underground was very good about insuring communication between us by carrying our notes back and forth.

Quite a bit later, about a month, we learned that Ernie & Dick were together about 20 miles away. We met them the night of Sept 6th. Sometime in July we teamed up with George, a B-26 radio operator who had been hiding with Pinky, our bombardier. The rest of the time we sweat it out together, cursing each other and for the most part terribly morose and tired of looking at each others' faces. I did manage to gain 20 pounds in the process, though, on French wines, meats, & dairy products,

We were liberated September 2nd, drunk as Hell until the 6th when we started back for England, We hit London the 7th, got drunk all over again and stayed that way until we hit the group on the 19th. There we met Mitchell and some of the old gang and proceeded to get lit until we left near the end of the month. After waiting three weeks in a replacement pool, (three dry weeks) we were flown to LaGuardia on a C-54 where we landed 0500 on the 17th of October. We weren't there long when we had a buzz-on before noon, I was on my way home at six that night, but stopped in at my Aunt's in New York City to hang one on with her. I arrived home around 11 PM slightly lit and started drinking-with the family. I was married eight days later and have been forced to take it easy ever since, except for weekly brawls.

This is getting too long, Bish so I'd better cut it. I absolutely demand that you come and stay with us sometime during your furlough. Stay as long as you wish, and come when you want to. Any time except the period between July 20th & July 22nd. One of my Navy buddies is arriving then, and we can only sleep three, comfortably. I've got to see you Bish and get this thing ironed out. You can take a train to Springfield, Mass, and I'11 pick you up there, I guess you'd go through Albany. Just send me a wire about 24 hours ahead of time and let me know approximately when you'd arrive. If I'm not at the station to meet you, call Westover Fiels for me at extension 6O6,.Please do this for me at Bish, you have no idea what it will mean to me.

Above all, remember that crew 6-N-ll plus its wives sc mistresses have a reunion in Omaha, May 8th, 1950. Did you ever get the letter I wrote you, Bish? I told you of our wedding, of Waddell as best man and Dick & Erie as ushers, trying to inform you that they were home. But the weddin actually happened that way

Drop me a note or something soon. I'll inform the others or
your arrival,

Always your pal,

[Al Spindler]
-------

Ernie Schmaling's story (waist gunner)

Monday, July 9, 1945

Hi Bish,

It was quite a pleasant surprise the other day to receive a letter from Spindler - and to find out that he had enclosed a copy of a letter that he had received from you. It was saddening to receive the news that you and Tom and Brown had been taken, but then good news to also know that you were still OK. I would like to know more in detail – first what the hell happened that day – Everything seemed rather peaceful and quiet back in the waist – Until Tom gave with the bail out command. When I heard it, I also heard a commotion behind me and it was Brown coming out of the radio room – He didn’t know how to get out of his flak suit so I gave the thing a yank and it fell away. Then I looked towards the front of the plane and I could see great bellows of smoke rolling out of the radio room into the waist of the ship.

At the time it was hard to believe that Tom told us to bail out – however seeing that smoke was quite convincing but then I never doubted Tom’s words – it was rather hard to realize that this was it. When I saw the smoke and after helping Brown out of his flak suit – Well that was when ‘Pop’ got busy – it didn’t take me long to get ready – so when I was all set to go I took a few drags on the tube and after one last look around I saw Spindler was coming out of the turret OK and Dick had kicked out the door and was busy with his chute – I could see no reason for sticking around and I knew I had no business staying – So when I went to the door I don’t mind saying I was scared as hell – but as I say I know I couldn’t stay there so I dove out.

After I was clear of the ship and started to fall I was surprised that I had no sensation of falling – it was more like floating through the air. When I opened my chute I seemed to be about 2000 ft up – the first thing I did was look for the plane and other chutes – I couldn’t see the plane – but had a glimpse of the formation and could see only one chute quite high. – Then I concentrated on the landscape – I had time to look the country over for woods & the road for troop movements – then I hit the ground. I landed in a grain field & hit my head pretty hard – my chute pulled me over backwards – and of course I was sure on the way down I had lost my nuts.

When I got up and started to get out of my harness I heard someone yell & looked up and saw eight or ten French people waiving to me to hurry – I grabbed up my chute and ran like hell – they were saying Americk and shaking my hand. I asked them where the Germans were and they pointed in several directions.

I finally made out that they wanted me to get out of sight and hide in the barn on this farm. I gave my chute to the peasant women and she hid it for me & I started for the barn – I was only in the barn a short while when I heard someone come in – I could tell by the breathing that it was one of the boys – I was hiding on the top of some hay that was stacked to the ridge at one end of the barn – The rest of the barn had hay about two feet deep. – I looked down from my hay stack and there was Dick – I called to him & he found me – We had only been together about fifteen minutes when I heard some talking outside – I peeked through a crack and saw two Jerries coming through the orchard – with their rifles ready – They knew we were in the vicinity & were looking for us – We heard them come in the barn and start searching – and of course Dick and I started to sweat them out. – Do you remember they always told us if we were shot down to always hide up in a tree or likewise. Well it seemed to work out that way because the Germans tromped all over the hay below – but never thought of looking up on the big stack.

Anyway, we were safe up there for the time being – Dick and I were in the barn for 4 days and 3 nights. The farmer wasn’t of the underground and was plenty scared having us in his barn – We tried to get him to get us some clothes – but somehow he contacted the right parties & they moved us on the fourth to a little woods near a village, telling us they would be back at 10:30 that night to get us. They arrived a little late and it was dark and getting darker. – We left the woods and hiked a few miles into the village – it was quite dark about now & the French man told us there were some Germans in the village – So we started to sweat some more – they had taken everything away from us that had English writing on it – even my dog tags –They were not taking any chances with me and a name like I was packing around. – So Dick and I didn’t know what we were walking into. Dick was lagging behind – but I was hungry – not having much for four days and nothing at all that day – So I walk right along with the French man – we weren’t caught yet and as I say I was hungry. We finally arrived at the village and entered a court yard. We were to find out later that it was a school yard. We entered a building and it was dark as hell and by the sound of it I knew it was empty. Then a door opened and by the light I could look down a hallway – and what I saw made me stop – (This will kill you) Dick was still lagging behind and I called to him asking what he was so damn slow for – that he should see what I saw – about this time another one appeared – by this time Dick was in the line of sight – and when he saw those two French girls he took off like a B-17 and damn near crushed me when he went by. You know Dick he was making plans from that moment.

When we all got into that room which served as a kitchen I saw six of the biggest pork chops on the stove - that I had ever seen – and they were being fried to a golden brown. We had quite a feed that night & much to our surprise – we found out that we were to stay there with those two girls – They were both school teachers and really very nice girls – That part Dick soon discovered – We were there about 5 days and they brought in another gunner – he was shot down that day - (A-20) – We remained there for about another week & they moved us about 20 miles to a small farm near a large woods. I’ll back track a little here. While we were with the girls they brought us Tom’s picture one morning. We told them he was our pilot and asked them if he was here – Much to our sorrow we learn that he met a Belgium officer and they had left for southern France – They also told us it was bad to try and travel the Germans were watching the trains & roads & picking up all the young men and making them work for them.

We stayed at the little farm for about a week and a half and talked them into taking us back to the other village – we liked the girls company – and Dick was going out with one of them already.

We returned to the village and were with our friends for over a month – We woke up one morning to find Germans all over the place – A company of infantry had moved in early that morning. They were there for a months rest. It got pretty hot for us and for the girls safety we decided to move again – So one dark night – well it wasn’t so dark –there was a big moon – but in the darkness before the moon came up two Frenchmen & four of us slipped through their nite patrol and traveled all the rest of the nite on bicycle and on foot back to the little farm near the woods. – We were there when we were liberated. – We were about 4 months in hiding. We ran into Bruce, Al, Bill & Milton a few days later at a British Intelligence Station & then started our movement home.

This isn’t all in detail – but a pretty fair account of what took place with us – Dick and I were together until we departed in New York for home – We’ll have to get together some day & tell of our experiences – Until that time we’ll have to keep in touch by writing – My address is Santa Rosa, Calif-

---

Dick Warfel's story
(transcribed from 1945 newspaper article)

Diary Gives Inside Details of Days Spent Hiding from the Germans
By Sgt. Richard Warfel

“Bail Out! Bail Out!”

I stood at the escape hatch of our bomber “The Pride of the Yanks.”

Five miles below was the English Channel and the coast of Nazi occupied France.

Smoke was pouring out of the radio room. Seconds before we had just had an oxygen test. All 10 members of our crew had been at their posts knowing we were only 10 minutes from our bombing objective – a German airfield in central France.

Then the flak found our bomber. The crippled “Pride of the Yanks” was now on automatic pilot. The ball turret was being frenziedly turned to the stowed position so that the gunner could get out. I disconnected my oxygen tube, heater cord and headset wires.

Next, I pulled the emergency handle, which released the escape door located in the right rear waist. In those seconds, I could feel the lack of oxygen - breathing became difficult. I knew each second the ship might explode.

I put on my chest pack and stood at the escape hatch. Someone was behind me. I had never jumped before. I looked at the earth five miles below, hesitated to check my rip-cord and say a very little prayer, then threw myself head first into space.

Barely misses Plane

I shot past the nose of a B-17 flying in the formation below us. I missed [unreadable]… by a few yards and I could see the horrified expression on the face of the pilot. I believe I must have fallen about 10,000 feet when I gave the ripcord a terrific yank.

The formation was already out of sight. Below me, about 2000 feet was a lone parachute. I wondered which one of the crew it was. My parachute began to oscillate like the pendulum of a clock. For a time I was almost crazed with fear I would swing in a complete arc and land on top of my own chute.

I could see the English Channel in the distance and knew that I was landing in the middle of the defense area on the coast of France, where the Germans were thick. The swinging parachute, combined with the pain in my groin from the chute straps made me feel faint and I momentarily lost consciousness.

Then I was watching the other chute land. I saw the crew member hit hard and I tried to make a mental note of his location. I wondered whether the Germans would shoot at me before I hit the ground. And I wondered how I would act when captured.

I thought of my mother and my father and my twin brother, Bob and brother Jack. I suddenly felt more sorry for them than for myself for I knew that a “missing in action” telegram would reach them soon.

I hit hard, facing backwards. I wasted little time in unbuckling the uncomfortable leg straps and climbing out of my chute.

A dozen or more French peasants ran toward me, waving sticks in a menacing fashion. Later I learned they suspected me of being a Nazi paratrooper.

I had memorized some stock phrases in French and I called to them that I was American. My voice sounded like a stranger’s. I produced identification pictures and waved them in the air.

“Amereek, Amereek!” they cried suddenly and rushed at me first to hug me, then to rip off my chute. While of the peasants half pushed and dragged me toward a high green hedge, the others ran away with the chute to conceal or destroy it.

Hid Inside Barn

Almost at once we heard a motorcycle approaching. The French pointed in the direction of the farm house and I ran along the green hedge, my green suit blending well with the leaves. At a signal I made a 100 yard dash to a big barn. Inside I buried myself in the three feet of hay that covered the floor.

I must have been 10 minutes getting my wind and swimming in perspiration when I heard “Pssst! Dick!” Fifty feet up in a hay loft was Ernie Schmaling, the left waist gunner of our crew. No face ever looked more wonderful. I climbed the rafters to him in a nest of hay at the top of the barn.

I think we slept a long time out of sheer exhaustion. We were awakened by screams. Looking through a slit in the rafters, we saw a sight that made us almost sick with horror. The Nazis, knowing we had landed in the area, had seized six young Frenchmen and three French women.

The victims were tied, hand behind their backs, to posts in a square about 30 yards from the barn. SS troops were trying to get the men to talk. Each time the Frenchmen shook their heads, the Nazis would kick them in their stomachs. They wore special heavy hobnail boots.

We saw one French boys stomach split wide open. He died that night, still tied to the post. Two of the Frenchmen were shot. There was nothing we could do. Had we revealed our presence the owner of the farm and all his family and his neighbors would have been killed.

Without Food Four Days

For four days the French farmers stayed away from the barn and for four days Ernie and I almost went mad for lack of water and food. We had special pills to eat that were supposed to take the place of water. When we couldn’t stand it any longer, we dragged ourselves to the barn door and called weakly for water.

That night the farmer brought us a bottle of cider and some black bread and gave us a sign to be very quiet, that “Bosch” (Germans) were nearby. He had no sooner left than we heard footsteps. Through the barn cracks, we saw a German soldier with a rifle coming toward the door.

We hurried to our perch in the loft. The Nazi entered, began to systematically plunge his bayonet into the hay on all sides. But he didn’t attempt to climb to our secret hiding place.

We knew the consequences of being discovered. We would be shot or taken prisoner; the good French people would be killed. Germans were offering French people rich rewards for any information concerning allied airman, or their capture. Knowing these facts, we were prepared to kill the German should we be discovered.

The next four nights and days we kept very still in the barn. Each night the farmer brought us cider and hard bread. We would return the bottle with a 100-franc note enclosed.

Then a Visitor Arrived

On the fourth day we heard a motor car pull up to the barn and then people approaching. We hardly breathed. To our complete amazement, we heard a feminine voice say in English, “Hello up there, come down!”

We peeked down to see a beautiful woman. She told us she was a member of the French underground and a school teacher. Ernie and I were sad-looking sights with our dirty clothes and week old beards, but she said, “Always have I wanted to kiss an American soldier and now is my chance.”

We puckered up our lips – a useless gesture, for she kissed us on both cheeks and gave us both a hug. She had brought a burlap bag filled with clothes of French peasant style and she turned her back while Ernie and I changed from American airman to French natives.

We gave her all our English possessions and identifications. Her father backed the car up to the barn, piled hay over us on the floor. When we emerged we were at the edge of a great forest. Here we hid in the dark awaiting prearranged plans to meet an underground member at midnight. He led us across fields, pointing to great craters made by bombs.

We slipped through barbed wire fences, waded through swamps and finally reached our destination – a small farmhouse. Inside were the Frenchman’s wife and two lovely girls Elaine Clement and Madelain Liot, also school teachers and members of the underground. On the stove were pork chops, vegetables and the table was set with wine. There was a little cake for us and a little homemade American flag on its top.

Forced to Move Again

It was all too good to last of course. The next Monday we were told German patrols were again searching for us and we would have to move. The girls packed us a lunch and hid us under hay in a cart. We drove through little French towns filled with Germans. Now if we were captured, we would be shot as spies for we had no identification. I quote a page in a diary I kept:

“The three of us Ernie [Vern?] and I have been hiding in this farmhouse attic now for 25 days. Today is June 1, 1944. We are well but getting very restless. The roof will not permit our standing up. The two French girls attend to all our meager comforts and bring us food.”

“Fleeing to Switzerland or Spain is out of the question for we know invasion is near. Yesterday we took a snapshot of SS troops marching just outside our house. The girls had given us a small camera stocked with film they had been saving for just such documentary evidence.”

Week of Comparative Freedom

There was a week of comparative freedom when the Nazis left unexpectedly and then what a joy it was for us to go freely into the woods. At night we taught the old Frenchmen how to play childish games like we used to play as kids. We played tag, jump [unreadable]… It was amazing to see how seriously the old men took the sports.

One can not appreciate the courage or determination of the French people until he realizes the humiliation and sacrifice they have endured the past five years. They have been beaten, robbed, tortured, slain at the Nazi’s whim.

One afternoon we were sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some baby chicks when much commotion was heard. We raced toward the third floor but the stairs were so narrow all three of us couldn’t escape – I raced into a bedroom and dived under a small studio couch and pressed against the wall.

Presently I heard boots mounting the stairs – and saw two pairs of boots enter the room. Two Nazi officers had decided to rest for a time. They had a bottle of cognac – and one sat on the couch under which I was hiding. I almost stopped breathing – and then I started to perspire.

Miraculously Spared

After an hour, a little river of perspiration began running slowly across the floor. I prayed it would not run out from under the couch. Suddenly a hoarse command sounded from below and the boots clicked from the room. Again I had been miraculously spared.

After nine days we left the farm. We walked through the forest and met a truck which was to take us to our previous place.

It was indeed a pleasure to see the girls again. Knowing our strong appetites, they immediately gave us cider, dark bread, butter and honey. Soon a delicious dinner was prepared.

These two girls could not do enough for us. They were excellent cooks and each meal was different and better than the last. We had the run of the house. During the day the girls taught school in the schoolroom below us. At night we played games. The girls talked in French and we in English.

From the diary:

“We are in complete comfort here and in direct contact with the underground. I several days the English will drop bombs and ammunition for the French. The invasion is only days away. When the American parachutists land in France, Ernie, [Vern?] and myself will be armed to fight along with them and the French. Last night we were almost shaken out of our boots by the heavy guns on the coast. We thought the invasion had begun and were ready to head for the bomb shelters but I guess the guns were only practicing.

Big Moment Near

“Today, June 4, we helped the girls make arm bands with the French insignia which we will wear when we fight. The big moment is arriving, one which the French have been waiting for since 1939 and one which we have been waiting for since we bailed out in our chutes. The invasion means we can get back to England and thus back to the United States.”

“From the window in the attic of the house, we watched the formation of B-17’s returning toward England after a raid over Germany. Heavy flak could be seen bursting all around them. We saw three B-17’s explode and go down in flames. Out of 20 men, five were able to parachute out safely.”

“Last night after we were all in bed, a convoy of German trucks [unreadable]… house. We watched them from the window. Soon they moved on, apparently toward the coast.”

“Another gunner joined us today – Ernest Grant from Boston, Mass. His Fortress collided with another Fortress at 21,000 feet. He was a top turret gunner – only a miracle saved his life.”

Tells of Invasion Start

“June 6 – The invasion of Europe started last night while we slept. We listened to French and English broadcasts over the radio. Four thousand large boats, many small ones, thousands of allied planes had crossed the channel. The French are very happy today. The Germans have stopped all traffic in and out of our small town, preventing the French from obtaining American guns which were dropped last night – guns which were to be given to us.”

“We are situated in range of coastal guns. Our American bombers are expected to bomb in this vicinity. If such is the case we will be given an hour’s warning (dropped by planes) to go to open fields and forest.”

Again from my diary:

“The Polish troops came to liberate us on Sept. 1, 1944. Of the members of our crew, seven of us have been accounted for by the Underground. The other three are prisoners or dead. The Allied planes have been dropping supplies for the skies each hour it seems”

And the final page from my diary:

“Tomorrow I sail for home. What a wonderful word – home! England is wonderful but it seems we will hardly be able to stand the sight of dear old Liberty holding the light for the world. I am scheduled to go to St. Petersburg rehabilitation hospital for an eye operation (flak had injured my left eye slightly) and after that home – to my family.”

The author, Sgt. Richard Warfel, served the Air Force as the waist gunner of the ill-fated Liberator bomber, “Pride of the Yanks.” For seven months after receiving the word that their son was “missing in action”, his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Warfel, received no encouragement.

After the liberation of France Warfel was returned to England where he cabled his family. He is currently on furlough from Don Cesar Air Force Hospital in St. Petersburg, where he is a convalescent patient. Sgt. Warfel has been awarded the Air Medal, Presidential Citation, Goot and Wing and Caterpillar ribbons.

He is the brother of Sgt. Jack Warfel, Press reporter now on leave with the Army Air Forces.

• Last Flight

2010-10-06T06:07:00.000-07:00

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.

In an effort to cheer their father up, his sons had driven him from Massachusetts to the great air show taking place in Genessee.

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 is 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.

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 go 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.

Once they had been young, the hope and pride of a nation. But now…no one cared anymore.

They walked slowly along the crowded flight line. Over the rumble of the engines, Dad gestured for his boys. “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.”

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.

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.

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 arund the aircraft they’d been looking at and was staring like a man possessed with the next plane in line. A look of incredulous wonder began to spread across his face…

“My God,” he whispered. “My God, there it is. It’s…someone…how…I never thought that I’d ever…”

“What is it, Dad? Are you okay?”

He seemed to stand taller and his shoulders squared. “Okay? Hell yes, I’m okay! THERE’S MY PLANE!”

It just so happed that “his” plane was also “our” plane. Lockheed PV-2 “Harpoons” were never immortalized by Hollywood like the Flying Fortresses of “12 O’Clock High,” the B-25 Mitchells of “Catch-22” 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 “sighted sub, sank same” 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.

With the debut of the heavier and more stable PV-2, Marine Corps pilots and ground crews, as usual, made a few non-standard “field modifications.” 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…

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. “I never knew they saved one,” he said softly. “I never thought I’d see one again.” To his sons, the man sounded as if he had suddenly found something priceless that he had lost many years ago.

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…

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.

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 plan, a courtesy we perform for all visitors, but one of the man’s sons tugged at his sleeve. “Dad
knows his way around in here. Can we talk outside for a moment?”

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.

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.

While the old aviator was still merrily poking about in our plane, a couple more of our crew strolled up munching on hamburgers. “What’s up? Anything going on?”

“Yeah. Wait’ll you hear this…”

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 “away team” 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…

We were scheduled to make a flight the next day for “Aviation Classics” 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.

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 “free” 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.

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…

“He can have my seat,” one of our guys said softly.

“Naw. You haven’t gone up for a while. Let him take mine.”

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.

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?

The question stunned him. “Are you serious?” He looked from man to man, and their faces answered for them. They were all grinning like idiots and nodding their heads in encouragement.

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. “Yes,” he said. “I’d love to go. Thanks…thank you very much.”

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.

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. “I felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning,” he grinned.

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. “I thought some of you might be interested in this.” He carefully unwrapped a tattered and patched photo album.

“My boys talked me into bringing it from home when we came up here. I’m glad I have it with me now.” He opened the cover.

Our crewmen took one glance inside and snapped completely awake, nearly choking on their coffee. They stared at the book, then at each other.

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.”

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?

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.

“Sir, when the rest of our people get here, would you consider giving us a, uhh, briefing?”

He sat his cup down and smiled. “Be glad to.”

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 “grading” 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 “thumbs up” and shut the door.

He never thought that he’d see another of “his” 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.

The last flight was under way.

Our pilot shouted out his window. “Clear!” 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.

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.

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.

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.

It was the moment our crew had been waiting for. The airspace was now clear.

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.

One of our ground crew grinned at the old pilot’s sons. “I think your dad is in for a little treat.” 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. “What the hell are they up to?” 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.

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, “There! To the north!”

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, “Are they in trouble?”

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. “Jinking” 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.

The bomb bay doors snapped open and half dozen dark oblong shapes spilled out.

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.

Gennessee, New York had just been bombed by a planeload of Indiana watermelons.

After pulling up from its surprise “bomb run,” 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.

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.

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.

The scene was best described to this writer by one of our female crew members.

“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.”

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, “Yes!” 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. “I have my checkbook with me. I can pay my first annual dues right now and…”

There was a cry of outrage and our “recruiting officer” 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.

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.

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, “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…”

Well, maybe we don’t. But we have a pretty good idea. We know what he did for us.

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.

Sometimes people ask me why I love air shows.

I never know what to tell them.

Ken Ballard

• Roger Ball

2010-09-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

click to enlarge

Today's personal computer flight simulators are just a hair's breadth from reality, and a freeware aircraft carrier add-on brought back the sights and sounds (if not the smells of JP-5, oily steam, or sweat) from forty years ago.

With a couple of mouse clicks I positioned a carrier, flight deck spotted for recovery, ten miles ahead of me. Into the break at 300 knots, the sight picture brought back a wave of memories.

The time the Air Boss called, "Keep it flying," as a stiletto Vigilante staggered into to the air, slowly rolled upside down, and disappeared in a noiseless splash.

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 flight deck.

Today, at the 90 rolling into the groove, I thought, yeah I've seen this picture before. Wide open ocean, tiny huge ship churning away from us. Five thousand hot, horny, hard working souls trying to make it through another deployment.

After almost 45 years and 10,000+ hours of flying (I learned in college, before joining the Navy) I figured, yeah, I can do this. Carrier ops can't be that hard. Especially when the pink bag 'o flesh called 'me' isn't at risk.

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.

First pass was, "I know there's a ship out there somewhere. Oh, there it is. Okay, let's take 'er around and try that again."

Next pass was, "No, no, no. Two thousand feet abeam will never work." The Air Boss would have had a conniption if he saw what I did to get back into a reasonable semblance of a 180.

But the picture was, oh, so familiar. "Been there, done this" kept coming to mind.

"Prowler, ball, two point six," I tell the LSO so he knows we're an EA-6B, not a similar looking Intruder, and so he knows our fuel state.

What are those red lights on the lens? Shit, I'm low, real low. Power, power, POWER. Wave off. Boards in, watch the AoA.

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.

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, none of my era's yellow gear pushing A-3s, A-6s, and F-4s, 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.

Next pass starts out badly, but miraculously turns into a trap. LSOs little black book would probably read something like BRFAPPS3: brilliant recovery from a piss poor start, 3 wire.

I wasn't so lucky on the next few. including one pass where I got a heart stopping look up at the flight deck after pulling off too much power.

But I did manage one final 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.

On deck, thumb the boards in, hook up, flaps up, 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 us out of the catwalk. Looking down nothing but water going by, another flash of recognition. Watch the power as we come around so we don't blow a plane captain in the water or suck someone down an intake. Shut her down, canopies open. Air Boss is calling for the re-spot in preparation for the next launch.

Another day, another dollar. Only nine months to go my memory recalls.

"Honey, dinner's ready," my wife purrs, "You want beer or wine?" The fantasy evaporates, replaced by a dream come true.

Maybe I'd better try some FCLPs tomorrow, before I go back out to the ship?

UPDATE: I was being facetious when I suggested some Field carrier Landing Practice. Turns out there is an add-on (free) FLOLS 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 T-45s, and did better.

• Curtis Condor History Lesson

2010-05-23T05:51:00.000-07:00

This 20 minute flic is a time machine that will take you back to another era, 1933. American airline's Curtis Condor biplane airliners, good-looking stewardesses, newfangled telephones, cigars and cigarettes aloft, steam trains, Packard limos, even 'darkies loading cotton." Things were different back then when the U.S. population was only 1/3 of what it is today.

• You Know You're Having A Bad When . . .

2010-05-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

Aircraft Commander 1st Lt. Oliver Hildebrandt, Pilot 1st Lt. Walter Ross, and Co-pilot Captain Wilbur Evans, and a crew of thirteen took off from Carswell AFB in B-36B, 44-92035 of the 26th Bomb Squadron of the 7th Bomb Wing at 5:05 A.M. on November 22,1950. The planned 30-hour training mission consisted of air-to-air gunnery, bombing, simulated radar bombing, and navigational training.

Immediately after take-off, the #4 alternator would not stay in parallel with the other three alternators, so it was taken off-line and de-excited three minutes into the flight. About one minute after the #4 alternator was shut down, flames 8 to 12 feet long erupted from around the air plug of the number-one engine. The left scanner reported the flames to the pilot. Six minutes after take-off, the flight engineer shut down the number-one engine, feathered its propeller, and expended one of its methyl bromide fire extinguishing bottles.

The mission continued on the power of the remaining five engines. 44-92035 cruised to the gunnery range on Matagorda Island at an altitude of 5,000 feet. It arrived at 7:00 A.M. and the gunners began practicing. Radar Observer S/Sgt. Ray Earl manned the tail turret. The charger for the right gun burned out, so he expended just half of his ammunition. Then the APG-3 radar for the tail turret started acting up, so S/Sgt. Earl secured the set.

Aircraft Commander 1st Lt. Oliver Hildebrandt noted that the vibration from firing the 20mm cannons increased significantly during the fourth gunnery pass. Immediately afterward, radar operator Captain James Yeingst notified Hildebrandt that the APQ-24 radar set blew up and was smoking. Vibration from the firing of the guns was causing shorting between the internal components of the radar. Then the liaison transmitter failed as well.

The cannons in the left forward upper turret and the left rear upper turret stopped firing. The gunners attempted to retract the gun turrets, but the failed turrets would not retract. Gunner S/Sgt. Fred Boyd entered the turret bay, but other problems began to take precedence over the stuck turrets. Boyd was called out of the bay before he could manually crank the turret down.

At 7:31 A.M. the number-three engine suffered an internal failure. The torque pressure fell to zero. The manifold pressure dropped to atmospheric pressure. The fuel flow dropped off, and the flight engineer could not stabilize the engine speed. The pilot shut down the number-three engine and feathered its propeller. The B-36B had only one operating engine on the left wing, so the pilot aborted the remainder of the training mission and set course for Kelly Air Force Base.

Flight engineer Captain Samuel Baker retarded the spark, set the mixture controls to "normal", and set the engine RPMs to 2,500 to increase the power from the remaining engines. Unknown to Captain Baker, the vibration from the guns had disabled the electrical systems controlling the spark settings and fuel mixture. He immediately discovered that the turbo control knobs no longer affected the manifold pressure.

The B-36B could not maintain its airspeed on the power of the four remaining engines. It descended about 1,000 feet and its airspeed bled off to 135 miles per hour. The pilot called for more power. The flight engineer attempted to increase engine speed to 2,650 RPM and enrich the fuel mixture, but got no response from the engines except for severe backfiring. The fuel mixture indicators for all of the engines indicated lean.

The second flight engineer, M/Sgt. Edward Farcas, checked the electrical fuse panel. Although the fuses appeared to be intact, he replaced the master turbo fuse and all of the individual turbo fuses. He noticed that the turbo-amplifiers and mixture amplifiers were all cooler than normal. He climbed into the bomb bay to check the aircraft power panels and fuses, but could not find any problem there.

Kelly Air Force Base had a cloud overcast at just 300 feet and the visibility was restricted to two miles. The weather at Bergstrom Air Force Base not as bad, with scattered clouds at 1,000 feet, broken clouds at 2,000 feet and 10 miles visibility. Carswell Air Force Base was clear with 10 miles visibility, but it was 155 miles farther away than Bergstrom. Air traffic control cleared all airspace below 4,000 feet ahead of the crippled B-36B. Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt was flying on instruments in thick clouds.

The poor weather at Kelly Air Force Base convinced Hildebrandt to change course from Kelly to Carswell Air Force Base, passing by Bergstrom Air Force Base on the way in case the airplane could not make it to Carswell. Bombardier Captain Robert Nelson made two attempts to salvo the 1,500 pounds of practice bombs in the rear bomb bay, but the bomb bay doors would not open by automatic or manual control, or emergency procedure.

There was no way to dump fuel to reduce the weight of the B-36B. The flight engineers resorted to holding down the switches used to prime the fuel system in an attempt to increase fuel flow to the engines.. M/Sgt. Edward Farcas held down the prime switches for the number-two and number-four engines while Captain Baker held down the prime switch for the number-five engine and operated the flight engineer's panel. The configuration of the switches did not allow them to prime the number-five engine and the number-six engine at the same time.

The high power demand coupled with the lean fuel mixture made the cylinder head temperatures of the engines climb to 295 degrees C. Flight engineer Baker jockeyed the throttles, decreasing the throttle setting of the engine with the highest cylinder head temperature until another engine grew even hotter. The high temperature caused the gasoline/air mixture in the cylinders to detonate before the pistons reached top dead center, diminishing power and damaging the engines.

Despite the critical situation with the engines, Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt decided to continue past Bergstrom Air Force Base to Carswell. Bergstrom was overcast and its runway was only 6,000 feet long. Carswell offered a much longer runway. By the time the B-36B reached Cleburne , the backfiring on all engines increased in violence. The number-2, number-5, and number-6 engines were running at 70% power and the number-4 engine was producing only 20% power. The airspeed had dropped off to 130 miles per hour.

Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt attempted to restart the number-one engine, the one that had spouted flames on take-off, but fuel was not getting to its induction system.. He tried to restart the number-three engine, but could not unfeather the propeller on that engine. As the bomber passed to the west of Cleburne , the right scanner reported dense white smoke, oil, and metal particles coming from the number-five engine.

After a short while the number-five engine lost power, and Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt feathered the propeller on that engine while still twenty-one miles from Carswell Air Force Base. The B-36B could not stay airborne on the power of the three remaining failing engines. It was flying at just 125 miles per hour, seven miles per hour above the stall speed, losing both altitude and airspeed. Howard McCullough and W. Boeten were flying Civil Aeronautics Authority DC-3 N342 near Cleburne . They were notified by Meacham Tower to be on the lookout for 44-92035. They spotted it about five miles south of Cleburne . They observed that the number-one and number-three propellers were feathered and the number-five engine was on fire. They turned to follow the descending bomber Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt ordered the crew to bail out of the stricken bomber.

Bombardier Captain Robert Nelson had bailed out of airplanes on two previous occasions. He had crash landed twice and ditched once. He was the first man to bail out from the forward crew compartment. He suffered contusions of his lower spine when he landed.

Radar Operator Captain James Yeingst responded to stress with laughter and jokes. He was a bit giddy before the bailout. He was the second man to exit from the forward crew compartment. His parachute streamed after he pulled the rip cord. He passed Captain Nelson going down. Captain Yeingst's parachute mushroomed open just before he hit the ground, but he suffered fatal injuries.

Co-pilot Captain Wilbur Evans was the third man to exit from the forward crew compartment. He had bailed out of airplanes twice before and crash landed several times during WW-II. This time he broke both bones in his lower right leg when he landed.

Navigator Captain Horace Stewart had previously tried to get off flying status because he felt that the B-36 was too dangerous. It is reported that during the hour before bailout, he was tense, nervous, and chain-smoking. He was the fourth man to bail out from the forward crew compartment. He pulled his rip cord right as he exited the forward escape hatch on the left side of the fuselage. His parachute opened and pulled him toward the number three propeller. His head hit the downward pointing blade of the propeller, killing him instantly.

Radio Operator Cpl.. Paul Myers followed Captain Stewart out the escape hatch. Myers landed with minor injuries. Flight Engineer M/Sgt. Edward Farcas jumped head first through the exit hatch of the forward crew compartment right after Cpl. Myers. His parachute did not open when he pulled the rip cord. He pulled the parachute out of its pack with his hands and landed with only minor injuries.

Radar Mechanic Robert Gianerakis and Flight Engineer Captain Samuel Baker were the next to escape from the forward compartment. Both landed with only minor injuries. Radio Operator Sgt. Armando Villareal bailed out after Captain Baker. Villareal did not trust his parachute to open, so he pulled the rip cord while he was still in the forward crew compartment.. He held his parachute in his arms as he jumped feet first through the escape hatch. Despite his unorthodox method of escape, he landed with only minor injuries.

Pilot 1st Lt. Walter Ross was the next to last to leave the forward compartment. He landed with only minor injuries. Gunner S/Sgt. Andrew Byrne and Radar Observer S/Sgt. Ray Earl were the first two crew members to bail out of the rear crew compartment. Both landed with only minor injuries. Gunner Cpl. Calvin Martin was the third man to exit the rear crew compartment. He was swinging under his parachute as he hit the ground. He broke his right ankle as he landed. He fell backward onto a rock, fracturing his third lumbar vertebra and compressing his tailbone.

Gunner S/Sgt. Ronald Williams followed Cpl. Martin out the rear escape hatch. He landed with only minor injuries. Gunner S/Sgt. Fred Boyd was the last man to exit the rear crew compartment. He called to Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt over the intercom to let him know that everyone had escaped from the aft compartment. When he turned back to the exit hatch, it had fallen shut. He had to open the hatch again to make his escape. He broke the fibula of his left leg when he landed farther to the north than the other crew members.

After S/Sgt. Boyd reported that all other crew members had bailed out of the rear compartment, Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt set the autopilot and jumped clear when the bomber was less than 1,000 feet above the ground. He and nine other crew members escaped from the B-36B with only minor injuries. When McCullough and Boeten in DC-3, N342 saw the parachutes of the escaping crew members, they announced the bail-out on the emergency frequency of 121.5 megacycles.

Each report of Emergency Parachute Jump indicates that the incident occurred 20 miles south southeast of Carswell Air Force Base. The descent of the B-36B was witnessed by Mr. Buck Bell and his wife, who lived about 5 to 7 miles southwest of Crowley, Texas. Mr. Bell saw the crew members parachuting from the bomber, but did not see it hit the ground about one mile north of his house. Mr. James Bandy and his wife were on the road to Cleburne about 4 miles from their house on Route 1 near Joshua when they spotted the B-36B trailing smoke, flying in a nose-high attitude. They saw it hit the ground in a level attitude, raising a cloud of dust.

The B-36B descended straight ahead in a nose-high attitude for a mile after Aircraft Commander Hildebrandt bailed out. It stalled, pitched nose down, and impacted in a terraced field on Less Armstrong's Dairy, 14 miles south of Carswell Air Force Base, 2 miles west of the South leg FTW range, and six miles west of Crowley at 9:50 in the morning. The forward crew compartment separated and folded underneath the rest of the fuselage. The tail section broke off, and the rear crew compartment came away from the mid-fuselage as the wreckage slid 850 feet along the ground and twisted to the right.

The rear sections of the airplane remained largely intact. The elevation at the crash site was approximately 700 feet. Mr. W. Doggett witnessed the bail-out and crash from his home on Route 1 near Joshua. The B-36B impacted about 2-1/2 miles north of his house. He drove to the crash site in his pickup truck and helped the surviving crew members to regroup.

Four minutes after the crash, McCullough and Boeten in DC-3, N342 reported that two Navy aircraft were circling the wreckage. The wreckage smoldered for about eight minutes before a fire broke out in the number-six engine. The 15,000 gallons of remaining fuel consumed the forward fuselage and wings. The civilians and crew members were driven away from the crash site by exploding ammunition and the knowledge of the presence of 1,500 pounds of bombs aboard the airplane.

• Launch The Duty Fighter

2010-05-08T14:06:00.000-07:00

I was assigned duty fighter alert although conditions were too rough for the fleet to be flying. Flight operations had been canceled. . . but the On Duty Alert fighter had not.

I knew that there was no way they would launch me, since green water was now elevating itself 80 feet (or the deck was diving 80 feet into the North Atlantic).

I was pulling significant plus and minus G's just sitting in the cockpit. In addition there was a thin sheet of clear ice that covered the flight deck making taxiing impossible. In fact it had taken about 10 sailors on each side of my aircraft just to get me on the Cat. Each time the ship would roll starboard the airplane would slide right. And each time the ship rolled port we would slide left.

That was a helpless feeling to say the least. Finally, with heavy chains, they tied my airplane to the Cat. I was sitting in there, when all of a sudden the big bull horn sounded :

" LAUNCH THE DUTY FIGHTER ! "

Hey . . . you've got to be kidding !

My engine was not running and I had no electrical power up for the command radio. But the launch crew was already removing my 10 chain tie downs and getting a ground starter in place. The crew gave me a two-finger ' turn up' and pointed to my headset. I knew this was a signal to call PriFly.

Before I could transmit they were saying : "We have an unidentified target approaching the 250 mile circle and you must check it out. You will be launched as soon as the ship can turn into the wind." Oh s---, I thought.

The waves were so high that the catapult Shooter had to time our bow's up and down movement before he could launch my aircraft.

Frequently, the ship's nose would be buried in a dive. The next moment it, would be climbing a wave and simultaneously rolling 10 to 20 degrees . . while pointing up.

After checking all engine instruments (hoping finding a major problem) I determined that all systems were go. Also there were 3,500 troops watching to see if I was a real fighter pilot. The Navy had bred into us to never turn down a mission. This alert could be the REAL ONE. And our fleet could actually be under attack!

I saluted the Shooter and adjusted back in my seat for the shot.

As the ship's bow started up the shot came, I was airborne at 180 kts in 1.8 seconds. There was no way I could keep my feet on the rudders during the catapult. After the catapult, some of us felt like roadrunner birds - and we'd key the mike saying, " BEEP BEEP."

About the time I was recovering from the shot, Combat Control gave me vectors to the incoming target. And they instructed my speed to be G-A-T-E ! WIDE OPEN THROTTLE WITH STEREO AFTERBURNER.

Even while rapidly climbing five miles high in less than 60 seconds, the F-8 Crusader was accelerating supersonic. And ninety seconds later, I was at 30M heading for the bad guys.

To aid in finding the incoming Russian bomber(s) I tweaked my radar range out to 60 miles. But stationed on the outer edges of the fleet, a destroyer (DD) was able to look out even farther with its radar.

I was turned over to the DD and I reported my position. They responded, " Roger, Silverstep. We have you in contact." I asked : " WHERE'S THE BOGIE ? "

Silverstep: " It appears that was a false target " (possibly generated by a non-gyro stabilized radar receiver due to the rough sea).

" WOW ! I had risked my life for a false target. Now, I had to land on a boat that was bouncing up and down like a cork."

Although being literally shot up into the air, flying to the target had been routine. But landing on a boat being " beaten around like a puppet jerked on a string " was not.

I was given a You Are CHARLIE ON ARRIVAL meaning that I could land immediately. I had the ship to myself.

Usually, if a bird needs more fuel the tankers are available to give it another drink. No tankers were up on that day. On the other hand, I did come back with enough gas for about six (6) landing attempts. Thank goodness I did.

When the ship is just rocking and rolling, the visual ' meatball ' on the final approach glide slope is gyro-stabilized. But, if the ship is H-E-A-V-I-N-G AND B-U-C-K- I-N-G . . the gyro limits are exceeded making the ' meat ball's ' light and beam inaccurate.

In this situation the Landing Signal Officer (LSO) will manually control the meat ball to keep you on a desired glide slope. In other words, he puts the beam where he wants you to fly. He can judge the huge waves and try to get you on board when the ship is level . . somewhat.

In most cases the pilot is not able to see the ship's movement on his approach. His thoughts are 100% focused on staying on the ' meatball. ' And all the way to a trap, he is saying to himself : MEATBALL . . LINE-UP . . AIRSPEED ? This time I could see the ship's movements . .. loud and clear !

The ship would be nose high while in a roll 20 degrees to port. That would be like flying into a wall. Now making another quick glance, and the boat was nose low an d rolling both ways. With other glances, I could actually see the ship's huge screws under the fantail.

I was in deep trouble. Perhaps making it impossible to make a successful landing.

The LSO was letting me fly in as close as possible before hitting the big red flashing lights. I was doing everything correctly, but got the wave off on my first 5 approaches. The LSO was not going to let me land on those first threatening approaches because I might destroy more parked airplanes than a Kamikaze.

I had fuel enough for ONE more attempt. Needless to say I was calling on a Higher Power to help me out. Thank goodness He was watching over me.

When I felt that tail hook engage the cable, I was the happiest man on board the USS Independence. The landing is just the opposite of the Cat shot. No matter how tight you secured your shoulder harness, your head is thrown forward and down. But after moment you recover your senses and taxi out of the landing area.

But my problems were not over. I had to taxi on a thin sheet of ice that covered the rolling deck. Each time the ship would roll . . the Crusader would skid in that direction.

A few days earlier, I had observed an aircraft skid and drop overboard. Not many pilots survive. The 80 foot fall usually knocks them out - or their injuries disable them and they sink with the bird.

This was called "Church". When someone would ask what happened to a pilot in an accident they would respond : "Church" meaning that he was killed and a memorial service was held.

Finally, the flight deck crew got enough chains and tie downs on the bird to keep it from taking a salt water swim along with its pilot. There was no "Church" on that day for one happy pilot.

The ships Captain congratulated my airmanship. The flight surgeon gave me a few ounces of brandy and I headed to my stateroom for a little R &R. The ship was still bucking and heaving so while laying in my bunk I was mentally still pulling plus and minus G's

Epilogue

After my Navy flying I joined the airlines. Many times I was very amused at the response of some of my co-pilots complaining about how hard and dangerous airline flying was.

I felt like I had retired when first taking the airline job (even though it did have many challenges there as well). But nothing compared to landing, day and night, on an aircraft carrier. I had adventures you can't buy in the civilian world.

• An Air Fight With A Hun

2010-03-29T06:48:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the North of France, Saturday.

Today our special delight has been a bombardment from enemy aeroplanes.

They came over about noon and roused the fearful and subdued the proud while we were all at lunch. They circled overhead for about five minutes, dropped a dozen or so bombs, then cleared off hurriedly before our own men had time to get away.

One man here had a most ingenious "funkhole " for aerial bombardment. He utilised a large stone drain-pipe for this purpose, and it was his custom when enemy aircraft were reported to be in sight to crawl into this thing, take a book with him, and calmly read until they had taken their departure. He advertised this comic shelter one day as " A novel bijou residence, completely detached, every convenience, within easy reach of the firing line. Bullets and bombs pass the door every few moments."

Figuratively speaking, our mission was targetregistering. But having previously heard that the "mother" (naval 9.2-inch gun) with which we were to have worked was incapacitated, and the afternoon being fine and sunny, we determined to seek adventure further afield, and turning her nose in a southeasterly direction kept straight on. "Am making for Dixmude to see if we can raise a Hun or two."

This latter by means of a note passed over my shoulder by the pilot. And here let it be said that a proper understanding between pilot and observer is one of the essential features of war flying. What the latter misses the former often picks up, for when flying at high altitudes of over 10,000 feet, field-glasses for observation purposes, with the excessive vibration of the engine, are at first very difficult to manipulate.

Our machine, one of the latest scouting types, was a beauty. She climbed rapidly and had a fast turn of speed through the air, concerning which latter feature there always seems to exist in the lay mind a deal of misapprehension, especially concerning the possibilities and peculiarities of the various types.

The aeroplane is a most curious and difficult machine to build up, because so many different factors have to be taken into consideration in the construction of it. If it be constructed for speed work, it necessitates a large engine, and hence more weight, and with its limited lifting capacity, some other feature has to be sacrificed, very probably petrol-tanks, thus cutting down the possible duration of flight. Similarly speed would have to be sacrificed for duration.

Thus it will be seen that an aeroplane can only specialise in one feature and cannot possess, at one and the same time, speed, lift, safety, climbing power and long durability.

The alpha and omega of the adventure was that we were within certain limits free to do what we pleased. This added a certain amount of vim and interest, especially so when compared with target registering. As we sail along the blue sky over green fields and steepled city, my eye constantly roams round in search of enemy aircraft, but thus far with not much luck.

The firing lines are now far behind us, and we are well over into the enemy's country. One would have thought that before now we should have encountered a stray Aviatik or so, or a patrolling Albatross.

At last! In the far distance and coming towards in us at a great speed "downwind" is a white-nosed machine, which I distinguished as "Fritz," a single tractor biplane, a hybrid of the Albatross and Aviatik types, fitted with a 225 h.p. Mercedes engine, that gives 90 miles per hour. It has a range of ten hours5 flight, and carries two Maxim guns one in front, but only firing sideways, and one behind the pilot.

Immediately thoughts of an aerial combat flash across my mind. I had never taken part in one before, but had often watched them from the comfortable security of terra frma: during that first moment I had a bad attack of "cold feet." A vision of many a hard-fought battle in midair came before my eyes. With the opposing machines darting above and below one another like two great birds, the sun glistening on the whitened planes as they turned and twisted, while all around and silhouetted against the deep blue sky were the little black and flame patches of the bursting shrapnel, it was a gloriously fascinating sight.

The uncertainty held one spellbound. Suddenly one of the machines would put down her nose and descend like a stone to earth; for a moment one's heart was in one's mouth until she would right herself and climb up again into the fray. Sometimes these wonderful battles would last as long as forty minutes or an hour, until one or the other would crash down thousands of feet to the earth below.

In a warfare of long-ranging artillery, and the scientific slaughter of an invisible foe many miles away where hand-to-hand combat was practically unknown, these duels in mid-air were a delight to friend and foe alike, for they, and they alone, were favoured with the old-time romance of war, daring and adventure.

Men in the trenches would leave their rifles, forget the enemy, and gaze with wide-open eyes at what was going on overhead; drivers of ammunition-wagons would pause on their way in the middle of the road craning their necks, the while red-hatted staff-officers would order their cars to be stopped until the fight was over.

Those two little black specks, suspended thousands of feet above were the cynosure of all eyes, and when the stricken machine came low enough for her nationality to be distinguished, if it were a black cross on either wing a shout of sheer joy would burst forth from many an anxious heart; if on the other hand, it were the three circles of red, white, and blue, a sigh would go down the lines like the rustle of the wind through the trees. She is almost up to us by this time. I let fire with the machine-gun, but she is still beyond range. Oh, those moments of expectation! Would she fight or turn tail and run?

She elected to do the former and climbed quickly above us. Her pilot opened fire with his machinegun. The bullets whizzed past our ears, dangerously near.

We climb in turn and lose sight of her for a moment or so. It is a complicated game of blindman's buff We got up with her at last and both let off simultaneously. There is a language spoken in that act, a language that has neither stops, commas, letters, characters, notes, nor images. It is the language of unbounded hate. Hate to the death. We got above her and "down-wind " this time. Luck is on our side. Another tray of cartridges for the gun quickly! That's got her. She drops sharply. Her pilot must have been hit and lost control of his "joy-stick." We are right on top of her now and let the whole tray of munitions off into her back.

Suddenly down goes her nose. She rushes earthwards with a very fair speed to waft her pilot to paradise. Faster and faster she travels. Fainter, fainter does our view of her become!

Down below the hundreds are waiting anxiously, already glorying in the prize. She's down at last! Most thankfully we turn home.

The Way of The Air
1916

Screenshots from Rise of Flight.