Cold War

This morning, with Sergeant Elkins, Halvorsen’s engineer, they hopped on a crew bus to take them through the rain to their waiting aircraft. On arrival, they were told that it was grounded due to a problem with the hydraulics. Since planes flew with all kinds of minor problems, something very serious must have gone wrong during the night when someone else was flying it. Directed to a different aircraft, they found this had a “snag sheet” two pages long, which included reassuring information like “landing gear instrument panel: u/s.” In other words, they couldn’t know if the gear was down properly or not.

As they scrambled aboard the weary, rundown freighter, J.B. reflected that in the war they’d at least had dedicated ground crews. His crew chief had been a rock-solid, 100%-reliable Texan, who would have cut off his right hand before he let “his” aircraft fly with a defect. On the Airlift, in contrast, J.B. and Halvorsen didn’t even know the names of their ground crew, much less their level of experience and competence.

As if reading his thoughts, Halvorsen said, “They do the best they can, J.B., but some bright staff officer in the States sent the squadrons out here in their aircraft and told the ground crews to come with their tools by slow boat across the Atlantic—and they haven’t gotten here yet. The guys looking after our planes used to service fighters and they’re so short of tools and spare parts that they’re patching things together with whatever they can find on the local market — which isn’t much, as you can imagine.”

“That certainly makes me feel better, Hal,” J.B. answered, and his pilot grinned.

They settled into their seats and started going through the checklist, while around them various leaks allowed the rain to run down the side of the cockpit, drip onto the navigation table, and collect on the floor. When they turned on the windshield wipers, they discovered these were too loose to do more than smear the water from one side of the window to the other, while the windshield itself was badly scratched.

“I’m sure glad we fly for the Air Force of the most powerful nation on earth,” J.B. commented. “Just think what it would be like flying for some banana republic?”

Halvorsen chuckled.

When they received permission to taxi, they discovered they were so mired in mud they couldn’t budge. Halvorsen had to use half-power to spring them loose, which meant that when the wheels hit the concrete, they almost shot off the far side of the taxiway. Halvorsen slammed on the brakes and J.B. yanked the throttles back just in time. They looked at one another and shook their heads. That had been too close for joking.

Halvorsen turned the C-54 onto the taxiway, and they started wallowing towards the runway. The persistent rain of the last few days had turned the base of the PSP taxiway into bog that sagged under the weight of the Skymaster.

They took their place in line and eventually took off into a downpour. Weather in Germany could be quite localised. Sometimes they took off in the rain and landed in sunshine — or the reverse. On this trip, however, the gloom and thunderstorms stayed with them the whole way and static interfered with the radio navigation aids, making signals weak and unreliable. Cursing under his breath, J.B. started to wonder if their compass was working properly because they seemed to be veering all over the place. Then again, they were being buffeted about by gusting winds, which made holding a steady course virtually impossible.

J.B. was relieved to get into range of Tempelhof control, until he heard what was coming over his earphones. The controller was urgently directing another incoming aircraft to adjust course. “Big Easy 761, sideslip right!” With increased volume and forcefulness, he ordered, “Big Easy 761, veer right! You are not lined up on the runway!”

“I can see the goddamned runway straight ahead of me!” the pilot replied in irritation — before he was drowned out by the sound of a loud thump, things crashing and tearing, men cursing, and then silence from the aircraft as the faint sound of sirens wafted over the microphones in the tower.

J.B. and Halvorsen just looked at one another. To their amazement, the next instruction over their headphones was an unperturbed, “Big Easy 695, you are cleared to land.”

“What the devil are they doing?” Halvorsen asked.

“If he wasn’t over the runway, he must have crashed beside it leaving the runway operational.” J.B. surmised. They scanned the sky ahead of them for smoke or any other indication of what had happened. All they could see were clouds.

“Big Easy 328.” That was them. “Turn onto 080, reduce speed to 140 mph, and descend to 2000 feet at Wedding beacon. Report on passing.”

Halvorsen banked the heavy C-54 while J.B. acknowledged to the tower. As they descended they entered denser cloud. Visibility fell to a few hundred feet. They had no choice but to fly on instruments, but at least the Wedding signal came in loud and clear. As instructed, J.B. called in as they crossed over it, and the tower started to give them a new course. Before the controller finished, an excited voice yelled out, “He’s overshooting! He’s overshooting!” The sound of an explosion followed.

“Jeeze! That’s two in ten minutes,” Halvorsen exclaimed.

“Big Easy 998, abort! Abort landing!”

“Too late! I’m already on the — What the f***?” This time the squeal of brakes was audible before the signal cut off.

J.B. was sweating now.

“Tempelhof Control to all Big Easy Aircraft: the airfield is closed! Repeat the Tempelhof Airfield is closed! Stand by!” The controller snapped off and then clicked back on. “Big Easy 492, circle Tempelhof at 3000 feet. Big Easy 762, circle Tempelhof at 3,500 feet. Big Easy 689, circle Tempelhof at 4,000—”

“Was that Big Easy 685 or 689?” a pilot asked for clarification.

“Big Easy six-eight-niner. Repeat: Six-eight-niner.”

They were next and assigned to 4,500 feet.

“What direction do you want us circling up here?” a voice asked out of the blue, making J.B.’s heart miss a beat. In the Eighth, they had standing orders to “orbit” counterclockwise, but if someone could ask about it, then maybe there were no standard orders here — or J.B. and a lot of other pilots didn’t know what they were! Ergo, pilots might be flying around in the murk in opposite directions, and that thought made his hair stand on end.

“Counterclockwise,” the tower answered to J.B.’s relief, and he relaxed a little. He glanced over at Halvorsen and realised the experienced transport pilot’s nearly bald head was glistening with sweat. He gripped the control yoke so firmly that his knuckles were white.