Flew three times today, and it’s amazing what you can get used to after a long, dry spell of looking up at birds wistfully. It was an absolutely perfect day for flying, nary a cloud in the sky and the dome above a crystal blue the like you’d want to drink from, or swim in maybe. Maybe both.
Warm enough by 1000 to toodle up the five in a leather jacket – courtesy of some small hole-in-the-wall in Osan, Korea. It’s a USAF A-2 style, complete with a faux, but authentic-looking blood chit – and lightweight cargo pants. I’ve a mad notion to lay it by in favor of a Vanson Manx – an entirely more suitable jacket for a motorcycle – but it isn’t like they’re giving them away, are they?
No. No they are not.
Wore my brown leather flight boots, of course. The steel toes keep the gear shift from digging in to my instep. Is what I tell myself. The traffic flows mostly cooperated and I was there in good time.
The first set was another father and son team, only this time the son was my age, and his pops a former P-38 pilot from The Big One. Your man had to be pushing 90, and I assumed it was his son who’d bought him a flight for old times sake. Because, who knows? The sand keeps running through the hourglass, he was a wee, small thing, and weary though he was, yet did he seem to fade the more while I was talking to him.
But no, it was the old feller himself that had bought the flight, and there was a gleam in his eye as we briefed and when we’d gotten airborne he brought it to the youngster hammers and tongs. A hard man in the air, and I guess there’s some things you don’t forget. They’d grown up together playing tennis, and now he was too old for that, but he wasn’t too old to show his young man a thing or two. I was proud of him. I think we all were.
He told us his story: He’d spent two months in POW camp near Munich after having been shot down in Austria. Chasing down a train in the low Alps. It was too tight in there to follow the tracks, so they’d popped over the mountains and ended up highlighting themselves. His flight was spotted, the train stopped and unlimbered their heavy machine guns. When he started his run, he could see his tracers – one round in seven – arcing down towards the engine compartment. As he started his dive recovery he could see their tracers going past his canopy – they looked like golf balls, he said.
The Germans started scoring hits, and it was like going from driving a car on a smooth road to driving in gravel. By the time he’d come off target his left engine was on fire, so he immediately pulled it to shut-off and feathered the prop. His eyes were distant now, but upon hearing this the other pilot and I saw it with him, we nodded. Unless they are pilots, that’ll be the part the grandkids forget to tell their children, the feathering of the prop.
He had hopes of climbing out under one engine and ran that throttle up, but no: The linkage had been severed. The power that he’d used in the dive run would be insufficient to climb out. He was going in.
He followed the tracks between the mountains on both sides, airspeed decaying even as the altimeter unwound. After a few long moments he spotted a barren, snow capped field. With just enough smash to pop over a power line, he shoved the nose back down to make the landing happen in the space available. For a while he thought he’d run into a farm house at the field’s far end, but while the right engine lashed at the snow, the feathered left prop dug in and the plane did a graceful 180 and came to a stop.
Climbing out, he came under immediate machine gun fire from the farm house, and dropped to the deck. His wingmen circled overhead, and he thought that perhaps he could ease up, put the plane between him and the threat and run for it, but the instant he raised up even slightly the machine gun tore gouts through the snow around him. The message was clear: We have you. Sit still.
Eventually his wingmen ran out of gas, and returned to their base. Once the fighters had gone, out came the Wehrmacht soldiers. Hands up. Come with us. Your war is over.
He was lucky to have only been in the camp for a couple of months. Daily food was a small loaf of bread, and a Red Cross parcel. The Germans brought hot water in the morning, and the prisoners made instant coffee from the powder in the parcels. One night the prisoners went to sleep with the sound of Allied artillery going over their heads and into the German rear. The next morning the German guards were gone, and US MPs had taken their place.
There was no hot water that morning. The MPs didn’t give out Red Cross parcels. Everyone was to sit tight, they’d be bringing up field kitchens soon. And then they’d be evacuated.
The first day came and went, and there was no food. The second day passed in the same way. On the third day, he and a buddy wormed through the wire in front of a pair of MPs and went looking for something to eat. Having been turned away by various field artillery camps who had nothing left to spare, they finally found a truck with K-Rats in the bed, hiding under a cover. They took two cases home for their camp mates, and things were better for a while, even though the camp kitchens never arrived – everything was moving forward so fast, the logistics couldn’t keep up.
Each day they scrounged for food, every day being told that today was the day, or that food kitchens were coming up. On the seventh day of their liberation, the war officially ended and the two airmen again went scrounging for food. Everyone they found had somehow managed to get drunk on cognac, officers and enlisted. “Loaded” he called it. I remember that my father had called it being loaded too. Eventually your man and his buddy decided it was better to join than fight, and got loaded themselves on empty stomachs. They’d walked eight miles from the camp in search for food, and were deeply thoughtful about walking back in the dark with a snootfull. They finally found someone sober enough to jeep them the eight miles back to their POW camp, and fell asleep happy, drunk and hungry at two AM. At 0400 they were rudely shaken awake, and with hangovers and pounding skulls, they were loaded on to trucks for a bone-jouncing evacuation out of the theater in an unsprung, ten ton truck.
That was the Army, he said. His eyes coming back into focus now from 63 years ago this spring. Seeing us again for the first time in a few minutes. Who were listening in rapt fascination, knowing that this tale had been told many a time before, but that the telling of it from the first person perspective was nearly over. That was the Army.
I reckon it still is.
That’s a marvelous story, Lex. Greatest Generation indeed.
Wow. What a privilege.
I assume he was your passenger?
Oops. I wasn’t clear–what a privilege to meet him and listen to his story.
Nice Reading !
So it was the “old feller” that bought the flight, eh?
Just shows you can take the man out of a fighter, but you can’t take the fighter out of the man.
Great story.
I have had the opportunity to find these moments, most recently a motorman from an AKA who did duty from North Africa to Okinawa. I will be stopping by again next week while in his area to spend a little more time with another of the Great Generation.
You were in the presence of greatness! Lucky dog. Thank for relating the story.
b2
What a treat for you and I’m sure for him. So glad he was able to fly again and to tell his story again to an appreciative audience. Opportunities that are slipping away daily…
Thanks for sharing this.
A friend of mine had an uncle who flew Mustangs in the ETO too. Hadn’t flown since ’45 but my bud took him up in his airplane and gave his uncle the controls. During the whole flight while the uncle had the controls going hither and yon that the ball never moved off center in any manuever. This after 50 years. They trained ‘em good back then.
Lex, OUTSTANDING! As I read your story, my mind kept its focus on the father. I just wonder what he was thinking. I had the honor of knowing a few people out of our past with extraordinary service to this Nation. There was this one common thread in talking with all of them. It was this, “There is a major difference between knowing something and knowing about something. No, they are NOT interchangeable! Knowing something meant going thorugh it, with all of benefits, risks and consequences, no other way. If you have not gone through it, you may know about it. Are they both important? YES, they are both needed to help us understand the balance of the World we live in.
Oh “Humble Scribe”, from one very GRUMPY OLD Vet, “You have done very Well!”
Grumpy
There is a certain nobility and honor attached to the Germans and their POWs. Granted, not all POW camps were Stalag 13, but by and large, the Germans did far better than the Japanese in their treatment of POWs. If my readings in history are correct, we actually owe Hermann Goering some thanks for ensuring the Luftwaffe retained control over downed pilots.
One wonders if nowadays a downed aviator would receive such honorable treatment or would they be re-introduced to Hanoi Hilton style treatment. The logical follow-on would be how would the American flyers react?
BSEG.
Wow. What an incredible opportunity to listen to one of our Greatest Generation share his story. For my experience has been that they don’t like to share them, with anyone. Then again, I’m not a fighter pilot and you are – the commonality of mindset I’m sure was very intoxicating for all.
Always gets me going to hear those old guys talk about the old days. Sort of makes it feel like all of our technology today is just cheating. REAL pilots could do it all with little more than needle, ball, and airspeed. . . now I down the jet if JHMCS, MIDS, GPS, TCAS, moving map, or even the A/C is inop.
Also, Lex, I hear that real pilots wear G1 jackets, not A2s.
You’ll find another POW tale at http://tinyurl.com/2y5m58.
Max Bishop was the Chief Engineer for the company that built your little faux fighters, and now works for Boeing. He was kind enough to share his Dad’s experience and some pictures of being shot down in a B-17, evading capture, and eventually ending up in Stalag III (or maybe VI, and maybe both). Three of his crew mates write their side of the story too.
Wonderful.
When I did my bit for the cause I was fortunate to participate in a commemorative jump. Our company did a demo combat drop for that year’s 82nd Airborne Div. Convention. Afterwards, a gentleman engaged me in a long conversation. He took me to Sicily, through Salerno, on to Normandy, from there to Nijmigen, and onto the Bulge.
I was left wondering if I could have done what they did. I cherish the jumpmaster’s knife he gave me.
PS. As you relate it, it had to have been a real treat to share the air with the elderly Eagle. And with and in an airplane too. The best of all worlds.
GEO6;
Back in late summer ’94, an older gentleman showed up at the DZ early on a Saturday AM for the first jump course. I wasn’t teaching, but he was on my load to jumpmaster. A brief verbal check before we loaded indicated he had jumped before, a little over 50 years ago – at Normandy.
Over the DZ, out on the strut he went for his “dope rope” jump. We trained to “ARCH! ARCH! ARCH!” off the wing of a Cessna. What did he do? On the “GO!” and hand signal, he pushed off and instantly assumed the tuck position of an airborne troop out the door of a C-47. He was perfectly stable so I smiled and didn’t “short line” him.
I had him sign my log book. I was way past the point of required signatures, but this jump was special.
The human mind, when trained is a most amazing thing in action.
Love the story and the telling of it, Lex. History is brought to life by a participant.
I’ve been fortunate to visit with a client who, likewise was a pilot, driving a P-40 at the “Battle of the Bulge.” His account of those days was exciting and fascinating, real and history all at once. He was truly respectful of the soldiers’ suffering in the cold; he told of how we lost almost more to freezing weather than the Germans.
BTW, those of us in the Pacific Northwest long for the days of riding you describe, especially during the long days of winter. Our biggest and best east-west corridor goes through Snoqualmie Pass (I-90) and has snows of 355 inches this year, as of Feb. 2.
http://www.wsdot.wa.gov/winter/snoqualmie/
We’re a long time from throwing on the leather, no matter the brand!
Ooops… the current total is 416″. Here, have a look:
http://wsdot.wa.gov/traffic/passes/snoqualmie/
The customer expects the A-2 and shades look.
I know I do.
Nice piece of writing Lex, about 2.5 ticks away from being elegant… The 2.5 ticks we can talk about some other time… Fliterman, who recently has been silent, came in as a big #5. Four lines, the last sums it up: “Great story”.
Like a good joke, the story is always in the telling, and in this case the writing.
This is what I want you to do. A while back you wrote an editorial in a military magazine, which was not well received. Pull that sucker up, and compare it to this lovely and delicate post. Deconstruct one line at a time in the military mag post, and compare it to this post…
Why do that? This post succeeded, the other failed. Why?
Cherish and nurture your critics, they may be more valuable than those who praise you…
OP, that is pompous presumtion on your part. I won’t speak for Lex as he is more than my equal with pen and oratory but as for me I could give a $#!^ what you write about his piece and would rather you go bother somebody else.
XFormed, pretty neat meeting those guys. I spent 5 years at Bragg including a stint as a company commander and I always looked forward to the day on Pike Field when the WWII vets came to watch the Division review. It was even better when they came thru the Division area and stopped by their old units. I couldn’t help but be in awe of some of those gents with all four of the little combat jump stars on their parachutist wings- and they were the ones that survived. Sicily, Salerno, Normandy and Holland.
X- must have been a real treat having that gent jump with you (phone rang and got distracted, shoulda spit my gum out)
What a wonderful part time job! Thank you so much for telling us about your various customers. Every one of them has a story to tell about why they have spent so much money to go up in an airplane with you…
One thing I have actually wondered about; be it a small thing. do you feel uncomfortable flying without a full blown helmet and O2 plus heads up display on?
The latest picture of you was in a baseball cap with sunglasses perched above the brim…
Once upon a time, long long ago, my spouse, some friends, and I wandered out to the local airfield to learn about ‘jumping out of perfectly good airplanes’. The man that taught us ( and later built our first house next to his – as he wanted to choose his his neighbors), was a WWII P-47 pilot.
It was pretty cool to see him (Lenny Aikins) go up on formation-flights with the ‘newly minted’ jump-pilots and, after the drop, they would do a ‘little skirmish’ on the way down, with the idea being that these young upstarts would show that “Old Man” what a real pilot was. After-all, they had the ‘distressed brown leather jacket, the Ray-Bans, the Big Watch, and the wet-ink “Commercial Pilot Certificate”. They were COOL!
They would just call ‘fight-on’, and Lenny would be on their ass so fast they did not know what had happend.
What a great guy. He jumped into his 80s. We are very lucky to be his friends. He’s “Been there, done that, got the shirt – and the scars”.
Later,
ChrisP
Ex-Pilot, A&P, Old Guy
I probably shouldn’t say this, but the first thing I used to do once safely airborne was “ease” that O2 mask just a bit. And I don’t miss the helmet a bit.
Do like to wear my old flight boots though. Can’t imagine flying in anything else.
As an afterthought, which would have been precluded by a little forethought, Lenny tried the P-38 and, while he liked the speed and the climb-rate, the dive sucked, as it would tend to tuck-under. The P-47 (Jug) would just go straight down, at ever increasing speed. “Speed is life” for a WWII fighter-pilot.
As an aside, he really liked shooting-up steam engines on his way home. Great feed-back, he said.
Anyway, Lenny is a cool guy, and we’re gonna miss him when he’s gone, probable pretty soon now.
Cheers!
ChrisP
Damn cool, Lex.
“Warm enough by 1000 to toodle up the five in a leather jacket – courtesy of some small hole-in-the-wall in Osan, Korea. It’s a USAF A-2 style, complete with a faux, but authentic-looking blood chit – ”
Ah, good old Oxford Leather Shop, I got my Osanite G-2 in 2000 for $125 and it’s still holding up pretty well now that I’m a silly villian. I’ve recycled quite a bit of my uniforms, including wash khaki pants on casual Fridays, flight boots, gloves, etc. When I made Chief, I purchased the leather sole brown shoes, which I have since resoled and wear 1 -2 times a week. I work with a USNR Mineman and he hadn’t caught on until I pointed it out. I even carry my lunch in my helmet bag, just like the old days
I wish my father had been able to open up more about the war. He was a motor mac 2nd on the USS Hovey (DMS 11) in WWII. I had to research the combat record of the ship. Fought their @sses off and I knew why he couldn’t open up. He’s gone now and his stories died with him.
GE06: Lex will recognize that it was not faint praise in my post, but accolades for a very nice piece of writing… He and I have after all once discussed the craft or sullen art of writing by examining Dylan Thomas’ poetry. Of course, you have the perfect right to disagree.
On the other hand, being pompous and presumptuous at the same time is a bit like eating oysters, once you go down that path, it’s kind of hard to stop. Sigh, it is the weakness of the flesh that will get us each time.
Actually this piece on the P-38 pilot was from my view point a Trifecta. A chance to compliment Lex on a fine piece of writing. A chance to point out that critics are to be preserved, not by pointing to moi, but to those who criticized some of his previous writings. And a chance to raise Defense Spending/GDP/National Debt again, but that may be a mistake…
Sigh, Perfection is such an elusive mistress, will we ever be able to lie in her tender embrace?
PS: Lex, in the early 60′s I had a pair of fleece lined, soft, Air Force pilot boots. Used to wear them while frostbitting (dinghy sailboat racing in the winter) at Marbelhead Mass. Good old salad days, did tip over once, took a week to dry those boots out. I pine for those boots, they were unfortunately thrown out as “rubbish” when I stored some of my stuff at my parent’s house. A word to the wise, guard yours with vigor.
OP- Got to tip my hat to you as you were much more charitable with my response than I with yours. May I be more restrained in the future.
Sometimes you post, and sometimes you craft a story that echoes of the people and experience. I enjoyed today’s offering as much as some of the Rhythms posts, and that is saying a lot.
OK, Lex, so Dad went after the son hammer and tongs. But you never did tell us who won.
Is it one of those “first to the club wins” kinda things?
Lex – Well said.
Well done.
Wonderful story. My great-uncle was a B-24 pilot who wound up in Stalag Luft I in February ’44 and the stories he told me when I was a boy still leave me in awe.
We can honor them all by never forgetting their experiences and sacrifices.
Sent a link for this post to our agent (he started Ken Follett’s career and got Wiley to publish our boring business book), and he responded in characteristically cryptic Blackberry style:
“Yeah, this guy can really write. I sent it to a few friends.”
Seems to me Lex needs to look no further than his Mac for a retirement income.
Heh. Just saw the update. I assume you and bombs are well-acquainted? Loved his commentary and the pic you offered.